Logan Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  ONE - CLARK

  TWO - LOGAN

  THREE- CLARK

  FOUR - LOGAN

  FIVE - CLARK

  SIX - LOGAN

  SEVEN - CLARK

  EIGHT - LOGAN

  NINE - CLARK

  TEN - LOGAN

  ELEVEN - CLARK

  TWELVE - LOGAN

  THIRTEEN - CLARK

  FOURTEEN - LOGAN

  FIFTEEN - CLARK

  SIXTEEN - LOGAN

  SEVENTEEN - CLARK

  EIGHTEEN - LOGAN

  NINETEEN - CLARK

  TWENTY - LOGAN

  TWENTY ONE - CLARK

  TWENTY TWO - LOGAN

  TWENTY THREE - CLARK

  TWENTY FOUR - LOGAN

  TWENTY FIVE - CLARK

  TWENTY SIX - CLARK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  LOGAN

  A TOUGH LONDON NOVEL

  M.C. ADAMS

  WICKED ROMANCE PUBLISHING

  PROLOGUE

  CLARK

  * * *

  There are so many things in life people tell you you’ll never forget.

  Your first kiss. Your first time. Your first love.

  It’s funny, but no one ever said to me, ‘You know what Clark, you’ll never forget your first prison riot.’

  But it turned out to be one hundred percent true.

  Now don’t get the wrong idea - I didn’t start the riot. I’ve never even so much as taken a puff on a spliff, let alone done anything I could get put in prison for!

  No, I used to work in a prison. Pentonville, up on the Caledonian road. It’s not a super high security, more of a local prison. Obviously though, there were plenty of violent prisoners, thugs, gangsters and the like. I didn’t work as a guard, or even, you know, a cook or anything like that. None of the typical prison jobs. Nope. I was pretty much the least tough person to ever work in a prison. An art teacher.

  I’ll be the first to admit, working in a prison wasn’t a childhood dream of mine. But then again, who gets to live their childhood dreams anyway? Not everyone gets to actually be an artist. I’ve been lucky enough to work in the art world, at least. I love it. Always have, always will.

  When I think back to that time, in the prison, it’s hard to remember exactly why I agreed to the job. It was definitely out of character, but I think that’s what drew me to it. Adventure, pushing myself, all the things that my dad had told me I should look for in life. But my relationship with my dad, that’s a story for another day. And I hardly think he would have approved of the other reason I took the job.

  Bad boys. I’ve always had a thing for them. Muscular guys, guys with stubble and ink, guys who I really shouldn’t be into it. But I can’t help it. I’m an art nerd that loves tough idiots. That’s just who I am.

  It like I’d really grown up when I put on that sensible suit I was told I had to wear, and got the special bus that serviced the prison. It was so strange being on that bus. All the passengers knew where we were all going.

  The reality of what I’d gotten myself into didn’t really hit until I was being trained on the security protocols by Adam, a burly guard who’d been working at the prison for what seemed like forever.

  ‘One thing you’ve always got to bear in mind, Clark, is that you can’t trust any of them. Not one. You lower your guard and I swear to God, you’ll regret it.’

  Adam was so wide he that looked like the front of a truck. Honestly, I used to think that if he got hit by a truck, the truck might actually come off worse.

  ‘Right.’ I said. I’d never been more terrified in my whole life. The idea of working with dangerous men was already intimidating enough. Now I was told that I had to be on guard the whole time?

  What had I gotten myself into?

  Adam leaned onto the table, putting his meaty palms down in front of me.

  ‘You’ll never meet anyone more manipulative than a prisoner. No one. All they do all day every day is try to trick each other, play with people’s emotions, threaten violence, pretend to be each other’s friends. I swear, if they weren’t criminals, they’d make world-class actors.’

  ‘I’m not looking to make friends with any of them or anything.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘because these animals don’t see each other as friends, and they sure as hell wouldn’t see you and me as friend material. Other people are just meal tickets to them, a way out, a chance to gain rep or power. Just go in, do your job, don’t talk any more than you need to, and get out.’

  He drew himself up to his full height.

  ‘And absolutely no one on ones. Under any circumstances. No alone time with any of them.’

  I tried to think about that training every day I worked, because in reality it was hard not to sympathize with my students.

  I know I was meant to think of them as just prisoners, but damn it was it hard. It often as though I was getting to know them. And some of them had real talent, when it came to art.

  As I settled into the job, it was difficult to remember how dangerous the men actually were. They treated me well, for the most part, or at least it like they did. They seemed to genuinely look forward to the art classes, and truthfully, I could understand why. To this day I believe that art has a transformative power for therapy and self-betterment. You could see it in the prisoners, as they expressed themselves in the work they did.

  Some of them were really good, too.

  I got a grim reminder of the rules when one of the prisoners asked me whether we could get any other materials for a sculpture.

  ‘You know, like, aluminium foil or maybe plastic wrap?’

  It seemed like a reasonable request. I didn’t think twice about it. The prisoner, Jerome, seemed to be serious about his work. He was always quiet and never caused any trouble.

  It was only when I asked Adam about it that I realised what a terrible mistake I’d nearly made.

  ‘Aluminium foil? Plastic wrap? That’s shanks, drug taking gear and a neat way to suffocate someone. Thank fuck you asked me about it. Christ on a bike, you need to wise up, Clark.’

  Over time, I did start to have a favourite student. I couldn’t help it.

  Logan Grimes.

  Just thinking his name is enough to make me feel fluttery inside. Not only was he a seriously talented sketcher, he was also pretty much the most handsome, dangerous looking man I’d ever set eyes upon.

  I didn’t know what he’d done to land himself in this shitty situation, but I did know that it was likely to be bad. Really bad.

  On the day of the riot, I was teaching Logan’s class. I always paid special attention to Logan, but didn’t realise that anyone might be noticing.

  ‘You’ve got to stop staring at him like that.’

  The voice of reason, as always, was my teaching assistant, Mary. She was younger than me, but always seemed to be the sensible one. We’d been for a couple of drinks since working at the prison, and I’d confessed my burning crush on Logan.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said. The class were quietly working away on their projects, and Mary and I were at the front of the room.

  ‘But I gotta admit,’ she said, with a wicked look in her green eyes, ‘he stares at you, too.’ She made a long, expressive stroke with her pencil. ‘And he’s really, really hot.’

  It was true. Grimes had these burning eyes, like deep fire, dark brown and big. He had thick, long lashes, the kind of lashes I wish I had, if I’m honest. His nose was sharp, and he had beautiful lips, kind of pouty and slightly too big for his face. Just the way I liked them.

  I guess the first thing you’d notice though, before any of that, were the tattoos on his neck. Bold, black snaking patterns that I’d never really had a chance to unpick in my mind.

  I couldn’t help but wonder whether the rest of his body was inked, about how far down those tats might go…

  If it hadn’t been totally wrong, and basically immoral, I would have loved to get to know him better. Obviously there was no way to know if he was even gay, let alone into me, but a man can dream, right?

  Suddenly, while I was deep in thought, I heard a slight commotion coming from somewhere in the room. I looked up from the paperwork I was slogging my way through, and saw Grimes, looking angrily at the man to his left.

  I glanced at Adam, who was standing by the door, just like always. He gave me a reassuring look. This sort of thing happened from time to time, minor disturbances. It was best to just let them run their course, rather than get involved.

  But it didn’t seem to be getting better. In fact, other prisoners were joining in. The volume of the prisoners’ voices was rising.

  ‘Hey there,’ said Adam, looking slightly worried. ‘Settle down please.’

  The prisoners didn’t listen. And then, Grimes took a finger and pushed it hard into the chest of the inmate next to him.

  In a moment, the atmosphere in the classroom changed from brooding to explosive.

  I don’t know who threw the first punch, but I know that soon, within seconds, punches were being thrown left and right, tables were upturned, and chairs were being used as clubs. I heard the sickening smack of hard plastic hitting human flesh.

  It was like a scene from a painting, all those huge men crawling over each other, violently attacking their neighbours. It made me think of the Massacre Of The Innocents by Peter Paul Reubens. There was something biblical about it.

  As the violence got worse, I a familiar feeling in my chest, a light, tigh
t sensation. I knew what it meant: a panic attack, and a bad one. The feeling got worse, and I could hear my heart beating in my chest, getting faster and stronger. Strange, white dots of light darted across my vision.

  This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

  But it didn’t stop. Adam stepped between me and the prisoners, but the fighting got worse, then, something horrible. Blood. One of the prisoners screamed out and clutched his side as a dark patch spread through the fabric of his uniform.

  The blood, the screams, the growing terror. I my head swim, and just as I was on the verge of losing consciousness I saw him, Logan Grimes, a bloody hand-print smeared down his face, looking straight at me. He seemed to snarl, and then, with violence in his eyes, took a step toward me.

  I gasped, then everything went black.

  1

  CLARK

  THREE YEARS LATER

  * * *

  Here I am: three years later, in a different life, having to deal with a totally different type of argument.

  ‘As you know,’ I say, ‘we have a no returns policy on opened items.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’

  I’ve been here so many times before. The man standing in front of me looks as ridiculous as always. His cream beret sags over the rim of his circular dark glasses, his ratty moustache twitches above his thin lips. He’s the picture of shock, even though I’ve had this exact conversation maybe twenty times over the past three years.

  ‘Marco, you know our policy. Heck, by now you could probably quote our entire policy booklet to me. I’m surprised you don’t have it memorised.’

  Marco draws a thumb and forefinger to his temple in a look of mock pain.

  ‘Clark darling, as ever, you’re giving me the most uncomfortable migraine.’

  How did I get here? Running my own art supply shop is meant to be empowering, exciting and a chance to make a difference to the local community. I didn’t expect it to be one long feud with a local artist who likes to skim a few squeezes out of oil paint tubes before trying to return them.

  ‘I’m sorry about your headache, Marco. Really I am. Maybe you should head home and lie down?’

  He pushes the mangled tube in my face again.

  ‘But look at the tone,’ he says, unscrewing the small plastic cap. He squeezes a dot of paint from it and smears it onto his wrist, a lurid green. The movement reminds me of the way someone might test foundation makeup on their skin in a chemist. ‘It’s nothing like the advertised colour. Nothing like it at all!’

  There’s something I’ve got to let you know. Ever since the day of the riot, I’ve had an almost pathological fear of confrontation. I don’t know why, but on that day something inside me changed. I used to pride myself on standing up to people. I used to think I didn’t take any crap from anyone. But since then, I’ve been a total pushover.

  I know what I should do with this guy who is clearly taking advantage of me. Kick him out and never serve him again. I try to form the words, but just can’t get them out. The longer I stand there, unable to say anything, the bigger the lump in my throat seems to grow.

  I feel as though I’m right back in Pentonville prison, watching the chaos unfold before me, feeling completely powerless. I can’t even say stop.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Spring green?!’ he bleats, hysterically, ‘This is nothing like spring green. Nothing at all. At the very least, if you can’t give me my money back, at least you could give me some credit. You know, let me exchange this inaccurate tube for another one.’

  How does this always end up happening? There is now a queue building up behind Marco. People are of course starting to look uncomfortable. And it’s not as if my shop is particularly big. Any kind of queue means that browsing space for other shoppers is badly impacted.

  The most frustrating thing is that the colour in the tube is a classic spring green. It is a fresh, lively colour, and you can see the new life of spring spilling from the tube.

  This guy, Marco is totally full of it.

  He carries on standing at the front of the queue, the longest I’ve had for days, with that stubborn look on his face. A look that seems to say, I know I’ve got you where I want you.

  And he’s right.

  ‘Well Sir, it seems as though I’m going to have to give you an exchange.’

  His stupid little mustache twitches in triumph.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, with about as much sincerity as a compulsive liar. ‘The customer is always right, you know?’

  So I fold. I give him his money back. I don’t want to give him an exchange, because I am totally sure that the next tube will just come back a few days later, used up and in need of another replacement.

  Come on Clark, just tell him that his custom isn’t welcome here. Tell him to find somewhere else to rip off.

  But of course, I can’t do it. I try to rationalise the decision in all sorts of different ways.

  It’s not fighting with him.

  I want the other customers to see my customer service is good.

  Maybe he’ll become a good customer in the end if I treat him well.

  Of course I know that this is all nonsense. My shop is in trouble. Art shops have never exactly been, you know, big business. Especially not tiny, independent art supply shops.

  And art shops in central London? Where the business rates are so high you almost have to be a millionaire to afford them? It’s not easy, not easy at all.

  After the riot, I was lucky enough to get some compensation. Turns out, Adam hadn’t been quite as thorough as he should have been. A couple of major rules had been broken by the security service at the prison, and those rule breakages had put my wellbeing in danger.

  Now, the payout got wasn’t huge, not, you know, millions of pounds. But it had been enough to put down a deposit on a little shop. And really, the main thing I want is to never be in contact with dangerous men, let alone prisoners ever again.

  Sure, Marco is a prick, but at least he isn’t a dangerous prick.

  If only you knew the type of men I’ve dealt with in the past, I think to myself, as Marco shuffles his way out of the shop.

  I think back to the man I still find myself fixating on, even all these years later. That brooding hulk of a man. Logan Grimes.

  At times like this, when I feel vulnerable, I find myself thinking about Logan, about what he would do to a pathetic little worm like Marco.

  The lady after Marco gives me a sympathetic look and says, ‘People can be a little difficult, can’t they?’

  I recognise her. She’s been in the shop a few times before. A quiet-looking lady with short bangs and a cheerful smile. She has on a thick, kooky sweater in green and purple. It looks warm, which was just as well, as the first, early snowfall of the year is just starting up outside.

  My shop is in Camden. It’s a part of town that’s famous for its markets and street art, a scuzzy neighbourhood popular with Goths and Rockers. It’s late November, and the nights are really starting to get dark early. I dread winter every year. This one, looks like it’s going to be a real rough one. The headlines say it’s going to be the coldest we’ve had for thirty years, with snow and ice predicted until early next year. I hate the cold, and there are only so many layers I can wear before I end up looking like the Michelin man.

  I need some sweaters like this woman’s in my life.

  I smile back at her, but don’t say anything. Even now, after he’s gone, I can’t bring myself to stand up to Marco.

  ‘I used to work with someone like him. I could never bring myself to just tell him to bugger off!’

  This girl gets me. And she said ‘bugger off’ which I find cute, in a geeky way.

  The rest of the day is pretty uneventful. The queue of customers quickly clears up, and none of them spend a fortune in the shop, much to my disappointment.

  At the end of the day, with the light fast fading, I get a little scared. It happens every day in the late Autumn and Winter, really. I guess I’m just scared of the dark, like a wimpy kid. I sometimes imagine strange shapes, faces looming out of the dark, gaunt cheeks pressing against the glass of my windows.

  Of course, nothing bad ever happens. The shop is just off Albert Street, one of the nicer parts of the nieghbourhood. It’s all historic houses and quaint boutiques round here. Not pimps and pushers, gangsters and thugs.