Page 1 of Rivers of Ink
1
Callan Rivers wondered whether it was possible for him to hide out in the Trackside Social for the next twenty-four hours.
He needed an escape, needed to be invisible for a while. The bar was pleasantly busy with transient punters stopping for a few drinks after work before heading off to catch the train or going to another bar. It was perfect for him to be able to sit, undisturbed, at one end of the bar while lost in his own thoughts, drinking shot after shot to numb any sort of feeling.
Just like he had been pretty much every night since his brother Xander’s accident.
“Hey, Cal, how’s it going?” Vinny, one of the barmen he was vaguely acquainted with, immediately placed a double Jack in front of him.
“Been better.”
Vinny nodded solemnly. “Yeah, sorry to hear about your brother. Awful accident, mate, you must be…” His words trailed off as someone else caught his attention. “That one’s on the house, okay?” He darted off towards the other end of the bar, leaving Callan alone.
He perched on a stool and rested his elbows on the bar, cradling his chin in his hands. He cast a look around, seeing people enjoying themselves: having fun with friends, lovers, family. All the things he couldn’t—or rather didn’t want—to join in. The numbness that had been his constant companion for the last couple of weeks took hold, and he reached for the shot glass.
“Callan, sorry I’m late. I got chatting to the last guy who came in. He says his girlfriend wants to get a tattoo, but she’s scared. I said you’d be gentle with her.” Aidy Brown, Callan’s best friend, dropped his bag to the floor and settled onto the stool beside him. He waved at Vinny for a beer and gestured to Callan’s already empty glass for a replacement.
They worked together in Callan’s tattoo and barber shop, The Unbound Soul. Built from the ground up, it had been up and running for a little over nine months and provided intense competition for Cutting Ink across the other side of town. With stellar growth in their initial months, the shop now had three tattoo artists, including Callan; three barbers, including Aidy; and two gaping holes. One was because of the untimely departure of the studio’s receptionist; and the other, the head barber role, had been filled by Xander.
“I also posted the ad for the receptionist role on the Jobs in Oakridge page,” Aidy said, when their drinks arrived. “We really need someone to start soon, otherwise Pearl is going to go ballistic.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
Being able to have a more organised business was something they definitely needed, although the thought of replacing Xander made Callan sick to his stomach.
“I can only have one. Wren’s arranged a menu tasting at The Stratfield Barn and I’m already late.” Aidy slugged his beer and checked his watch. “She’ll be here in, shit, less than five minutes.”
“How are things going with the wedding planning?”
“Pretty full on, but I think we’ve got most things sorted. Wren’s less Bridezilla than others I’ve heard about.”
The smile Callan gave felt wooden. Not that he wasn’t happy for Aidy and Wren, they really did make the perfect couple. His own love life was pretty non-existent right now. If he had more support, perhaps he could get through Xander’s funeral without totally losing it. It wasn’t looking good right now.
The door swung open again, and Aidy’s gaze immediately went to it. When he saw a redhead scanning the room, he jumped up, grabbed his bag, and gave Callan’s arm an affectionate punch. “Gotta go, buddy. I’ll see you tomorrow. Take it easy, yeah?”
Aidy’s words echoed in his ears as Callan ordered yet another whisky. His phone vibrated, and he pulled it out of his pocket. His father’s number flashed up on the screen. Callan stared at it. He knew he ought to answer it, what was he going to say?
The conversations he and Drew Rivers had needed to have over the past week or so were more out of necessity than want, not the sort of father/son chats they should be having. No casual banter about girls and dating, no sports chat. Instead it was practicalities such as coffin choice, whether there ought to be flowers, or whether they should ask for donations to charity. It wasn’t normal.
He placed his phone face down on the counter and took another drink.
The whisky burned a path down his throat, and he winced. It felt like it was the pain he needed right now.
The phone twitched, the evidence that Drew had left a message. Callan didn’t want to listen to it, didn’t want to deal with the reality of what was happening. He much preferred being in the bar, in a transient state, nowhere to be, nowhere to have been.
As he finished the drink, he caught Vinny’s eye and ordered up another.
Maybe obliteration was the answer.
His eyes fell on an abandoned order pad and pencil that one of the staff had left on the bar. He pulled it towards him and found a clean page, ripping out a sheet so as not to mess with any existing orders. Callan began sketching, harsh lines forming a shape on the page. As he drew, everything around him ceased to exist: the other people in the bar, the message from his father, Xander’s death.
The focus had him.
He worked quickly, the shape turning into a rose, and from the petals, a few dark, dark, tears.
“That’s pretty good.” A female voice broke into his reverie, and he glanced up, almost bewildered.
Callan looked back down at the drawing, his hand going to ball up the paper, but she stopped him, her hand gently covering his.
