Chapter 2

"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 before his infamous aunt ripped him a new one, and ran a frazzled hand through his too-long 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 at all. 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 rolled a 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.

And the rest.

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, and the odd feeling he'd woken up with swept over him again—like the wind had changed and the sea had brought a message to shore.

Not hungry.

He'd pay for it later, but if he was going to get his rusty van to Truro in time to meet the farmer, he needed to leave.

He found the van keys beneath five kilos of corn, reminding him to feed the girls, and dump the sack in the shed before he left. Outside, he scattered pellets on the damp soil, watching the ballsy politics of his flock of rescued hens—a dozen or so, in all, but soon to be more if he could get his shit together enough to leave the house.

You can't be late.

Hustling, he climbed into the van reversed down the driveway, onto the street below. Porth Ewan roads were 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. It seemed like he'd barely blinked 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 quick, before he wound up feeling guiltier than if he'd not come at all.

He waved a roll of notes at the farmer. "Bullseye, yeah?"

"Can give you another five if you slap a cockle on that."

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 cramped crates that were probably bigger than the cages they'd come from. Brix paid up, loaded the crates onto the van, and made his escape before the plaintive clucking of the doomed hens still on the farmer's truck reached his ears.

A little way 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 reminded him of the warehouse parties 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.

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.

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 a long time ago, a phantom tic he'd yet to shake. God, he missed a solitary smoke. Back then, a snatched cig 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 Porth Ewan was as unique and familiar as it had ever been, and for the first time in years, Brix wouldn't change a thing . . . except one thing, maybe?—

His phone rang in his hand. He jumped and studied the screen. Peg. Typically, she hung up after one ring, 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. "That's enough of your cheek. You seen your dad?"

"Not since Monday. Why?"

"Ah, you know."

Peg spoke as if Brix was a fly on the wall to every hustle and scheme she had her sticky fingers in, but he resisted arguing. Reminding her a second time that he'd spent most of his life trying to avoid Lusmoore dodgy dealings would only set her off, and he didn't have time for a marathon rant today.

"I haven't seen him."

"Well if you do, tell 'im I've got his dosh here from the Kings. 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 on the boat till lunchtime. You know that. 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 his arse, though her call had reminded him he was due a check in with hold man Lusmoore.

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 cigs and booze, counterfeit crap, and Lord knew what else; it was time to do God's work.

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 even 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 rickety hands-free kit, then put the van in gear and reversed. "Yeah?"

"Sunshine. Did I wake you?"

"What do you think?"

Lena 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. 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 extra girls off my hands, what do you want?"

"I called to see if you want me to fill your cancellation 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 to get inked at Blood Rush. He let his mind drift over the designs he'd compiled the night before, ready for the week ahead. "Is this the dot work you messaged me about at 5 a.m.?"

"The very same. I've priced it at four hours, so if you don't take too long on Cam, and you stay till six, you can wrap it up in one sitting."

Brix snorted. "It isn't me who spends too much time with Cam O'Brian."

Lena's dirty laugh filled the van. "Don't start a conversation you're not built for, my friend. Are you game for Thursday or not?"

Brix took the hint and agreed to everything Lena suggested, wondering for the umpteenth time how he'd manage without her. Lena was a knockout—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 had no defence. He hadn't even learned to tell time until he was twelve. Before then, he'd relied on the sun, just like his dad. Who needed a watch when you had nowhere to be?

Brix said goodbye and tossed the phone on the seat beside him. He turned the radio on and fiddled with the dial, searching for anything that didn't make him want to launch the stereo out of the window.

Porth Luck FM then.

Fuck, I'm getting old.

He set the pirate-rock track to a low volume as the van rumbled past the train station, the busiest in Cornwall. 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. Not in someone else, anyway.

The van slowed, Brix's foot subconsciously easing off the accelerator. Something about the set of the dude'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 onto the trembling hand of his gorgeous new apprentice eight years ago.

Eight years? Fuck. Where did the time go?

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?"