Page 81 of Cuts Like An Angel: Part 3

Chapter Thirty-Two

Rosie

The dockside offices were easier for Rosie to find than she anticipated. She’d never been to the dockland area before; it made her realise just how much she hadn't yet bothered to explore. God, she’d been like a hermit all this time. The docks were quiet, and most of it was in darkness, save for the odd light along the car park. Mark’s office was at the back of a little block near to what had once been a lighthouse but now seemed to be a tourist thing. Closed too, of course.

Mark’s real office was in the city, William had explained to her when they’d been at the dinner. Mark was just working some cases from a pop-up office he could rent cheap. God was she grateful for that now, and thankful that his father had broken his leg. Not that she ever wished harm on people … not that she ever wished harm on people who weren’t called Maria.

Rosie pulled the car into an empty slot. Mark’s building was along the main road. She squinted up at the building. If Mark’s car wasn’t in the car park next to hers, she’d be damn sure she’d got the wrong place. Hell, it was possible.

“Go around the back,” Mark had said, “to the door and up the stairs.” She felt like a criminal as she got out of William’s car, looked at it and hurried around the back of the building. Even more so when she had to squeeze herself behind the industrial bins for the late opening grocery store that backed onto the docks. At least that car park was busy enough and brightly lit up. It made the place not feel as much like a ghost town.

Out of habit, she knocked on the door, even though Mark had said to go in. It felt odd to, like she was being rude if she just entered. But when no one answered, she knocked again, and this time opened the door.

“Mark? Are you there? Mark? It’s Rosie.” She waited for a few minutes. No answer. And, as he had said, there was a set of stairs. There was a small shelf which looked like it held a collection of unclaimed mail. Someone had at least put a vase there, but the flowers were long dead, and the water was brown and sludgy. It made Rosie need to fight the urge to gag.

As she approached the first floor, the smell of tobacco grew stronger. It was the kind of smell her father had around the place. Not cigars, but like someone had a … she screwed her face trying to remember what it was. “Pipe?” Yes. The old man in her father’s office had smoked one of those pipes. Although, that was all before her father had got rich and mean. Now the place smelt like perfumes and cleaners, and cold sterilisation. It smelt like money and lies.

“Mark?” Rosie called again, “Mark, are you here?”

“In here,” Mark said from a room close to the front of the building. She popped her head around the corner. Another flight of stairs, small this time. Only three steps. “Come on in.”

She’d not realised how much her heart was doing a drum beat until she went up those steps. It was hard to say if the beat had increased or decreased, but she had to take a breath and step into his office.

“Hi,” she said, popping her head around.

The office wasn’t like she’d expected it. Boxes were scattered around the floor in haphazard ways. Instead of the desk being in the centre of the room, it was against the wall, although he did have two chairs that she assumed were for clients. He wasn’t dressed in a suit either, as she’d pictured, but jeans and a shirt with no tie.

“Sit down,” he said, scrambling to clear one of the chairs.

“I’m okay.”

“Don't be silly. Sit. Just don’t mind the mess. You’d think working a mobile office would be easy and not need the work,” he laughed, "It seems every day there’s another box of files in the mail. God knows how I’m going to get all this back with me when I go home. Anyway, ignore me. Crazy day. How’s things?”

“Well …”

“Stupid question? Right. Sorry. If they were grand, you’d not be here.”

She was expecting Mark to sit on the chair by his desk. The formal chair of the solicitor. He did have all of his qualifications up in frames about the place, but then she supposed he had to. It validated his authenticity. Impressive though, to have that many accolades. Mark sat on the client seat near to her, but pulled it around in a way it was just friends talking. Maybe he did that a lot. He had that ease about him. The same ease William had.

As Mark sat there and she thought of William, her belly ached with it. It was so wrong to be here with William not knowing it. She gripped her papers. But it was the right thing to do, too.

“So,” Mark said, “What’s up?”

He sat in that way Rosie had been taught to when she’d begun training for the helpline, to sit, legs not crossed, hands at ease, the body firm, but not closed off. His job probably was a little like being a counsellor. She bet he’d seen a lot.

“I …” She could only glance down at the file resting on her lap, but to open it and pull the pages out …

“Want to start at the beginning?”

“No,” Rosie said quickly. God damn Peter. And God damn her parents for putting her through this. For making her be here. “It's a long story.”

“All the interesting ones usually are.” He eyed her a moment. He had blue eyes similar to William, a similar expression. No. That was her, putting William on Mark in that way. “If you show me what’s in the file, I can ask a question about it.”

“It’s not that. Just …”

“William?”

“Yeah.”

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