simple—was good advice.
“When did they die?”
They were dead to him the day they’d not believed him. “When I was twelve.”
Tay stopped buttering his toast. “Oh God. Did you have family to go to?”
“No. I was taken into care.”
“Jonty went into care for a year after his father went to prison.”
Ink felt a spike of anxiety.
“I wanted Jonty to come and live with us, but my sisters kicked up a fuss. I‘ve never really forgiven them for that. As soon as he was sixteen, he got a job and a place of his own. He should have stayed at school and done A levels like you.”
What good had A levels done him? Apart from occupy his time.
“How did your parents die?”
“Car crash in Scotland.” Lie.
“Ah. Sorry.”
Ink nodded. He felt no guilt at being offered sympathy for something that hadn’t happened. His parents were dead to him. Maybe they were dead. He didn’t care. Well, maybe a little.
“Life must have been very difficult.”
Ink shrugged. “It was.” His world had disintegrated. “It still is.” Because he was living with the consequences of not being believed. “You just have to get on with things.” He pushed to his feet and took his plate and mug to the sink to wash. “Is there anything you need me to help you with before I go out?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“How will you get yourself a coffee?”
“I’ll come in here, put the kettle on and spoon granules into the mug. I’m not helpless.”
“You’ll have to drink it in here. You can’t carry it back to your desk.”
“I need a break every now and again. I’m supposed to keep mobile. I’ve done my exercises this morning. I feel pretty good today.”
Ink picked up Tay’s plate and mug and washed them too.
“Can Dog stay here with you? He’s been out to do his thing, but if he jumps up as if he’s trying to tell you something, all you need to do is let him out the back. The gate’s closed so he can’t wander.”
Almost as if Dog understood what he’d said, he moved from Ink’s side to Tay’s.
“Okay.”
“I’ll take the rubbish out and put it in the bin. When do the refuse guys come?”
“Thursdays. I usually keep a black bin bag in the hall and take it outside on Wednesday night. I don’t know who puts the bin out.”
“Probably the guy upstairs.”
IT WAS A WARM CLOUDLESS morning, with a haze in the air. Ink would have preferred to live in the countryside, but it was harder to hide there. He stood out in small villages. He disappeared in a town. He had his guitar bag slung over his shoulder, and had left everything else in Tay’s flat. If Tay went through his stuff, he’d find nothing of interest, though it was all precious to Ink.
Along with his clothes, there were a few small bits and pieces he’d collected, stuff he’d found. Nothing that would give him away. A rock with a hole right through the middle. A small ammonite fossil. A tiny plastic robot. He wondered what a psychologist would make of those. He found it unnerving to walk away from his possessions, even though he knew they were safe.
Ink planned to busk to try and get more cash. He could manage without sheets and use his sleeping bag, but he wanted to buy a pillow and a bigger towel, as well as swimming trunks. He also needed to pay to get to the pool and maybe pay to go in if Tay didn’t offer. If he couldn’t earn enough busking this morning, he’d have to draw money out of his account. Then he’d be on a countdown to leaving and he didn’t want to go. Not yet. There was something about Tay… Ink couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but… He smiled. Company, that’s all. Someone to talk to, to be with. Someone normal. A friend.
He walked away from the high street near Tay’s flat until he reached another line of shops a couple of miles away. He chose a position near a Tube station, and took out his guitar. The best places to busk were in the touristy areas, like Covent Garden, Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus, or down in the Underground if you applied for permission. Ink never had. He was a rare bird who didn’t want to be spotted. Quieter places were less lucrative, but safer.
Once he’d laid the bag open in front of him, he dropped a few coins onto it. Pennies and