A Circus of Ink

by Lauren Palphreyman

  His knuckles whiten as we approach the crossing.

  ‘If we get stopped at the bridge, I’ll tell a story—’ I say.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean, no?’

  ‘I’m not having you causing a scene. If we get stopped, I’ll kill them.’

  ‘Oh, and that’s not causing a scene . . .’

  A muscle twitches in his jaw. ‘We won’t get stopped. Not where I’m taking us. There’s a tavern close to the bridge. Blotters in the Outer Drafts are lax.’ He shakes his head as though that’s a bad thing. ‘Unless things have changed, the Creators know where we are, and it’s written that we’re coming. Then we’re fucked.’

  We both tense as we reach the long bridge that stretches over the black water. True to Jay’s word, though, it is unguarded. He puts his foot down on the accelerator, and we speed into Draft Two.

  It is similar to Draft One—though there’s less scaffolding propping up the towering skyscrapers, and there are more neon Styluses marking Houses of Truth. As we pass a billboard the length of the street, the hard voice of a Teller permeates the van. He’s saying the End is coming and the curious will be punished.

  We drive throughout the night. Jay lets me stop another two times to paint dandelion seeds. I push for a third, but it’s clear he has reached his limit, and so I allow him to drive us to the Blotter motel.

  He parks the battered van down an empty side street, away from the main road where a number of Blotter vehicles are stationed. We sit there for a moment, him clenching and unclenching the steering wheel with his big hands; me fiddling with the near empty paint can between my legs. It is thankfully still dark outside, but it has shifted from the inky hues of midnight to the watercolour grey that comes just before dawn. The rain falls hard, sheets of water cascading down the windscreen. It feels as if we are alone in the world; as if no one can see us.

  Something in my stomach tightens at the look in Jay’s eyes when he turns his head. ‘You have paint on your face,’ he says.

  He removes his hand from the wheel and lets it hover for a moment. Then he leans over and rubs it off with his thumb. His scent hits me, salt and sweat and something primal that belongs only to him. His white vest hangs off his body, and I drop my gaze to his hard chest and the dandelion seed above his heart.

  ‘Hey.’ He places a finger underneath my chin and tilts my face up. ‘My eyes are up here, little Twist.’ He holds my gaze, then he sits back and smudges the paint against his thumb, looking at it with a mixture of distaste and wonder. He sighs. ‘When we go inside, you keep your mouth shut, yeah?’

  ‘You have a plan?’

  ‘That is the plan. You being quiet.’

  I frown. Blotters aren’t known for making plans; they do what the ink tells them. And now he does not have a story to follow.

  ‘And what will you be doing?’

  ‘I’ll be getting us a room.’

  I put the spray can back into my rucksack. ‘You’re just going to walk in there and get a room for a Blotter and a Twist?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That may raise some questions.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve told you, the guy that runs it turns a blind eye.’

  ‘To what?’

  He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Um . . . recreational activities . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He exhales. ‘I’m going to tell him you’re a girl I’ve brought here to fuck, Elle.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘You’re actually going to tell him that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t believe you?’

  ‘He will.’

  ‘I thought you couldn’t tell stories.’

  The corner of his lip twitches. ‘Who says I’m telling a story?’

  Before I can reply, he gets out of the van. I watch him for a moment as he rests his arm against the roof of the vehicle, then he looks up into the sky, letting the raindrops fall on his face.

  I take a deep breath before grabbing my rucksack and climbing out after him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jay

  She comes to stand in front of me as I’m looking up into the bloated sky.

  ‘I thought I had to ask you to fuck me,’ she says.

  She’s drenched already. Her wild hair is tangled down her back, and her oversized leather jacket hangs heavily off her shoulders. Beads of water run down her chest, and her black vest clings to her small frame.

  I rub my jaw. I’ll be getting her out those clothes once we get inside.

  ‘You’ll ask me,’ I say. ‘Beg, more like.’

  An image of her on her knees in front of me appears unbidden in my mind. I need to stop imagining things. It’s weird. And wrong. I’ve been doing it non-stop since I met her. I lick my lips, tasting the rain on them. She drops her gaze to my body, eyes darkening on my chest where my tattoos are visible through my wet vest.

  She steps forwards so one of her legs is in between mine. I can smell her scent, mingling with the aroma of wet concrete. My hands seem to find their way into her open leather jacket and onto her hips of their own accord.

  ‘You don’t believe I will. Not really,’ she says.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I have never begged anyone in my entire life.’

  I don’t doubt it. I push off the van, bringing my body even closer to hers. She has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. I slide my hand into her hair, cupping the side of her face, and brush my thumb against her wet cheek.

  ‘Well then, it’ll be a new experience for you, won’t it, little Twist?’ I drop my hands to my sides as her mouth falls open, then I step past her. ‘You coming? I’m getting soaked out here.’

  She falls into step beside me. I catch her looking at me before she fixes her gaze to the end of the alleyway. She wants me. It’s obvious. And she’ll get what she wants. I imagine the little Twist always gets what she wants.

  I think I would have done it that first time we met if she’d asked for it—though it was not written; though I was meant to kill her. I’d have taken her on top of that small mattress on the floor, and I’d have had her rough and hard, her body pinned beneath mine, her legs over my shoulders, her hands balled into fists on the sheets that smelled like her sweat.

  But I’ll get what I want too. And after all the shit she’s put me through—terrorists, and Circuses, and killing Blotters, and driving stolen vans, and getting shot—what I want is her begging me for it.

  What I want is her doing what I tell her for once.

  I pause at the end of the alley, placing my hand on the wall opposite to stop the Twist from walking onto the main street. The smell of stagnant water and shit is heavy in the air. The river is just ahead, and unlike the border between One and Two, there’s a high-security gate blocking the steel bridge that crosses it. Blotters are stationed on either side.

  ‘That’s the place?’ she says, looking at a flickering blue Stylus light marking a tall building on the corner of the street.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We could take refuge in the black market Maggie told us about.’

  ‘No. Blotters’ll be after us soon. And that’ll be the first place they look.’

  It’s true. It is. But I also want her alone in one of those rooms. And I want her in a place that’s unfamiliar to her, so for once, I’m not the one who’s completely out of their depth.

  ‘It’s getting light. We’re taking one of these rooms,’ I say.

  She tenses but then nods. We head onwards.

  ‘Remember the plan when we’re in there,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not much of a plan, Jay. You just told me to shut up.’

  ‘Yeah. And you’re going to, right? Because I’m knackered, I’ve been shot already since I’ve been with you, and I can’t be arsed with killing everyone you manage to piss off when we get in there.’

  ‘I won’t say a word.’

  I sta
re at her, raindrops rolling down her face and sticking her hair to her scalp, trying to work out whether she’s taking the piss. ‘Right. Good.’

  I grab her arm. It must hurt, but she doesn’t make a sound as I pull her towards the motel. The Blotters don’t spare us a second glance. Their guard is down. I’m just a Blotter enjoying myself between jobs. They don’t expect any Cuts tonight—it is not written in the ink that brands their skin.

  Yet.

  It won’t be long before the Creators adapt their story accordingly. They found the Circus pretty fast. The Twist thinks we’ll eventually get to the Final City, but that’s insane. Maybe I should have just killed her like I was supposed to; maybe it would have been a small mercy. Because after all she’s done, I can’t see her death being quick and painless. Not now. Not after she’s created.

  They’ll make an example of her. A story. One with a moral message: Do not defy the Creators.

  I swallow hard, tightening my grip around her arm. No. I’ll kill anyone who lays a finger on her. I’ll make her see how stupid this plan is. And I’ll keep her safe.

  But where the fuck is safe for either of us now? This library she and Sylvia were talking about? I don’t believe it.

  We reach the concrete building as the first weak rays of light start to cross the river. I nudge Elle towards the revolving doors, pressing my body into her back as I reach over her shoulder to push the glass. For a moment, I feel her warmth against my chest. And then we’re in the dingy lobby.

  It’s a shithole in here. It reeks of cigarette smoke, damp, and sewage, and there are stains all over the red carpet. Thankfully, it’s empty except for the oily guy behind the wooden desk. He has slicked-back grey hair, and his watery eyes slither all over Elle. I hate this creep.

  ‘Welcome, sir, welcome. And what can I do you for this evening? No request is too big for an agent of our beloved Creators.’

  Elle’s arm tenses beneath my fingers.

  ‘Four nights. No interruptions,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, sir.’ He shuffles, turning to the wall of hooks behind him. He takes a brass key from one. ‘First floor, room on the left with the blue light.’ He grins, exposing crooked yellow teeth as he glances at Elle again. ‘Pretty little thing. I wouldn’t mind a go on her myself.’

  My jaw sets. The muscles in my arms tighten. I want to reach over and smash his face into the desk. I want to rip his fucking head off. I breathe hard, containing the storm. She wouldn’t want me to do that.

  ‘I heard a story about a man like you. Would you like to hear it?’

  I jerk my head to the side. Elle holds his gaze.

  For the love of the Creators . . .

  ‘I told you to shut your mouth.’ My voice is rough, and she flinches. Good. She needs to look scared of me. She needs to keep her mouth shut, not be spouting off forbidden words in a place like this. I drop her arm. I run my hand over my mouth. Then I step forwards and place both palms flat on the desk, bringing my face close to the guy’s and smelling his rank, sour breath. I lower my voice. ‘She’s mine. Understood?’

  His eyes widen. He’s terrified. He should be.

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. It was . . . meant as a compliment, sir.’

  I grab the brass key. Then I snatch Elle’s arm and drag her to the stairs across the room.

  I’m pissed off. Pissed off at that creep, pissed off I couldn’t kill him, pissed off Elle didn’t do as she was told.

  I march her up the stairs in silence and pull her down a long corridor. Cigarette smoke wafts beneath one of the doorways, and the sound of a woman moaning comes from another. I unlock a door halfway down, with a blue light blinking above, signalling it is vacant. I shove her inside.

  ‘What the fuck did I tell you?’ My voice is low as I lock the door behind me.

  She turns to face me. ‘I’m supposed to let him speak to me like that? Some guy who licks the arse of every Blotter in the Draft after they’ve spent a day killing his own people? Piece of shit.’

  ‘You’re supposed to do what you’re told.’ I bring my face close to hers. ‘You’re not supposed to start spouting off stories in public. We’re on my turf now, little Twist. We’re not at your little Circus anymore. This is the real world, and you’re going to get yourself killed. Understand?’ When she tries to look away, I grab her chin. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Do not patronise me. I’ve survived this long.’

  ‘Because it was written you would survive this long. Your time is up. Do you get that?’ I moisten my bottom lip, and she looks as if she wants to bite me. Try it. ‘Little Twist?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  I let her go, and she turns away from me, breathing hard. I sigh as I lean against the wall, scanning the room as I calm myself down.

  I’ve been here before, but not this room. They all look the same though. The only item of furniture other than the mattress on the floor by the barred window is the wonky dresser with a full ashtray and a cracked mirror on top of it. There’s an ajar door to my left that leads into a bathroom reeking of piss, and black mould creeps up the striped wallpaper that peels from the walls.

  It’s similar to the bedsit I’ve been stationed in for the past four years. In my experience, most places in Drafts One to Three are like this. Shit, basically.

  When Elle finally turns to face me again, her hair is wet, and rain drips off her jacket onto the carpet. There’s an unreadable look on her face.

  ‘I don’t belong to you, Jay.’

  I frown. ‘What?’

  ‘You told him I was yours.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t belong to anyone. Not you. Not the Creators. Not anyone.’

  Something tightens around my throat, and I crack my knuckles. ‘Look, there was a situation, and I dealt with it, okay?’

  ‘Blotters don’t lie. You said I was yours.’

  ‘Shut it.’

  She swallows. ‘I suppose you’re used to hearing people talk about women like that.’

  ‘I dealt with it.’

  ‘Is that how you talk about women too, Jay?’

  I step closer. ‘Careful, little Twist.’

  ‘Is that how you know about this place? You come here and share women with your Blotter friends?’

  ‘Course I don’t.’

  She pushes my chest, but I don’t move.

  ‘You need to calm down,’ I tell her, dropping my voice.

  ‘What if I don’t? What are you going to do?’ She pushes me again.

  This time, I grab her wrists and shove them behind her back, holding them there. She breathes in sharply. I walk until her back hits the wall. The weak morning light, distorted by the bars on the window, doesn’t quite reach us, and we stand in shadow, her breathing shallow.

  Her eyes blaze, and something relaxes inside of me. A slow smile spreads across my face.

  ‘What?’ she snaps.

  ‘I like you angry, little Twist.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  I study her face: the flush in her cheeks, the slight parting of her mouth, the rise and fall of her chest. I drag my teeth over my bottom lip.

  ‘I don’t know. I guess because it shows you’re human.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Of course I’m human.’

  I release her wrists and place one of my hands flat on the wall by her face. ‘You going to tell me what’s wrong? Or you going to carry on being a dick, picking fights you’re not going to win?’

  Her eyes don’t move from mine, and all the anger ebbs away. It’s replaced by something searching. Something lost. She looks at the puddle forming on the floor between us.

  ‘Look at me,’ I say.

  Slowly, she does. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The Circus, the Blotters . . .’ She releases a breath. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be that way.’

  ‘Well, believe it or not, things haven’t been exactly going to plan for me either lately.’

 
; Tentatively, she reaches for the tattoo that marks her death, slipping her fingers through the tear in my top. ‘Do you regret it?’

  I put my hand over hers, enveloping it and holding it to my chest. ‘No.’ I surprise myself at how quickly I say it, how certain I sound.

  When her eyes meet mine, the lost look is still there, but there’s something behind it. Something urgent. I lean closer, holding her hand against my pounding heart.

  ‘Tell me what you need, little Twist.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Elle

  One of his hands is flat on the wall by my face. The other curls around my fist, holding it to his wet chest. I feel his heart pounding beneath hard muscle. His eyes do not move from mine. His thigh is between my legs, pinning me to the wall as he towers over me.

  And I’m hot. Too hot. He’s like a furnace; the heat radiating from him fills the motel room. It stokes the fire building inside of me. My throat is tight with the effort it takes to contain it.

  ‘Tell me what you need.’ His voice is low and gruff as gravel.

  I want to lose myself. I want to escape. I want to find a way to make this hurricane of guilt that rages in my chest disappear. I want him to take it away. I want to feel his hard body pushed against mine. I want to scratch my fingernails down his back and bite his bottom lip and know what his rough hands would feel like on my skin.

  Yet he’s a Blotter. He’s a killer. People like him took my father. He doesn’t care that people died at the Circus.

  And I want him.

  I want to make him bleed.

  My gaze drops to his tattooed knuckles, then to his vest that clings to the hard ridges of his torso. He releases my hand and brings his finger to my chin, tilting it up so I meet his gaze.

  ‘Look at me,’ he says.

  His eyes are dark and searching. I do not have my story tattooed onto my skin, but it’s like he’s trying to read me all the same. It makes my blood run even hotter. He has been guarded about his curiosity since we met. Yet now it is plain to see on his face.