Marwick's Reckoning - Gareth Spark

by Near To The Knuckle

  'A dummy address,' Marwick said. 'That's that then.'

  Louise walked across the room and looked through the windows, down into the street. The twisted iron bars of the balcony cast long shadow across the floor, which was almost white in the light thrown in from the high streetlamps outside. There was no sound outside the A/C unit and occasional shouting from a bar down the street. 'I don't think this place is as useless as you think.'

  'Why?'

  She pointed at the floor and he looked down, his dark face twisted into a frown. Size 12 boots, doc martens tread. 'They're wet; when did it start raining? Have a look around.'

  Louise headed into the large room to the right as empty as the rest of the apartment. She checked the floorboards and the walls for hiding places and letter drops but found nothing despite the thoroughness of her search. The room was hot and dry and she tasted dust at the back of her throat that made her cough. Her voice was a dry whisper that somehow echoed in the room, 'There's nothing here.'

  'Keep looking,' he said. 'This is our last chance.'

  She was halfway across the main room when she heard footsteps. She paused and looked up at Marwick; her eyes were large with sudden and electric fear.

  There was a faint click as Marwick flicked the safety off the pistol. The heavy, measured creak of the footsteps on the landing below softened as they turned onto the carpeted stairs leading up. Marwick held a finger across his lips, though the gesture was redundant, as Louise had fallen into a silence so absolute that she barely seemed to breathe. Marwick turned back, holding his head so that his ear faced the stairs, his attention focussed entirely on the faint fall of those feet. He sank back into the shadows of the doorway as he heard the last stair creak. He waited, breathing the thick, warm air of the building, hearing the distant streets of El Raval, the shouting in Arabic and Pashto and the taste of dust lifted from the floor, and beyond it all the hot sensation of the pistol gripped in the wet pool of his palm. Then the floor outside the door moaned beneath the weight of a body and he was out, moving quickly, dangerously.

  The woman shrieked as he jammed the pistol against her grey hair and, before he knew what was happening, Louise was beside him, speaking Catalan to the old woman, her voice calm, soothing. 'Fuck's sake,' Marwick snarled, letting the weapon drop to his side and pacing, glancing from the top of the stairs and satisfying himself that there was nobody else there.

  Louise glared at him. The woman clutched her chest, her broad, heavily jowled face palpating as she fought to breathe. She looked about eighty years old. Louise, holding the woman's hands and smiling, said something that made the woman smile, but her voice was too low for Marwick to hear. Louise gestured for the latter to join her and she whispered in his ear. 'I'm police and you're from Interpol, we're looking for the tattooed bloke.' Then she turned and asked the old woman if she spoke English.

  The woman, dressed in a drab business suit, was indignant. 'Of course.'

  Marwick nodded, 'The man who lives here,' he said, 'you seen him?'

  'He comes and goes every few weeks, never for too long. He always has a large bag.'

  'Probably uses this place to lie low, sleeping bag or something. Maybe he waits here and that phone's where he gets his orders.'

  Louise nodded and walked back into the flat. Marwick watched her from the corner of his eye as she walked across to the telephone and tapped in three digits; last number redial probably.

  The old woman continued, 'You should look for my son, if you are looking for anybody. He walked out one night, weeks ago, and I have not seen him since.'

  Marwick nodded but his attention was on Louise. He watched as she lifted a blank notepad from the table beside the telephone and tipped it before her eyes, holding it at an angle against the light. She tore the top few pages from the book gently and placed them inside her jacket. 'Maybe just drunk somewhere, your son,' he said to the old woman.

  'He has gone for a few days, it's true, but never so long. This is a bad place, and each day I look for him, walking the streets, all day. I thought you might have been him for a moment that is all.'

  Marwick walked back into the apartment, leaving the woman outside, muttering to herself. Then, when he heard the sound of her feet struggling towards one of the other doors on the landing and the scrape of a key in a lock, he asked Louise, 'Find anything?'

  'Place is bare.'

  Marwick glanced at the notepad and then looked back over his shoulder. 'Then we'd better get going.'

  'Let me just have a look at the....'

  One of the windows closest to her cracked and smashed. She frowned, her sandy eyebrows knitting together as she stared at the glass, brain trying to catch up. The next moment she was on the ground. Marwick was on top of her, squashing the front of her body against the hard, splintered wood of the floor. She watched a puff of cement dust spring out from the wall above them and then another, as though the walls were sneezing and she was confused and then she felt Marwick's breath, very hot in her ear as he growled, 'Keep your head down!'

  'What is it?'

  'Rifle fire.'

  'I don't hear it.'

  'It's suppressed,' he said. 'Wait here and stay tight against the floor.'

  Marwick slid off her and, crouching, made his way across to the window. A breeze came through the shattered glass and worked in the curtain as he peered out into the night, trying to keep out of the glow of the streetlamps. The buildings on the far side were close and he could see into the rooms of a handful of apartments: a couple screwing in one; a woman ironing a shirt in another; a young boy watching TV, oblivious. He scanned what he could see of the rooftop, hoping for a silhouette, but saw nothing. A round thudded into the window frame. He felt the air break with the force of the impact and the wood splinters showered against his face. Marwick hit the ground. It was a useless situation. The shooter had eyes on the pair of them, probably scoped them out, waiting for them to break cover; whereas Marwick had no chance of a shot.

  'Can you see them?' Louise asked.

  'Can't see a fuckin' thing; keep low and move.'

  There was a zip in the air as another round passed through the broken window and punched into the wall. No point to it, Marwick thought, just trying to shake them out of cover. He has to be in an apartment on the other side of the street, same level, otherwise he'd have a field of fire covering the floor. He moved sideways, scraping against the wall to another window and peered over the frame and through the dirty glass, third window up and two across, a sudden fortuitous glint of light against a scope, but no hint of a figure behind it. 'I'm going to get his attention,' Marwick said, 'when I do, go for the door and keep down.'

  'All right.'

  He nodded, and moved back to the smashed window. The shattered glass cut through the knees of his jeans and he felt the warm spread of blood through the heavy fabric. The breeze through the window smelled of the sea and he took two deep breaths before standing. He turned quickly, and fired twice. The pistol grunted and kicked against his hand and he returned to his prior position, cold and serene inside. He was relieved to see Louise had made it out of the room, and then the rifle responded, a single shot, breaking more of the glass, throwing it forward into the room like a shower of crystal.

  Louise's voice, small and high, came through the door. 'Are you still alive?'

  'Most of me wishes I wasn't.'

  'How are we getting of here?'

  Marwick looked right, towards the street and said, 'Very, very quickly.'

  A portion of the wall exploded as he threw himself down and out of the room. He hit the ground hard and groaned.

  Louise pulled him out of the door and he grabbed hold of her sleeve and pulled himself to his feet. 'Vamos,' she said.

  They ran down the steps and she stumbled a little on the carpet as they neared the foyer. She headed for the street and Marwick pulled her backwards by the collar. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'There'll be a back way.'

  'What about the car.'r />
  'Fuck the car,' he said, 'It's in Al's name anyway.'

  They moved slowly through the twisted streets of Raval, only relaxing when they were on the Rambla, where the amount of tourists and Policia made any further attempt unlikely, unlikely, but not impossible. Louise flagged down a cab and they rode in silence to Sants station. Marwick stank of gun smoke and sweat and the front of his jeans were messy with blood. He limped from the cab and said, 'Always seem to be bleeding these days.'

  'He knew we were coming.'

  He nodded, pausing a moment to catch his breath. 'Probably planted that folder in Salvador's place sometime after the killing; he'd figure we'd go back. Pull us into a trap in this shithole, far enough away from anyone who cares.'

  'You sure it was him? Christie, I mean?'

  'It was him.'

  They bought two tickets for Sant Carles, checked the platform and departure time and, finding they had almost half an hour to spare, retired to McDonald's where Marwick, ravenous as he always was, ate two Big Mac's and a portion of fries. Louise watched him with a fascinated distaste.

  'You didn't find a thing?' He asked.

  'Place was clean.'

  'That's a shame,' he said, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. There was a group of young Americans at the next table, talking in loud voices about nothing in particular. One of the girls in the party glanced across at Marwick's bloody legs and he caught her gaze and winked. She flinched away.

  'We've still got something,' Louise said.

  'Oh yeah?' He willed her to reveal whatever it was she had discovered on the notepad, giving her that last chance, hoping she was not what he had grown to suspect she was.

  'He'll be coming for us now,' she said. 'They don't know what we know, but they don't want us running to Sean. They want to have it all before they take him on and, from what you say, they aren't there yet.'

  'Secrets and lies, innit?' He leaned back in the chair and looked through the window. 'Too many secrets and lies and look what we have.' He lifted the knee of his jeans, still tacky against his fingers. 'Blood, bruises and bellyaches, it all has to come crashing down before too long.' He stared into her eyes and did not blink for a long time. 'Then I'm away from here for good.'

  Chapter Twenty

  The next night, Marwick sat on a high stool in the window of a workingman's bar on the west bank of the dried out Riera d'Alforia, a glass of brandy and a full ashtray on the Formica topped counter before him. He parted his fingers slowly and saw his own dark face reflected in the glass, observing him with the same mixture of revulsion, fatigue and anger that filled his heart. He needed a shave and a wash. Christie has to be crazy, he thought. How do you take on a man who would do something like that? You can't. He smiled and drank a little of the spirit. He's the man they all think I am.

  The door opened with a bang and Marwick closed his eyes at the sound as though expecting something to follow. The bar was hot and smelled of spilled wine. Men from the harbour sat close around him dressed in dirty yellow waterproofs, cigarettes held in the corners of their mouths like toothpicks as they argued in a patois of Spanish, Catalan and the local Sant Carles slang no foreigner could follow. Occasionally they nudged him with their elbows as they followed the game. Marwick did not mind.

  His phone lay on top of the bar before him and he glanced down at the dead screen. Marwick had been trying to get hold of Sean; he'd called the bar, the house, Sean's mobile. They were cutting him out. He stood, walked to the bar and paid the bill. It was cool. The sky, a pale blue above the buildings, seemed empty and endless and he walked slowly beneath it towards the dried river. How long must it go on, he thought, pausing halfway on the bridge, moving to the side beside the rails to allow a young couple to pass. He turned and looked down at the concrete bed where a few months back the fast torrent of the Alforia had flung itself for the reeds and the damp sand and the steel blue Mediterranean beyond. A warm breeze ruffled the hair curling over his ears, he rubbed his eyes, and when his phone rang. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and frowned at the caller ID. It was Al. Marwick moved across to the far side and sat on an iron bench, looking back over at the lights of the bar he had just left. 'Yeah?'

  'You been trying to ring Sean,' Al said.

  'I have.'

  'You've caused all kinds of shit, running up and down the bleeding Costa like a blue–arsed fly. I warned you, I told you to stay away from that psycho bitch, didn't I? We need that coke, and you've dropped the ball.'

  'How can I find it when I'm on the outside?'

  'Sean's laying low because you're stirring things up.'

  'How's he heard that?'

  'It doesn't matter, does it?'

  Marwick sighed and leaned back in the bench. 'Al,' he said, 'I don't do things lightly. You know how I feel bout that girl.'

  'I know how you said you'd never get your head turned by her again.'

  'I was up at Raval, that's where it went.' Marwick continued, 'nearly got me head taken off by the geezer who did for Charlie. I'm close here, very close.'

  There was silence, and Marwick heard another voice, whispering. When Al spoke again, it was with conviction, 'You know Daurada Park?'

  'Yeah.'

  'There's an all night café, Martinell's. Be there in an hour.'

  The phone went dead.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Martinell's was a seedy, rundown joint in a dismal side street, stuck between a halal butcher's and a closed electronics shop. A man was asleep at a table in the window and two tired streetwalkers drank in a booth, whispering to each other in what sounded to Marwick like Russian. The café owner lounged behind the bar watching a re–run of Zorro on portable television set on the counter beside him. His fat, bearded face was rich with sweat and there was dried gravy on the collar of his shirt. He raised his droopy eyes and asked Marwick what he wanted to drink.

  'Ron,' Marwick said, looking over at the steamy window on his left that faced the street.

  The man stood and poured the drink, then held his palm open for the money without speaking. After Marwick paid him, he slipped the coins into his pocket and reclaimed his seat, eyes flipping back to the TV. There was a table in a corner at the back beside the toilets and this is where Marwick sat, his back to the wall. He glanced nervously at the window, unable to see anything but the reflection of himself and the room within it. He checked his watch. 2.54 AM.

  By 3.16 AM, and into his third glass, Marwick concluded Sean was not coming. There was no anger, just a growing disquiet, like an animal sensing the approach of a thunderstorm. The two girls had left and Marwick stood and straightened his hair, gazing into the mirror of the window ahead of him. The café owner, who now read a porno mag, glanced up at Marwick as he passed. 'Luego,' Marwick said.

  He stepped out into the night. The sky was starting to pale and the air was chill against the damp of his brow. He began to walk slowly to the car, parked at the end of the street. He looked around. The street was narrow, the buildings vandalised. Marwick paused. Somebody was following. He began to walk again, slower this time.

  The car was close, but he was determined not to sprint. The blood pounded against his throat. He glanced across his shoulder. The man behind him on the street stepped into the all night café. Marwick heard a loud, hearty greeting cut through the early morning air; a night shift worker probably, or a fisherman chasing a dawn café solo. He exhaled quickly, smiled to himself and dug the keys from the pocket of his jacket. He headed for the car with a more relaxed gait.

  A dark shape lunged from a shop doorway and a blade slashed through the breast of Marwick's shirt, razor sharp, the wound a sting like a wasp's. He staggered back and the man came forward again, moving quickly, face hidden behind a balaclava. The knife, a long hunter's blade, glittered in the pre–dawn glow seeping through the air. The attacker held it low and tight and jabbed for Marwick's thigh, the artery, a killing blow. He overextended his body, clumsily, and Marwick grabbed the hand holding the knife.
He tried twisting the wrist free of Marwick's grasp and then the two men were one, arms wrapped around one another. Marwick breathed hard, using all his strength, trying to break the delicate bones of the wrist, but the man was stronger, he pulled the hand free and the blade sliced through the thick fleshy pads of Marwick's fingers. He ran, heading for the car. Blood pumped through his fingers, a sticky warmth surging across his clothes, his skin. He turned. The man was on top of him. Marwick stopped suddenly, his heels scratching in the gravel. Sweat mingled with the blood smeared across his face. The attacker, moving too quickly to halt, his eyes wide, slammed into Marwick, who chopped him across the nose with the edge of his hand. The knife dropped and he shuffled backwards, the front of the balaclava shining beneath the streetlight as blood poured from his broken nose. He lifted his hands to watering eyes, rubbing them clear just in time to see Marwick reach for the fallen knife. A vicious kick struck Marwick's ribs and he fell forwards on top of the weapon. His vision went dark, lights popped and sparked and the man was on top of him, trying to turn him onto his back, hands grasping for the knife. Marwick raised his head and butted the man's nose, once, twice, three times, but the attacker did not give up. Marwick, his arms pinned to his sides, lungs burning, trying to fill, gasping, twisted his hand and felt the very tip of the knife's wooden handle. He dragged it slowly down into his palm, gripped it, and then jerked it sideways so that it cut into the other man's searching hand. He let go and yelled something unintelligible as Marwick, moving very quickly, took the knife and rammed it sideways and up, between the man's ribs and into his heart. He froze and made a sound as though he had swallowed water. Then he coughed, his teeth red, eyes bulging against the dark material of the balaclava and fell to the side. Marwick lifted himself onto his free hand, glancing down at the worn handle of the knife. He was exhausted, nauseated through loss of blood and shivering. He reached forward, pulled the heavy balaclava from the man's face. The scar, running down from the shaved head and across the eye; the last time he'd seen it was on the Verge del Cami. Marwick stood and dragged the body to the trunk of the car. There was blood on the pavement, mingling, dark as a pool of oil in the morning light. The man was heavy, and it took the last of Marwick's strength to lift him into the car. His eyes glared at Marwick a final time before the trunk slammed shut.