Opening section of Blood – not edited, taken from the rough draft. Marcus returns…
Blood by Jake Barton.
‘Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?’ – Paul Gauguin painting. 1897.
PROLOGUE
18 men, 22 women, 14 children, 62 dogs, 39 cats and hundreds of other even lesser creatures; he’d killed them all and could remember every one. A few had been necessary, but most had been purely for enjoyment. The greatest pleasure had been his parents and his baby sister; in their final moments, he’d loved them most of all.
Marcus was awake. He opened his eyes and rose instantly from the bed, flinging aside the single sheet that had been his only covering and walking swiftly to the window looked out across a flat expanse of water. In the stark blackness of early morning the absolute silence was overwhelming. Anything that moved was hugely exaggerated while the slightest sound echoed into the profound stillness of the pitch-black sea. Almost imperceptibly to the naked eye, dawn crept over the horizon. So achingly slow was its progress that it was unclear whether the darkness diminished or the light increased. Either way, the effect was the same. Each time he looked up, the light was more pronounced, until even the winking pinpricks on the distant headland faded and disappeared. The arrival of the sun was almost an anti-climax; creeping timidly over the rim of the world like an uncertain suitor peeking from the shadows, before gaining confidence and spearing its brilliant fingers across the reflective surface of the sea. From his vantage point, an open balcony looking out over the picturesque harbour of Collioure, the watcher looked out at a scene which had captivated successive generations of artists and remained completely unmoved. He had slept well and was refreshed. Anything else was an irrelevance.
Marcus turned away and strode naked to the washstand where he scrubbed his hands and face, brushed his teeth and shaved, then collected his clothes from the wardrobe. Frowning, he examined a brown speck on the cuff of his shirt. It was faint enough to escape attention but he scrubbed it under the cold tap until all traces of the stain had been removed. The shirt would have to be replaced later, but would suffice for the moment. He dressed and collected his single bag from beneath the antique pine table on which he’d placed his wallet, watch and small change. He stepped over the body on the floor, carefully checking the soles of his shoes for blood traces. Disposal of the remains, while desirable, had become inconvenient. Having decided to leave France, such trivial matters were no longer important.
The girl was a nobody without any possible link to himself and would be soon forgotten. Just another dead junky, albeit one whose miserable life was remarkable only for the luxurious trappings of the room where she’d spent her last night on earth. The razor lay by her side, its gleaming blade and pearl handle standing out against the dark oak floorboards. Although the razor had never made contact with his own skin, it had been part of him for many years and had served him well. All other aspects of his life, he would leave behind, but this old friend was too precious to abandon. Marcus used the girl’s discarded underwear to wipe the blade before slipping it into a battered velvet-lined case. He had no doubt that he would have need of it again.
