The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel (8 page)

The poor sod needs cheering up, Carl mused, as he headed for Rose’s office. A dose of her unorthodox personality could usually get Assad laughing.

Though her door was half-shut and the builders had just launched a pneumatic assault on a wall somewhere in the vicinity of the stolen-goods depot, it was hard not to overhear the exchange of voices from within.

“Knock it off, Gordon. There’s nothing doing, OK?”

“All I’m trying to say is . . .”

Carl shook his head. The place was almost falling down around them, and yet here was this young fettuccine trying to get it on with Carl’s next-most trusty colleague, and on his turf to boot.

He reached out and was about to fling open the door with a roar of outrage, only to pause abruptly as Rose’s philanderer upped the ante.

“I’ll do anything for you, Rose, absolutely anything. Just tell me and I’ll do it.”

“In that case, you can go and sit down in the middle of the motorway, or donate your services as a pontoon bridge over Lake Titicaca.”

Nice one, Rose! He could picture her exactly, no messing about. Department Q in your face, mate!

A brief silence ensued, the testicle brain seemingly awestruck.

Then he cleared his throat, trying to sound as macho as he could. “OK, then. But no matter what you say, Rose, you’re still so divinely ravishing that you make me tingly inside.”

Carl didn’t know whether to feel incensed or crack up laughing. What was it he said?
Divinely ravishing
?
Tingly inside
?

Had police headquarters gone entirely round the bend, or was it just him?

Autumn 2010

As the night progressed,
Marco realized the necessity of finding somewhere to sleep, a pair of shoes, and some dry clothes. The people who were after him had called off the search, so the question now was whether they still had a man posted at the edge of the woods or somewhere else.

On the opposite side of the road, away from the trees, it was a good way up to the closest smallholdings and farms, but how was he to cross the road without being seen if someone was keeping watch? It would be just like Zola to make sure.

Marco knew the next few hours would be decisive. If he failed to get far enough away from Zola and the rest of the clan, they would track him down. Walking through the woods on bare and battered feet was out of the question, so there was no alternative: he had to cross the road.

In Italy the children’s favorite game had been a version of hide-and-seek. The objective was to run from one’s hiding place back to base unseen and kick over a tin can. Marco had always been best, so he tried to imagine himself back in Umbria on a carefree sun-drenched day, lying in the bushes, waiting for his chance to kick the can.

He imagined that the base was across the fields, behind the farms whose lights he could see in the distance. All he had to do now was stay low, emerge at the top of the ridge, and then leg it like a ferret after its prey.

Think of it as a game, Marco, then it will work, he told himself.

He waited until the beam of an approaching car’s headlights swept across the landscape, allowing him to see whether the coast was clear. He saw the silhouette of a figure some fifty meters farther down the hill.
Marco couldn’t tell who it was, but the way he stood huddled it was obvious the sentry was struggling to keep warm, just like him.

This wasn’t good.

He’d have to crawl flat across the road. If he got to his feet and ran, he would be discovered.

He lifted his head and peered into the darkness across the fields. Not only would he have to crawl over the tarmac in pajamas as luminous as a magnesium bomb, but afterward he would need to continue in the same way at least two hundred meters across the black furrows of the field. And what then? Who could tell what awaited him if he made it to one of the dwellings? Perhaps Zola had someone over there, too?

He hesitated, waiting until the moon slid behind denser clouds. If he was lucky, he would need ten seconds at most, and then he would be over in the opposite ditch.

He wormed his way forward, easily at first, but farther out the wet road surface glistened in the moonlight, drawing everything into relief, so he turned his head toward the figure and studied its movements before pulling himself up. He would have to be ready to run if he was discovered.

The two of them heard the heavy vehicle at the same time, coming toward them from the other side of the hill. The figure drew back instinctively, turning in the direction of the sound, directly toward the place where Marco lay.

Marco lay still as a mouse in the middle of the road. The hard tarmac felt like ice, his heart pumping like a threshing machine inside his chest.

In a moment, headlights would bathe the road surface in light and he would be exposed. Seconds later the vehicle would be upon him, crushing him flat if he didn’t move, but the man keeping watch still stood with his eyes turned in Marco’s direction.

He felt the road tremble beneath him. It was as if the gates of hell were slowly being opened with the sole purpose of dragging him down into the depths.

And maybe that was what was about to happen.

Marco closed his eyes. It would all be over in an instant. Perhaps the world after this one would be better.

The rumble of the approaching diesel motor gathered intensity and as Marco submitted to his fate, he filled his last seconds with thoughts of his mother, of where she might be now and how things might have been if they had fled together when they’d had the chance. Then he thought of how he was about to be killed and the next morning, when birds would peck at what was left of him.

In these final moments of life he felt for the first time that he had never really meant anything to anyone. And thus he lay, consumed by sorrow and loneliness, as the blinding headlight beams appeared over the ridge and descended toward him with alarming speed.

At that moment, a dog began to bark at the bottom of the hill.

Marco was in no doubt: it was Zola’s hound.

Instinctively he opened his eyes, realizing at once, as the headlights lit up the night, that the figure had reacted to the barking and turned toward the sound.

As though by reflex he sprang to his feet as the truck and its driver, whose attention was on the mobile phone at his ear, bore down on him without noticing his presence.

He leaped for his life with an eruption of sudden strength. The edge of the front bumper grazed his back, the blast wave sending him flying into the ditch.

Pain seared through his body, and yet as he lay half submerged in drainage water with his lungs wheezing and the adrenaline pumping, his abdomen cramped up with suppressed laughter. Maybe in a minute or two the dog would pick up his scent, the hunt thereby coming to an end. But right now the moment was his.

He had crossed the road in one piece.

And as he skulked through the landscape like a fox, his head down and his body bent, he continued to laugh as the shouts behind him grew fainter and fainter.

—

The door of the woodshed on the outer edge of the yard was fastened only by a stick through the hasp. It was an open invitation, a gift in the cold, black night that warned of approaching winter.

Marco looked up at the house, his teeth chattering. The windows were dark and only the wind made a sound. He sighed with relief. He would bed down here for the night, and in the smell of cat piss, woodchips, and pine resin he settled with his legs drawn up to his chest and a pair of old sacks covering his feet and lower body. Now it was just a matter of waiting until morning and then hoping the family inside the house had errands to run during the course of the day.

Even before the sun rose he was woken by laughter and voices from within. People at ease, seeking each other’s company. So different from the harsh commands to which he had become accustomed in his life. He felt the sorrow and yearning of the night return to him. For a moment it was superseded by hatred and anger, though he couldn’t say toward whom it was directed. Was the family here at fault for loving each other? And could he be certain that his father, or even Zola, had not at some point loved him?

How will I ever know?
he wondered, again feeling overcome by solitude. What use were such thoughts, anyway?

He dried his eyes. He promised himself that one day he would make a family of his own and he would be certain what they felt for him.

With this solace he waited four more hours until the family drove away. Perhaps to do the weekend’s shopping or to take the children to some leisure activity. The kind of thing of which he had only ever dreamed.

He crept up to the house and made sure no one was inside before picking up a stone that seemed heavy enough.

It took only a single blow against the pane of the back door and he was inside, a comforting landscape of material wealth of the kind all Danes took completely for granted. He stood for a while, taking in the blending of smells he’d had to do without for so long. The sweet variety of scents of the bathroom, a mother’s perfume, yesterday’s cooking, and the sharp aromas of new purchases. Furniture, wood, cleaning agents.

He had watched the father, mother, daughter, and son through a gap in the boards of the shed as they got into the car. An aura of security surrounded them that made them appear loving and kind. For that reason, perhaps, he stole only what he needed: clothes and food.

As well as a book that lay on the living-room table.

He found the garbage can to the right of the shed, lifted the uppermost bags of rubbish and tossed his ruined pajamas and underclothes onto the pile underneath, ridding himself of all that might remind him of his past.

An old bike in the outhouse tempted him sorely, and yet he hesitated. More than ever, he knew he had to keep away from public places: main roads, bus stations, railways—anywhere that might provide a swift escape route from those who would be looking for him. It was in such places they would search for him first, and for that reason he left the bike behind.

He stole away wearing a thick sweater and shoes that were a size too big, with the book placed in the waistband of his trousers and pockets bulging with cured meat and bread.

During the next four days small towns and villages appeared on his way with names he’d never hear of, like Strø, Lystrup, and Bastrup, potential pantries on his zigzag passage escape along hedgerows and woods toward Copenhagen. And when his supplies from the break-in ran out, the rubbish bins became his best friends. Only seldom was the abundance of household rubbish in these outlying areas lacking, and Marco wasn’t too choosy to turn his nose up at leftover food and stale bread. At least not at the moment.

His timing was good and he reached Rådhuspladsen late enough in the day not to risk running into Zola’s troops on their way home with the day’s haul.

Before him lay the city’s familiar streets and getaway routes, but this territory also belonged to others besides himself. An unguarded moment, the briefest lapse in concentration, and they would be upon him if he should dare to venture forth. And that would be the end.

From the building site of the House of Industry he craned his neck to peer over the fencing toward the ongoing metro extension and beyond to the Palace Hotel and the offices of the
Politiken
newspaper. Construction projects wherever he looked. Roads dug up, stacks of portable huts, mountains of concrete rubble, and truckloads of building materials, steel and concrete modules in every direction.

It was pandemonium.

Marco found his new life in the Østerbro district. The reasons were several.

On this cold November day he stood amid the roar of traffic on Østerbro’s Trianglen, a hub that bound together the city’s various neighborhoods. It was a place he had never been before. He looked down at himself and at the throngs of people going by, and he wondered where he was going to sleep at night and how he would find food. For who would help a filthy kid who wasn’t one of their own?

The busy crowds were a temptation for Marco. An invitation almost. He was hungry, he had no money and no idea what to do when the night came. He looked around as thoughts reflexively crowded his mind regardless of his reluctance to acknowledge them. For the women’s bags were slung so casually over their shoulders at the bus stops, and the men so carelessly placed their briefcases on the ground at their feet while they paid for their things at the kiosk.

Here he could earn enough to keep him happy a whole day in just half an hour, simply by stealing from people, that much was plain to him. But was that what he wanted? And even if it wasn’t, would he be able to say no if he wished to survive?

He thought for a second about sitting down on the pavement by the telephone kiosk, holding out his hand, and begging. And then a snowflake settled on the back of his hand. First one, then another. Within a moment, people turned their faces skyward as the snow began to fall, spattering the facades of the buildings. Some smiled, others pulled up their collars, and when the air became a swirl of white the women clutched their bags and the men lifted their briefcases from the ground. The weather was against him.

If he sat down to beg now he would soon be even wetter and colder, and if he huddled beneath the meager shelter of the kiosk roof he knew he would quickly be shooed away. He was more acquainted with the psychology of begging than almost anyone, and a beggar at too close quarters was unwelcome. Besides, people were now heading off in all directions, winter having arrived without warning, their clothing suddenly inappropriate, Marco’s included.

What now?

He surveyed the new scene. Buses with sweeping wipers, cyclists dismounting to step through the slush onto the pavements. Flagstones now slippery, once-empty windows now teeming with life as people settled in the cafés to enjoy hot, steamy beverages. But Marco remained standing outside.

It was no good.

He pressed his freezing lips together and picked out his target coming toward him from Blegdamsvej. He could tell she was going to veer off any minute to wait at the pedestrian crossing, for he had seen how her eyes appeared to be fixed on the 7-Eleven on the other side of Østerbrogade.

A schoolteacher, he reckoned. There was that kind of authority about her, as though she were used to maintaining discipline. Her bulging, well-worn shoulder bag was half-open. It wasn’t the cheapest of bags, but certainly no flashy accessory either, bought to be used and to last. Marco’s hands had been inside so many like it. He knew the wallet nearly always lay outermost. If there was a pocket, it would be there.

He walked past the buses to the crossing and waited.

It took only a second from her coming to a halt until he found the fold into which the wallet had been placed. He stood motionless until she stepped out onto the crossing. His hand slipped out as she moved away. She might feel a slight bump against her hip as the bag fell back into place, but her attention would be elsewhere.

Marco remained standing with a strange feeling inside him, the wallet now concealed up his sleeve. Usually his eyes would be darting to make sure he had not been seen by pedestrians coming from behind, and he would be away from the scene in an instant.

But this time, shame immobilized him.

Zola had warned them all against such emotion: “You realize, of course, that no one expects anything but the worst of us. The Roma will forever be branded untrustworthy. So feel no shame. It’s the ones you’re stealing from who ought to feel shame for their distrust. Their loss is our compensation and reward.”

It was pure rubbish, for the feeling was there regardless. Zola had never worked the streets himself, so he knew nothing about it.