by Grace Lowrie
Chapter Twenty-seven
In his own bossy way, Bay had made a mockery of my boring ‘London To Do’ list. He’d subverted it completely by taking me to see and do things that I never would have experienced on my own. Who knew I had it in me to crowd-surf at a live rock gig? OK it was my idea to take it that far, but it was Bay that gave me that confidence – he was so unlike anyone I’d ever known. He was often rude and said harsh things, but his actions were a complete contrast. The way he looked at me, really looked at me, as if searching my soul; the way he cared for me when I was hurt or tired; the way he went out of his way to show me new places… he challenged me on a daily basis and I loved meeting him head on and shocking him in return. We had become friends and, as I’d implied to Marguerite when they’d met, I trusted him to look out for me.
I’d never admit it aloud, but Bay was the coolest friend I’d ever had. Take my idea to watch a 3D screening of Titanic for example. From the expression on Bay’s face you’d think I’d proposed a trip to the dentist. I’d flushed with embarrassment as I gave it more consideration. Of course he didn’t want to go and see Titanic – it was one of the most romantic films around – he probably thought I was trying to lure him into a date. But instead of shooting it down he simply said, “I have a better idea”.
Three days later here we were lounging on the grass beneath the stars on a mild summer’s evening, watching The Dark Knight on a large screen. It was ironic that Bay had brought me to The Luna Cinema since I’d never told him my stripper name. The pop-up screen was situated in a royal park, right alongside the Thames, with the Houses of Parliament looming up behind it. Softly lit in all its Gothic splendour, the architecture provided the perfect backdrop to one of Bay’s favourite films. It was surprisingly comfortable leaning side-by-side against a wedge-shaped backrest, blankets draped across our legs and plastic cups of warming red wine in our hands.
We sat right at the back of the open space near the tree line with the other smokers, and the atmosphere was both stimulating and pleasantly subdued. Despite being outside, I’d never seen Bay looking so relaxed. He’d brought a sketchpad and a chewed pen with him and had half-heartedly sketched various members of the audience while the movie washed over us. But now his pen had wandered off the page and he was doodling on my left arm; developing an intricate pattern of curved lines, the ballpoint tickling my skin and sending a subtle throbbing awareness throughout the rest of my body.
‘Do you think I should get a tattoo?’ I murmured.
Bay’s pen stilled and he raised his eyes to mine. They glinted in the flickering light of the movie. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’ I whispered, ‘I thought you’d approve.’
‘Just ‘cause I have them, doesn’t mean everyone should.’ His voice was gravely at my ear and made me shiver. The soundtrack was loud enough to mask our conversation and created a strange sense of intimacy, isolating us from the rest of the audience as we lurked in the semi-darkness. ‘Anyway, I thought you didn’t like my tats.’
‘I never said that, you just assumed. Most of yours are rather dark, but I can still appreciate their beauty.’ On impulse I reached across his chest and pushed the sleeve of his T-shirt up to reveal his left shoulder. He stilled at my touch and I tried to ignore the body heat that radiated up my arm and the lure of his masculine scent. ‘I love this moon – it’s simple, but so powerful…’ His penetrating gaze implied he was caught up in some kind of internal conflict, and I withdrew again. Wondering what I’d said wrong I opened my mouth to apologise, but he cut me off.
‘It’s in memory of my mother – she died when I was fifteen,’ he muttered.
My throat tightened with emotion at this unexpectedly poignant and personal revelation. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Bay shrugged and looked away towards the screen, his head resting mere inches away from mine. ‘She was beautiful and popular and admired, but she was also remote.’
‘Remote?’
‘She was a writer – poetry mainly – but she suffered with insomnia and always preferred to be alone. She was magnetic, alluring and distant, like the moon.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said again, touching his hand where the pen was gripped tightly between his fingers. But he didn’t react. ‘Would I have read anything by her?’
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple falling and rising again, his profile outlined in the silver light of the screen. ‘I doubt it – her work was never very commercial.’
We observed in silence as Batman weaved his way through the streets of Gotham on his Batpod in a desperate race to rescue Rachel Dawes. But The Joker had deliberately given Batman the wrong address, and Commissioner Gordon couldn’t reach Dawes in time to save her. Harvey Dent’s heart-wrenching howl of agony made my eyes cloud with tears.
‘How did she die?’
Bay sighed, hooking his lighter and a cigarette out of the packet beside him and lit up. I knew I should take my insensitive question back, but my curiosity prevented me from saying the words. ‘Car crash,’ he said flatly. ‘She was driving. My Dad was asleep in the passenger seat but he was barely scratched. She swerved to avoid an animal or something and they hit a tree. But it was my fault they were on the road in the middle of the night – I was responsible.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d run away from boarding school. I was stranded in Scotland with no money and threatening to hitch-hike home. They drove out in the middle of the night to get me,’ he said.
‘That doesn’t make you to blame.’
‘How would you know?’ he was glaring at me.
‘Because you were fifteen—’
‘Just drop it, Cally—’
‘A child, for goodness sake—’
‘Shut the fuck up. I don’t need you to make excuses for me; you don’t know anything about it.’ Bay had got up and stormed off, disappearing into the shadows before I had a chance to reply.
I sat and watched the end of the film on my own, Bay’s pain ringing in my ears. It was no wonder he was hurt and angry, if he’d been blaming himself for the death of his mother for the past twenty-one years. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.
As the credits rolled I wondered if he’d left for good or whether I should sit and wait for him to return. Once the audience had dispersed and only the staff were left behind, I collected up my bag and Bay’s drawings and exited through the gate. He was waiting for me – leaning casually against a tree, his hands shoved deep down in his pockets. Neither of us spoke as he gently relieved me of his sketchpad and fell into step beside me. The laughter and raised voices of other people in the street only emphasised the awkward silence between us as we walked towards Westminster station. Eventually I spoke up, unable to take it anymore.
‘Would you design something for me? A tattoo I mean?’
Bay’s shoulders dropped and he rubbed the stubble at his jaw. ‘You should choose something yourself – you’re the one who’ll have to live with it,’ he said at last.
‘I know, but you’re so talented,’ I said, extending my arm and twisting it to catch the light so that I could admire the fluid design he’d drawn there. ‘Please, for me? I won’t get it done if I don’t like what you come up with…’
He smirked and shook his head. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Thank you.’ I grinned, hooking my arm through his. ‘Hey, shall we cross the river and walk along the Southbank?’
‘Nah, let’s walk up to Trafalgar Square, I know a great old pub near there and I need a drink.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
I’d always felt at home in Gibbs’ tattoo studio. I used to hang out there in the summer holidays when I was a teenager – soaking up the atmosphere, admiring the artwork all over the walls and on the bodies of the various patrons – biding my time until the day I had enough cash saved up to get my own. And even then, despite the grim circumstances that induced Gibbs to waive the usual rules and gift me my first tattoo, I didn’t feel nervous, only e
xcited. The familiar smell of the antiseptic, the firm feel of the leather chair beneath my fingers, the persistent, focused hum of the needle… it all added to the buzz.
Tattooing was personal expression in one of its simplest forms, but for me it was something to do with control; knowing myself well enough to make an indelible choice – having the confidence to scribe a part of my inner soul onto the outer shell of my body, a daily reminder of what lurked within. And it was highly addictive. No, I’d never felt uncomfortable about entering a tattoo parlour – until today.
I took a deep drag on my fag. ‘You don’t have to do this, Cally.’
‘You smoke too much.’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘OK, but you know smoking’s a filthy habit and bad for you, right? Far more unhealthy than getting tattooed.’
I stared at her, incredulous. ‘I’ve started cutting down, actually.’
‘Really?’
‘I chain-smoked before I knew you.’
‘Oh.’ She looked lost for a moment, but then a determined expression settled back in her features as she squinted in the evening sunshine. ‘I want to do this.’
‘You should really choose your tat yourself; something that really means something to you.’
‘But I wouldn’t know where to begin, and anyway this…’ she said, holding up my drawing of a peacock butterfly, ‘…this does mean something to me; it’s perfect, I love it.’
I scowled at her as I dragged more nicotine into my lungs, irritated by her careless attitude.
‘What? I assume there’s no ugly hidden meaning I should know about?’
‘No, of course not, it just reminded me of you, but I’ve only known you a few weeks—’
‘Three months and counting,’ she interrupted, cheerfully.
‘Like I said – weeks – this might not be the right design for you, are you sure you don’t want to sleep on it?’
‘I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,’ she said, her big blue eyes burning into my soul.
What had I done? I should never have shown her that damn drawing; should never have agreed to bring her here. And now, as we stood arguing in the car park, the day’s heat radiating off the dusty tarmac as the sun set, all I could think was that her beautiful flawless skin was going to be marred forever, and it was all my fault. I rubbed at my jaw in frustration. ‘What’s the hurry?’
She sighed and reached out, taking my clenched fist in her warm hand. ‘Please, Bay, I’m going in there to do this, right now, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d come with me.’
There was no way I was letting her go through with this alone. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ I muttered, dropping my fag butt and grinding it with my heel before storming towards the shop.
‘Yay,’ she said with a nervous laugh, running to keep up with me.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Despite its modest size, my tattoo took several hours to complete due to the intricate nature of the design, the vibrancy of the colours, and Gibbs’ patient, highly skilled approach. But it was worth all the discomfort. I’d fallen in love with Bay’s drawing the moment I’d set eyes on it. I recognised the pretty insect from his paintings, but this was much simpler in form, without the spider webs or dark embellishments. My butterfly was a touch smaller than life-sized, the wing tips slightly raised and a subtle shadow cast beneath so that it would look as though it had just alighted on my left shoulder. To me, butterflies symbolised transformation, and what could be more fitting now that I’d finally emerged from my chrysalis and spread my red wings? It seemed right to mark this moment in my life, and I was privately thrilled to be having a tiny piece of Bailey Madderson’s considerable talent branded on my skin.
The interior of the tattoo parlour wasn’t nearly as dark and intimidating as I’d imagined. I’d pictured a cramped, dingy, almost squalid-looking space filled with torture-chamber-style equipment, cigarette smoke and the rusty scent of blood. But this studio was bright and airy and spotlessly clean, with what looked like highly-sanitised medical equipment, comfortable leather adjustable chairs, colourful, framed artwork all over the walls and the reassuring smell of antiseptic in the air. Gibbs was a revelation, too – I’d envisaged a large, hairy man, but she was petite and female and had fewer tattoos than I expected. With her shaved head and ears adorned with a multitude of colourful glittering piercings, Gibbs radiated calm and smelled faintly of sandalwood. She donned a wipeable apron and a scarily large pair of dark-rimmed spectacles whilst she worked, but her spectacular talent was evident on the walls around me and, of course, on Bay’s bare skin.
Bay’s resistance to my getting a tattoo was surprising. As I settled into the chair and Gibbs marked the outline, Bay’s usual cavalier attitude was replaced by a strange tension. He was more nervous than me; his shoulders and face rigid with apprehension as he scrutinised every move Gibbs made. Thankfully the process was not as painful as I had feared, and once Bay began to relax, I did too. He said he’d created a monster; that there was no stopping me now; and that I would probably end up a tattooed lady in a travelling freak show. Before long Gibbs was scolding Bay for making me laugh and ordering me to keep still.
Trudy was a large, curvaceous woman with an enviously ample cleavage and a quiet demeanour. She assisted Gibbs by operating the sterilising machines, preparing the inks, and providing a steady supply of wipes and needles. But it was also clear, by the way the two women interacted with each other, that they were very much a couple in love.
A burly guy called Sol also worked in the shop. He might have been an apprentice of some kind, but he mainly stood behind the counter eating, as far as I could tell. It was apparent that Gibbs, Trudy and Sol had known Bay a long time. He was as rude to them as he was to everyone else, but there was an easy camaraderie in the way they traded insults, as if they were family.
Over the course of the evening several other people in the locality (each with their own distinctive tattoos) popped into the shop to catch up with Bay, having heard on the grapevine that he was there. And I enjoyed seeing him interact with his friends – witnessing the subtle but charismatic way in which he roused others, and the not-so-subtle antagonistic arrogance by which he kept them at arm’s length. Bay’s wolfish good looks, brooding masculinity, and effortless popularity made a potent combination that was undeniably sexy, and I found myself pondering, yet again, why he was so intent on hiding away from the world.
As the end of my session neared, Bay went outside for a smoke with the others, leaving Gibbs and I alone with the buzz of the needle and Placebo playing on an old-fashioned stereo.
‘So this is what it takes to lure Bay out of his cave, huh?’ Gibbs said.
I smiled. ‘Apparently so.’ I wanted to ask her why he was such a recluse, but I was too chicken. ‘Has he brought you many new customers in the past?’
‘A few referrals, but you’re the first he’s actually brought along personally. Bay’s always been a lone wolf.’
‘Oh.’ I was pleased to hear I was different; glad that Bay had not accompanied Willow the way he had with me. But it was sad to think of Bay so alone. ‘Did you do all of his tattoos for him?’
‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen him undressed, but as far as I know, yes.’
I flushed with heat at a mental image of Bay’s naked body. ‘They’re beautiful,’ I said.
‘Thanks. I’m just about finished here; you want to take a look?’ She held a mirror up at my shoulder and my eyes widened. My skin was inflamed, but the butterfly already looked amazing, delicately perched there like an exotic flower.
‘Wow! It’s perfect, thank you so much.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She set the mirror aside, dipped her fingers into a tub of lotion and began smoothing it into my raw flesh. ‘I’ll give you an after-care leaflet full of instructions. Make sure you follow them to the letter,’ she said, cleaning her hands and then carefully applying a bandage. ‘Try not to get it wet until it has healed a
nd keep it protected from the sun.’
‘OK.’
‘If you notice any signs of infection you come straight back here or you go to a doctor, understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘But once it’s healed, if it needs any touching up, I can do that, no problem.’
‘OK, thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Gibbs repeated, her back turned to me while she tidied things away.
‘Why doesn’t Bay like to go out?’ I blurted.
Gibbs turned around, her bespectacled eyes level with mine. ‘I don’t know for sure. I have a fair idea…’ her words came out slow and careful, ‘…but it’s not my place to say.’
‘No, of course not, sorry.’
‘Look, you seem like a sweet girl, and Bay is clearly fond of you, but just so you know, he has a lot of friends and we care about him a great deal. If you hurt him…’ she said, her voice hardening.
I stared back at her in alarm, as her threat hung in the air. ‘Oh! No. You don’t understand – I think you’ve got the wrong idea – I’m not… we’re not…’
‘She’s just my neighbour, Gibbs, stop prying,’ Bay said, returning through the door.
Gibbs glanced up at him, shrugged, and moved over to the counter while I pulled myself together. ‘I didn’t think she was your usual type,’ she said, as if I wasn’t there.
‘How much do I owe you?’ Bay said, ignoring her remark.
‘Hey, I’ll pay,’ I stuttered, scrambling to my feet.
‘No you won’t. I got you into this – it’s on me.’ Bay tossed a bank card onto the counter.
‘No, really, let me; I can afford it.’
‘Save your tips, Cally, you work hard for them.’
Heat rose to my face as if Bay had struck me. His comment wasn’t made with obvious contempt, but on top of being threatened by Gibbs and then dismissed as just a neighbour, it stung. ‘I’ll wait outside,’ I said.