The crumpled directions to Ink Stains and the flyer for Rebecca's band seem to burn through my jeans pocket as I sit through Psychology. I don't even know why I'm still carrying them around. I'm not considering actually going, am I?
"...and in Presentation of the Self in Every Day Life, Goffman says we present ourselves in different ways dependent on our audience, which leads to some interesting questions about identity and who we are beneath the performance..."
Kim, our teacher, talks animatedly at the front of the room, but I can't focus on her words. I keep thinking about what Carter said. He thought I could access the thoughts of the dead girls who make up my body; he thought I could tap into their skills. My mind brings forward the image of his face when he realised I couldn't. His disappointment adds another piece of emptiness to the hollow abyss growing in my gut.
But still, last night's dream keeps coming back. It niggles at me; whispers in my brain, gnaws at my conscience.
Daisy wants me to go to the tattoo parlour.
The man with cat like eyes knows something.
When I'm packing away my things at the end of the lesson Rebecca saunters over.
"She's a freak magnet," I overhear Sarah whisper to Chris, one of the boys who I used to have a crush on. He sniggers. Rebecca doesn't seem to notice.
"You thought anymore about tonight?"
Yes. I want to come.
Sarah's laughter gets louder and I swing my bag over my shoulder.
"I'm not coming. I'm not who you think I am."
The corner of her lip tugs upwards and there's an irritating look in her eyes – it's like she knows that I'm considering it. And I am. But something about this is personal. I don't need an audience. I've had an audience every damn day for the whole year and a half I've been back. If I go, I go alone.
Rebecca smiles.
"It's not who I think you are that matters. It's who you think you are that does." She makes her way to the door then stops, glancing over her shoulder, "And I think you might surprise yourself if you gave yourself a chance."
She disappears behind the door.
The two slips of paper still burn into my leg through my pocket.
***
At the end of the day, after waiting for Courtney and her gang to disperse, I hurry past the bus stop and make my way down Kensington High Street. The lights from shop windows permeate the darkness; each one spotlighting me as I pass before allowing me to sink back into the cover of night. I wrap my scarf around my face - protecting myself from the cold winds and stares from passing cars. Finally I reach Kensington High Street Tube Station.
Before I allow myself any time to think about it I swipe my Oyster Card against the barrier and make my way to the platform. Then, after consulting my directions, I step onto the next train and make my way towards Brixton and Ink Stains; the last place Daisy Malone was seen alive.
***
The outside of Ink Stains is brash – I don't know how else to describe it. Its name is written in flashing, neon lights above the glass front, and the low roar of metal music blares out into the street. It's not my kind of place at all and I pull my coat tighter to my body, shielding myself from its glare.
I think about turning back but my feet won't let me. I've made it this far, I may as well take a look inside.
My hand lingers on the door-handle for a moment before a middle-aged, heavily tattooed couple burst out into the street – bumping into me. I brace myself for the inevitable comments about my appearance but they don't come. Instead the couple apologise, exposing pierced tongues, and head on down the bustling street.
I take a breath and walk inside.
The walls are covered with graffiti and the air smells like smoke and fresh ink. There are two reclining black chairs in the small space; on one sits a girl with a bright pink mohawk. A tall man with an eccentric, patterned waistcoat is leant over her, tattooing her arm.
My eyes are immediately drawn to the shabby wooden counter though.
Jared is leant against it flicking through a music magazine. My heart sinks. I wanted to do this alone.He looks up as I enter and dislike flashes across his expression.
"What are you doing here?"
He shouts to be heard over the screeching music. I stand frozen.
What am I doing here? Who do I think I am?!
I take a breath, fighting the doubt, and move towards the counter. I don't look at him.
"What are you doing here?"
I repeat his question back to him and he leans forwards, resting his forearms on the counter. Then he flicks me an irritable glance and looks pointedly at his exposed right arm - covered in swirling black inked shapes that creep all the way up to his neck.
I belong here, and you don't is what he is telling me.
I avert my eyes from him and direct my gaze toward the tattoo artist at the other side of the room. He seems like the only employee here so I will ask him about Daisy. A few minutes later he steps backwards and the pink haired girl gets up and skips out of the parlour. When he turns around my heart jolts. He is tall with short, jet black hair, creamy brown skin, and dark, almost cat like, eyes.
He's the man from my dream.
His eyes narrow when he sees Jared, and then they slide onto me. Something unreadable crosses his expression. He moves across the scratched black floor towards us.
"Oh...it's you...again." A mutual dislike seems to pass between him and Jared, "I've told you before, just like I've told your little blonde friend earlier, I don't know anything about Daisy."
He's lying.
He looks down at me and something passes behind his eyes. He seems distracted.
"So, this is the girl?"
His eyes flick towards my left arm. Jared notices and glares at me.
"Show him."
I don't want to.
"Show him her arm. Just do it."
My heart thumps in my chest as I roll up the left sleeve of my jacket – exposing myself. Quickly I turn my arm so that the tattoo artist can see the inked flower. Jared seems to recoil slightly but the man leans forward – his face a picture of fascination and regret.
"You are magnificent," he reaches forward – his fingertips brushing my skin, "May I?"
I jerk my arm away and hurriedly pull the sleeve back down. The man shrugs then smiles, his eyes suddenly out of focus as though he's enjoying a daydream.
"I don't usually enjoy humans, but Daisy – I could tolerate her company," he exhales heavily. "If I'd have known where she was heading that night I would have stopped her. I did enjoy her visits."
I stare at him – ignoring the way he talked about humans as though he was not one himself.
"Where did she go that night?"
He pauses, his face troubled.
"There's quite an old-fashioned theory that tattoos are linked to a low socio-economic background and high risk behaviour – nonsense of course. But someone who held those views could be led to believe that someone with a tattoo may be less likely to be investigated by the police - were they to go missing."
A storm brews behind Jared's eyes as the tattoo artist stares fixedly at my left sleeve. I scratch my arm, feeling uncomfortable under his pointed interest.
"The last Friday of every month the club holds a tattoo only night. And there he chooses the girls he wants from the ones admitted - girls that don't fit in, girls he thinks no-one will notice. They're holding one of the nights tonight, in fact."
Jared leans forward, grabbing the man by the waistcoat.
"Where?!"
His eyes snap into focus and he looks at us both as though he's surprised we're there.
"At the Meat Market."
I frown. Why does that name sound familiar?
Then I realise. I plunge my hand into my pocket, pulling out the Pussy Wagon flyer. Below the black and white image of the four, screaming girls, is the venue; Meat Market, Brixton.
Adrenalin surges through my veins like fire.
Rebecca's band is playing there tonight.
I jolt my gaze up to Jared and for the first time I don't see dislike on his face, I see panic. Without another word he releases the tattoo artist. We both turn around and storm towards the exit of Ink Stains.
We need to find Rebecca. We need to find her before she meets the same gory fate as Daisy Malone.