Mari: A dark Game Series

Two

So now let’s get to the first case that almost blew my cover.

To know how you get hooked on the bad stuff like opium or cocaine…

and then the withdrawal kicks in, shaking you apart…

well, that’s exactly what my life feels like right now, innit?

I got a new case.

A murder case.

A man was stabbed.

The phone buzzed at half past six, rattling across the duvet like it was trying to drag me back from the dead. I felt half dead already. Hands trembling like an old drunk, mouth tasting like I had licked an ashtray, that empty ache in my chest clawing at me for something I couldn’t even name. Yesterday’s clothes were still stuck to my skin, hair a total bird’s nest. I grabbed the phone, saw Sergeant O’Malley’s name, and answered with a croaky “Yeah?”

“Ah Mari, love, sorry to pull ya out of the scratcher this early,” he said, that warm Irish lilt rolling through the speaker like honey over gravel. “But we’ve a right mess in Dalston. Bloke’s been done in his own kitchen. Multiple stab wounds. Looks domestic, but sure something’s off, isn’t it? Get yerself over here, will ya?”

I grinned the second I heard him.

Not just because of the case.

Because of that voice. Smooth like good whiskey, a little rough around the edges, the way he said “love” like it belonged only to me.

Sexy as f**k.

The shakes actually paused for a second, like even the withdrawal had to stop and listen.

Then the itch woke up fast.

No more fog.

Just that sweet, familiar buzz crawling up my spine, sharper now, mixed with something hotter.

“Yeah, Sarge,” I said, already swinging my legs off the bed. “On my way.”

He chuckled low. “Grand. Mind yerself on the road, Peters. Don’t want ya crashin’ before the fun starts.”

I hung up, still grinning like an i***t.

Fuck me, that accent.

Every time he spoke it felt like someone running a slow finger down my back.

And right now, with the itch roaring back to life?

It was dangerous.

I lay there for a second longer, letting my mind wander somewhere filthy.

I pictured him saying my name again. Low, close, that soft lilt wrapping around “Mari” like a promise.

His strong hands on my waist, pulling me against him, voice in my ear while he pushed inside me slow and deep.

Him f*****g me hard against the wall, whispering “ah sure, love” as I came undone, the itch and pleasure twisting together until I didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

The thought hit me so hard my thighs pressed together.

I mean… what the hell is wrong with me?

But God, it felt good. Too good.

I shook it off, rolled out of bed, and got dressed.

Focus, Mari.

Case first.

But the fantasy lingered, hot and sticky in my mind.

I got to the scene before the SOCO lot had even finished taping off the door. The flat was one of them new build blocks. Clean lines, fancy kitchen island, the kind of place that costs way too much for the postcode. The victim was sprawled on the tiles, blood pooling around him like spilled Ribena. Mid-thirties, black guy, tracksuit top half open, three no, four deep stab wounds to the chest and one nasty s***h across the throat. Knife still in his hand. Door locked from inside. No real sign of a struggle beyond the blood spray.

Sergeant O’Malley was already there, arms folded, looking a bit green but still managing that half grin he always has. “Jaysus, Mari, would ya look at the state of this? Self defence gone wrong, maybe. Or suicide with extra steps, God help us. The wife’s in bits next door. Says he was arguing with someone on the phone before it happened. What’s the story with that, eh?”

I nodded, but my eyes were glued to the body.

The way the blood had dried in little rivulets.

The way his fingers were still curled around the handle like he’d been trying to pull it out.

I crouched down, close enough to smell the copper tang mixed with whatever cheap aftershave he’d been wearing.

And I grinned again. Couldn’t help it.

The withdrawal was gone.

Replaced by that old rush.

Clean.

Quiet.

Final.

I pictured it: him thrashing on the floor, knife going in and out, the noise fading to nothing.

Same as Peaches.

Only bigger.

Messier.

Better.

The sergeant cleared his throat, eyebrows raised. “Ah here, Peters, are ya alright? You’re… smilin’ like the cat that got the cream.”

I straightened up, wiped the grin off like it was nothing.

“Yeah, Sarge. Just thinking how quick it can all go quiet, innit?”

He gave me a long look, then chuckled softly. “Ah sure, you’re a strange one, Mari. But grand, let’s get on with it. The wife’s waitin’. Poor woman’s in bits entirely.”

Good.

Because right then, standing over the body with the itch singing in my veins and that Irish lilt still echoing in my ears, I wasn’t thinking about solving the case.

I was thinking how I could do it cleaner.

Neater.

No witnesses.

No mess left behind.

And how good it felt to hear his voice cut through the shakes.

The wife, Keisha, was in the living room next door, wrapped in a blanket, mascara streaked down her face like black rivers. She looked up when I walked in, eyes red and swollen.

“He was on the phone,” she whispered. “Shouting. Said someone was coming for him. Then… then I heard the banging. I was in the bedroom with the baby. I didn’t come out till it went quiet.”

The sergeant leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “Ah now, love, take yer time. We’re here to help. Anyone he was arguin’ with lately? Ex? Debt? Any auld beef?”

She shook her head. “He was clean. Worked security. Never got in trouble.”

But her eyes flicked to the side. Just once.

Enough for me to notice.

I leaned in a little.

“Keisha, if there’s anything, anything at all, you need to tell me. Even if it’s small.”

The sergeant chimed in gently, “Ah sure, take yer time, pet. No rush at all.”

She swallowed. “He… he owed money. To some guys from the old estate. Said he was sorting it. But last week he came home late, bruised. Said it was nothing.”

I nodded, scribbling notes.

Inside, the buzz got louder.

Owed money.

Threats.

A locked door.

Knife in his own hand.

This wasn’t domestic.

This was someone who knew how to stage it.

Someone who understood the thrill of the quiet after the thrash.

The sergeant gave me a quick nod. “Right so, Mari, you chase the phone records and that debt angle. I’ll stay here with the wife. Poor woman’s in bits entirely.”

I grinned, small and private.

“Safe, Sarge.”

He chuckled again, that low, warm sound. “Ah Jaysus, you’re a terror, Peters. Mind yerself now.”

If only he knew how much I liked hearing him say my name like that.

Back at the station, I dove into the phone records.

Last call to a burner number at 5:47 p.m. Right before the argument Keisha heard.

Traced it through back channels.

Came back to Marcus “Marks” Adebayo.

Old school enforcer from the estates.

Specialised in collections.

And rumour had it he liked to make things personal.

I grinned at the screen, biting my lip.

Marks.

The man who’d come to collect.

The man who’d made it quiet.

Later that night, alone in my flat, the fantasies came back stronger.

I imagined Marks pinning me against the wall, rough hands, no words, just pure violence and control as he f****d me hard.

Then O’Malley. Gentle at first, then matching that same intensity, his Irish voice whispering filthy things while he took me from behind.

Both of them.

The killer and the copper.

The itch and the pleasure twisting together until I came hard, shaking, whispering their names in the dark.

I could’ve called it in.

Could’ve pulled Marks in for questioning.

But the itch whispered: Wait. Watch. Learn.

That night I sat in my flat, lights off, laptop open.

The withdrawal was gone.

Replaced by something better.

Something alive.

I pictured Marks in that kitchen.

Knife in hand.

The struggle.

The thrashing.

The final silence.

And I smiled. Wide, teeth showing.

Because right then I knew:

This case wasn’t just a job.

It was a mirror.

And I liked what I saw.

The next morning I drove to Marks’ yard in Hackney.

No warrant.

Just curiosity.

I parked across the road, watched him come out. Big guy, scarred knuckles, eyes that scanned everything.

He lit a cig, looked around like he knew someone was watching.

Our eyes met for half a second.

He didn’t flinch.

Just nodded, like we shared a secret.

I grinned back.

Then drove off, heart pounding.

Back at the station, the post mortem came in.

Cause of death: exsanguination from multiple stab wounds.

No defensive wounds on the hands.

No drugs in his system.

But the knife grip. Too clean.

Prints wiped.

The sergeant sighed when I told him. “Ah sure, Mari, still looks like suicide. Wife’s story checks out. We’ll close it unless something new pops.”

I nodded.

But I knew better.

That night I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, one hand drifting under the covers as thoughts of O’Malley and Marks tangled together again.

The itch was quiet now.

Satisfied.

For the moment.

But I knew it wouldn’t stay that way.

It never did.

And somewhere out there, Marks was probably grinning too.

Because we both understood the same thing:

Some fascinations don’t just fade.

They evolve.

They get hungrier.

And they always come back for more.