BiteMarks (16 page)

* * *

Every second kid you meet in this fucked up world is pierced and tattooed, scars marring the wrists like pink bracelets, and sleeves rolled back to show off the slashes like trophies of parental failure and defiance combined.

Some might be proud to be bitter and twisted, but not me. I remember being that boy, nine years old and bleeding by my own hand, wishing that I'd never been born. I believed that I was the only person who had ever cut themselves in this way, and I kept the wounds secret, ashamed to be in existence and afraid of what they signified. I felt like the loneliest boy in the world.

Over time my feelings changed as I returned to the pain again and again, each new agony allowing me to feel alive and renewed.

Each time the exquisite release swept through me like a tidal wave; the running blood reminded me that I was still human, that in the creeping absence of other feelings and the fog of numbness, I could still feel something even if it was only pain. That's the part that most people don't seem to understand, that you learn to enjoy the sensation of your skin parting beneath the blade, that if you try to stop you begin to feel the itch of need building up and quietly insistently demanding release.

It took a while, but I finally realized that I wasn't cutting because I wished I was dead any more. I was cutting to remind myself that I was still alive.

When we first met him, Will's everyday attire had been composed more of holes than of actual material, and a plethora of bruises running an impressive array of shades from palest yellow to deepest black, ran in columns along his limbs and torso. Will had blamed his father when asked, until the night that the police had come and dragged 'the bastard' screaming and flailing across the saturated lawns of half the neighborhood, then locked him in the caged rear of their van.

Will's mother's jaw was broken in several places, and she was admitted for treatment of those fractures and for the bruises and puncture marks left by her husband's teeth, that adorned her face and neck. Apparently, 'the bastard' had decided that whatever her latest indiscretion had been, it warranted a special kind of cruelty. His punishment of choice had been to make his treasured wife sit silent and still whilst he disfigured her with a series of bites. Will had sat in the next room on the telephone to the police, quietly sobbing out this latest act of sadism to the kind concerned voice on the other end of the line whilst praying that he wouldn't be discovered.

The prison sentence would prove to be relatively substantial, but his mother's stay in hospital was only fairly brief. When Will returned to school a full week later on, he was complete with a fresh new design of bruising that made him clench his teeth with each step; we realized then that we were all he really had in the world.

Meg's never ending and never questioned supply of money had seen Will's rags replaced with suitably Gothic clothing of his own, and more recently, tentatively applied make-up was starting to creep into the equation. Will beginning to mimic my own black nail polish on the middle finger of each hand and eyeliner encircling each dark eye. We heartily approve of his ongoing transformation, and with that acceptance some of his tics have vanished over time.

We take it in turns to drink late into the warm afternoon, gradually feeling the wearying effects of the poison entering our systems. Laying on my back I trail magnet heavy limbs through the dry feather whiskers of long grass, idly contemplating how alcohol is much like every other drug, in that it seems to pervade the entire being with apathy, leaving the user only able to muster up the enthusiasm to continue abusing its subtle toxic charms and little else besides. Little by little we succumb to the muddled sensory experiences of drunken oblivion; and as we do the conversation starts to lose its playfulness as bitter emotions start to surface.

“
My Dad, right? Yeah, my Dad's a complete fucking idiot.”

Meg's voice is thick and wet with the drink. “He doesn't know what love is, the bastard.”

“
What makes you say that?”

By the sounds of him, Will is not far behind her in the inebriation stakes, but at least he can still speak. My tongue, in comparison, lays marooned like a dead whale on a bed of sand inside my mouth. The mere thought of attempting speech produces a wave of nausea and exhaustion that makes me want to lay down and sleep right where I am.

“
Doesn't matter, don't want to talk 'bout it, but 's jus' way it is.”

Meg's speech is becoming even more labored and fractured, she takes another swig from the flask before handing it on to Will.

“
S'jus the way of the adult word … world?” Will is joining her now, losing track of his own thoughts, brow furrowed in deep concentration and eyes starting to orbit and drift away.

“
Mine dun't even know whom I'm am.” I slur badly, realizing how I'm just as bad as the other two right now. My vision starts to shift a little on its axis, the whole field starting a slow revolution to the left, picking up speed as I fight the movement. I close my eyes to block out the rapidly accelerating spinning, but I can still feel everything rotating behind the closed eyelids, and the sickness is starting to take shape in the depths of my churning stomach.

A senseless and wordless prayer is forming inside me, causing a small ironic inner sneer in the small part of me that is not yet entirely paralytic. How did I get from moderately merry to absolutely devastated and out of control in such a short space of time? Saliva is becoming more copious now, flooding my mouth as my gorge rises and falls starting a practice run for the main event.

I hear the synchronized sounds of male and female retching close by, and open my eyes in time to see the blurred forms of Meg and Will hunched over and traveling past my face at high speed. I am the first to start feeling better as my body rapidly finishes evacuating much of what I have eaten and drunk that day. I move over towards Meg and take hold of her hair, holding it away from the pooled vomit in a loose ponytail. She stops spitting after a short while and leans in to me turning her still beautiful face up to mine.

“
He wouldn't do it if he loved me, would he?” Her expression is exposed and imploring, I'm not used to seeing her like this and the effect is jarring. 

I hold her in close trying to absorb the pain and whispering words of comfort, as I realize with a jolt where she gets her never questioned sums of money from, payments for her silence.

* * *

I've been knocking on the front door for ten minutes or so now, glancing up at the purple BMW outside once or twice to ensure that it genuinely isn't occupied. Finally there's movement in an upstairs window, the squeaking wood on wood sound of a sash window being lifted. An aggressive looking bare-chested man leans out of the opening.

“
What the hell do you want, white boy?”

“
Good morning to you too, I'm looking for a girl called Cristal.”

“
Tell it to somebody who gives a shit.” He leans back in and pulls the window back down forcefully.

I start up another round of continuous knocking until I can see his silhouette approaching the door through the opaque glass, moving with stiff angry strides. The door swings open and crashes against the wall since he doesn't bother to halt its progress. I recognize him as one of the hangers on who was in the room last time I visited. A surly Jamaican giving away a few inches in height to me but in great shape, torso chiseled to masculine perfection. 

“
Hello again, you took your time getting down here. Did I wake you?”

“
The spider man told you not to come here again unless you got a death wish, white boy.”

“
My name's Shane. Address me as white boy again and you'll be picking up you're shattered teeth with broken fingers. Is Cristal here?”

He starts to answer the question and then registers the threat, anger moving in a fresh wave of hostility over his face. He jabs a solid finger into my chest, eyes sparking dangerously as he starts to speak. “You'd better think about who you're talking to … ”

He doesn't get to finish the sentence, when somebody snaps your finger mid speech it tends to upset your train of thought like that.

“
Motherfucker!” He is holding his finger aloft as if it were some rare prize, gritting his teeth and grimacing against the pain.

“
Now I've got your attention are you going to answer my question?”

“
She's here.” The reply coming from a deep accented voice in the gloomy hallway behind Mr Surly. Antony Jones and Levi Bennett standing there with Cristal between them looking stupid eyed and out of it.

“
Hi there, lady. I've come to see how you're doing after your swift and premature exit from the hospital.”

“
She's fine.”

The reply from Bennett, I ignore him and keep talking.

“
We're getting closer to catching the man who attacked you. Do you want to leave with me now and go somewhere safe?”

Mr Surly moves across the doorway again, trying to curry favor with his employers. “She isn't going anywhere with you.”

“
You're going to move back out of my way now.” I don't bother to look at him as I direct the words towards him, but he does as instructed no doubt the finger helping his decision.

“
What do you say, Cristal?”

The silence stretches for a long moment as she makes her decision. “I'm safe here.” She wraps her arms around Jones who is smiling in his usual unpleasant fashion.

“
That's right baby, we got you covered.” He looks at me as he says it and then runs his fingers through her hair.

“
If you ever change your mind … ”

“
She won't.”

I am dismissed with a wave of a loose hand and the door closes firmly in front of my face, leaving me standing alone with my thoughts. What the hell just happened?

Chapter 11

The Police Force is repeat offender. Sentenced by its servants and by those that it serves to a period of scrutiny and rehabilitation without end, it strives so hard to change, running course after course on prejudice, diversity and ethnic minorities and missing the point completely.

Personally I've never met a person from any background who referred to themselves as an ethnic minority. As for trying to stamp out prejudice, you can't achieve that any more than you can braid fog; it is a multi-layered and capricious beast, ingrained long before people become 'officers'. In demonizing it and treating or challenging the clinging beliefs as being fundamentally wrong, you drive people into deception or create newer more insidious forms of bigotry with keener intelligence, sharper claws and chameleon camouflage. 

I wasn't there when it happened, but I can vividly imagine the scene unfolding. Jamie Moore and Marcus alone in the locker room, partnered up for the day by virtue of the fact that they're both pulling in an extra shift, and by the fact that Strang is now on light duties with his foot. They're clocking off for the day now, Marcus relieved, looking forward to escaping the snide asides and thinly veiled antagonisms. He is unafraid of the bigger man, but aware of the consequences of he doesn't manage to keep a lid on his simmering temper. Taken separately the two men are benign elements, almost inert, that can co-exist peacefully; in combination though they are explosive. The shift has been awkward and unpleasant, interspersed with petty incidents to deal with that have needled at Marcus. Moore has learned a different style of policing to the one that his temporary partner is accustomed to, and the swaggering arrogance, implied threats and use of force that walks a fuzzy line between right and wrong sit uneasily between them. With each incident that they are forced to deal with together, the atmosphere has become more charged; even the initial reserved indifference has begun to evaporate and spill over into something bordering on contempt for the other.

Marcus prays for the clock to tick along just a fraction more swiftly. Just as it had seemed the day would pass without significant incident after all, Moore had located the correct button to press. 

Detonation.

Marcus, an accomplished amateur boxer, punched Moore hard enough to crack ribs before Strang heard the commotion from the next room and started shouting to other officers.

Miraculously there'd been no arrest made yet. The Inspector might be a cantankerous old git at times, but he is reasonable and fair and he makes it his business to know his officers well. Instead Marcus had been put on indefinite suspension until the truth of what had happened could be ascertained and appropriate action taken.

I'd initially been tipped off by Sally, the pretty redheaded girl who sits on the reception desk recycling office gossip with a storyteller's flair. I'd wasted no time in finding an excuse to head out to Radford Road Police Station on an urgent errand so that I could be alone and get chance to call him. He picks up on the second ring.

“
Hello mate, I guess you've already heard then?”