*****
“I’ve got to go to the station tomorrow” I say, between mouthfuls of chili. We’re sat in a small, dirty, empty café on the edge of town, not far I think from where my old bedsit was. The chili’s good, even though I can’t have a beer with it, even though Jason dragged us to this place, specifically because it doesn’t do alcohol, specifically because I need my wits about me to concentrate. He’s patched up my feet and they still feel tender, each time I take a step I can feel a small shard of pain running through them, and a small shard of memory about something, but I can’t quite work out what.
“Fuck. Really?” asks Jason, pouring food into his mouth.
“Yeah” I grumble. “Told me I should think about bringing a lawyer.”
“Fuck! Really?!” asks Jason, animated, letting some food dribble out of his mouth, wiping it up very quickly.
“Yeah. I didn’t quite understand him, but I thought he told me they were going to stitch me up for this attack on Vanessa’s ear, even though I didn’t do it.”
Jason wipes his hands. “I don’t really think he’d have told you that” he muses, scratching his head. “What did he say, exactly?”
I try as best I can to recount the conversation with Dredd from yesterday. “And this was Justin Dredd?” he asks. “Yep, that was him.”
“Yeah, I looked into him, tapped up a few contacts to see what I could find. Good bloke, apparently. Decent policeman. Takes things quite seriously and follows things up. They say he can get a bit obsessed about things though, especially when he doesn’t like someone.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think he kind of likes me.” I chew on a piece of bread and drink some, well, water.
“Yeah, I wonder why” mutters Jason. “And he didn’t drag you into the station, he asked you to go down there tomorrow. Why didn’t he just drag you down there.”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“No, of course you don’t. I wasn’t fucking asking you. Just thinking out loud. Maybe he’s trying to exert emotional pressure on you.” He looks intently at me. “I don’t think you should go. No. You shouldn’t go.”
“I shouldn’t?”
“No. Jesus. You’d just screw it up. You’d mention me when they pushed you about the witnesses, and I can’t get dragged into anything. Yeah, but maybe they’d come after you. Need to think about it. Maybe…Let me think about it. I know someone. He could be your lawyer. Let me make a call. But listen, Mark, you will have to do exactly what he says, no deviations, all right, and he’ll get you out of it. Understand?”
I nod, smiling, and he raises his eyebrows, mutters “Jesus” and starts playing with his phone. “Right, make yourself scarce, I’ll make this call.”
“But I haven’t finished my chili…”
Jason shakes his head wearily. “Just go, Mark.” So I just go. At least I have my cigarettes, and I light up as I step outside the café onto the busy street and look around. The sun’s beating brightly down and I can relax in it for a while as I enjoy the smoke weaving its way through my lungs. There’s a shout across the road, and I look over, but it’s just some couple having a fight, the woman’s screaming at the man, they both look really angry and upset, screaming at each other about something , probably money, or girls, or boys. Behind them I notice is a shop that calls itself Passion and Pain, sounds interesting. Especially when I realize that it is a tattoo parlour. Brilliant. No time like now, make a decision, be bold, and stuff. I step out across the street, narrowly avoiding a couple of cars and make it to the other side, standing in front of the arguing couple., who are blocking the way to the shop.
“Excuse me” I say politely. Nothing. They are talking about money. “Excuse me” I say a little louder. Still nothing. Still talking about money. Arguing about it. Who spent all the money and how the fuck are they going to pay the fucking rent. “Fucking excuse me!” I try, really loud. Still nothing. Still talking. Well, shouting. Well, screaming. “Look, for fuck’s sake, get out of the way!” I scream, barging into the man. He doesn’t need to go to the shop, he’s got a serious number of tattoos on his bare arms as it is, so it’s not like it’s a problem for him. At least he stops screaming for a minute and stares at me.
“I’m just trying to get into the shop” I say, calmly, politely.
“You fucking hit me?” he asks. “You want to die?”
“Erm” I say. “No, not really.” I mean it’s a bit of a stupid question, do I look suicidal. Maybe I do?
“Well fuck off then” he snarls. “Yeah, fuck off” snarls the woman. At least I’ve got them agreeing on something.
“I just want to get into the shop.”
He looks me up and down. “Why?”
“Erm, well, I want to get a tattoo?” I’m a bit hesitant.
“What sort?”
“Well, erm, I’m not sure, I don’t know…”
He jerks his finger towards me and looks at the woman. “He wants a tattoo but he doesn’t fucking know which one.” The woman looks me up and down. “Fucking loser” she says.
“Well, I’ll erm, choose when I get in there…”
The man grabs my shoulders and leans his head back, I close my eyes, convinced he’s about to head-butt me. But he doesn’t. He says “Listen. You don’t just go into a tattoo studio and pick a tattoo you like. It’s with you for life. You gotta think about it, you gotta think what’s in your soul, what means so much to you, you want it imprinted on your skin, then you gotta close your eyes and draw it out. Doesn’t have to be good, but it’s got to be what you want. You understand me? Then the tattooist can sort it out, make it better, but don’t just go in there and choose any old random thing, you’ll really regret it. Believe me.”
He lets go of my shoulders and stares at me. “You understand?” I nod, feebly. “Now, let me introduce you to Jim.” He grabs my wrist with his left hand, and drags me, powerfully, into the tattoo shop. As we walk past the woman, she slaps me on the back and winks at me. “You listen to my husband. He’s a good man. He knows what he’s talking about.”
We’re standing in a darkened room, there are deep pink and red lights in the ceiling that shine off and shade the walls, walls full of pictures, of tattoo designs, printed on shiny white paper, ghostly in the light, of young women and men with different types of tattoos, in lots of different places, boldly displayed. Otherwise the room is empty.
“Jim!” shouts the man, “Jim!”. There’s a cracking sound and suddenly Jim is here, I’m not sure where he came from but he’s standing right in front of us. He must be old, about sixty at least, with long greying hair falling over his face and back, covering his slight frame. He’s leaning on a stick, quite a cool stick, black wood and a skull’s head on top that his hand rests on, a finger in each eye socket. The skull grins at me, and I grin back.
“Jim, Jim, meet my friend, erm…”
“John” I smile, holding out my hand. Jim grips it and grins with cracked teeth through broken lips. “Hello John” he croaks.
“Erm, no, Mark, I mean. That’s me.”
“You sure, now?” asks the man. “Let him be” grins Jim, “a man’s got a right to have two names. D’ya have a cigarette for me, Mark?”
I offer him one and he lights up and I join him, gratefully. “Now, it’s a tattoo you want?” he asks.
“No mate” says the man, before I can say anything. “I’ve explained it to him. He was just going to wander in, choose any sort of tattoo, and just get you to do it.”
“Ah” sighs Jim, “but I wouldn’t have done it, would I? You explained to him that it’s got to come from the soul.”
“Too fucking right I did” says the man, proudly. “But seeing as we was there, I’d take him in to meet you.”
“Good man, good man. Now listen, young man” continues Jim, raising his stick and pointing it at me, “you do what Stan here says. I’ll happily make you a tattoo, wherever you want, but I will not do that for you until I’m convinced you’ve chose
n right. You understand me?”
I nod gravely. “I understand.”
“How much time do you have?” asks Stan, suddenly.
I try to think what I was doing, but it’s a bit fuzzy, probably because I haven’t been drinking enough. “Erm, a little, maybe” I say, trying to hedge my bets.
“Jim, why don’t we get him to do it now? Put him in your dark room now, give him a piece of paper and a pen, see what he comes up with. What d’ya think?”
“Hmmm.” Jim strokes his grey goatee. This guy is great. “Hmmm.” He looks at me. “Hmmm.” He strokes his goatee again. “I don’t know. His eyes look a little vacant. I’m not sure he’s got it in him.”
“Oh,” I smile, “that’s probably just tiredness. Or lack of drink. I haven’t had a drink yet today.”
“You see!” says Stan, clapping me on the back, “the man hasn’t had a drink yet today. What can you expect? My eyes would look a little vacant if I was like that.”
Jim sighs. “Oh, well. All right then. Come with me, young man.” He turns and hobbles towards a wall and disappears through it. I look, startled, at Stan.
He smiles for the first time. “It’s a false door. Try it.” A false door? I walk towards the wall and bizarrely find myself in a smaller, darker room, than the first, otherwise pretty similar. I glance at the far wall, wondering how far this goes on for? Until you get to an ant shaped room?
“Here you are” says Jim, handing me a piece of paper and a blunt pencil. “Close your eyes. Imagine nothing. Then let your feelings go. Then when you’re ready, open your eyes and draw whatever is in your head. Don’t worry about the lights. They’ll start to change colours, the idea is that they affect your brainwaves and open you up, unleash your imagination. It’s a system I designed myself. It can have a similar impact to certain, um, hallucinogenic, substances.”
“Really? Even with my eyes closed?”
He waves his hand. “Open, closed, it doesn’t matter. The mind has a way of understanding what’s going on. You can sit on that chair and use the desk to write.” He indicates a table and armchair which I hadn’t noticed. I sit and make myself comfortable.
“Enjoy. And close your eyes” whispers Jim. I close my eyes.
Kings of the Night Page 30
