The Mark by Simon Maltman

Author:Simon Maltman [Maltman, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Close To The Bone Publishing
Published: 2020-05-28T22:00:00+00:00

28

I sat back down on the sofa, now in handcuffs. I wouldn’t be getting up for any more jazz recitals. I shouldn’t have gone to sleep, let my guard down.

What the fuck were they doing here?

They had grunted something in Spanish at me and gestured for me to put my hands together. They gave me a cursory search, then pushed me down onto the sofa. So that was it then – I was caught. We hadn’t gotten away with it for very long. There was my life down the tubes.

How the fuck had it come to this?

I’d have given anything to have never gone away on this ‘holiday.’ I could just have been curled up in my living room with a comfy blanket, smoking a spliff, listening to something chilled like These are Soulful Days by Lee Morgan. Tears pricked behind my eyes, but I stopped them, fronting it out best I could. One of the cops kept his gun loosely trained on me, while the other two talked quietly and typed occasionally on their phones. I was pure shitting myself. The whole ten or fifteen minutes that they were there, no one spoke to me and they only talked to each other in Spanish. I asked what they wanted, I asked if I could speak with a lawyer, I asked for some water. They made no response. They acted as if I wasn’t even there. Something was off. I felt alone. I needed help. Mike’s image flashed into my head. I saw his easy smile and heard his throaty chuckle. How I would have loved to be in my house, smoking a big fat J with him, the fire going, cup of tea. I’d even have tolerated his shitty music. And what else did I want? Maybe I wished we’d stayed more than just friends.

Then a car door slammed, followed by heavy footsteps. All at once, another group of men came in, not cops. They exchanged nods and looks. The three arrivals looked over at me. Then it was like the changing of the guard. The three police turned and walked out. I felt a fresh dread as they left, closed the door and this new trio approached.

“Vicky Stark”.

It was neither a question, nor a statement.

What surprised me most was the delivery in a Northern Irish accent. He spoke while walking around the room, grimacing and smoking one of those long black cigarettes. I usually associated them with middle aged women, but there was nothing feminine about him. He was around fifty, bald and only around five foot five. He may have been small, but he was built like a brick shithouse. The other two moved from their sentry positions either side of the sofa and walked casually into the kitchen. They were a little younger than the other man, and both appeared to be local and subservient to the first.

“So you’ve gotten yourself in some bother love,” the man continued, flicking ash off his long cigarette onto the thickly woven rug beside my sofa.

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