Page 11 of A Long Way Back
Dog wagged his tail and turned to watch the cab pull away. It was the third time Ink had seen the guy on the high street, though on the other two occasions, he’d been in a wheelchair. Ink was glad he could walk, even if he was struggling. His speech was a touch slow too. Sort of deliberate. Maybe he’d had a stroke or something. Ink respected people who kept trying. Particularly, this tall, good-looking guy who had so much pain etched in his face.
All he needed was a dog, something to take his mind off his problems. Ink sighed. Maybe that was a bit random, but he needed to find someone to look after Dog and why not Sad Guy? Dog stood up and nudged his calf gently with his nose.
Ink reached to stroke him. “Good boy.”
He was tired and wished he could lie down on the bench, but he couldn’t afford to get into trouble, especially with the police. Since he’d arrived in the capital six weeks ago, he’d moved from one hostel to another, and eventually to a squat a couple of miles away where he’d been living for the last two weeks. That was where Dog had found him, then refused to leave his side. But Ink couldn’t keep him. He’d used up almost all his cash and soon he’d have to find another place to live and that was doubly difficult with a dog.
Which meant leaving him. And it was going to be hard, because with Dog, he felt less lonely, a touch happier and a little safer. Of course, with Ink’s luck, Sad Guy would be allergic to dogs and have a home full of cats. Ink carefully poured Dog’s water back into the bottle he kept just for him, then pulled the sausage meat out of the pastry. He’d barely offered it before Dog gobbled it up. Ink ate the other sausage roll and the extra pastry.
He had money in a bank account, some of which he’d been given, some of which he’d earned, but he never used a cash machine unless he was leaving an area. He was pretty sure he could be tracked through his withdrawals, so when he did need money, he took enough to keep him going for a while in case he didn’t earn much busking, or by some other means. He wished he could withdraw it all and keep it on him, but the risk of losing everything was too great.
The ‘earning money bysome other means’was a last resort. He’d only done it five times—and yes, he was keeping count because it made him hate himself. But he had to eat and unlike most jobs he tried to get, the men he’d been with didn’t ask for ID. He swallowed hard at the bad taste in his mouth.Do not throw up.Each time he’d done it, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do it again, but he had.
Dog was sleeping now and Ink decided to risk staying on the bench a little longer. He wouldn’t be drinking the other coffee which he tipped into the gutter. He took his cigar box guitar from the bag strapped to his backpack, unwrapped it from his black hoodie, and tuned it by ear. He put the empty cups inside each other and set them on the ground near Dog, then ran through Coldplay’sViva La Vida, singing quietly, followed by a couple of James Morrison songs, thenApacheby the Shadows.
Coins were dropped, a few fifty pence pieces and a couple of pound coins along with coppers. He nodded his thanks. Ink always tried not to play for too long. It was safer to move before someone got pissed off. He wrapped his guitar back in his hoodie and put it away, pocketed the change, and tossed his rubbish into the nearest waste bin.
Ink was pretty sure that busking with Dog got him more money and he wished he could keep him, though not just because of that, but it wasn’t practical. He had nowhere to leave a dog if he got a job, not that he often did get work, but it happened sometimes. Plus, there was little to no chance of a place in a hostel if he had a pet. Ink had even left Dog outside the squat one night, hoping he’d go home or latch onto someone else, but the next morning, Dog had been lying right where he’d left him, and Ink’s guilt had kicked in.
Since Dog had attached himself, Ink’s only money had come through busking and it was barely enough to keep them both fed. He should have done what he’d planned to do when he’d seen the sad-looking guy with the crutches sit down. Ask him to look after Dog, then disappear, not go into the café and buy him a drink.And a sausage roll? What was I thinking?There was no point liking him. No point liking anyone. The sudden tightness in his chest was an all too familiar sensation and he let out a shuddering breath.
He walked back to the squat, picking up Dog when he felt he’d made him walk too far. Ink only used money on public transport when he was leaving an area for good. He’d walked around London until his feet were blistered, the city written on the soles of his feet. He’d stopped worrying about being captured on CCTV. There were so many cameras around, it was impossible not be caught, and dipping his head every time he saw a lens pointing in his direction would just make him look guilty of something.
It was unlikely the police were actively looking for him, but he’d be on a list somewhere because he’d gone off grid.Ink Farrow. Whereabouts unknown.The couple of people involved in his case would be wondering where the hell he was and hoping he didn’t get into trouble because that would mean trouble for them. But they’d let him down. They’d failed to keep him safe, so he’d run.
Ben Carterwouldbe looking for him. Ink definitely didn’t want Carter to find him, but the guy had made it clear he’d never give up. Goose bumps skittered down Ink’s body and he fought the temptation to look over his shoulder, because once he started that, he’d keep doing it.
Dog pressed his face into Ink’s chest as if he sensed his anxiety. Ink knew little about dogs or any other animals, other than what he’d read in books. He’d never had a pet. For all he knew, Dog was an old age pensioner and Ink figured if he didn’t want to be carried, he’d let him know.
He took care when he approached his temporary home; a tall, thin house with boarded and broken windows. There was even more rubbish in the front garden than there had been this morning. Cans and bottles had been thrown onto an old scorched sofa that had caught fire before Ink’s time. Rubbish attracted more rubbish. He suspected his time here was running out. He put Dog down to let him have a sniff around before they went inside. Once he’d cocked his leg, Ink called him back and picked him up again.
This place had been a chance find. He’d been looking for somewhere to sleep other than the street and seen Dog sniffing around outside. Ink had bent to stroke him and given him one of his sandwiches. That had probably been a mistake, but he didn’t like to see any animal hungry. Ink had found a way into the house at the back, not realising the place was already occupied. Dog had followed him.
No one had objected to him or Dog kipping in the attic, so they’d slept there for the last ten nights. Ink always took his stuff with him when he went out because he couldn’t be sure it would be there when he went back. He had a cheap laptop that had been given to him along with an email address, but Ink had never used the latter. Ever. He never even checked it. He couldn’t take the risk. He’d even wondered if they’d put a tracker in the laptop, but when they didn’t find him, he figured they hadn’t. The laptop was currently out of power. He needed to sit in a café and take a long time over a coffee while it charged. Not easy now that he had Dog.
The others in the squat were addicts and alkies. Most were a lot older than him. A few were kind, a few weren’t. Drugs and alcohol were not an escape he’d ever resort to. He understood the attraction of slipping out of this world, but he’d seen the consequences. Even if Ink could afford to let his guard down, drug-fuelled happiness didn’t last, and the search for that high grew ever more expensive and dangerous. Addicts would do anything for their next fix, including steal from a friend. So Ink had no friends. He didn’t trust anyone. He couldn’t.
One day, he’d find a way to turn things around. His heart twanged as he carried Dog up the stairs, missing the two broken steps. He had to believe he’d emerge from this tunnel one day or he might as well give up now. He’d been through so much, more than anyone could ever know or understand, and it hurt that he’d never be able to tell a soul, hurt even more that no one would ever believe his side of the story. It was fucking unfair, but he had no choice other than to accept it. It was a wall he couldn’t scale or knock down.
He had to stay under the radar or his life would be over. Plenty of people wanted his life to be over, though Carter wanted his story first. Ink had had death threats, particularly at the beginning. Someone who should have known better had deliberately shown them to him, wanted him to be scared enough to piss himself. Well, it had fucking worked. Fear had a permanent place in his head. He was always ready to run.
The attic was empty. Ink put Dog down and removed his rope lead. He unrolled his sleeping bag in the far corner behind a wall of empty boxes, laying it out on a strip of old carpet. His bunched-up jacket would be his pillow. He took out Dog’s water and food bowls and Dog scampered over to where Ink had hidden the bag of kibble. He needed to feed Dog early so he could take him out for a crap before it got dark. He was relieved the kibble was still there. He couldn’t easily lug it round with him. He’d figured someone would have to be pretty desperate to steal dog food.
Dog ate and drank, did his customary four and half turns and settled down at the foot of the sleeping bag. Ink had his own bottle of water and a small loaf he’d bought from the bakery-cum-café when he’d purchased the sausage rolls. He didn’t mind dry bread as long as it was fresh. It filled him up. He knew he was too thin. But he’d stopped feeling hungry all the time. His stomach must have got used to not getting much food.
INK WAS IN HIS SLEEPING bag, using a flashlight to read a charity shop novel about Russia, when he heard a commotion downstairs, shouts and someone screaming. He told Dog to stay, shoved his feet into his boots, and crept out of the attic to find out what was happening. A group had congregated around the door to one of the bedrooms on the next floor down and Ink descended the narrow attic stairs to stand behind them.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Dan’s overdosed,” someone said.
Oh God.“Anyone called for an ambulance?” Ink fingered the phone in his pocket. He didn’t really want to use it, but he would.
“Too late. He’s dead. We’re splitting.”
As people moved away from the door, Ink saw Beth sitting with Dan’s head in her lap. She was sobbing. He stepped into the room and crouched down. He liked Beth and Dan. They’d shared their food with him twice.
“Sure he’s gone?” Ink whispered.
