Tears of Ink (Tears of ... Book 1)

by Anna Bloom

  “I thought you weren’t going to come.”

  The stranger appraises me, eyes drinking in the loose fit of my shirt, the cotton trousers that cover my skin.

  Lips meet mine, and hungrily I eat them up, burning with a fire of need, a dart of danger. “You seem like an opportunity not to be missed.” His words come in breathy gasps as he nibbles and nips my throat.

  “I live around the corner.” My legs weaken, the pit of my stomach hot and tender. Girls are told not to take strangers home—I’m not most girls.

  “Good.”

  Chapter Two

  The leering grin taunts me from across the cafeteria. It’s as though I can read from his face everything he knows about me. And he knows everything. The tray of food I don’t intend to eat trembles in my hands. Who can eat when their stomach is tied into knots? It’s impossible. If I shut my eyes, I remember his hands on my skin. The taste of his tongue. The sharp sting as he pushed inside me.

  I wave, wondering if I should go across and say hi. I think we are past hi, but I’m not sure. Hesitation roots my feet to the floor. He doesn’t wave back; his eyes slide to the side and my stomach rolls. Maybe he didn’t see? I try again, “Hi,” I say it this time.

  Slowly, his eyes meet mine. Everyone at the table he’s sat on all turn to look my way. Then he laughs, and with a shuddering shock I know what it’s like to burn under the scorch of the lightning bolt. It crashes into my chest, stealing my breath.

  His laughter draws attention and then everyone’s eyes are on me, their gaze burning.

  I turn, place my tray on the table and run. As I reach the gate, I understand the futility of running. I don’t have anywhere to run to. With no clear direction in mind, I turn towards the town filled with its salty air. There, down a side road, I will find a hiding place. I jangle through the door.

  “Faith, what’s wrong?”

  I hold my wrist. “Make me remember.”

  Grey brows scrunch together. “You aren’t eighteen.”

  “I don’t care. Make me remember.”

  So he does. With a tender touch and painful needles, my skin reminds me to never give myself to anyone more than once.

  A heavy arm rests across my waist, and I stare at the ceiling. I managed to doze a bit, ignoring the strange form next to me in the bed. I don’t know where that dream came from. What was that, eight years ago? Sliding out from under the stifled snores of the man from the bar, I tiptoe across the wood floor and grab my phone.

  Me: I was thinking of my lightning bolt. How are you?

  I don’t expect an answer, so I shove my phone back in the recess of my leather tote and head to the kitchen. I need coffee. The wine from last night is making me blurry-eyed. I hate it when the buzz of the short-term fix eases and leaves me exposed. In the bedroom, there’s a stir from the bed. This is always the awkward part.

  “Hey.” I spoon coffee into one mug.

  “I’d love one, thanks.” The guy, Mike… Matt, maybe… comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. Yeah, that’s not comfortable. I squirm out of his grasp.

  “Look, I’ve got to get on, I’ve got a project due.” I carry on making one coffee.

  “Hey.” His fingers catch mine and he turns me around. Honestly, he looked so much better after three large wines. This morning, what was an olive-skinned charm is more swarthy and blotchy. Got to turn those beer goggles off, Faith. “We had fun, didn’t we?” he asks, oblivious to my critical observations.

  “Sure. I’m just busy, you know? It’s nearly the end of term. I’ve got lots of finals to complete.”

  “And you’re doing an art degree?”

  “Fine Art,” I clarify. I must have told him that on the way home. I don’t remember much conversation taking place once we walked through the apartment door.

  His eyes drop to my skin. “And you don’t want to be a tattoo artist?”

  I level him with a stern gaze. Whatever happened to not judging a book by its cover. “No.”

  “What are all these? Why so many?”

  I hold my breath as his fingers graze along the coloured ink across my skin. “Just thoughts and observations.” And lessons, but I don’t tell him that.

  “That’s some observation.” He smiles, but I see right through it. In his eyes is half panic that he’s woken up with a crazed tattooed lunatic, and part desire that I might be willing to submit myself to him like I did last time.

  I won’t.

  “This has been great, but you need to leave now.” My lips stretch into a tight smile. No messing with the shit I’m telling him. My message is clear. It doesn’t stop him trying though, his hand snakes around my upper arm.

  “Come on, babe. I showed you a good time.”

  I step back, my hand reaching for the catch of the front door. The apartment is cramped and small. Nothing is further than one reach, or one step away. “Real good, but now it’s over.”

  He stares in shock before shrugging. “You’ve got problems.”

  I open the door and swing it open, waving my hand toward the dingy corridor. “Yep, and you leaving makes one less.”

  I shut the door, listening to his mumble about the “crazy bitch” as he walks away. I chuckle. He wasn’t complaining about it last night when we were going for it, two strangers tangled in the dark.

  It’s just a physical release.

  I go back to the kitchenette and think about my encounter. Unremarkable, our enjoyment had been one-sided as are so many of my moments of intimacy.

  It’s a craving which lives deep under my skin. A need for touch, warmth, delicacy. But when I get it, it’s never quite what I hope for.

  And, as always, I’m left washing away a flavour of bitterness with my morning coffee.

  I drain my mug, scorching my tongue, then walk to the small bathroom. Compact but relatively clean—for me. I switch on the shower, yanking the old-fashioned curtain back before stepping into the tub. The hot water works on my muscles and I finally wake up. My skin bears no marks from the night, though even if it did they wouldn’t show. The suds from my shampoo run down my arms and I find myself glancing at the lightning bolt on my wrist. I touch it as if it’s still going to burn hot and tender. It’s old, its edges faded. My eyes close and I breathe in the steam. It was a long time ago, and I don’t have to remember those times anymore. I shut off the dream that chased me awake. All those days are in the past, and I don’t need to worry about them anymore.

  I’m untouchable here.

  Towelling off and scrunching my hair with the rough cotton, I think of Gerard’s suggestion for the summer. Could I do something like that? He’s right about one thing: I don’t plan to go home.

  I’m pulling a pair of black skinny jeans up my hips, noticing the waistband seems looser again, when my phone rings. I glance in the mirror. Dressed just in jeans and my bra I’m a sight to be held. I grab at the black baggy shirt and pull it on before grabbing the phone. My heart pounds at the flashing screen.

  “Hey.”

  “What are you thinking of that old lightning bolt for?” A deep voice rumbles down the other end of the line and a squeeze constricts my chest.

  “You okay? You sound out of breath.”

  “Hey, don’t be rude.” A hearty chuckle turns into a phlegmy cough. “You got to be kind to your old Uncle Al.”

  “I’m always kind.” I slip my feet into some ballet pumps and check my keys are in my bag. I’ll have to walk and talk. I haven’t got time to be anywhere apart from at the studio and staring at that lump of nemesis. “Tell me the truth,” I insist.

  “I’m fine. Tell me why you were thinking of your bolt.”

  I sigh but carry walking silently on.

  “Are you dreaming again?”

  There isn’t any point lying. “Yeah, a little, just occasionally.”

  “And you haven’t heard from your old man?”

  I snort. “No, though I’m not surprised.”

  “
He’ll come around.”

  “I don’t want him to. It’s better this way.”

  There’s a pause, and I can’t help but focus on the rasp in his breath. It’s getting worse. I need to try to visit him over this holiday. An unsettled ache shifts my stomach when I think I might not get that many chances to see him again. Although I guess my skin will always remind me of my favourite “uncle”.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Faith. Anyway.” His voice picks up. “Talking about lightning bolts, guess who came into the shop yesterday?”

  I roll my eyes. It could be anyone, Brighton is a big place. “Surprise me.”

  “That guy, the one who messed you around.”

  Another eye roll. Narrow it down. I snigger at my own dramatics. No one’s really broken my heart. Truthfully, I don’t have one for them to break. If you lock something up so tight that no one can touch it, it keeps you safe. Keeps you whole.

  It leaves me to roam with my body and mind, mapping the journey of my life on my skin. All the while the space above my heart remains untainted, untouched, uninked. Mine.

  “Yeah, what did he want?”

  “A tatt. What a loser.” A spark crackles down the line.

  “Al, are you smoking?” I’m genuinely shocked.

  “Faithy, babe, I’m on my way out anyway. Fuck if I’m not going to enjoy myself while I go.”

  Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. Al would hate my tears, hate my sadness. “They still might find a cure.”

  “It’s lung cancer, Faith, I think I’m fucked.”

  “Bout time you got laid.”

  He roars with laughter, and I grin. “So, tell me about Stuart’s tattoo.” I’m outside the door to the upstairs studio on campus. It’s only a couple of roads from the small apartment I call home.

  “I got Dan to do it.”

  “Dan?” I frown as I slide my key in and out of the lock.

  Al snorts some more but I can hear him trying to control his devilish cough. “I told him to do his shittiest job ever.”

  “Did he?”

  “I got him to take pictures, I’ll send them over.”

  “Al, that’s not professional.”

  He chuckles again, this time breaking into a cough. “Have you thought of coming back to the shop for the summer? We could use you. It’s going to be hot and you know that means lots of drunks who lose all common sense.”

  “Your best customers then?” I chuckle a little clutching the phone. I don’t want this call to end.

  The echo of the hum of machines, the tang of disinfectant and cleaner barrages my memory. I can’t go back though.

  I straighten myself up. “Hey, I’ve been offered the chance to apply for an installation.” I pause to allow my words to sink in. “It would insane to not take up the chance.”

  “True thing, babe.”

  “I’ve got to go, Al.” I don’t want to add that my chest aches a little and I want to crumple into a ball because one of my favourite people in the whole world is being eaten alive by cancer. “Hang in there, I’m coming to see you real soon.”

  “I’ll tell Dan.”

  “Don’t. I could do without the puppy dog eyes and general moping.”

  “You two will end up married one of these days. I know you pretend to hate him.”

  I laugh. “You’re losing your mind, old man. Dan and I will marry when hell freezes over.”

  “That’s good, we’ll all be together down in hell anyway.”

  “Love you, Al.”

  “You too, bright spark.”

  I smile as I hit the red button at his familiar use of my childhood nickname. Seems silly to be called a bright spark at the age of twenty-four, when there is nothing bright about me at all anymore. But I still like it, just like the six-year-old version of me did before my shine was eroded by darkness.

  I pace up the stairs and launch into the studio, pulling the cloth I’d thrown over the marble the night before onto the floor. Sadly, nothing has changed. It still remains untouched, just like it has been pulled from the earth.

  What am I going to do if I can’t finish it? What will I hand in instead?

  Why the hell can’t I get to grips with this bloody lump of rock? I’ve never struggled before. That’s why I’m studying Fine Art and sculpture… because I’m good at it. Well, I used to be. Now I’m not sure if it wasn’t all a bit of a fluke.

  Yet, Gerard had put me forward for that installation with no hesitation. It could open so many doors. When I get home and haven’t been waylaid by wine and stranger sex, I’ll look up Bowsley Hall and see what it’s about, what they are trying to achieve. That’s what the internet is for right? Some light stalking and research.

  Unbuttoning my shirt, I fling it on the back of a chair and place my apron over the sports bra, tying it around my back. Then I grab my chisel and step up towards the marble like I’m going to war. Which I am. I’m fighting for my degree, the First class honours I’m so desperate for, and the future that will never take me back to that tattoo shop in Brighton.

  Chapter Three

  The chilled wine slips down wonderfully and with a deep sigh I shut my eyes for a moment and rest my head back on the sofa. My muscles ache from hunching and sitting in a scrunched position for hours. I give my shoulders a stretch, lifting them to my ears and dropping them back down. They are stiff and reluctant, and I straighten up having another sip of wine that I’m pretty sure will help ease them. Before I can drift off and lose focus, I pull my laptop onto my lap, opening the lid and quickly adding my password one-handed so I don’t have to put my glass down. My hands are sore—light cuts and nicks scratch the surface of my skin. They're all chisel inflicted, although I’m aware of how they look to the untrained eye. It’s why I came home and declined Gerard’s call of a drink.

  I type in “Bowsley Hall” waiting for Google to provide me some insight into my possible summer accommodation. Could I live in a strange house for the summer? I don’t play well with others. It’s why I’ve lived by myself the previous two years of my degree. That and the fact I started older than the other students. And I look different. Not that I give a flying fuck about looking different, being different. But girls stare at me in alarm, and guys want to see how far the tatts go. They see a girl who’s free with ink and think she will be free with her morals. Sometimes I am. Sometimes I’m not. It all depends.

  Bowsley Hall… I blink when images fill the top couple of results. There is no way! I can’t stay in that; it’s nothing short of a huge castle. Spiralling chimney stacks—more than surely any building could hold—and turreted corner wings, focus the sprawling mass of red brick. Architecture and buildings aren’t my speciality, what with me being more concerned about what goes inside buildings than outside them, but I’d hazard a guess and bet my favourite potter’s wheel on it being Elizabethan in origin; at least the main part of the house with the chimneys. I remember being in a lecture once on style and the lecturer had pointed out that the more chimneys, the greater the wealth in the Elizabethan period. Rather like when a hundred or so years later there had been the glass tax and all the many windows of splendour had been covered with brick. This house had all its windows and all its chimneys—honest, I felt sorry for the cleaners.

  I scroll down, ignoring the looming presence of red brick and try to discover more about its owners. Gerard had said it was his friend, but that couldn’t be right, surely? Some images flash up of a couple and their children. They look wealthy, their clothes simple yet expensive. Smooth and manicured, tailored and sharp, without trying too hard. Lucky for them.

  I open Facebook and click on a Messenger chat. Gerard’s online as I knew he would be. He’s a social media addict, although he’d deny it to anyone. I thought it was strange at first when my lecturer friend-requested me, but then when I looked at his friends list I realised I wasn’t that special at all. He’s friends with as many members of the world’s population as Facebook allows. I type a quick message.

&nbs
p; Faith Hitchin: I can’t stay in that house. Offer it to Meg. She will fit in so much better.

  Gerard Steers: Too late. Mrs Fairclough wants to see you next time she’s in London.

  Next time she’s in London? Is she swanning in to check the sights?

  Faith Hitchin: It’s a bad idea. Please give it to Meg. Leave me to serve warm beer all summer. I’ll enjoy that far more.

  Gerard Steers: This is a big opportunity. It could lead to galleries wanting you. If I know the Fairclough’s, then there will be press all over this.

  I cringe and shut the laptop with a bang. For a moment, I lean my head back and close my eyes. The press. I don’t want them anywhere near me, or anywhere near my work. But then if I want to be an artist—a world class artist, no less, the kind who has galleries in London begging for their work—won’t I need them?

  Shaking my head, I stare at the crack in the ceiling.

  I could go back to Brighton, pick up a tattoo machine and do that for a living. It’s good money. Very good money. But then who would I be? The girl from the fucked-up family. At least here in London no one knows me. They might look, but I’m hidden behind the ink they see first.

  Uncertain I open the laptop back up and swallow down more wine.

  Faith Hitchin: I’ll meet Mrs Fairclough and see what she says.

  Gerard Steers: So I should let you know it's actually Baroness Fairclough…

  I splutter on my wine. Baroness. Is he having a laugh?

  Faith Hitchin: You’re kidding, right?

  Gerard Steers: I’m not a joker.

  My heart palpitates. I can’t meet a Baroness… look at me for fuck's sake. I’ve never cared about my choices, never once questioned why I’ve done what I’ve done. Each touch of ink a cathartic release from a memory I’ve wanted to forget.

  But right now, I wish I’d left it at a sleeve, maybe half a sleeve.

  There is no way a Baroness will allow someone who looks like me into her house. I’d be wasting her time and my own. Artists are loose with rules and regulations. But I’ve taken those rules and destroyed them with my hammer of pain.