The lady – who Marcus saw when he was close to her, was younger than he had presumed; early twenties at best – was crying. She cradled her right arm on which she had fallen. The man backed up half a step when he saw Marcus stride towards him. His head immediately began to look around for an escape route. He was a large guy, about the same size as Marcus himself although less muscular and wirier. He had a lean, quick look about him, and was just as black. In fact, had he been in possession of a large afro, Marcus would have believed he was looking back through time at a younger version of himself. Or rather what he would have been had boxing not rescued him from the trouble-filled neighborhood and social circle that had taken so many of his childhood friends.
The one problem about growing up in a small fishing town was that there was remarkably little in the way of entertainment, and so Marcus had turned to the streets, hanging around with the kids from school. During his years on the force, he had busted a great number of them.
The man in question was bald, his head shaved unlike Marcus’s own natural look. He wore a white tank top that showed his muscle covered body. His arms were decorated with all manner of tattoos, which wound from his wrists up to his shoulders, and, judging by the patterns, continued beneath his clothing onto his chest and neck. He had a flat face; his nose showed signs of being broken more times than was healthy, while his forehead had a long horizontal scar that, when it had first been inflicted, doubtlessly bled like a broken fire hydrant. His eyes were cold, emotionless – even in the bright light of day. They looked black, like a shark. His jaw was clenched, face painted with anger so thick it couldn’t have simply been because this girl said something disagreeable.
Marcus bent down to the girl. The man stood far enough back to not pose an immediate threat, and his unclenched fists hung loose at his sides. Something about him still made Marcus feel uneasy, but it was too late to change his mind now. The course of fate had been set on its way and they were all but pawns caught in its undercurrent.
“Are you okay?” Marcus asked, reaching out to the young woman.
She trembled with a mixture of fear and withdrawal and had an odor about her that Marcus knew all too well; it was the stench of addiction. Her arms were filled with track marks and bruises from where she had taken several hits at the same time. Her nose, upon closer inspection, was red and sore, and her teeth were yellow and looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in a long time.
She looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot with tears. Her face was desperate, and it physically pained Marcus to look at her. She nodded at him, a small movement, but she averted her eyes; she couldn’t look at him, and he knew why. He looked over her outfit again and it all becomes clear to him. They weren’t a young dysfunctional couple in love. Far from it: she was a young girl trapped in a mistake she had made and was unable to find her way back home.
“Hey, pig, get the fuck away from my girl, alright?” a powerful voice boomed from behind him.
Marcus rose and turned, ready to face the man, but was more than a little surprised when he saw how close they were. Standing nose-to-nose, the hot, acrid breath filled Marcus’s face and made him want to gag. The man was high, Marcus could see that. His eyes were unfocused, moving from place to place as if only moments before each had been given a double espresso.
“Listen, I don’t want any trouble, so please, take a step back and tell me what the problem is.” Marcus remained calm and looked the man in the eyes.
He tried to talk through the drugs, through the rage that brought the red curtain down on the show, trying to reach the person who was buried deep down inside somewhere. No matter who it was, or what they had done, conversing with a clean mind was easier than trying to reason with the unpredictable nature of a drugged one. Behind him, Marcus could see the girl trying to stand, reaching desperately for her baby.
“Yeah, well stay outta my face, leave the woman alone and get out ‘fore you get into trouble, pig.” Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. He gnashed his teeth and began to sway from side to side, shifting his weight from one to the other. Marcus took a step back. It was apparent the man would not be doing so.
The man moved, tracing Marcus’s movements, and it was enough to put him on edge. He was nervous, but in too tight a spot to reach for his radio. He knew then that it would turn physical.
The man’s eyes and face changed; the shark-like features were gone, and in their place was a twisted featured ghoul, the skin a pale green-gray. It looked waxy. The eyes were large round discs of black, its nose squashed flat against its face like a Persian cat, and the mouth was cocked in a wry smile that revealed black teeth and a rotten tongue that darted out to taste the air like a snake.
Marcus closed his eyes and shook his head like fighter getting up from a sneaky knockdown and the image was gone. The man had advanced, his stance changed to a more bladed one, and his breathing had become much shallower. He found reassurance in all of the signs he was reading, because although the man was big, Marcus knew he could take him if it came to fisticuffs.
“Hey, bitch, I told you to stay on the fucking floor.” The man strode forward, no longer focused on Marcus, but rather, the girl. He struck fast, pushing the girl back to the floor and lashing out with a heavy work boot. Marcus jumped between them, manhandling the agressor, pulling him away from the injured girl. The kick had split her lips, opening up a deep slice that sent rich, dark blood pouring onto the tiled floor.
“Right, you’re under arrest,” Marcus began, pushing the man back with enough force to give himself time and space to reach for his cuffs and whatever else he may need.
A small crowd had gathered now, mostly elderly people, although a few of the employees of the open shops in the arcade had come out to see what caused such a commotion. They positioned themselves far enough back so that they would not be looked upon to help, but close enough to not miss a beat.
Marcus moved with a speed that defied his age, grabbing the man and twisting his arm behind his back. “You don’t have to say anything, but anything you do say…” Marcus had the cuff wrapped around the muscular wrist and reached for the second when the man threw his head back. It didn’t catch Marcus fully because he wasn’t standing square on, but it gave the man an angle and he wrenched his arm free, and with one quick movement spun around and punched Marcus in the stomach. Marcus caught the shot right in the small area between the bottom of the safety vest and his belt, an area that was exposed by design so that mobility wasn’t an issue while wearing the bulky uniform. Marcus stumbled backwards, doubled over the by the blow. It was the girl that screamed first, her voice becoming instantly hysterical, her cries nothing more than nonsensical babblings from a mind teetering on the edge of oblivion.
Marcus felt faint and nauseous, his stomach throbbed, and when he pulled his hands away to grab the man – who was also under arrest for assaulting a police officer – he saw why. Marcus wasn’t sure which he saw first: the red, dripping blade that the man held in a club-like grip, or the copious amounts of blood that covered his own hands and lower arms. Where did he get that? He never had a knife, Marcus asked himself. It’s a flicker; look at the blade.
As Marcus looked at the blade, he realized that it must have been hidden in the man’s belt. Damn. He exhaled. His mind began to leave the state of clear thinking, and as a deep-seated pulsing began in the center of his abdomen Marcus realized with a stark clarity what had happened.
“Y-you…s-s-s-son of a bitch,” Marcus said, his world getting hazy, his legs losing their strength just as if he had been stung on the jaw in the ring. He reached out to get something for support but found nothing. He fell backwards, tumbling to the floor while everybody looked on, mumbling and gossiping with each other, but not doing anything about it.
“Shoulda stayed out, pig. Fucking cops.” The man was bouncing around from foot to foot with a nervous energy. Beside him, Marcus heard the young woman scream.
“Please, don’t hurt my baby. I’ll do what you want.
I’ll go back out there tonight. I’ll give you all of it, just please…don’t hurt my baby,” she pleaded and sniffled, choking on the words that spewed from her mouth in a constant stream.
“What, oh now you wanna work? Well who’s gonna want to fuck you now? You’re a bigger mess than usual, Becky. Jesus!” he snorted at her.
Marcus felt groggier by the second, his body numb now, the blood pooling around him like a warm bath – yet for the first time in several weeks, Marcus shivered with cold.
“No, I can work, I promise, I’ll give them all something special, get extra cash from ‘em, please, come on, baby, please.” The girl, Becky, was now on her knees, begging in the street like a woman who had run out of options; through it all, the baby continued to scream.
“You really care so much about this fucking brat. I mean, it does nothing but fucking scream and cry. I mean how often do you need to slap that thing on your tits every day? Just do it once and leave the fucker; maybe you’ll be looking normal again one day this century. I mean look at it. Have you ever looked at your kid?” he asked her with sudden seriousness.
“Yes, please don’t hurt my baby. Somebody, help…please,” she appealed to the audience who were – the younger ones at least – beginning to reach for their cell phones.
“Really, ‘cos I don’t think anyone could love a thing like this. Father’s looks and your brains or something, I mean.” He stopped then and began to reach into the pram. The baby cried harder instantly.
“Hey, you leave her alone!” a young male voice called out from the crowd. Marcus had no idea who it was, his eyes were closed – or at least he thought they were, because he could no longer see anything.
There were sounds of a struggle, grappling, followed by a clattering sound as the knife was dropped. Marcus tried to move; he had to try and stop the man. He was a cop after all. He dragged himself somehow, fumbling on the ground, but just couldn’t go any further. The newcomer cried out in pain. A hard thumping sound – no doubt a fist and some other body part colliding – followed this as the man fell to the floor.
While this skirmish went on Becky rose to her feet and made a beeline for her child. She grabbed at the pram and tried to run away.
“Where you going, baby? We ain’t finished talking here.” The black man reached out and grabbed hold of the fleeing Becky’s hair. It wasn’t a solid grip, but the swift tug he gave it still created enough backward momentum to pull her to the floor. The pram came rolling back, the child inside hysterical, as was its mother. “Shut that monster up, woman,” he snapped, losing control now.
His head was thumping, voices singing out to him in a chorus of song that had been driving him mad for years. He clamped his hands to the side of his head and began to claw at his ears, as if trying to pull out the noise. Becky rose to her feet once again, but she didn’t run away. She watched in dumbfounded horror as her pimp, Deejay Afité, drew blood scratching away the inside of his ears and the side of his head where they were attached.
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up!” he called out, turning towards the pram, his eyes wide with rage.
In one strong movement he grabbed it by the base and threw it through the air, flipping it over, spilling the well-wrapped child onto the floor. Deejay collapsed down onto his haunches as if trying to catch his breath. He clapped his hands against the side of his head and began to drive the fingernails of each digit into his skull, pushing and then scratching with all of his strength as the voices continued to scream inside him. Then, as always, they left just as sudden as they arrived, leaving Deejay with a pounding head and a serious need for a fix.
Everybody gasped, and now people came running to help. Marcus heard it all, clearer and clearer as his heart began to slow, the heavy pulsating rhythm becoming irregular and weak.
Becky watched her child fall in slow motion; her own movements slowed from the years of mistreating her body, yet spurred on by the empowering forces of motherhood. She leapt for the baby, crawling over the floor to get to it.
“Leave it be, bitch. I want to see what the little fucker does,” the man snapped, but Becky ignored him; she kept crawling, or so Marcus pictured. He heard the man bark at her to get up, to save being on her hands and knees for later.
Marcus’s final credits began to roll, scored by the sound of the police sirens as they approached the shopping arcade. Marcus took his last deep breath and forced his mind back, away from the nightmare scene that had snuck up on him and pictured his wife and his kids. He pictured the holiday they had taken about seven years ago. They had gone to the beach for a day and had run around in the surf, played football and Frisbee and all manner of beach games. The day had ended with a barbecue in the sand before heading back to their small rented cottage just a couple of miles up the road. It was a sickeningly perfect day, one which had Marcus not been there to experience firsthand, he would have argued was only possible in movies.
By the time the police and resulting ambulance arrived, Afité had fled, although he was caught a few miles up the road, covered in blood, still brandishing the knife that he had remembered to pick up from the floor. He left behind him one dead police officer, a severely injured infant and a critically injured young woman who bled to death as soon as the ambulance crew rolled her onto the trolley. Her face had been trampled on and half crushed, along with her ribcage. The resulting post mortem showed investigators that she had died from massive internal bleeding, and the CCTV footage told the story sufficiently to sentence the killer even without the eyewitness reports that all confirmed how the young lady had begged for her life as Deejay Afité stomped on her chest and head. Even in her dying moments she had begged him to leave her baby alone. She had shielded the infant with her body as best she could, but was unable to keep it safe from every steel toed blow that was rained down upon her.
The two bodies were stored together in the mortuary, the only occupants that day; they were buried on the same day, too; one drawing a big crowd, the other just a handful of mourners who turned up on call to see an unnamed woman committed to the earth. Nobody could even hope to understand why they had died, or what an impact it would have on everything.
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Diaries of the Damned Page 33
