The Marks Of Cain Part 1

The Marks of Cain.

By Tom Knox.

Author's Note

The Marks of Cain is a work of fiction. However, it draws on many genuine historical, archaeological and scientific sources. is a work of fiction. However, it draws on many genuine historical, archaeological and scientific sources.

In particular:

The monastery of Sainte Marie de La Tourette stands in the forests and vineyards of central France. Designed by Le Corbusier, the building was constructed in the 1950s. Five years after completion the building was threatened with closure, as so many of the monks were suffering mental problems.

Eugen Fischer was a German scientist, famous for his studies in human heredity, firstly amongst the Basters of Namibia, and then for Hitler and the n.a.z.i party. He survived the Second World War, and continued his work without prosecution.

In 1610, the King of Navarre asked his physicians to examine twenty-two of his 'Cagot' subjects.

1.

Simon Quinn was listening to a young man describe how he'd sliced off his own thumb.

'And that,' said the man, 'was the beginning of the end. I mean, cutting off your thumb, with a knife, that's not nothing, is it? That's serious s.h.i.t. Cutting your own thumb off. f.u.c.ked my bowling.'

The urge to laugh was almost irrepressible; Simon repressed it. The worst thing you could do at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting was laugh at someone's terrible story. Just not done. People came here to share, to fess up, to achieve some catharsis by submitting their darkest fears and shames: and thereby to heal.

The young man finished his story: 'So that's when it, like, kicked in. I realized I had to do something, about the drugs and the pop. Thank you.'

The room was silent for a moment. A middle-aged woman said a breathy thank you, Jonny thank you, Jonny, and everyone else murmured: thank you, Jonny. thank you, Jonny.

They were nearly done. Six people had shared; pamphlets and keyrings had been distributed. This was a new group for Simon, and he liked it. Usually he went to evening NA meetings nearer his flat and his wife and son in Finchley Road, the London suburbs. But today he'd had to come into Hampstead for business and en route en route he'd decided to catch a new meeting, try somewhere fresh; he was bored of the boozers at his usual meets, with their stories of guzzling lighter fuel. And so he'd rung the NA hotline and found this meeting he'd never been to before, and it turned out it was a regular lunchtime job with interesting people who had good stories. he'd decided to catch a new meeting, try somewhere fresh; he was bored of the boozers at his usual meets, with their stories of guzzling lighter fuel. And so he'd rung the NA hotline and found this meeting he'd never been to before, and it turned out it was a regular lunchtime job with interesting people who had good stories.

The pause was prolonged. Perhaps he should share his own story now? Give a little change?

He decided to tell the very first story. The big one.

'h.e.l.lo, my name's Simon and I'm an addict.'

'h.e.l.lo, Simon...'

'Hi, Simon.'

He leaned forward and began: 'I was a drunk...for at least ten years. And I wasn't just an alcoholic, I was...a polydrug abuser, as they say. I did absolutely everything. But I don't want to talk about that. I want to...explain how it started.'

The leader of the group, a fifty-something man with soft blue eyes, nodded gently.

'Whatever you want. Please go on.'

'Thank you. Well. OK. I...grew up not far from here, in Belsize Park. My parents were pretty affluent my father's an architect, my mother was a lecturer. My background is Irish but...I went to private school in Suss.e.x. Hence the stupidly middle-cla.s.s English accent.'

The leader offered a polite smile. Listening attentively.

'And...I had an older brother. We were rather a happy family...At first...Then at eighteen I went off to university and while I was there I got this frantic frantic phone call from my mother. She said, phone call from my mother. She said, your brother Tim has just lost it. your brother Tim has just lost it. I asked her what she meant and she said, I asked her what she meant and she said, he's just lost it. he's just lost it. And it was true. He'd suddenly come home from university and he'd started talking absolutely mad stuff, talking equations and scientific formulas...and the maddest thing of all is that he was doing it in And it was true. He'd suddenly come home from university and he'd started talking absolutely mad stuff, talking equations and scientific formulas...and the maddest thing of all is that he was doing it in German. German.'

He gazed around the faces, gathered in this bas.e.m.e.nt room. Then continued: 'So I shot home and it turned out my mother was right. Tim had gone mad. Genuinely cracked. He was doing a lot of skunk with his chums at uni maybe that was a catalyst but I think he was schizophrenic anyway. Because that's when schizophrenia usually kicks in, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. I didn't know that then of course.'

The middle-aged woman was sipping from a plastic cup of tea.

'Tim was a science student. Seriously bright much brighter than me. I can barely say bonjour bonjour but he could speak four languages. As I say, he was doing a physics PhD, at Oxford, but he'd come home suddenly...without warning and he was ranting, quoting scientific formulas in German. Doing it all night, walking up and down the landing. but he could speak four languages. As I say, he was doing a physics PhD, at Oxford, but he'd come home suddenly...without warning and he was ranting, quoting scientific formulas in German. Doing it all night, walking up and down the landing. Das Helium und das Hydrogen Das Helium und das Hydrogen blah blah blah. All through the night. blah blah blah. All through the night.

'My parents realized my brother had a pretty serious problem and they took him to a doctor, and they prescribed Tim the usual drugs. The wretched little pills. Antipsychotics. And they worked for a while...But one night when I was home for Christmas I heard this muttering muttering noise and...and it was this voice. Again. Yes. noise and...and it was this voice. Again. Yes. Das Helium und das Hydrogen Das Helium und das Hydrogen. And I lay there wondering what to do. But then I heard this terrible scream and I rushed from my bedroom and my brother was in...' He closed and opened his eyes. 'My brother was there in my mother's bedroom and they were alone because my father was away...and...and my brother was attacking attacking her, hacking at my mother, with a machete. A big knife. A her, hacking at my mother, with a machete. A big knife. A machete machete. I don't know precisely what it was. But he was chopping away at her, our mother, so I jumped him and I held him down and there was blood everywhere, just everywhere actually sprayed up the walls. I very nearly throttled him. Almost killed my own brother.' brother.'

Simon drew breath.

'The police came and they took him away and...my mother went to hospital and they st.i.tched her up, but she lost the use of some fingers, some nerves were severed. But that was all, really, which was incredibly lucky. She could have died but she was alright. And then we had this terrible terrible dilemma as a family should we press charges? My father and I said "Yes", but my mother said "No". She loved Tim more than the rest of us. She thought he could be treated. So we agreed with her, stupidly, crazily, we dilemma as a family should we press charges? My father and I said "Yes", but my mother said "No". She loved Tim more than the rest of us. She thought he could be treated. So we agreed with her, stupidly, crazily, we agreed agreed. Then Tim came home and he seemed OK for a while, on the drugs, but then one night I heard it: Das Helium und das Hydrogen Das Helium und das Hydrogen...'

Simon could feel the sweat on his forehead; he hurried on with his story.

'Tim was muttering, again, in his room. And of course that that was was that. that. We called the police and they came straight round. Then they put Tim in an asylum. And that's where he is now. Locked and bolted and shut in his box. He's been there ever since. He'll be there the rest of his life.' We called the police and they came straight round. Then they put Tim in an asylum. And that's where he is now. Locked and bolted and shut in his box. He's been there ever since. He'll be there the rest of his life.'

As his conclusion approached, he experienced the usual relief. 'So that's when I started drinking to forget, you know. Then sulphates and then pretty much everything... everything...But I finally stopped the boozing six years ago and yes I did my course of NA antibiotics, my sixty meetings in sixty days! And I've been clean ever since.

'And I now have a wife and a son and I dearly love them. Miracles do happen. They really do. Of course I still don't know why my brother did what he did and what that means but...I look at it this way: maybe I haven't got his genes, maybe my boy will be alright. Who knows. One day at a time. And that's my story. And thanks very much for listening. Thank you. Thank you.'

A murmur of thank yous thank yous filled the warm fuggy s.p.a.ce, like the responses of a congregation. The ensuing silence was a coda; the hour was nearly up. Everyone stood and hugged, and said the Serenity Prayer. And then the meeting was finished, and the addicts filed out, climbing up the creaky wooden stairs, out into the graveyard of Hampstead Church. filled the warm fuggy s.p.a.ce, like the responses of a congregation. The ensuing silence was a coda; the hour was nearly up. Everyone stood and hugged, and said the Serenity Prayer. And then the meeting was finished, and the addicts filed out, climbing up the creaky wooden stairs, out into the graveyard of Hampstead Church.

His mobile rang. Standing at the church gates, he clicked.

'Quinn! It's me.'

The phone screen said Withheld Withheld, but Simon recognized the voice immediately.

It was Bob Sanderson. His colleague, his source, his man: a Detective Chief Inspector at New Scotland Yard.

Simon said a bright Hi. Hi. He was always pleased to hear from Bob Sanderson, because the policeman regularly fed the journalist good stories: gossip on high profile robberies, scuttleb.u.t.t on alarming homicides. In return for the information, he made sure that DCI Sanderson was seen, in the resultant articles, in a flattering light: a smart copper who was solving crimes, a rising star in the Met. It was a nice arrangement. He was always pleased to hear from Bob Sanderson, because the policeman regularly fed the journalist good stories: gossip on high profile robberies, scuttleb.u.t.t on alarming homicides. In return for the information, he made sure that DCI Sanderson was seen, in the resultant articles, in a flattering light: a smart copper who was solving crimes, a rising star in the Met. It was a nice arrangement.

'Good to hear your voice, DCI. I'm a bit broke.'

'You're always broke, Quinn.'

'It's called freelancing. What do you have?'

'Something nice maybe. Strange case in Primrose Hill.'

'Yes?'

'Oh yes indeed.'

'So...What is it? Where?'

The detective paused, then answered: 'Big old house. Murdered old lady.'

'Right.'

'You don't sound very enthusiastic.'

'Well.' Simon shrugged, inwardly, watching a bus turn left by the Tube, heading down to Belsize Park. 'Primrose Hill? I'm thinking...aggravated burglary, thieves after jewels...Not exactly unknown.'

'Ah, well that's where you're wrong.' The policeman chuckled, with a hint of seriousness. 'This isn't any old fish and chip job, Quinn.'

'OK then. What makes it strange strange?'

'It's the method. Seems she was...knotted.'

'Knotted?'

'Apparently so. They tell me that's the proper word.' The policeman hesitated. Then he said, 'Knotted! Perhaps you should come and have a look.' Perhaps you should come and have a look.'

2.

Beyond the hospice window stretched the defeated beauty of the Arizona desert: with its vanquished sands, stricken creosotes, and blistered exposures of basalt. The green arms of the saguaro cacti reached up, imploring an implacable sun.

If you had to die, David Martinez thought, this was a fitting place to die, on the very outskirts of Phoenix, in the final exurb of the city, where the great Sonoran wastes began.

Granddad was murmuring in his bed. The morphine drip was way up high. He was barely lucid at the moment but then, Granddad was barely lucid most of the time.

The grandson leaned over and dabbed some sweat from his grandfather's face with a tissue. He wondered, yet again, why he had come here, all the way from London, using up his precious holidays. The answer was the same as ever.

He loved loved his Grandfather. He could remember the better times: he could remember Granddad as a dark-haired, stocky, and cheerful man; holding David on his shoulders in the sun. In San Diego, by the sea, when they were still a family. A small family, but a family nonetheless. his Grandfather. He could remember the better times: he could remember Granddad as a dark-haired, stocky, and cheerful man; holding David on his shoulders in the sun. In San Diego, by the sea, when they were still a family. A small family, but a family nonetheless.

And maybe that was another reason David had made it all the way here. Mum and Dad had died in the car crash fifteen years ago. For fifteen years it had been just David in London, and Granddad living out his days in distant Phoenix. Now it would just be David. That sobering fact needed proper acknowledgement: it needed proper goodbyes.

Granddad's face twitched as he slept.

For an hour David sat there, reading a book. Then his grandfather woke, and coughed, and stared.

The dying patient gazed with a puzzled expression at the window, at the blue square of desert sky, as if seeing this last view for the first time. Then Granddad's eyes rested on his visitor. David felt a stab of fear: would Granddad look at him and say, Who are you? Who are you? That had happened too often this week. That had happened too often this week.

'David?'

He pulled his chair closer to the bed.

'Granddad...'

What followed wasn't much of a conversation, but it was was a a conversation conversation. They talked about how his grandfather was feeling; they touched briefly on the hospice food. Tacos, David, too many tacos. Tacos, David, too many tacos. David mentioned that his week of holiday was nearly up and he had to fly back to London in a day or two David mentioned that his week of holiday was nearly up and he had to fly back to London in a day or two.

The old man nodded. A hawk was making spirals in the desert sky outside, the shadow of the bird flickered momentarily across the room.

'I'm sorry...I wasn't there for you, David, when your mom...and your dad...y'know...when it happened.'

'Sorry?'

'You know. The...crash, what happened...I'm so d.a.m.n sorry about all of it. I was stupid.'

'No. Come on, Granddad. Not this again.' David shook his head.

'Listen. David...please.' The old man winced. 'I gotta say something.'

David nodded, listening intently to his grandfather.

'I gotta say it. I could've...I could've done better, could've helped you more. But you were keen to stay in England, your mom's friends took you in, and that seemed best...you don't know how difficult it was. Coming to America. After the war. And...and your grandmother dying.'

He trailed into silence.

'Granddad?'

The old man looked at the afternoon sun, now slanting into the room.

'I got a question, David.'

'Yes. Sure. Please.'

'Have you ever wondered where you come from? Who you really are?'

David was used to his Granddad asking him questions. That was part of their relationship, how they rubbed along: the older man asking the grandson about younger things. But this was a very different question unexpected yet also very acute. This wasn't any old question. This was The Question. The Question.

Who was he really? Where did he really come from?

David had always ascribed his sense of rootlessness to his chaotic upbringing, and his unusual background. Granddad was Spanish but moved to San Diego in 1946 with his wife. She had died giving birth to David's father; his father then met his mother, a nurse from England, working at Edwards Air Force Base in California.