The Marco Effect

10

Marco was shaken up. He was just as unnerved as the people around him who pottered about in the sunshine on the walkways between the boats were relaxed.

The clan had found him. His secure day-to-day life had been abruptly torn away from him. Moreover, he was now marked by a dead man’s stare.

The dilemma he found himself in was crushing. What was he supposed to do now, when all his instincts were screaming at him to get out of the city for good if he valued his life, and at the same time he knew he could not?

He had to protect his friends from Zola’s brutal methods, and he had to protect himself. But in which order was he to proceed?

He looked out across the masts and tried to calm himself. The first thing he needed to do was to call Eivind and Kaj and warn them. Then he would have to pick up his things from the apartment. Without them he would be set back months, unable to pursue his goals.

And he would also need to do the rounds and collect the money he was owed. Altogether, it was a fairly large sum.

Marco buried his face in his hands. The case of the man with the red hair was sickening. He needed to go back and see if the notice was still there. All he could do was hope it was, for then he would take it with him and do some investigating. Perhaps then he would be able to understand why his father…

He shook his head. If only Hector hadn’t got his jacket and his mobile, all these worries would be superfluous.

Now, instead, he had to be more alert than ever: he needed the eyes of the deaf and the ears of the blind.

–

He stood at the pay phone at Svanemølle station, eyes closed, trying to remember the number of Kaj and Eivind’s dry cleaners. What were the last three digits? 386 or 368? Or maybe something else entirely? If only he had his mobile, a press of a button and he’d be connected. But now…

At his fifth try, the ringing tone sounding in his ear, he felt reasonably sure. And then he got through to voice mail.

“You’ve called Kajvind’s Cleaners,” came the sound of Eivind’s soft voice. “I’m afraid we’re not here at the moment. Our normal opening hours are…”

Marco hung up. He was worried now. Why couldn’t they come to the phone? Had Zola’s people been round? He prayed they hadn’t. Maybe they’d just called it a day and gone home? No, that couldn’t be it, not this early. What, then? How was he to warn them when he was too scared to venture anywhere near where they lived, at least for the time being?

And then he realized why the shop was closed. Today was Wednesday. For months, Kaj had complained about his bladder playing up, and he wasn’t the type who went to the doctor on his own. Eivind had promised to go with him to the hospital, Marco remembered now. The CLOSED sign was already in the window when he’d passed by the place a couple of hours before. How could he have forgotten?

He turned away from the yachts down in the harbor, knowing this would be the last occasion in a very long time when the cries of the gulls and the salty breeze would be able to elicit happy thoughts about a future life.

Some time later he approached Østerbrogade from Strandboulevarden. He gauged the distance to Gunnar Nu Hansens Plads, about six hundred meters, and noted nothing untoward on the pavements or the street. Still Marco preferred the cover of the trees and bushes, now in leaf. They would offer him protection against being spotted from a distance, so he chose the longer route by way of Jagtvej and Fælledparken.

It took him twenty minutes, but he was leaving nothing to chance. All around him, people lay on the grass, relaxing in the sunshine, but who were they? Were Zola’s spies among them? Removing your shirt and pretending to be taking in the sun would be effective camouflage here. Hector would certainly think so, but then modesty had never characterized Zola’s world.

Marco scanned the square minutely as he approached from the park. Again, there were too many people, too many dabs of color. Which one would leap out from the palette and accost him? Who among the café guests would suddenly turn in his direction, revealing an all too familiar face? It was impossible to keep an eye on them all. The café tables were all occupied, and everywhere young people sat cross-legged in clusters on the paving stones with bottles in hand, spirits high.

As far as Marco could see, his ladder was still where he’d left it. And behind the statue, his bucket with all his gear.

He found it odd that his things should have remained untouched. Had Zola instructed Hector to leave them where they were? Were they the bait?

Marco put his hands behind his head and stretched his back. He realized the cramp in his stomach was the result of nervous tension. Trepidation was the worst thing he knew. Rather the disaster itself rearing up before him than the knowledge that it was about to happen.

Would Hector leap forth the moment he stepped out into the open? Were there other clan members in the area? Should he cry for help if they caught him?

Would anyone even react if he did?

The doubt was real, for Danes preferred to stay in the shade when things heated up. He had seen it so often before. How many times had anyone tried to stop Marco or any of the other clan members in their crimes, even to the cries of Stop, thief? Formerly this passivity would make him feel secure. Now it served only to increase his feelings of unease.

He proceeded cautiously, step by step, across the square toward the poster column. And when eventually he got there he realized the missing persons notice was gone and his scraper lay on the paving stones.

Why was the notice gone? Had Hector seen him studying it?

He nodded. Perhaps that was precisely why Hector had removed it, so he could take it back to Zola and they could try to figure out what it meant to them and why Marco was so interested in it.

But although it made sense, Marco just couldn’t understand why Hector would have taken it. It was unlikely that Hector knew about the dead man, and besides, he was as thick as a plank and hardly likely to give it a thought, even if he had noticed Marco’s interest.

Marco stared at the space where the notice had been. Shit. Now the information he needed was gone.

“Hey,” said a voice all of a sudden.

Marco gave a start. Were they behind him? If so, he would drop everything and leg it toward the stadium. It was not a voice he recognized, but then he didn’t know everyone Zola had on his payroll.

“Take it easy, mate. I swiped one of the posters you took down. Is that OK? If not, you can have it back. It’s just that my sister was at the gig, so I thought she might like…”

Marco heaved an enormous sigh of relief. The young guy sitting on the ground laughed as he held up a crumpled poster for a Sade concert the day before, and the girls around him giggled accordingly.

Marco nodded curtly and picked up his ladder. He needed to get away and quick. He’d already been there too long.

It was awkward, hurrying along with all the tools of his trade dangling, but Marco could see no other option.

If he was quick, he could trace back along the route and see if the notice was on any of the other columns.

Later, when the sun had faded and there weren’t as many people about, he would check into the depot, get his money, and then do the rounds of the businesses on his turf. He would ask them to keep their mouths shut about knowing him if Zola’s people happened to show up.

After that, I’ll check out the man on the notice, he thought. Maybe there’ll be something on the Internet.

And though, knowing Zola, he anticipated having to abandon the idea, he resolved nonetheless to see if he could get near Kaj and Eivind’s apartment when the day drew to a close.

He would have to be extremely cautious, for who could tell what Zola’s next move might be? When it all boiled down, it was more than likely he’d already sent his people out to ransack the place.

Thank God they weren’t at home just now.

He glanced around, breathed in deeply, closed his eyes, and folded his hands. “Dear God,” he whispered. “If they come, please don’t let them harm Kaj and Eivind. And please don’t let them find my money.”

He stood for a second, then repeated the prayer for emphasis, just as his mother had taught him God would appreciate. When he opened his eyes, he struggled to find peace in this new alliance, but it wasn’t easy. The thought of them finding his savings behind the baseboard made his blood run cold.

The money was his only security, his only way forward.

–

A couple of hours later, when Marco had almost given up hope, he found what he was looking for, a good way out along Strandvejen. By that time, he had scraped four columns to the base without result, but on the fifth were two of the missing persons notices.

He removed them carefully, folding them up and concealing them under his shirt. Now he had the information he wanted. It felt good and bad at the same time. It struck him rather overwhelmingly that he had taken on the responsibility of finding out who this William Stark was and, if possible, the circumstances that had surrounded his disappearance.

What on earth had this man had to do with Zola and Marco’s father? So many things seemed to depend on the answer to that question.

The best thing would be if he could get Zola behind bars without his father getting into trouble, too. But if that couldn’t happen, he would have to consider the possibility of them both being brought to justice.

Marco folded his arms in front of his chest. The very thought was painful to him. He loved his father, and yet he hated him for standing in Zola’s shadow and being so weak. It was the kind of weakness that only led to malice and betrayal. How often had he wished for a father who might provide him and his mother with a life that did not include Zola’s daily doses of poison? No, Marco had had enough.

Something had to happen.

–

He had thought of visiting the library like he usually did, but his courage failed him. Instead, he decided to go to Kasim’s Internet Café, in the most inferior of locations on Nordre Frihavnsgade, but close enough to Nordhavn station for Marco to be able to get away through Kasim’s backyard in an emergency and jump on a commuter train within a minute. Thus, he sat now in the dim light at the farthest whirring computer and typed in William Stark’s name.

To his surprise, he got thousands of hits. He refined his search to include only Danish results, but there were still thousands.

Most were copies of each other, but the general message was plain enough. William Stark was not some down-and-out who’d had enough of sleeping in cardboard boxes on the street, or staggered about the city in an alcoholic daze, or shouted dementedly at the crowds. No, William Stark was apparently an ordinary man with a respectable job whose function Marco didn’t quite grasp and would therefore have to look up afterward. What he did understand was that Stark had worked for a government minister and at the time of his disappearance had just returned home from an assignment in Cameroon. That much was clear.

Marco looked up at the net café’s peeling walls with an odd feeling in his stomach. Why would they want William Stark out of the way? Nothing he could find online seemed to provide even the slightest hint of an explanation. On the other hand, he could see how old Stark had been when he went missing, and where he had lived. And he knew now that Stark could not be declared dead until five years after his disappearance, and that he had left a girlfriend and her daughter behind.

Marco found the phone directory on the net and typed in the number given on the notice, but without result. Disappointed, he typed the same number into Google’s search bar, though with little expectation of a hit. Mobile numbers tended to be changed very quickly, especially those of young people. But an old Web page about a girl suffering from some painful illness mentioned this mobile number as one that other girls in the same situation might call if they needed someone to talk to.

Marco carefully highlighted the number on the screen. So the girl who had put up the notice was apparently sick, her name was Tilde Kristoffersen, and her stepfather had gone missing. Gone missing because Marco’s own father…

It was so dreadful he couldn’t pursue the thought to its conclusion.

A gleam of light from the entrance door at the other end of the room filled him with a sudden rush of adrenaline, prompting him to look up from the screen. A man wearing long robes came in, and Kasim, the café’s owner, greeted him warmly. It was a false alarm, thank God.

Marco stood up and approached the two men. “Kasim, would you have a mobile phone I could buy?” he asked. “I’ve lost mine.”

The elderly Indian said nothing, indicating to his friend with a gesture that he would be back in a moment.

Kasim led Marco into a back room that in many ways seemed atypical for an Indian: bright walls, rather than white; IKEA furniture, rather than massive, dark-stained wood; a green office chair with yellow flecking, and a radio playing classical music. No cold light emanating from hand-chased brass lamps or a flickering TV screen with old Bollywood movies.

“Take one of these,” Kasim said, pulling out a drawer. “I’ve a couple of old ones you can have for nothing, but you’ll have to pay for the SIM cards. If you want a scratch card for foreign calls you can buy one of them, too.”

“Maybe just a SIM card and a two-hundred-kroner pay-as-you-go card.” Marco put his hand in his pocket and produced a note. “I’ve only got fifty for the moment, but you know you can trust me, don’t you?”

The sun-seasoned man studied him with a look that all too clearly showed how these were words that had proven to be empty on far too many occasions.

“Of course,” he said, after a few seconds of thought. “All in all, with the Internet time, you owe me three hundred and fifty kroner.”

“Thanks. Is it OK if I go back to the computer again? I need to look up the phone numbers of some people I know. I can’t remember them offhand.”

“I’d already figured that one out,” Kasim replied.

–

The calls he made were dispiriting. The greengrocer, the shopkeeper, and the guy who supplied him with posters were furious. What was he up to that prompted such suspect individuals to be looking for him? Was he some kind of criminal?

Their disappointment was worded most succinctly by the man from the bicycle shop: they were sure as hell having nothing more to do with a boy involved in crime. Was he a member of the mafia, or what?

All of them had been threatened with having their businesses burned to the ground if they refused to spit out what they knew about Marco, so they did. The mini-mart’s counter had been smashed and the manager punched in the face.

Marco was on his own again.

He picked up the piece of paper on which he had written down the number of the girl, smoothed it out on the desk, and dialed.

After a few seconds there was a jingle, then a woman’s voice at the other end. “The number you have called is unobtainable. Please try again.”

In other words, the number no longer existed.

–

The doorway across the street from Eivind and Kaj’s ground-floor apartment was one preferred by the youngsters of the area when they needed a place to hang around smoking, making out, or just messing around. Bicycles no one knew who owned were abandoned for no apparent reason against the wall, and the ground was littered with enough cigarette ends to make any bum more than happy. Marco now stood there as well, hugging the wall, his face turned toward the darkened windows.

He had been there an hour and would stay another hour or more, if necessary. As long as the lights didn’t go on in the living room and he couldn’t see the figures of Eivind or Kaj, he dared not step into the street.

Amorous youngsters kept hassling him, telling him to get lost when they realized he wasn’t going of his own accord. But Marco didn’t care. His only thoughts were for Eivind and Kaj and his belongings inside the apartment, and how to get in touch with the girl named Tilde, whose phone number was no longer in use. He wanted to know more before he went to the police with the posters he’d stuck inside his shirt.

Perhaps the girl or her mother could help him establish some connection between William Stark and Zola and his father. And if he couldn’t get hold of the girl, at least he knew where they used to live. He had the address. Maybe there was someone at Stark’s house he could talk to, someone who might know something.

He heard the drag of footsteps before he saw the figure coming along the street, outlined against the sinking sun. The man had a slight limp, as though his knee were unable to bear his full weight, and at this sedate tempo he crossed the side streets that knitted the district together. In his hand were two plastic bags from the dry cleaners. He used them for receipts and invoices when the books needed doing. So Eivind had gone to the shop after they had been to the hospital. But why wasn’t Kaj with him? Was he so ill they’d kept him in? Was that why Eivind’s gait seemed heavier than usual, or was he just tired?

Marco frowned. It was good that Eivind was coming now, but there was something about it he didn’t like. Maybe Zola’s people were inside the apartment. So he decided to step forward into the light of the street lamps.

The smile that lit up Eivind’s face when he saw Marco was worthy of any father. But his expression changed to perplexity when he realized something was afoot.

“What are you doing standing here, Marco?” He looked up toward the apartment. “And why isn’t there anyone in?” he wanted to know, as the unlit windows and Marco’s silence made his smile wither.

“Why isn’t Kaj with you, Eivind?” Marco replied.

“Isn’t he home?” Eivind’s smile vanished completely.

“I don’t know. I’ve haven’t been in yet. I thought the two of you were together.”

“Good Lord!” Any second now, Eivind was going to go charging into the apartment, driven by apprehension. Suddenly the feelings for the man he loved had been converted to anxiety at the prospect of unexpected loss. Marco could feel it, too.

“Wait!” Marco blurted. “You can’t go in. There might be someone waiting in there. Someone who’s after me, Eivind. Someone you don’t want to meet.”

Eivind stared at him as though of all the disappointments life could inflict, he was standing face-to-face with the greatest. And then, in spite of Marco’s warning, he let go of his bags, rushed across the street, and entered the apartment building. Seconds passed and a light went on in the window, accompanied by Eivind’s wails of distress.

Marco hugged the wall. At the slightest sound of a scuffle inside he would have to make himself scarce. It was cowardly, but if the front door was flung open he would have to disappear in a flash. These were his thoughts as his heart pounded in his chest, aware that Zola’s evil had now spread to these two people’s lives through him. And then he thought of his savings, hidden away behind the baseboard, realizing shamefully that they were foremost in his mind.

“MARCO!” Eivind shouted from inside. It wasn’t a cry for help. This was rage of the kind Marco had so often seen followed by violence in Zola’s world. He had never heard Eivind yell like this before.

His eyes scanned the street. All was quiet.

So he crossed over and stepped through the front door, which was still open. Even from a distance Eivind’s indecipherable ranting could be heard from within.

As in all the gay homes he had broken into, the hall was an overture to the dwelling’s contents and character. This narrow passageway provided clues enough to identify the passions of those who lived there. In Eivind and Kaj’s case it was actors, and especially actresses, of old, all presented in the most exclusive of mahogany and silver frames, adorning the walls like icons in the churches of northern Italy where Marco had once tried to find solace. Now these idols lay strewn across the floor amid shards of glass and broken frames. And beyond the alarming disarray, two feet in familiar slippers protruded from the doorway. Marco’s heart almost stopped.

He glanced warily into the rooms he passed before stepping into the living room.

The sight that met him was a shock, but unfortunately not unexpected.

Eivind was kneeling beside Kaj, holding his head in his hands. Thankfully, he was alive and his eyes were open, but the blood that covered his face and the floor around him was a sign that everything might easily have ended differently.

“What have you done, Marco?” Eivind’s voice was shrill with emotion. “Who were those people? Are you in trouble, you little bugger? How dare you bring this into our home! Tell me who did it! I know you know!”

Marco shook his head. Not because he didn’t want to answer, or because he couldn’t. He shook his head because it was the way his shame came to expression.

“Call an ambulance, Marco. NOW! And then leave. Get out and don’t come back! Do you hear me? Get out!”

He made the call as Eivind, with stifled sobs, tried to console his life’s companion on the floor. And when Marco went to his room to get his things, noting in a moment of relief that the baseboard was still intact, Eivind came charging in after him.

White in the face and convulsed with all the emotions that accompany complete and all-consuming rage, he took a swing at Marco and yelled: “Give me your key and get out of my sight, you fucking Gyppo runt. Right this minute!”

Marco protested and asked for permission to take his belongings with him, but in desperation Eivind tried to hit him again, then thrust his hand into Marco’s pocket and poked around until he retrieved the key to the apartment.

He wanted to make sure the boy wouldn’t be coming back.

The last Marco saw of Eivind was when he threw open the window and unloaded Marco’s earthly possessions onto the pavement below.

Everything but his duvet and what lay concealed behind the baseboard.

Forced to leave behind the most important thing of all.

The couple in the doorway just sniggered.