Hatred. Hidden. Page 4

The headlamps of the car lit up the Christmas baubles hanging in the High Street; the glowing snowflakes and animated reindeers encapsulated a warm, inviting, if not bitter, winter’s evening. The sun had long set, but these shorter days gave birth to lively night outings before settling down in front of a crackling fire, drinking moreish hot chocolate with a healthy side of melting marshmallows. A dash of whiskey in the chocolate never hurt anyone either.

  Mark and Lucy walked arm in arm across the carpark with almost a skip in their step, and entered the Italian restaurant. The bistro was pleasantly quiet. In the corner, a man with a balding top, dexterously played the piano, skipping his fingers from key to key, not paying attention to anyone inside the place. For such a small eatery, the bistro’s owners had used the space well. One … two … Mark counted the tables – eleven in total, and yet it didn’t feel cramped. Some of the tables were placed at symmetrical angles, a few almost hidden in the alcoves. They were already taken. A dozen or so poinsettias added festive spirit, their scarlet splicing well against the dark oak beams and the warm glow of the candlelight. Perhaps Shirley had recommended them, Mark thought.

  Garlic permeated through the air, deliciously making Mark’s stomach growl in anticipation. Italian restaurants always had such a fantastic aroma to them: complicated, cultured, multi-layered, as if there was something for everyone and any age. Chinese takeaways had a greasy air to them, and Indian restaurants reminded Mark of the sweaty gym changing rooms where men walked around, swinging in all directions. Italian was the only way to go.

  The windows had a nice coating of snow spray against them, much more professional than Humphrey’s overkill with their tree. Whereas here the fake snow had been templated into snowflakes, their son had gone crazy with it as if it was silly string, ending up looking like cheap deodorant that flaked everywhere when the cap had been broken.

  Yes, the bistro was more to Mark’s liking. Mature, adult, homely. A dead cert ‘no kids allowed’. The kind of place that had the racks behind the bar with one hundred and one different kinds of spirits and liquors on offer. He was ready for something to warm the back of his throat.

  ‘What’s taking your fancy?’ Mark asked after glancing flippantly from food menu to wine menu. The waiter had sat them furthest away from the door, which was exactly how Mark liked it. He loved to get a sense of a place. Free to turn and see everyone and anyone.

  ‘Apart from you, you mean?’ Lucy replied.

  ‘Cheeky!’

  While Lucy perused the drinks menu, Mark surveyed the other diners. He was never sure why, but it was a game he enjoyed – taking in the appearance and then, rather stereotypically, guessing at what their occupation was. Of course, he could never find out if he guessed right, how close he was, but that didn’t bother him. The thrill of closing down his surroundings to just one person and living solely inside his own head was a pleasure he assumed very few could experience. He could actually hear his own voice: sophisticated, with a charming wit. He liked it, even when he heard it on phone answer machines and iPhone videos. He wasn’t ashamed.

  Poor Lucy, he thought. The ‘men can’t multitask’ stereotype didn’t quite work for him. He chose to zone out when she babbled on, playing his mental game. He had no interest in last night’s episode of Eastenders, or what gossip she’d overheard in the school playground, or even that there was a deal on salmon at the supermarket. Why would she think he would be interested? No, he’d rather concentrate on other matters. He’d nearly perfected the zoning out with the nods and mmm-hmmms in all the right places. He needed some liberties at least.

  He tidied up after himself, actually put the dirty clothes inside the wash basket instead of on top of it, he put the toilet seat down after use. He was even dignified and didn’t watch TV laid on the settee with a stray hand shoved down his boxers for a comforting fiddle.

  No, Lucy can’t complain. Without so much as moving his head, using his eyes only, he glanced over to the first alcove. Just a woman by herself. Short, dark blonde hair and copper highlights. She was staring into her wine. Not wine, Mark reassessed, it was the colour of urine. Lambrini, most likely.

  Hairdresser. She had to be.

  In another alcove two men chatted with pints. One had a lager, the other a bitter. More froth. Both men cleanly shaven. The one of the left had obvious streaks of grey, while the other one was more salt and pepper. Top buttons undone, but ties still high. They had possibly only just arrived too.

  Bankers. Or accountants. Estate agents at a push. Hmmm. Not estate agents, he thought. They tended to be younger nowadays, working for a basic salary, relying on bonuses and quotas being reached. And this wasn’t London or Birmingham. Bankers a tad too unrealistic and upper class. Accountants.

  ‘Mark. Mark!’

  ‘Hmm, what?’ Lucy stared at him with narrowed eyes.

  ‘What’s up? You’re a million miles away.’

  ‘Sorry. What did you say?’

  ‘I said … I think I’ll try one of the cocktails. There’s a couple taking my fancy.’

  ‘Get them all.’ Mark shifted in his seat, losing track of where he was.

  ‘All? I don’t think so. How will that look? What you having?’

  ‘Erm …’ Mark fumbled for the menu still closed on the table. ‘Probably just an IPA or something. You know me.’ He wasn’t one of those pretentious people who drank elderflower cider with mint, or lemon zest lager, or tequila and baobab fruit and squirrel shit mixed in and all that crap. How could people drink that rubbish? Ale or hard spirits, that was him.

  He pretended to read the menu, but took no notice of the words. When Lucy had gone back to the menu, and then picking up the food one accompanying it, Mark returned to his game. Lambrini hairdresser, done her. He leant to see past the waiter scurrying about and sighed. A couple was exiting the bistro before he had had a chance to fit them in somewhere. He sucked in air and exhaled loudly, but thankfully, Lucy didn’t seem to notice.

  On a table just to their right, Mark noticed two men. How he’d missed them before he couldn’t tell, but they would do perfectly. They joked and laughed in an unobtrusive way, not really drawing any attention to themselves. Possibly celebrating an early Christmas. Leftovers of tortellini sat on both plates, but the bottle of rosé was practically empty. They were going to be a bit tougher, or at least the toughest of the night so far.

  The waiter trundled past and Mark suddenly caught sight of the men playing with one another’s feet under the table. The blonde haired, and leaner of the two, snorted in some sort of flirty embarrassment. Mark’s neck prickled, his arms itchy too. He scratched at them and his hairline. A hot wave surged from his gut, up into his chest. He could taste the acid in his stomach rise into his throat. It gurgled, he coughed, as if trying to quash the coming tidal wave of emotion.

  Were they looking into each other’s eyes? In that sort of way?

  He couldn’t take his eyes off them now. He needed more proof. And as if they had heard him, the other – mousy haired, a touch of ginger in his beard and moustache – stroked the hand of his date.

  Caught in their trap, Mark’s breath stuck hard in his throat and his face burned with a distressing flush.

  ‘So, you decided?’ Lucy asked and reached over to stroke her husband’s hand. She really did look happy to be out and about, Mark noticed.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the awful dread. He pulled his hand away abruptly, leaving Lucy’s to thud onto the table. He faffed with his collar, struggling to loosen the buttons.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry, it’s just too damn hot in here!’

  He shot his arm out, flapping for the water jug unsteadily. He gulped it down, thankful for its coolness as it washed down the bile. As he held his head back, still gulping in large mouthfuls, the two men joked again. They erupted into a playful laughter. Mark strained to see through the clear glass; one – it could have been the mousy haired one – wiped away tears of hilarity. Mark noticed his almost oriental eyes. He didn’t look foreign tho
ugh. He needed to focus on his breathing.

  ‘I think I’ll have the prawn risotto,’ Lucy added to his thoughts, obviously ignoring his earlier outburst. ‘But … the seabass sounds delicious too. It’s got samphire with it. Do you think I could swap the new potatoes for mash?’

  ‘Order what you bloody well want. You always do! What does my opinion count for?’ Mark barked back.

  Lucy twitched at his outburst. Lights buzzed in front of him as the anger fizzled his hearing like TV static. Muffles from the adjacent tables amalgamated into elongated drones. He shuddered and felt sick.

  ‘Mark,’ Lucy croaked. ‘Don’t speak to me like that.’ Her neck reddened, turning orange in the candlelight.

  Mark dabbed at his watering eyes with a napkin. ‘I’m sorry, love. Honestly. I don’t know what’s come over me. I just feel … a little off.’

  Lucy wasn’t having any of it, it seemed, and shook her head with disbelief. ‘I know you better than that. Something’s bothering you.’

  ‘I,’ he went to reply, but noticed the two lovers leave instead. They scooted money onto a tin tray. They look just like ordinary people. He watched, disgusted, as both men headed for a side door. Mark knew it wasn’t the exit. His heart pounded. Boom … boom … boom. A black stick figure spoke loudly, bolted to the wooden door. He couldn’t believe it.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said aloud.

  ‘What?’

  ‘In a public place. So typical to do it in a toilet. So disgusting.’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose and frowned around the bistro. Things were getting out of hand. He was losing himself to the anger, to the revulsion and abhorrence, to the fear. He usually dealt with it accordingly. Here, in such a public place, and in front of Lucy too, well, that was not on.

  Two boys, roughly Colby’s age, swung their legs off stools, playing on handheld gaming systems. The thud thud of the stools struck a nerve, a vein in his temple throbbed.

  ‘The children. What if they walk in?’

  ‘What children? Mark, you’re not making sense. Talk to me.’

  He brushed her hand aside again, rubbing at his legs, knees, neck, feeling the sweat trickle from his armpit and down his side. It felt wet and humid to touch. Damn, why did he wear a light coloured shirt? People would think he was a vagrant, or an alcoholic, or something even more degrading. He needed to show them he was none of those things, show Lucy he had her back, show the innocent children he could protect them from such vile activity.

  He went to stand, attempting to confront the two of them in the gents, but faltered mid step and flopped back onto the chair. He didn’t want to see any of that. The gents wasn’t exactly the best sights in the world: piss stained urinals or rusty troughs, half dissolved urinal cakes that smelt like cheap mints and lemon disinfectant. A condom machine probably half broken into. Most sold those fad sexual enhancement pills nowadays anyway. A blue bill for stamina and performance. He scoffed; as if he needed them. Besides, what did he care, you could get a johnny online now, a box full of them.

  He lunged for Lucy’s clean napkin and spat into it. Their sordid behaviour had turned his thoughts to urinals and condoms. They were infectious. He spat again.

  What’s taking them so long? They must be at it like backward animals! They should be out by now, it shouldn’t take that long.

  He scrutinised his watch, gritted his teeth, and felt the bones in his jaw grind.

  And finally, the two men exited the toilets calmly. Mousy, as Mark now referred to him, rubbed his hands down his beige chinos. The blonde slipped his hands into his pockets. They shimmied past the tables, heading for the exit, like ghosts. No one looked up from their tables at them, paid them any attention. And just like that, they were gone, like mist evaporating in the cool, winter air.

  The buzz had took hold now though, like a hand clutching his throat. He was suffocating under the pressure of sitting there, doing nothing, or playing the hero and taking action. Mark tapped his foot. Lucy babbled something, her hands waving at the far reaches of his vision’s periphery. If only he could swat the annoying fly back into her seat and enjoy the meal he would be paying for, the ungrateful bitch. Money, that’s all he was to her. She was no more than a whore who bled him dry.

  His fingernails were sharp against his cheek as he raked them down. What was becoming of him? He never thought of Lucy like that. A demon had possessed his mind, it needed purging. As soon as the children laughed in silly fits over their game, Mark shot out his seat, knocking the jug of water over at the same time. He vaguely heard it clutter onto the floor, Lucy’s voice too, but he didn’t have time for her nagging questions. He darted for the entrance. They had to be stopped.

  The nippy air slammed into him like an inebriated spirit, but he staggered left and right, searching. A car down opened. A burgundy taxi had an illuminated light on top, flashing intermittently as if it was on the verge of breaking. There they were, he saw. Beside the taxi, like shadows in a dark alley. They joined, faces together, kissing. Their warm breath wispy, rising into the night sky. Before clambering into the taxi, one wrapped a dark scarf around the other. They kissed again, waved, and parted. As he walked away down the high street, Mark realised it was Mousy who hadn’t got into the taxi.

  Mark marched after him, hearing the taxi’s mechanical thrum rotating through his head. ‘Oi! You!’ he bellowed, reaching Mousy and swinging him around. He held him by the scruff of his coat and scarf, ripping at it violently.

  ‘Whoa, mate. What’s the problem?’ His voice was nervy.

  ‘You are my problem.’ Mark spat in his face, again and again, over and over, making sure it covered his eyes.

  Mousy struggled to get free, wiping frantically at his eyes and pulling away. Mark was having none of it. He threw a punch into Mousy’s stomach, satisfied with the resulting grunt, and pushed him to the already icy ground. He kicked the downed man, wherever they connected. Back, stomach, head, he didn’t care. As long as the blows were fast, one after the other.

  ‘You disgust me,’ he grunted, ‘all you lot, your entire kind.’

  ‘Please,’ Mousy quavered, but his pleading was lost in between the groans and obscenities.

  ‘How does Little Miss Princess like that, eh? Little Miss Puff. Feel good does it. Yeah you like that, don’t you? One man touching another, taking it night after night’

  A screech of tyres echoed somewhere behind them.

  If a whisper had tried to bring about guilt, it failed. Blood thirsty adrenaline filled his veins and spurred him on. There was a crack of ribs and coughs of blood, like the spark and sizzle of fireworks. He had forgotten how riveting this felt, like a Templar revolting against the political correctness of a slave society. The man at the gym who had looked at him funny in the shower. The sound of his head cracking against the tiles could never be forgotten. He had stored it away for moments of pleasure, along with the couple he had come across as he jogged through the park, alongside the river. They never knew what was coming when he rammed one into the river itself before landing a few good blows to the other. He had broken his Bluetooth headphones that day, Lucy had bought him some new ones for Father’s Day as a replacement. And he had gotten away with them all too, like divine justice allowing him the cloak of invisibility to carry out a purge.

  ‘Gay marriage,’ he laughed. ‘What a joke. This country has gone mad. What gives you the right to have these things? A good stoning, that’s what’s needed. All of you, put against the wall and stoned. Like the Muslims do it.’

  Mark was thrown backwards, and he stumbled to keep upright. The ice on the ground was like cold fire to the tips of his fingers, but he managed to grab hold of a lamppost. The blonde lover had returned, screaming something at him. Mark chided himself for not paying more attention; he had bloody gone in the taxi, he assumed.

  ‘Steve? Steve?’ The man knelt down and wiped blood from Mousy’s face. ‘Please, Steve.’

  Mark hovered closer and saw the mess, the blood, the broken teet
h. Mousy was unrecognisable. He lay there, silently, unmoving.

  ‘What have you done?’ the man cried up at him. ‘What have you done? Happy now? Feel big, and hard, proud man?’

  ‘You fucking little shit,’ Mark spat back, leaning in to punch out.

  ‘Mark!’

  He bolted around. A crowd stared at him, some with hands over their mouths, a husband shielding his wife. The children stared, gobsmacked, ignoring the ushers from one of the waiters desperately trying to get them inside, away from him, like he was a disease. Lucy was there too, frozen to the spot like some mannequin. He jogged over.

  ‘It’s OK. I’ve stopped them. You don’t have to worry about anything. I’ve sorted it all.’

  But Lucy was crying. Mascara blackened her eyes and streaked her cheeks. She rubbed her stomach nervously. ‘Mark … what have you done?’

  ‘Me,’ he scoffed, ‘me. They. Them. It was sickening.’ He pointed over to them, Mousy still quiet on the ground, the other sobbing like a little girl, Mark thought. ‘Look at them. It’s not normal. It’s not right.’ He edged towards her, wanting to put an arm around her, to stroke her hair and kiss her cheek. Wipe away the mascara stains before they turned her entire face black.

  ‘No,’ she gasped. She slipped off a high heel and lunged it at him. He ducked, but it still whacked his shoulder. ‘Don’t come near me. Have you killed him? God, you’ve killed him, haven’t you. Killed an innocent man.’

  ‘Innocent! Have you gone mad, woman.’ He couldn’t comprehend his wife’s attitude. ‘Why aren’t you here, by my side? I’ve just saved those children, those two innocent children.’

  The diners shook their heads at him and Lucy cried. One of the barmen approached him and tried to tackle him to the ground, but Mark scooted onto the road away from them.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that? What is wrong with all of you?’

  Sirens cut through the frightened crowd. Mark’s stomach suddenly ached with a feeling he couldn’t recognise, like an end was swiftly approaching. His mind clouded and confused the reality. What was happening? Stars stared down at him like eyes, like judge and jury. He held out his shaking hands, but they were clean. No blood. He wasn’t tainted by death, or sin, like the shadows in the distance. He was a saviour, a goodwill ambassador and hero.

  Fury was now satisfied.

  Psychiatric Report of Patient

  HM PRISON FERRYTHORPE

  Mark Sanderson, 41 years, Male, Prisoner No #45587

  Report by Malcolm White