Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (22 page)

Clay was interrupted from his musings by
Tate’s heavy thump to his arm. “Hey,” he glared at his boyfriend.
“What the hell?”

Tate mock boxed around him, throwing fake
punches. “You looked in a brown study there. We need to get going.
I’ve got an art lesson to give to my protégé here…”

He picked up his rucksack, which Clay knew
was loaded with paint tins, and slung it across his shoulder. Tate
helped Jax get his own satchel on board then turned to Clay with a
raised eyebrow.

“Right, we’re ready. Let’s go. We’ve got
trains to catch and it’s a bit of a trip. I need coffee; we need to
stop at Starbucks. And maybe a Danish or something. I’m
starving.”

Clay rolled his eyes and laughed when he saw
Jax doing the same thing. This was going to be an interesting
afternoon.

****

When they got to the derelict swimming bath
with its concrete canvases, Tate got quieter as they walked toward
a wall emblazoned with a green-clad clockwork man. Clay recognised
Tate’s tag on the side of the mural.

“You okay, baby?” Clay murmured softly. He’d
noticed Tate’s stillness and the stiffer body language as they
approached the wall.

Tate nodded. “Yeah.” He grinned softly. “I’m
the big, tough cop, remember?”

Clay reached out and squeezed his hand. “I
remember.”

Tate smiled softly. “Besides, this isn’t for
me. It’s for Jax. He needs a boost. I think he’ll get a kick out of
it.”

Clay chuckled. “I never thought I’d see the
day my ‘big, tough cop’ got all soft over a teenager.” He reached
up and brushed Tate’s cheek softly. “I’m so damn proud of you.
You’ve been great with him and he really likes you. Trusts you.
It’s a big thing inspiring someone like that.”

Tate looked over at Jax. “He’s a great kid.
It’s like having a kid brother. I like it.”

Jax gave them a both a faint smile as he
walked beside them.

On the train, the teenager had been quiet,
gazing down at the floor of the tube behind dark sunglasses and
gripping his satchel tightly. Tate had spoken quietly to him and
Jax had nodded and then stuck his earbuds in his ears and listened
to music on his mobile phone. On the walk to the complex, Jax had
insisted he could walk on his own.

Tate and Clay had made sure to be either side
of him, as he walked
über
carefully, chin
held high. When he’d stumbled once or twice, misjudging a step or
the kerb, both of them had swiftly steadied him. Clay wasn’t sure
how much was politically correct and what could be construed as
patronising. He was following Tate’s lead, as he seemed to have
Jax’s measure.

As they drew closer to the wall, Clay nudged
Tate and gestured to the picture. “I like it. Very expressive.
Feeling a bit manipulated at the time, were you?” He knew Tate’s
murals depicted his moods and he was pretty adept at picking up on
his lover’s emotions.

Tate stared at the man with faraway eyes.
“Yeah. Something like that.”

Beside him, Jax murmured softly.

Clay wasn’t sure what he’d said, and whether
it had been at his words or the picture itself. He stood, unsure
what to do next. So he sat down against the wall, crossed his legs
in front of him and leant back. Then he waited for his two damaged
souls to take the lead. He closed his eyes, enjoying the afternoon
sunshine. In the far corner of the quadrant, older youths swore and
joshed with each other and he heard the rattling of paint cans.

“So what are we doing then?” asked Jax
uncertainly. “I haven’t painted anything in a while. I’m not sure I
remember how to.”

Clay opened his eyes to see Tate’s empathic
glance at his young friend.

“You paint from the heart, Jax,” Tate
murmured softly, pressing a primed paint can into Jax’s hand. “You
aim the nozzle and in your mind, you see what you want to say. I’ve
seen your paintings. You’re good and your instincts will take over.
Pick a spot and just let yourself go.” He reached out and ruffled
Jax’s blond curls affectionately. “Do anything you want.”

Jax nodded and shuffled over to a blank bit
of wall. He considered it for a while, in a birdlike fashion with
his delicate chin raised. Clay saw the fingers of his free hand
clenching and unclenching. Then he lifted his paint can and began
spraying.

Clay didn’t have a creative painting bone in
his body. He could write a bit and had published a few articles on
violence, life in the military and such for various publications.
But drawing anything meaningful other than a stick
figure—
that
he couldn’t do. He admired
people who could translate their emotions into painting and/or
graffiti like this.

He watched Tate as he studied the wall,
rubbing his chin, raising his arms and sketching something in the
air. Tate nodded once or twice, deep in thought, then aimed his
spray tin and painted a white swatch on the wall. The rebel that
dwelt inside him was taking over, flaunting convention and leaving
his lasting mark.

Clay loved seeing him like that—immersed in
his task, so focused on what he was doing that everything else
disappeared. Including Clay, he realised ruefully.

He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of
the sun, its soft touch making him drowsy. Around him, he heard the
hiss of cans, the murmurings as Tate or Jax pondered their mural,
soft huffs from Tate as he worked and in the distance, faint shouts
and laughter from no doubt other graffiti artists, who were busy
making their mark. It was peaceful, and the sun was warm and Clay
relaxed.

“Wow. He looks so peaceful, seems a shame to
wake him up.” Jax’s voice with its hint of laughter roused Clay and
he opened his eyes to see Tate and Jax peering down at him. He
swallowed; his throat dry, his eyes slightly gritty. He hoped like
hell he hadn’t been drooling.

I must have fallen
asleep.

His boyfriend observed him with a sly glint
in his eye. “Afternoon, old-timer. You were having a nice snooze
but it’s getting late so we thought we’d better wake you up.”

Clay scowled. “Fuck off. Enough of the ‘old,’
thanks.”

He squinted up at the two men sniggering
above him. “Are you two done creating the new Picassos?”

He clambered to his feet and looked over at
the walls, which had once been plain and grey and now abounded with
colour. The pictures leapt off the wall and assaulted his eyes with
a visual feast that was both bold and vibrant. They took his breath
away. His Picasso comment hadn’t been far off the mark.

“What do you think?” Tate asked, and Clay
heard the hesitation in his voice.

He shook his head in wonder. “Baby, it
looks—wow. Just damn wow. And Jax—I hope I’m not being PC here, but
hell, you paint better with bad sight than I could ever hope to
manage fully sighted and with a modicum of talent. It’s stunning,
truly.”

Jax’s face flushed in pleasure and he shifted
on his feet. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly. “I just did like Tate
told me to. Let my instinct guide me. And Tate’s mural is radical.
He is really talented.” He threw Tate a look of hero worship and
Clay bit back a smile. That look on Jax’s face was the way he felt
every minute of the day.

Tate’s mural was about five feet high, the
same wide and was rainbow coloured; a giant pink dragon graced the
wall, orange fire blowing from its nostrils. In the belly of the
dragon, the initials AK were written in bright, vivid green. The
dragon held a small green and white flower in its outstretched
claws. Tate’s signature tag of his initials formed the prong of the
dragon’s tail. Clay’s heart ached at what his rebellious lover had
done and he had to push down the emotion that swelled inside.

“It’s a mural for Lily,” he said softly,
looking at Tate, who was observing his creation with critical eyes.
“You said she wanted a pink dragon and you gave her one.”

Tate nodded. “I wanted her to know she hadn’t
been forgotten, that she was real, hence the AK. It was who she
was, even if she called herself Lily when I met her.” He scowled.
“I’m not good with flowers, so hopefully that looks like a lily.
Maybe I should try and get it a little more defined—”

Jax reached over and gripped Tate’s arm. “It
looks perfect to me,” he said gently. “Leave it. If it’s a little
flawed in your eyes, that just makes it all the more real.”

Tate frowned at his protégé. “Since when you
did you get so damn smart? That sounds like something Clay would
have said.” But he smiled, his face softening. “Love, what do you
think of Jax’s music score? Isn’t it sheer genius?” He beamed with
pride and Clay’s heart once again swelled with emotion.

God, this man will be the
death of me. How did I get so damn lucky to have a man like
Tate?

“It’s phenomenal,” he agreed, looking at the
three-foot mural of a music sheet with notes, clefs, staffs and
various other symbols imprinted upon it. It was classic black and
white, and had a white space in the middle in which a figure,
roughly drawn in black, sat gazing up around him at the detail of
the sheet. It lacked the detail of Tate’s creations, and there were
places where paint had run and overlapped. But it was beautifully
expressed and instantly recognisable. For a young man who was half
blind and hadn’t touched paint in years, it was an incredible feat
of perseverance. Something Clay understood all too well in his
struggle to rescue Tate from his demons.

“I’m speechless, actually, Jax. Is that you
in the middle? Is music something you enjoy?”

Jax nodded, and a shy smile crossed his face.
“I love music. I was taking piano lessons when I got hurt and I had
to give it up.” His face shadowed. “I wanted to do it again but I
just couldn’t. I kept thinking it would be too damn hard and I
couldn’t see the sheet music or the keys and it would just be too
damn awkward, plus who’s got patience to teach a half-blind guy the
piano?” The words rushed out like a verbal assault. “I enjoyed the
music side more than the painting. I even wrote some songs.”

Clay reached him before Tate did and laid a
finger on Jax’s lips. “Stevie Wonder plays the piano and he’s been
completely blind from birth. You can do it, Jax. You’re a
remarkable young man. You’ll find a way to bring the music back. I
have no doubt. And if we can help at all, you let us know.”

Tate nodded and reached out and pummelled Jax
on the arm. “What he said. He’s pretty wise for an old, sleepy
geezer.” He threw a blinding smile at Clay and then bent down to
start shoving empty paint cans into his bag. “Come on. We need to
get this cleaned up—”

Just then, two youths that had been loitering
on the periphery sidled up to them. Clay tensed but Tate nodded at
them.

“Freddy. Mitch. How’s it hanging, guys?”

The tall, skinny, ebony-skinned teen of about
sixteen bobbed his head and reached out to fist pump Tate’s
outstretched knuckles. The other teen, a pale kid around the same
age with untidy ginger hair, stood shuffling next to him.

“Cool, dude, cool. Me and my homey Mitch here
are liking that dragon. The music one’s not bad either.” The boys’
eyes flittered to Clay and he tried not to look threatening as he
smiled at them.

Jax stood quietly, hands clutching his
satchel. His chin lifted as he watched the other two young men.

“So.” Freddy nodded then turned to look at
Tate. “Is that for Lily? You’re the guy who found her, right?” His
jaw tightened.

Tate nodded. “Yeah. It’s for Lily. She
deserved it.”

Freddy’s head bobbed up and down fiercely.
“That she did, man. She was legend. Such a damn little trooper. Me
and Mitch here, we tried to get her to hospital to see about that
cough, but she was having none of it. Bit our heads off if we even
mentioned it.” His face darkened. “Damn shame she did what she did.
Sorry you had to find her that way, bro. Musta been a shock.”

“Yeah.” Tate’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he
swallowed. “But it’s done. And now she has a dragon to watch over
her, so,” he shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“Word,” Mitch finally said solemnly, darting
a curious glance at Jax. “You did some damn fine art there, with
the music shit. Looks good.”

“Thanks,” Jax murmured. “It’s my first
time.”

Mitch stared at him. “Cool.” He stood staring
at Jax, and Clay saw the teen’s face begin to flush.

Mitch gave Jax a huge grin. “You’re really
fucking beautiful, you know that?”

Jax’s face went bright pink and he fumbled
with the straps of his rucksack. Clay was pretty sure that
speechless was a rare occasion for him. He swallowed a snort of
laughter and Tate seemed to be doing the same.

“Er, thanks,” Jax stammered.

Freddy smacked his friend on the back of his
head, causing Mitch to yowl in pain. “You got no manners, you know
that? Don’t go telling guys that sort of thing unless you really
know they swing your way, you fucking idiot. How many times do I
have to tell ya?”

He cast an apologetic glance at them all.
“Please don’t beat us up, I’m really fucking sorry. Mitch here is a
homosekshual
,” he drawled the word
teasingly, “and his mouth runs away with him sometimes.”

Clay wanted to burst into laughter. It
sounded like the two things weren’t mutually exclusive and it
amused him no end.

“No problem,” he said, seeing the glisten of
tears in Tate’s eyes as he tried to hold back his own mirth. “No
offence taken.” He glanced at Jax, whose face was less red now and
whose lips curved in a slight smile.

“Well, we need to get off.” Freddy announced
with a dark glare at his friend, “Before my friend here decides to
hump yours and then we’ll really be in trouble. Later, dudes.”

He yanked Mitch’s arm and the two men walked
away, Mitch casting a cheeky grin over his shoulder at Jax, whose
smile grew wider. Clay was still struggling to hold back breaking
into great guffaws of pure amusement.