Tonight, I can only tolerate fifteen minutes listening to upper-crust snobs. I make an excuse to leave.
I go over to the bar, greet my mate and business partner, Fab5. His real name is Fabian Anderson. The guy loathes it. The man’s confident enough to coin his own nickname. He’s from a rich Scottish family, a line of lawyers. But Fab5 rebelled against his controlling upbringing, and went into business with me instead. I owe him my life. This place started my career.
We’ve had each other’s back since the day we met in a tattoo parlour in Camden Town. I trust Fab5 with my life. He’s the only one who knows what happened to me in Nazareth.
I look Fab5 over. He’s wearing flared jeans.
‘They’re all the rage now, mate? Them trousers?’ I say. ‘Or you got something you need to tell me?’
‘They are, yeah. And you’re one to talk. At least I’m on trend.’
‘Hell’s wrong with the way I look?’
‘You wear the same thing, man. Black shirt, dark jeans and that same damn leather jacket. Sometimes, like tonight, you spoil us and wear a black suit. Must take you ages to decide what to put on.’ He rolls his eyes.
‘You not feel like a bit of an idiot wearing them?’
Fab5 grins. ‘They all wear them in New York. They’re wider.’
I raise my eyebrows a fraction. ‘Do they, now? Well, you wouldn’t want to be caught in a blast of wind, Miss Monroe.’
‘Joke all you like, Shepherd. Babes are gonna love them. Just you watch.’
‘Mate, quit trying too hard. Chicks would panty-drop for you in a heartbeat if you ever have the notion to shave yourself or pick up a bar of soap.’
‘Girls love a good brushing, Shepherd. Your clean-shaven face would be like having a lesbian experience for the girls.’
I laugh, and smack his back with the palm of my hand. Fab5 orders us a round of drinks. A few hours and several whiskeys later, I’ve had enough.
Portia’s been making eyes at me all night. I know what that means. Problem is, her boyfriend is a meathead. Henry Gold. Meathead used to go to my school in Greystone. He’s the guy who had to repeat a year, again and again, until it got uncomfortable for him to be hanging around with the younger kids. And now, he’s noticed Portia’s wandering eye. With my criminal record, I gotta avoid trouble with the law.
Portia winks at me. I roll my eyes. She’s a blip. But it means I’ve gotta make it clear that anything she wants to happen isn’t gonna happen. I need to avoid the promises her lingering glances give me. I knock back my whiskey, say bye to Fab5, stand up, and strut towards the exit. Until Portia gets up.
That’s the first warning.
Then she makes her move. She must be mullered — high on vitamin C — and so obvious. Her friend has to put a hand out to stop her. Portia shoves it away.
That’s my second warning.
Portia trails me outside.
Here we go.
I turn to her. ‘Told you once — I’m not interested, alright. Do yourself a favour, Portia, ditch that creep and go home.’
Take one night off from being a cliché.
She gets too close for comfort. ‘What about your home?’
The press of her fingers on my abs just above my navel, and the second-longer-than-safe glance she gives, are enough confirmation that she doesn’t get the hint.
Then Henry Gold appears. With his mates in tow.
Aware her little tryst is backfiring, Portia doesn’t waste a moment. ‘Shepherd was hitting on me, Henry.’
‘I’m tired of this shit,’ I mutter darkly.
I turn to walk away, when a set of heavy hands grip me from behind, drag me backwards. Henry and his mates pull me down to the end of the street and into a quiet park.
It doesn’t end well.
For them.
Mr Finchley, you’d be so fucking proud.
By the time my boot closes out the proceedings, Henry and his mates are long gone.
My face, back, and chest are an electrical grid of aches and pains when I get back to my new home in Greystone via an Uber.
I look in the bathroom mirror. A splattering of my own blood makes an abstract work of art around my head. It’s a fucked-up kind of beautiful. I make a mental note to tattoo that exact shape on my calf.
I learnt how to harvest ink and forge a tattoo gun in prison. I don’t ink for a hobby. It’s a need, a compulsion I get. Inking frees my mind like nothing else. On occasion, I tattoo other people. I’m not offering them a service. They’re the ones offering skin like a blank canvas.
I take a long hard look at myself. I’m in bad shape. Split lip, broken nose, my wrist looks . . . odd, held at an angle that doesn’t look quite natural and there’s already the signs of harsh bruising colouring my chest. I click my hand back into place, grit my teeth against the pain.
I’m alive. I can still blow shit up. That’s something.
I don’t sleep. Nothing new. I can barely sleep in this goddamn town. When I did, it was interrupted by the slightest noise and I’d be alert, but fuck, I can live without sleep. Lived without it during nights in the cellar of the children’s home. Lived without it in prison when sleep became the enemy.
Sleep is something I’ll do when I’m dead. Heard that once somewhere. Nazareth, maybe. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
Eyes feel like they’ve been clamped open with a metal device. It’s still dark at 4:00 AM. The only good thing about being awake at this godly
