Marked

ELEVEN

Stanley Francis Proust sits at his table and stares at the man opposite.

He doesn’t like bringing people back here, into his living quarters. The shop, fine. He can keep things professional out there. He can be in charge. But here, the presence of others always makes him feel defensive.

He wonders what the man thinks of his home. There is nothing expensive here — Proust doesn’t make a lot of money and hey, we’re talking Manhattan rental here. The furniture is old and battered. The wallpaper is peeling in several places. The paintwork is faded and scratched. Proust has done his best to liven things up with some pictures and photographs and arty curios from charity stores, but he always feels that visitors can see through to the cheapness and nastiness that lurks beneath.

The man’s name is Ed Gowerson. Other people may call him Eddie or Edward, but Proust will stick with the name that was given in the introduction. He doesn’t want to risk causing offense.

Gowerson is one of those men who shave their head completely to hide their premature baldness. Proust guesses he can’t be much older than thirty. He is wearing a black sports jacket and a blue striped shirt, open at the collar to reveal a silver chain around his neck. He has incredibly square teeth, like a row of Chiclets. Unlike his head, his lower jaw is darkened by a pall of stubble that threatens to erupt from his face at any moment. If Proust were to make a tattoo of Gowerson, or even just a sketch, he would focus on that darkness and make a feature of it. He would echo it in the blackness of the man’s eyes. That is how he sees this man: a figure of intense shadow.

Proust clears his throat, then wishes he hadn’t because it makes him sound nervous. Which he is.

‘You, uh, you want a coffee or something?’

Gowerson shakes his head. ‘No, I’m good.’

‘A soda, maybe?’

Gowerson leans forward and places his arms on the scarred wooden table. His shoulders strain against the fabric of his jacket. He is not a large man, but Proust guesses that there is a mass of muscle tissue rippling beneath that jacket. Proust glances at Gowerson’s hands, now lightly clasped together. There are no rings on his fingers, but his wrist bears a huge watch with lots of dials on it. Like one of those diver’s watches. Proust can imagine this guy at the bottom of the sea, pounding the shit out of a Great White.

‘Mr Proust, why did you call me?’

Mr Proust. So formal. It seems anomalous in the circumstances.

He clears his throat again. How to put this? How to be clear in such an unusual request?

‘You. . I mean, I heard you were good at this kind of thing.’

‘What kind of thing would that be?’

‘Hurting people.’

There, thinks Proust. It’s out there. In the open. We both know what we’re talking about here.

Gowerson stares for a while. ‘Yes. Yes, I am good at hurting people. But what I often find is that those who employ me don’t truly understand the nature of my work.’

Proust wants to say, You beat the crap out of people. What is there to understand? It ain’t exactly splitting the atom. But he doesn’t.

‘I. . I’m not sure I get you.’

‘What I’m trying to say to you is that it’s not like on TV or the movies. You’ve seen those fights they have, where they go back and forth, back and forth, smacking each other hundreds of times until one falls unconscious and then the other one walks away with no more than a cut lip and a bruise? Well, it’s not like that. What I do is brutal and messy and it hurts. And sometimes people never get up again after I’m finished with them.’

‘I’m not asking you to kill anyone. Jesus, why are you saying all this? This isn’t what we discussed on the-’

Gowerson holds up the palm of his hand. ‘All I’m trying to do is make sure you know what you’re getting into, okay? There’s nothing that pisses me off more than when a client starts bleating afterwards about how they didn’t know what they were buying from me. I will do exactly what we agreed. I won’t go beyond the boundaries you mentioned. Occasionally, however, things don’t always go as planned. A guy might have a weak heart or something wrong with his brain. It’s like there’s a bomb in there, and all it takes to make it go boom is something as small as a light tap to the chin.’

‘You’re saying there are risks involved.’

Gowerson nods. ‘Is what I’m saying. You need to be aware of those risks. You also need to be aware that there will be blood and there will be pain. Now, are you still certain you want me to go through with this?’

Proust wishes he hadn’t been asked this. He doesn’t want to be confronted with all this doubt and uncertainty. He doesn’t want to think about risks and ramifications. He thought he would just meet the guy, pay him, and the job would get done. Clean and simple.

And so the upshot now is that he’s having second thoughts. Does he really want this to happen? Does he really want to unleash this Rottweiler of a man?

And yet what choice has Doyle left him? Doyle will never let up. He has made that crystal clear. The man is obsessed. He needs to be taught that he can’t keep harassing people like that.

‘I’m certain,’ says Proust.

Gowerson watches him for what seems like an age. Proust can feel himself withering under the man’s gaze.

‘All right,’ says Gowerson. ‘Then there’s just the little matter of payment for my services.’

Proust gets up from the table, glad to be moving away from this man, if only for a few seconds. He goes over to a low bookcase and pulls out an envelope that he previously secreted between two science fiction novels. When he turns around again, he sees that Gowerson is on his feet. He is not tall, but he is imposing, and Proust suddenly wishes he could pass the envelope across on the end of a long fishing rod. His steps toward Gowerson are tentative, and his arm has a discernible tremble to it when he presents the envelope.

‘Once I take the money,’ says Gowerson, ‘that’s it. Our agreement is binding. There’s no going back, no calling me off. Think of me as a cruise missile. Once you launch me, you can’t pull me back in. You cool with that?’

It’s the point of no return. Proust considers pulling his hand back. Forget it, he’ll say. I made a mistake. I don’t really want to do this. .

But he doesn’t do or say any of this. He can’t back out now.

He takes a step closer to Gowerson. Puts the envelope right under Gowerson’s nose.

Gowerson reaches up a hand and takes the envelope. He doesn’t open it. Just slips it into his inside jacket pocket.

‘It’s all there,’ says Proust. ‘You can count it if-’

The blow comes from nowhere. One second Proust is talking, the next a fist is crashing into his jaw with the force of a sledgehammer. He feels something explode in his mouth and he reels backwards. He blinks furiously to clear his vision and sees Gowerson coming toward him, his fists clenched. Proust puts his hands up to protect his face, but then another blow smashes into his ribcage. He swears he hears his ribs shatter into a thousand pieces as the air is forced out of his lungs, and as his arms drop again another cannonball lands on his cheek. His head snaps back and forth like a punchbag in the gym, and now he wants to tell his attacker to stop. He wants to say he’s had enough, but he knows it will be fruitless. This is just the beginning. He knows this. He has signed up for this. He has handed over good money for this. And so the beating continues, and he continues to endure it. He absorbs blow after crushing blow, wondering when he will die or fall unconscious or simply fragment. He sees blood on his hands and on his clothes, and then he loses the ability to see because of the blood in his eyes — at least he hopes that is what it is and that he hasn’t been made blind. And when he loses the will to do anything but be a target he drops to the floor and curls into a ball and puts his hands over his head and listens to the thud, thud, thud as feet and fists pummel his body into mush. And while he does this he reaches a curious state of detachment. It feels to him as though he leaves his body, rising above it to watch as it is mercilessly battered. Pain leaves him. Fear leaves him. The experience becomes almost. . exquisite.

It takes him some time to realize when it is over. The thudding stops. The pain floods back in. He realizes he is not dead, and that it is not necessarily a good thing. He craves the relief that unconsciousness would bring.

He unfurls his arms slowly, surprised that he can still move them. He raises his head, sees nothing. He brings a hand to his eyes and wipes them. He feels warm wetness on his fingers — his blood, presumably — and his cheeks seem grossly swollen and tender. He blinks. Dark fuzzy shapes come into view. Gradually they sharpen. He sees the figure of Gowerson standing a few feet in front of him. He prays that he is not merely taking a rest, and that the ordeal has truly ended.

He manages to twist himself into a sitting position. The pain will permit him to do no more than that. He is seized by a sudden need to cough. As he does so, it is as though a razor-sharp spear is thrust into his chest. Blood sprays from his mouth, then dribbles down his chin. He explores with his tongue. Finds a loose tooth. He pushes against it with the tip of his tongue and it comes away. He spits it out. More scarlet dribble. Another agonizing cough. He looks again at Gowerson. It takes an effort, but he manages to push out two words that seem so absurd they are almost comical.

‘Thank you.’