Cutting Room, The by Ashley Dyer

Author:Ashley Dyer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-06-18T00:00:00+00:00

They shared a taxi to his home. Adam’s story was that he and two mates shared the upper floors of a disused pub near Clarence Dock at the north of the city. The lower half of the place was secured with steel roller shutters; a hand-painted sign, hung from the pub sign bracket, read dash-art above an image of a guerrilla-style figure with spray can in hand, finishing a graffito of a mermaid on a riverfront wall.

“All right,” Adam said, “you’ve seen where I live. Now shove off.”

Ruth paid the driver and stepped out of the cab.

“Oh, for f—” Adam raised his arms and let them drop.

“I want to see you let yourself in with your own latchkey,” Ruth said. “Then you can show me a utility bill in your own name and make me a cup of coffee in your own kitchen.” She also wanted an introduction to the rest of Team Dash-Art. Images floated into her mind of gray, hooded figures stenciled on walls and street furniture around the city.

Adam brought his hands to his sides and clenched them into fists.

“You want to get rid of me, that’s the deal.”

Through gritted teeth he said, “All right. Ten minutes.”

The flat was accessed via a side door that gave directly onto a steep stairwell. Adam took her up and along the landing to the kitchen, passing two doors. Both stood open—she glimpsed a sofa in one and a bed in the other.

“No locks on the doors,” she said. “You must trust your mates.”

He didn’t comment.

A second set of stairs at the far end of the landing led up to the top floor.

Ruth peered up the stairway while the kettle boiled. “What’s up there?”

“Two more bedrooms, a bathroom,” he said.

“Mind if I take a look around?”

“Yes.” He shoved a mug into her hand. “I mind. A lot.”

They carried their drinks through to the room with the sofa. It was battered brown leather. Adam flopped into one of two matching armchairs, balancing his coffee mug on the arm. The floor was bare boards, stained and varnished, but with paint spattered in places. There was no TV, but a desktop computer sat on a trestle table. The expanse of wall behind was covered in a mural in three parts. Ruth was no art expert, but she could see three distinct styles—graffiti art like the one of the shop sign, a middle panel that combined textiles and photographic elements with acrylic paint, and then there was Adam’s contribution.

A man leaned out of a picture frame and angled his upper body, caught in the act of painting a pencil-sketched image of himself on the wall. The effect was three-dimensional, impressive, and disturbing.

Ruth felt his eyes on her, but when she glanced in his direction, he turned quickly away. She took a sip of coffee—it was foul—then paced to the window and looked down onto the street; there were no cars parked outside. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.”

“Wow,” he said, “ace detective skills.”

“Does anyone say ‘ace’ anymore?”

“Only when they’re being sarcastic.

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