Chapter Seventeen
Recovery
On Sunday it rained again.
Marc sat on the sofa in the living room of Jason’s apartment, gazing absent-mindedly at the water that streaked the glass of the balcony door. His left arm, encased in plaster from hand to elbow, was propped up on a cushion on the arm of the sofa. Jason had pulled the coffee table closer so he could elevate his feet too.
Marc had been discharged from hospital that morning and hadn’t wanted to go home. He hadn’t told his family about what happened on Friday evening and wanted a place to lie low for a couple of days until he felt better. He would go see them on Monday or Tuesday when he’d had a chance to think of how best to break the news. To tell them what he’d been doing, about Theo’s lifestyle and how he had almost succumbed to the same fate beneath the wheels of a maniac driver.
It was shitty of him to keep them in the dark, but he needed to process it himself, before he dealt with anyone else’s reaction .
Jason was in the bedroom, on the phone to his business partner Ryman. Jason had also managed to keep the details of their near-death encounter to himself so far, but owed it to Ryman to fill him in. Marc hoped Ryman went easy on him. Jason had been through enough already.
He’d tried to take care of Marc, fussing around when he’d arrived at the apartment that morning, but Jason needed time to recover himself. He was in pain. Marc caught the way his mouth pinched, or brow tightened, whenever he tried to stand, or put too much weight on his sprained ankle.
Despite everything, they had been lucky. They were still alive to continue the investigation. To find the bastard responsible for Theo’s death.
The bedroom door opened, and Jason limped into the living room. He held a hand across his injured ribs. The shadows beneath his eyes were deep.
“How did it go?” Marc asked.
Jason gripped the back of the armchair for support. “He’s glad we’re both okay, but oh boy, is he pissed.”
“You could have been killed.”
“He knows that. But he also knows I broke the golden rule. Never get into a relationship with a client.”
“It’s too late to change that now.”
“It doesn’t stop him being mad about it.”
“He can’t fire you. You’re full partners, right?”
Jason gave a weary sigh. “He wants to take over your case. He says I can’t continue when I have a personal interest in the investigation.”
Marc shuffled to the edge of the sofa and rose carefully. “I’m the client. I’m paying for the case. I want you, not Ryman. ”
“He’ll have calmed down by tomorrow. He’s just shocked to find out about us. I have no intention of stepping aside, but it might not be a bad idea for him to join us. We’re getting closer. We could use his help.”
Marc moved in behind him. He put a light hand on Jason’s waist, careful not to hurt him. Though it was only his rib that was broken, Jason was bruised all over. Marc hadn’t seen the full extent yet, but the bruises that showed on his arms and neck were severe enough. He leaned close and brushed his lips across his ear.
“Is that a good idea? We could be putting him in danger too,” he asked.
“The sooner we catch this bastard, the sooner we put an end to it.”
Marc nodded and rested his chin on Jason’s shoulder. He was right, but whoever was responsible might become more desperate and more dangerous the closer they came to the truth.
“Come and sit down,” Marc said. “You haven’t stopped since I got here.”
“I’m too wired.”
“You need to rest to get better,” Marc insisted. “Sit and I’ll make you some tea.”
“Hey, you’re the invalid, remember. I’ll make you tea.”
“No, you won’t, sit. I’ve got a broken arm, which doesn’t make me an invalid. Besides, I’m right-handed.”
Jason reluctantly agreed and took a place on the sofa. Marc got familiar with the layout of the kitchen and found the teabags and mugs. He put the kettle on to boil.
“What are we going to do next?” he asked .
Jason put a cushion on the coffee table and carefully lifted his sprained ankle onto it, grimacing as he did it. “For the rest of today, we do nothing. But first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll pick up where we left off, and find out all I can about this photographer guy, Blake Remar. Well, almost first thing. Ryman wants to see me in the office to tear me a new arsehole first.”
They both laughed, then Jason clutched his rib.
“Ouch. Laughing is a bad idea,” he said. “Don’t make me do it.”
Marc made the tea and carried it over, one mug at time, before joining Jason on the sofa.
“This is nice,” he said, shuffling closer to Jason. “Just a quiet afternoon together. It’s like something real people would do.”
“Real people probably do it without the injuries and concerns about a murder investigation.”
“Probably,” Marc said lightly. “But this is still nice.”
“Mmm,” Jason agreed.
They relaxed into each other’s company. The tea, together with the strong painkillers Marc had been prescribed, left him in a chilled mood. They chatted about things other than what had been happening. Jason told him about his earlier life and his career in the Navy. Marc wanted to see some photos of him in uniform, but they were both too comfortable and mellow to get up and seek them from the other room.
“I bet you looked handsome in the Naval gear,” Marc said.
“You know, you could be right.”
Then they laughed some more, and Jason complained about the pain in his ribs again. Jason turned on the TV and they spent a lazy hour channel hoping, dipping in and out of a variety of brainless afternoon shows. Marc dozed off for a while. The aftereffects of the anaesthetic he’d had for his surgery had left him groggy and tired. When he woke, sometime around four, Jason was swearing at the television.
“What’s up?” Marc asked, blinking to regain focus. He hated this fuzzy feeling. He rarely slept more than a few hours a night. Falling asleep through the day was something he only ever did at Christmas. There was a clip from a political chat show playing. He recognised it as a regular Sunday morning programme. The news channel was showing highlights of that day’s edition.
“This prick,” Jason said. “Man of the fucking moment.”
It took Marc another second to realise who was on screen. It was Soloman Archer. Marc sat up straight, suddenly alert.
Soloman was being interviewed by the main presenter. He wore a grey three-piece suit, a candy-pink shirt and a lurid pink and blue tie. He spoke with the oily confidence of a politician.
“What I hear on the doorsteps, is that people have had enough of this woke gender ideology. There are far too many children around today who think it’s fine to self-identify as God knows what.”
The clip ended and cut back to the news studio.
“What was all that about?” Marc said. The pain in his arm made it difficult for him to get comfortable.
“As if he wasn’t insufferable enough, he’s stirring up transphobia for the sake of looking tough. ‘What I hear on the doorstep.’ Absolute bullshit. He wouldn’t lower himself to go knocking on doors in Blyham. And if he did, he wouldn’t hear any of that rubbish. People are more concerned about the cost of living, and whether they can feed their kids or afford to put fucking petrol in their tanks this week. They’re not interested in his culture war.”
“Why is he coming out with this anyway?”
“’Cause he’s a fucking clown.”
Marc stroked Jason’s thigh with his good hand. “Hey, you need to keep calm, remember.”
“I was calm until that shit-merchant came on TV.”
It seemed strange that Soloman would want to raise the issue of trans rights and gender identification, given the skeletons he had concealed in his own closet. Was the man so arrogant, he believed he was untouchable?
Probably . He was an MP for the nasty party after all.
“What else did he have to say?” Marc asked.
“Nothing worth hearing. Bastard! I can’t wait until we get the evidence we need to nail him.”
“Do you think he’s behind it all?”
“He’s the most likely suspect.”
Marc was not so sure. Soloman had plenty to hide, not least his relationship with Theo and however many other sex workers he used, but would he really go so far as murder to keep his secret?
“It can’t have been him on Friday night.”
“I know,” Jason said. “I’ve already checked. He was in London all day. But it doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone to do it.”
“They can’t be any good if he did. We’re both still here.”
“We were lucky. Theo and Dan can’t claim the same.”
When Marc stood up, his entire body ached. It was too early for another dose of painkillers. “Do you mind if I take a bath? It might help.”
“Go ahead. You know where everything is. ”
Marc slowly made his way to the bathroom and set the tub running. He was glad he’d kept himself in such good physical shape before the accident. If he hadn’t, his recovery could have been a lot worse.
With Jason’s help, he wrapped a plastic bag around his plaster and undressed.
“Jesus,” Jason said as Marc’s shirt came off. His torso was mottled with purple and black bruising.
“I’m trying not to look at those,” Marc said. “I don’t imagine you’re in any better condition.”
“It seems much worse seeing the damage to someone else. Shit . We really could have been killed.”
“That was the intention.”
He got the water to a comfortable temperature and, with Jason’s hand for support, he eased himself in, before topping up the hot. He sat back, enjoying the warmth while keeping his plastered arm over the side. Jason perched on the edge of the bath, looking down at him. There was a soft smile on his face.
“What is it?” Marc asked.
“You’re the first person besides me to use that tub. It’s nice, that’s all. Having you here.”
Marc felt a warm surge, inside as well as out. “It’s a pity the circumstances weren’t better than this.”
“Agreed. If they were, I’d be sliding in there with you.”
“Let’s keep that thought as something to look forward to.”
“It’s a promise.” Jason ran his fingers across Marc’s knee where it rose above the water. “Want me to bring you anything?”
“I’d love a drink. A nice cold glass of wine.”
Jason chuckled. “Nice try. But you know booze is off the menu for the next few days. For both of us. ”
“Spoilsport.”
“What about dinner? There’s no way either of us are cooking, but I can place an order. It will be here by the time you get out.”
“I like the sound of that. How about pizza? We can have it straight from the box. No washing up.”
“Even better.” Jason leaned over to give him a kiss on the lips and left him alone.
Just a few days ago, this would have seemed impossible, spending a lazy Sunday at Jason’s place, relaxing on the sofa, soaking in his bathtub. How rapidly everything had changed. Is that what happens after a near-death experience? Priorities change beyond recognition.
Meeting Jason and making a connection with him were the best things to come out of this ominous situation.
Marc sank deeper into the water, until it covered his shoulders, allowing the heat to ease the ache in his muscles.
The calm was broken after a few minutes.
Jason bolted back into the room. His phone was ringing.
“It’s Tyrone.”
Marc pushed back into a sitting position.
Jason answered the phone and put it on speaker. “Hello.”
The deep base of grime music came over the speaker. The line was terrible, like the caller was driving. “That you?” a voice demanded.
Jason shrugged his shoulders at Marc. “It’s Jason Durham. Who are you expecting?”
The next words were incomprehensible, then, “…got something more to tell you. ”
“What is it?”
“Gonna cost you. A lot more than last time.”
“And this is something you’ve just remembered?” Jason’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “What has jogged your memory?”
“Hearing you was nearly turned into roadkill, mate. That’s what. It’s not fucking happening to me. I want three grand so I can get out of Blyham.”
“What is it you’ve got to offer that you couldn’t before?”
“Stop dicking me around. I know what happened to Theo. That’s what you want to know, ain’t it?”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t trust you.”
“Believe me or not, but it’ll save your life. Three thousand quid. Cash. Let me know when you’ve got it and I’ll tell you where to meet.”
The line went dead before Jason could say another word.