Chapter 16

Paddington Station was as hellish as Calum remembered. Worse. The smell, the crowds, and the cold draft that whistled around every corner, reminding him, as he left the station behind, how much he'd grown to despise city life. How much he despised trains, though that might've been because a tunnel had caused him to miss Brix's call, and he'd spent most of the journey worrying that Brix was angry that he'd cancelled his appointments.

If he even cares.

Calum knew he did. He knew. But being back in London made it all too easy for the self-doubt monster to consume him again, and the set of keys he'd shoved in his bag felt like a live grenade. A dread that intensified as the building that had once housed Black Star Ink loomed into view, and it became obvious that the studio was being converted into a café.

Shit.Calum's heart sank. He'd expected the shop to be stripped, but he'd been hanging onto the hope that Rob had left the sentimental things behind. The treasure that would be everyone else's trash.

Dottie.

Calum pinched his eyes. All this time, and now he was going to lose it in the street over an ancient tattoo machine.

"All right there, mate?"

Calum turned to the builder who'd called out. "Yeah, I used to work here. Just looking for some stuff. Seen any tattoo equipment lying around?"

"Tattoo equipment? You mean needles and shit?"

"An old machine. Not worth shit, so I'm hoping it got left behind."

The workman jumped down from his stepladder and hollered into the back of the shop. "Oi! Curly! Get out here."

A younger man appeared, covered in paint and dust. "What?"

"Him over there." The older dude pointed. "Used to work here. Says he's looking for some tattoo shit. What happened to that box we found in the office a few days ago?"

"It's in the skip, innit."

"Where's the skip?" Calum asked. There wasn't one outside.

"It's at our other site down the road," the first man said. "The barber's next to the Abbey National."

Calum frowned. Abbey National?

"He means Santander," Curly said. "Stev's stuck in the nineties. We've had the fucking Charlatans on repeat all day."

Stevresponded with a cuff to Curly's ear.

Calum took advantage of their distraction and dashed away,

He jogged down the road. It didn't take long to spot the skip outside Santander, and he approached it with wary hope. He'd lied to the builders. Dottie was a vintage machine, worth more than three of some of the sleek new ones Brix had at Blood Rush, but—and it was a big but—as far as Calum knew, Rob had no idea of her value, so there was a chance that he hadn't flogged her on eBay.

The skip was full, piled high with rubble and junk. Calum peered over the side, then caught the eye of a workman. "Stev and Curly sent me to look for something."

"Have at it, mate." The workman went back to his paper. "It's being collected tonight."

Calum climbed over the side of the skip and rummaged around, seizing any scrap of cardboard he came across in case it was the elusive box.

It wasn't. Not for the first seventy times. He'd about given up hope by the time his hands scraped the side of the battered Amazon box he'd once kept flash posters in.

Stomach in his mouth, he eased the box from beneath a pile of broken bricks. At the top, he found spare parts to the sterilising machine Rob must've taken, and then damaged packs of gloves and antiseptic. The hope in his chest faded—then soared, cos right at the bottom, was the scuffed tattoo gun he'd carried since his apprentice days.

Dottie.

Calum's heart leapt. She was in somany bits, but he'd found her, and now that she was safe in his arms, there was no reason for him to stay in London a minute longer.

He wrapped Dottie in his coat and scrambled out of the skip, ignoring the startled gaze of a nearby plumber. His phone buzzed as his feet hit the ground: a message . . . from Brix.

Fuck. Calum stared at the phone. With all the trepidation of returning to London, he hadn't forgotten to call Brix back, he just…hadn't done it. Choked by years old fears, he'd been too afraid, and even now—even knowing it was Brix behind the message—he still braced for a barrage of abuse.

Get out of the city.

Message unread, Calum pocketed the phone and ran for the station, perspective returning with every step he took in the right direction. Every step he took towards Brix. Their friendship was complicated. But real. Brix was real, and by the time Calum collapsed on a train seat and read the message lighting his phone screen, he was ready for the chain reaction it set off.

Brix:Pls come home. So much to tell u

Calum didn't doubt it, and as he replayed every moment he'd spent with Brix in Porth Ewan, pushing the magic of the sea aside, tiny pieces of a puzzle he'd never thought to look for slotted into place.

Oh, Brix.