FIc: Red Boots, Black Soul (Part Four)
Title: Red Boots, Black Soul
Fandom: Mint Royale AU
Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to their respective owners, everything else is mine.
Word Count:
Summary: Nick's started getting mail, and Art's plans take a step backward before they go forward.
AN: So, I said Wednesday, and I meant last one, but this one will have to do. Apologies to anyone keeping an eye out, but RL took a massive upgrade and it's only just starting to settle out. And even then, time to go back to Uni, D: I hope this fills your tummies for the next week or so, and I hope to get it back on track or amp up the posting pretty damn soon. Lets get these boys back together, eh? ~SF xxx
Chapter Four
A Mistake in Identity
It was the second week inside that Nicholas started getting mail. Outside of letters and the occasional phone call from his mother, everything else was restricted.
He was well aware that there was an influx of fan mail he never got to see, but even letters from anonymous mentalists was a welcome relief from the tedium of his own brain and the shortcomings of the prison system.
Not that he was openly expecting any contact from anyone else short of his mother anyway.
Ethel had sworn never to talk to him again when the divorce papers had finally gone through years ago, and she had only broken that vow once to come in three days after he was admitted to Belmarsh, and abuse him in person about all the lawful indiscretions he must have made while he was married to her. All that had achieved was a grim sense of pride at having made her cry once she’d finished yelling at him and the knowledge that the guards were at least willing to let visitors in if they assured him some form of grief.
It was strangely reassuring.
But all the same, what Ethel was not, was waif skinny, smirking through her fringe with a thousand aces shoved up her sleeves and a million lies fluent on her tongue.
She wasn’t Art, and in the circumstances, all he fucking cared about was that next sign from the other man that seeing him in the courtroom had been a promise and not a damn goodbye. He needed proof that things were moving.
That he was fucking getting out.
Because while prison was prison, it was also an unofficial form of death row, and there was no chance in hell he was waiting around himself if Art had given up on him. He’d get shot trying to escape and die happier than having waited around for the damn noose.
It was a damn tense week.
The letter came in a bright red envelope on the eighth day, it’s colour the only reason Nick didn’t throw it away in a fit of apathy like had with the last dozen letters from desperate women he’d received over the last few days. He was immediately glad that he hadn’t disposed of it when he recognised the handwriting on the front of the envelope and for a moment he was torn between exasperation and amusement that Art had used a red envelope like a tit in some stupid signal, a feeling that was quickly replaced as he turned the envelope and noticed it was already open. For the first time since he’d been incarcerated he felt a rush of annoyance at having his mail read before him. Another person had read this before he had. Someone else had read his words before they had reached him. And yet he was surprised it had made it to him, anyway.
His hands shook as he unfolded the letter and he took a deep breath before he started to read that he seemed to hold all the way through.
Dear Nicky,
Oh I know it’s been a while since we spoke but there’s been so many things keeping us apart! I must say I was surprised when I heard about your little law breaking venture. I didn’t see you going into that sort of thing back in university. You were always a bit quiet, I’m sure everyone else thought you’d be an axe wielder or something not a bank robber sort. Just joking Nicky.
Anyhow, sorry to waffle off at you, sweetie, you know how I am. I did start this letter just to tell you I’d like to come and see you soon. I probably won’t look like you remember, i dyed my hair a little while ago and it looks so fetching and does wonders to how old I look. Oh you’ll have to promise not to let any of those roguish friends you’ve made inside grab at me, haha. Oh dear. It’s been a long time, Nicky, but in times like this people need their real friends and I’m here if you want me. Things are hard, I know they would be. I’ll help the best I can though. It won’t happen overnight though!
I’ll come and see you soon, Nicky. Keep safe; don’t bend over in the showers too much!
Annie xxx
The paper clenched in his fingers under reflex as he finished. The words swirling around in his head in circles, over lapping and leading into each other and all in Art’s voice, with just that tiniest edge of laughter in every word. Like he was having the time of his life.
Nick stared down at the page, taking in each messy loop in his handwriting, each slope and swirl. For all he knew, getting him out may as well be the best thing Art had ever done. He might have been having a blast. Nick had to stop himself clenching his hands into a fist. He could hear the measured march of heavy boots on concrete outside his cell, the intermittent clangs of inmates moving around, the faint buzz of muffled sound. The world was turning, passing on, but trapped in his cell he couldn’t help the tiniest thought that he was being held still. His timeline stuck on pause with nowhere to go. And it was damn infuriating. There was nothing he could do, except wait, wait for Art to send him another letter, edging the damn thing with his unrestrained mocking laughter.
Nick sighed and glanced down at the page in his hands.
I’ll come and see you. stared back at him and his frustration started it’s retreat.
There wasn’t nothing he could do, no. But the easiest way hedged on Art and if he was going to rely on him, then all he could do was wait and hope that the waif he’d seen so very few months before when he’d walked into a bar, would get him out.
For some reason it didn’t feel as ludicrous as he thought it should be.
***
The laser copy centre was never busy any time that Art had ever had the need to visit and this was no exception. The bell above the door rang out the back as Art came in and there was a moment’s quiet where Art could only hear the faint traces of movement out the back before Leroy’s voice echoed back onto the shop floor.
“Won’t be a minute, alrigh’?”
“Take your time,” Art called back, staring at the Photoshopped images on the walls around the two lone copiers, images clearly of young men and women who hadn’t been the places in the background, or the easy removal of red eye from the photos. What the walls didn’t show was the ease Leroy had in fake ID’s and passports, and his impertinent ability to find anyone, especially when they didn’t want to be found.
Art was busy staring at the image of a strange man in a blue safari suit he remembered dealing with once or twice, photo shopped into a helicopter with a mountain background. Strange things happened around here.
“Alrigh’ what can I do for yeh?” Leroy asked, appearing from out the back, drying his hands. Art smiled as he turned around.
“Got a few things you can help me out with, Leroy,” he smiled, watching the reaction on the man’s face. It took a second before his eyes flashed in recognition.
“Well I’ll be, Arty farty, new look I see.”
Art laughed, pulling up his hat and ruffling his hair a little. He still wasn’t really used to the black either, or the length - but as Eleanor had said, it whitened the pallor of his skin and brought out his eyes in sharper focus. “Went for a change of pace.”
Leroy nodded, “I can see that. Where yeh been?”
“All over,” Art said with a smile as he wandered up to the counter.
“Ah, like that, eh?” Leroy grinned.
“Always.”
“You here for your stuff? Nothin’s got any photos yet so we’ll have to take em to finish everything up, but other than that we’re all done.“
“Just what I came for,” he smirked, holding up a USB drive. Leroy eyed it and grinned.
“Brilliant. Come round, only people coming by this afternoon is Howard and that blind mate of his and I can keep him on the floor easy enough.”
“How do you know he’s coming?” Art asked as he followed Leroy into the back of the shop. The place was a shambles of wiring and machinery, paper and half open filing cabinets.
“Man books it in advance. Like weeks in advance. Knocks up these stupid fliers every now and again. Poor bastard.” Art was only half listening as he watched Leroy start rummaging in one of the cabinets.
“Andrea Thomas,” he said finding the file he was after, sitting up and bumping his head on the table as he did.
“Since when’re yeh going girly, mate?”
“Something to do,” he shrugged.
“This got to do with Big still?” Leory asked, rubbing his head.
“Not this time.”
“He was coming round here for a while, poor guy. Some Rudy bloke put him after Hitcher. But that was a while back. Hitcher’s a slippery bugger. Not seen him in a bit either, which only means trouble if yeh know it. Aha,” Leroy smiled.
“Gimme an hour and yeh’ll be right,” he said as he slid his chair up to the desk and pulled the swivel light above his head and set about placing the passport into a level so he could work, knocking the mouse to wake up his computer.
Art turned away as Leroy started. He was precise but a fast worker, surprisingly. He had a hand that Art admired and he was always easy to get along with. Handy with machinery as well, the room was a carnage of bits and pieces wired together. Including a silly little machine that he’d heard Leroy had given away, and from the state of it, looked like it had been put through the works. There was still foil and bright blue painted stars on it, but it was another reason he was here.
“So this is the tracer thing you were going on about then?”
“Haha, yeah. Goes by the Celebredar these days, that one. Me mate Vince nicked it off me for a while when I went skiing last year and it came back looking like that. I made a new one. Cut it down to size, too. Tracers are pretty much invisible.”
“They work?”
“Course she does. Like a dream.”
“You know where Serge has been lately then?” he asked, idly looking at a random remote half wired together.
“Serge?” Leroy was quiet and stopped working and when Art looked up at him he was gnawing his bottom lip. He put his ink palate down and turned his chair round to look at Art.
“Mate, Kasabian’s all dead; job went bad about three months ago. Bank job. They didn’t get out.”
Art closed his eyes to stop himself swearing as his stomach seemed to drop into his shoes.
“Yeh know how it is these days, coppers are all licensed to shoot on sight and if yeh make it that far then yeh’re up for the Snuffbox. We’re all fucked, these days,” Leroy was mumbling.
“Yeah,” was all Art could sigh.
“Though, if yeh really need the help I know where the goth girls are,” Leroy said quickly, trying to patch the hole he’d managed to blow in Art’s life raft. No Dixon, no Serge, no Tom; all so he could get back Nick. How many more could he knock down?
“No,” Art murmured, shaking his head, “I think it’s best to leave the girls out of this. But thanks, Leroy.” Leroy nodded.
“Yeh got a number these days, cause if I catch wind of someone else poking their head up I can give yeh a call- ”
“You know me, never bother with the things, otherwise it’d never stop ringing.”
“Yeah,” Leroy nodded and turned back to the passport. Art stayed quiet as Leroy worked from then on, trying to keep the roiling sick feeling in his stomach from crawling up his throat.
“She’s all done, mate.” Leroy said far too soon and not soon enough, slipping the passport inside the paper bag. Art closed his eyes for a second before he turned to look at him.
“Thanks. Everything else there?”
“All fine and dandy, mate.”
“Normal rate?”
“Only for you, Arty.” He said with a distinct lack of joviality.
Fishing in his pockets Art pulled out a roll of fifties and handed them over, pinning the file under one arm.
“See you round.”
“Course yeh will!” Leroy called after him but Art was far from listening, a strange feeling was running through him, like the rush of adrenaline at everything sliding into place was suddenly going down the drain. Serge was just one more set back, but at the same time, Serge had been a friend. A real friend he’d tried to help avoid all this shit and it hadn’t worked. In the end it never worked; he was a lord of the darkness, luring them in and then wiping them out before they had the chance to distinguish themselves from friend or foe. Things were getting harder, getting darker, and something about it all didn’t feel right.
He needed to talk to Nick. He needed to see Nick.
But he couldn’t, not yet; at best all he could do was to send another letter. There were other matters still not yet complete. He still needed a crew, and with Kasabian gone, there were precious little to turn to. The Shamans were many, and their methods impressive, but they were untrustworthy and drowning in illicit drugs and endless benders. The Goth girls were handy, but he had fucked up their last job, and Anthrax would not welcome him back to their fold. He needed a team, a well formed team who owed him. If he called on a favour then questions were held back on tongues that were not emboldened by friendship.
Friendship.
Art stopped before he left the shop and turned back to where Leroy was standing in the doorway.
“Get out of town, Leroy,” he murmured.
Leroy nodded, understanding the warning.
“Will do, miniman.”
***
The second letter came three days after the first. The moment the guard handed him a second pile of letters and Nick could see the bright red envelope amongst the others he felt a smirk rising up in him that he refused to let out as he took the pile. Two in a week, he couldn’t help but think as he settled back in his bed and pulled the pile apart to get to the red mark in the middle.
Once again the envelope had been opened and read and his disappointment was palpable, but undermining the pulse in his veins as he pulled out the page.
This letter was longer and almost immediately he knew that there was more to this one.
Art was planning something. He knew that much. And these letters were the only form of communication they could have. He had to be hiding something in them. But the first had come up blank, nothing more than the words he’d written.
This one, however, felt different.
Dear Nicky,
I'm horrible with letters so forgive me if this one is as bad as my last.
The first word is the hardest, I find, trying to start putting something together that you can't find a way to say. I'm sorry about my last letter, Nicky. Really, I am. I'll come see you, though, like I promised!
I don’t quite know how you got where you did, Nicky. Can't say I thought you wouldn’t have been the type to get a proper job. Come and go like a right boring sod, but you never really matched what anyone thought of you, did you? She never believed you were like that, no matter how many times I told Ethel the truth. Will of her own, that woman. Be it as it may, that was the reason why you married her, though right? Me, I would have gone for something a bit easier to get along with, haha, but that would have made me a lesbian! Four of us, Nicholas and imagine if half the number was gay, quite the pickle it would be, we wouldn't be able to get off at all! Now what on earth would we do with that?! Will always said you weren't straight as a ruler, but I never believed him. Come and go as you like, you always did. Soon enough I’m half expecting you to come out as a secret stage director or something! I didn't know to believe it when Ethel told me. Miss Prim wasn't so prim when she was blubbering about catching her hubby with a bloke. You have quite the way to go about things, Nicky!
That’s enough I think. I’ve blabbered enough. I shall come and see you soon, Nicky. Don’t want to leave you holed up there on your own, as much as you like bumming I don’t think it would be very appealing in a place such as the one you're in. Everyone else might have given up on you, Nicky, but I haven't. See you soon.
Annie xxx
PS: I've included a picture of Johnny Depp for your wanking pleasure. He's pretty enough right?
Once again Nick stared down at the page, caught in the whirls and loops of Andy’s writing. Even the calligraphy was somewhat different to how it had been before, like the other man had made conscious effort to match whatever game he was playing, because whatever game it was, this was clearly a conscious move.
The first word, is always the hardest, Nicholas stared at the sentence until the words blended together. It was a message, and somewhere within the whole letter there was something else, something Andy needed him to know, he could feel it, desperate in his veins.
The first word, is the hardest, putting it together to write something that you can't find a way to say. I'm sorry about my last letter, Nicky. Really, I am. I'll come see you, though, like I promised!
Art was coming to see him, somehow, Andy was coming, but there was something else he was trying to say, something else.
What that was Nick just had to find out.
***
Art’s expression was tight as he walked up the parapet. After over a week in stockings and stupid heels under Eleanor’s manic guidance, his own denim and boots felt strange. After a week of tips and tulle, ideas and insanity under Eleanor’s hand, and his brain’s constant contemplation vexed against the Rebellion’s determination to destroy his plans step by step, there was little to his current strategies that were nothing short of desperate. He was stepping further and further away from what he was and well aware of it. The click of his favourite boots on hardwood did nothing to calm him, and the smirk that usually felt easy on his lips under the propensity of another game, felt fake. They were factors his brain seemed intent to mull over in the moments he let himself stop.
And so he didn’t.
He felt suitably insane with no sleep, two days running and the tread of his boots felt heavy as he neared the door. But as he gripped the door his tight smile felt suddenly loose and there was a moment’s pause before he was called, by a voice with heavily accented English.
Art opened the door and watched in detached fascination as Breton’s brow furrowed and then his eyes and lips smiled in recognition.
“Monsieur Art!” he smiled. “Breton welcomes Art to the House of Surrealism.” The older man stood up and motioned for Art to come further into the room. Art followed his direction and caught notice of the four other men in the room.
“Ah, let me introduce you to my associates, this is Yeyot, Aragon and Monsieur’s Rosey and Bauer.” There was a rumble of greeting from the group that Art dignified with a nod before Breton brought their attention back to him.
“Art is of considerable standing in England, a man of our heart and heritage. Breton has gathered the Surrealists in his aid.”
“What - “
“Does he -”
“Ask of -”
“The - “
“Surrealists?” Rosey and Bauer said in perfect harmony, where one ending the other starting without pause or rapture. Art couldn’t help the genuine smile of wry fascination he felt curling his lips as he watched them, standing perfectly still in matching white suits. It was a pleasant sight, delightfully stripped of useless frippery.
“I come for your help. My - “ he paused. What to call him? “My friend is in Belmarsh Prison. I need help to get him out.”
There was a moment of silence around the room. Breton cleared his throat.
“What Art asks of Breton and the Surrealists is of substantial risk and little gain to our movement,” Breton said, folding his hands in front of him and fixing Art with his stare. Art stared back, unflinching. There was little that Andre Breton could say that Art was not determined to bring down. He didn’t need all of them, he just needed a partner or two, he needed help, and the Surrealists could surely not risk turning him down, not when he’d owe them afterwards. Their standing was not quite so prominent this time around. The second Rebellion had not been as kind to them as the first.
They were desperate men, and if there was one thing that Art truly, finally understood - it was desperation. He smiled.
“I can make it worth the Surrealist’s while, Breton.”
Breton looked between Art and the other men gathered around the room. Before he could answer the two in white took a united step forward.
“We agree -”
“With what -”
“Breton -“
“Has said.”
“However,”
“We shall help -”
“As you see fit.”
Art felt a genuine smile start to turn his lips up at the corners; finally, something falling into place. He forced his expression neutral.
“What are we doing?” Yeyot asked, looking up from his notebook and Breton looked pensive for a moment.
“Breton believes that Monsiour Art’s intent is foolish, however he shall not interfere with Rosey and Bauers intentions to aid him.”
Art rose his chin as he stared down at Breton, his expression controlled and content.
“I promise I’ll bring them back in perfect condition, Breton. I don’t break my toys.”
“Breton is more worried about Monsieur Art losing them than breaking them. His reputation is more prominent in the former category than the latter.”
Art couldn’t help the snickering smirk that turned his lips up then. In that moment of glee, he was everything he used to be, and could achieve anything he set himself to.
Finally, there was nothing short of the prison itself standing in his way.
He could finally move his plan one step forward.
“There’s always time to change that, Breton. There’s time to change a lot of things.”
***
Time was a relative force within the confines of his cell, but keeping a margin of control, Nick knew, was one step he was making at keeping himself relatively sane. He had always been good with numbers, with managing and keeping control, and while the prison had taken that control from him, he had also never been one to simply stand back and let things run away from him.
Art had been an exception, and continued to be. However, the letter remained burned in Nick’s brain in the controlled breaks from his cell.
The key occurred to him in the middle of a meal that was meant to have been something edible but was anything but. His just-add-water potatoes were sliding around in their tray along with what they claimed was gravy when it slid into place.
The first word.
The letter was still in its accustomed place inside his pillowslip when he returned to his cell. One thing sacred to any man within the prison was communication. Nick knew that if he had more time in general population that he’d be gutted for a razor, that any chance they got to search the cells the guards took and confiscation was at an all time high. But outside communication was out of bounds. Sacred. Special. No man could strip that from another inmate, and so Nick took out the page and unfolded the well worn paper from the second red envelope and read the first word of every sentence with his hope clutched in his fingers.
The message that arranged itself in his head had a smile creeping on his lips.
I can't come. She will be me for now. Will come soon. I miss you.
Nick stared at the words in front of him, a small burst of happiness building in his throat that echoed out in a tiny laugh.
"What're you grinnin' at?" one of the guards asked as they passed by, Nick grinned up at him, the letter held tight and a burst of euphoria running through him. Art was coming. He was coming. He really was.
"Nothing of interest," he smiled, ignoring the burly man's roll of the eyes as he closed the letter and lay back on his cot, staring up at the blank roof above him, in his minds eye a clock started to tick.
Art was coming.
He had a plan, and he was coming.
Nick fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Part Five
Fandom: Mint Royale AU
Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to their respective owners, everything else is mine.
Word Count:
Summary: Nick's started getting mail, and Art's plans take a step backward before they go forward.
AN: So, I said Wednesday, and I meant last one, but this one will have to do. Apologies to anyone keeping an eye out, but RL took a massive upgrade and it's only just starting to settle out. And even then, time to go back to Uni, D: I hope this fills your tummies for the next week or so, and I hope to get it back on track or amp up the posting pretty damn soon. Lets get these boys back together, eh? ~SF xxx
Chapter Four
A Mistake in Identity
It was the second week inside that Nicholas started getting mail. Outside of letters and the occasional phone call from his mother, everything else was restricted.
He was well aware that there was an influx of fan mail he never got to see, but even letters from anonymous mentalists was a welcome relief from the tedium of his own brain and the shortcomings of the prison system.
Not that he was openly expecting any contact from anyone else short of his mother anyway.
Ethel had sworn never to talk to him again when the divorce papers had finally gone through years ago, and she had only broken that vow once to come in three days after he was admitted to Belmarsh, and abuse him in person about all the lawful indiscretions he must have made while he was married to her. All that had achieved was a grim sense of pride at having made her cry once she’d finished yelling at him and the knowledge that the guards were at least willing to let visitors in if they assured him some form of grief.
It was strangely reassuring.
But all the same, what Ethel was not, was waif skinny, smirking through her fringe with a thousand aces shoved up her sleeves and a million lies fluent on her tongue.
She wasn’t Art, and in the circumstances, all he fucking cared about was that next sign from the other man that seeing him in the courtroom had been a promise and not a damn goodbye. He needed proof that things were moving.
That he was fucking getting out.
Because while prison was prison, it was also an unofficial form of death row, and there was no chance in hell he was waiting around himself if Art had given up on him. He’d get shot trying to escape and die happier than having waited around for the damn noose.
It was a damn tense week.
The letter came in a bright red envelope on the eighth day, it’s colour the only reason Nick didn’t throw it away in a fit of apathy like had with the last dozen letters from desperate women he’d received over the last few days. He was immediately glad that he hadn’t disposed of it when he recognised the handwriting on the front of the envelope and for a moment he was torn between exasperation and amusement that Art had used a red envelope like a tit in some stupid signal, a feeling that was quickly replaced as he turned the envelope and noticed it was already open. For the first time since he’d been incarcerated he felt a rush of annoyance at having his mail read before him. Another person had read this before he had. Someone else had read his words before they had reached him. And yet he was surprised it had made it to him, anyway.
His hands shook as he unfolded the letter and he took a deep breath before he started to read that he seemed to hold all the way through.
Dear Nicky,
Oh I know it’s been a while since we spoke but there’s been so many things keeping us apart! I must say I was surprised when I heard about your little law breaking venture. I didn’t see you going into that sort of thing back in university. You were always a bit quiet, I’m sure everyone else thought you’d be an axe wielder or something not a bank robber sort. Just joking Nicky.
Anyhow, sorry to waffle off at you, sweetie, you know how I am. I did start this letter just to tell you I’d like to come and see you soon. I probably won’t look like you remember, i dyed my hair a little while ago and it looks so fetching and does wonders to how old I look. Oh you’ll have to promise not to let any of those roguish friends you’ve made inside grab at me, haha. Oh dear. It’s been a long time, Nicky, but in times like this people need their real friends and I’m here if you want me. Things are hard, I know they would be. I’ll help the best I can though. It won’t happen overnight though!
I’ll come and see you soon, Nicky. Keep safe; don’t bend over in the showers too much!
Annie xxx
The paper clenched in his fingers under reflex as he finished. The words swirling around in his head in circles, over lapping and leading into each other and all in Art’s voice, with just that tiniest edge of laughter in every word. Like he was having the time of his life.
Nick stared down at the page, taking in each messy loop in his handwriting, each slope and swirl. For all he knew, getting him out may as well be the best thing Art had ever done. He might have been having a blast. Nick had to stop himself clenching his hands into a fist. He could hear the measured march of heavy boots on concrete outside his cell, the intermittent clangs of inmates moving around, the faint buzz of muffled sound. The world was turning, passing on, but trapped in his cell he couldn’t help the tiniest thought that he was being held still. His timeline stuck on pause with nowhere to go. And it was damn infuriating. There was nothing he could do, except wait, wait for Art to send him another letter, edging the damn thing with his unrestrained mocking laughter.
Nick sighed and glanced down at the page in his hands.
I’ll come and see you. stared back at him and his frustration started it’s retreat.
There wasn’t nothing he could do, no. But the easiest way hedged on Art and if he was going to rely on him, then all he could do was wait and hope that the waif he’d seen so very few months before when he’d walked into a bar, would get him out.
For some reason it didn’t feel as ludicrous as he thought it should be.
***
The laser copy centre was never busy any time that Art had ever had the need to visit and this was no exception. The bell above the door rang out the back as Art came in and there was a moment’s quiet where Art could only hear the faint traces of movement out the back before Leroy’s voice echoed back onto the shop floor.
“Won’t be a minute, alrigh’?”
“Take your time,” Art called back, staring at the Photoshopped images on the walls around the two lone copiers, images clearly of young men and women who hadn’t been the places in the background, or the easy removal of red eye from the photos. What the walls didn’t show was the ease Leroy had in fake ID’s and passports, and his impertinent ability to find anyone, especially when they didn’t want to be found.
Art was busy staring at the image of a strange man in a blue safari suit he remembered dealing with once or twice, photo shopped into a helicopter with a mountain background. Strange things happened around here.
“Alrigh’ what can I do for yeh?” Leroy asked, appearing from out the back, drying his hands. Art smiled as he turned around.
“Got a few things you can help me out with, Leroy,” he smiled, watching the reaction on the man’s face. It took a second before his eyes flashed in recognition.
“Well I’ll be, Arty farty, new look I see.”
Art laughed, pulling up his hat and ruffling his hair a little. He still wasn’t really used to the black either, or the length - but as Eleanor had said, it whitened the pallor of his skin and brought out his eyes in sharper focus. “Went for a change of pace.”
Leroy nodded, “I can see that. Where yeh been?”
“All over,” Art said with a smile as he wandered up to the counter.
“Ah, like that, eh?” Leroy grinned.
“Always.”
“You here for your stuff? Nothin’s got any photos yet so we’ll have to take em to finish everything up, but other than that we’re all done.“
“Just what I came for,” he smirked, holding up a USB drive. Leroy eyed it and grinned.
“Brilliant. Come round, only people coming by this afternoon is Howard and that blind mate of his and I can keep him on the floor easy enough.”
“How do you know he’s coming?” Art asked as he followed Leroy into the back of the shop. The place was a shambles of wiring and machinery, paper and half open filing cabinets.
“Man books it in advance. Like weeks in advance. Knocks up these stupid fliers every now and again. Poor bastard.” Art was only half listening as he watched Leroy start rummaging in one of the cabinets.
“Andrea Thomas,” he said finding the file he was after, sitting up and bumping his head on the table as he did.
“Since when’re yeh going girly, mate?”
“Something to do,” he shrugged.
“This got to do with Big still?” Leory asked, rubbing his head.
“Not this time.”
“He was coming round here for a while, poor guy. Some Rudy bloke put him after Hitcher. But that was a while back. Hitcher’s a slippery bugger. Not seen him in a bit either, which only means trouble if yeh know it. Aha,” Leroy smiled.
“Gimme an hour and yeh’ll be right,” he said as he slid his chair up to the desk and pulled the swivel light above his head and set about placing the passport into a level so he could work, knocking the mouse to wake up his computer.
Art turned away as Leroy started. He was precise but a fast worker, surprisingly. He had a hand that Art admired and he was always easy to get along with. Handy with machinery as well, the room was a carnage of bits and pieces wired together. Including a silly little machine that he’d heard Leroy had given away, and from the state of it, looked like it had been put through the works. There was still foil and bright blue painted stars on it, but it was another reason he was here.
“So this is the tracer thing you were going on about then?”
“Haha, yeah. Goes by the Celebredar these days, that one. Me mate Vince nicked it off me for a while when I went skiing last year and it came back looking like that. I made a new one. Cut it down to size, too. Tracers are pretty much invisible.”
“They work?”
“Course she does. Like a dream.”
“You know where Serge has been lately then?” he asked, idly looking at a random remote half wired together.
“Serge?” Leroy was quiet and stopped working and when Art looked up at him he was gnawing his bottom lip. He put his ink palate down and turned his chair round to look at Art.
“Mate, Kasabian’s all dead; job went bad about three months ago. Bank job. They didn’t get out.”
Art closed his eyes to stop himself swearing as his stomach seemed to drop into his shoes.
“Yeh know how it is these days, coppers are all licensed to shoot on sight and if yeh make it that far then yeh’re up for the Snuffbox. We’re all fucked, these days,” Leroy was mumbling.
“Yeah,” was all Art could sigh.
“Though, if yeh really need the help I know where the goth girls are,” Leroy said quickly, trying to patch the hole he’d managed to blow in Art’s life raft. No Dixon, no Serge, no Tom; all so he could get back Nick. How many more could he knock down?
“No,” Art murmured, shaking his head, “I think it’s best to leave the girls out of this. But thanks, Leroy.” Leroy nodded.
“Yeh got a number these days, cause if I catch wind of someone else poking their head up I can give yeh a call- ”
“You know me, never bother with the things, otherwise it’d never stop ringing.”
“Yeah,” Leroy nodded and turned back to the passport. Art stayed quiet as Leroy worked from then on, trying to keep the roiling sick feeling in his stomach from crawling up his throat.
“She’s all done, mate.” Leroy said far too soon and not soon enough, slipping the passport inside the paper bag. Art closed his eyes for a second before he turned to look at him.
“Thanks. Everything else there?”
“All fine and dandy, mate.”
“Normal rate?”
“Only for you, Arty.” He said with a distinct lack of joviality.
Fishing in his pockets Art pulled out a roll of fifties and handed them over, pinning the file under one arm.
“See you round.”
“Course yeh will!” Leroy called after him but Art was far from listening, a strange feeling was running through him, like the rush of adrenaline at everything sliding into place was suddenly going down the drain. Serge was just one more set back, but at the same time, Serge had been a friend. A real friend he’d tried to help avoid all this shit and it hadn’t worked. In the end it never worked; he was a lord of the darkness, luring them in and then wiping them out before they had the chance to distinguish themselves from friend or foe. Things were getting harder, getting darker, and something about it all didn’t feel right.
He needed to talk to Nick. He needed to see Nick.
But he couldn’t, not yet; at best all he could do was to send another letter. There were other matters still not yet complete. He still needed a crew, and with Kasabian gone, there were precious little to turn to. The Shamans were many, and their methods impressive, but they were untrustworthy and drowning in illicit drugs and endless benders. The Goth girls were handy, but he had fucked up their last job, and Anthrax would not welcome him back to their fold. He needed a team, a well formed team who owed him. If he called on a favour then questions were held back on tongues that were not emboldened by friendship.
Friendship.
Art stopped before he left the shop and turned back to where Leroy was standing in the doorway.
“Get out of town, Leroy,” he murmured.
Leroy nodded, understanding the warning.
“Will do, miniman.”
***
The second letter came three days after the first. The moment the guard handed him a second pile of letters and Nick could see the bright red envelope amongst the others he felt a smirk rising up in him that he refused to let out as he took the pile. Two in a week, he couldn’t help but think as he settled back in his bed and pulled the pile apart to get to the red mark in the middle.
Once again the envelope had been opened and read and his disappointment was palpable, but undermining the pulse in his veins as he pulled out the page.
This letter was longer and almost immediately he knew that there was more to this one.
Art was planning something. He knew that much. And these letters were the only form of communication they could have. He had to be hiding something in them. But the first had come up blank, nothing more than the words he’d written.
This one, however, felt different.
Dear Nicky,
I'm horrible with letters so forgive me if this one is as bad as my last.
The first word is the hardest, I find, trying to start putting something together that you can't find a way to say. I'm sorry about my last letter, Nicky. Really, I am. I'll come see you, though, like I promised!
I don’t quite know how you got where you did, Nicky. Can't say I thought you wouldn’t have been the type to get a proper job. Come and go like a right boring sod, but you never really matched what anyone thought of you, did you? She never believed you were like that, no matter how many times I told Ethel the truth. Will of her own, that woman. Be it as it may, that was the reason why you married her, though right? Me, I would have gone for something a bit easier to get along with, haha, but that would have made me a lesbian! Four of us, Nicholas and imagine if half the number was gay, quite the pickle it would be, we wouldn't be able to get off at all! Now what on earth would we do with that?! Will always said you weren't straight as a ruler, but I never believed him. Come and go as you like, you always did. Soon enough I’m half expecting you to come out as a secret stage director or something! I didn't know to believe it when Ethel told me. Miss Prim wasn't so prim when she was blubbering about catching her hubby with a bloke. You have quite the way to go about things, Nicky!
That’s enough I think. I’ve blabbered enough. I shall come and see you soon, Nicky. Don’t want to leave you holed up there on your own, as much as you like bumming I don’t think it would be very appealing in a place such as the one you're in. Everyone else might have given up on you, Nicky, but I haven't. See you soon.
Annie xxx
PS: I've included a picture of Johnny Depp for your wanking pleasure. He's pretty enough right?
Once again Nick stared down at the page, caught in the whirls and loops of Andy’s writing. Even the calligraphy was somewhat different to how it had been before, like the other man had made conscious effort to match whatever game he was playing, because whatever game it was, this was clearly a conscious move.
The first word, is always the hardest, Nicholas stared at the sentence until the words blended together. It was a message, and somewhere within the whole letter there was something else, something Andy needed him to know, he could feel it, desperate in his veins.
The first word, is the hardest, putting it together to write something that you can't find a way to say. I'm sorry about my last letter, Nicky. Really, I am. I'll come see you, though, like I promised!
Art was coming to see him, somehow, Andy was coming, but there was something else he was trying to say, something else.
What that was Nick just had to find out.
***
Art’s expression was tight as he walked up the parapet. After over a week in stockings and stupid heels under Eleanor’s manic guidance, his own denim and boots felt strange. After a week of tips and tulle, ideas and insanity under Eleanor’s hand, and his brain’s constant contemplation vexed against the Rebellion’s determination to destroy his plans step by step, there was little to his current strategies that were nothing short of desperate. He was stepping further and further away from what he was and well aware of it. The click of his favourite boots on hardwood did nothing to calm him, and the smirk that usually felt easy on his lips under the propensity of another game, felt fake. They were factors his brain seemed intent to mull over in the moments he let himself stop.
And so he didn’t.
He felt suitably insane with no sleep, two days running and the tread of his boots felt heavy as he neared the door. But as he gripped the door his tight smile felt suddenly loose and there was a moment’s pause before he was called, by a voice with heavily accented English.
Art opened the door and watched in detached fascination as Breton’s brow furrowed and then his eyes and lips smiled in recognition.
“Monsieur Art!” he smiled. “Breton welcomes Art to the House of Surrealism.” The older man stood up and motioned for Art to come further into the room. Art followed his direction and caught notice of the four other men in the room.
“Ah, let me introduce you to my associates, this is Yeyot, Aragon and Monsieur’s Rosey and Bauer.” There was a rumble of greeting from the group that Art dignified with a nod before Breton brought their attention back to him.
“Art is of considerable standing in England, a man of our heart and heritage. Breton has gathered the Surrealists in his aid.”
“What - “
“Does he -”
“Ask of -”
“The - “
“Surrealists?” Rosey and Bauer said in perfect harmony, where one ending the other starting without pause or rapture. Art couldn’t help the genuine smile of wry fascination he felt curling his lips as he watched them, standing perfectly still in matching white suits. It was a pleasant sight, delightfully stripped of useless frippery.
“I come for your help. My - “ he paused. What to call him? “My friend is in Belmarsh Prison. I need help to get him out.”
There was a moment of silence around the room. Breton cleared his throat.
“What Art asks of Breton and the Surrealists is of substantial risk and little gain to our movement,” Breton said, folding his hands in front of him and fixing Art with his stare. Art stared back, unflinching. There was little that Andre Breton could say that Art was not determined to bring down. He didn’t need all of them, he just needed a partner or two, he needed help, and the Surrealists could surely not risk turning him down, not when he’d owe them afterwards. Their standing was not quite so prominent this time around. The second Rebellion had not been as kind to them as the first.
They were desperate men, and if there was one thing that Art truly, finally understood - it was desperation. He smiled.
“I can make it worth the Surrealist’s while, Breton.”
Breton looked between Art and the other men gathered around the room. Before he could answer the two in white took a united step forward.
“We agree -”
“With what -”
“Breton -“
“Has said.”
“However,”
“We shall help -”
“As you see fit.”
Art felt a genuine smile start to turn his lips up at the corners; finally, something falling into place. He forced his expression neutral.
“What are we doing?” Yeyot asked, looking up from his notebook and Breton looked pensive for a moment.
“Breton believes that Monsiour Art’s intent is foolish, however he shall not interfere with Rosey and Bauers intentions to aid him.”
Art rose his chin as he stared down at Breton, his expression controlled and content.
“I promise I’ll bring them back in perfect condition, Breton. I don’t break my toys.”
“Breton is more worried about Monsieur Art losing them than breaking them. His reputation is more prominent in the former category than the latter.”
Art couldn’t help the snickering smirk that turned his lips up then. In that moment of glee, he was everything he used to be, and could achieve anything he set himself to.
Finally, there was nothing short of the prison itself standing in his way.
He could finally move his plan one step forward.
“There’s always time to change that, Breton. There’s time to change a lot of things.”
***
Time was a relative force within the confines of his cell, but keeping a margin of control, Nick knew, was one step he was making at keeping himself relatively sane. He had always been good with numbers, with managing and keeping control, and while the prison had taken that control from him, he had also never been one to simply stand back and let things run away from him.
Art had been an exception, and continued to be. However, the letter remained burned in Nick’s brain in the controlled breaks from his cell.
The key occurred to him in the middle of a meal that was meant to have been something edible but was anything but. His just-add-water potatoes were sliding around in their tray along with what they claimed was gravy when it slid into place.
The first word.
The letter was still in its accustomed place inside his pillowslip when he returned to his cell. One thing sacred to any man within the prison was communication. Nick knew that if he had more time in general population that he’d be gutted for a razor, that any chance they got to search the cells the guards took and confiscation was at an all time high. But outside communication was out of bounds. Sacred. Special. No man could strip that from another inmate, and so Nick took out the page and unfolded the well worn paper from the second red envelope and read the first word of every sentence with his hope clutched in his fingers.
The message that arranged itself in his head had a smile creeping on his lips.
I can't come. She will be me for now. Will come soon. I miss you.
Nick stared at the words in front of him, a small burst of happiness building in his throat that echoed out in a tiny laugh.
"What're you grinnin' at?" one of the guards asked as they passed by, Nick grinned up at him, the letter held tight and a burst of euphoria running through him. Art was coming. He was coming. He really was.
"Nothing of interest," he smiled, ignoring the burly man's roll of the eyes as he closed the letter and lay back on his cot, staring up at the blank roof above him, in his minds eye a clock started to tick.
Art was coming.
He had a plan, and he was coming.
Nick fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Part Five