With the country locked down in quarantine, it's only natural that cabin fever turns one's mind toward CRIME. So when I saw the Aldi shopping cart man's nametag, I shoved him into the boot of my car and sped off.
"What the hell?" he roared when I unlocked the lid. MANNERS! Well, the forestry road up the mountain was rather bumpy, so I could not blame him for feeling cross.
"Ahoy-hoy!" I offered a refreshing piece of gum, explaining, "Everyone online has been raving about The Mark. So, I decided to spend a bit of time with you myself! You know, to see if you are 'a motorway chase to Belfast's dark side- soaring as a sax solo, gritty as volcanic sand.'"
He sighed, but eventually stopped his fingers shaking long enough to accept the stick of Sangria Breakfast. "You're talking about The Mark by Simon Maltman. It's a novel. Me, I'm just the trolley bloke. My shift was supposed to end at five, Bud."
NOT FAIR! Wires crossed again! Happens more and more, the longer King Covid the 19th rules this rotten land. In my defense: "I remembered to wear a protective mask before kidnapping you. A proper hockey one! Paper masks can be ripped off by toddlers." Mark still seemed less than chuffed.
Best to change the subject. "So, THE Mark is a novel, huh? Tell me more! You seem to be an expert on it!"
"Vicky's a part-time singer, part-time caser of classy rich joints across Belfast. Her ex, Mike, follows does the actual breaking in. They split the profits, smoke some dope, and work on overcoming or avoiding personal issues that any lonely twenty-something Northern Irelander will identify with."
"OUTSTANDING!" I popped another stick of Sangria Breakfast. WOAH! Bonus flavor explosion.
"Yeah, it's a bit of alright."
"So tell me, what happens next?"
"Would you mind putting down the giant axe, first?"
It was old, an executioner's something. I had taken it home as a keepsake from a museum visit in the UK. "This is just for firewood." My intention was to cook elephant-sized portions of smores and read The Mark by the light of red flames. The buzz was that the pages would keep turning until the wee hours.
"I'll cut the firewood," Mark offered, "as I tell you what happens after Vicky targets the wrong victim."
"LUCKY DAY! Here! But sanitize your hands. Germs, those things can kill."
"They're not as dangerous as the men Vicky runs into far from her familiar territory, Bud."
Would she have a tough enough backbone to fight her way out of trouble? Would the deadly encounter set off a chain reaction in her heart? Would she choose to live- and what to live for? "Tell me more, Mark!"
"I would, Bud," he apologized. "Only, me name's not Mark. It's something completely different from Mark. I'm er... Bjorn, who grabbed Mark's uniform shell jacket by mistake."
"Well, that's a SIDEWINDER!" I howled.
"I've no notion what happens next," Erbjorn shuffled his feet, awkward up in the pines. Me, I wasn't embarrassed. We were twenty miles from where anything but foxes could hear a scream. "But, Bud, I bet Mark would know. Hey, why don't I drive back down and get him?"
"You would?"
"Sure, his shift's not off 'til nine. I know just where he'll be. Throw me the car keys."
"SWEET MUSIC TO MY EAR!" (Not a typo- have only the one.)(Damned axe!) I popped another stick of chewing gum. Fruity-palooty!
"You stay here, Bud. Build us up a nice big fire. Don't stop until it's hot as a volcano, Bud. A volcano in the Canaries."
"I sure will! Buh-bye!"
I've lost track of the days now. Evening again, I can see four bright stars above. I'm still thinking about the Mark, about Vicky and Mike and life and everything, and hoping Erbjorn will find his way back soon.