‘What do you expect me to do?’ Karl had asked Lar Richardson when he was trying to pick up the pieces of his shattered life. ‘Assume a new identity?’
‘Assuming a new identity would be the perfect solution,’ Lar had replied. ‘However, in the real world, perfect solutions seldom present themselves.’
As it turned out, Lar was wrong. But it was a drug addict, hardly out of his teens, well-spoken and dangerous with the strength of desperation, who attacked Karl on Temple Bar and made this transition possible.
His attacker came from behind and struck with such ferocity that Karl had no time to react before he was dragged into the shell of a derelict site and forced against a wall.
‘Drop the bag or I’ll slice your fucking face in two,’ he yelled and slammed his arm against Karl’s neck, pressed the tip of a knife to his cheek.
It would have been easy to hand over his backpack. Most of the contents were replaceable. The drop-in shelters would provide him with the necessities he needed for life on the street. But the drawings in his journal were irreplaceable. His attacker would fling them away without a second thought, interested only in Karl’s phone or money.
‘Drop your bag immediately,’ the youth repeated.
The knife cut into Karl’s face. Blood trickled down his cheek in a hot, ticklish flow. Outside this derelict building, traffic flowed by, and pedestrians hurrying along the pavement, averted their faces. Two thugs fighting: best avoided. He heard a woman talking, a busker singing, laughter. Could they be the last sounds he would ever hear? A tree had rooted in the cracks on the wall, its branches waving like a benedictory hand above victim and attacker. Death was coming, spitting saliva into his face, bad teeth and fetid breath, yet Karl refused to give in. Recovering his wits, he slammed his knee into his attacker’s groin with such force that the youth’s legs jack-knifed and he collapsed, his knife clattering on the cement floor.
Karl staggered through Crown Alley and across the Ha’penny Bridge. On the boardwalk, he slumped on to a bench, the pain in his face taking over. The cut was deep, blood running over his throat, staining his anorak. He pulled tissues from his backpack, frightened by the loss of blood, and tried to stem the flow. His legs buckled when he swung his backpack on to his back but he manged to make his way to the Mater Hospital. The doctor in the emergency department had seen too much to even pretend sympathy. ‘Count yourself lucky,’ he said as he stitched the wound. ‘Much closer and it could have been your eye that was taken out. There’ll be a scar but you’re strong enough to survive it. There’s always plastic surgery to be considered. Just watch your back in future.’
He left the hospital and entered a pharmacy where he bought painkillers. People passing by gave him a wide berth when they noticed his bloodstained anorak, the dressing on his face. He turned down a side street, his stomach churning. Nausea bent him double and he vomited against the wall. A couple hurried past, the woman uttering little shrieks of disgust. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and sank to his hunkers, his hands hanging limply between his knees. Finally, he found the strength to rise to his feet and make his way to the Glenmoore bus stop.
‘Hey, man!’ a voice shouted. ‘Hang on there a sec.’ Gabby Morgan, dressed in jeans and a brown donkey jacket, hurried to catch up with him. He stared astonished at Karl and said, ‘Jaysus, man, ya look like someone took a scimitar to yer face.’
‘Near enough.’ Hard to smile when one half of his bottom lip refused to move. ‘When did you get out of prison?’
‘We won an appeal. Some aggro over the book a’ evidence and I was out on me arse before I knew wha’ end of me were up. Me and that effer, Killer.’ He surveyed Karl, his eyes narrowing. ‘I heard ya was livin’ rough. Where’re ya hangin out?’
‘I found a squat.’
Gabby grabbed his arm and pulled him close. ‘Ger yerself a proper roof, man. The street’s no place for the likes a’ you.’
‘It’s no place for anyone.’
‘There’s some can hack it. Others end up bleedin’ dead in a doorway. Is that wha’ ya want?’
‘I don’t know what I want any more, Gabby.’
‘Make up yer mind fast. I can see yer bleedin’ ribs from here. There’s me address.’ He fished in the pocket of his donkey jacket and handed Karl a business card with Morgan Engravings printed on the front. ‘I’d ask ya to stay in me gaff, only there isn’t room to swing a cat since me ma took her stroke. But yer more an’ welcome to call round for a bite anytime, mate.’
‘Thanks, Gabby.’
‘See ya then.’
The pain in his face was intense, his lip throbbing, when Karl reached the old house. Why had the stealing of his backpack mattered so much when he had lost everything else that was precious to him? Was it because he had a choice? A choice to fight to his death on that derelict site rather than give up his last possession. He pulled out his journal and studied the drawings that had made prison endurable. He had given the creatures a name. Plinks. Sasha’s word for pink when she was learning to talk, demanding her plink T-shirt, her plink sandals, a plink cupcake.
The floor of the old house was covered with drawings of the plinks. Responding to years of being trapped in his imagination, they ran, leaped, climbed, swam and flew across the paper. Their colours changed depending on his mood, sometimes primary, sometimes pastel.
They developed characteristics and first names: Super, Bravo, Plucky, Hero, Derring-Do, Ace and Gutsy.
As he had expected, the wound healed but left an angry red scar running down his cheek to his lips. His bottom lip sagged and pulled his mouth to one side. He touched his good cheek. He felt insubstantial, as if the slightest breath of wind would blow him away and leave a stranger in his place.
He cut his hair, shaved the sides and spiked the top, dyed it black. The difference was startling; his eyes seemed greener, his skin tone paler. He bought a pair of glasses, plain lenses with a blue tint and square black frames. A style had evolved from his haphazard searching in charity shops. Eclectic, mismatching pieces he would never have worn in the past. When does an idea become a plan, he wondered; a plan turn to action and gain an irreversible thrust? Like a snake, he was shedding his old skin, and feeling lighter with each sloughing.
Sheila Hande rang. Finally, his claim for unfair dismissal from Richardson Publications had been settled out of court.