David Jackson - Pariah

When he finally fished out his cellphone, he issued a garbled call for an ambulance, and then he went to his partner. She was showing faint signs of life, but she was a mess. The whole of her back was stained with her dark wet blood, and a puddle of it was growing next to her.

He didn’t know why, but he felt a need to gather her up in his arms. He sat in the warm wetness of her blood and held her close, rocking her gently.

And when the time finally came for her to leave, he told her how sorry he was.

It was only the beginning.

In the days, the interminable weeks that followed, truth became lies and lies became truth. Without Laura to retract them, her rumors became fact. To Doyle’s colleagues, to Internal Affairs, and even to Rachel.

He’d been having an affair, they concluded. It was becoming public knowledge and he wanted a way out, they surmised. He was responsible for Laura Marino’s death, they decided.

He knew they were all wrong. But when you believe one thing and everybody else believes another, you start to lose confidence. You start to have doubts. You start to wonder whether your own mind is deluding you.

And when that happens, you start to ask yourself whether, in fact, a tiny hidden part of you really did seize upon an opportunity to rid yourself of what was becoming a major problem.

And occasionally — in the dead of night when nobody else is listening — you ask yourself whether, in fact, that cream door with the cracked panel really was moving.

Doyle throws down the dregs of his drink and leaves the table. On the way past the bar, he feels he should say something apologetic to the girl with the legs-cleavage-smile combo, but she has already moved on from George and engaged another guy in conversation. The whiskey-drinking loser with the socialization problems is probably already a distant memory.

He goes back upstairs to a room that’s starting to feel the equivalent of a prison cell, except without even the company of a psychotic, tattoo-adorned Nazi to break the monotony. He picks up the phone again and makes another call.

‘Cal!’ Rachel says. ‘Just a minute. Amy wants to talk to you.’

There is a moment of confused fumblings and whispers of ‘Talk to Daddy,’ before Amy’s breathy voice comes on the line.

‘Daddy!’ she squeals. Her tone sounds several octaves higher than normal, its intense childish innocence punishing him more than he would like.

‘Hi, sweetie,’ he says. ‘How you doing? Are you being good for Mommy, like I asked you?’

‘Yes, Daddy, but, but, but. . I am a little bit sad.’

‘Sad? Why’s that, honey?’

‘Because, because I have to go to bed soon, and I asked Mommy if you were coming home tonight, and she said she didn’t think so, and I said I wanted you to be here because of the burglars. And then Mommy said-’

‘Hold on, hon. What burglars?’

‘The burglars who come into people’s houses and take all your toys and stuff. My friend Ellie, who isn’t my friend anymore because she’s always nasty to me, she said that burglars break your windows and come into your house at night when everybody’s asleep, and they take all your things, even your best toys and Christmas presents, and I said they won’t come in our apartment because my Daddy’s a policeman and he’ll put them in jail, and she said yes they will because your Daddy’s not there anymore, and I said-’

‘Amy, listen to me. The burglars won’t come. You know why?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve told all the other policemen to watch our apartment from outside. At night, when you’re asleep, they sit outside and watch, and they make sure no burglars will come. And they’ll be there every night until I come home.’

‘Well, I want you here. You’re the best policeman and the best Daddy, and that’s why I couldn’t sleep last night and I had to get into bed with Mommy.’

‘You couldn’t sleep?’

‘No. I got scared, and I. . I. . I. . wet the bed a bit.’

There is a silence between them then. A few seconds that are devoid of sound but which, for Doyle, are bursting with barely contained anguish. As his vision blurs, he thinks about what he is doing to his family.

‘It was only a little bit,’ Amy adds hastily. ‘That’s okay, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sweetie, that’s okay. But there’s nothing to worry about. I’m coming home real soon. I promise.’

‘When?’

‘Soon. Maybe even tomorrow.’

Amy’s voice drops in volume then, but only because she has turned away from the receiver and is talking to her mother. ‘Yay!’ Doyle can hear her saying. ‘Daddy’s coming home! Daddy’s coming home!’

And then there is more fumbling with the phone, and when Rachel’s voice comes on the line there is an unexpected sternness to it.

‘Is that true, Cal? That you’re coming home? Because if it’s not, then you’re being so unfair to Amy.’

‘Rach. It’s true. There’s been a break in the case. All goes well, it’ll be over by the morning.’

There is another period of silence, and then comes an audible sigh of relief from Rachel.

‘Thank God!’ she says.

Well, thanks to someone, Doyle thinks. But God is probably the last one on the list on this occasion.

For the next few hours, he resumes his pastime of sitting and waiting and thinking. His mind hunts in desperation for alternatives to the decision he has made, but the only one it can find involves waiting some more, and he doesn’t think he can do that any longer. Not with the lack of progress the NYPD is making. Not with the pleading voice of Amy still ringing in his ears.

At two minutes before midnight, he picks up the phone and dials the number on the card that Sonny Rocca gave him.

‘You’re cutting it fine, Mr Doyle,’ Rocca says.

‘I’m a last-minute kinda guy. I like to keep people guessing. It adds to my mystique.’

‘You sure you want to do this?’

‘What, you trying to talk me out of it now?’

Rocca chuckles. ‘I’ll be right over.’

‘Some days are special,’ Rocca says as he drives. ‘Red-letter days. Days that change your life forever. You know what I mean, Mr Doyle?’

In the rear of the Lexus, Doyle stares at the back of Rocca’s head.

‘You think this is one of those days?’

‘I know it is. Soon as I heard your voice on the phone, I thought, this is it. This is where it all starts to change.’

‘Remind me to make a note in my diary,’ Doyle says. ‘I’ll send a thank-you card to the Bartoks every year.’

Rocca laughs. ‘You’re a funny guy, Mr Doyle. A real comedian.’

Doyle wonders, What’s Rocca got to be so happy about? He hoping we’ll be some kind of blood brothers now? Another addition to the family of oddballs?

And I could do without all the fuss he’s making. Like it’s some kind of historic victory or major coup for the Bartok clan.

But then who am I kidding thinking this is just a five-minute pact? What am I expecting — that I’ll just pass some info to Bartok and he’ll give me a name, and then I’ll never see him again? Do I really believe that it’ll stop there?

Doyle knows it won’t. He knows that once he’s in Bartok’s pocket he’s there to stay, like a handkerchief, waiting for Bartok to pull him out and blow his nose on him whenever he feels like it.

Rocca pulls the Lexus into the narrow alley next to Bartok’s club, parks it tight against the wall like he did the previous night. He gets out first, and like a chauffeur, opens the rear door to let Doyle out. Doyle steps out onto the cobblestones, already feeling slippery beneath his feet. He guesses that, by the morning, the city will be covered in a film of frost.