Dark Ink

by Gary Kemble

  Harry laid it all out. The police invitation to the mystery case. The alluring Lily Sweeney, aka Mistress Hel. Don Clack – the scumbag using union dues to pay a dominatrix. The paedophilia investigation, and Phil’s warning. Everything that had happened between Bec and him. Well, not everything. He left out the sex part – he was a bloke; there were some things blokes just didn’t talk about. And he left out his looming appointment with Mistress Hel. Even though that was the one thing that had been dominating all his thoughts for the past week.

  Dave nodded. ‘Yeah, you’ve got a lot on,’ he said. ‘But at least it’s not up there with all the shit you went through last year, right?’

  Harry nodded, slowly.

  ‘And you got through that all right, yeah?’

  Harry nodded again. ‘With a little help.’

  Dave smiled, held his big hands up, palm out. ‘And I’m here now, to help you, if I can.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I think I’ve got it. I mean, thanks.’

  ‘But you don’t want your work destroying what you’ve just got going with Bec, right?’

  Harry sipped his coffee, even though stimulants were the last thing he really needed. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So you have to talk to her, man.’

  ‘She thinks I’m hiding something from her.’

  ‘And are you?’

  Harry stared at his hands. Clenched them into fists. ‘It’s not like that. I’m . . . I’m trying to protect her.’

  ‘And are you trying to protect me?’

  Harry groaned in frustration. He didn’t want to talk about Lily Sweeney any more than necessary. It was as though the mere mention of her name made that deep, hot pit of longing even deeper, even hotter.

  ‘Okay. Look. I thought . . . I thought I could draw the mistress out by making out that I wanted to . . .’

  ‘Wanted to what?’

  ‘You know. Wanted to see her.’

  ‘See her?’ Dave’s face lit up, his mouth opened and he bellowed laughter. He slapped the table so hard Harry’s mostly full cup slopped over the edge.

  ‘Yeah, laugh it up. Anyway, so she texted me to confirm my, ah, my appointment. And that’s what Bec wanted to see – that’s what she wanted to know.’

  Dave was still laughing. His laughter was so infectious that it melted Harry’s anger away. For a moment it even melted the befuddlement away, and things didn’t look so bad.

  ‘Shit, Harry. You’re fucked.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘You’re seriously fucked.’

  Harry nodded, sipped his coffee.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell her it was an interview or something? Tell her you were confirming an interview time?’

  ‘I dunno. Just got caught flatfooted.’

  Dave nodded, getting that thoughtful expression again. Harry looked over Dave’s shoulder. He didn’t want his friend digging down that hole anymore. He’d lied. And Dave’s bullshit detector was only slightly less effective than Bec’s. Which, of course, was the real reason he hadn’t lied to her.

  Walking through West End, Harry found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on what Dave was saying. Instead, he saw Mistress Hel everywhere, taunting him. He adjusted his pants to try to disguise the bulge there. Harry wished he could put his headphones in and crank the volume, but even if he hadn’t been with Dave, his head ached and his ears were red raw from having buds in so much. Then his eyes focused on the front of West End Tattoo. Other than the name, it looked like an accountant’s office: sky blue blinds, black door.

  ‘Hey, Dave,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Does that mate of yours still work at West End Tattoo?’

  ‘Sian? Yeah. Why?’

  ‘Can you see if she can do a favour for me?’

  * * *

  Sian looked from Dave to Harry and back to Dave. ‘We don’t usually do walk-ins,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, I know . . .’

  ‘And as you can see, it’s not actually quiet today,’ she said, flicking through the dog-eared diary on the counter. The bench-seating around three sides of the reception area was crammed with people: a middle-aged man in a business suit, checking his iPhone; a young woman in a TISM t-shirt, her knee bobbing up and down to whatever was pumping through her headphones; another woman nervously flicking through an art portfolio. Tattoo machines buzzed away behind the Japanese screen at Sian’s back, and also from the room up the stairs to Harry’s right.

  Sian slid her finger down the day’s appointments, and tapped on an entry scrawled in pencil. ‘Hang on.’ She picked up the phone. ‘Hey Jaya, did your eleven thirty show? Uh huh. Can you do a walk-in? Cool, thanks.’ Sian put down the phone. ‘You’re in luck. Go on up.’

  Dave grinning. ‘Thanks, Sian. I owe you one!’

  ‘No probs.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Harry said. ‘Seriously.’

  Sian smiled. Then the phone rang. ‘West End Tattoo. Sian speaking.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave.’

  ‘Want me to come up and hold your hand?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ Harry deadpanned. ‘I’ll catch you later.’

  Up the top of the stairs was another reception area with a black leather sofa and low coffee table covered with tattoo magazines and art books. From behind more Japanese screens came the sounds of tattooists at work. Jaya emerged from one of these workspaces, dressed in a purple t-shirt and old jeans. She smiled and offered her hand.

  ‘Jaya.’

  ‘Harry.’

  She gestured to the lounge. ‘Take a seat.’

  Harry sat, and Jaya perched on the armrest.

  ‘So, what can I do for you?’

  Harry bunched his hands into fists, curling his fingers so hard his nails dug into his palms.

  ‘I . . . uh . . . got a tattoo last year, on the back of my neck,’ Harry said.

  ‘Oh yeah? Let’s take a look,’ she said.

  Harry leant forwards so Jaya could see the strange tattoo.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Was that done by hand?’

  ‘Yeah, it was.’

  ‘Those symbols, what do they mean?’

  ‘It’s Afghan in origin. It’s a protective design. Kinda to ward off bad luck.’

  ‘Cool,’ Jaya said, but she didn’t sound so sure.

  ‘So I wanted to get some companion tattoos,’ Harry said. He focused hard and managed to picture Bec. ‘I was thinking swallows.’

  ‘Uh huh. Well, if you wanted something to go with the Afghan theme, there’s the wire-tailed swallow.’ Jaya pulled her phone out of her back pocket and did a quick search, then showed Harry a picture of two birds in a nest: black wings, white chests, and a flash of red on their heads. She swiped to another picture, this one of one of the birds in flight, the bifurcated tail trailing to a fine filament on each side.

  ‘Wire-tailed swallows?’ Harry said.

  Jaya shrugged. ‘I do lots of birds.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Where were you thinking?’

  Harry considered. Should he get them over one of the burn scars from the lightning strike? No. It felt wrong. The burns had removed almost every one of Rob’s tattoos. This was about him, not Rob. A vision of Mistress Hel came unbidden to his mind, and he flexed his hands into fists again. He stared at his hands.

  ‘My hands. One on the back of each hand.’ So the swallows were apart, but could be together.

  Jaya frowned. ‘Have you had any other tattoos, other than the one on the back of your neck?’

  ‘No,’ Harry said. He didn’t want to get into all that.

  ‘Because some people find the hands quite painful,’ she said. ‘There’s not much fatty tissue or muscle in your hands.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Harry noticed the look Jaya was giving him. ‘I mean, I want to feel this. This is for someone who means a lot to me, so I want to feel it.’

  ‘It’s your funeral. Let’s rock ’n’ roll.’

  * * *

  Harry thought he
was ready for the pain but it still caught him by surprise. He sucked air through his teeth, then laughed when Jaya stopped the machine and raised her eyebrows at him.

  ‘Told you,’ she said.

  Harry took a deep breath. ‘Okay, good to go.’

  The first five minutes were the worst. The sensation of the needle piercing his skin sixty times a second felt like an intense scratching, and then when Jaya went over the bones in his hand the vibrations coursed up his arm like an electric current. Harry closed his eyes and leant back in the chair, focusing on his breathing. He visualised the picture of the swallow Jaya had shown him in her book of tattoo designs. He visualised a wire-tailed swallow, soaring through the clear blue Afghan sky, darting down through the poppy field below, twisting and turning and taking in the vistas of the vibrant greens and browns of the land below, and the blue-greys and whites of the mountains in the distance. For a few hours he forgot all about Mistress Hel, and paedophiles, and corrupt cops.

  ‘Hey,’ a voice said. ‘Hey! Harry!’

  Harry opened his eyes. He was covered in sweat. The tattoo on the back of his neck was on fire, as was his hand. Jaya was staring at him.

  ‘You okay?’

  Harry blinked a couple of times. His head felt woolly but it was a good feeling, like waking after a good night’s sleep. He nodded.

  ‘Here,’ Jaya said, passing him a can of Coke. He took a swig, enjoying the sensation of the fizzy bubbles in his mouth, then set the can on the side table next to his chair.

  Jaya wiped the blood off his tattoo. ‘Just about done,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

  The swallow was beautifully shaded and even though his flesh was red and swollen, it was a great piece of art. He turned his hand this way and that. ‘Looks fantastic,’ he said.

  ‘You sure you want to get both done today?’

  Not really, Harry thought. But he could feel Mistress Hel back there, hidden momentarily by the pain, or maybe by the chemicals his brain was producing in response to the pain. He had two tattoos now, but there was power in the number three. When he closed his eyes he visualised an equilateral triangle, glowing in the darkness.

  ‘I can book you in for a couple of weeks,’ Jaya said.

  ‘No, today,’ Harry said. ‘If you have the time, I’d love for you to finish today.’

  Jaya smiled. ‘No probs.’

  CHAPTER 25

  Harry sat awkwardly in the doctor’s surgery, while Dr Boyd went through his file on the computer. His hands throbbed. Harry bunched them into fists and smiled at the pain. He looked down and couldn’t quite believe he’d gone through with it. Two swallows, one for each hand. Both shaded beautifully. Harry glanced from his hands to the doctor’s boots. Cowboy boots. Tooled leather, deep brown. Harry remembered that last time he’d been here, Dr Boyd had told him about his Johnny Cash tattoo.

  ‘So, how are things?’ Dr Boyd said. ‘It’s been a while. New tattoos, I see?’

  ‘Yep. Just got them done.’

  ‘Nice birds.’

  ‘Swallows. The old mariners used to believe they were a good luck charm, to get them home safe. And a sign of fidelity.’

  ‘Make sure you keep them clean, okay? Other than that, you’re well?’

  ‘Yeah, good.’

  ‘Headaches?’

  ‘A couple but nothing too bad.’

  ‘Ringing in the ears? Dizziness?’

  ‘Nope. That’s totally cleared up.’ Other than that caused by the loud music.

  ‘Good.’

  He grabbed the ophthalmoscope and checked Harry’s eyes, then swapped it for the otoscope and had a look in both his ears.

  ‘Any problems with your vision?’

  ‘No. Right as rain.’

  He got Harry to roll up his sleeve, then wrapped the black cuff around Harry’s upper arm and checked his blood pressure. When he was done he returned to his computer and typed some notes.

  ‘Do you mind if I check how the scars are healing?’

  ‘No, that’s fine.’

  Harry pulled his shirt off. Dr Boyd put on his magnifying glasses and peered at a couple of areas on Harry’s back.

  ‘Remarkable. The human body’s ability to heal itself.’

  He looked at Harry’s arm, where there used to be a tattoo of a drowning man. Now there was just some mostly healed scar tissue, a little pinker than the rest of the skin around it.

  ‘Amazing. It’s just amazing how it lifted the tattoo off your arm.’

  Harry blushed. He thought of Phil’s vague threat against him, telling him of all the footage they had of Harry carrying a sniper rifle through the mall on that fateful day the previous year. There was this, too. Medical records. The only reason no-one had really picked up on the issue with the tattoos and the scar tissue was that they couldn’t conceive of what had happened to Harry. And even if they could, they wouldn’t believe it. What else was out there? Would he ever be free of this? Ever be truly normal?

  Harry slipped his shirt back on.

  ‘Well, that’s it then. You’re cured,’ Dr Boyd said. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Yeah, actually. It’s, ah . . . it’s a bit personal.’

  Dr Boyd looked straight at Harry. He didn’t even blink. ‘That’s okay. I’m your doctor. You can tell me anything.’

  ‘I can’t come. I mean, I can’t ejaculate.’ Harry looked at the carpet.

  ‘Oh. Okay. Since when?’

  ‘I’m not sure. A couple of weeks?’

  ‘And can you still get an erection?’

  At the mere mention of the word, Harry started growing stiff in his pants. He crossed his legs, praying Dr Boyd wasn’t about to have a look.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re still able to have intercourse – maintain the erection throughout intercourse?’

  Harry thought of Bec, sweaty, telling him that she’d had enough. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you in a sexual relationship at the moment?’

  ‘Yeah . . . no . . . it’s complicated.’

  Dr Boyd returned to the computer. ‘Okay, that’s good. It’s probably not much comfort to you, but I can tell you that there are most likely a lot of guys who envy you. I bet your girlfriend is impressed.’

  ‘Yeah, well . . . no. You know, she wants to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Uh huh. Well, let’s take a look. Do you want to undo your pants and hop onto the examination table?’

  Harry nodded, glad that the erection had gone back down. He undid his pants, climbed on the table and lay down. He was glad, too, that he didn’t have to look at the doctor.

  ‘If you could just slide your pants down for me, Harry.’

  Harry did as he was asked.

  ‘And pull your foreskin back.’

  Harry complied.

  ‘Have you had any itchiness?’

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘Any pain?’

  For a moment Harry’s mind flashed with Mistress Hel, lashing him with a whip. Then it passed.

  ‘It feels heavy down there. I’m getting some pain, a pulsing sort of pain, up through my abdomen.’

  ‘Uh huh. Okay, you can pull up your pants now.’

  Harry buttoned up while Dr Boyd washed his hands at the sink next to the door.

  ‘Well, I can’t see anything physically wrong with it. Your testicles are a bit swollen. That would explain the discomfort you’re experiencing. Take a seat.’

  Harry got off the table and sat at the doctor’s desk again.

  ‘There are two possible causes. It could be something physical. We can send you for a scan to rule that out. It could also be psychological. Sometimes, the brain can get some aversion to ejaculation. So everything else feels fine, the brain just associates some negative connotations to ejaculating. And then, if it happens once, your mind fixates on it, so that when you’re in a position where you feel you should be able to come, the brain steps in, getting anxious about it, and that detracts from the pleasure you’re exp
eriencing, and then you can’t. So it feeds on itself.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Generally, if it’s a psychological problem, you can work through it with a bit of cognitive behavioural therapy. I can give you some fact sheets on that. If it’s physical, the blockage can clear itself. Otherwise, we can give you some treatment to clear it. Most of the time though, that’s not necessary.’ Dr Boyd paused. ‘Can I ask – you said that your relationship status is complicated – do you feel comfortable talking about that?’

  ‘It’s nothing that interesting. Just . . . on-again, off-again,’ he said. He gave Dr Boyd a brief history.

  ‘That could be it. I’m no psychologist, but it could be that you’ve built it up so much that now you’re worried that it won’t live up to your expectations. You can’t let go.’

  Harry nodded. He hadn’t mentioned anything about Mistress Hel, but he had a feeling she had at least something to do with it. It was as if he was saving himself for her.

  Dr Boyd turned to his computer, brought up some information, printed it out and handed it to Harry.

  ‘Check these out,’ he said. ‘The good news is that, although it’s good for your prostate to give the old tubes a flush out regularly, it’s not essential. The seminal fluid will get reabsorbed into your testes. Obviously, it’s not something you want to live with but my advice would be to take a look at the handouts and see how you go.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  * * *

  Harry sat in the park, flicking through the handouts. The key, if it was psychological, was to gradually break down the association between coming and sexual fulfilment. To focus on the smaller things. Kissing, touching. Taking a more mindful, holistic approach to sex.

  Harry looked into the cold, blue sky. Everyone seemed to be suggesting he needed to make up with Bec. But as he read through the pamphlet, all he could think about was Mistress Hel. Kissing her. Her touching him, gently. That half-smile of hers. That husky voice.

  The desire filled him. He closed his eyes. No matter what the doctor said, it felt like nothing was being reabsorbed. It was all collecting inside him, these feelings, growing to a point that he couldn’t bear. He flexed his hands, the burst of pain giving him a moment of relief.