Page 60 of More Than I Can Bear

She gestured to the wall where a painting hung, a canvas where the artist had seemingly slapped a series of unpredictable strokes in shades of beige, red and black across the surface. it didn’t look like anything to me other than something I’d take one of our house painters to task for if they did that to one of the walls.

“We do the same thing. These artworks are investments.” She blinked as she looked at Freya’s work again. “I can’t see anyone investing in that kind of art.”

“But people do, right?” I’d looked through all of her Instagram posts, found her online store. “She sells them at markets—”

“There is a market for this kind of artwork.” Her mouth tightened. “It’s not an especially lucrative one.” She waved her hand around dismissively. “Tattoo parlours and streetwear brands will often buy this kind of artwork, mostly because it’s what they can afford. Something cheap to slap on their walls.”

She was dismissing Freya outright after barely even looking at her work and that had me standing up, ready to end the meeting. Margot seemed to sense my shift in mood belatedly affixing a polite smile.

“But if she’s someone important to you, perhaps we could add one of her pieces to a group show. We’ve got one coming up. Who knows?” Could she have sounded more patronising? I didn’t think so. “Maybe it’ll sell.”

“No, thanks.” I could wear Margot’s dismissive bullshit, just, but I’d be damned if I would subject my mate to this shit. Maybe this was exactly the kind of crap that had her so tentative about the idea of having a show. But, I resolved, she hadn’t had me in her corner before now. “Tattoo shops and streetwear brands, you say?”

“You know, the kinds of low class places your clients wouldn’t be seen dead in,” she said, smiling in a way that tried to create a sense of camaraderie but didn’t. I handled a lot of money, and was forced to rub shoulders with the rich and powerful at times. But day to day? I worked with blokes who swung tools, slogging their guts out to build people somewhere to live. Putting on the kind of pretensions Margot seemed to think was the norm would’ve just got my teeth punched down my throat. “But don’t be concerned. I’m sure this young woman could sell her designs to a streetwear company. If she could get in with the right person, become a big hit with kids, she could do very well out of her designs.”

I didn’t really process the second part of her advice as I headed out to the car, because I was already focussing on the first part. Once I was in the car, I punched in another number before putting the car into gear.

“Ursa Ink,” a gravelly voice said when the phone was picked up.

“Bjorn, it’s Kaine,” I said as I eased the car into the closest lane.

“Kaine! How the fuck’s it going, catering to the straights?”

“Some days are better than others,” I replied. “Look, I won’t fuck you around. You still got that gallery attached to the shop?”

Bjorn and his sleuth lived life a little differently than the average bear shifters. A lot of the major biker gangs formed after World War II, when pissed off young servicemen returned to civilian life. Gangs formed in Australia as well as America, and Bjorn was the president of one that allowed only bear shifters as members. They weren’t exactly one percenters, but they certainly didn’t focus on keeping a low profile either.

“Yeah, I still got the gallery,” Bjorn replied and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You sick of putting arty farty bullshit on all the walls of those swanky houses you build.”

“Yeah, maybe I am.” I flicked the indicator, changing lanes to turn down the main road that would bring me closer to his shop. “And maybe I’ve got an artist you should be looking at.”

“River finally gonna have that show?” Bjorn asked.

“Not River; it’s my mate,” I corrected.

“Well, fuck, you found her, and she’s talented too? You on your way?”

“I’ll be with you in twenty,” I told him.

The big man came to stand in the doorway to the shop, hands going to the top of the door frame when I pulled up. We were all big blokes, but none of us had anything on Bjorn. Not an ounce of fat on him, he had a powerful presence that made clear punks weren’t to fuck with him, yet could settle the nerviest of tattoo clients before he started to ink their skin.

“How’s it going?” I said, looking around at the shopfront. The signage had been replaced, and the whole shop looked crisp and clean. Bjorn’s dads had run the place before him, and had been pretty cavalier about looking after the place.

“Better for seeing you,” Bjorn said with a chin tilt. I held out my hand for him to shake, but he just used it to haul me closer, grabbing me in a bear hug. A warm, hard presence, he was there and then gone again seconds later. “How long’s it been?”

“Christmas. Your mob came down for the toy run.” I gestured to the motorbikes set up outside the front of the shop.

“No word of a mate then,” he said, those blue eyes narrowing. He scratched at his full beard and then looked me over. “So what’s the story? Anything to do with your dickhead brother?”

“Everything’s always to do with my dickhead brother,” I told him as he ushered me inside.

Back in the day, this had been one of the rougher ends of town, but with Adelaide property prices rising as they had, it had been through a gentrification process. Some developers had sniffed around Bjorn’s shop, offering him big money to sell, but I’d talked him through the deals. If they were going to raise the property values of the area, the best thing to do was stay.

Bjorn owned the shop outright so he had few overheads. And tattooing? It’d had its own gentrification process. A corporate shark was just as likely to be wearing ink as a biker now. So I’d helped him get a business loan to do the place up and now it was run as both a tattoo parlour and a gallery, the ever sharp Cressida looking after that side of the business. She nodded to me as we came inside, her blunt cut Bettie Page haircut and many piercings seeming to draw the crowds in rather than keep them away.

“Beer?” Bjorn asked, walking over to a pastel blue, 1950s style fridge where he kept alcohol and tattoo ink. I didn’t normally drink beer during the day, but after today… “You look like you need one.”

“Please,” I said, and when he set the can in front of me, I cracked it open and then told him my story.

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