another.
Did I lock the door? Once he’d washed the pills down, he pushed himself up and grabbed his crutches to go and check. Not locked. Fuck. Back in his bedroom, he took off his jacket. When the sample fell from his pocket, he started to cry. Not taking that. No way. Tay put it on the bedside table. When he woke, he’d throw it away. He shouldn’t have even let Lennie give it to him. He kicked off his shoes and curled up.
As he lay waiting for the codeine to take effect, his misery deepened. This was not the life he’d wanted. What the fuck was he doing?
Oblivion came quickly in a flood of warmth.
Maybe this life wasn’t so bad.
Chapter Two
INK SIGHED AS HE WATCHED Sad Guy get into the cab, then looked down at Dog to see he was watching too.
“Well, I tried.” Ink sipped the black coffee. Dog looked up at him. “At least I spoke to him today and he seemed to like you. Your head on his shoe was a nice touch.”
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 by some 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’s Viva La Vida, singing quietly, followed by a couple of