Chapter 16

Arthur came to my apartment every morning at seven for the rest of the week, and we ate breakfast together. The most he could manage was one piece of toast and an egg, but at least he ate. We spent a lot of time kissing and cuddling, too. It didn't go any further than that. He was still down, and his depression began to pull me down. I fought it and I put on a happy face when I was with him, but for the rest of the day after he'd gone to work, and the night when I was driving, I struggled. I drank more beer than usual, and sometimes whiskey, but I had to keep a cap on that because of my job. On Saturday night, when I got home at four thirty, I cracked open a new bottle and drank myself unconscious. I didn't even think about Arthur coming around for breakfast and if he did, he wasn't able to wake me.

When I stirred, my skull was pounding, and my mouth felt like I'd been licking the carpet. Nausea made my stomach roll and I gritted my teeth, hoping it would go away. My head felt too bad to make it out of bed to the bathroom. Instead, I groped for the painkillers I had on the cabinet beside the bed and dry-swallowed a couple. Half an hour later, I was forced out of bed to take a piss. Then I made coffee and took a cocktail of anti-depressants and more painkillers. When I finally looked at the clock, I noticed it was after ten. Shit.

It took me another couple of hours to get it together. I felt better when I'd showered and had something to eat, but my misery was coupled with guilt over Arthur. We'd got into a routine of seeing each other at seven. I'd been comatose then, and I imagined him knocking on the door, then eventually going away thinking either I wasn't home, or worse, I didn't want to see him.

I knocked on his door a couple of times, but when he didn't answer, I assumed he must have a Sunday gig. I thought back to what we'd talked about the previous morning and couldn't remember what he said about Sunday.

I set off on foot into the city, not with any particular errand in mind, but to get some fresh air and hopefully feel better. I found myself at the seven-day market where I bought everything from now and wandered around the stalls. Perhaps I could buy Arthur a gift, but what? Women were easy to buy for. Flowers, chocolates, a scarf maybe, or jewellery. I'd bought flowers for Betsy—dozens of them—and she sent them all back. I'd been a dick. I should have taken no for an answer, but I virtually stalked her after she ditched me, convinced that if I called enough or sent enough flowers, she'd agree to another date.

What would Arthur like? I pondered it as I stood in front of a jewellery stall. Arthur didn't wear jewellery; only a watch. His watch was cheap and crappy but buying something like that when it wasn't a birthday or Christmas was probably too much. Then I saw the stall that sold bags, purses, and wallets. Perhaps I could get him a wallet. I'd seen the one he used, and it looked ready to fall to bits.

I examined the items on display, of which there were dozens of designs, making it difficult to choose. I knew what I liked—plain and simple—but what about Arthur? I thought about his clothes—cheap and functional, and most likely obtained from charity stores. His apartment—plain and full of clutter, most of which was probably Penny's. Some of it had disappeared recently. The cheap watch he wore had a simple white face and a black strap. He didn't go for fancy.

"Can I help you?" the stallholder asked me.

"Um, yeah. I'll take this." I picked up a simple reddish-brown coloured wallet the same style as mine, which had slots for credit cards, a section for notes, and a small zippered coin pocket. I paid for it, and the stallholder put it in a paper bag. Then I began to walk home, but after five minutes, thunder rumbled, and large raindrops began to fall. I hurried along the block and ducked into the nearest subway station.

The train was almost empty. I took a seat and glanced at the one other person in the car—a woman with a baby in her arms, a folded buggy, and a large bag of something. When the train reached the next stop, she got up and began to juggle the items.

"Let me help." I smiled pleasantly in an effort to counteract the effect of my appearance and picked up the buggy.

"Thank you so much. I really appreciate it." She climbed off the train with the baby and the bag. I jumped down, opened up the buggy for her, and got back on. As the train pulled out of the station, I glanced through the connecting doors into the next car and saw something I'd hoped I would never see again.

Arthur sat near the far end in his clown outfit, and three apparently drunken idiots were tormenting him. He was laughing hysterically—I couldn't hear him, but his head was thrown back, mouth open, hands clutching at his throat as one of the jerks pulled off his wig and imitated him, and a second swung around the pole in front of him.

"You fuckers!" I growled, as I yanked open the door and stepped into the shaking connector section between the cars. The other door was stuck, and I pulled and pushed and kicked it, while one of the men torturing Arthur grabbed his bag and threw it aside. As he tried to get up, the one sitting down grabbed him and held on. He struggled and kicked out.

Finally, the door opened, and I burst through. Neither Arthur, nor the three dickheads were aware of me as I charged through the carriage. One of the men punched Arthur in the face and he fell to the floor, where the others began to kick him.

"Leave him alone!" I snarled as I reached them. I grabbed the first one by the back of the neck, spun him, and smashed his face into the pole he'd been swinging around. Blood spurted from his nose and he clutched his face, staggering away from me and spluttering. Immediately, his companions turned away from Arthur and faced me. "Come on!" I spat. "Who's next?"

"Don't, Travis," Arthur managed to say, before laughter took over. He curled into a ball on the floor.

"Don't, Travis," one of the men mimicked. I took in his thousand-dollar suit and shiny shoes, and screwed up my face in disgust. Another rich, entitled bastard thinking he could shit on the rest of us. My fist shot out and connected with his stupid smirking mouth. His lip split against his teeth, and blood flew. I went in with the other fist, then the first one again, and he crumpled to his knees, coughing and bleeding. Two down, one to go. The last one wasn't so brave.

"All right! All right!" he cried, holding up both hands in surrender. "I'm sorry!"

The first one I'd smashed into the pole was coming back at me, but when I turned his way with my fists up, he took a step back, shaking his head. The train slowed and stopped, and the three of them staggered out of the doors, leaving a trail of bloody droplets behind them.

"Arthur!" I dropped to my knees. He was sitting up, no longer laughing, with blood dripping from his nose. His lips trembled, and his eyes were wide and scared. When I touched his shoulder, he flinched. Christ. "Arthur, it's okay. It's over."

"You looked like you wanted to kill them," he whispered.

I swallowed my instinctive response of "I wish I had," and forced the scowl off my face. "I just wanted to get them away from you and show them they can't treat someone like that," I said instead.

"They were drunk."

"That's no excuse. I was drunk last night. I didn't go out bullying and beating people."

"You were drunk?"

"Yeah. I'll tell you about it later. Let's get you up. Don't be scared of me, Arthur. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"I know. I guess I just—seeing you like that made me think of, um, something else. You were so violent."

"I'm sorry." I helped him up, sat him on one of the seats, and rescued his bag and its contents, which were strewn across the floor. I sat beside him and held his hand. Fuck anybody who got on the train and dared to even look at us wrong. "Are you badly hurt?"

"No. Just bruises."

"You said that last time, but it's more than that."

He pulled his hand free and searched in his bag for some tissues to dab at his bleeding nose. "I'll be okay."

"I hate seeing them hurt you. They're scum. They think they can do whatever they want, just because they have money. It's worse than New York."

"Please don't get in trouble for me," Arthur said in a small voice. "I'm not worth it. You don't want to end up back in Arkham."

"No, I don't, but I'm not gonna sit back and watch things like that either." I rested my hand on his knee. "I care about you too much. And you are worth it. I'm sorry I wasn't there this morning."

"Where were you? Did you work later? Oh, you said you were drunk." He glanced sideways at me. "What happened?"

"I was having a tough day. A tough week, actually."

"You seemed fine every morning."

"You remember once you told me Penny said always to put on a happy face? Yeah, I was doing that. I'm sorry."

"Travis, you don't have to protect me. I of all people understand what it's like to be depressed, and scared, and feel like the world's crushing you." He took my hand again and squeezed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were really down, and I didn't want to make things worse. Apparently, last night I thought getting drunk was a better idea. I was home, but I guess I was unconscious."

"You wouldn't have made things worse. I'd have probably pulled myself together so I could be of some help to you, or at least try to be." He turned his head to look at me properly, his green eyes soft in his painted face. "Promise you will tell me next time?"

"I promise." I grinned. "What does that paint taste like?"

"Um, sort of powdery. Why?"

"Because I can't wait until we get home to kiss you." I leaned in and brushed my lips over his. It was only a light caress, but I wanted the contact. He was right—the paint tasted powdery, but there was also the metallic taste of blood. I drew back. "I bought you a present today."

"A present? It's not my birthday."

"I just wanted to. I felt bad for not being around this morning. I know you had a hard week, too."

Arthur smiled. "I've never had a present just because. I've not had many presents at all. Penny was too sick to go out and buy anything. What is it?"

"You'll have to wait until we get home to find out," I teased. "Have I got paint on me?"

"No." He frowned. "Just blood. Sorry." He lifted the end of his tie and wiped my lips with it. "Thank you for helping me."

"I'll always do that if you need it."

The train pulled up and I got to my feet. "This is our stop. Let's go home."