Darkside

unless he was about to stick a needle in it.

Hot.

Not.

He never complained. Never got impatient. Never made her feel bad.

But today, just maybe, she’d seen the effect on Jonas for the first time.

He never talked about growing up in the village – as if he thought she already knew his business the way everyone did here in Shipcott – but she knew that he’d grown up with Danny Marsh because he’d told her after Danny’s mother was killed.

‘She used to make us beans and chips,’ he’d said suddenly in bed that night.

She had turned to him in the darkness, even though she couldn’t see his face.

‘Mrs Marsh?’

‘Yeah. She was my best friend’s mother. When I was at school.’

‘You mean Danny Marsh from the garage?’

‘Yes,’ he’d said.

‘I never knew that. He’s sweet. Why don’t you hang out with him any more?’

‘ “Sweet”?’ he’d said, and she’d heard the laugh in his voice. ‘Is he sweeter than me?’

‘Much,’ she’d said, only too pleased to feel his mood lift, and there it was – they’d changed the subject. He’d changed the subject.

And today she’d watched him beat up Danny Marsh. There was no other word for it. She’d sat in the car and watched him lose control. And it made her think for the first time how much control he must have had to lose.

She wanted to hold him and tell him it was all going to be all right. To stroke his hair like a child’s. It made her think again of Jonas’s face at the hospital – before he knew he was being watched. That fear. That raw, innocent fear that she’d only ever seen before on the faces of small children.

It was a face that made her wonder where that little boy inside him hid for the rest of the time.

Eight Days

‘I’ve got a theory,’ said Reynolds.

You always do, thought Marvel. Reynolds was a hotbed of theories, hypotheses and what he like to call ‘proposals’.

They were sitting in the mobile unit, as close to the Calor gas as was physically possible without actually bursting into flames.

They’d had a call from the pathologist to confirm what Marvel had already surmised at the scene – that Yvonne Marsh had drowned and had almost certainly been held underwater. Marvel had imparted the news with a remarkable lack of I-told-you-so’s, which had, in turn, opened the door to one of their few discussions where neither was trying to score points.

They’d been talking about the incident with Danny Marsh.

Marvel and Grey had stepped in to stop Jonas Holly, but Jonas had stopped himself, so they had hauled Danny to his feet instead. His riding hat was askew but had still protected all the important stuff.

The horse had skidded into several parked cars on its destructive way up the road and had later been caught by someone down on the playing field.

The crowd had dispersed in almost complete silence.

Elizabeth Rice and Alan Marsh had ushered a tearful Danny inside, where the local doctor – a man who looked as if he was popping in on his way to a surfing competition – had given him a sedative.

Marvel had gone over to the Beetle and said something biting to Jonas about police brutality but hadn’t really meant it. Somebody had needed to stop Danny Marsh and, for the first time since coming to Shipcott, he felt Jonas Holly had done the right thing, albeit a little over-enthusiastically. There might be some fallout from that, but somehow Marvel doubted it. The mood in the street had been one of relief that it was all over, rather than shock at how.

And now Reynolds had a theory.

‘I was thinking about what you said. About the link between Margaret Priddy and Yvonne Marsh.’

‘Yes?’ said Marvel, mildly encouraged that this particular ‘proposal’ might be based on something sensible.

‘There’s something called the tipping point,’ said Reynolds. ‘You heard of it?’

Marvel hated that kind of question. If he said no, Reynolds would elucidate in minute detail; if he said yes, he’d be lying and then might not grasp what came next.

‘No,’ he said, in a tone that demanded that Reynolds take no more than thirty seconds to explain it to him. It was a very specific tone and Reynolds knew it well, so he did his best.

‘It’s something which tips the balance and creates a deviation from the normal path of events.’ That wasn’t wholly accurate, but it wasn’t long enough to piss Marvel off.

‘For instance, you know all those Japanese kids who commit suicide – a whole bunch of them, one after another, like it’s catching?’

‘What’s your point, Reynolds?’

‘The theory is that one suicide can spark others. People become aware of the suicide, and kids who wouldn’t have gone that far before suddenly consider it. A few more actually do it – as if they have permission to kill themselves because it seems that everybody’s doing it – it’s no longer taboo. And before you know it, kids are topping themselves because their dog ate their homework, and you’ve got an epidemic on your hands. You’ve passed the tipping point.’

Marvel said nothing, so Reynolds knew he had his attention.

‘You asked me about the link. And I was thinking of what you said about Margaret Priddy and Yvonne Marsh both being a burden to their families. The methods are different, not consistent. Maybe the killers are different too. Maybe the killer of Yvonne Marsh felt he had permission because someone had already killed Margaret Priddy.’

‘So you’re saying Alan Marsh could have killed his wife because Peter Priddy had already killed his mother?’ said Marvel.

‘It’s a theory,’ said Reynolds a little defensively. ‘You imagine taking care of someone like Yvonne Marsh for years. Stark staring mad. Wandering off. Doesn’t know who the fuck you are after forty years of marriage. You imagine the strain of that. Maybe it only takes a nod and a wink in the way of permission for you to feel that it’s OK to go right ahead and drown her in a stream.’

Marvel nodded. He could see the logic. ‘In the way that serial killers take many years to build up to their first murder. The first one is difficult, but after that it gets easier and easier, more and more casual.’

‘Same thing,’ agreed Reynolds. ‘Someone breaks the taboo.’

Marvel stared into the distance and nodded slowly. ‘The unthinkable becomes thinkable.’

The two men sat pondering in rare harmony.

‘I hope you’re wrong,’ said Marvel.

And, for once, Reynolds hoped he was too.

Seven Days

The ground was frozen and they couldn’t have dug a hole for Yvonne Marsh even if her body had not been retained as evidence, but the funeral went ahead anyway. ‘Interment to follow at a later date’ was what was written in biro under the order of service.

Jonas looked at it and was reminded of the note under his wiper, and he wished now that he’d kept it for the purposes of comparison with every bit of handwriting he came across. As the service got under way, he looked at the Reverend Chard with new eyes.

Alan Marsh sat in the front pew with his son. Danny had a black eye to go with his suit. Jonas blushed to see it.