‘Marcus?’
Sam reached for the door knob then paused, fearing the horror that might lurk on the other side. He could hear his own breathing and feel the blood pumping in his head.
‘Marcus, are you in there?’
He pushed the door open and saw the bath. The cold water tap had been running for some time, as the water lapped close to the rim, threatening to spill over. Instinctively he went to turn it off, but as he reached for the tap someone moved up from behind the door and kicked the back of his knee-caps, bucking his legs and sending him crashing into the bath. Grabbing the back of his hair they plunged him into the ice cold water, holding him firm as he struggled for life.
Jody knocked hard and fast at the door and waited impatiently for Locky to appear, all the time looking around in case she had been followed. It had been like that in the days since she had first run from Locky’s place – always on the move, from hostel to hostel, convinced that they were on her tail, just a few steps behind.
So why come back here?
Why not get as far away as possible and start again?
She considered the questions, her thoughts then turning to whether Locky was alright – she had left him at the mercy of those men. But just as her concerns grew, he answered the door with his customary Irish stoner swagger.
‘Jody.’
Unlike all those other times, he didn’t immediately stand to one side and let her in. Instead he blocked the doorway. He sported two black eyes, and his nose looked to have been broken.
‘Shit, Locky, are you okay?’
He nodded unconvincingly, glancing nervously up and down the road. ‘Look, Jody, you’ve got to leave.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got to go,’ he insisted. ‘Please, just go.’
‘I’ve got nowhere to go to,’ she replied. ‘Please, let me in, just for a couple of nights, and I’ll find someone else.’
Locky shook his head.
‘Look,’ Jody continued, ‘I know I shouldn’t be asking you to do this again, after what happened, but I’m desperate. I’m really sorry about what they did to you. I’m so sorry.’
‘They know you come here,’ he stated. ‘And they’ll be back. You wouldn’t be safe.’
‘I’ll take the chance.’
‘But what about me?’ he said, raising his voice uncharacteristically. ‘What about when they come around here the next time and finish what they started?’
‘I am really sorry for what they did to you,’ she repeated, realising that the argument was being lost. She’d never seen Locky so determined, or for that matter, so scared.
‘I don’t give a flying fuck about what they do to me. But I’ve got to think about Cheryl. They said they’d give her a home-made abortion. And I believe them, Jody, you know what they’re capable of. You know what he’s capable of.’
‘They wouldn’t do that.’
Locky shook his head, exasperated. ‘Fuck, Jody, they would do that, and you know it. Please, just go will you, just go. Go to Mel.’
He went to shut the door.
Jody reached out a hand to block it, her fingers narrowly escaping being trapped in the gap between door and frame. ‘She’s dead.’
He opened the door again, his face twisted in disbelief. ‘What?’
‘Mel’s dead.’
He rocked back on his heels. Locky had known Mel for as long as he’d known Jody – four years. They’d met at the homeless hostel in King’s Cross, all three of them newly on the street, scared, lonely and confused. When the bad people came, drawing them into their world of violence and vice, they gained strength from one another, ensured each other’s survival, offering friendship. Locky referred to Mel and Jody as his little sisters, and she truly regretted breaking the news to him like this. It broke her heart, but she was desperate.
‘How? When?’
‘The night I came to yours. I don’t know how, she was in the river. I think he killed her, Locky.’
His face twisted with disgust. ‘But why? Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Shit,’ Locky said. ‘Jody, you’ve got to get away from here, away from London if you can. Get yourself into a hostel in another city, Leeds, Manchester, Bristol, anywhere.’ He delved into his jeans pocket and stuffed some crumpled notes into her palm. ‘Save yourself from that sick, evil bastard.’
‘But I need to find out what happened to Mel,’ she said. ‘I need your help.’
‘Don’t Jody. Just leave it.’
‘So you won’t help?’
‘I am helping,’ he replied. ‘For the first time in my miserable fucked up life, I’m giving some bloody good advice. Now take it.’
Jody watched helplessly as Locky closed the door in her face.
She knew then exactly why she had come back here, risking both her life and his. Now Mel was gone, Locky was the only person she had, the only person who could make her feel safe. Without him, all that was left was the fear.
Sam held his breath, trying desperately to break free from the hold. The water was fighting to enter his mouth, pushing against his lips like a river threatening to burst its banks. He reached up over his head with his right hand, trying to grab at his assailant. But they were out of reach. Sam was pushed harder and deeper, and that’s when his lips surrendered against the onslaught, sending cold water gushing down his throat and up his nose. Struggling even harder, he remembered a technique Doug had taught him; that sometimes it is more effective to use the opponent’s strength than to fight against it.
Instead of fighting to raise himself up, Sam relaxed and plunged deeper into the water, at the same time twisting his back and throwing the attacker off balance. He then threw out a speculative backward kick, hitting them full on in the abdomen. Now free, he burst out from the surface, staggering back against the wall, gasping for breath. He looked across the room to see his attacker lying on the floor, dazed.
It was Marcus.
Marcus Johnson - older, yet instantly recognisable as the person who he had shared so many childhood experiences. Instinctively, Sam moved to his aid. Old habits die hard, and anyway, he seemed no threat now as he lay motionless against the base of the sink. He crouched down and checked his pulse. Marcus opened his eyes, his face creasing in confusion.
‘Sam?’
Sam watched him warily as he came to. ‘Are you okay?’
Marcus nodded, trying to suppress a grimace of pain. ‘Nice kick. Can you help me up?’
Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. Marcus stretched his stomach, then reached out and handed Sam a towel from the rail. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.’
‘Who did you think it was?’ Sam said, trying to catch his breath, holding the towel. In truth, he didn’t want to take his attention away from Marcus, in case he launched another attack.
‘The same bastards who just shot out my window,’ he replied. ‘You heard the gunshot?’
Sam nodded.
Marcus grimaced again. ‘I thought they’d come back to check out their damage.’
Sam looked down at his clothes. His shirt was drenched and drips from his saturated hair fell onto the bathroom floor. ‘You know who these people are?’
‘Local youths,’ he said.
Sam was amazed by Marcus’s apparent nonchalance. ‘And have they done this sort of thing before?’
Marcus nodded, again feeling his stomach. ‘Mostly low level harassment – school ground stuff mainly – name calling, throwing a couple of stones - they’re only about fifteen or sixteen.’
‘But why?’
‘Somehow they found out that I’d been in prison, and why. And as a convicted rapist and murderer, I’m a legitimate target.’
Sam tried to distance himself from that reality. ‘Have you told the police?’
Marcus snorted. ‘They gave them a warning, but as you can see, it hasn’t exactly put them off.’
‘But they tried to shoot you.’
‘I
t was a ball bearing gun,’ Marcus said. ‘They were aiming for the window, not me.’
‘But still, you could have been hurt.’
Marcus shrugged off the suggestion. ‘Better dry that hair, otherwise you’ll catch your death of cold. Isn’t that what your mum used to say?’
Sam nodded, managing a thin smile. ‘She still does.’ The two looked at each other, and the smiles vanished, both knowing what this was all about. The nervous banter was over. ‘The police, have they been to see you?’
Marcus nodded. ‘They told me about the guy who killed himself, Richard Friedman.’
‘So you’ll know why I’m here.’
‘You want to decide for yourself whether I killed Cathy. You want to look me in the eye and ask me the question. Well, go on, ask me.’
Sam swallowed hard, not expecting to have to deal with this so soon.
‘Go on, ask me,’ he pressed.
‘Did you kill her?’
Marcus met his stare and stepped a pace closer. Sam realised now how much bigger Marcus was than he used to be. He was not only physically larger, but taller; now a good quarter of a foot above Sam. And his face, once quite thin and angular, had filled out. You could see the muscles in his cheeks as he bristled with emotion. ‘What do you think, Sam, do you think I killed her?’
‘Don’t play games, Marcus.’
‘I’m not,’ he replied. ‘Look at me, he said, gesturing to his eyes. ‘Do you think I killed Cathy? Do you think I went out that night on the beach, raped her and then left her for dead?’
Sam clenched his teeth, feeling his fists tighten by his side.
‘Do you?’ Marcus pressed.
‘No,’ Sam said, surprising himself with the strength of his conviction. ‘I don’t think you did it.’
If Marcus felt any satisfaction, he didn’t show it. ‘That’s good, Sam. Because I’ve learnt over these years that it doesn’t matter a shit what I say, or what I think. It’s all about what other people believe.’
26
Sam watched from the sofa as Marcus inspected the window. The ball bearing had shattered the lower pane, leaving jagged shards of glass over the carpet and jutting out from the wooden frame, but fortunately it had missed the main part of the window.
‘Will you tell the police?’ Sam asked.
Marcus nodded, picking up a particularly nasty looking shard of glass with the tips of his fingers and depositing it in a black bin bag. ‘I’ll give them a call.’
As Marcus continued the clear-up, Sam took the opportunity to survey the flat. It was a small, dingy space, with one room being the lounge, kitchen and bedroom. The putrid orange carpet was threadbare, the brown wallpaper was 1970s kitsch and there were sure signs of damp in all four corners. So this was life after prison. It all felt thoroughly depressing.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Marcus said, catching Sam looking. ‘It’s a dump.’
‘It’s okay,’ Sam lied.
‘The best I could afford.’ Marcus put down the bag and grabbed a coat. ‘C’mon, I can’t be bothered with this now, let’s get out of here.’
‘What about the police? You’re not going to call them first?’
‘It can wait,’ he said. ‘Believe me; they won’t be in a rush to get here anyway.’
Sam followed Marcus out of the flat and down the stairwell, emerging into the courtyard at the base of the tower block. He didn’t ask where they were heading, instead just staying at Marcus’s shoulder, not speaking. Walking side by side with the one-time friend who he had not seen for fifteen years, Sam reflected on the strangeness of the situation. He couldn’t quite believe he was here, now, back with Marcus. It felt unreal and uncomfortable.
‘You still play snooker?’
Sam shook his head. ‘Not since we used to play together.’
‘I know a place,’ Marcus explained. ‘Time you started again.’
They approached a row of shops. A group of teenagers huddled around a bench outside an off-license, chatting and laughing. Sam ignored the stare from one of the male youths as they passed. Marcus made for an unmarked red door on the far left hand side of the block, and Sam followed him inside and up the flight of bare wooden stairs that led up directly from the door. They turned right at the top, into a large open-plan room that must have spanned the entire upper level of the block. The room was full of snooker tables, half of which were occupied with players of varying ages, all male. There was a bar on the far side, and a small reception desk directly to their left.
The whole area was awash with tobacco smoke, as if to emphasise its separation from normal society. This obviously wasn’t a place where the authorities came.
Marcus spoke with the man at reception, handing him cash, and then beckoned Sam to follow him to one of the free tables. Setting up the table, and handing Sam a cue, Marcus broke off. For a couple of games the only words exchanged between the two were compliments about one another’s game play. Although rusty, by the middle of game three Sam was back into the swing, leaving the score at two to one in Marcus’s favour with an impressive shot across the length of the table.
It was during the fourth game, an hour in, that the conversation began.
‘It means a lot to me that you’re here, Sam,’ Marcus said, as he lined up a shot. He slotted the blue ball deep into the middle pocket, and then turned to face Sam. ‘I’ve waited a long time to hear you say that you believe me.’
Sam didn’t really know what to say.
‘Did you get my last letter?’ Marcus asked, turning back to the table, to make another shot.
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t mean the one I sent the other day. I mean the one from prison, three years ago.’
Marcus took another shot – this time narrowly missing the pocket.
‘I got it,’ Sam said.
Marcus straightened up and nodded. ‘I guess deep down I knew you wouldn’t reply, but part of me hoped you would. Part of me thought that you’d believe me.’
‘I didn’t know what to believe,’ Sam stated. ‘You said you couldn’t remember what happened. Don’t you think that I wanted to believe that you hadn’t done it?’
‘I believe you wanted someone to blame,’ Marcus replied. ‘You wanted someone to be punished for what happened to Cathy. And I don’t blame you. I feel just the same.’
Sam looked away. ‘The evidence was there. And the jury found you guilty, not me, or Louisa, or anyone else.’
‘You’re right, Sam. But they didn’t know me like you do.’
They finished the fourth game in near-silence, letting the comments from their exchange mature, before migrating over to the bar and moving to a table with their beers.
‘I was going to visit you,’ Sam revealed, taking a sip from his pint, ‘but at the last minute I changed my mind.’
Marcus looked confused. ‘Why?’
Sam shrugged. ‘Because I was afraid where it might lead. I didn’t want to risk inviting you back into my life without being one hundred per cent certain that you didn’t kill Cathy.’
‘And are you one hundred per cent certain now?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’
Sam faced Marcus head on. ‘I’m trying to shake them off. But it’s difficult, after so many years.’
‘Sure,’ Marcus replied, stone-faced. He shook his head at some unknown thought. ‘You don’t know how much of a nightmare it is, not being able to remember. Being sure that you couldn’t do something so terrible, but just having that doubt. Do you know, my legal team suggested that I pleaded guilty, so I’d get a lesser sentence?’
Sam wondered how Marcus thought he would know such a thing. ‘I didn’t know that, no.’
‘Well they did. They said the evidence was so stacked against me that it was highly unlikely I would be found innocent, and that my best chance was to plead guilty and express remorse. But I knew I couldn’t have done that to Cathy. I would never have hurt her, never. And I didn’t care if it m
eant more time in jail. It didn’t matter, as long as someone out there believed me.’
‘I wanted to believe you from the beginning,’ Sam said.
Marcus declined to reply directly to Sam’s statement, or indeed reveal any internal reaction to it. ‘I always had the support of my family. Really, I don’t know what I’d have done without their belief in me. My mum and dad, they never wavered – or at least they never let it show. They were my lifeline, totally. Without them I’d probably have been brought out there in a box. You don’t know how powerful it is, to be believed, how it keeps you going. It’s like oxygen in there.’
Sam felt some discomfort at Marcus’s unspoken accusation – some had believed in him, but others hadn’t. But, despite the feelings of guilt, it was still remarkably difficult to consider Marcus as anything but the man who had killed and raped his sister. His brain had been hardwired to make that association, make that neural link, and it would take time to disconnect the two. ‘I haven’t asked how you are.’
‘I’m okay,’ Marcus said. ‘Better now I’m out of prison.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Prison?’ He shook his head as if dismissing some unwelcome memory, then took a gulp of beer. ‘You remember what it was like in our first year of High School? Being scared of all the older kids, the bullies? We just tried to blend in, disappear, so they wouldn’t bother us.’
Sam nodded. ‘I remember.’ They’d had some problems in the early years with a few of the lads in the top year. Marcus had taken the brunt of the bullying, targeted by a vile boy who had taken a particular dislike to him. Sam had been drawn into the tormenting through association with his friend.
‘Well prison’s like that. It’s a brutal playground, with all the same bullies, but in there there’s no hiding place, no way out, no going home to mum and dad for even just a few hours of peace. And when you’re in there for rape and murder, well, it’s open season and even the prison guards can’t, or won’t, help you. You think at first someone will come, someone to save you, and tell you they’ve realised there’s been a big mistake. But you soon realise that isn’t going to happen.’
Someone To Save you Page 17
