Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (10 page)

Clay wished he could have done the same. Tate
looked thunderous.

“I didn’t tell you because it was being
handled. I gave a report to the cops because Rick insisted, and
since then, there have been no more calls. It’s gone quiet. I don’t
think our missing person wants to be found. If he is, he’ll go to
jail, maybe worse, so…” He shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

Tate went ballistic. “
This
is your fucking way of not molly coddling me?” he
spat at Clay. “By not telling me someone wanted to fucking kill
you? And Rick bloody knows before me?”

“Rick knew because he was there when I got
the call,” Clay said evenly. “Not because I chose to tell him over
you. Tate, you’re overreacting to this.” Clay’s heart thudded in
his chest, and a sick feeling of dread washed over him, soaking
him, suffocating him.

Tate’s jaw clenched as he leaned into Clay’s
face. “Fuck. You.” He hissed and spittle hit Clay’s cheek. “I
thought we’d taken one step forward, Clay, but it looks like
nothing has changed. You still think I can’t cope with the seedy
side of your life. Of
our
lives.”

Clay’s temper was rising now. “That’s not it
at all,” he exclaimed. “I didn’t think it mattered because they’ve
stopped and nothing has happened to me. For Christ’s sake, stop
being such a bloody drama queen and listen to what I’m saying. Not
everything is always about you.”

No sooner were the words out than he
regretted them. Tate’s eyes flickered and his Adam’s apple bobbed
and then in one quick movement, he grabbed his leather jacket from
the back of the chair where it had been resting, and strode away.
The door opened and slammed on an image of Tate racing down the
front steps toward the street.

Clay belatedly dashed to the front door but
Tate had already crossed the street and vanished at the
intersection. Clay slammed the door shut and turned and swept the
flowers from the vase on the entrance table with a violent shove of
his hand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The petals from the
fallen tulips drifted to the ground and coated the terracotta tiles
with leaves of colour.

“God, I’m sorry.” Rick’s quiet voice invaded
Clay’s raging psyche. “I had no idea you hadn’t told him, and I
shot my mouth off. I’m so fucking sorry, Clay.” Rick looked as
miserable as Clay felt.

Clay shook his head tiredly. “It’s not your
fault. He’s got a trigger temper at the best of times and this just
set him off. He’ll come home when he’s calmed down.”

“He seemed to be doing much better.” Rick’s
tone was hopeful. “I really thought…” his voice tailed off.

“He
is
doing better,”
Clay said softly. “Part of the PTSD. Hair-trigger reactions.
Sometimes, he gets these ideas and there’s no stopping him. He
hates to feel like a burden or that he’s being protected.” He gave
a wry smile. “I thought I was doing better too at not being such a
damn control freak, but I guess we both have a ways to go.” He
smiled at Rick, trying to reassure him, although Clay’s heart
wasn’t in it.

His heart bled and raced through his
bloodstream like acid. This whole emotional crap wasn’t like him
either. Tate brought out the nurturer in him, made him more
vulnerable. Clay had never had these highs and lows in any other
relationship before, but then he guessed you didn’t often fall in
love with a man who’d been kidnapped and tortured before, or who
you’d worshipped since you were ten years old.

He nodded at the suit draped loosely over
Rick’s arms. “You found a tux then?”

Rick nodded miserably. “Yeah.”

The two men were silent then Clay heaved a
deep sigh. “Best get off,” he murmured. “I’m sure you’d rather be
with Lauren than waiting here.”

Rick stared at him, his face worried. “Are
you sure? ’Cos I’ll wait here with you.”

“No, you get off. I’ll try and call him in a
little while, see if he’s calmed down.”

Rick moved toward the door, the suit clutched
in his hands. “Okay. Text me when you hear from him, though. Let me
know he’s okay. I’m on call tonight so I’ll keep an eye on my
phone.”

He squeezed Clay’s arm and then was gone.
Clay closed the door behind him and leaned against it, closing his
eyes.

Tate, you had better take
care. Stupid moody bastard, just look after yourself. Come home to
me.

Wall to wall
paint cans. Tate wandered down the aisle of his local hardware
store and stared idly at the spray cans layered on the shelves. He
had an itch to spray a wall somewhere, to thumb his nose at the
norms of society and leave a lasting impression of his current
turmoil and anger.

It had been two days since he’d raced out of
Clay’s house. He knew he’d overreacted. It was the nature of the
beast inside him, the one that tore its teeth into his belly and
lashed its stinging tail into his heart. But hearing Clay being so
blasé about a threat to his own life had brought back memories of
his own incarceration and near death, being imprisoned in a
warehouse, chained like an animal and forced to endure indignities
and pain to his body and mind that, at the time, he thought he’d
never get over. Armerian had been a master at torture, both
physical and psychological. Tate shuddered as he plucked cans of
paint off the shelves and went to the till. He never wanted that to
happen to Clay.

Clay’s last words had cut him to the
core.

Not everything is always
about you.

Hearing them from his lover’s lips had made
them all the more real. He didn’t want anything to be all about
him; he wanted to be a whole man again and be Clay’s equal. He was
trying so hard, but then the whole fucking house of cards had come
tumbling down around him. The thought of anyone harming Clay made
him breathless with fear. Once again they’d kept in touch with text
messages, and Clay’s last message had been simple.

Come home.

The till assistant smiled at him and wished
him a nice day as Tate handed over his cash for the paint. Tate
nodded his head and tried a weak smile back.

Ten minutes later, he found himself in an
old, dilapidated part of town that housed a derelict swimming pool
and leisure complex. It was a haven for graffiti artists and there
were normally some spraying away at the dull concrete canvases at
any one time. Tate knew a couple of them; he nodded to them as he
passed and made his way toward a fairly clean part of wall.
Numerous pockmarked buildings dotted the quadrant of the area, all
decorated with slogans and messages.

Luckily Tate looked the part to be one of the
masses down here. He still had on his old sweats and a tee shirt
with his leather jacket, and he always carried a beanie in his
jacket pocket. It had become his method of dress when he’d been
trying to infiltrate the Armerian drug operation. He’d not shaved
or washed his hair and had been known to snort the occasional coke
and take E, among other things. Realism was the name of the
undercover game and it could save your life.

He uncapped his cans and got to work. When he
painted, he got
in the zone
, ignored
everything and everyone around him as he concentrated on painting
his images.

By the time he’d finished, dusk had set in.
He was sweaty, his hands ached and he felt a sense of achievement.
He put the finishing touch to his tag and grinned as he stood back.
The three-foot mural of a cartoon man hunched over in a green tee
shirt, with a clockwork key sticking out of his back epitomised how
he felt. Wound up, winding down, out of control, manipulated and
only alive when someone turned the key. Well, that might be a
little over the top but it was how he saw himself in his head.

“Meh. Not bad,” said a voice from behind him.
Tate swung around. A young girl of about thirteen stood there,
dressed in a sloppy sweatshirt, jeans that looked too big for her
and a knitted mauve cap on her head. She was scrawny, her eyes sunk
deep into her face.

He scowled at her as he packed his cans back
into the plastic bag. “What, you’re some sort of expert?” He laid
the bag on the ground.

In his days undercover on the street, he’d
met plenty of these young people, the unwashed and unloved of the
city with sordid histories, chips on their shoulders and dreams
that had been trampled on and ground into the dirt. They expected
no kindness and were as cynical as hell. He’d found the best way to
deal with them was on an equal basis. Not as children. These teens
had seen more pain and heartbreak than most adults.

The girl waved a hand. “I said it’s not bad.”
She scrunched her face up and peered at the image. “Although he
does look a little constipated.” She giggled and Tate grinned at
the sound.

“He does a bit. Like he has something stuck
up his arse.”

She giggled louder and then coughed, the
amusement turning to hacking, chesty sounds as she turned away and
hunched over. Tate watched in concern. He didn’t want to invade her
space or touch her. Unless she passed out or anything—then all bets
about personal space were off.

Finally she stopped, but when she turned to
him her eyes looked even darker, her face more pinched. “Fuck. That
hurt.” She wiped her sleeve over her nose. “Sorry ’bout that. Had
this cough for a while. Can’t seem to shake it.”

Tate knew better than to ask her if she’d
been to a clinic or doctor. These kids stayed away from places like
those. Perhaps he could take her somewhere later, once they’d
chatted. It might be worth the ask.

Instead he pulled a pack of chewing gum from
his inside jacket pocket and offered her a stick. “Fancy a bit of
peppermint? It might help.”

She stared at him in suspicion. “How do I
know you haven’t drugged it or something? Guys do that all the
time.”

Tate’s stomach clenched at the thought
someone so young might be vulnerable to predators. “I’ll eat one
and you’ll see. I promise you they’re fine. I bought them earlier.
See, it’s a new pack.” He split it open then unwrapped a piece and
popped it into his mouth. The girl moved forward, watching him then
silently stretched out a hand. Tate placed a stick on her palm.

A few seconds later both of them were chewing
gum like cows with a cud and observing Tate’s art.

“I’ve seen you here before,” she said softly.
“You did that one over there.” She pointed to one of a big blue
dragon surrounded by flames. “You should have made the dragon pink,
it’s my favourite colour. But I like him in blue, and he looks over
me when I sleep. This is my favourite spot.” She gestured around
her. “It makes me feel at home. Plus it’s a bit more sheltered from
the wind.”

Tate nodded even as he cringed at a cold spot
in a deserted building being called home. “Yeah, I did that one.
About six months ago.” It had been his protest to the one tattooed
on his backside. He glanced at her. “What’s your name—the one you
want
to give me?” He noticed an oval
pendant around her neck with the initials AK carved on them. It
looked cheap but worn.

She observed him evenly for a while, her blue
eyes cautious. “You can call me Lily.”

Tate held out a hand. “Hi, Lily. I’m Tate.
Pleased to meet you.”

Her hand in his felt frail and hot. Her
cheeks were pink and he thought she might have a fever from the
brightness of her eyes.

“So, Tate. What’s your story?” Lily sat down
cross-legged on the ground. Tate followed, his legs stretched
before him.

He shrugged. “Needed to let off some steam.
This helps.”

She grimaced. “I know how you feel. I don’t
have an arty bone in my body but I like to watch the artists
getting busy.”

“So what do you do to let off steam then?”
Tate watched as a bunch of youths on the other side of the open
area began pulling out spray cans and adorning the wall with bright
green strokes.

Lily sniffed. “I don’t. My mum used to tell
me I tend to bottle stuff up inside.”

“Where are your folks now then?” Tate asked
nonchalantly.

She snorted. “Nice try, buster. I don’t have
any parents anymore.”

They were quiet, both of them watching the
antics of the kids, laughing and shouting as they started the
picture of what looked like a giant marijuana plant.

Lily coughed again, wiping her mouth with her
sleeve. She tried to move her arm quickly to her side but Tate’s
heart thudded when he saw bright red streaks adorning her tatty
sweatshirt.

“That doesn’t sound good,” he said quietly.
“Have you had that cough checked out at the local homeless clinic?
There’s one not too far away from here. If you like, I’ll come with
you.”

I can’t leave her like
this.

Lily shifted as she glared at Tate with
fierce eyes. “Don’t need a clinic. It’ll go away on its own. It
won’t matter much soon anyway. For either of us.”

Tate tried to push. Her last words worried
him. “I saw the blood, Lily. That’s never a good sign. I think you
should it get checked out.”

Lily sprang up angrily. “Who the fuck are
you? My father? I told you, I don’t need any help.”

She cast a scornful glance his way as he rose
to his feet. “You’re just like all the others, trying to get me
alone so I can give you a blowjob or something or screw me. You
guys are all the same.” Her voice was tight but Tate heard the fear
and loneliness in it. He knew those sounds well.

“Lily, I’m not wanting anything from you. I’m
not into women, let alone kids.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “You telling me
you’re a homo? You don’t look like a fag.”

Tate drew a deep breath. “Well, sorry to
burst your bubble of what a fag looks like but yes, I’m gay. I have
a boyfriend.” He raised his hands palm side up. “In fact, that’s
the reason I’m here. We had a bit of an argument a couple of days
ago.” He waved around him. “This helps me focus, get over stuff.
That’s why I come here.”