Page 8 of The Killer’s Mark

‘You,’ Poe said to the man on his knees. ‘How is this her fault?’

‘Fucking bit—’

‘No, start again, please.’ Poe twisted his ear a bit more.

‘She should have checked.’

‘She says she did check. Is she lying?’

It was clear from the man’s expression that she wasn’t.

‘But what am I going to do?’ he whined.

Poe sighed. The man was obviously scared what Janice would do when she realised her husband didn’t know how to spell her name. And scared men lashed out.

‘Can it be fixed?’ he asked Indica.

‘Not really. I could turn the S into a C and add an E at the end, but the problem is that would make the text lopsided. I won’t do that as I have a reputation.’

Someone was tugging at Poe’s sleeve. It was William.

‘What is it, William?’ Poe asked.

‘J-J-Janis J-J-Joplin,’ William stammered, pointing at the man’s back.

Poe stared at the tattoo, then smiled.

‘That’ll work, William,’ he said. Then to the man, ‘OK, here’s what you’re going to do: you’ll beg my friend Indica for forgiveness then ask if she’s willing to tattoo “Joplin” underneath the “Janis”. That portrait kind of looks like Janis Joplin anyway, and I’m sure Indica can tweak it enough to make it look exactly like her. Then you go home, and before your wife sees this, you learn all Janis Joplin’s songs and become a fan. Then and only then do you show your wife your tattoo. And you should probably get her name somewhere to balance it all out.’

The man grunted that that was a good idea. Poe let him get to his feet. ‘But first you apologise.’

The man was as Carlisle as it was possible to be. Probably born in a Botchergate pub toilet. He wasn’t used to apologising, but he gave it a good go. It wouldn’t have appeased most people, but Indica dealt with men like him all day. They shook hands and it was as if nothing had ever happened. He made an appointment to get his tattoo changed and walked out happy.

Poe jogged after him. ‘Oh, one more thing,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here next time. If you so much as raise your voice to Indica, I’m going to take her gun and tattoo “NONCE” on your stupid sloped forehead. Do we understand each other?’

The man gulped. He nodded.

Chapter 3

As Poe was twisting the ear of a man who didn’t know how to spell his own wife’s name, a young girl called Esmerée Blue was staring in dismay at the exterior of Cowie House. This was where she’d been told to come? This was where the guy with the dumbass name worked? She glanced up and down Fisher Street. It had cobbles. Actual cobbles. Like something out of Mary goddam Poppins. Or Harry goddam Potter. She’d never seen anything as stupid in her life. And as for the building, it looked as though a strong fart would bring it crashing to the ground. Why would a guy with such a solid rep work in this dump? Maybe she’d been punked. It wouldn’t be the first time the douchebag locals had told her to go left when she should have headed right. They didn’t seem to like Americans much. They didn’t seem to like anyone.

Fucking assholes.

Even for Carlisle, Esmerée Blue stood out. She was fifteen years old and she had a nose ring, an eyebrow ring and a lip ring. Her ear had so many holes she could have used it as a sieve. Her make-up was French-clown white; her hair was black and purple and styled like she was in a Japanese cartoon. She wore scuffed DMs, ripped jeans and a Green Day hoodie. She looked like a cross between Siouxsie Sioux and Lisbeth Salander. And she didn’t give a rat’s ass.

There was only one thing that mattered. She had rematerialised. And Esmerée needed to find her. It was why she ignored her instinct to walk away from the butt-ugly building. Why she gritted her teeth and hardened her jaw and walked up the steps. Why she pushed open the front door and stepped into the lobby.

A formidable-looking woman was seated behind an ancient reception desk. She was eating an apple and reading a novel. Sardan by Indie D. Looked like a fantasy book. She glanced up. Raised her eyebrows.

‘What the hell are you looking at, you bald asshole?’ Esmerée said.

The woman smiled politely, as if she heard smart-ass kids all day, every day. She tilted her head and said, ‘Poe and Tilly are on the top floor, dear.’

‘How did you know?’

‘You seem … troubled,’ the woman replied.

Esmerée grunted something unintelligible and stormed past her.