I stood, understanding what he needed. I opened my arms to catch her, to prevent her from clinging to Gil. It felt wrong to separate them. So, so cruel. “We just have to be patient, Olive. He’ll—”
“No!”
I clutched her close, bending down to kiss her temple. “Remember what we talked about? How Dad will be home soon? And then you’ll be together forever. This is the last time you guys have to be apart, okay? But you have to be strong.”
Olive sniffed. “I don’t want to be strong. I just want him to come home.”
Gil swallowed back agony as another buzzer went. “I’ll come home soon, Olive Oyl. I promise.” Kissing her cheek, he looked at me with every weight of the world. “Thank you for coming, O. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk.”
He went to touch me.
A guard came toward him.
He sighed and followed the other prisoners through the door.
His gaze never left us until he was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
______________________________
Gil
“JUSTIN...IT’S ME.”
Justin swallowed a mouthful of food, surprise in his voice. “How are you calling me, Clark? It’s in the middle of the day.”
“Prison allows phone calls.” I’d deliberately called during the week, and on his office line. This was a conversation just for us, and I couldn’t afford to be weak and not do what I should’ve done a long time ago.
In reality, I’d already made this offer.
In a text while walking through a forest with an unconscious O in my arms.
“True, yeah. Cool. Hey, do you want me to get Olive? She’s in the empty office next to me, drawing. She wasn’t quite up for school today, but she’s going tomorrow. She promised.”
Fuck.
Poor thing.
So many things to adapt to and accept.
Me gone. Justin her guardian. Returning to school after so long away.
I worried that she’d be picked on and held back. That a teacher would touch her like one had touched me. Familiar rage and fear crested through me, and I couldn’t swallow it back.
I just had to hope Justin was vigilant and wouldn’t accept her silence for an answer if she started to shut down.
“Don’t get her. This is just a quick call.”
“Okay...what’s up?” His voice turned serious. “Everything going okay in there? You safe?”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“All good.” I sidestepped the question. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be honest, but he didn’t need to know about the beatings I’d already taken or the threats. Other inmates didn’t believe I wasn’t involved with the girls’ murders and dished out their own punishment.
I’d held my own.
I’d find my rank in the hierarchy.
Eventually.
“I didn’t call to talk about me.”
“Okay...what did you call to talk about?” His voice changed, turning wary.
As he should.
I couldn’t seem to stop asking this guy for goddamn favours. “First, how is Olive? She all right?”
Justin cleared his throat. “As well as can be expected. She’s still guarded around me at night, when it’s just us. I don’t push her, though. She’s much better when O stays over.”
My heart stopped beating. “She what?”
“Yeah, sorry, mate. I wanted to tell you but didn’t know how. I wasn’t coping the first few nights with Olive’s nightmares. O seems to have a magic touch and agreed to help Olive adjust.” He cleared his throat, pausing for a second. “Look, you should know that I asked O to move in with me.” He rushed as if terrified that I’d throttle him through the phone line. “Her lease is almost up, she hates her job, and she’s at a total crossroads on what to do with her life. While she figures out that shit, I invited her to stay with Olive and me. To help ease everyone into this new routine, you know?” He kept talking, not giving me a chance to interrupt. “You know O is thinking of travelling. At least this way she can save up some money before she goes. And...I can keep an eye on her for you. I know you’ll worry about her, and if she does move in with me for a little while, you can relax knowing I have both of your girls safe.”
He stopped.
The line crackled.
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.
The Finished Masterpiece (Master of Trickery Book 3) Page 70