Marc Jesmond - 9. Chapter 9 'The Darkness'

Marc’s desperate dash through the streets had caused a painful ache in his chest. He was in far from top form, and for some time had been trying to kick smoking, but right now he wanted a cigarette more than anything. Reaching the hotel, he staggered to a halt and leant heavily against the glass door at reception, waving to the commissionaire that he needed to catch his breath before going further.

Recovered, he entered, mopping his brow and glancing around for directions to the Blanchland Suite. It came as a slight surprise to him that there was no signage for the auction, but that was nothing to the shock that was in store for him when he finally located the room. The place was deserted, save for a hotel worker busy stacking chairs. Marc called to him,

‘Is this the room for the auction?’

‘It’s finished’

‘Finished?’

The man put down a chair he was holding, and crossed over to Marc,

‘Aye, it started early. Mind, there wasn’t many here anyway’

‘I’ll bet’ added Marc sourly,

‘It was scheduled for the auction rooms, but got changed at the last minute. I had to put chairs out here, but folk started arriving before I could get it ready. There’d only be about a dozen buyers. It was over in no time!’

Marc sank down into a chair.

‘You look like you could use a drink’ suggested the man,

‘I need something’

The man gestured towards a water fountain, and resumed his work. Marc walked over to the wall just as a man exited the washroom. He stopped him,

‘Excuse me; do you know anything about the auction that has just finished?’

The man, stocky, red faced, sporting specs, a bow tie and a 1980s hairstyle looked irritated at this intervention,

‘Yes, I do. I’m Thomas Hetherington, the auctioneer’

Marc felt disappointment at the man’s unhelpful tone.

‘I had a property up for auction. I just wonder, could you tell me if it sold, and the details?’

Hetherington raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise,

‘Well not really. I don’t carry that sort of information around in my head’

‘It was the riverside duplex. I don’t think there would have been too many like it’

The auctioneer curled his lip,

‘You’d be surprised. But I’m afraid I’m parked on a meter and must dash. You can get the details from whoever arranged the auction. I can’t help you’

Then Hetherington pushed past and exited.

Marc was at his wits end. He wandered over to a table littered with a few unused auction catalogues; he picked up one and browsed. At once the colour drained from his face. His property was listed first, but was almost unrecognisable. For, instead of the showpiece apartment he’d lovingly created, the washed out images showed the duplex when first built, complete with bare floors, windows, and characterless magnolia walls. It looked dreadful.

Just then another man came from the gents’ toilet. Marc called to him,

‘Excuse me, were you at the auction?’

The man, a Sikh Indian, complete with briefcase stopped,

‘Yes, I was’

‘Did you see what happened to the first item, the riverside property?’

The man put down his case, and stared steadily at Marc, who felt compelled to introduce himself, then he continued,

‘Yes, I was around for most of it, it didn’t last long. Nearly all the property was cheap stuff, the sort I’m after, commercial or rental. But that first item, the duplex, was a bit out of place. Nobody here was that interested, but it looked like it might go cheap, ‘cos there was no reserve’

‘No reserve!’ Marc almost choked,

‘No, but it didn’t matter anyway. The auctioneer kept stopping and taking phone calls. He told the room they’d really need to up the money if anyone here wanted it; like, meaning whoever was on the phone was offering much more’

‘So you don’t know what it went for?’

‘No, sorry, but it went to a ‘phone bidder. That’s all’

Marc thanked the man, and flopped down into a chair. Powerless, frustrated, confused, he just didn’t know what he was going to do next.

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Leon spent the afternoon at ‘Rockbottom’. He suspected that Marc would have preferred he show up at college rather than the sauna, but Leon was sick and tired of people, even Marc, advising him what to do. That had been the one constant during his eighteen year existence. And despite an array of teachers, social workers and police deciding what was best for him his life was still a mess.

Heading home, he prayed that Glen Roberts would not be there, but that was too much to hope for. And just to throw him further, when he got back his flatmate greeted him in a surprisingly civil way,

‘Lee! How was it at Rockbottom?’

Leon wanted no conversation, but what could he do?

‘It was OK’

‘Anybody fit there?’

‘No. Is there ever?’

Glen grinned,

‘Anybody under eighty?’

‘It was just the same people. Well, apart from this guy, he’s been there once before. He keeps looking at me’

‘Looking at your cock, more like’

‘Last time he saw me, he asked if I was online’

‘Hitting on you?’

‘No, he wasn’t like that, but sort of familiar’

‘Familiar? You mean he‘s had you in the steam room, and you’ve forgotten him’

Leon prayed he’d just shut up, but Glen pressed on,

‘Fancy a coffee?’

‘No thanks. Just get yourself one’

‘You don’t mind if I use your coffee?’

‘No, go ahead’

Then the nastiness that Leon dreaded began,

‘I’m just asking, ‘cos I know I don’t give you anything for staying here’

Leon made no answer.

‘And when I did get us some money the other night, you threw the fucker back in my face’

Leon angered quickly at this unfairness,

‘No I didn’t, I gave you all that money; and that man you sent me to, I gave him his money back. So he’s got his, you have yours, and I’m the only one with nothing’

‘Bigger fool you. That’s stupid, giving him his money back’

Roberts sat down on the sofa and put his feet up,

‘So when did you give him the cash, the other night when you were with him?’

Leon began to circle, fretful and anxious,

‘I don’t want to talk about it’

‘I bet you don’t. But you stayed over, and he got another night’s free sex. What a dummy!’

‘What are you talking about? He’s a nice guy. Why are you so horrible?’

Glen Roberts laughed hoarsely, and stabbing his chest with forefinger for emphasis he went in for the kill,

‘Nice guy, my fucking arse!

I’ve spent a night with your nice guy. He couldn’t get enough of me. I shagged him three times, but I made him pay. I had to drag the cunt to a cash point to get my money, but I did it. He didn’t make a fool of me’

‘You’re lying. Marc wouldn’t go near anybody like you’

Leon was tearful, but his tormentor was mocking,

‘Go near? He got near me alright, you’d better believe it! But he couldn’t afford me. So now he’s switched to trying it on with you, bit of hot, young cock for free. And if you’re stupid enough to go along with it, he’ll treat you like the worthless, little wanker you are’

Leon cracked,

‘I hate you. Get out of here’

Roberts was unfazed. He’d goaded the boy to breaking point. Now he could withdraw, and depart at his own pace knowing his wicked work was done.

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The fat tyres of a Jaguar crunched softly over the gravel, and came to a halt on the drive of the Dower House. Gerald, taking this as his cue, leapt up and prepared a couple of gins. Moments later Robin Parnaby, barrister-at-law entered the kitchen. Meaningless kisses were exchanged, and the men walked through to the conservatory,

‘Rough day?’ cooed Gerald,

‘Well, oddly enough, not too bad. There was a breakthrough in the Swinburn case, I should be able to get him off quite easily now’

‘Swinburn? My God, Robin, everybody knows he murdered that woman’

‘Not knows, surmises. But the police case is full of holes’

‘But for Christ’s sake, freeing men like that onto the streets...

‘Don’t start the virtuous stuff with me. My job is to test the evidence. And the police’s job is to get their case together. But it appears they can’t. Stupid men, all that testosterone coursing through macho bodies and bone heads’

‘Lord, you’re in a mood!’

‘Well, for goodness sake! These police officers are ruled by their balls. Everything’s a pissing contest. They won’t yield primacy, or even co-operate with each other. If both constabularies had shared information on that rape and murder they could have brought the case together; as it is, it’s down the drain, and my way is clear’

‘So, a good day then?’

‘Pretty much, but never mind me, what was that bizarre message of yours, asking me to confine myself to quarters, and not leave chambers? It was all very mysterious!’

‘Oh, the auction went off perfectly. Hetherington just called me an hour ago. By the time we’d switched locations, and sent half the customers off in the wrong direction, there were practically no bidders. I’d have given anything to see Marco Gabrielle’s face when he finally got there. But that’s nothing compared to how he’ll look when he sees what his riverside love nest sold for’

Both men laughed into their gins,

‘So it worked?’

‘Like a charm. Your nephew is now the proud, if unaware owner of a duplex on Tyneside, bought at a very competitive price, and Marco can do nothing about it, it’s all perfectly legal’

‘Well not perfectly legal; apparently so’

‘Words, words!’

‘Words are everything, Gerry. They’re either everything or nothing, and as far as the law is concerned, they are everything. But this Gabrielle fellow, what on earth has the man done to you? I know you’ve never wanted him in the A Team, but your feelings for him come perilously close to hatred. And isn’t his name Jesmond now?’

Campfire looked straight ahead,

‘I’ve hated Marco Gabrielle as long as I can remember. We were at St Aloysius together, but he was one of those kids with money. His parents were well off, they had all those ice cream shops, and he was always the one with new clothes, the latest bike, and tales of his holidays in Italy’

Parnaby looked bored,

‘Remember Gerry, you told me years ago to stop you whenever you were tempted to trawl the past. These maudlin reminiscences of your childhood, brutalised by Catholic priests, fainting at assembly because you’d gone without food before mass, and all the other indescribable wretchedness of an impoverished upbringing in some Tyneside Irish ghetto, it’s all like one of those cheap novellas’

But Campfire was quietly smouldering,

‘Yes, maybe it’s for the best. I’d hate to dwell on comparisons about the relative worthiness of our starts in life. Let’s just say that, thanks to my endeavours today, you, via your nephew, have a desirable property on the river front, and you should be able to sell it easily and make a profit of £80,000 or so’

‘Not I, my dear boy. Don’t think you’re doing it for me. That’s your baby. I’ll instruct nephew Jamie accordingly, but the money’s yours. What on earth would I do with £80,000? I have absolutely no need of such money’

And how right he was!

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Back home Marc poured himself a glass of red wine, and wandered out onto the balcony. His day could hardly have been worse. As he’d predicted, nobody at Haddaways had the slightest idea what had transpired at the auction, and they couldn’t have cared less. He’d have to call back tomorrow. But one thing was certain, Marc would go to sleep in a house now owned by someone else, and it wasn’t a good feeling.

He ached to ring around; there must be somebody out there who knew something to help him. But as he gazed at his mobile phone, he couldn’t bring himself to use it, fearful of making yet one more excursion into disappointment and regret.

Marc was normally stoic and self-contained; he’d grown up an only child, and had mastered the art of being alone. His elderly, affluent parents had given him everything he didn’t need, but denied him the one thing he did. He longed for them to love him, and tell him that though they knew he was different, they accepted him unreservedly. That hadn’t happened. And right now, he yearned more than anything for the comfort of just one other person to listen, to share, to console.

He returned indoors. A voice was telling him ‘Go on, call Leon. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s the one that you need to be with you tonight’

Marc made the call, but the number rang and rang.

He dialled again, and followed it with a text, rehearsing reassurance in his mind, and the many reasons why communication might be zero.

Trying to be as casual as possible, he went to the kitchen and poured another glass of wine. His phone responded with a text. Marc grabbed the mobile eagerly, it was from Leon,

‘Please don’t call me again. I can’t see you’

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It was dark. An empty Chianti bottle lay on the kitchen drainer. Marc lit a cigarette and walked unsteadily the few yards from his front door to the river’s edge.

It was high tide, and, as he clutched unsteadily at the railings, the water swirled hypnotically, literally inches beneath his feet. Marc lowered his head and stared into the Stygian blackness.

Who now hadn’t turned his back on him? His mother was so bitter she had reached out from the grave to blight his life. Alma Robson loathed him without any discernible reason. Gay professional men, in his city of birth, who should have been friends, colleagues and lovers, spurned him from their social circle. Concerns over his health were mounting, and now, finally, a boy of eighteen whom he’d embraced, and sought to help, had turned his back on him. Why?

Marc’s mind drifted back over twenty years to school days, when he was the toast of the drama group. Young Marco Gabrielle, sixteen, with the perfect profile, and long chestnut hair had been the obvious choice to play the part of Sir Thomas More, Chancellor of England, martyr and saint. And he could still remember his lines from the play ‘A Man for All Seasons’

But one line Marc repeated, again and again.

At his trial More, facing a gallery of his peers, men unified in their determination to condemn him and send him to the block, replied,

‘I do none harm, I say none harm, I think none harm. And if this be not enough to keep a man alive, in good faith I long not to live’

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