James Morrison songs, then Apache by the Shadows.
Coins were dropped, a few fifty pence pieces and a couple of pound coins along with coppers. He nodded his thanks. Ink always tried not to play for too long. It was safer to move before someone got pissed off. He wrapped his guitar back in his hoodie and put it away, pocketed the change, and tossed his rubbish into the nearest waste bin.
Ink was pretty sure that busking with Dog got him more money and he wished he could keep him, though not just because of that, but it wasn’t practical. He had nowhere to leave a dog if he got a job, not that he often did get work, but it happened sometimes. Plus, there was little to no chance of a place in a hostel if he had a pet. Ink had even left Dog outside the squat one night, hoping he’d go home or latch onto someone else, but the next morning, Dog had been lying right where he’d left him, and Ink’s guilt had kicked in.
Since Dog had attached himself, Ink’s only money had come through busking and it was barely enough to keep them both fed. He should have done what he’d planned to do when he’d seen the sad-looking guy with the crutches sit down. Ask him to look after Dog, then disappear, not go into the café and buy him a drink. And a sausage roll? What was I thinking? There was no point liking him. No point liking anyone. The sudden tightness in his chest was an all too familiar sensation and he let out a shuddering breath.
He walked back to the squat, picking up Dog when he felt he’d made him walk too far. Ink only used money on public transport when he was leaving an area for good. He’d walked around London until his feet were blistered, the city written on the soles of his feet. He’d stopped worrying about being captured on CCTV. There were so many cameras around, it was impossible not be caught, and dipping his head every time he saw a lens pointing in his direction would just make him look guilty of something.
It was unlikely the police were actively looking for him, but he’d be on a list somewhere because he’d gone off grid. Ink Farrow. Whereabouts unknown. The couple of people involved in his case would be wondering where the hell he was and hoping he didn’t get into trouble because that would mean trouble for them. But they’d let him down. They’d failed to keep him safe, so he’d run.
Ben Carter would be looking for him. Ink definitely didn’t want Carter to find him, but the guy had made it clear he’d never give up. Goose bumps skittered down Ink’s body and he fought the temptation to look over his shoulder, because once he started that, he’d keep doing it.
Dog pressed his face into Ink’s chest as if he sensed his anxiety. Ink knew little about dogs or any other animals, other than what he’d read in books. He’d never had a pet. For all he knew, Dog was an old age pensioner and Ink figured if he didn’t want to be carried, he’d let him know.
He took care when he approached his temporary home; a tall, thin house with boarded and broken windows. There was even more rubbish in the front garden than there had been this morning. Cans and bottles had been thrown onto an old scorched sofa that had caught fire before Ink’s time. Rubbish attracted more rubbish. He suspected his time here was running out. He put Dog down to let him have a sniff around before they went inside. Once he’d cocked his leg, Ink called him back and picked him up again.
This place had been a chance find. He’d been looking for somewhere to sleep other than the street and seen Dog sniffing around outside. Ink had bent to stroke him and given him one of his sandwiches. That had probably been a mistake, but he didn’t like to see any animal hungry. Ink had found a way into the house at the back, not realising the place was already occupied. Dog had followed him.
No one had objected to him or Dog kipping in the attic, so they’d slept there for the last ten nights. Ink always took his stuff with him when he went out because he couldn’t be sure it would be there when he went back.