A Circus of Ink

by Lauren Palphreyman

  ‘Enough.’ I down the rest of the beer and stand up. ‘Get up.’

  For the first time, I see fear flash across her face. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  ‘I do. It is written. Get up.’

  ‘No.’

  Why is she making this more difficult than it needs to be? I grab her arm and pull her to her feet. I know what I have to do. I have no choice. A snap of the neck, and it’ll be over.

  She’s a Twist. She’s dangerous. She’s—

  She knees me in the balls then punches me in the jaw. And it’s not even the pain of it that makes me cry out—I’ve experienced torture much worse than a little Twist trying to hit me—it’s the surprise.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I grab her arms again and pull her into me. She struggles, but she can’t win this. She must know that. I slide my hand in her hair and tilt her head back.

  And then we both freeze.

  There are voices outside, accompanied by heavy, rhythmic footsteps. More Blotters are coming. For the same girl? Why?

  I should get rid of her now. Before they get here. Before they see me holding her with my fingers threaded in her hair, not really trying to do what has to be done.

  She dies. It is written. There is no other way.

  ‘There’s a hurricane coming,’ she says.

  I thought I couldn’t be more surprised, but I am. The Creators create the weather. Why would she say that?

  ‘What the fuck do you mean? No, there isn’t.’

  ‘Yes, there is.’

  Her fingers dig into my biceps, and there’s something urgent in her eyes, like she needs me to understand something. ‘Why do you think it’s so empty in here?’

  I realise why something felt wrong when I walked in. We’re completely alone. But there’s a perfectly logical explanation for that.

  ‘It’s because I’m here.’

  ‘No. It’s because they know there’s a hurricane coming.’

  ‘It’s impossible. I’m a Blotter. I’d know.’

  ‘Not if the Creators didn’t send it.’

  My throat constricts. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  She doesn’t tell me, because five men enter the room. They’re typical Draft One Blotters—not as big as me, sloppier, more relaxed in the way they hold themselves. They’re covered in the same ink as I am though. And they’re just as deadly.

  One of them, a guy I’ve seen a couple of times in one of the taverns by the factory, looks us up and down. His eyes are bright with lust for the kill even though Blotters are not supposed to enjoy what they do.

  ‘What’s going on here then?’ he says, hand on his gun.

  Even if I had to answer to some shitty Draft One Blotter, I couldn’t. Because I have no fucking clue what’s going on.

  ‘What time is it?’ asks the Twist.

  I meet her eyes, frowning. ‘Midnight.’

  ‘A hurricane is coming.’

  The high windows of the power plant shatter inwards, and the Blotters by the door are thrown into the walls. The girl’s hair whips my face, and I taste rain and the river. We cling onto each other as we stand in the eye of the storm.

  Adrenaline pumps through my body as I grab her arms and shake her. ‘How did you know this?’

  There is triumph in the Twist’s eyes when she pulls away from me and runs. As she reaches the door, a chair flies at her head, and she’s hurled into the wall. Shielding my face from the glass, beer barrels, and tables that are being swept up by the wind, I push towards her.

  She’s unconscious, but the Blotter who spoke stirs, ink leaking from the corner of his mouth.

  I could leave. If I leave the girl, she’ll die. It wouldn’t be exactly how it was written, but her Ending would still be delivered. A deviation. But a minor one.

  It would mean I don’t have to do it myself. And for some weird fucking reason, I don’t want to do it myself.

  She looks so peaceful amongst the chaos, her flushed face relaxed, her chest moving softly up and down.

  I shake my head and walk out of the door.

  Then I stop. I think of her hand on my chest. She should have run away from me. She should have been afraid. That hot, unwelcome feeling stirs inside me again.

  Fuck’s sake.

  I stride back in and scoop her up off the floor. Holding her warm body against my chest, I carry her through the hurricane, away from the Blotters.

  As I walk through the power plant, her tattoo burns. I grunt, gritting my teeth to withstand the pain.

  It’s starting already.

  Why the fuck am I doing this?

  She looks so peaceful. So fragile in my arms.

  I shake my head. ‘You’re going to be the death of me, little Twist.’

  Chapter Five

  Elle

  The thought comes to me slowly, like a drop of ink spreading on dry parchment: It worked.

  The next thoughts are quicker and as sharp as quills.

  I’m not dead.

  The Blotters came for me.

  The tattooed killer was there.

  I’m hurt. I don’t know where I am.

  Danger.

  I open my eyes.

  The room is dim. A bulb buzzes in the ceiling. Springs dig into my back. I sit upright and wince. My head throbs.

  Then I jerk back, pressing myself against the wall and clenching the sheets in my fists. My heartbeat hammers in my chest.

  The Blotter is sitting on a metal chair at the end of the mattress. His legs are spread, and his corded forearms rest on his knees. There’s anger in his cool eyes. My rucksack sits at his feet.

  I control my breathing and try to calm my pulse. Because I’m not dead.

  I’m supposed to be dead. He is a Blotter, and he is supposed to kill me. It’s written in ink on his skin. But he hasn’t done it. That means he doesn’t want to. It doesn’t mean he won’t, but still, there is a crack in his convictions, a chance for me to survive this.

  Where there are cracks, stories can grow. That is what my father used to say.

  I hold his cold gaze, noting again the strange blot-like imperfection in his left iris. The silence hangs heavily between us.

  Finally, he looks at the threadbare carpet and rubs his face. He exhales heavily, a low, masculine sound. Then his gaze travels slowly over my body.

  ‘You’re awake.’ His voice is gruff.

  The bedsit we’re in is similar to mine: grey carpet, mattress on the floor, and a dingy kitchenette. It has no windows though, and it feels even smaller. Behind him, black mould darkens the wall, and the air is heavy in my lungs. I think we might be underground.

  ‘Where are we?’ I ask.

  He waits a beat as though deciding whether to answer. ‘Draft One.’

  ‘You live here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You live in shitholes like the rest of us then. I always wondered.’

  ‘Are you trying to piss me off?’

  I shift on the lumpy mattress. Am I?

  There is something different about this Blotter. He is curious, and he has a dandelion seed tattooed on his skin. He was supposed to kill me, but he brought me here.

  Yet he works for the people who killed my father. He is a relentless, ink-blooded killer. He does whatever he is supposed to do without question, or emotion, or thought. He is a soldier for the Creators. A monster. A weapon.

  He stands for everything I hate.

  And I’m cornered. I’m trapped in his room, sitting on his mattress. I can smell him on the sheets, masculine and consuming. And I find that I want to torment him. I want see how far I can push him. I want to prod him and unleash the beast disguised as a man.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say.

  ‘You’d better get sure.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to bring me here.’

  All the muscles in his jaw tighten. ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

  His vest is wet, and I can see distorted black shapes inked onto hi
s chest as it rises and falls quickly. A desire to touch them overwhelms me. I want to take off his top. I want to study the symbols on his skin. I want to understand. I want to feel his heart pounding beneath my hand.

  But that would be as dangerous as touching a lion, so I stay where I am.

  When I meet his gaze again, the look in his eyes is different. The anger is still there, but there’s something primal mixed within it too. It stirs something hot inside me.

  ‘Careful, little Twist,’ he says quietly.

  I swallow. ‘You don’t want to kill me.’

  He leans back in his chair. ‘That doesn’t mean I won’t.’

  ‘What do you want? Why have you brought me here?’

  His expression turns to stone, and he runs a hand over his mouth. I don’t think he knows why he did it. ‘I have questions. You’re going to answer them.’

  ‘I thought Blotters didn’t ask questions.’

  His eyebrow raises slightly, emphasising the white scar across it. I wonder who gave him the scar. Who could hurt a Blotter?

  ‘Yeah, well, you’ve pretty much fucked all that up for me, haven’t you? So how about you shut your smart-arse mouth and keep your thoughts to yourself unless I ask for them? It’ll end better for you if you do. Okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  He sighs. ‘Good.’

  I shrug. ‘I like it that you’re curious.’

  ‘I’m this fucking close.’ His finger and thumb are a short distance apart. ‘Do you have any kind of comprehension of what is going on here? Do you know the shit I’m in right now? And do you know how much I could resolve by finishing this, by doing what I was supposed to do from the start?’

  I don’t say anything. Truth be told, I don’t know what is going to happen to him. I don’t know if this has ever happened before—a Blotter not committing a murder that was written on his skin. There are black shapes all over his arms, all over his body. If they represent the people he’s already killed, there are a lot of them.

  The fear creeps back, but I won’t show him. ‘Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?’

  ‘No. You’re supposed to shut the fuck up so I can ask you some questions.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  He is volatile. He has not had to make decisions before. This is unnatural for him. He’s like one of the springs in his mattress: coiled up for now, but as soon as whatever maintains his interest is gone, he’s going to unwind.

  He doesn’t want to kill me.

  But that doesn’t mean he won’t.

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘The hurricane—’ He bends over double on his chair, slamming a hand on his chest. ‘Ah, fuck!’

  I clench his bed sheets. My mind buzzes through different scenarios. I could run. I could leave him here. He is dangerous, and I can escape him. Whatever is happening to him right now is an opportunity; a way for me to get out.

  But he is an opportunity too. He’s different than the others. He brought me here when he wasn’t supposed to. This interaction wasn’t written. And so, something keeps me here with my back pushed against the wall.

  He was supposed to kill me, but he was gentle. He saved my life. We are both living outside of the One True Story now. We have a new story. Our own story.

  I approach with the wariness I would exhibit if encountering an injured animal and shift between his legs. I put my finger under his chin and tilt his head up. His face is flushed.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ I say.

  I push him back into the seat and prise his hand away from his heart. I pull down the top of his damp vest, exposing inked skin and hard muscle covered in a light sheen of sweat.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says through gritted teeth.

  He flinches when I touch him and grabs my wrist. His eyes don’t move from mine, and within them, there’s something like wonder mixed with the pain.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  His lips harden.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say.

  Gradually, his heartbeat steadies beneath my fingers. I touch a black shape that marks my death warrant: a twist within a circle. I glance at the tattoo of the dandelion seed.

  ‘Stop.’ He yanks my hand away then releases my wrist.

  I should move away from him. But I don’t.

  ‘What hurt you?’ I ask.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You put your hand on the tattoo of me.’

  ‘Drop it, little Twist.’

  ‘Is it something to do with—?’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  Both his arms hang by his sides, leaving his body exposed. I want to pull down his vest again. I want to see properly.

  As if sensing what I’m thinking, he shakes his head slowly. ‘Don’t even think about it.’ There’s a finality to his tone, but I think I catch the corner of his lip twitch. ‘I can see why the Creators wrote your End. You’re frustrating. Even for a Twist.’

  He leans back, putting space between us. When he runs his hands over his head, he exposes his armpits and the tattoos that curl up towards them—including the Sacred Stylus that’s branded on his forearm. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but then he sighs and drops his arms back to his thighs.

  I know what he wants to know. But I wait for him to ask.

  Maybe to torment him further; to watch the inner turmoil as he fights to contain the questions Blotters are forbidden to ask. Or maybe because if he proves he is curious, it proves that I’m right about him.

  ‘Look, just tell me, how the fuck did you know about that hurricane? How could you possibly have known when the Blotters didn’t?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  He leans closer, and his hands almost brush against my thighs. I can smell him, hot and primal and distracting. ‘Yes.’

  I bite my lip, and my pulse quickens as I consider telling him something that could change everything.

  ‘Well?’ he says.

  ‘I didn’t know about the hurricane. I created it.’

  Chapter Six

  Jay

  ‘You what?’

  The curious girl stands between my legs, and her chest rises and falls distractingly close to my face. Her wet hair clings to her unblemished shoulders, and I itch to touch her. It’s fucked up. I was supposed to kill her. Instead, I saved her. And now, rather than finishing the job and giving myself a fighting chance, I’m looking up into those big amber eyes and wondering what she tastes like.

  I crack one of my knuckles and bring my fist to my mouth.

  I can’t wonder. Blotters don’t wonder. Blotters can’t be curious. This is bad enough as it is.

  ‘I created the hurricane,’ she says again.

  I shake my head. ‘Yeah. I thought that’s what you said.’

  ‘You don’t believe me.’

  There’s a cut across her forehead, and the blood is starting to congeal. I stand up. It brings our bodies even closer, and for some reason, she doesn’t back away. Her breath hitches though.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she says.

  ‘You’re bleeding. It needs to be cleaned. Sit down.’

  She just stands there, and I swear to the Creators, if she refuses, I’m going to lose my shit. I run my hand over my mouth.

  ‘Sit. The fuck. Down.’

  The corner of her lip briefly quirks. It adds fuel to the fire that’s already burning inside of me. Why won’t she do as she’s told? I’m trying to fucking help her!

  I reach for her arm, but she sidesteps me and sits on the chair. I sigh as I stride over to the sink. I grab my one chipped ceramic bowl from the draining board and put it beneath the tap. The pipes scream, and it takes a couple of minutes for the rusty water to trickle out.

  I don’t know why I’m doing this. I just need a minute away from her, I think. I’m struggling to contain this frustration and fury and this weird animalistic urge that’s come over me. I need to get a hold of it. I need
to think.

  Does she really think she created a hurricane? Or is this just part of her game to antagonize me?

  ‘Was the pain in your chest because of me?’ she says.

  ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘I think it was. I think it was something to do with the tattoo of my death.’

  I stare at the water as it fills the bowl and try not to lose my cool.

  ‘You’re frustrated,’ she says.

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘I think I understand. I think I get why you would be.’

  I grab my cleaning rag, rinse it, and then drop it in the bowl. I cross the room. ‘Yeah? I’m frustrated because you’re frustrating.’

  I kneel down and spread her legs so I can shift my body between them. She tenses, but her eyes remain fixed on mine. My hands linger on her inner thighs for a moment too long before I pull them away and reach for the rag.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘You’re frustrated because you’re a Blotter.’ She glances at the tattoos curling up my neck as I wring out the rag in the bowl. ‘Your life is mapped out for you, isn’t it? You always know what is going to happen next. But you didn’t kill me like you were supposed to. You’ve diverted from the One True Story. You don’t know what’s coming anymore.’

  Her gaze is searching. It’s as if she’s trying to see through the depths of ink and darkness inside me. She shouldn’t do that. She won’t like what she finds.

  ‘That must be scary,’ she says.

  I lift the wet rag to her forehead, bringing my face close to hers. ‘Blotters don’t get scared.’

  ‘Everyone gets scared.’

  ‘Are you?’ I dab the wound, and she winces. Good. I hope it stings.

  ‘Do you want me to be?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I pull away, rinsing the cloth in the bowl. I watch the blood dancing in the water for a second. ‘Yeah, I do. Because you should be scared.’

  ‘Because I’m supposed to be dead?’

  ‘Because you’re with me.’

  ‘Is it true Blotters know when their Endings are written?’ Her warm breath tickles my face as she speaks. ‘They know when they’re going to die?’

  I shouldn’t be talking to her about stuff like this. I shouldn’t be cleaning a wound on her head. None of this is the way it should be.