Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1) (7 page)

I edged toward Rude-boy whenever there was a changeover of passengers at a station. After one such stop and the resulting minimal increase in space, he managed to bag a seat: this miracle achieved by barging a frail, elderly gentleman out of the way. His smug expression afterwards suggested pride in doing so. Insult, piled upon injury, piled upon insult. I was going to enjoy sorting Rude-boy out.

Eventually, I got close enough to subtly reach down and remove his luggage tag. If I lost sight of him in the mob of a crowded station, I would know where to find him later.

The station where he disembarked was less crowded than the one where we both first boarded. The number of passengers on the train had also thinned out - we were no longer melded together as if one homogeneous lump of humanity. I waited for him to step to the platform, then followed closely behind, confident there was little chance he'd become suspicious of me. Grudging tolerance of uncomfortable closeness to strangers was the way he'd just spent the last thirty five minutes. My hunch proved correct and, as we left the platform, he was oblivious to me shadowing him.

At the top of the escalator, sunshine bathed us. It was a different kind of heat up top compared to underground; somehow more bearable and with the welcome relief of fresh air being wafted on a gentle breeze. I could feel my shirt sticking to my back and longed for a refreshing shower.

This was one of those affluent areas of the city less familiar to me. Folks living here - and presumably that included this pushy bastard - were in an income bracket several notches above me. Just like the mobile phone guy, he was proving money alone could not buy you class. Rude-boy stopped to mop his brow and put on some shades. I also popped on my sunglasses: the brightness of the outside dazzling in comparison to the artificial light of the tunnels.

He set off again at a brisk pace. I accelerated and, once within range, tapped his heel, causing him to trip. He sprawled full length, exclaiming loudly as he did so; shades clattering ahead of him on the pavement. I deliberately tumbled on top of him, making sure my elbow dug heavily into his ribs.

“Hey, mate, are you ok?” I asked, in as concerned a voice as I could muster.

As we disentangled ourselves and I offered my hand to help him up, he shouted with vehemence and no small degree of indignation. “What the fuck?! You just tripped me up!”

“Whoa! No way, mate. I was walking behind you and you suddenly slowed down. I couldn't get out of the way and we fell together. If anything,
you
tripped
me
up! I suppose that's what you get for trying to help these days.”

Warming to my part as the real victim, I withdrew my hand and folded my arms.

Rude-boy got to his feet rubbing his knee, his trousers torn, blood spreading darkly across the light coloured fabric. He nursed his (hopefully heavily) bruised ribs. Unfortunately, the impact hadn't been sufficient to inflict any serious damage to the prick.

“I'm sorry...” he said in a rather suspicious, unconvinced tone.

A female passerby pretended to take no heed; probably unwilling to get involved in what looked like a heated disagreement between two big blokes.

I stepped back in the full knowledge of what I was about to do. The very expensive eye-wear crunched under the heel of my boot. Oh, that felt good!

“Hey, watch where...oh for fuck's sake! Those cost me a fortune!”

He scrambled to the floor, desperately trying to reassemble them - but I had done my job with a finality that would render repair impossible.

“Shit, sorry about that. I didn't see them there.”

“Yeah? Look, just leave me alone will you. If this is your idea of helping people then I'm not impressed!”

The pitiable wanker cradled the shattered shades like a precious child, looking like he might actually start weeping over their passing. I shook my head, trying hard to suppress the laughter straining to burst forth.

“Ok, whatever, mate.”

With that, I continued up the street a way before doubling back toward the station. I left him checking himself over and reaching for a mobile phone to make a call of some kind. The disorientation of a random encounter with a stranger worn like a fluorescent tabard. My satisfaction tempered slightly by the lack of involvement from any paramedics. Never mind, it was a small victory and a necessary release on the valve. A cuff round the ear of bad manners and the blinded insularity of some city dwellers.

As predicted, once united with the family, my wife was very reasonable and my son easily placated with ice cream. I could get on with enjoying one of my weekend's with the boy. Wife number one away doing whatever she did when given this temporary fortnightly freedom.

When I told him about it, Garry thought the whole thing hilarious.

14. Night-time

I have been patiently waiting for this opportunity. A character trait that has always stood me in good stead. Patience ensures mistakes are avoided. Persistence ensures jobs get completed regardless of obstacles, inexperience or difficulty. The precise, requisite set of circumstances for this lesson have not been easy to come by. But, here and now, all the essential elements are aligned. Patience and persistence, my comrades and confidantes.

This one's not as apprehensive as the others. He doesn't realise how wrong he is to be so casual. Still jostling, still entirely focussed on number one. Still unaware of the wrong, the danger, the wrath.

My power is uncomfortably low. This flickering ember is alien to me. I'm used to it burning like a thousand suns. I almost feel too weak to see this through. I crave the dark, I need the dark, but it cannot be dark in here. I have no choice, no influence over this. I take solace from the darkness nearby until it's ruptured by headlights. Light is my kryptonite.

I don't like crowds - it's risky. Privacy affords time to tidy and repair, make good any spillage or oversight. An audience might mean a witness but there's no other way to make the point which needs to be made. It has to be here, in the light. It has to be now. Yes, I'm weakened, but far from impotent.

I move slowly; like wading through human treacle.

The heat rises.

The lights burn.

The wind blows dragon's breath.

I am fighting against the light.

I move forward and, this time, the tap on the heels is final.

A surge of bodies, voices, grinding metal screeching in protest, hysteria.

I melt away.

He won't be the only one to get the message this time. I've made sure of that.

15. Blood On The Tracks

Stark yawned like a hippo, giving the Bobby an uninterrupted view of his epiglottis. He held up his badge and crossed the tape. It was far too early in the morning to be dealing with this kind of shit. He was not a morning person. Mornings were for the birds and the paper boy, and they were welcome to them. On more than one occasion, he pined for the certainty and solace of constant back shifts. Great for the guy who can't get out of bed unless someone sets fire to it, but not exactly a boon socially. Ah, the job giveth and the job taketh away.

The station hummed with activity. White-suited forensics guys, uniformed cops, a couple of plain-clothes and, unfortunately, a journalist. He recognised Floyd Callahan from The Daily News even from behind. A bean pole of a man - by all accounts six feet seven inches tall - with a shining bald pate. An ex-NBA professional player who retired early due to serious injury and a rumoured fondness for falling down water. Like many guys in his position he started out as a TV pundit, then qualified as a sports journalist, but gradually branched out into other areas over the years. The opposite of that Sting song –  a New Yorker in England.

His physicality and accent were not the only things that made him obvious. Floyd Callahan had a penchant for wearing brightly coloured trainers in combination with a designer suit. Stark thought he might have taken the concept of smart/casual a little too far. Callahan insisted it allowed him to sit at a dinner table and look good, but when a story broke, he'd be first there because he could run. A logic...of sorts.

As Stark approached, Callahan swivelled instinctively on his heel, broke out his best Cheshire Cat grin. It was no use, as much as Stark disliked the majority of journalists, he couldn't help but warm to this gangly, eccentric hack. After all, he wasn't a proper journalist - well not in the sense of what most people would consider one to be. Stark reciprocated.

“Hey, Floyd. How the hell did you find out about this?”

The goofy giant's smile stretched to breaking point and he tapped the side of his nose.

“Now, now, Adam, you know a good journalist never reveals his sources!”

“Well, you can tell me then coz
you're
not a good journalist!” quipped Stark in response.

“Touché, Starky, touché! How the devil are you anyway my friend?”

They shook hands warmly, tapping each other on the right elbow with their left hands. A sort of slightly more professional, manly version of a hug.

“Well, I would be a lot better if I was still in my bed instead of dealing with this kind of crap at seven-thirty in the morning!”

Stark scanned around and spotted Katz; squatting down track-side, deep in conversation with one of the forensics guys. She'd beaten him to the punch again. Every crime scene they'd covered recently, she seemed to have the jump on him. It elicited a stab of paranoia. Was she out to show him up? Ridiculous. She merely tried harder than the average trainee to impress him and his superiors. It annoyed Stark but she provoked diaphanous unease in him. Despite working together for a few weeks, she'd told him nothing of her private life and made no enquiries about his. A kind of cold detachment, bordering on aloof. If she wasn't so damned hot, he'd find it easier to dislike her for it.

“Sorry, Floyd, I'll catch up with you in a bit. Need to go and talk to my partner, see what the lie of the land is.”

“Ok, Starkmeister. No problem. Once you know some more, you can come and tell me all about it,” said Callahan, winking as he did so.

Stark smiled, shook his head, lowered himself off the platform onto the track and made his way over to Katz.

His inscrutable workmate looked over her shoulder as he approached and stood up.

“Hi, sir. Meet Calvin Jacobs: victim number three of our vigilantes.”

“What? Really? What is it this time - train was late so they offed the driver?”

Katz didn't even crack a hint of a smile.

“Nope, he's an investment banker in the city. They shoved him out in front of the train as it pulled into the station. Hundreds of witnesses and no-one saw anything.”

“How do we know he was shoved? Maybe it was suicide? These places are a zoo at rush hour. It could have been an accident. Jeezo, it's always amazed me it doesn't happen more often.”

“Yeah, I agree that would be a likely scenario, but there's another note. This time in the pocket of the victim. Brazen sonofabitches must have stuffed it in before shoving him off the platform.”

“Holy shit! This is escalating. What the hell are they going to pull next?”

Katz put her hands on her hips.

“Well, I can give you a clue. How do you think your lanky friend got here? He's not likely to turn up for a bog-standard suicide now is he, sir?”

Stark pushed out his bottom lip and looked back toward Callahan. Heat flushed through his cheeks. Of course - the bad guys decided they needed more publicity for their cause. Callahan and the Daily News were perfect for them. They'd chosen the most popular hack, working for the nation's most popular paper: a paper renowned for championing the common man, bemoaning the decline of civilisation and generally stirring it for the authorities whenever they got the chance. Damn! Now the fun and games really would begin.

“Ah, shite. I better go see what he has to say for himself.”

“Yeah, right you are, sir. I'm going to keep examining the scene if that's ok with you?”

Stark nodded and made to move away before realising his befuddled neurones were not linking up as they should.

“Wait, before I go over there...what does the note say this time?”

Katz handed over the evidence bag.  

To whom it may concern,

I don't think my message is getting through.

Calvin here liked to shove little old ladies and pregnant women out of his way. Well, I gave him a push in the right direction. He learned a hard lesson in manners and what's right and wrong. I want them all to learn it. It's time to stand up against this tide of inconsideration and selfishness. It's time to reclaim the city for our decent, hard-working citizens. It's time to show respect.

Dwayne, Ernie and Calvin will help light the way.

Yours,

A concerned citizen taking action

There was something curious about this note. Instead of using a plain piece of paper like the others, it was printed on the back of what appeared to be a luggage tag bearing Calvin Jacob's personal details.

“What's with the luggage tag?”

Katz shrugged.

“No idea, sir. Strange huh?”

“Yeah, very,” said Stark, handing the bag back to his partner. “Whoa! Wait a minute. Why is it all in the first person? There's no
we
or
us
in that statement - it's all
I
did this and
I
think that and it's signed off as
A
concerned citizen.”

“Actually, yes, you're right, sir. So, what the hell was going on with Martin? Looks like his lush of a wife was talking through the bottom of her vodka bottle after all.”

Stark pulled down on his jaw thoughtfully.