Tattoo

by J G Alva

  “Are you okay, are you okay?” He asked.

  “Oh Sutton,” she said, and dissolved into tears, burying her head in the hollow of his throat.

  *

  The ambulance arrived some minutes later.

  Robin watched from a distance with a sense that the world had changed in the last week, that she didn’t recognise it. So many terrible things seemed to be happening…It hadn’t always been like this, had it? For a moment she was consumed with a longing for her office, for the problems of others, a reality that was so much easier to deal with; this reality had teeth, and took chunks out of you at its leisure.

  She watched as Sutton comforted the woman she presumed was Michelle; they were sitting on this side of the brick Toll Houses, on the low stone wall that bracketed the road onto the bridge.

  Her face was terribly scarred, Robin saw, presumably from the acid that Terry Ryder had thrown over her all that time ago. The damage however was not confined to the right side of her face, which was a tangled web of twisted, raw skin, but was also in her hair, where Robin could see white patches of scar tissue where the hair no longer grew. Robin’s heart went out to her. No woman should have to endure such a thing. And from what Robin could tell, she thought that Michelle had probably been a very pretty woman in her old life: she was tall, had thick dark hair, a delicate face, a good figure.

  As the ambulance attendants came toward where the two of them were sitting, Robin watched as Sutton moved to stand in front of Michelle, hunker down, and talk to her. She was crying. Sutton held both of her hands together in front of her, as if he was helping her to pray. Robin watched him lean forward and kiss the scarred side of her face.

  And then the ambulance attendants were there, and Michelle was put on a stretcher and wheeled into the back of the ambulance.

  Sutton watched as the ambulance pulled away; his face was hard, like stone.

  Hesitantly, she joined him.

  It was some moments before he became aware of her.

  “Are you okay?” She asked.

  He nodded.

  “You hurt your hand,” she remarked, and pointed.

  He turned his left hand up; angry looking blisters travelled in a line up to his wrist.

  “It’s fine,” he said.

  “Sutton, you really should-“

  There was shouting from behind them, and they both turned toward it. Some people ran passed. Both Sutton and Robin moved closer to the wall and leaned over its edge, attracted by the sudden drama.

  On this side of the Avon Gorge, the cliff dropped gently down several levels, before it sheered off to the river below. Beneath where they stood, on the concrete section of the bridge that connected with this side of the gorge, a tarmac footpath wound down through the grassy slope to a small viewing area that looked out over the gorge and was circled by iron railings. A small gathering of people were clustered around a woman on her back. The woman moaned and then stirred.

  “Mary,” Sutton remarked. “There you are.”

  One of the men was calling for another ambulance. Another said it was probably a better idea to call the police; the bitch was mad, nobody knew what she might do when she came around.

  “Is your friend Michelle going to be okay?” Robin asked.

  Sutton nodded.

  “I think so. She was just shaken up.”

  “I was watching you,” Robin said. “While you were talking.”

  She paused, unsure exactly how to proceed with such a delicate subject.

  “So?” Sutton said angrily.

  “Were you…were you involved with her?”

  Sutton seemed in that moment sad, melancholic even.

  “Yes.”

  “But not any more?”

  He shook his head.

  “Can I ask…what happened?”

  Sutton shook his head and then shrugged.

  “I decided I wasn’t any good for her. That I was…holding her back.”

  Robin frowned.

  “Why would you decide that?”

  Sutton turned to her.

  “Because there’s things she needed that I couldn’t give her. And I know what she’s like. She would have waited forever for them. She would have waited forever for something that was never going to happen.”

  They were both silent a moment as they stared at each other, Sutton angry, either with her or with the world in general, she did not know. Robin broke the staring match, looking down again at where Mary Ryder lay.

  Robin said, “it was lucky you knew that there was an outcropping of rock down there, or Mary Ryder would have wound up at the bottom of the gorge, instead of on a ledge.”

  The long drop into the gorge was only three feet beyond where her head now lay.

  Sutton looked at her, but his eyes were dead.

  “I didn’t.”

  Robin felt herself go cold.

  “I think it’s time we paid Mike Ruffall another visit,” he said, and there was a flash of fire in his eyes now: the anger had been transferred to something – to someone - specific.

  Sutton walked back toward the car and after a brief look into the gorge, and an even briefer contemplation of that long descent to its bottom, Robin followed.

  *

  CHAPTER 12

  When Guy eventually made it back home, she was there, waiting for him.

  He could not find a parking space on his street, and so had something of a walk in the drab late afternoon sunlight back to his house. His heart sank when he saw her on the front door step. He was tired. He didn’t need this now. That bitch.

  “Where have you been?” She demanded.

  He fished his keys out of his pocket, didn’t answer.

  “Huh? Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been waiting here for hours.”

  Still, he didn’t answer her.

  He went to put his keys in the door but she blocked his way.

  “Answer me, you little faggot. And don’t tell me you’ve been out with your friends. You haven’t got any.”

  “Problems with the bank,” he mumbled, ducking his head down.

  “What was that? You were at the bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it the fucking underwater bank? You’re soaking wet.”

  “I-“

  “Open up the door so I can have a drink,” she snapped. “I’m fed up of sitting out here, waiting for your pathetic retarded self to make an appearance. Come on. Hurry up. Stupid little asshole.”

  She moved out of the way and he put the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door for her.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  *

  All he could think, when the torch light flashed over him was: they’ve found me.

  The chase through the moat was a nightmarish collection of freeze frames as the torch swung back and forth, jiggled by the motion of movement, showing the curving brick wall one moment, the dark sloshing water up to his knees the next, but at no point during the pursuit did he think it was just one man.

  They’ve found me, but he could not tell what he was feeling, whether it was fear or exhilaration, only that he had to run, that it wasn’t over yet, that there was more still to do, and that he could not afford to be stopped, not now, not yet.

  And all the time he could feel his energy draining away.

  Then he was at the rungs, and with a burst of what little energy he had left, he had managed to scale them to the surface in record time.

  Even when he banged clear the sewer cover he had expected to be surrounded, that while he had been running police had been busy strapping on bullet proof vests and arming themselves, so that when he crawled out of the sewer and lay for a brief moment on the pavement, he expected to open his eyes and find a dozen angry men pointing shotguns in his face…

  But when he did open his eyes there was no one.

  Still he did not believe it. They’ve found me, they’ve found me. He ran to his van, leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake, got in, started it up, stal
led it, started it up again, looked around wildly and, still seeing no one, pulled out into the road.

  They’ve found me.

  But they hadn’t.

  He could not believe it.

  It had been only one man.

  He was not stupid enough however to believe that that would be the end of it. Because of course now they would know. If they did not already. The man, whoever he was, he would tell others. There might be some time before they found him, but the fact that they were coming was inevitable. Like the first few dislodged lumps of snow before an avalanche, the end had begun.

  It was as he was returning to the house that he realised that he had not rinsed the body clean, had planned to do it at the moat.

  No.

  He didn’t think it would lead them anywhere, but he knew you could never be too sure. DNA was like a thirty question pub quiz: there was always going to be one or two things you wouldn’t be able to cover.

  But who had the man been? A sewer engineer, inspecting pipes in and around the moat? Guy assumed there were pipes, but he didn’t really know, so that was one possibility. He quickly discarded the idea however; he had not been in any kind of uniform, he had been able to see that much. He had briefly debated tackling him, but under the misapprehension that the mysterious stranger was the first of many, and not a man alone, he had decided against it. Now he wasn’t so sure that that hadn’t been the right course.

  They’ve found me.

  Of course they would. He knew they would. He had left the tattoos specifically for that purpose.

  But he had not thought that they would unravel the clues so quickly.

  Not yet.

  Please, not yet.

  There was still so much to do.

  *

  “Well?” She said, sipping a small glass of Gordon’s London Dry Gin. The bottle was on the counter beside the sink. “Are you going to tell me where you’ve been, or am I going to have to get the needles out?”

  Not the needles. Good God, no.

  The needles were a nightmare from his childhood, when his mother, for whatever reason, decided that he was being naughty and hiding something from her; in response to this supposed deceit, she would produce small metal needles from an old sewing kit and start sticking them in his hands, or in his arms, or in his thighs, until he told her the truth, told her everything.

  He could never resist the needles.

  Guy shook his head, looking at the floor, avoiding her eyes; she might see the truth in them. That was how she knew to bring out the needles in the first place, the ill concealed lie in his eyes. What would she do if she did know the truth though? About what he had been doing. If he confessed his all to her? The thought sent a tantalising spark racing through him. Yes, what would she do?

  And what would he do in response?

  Could he…could he hurt her? To keep her quiet?

  Could he do that?

  The kitchen table was between them. Its separating presence was a comfort to him.

  “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

  “No,” he replied sullenly.

  His mother finished her glass, smacked her lips…and then poured another.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, and smiled brightly at him. “I already know what you’ve been doing.”

  He gave a start. See. This was the thing: sometimes he just wasn’t sure she couldn’t read minds.

  He met her eyes then. They were hostile, derogatory.

  She flicked a hand at the kitchen table, which was bare but for two Glade Air Fresheners.

  “What is your obsession with air fresheners?” She asked. “They’re all over the house. It smells like a fucking club toilet in here.”

  He was too stunned that she might know what he had been doing to take much notice of this last bit of derision. He shook his head and stuttered, “how can you-“

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?” She shouted suddenly, making him jump. “Do you think I don’t know what you are? What it is that you do? Do you think I don’t know how fucked up you are, how badly that machine in your head is fucked up? I’m your mother. I know you, Alden. I know you better than anyone. Better than you know yourself.”

  His throat was suddenly dry.

  He tried to speak, but his throat clicked emptily. He tried again.

  “Guy,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “I said…Guy. My name is Guy. That’s what they called me, my friends called me…at the institution.”

  “Guy? What sort of a name is that? What’s the matter with your own name, the name I gave you? Or do you have trouble getting that right as well?”

  She took a sip of her drink, staring at him thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know what to do with you, Alden,” she began, in a voice of woe; she shook her head despairingly. “You know, I tried. I thought, when you came out of that nuthouse, that the best thing for you would be a woman, that a woman would straighten you out. So what if it was paid for? I thought it would unlock you, get rid of your hang-ups. But you couldn’t even do that right. Now you’re running all over Bristol doing God knows what, raping women, killing them…” She let out an angry breath. “What am I supposed to do, Alden? I’ve turned a blind eye until now. What do I care about a couple of stupid brats you’ve beaten up, raped, fucked, killed? Why should I be surprised that that’s the way you’ve turned out? But now this has come back to my door, and I won’t have it, Alden. I won’t.” She slammed the glass down on the Formica countertop; a small amount of Gordon’s leaped out and splashed over her hand. Absently, she licked it off, like a cat. “This is embarrassing. How am I meant to confess to my friends what a fuck up you are? How am I meant to look anybody in the eye again, knowing what they know about you?” His mother gave out an angry bark, a noise, like a frustrated animal. “And now Sutton Mills knows about you. He came to me, asking questions. I lied for you, God knows why. But he’s not stupid. He won’t be fooled. And he’ll be back. And then what do I tell him? Huh? What do I tell him about the lie you made me say? Huh? Got any bright ideas about that, asshole?”

  “Who…who is he?”

  “Who, Sutton?” His mother looked thoughtful. She stared at the bottle of Gordon’s a moment, stroking it with her hand, and then poured herself another glass. “I don’t really know. They say he’s an artist, but he’s not. Or that’s not all he is. I saw him dislocate a man’s jaw once with a single punch. He’s…vicious. A cold man. Charming…but cold.” She had a far away, dreamy look on her face, before she came back to herself. “But he’s smart. And he will find you. And when he does I can’t protect you. I won’t protect you.”

  “What does he look like? This Sutton?”

  His mother shrugged.

  “Tall. Extremely good looking. Sort of longish dark hair. Broad.”

  Could it be? Could this be the same man that had chased him in the darkness of the moat?

  “I’ve worked hard for the life I’ve got, Alden. I did a lot of things I’m not overly keen on doing again, to secure my place in the world. God, it still galls me to this day that your fucking grandfather left everything to you, that I have to come to you for the money that is rightfully mine.”

  She began circling the table toward him. He wanted to move but couldn’t; it was as if she had zapped all of the strength from him, all his will. She was his mother, after all.

  “I won’t have it, Alden. Not anymore. You can fuck up your own life, you’re good at that, but I will not let you fuck up mine as well. Do you understand, you stupid little shit? Do you get what I’m saying? I won’t have it, and I’m your mother!”

  She slapped him.

  He had known it was coming. The signs were all there. Her face was angry, red, ugly. It didn’t really hurt that much.

  She looked dissatisfied, so she slapped him again. She began to speak, slapping him again and again, her words falling into the gaps between the slaps, like she was punchi
ng out a rhythm, a chant.

  “You little fuck.” Slap. “You’re going to stop.” Slap. “Do you hear me?” Slap. “No more.” Slap. “Stupid fuck.” Slap. “No more.” Slap. “No more of your sick shit.” Slap. “Fucking…” Slap.

  He was not sure exactly what happened next. Something within him seemed to rise up; at least, that was the impression he got afterwards. He fancied that it was the ghost of the boy he had been, or could have been, without her. He too would not take any more, as she would not. He realised then that everything he had done had been leading to this moment, that all the things he had set in motion had been for this, so that he could face her, so that he would have the strength to deny her, her vitriolic will, her acidic tongue, her hate for him, that was like a blacksmith’s hammer to the molten metal of his soul.

  The next slap did not come because he held her wrist, preventing her. She fought against his hold on her, her face surprised at his reaction – he had not done this before, not in the twenty seven years she had been remonstrating him – but she was not afraid yet, still only angry. As if he should not dare to question her, or anything she did.

  It was after some moments of struggling, in which no amount of tugging and jostling and slaps with her free hand could dislodge his hold on her, that he saw the fear come into her eyes. And it was then that he knew that he could do it, that he could do what needed to be done.

  He punched her in the face.

  She never saw it coming, did not have time to react. Her head snapped back, and she would have gone down but for his hold on her.

  She recovered herself, her free hand going to her face. Her nose was bleeding, he noticed, and there was a cut on her lip, the lip itself already swelling.

  “You…”

  But she could not say any more, because he had both hands around her throat.