by Chris Parker
Marcus forced himself to glance in the window as he spoke. The bar was empty. A young woman was cleaning tables, preparing for the day. She was about to clean the table where Simon used to sit. The acid in Marcus’s stomach burnt as she went about her work. He turned his attention back to the reporter. Johnson was heavily overweight, with sallow skin and patches of darkness beneath his eyes.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do Dave, because I never want it to be said that I don’t support and help journalists in their noble search for the truth.’ Marcus noticed that his toes were flexing and gripping the earth as he spoke. The anger was acting as a release, helping him to reconnect with the planet and the air and the people around him. He was back, if only for a moment, to being the Marcus Kline who could really listen and really see and who could, consequently, influence others with apparent ease. The words came, precise, paced and sequenced to create a very deliberate outcome. Dave Johnson, on the receiving end, found himself thinking later of a professional boxer striking in combination with irresistible speed and accuracy.
‘I never want you to think that I would stand in your way of a good story. After all, we all have our job to do and, if it’s in the public interest, they deserve to know, don’t they? They deserve to know your interpretation of serious, serious, events in people’s lives – of threatening, life changing, even life ending events – that you frame and diminish beneath trashy headlines, shred down into column inches, and turn into gutter trash. So, here’s the thing. I’m going to give you an exclusive – an exclusive chance to ask me one question. Anything you want! How about that? And, to make things even better, I acknowledge right now that both your question and my answer are on the record. How does that sound, Dave?’
Johnson took an involuntary step back as the intended double hit of surprise and fear rocked him. To Marcus’s amazement he regrouped quickly, forcing himself to nod with clearly feigned confidence as he regained the lost ground.
‘C’mon Dave, you’ve got one shot! Make it your best!’ Marcus fired the words out, fascinated to see their effect. This time the heavy man absorbed them without flinching. Despite himself, Marcus couldn’t help but think Good for you! For a fraction of a second he imagined himself stepping forwards to confront Ethan Hall again. He hoped he’d have the same courage. He hoped his fear wouldn’t be so obvious.
‘Right,’ the journalist glanced upwards and to his right as he searched to construct the best possible question. Marcus watched and gave him time. What he’d started as an attack was turning into something else. Johnson didn’t give him time to decide what. ‘Here’s the question I want to ask you. And I want you to be completely honest.’
‘Go on.’
‘Right,’ Johnson said again. He coughed, covering his mouth briefly with his hand. ‘My question is, what have you learnt about yourself since you’ve been targeted by Ethan Hall?’
Many years before, Marcus had sat in a ringside seat watching Kirkland Laing, the greatest boxer ever to come from Nottingham, in his last fight. It had been on his home turf at the Victoria Baths in Sneinton, a small and insignificant venue for a man who, in his day, had been arguably the best pound for pound boxer in the world. Despite overwhelming his opponent in the early rounds, Laing went on to lose to a young man who wouldn’t have laid a glove on him in his prime. When asked to explain it, Marcus heard Laing’s trainer Mickey Duff say simply with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘Old Father Time…’
Now, as Johnson’s question thudded into his psyche, more powerful and penetrative than he had expected, Marcus couldn’t help but remember the look on the ageing boxer’s face as he realised, finally, there was no turning back.
‘What have I learnt?’ Marcus stalled, buying himself a few precious seconds as he tried desperately to organise his internal processing.
‘Yes. Precisely that.’
It was Marcus’ turn to nod. A tumble of images, emotions and thoughts rolled through him. He saw Anne-Marie standing in the kitchen of their old house, their home, looking out at the willow tree, knowing she had cancer, keeping her secret from him and everyone else. He saw Simon and Emma, his former PA and receptionist, standing face-to-face in his office enjoying one of their many pretend arguments, their eyes sparkling with affection. He saw Emma’s tear-stained face on the day she left, needing to escape the workplace that had once been filled with understanding and learning and fun, and now held too many painful associations. He saw the scalpel in Ethan Hall’s hand as he prepared to make the first cut. He saw Ethan’s eyes, unblinking, filled with a certainty of unfathomable depth. He felt the tape holding him in place, keeping him prisoner, making him helpless. He felt the pressure squeezing him again and found himself falling into the emptiness inside where his own certainty had once been.
His mind began to fog.
He fought it by grasping for the anger that had cleansed him only a few minutes before. He stamped his right foot. He shook his head. Felt a jolt of something close to rage fire up his spine. He thought of all the reasons why Ethan Hall deserved to be captured and locked away forever. He forced his imagination to picture Simon Westbury’s violent, needless death. He felt another jolt, more powerful this time. He watched the fog dissolve as his emotion spread. He realised that, for the first time in his life, he genuinely hated another human being.
The reporter was suddenly there again, obvious to him in every detail. As obvious as the learning this encounter had unexpectedly provided. Marcus felt a smile spread across his face. He knew now what he going to say; knew with absolute clarity what he wanted to achieve. The reporter’s question was not the intrusive challenge it was meant to be. It was a glorious opportunity. One he simply couldn’t – and shouldn’t – resist.
‘Dave, I’m going to tell you everything I’ve learnt about myself because of these terrible and tragic events, I’m going to share with you just what it means to be me right now.’
Johnson couldn’t even come close to keeping the surprise off his face.
Marcus let his smile broaden and the words pour out.
He was going on the attack.
21
Anne-Marie needed to talk. She needed to talk to someone who could listen to, understand and protect what she had to say. Furthermore, that person had to be able to resist her emotional angst. They had to be trustworthy, caring and somewhat detached all at the same time. In Anne-Marie’s mind there was only one choice.
Yet still she hesitated. She had picked up her mobile phone twice, brought up the person’s number, looked at it, then replaced the phone on the kitchen table without making the call. She had wasted a couple of hours battling what she had come to realise was fear.
How ridiculous was that? Scared of making a phone call. Scared of talking. Scared of saying what needed to be said with someone she knew she could trust. It was just one more of the many things cancer did to you the doctors never warned you about.
Anne-Marie picked up the phone again. The fear urged her to open her new emails instead of making the call. She won the battle and pressed the image of the green phone before she had time to falter.
Third time lucky.
Unless the call rang through. And if it did she couldn’t be sure when – or if – she would find the strength to do this again. Or if she would even be able leave a voice message.
The silence before the connection was made seemed to last forever. A memory filled the space. A memory of the last time she had called this number. Then, as now, her hands were shaking.
The phone started ringing. The fear fed on the noise just as it had the silence. The question stabbed like a surgeon’s knife. How many rings before it cuts to answerphone? At some point in the last few months it had become instinctive to measure and count everything. To reduce life down to the most basic and precious commodity: Time.
How many more days before the season changes?
How much longer can I keep going like this?
How many breaths before I die?
Anne
-Marie pressed the phone tight against her ear. She couldn’t resist the urge to count the rings. Two…three…four…five…Not many more before the answerphone kicked in, surely? Six…seven…eight…For God’s sake, speak to me! The silent plea was as frequent as – and often stimulated by – the silent counting. Please! I don’t know if I can do this again! Nine…ten…
‘Anne-Marie.’
The voice offered no obvious welcome, no happy-to-hear- from-you implication, no curious, questioning tone. Instead just a terse, strong sense of impatience, urgency and power forcing out the syllables.
‘Yes!’ It was the voice she needed to hear; different from every other time she had heard him speak apart from that unforgettable night when she had called, terrified and shaking. It was a voice and a moment she had replayed many times in her dreams. His certainty, authority and control had been as reassuring as it was surprising.
‘You only do what I tell you! Do anything else and you will get yourself and Marcus killed! Do you understand?’
That night she had understood. She had done as she was told. Marcus had been saved. Now she needed that same version of him again; the version she hadn’t known existed until the worst of times.
‘Peter! Thank you!’ Anne-Marie gasped, drawing back what could so easily have turned into a sob. She was sure he must have heard it, although he gave nothing in response. She spoke quickly into the silence. ‘I’m sorry for calling you. It’s just that I need to talk to someone and if I don’t I know I’m going to explode or implode or something. I just have to get this out and even though Marcus is Marcus – actually because Marcus is Marcus – I can’t do this with him and I don’t have anyone else to turn to who can do what, be what, I need right now. So I had to call you. And I tried not to. I really, really tried. Only even though I was scared I just didn’t have a choice. And I can’t even begin to imagine what things must be like for you, but I knew that if I didn’t …’
‘- Anne-Marie.’ He used her name to stop her.
‘Yes?’
‘What is it you need to get out?’ He laid the question down like a stepping-stone.
She took it, desperate for release, aware there was no turning back. ‘I’m dying,’ she said. It was the first time she had said it out loud. ‘I’m not a cancer sufferer. I’m not managing a serious illness. I’m not just a series of numbers pulled from medical assessments. I’m dying! And there’s nothing anyone can do about it!’
‘Is that what you know or what you believe?’
‘It’s what I feel inside, more than I’ve ever felt anything. More even than…’ For a second the memory of a moon reflecting on a dark Asian sea took her attention. Then the pressure of the moment reasserted itself. She had to say this now or it would become just one more thing growing unwelcome inside her. ‘… That night, when I saw Ethan Hall had taken Marcus prisoner, when I called you panic stricken, that night was the only time I’ve totally forgotten about my cancer. Can you imagine that? It took a madman with a knife to make me forget. And even then it was only for a few hours. Apart from that, it’s always been there, even when I’m not consciously aware of it. It’s like a shadow in my mind, a shadow with life and weight, silently drawing my energy. So, yes, I can say – need to say – that I’m dying. And if I took a photograph of myself right now, that’s what the title would be, it’s what the story would be about.’
‘If you did a self-portrait right now and called it Dying, I’d think you’d got the title wrong.’ His voice was so matter-of-fact he could have been discussing the correct way to reference a part of something complex like an engine.
Anne-Marie pressed her right hand against the kitchen table for support. He waited for her to ask. ‘What would you call it?’
‘I’d call it Processing. I think that would be the most honest and powerful descriptor.’ Once again he gave her time, but not enough for her to work out what she wanted to say next. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I have to go and do some processing of my own. Remember, though, you can call me anytime you need to. I’m always here.’
‘Thank you.’ She felt the hesitation again and pushed through it quickly. ‘Peter, just one more thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t tell anyone about this conversation, will you?’
‘You have my word.’ He hung up without saying goodbye. She couldn’t help but wonder if that was because he was so busy, or because he was making a point.
22
Calvin Brent was never too busy to make a point. His reputation and authority depended upon it. He knew, too, from more than a decade of playing poker at the highest level, that the value of the cards in your hand was only determined by when and how you played them. Ethan Hall was a card of rare significance and rare threat. The first quality meant he had to be used to achieve a most important advantage; the second that he had to be used and disposed of swiftly. Calvin had his plan in place.
At the poker table if you wanted to make the most of your power cards, you had to be capable of bluff and double bluff. You also had to be willing to risk or even sacrifice some cards of lesser value. Calvin sat behind his desk and looked up at Matt. The enforcer was trying hard not to fidget. It was, Calvin thought, as if Ethan Hall’s influence had damaged his internal wiring. Whether the damage was permanent or not, Calvin had neither the time nor the desire to find out. In the final analysis, cards were just cards. You picked them up, you changed them, you put them down; you started again with a new pack. Cards were just a means to an end.
‘Tell me,’ Calvin said, ‘are you clear about what you have to do?’
‘Absolutely, boss. I’ve got it down. Bang on!’ Matt fidgeted some more, his eyes flickering from side to side.
‘So tell me what you have to do this morning.’ Brent leant forwards across his desk. ‘Every detail.’
‘I pick Hall up at the agreed place, then I drive him to the target. I stay outside ‘till he’s finished, then I go and check. Then I call and let you know.’
‘And then?’
‘I tell ‘im you want us to pick a package up so we ‘ave to take a detour on our way to ‘is first target.’
‘And?’
‘When we get to the warehouse I’ll tell ‘im to come inside with me and you think ‘e’ll say ‘No’ because ‘e’ll be suspicious. Then I’ll try to persuade ‘im.’
‘What happens next?’
‘I don’t know boss.’
‘Why not?’
‘You ‘aven’t told me.’ The big man looked up at the ceiling.
‘That’s right. Do you know why I haven’t told you?’
‘No boss.’
‘Of course you do. It’s for your own safety. Ethan Hall has already messed with your head. The less I put in there, the less he can get out. Once he realises you don’t know anything, he won’t do anything to you. Do you understand?’
Matt nodded.
‘Good. You’re important to me, Matt. I’ve got plans for you. You just get Ethan to where I need him to be after he’s done the first job, I’ll take care of the rest. Ethan Hall will soon be out of your head forever. I promise.’
‘Thank you boss.’
Calvin eased back in his chair and smiled reassuringly. The generally accepted wisdom was that the best lie contained a good deal of truth. The lesser-known wisdom, the sort understood only by him and those rare few others who had achieved great power, was that the most important truths contained the worst of all possible outcomes wrapped in easy-to-get-hold-of hope.
Before the end of the day Ethan Hall would be dead and his body disappeared. And to make sure the odds were stacked even more in his favour, Calvin had also arranged for Matt to experience the same fate.
Even low-value cards, he mused, have their role to play. And if played well, which often meant sacrificing them, they could contribute significantly to the overall result.
‘You don’t have to thank me,’ Calvin said. ‘You’re an important part of my winning hand, Matt. And you can be absolu
tely sure I’ll play it to perfection. After all, that’s what I do.’
23
Influence the Marcus Kline Consultancy was based on the south side of High Pavement in a grade II listed building that dated back to the late eighteenth century. Marcus Kline used to think of his office as his most personal of all playgrounds. Not anymore. Not since the life had been driven out of it.
Emma’s departure had hurt him, but it hadn’t come as a shock. Fight-flight-or freeze; the three primal alternatives. Flight was the most common and usually the most sensible choice. No surprise then that Emma had simply followed her gut instinct and moved away.
He didn’t know where. She had said she was going to travel, see things, go to places, hoping that difference would act as a cleanser. She had promised she would call once she felt safe enough again to stop moving. He was still waiting.
Emma had been the nearest thing he had ever had to a daughter. Not that he had ever told her. Not that he had told anyone.
Some things are better left unsaid.
The irony of that thought forced the sort of painful smile he imagined all parents felt sooner or later.
Marcus was standing in the silence of his reception, his left hand resting on the desk that used to be Emma’s. He had made no attempt to replace her yet. He hadn’t replaced Simon either. He couldn’t. This wasn’t his playground anymore. It was just an empty space.
Filled with shadow-pain.
Marcus flinched and looked round the room; heard nothing but his thoughts.
Shadow-pain.
That was the source of his mind fog, the reason why his self-belief was ebbing away. Shadow-pain. You couldn’t run away from it. You had to stand and fight. Step into it. Go on the attack.
‘I was right to give Johnson a story,’ he said out loud. ‘Ethan doesn’t expect me to come back fighting. And just because I lost once doesn’t mean anything. I’m right to be angry, to use it as my strength. It will make the difference this time.’
