The Mark of the Damned

by Daniel Willcocks

  2

  Sarah Eton’s kitchen was filled with the delightful aromas of a thousand ingredients stewing, roasting and boiling. There was a luxurious mist of air hanging over the small room as the kettle hissed and the oven fan thrummed.

  She whirled around her parents’ kitchen like a dancer. A routine she had practiced week on week on week. After a graceful pirouette, Sarah leaned across the sink and opened the window. A small cloud of steam was sent on its way into the crisp October evening.

  Ordinarily, Quinton would watch Sarah with a knot of excitement and pride in his stomach. She was beautiful, in that kind of plain-Jane way that his grandfather had always spoken about when discussing the girls from wartimes. Even now, with her golden locks braided into two bunches and tossed over her shoulders, and only a touch of makeup – what she called her ‘vital pick-me-ups’ – she knocked out the competition of women who lived along the long road of Sandwell Drive. Had, in fact, beaten every possible competitor every step along their 7-year journey together.

  Even at school he couldn’t believe he had ended up with Sarah Eton – the stunning blonde from his maths class. While all the Tom Garners and Leon Davies chased the Jessica Ashtons of the school, Sarah Eton blended into the background, with tightly bunched black hair and thick-rimmed glasses. Her beauty unmistakable to anyone who would only look beyond the superficial and the popular and see what was sitting right beside them. Over the years she had flowered into something incredible. A woman beyond anything Quinton ever thought he’d be able to obtain again, if he ever had to try.

  The only thing that Quinton would be happy to improve on would be the scowl that hadn’t left her face since he had first walked through the door.

  “Really?”

  He’d only reached out to hug her, the movement enough to pull back his sleeve and show the first inch of his forearm.

  “We’re supposed to be saving up, Quint!”

  Her nostrils flared so widely that, for a moment, he thought he could see the angry cogs whirring inside her brain. His mouth opened to protest, but she had already spun on her heels and retreated back into the kitchen.

  He had slinked after her, already feeling guilty for a crime he hadn’t committed, and sat down in his chair, waiting patiently for Sarah to finish up and join him at the table so they could actually discuss what had happened earlier at the diner.

  The whole thing still didn’t make any sense to him. One minute he had been slurping his milkshake, the next he had been in more pain than he had ever felt in his life. Enough pain to almost pass out. Enough pain to fall onto the floor and bash his head on the tiles.

  Sarah served dinner on two red ceramic plates. The food looked delicious as always. A steaming pile of potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, veg and turkey – Quinton’s favorite.

  A bubble of confused guilt rose in Quinton’s stomach, made even worse by the fact that Sarah hardly touched her food. Her piercing blue glare watching him the entire time he ate.

  It wasn’t until Quinton had all but emptied his plate and placed his cutlery down that Sarah said, “Show me.”

  The small hairs at the back of his neck stood on end. He hadn’t even looked at the tattoo, himself. Even at the restaurant, after discovering the ink on his arm he had tugged his sleeve down and covered the monstrosity back up, scared to see what had stained his skin. His mother and father had always been against the idea of tattoos and had drilled home the risks to Quinton from as young as he could remember.

  ‘You’ll never get a job. No one wants to be served by a thug.’

  ‘There’s the risk of infection, y’know? Blood poisoning is a real danger, there.’

  ‘Your cousin Levi was covered in tattoos and look where he ended up. Prison.’

  Which was why, after his rendezvous with Gabe, Quinton had run straight to his bedroom at his mother’s place to get changed before heading out to Sarah’s, sneaking around so as to not alert his mother to his presence.

  Not that she would have likely noticed, anyway. She hardly noticed anything anymore. Not since…

  A sudden image came unbidden to Quinton. An open casket. His father’s pale body lying like a waxwork inside. His eyes closed and sunken. His skin the sweaty pallor of plastic, reminding Quinton of the Action Man figures he’d treasured as a child. A thin white shirt covering his chest and arms with a thin cornflower blue tie lain perfectly down the center.

  And strange dark patterns on his skin, just visible through the white cotton material…

  “Show. Me.” Sarah laced her fingers together, eyes fixed on his.

  Quinton unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve. He stared down at his new decoration, taking in the strange symbols and shapes. He had to stop when the material was gathered tight around his elbow as it wouldn’t roll any higher.

  “The whole thing,” Sarah said. Her lips hardly moved.

  Quinton unbuttoned the front of his shirt. He shrugged the left side of his body out of the sleeve and placed his naked arm in front of her.

  Her eyes widened.

  The artwork was tribal. Thick black lines wove around each other like vines laced with thorns. They snaked from his wrist to his shoulder, interlacing and looping around each other in an endless labyrinth of foliage.

  Yet there was more to it. In the spaces between the vines an assortment of strange creatures and symbols. Sharp, jagged shapes that looked like ancient runes, with dark eyes peering from between. In the center of his forearm, a pentagram took front of field, jarringly different in art style to the rest. The lines of the pentagram were blood-red, juxtaposing to the thick black of the rest of the art.

  Sarah shook her head. “How much did it cost?”

  “Huh?” Quinton asked, his attention lost in the center of the pentagram’s star where a pool of ink was shaded so dark that it looked as though there was a physical void in his arm. A dark pit leading to another dimension, as though there was no flesh or bone beneath the ink

  “Well, it can’t have been cheap. Sleeves. They’re… what…? Three, four-hundred pounds at least?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “—Didn’t what? Take a chunk out of our savings for a goddamn tattoo?”

  “Sarah, this isn’t—”

  “—It’s bad enough I’ve had to work overtime all this week just to make sure I can cover my parents’ rent for this place, but big shot Store Supervisor here can piss away nearly half a grand getting some juvey with an art degree to scribble on his arm—”

  “—It’s not like, that. You don’t understand—”

  “—How are we ever going to get away from this shit-heap town if you can’t be assed to prioritize us? After everything that happened before, I thought we’d finally…”

  Sarah grew teary, her emotions spilling.

  “Sarah!” Quinton slapped his hands on the table and half-rose out of his seat. A small vein bulged out of his neck. Somewhere upstairs he could hear Sarah’s parents walking around.

  Sarah froze, a horrified look on her face. Had Quinton really just shouted at her? Placid, calm, patient Quinton who hardly ever raised his voice, even when she knew she was driving him crazy?

  Quinton sat back down, feeling himself deflate.

  “Sarah, please listen to me. This is going to sound absolutely batshit crazy, but I need to tell you the truth.”

  And he did exactly that. Quinton told Sarah exactly what had happened at Betty’s Diner. Every last detail of the blinding pain that had struck his arm and his fall to the floor. How the tattoo had appeared from out of nowhere and, if there had been some invisible tattoo artist, he most certainly hadn’t spent a single penny paying for the marks on his arm.

  Sarah chewed her lip, her eyes finding his then darting away.

  “You expect me to believe that that… thing… just appeared from nowhere?”

  “I know it sounds crazy as hell,”—

  hell

  —Quinton said. “But, just think about it, do you know how long it tak
es for a tattoo artist to do something like this? It takes hours. Sometimes days. Laurie at work had her sleeve tattoo done a few months ago and that had taken three four-hour sessions.” He stared down at his arm, hand hovering over his skin as though he was scared just touching the ink would make it burn again. “And don’t you think it would look worse than this? Sore? You must’ve seen fresh tattoos when they’re complete? Covered in cellophane and oozing small rivulets of blood? They take a few days to heal at the very least. Do you really think I could have gotten this whole damn—

  damn

  —tattoo done in an afternoon? I was drinking shakes at Betty’s with Gabe. Shooting the shit and listening to his latest episodic romance and how that had destructed in a ball of flame. I wasn’t at a tattoo parlor.” He paused, feeling a few more words might convince. “I swear.”

  Sarah leaned back in her chair, arms folded. Though Quinton could see a lot going on in her mind, she didn’t say much at all.

  “So, it’s a transfer?”

  “What?”

  “Y’know? A transfer tattoo. A stencil?”

  “No. I mean… I don’t think so.”

  “Or a sleeve? Like those things you buy at the market you pull over your arm like tights?”

  “No!” Quinton declared, frustrated now. He wanted to be mad at her for not believing, but he couldn’t blame her at all. Would he believe the same if the roles were reversed? “Look,” he said, pinching and pulling the skin, thankful to find that there was zero pain as the skin stretched taught under his fingers. “There. See? It’s as real as you and I. Not a penny spent. Zero. Nada. Zilch.”

  Quinton reached across the table, nudging the plates to the side as he took Sarah’s hands in his own. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Sarah. I love you too much to ruin our future together. I know how hard you’ve been working; I’ve been doing the same. You think I’d throw that all away for… this?”

  Sarah finally nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing as she squeezed Quinton’s hands in her own. She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, her eyes never leaving the tattoo.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Quinton shook his head. “Not anymore.”

  “You should still probably get it checked out. Something like that can’t be good to just appear on a person.”

  Quinton chuckled.

  “What?”

  “Talk about stating the obvious.”

  Sarah blushed. “I’m serious. Get it looked at. The last thing I need right now is to be worrying about you and… whatever condition brought this on.”

  Quinton told her he would. She fell quiet for a moment and finally picked up her fork, loaded it with vegetables and scooped it into her mouth. He was glad to see her appetite had returned—a surefire way to know she now believed him. She finished her food and they washed up together, the hour now late in the day. Occasionally her eyes would flicker to his arm, her stare getting lost in the ink, but he was able to shake her back to focus with a carefully placed question or word.

  Later, Sarah sat at the edge of the bed, paused and stared at the floor.

  “Honey? What is it?”

  “We are still moving to the city. Aren’t we?”

  Quinton smiled. “Try to stop us. As soon as we’ve saved enough to get out of this sleepy little town, we’ll be gone. I promise.”

  “You double promise?”

  Quinton crossed the room and sat behind Sarah. He was half-dressed, only just managing to get his pajama trousers on before Sarah had spoken. His bare arms reached around and hugged Sarahs tightly. His stubble tickled as he kissed her cheek.

  She reciprocated and rubbed her hands along his arms. The moment her fingers made contact with the ink on his skin, he jumped slightly, feeling a small shock at the touch.

  Instantly, Sarah’s lips found Quinton’s. She kissed him deeply, taking a deep breath as she put her tongue into his mouth and wrestled with his.

  Quinton pulled back, a small grin on his face. “Honey? Are you okay?” His eyes flicked over to his pajama shirt, neatly ironed and laying on the bed waiting for him.

  Sarah gave a coy smile, turned around and shoved him back on the bed. “You don’t need that.” She straddled his waist, her actions taking on a sudden desperation he didn’t understand, but certainly didn’t complain about. When had been the last time she had taken control like this? Back in college when they had first discovered the pleasures of sex in a dark and quiet dorm?

  Her tongue roamed his mouth. Her hips gyrated over his member. Through the thin cotton of his trousers he could feel the heat of her sex and it drove him wild, his body instantly rising to the occasion.

  Her kisses moved from his lips, to his cheek, to his neck. She playfully nibbled his ear, a hand searching down his body, tucking itself into his trousers and gripping him tightly.

  “Besides…” she breathed, her voice dark and husky. “I actually think your new tattoo is rather sexy… ”

  Quinton’s thoughts were lost in ecstasy as Sarah’s lips trailed down his body and took everything that Quinton had to offer.

  3

  Quinton’s visit to the doctors was a fat waste of time.

  Sat in the crowded and disease-riddled waiting room had done nothing to alleviate any tension from the events of the day before. Sure, Quinton’s body felt considerably relaxed after several sweaty late-night tumbles with Sarah—where her appetite had come from, he had no idea, but he was hardly likely to complain given that her new lease of energy had his eyes rolled so far back into his head that he could see the pleasure synapses firing in his brain—but when morning came around, a distinct sense of dread had filled him.

  “Just stay in bed a little longer,” Sarah crooned, her bare chest exposed over the spill of sheets pooled around her naked waist. The faint grin pulling at one side of her face as she bit her lip and tried to coo him back to bed.

  Quinton looked longingly at his high school goddess, wanting nothing more than to re-explore every inch of her body. To nuzzle her flesh and feel her tongue on his. God knows his body was ready for it, his member shoving painfully at the taught stretch of his crotch.

  “I can’t, baby. I need to find out what’s going on, and I’ve only got twenty minutes to get to my appointment.”

  Sarah had protested to the last, eventually seeing him off at the door with a kiss that Quinton could remember throughout the day. Her body draped in a thin, non-concealing dressing robe of satin. Her nipples were small insect bites, responding to his touch.

  “Make sure they don’t get rid of it, baby,” Sarah bit her lip. “It looks good on you, y’know? Edgy. Sexy.”

  Quinton confirmed that he wouldn’t, still startled by the sudden change of attitude. Even more alarmed when, before he could pull away, her hand frantically searched up the cuff of his sleeve, fingers pawing away at his darkened skin.

  “What are you doing?” Quinton asked, recoiling slightly.

  Sarah’s eyes tore away from his arm and found Quinton’s. “Nothing. I just… wanted to see it again. To… maybe touch it?”

  “You can wait until later.”

  “Hardly,” she purred, gently closing the door behind her.

  It wasn’t until he had managed to pull his seventeen-year-old Renault Clio out onto the road that he suddenly wondered why Sarah hadn’t gotten ready for work herself, yet. The last he remembered, she was on early shifts at the care home until Sunday.

  Quinton shook the thought away, putting weight on the accelerator as he realized with anguish he only had three minutes to make a six-minute journey.

  When the doctor at last called Quinton in and relieved him from, what Gabe had once lovingly called ‘The Holding Pen’, the examination was quick and painful.

  Not physically painful, though. The minute that Quinton had told the doctor exactly what had happened and showed him the marked skin across his arm, he had been surprised to see a smile on the doctor’s face.

  “Long weekend in Ibiza?” Doctor Ribbik a
sked.

  Quinton raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

  “Look, Mr. Thompson. I can’t begin to tell you how many of these I’ve seen in my time. ‘Spontaneous’ tattoos of various designs. Tasmanian Devils, Chinese cursive originally thought to mean ‘family’ or ‘love’ but what later turned out to be the Chinese symbols for ‘soup’ or ‘cock’. Flowers, hearts, ex-girlfriend’s names, I’ve seen it all.” The doctor snapped his gloves on and took Quinton’s arm, turning it over while examining through a pair of magnified lenses. “Guys decide to go away on these ‘lads’ holidays, they have a few too many drinks and get themselves marked with something that they later come to regret.”

  “Really, Doc. It’s not like that,” Quinton protested. “Honestly, it showed up yesterday. Out of nowhere.” He pulled out his phone. “I can call my friend and he can confirm it all. He’ll tell you.”

  Quinton flicked open his contacts and found the name 'Gabe Clark’. The doctor’s eyes darted to the phone.

  “Ah, Mr. Clark? He’s going to be your alibi?”

  Quinton’s thumbs hesitated over the dial key.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Me and his mother go way back,” Doctor Ribbik said. “Grew up together. Went to the same school. Drifted apart over the years but reconnected a few years back after… well… after all the business with the boy’s father. Since then we’ve kept in touch. I’ve seen the kid grow. Something of a BNOC now, isn’t he?”

  Quinton looked at the doctor questioningly.

  “Big name on campus,” Doctor Ribbik explained. He returned his attention to examining the markings, thumb tracing the patterns as he spoke. “Yep, everyone in this backwater town knows Gabriel Clark, but few know that he has an affinity for blurring the truth. Bending his stories to make himself appear bigger than he is—not that I have anything against that, mind you. Many great men have made their reputation that way. Everyone has a path, though for some their paths snake into a place where no other man has trodden, and it is from there that the stories can twist.”