House of Cards, Page 2

  It was pathetic to his own ears as he sprinted towards the platform, but he pushed the wave of self-loathing aside and made the train with seconds to spare, stumbling on board as the doors closed behind him, snapping a sharp breeze over the back of his neck. Head down, he sidestepped along the aisle, searching for a vacant seat. Something thumped the window, but he didn’t react.

  He found a seat and slumped into it, biting his lip against the surge of anxious adrenaline rushing up from his stomach. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Damn. He needed a drink, a big one, a strong one, anything to quell the panic rising in his chest. What have I done? Rob wouldn’t forgive this, even if Calum went back now, and he had Calum’s whole life in his hands—the shop, the flat. Everything. I’ve lost it all.

  But as the train rumbled to life, an eerie calm abruptly descended on him, like a guillotine had cut his desperation off at the neck. I don’t care. And he didn’t. All he wanted was peace . . . and quiet, and on the crowded train, with people all around, for the first time in years, he had it.

  Lightened, Calum rested his head against the cool glass and felt months of tension drain away. His fragmented mind told him he still loved Rob, but his heart was ominously silent. And it was the silence that comforted him as the train began to move.

  It was half an hour before he remembered he didn’t have a clue where it was going, and for a long while, he couldn’t make himself care about that either. He’d get off once the train had left London and find a hotel for the night. Worry about the rest in the morning. The thought of crawling home to his parents was galling, but he’d always known that leaving Rob would send him to skid row.

  You don’t have to do this. Just get off the train and go home. But despite the suddenness of what had just happened, as hard as he searched, Calum couldn’t find any regret amongst the bucketload of fear dancing up a storm in his gut.

  Fuck this.

  He sat up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and looked around the train, wondering if anyone had noticed the pathetic bloke sniffling in the corner, but the elderly Indian couple opposite were far more interested in their supper than him. Calum eyed the curried potatoes they were eating, and his mouth watered. Rob didn’t like Indian food, preferring the MSG-laden gloop from the dodgy Chinese on the corner. Sod it. I’m having madras for breakfast tomorrow.

  Like a culinary act of rebellion would fix it all, Calum folded his arms tight across his chest and leaned against the carriage window, absorbing the weaving motion of the train. The adrenaline that had carried him this far began to fade, leaving him boneless and drained. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift, picturing his parents’ house in Reading: a poky two-up-two-down with a box room—Calum’s room—over the garage. Going back there would kill him, but there was one advantage: Rob would have no idea where he’d gone. In all the time they’d been together, he’d never visited Calum’s family home. Never cared enough to bother. His apathy had slowly destroyed Calum, but now, as the train rumbled on to who-knew-where, he knew it was, without doubt, the kindest gesture Rob had ever made.

  And he still had a bottle of rum stashed in his bag.

  “Peg, I don’t give a shit how busy you are, I don’t want them crates in my yard.”

  “‘Yard’? Jesus Christ, boy. You’ve been out of London years now and you’re still jabbering like a cockney?”

  “Whatever. Get them gone.”

  Brix Lusmoore put the phone down on his infamous aunt before she could rip him a new one, and ran a frazzled hand through his too-long straggly hair. How had the day become a shambles already? He’d barely woken up.

  He dropped his phone on the kitchen counter and went to the window, eyeing the crates of counterfeit DVDs that had mysteriously appeared on his patio overnight, except there was no mystery in it really. Aunt Peg always had her nose in a pie she shouldn’t, and if she wasn’t behind the shadowed delivery in his back garden, he’d eat his bloody hat.

  Not that he had a hat. Brix folded his favourite bandana and tied it around his wayward hair. Early it might have been, but he had shit to do, and he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, a cardinal sin where he was concerned. And the rest.

  Fuck you. Brix gave the whispering demon the mental bird and tore himself from the window, drifting to the fridge to take his chances. Nothing inspired him, which was unusual. It took a lot for Brix not to be hungry, but he felt odd this morning, like the wind had changed and the sea had brought a message to shore—he didn’t feel like eating at all. Too bad that leaving the house without breakfast was something he’d pay for. He didn’t have time for that crap today.

  Brix grabbed some bread and a jar of Mrs. Ivy’s strawberry jam—his favourite fallback when he couldn’t face another bowl of soggy cereal. He hacked off a wedge and smeared it with jam, shoving it in his mouth as he searched for the keys to his rusty old van. If he was going to be in Truro on time to meet the farmer, he had to move fast.

  He found the keys beneath a sack of corn, reminding him to feed the girls and dump it in the shed before he left. Outside, he scattered pellets and corn on the damp soil, amused, as ever, by the ballsy politics of his small flock of rescued hens—a dozen or so, in all, but soon to be more if he got his arse in gear.

  With the girls fed, he climbed into the van, started it up, and reversed down his steep, sloping driveway, onto the street below. Porthkennack roads were notoriously narrow, and despite knowing the town like the back of his hand, it took all his concentration to manoeuvre the van through the twists and turns until he hit the southbound A road.

  Truro was a forty-minute drive on a good day, and today was a good day. It seemed like he’d only just finished his slapdash breakfast when the sign for the small-scale commercial poultry farm came into view.

  He made the turn and coaxed the van down the dirt track that led to the two huge barns. The farmer was waiting outside, leaning against his own truck, a stack of wooden crates to his left. Brix pulled up and jumped out, the cash he needed already in hand. Experience had taught him that these transactions needed to be done fast, before he wound up feeling guiltier than if he’d not come at all.

  He handed the farmer the envelope. “A bull’s-eye, yeah?”

  “Can give you another five if you’ve got an extra cockle.”

  Brix considered it. Fifty quid was already a lot for forty chickens heading to the slaughterhouse, and five for an extra tenner made them expensive per bird, but then, he wasn’t buying them for their monetary value. “Sold. Load ’em up.”

  The farmer crammed five more chickens into the cramped crates that were probably bigger than the cages they’d come from. Brix paid him, loaded the crates onto the van, and then made his escape before the plaintive clucking of the doomed hens still on the farmer’s truck reached his ears.

  A little way away from the farm, he pulled into a lay-by and retrieved his phone from the dashboard. He brought up the group message he’d set up the day before and typed in the postcode of the meeting place, then sent the message with a smirk. These meets always reminded him of the warehouse parties he’d frequented in Brixton all those years ago, the ones that had no location until a van pulled up outside a disused factory and set up a rig. Oh, how life had changed.

  With the message sent, he set off again, heading for the quiet location where he’d meet the band of folk who were as soft-hearted as him, mainly ex-city types who’d never kept birds before, wanting to do their bit to keep the countryside going.

  Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the deserted quarry. He parked up and got out of the van, opening the back doors to give the hens some air. His fingers itched for the cigarettes he’d quit more than a year ago, a phantom tic he’d yet to shake. God, he missed a solitary smoke. Ironically, a snatched fag had often felt like the only time he could breathe. But it’s different now, ain’t it? And it was. Life back home in Porthkennack was as uniquely familiar as it had ever been, and for the first time in years, Brix wouldn’t change a thing . . . except one thin
g, maybe—

  Brix’s phone rang in his hand. He jumped and studied the screen. Peg. Typically, she hung up after one ring, obviously trusting that he’d call her back and foot the bill. And she was right. Brix placed the call. She picked up straightaway.

  “Ah, there you are, boy. I’ve been looking for yer all morning.”

  “Yeah? Where’ve you looked?”

  Peg clicked her teeth impatiently. “That’s enough of your cheek. Have you seen your dad?”

  “Not since Monday. Why?”

  “Ah, you know.”

  Peg spoke, as ever, like Brix was a fly on the wall to every hustle and scheme she had her sticky fingers in, but he resisted the urge to call her out. Reminding her for the second time that morning that he’d spent most of his life trying to avoid his family’s dodgy dealings would only set her off, and he didn’t have time for a Lusmoore loyalty rant today.

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Aye, okay. Well if you do, tell ’im I’ve got his dosh here from the bookies. If he’s not home by tea time for it, I’m having it for housekeeping.”

  Brix rolled his eyes. His father and Peg had been bickering for as long as he’d been alive. “He’ll be out on the boat till lunchtime. You know that. Have you moved those crates yet?”

  “Lord, is that the time?”

  “Peg, don’t take the piss—”

  “Now, you listen here, boy. Don’t go giving me none of your lip. I’ll fetch them later when I’m good’un ready and not a minute sooner. Tell yer dad to get his sorry behind home.”

  It was Peg’s turn to hang up, leaving Brix shaking his head. Damn woman was a hornet’s nest, and a royal pain in Brix’s arse, though her call had reminded him he was about due a check in with his cantankerous father.

  A vehicle rumbled up the dirt track to the quarry. Brix pocketed his phone and rounded the back of the van to take a look. Another car was behind it, and a Land Rover behind that. Game on. Fuck Peg’s smuggled fags and booze, and counterfeit crap; it was time to do something that mattered.

  Brix waited until all eight recipients of his group message had assembled by the quarry, and then unloaded his precious cargo. “Okay, folks. Who’s having what? I’ve got fifty girls here, all looking for forever homes.”

  A man who appeared even less like a chicken keeper than Brix raised his hand. “We’re taking six.”

  Brix nodded. “Got room for an extra? Farmer gave me a few more than I was expecting.”

  “I’ll take a couple, just don’t tell the missus.”

  “Awesome.” And so it went on. Brix rehomed forty-two hens, leaving him the five he’d committed to taking himself and three extra he’d need to place with whichever friends he hadn’t already foisted rescued chooks on, which wasn’t many. In fact, as he loaded the leftover birds and the crates onto the van, he couldn’t think of anyone who’d have the room, no one except . . . Aw, shit. Perhaps he’d be seeing his father sooner than he’d planned.

  Brix shut up shop, pocketing the nominal monies folk had paid for their chooks—barely enough to cover the fuel—and got back in the van. Damn thing stank of chicken shit, but the stench was worth seeing the hens packed off to new homes, even if it did mean giving up his lucrative Saturday slot in the studio.

  On cue, Brix’s phone rang again, the number for Blood Rush lighting up the screen. He plugged in the hands-free, then put the van in gear, reversing in an arc until he was facing the right way. “Yeah?”

  “Morning. Did I wake you?”

  “What do you think?”

  Lena, the studio’s receptionist, chuckled. “I think you’ve been up for hours, saving all the chickens in the world from the pot.”

  “Very funny.” Brix hung a left. “How many of my girls have you got up at the commune?”

  “Eighteen at last count, so don’t try it.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it, sunshine. All the lectures in the world about commercial egg production won’t give me any more room. You don’t want the poor things stacked up worse than where they came from, do you?”

  Of course he didn’t, and she knew it. Brix sighed. He’d have to go home and make more space, and take what he couldn’t house to his dad. “So if you haven’t called to take my extra girls off my hands, what do you want?”

  “I called to see if you can do an extra hour on Thursday. Some dude’s coming all the way from London, so he wants a long sitting.”

  “All the way from the big smoke, eh? Surely he isn’t coming just to get inked?”

  “That’s what he said. He nabbed your cancellation when I posted it first thing. Said the city studio he was booked at closed down overnight. Artist did a moonlight flit or something.”

  Fair enough. Brix was used to folk coming from all over the South-West to get inked at Blood Rush, but there was no shortage of awesome tattooists in London. Perhaps the dude was after a particular style. Brix let his mind drift over the designs he’d compiled the night before, ready for the week ahead. “Is this the dot work you emailed me about at 5 a.m.?”

  “The very same. I’ve priced it at four hours, so if you stay till six on Thursday, you can wrap it up.”

  Brix concurred, wondering for the umpteenth time how he’d manage without her. Lena looked pretty much like every soul who came to work at Blood Rush—neon haired, inked, and dangerous—and she ran Blood Rush so well he often joked that if she could do the ink herself he’d be out of a job. “What time is my afternoon appointment?”

  “Two thirty. Are you going to be late?”

  “Moi?” Brix turned onto Truro’s Station Road. “You say it like I’m late all the time.”

  “You are. I had to break into your house and pour a bucket of water on your head last week.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Brix couldn’t defend his tardy ways. He hadn’t even learned to tell time until social services had forced him into school when he was twelve. Before then, he’d relied on the sun, just like his dad. After all, who needed a watch when you had nowhere to be? Sometimes he missed those days.

  Brix said good-bye and disconnected the phone from the hands-free, tossing it on the seat beside him. He turned the radio on and fiddled with the dial, searching for something that wasn’t commercialised crap. Radio Padstow was the only setting he found that didn’t make him want to launch the stereo out of the window. Fuck, I’m getting old.

  He set the pirate-rock track to a low volume as the van rumbled past the train station. The station was the busiest in Cornwall, and Brix was used to seeing all types of folk flow in and out of it on any day he happened to pass by, but as he crossed the bus entrance, a lone figure on a bench caught his attention. The man was slumped, hood up, with his head in his hands, and Brix had never seen such a picture of abject misery.

  The van slowed, Brix’s foot subconsciously easing off the accelerator. Something about the set of the man’s broad shoulders was familiar. Brix eased to a crawl as he passed the bench and then stared hard in the wing mirror. The man’s hands were clenched into tense fists, but dark ink stained the tendons of his right hand, snaking out into an intricate web of black-and-grey Brix would recognise anywhere. Jesus Christ, it can’t be. But it had to be, because the unique design was the first of its kind that Brix had ever done, etched nervously onto the trembling hand of his gorgeous new apprentice eight years ago.

  Brix shook his head—I’ve got to be seeing things—but he pulled up and jumped out of the van anyway. Whoever the raven-haired, bearded fittie was, he looked like he needed help. “You all right there, mate?”

  The man didn’t move. Brix ventured closer, his gaze drawn to the ink. The dots spread out over flawless skin, weaving an image Brix already knew—a stag, with its antlers wrapped around the index and little finger, strong and proud, interwoven with the delicate touch that made dot work so special. It had aged well. Brix reached the bench and knelt down, tracing the antlers with his fingertip. “Calum? Is that you?”

  “Calum? Mate?”
r />   “Huh?” Calum looked up blearily and blinked at the latest apparition to cross his path since he’d fallen off a train at the bottom of the world. Great. Now he was imagining the first bloke he’d ever got a hard-on over. Would this nightmare never end? Not that imagining Brix Lusmoore was much of a nightmare. Even in the midst of the clusterfuck Calum’s life had become, Brix was bloody gorgeous. Shame he wasn’t real.

  Calum let his gaze drop back to the damp concrete he’d been staring at since he’d discovered that Rob had cleared out their joint bank accounts, rendering his debit card—his only card—totally fucking useless. With no phone and no money, and nowhere to run, Calum was stranded. And drunk.

  Very drunk.

  “Calum.”

  Brix’s ghost spoke again. Calum ignored it as a phantom hand, darkly inked with familiar pirate tattoos, closed around his, squeezing, shaking, and punctuating every utterance of his name.

  “Calum. Dude. Anyone home?”

  Nope. Even if Brix had been real, Calum definitely wasn’t home, because home was where Rob was fucking someone else in his bed. Bastard.

  The ghost stood and disappeared. Calum mourned the loss of its warming touch, but was mostly relieved that his sanity had only been briefly questionable. Then the world tilted and the phantom hand returned, grasping Calum’s arm and hoisting it over a set of slim shoulders that were far too bony to be a dream. “Is it really you?”

  “Depends who you think I am,” Brix said. “If you call me Cunty-Bastard-Rob again, I’m gonna bloody deck you.”

  Cunty-Bastard-Rob. Calum let out a strangled giggle as the half litre of rum he’d drunk on the train threatened to make an abrupt reappearance. “Rob is a cunty bastard.”

  “I’m sure he is. Don’t explain why you’re all banged up and trashed on a rusty bench, though, does it?”

  Calum touched the slight swelling on his face and supposed it didn’t, but though Brix had pointed the wound out, he didn’t appear to be asking for an explanation. “What are you doing here? Thought you were dead or some shit.”