Marc Jesmond - 17. Chapter 17 'The New Dawn'

Hedreamt he was weeping.Then he dreamt he was only dreaming. But as his fitful sleep evaporated, Marc woke to find he was indeed sobbing. Holding tight to knotted sheets, he blinked his way back to consciousness, to pain, and the realisation that nothing in our sleep matches the horror of real life. Getting up, he dressed, and walked out onto the balcony. The river slid past, silently, in oily blackness. Marc patted red eyes, and lit a cigarette.

Was this his fault, any of it? Let’s be honest, he hardly knew Leon. Their few dates could be written off as one night stands. Why then had he reacted so violently to news of the boy’s death? If he was concerned why not simply call the police?

Instead he’d beaten up Glen Roberts, and, rightly guessing that there was some sort of conspiracy between the escort and Gerald Campfire, he made a plan to break into the Dower House. Was that such a smart move? Rational men don’t do that, do they? But right now nothing seemed rational about Marc’s life.

A massive dose of painkillers soothed his concussion, but nothing could chase the demons. He’d just killed a man; a cowardly, sadistic, selfish, monster, but still, another human being. Whatever Parnaby deserved, it was not Marc’s place to arbitrarily dispense justice. He could have taken the mobile phone, covered in the barrister’s DNA, and handed it over to the police.

Except that he no longer trusted the police - or anyone else for that matter!

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Morning

Implausibly, the sight of St Margaret’s Hospital brought Marc more comfort and reassurance than he could have imagined. The place was overcrowded, of course, but everyone present looked vulnerable, even the staff. No-one posed a threat or hinted at subversion. What you saw, however unsavoury, was what you got. At last he could relax.

Marc checked in and took his seat alongside the infirm. Leafing idly through a much thumbed copy of Hello he settled in for a long wait. Taking from his pocket the letter he’d received days earlier, he read and re-read the brief text.

‘I cannot stress too much the importance of acting quickly in this matter’

That’s what it said. Unsettling, certainly, but not so gut wrenching as the sight of the signatory – Ernest Milner, chief oncologist – What was it about that name? He was convinced Milner had figured amongst the lists of A-Teamsters. How he wished he had the book he had risked so much to find.

‘Marc Jesmond?’

The gentle Scots accent roused him,

‘Yes’

Looking up Marc recognised Alan Douglas. The medic was transformed, stripped of scrubs, cap and specs he seemed another, altogether more approachable person.

‘Could we go somewhere more private to talk?’

Marc smiled weakly, rose and followed.

Alan was dressed in smart, black slacks, loafers and white shirt. Appearing slimmer by far than Marc remembered, he followed the medic as he carved through the crowds, clipboard in hand. When they got to the room, Alan held open the door, beckoning Marc through. They were now face to face. Alan’s hair was short, dark and curly, and seemed at odds with his bright, blue eyes.

‘I’m afraid we’ve got egg on our faces; I’ve got some apologising to do’

And he smiled.

There are two kinds of people in the world; those who should never smile, and those who should do it more often. Alan Douglas’s face was transformed by smiling. And it went a long way to compensate for that deadpan delivery.

Marc smiled back,

‘Sounds interesting!’

Alan offered his patient a chair then sat down.

‘We’ve a wee bit of a problem, this morning. Our oncologist Mr Milner can’t be with us, and, unfortunately he didn’t leave us enough time to arrange cover’

Marc nodded slightly, revealing nothing,

‘Some of the appointments will have to be re-scheduled, but some can be dealt with right now. In your case I should be able to help’

Pause.

‘Of course, it’s your right to insist on seeing Mr Milner. I’m just a humble operative, there’s no way I have even a fraction of his expertise’

There it was again! Marc loved the way he said ‘ex-pair-teeze’

Alan paused, and smiled, looking like a child seeking approval for his first task. Marc shrugged,

‘You’ll do fine. You did the biopsy, so you kind of know me quite well already’

He caught Alan’s eyes to see if there was any recollection of the anal invasion he’d performed, but the latter kept his head down, checking the clipboard,

‘Aye, that’s correct, I remember’

There was an awkward silence as he shuffled the papers,

‘Och, Christ, this is so embarrassing....

Marc’s ears did what eyes do when they’re staring! And he remained silent.

‘You see.....well, let’s put it this way... at your age, not even 40, you should never have been approached for testing’

Marc continued staring,

‘The trial concentrates on men who are over 50, and who have a male relative, father or brother who has, or has had prostate cancer; they are the terms of reference’

Marc wasn’t smiling any longer.

‘So what are you saying? How come the letter was sent to me?

Alan fidgeted with the papers. Marc began to sweat,

‘Do you have any idea what all this has done to me? I’ve had blood taken, my ring piece prodded, tissue ripped out of my gland, I mean Christ...

Alan reached over and placed his hand on Marc’s wrist,

‘Aye, I know. I know. Remember, I did the biopsy’

‘Did you know about this 50 year age minimum?’

Alan was a little surprised at Marc’s quick grasp of the germane,

‘I did, I’m afraid. And I’d love to say that I thought it a little strange when you came in, but the truth is I had a lot on my mind at the time and....

He paused,

... obviously, you don’t look anywhere near 50’

‘Thank Christ for that!’

Alan removed his hand, but not before he clocked that its touch had not been unwelcome. He continued,

‘Can I get you a coffee?’

Marc leaned over,

‘No thanks Alan. But I would like something else’

Alan Douglas opened wide, unfeasibly blue eyes, and waited,

‘I know you’re not here to listen to my crap, but my life over the last couple of months has been unreal. I’m not even going to start, but let’s just say I now believe just about anything’s possible. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I’m trying’

‘You wouldn’t believe what’s happened to me. I’m going to sound a freak if I tell you just half the things.....

It was Alan’s turn to stare,

‘I’m going out on a limb here; I think your Mr Milner has just disappeared’

‘I’m not sure what you mean’

‘No, no, I guess you don’t. It wouldn’t surprise me if you find he’s off the scene for some time, along with some other individuals I could name. But in the meantime, why don’t you tell me all you know about my diagnosis? You did the biopsy; the results would come back through you, no?

‘Aye, that’s correct’

‘So tell me’

Alan paused, looking uncomfortable,

‘Look. I don’t know if you realise it, but there’s a photocopier in this room. I’m going to get coffees for us and I’ll be at least ten minutes: and because I’m rushed off my feet, I’ll forget I’ve left these papers lying on the desk’

Alan Douglas got up, turned his clipboard to face Marc, and left the room.

Marc picked up the clipboard, automaton like, and wandered to the corner of the room. He glanced at some of the paperwork, but it made little sense to him. When he’d done copying he returned to his seat, awaiting Alan’s return with the tray.

‘Hospital coffee; it’s not up to much, I’m afraid!’

Marc leaned over, and instead of picking up the cup, he put his hand on Alan’s wrist,

‘I know you’re trying to help, and I appreciate it, believe me.

I’m the son of Italian parents, and I make great coffee. I don’t understand this paperwork, but you do. So, how about you call by my place tonight and explain it to me?’

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Alma Robson was distressed; not by the hideous goings on in her back yard, but the loss of Daisy. The police had impounded the dog, pending reports, and if he was judged dangerous he would be destroyed; simple as that. Alma made the long and tiresome journey into town to visit the dog, and her reunion with Daisy, when it came, was touching. But the police were holding out little hope of a reprieve for the killer animal.

The police station was awash with gossip: the dog’s victim, inexplicably, was none other than Robin Parnaby, barrister, and, as a successful criminal defence lawyer, no ally of the police. No doubt in time the whole story would come out, and the world would discover how such an eminent man came to be in the back lane of a rundown mining village. The duty sergeant, himself a dog lover, and a man who’d have cheerfully put to sleep Parnaby ahead of any dog, tried to console the old woman,

‘It’s a pity there wasn’t a witness, you know, someone who’d say the dog had been provoked. That’s what you need’

He didn’t have to say it twice. Alma, used to a lifetime of one way communication, most of it orders, had learned to sift words with utter thoroughness. She left the police station, picking up the large bunch of amber coloured chrysanthemums she’d brought with her.

One more bus, and she was at the cemetery. She went about her business, as she had a hundred times before, removing the paper from her bouquet, then dividing the bunch in two, she walked first to her mother’s grave, and placed the flowers in the vase.

The cemetery’s Roman Catholics were all buried compactly together so it was easy to move from one familiar spot to another. As Alma crossed the path she glanced over at the mound of earth she knew was the final resting place of Mona Gabrielle. The visitor’s mouth twisted in distaste as she paused, and recalled the years of servitude to the boss she despised. Clutching the flowers with a now white-knuckled hand, the old woman plodded past a series of headstones till she arrived at a small, weathered cross.

Bending arthritically over, she stuffed the blooms into a pot sunk into the earth. She straightened up, rubbing her back. Then she closed her eyes briefly, and crossed herself. Walking away, she stopped and turned, murmuring,

‘God bless you, Maggie. Rest in peace’

Margaret Campfire

1935 - 1994

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Things had changed. Today’s hurriedly-arranged lunch date would take place not on the concourse of the railway station, but in one of the city’s finest hotels. Campfire looked tired and drawn, his sleepless little eyes almost disappearing into a doughy face. Glen Roberts had hardly looked better. With all the swagger of one who senses the tables have turned, he embraced the clerk lustily and squeezed,

‘Christ, man. What can I say? I’m so sorry’

Gerald Campfire shrugged, feigning nonchalance,

‘It’s all very stressful, and confusing. And the police are their usual, bloody unhelpful selves. There’s only so much they’ll tell me.

Look, I need to know just what happened from Sunday night on, after you’d come to see us’

Glen wasn’t going to be hurried. He’d showered and dressed especially for this, so took time studying the menu. When he’d ordered, he began,

‘You went to bed. Robin and me, we were just talking, you know. He was sure this guy Marc Jesmond would harm him. I mean, Marc’s a nut job, you saw what he did to me. Anyway, Robin said he wouldn’t be going in to work on Monday morning. Some ex-copper was due to call, don’t know why, and the two of them were going to the hall to see that duke guy’

Campfire nodded wearily, urging Glen on,

‘Robin asked me to stay upstairs in the house, and ring him if I saw or heard anything dodgy’

‘And did you?’

‘Well, yeah, of course. The copper went..

‘Cunningham’

‘Yeah, that’s the one, old guy; he went around the place seeing everything was tight, but then he left this door open at the back, out into the woods. Seemed a bit obvious to me, but then the police aren’t that bright, are they?’

Campfire didn’t deny what he couldn’t,

‘So, an hour or so later Marc Jesmond turned up, had a box of tools. I was shitting myself. He’s so fuckin’ spacey he could have had a gun, you know? He fell for the open door thing, though, and next thing you know he’s in the house. That’s when I texted Robin’

‘And they were over in Brandon Hall at the time?’

‘Yeah, just five minutes away. Then I saw Jesmond leave. But here’s the thing. He wasn’t carrying anything, just the tool box. Some time later I get a call from Robin to go downstairs. They’d knocked him out, cold. Then Robin said he’d check the house, see what had been nicked, the copper checked the premises over, and they told me throw Jesmond in the back of this people carrier that was parked up. That’s all I know’

‘Didn’t you search him?’

The escort paused, sewing a seed of doubt in the clerk’s still agile mind,

‘Yeah, erm, yes; ‘cos he had a key; big old thing, with a tag on, and an address. I gave that to Mr Parnaby’

‘Can you remember the address?’

‘Nah, somewhere in Deadlock’

‘Did he have anything else on him?’

‘No, just his wallet, and car keys I guess’

Campfire fondled his coffee cup. He didn’t seem convinced.

‘It’s strange that he took such risks, yet came away with nothing. It doesn’t add up’

Glen was keen to change the subject,

So what happened to Mr Parnaby, do we know?’

Campfire retired behind a mask of formality,

‘The police are saying only that he was discovered in a yard behind the old ice cream parlour in Deadlock. The injuries are consistent with an attack by a savage dog, blood loss and asphyxia’

The word ‘asphyxia’ ripped through the consciences of both men.

‘So, what happens now?’

The clerk checked his watch, then rose, throwing down an ample supply of cash on the table,

‘Enjoy your lunch, I really don’t have much of an appetite. I’d make poor company anyway’

Glen didn’t have to be consoled. He was used to operating alone.

Picking up his coat, Gerald Campfire stopped,

‘Just one thing; when you stayed over, when I was asleep, or at work yesterday morning, did you and Robin have sex?’

Glen looked up from the menu, untroubled,

‘No, no way. That’s the truth’

It wasn’t the truth, but for once Glen Roberts had come close to acquiring some sort of decency.

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