Dizzy flips the lid on a can of beer and takes a long sip. The all-too-familiar stink of weed is in the air of my flat again. I’ve started to wonder if Dizzy actually has anywhere to go. He’s been staying with me ever since that first night we spent together. I mean, he must have a place, right? He has drugs and money flowing every orifice. He could most definitely afford a place to live. Somewhere better than this shit-hole, too.

  ‘That,’ he says, ‘is a muthafucking predicament, bruvva.

  ‘I guess it is.’

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘the question is, are you gonna go back?’

  There’s no doubt. That is the question.

  To begin with, I assumed that it wouldn’t be me that would have to answer that question. I would have bet good money that I’d receive a call from Tom at the agency, ordering me not to go back to work the next day.

  And that would have been that. But the call hasn’t come. If Clark doesn’t want me back, surely someone would have told me.

  ‘He probably just didn’t have the balls to call him. If he couldn’t even stand up to that customer, how’s he gonna stand up to you?’ Dizzy said.

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe he doesn’t want me back and it’s down to me to be a big man and make the decision for him.

  ‘God damn why do I always fuck everything up?’ The frustration is getting to me. This reminds me of so many other times in my life. So many fuck-ups, one after the other, that have led me straight to this fucked-up situation.

  ‘I don’t know why, but I just get the feeling that the guy from the agency is desperate to see me fail, too,’ I continue, the rage in my voice growing. ‘I bet he’s waiting by his phone, just hoping that I’ve done something awful. Well guess what, I did.’

  ‘Maybe it’s better that you don’t go back. Maybe you should just do the smart thing and come work for me.’

  That’s something that I haven’t been expecting from Dizzy. I stop my rant and listen to him.

  ‘Look man,’ he continues, ‘I’ve got a big job coming up. And I could use your help. I need someone I can rely on. Someone I know. Someone that’s like family to me. And of course, there’s plenty of cash in it for you.’

  ‘I knew something was going on, Dizzy.’ Of course he’s in trouble. There’s no way he’d be hanging around with me if he wasn’t. ‘What sort of trouble are you in.’

  ‘Don’t get worked up, man, it’s not trouble, it’s not a problem, it’s…’ he hesitates for a moment, ‘an opportunity, that’s what it is.

  Before I’d gone to jail, Dizzy had been involved in a local gang. It was small-time stuff, hustling, mainly. He’d never gotten himself into any particularly dangerous situations. There’s an ever-growing gang problem in the city, and Dizzy had been a part of that problem.

  Central London has always had its fair share of mafia activities, but the filth they peddle has been different recently. It’s the silent killers — prescription pills, the supposedly acceptable side of drug abuse — that are the real problem.

  Young people, old people, rich people, poor people, it doesn’t matter. All it takes is for someone to be prescribed some Oxycontin or Vicodin, realize they like how the pills make them feel, struggle with withdrawal symptoms, then figure out that there are other ways of getting the medicine they need and bang, the mob have another customer. And London has another tragedy.

  Addiction touches so many lives round here, and everywhere in the city. And addiction has touched my life with its bony hand. It’s left a mark on me that no amount of scrubbing or time will ever clean off.

  ‘You know how I feel about hard drugs, Dizzy,’ I say. And boy does he know how I feel.

  ‘Logan, you don’t have to get involved. And it’s not like I’m not selling to anyone vulnerable, either. It’s just a business transaction. You don’t even need to know what it is I’m selling.’

  ‘No,’ I say, firmly. ‘If the prison service found out, there would be no hope for me. I’d be back in jail faster than you could say holy shit. I can’t believe you’re even suggesting I get involved in drugs after what I’ve been through. After what drugs did to him.’ Painful memories, memories I’ve tried to block from my mind for years start to swim up to the surface.

  Pictures of a man’s face, now long gone, and the terrible things that happened to me because of him.

  ‘But what I’m saying is,’ says Dizzy, carrying on regardless, ‘is don’t think of it as drugs. Think about it like, delivering a package or some shit. Just forget we ever talked about drugs.’

  ‘Dizzy,’ I say, my voice cracking, ‘I’m not doing it. I’m not going to get involved with this.’

  ‘Fine,’ he sighs. ‘It’s a real shame, Logan. A damn shame. Cause I’m talking about a lot of dosh. Big, big money. And easy work.’

  I’m starting to get more frustrated with my friend. He’s sitting around my house, smoking drugs, telling me I shoulda fucked my boss, trying to get me involved with crime, and he’s still pushing it after I’ve said no to him more than once.

  ‘I think maybe you better head back to your place tonight, brother,’ I say. ‘I just need my own space right now. I got a billion things bouncing around my head.’

  ‘Ok. Brother.’ He spits the second word out like a piece of rubbish. ‘I’ll leave you alone. And you’ll think about my offer, if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘I know what’s good for me,’ I say. ‘And right now it’s staying as far away from trouble as possible.’ I can see Dizzy is getting pretty worked up, and I don’t want that. ‘Look, I appreciate the offer, but you know I’ve been saying I want to play it as safe as I possibly can. Getting involved with any kind of dodgy dealing, no matter how safe it is, is just bad news for me right now.’

  ‘Sure,’ says Dizzy, picking himself up from the sofa with a heavy, stoned, lurch. ‘You know what’s good for you. Peace.’

  He leaves. No embrace. No fist bump, just cold silence. But I know I’m doing the right thing. I also know that Dizzy is unlikely to give up. He’ll keep pestering me to get involved. His persistence is one of his best qualities. And one of his worst.

  I put some background shit onto the TV and try to relax before sleeping. Clark keeps popping into my head. How am I meant to not think of him? It feels like I’m waiting for a death sentence. Like the phone is going to ring any second and tell me that my worst fears are right, that I won’t be needed back at the shop tomorrow.

  The more I wait, the more I feel like I’m pitying Clark for having me work with him. Who would want to work with someone like me, with all my baggage and complications? No-one, that’s who.

  So I decide to help out in the only way I know how. I’m not going to go back into work tomorrow. I’m going to nip this in the bud right now, before I have a chance to fuck up anyone’s life but my own.

  11

  CLARK

  * * *

  I didn’t think for one second that Logan might not come back into work. But here I am, at half past ten, feeling nervous and sad, like a schoolboy with an unrequited crush.

  I woke extra-specially early this morning to give myself a pep talk and make sure that I was looking good. There’s nothing that a hot shower and a clean shave can’t help with.

  But I needn’t have bothered at all, because Logan is nowhere to be seen.

  It’s frustrating in more ways than one. As well as the sucker punch to my heart, there are also practical considerations.

  It means I have to be stuck to the till all morning, for a start. It also means I can’t go across the street and pick up a latte like I did yesterday. I’m back to my boring old French press.

  Another surprise is Franca, who visits the shop after lunch time.

  ‘So where is he?’ she asks, her eyes mischievous and dark.

  I shrug. ‘Not here.’

  ‘Damn, I missed him. Is he on his lunchbreak?’

  I sigh. ‘No, he’s not here as in, he didn’t show up at all, and I have no idea where he is or if he’s ever coming back.’

  ‘Did you phone the agency?’

  ‘I know this sounds dumb,’ I say, ‘but I don’t want to get him in trouble. Like, maybe he’s ill or something? I don’t want him to get kicked off the programme.’

  But if he is ill, it must be serious, because he doesn’t show for the rest of the week. Not a sign of him at all. Obviously I’ve been expecting a call from the agency, but I’ve not heard a peep.

  Another interesting development: Marco hasn’t been into the shop at all. That is very unusual. Unheard of, actually. His studio is nearby, so he often comes into the shop to chat over a cup of coffee, leering at me and suggesting that maybe I’d like to model for his latest erotic masterwork.

  Oooh, what a tempting offer that is. The idea of stripping off for Marco in some dingy basement studio somewhere for no pay seems like maybe the worst nightmare I can think of.

  I’ve thought about live modelling for artists in the past. Not for Marco, but for other painters. I was a member of a life-drawing group when I was younger, and I’ve always wondered what it would feel like on the other side of the canvas. I’m not an exhibitionist, that’s for sure. But something about modelling for artists seems different. It doesn’t exactly feel as though it would be me up there, in front of those people, but someone else.

  It’s like I would be wearing a mask. Of nakedness. Does that make sense?

  Nowadays though, I’d never let myself do it.

  There’s a new issue which stops me from even considering modelling for anyone anymore. The scars. Let’s just say I don’t exactly love myself.

  I can imagine even Marco’s nose wrinkling up as I roll my sleeves up, showing him my neck.

  ‘No, no dear, this won’t do at all,’ he’d said.

  I don’t want to put myself through anything like that. So why am I even thinking about it? I’ve noticed that ever since Ryan came and spoke to me at my flat, my old thought patterns of self-hate have started to resurface. It’s like a tide; it doesn’t matter how far the water goes out, there’s no way to stop it from coming back in again.

  It feels super-lonely in the shop all week long. No-one that I know really comes in. I keep expecting to see Logan open the door. It’s not like I’ve gotten used to having him around after only one day, but that kiss we shared was such a welcome surprise, and had so, so good.

  No, Clark, it wasn’t good. It was bad. It was a stupid mistake, and you’ve got to recognize that and get on with your life.

  God damn why couldn’t the agency have sent literally anybody else to come work with me? A woman would have been ideal, someone I had no chance of being attracted to. But if it had to be a man, why couldn’t it have been a nice guy? You know the sort. He wears slacks. He has neat hair. He doesn’t swear, ever. He wants to be your friend.

  I mean come on, why did it have to be the sexiest, most dangerous-looking guy I’ve ever met?

  I try so hard to move on from the experiences of my past, but I just can’t. Why is living in the present so damn hard?

  Ryan has stayed with me.

  The prison has stayed with me.

  It’s Friday, and just before lunch, a striking-looking man comes into the shop. He’s thickly muscled and has jet black hair. He doesn’t exactly look like your typical art-shop punter, and the more I watch him nervously eye up the equipment, the more convinced I become that he has no clue what it is he’s looking for.

  ‘You OK there, sir?’ I ask.

  He looks over at me, and I’m taken aback by the brightness of his green eyes.

  ‘I’m alright mate,’ he replies. ‘Kinda looking for someone. Name of Logan.’

  My heart-rate quickens.

  ‘He’s not in.’

  ‘Damn,’ the mystery man replies. ‘Well, not to worry. Could you let him know that Hunter came by to say hello? Tell him I might have some work for him.’

  I nod. ‘Sure.’

  I’m about to say more, but he turns and leaves. My head is spinning. So many things I feel like I should do. But I’ve got no way to contact Logan.

  So I do something entirely out of character. I decide I need some me time, so I close the shop early.

  I guess that’s one of the main perks of not having any other staff, and of running your own business. It’s cold outside, but the sun is shining, and for a while, I forget about my problems and all the mystery, and concentrate on the feeling of the sun against the skin of my face.

  After treating myself to a superb espresso from a local café, I head to the Camden Community Gallery. For a relatively small neighbourhood, Camden Town has strong links to the art world, and the collection at the museum is pretty impressive. Although it’s just a small space, there are some internationally significant works of art, by plenty of well known artists. And of course, the gallery is very supportive of local painters. For a few years I’ve been trying to get an exhibition of my own work there. I’m good friends with Frances, one of the curators, and I always feel as though if she had her way, I’d have had at least a couple of my paintings up in the local artists section of the gallery.

  The museum is on a cross-section on Oval Road, across the road from a tattoo parlour. I’ve always thought it’s funny, the closeness of the supposedly subversive body art of the tattoo parlour. It’s right there, in the face of the fancy art fans who shuffle into the museum each day. You can sometimes even hear the buzz of the needle on warm summers days when they keep their windows open. Not on a cold day like today of course, but sometimes.

  Apparently, it takes around ten years for the entire collection of the gallery to be rotated into exhibition. I can believe it, as there are a huge variety of paintings and sculptures the gallery owns. But every time I visit I feel as though I’ve seen all of the artwork a million times before.

  I walk around the light, airy spaces of the gallery, doing my usual trick of imagining what my work would look like in a grand place like this.

  ‘Just as bad as it does on the walls at home,’ I whisper to myself under my breath.

  My favorite painting in the gallery is a canvas by Renoir, a French impressionist painter. I have no idea how a famous painting from France has ended up in a gallery in Camden, but I never let that bother my enjoyment of the work.

  It’s quite an unassuming painting really. It depicts a man and a woman, lying next to each other on grass. They are at the base of a tree, and sunlight from above dapples beautifully onto their clothes. It’s called Secrets, and it’s easy to see why. The man and woman are so perfectly in love, are so comfortable and happy with each other that they seem to be each other’s only true confidant. They whisper into each other’s ears, seeming relaxed and content. At the foot of the lady’s gorgeous white dress sits an old English sheepdog.

  I know the dog’s breed only because of this painting, only because I’ve taken the time to look it up. It has such a strange expression on its face, like it’s was laughing at a secret joke. Is the dog the keeper of some unshared knowledge about the couple?

  Every time I look at the artwork, I get something new from it. This time, of course, my thoughts turn to Logan. I imagine him as my confidant, as someone I could confide in and tell all my secrets to.

  Clark, you’re such a loser. I doubt that a hardened criminal would be interested in hearing anything at all that you want to share.

  ‘Back again, Clark?’ that’s Frances’ voice, posh and light and kind.

  I turn around, and there she is, smiling with a cup of something warm and steamy in her hand.

  ‘I just can’t keep away,’ I say.

  We chat for a while about changes to the museum and the local art scene. After a few minutes, I’m ready to head home for the night, and I say as much. Frances stops me as I’m about to leave.

  ‘Hey, are you thinking of submitting anything to the Festival this year?’

  Every year, Camden runs a small but well-respected arts festival that includes music, writing as well as the visual arts. I’ve submitted in the past, but have never had anything accepted.

  ‘I was gonna give it a miss this year,’ I say, ‘I don’t have anything new ready to submit. Not been feeling that inspired recently.’ As I say the word inspired, I suddenly think about the crazy series of sketches I’ve done from memory of Logan. His abs, his back, his face, his…private area.

  ‘Nope, nothing at all of interest.’ I trail off. It’s at this moment that I know, for sure that I want Logan to model for me.

  On my way home, for some reason, I feel super-vulnerable. I keep looking over my shoulder, checking if anyone is following me. I keep expecting to see Ryan’s piercing blue eyes, his strong form, spying on me from a door-frame somewhere. But all I see are memories, snippets of my old life, chasing me down the streets of my hometown.

  12

  LOGAN

  * * *

  I’ve kicked Dizzy out. I’m not going to work. So I basically have nothing to do at all.

  It’s been a very long time since I haven’t had a basic daily routine. Say what you want about prison, at least you always know what you’re meant to be doing. The daily and weekly and monthly routines are pretty much set in stone.

  Every day started at 5:15am, when my cell unlocked. I’d always wake up at the time of the unlocking and go for a walk. You would too. There is something symbolically good about getting out of a room you’ve been locked in overnight. I never really got used to the idea that we were locked in, to be honest. I used to pretend that I wasn’t, as stupid as that sounds. I used to just lie in that uncomfortable bed, thinking that I could just get up and leave whenever I wanted, that the outside world was just through the bars of my cell, and that it was my choice to stay in that small space.

  A weird coping mechanism, I know.

  Breakfast was at 5:30am. I had the same thing every weekday: Porridge and peanut butter. Just the way mama used to make. At weekends they served slightly more interesting food. Eggs, potatoes, toast, that kind of thing. Don’t get too excited, it didn’t taste good. It just slightly broke the fucking monotony.

 

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