BiteMarks (4 page)

Dixon crouches down near to my head, leaning his face in close and blocking out the view. “I want you to know why we're doing this to you. It's because you're a queer and a weirdo freak.”  He pauses for effect and smirks at me, pleased with his own insults. 

He is close enough for me to see that his teeth are slightly yellow, and that he has a white crust from dinner in the corner of his mouth. 

The fear has left me now, helplessness giving way for some strange new sensation, and I smirk back at him despite the pain that I am in. I crane my neck forward, as close to him as I can manage whilst being restrained, feeling the intense fire of fury burning in the center of my chest; in that instant I feel powerful. “Well it takes one to know one, doesn't it, you squeaky little prick?”

For a fleeting moment I genuinely believe that he might walk away, seeing this new surge of defiance and deciding to choose another target; but he stands up with darkness bubbling in his features and kicks me hard, squarely between my widely parted legs. They let me go as I howl and convulse, curling into a fetal
position, moaning loudly as I hold myself and try not to vomit. The agony feels like too much to bear for the first few seconds, catching my breath proving difficult, but it soon settles down into a dull sickening ache as I suck in small amounts of air through tightly clenched teeth, riding the waves of nausea that are coursing through my taut body. 

As they walk away their voices fade to a distant fluttering in my pounding ears, and the loudest sound is that of the wind gently ruffling the shedding hedgerows, the noise a soft lament to the casual cruelty of children.

I have no idea how long I have been lost in the unpleasant memory, but the bath water is almost cold. My skin is a pale blanket of rough goose bumps, corpse-like now that the blood has retreated away from the cooling surface. There are scars on my body, but they  have faded with the passage of time, mainly lines of silvery white and pale shades of pink now; although there are small neat circles of a more livid hue in evidence too, since my father was a smoker. 

Ghost is watching me concerned from the doorway. He never enters the bathroom through choice, since he associates it with the much hated act of being washed each time he has got his fur smelling just the way he likes it.

“
It's all right, fella. I was just thinking was all, but I'm back now.”

I stand up and reach for a towel, chuckling when the dog errs on the side of caution and flees back to the safety of his bed.

“
You're not getting washed today, so you can relax.” 

I call out after him, heading for the bedroom trailing wet footprints on the polished floor. I dry myself off and slip on some clean combat trousers, pulling back the corner of a heavy curtain to take a peek at the weather. Rain is falling in plump droplets, and the few people out in it move like wet cats, shoulders hunched; up on their toes trying to avoid the puddles.

Personally I have always liked the rain, have always enjoyed the sensation of raindrops on my bare skin. When the opportunity arises, I like to stand outside in the dark and close my eyes against a heavy deluge, savoring the surprisingly cold impact of falling water on my body, like individual icy butterfly kisses, fleeting fluttering intimacies in a hundred places at once.

I let the curtain fall back and pull on a plain black hoodie and socks, slipping into battered old converse boots and tucking the laces in the top. “I need to shop for a few bits. Back in a bit.”

Ghost lifts his ears and opens an eye, then decides that he's not interested and settles more deeply into his bed with a loud grumble and a glare in my direction.

Outside the rain is falling fast, splashing back up off the drenched tarmac and running in swiftly flowing streams along the sides of the road. I don't bother to put up my hood as I walk, since the cold drumming helps to drive away the last lingering impressions from the flashback. 

The presence of intrusive memories is not a new development. I have carried the weight of my failings and my multi-layered guilt for what feels like a long time now; can't really remember having lived without these feelings truth be told. There are still images that I do not visit though, locked in lead lined boxes and stored in bricked up chambers in my mind. This latest visitation sat there once. I do not allow myself useless sentiments that dwell on self-pity and past weakness, have convinced myself that I can live without the old fear, omnipotent by virtue of my otherness, removed from a repeat of past agonies by my lack of meaningful contact with those who might use the connection to hurt and expose me. I have chosen to exist but not truly live among ordinary people, accepted to some degree, but only for the face that I choose to present to them. With a painted smile fixed in place, no-one needs to see that I have the soul of a killer, the heart of a stone angel.

“
He's out there somewhere, bruv.”

The voice emanates from an alley on my right, snapping me free of the last cobwebs of my reverie, making me recoil instinctively. Marvin takes another hit on a small glass pipe, holding a plastic lighter up in a shaking hand, to heat the small rock in the top. This is the first time that he has not run from me since his attempt to mug me had panned out different to how he had expected.

“
Who is?” My voices carries an edge of irritation at being caught napping.

“
The scariest thing you ever saw. Smiled like a shark man, like a damn shark.” Marvin is grinning the grin of the monumentally high, he is saturated from head to toe.

I haven't got a clue what he's talking about, or even whether he's got a clue what he's talking about. “Talk to me when you're back on terra firma.”  I turn away leaving him to his fix. 

He is starting to laugh now, loud and uninhibited as the drug alters his internal chemistry. The laugh is an old man's laugh, tinged with hysteria, eerie and out of place in a man his age, however much older he really is than he may look.  “He's got teeth man. Big fucking teeth.” He dissolves into hysterics and retreats back into the alley; laughter echoes off the enclosed walls, gradually smothered by the percussive rain that bounces off the rooftops and broken guttering as he moves further and further away.

Chapter 4

“
Just like CID, give us a load of fucking half-truths and then send us on our way.” Marcus is seriously annoyed, spitting the words out with venom.

“
I guess they've got their reasons,” I say, trying to cool things back down.

“
Oh yeah, like reinforcing the stereotype and maintaining the mystique you mean?”

“
I just mean that if I was in their position, I wouldn't want to say too much to the assortment of assholes that are responsible for policing the area either.” I smooth my hair away from my forehead.

“
Fair enough, but had we known about this guy there might not be two women with holes in their faces now.”

He sighs heavily, already becoming resigned to the realities of life in the force.

“
What, because the well-oiled machine that is the Notts police, would have rallied around the poor lost souls who are selling their services on street corners? Give me a break, most of these guys don't care either way.” Now I'm getting riled.

“
What about you?”

“
For the record, yes, I do care. I didn't start this job just to kill time.” I stare at him, challenging.

“
Why did you start this job Shane?” He returns the gaze coolly.

“
Don't start with the budget psychology again Marcus, I'm not in the mood for another grilling.” I turn back away, topic finished as far as I'm concerned.

“
Well then answer the question, I don't know anything about you even though we've been partners for a time now, and then tell me why you've been acting strange recently.”

“
For fucks sake. Same reason anybody does, to make a difference, change the world, leap tall buildings in a single bound... and I've been under the weather for the last couple of weeks if that's what you call acting strange.”

“
Bullshit.”

“
What?”

“
All of it. There's nothing physically wrong with you, and you didnt join out of altruism any more than I did.”

“
So why did I join then?”

“
Don't try to deflect the question or I swear to God I'll slap you right here in this car.”

“
I'm just trying to get along, it seemed like as good a career as any.”

“
Well the way I see it, people in this job fall into one of two categories; those with something to prove to themselves and those with something to prove to others.”

“
I guess I'm little bit of both then, Doc.”

“
We need assistance at ten Brackleigh Road. Suspect has entered the property and we've got him contained, but there's a crowd gathering. Anybody in the area?”

The radio message puts an end to the conversation for now, as Marcus calls in a reply that we'll be there in two minutes to assist, before glaring at me.

“
This conversation's not over.”

I put the car into gear and accelerate towards the estate. We both know the address well, and the first finger of adrenaline slips into my stomach, preparing me for the fight; flight seems somehow much less likely. The view out of the windows seems to stretch as we speed up, as if we might attain sufficient velocity to tear the fabric of our surroundings and be delivered elsewhere in the space-time continuum.

The journey is nowhere near long enough, the scene greeting our arrival a chaotic strain on the senses as we squeal to a halt and swiftly exit the car. Local faces have turned out in numbers, nothing better to do with their time than see how far they can take the posturing and obstruction without getting themselves nicked. I am struck by a familiar thought, that boredom is to blame for a significant proportion of the evil in this world; or at least for this particular ugly brand of badness. 

They all look the same in this situation, faces contorted with hate for the uniform; the lop-sided snarls of hungry predatory masks making them appear more animal than human in the dying light. To them we are 'pigs', less than human too, unclean by our arrogant desire to protect them from themselves. Both sides dismiss the individuals with all of their miraculous complexities; both sides demonize and dehumanize.

I am jostled by bodies that carry the smell of ignorance; chip fat, new sweat over old, and cheap chain store fragrances too liberally
applied. A teenaged lad drips thick blood from both nostrils, mouth framing the consonant 'F', teeth over the bottom lip and bright blue eyes blazing. I don't hear the insult, mixed as it is with a hundred others, the shrill hysteria of female bloodlust threading through it all and fanning the flames. I feel like I am underwater, ears closed to the subtleties of speech, replaced by unintelligible babble. My right hand throbs a little, and I realize that the youths venom was well directed, although I have no recollection of having punched him.

Up ahead Marcus is shoving people out of the way, cutting a swathe to the house, then gesturing as if to hit a large man clutching a can of Kestrel Super, whose stained t-shirt doesn't quite cover his immense stomach. The man steps aside in his own good time, raising his arms above his head as if in triumph at this minor act of disobedience, spilling half of the can's contents down his arm in the process. 

I glare at him as I pass and he drops them again, taking in my intimidating frame and stepping a little further away, smirking at his mates to show them that he's not really afraid.

Other cops are arriving on the scene in vans now; stepping out with batons raised and CS spray drawn. They strut like show dogs, carrying themselves as if they were ten feet high and bullet-proof, eager to dispense rough

justice to these sub-humans if antagonized The two officers who called for back up are half marching, half dragging, a semi-clothed John Toombs along the cracked pathway.

'Toombsy' is a prolific offender from a largely lawless family, with a penchant for violence; he's been here before and knows how to work his crowd. On cue he bellows loudly at the officers and tries to connect with a head butt, although his hands are firmly cuffed behind his back. With perfect timing they let go of him, allowing his momentum to suddenly carry him forward, surprised and off balance he falls face first to the tarmac, at which they haul him back to his feet and push him into the cage in the back of one of the vans ready for transport into custody.

“
Whoops.”  The nearest officer tips us a wink and a smile on the blind side of the crowd before climbing into the back himself.

With their hero removed, the crowd starts to dissipate, weirdly calm again now. The rapid peaks and troughs of emotion are alien to me, existing as I do a few degrees either side of a flat plane of indeterminate and indefinable mood. I find the extremes disorientating and fascinating in equal measure. I climb back into the car, one wing-mirror now lolling against the side, remembering to nod an acknowledgment to other officers still milling around, seemingly reluctant to leave the situation with unexpended violent energy.