‘I fought as hard as I could to persuade Lar Richardson to increase the amount,’ Sheila said. ‘That’s his limit, I’m afraid. If we go to court, a judge will award a higher settlement. I’ve no idea how long that will take. This way, the money is yours as soon as you sign the settlement form. Do you need it now or can you afford to wait?’ They both knew this was a rhetorical question.
He signed the form and demanded the settlement in cash. When this arrived at Sheila’s office, he transferred it to the post office box he had been using since he became homeless. His mind was clear at last. No more muddied incomprehension, self-loathing, self-destructive urges. No more yearning for everything he had lost. The present was all that mattered.
Documentation would be necessary to make a fresh start: a bank account, utility bills, a passport, a PPS number. A month later, when Gabby Morgan passed over the forged documents, the last remnants of the snakeskin lay withered on the floor of the old house.
He rented an apartment. It had been built during the property boom and the wooden frontage was already discoloured and rotting. He had thought it would be difficult to live among people again, but he soon realised that this anonymous complex was as lonely as a prison cell.
For months he worked tirelessly on his laptop, experimenting, improvising, researching the tools he would need to move forward. His fingers flew rapidly over the keyboard as he prepared for the tempest that was to come.
Chapter Forty-One
The buskers were out in force on Saturday morning, musicians, acrobats and pavement artists. Marcus was fascinated by the living statues, who winked their eyes or moved their little fingers in acknowledgement when he dropped coins into their buckets. He was two years of age and Amanda had brought him into the city to have his feet measured for new shoes. Afterwards, they would have lunch in the Children’s Cave.
At the top of Grafton Street, a group of children had gathered around a pavement artist. Unlike the other artists, he was not drawing saints and angels in gaudy hues, and children pulled at their parents’ hands, demanding that they stop to look at his work. Marcus hunkered down to his level and stared at the colourful, pig-like creatures. Upright and balanced on two sturdy trotters, they appeared to move across the pavement, their velvety pelts gleaming in a myriad of hues. Each creature wore or carried an item that defined their activities: mountain boots, goggles, trainers, a propeller, tap shoes, a kayak and a skateboard.
The artist leaned forward and began to draw again. A few more strokes and another squat little creature appeared. This one was swimming and the children jerked back, as if they expected the waves the artist was drawing to splash over their feet. Amanda understood their reaction. These were static figures yet, somehow, it seemed as if the pavement was swirling with dizzying, three-dimensional effects.
Marcus went down on all fours and crawled closer to the drawings.
‘What are they?’ Amanda asked.
‘Plinks,’ the artist replied.
‘What are plinks?’ She liked the name, succinct and easy for children to remember.
‘Adventurers. Rescuers. Explorers.’ He held up a chalked thumb in thanks as a little girl giggled and threw coins into his basket. ‘Warriors of retribution.’
Dressed in bright red trousers and neon braces studded with flashing lights, he looked almost as surreal as his characters. His purple T-shirt had a plink printed on the front and his floppy hat, a paper flower stuck in the brim, was hand-painted with similar images. His fun appearance was offset by an angry red scar puckering his cheek. It looked as if a knife had swerved downwards from below his left eye and slashed through his lips, distorting his mouth. The children were so mesmerised by his drawings and odd, colourful clothes that they didn’t seem to notice his face – or, if they did, they weren’t bothered by it.
She asked how the plinks originated. They had evolved from a doodle, he said, which sounded intriguing, yet he made no further effort to elaborate.
‘Have you written stories for them?’ Amanda could visualise them in a book, the captivating illustrations enhanced by simple words.
‘Why should they need stories?’ He waved his hand at the drawings. ‘A picture is worth a thousand words and the pavement is all I need for a canvas.’
‘And a shower of rain will wash all your hard work away.’ She imagined the illustrations blurring, rivulets of colour running into the gutter. ‘You could do so much more with them.’
‘You don’t think this is enough?’ He sat back on his heels and tapped the creatures with his chalk. She heard a twang of New York in his accent, too faint to be authentic. He was probably a returned emigrant, down on his luck. His glasses were square and blue-tinted, so it was impossible to see his eyes. Disconcerting. She was unable to tell if he was looking at her or at the children.
‘Of course it is,’ she replied. ‘But if you want my advice, and I’ve some experience in this area, you should get off your knees and bring them to the next stage.’ She smiled encouragingly at him, then looked away in case he thought she was staring at his scar. A smaller scar ran at an angle from the main one and created a pronged pucker above his upper lip. A street fight, probably, and vicious.
‘Actually, I am working on something.’ He rummaged in his backpack and tore a sheet of paper from a sketch pad. The creature he drew on it was similar to the ones on the pavement but the face that emerged belonged to Marcus, his cropped black hair, his rosebud mouth, his cheeks still baby-plump.
Marcus told him his name and he wrote To Marcus from Ben Carroll below the drawing. ‘I’ll send you a copy of my book when it’s done.’ This time Amanda knew he was staring directly at her. ‘You’ll have to tell me your name and where you live.’
She gave him her business card. He glanced at it but it was obvious her name meant nothing to him. That didn’t surprise her. She figured he passed celebrity culture by without a glance. She dropped a ten-euro note into his basket. The ugly scar furrowed his cheek when he forced his lips into a contorted smile and gave her a thumbs-up.
The Plinks Say Hi was delivered to Amanda’s desk two months later. She smiled as she read the attached note.
Dear Amanda,
You asked me to do something meaningful with the plinks and this is my first attempt. Please give The Plinks Say Hi to Marcus with my regards.
Ben Carroll.