My eyes are screwed shut. The buzz and hum of the pen, and the vibration of the base unit in the background is the worst part. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway.

The virgin skin, that one small space I’ve left untouched, stings with acute intensity as the pen gently drags its sharpened edge across the canvas my body provides.

This is my final reminder.

My final lesson learned. It will sit above my heart forever more. A constant reminder to never trust. To never feel. Every time I look at myself in the mirror, this will be one display I won’t be able to ignore. 

“You okay there, Faith?”

I startle a little at Dan’s voice. We’ve been silent throughout the whole process. Actually, we’ve been silent for days. Both of us walking around aimlessly, lost and wandering in our own thoughts. Neither of us feeling, looking; sometimes I wonder if we are even breathing. If it wasn’t automatic for our lungs to inhale air would we still be remembering to do it?

Dan is grieving.

Al is gone. His fight against cancer and his zest for life finally over.

I’m grieving, too. But I’m grieving for Al, while also reeling from the smashing of my heart.

I can’t and I won’t ever let myself think of Elijah Fairclough again.

Liar.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Him, yes. But more me. I broke my one golden rule and fell for the lie he told. For the picture of perfection he managed to paint with his words and promises.

Anger bubbles inside me and my breathing hitches until there’s a small knot right under the place Dan is working his pen. My heart thuds a heavy boom. The pitter patter of the last few weeks has been replaced by an endless death march.

Al is gone. And I didn’t get to say goodbye.

“Breathe, Faith.” Dan’s voice cuts through my endless circling thoughts. Round and round they loop, never ceasing.

“I can’t.” I hold in my breath. I hate being weak. I hate the tears that keep sliding down my face, landing with a rolling splatter on the vinyl of the bed beneath me. But the tears still come no matter how much I want them to end.

The buzz of the machine stops and silence fills the air. “What are you doing?” I lean up a little and search Dan’s face. He has that look on it: the crease between his brows, his lips down-turned. It’s a familiar gesture when I lean forward and brush his sandy hair out of his eyes. He puffs a breath and blows the strands.

Dan’s built like a machine. Wide muscles, covered in ink. His skin is tanned from summer and everything about him is comforting and familiar. Even the old T-shirt he has on—once baggy but now stretched over his shitkicker build—is familiar.

Laying here, letting him ink my skin should be fun, just like old times. Before, I would have drunk and smoked through the process and we’d have chatted about everything and nothing to while away the hours a good job can take. Not today. I can’t talk around the axe slashed into my chest right above where he’s marking me.

“We should stop, Faith. You aren’t in the right headspace for this. I don’t want you to ever regret anything I mark on you.”

“Fuck off, Dan.” I scowl so hard it hurts my forehead. “Don’t give me that shit. You ink anyone, anywhere, it’s your job. Why am I any different?”

His head shakes and he looks at me like I’m an enigma he’s never going to understand. “Because most people who come and lay on this bed, don’t turn up on my doorstep a sobbing and hysterical mess only a few days before.”

My cheeks burn. I wish I could erase the memory of my arrival back home in Brighton, but I can’t.

I was a mess.

I’m not far off it now.

Everything hurts.

My head. My limbs. My heart.

“Al had just died. What were you expecting, cartwheels and pompoms?” I’m being a bitch, yet I just can’t rein it back in.

“Yes. I know my dad had died, Faith. That’s not what was wrong.” He pushes his hand through his hair, his muscles tense as he stares at me. “I don’t know why you won’t talk to me. You won’t talk to Abi, either. I hate not being able to help you. I thought everything was fine. You were happy when you left the other week and I found you with His Lordship in here all kissing and...”

I hold my hand up, my fingers shaking. “Stop. Don’t say another word.”

His words bring back an onslaught of memories and I wince around them. Tears sting and my pulse thuds until it rushes in my ears like the sea on sand. “I don’t want to talk about it. Now finish inking me, we’ve got a funeral to go to.”

He hesitates, the concern right there in his eyes; but I don’t want concern, I don’t want pity. Poor Faith, she’s had her heart smashed. Stupid Faith, all those rules to keep herself safe and she still got hurt.

He leans forward until we are almost nose to nose. “Tell me what he did.”

My head shakes so hard it hurts. “No. Just ink me.”

I lay back down and wait. I know I will win our battle of wills.

He sighs switching the machine back on. I close my eyes and concentrate on Al’s funeral in a few hours. Al, the man who was everything to me: uncle, father, and friend is gone.

I won’t let myself think of Elijah, the man who promised me everything and then broke my heart by agreeing to marry someone else.

My chest stings under the black of my shirt. I welcome the pain, drag it in, holding onto it as something real and alive because on the inside I’m goddamn dead.

Of course, it had to rain today. It’s been dry for months. England has been bathed in the longest, driest summer in history. Today, it has to rain.

Dan’s on the sofa at one side of his dad’s lounge. I’m at the other. People are waiting, talking in hushed tones making polite meaningless small talk to pass the time, and I keep glancing at the door.

The last thing I need is my dad turning up. I saw him for the first time in months a couple of weeks ago. To say it didn’t go well is an understatement.

I hate him. Al was more of a father than that man ever was. I grew up with both of them in my life. Al and Dad were business partners for years—friends for longer—until I dropped the bombshell of all bombshells a few years ago and they had to take sides.

Al took mine.

Dad didn’t.

I lean forward and rub at my face. I didn’t bother with makeup, what would be the point? The tears won’t stop falling. Truth is, I no longer know what I’m crying for. Am I crying for Al, a man lost to cancer too soon? Or am I crying for me and the fact that once again I’m alone, but this time facing the world without my champion by my side?

Ten days ago, everything was perfect.

I mean for fuck’s sake, even Channel 4 were talking to me about the possibility of a TV show.

A TV show... and me...

I should have known then it was all a dream.

The sofa dips next to me and Abi sinks down by my side, her arm sliding around my waist. “How you doing, chick?” I give her a wan smile.

“Fine. I just want it to start. It seems like it’s taking forever. We’ve been waiting and waiting.”

“They’ll be here soon, Faith. The hearse isn’t meant to be here for another few minutes.” My stomach lurches and I’m sure I’m going to be sick.

“I’m not talking about waiting for the hearse. I’m talking about everything.” Lifting my eyes, I glance around the room again. Everyone waiting. Expectant. Poised for action. A large percentage of the group gathered have ink on their skin placed there by Al, me, or Dan. Maybe even my dad.

“Have you thought of what you’re going to do after the funeral, Faith?” Abi gives me her don’t shit with me stare and I cringe internally. She’s been letting me coast. Letting me drink excessive amounts of vodka, cry and wallow. But I know my time is close to running out. The sand on the egg timer is running through quicker and quicker and soon she’s going to shit on me from a great height.

It’s easy for her though. Her life is perfect. Across the room is her husband and I know he’s got one eye constantly trained on her.

“Not yet, Abs, don’t lecture me, please.” I’m not going to lie. I’ve had a few vodkas since my session in Dan’s shop. And some painkillers to kill the sting. It’s sad it hasn’t done anything about the ache on the inside.

“I’m not lecturing you, Faith. But at some point soon, you’re gonna have to tell us what happened. Where’s Eli? I thought you guys were a thing; more than a thing, even?”

I glare, although my eyes actually ache and my evil stare of doom is half-hearted. “I said I don’t want to talk about him.”

She gives a little shake of her head. “Whatever. We are still talking.” She appraises me with that cut the crap expression she specialises in. It’s all frown lines and pursed lips. “So, you aren’t a thing? Coz he had that whole doe-eye thing going on, and you guys were up to all sorts in that hotel room.”

I stand, pushing away from her hands. Everyone stops to watch and I frown at them all. Oh, they think I’m getting up because Al is finally here in his wooden box. “Relax, relax. I’m just getting some air.”

Hell, do I need it. It’s hot in Al’s front room. Too many people hanging around, waiting, stealing all the air.

I step out into the garden. Wide, with a beautiful lawn I grew up playing on, chasing Dan and Abi around. “Remember the day Al put the sprinklers on, and you all spent the afternoon screeching and running through?”

I freeze my cigarette, suspended halfway between my mouth and the lighter in my hand.

“Dad, you aren’t welcome here.” I turn and look at the man in front of me. Dishevelled and greying, I don’t know if there is some part of me that’s supposed to feel sorry for the guy. Instead, there is just an empty void in the space I used to keep luxuries like emotions and feelings. It’s empty. Dead. Broken.

“Faith, please. I want to be here for Dan and to honour my old friend.”

I don’t care how long Dad and Al shared their shop for. I don’t care how many years they spent bringing us all up together in some wild bohemian childhood.

“Do you think Al wants your honour?” I step forward. “He hated you. You wouldn’t believe your own daughter was abused under your own roof.” He holds his hands out, but I don’t stop my approach. “Do you think he wants to be honoured by a man who doesn’t believe his family?”

“Faith, I wanna talk to you ‘bout it.”

“Today’s not the day, Dad.” I turn on my heel, walking straight into Dan’s broad chest. His arms come around me and I fight the urge to crumple. Instead, I try to glare at the man who was once my father. “In fact, there will never be a day for you and I to talk again.”

“Faith?” Dan’s voice lowers, his lips close to my ear, his hands rubbing my back. I remember when he used to do that when we were teenagers and I’d always be sick after too much alcohol. “Al wanted him here.”

The world tilts a little under my black-heeled boots. “What?”

“Dad tried to make amends with everyone before he went.”

I shirk out of his touch and storm for a garden chair, throwing myself down onto the wooden seat. “Good one, Al.” I grumble at the sky. “Some welcome home this is.”

I can almost hear his rumbling laughter coming straight back at me through the rain clouds overhead. He’d tell me this wasn’t meant to be a welcome home, that I’m not supposed to be here anymore. But what he’ll never know is that I no longer have anywhere to go.

With a flicker of my lighter and a deep inhalation of breath, I stare up at the sky. Small droplets of tears slide along my cheeks.

What am I going to do when today is over? Where will I go?

My bag vibrates on my lap and I open the gilt clasp, pulling out my phone. My stomach all but disembowels itself and falls out of my body.

Why isn’t he getting the message?

Eli Jones: Talk to me. There are people here who want to arrange meetings with you.

I drag on my smoke and then tuck my phone back in my bag. At some point soon, Elijah Fairclough will realise I’m not going to talk to him.

It vibrates again, and although I try my hardest not to look at the screen, my hands and eyes have a will of their own.

Eli Jones: I’ll think of you today. I hope the funeral goes well.

I squint through my tears. How does he know it’s Al’s funeral today? Elijah has nothing to do with my life here in Brighton.

“Faith?” I glance up and find Abi waiting for me by the patio doors. She has her black jacket on, and what little’s left of my stomach lurches. “The hearse is here.”

I nod and stub out my cigarette in the ceramic ashtray. It was one of the first things I made, and as terrible and misshapen as it is, Al had insisted on keeping it. Not only that, but telling everyone with pride I’d made it. When I was ten, I thought it was cool.

Ignoring my trembling fingers and the slow drag of my feet as I walk over the grass, I pull myself together, so I can say a final goodbye to my old friend.

I find Dan, smart in his black suit and matching tie, and grab his hand. Then together we step up for the first of the limos while others fall into line behind us.

“You okay?” My throat is so tight it’s hard to squeeze the words out.

His fingers tighten in mine and I won’t let them go until he wants me to.

“Yes. Thanks for being here.”

I smile, although my cheeks ache with the motion. “Always.”