About the author
Simon Maltman is the ‘Ulster Noir’ author of novels, novellas and short stories. An Amazon Bestseller, he also splits his time working as a musician and as a tour guide on his ‘Belfast Noir’ tour.
The Mark
by Simon Maltman
Close To The Bone
An imprint of Gritfiction Ltd
Copyright © 2020 by Simon Maltman
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Close To The Bone
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be produced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may use brief quotations in a book review.
Close To The Bone
an imprint of Gritfiction Ltd
Rugby
Warwickshire
CV21
www.close2thebone.co.uk
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Proofread by Carly Rheilan
Interior Design by Craig Douglas
Cover by Craig Douglas
for Nana
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my friends, family and all of the supportive readers and reviewers.
Thank you to all at Close To The Bone for publishing this novel and to Arts Council Northern Ireland for funding me to write it.
Shout out to the brilliant and supportive writing community in Northern Ireland.
The Mark
Prelude
Pain – it was everywhere.
Searing, whole.
I couldn’t separate the ache from one area of my body to another anymore. The pain swept across me in waves.
The burns, the bruises, the gashes. Breasts. Legs. Face.
I was hot; the ground was hot beneath me too. I was sweating. My clothes were ragged and worn, and so were my protruding limbs.
Thirst.
I longed for a cool drink of water pouring past my chapped lips. I’d shove a cigarette in between them after too – I’d take a long, rich drag if my battered lungs would allow it.
But I had none of those things, I had nothing. I wasn’t getting away from here. There was nowhere for me to go.
Trapped.
It was hopeless. I barely clung to life at all. Just ‘being’ was slipping from my grasp.
It would all end soon.
How had it come to this?
I suppose I knew how.
I have blood on my hands too.
Real blood.
1
“I did it my way.”
The thirty or so guests produced an enthusiastic applause as I closed with my usual number. Ironically, I didn’t do it my way at all. I just did it the way every other cover singer did it.
“Thank you so much, I’ve had a great time and Happy Birthday to Brian. You’ve been a wonderful bunch to play for.”
I blew a kiss to the newly turned sixty-year old and his ruddy face reddened further. I thought his wife’s did too. Turning my back to the room, I blew air from my cheeks and switched off my amp. Somebody switched on a speaker nearby and some dreadful cheese by nineties band Texas filled the room.
I bloody hate Texas.
It had been a house gig in Dundonald. The place was a lovely period property, up towards the Craigantlet hills. I began to unplug the leads from my keyboard and mike, then folded up my piano stool. I couldn’t wait for a smoke. In less than an hour I could be curled up in my flat, a blanket over me, in my jammies – spliff in hand. I always felt impatient to get home once I was finished a set.
“Victoria, Victoria thanks so much – that was really excellent.”
I turned round as the birthday boy’s son touched my arm.
“Aww thanks Tim, and call me Vicky. I hope that was alright for you.”
I meant it too. I don’t exactly put my heart and soul into these ‘covers’ gigs, but I do like to do a good job. I don’t care for the music, but if other people get a kick out of it, then what’s the harm? I’m sure most hookers like to offer a good ride and I don’t see myself as all that different really.
Maybe I should rephrase.
“Yeah, just perfect, Dad loved it.”
He handed me my envelope of cash. I held his gaze a moment. He was around my age – I’m twenty-nine. He had thick black hair, was well built, with strong features. He had the beginnings of a twinkle in his eye, despite the glaring blonde in heels and war-paint standing at the kitchen counter behind us. I’m aware that I’m not bad / alright looking; I’ve longish brown hair, blue eyes and I still have an okay figure. That’s probably because I haven’t had any rug-rats yet. Not that I’m sure I’ll ever want to.
“Great stuff. It’s my pleasure,” I said. “Take care.”
That sort of shit when someone’s missus is there makes me wild uncomfortable. I turned again and started to unplug the XLR leads from the back of my PA system. I frowned, thinking about the packing up and shifting needing done. I was zonked.
“Can I help you with that?” said Tim from behind me.
“Aww that’d be brilliant, yeah, thank you.”
I don’t flutter my eyelashes for help, but I don’t turn it down either.
***
“Did you get any decent pictures Vick?”
“Jeepers, I haven’t even had a chance to have a cuppa yet – give’s a chance Mike.”
I balanced my phone against my ear, filling the kettle under the tap.
“Oh, sorry if I’m disturbing you – frigsake,” he said playfully, “It is kinda’ important.”
“And so is me getting a bloody cup of tea and a joint down my neck.”
Mike was an ex-boyfriend of mine. There are several in that category knocking about Belfast.
I was relieved to be home. I threw myself down on the sofa in the living room, kicked off my shoes and hunched up my knees. My gigging gear was all still out in the car, but I knew I wouldn’t have any inclination to drag it all through tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow.
The bulb from the hall cast a stream of light across the middle of the room. It looked like the girders of an old bridge across my floor. It looked pretty cool.
“Give’s a sec
