Logan, page 3
part #2 of Tough London Series
‘For a start,’ I say, trying my hardest not to grin my head off, ‘I was totally terrified. The last time I saw that brute, he was covered in blood, rioting in a prison. It’s not like I’ve ever even spoken to him.’
‘You don’t need to speak to bump uglies,’ she says, with a naughty smile playing across her lips now.
We drink a little more and speak a lot more. I’m thankful again for the support. Franca tells me of her daily demons too. She was a nurse at the local accident and emergency department and her problems always put mine into perspective. Hearing about administrative mistakes that could cost someone their life tends to do that to me.
Thank God no-one’s life’s in your hands, Clark.
Later, when I’m about to turn in for the night, Franca looks suddenly serious.
‘Clark,’ he says, ‘there’s something I should have told you earlier on.’
An icy chill runs down my spine. I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve ever had a totally serious discussion with her.
‘What is it hun?’ I say, eager to hear what she has to say.
‘Earlier on today, about an hour before you got back from the shop,’ she hesitates for a moment and lets out a deep sigh, ‘Ryan was here.’
That icy chill drops in temperature by about twenty degrees.
‘Ryan?’ Maybe that’s the only name I’ve been wanting to hear less than Logan Grimes.
Franca nods in reply. I realise that without meaning to, my hand has moved instinctively to my neck, covering my scar.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t say right away,’ Franca says, ‘It’s just, when I heard what a rough day you’d had, I didn’t want to pile on more anxiety, and give you one more thing to worry about.’
‘How…’ I stammer, ‘how did you know it was him?’
‘We talked,’ she says, ‘and I have to say, he isn’t what I expected.’
Not what she expected? Ryan is the worst thing to ever happen to me.
‘What did you expect?’ I say, trying not to let my fear come out as anger towards my friend.
‘I don’t know,’ she says, ‘I guess, with everything you’ve told me about him, I was expecting him to have little devil horns or something, you know?’
‘And what was he actually like. No devil horns?’
Franca doesn’t exactly smile, but she looks less serious. ‘He seemed OK. Stable, you know? Said he just wanted to see you, to talk to you.’
‘Well he doesn’t want just that,’ I counter, trying and failing not to raise my voice. ‘He wants to hurt me, like he always has, or manipulate me like he always does. He is bad news.’ I’m suddenly almost shouting.
‘I’m sorry, Clark,’ says Franca, with genuine regret in her face.
‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry. It’s just… I have such a lot of history with him. We went through a lot together. I mean, he put me through a lot.’ I rub my neck. I just can’t help it.
Soon it’s time for bed. I walk upstairs, and get ready to hit the hay. I still have an old fashioned land-line telephone with a voice-mail recorder, and I notice that there’s a blinking red light. Someone’s left me a message.
As I walk over to it, fuzzy-headed and a little nauseous, I think to myself, just don’t let it be Ryan, don’t let it be Ryan.
But when I click play, I’m completely shocked by the message that’s waiting for me.
4
LOGAN
* * *
‘Dizzy?’ I say in shock. I’ve come in to the scene of a chunky black guy, sprawled out like he owns the place, lounging over my tatty old sofa. ‘Mr. Blake what the fuck are you doing in my house?’
He’s older now, and built like a body-builder, but there’s no mistaking the lop-sided grin and thick eyebrows of my oldest and best friend, Dizzy Blake.
‘Logan!’ Dizzy says, a wheezing cough escaping from his lips, ‘you kept me waiting for long enough brother. Shit, I had to light this celebration joint just to stop me losing my mind with boredom.’ He laughs long and hard. His eyes are bloodshot and squinty. I had been right about him being high.
Dizzy had never been a big smoker before I did my time. I guess everyone changes. He lays the still smoldering joint down on the edge of a glass ashtray, and stands up to greet me. He leans in and embraces me, squeezing me tight.
‘Shit, you’re built, Dizzy! When did you start bulking up so much?’
‘Built? Mate I’ve been like this for years. I ain’t seen you in time. It’s been longer than I thought.’
‘Some things don’t change though, huh?’ I say, taking a deep breath. Yep, just as I thought, he’s still wearing that dog-shit cologne he’s had since he was a kid. ‘You still smell like a teenager!’
‘You still got shit taste, blood.’
I laugh. I can’t help myself. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Dizzy, and I’m so relieved that it wasn’t some old enemy of mine waiting to jump me in my own home.
‘How the hell did you get in here, Dizzy?’
‘I got my ways,’ he says, giving me a sly wink. ‘Let’s just say the first thing we gotta fix is your security arrangements. It ain’t exactly Fort Knox round here.’
I sigh. He’s right. I’ve been planning to change the locks to something more sturdy as soon as I have the time. I haven’t been here long though.
‘It ain’t exactly Fort Knox cause there ain’t exactly any gold in this crib. Nothing worth protecting.’
‘That’s bullshit. A man’s home is his castle, brother, and with a bit of work,’ he looks around at the shabby sitting room, ‘this place could be a palace.’
A sudden thought occurs to me. It’s bad news that Dizzy’s brought drugs in here. Cannabis is still illegal in the UK.
‘You better put that shit out, Dizzy. If I test positive for anything stronger than aspirin, I’m heading straight back to prison.’
‘Relax, man, passive smoking isn’t gonna show up on no bullshit drugs test. You’ll be fine. I’ll bet they won’t even bother to test you. Don’t want to waste government money on junk like that. So just relax, hombre.’
And you know what? Something about the situation does make me relax. I sit down next to my old friend on the couch, and talk about the way things used to be.
Back when I’d known him, Dizzy had been a good kid. He’s a couple of years younger than me, and I’ve always like he was my little brother. I used to look out for him, and I used to feel as though maybe he looked up to me or something.
He never used to judge me for my sexuality either. Now London’s a progressive city, but old prejudices still lurk around, particularly in tough, street culture. Never Dizzy, though. He’s always been a true friend.
Dizzy did used to get into trouble though. He’s a cocky little son of a bitch, and his mouth used to get him in countless sticky situations. And even when he got in trouble, he’d keep chatting shit, make the situation worse and worse.
I remember one time at school there had been this dick-head bully who picked on Dizzy. See, back then, Dizzy was a scrawny little fuck, short and skinny. There were some bad dudes at our school. It was a rough place, you know, not exactly Hogwarts. Dizzy used to try to fight back, but it didn’t go that well for him.
There was this one bully, used to go by the name Spike. Now this guy was a piece of work. There were rumors he ran with a gang, which was probably bullshit cause we was so young at the time. I mean, London’s got a gang problem, but it’s rare that fourteen year olds get signed up.
Still, Spike was a tough dude. And he had this thing about insulting Dizzy’s family. Everyone at school knew that Dizzy came from a broken home, and mostly people didn’t mention it. Spike though, didn’t give a shit. He used to call Dizzy’s mom a home-wrecking bitch, used to say that he was fucking Dizzy’s mom, stuff like that.
It got to be too much for Dizzy.
‘I gotta do something about it, Logan,’ he said to me, in tears one evening, ‘this guy’s ruining my life.’
So Dizzy did do something. He found the biggest, sharpest knife he could and took it into school with him. Now, he swore to me that he wasn’t going to hurt Spike. And he didn’t. I remember the scene like it was yesterday.
Dizzy had sent a message to Spike.
Meet me after school to settle this like men.
Of course, Spike had to accept the challenge, or his rep would have been shredded. So they met in a park near school. It was dark, I think it had been a late November evening.
A circle of kids formed, and there was a crackle of electricity in the air. Kids can be mean, and what they like more than anything is gossip, drama, anything out of the ordinary. So of course a the idea of a little shrimp like Dizzy standing up to Spike was big news.
The two young men started circling each other, like gladiators or rabid dogs or something. It was tense, especially cause I knew what was coming.
When he pulled the blade out, there was an audible gasp from the crowd. For a second it looked like Spike near shit his pants. Then, he turned, and like everyone else in the circle, broke ranks and ran as fast as he could.
Dizzy shouted after him, and it good. But I knew that it wasn’t the end of their feud. In fact, it turned out that it was only the beginning.
That was Dizzy though, he acted first and thought second.
Tonight, in my shabby sitting room, we talk for hours and hours. Inevitably, talk turns to my chance meeting with Clark at the art supply shop. Dizzy is shocked.
‘Shit man that is some freaky good luck!’
‘Good luck? Are you kidding? That job was my one chance to get myself back on track, and now there’s no fucking way I can take it.’
Dizzy shifts forward and starts to roll yet another joint. I sneak a peek at his pouch of weed. It’s fucking massive. Where did he get the money for such a bumper baggie?
Maybe I should just have a few puffs on the joint. The weed will only be in my system for a couple days. The chances of me being taken in for a drugs test so soon after release have to be low. It’s not like I have a job to go to or anything. It’s not like I have any responsibilities at all.
I’ve been pinning all my hopes on that fucking unpaid work experience gig. When the weed is out of my system, maybe I can look to getting myself out of this shitty situation.
‘You know what I think?’ says Dizzy. It feels like he is actually being serious right now. ‘I think you should take the fucking job. Explain the situation to him. He won’t mind, I bet you. You’re a good guy, you don’t mean him no harm. Jus’ make sure he knows that.’
Huh, when did you grow up, Dizzy?
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should just call the agency and tell Tom that I’ve checked out the store and I’m serious about doing a good job.
‘Then,’ he says, ‘when you’ve tricked him into thinking you’re a nice guy…’ he smacks his hands together, ‘boom baby, you can finally bang that hot artist dude you’ve been dreaming of for all these years.’
I snort out a laugh — can’t help myself..
‘There’s no way he’s gonna be interested in a man like me.’
‘Why the fuck not?’
I sigh.
‘For a start, I’m a criminal. Secondly, he’s seen me at my absolute worst. That riot. Man, I thought I was going to be inside forever.’
I’ve been incredibly lucky to get out at all. Incredibly lucky.
‘That’s all in the past, Logan. If he doesn’t want to get to know you for who you are now, he’s not even worth fucking.’
I never would have expected Dizzy to be this sensitive. Maybe he has grown up while I’ve been in jail. The truth of the situation is, though, that it probably won’t matter if I do call and say I’ll take the job. I really don’t believe that Clark will agree to the situation once he finds out who I am.
‘The third problem, of course, is that I don’t even know whether he’s gay.’
Dizzy grimaces. ‘Don’t you folks have gaydar or whatever?’
‘Well, I definitely got a vibe off him, but you know, gaydar is hardly foolproof.’
He grins. ‘That’s a shame, cause you’re definitely a fool.’
I lob a pillow at Dizzy, and slump down in my chair.
He’s right, you are a fool.
I feel a familiar hopeless chill flow through my body. I’ve struggled with depression since being locked up, and at times like this, when it feels as though everything I do is working against me, it’s hard to feel as though life wants me to be happy.
With the feeling of hopelessness growing, I reach for the joint. I don’t know it yet, but I’m not going to get the chance to call the agency at all.
5
CLARK
* * *
I wake up the next morning with a sore head and a voicemail message buzzing around my brain.
‘This is a message for Clark Green of Kahlo’s crafts. My name is Tom Spence, and I’m calling from Empowerment To Employment. I wanted to check to see if you’d had any contact form a client of mine named Logan Grimes. He’s shown some interest in working at your business. If you could call me back for a brief discussion, I’d hugely appreciate it.’
Last night, I didn’t really take the message in. I didn’t think through all of the implications. Now though, in the cold light of day, with a warm mug of coffee in my hand, things are starting to make more sense.
Well. Kind of.
I still can’t decide whether Logan had been there to check the shop out, or to check me out. I can’t decide whether he wants to help me, or hurt me. And what better way to get back at someone than by working with them?
You’ll never meet anyone more manipulative than a prisoner.
The memory of Adam’s words rings through my mind.
Maybe there was a totally innocent explanation for it.
Maybe there was a completely murderous explanation for it.
When I think of murder I remember that I don’t even know what Logan was convicted of in the first place. I know what you’re thinking — how could I not know? I was obsessed with the guy for the year or so I taught him, and I hadn’t thought to find out what kind of man he really was?
Well, the thing is, it’s not that easy to walk up to a six foot something slab of muscle and musk and just casually say, ‘Hey good looking, you in here for murder, burglary, or something far, far worse?’
Muscle and musk. Yep that sums him up. He always had this really particular smell, you know? I used to have to get quite close to the prisoners to appraise their work.
I remember the first time I actually got close to Logan. The class were working on self-portraits. Everyone got a prison-approved, totally safe mirror, and the inmates were engrossed in their favourite subject: themselves. Logan was working alone, on a bench near the back of the room, and I hadn’t been able to get a look at his picture.
So I walked up to him, butterflies fluttering around my belly, preparing to act as professional as possible.
‘This is,’ I started to say before I’d even seen the portrait, ‘very good…’ I continued. And it was. It was expressive, well observed. Obviously it was very raw, you could tell he hadn’t ever been taught about anatomy and facial ratios, but there was something very wild and true-to-life about the sketch.
‘Thank you,’ he mumbled, in a deep, dark voice.
That’s when I caught his scent. It had an undertone of just plain grime, something you couldn’t escape from in the prison. But the thing that surprised me was this subtle, spicy note, something like ginger or nutmeg, or maybe some kind of incense. And something else. It’s hard to describe, but it was a smell like metal, iron maybe, or steel. I know it sounds crazy, and probably not even that pleasant. But trust me, I got addicted to the smell of him. I’d find any excuse I could just to be near him, to see if there was any change to the smell.
I thought often about pushing my face into his flesh, smelling him up close, gripping his thick arms and grinding myself into him.
Even thinking about Logan now is getting me hot under the collar.
‘Just call Tom back, Clark,’ says the devil on my shoulder, ‘call him back, tell him you want to Logan to come work for you. And then get Logan to go to work on you.’
The thought of that hard body, pushed against mine, in the back room of the art shop. It sends shivers down my spine.
‘Clark!’ says the boring old angel on my other shoulder, ‘Don’t even think about it, young man! You’ve had quite enough bad boys in your life. You’ve been hurt before. Do you want to get hurt again?’
As usual, it feels like the boring angel has a good point. But, you know, he’s so damn boring.
I know what I need, a shower to clear my head. I tend to do my best thinking in the shower, anyway. Something about the drumming of the water onto my body, the warmth, feeling like I’m in some kind of little cocoon, it does wonders for my tiny brain.
The bathroom is the one room in the house I don’t have any artwork in. I think it’s because I really hate this room. And I know why. Because every time I come in here, I have to look at myself. Or more accurately, my scars.
There’s the one on my neck of course. That had been a particularly nasty episode. But sadly, not an isolated one.
The scar I hate most is on my belly. It’s ugly, and it’s long. It’s hard to think back to that time, and remember that I let myself get treated that badly.
No, Clark, it’s not your fault. You were a victim. You’re not to blame.
I’ve had plenty of counseling, but nothing ever really makes the feelings of shame and guilt go away.
I hate thinking back to the accident, and whenever I let my mind even stray close to it, I recoil in horror, desperate to think of anything else.
I step into the shower and let the warm water wash over me.
Come on, Champ, focus on the task in hand. Don’t let the past drag you out of the present again.
The water is warm, and it feels wonderful as it cascades over my body. It’s reassuring, like an old friend giving me a hug. I don’t want to get hurt again. I don’t know Logan at all, but if he’s anything like the other bad men I’ve known in my life, I might end up getting hurt worse than ever if I let him into my life.
