David E Balaam - Nothing Is Sacrosanct

“It was good of you to go to the Star's funeral by the way,” Marcus stated unemotionally. “Do you want me to tell you what you were wearing?” Ferris froze, working out his options, but they were not looking good.

“You are an illegal, and a murderer. You hanged your mother didn't you?” Ferris tried to look around for help but Marcus's grip was tight.

“She deserved it. The Star's didn't. You do.” Ferris just caught a glimpse of Marcus's grin as he slumped onto the steps behind him. Marcus propped him up against a hand-rail. “Stay there old man, and I'll get you some water.” He said loudly enough for his words to be heard by other punters, but none were paying attention. Marcus walked away hoping the small bullet hole would not be noticed too soon.

1956 London

The day Marcus killed Major Ferris he set in motion a chain of events that even he could not escape from. After Ferris's execution, Marcus had carried on with life as normally as possible, but something kept eating away at him- his conscience. He sat alone in his rented flat in Wimbledon, draining half a bottle of brandy within one hour. He so wanted to tell Barbara that she was safe. That he had taken revenge for her parent’s murder. “Yes, Barbara, murdered.” Murdered, all because of him. “All because your father helped me escape to England. If I had stayed, he and your mother would be alive.”

Marcus sank another shot of whisky and closed his eyes. Would he ever have the opportunity to tell her the truth? Could he confess to her that he was responsible for her parent's death?

Six months after the shooting Marcus was consuming more liquor than ever each evening, eventually falling into a restless sleep. His work was suffering and his many days off work were being noticed. In these evening stupors, dark dreams with haunting faces appeared. His mother hanging from the kitchen airing rig, eyes closed one moment, then opened wide. Her handless arms waving uncontrollably, blood flying everywhere. Then he saw himself cowered in his mother’s dressing room - faint voices coming from somewhere in the distance. “What have you done, Marcus, Marcus . . . we must go . . . no, stay there . . .” Then his father standing, looking straight ahead at a firing squad, suddenly turning to look at him and smiling. “Come here boy, come to your Father . . . stand with me.” Then he heard the shots being fired, but his father was still looking at him, smiling. They fired again, and again, but still, he would not die. The noise was louder, someone was calling his name, louder and louder. He woke, shivering, and finished the leftover glass of liquor in front of him.

Focusing slowly, he heard his name again. “Mr Hartmann, please open up.” Followed by more persistent rapping on the door. Marcus staggered from the table to the door and unlatched the bolt. He had hardly turned the Yale lock before a man dressed in a suit and black raincoat entered, pushing Marcus aside. “All clear, sir,” he said, without looking at Marcus, or even to whom he was addressing.

A man in his mid-thirties walked slowing into Marcus's flat. He removed his trilby and gloves and handed them to the other man. Still without introducing himself, he walked over to the small table by the window and took a seat. The other man closed the door and stood there, guarding Marcus's exit, or protecting his employer - Marcus wasn't sure at first.

“Please, Mr Hartmann, have a seat.” The man said politely, indicating Marcus should sit opposite him. Marcus was trying to sum-up the situation quickly, but after nearly a bottle of whisky, he was not getting any results. “Please, Marcus, have a seat before you fall down.” This time the tone was non-negotiable.

Realising this man knew his name, Marcus walked as casually as possible and sat at his own table. “Perhaps you could make us both a coffee, please Smith.” The man asked the guard. “How do you take it, Marcus? White, two sugars I believe.” Marcus nodded. “Hell,” Marcus thought, did he guess that or what? Marcus blinked and took a deep breath. “Who are you?” he asked pointedly.

“Your friend, Marcus, for now at least.” The man opposite replied, stony-faced. “My name is Dyke. And yours is Marcus von Hartstein. Age twenty-one.” Dyke opened a leather attaché case and placed a buff coloured folder on the table, and opened it. Marcus was tense, his blurred eyes trying to scan the contents of the folder. He remained silent. It was something he had learnt back in the camp after the War. “Keep quiet. Say nothing, they think you are stupid or something, and leave you alone,” another inmate had told him. It had worked for a while, but Major Ferris was persistent, and he had wanted answers.

“Mr Hartstein.” Dyke snapped. “Drink your coffee. I need you to concentrate. Do you understand me?”

Marcus looked around to see the other man had resumed his guarding duties at the door. The coffee smelt good but he really wanted another whisky. Marcus stood unexpectedly, and the guard went to take a pistol from his inside jacket pocket, but Dyke raised his hand. Marcus retrieved the near-empty liquor bottle and poured a measure into his coffee cup. Dyke smiled, and slid the bottle over to his side, and replaced the cap. “Enough I think, Marcus. I want you sober, so I don't need to have my man here wake you up.”

Dyke flipped over the document in front of him. “From now on I will only refer to you as Marcus von Hartstein, as that is your name. If our meeting goes well, then I shall leave you as Marcus Hartmann, the name you elected to use when Dr Starr brought you to England. Do you understand me?” Dyke said firmly, pressing the point home.

Marcus understood alright. His file has landed up in the hands of the police and Ferris had won. Marcus dropped his head and took a deep breath. “Since there is no point in denying anything, let's get this over with,” Marcus said, accepting his fate. He had done his best, and he hoped Barbara would forgive him one day when she was older and understood.

Dyke smiled. “Good. You are paying attention,” he said. “Major Rupert Ferris, deceased, seemed to have had a personal goal in verifying who you are. After you’re . . . disappearance, from Austria, he searched for months trying to work out how you had been spirited away. Ferris assumed, correctly, the body Dr Star had cremated was, in fact, an Austrian civilian, who should have been recovering in a burns hospital in England, but they reported he never arrived.” Marcus said nothing. He sat staring at Dyke knowing his friend had died in vain.

“It seems Major Ferris sat on this information. Only his Staff Sergeant, a Harold Kershaw, knew the full story. As Doctor Star had covered his tracks well, Ferris kept quiet, taking stock of the situation, as he would have questions to answer if his superiors found out. Ferris was to have retired but contracted tuberculosis over there, so he was sent to Switzerland for treatment and to convalesce. He eventually returned to England in the summer of 1950.”

Dyke sipped the lukewarm coffee and looked at Marcus. Seeing Marcus did not want to contribute anything to the history lesson, he continued. “It took a while for him to trace Kershaw as he had been thrown out by his wife, and was now a petty criminal, living with a prostitute in Bick Lane, East London. Ferris persuaded him to locate Doctor Star.” Dyke paused and turned over another document from the folder. “I am truly sorry for what happened to Mr & Mrs Star, but you see, Marcus von Hartstein, you killed the wrong man.”

Marcus exploded, suddenly sober and full of adrenaline. He thumped the table. “Liar, liar. Ferris killed them. I know he did.” Marcus stood up pushing the chair away. “SIT DOWN.” Dyke shouted back, “we are not finished.” The silent guard relaxed his pose and Marcus reluctantly sat back at the table.