Page 33 of Dark Ink

How was I supposed to know which one to stop at one? And which one to never stop. How was I supposed to tell when more would heal me? Or when more would kill me. If it was all good, if it was all so fucking good, then why stop? Why not just keep going till you couldn’t. Till you just fucking couldn’t.

“Maybe we can just chill for a second, eh?”

The joint unleashed curling tendrils of smoke between Conor and me in the faint pink neon glow of Dublin Ink. I held it extended toward him. My arm felt heavy on the armrest of the couch. Felt good. Felt like I could sink into the faded floral cushions and just keep sinking. I looked with hooded eyes at Conor. Looked at the joint and its alluring red smoulder. Looked back at Conor. Squinted. Groaned.

Great. Fucking great. I was getting “concerned” Conor. The Conor who held his thick arms crossed a little too high on his mammoth chest. The Conor who smiled even less than usual. The Conor who would in a moment or two clear his throat and say we really should have a good chat. “Concerned” Conor fucking sucked.

Rolling my eyes felt like looping over the bar on the swings as a kid, aka impossible. I got halfway, tired, and let my eyes fall back down. This probably did not manage to make “concerned” Conor any less “concerned”. I didn’t give a fuck. I shrugged my shoulders, drew the joint slowly back to my mouth, and inhaled deeply before saying, “I don’t have a clue what you could possibly be talking about.”

It was midnight. Or maybe it was two a.m. Hell, maybe time didn’t even exist anymore. All I knew was that it was past eight. And Eithne hadn’t come.

She hadn’t fucking come.

“Look,” Conor said, wriggling his folded arms even higher up his chest till they practically skimmed his bearded chin, “we’ve had a fun night. Talked a bit. Let’s call it a day I think.”

I snorted smoke from my nose. My night was shite. I’d jumped at every person passing down the sidewalk like a skittish alley cat. I stood by the window for what felt like hours, staring down at the rickety old bus stop. I stalked outside in the rain from corner to corner in case she’d gotten lost and was just out of sight.

The whole night I felt like my heart was racing, my skin was burning, my mind was diving off a deep and endless cliff. The whole night I sucked at joint after joint like it was Eithne’s nipple, like it was Eithne’s bottom lip, like it was Eithne’s clit. The whole night Conor said two fucking things: “pot?” and “sure, I guess”.

Conor glanced up toward the stairs. He was hoping Mason would come down from fucking Miss Last Night (wait, I guess she was Mrs What Happened In Vegas). Conor was hoping Mason had worked up a thirst, an appetite, an urge for whipped cream. For anything. Conor was hoping he’d get some “backup”. Someone who was better at this whole “talking” thing.

I guess I should have been grateful that it was Conor who decided to hang out with me as I waited for Eithne to not fucking show. He was totally out of his depths. I inhaled again and relished the burn in my lungs.

Conor dragged a hand through his hair to his bun. “Erm, Rian, well, look, I don’t want to say this, but…”

Then don’t. Then fucking don’t.

“…Aurnia told me about the, um, tattoos.”

I flicked some ash from my knee. The silence became as heavy as my eyelids. I thought I could sink in it, too. Sink deeper and deeper into the silence till I couldn’t even hear her name repeated like a broken record: Eithne, Eithne, my little Raglan Road girl…

“Rian?”

I’m not sure how many times Conor had to say my name. Hers was all I heard.

“Rian!” Conor snapped. He was actually angry when I lolled my head over to the side to look at him. “You can’t just disappear like that when I’m trying to talk to you.”

I mumbled around the joint which was already burning my lips, “So you’ve finally discovered that I’m a tattoo artist. All you needed was a junior sleuth by your side to crack the case.”

Conor was not amused.

“What do you want?” I asked. “A fucking medal? The keys to the city?”

“You know what I mean,” Conor grumbled.

“I don’t,” I said. “I’m a tattoo artist who owns a tattoo parlour who does tattoos. I don’t see what big mystery you’ve unearthed here.”

The soft buzzing of the neon light cut into the silence.

“Aurnia said it was a girl’s face,” Conor finally said. “Again and again, Rian.”

I cherished the smouldering paper against my lips. If Eithne couldn’t bite me, wouldn’t bite me, I’d let my drugs do it. I shrugged after a moment or two.

“It’s a good face.”

“She said you were looking for her,” Conor said.

“Aren’t we all just looking for someone?”

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