Blind Justice by David Mark

Author:David Mark [Mark, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2022-02-08T23:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

Zeebrugge, Belgium

October 16th, 2009

The big man walks swiftly along the flat vastness of the beach, squinting into a low orange sun and scowling as a haze of windblown sand rattles painfully across his bare legs. It’s far too cold to be out in just vest and shorts, but the man gets little chance to expose his scarred skin to the elements and is willing to tolerate such discomfort for the pleasure of letting air kiss flesh. He fancies himself unobserved. He knows from past experience that he is unlikely to see anybody this far from the little strip of pubs and restaurants that passes for the tourist trail. He has already made his way past the old lighthouse and though he can see the distant oblong of the port from which he will depart a few hours hence, he fancies he is beyond the glare of prying eyes. This is a bleak, sandblasted landscape: all dried grasses and ruffled dunes; great streaks of oil and seaweed writing indecipherable hieroglyphs along the distant water line.

He relishes times like these. Such moments are the closest he gets to liberty. He does not have to watch himself here. He does not have to camouflage himself within shyness; stillness – blend into nothing so as not to appear remarkable. He is a giant of a man, and yet the space he takes up in the memory is negligible. He moves as if trying not to disturb anybody. Moves like smoke. People struggle to remember whether they have been in his company or not. Such is his lot. He has had to make sacrifices to safeguard that which matters to him. He has had to make allowances. All is not as he would wish it, that much he cannot deny. He has to conceal himself, hurt himself; swallow down great chunks of the person he used to be so as not to appear ungrateful or dissatisfied with that which he has been so graciously permitted to enjoy.

He rubs the hem of his vest across his face. Looks down at the smudge upon the grimy white cotton. For a moment he sees his own face leering back up at himself. Thinks for a moment about the most revered shroud of all. His beloved had insisted he visit and venerate the sanctified relic at her side. Wonders, again, whether it mattered if the item was genuine, or whether faith could turn base objects into something spiritual through some benign form of spiritual alchemy.

He looks up. Sees a shape not far ahead: a little smudge of arms and legs, far out beyond the dunes. He fancies he should turn back lest he is forced into conversation. His Dutch is passable but he would rather not have to endure the stares of those who fate permits to look upon him. He knows his skin to be both hideous and fascinating. His flesh has been patterned with endless strikes of the studded, nail-garlanded flagrum. There are few inches of his naked form that are not whorled and twisted with lash marks.

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