Free The Five Gates of Hell by Rupert Thomson Page B

smiled at the sight of Dad propped on seven pillows in his ragged clothes.
    â€˜That’s all right,’ he said.
    The day before Scraper’s funeral Vasco took Jed with him to the tattoo parlour. ‘You’ll meet Mitch,’ he said as they jumped a bus on Central Avenue. ‘Mitch does the best tombstones in town.’
    Central Avenue had always been Jed’s favourite street. As its name suggested, it ran straight as an arrow through the heart of the city. Aloof in the west, accustomed to the tick-tock of high-heels and the trickle of limo tyres, it hit mid-town and slummed it, movie-theatres, fast-food stands and go-go bars, neon and slang, then it moved further east, turning sullen and jangly, stained with cheap wine and bad blood, only to end its life under the concrete pillars that supported the Moon River Bridge. Mitch’s tattoo parlour was just west of here, in a section known as the Strip. Wedged between a sex cinema and a liquor store, it had a window that was opaque, pasted over with skulls and knives and snakes. The sign above the door said TATTOO CITY in old cracked gold paint that reminded Jed of circuses.
    He followed Vasco inside. Mitch was sitting in the back of the store, trying to prise the grease out from under his nails with a key.
    Vasco stood in front of Mitch. ‘Slow day.’
    Mitch winced as he dug too deep. Then he looked up, saw who it was. ‘Christ, someone else dead?’
    â€˜You shouldn’t complain,’ Vasco said. ‘Someone dies, you get to do another stone. You do another stone, you make money.’
    Mitch tossed the key on to the table and stood up. ‘Real big shot, aren’t you?’ He looked at Jed. ‘Who’s this?’
    â€˜This is Jed,’ Vasco said. ‘He records stuff.’
    Mitch left his eyes on Jed, but absent-mindedly, the way you might leave your hand in your pocket. Something Jed learned about Mitch the first time he saw him: Mitch didn’t ask many questions; either he knew already, or he didn’t want to know. Something he recognised too: the use of silence.
    Mitch moved over to the table that held his instruments. He’d worn his jeans so long they looked polished. His hair hung down his back in lank tails, like the seaweed under the pier.
    â€˜He’s a blackmailer,’ Vasco added.
    â€˜Only when it’s really necessary,’ Jed explained.
    â€˜Necessary?’ Mitch said. ‘Jesus, what a pair.’
    Vasco grinned at Jed.
    Mitch turned round, the needle-gun in one hand, the spray in the other. ‘So you want this tombstone or what?’
    Vasco sat in a chair, his bare arm braced against the edge of the table. He already had three tombstones. Lucky (obviously he hadn’t been, not very), Jack Frost and Motorboy, their names in blue block-capitals, no dates. Now Scraper.
    Mitch worked without speaking. There was only the buzz of the needle-gun and the hiss of the disinfectant spray. About halfway through, a guy in a sleeveless leather jacket walked in. He showed Mitch his tattoo: a hooded man with a double-sided axe.
    Mitch only took his eyes off Vasco’s tombstone for a moment. ‘It’s shit. Who did it?’
    â€˜I got it when I was drunk. Can you fix it?’
    â€˜Yeah, I can fix it. For a hundred bucks I’ll put in some background too. Make it look real killer.’
    â€˜What about tomorrow?’
    Mitch nodded. ‘Don’t come in here drunk.’
    The guy grinned foolishly and left.
    Mitch looked at Vasco. ‘There are too many of those.’
    Otherwise it was silence. Homage to Scraper.
    Vasco didn’t speak to Jed until they left the place. Then he said, ‘One day I’ll probably be covered with tombstones.’ He turned to Jed, laughing. ‘One of them’ll probably be yours.’
    Jed looked at him, just looked at him.
    Vasco pushed him in the chest, trying to jog the needle that was saying the same thing