He lit a cigarette hoping to take away the high end of his nerves. An elderly couple passed. The man glanced down at Marwick's stained sleeve and then looked away quickly, and Marwick thought; you know what this is, don't you? You've seen a man look like this and be covered in this and you know what it is because you have lived long enough and anybody who lives long enough has the bad luck to learn.
Before they came down to Catalunya, he'd been very close to losing it there was too much in London. Marwick never enjoyed it as some did, the crazy ones, the ones who were sick deep in the soul, but it had to be done; a duty, a responsibility and he was good at it. During contact, you never thought because any pause and you might as well put the round through your own head, but after, in the quiet and the smoke, there was time. They dragged like chains, the endless, clock ticking hours of the night, when he'd lie awake and believe the dark would never end and he would pray, as he had not done since a young boy.
The punishment comes to everybody, he thought, in some way; it would come to Stelescu, as someday it would catch up to Marwick because you cannot do that. He thought of Roy, brains spilled out on the sand, blood leaking like oil from a crashed car. He'd seen it before and he would see it again, no doubt, but he knew you could not do that; a man should not take another away like that; it was against something very powerful that was stood behind the world and that he felt sometimes, in the dark watches of the night.
Chapter Fourteen
At the height of the following afternoon, Louise and Marwick sat at a metal–topped table in front of a café named Les Barques on the corner of Carrer Montbrio and Consolat de Mar. It was a bad place to sit, Marwick thought, watching the dust blow down past their table from the narrow road behind. 'So that's how it happened.'
'Just like that?' She said quietly, thinking of her father.
'It's the way it happens, wham, you're not watching Eastenders tonight or cooking them chips you bought; just like that, no matter what you thought you were going to do, you're gone.'
'I saw it on the news.'
'His Dad's going to be gutted, but he never had a chance, did Roy; soon as he started taking money he got touched by this life, and it's like a sickness that you catch; one touch and it only gets worse.'
'He should have known better,' she said, 'I have no sympathy.'
'I know you don't.'
'Why should I? I'm glad they killed him.'
'You can't think like that.'
'Well, I do.'
It was Sant Jordi's day and all along the seafront were stalls selling old books, roses, or both; pop music came from a small stage erected beside the Boat Club, and a local television crew had set up a camera between a food cart and a row of vintage cars on view to the public. He smiled over at Louise, at peace for the first time that day. He reached out and touched the back of her hand, which lay on the warm tabletop. She was looking down at the festivities, her legs crossed and her lips pursed as if in thought. When she felt the first touch of his skin, she drew her hand away quickly. 'Not now,' she said without looking.
'No?'
Les Barques was a very quiet café, whose usual clients were the old men drinking brandy and playing chess beneath a plane tree on the other side of the terrace. The interior of the café was dark and very small and the café owner, a slight, balding man, lounged behind the counter reading a novel.
'I can't take the chance.'
'So it's a secret…'
'…for the moment. Just do this for me.'
He leaned back and nodded.
She smiled. 'I'm happy I have you again.'
'Me too.'
'I missed you; you know that, don't you?'
'I don't need to say I felt the same; I missed you always and when I thought I was beyond feeling anything, I felt that.' He leaned on the table. 'You'd think all those years would have made it fade, but it didn't and that always surprised me. I might not have thought about you for a few months, not even a little bit, and I'd see something, or smell the perfume of a woman I was walking past, or hear a piece of music and …' He looked away quickly.
'Don't talk about it.'
'You know,' he said, 'at the time it was the worst thing that had happened to me,' he swallowed. 'I didn't know you could feel like that. It never got better, and I went so far in trying to forget it, I tried to make myself so hard, and went all over the world and did some things that I never wanted to do to try and get rid of it, but all I did was put it behind glass, inside me.'
'I wouldn't talk about it.'
'Every now and again, you know, your dad would try to talk about you to me and I'd change the subject, as subtly as I could, you understand, which was hard for a bloke like me. And he'd give me this look, and I would think to myself “you know”.'
'He never knew,' she said. 'He used to tear his hair out thinking of me being on my own the way I was.'
'Every time,' he said, 'Charlie mentioned your name it was like somebody smashed me in the face with an iron bar; even years later.'
'You are a sensitive old soul aren't you?'
'Let's forget it,' he said, regretting ever speaking in such a way.
They ordered a couple of real drinks from the bar, a Bacardi and coke for her and a whisky soda for him and shuffled their chairs into the shaded part of the terrace as the sun moved. The condensation beaded on the sides of the glasses and ran down onto the metal table; she drew her finger through the liquid idly. 'So Quinn was on the boat and has now departed this earth, taking with him the last good chance we had of finding the man who put the gun on Dad. What about this Gypsy guy?'
'He was only interested in money when we talked with him,' Marwick said, 'which I didn't have. I thought he was full of shit anyway. Suppose I was wrong. He must have made some other kind of deal with the Stelescus.'
'If they got the name from him,' she said. 'You had the chance to get to him first.'
'If it was Roy he was going to sell out.' He rubbed his eyes. The drink made him tired. 'Then there was this Christie bloke he named. I never heard of him. I thought it was just something he'd pulled out of thin air; try to keep us on the hook.'
'I have money,' she said. 'I want to see Salvador Rus.'
'I'll get Al to go with us; he knows him, see…'
Louise shook her head. 'Leave him out of what we're up to.'
'Why?'
'There are reasons.'
'He's a friend.'
'You always did see the best in everybody.'
'I did,' he said, 'past tense.'
'You don't fool me,' she leaned forward, almost touching him. 'Deep down you still have that heart of gold?'
'I wish.'
'You know it's true,' she said, 'you can't hide anything from me.' She drank a little and then said, 'Far as Sean's concerned, the boy's dead and that's that?'
'He's back on the money now.'
'The Stelescus,' she said, 'what do you think of them?'
'I don't like them.'
'But they wouldn't steal their own gear, would they? What would be in it for them?'
'I've thought about this all night since they did what they did. Why kill Roy, unless they're worried he's going to start telling stories? Unless he has something on them; the geezer didn't want him to talk and popped him in the head before he had the chance. They wanted me there so's I could go back to Sean and tell him they've taken care of business, but they wanted to show me how they run.' He sipped from his drink. 'They hit the boat. I'm sure of it.'
'Why?'
'So they can get Sean scared and on the back foot. Intimidation, they're good at it. They've got an eye on his business and I suppose they saw this as a way to get into it, little by little.'
'They had Quinn in their pocket, killed him to cover the track?'
'No,' Marwick said, shaking his head. He sipped from the edge of his glass. 'There's something else, something I'm missing.'
'Nobody's going to get away from this without a scratch.'
'I k
now it.'
'They won't see us coming, Marwick.'
He leaned back in his chair and breathed deep. 'You know the old saying,' he said softly, almost speaking to himself, as though urging himself to remember the point, 'when you start out on revenge, you'd better dig two graves.'
The music from the seafront carried towards them, sounding clear against the wind.
Chapter Fifteen
The street, Creu del Sud, was on the far side of La Indiana; it was the last street before the rail line divided the Urbanització from Pineda. Salvador Rus lived in an apartment on the first floor above a plumbing supply store halfway along on the left–hand side. Marwick parked the jeep at the end beneath the rail bridge. The street was dark when he killed the headlights, lit solely by a single streetlamp bracketed to the wall of a house close by. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard; it was half nine, and cold with it. Louise leaned over and kissed his cheek. 'I'm so glad you shaved.'
'Are you?' He was not really listening; there were no alleys leading from the street, no cover, and he peered through the gathered gloom as though trying to read something he could not truly see.
'It's like having the old you back.'
'The light's on,' he nodded towards the apartment.
'Dad always had the best things to say about you,' she said, 'you were like the son he never had, he could always trust you; that you only needed a little guidance. He had nothing but faith in you; he would trust you with his life.'
'And look what that got him.'
***
Marwick walked slowly down the street towards the store. Copper fittings glittered in the half–light behind a blue metal security grill fastened across the glass and he pretended to study them as he glanced up at Salvador's window. A thick curtain allowed only a sliver of light to escape. Marwick motioned for Louise to join him. He looked back up at the window and then round at the street. A bike passed and Marwick pulled Louise close to him and pretended to point at something in the window. 'Did you bring the money?'
'Do you trust him?'
'Not at all.'
The door leading up to the apartment stood to the left of the window. Marwick reached towards the buzzer and noticed a warm light slipping out from the side of the door. He looked at Louise and frowned; his fingertip rested on the button. 'Door's open.'
She was close to him; her skin was smooth in the orange light. She urged him to push the door, which he did, gently. The door swung open very slowly. He nodded to the street and they moved to the front of the store. 'Something's not right.'
He stepped inside. A dim bulb hung above, casting deep shadows under his cheekbones. He paused and pushed the hair back from his forehead; it was wet and heavy with perspiration. He placed his foot on the stair. It creaked beneath his weight; he held his breath; the sound was large and deep in the silence and he listened. Nothing. A television turned very low maybe, but that could be from one of the other flats above Salvador's, cars, his own blood, working heavily in his ear, nothing more.
Marwick regretted leaving the weapon behind.
He'd reached the top now, crouched low. Never in his life had he felt so large, so heavy, and he willed himself to shrink, to become nothing, barely to present a target at all.
Torn vinyl covered the floor. Salvador Rus occupied the apartment to his right, and the door was slightly open. He shook his head, the falling sensation in his stomach had returned. 'Get back to the car.' She shrugged her shoulders. 'No,' she said, 'go on.'
There was a crash from within; it sounded like something thrown to the floor; then there was another, and another, and he felt the terrible cold beneath his breastbone and his thighs trembled and he knew he had to do it; he was calm suddenly, resigned.
He entered the room.
Chapter Sixteen
Salvador Rus was a mess, but breathing. Handcuffs fastened him to a kitchen chair in the living room. He was naked, the long hair loose across the dark skin of his shoulders. Marwick stood in the doorway. Thuds and crashing came from another room off to the left, and he saw now that somebody had ransacked the place; a shattered guitar lay across a sofa that was torn open; dozens of books were knocked from a shelf; a television was smashed. Salvador lifted his head. His right eye was swollen shut and his nose was broken, and there were burns across his thighs that were the shape of the steam iron stood on the floor beside the chair. The room stank. 'What is it?' He heard Louise say, close to him.
He turned to try to prevent her from seeing into the room, but she shoved past him, stood close to Rus and then turned back to Marwick. 'Not dead at least.'
A harsh voice shouted from the other room, 'Where the fuck is it?'
Louise motioned for them to shelter behind the work surface of the kitchen and they hid as the man walked into the room and repeated the question. His voice was high, the accent Glaswegian, or so Marwick thought; he'd worked with a couple of boys from the sunny banks of the Clyde once, years before, they all had. He sat with his back pushed against the unit and listened to the man's footsteps as they circled the living room. 'Where is it?' The man asked. 'I know you can't talk, nod, some fucking thing.' His voice dropped. 'Tell me, and I might let you alone as you are now; otherwise…' he let the word hang in the air.
Salvador mumbled something and then there was a muffled scream; broken jaw, Marwick thought.
Louise tried to turn. She'd jammed herself into the corner without thinking, and her body could no longer take the stress of the position. As she moved, the back of her head nudged a fork balanced at the edge of the work surface and Marwick watched as the piece of cutlery fell past her onto the floor. He closed his eyes.
There was a moment of silence, and then the man said, 'Come out.'
Marwick gestured for Louise to stay where she was and pulled himself to his feet, hands raised.
He saw the revolver first, a Colt Anaconda, nickel–plated, very bright, cared for; then he saw the ink on the back of the hand holding it; a yellow and black spider, showing clearly through the surgical glove the man wore.
Marwick's eyes flicked up into the other man's, and he saw the recognition was mutual.
Tattoos had a large cut down the side of the face and his dark brown eyes glittered. 'Look who it is,' he said.
'You,' Marwick said. He couldn't disguise the disbelief in his voice.
'That's far enough,' the other man said, aiming the pistol at Marwick's face. 'I knew I was going to have to kill you, sooner or later.'
'What would the odds be that your name's Christie? Pretty good, that's what I'm thinking.' Marwick lowered his hands.
'You're a clever lad, the old man told me you were.'
'It doesn't have to go like this.'
'I disagree.' His Scottish accent was very thick. 'You remember the last time we met?' He turned his face so the wound showed. His eyes were very small, shadowed in the light, and there was dark stubble across the top of his head. 'I owe you one, but there's something I need to do first.' He stepped back, holding the revolver steady, until Salvador Rus was between them. The latter had passed out; his head swayed gently from side to side and blood dribbled down from his face onto his chest; it ran across his body and dripped onto the floor and the sound of it was very clear in the silence of the room. Then, quickly, Christie turned the pistol towards Rus without taking his eyes from Marwick and shot him through the head. The large round punched through Salvador's skull. He fell sideways.
The explosive crack of the gunshot hung in the room, ringing in Marwick's ears as he glanced down and stepped out of the crimson pool spilling from the dead man. He looked back at Christie and said, 'you and Roy Quinn and the Stelescus.'
'Poor old Roy,' Christie said, cocking the pistol again, 'never learned to keep his mouth shut.'
'They're going to fuckin 'nail you to the wall for this.'
'I don't think so, pal.' Christie grinned and took careful aim at Marwick, 'Nighty night.'
'Hang on…' Marwick raised his hand
s but Christie was no longer looking at him.
There was a young Spanish man in the doorway. He was dressed in a vest and jeans and had gold rings through his ears. He stood, staring. Christie turned the revolver towards the door and, in the instant he fired, Marwick dashed forward. He cracked the edge of his hand across Christie's throat, knocking him back; Christie gasped, choking, but retained the weapon, which he tried to raise. Marwick grabbed him and both fell to the ground. He took hold of the hand gripping the gun and slammed it against the wooden floor repeatedly, until the pistol fell loose and slid away. Christie rammed his forehead into Marwick's nose and the latter felt his eyes begin to stream; he held on.
Louise clattered through the cutlery laid in one of the open draws as the two men turned on the floor, their hands gripped tight, pushing for the first advantage. Marwick gritted his teeth; the muscles in his arms burned, but he was on top now; blood filled his mouth and he spat and then Christie lifted Marwick's left hand to his mouth and bit into his thumb. Marwick cried out and released his grip. Louise was there, close to them, a kitchen knife in her hand.
Christie sprang to his feet, snarling, slipping in the blood pooling on the floor. Louise jabbed the knife forward, aiming for his chest and missed. The blade cut through the flesh of his arm and the wound opened like a small mouth. He punched her to the ground. She screamed. Marwick reached for the gun and when he raised his eyes, Christie was gone.
Marwick lifted Louise from the floor. His clothes were wet with blood, starting to cool against his skin. 'All right?'
She nodded. Her eye was red. 'We've got to get him.'
There were sirens in the distance. 'We've got to get the fuck out of here.'
'That was him.'
'Let's go!'
He dragged her to her feet and they stepped over the fallen body in the kitchen chair and headed out. The young man in the doorway had been shot through the heart and lay against the wall with his eyes open.
The sirens were closing; they ran for the jeep. Marwick started the engine and span out, heading for the bridge.
Marwick's Reckoning - Gareth Spark Page 7
