The Mark

I noted something that interested me more – there was a piano in the corner. As I lifted the key cover, I glanced about, feeling guilty, as if I were doing something I ought not to be. That seemed rather silly, considering everything. I sat down, then pressed in the softener pedal with my foot and let my hands rest on top of the keys. Playing a couple of bass muffled notes, felt exhilarating. I realised I had missed playing music as much as my weed. I let up the pedal a touch and began to pick out a few standard jazz chords, then slipping into Conversations with Myself by Bill Evans. I supposed it was rather apt, considering. So much had changed irreversibly since I had last played. I just sat there and let my hands wander, improvising. It was the best I had felt in days. I carried on playing, trying things out, picking out a piece by Horace Silver here, a couple of standards there. It was a decent piano and in good condition too. I must have played for half an hour or longer, then I stood and walked across to the sofa and sat, resting heavily against the spongy back. I must have been asleep within seconds.

A flash went off and I felt terror. There was nothing but black. But there was something in the room. I could feel it. I thought I heard it move – towards me. I was sitting in a wooden chair and it felt like I was tied to it. My eyes began to adjust to the light and I looked down. Both my arms were missing. There was blood everywhere. I tried to scream. I tried to scream!

Then I awoke.

I bolted upright, my eyes bulging as I woke up. The disorientation from the abruptness, was only accentuated by the strange environment. It was dark – but not as dark as in my dream. I focused, looking the room over, then shutting my eyes and concentrating on my hearing. Was that a car door shutting gently? I stood up, now alert and anxious and I didn’t know why exactly.

Probably just the nightmare. You’re okay, it was just a dream.

I walked to the window and as I approached, I noted first the vehicles, then that they were two police cars, and lastly that police officers were about to enter through the door. I instinctively lunged away from the window, and didn’t even consider my bags as I sprinted full pelt towards the back door. Before I got there, a police officer burst through the back way, lightly holding a gun. Behind me the rest came in from the front. I stopped and put my hands up.

28

I sat back down on the sofa, now in handcuffs. I wouldn’t be getting up for any more jazz recitals. I shouldn’t have gone to sleep, let my guard down.

What the fuck were they doing here?

They had grunted something in Spanish at me and gestured for me to put my hands together. They gave me a cursory search, then pushed me down onto the sofa. So that was it then – I was caught. We hadn’t gotten away with it for very long. There was my life down the tubes.

How the fuck had it come to this?

I’d have given anything to have never gone away on this ‘holiday.’ I could just have been curled up in my living room with a comfy blanket, smoking a spliff, listening to something chilled like These are Soulful Days by Lee Morgan. Tears pricked behind my eyes, but I stopped them, fronting it out best I could. One of the cops kept his gun loosely trained on me, while the other two talked quietly and typed occasionally on their phones. I was pure shitting myself. The whole ten or fifteen minutes that they were there, no one spoke to me and they only talked to each other in Spanish. I asked what they wanted, I asked if I could speak with a lawyer, I asked for some water. They made no response. They acted as if I wasn’t even there. Something was off. I felt alone. I needed help. Mike’s image flashed into my head. I saw his easy smile and heard his throaty chuckle. How I would have loved to be in my house, smoking a big fat J with him, the fire going, cup of tea. I’d even have tolerated his shitty music. And what else did I want? Maybe I wished we’d stayed more than just friends.

Then a car door slammed, followed by heavy footsteps. All at once, another group of men came in, not cops. They exchanged nods and looks. The three arrivals looked over at me. Then it was like the changing of the guard. The three police turned and walked out. I felt a fresh dread as they left, closed the door and this new trio approached.

“Vicky Stark”.

It was neither a question, nor a statement.

What surprised me most was the delivery in a Northern Irish accent. He spoke while walking around the room, grimacing and smoking one of those long black cigarettes. I usually associated them with middle aged women, but there was nothing feminine about him. He was around fifty, bald and only around five foot five. He may have been small, but he was built like a brick shithouse. The other two moved from their sentry positions either side of the sofa and walked casually into the kitchen. They were a little younger than the other man, and both appeared to be local and subservient to the first.

“So you’ve gotten yourself in some bother love,” the man continued, flicking ash off his long cigarette onto the thickly woven rug beside my sofa. I turned my head from left to right, following him as he spoke.

“Where have the police gone?” I asked, trying to muster up some confidence in my voice.

He stopped then, just off to my side. I sat up