He had a cheap laptop that had been given to him along with an email address, but Ink had never used the latter. Ever. He never even checked it. He couldn’t take the risk. He’d even wondered if they’d put a tracker in the laptop, but when they didn’t find him, he figured they hadn’t. The laptop was currently out of power. He needed to sit in a café and take a long time over a coffee while it charged. Not easy now that he had Dog.
The others in the squat were addicts and alkies. Most were a lot older than him. A few were kind, a few weren’t. Drugs and alcohol were not an escape he’d ever resort to. He understood the attraction of slipping out of this world, but he’d seen the consequences. Even if Ink could afford to let his guard down, drug-fuelled happiness didn’t last, and the search for that high grew ever more expensive and dangerous. Addicts would do anything for their next fix, including steal from a friend. So Ink had no friends. He didn’t trust anyone. He couldn’t.
One day, he’d find a way to turn things around. His heart twanged as he carried Dog up the stairs, missing the two broken steps. He had to believe he’d emerge from this tunnel one day or he might as well give up now. He’d been through so much, more than anyone could ever know or understand, and it hurt that he’d never be able to tell a soul, hurt even more that no one would ever believe his side of the story. It was fucking unfair, but he had no choice other than to accept it. It was a wall he couldn’t scale or knock down.
He had to stay under the radar or his life would be over. Plenty of people wanted his life to be over, though Carter wanted his story first. Ink had had death threats, particularly at the beginning. Someone who should have known better had deliberately shown them to him, wanted him to be scared enough to piss himself. Well, it had fucking worked. Fear had a permanent place in his head. He was always ready to run.
The attic was empty. Ink put Dog down and removed his rope lead. He unrolled his sleeping bag in the far corner behind a wall of empty boxes, laying it out on a strip of old carpet. His bunched-up jacket would be his pillow. He took out Dog’s water and food bowls and Dog scampered over to where Ink had hidden the bag of kibble. He needed to feed Dog early so he could take him out for a crap before it got dark. He was relieved the kibble was still there. He couldn’t easily lug it round with him. He’d figured someone would have to be pretty desperate to steal dog food.
Dog ate and drank, did his customary four and half turns and settled down at the foot of the sleeping bag. Ink had his own bottle of water and a small loaf he’d bought from the bakery-cum-café when he’d purchased the sausage rolls. He didn’t mind dry bread as long as it was fresh. It filled him up. He knew he was too thin. But he’d stopped feeling hungry all the time. His stomach must have got used to not getting much food.
INK WAS IN HIS SLEEPING bag, using a flashlight to read a charity shop novel about Russia, when he heard a commotion downstairs, shouts and someone screaming. He told Dog to stay, shoved his feet into his boots, and crept out of the attic to find out what was happening. A group had congregated around the door to one of the bedrooms on the next floor down and Ink descended the narrow attic stairs to stand behind them.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Dan’s overdosed,” someone said.
Oh God. “Anyone called for an ambulance?” Ink fingered the phone in his pocket. He didn’t really want to use it, but he would.
“Too late. He’s dead. We’re splitting.”
As people moved away from the door, Ink saw Beth sitting with Dan’s head in her lap. She was sobbing. He stepped into the room and crouched down. He liked Beth and Dan. They’d shared their food with him twice.
“Sure he’s gone?” Ink whispered.
She nodded.
“Do you need me to call anyone?”
“I’ve already called it in. Get out of here while you can,” she choked out through her sobs.
Ink hurried back upstairs, packed away all his stuff, including the kibble,