by A Zukowski
inked among the animals. Chris wonders who the
name belongs to. She swallows and is lost for words
because she does have a thing for people with
tattoos. Tattoos or not, she all too often falls for
some unbearably nasty bastards. With women, she
likes them with long hair and sweet smiles. The
femme to her butch.
She’s surprised she’s horny; after all, she had
come in the client’s arse an hour ago.
“Ah, you want a shower? Why don’t you go first?”
That rich tone reaches out to her.
The last thing she wants is to sport an erection
with the new tenant. She tries to drop her towel
serendipitously to cover herself up. “Oh, no. You go
ahead. I’m used to staying up anyway.”
Chris runs back to her room and sits on the edge
of her bed to wait for her racing heart to calm down.
When was the last time she blushed seeing a hot-
blooded naked torso? Maybe never. Annette’s body
parts. Limbs and flesh. She fails to remember
anything before that.
It must have been about fifteen minutes when a
knock on her door wakes her from her wandering
mind. She opens to see the man, now clad only in a
small white towel around his waist. Tiny beads of
water cling to his skin. Her reflex might have been
to jump her new neighbour, except she’s unsure of
the other’s sexual orientation and he has a few
inches and about a hundred pounds on her.
“Shower’s free. Thanks, hmm, for your help
tonight.” He scratches his head. “Name’s Alex.”
He extends his hand, which is huge, matching the
size of the rest of him, the rough and warm skin
16
touching Chris’s. Closer now, she notices the slight
kink of his strong nose. A broken nose usually
matches a his-story. He’s a gangster, a fighter or a
boxer. Dark-brown hair and deep-set black eyes.
The man is made up of hard edges and sharp
planes, and definitely not conventionally attractive.
Her-story. She’s an escort, a cynic and stuck in a
rut.
“Chris.” She wants to say more, but she closes her
mouth, afraid of the kind of rubbish that usually
falls out.
“All right, good night.”
In the bathroom, when she considers her
reflection
in
the
steamed-up
mirror
and
contemplates her face and body, Chris wishes she’d
burst open and let everything out. She leans in and
scowls at the image of someone whose pretty
surface hides nothing but shattered pieces
underneath.
~~~
Four and a half fucking years in jail. Alex
wouldn’t say he’d been looking forward to being out.
Standing in front of the gate all alone, he thought
about the prospect of life outside but couldn’t
summon up any enthusiasm.
Still, the smell of freedom was fresh, even though
nothing could lift his spirit inside or outside the
prison walls. Like a cliché, he sniffed as he emerged
from HMP Pentonville, and found it only marginally
better than the air in the jail yard.
Alex was less than pleased to see his older brother
Gary picking him up this morning. Alex had fallen
17
from grace at the height of his career. So what did
he expect? An entourage? A welcome-home party?
“Hey, don’t look so glum. I’m afraid your cronies
forgot about you the minute you left the ring. Just
me.” Gary gave Alex a crooked grin and pulled him
into a bear hug. “Anyhoo, freedom at last. Let’s go
and celebrate, bro.”
Drinking was the last thing Alex wanted to do, but
he knew perfectly well Gary wouldn’t have
celebrated in any other way.
“I’ve got to report to probation, and they’ve
already arranged a bedsit for me in London. I’m not
supposed to hang around Essex, Gary. It’s one of my
parole conditions.”
“Visiting your folks is fine, right? Come on, man.
Fuck probation.”
How can Gary be so irresponsible at his age?
“No, G. Bro, if I don’t report and do as my
probation officer tells me to during my licence, I’m
back in the nick. You got that?”
Gary knew all about probation and the criminal
system, having had his fair share of troubles when
he was younger.
“Kill-fucking-joy. All right. I’ll take you to report,
then home to the ’rents. They’re desperate to see
you.”
Gary patted Alex’s muscly arm. One thing he
could say about prison: he was able to stay fit. Most
days there was work and little else to do but exercise
in the gym. Some of the inmates were in awe of him.
Despite what he’d done, the other prisoners still
pitched him high up in the pecking order. With a
build like his, no one dared to touch him.
18
Alex wondered why his parents even wanted to
see him. He was their golden egg for ten, fifteen
years, but they didn’t exactly come visit him in
prison, or not often. In fact, he’d rarely received
regular visits other than Coach. His parents and
Gary came once every four months or so even
though they didn’t live that far from the jail. They
were too busy drinking and getting up to no good to
visit their son and sibling. He couldn’t pretend he
looked forward to seeing his folks and being back in
Essex.
The
probation
officer
treated
him
with
professional coldness, explaining the terms of his
licence and the reporting expectations. Alex
received the keys to the flat he’d be sharing with a
few other guys. Though not all the flatmates have
criminal records, it is a kind of halfway house for
probationers and parolees. It can’t be any worse
than prison. Alex is going to keep his head down
and do the time.
The accommodation is near Finsbury Park in
North London, away from Sam’s family and the
extended network of acquaintances from his
previous life. Through Coach’s connections and
approved by his PO, there’s already a job interview
lined up. The probation officer lifted the curfew for
his licence because this is a security job and he’ll be
covering overnight shifts. It’s a start. Alex grew up
poor, and his boxing training taught him hard work.
He can do this.
On the way to Essex, he stared at the passing
scenery, trying to find something familiar to focus
on but failing. His connection to this part of the
19
world is permanently broken.
Gary drove him to their parents’ large house,
bought with Alex’s money when he was doing great
about ten years ago. At twenty-three, the boxing
worl
d had tipped him to be the next big thing, and
Alex won quite a few national and international
championships. By twenty-six, he ranked among the
top twenty heavyweights worldwide.
The mansion stands on the coastline of Southend-
on-Sea. As he got out of the car, he noticed the
extensive front garden was overgrown, and the
building had fallen into disrepair. It had not been
painted for as long as he’d been away, and some
cracks had appeared on the external walls, like the
fault lines in Alex’s life. Well, there’s nothing he can
do for his parents now. Considering his dad was a
builder before drinking got the better of him and
Alex started to win fights, he should have
maintained the house better.
Gary opened the front door. At thirty-five, he’s
still living at home and sponging off his folks. Alex
followed Gary into the dusky hall. The curtains were
drawn even though it was almost lunchtime.
“Mum! Dad!” Gary shouted in the direction of the
first floor.
Mum appeared in a dressing gown at the top of
the ornate stairs. “Shit. Alex. I forgot you’re coming
out today.” Slurring her words, she seemed worse
for wear, and it was only late morning. She flew
down the stairs in an entrance that would have
made Scarlett O’Hara proud, and Alex hugged her.
She had gained more weight since he last saw her.
Alex’s family members are all big-boned and solid,
20
and he’s taller than Gary by a couple of inches.
Dad came out of the sitting room. “Hey, son.
Good to see ye.”
“Good to see you too,” Alex replied, unsure
whether he meant it.
Gary ushered Alex into the lounge, and he
enthused about having some mates over and going
to get booze to celebrate his brother’s release. Alex
felt a dull pain in his head. All he wanted was to go
to his flat and collapse in bed, spend his first day as
a free man without enduring his family and their
drunken acquaintances.
“Oh, come on. Why don’t we go and get some
beers, maybe a bottle of cava? To celebrate.” Gary
was totally oblivious to Alex’s predicament.
“Gary. I’m not drinking.” Frustration infused his
words because since that day five years ago, Alex
has not touched a drop. Alcohol, unlike love, is easy
to give up.
“It’s my parole condition.” Alex would still be
abstinent even if it wasn’t a requirement.
“We’ll drink on your behalf, then.”
As if he needs an excuse to do that.
~~~
Gary dragged Alex out again and bought a bunch
of supplies from the boozer, using the allowance
given to him upon release. Despite Alex’s protests
all day, Gary, his mum and dad and their friends
continued drinking. Alex should have called a cab,
but he was too numb and tired to think straight.
Eventually, one of the family friends took pity on
him and gave him a lift to the train station.
21
Since Alex used to get taxis or was driven around
London in flash cars, he doesn’t know his way
around the city, especially the north side. By the
time he had eaten dinner and worked out how to
reach the flat near the Arsenal football ground, it
was gone midnight. Navigating the public transport
system is another thing he’ll have to learn in his life
outside.
~~~
Chris, his new flatmate, is stunning. Probably in
his early twenties, he’s smart-mouthed and fearless
and has the height for modelling because he can talk
to Alex without looking up like most people. His
ash-blonde hair is cut close to his scalp, and delicate
silver jewellery adorns his neck and narrow wrist.
Under the bright glow in the stairwell, Chris is close
enough for Alex to see his perfectly balanced face,
punctuated only by piercings, the tiniest studs: one
in his left ear and one under his bottom lip. Alex has
seen plenty of pretty people in his life, but the
elegant face and clear aquamarine eyes have an
intensity so bright they eclipse the artificial light
and blind him.
Chris’s sultry and honeyed voice, too, draws him
in, powering an attraction beyond reason. When he
was boxing, Alex would never have let himself
notice someone like Chris no matter how much he’d
wanted to on occasion. But prison has stripped him
of the macho-boxer identity that was potent as
much as constraining.
Chris is beautiful and way more alluring than the
women who used to hang around the boxing scene.
22
Most of them would thrust their body to draw Alex’s
attention because he was successful and therefore
powerful. He’d hooked up with his fair share of
models and starlets then, even though he was
married to his childhood sweetheart. No more. After
his crime, Alex decided he would never behave like
that again, and he hasn’t felt horny for a while,
anyway. Sometimes he took care of himself in his
prison cell, but he didn’t think about actual sex that
much during the sentence.
As a boxer, he couldn’t risk acting on his
attraction to the same gender. He had to protect his
brand, his image—his manager kept on about those
as if he wasn’t an athlete but a celebrity with no
discernible sporting skill. Now he is no longer in the
limelight
or
married—w hat
a
relief! —his
suppressed interest in more than women has come
back with a vengeance. He wonders if the dry spell
in prison has played havoc with his sensibility.
Chris’s nails are painted with dark-blue glitter,
and a subtle shade of turquoise shadow enhances
his eye colour. Alex wonders about the make-up.
Chris. Kristy. Christopher. Could someone be all
three? His family would call anyone dressed like
that a nancy boy. This is London, though, not back
home, and Chris doesn’t give a shit about what
anyone else thinks. That much is clear.
Chris is gutsy in the way he stands up to Alex.
Few people dare to challenge him like that because
of his size. Alex even likes the way Chris frowns,
creasing his otherwise smooth face, and he’s
frowning a lot tonight, revealing two deep dimples.
It’s understandable Chris is aloof and annoyed—
23
who wouldn’t be to find their flatmate moving in so
late at night?—and Alex is secretly pleased Chris
doesn’t recognise him. Before he was released,
they’d warned him about the possible media
attention. His case was high profile and sensational.
Media covered the court proceedings extensively,
notwithstanding some reporting restrictions. He
wasn’t looking forward to the public scrutiny—
new accommodation so late at night. The new Alex
has replaced the limelight with shadows.
Alex stares at the ceiling in the darkness of his
room. Imagining Chris’s eyes and the star-like silver
studs he wore makes his skin tingle, a warmth
building inside of him, reminding him of a long-
forgotten sensation. He ponders the shades of
London on the bare walls, unable to fall asleep and
afraid of the darkness of his nightmares.
His first night of freedom after four and a half
years.
~~~
Fifty fucking thousand. Alex reads through the
mini statement he’s printed from the ATM again
and goes home to call Tony, his ex-manager.
“What? Who is this?”
“It’s me.” He’s bought a pay-as-you-go phone—
the cheapest you can get—and a SIM card, which is
why Tony doesn’t recognise the number.
“And who the fuck—”
“Alex.” He wants to add ‘you idiot’ but thinks
better of it.
“Blue!” Tony changes to the smarmy businessman
24
in a split second. “When did you come out?”
“Don’t call me that, Tone.” Alex might not be very
good with his money, but he isn’t stupid. Tony is
good at getting him the deal while always looking
out for number one. Alex wanted nothing to do with
him when he came out of prison, but he can’t ignore
the fact that Tony was ripping him off through his
personal crisis and jail time.
I can do this.
“Okay, Alex. What can I do for you, son?” Now
the wizard turns into the paternally concerned ex-
manager.
Alex gets straight to the point. “I wanna know
how come there’s only fifty grand in my account.”
“Alex, you wouldn’t believe how many outgoings
there’ve been. Barristers, court costs, compensation.
Severance—”
“Is that what you call the hundred thousand you
paid yourself? Severance?” Alex drums his finger on
the table as he talks.
Silence for a beat. “Alex, don’t be like that. I was
with you for ten years. I’ve got my family to
consider.”
Alex can almost hear Tony’s brain calculating
before he changes the subject. “Listen, if you want
to do some comeback matches, you’ll build a nest
egg in no time. There will be a lot of interest. I’d say
you could buy a nice house in the countryside after a
match or two.”
A nice fucking house in Essex. Fights that will be
televised worldwide. The constriction in Alex’s
