The Living Canvas (Master of Trickery, #2)

by Pepper Winters

  He asked cautiously, “Eh, Gil...you still there?”

  I rubbed my face. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “You...okay with what I just said.”

  “I’m okay as long as my daughter is happy. O doesn’t belong to me anymore. She can stay wherever she wants.”

  “Okay...great.”

  I sighed heavily. I’d sounded like a bastard. I sounded as if I was jealous. Justin had just proven why this phone call was the best choice for all of us. He’d already taken the step toward the future I was willing to give up in gratitude for his help.

  Squeezing the back of my neck, I asked softly, “Is there anything I can do?”

  As if I could do anything trapped inside here, but I had to offer. Had to try.

  Justin sighed. “Honestly, mate. Just get out early on good behaviour. Come back to your kid as fast as you can.”

  “I’ll do my best, believe me.” I was still shocked I’d only received five years. It felt like an eternity but also didn’t feel long enough. I knew that was the guilt talking, but still...life had finally been kind to me and I didn’t know how to accept it.

  Looking at the dirty clock, fully aware that my phone privileges were running out, I said as firmly and as genuinely as I could, “Look, I’m glad you asked O to move in with you. You’re a good bloke, Miller. And...your offer makes why I called easier.” I laughed under my breath. “It’s not fucking easy. It’s the hardest thing I’ll ever do, but...it seems fate is one step ahead of me.”

  “Oh?” He cleared his throat. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I have another favour to ask.” I groaned, leaning against the wall where the bank of telephones hung. “The last one I hope, but it’s still another bloody favour.”

  Justin chuckled. “You don’t need to feel so bad about asking, Clark. That’s what friendship is.”

  I didn’t want to argue again about friendship and how one-sided ours had always been. I didn’t have the luxury of not asking, even though it would tear out my heart once and for all.

  It wasn’t really a favour.

  It was an offer.

  Fucking permission even though neither of them needed it.

  It was just my way of coming to terms with everything.

  Accepting my future.

  “If O does travel, then I’m glad. I want her to be happy and won’t stand in her way.”

  “And if she doesn’t? If she stays in town?” Justin’s suspicion bled through the phone line.

  This was it.

  No going back.

  My knuckles tightened around the phone. “If she doesn’t, if she moves in with you and finds happiness under your roof with you and my daughter...then...I give you my blessing to love her. Make her yours. Be together. Get married. Just...be happy.”

  Justin choked before coughing and blurting, “You’re giving me permission to date Olin. To marry O?” His tone turned cool. “I don’t need your permission, Clark.”

  My temper fired, but I kept it locked away. “I know. I just didn’t want you to hold back if there came a moment where you two could be happy together.”

  “If O knew you’d said this to me, she’d be right pissed. You’re acting as if she doesn’t have a mind of her own.”

  “She does. Her heart is big and desperate to love, but she’s also kind to a fault and far too generous to even consider being more than just friends with you out of fairness to me and our past.”

  “I think you should talk to O.”

  “I don’t want to mess her up any more than I already have.”

  “Look, you’re tired and missing home and thinking you’ll never be happy again. I get it. Having your freedom taken away can’t be easy, but, Gil, stay focused on the future. You will get out of there. You will have Olive back and raise her into a wonderful young woman. And who knows, maybe O will wait for you, and you’ll all ride off into the sunset with your paintbrushes. Just focus on the possibility of—”

  “Times up!” a guard shouted, waving his finger in the air and stabbing at the watch on his wrist.

  “Shit, I’ve got to go.” I turned my back on the guard, swallowing hard. “Just...just be open to the idea, Miller. If you still have feelings for her. If you want her, and she wants you. Don’t worry about me. I just want her to have the best. And that isn’t me. It never was. It’s always been you. You guys are the same, Miller. Like should stick with like. Anyway, thanks for looking after my daughter. I promise one day, I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

  I hung up before he could protest.

  I walked back to my cell with images of O kissing Justin when he told her he still had feelings for her. Of her moving into Justin’s bedroom and becoming a surrogate mother to my child.

  They would move on.

  They would live in domestic bliss.

  I would remain here in limbo.

  A prisoner with nothing and no one.

  And I was okay with that.

  I was happy with that if it meant the two girls I loved more than anything were protected and cared for by a man I trusted with my life.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ______________________________

  Olin

  GILBERT CLARK, the body painter from Birmingham responsible for killing the man who murdered at least four girls, with possibilities of countless more, has been incarcerated for the past six months.

  Served five years for his role in the Painted Murders, the online community who demanded the death penalty and did their best to destroy his business has now faded into white noise on the web.

  For such a prolific painter, Gilbert Clark refused to touch a paintbrush for five months where he’s currently serving his sentence. However, just last week, three canvases have been placed up for auction by the prison itself, donated by Gilbert Clark who, according to our sources, has returned to painting and now teaches a class to fellow inmates.

  This past year, the prison has been working on the education offered to its prisoners, along with rehabilitation programs. Painting has been proven to have a positive impact on both psychological issues and stress levels.

  The canvases on sale depict scenes from inside the jail. One shows the cafeteria where the inmates eat, another the barbwire-enclosed field where exercise is encouraged, and the last of a cell itself—complete with sketches of Gilbert Clark’s daughter, the woman he loves, and the friend who stuck by his side, blue-tacked to the cell walls.

  If you wish to bid on one of these limited-edition canvases, please head to the prison website and click on the link provided.

  I locked my phone as I entered Justin’s building.

  I’d finished work early and surfed the news on the bus.

  I’d stumbled upon the article about Gil’s return to painting.

  My heart hurried in hope, grateful he’d finally embraced his gift again. I knew what it was like to live without such an outlet. To no longer be able to dance. To no longer be allowed to paint.

  Thank goodness he’d been permitted to indulge his gift inside, and how brilliant that the prison had accepted his donations to sell. Hopefully, they could put the profits toward providing better programs for the inmates.

  For six months, I’d stayed in town.

  For six months, I hadn’t told Gil that I loved him.

  For six long months, I still hadn’t made up my mind.

  Stay.

  Go.

  Commit.

  Fly free.

  Sighing, I unlocked the letterbox and pulled out new mail.

  Two letters.

  One addressed to me and one to Justin.

  And one magazine from Kohls showing their new line.

  Instantly, my breath caught as I traced the glossy magazine covered in cellophane.

  Thanks to reading the news article about Gil, his presence already wrapped around me.

  But now...I almost felt his touch.

  Felt his brush upon my skin.

  His paint upon my body.


  Tearing open the magazine, I stared at myself.

  At the green camouflage transforming me from human to department store logo. Along with the mannequins in the fellow letters, it punched the shopper with a unique offering. A symbolic advertisement that said if you bought things from them, you too could become anything you wanted.

  I sighed, my heart hurting as I relived the changing room jealousy, the tension while painting, the awfulness of watching the police steal him away.

  I should’ve known then that Gil’s freedom was running out even though, at the time, it had been mine.

  We’d both been victims of circumstances outside our control, and as I stood in Justin’s apartment stairwell, clutching a magazine where my naked body was hidden beneath my lover’s talent, I finally knew what I would do.

  Finally knew the answer to the question I’d been too afraid to ask.

  Where do I belong?

  Easy.

  With him.

  With the man who’d terrified me, sacrificed me, almost died for me.

  With the boy who’d claimed me, loved me, protected me.

  With the body painter who saw past my colours and painted his own upon my heart.

  NINETEEN MONTHS LATER

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ______________________________

  Gil

  TIME HAD DIFFERENT speeds.

  For the circumstances you couldn’t accept, it went slow—tormenting and giving plenty of opportunity to either rebel against the current situation or finally accept the unacceptable.

  For the events you could accept—the ones where joy was the main ingredient and life was good, time sped up, as if hurtling you toward the next catastrophe.

  Prison had consisted of two versions of time.

  The beginning was slow and miserable with no end in sight.

  O kept chaperoning Olive for her weekly visits, and we stuck entirely to conversation about my daughter, her progress at school, and the life I was no longer a part of. The fifteen minutes always went far too fast, and the urge to grab O and demand she tell me what she wasn’t saying built and built until I’d tremble in my cell at night, desperate to know.

  At no point did she advise when she was leaving and to where. At no time did she put me out of misery and say she’d fallen in love with Justin.

  And I was too gutless to ask.

  The subject of her vanishing one day slowly buried beneath all the other topics we didn’t discuss.

  It fucking killed me to think that the past had repeated itself and Justin had claimed the love of my life, but if it meant she was happy, I would hide my pain forever.

  All I could hope for was that every week, she’d turn up. And every week, she’d still be there.

  As my friend.

  As my family.

  Their visits got me through the first few months of claustrophobia. The only bright speck in cell time, yard exercise, and prison monotony. I returned to sketching to keep boredom at bay, sending fortnightly letters to Olive, enclosed with drawings and renders of things created from memory, from my previous freedom.

  Justin visited too.

  His upbeat convo and antidotes of Olive helped keep me a little sane. He tactfully avoided the subject of O and their home life, and out of respect—to show him I meant what I’d said on the phone—I kept my questions silent.

  By the time routine set in, and I accepted my new temporary home, minutes no longer made me suffer such long days. I agreed to lead a painting class for fellow inmates, using broken down easels and painted over canvases. The stock of paints ranged from dry oils to old acrylics, but I never complained.

  They were colour.

  They were small tubes of freedom into my craft.

  I returned to painting normal canvases and not O’s perfect skin.

  I didn’t care that some of the inmates would rather flick paint at fellow cellmates than follow my instruction. I didn’t mind that the results of the class were worse than any kindergarten finger painting. It was nice to have a task and a relief to create.

  It was also rewarding to conjure a scene that others might see outside of these walls and gave me purpose again when the warden said they’d hold an auction and use the proceeds to buy more supplies for my newly established painting school.

  I painted a canvas for Olive, full of owls and ballerinas.

  I painted a canvas for O, drawing her tattoo from memory.

  Inmates took note of the skill it took to turn lines and shadow into recognisable things and my class attendance switched from taking the piss to dedicated.

  I became a teacher.

  I thought about Jane Tallup, our daughter, and O.

  And through the medium that had always helped calm my thoughts, I somehow helped others too. Fellow prisoners relaxed around me. The stress in their eyes faded while focusing on pigment rather than regrets. I gained more freedom within the new world I inhabited, and I unofficially became someone they could talk to.

  I didn’t know how it happened, but the prisoners who took my painting classes seemed more centred and not nearly as violent.

  The warden noticed.

  He gave us more supplies.

  Gave us more opportunities to use our passion for paint in other areas.

  When a renovation budget was announced, we put up our hands to help refresh the jail. We painted it from top to bottom—grey walls and white windowsills.

  Along with painting, I continued to volunteer for odd jobs and handyman tasks. The yards were redesigned. The gym equipment upgraded. The kitchen supplied with better facilities.

  I had every intention of learning new skills, so when I was freed, I could be a reliable father to Olive. I had no idea if my Master of Trickery business would resurrect. I couldn’t check my website or emails. I’d filed for bankruptcy and had nothing left apart from my wonderful daughter.

  When I got out, I had no intention of being a failure to society. I planned on finding work straight away because I had no intention of making Olive feel anything but pride.

  I wasn’t a convict who had accepted his uselessness.

  I was a man who’d paid the price of his mistakes and now was free to move on.

  I was the person I always wanted to be.

  * * * * *

  One day, eighteen months into my term, the warden called me into his office.

  I’d had my monthly meeting with the in-house shrink, and my results were glowingly positive. The monthly conclusion was always the same: I wasn’t likely to offend again.

  My murderous tendencies were not a repeating occurrence.

  I wasn’t a danger to society.

  The warden read my file with a frown etched deep into his forehead. He told me the prison was at full capacity, and he’d been instructed to select inmates he felt were rehabilitated enough to be released on good behaviour.

  I would be monitored if released early. I would be expected to fulfil my community service.

  But there was a chance...a small, small chance, I could go home.

  I daren’t let my hope explode.

  I nodded calmly and agreed to yet more interviews and assessments.

  After a week of talking to people in suits, I was advised they’d be in touch.

  I didn’t tell O or Justin about the possibility of being released early. I didn’t want to promise Olive something that I couldn’t guarantee.

  A month later, when I was called to see the warden, I refused to be hopeful. The chances of being told that serving nineteen months of a five-year sentence was enough to be freed were slim.

  However, fate once again treated me kindly.

  Within a week, I’d signed the paperwork, been advised of my parole officer and community service liaison, and given a date.

  O and Olive were due to visit me three days after my freedom was reinstated.

  I had the choice of telling them the good news.

  I mulled over the options of sharing the celebration now—when I was penniless,
unsure of my future, and homeless...or wait.

  To keep one last secret so I could get back on my feet and prove to them that my past was behind me. I didn’t know how O would take it. Would she be mad that I kept silent and didn’t ask for help, or proud that I hadn’t given up?

  It was Olive who made the choice for me.

  I called the night I was due to leave and asked how school was going. How things with Justin and O were. She’d said things were good, but she missed me and couldn’t wait until we lived together again.

  I’d promised it would happen sooner than we figured. The news of my parole itched to be said, but if I told her, I would break a promise because she couldn’t live with me if I didn’t have anywhere to keep her safe.

  A halfway house for reformed felons was not ideal.

  And so, I kept quiet.

  One last time.

  I told her I was coming down with something and to avoid me for a week because I didn’t want her to get sick. I slept one last night in prison, traded my uniform for civilian clothes, and stepped from the gates far sooner than I’d hoped.

  The guard signing me out asked if I had family to call or a pick-up arranged.

  I just shook my head and strolled from the jail, destitute and in the same clothes I’d faced court in. I’d asked for too many favours of too many people. I would stand on my own feet from now on.

  Otherwise, I really didn’t deserve my daughter.

  As I’d slinked back into society, I used the change in my pockets to rent a computer in a downtown Wi-Fi café and checked my business accounts.

  My emails had dried up.

  No commissions had waited nineteen months for a reply.

  But at least my Facebook page was still up.

  The visibility was obsolete and content buried with no traffic, but the photos and videos were still there. Emblems of my past. Reminders of a talent I once had.

  Clicking on the last video I’d uploaded of me painting Olin in her flat that night, I tortured myself with our kiss.

  I relived the connection we’d shared.

  The goodbye I’d done my best to honour.

  My finger hovered over the mouse.