Dahlia - The Velvet Witch and Her Dark Spirit

PART 2 - IT'S ALL DOWNHILL FROM HERE

Of all the things to get dragged to, you could do far worse than Tattoo Freak. It's an absolute honker of an exhibition and the largest of its kind on Earth. Once a year, people with ink in their veins come from all over the planet to show off their markings and ogle the designs of others. The best talent in the business is obliged to be here, ensuring you'll find exceptional eye candy in every corner.

It's a perv fest for skin art on those committed enough to stain themselves forever. The level of trust between artist and client is frightening. If I mess up, the piece is retired to the trash, and all that's lost is time. If a tattooist misses the mark, a medical procedure is required to cut into their victims' flesh with a high-powered laser. A brutal risk and one I've never been willing to take.

The gate buzzes at five. It's Ruben. I head down to the street, where the sky looks cruel and ready to punish. I clang the iron gate shut and sloth down the pavement to his car. The ketamine I snorted in the flat has formed a fluffy bed under my brain, making my pain bearable for the first time in days.

"Heya, buddy boy," I say to Ruben with a chirp that surprises us both.

"Levi, out the house and dressed to impress. Must be my lucky day. Got your ticket?"

I tap my pocket to make sure I can feel the outline of the card. "Yeah, got it."

Ruben stares me down, then adds, "And you're high. Good lad."

"So are you."

His eyes are narrow and bloodshot, and the car's full of lingering pot smoke and beer cans. It's hard to believe this man's the Head of Graphic Design for the leading marketing firm in the UK. Right now, he's barely in charge of himself.

"Yeah, but you're a different kind of high," Ruben says, switching tones to his Inspector Clouseau. "Hope you brought a taste for me?"

I finger my other pocket to make sure the pack of Marlboro's is there. Inside, beside the fags, is the remainder of the ketamine.

"Stop up the hill at Florence's. We'll throw back a pint and snort some gear," I say.

We jump in and head for the bar. Florence's is a halfway house for our kind. It's a five-star dive bar, full of dropouts and deadheads, the lonely and despised, pikeys, gamblers, dirty junkies, violent drunks and the homeless. It's a mixing bowl of society's rejects. It's heaven and one of the few places I'm comfortable. I often slink in midweek with the sole purpose of forgetting who I am.

We arrive half an hour later, and the place is dead as usual. A pair of lovers are sitting at the bar counting out coins for their next round while sharing a cigarette. She's fondly stroking the back of his hairy neck with a vicious set of red nails while whispering sweet nothings in his ear. He chuckles each time, smiling a toothy smile that shimmers with gold. After each grin, his attention returns to the football game. This is what love looks like on the wrong side of the tracks.

Eddie is at the bar polishing glasses and inspecting them far too carefully. He's doing his usual thing of taking too much pride in a place that has none. Those pint glasses could have lipstick on the rim and a hair in the base, and nobody would bat an eyelid.

He calls out something unintelligible when he spots me. I nod back.

"Anyone in the garden?" I ask.

"Not a soul," he says with a smooth grin.

"Perfect. Set us up with two pints of Stella."

I push through the grimy red door that opens onto the beer garden. The area is entirely off-suit to the rest of the joint. Whitewash render coats every surface and is a strange shade of pretty in the glowing dusk light. We drag a table up to the retaining wall, which is the last line of defence against the sheer drop on the other side.