Deviance. London Psychic Book 3 (9 page)

The venue separated into several spaces around open courtyards overlooked by a second tier of rooms. There were booths hung with flash, tattoo art displaying the style of the artist from traditional naval styles to curly feminine floral motifs, Chinese dragons and darker tribal marks. A rock band played to a lively crowd, overlaying the sound of buzzing from the tattoo machines. There was sizzling from the barbeques and the smell of roasting meat, hot chips and coffee hung in the air.
 

A generation ago, there would have been stereotype attendees to these type of events – fat and balding Hell's Angel types, gang members, sailors and prostitutes. A freak show of outcasts, considered deviant by decent people. But now the crowd was mixed, beautiful young women wandering amongst middle-aged rebels sipping Pinot Grigio, and, of course, a healthy dose of leather-clad men, from male model to grandfather. Some art was discreet, a single image on a patch of skin. But others had gone all in, art personified, their bodies a canvas of meaning.

A man walked past wearing plain black jeans and boots, the simplicity setting off his bare torso. There was no patch of skin unmarked by dense tattoos, the images ranging from the head of the Devil at his navel, to a huge dragon around his ribs that wrapped into steampunk wings on his back. His head was shaven and his skull and face were tattooed in strong black geometric shapes.

"With so many inked bodies and tattoo artists, how are we going to find those connected to O?" Blake wondered aloud.
 

They continued walking through the maze of booths. The buzz of tattoo machines was a soothing backdrop, like bees on a summer's day. Many of the clients lay relaxed under the skilled hands of the artists, trusting their skin to strangers.

"Why do you think tattoos have become so popular these days?" Jamie asked, as they stopped to watch one artist ink script into a man's shaven skull.
 

"Marking skin is nothing new," Blake said. "The oldest human bodies found in glaciers have tattoos, showing allegiance to a tribe or gang, or to God. Perhaps that's the point. We've lost that sense of meaning in our secular society so we go through ritual behavior in the ultimate pursuit of individualization. Tattoos are only the start – I've read that there's also a rise in piercings, scarification, branding and implants."

Jamie thought of Rowan Day-Conti's extreme body modification from the Jenna Neville case, and his obsession with how the body could be used in life as well as in death. He had been her first connection to O.
 

The rock music finished and the roar of the crowd subsided. In the brief lull, Jamie heard music that reminded her of the night at the Torture Garden when she had seen O dance.
 

"This way," she said, heading off in the direction of the music, through the crowds of people as Blake tried to keep up.
 

They emerged on the second floor overlooking a stage area with a raised dais and a pole that stretched up to the ceiling. A mixed-race woman in a leather bikini hung upside down and as she spun around, Jamie saw her back was a tattooed garden of exotic flowers that curled and bloomed across her skin. It was beautiful, complementing her curves and, judging by the flash of cameras in the audience, much appreciated.
 

Blake's eyes were fixed on the dancer as she slid around the pole in an acrobatic and sensual display of strength and flexibility. Jamie understood his fascination, because the woman was stunning. She knew that her own release came in tango. She wondered if Blake would look at her like that if she danced for him. But that was a side of her life that she kept private – for now at least.
 

The music finished and the dancer stepped off the dais to be mobbed by fans asking her to sign photos. Jamie found it interesting that most of these fans were women, many in plain clothes. Perhaps they wanted to find the courage to expose themselves as she did, to ink their skin and be proud of their bodies.
 

They finally made it to the front of the queue and Jamie introduced herself and Blake.
 

"We're looking for a friend of ours who has gone missing," she said. "You might know her as O. She has a –"

"Octopus tattoo," the woman said, cutting off Jamie's words. "I know her. She was meant to be here today, part of our performance team, but she didn't show up. There are plenty of girls ready to take her place but she was missed by the fans. She has quite the following from Torture Garden."

"Do you know if her tattooist is here?" Blake asked. He smiled and Jamie watched as the woman melted in the face of his charm. She had to admit that a tiny part of her was jealous, but if they could use his good looks to find O, it was worth it.

The woman leaned closer.
 

"He is here, actually. All the way from New Zealand. I'm on my break now, so I could take you to him and maybe show you around a bit." She brushed her hair back from her face and touched Blake's arm, looking up into his eyes. "I'm Minx, by the way."

Of course you are
, Jamie thought, managing to keep quiet as Blake accepted her offer of help.
 

Minx led them through a central area reserved for artists engaged in more traditional tattoo methods. A Polynesian man used a small hammer to drive a stick into a man's shoulder. Each stroke was deliberate and the man underneath looked as if he was barely coping with the pain. Yet he remained unmoving, determined to go through this initiation as generations before him had done.

"The word tattoo comes from
tatau
in the Polynesian language," Minx said. "It means to strike and mimics the sound of the hammer hitting the stick. Modern tattooing uses machines, of course. They can do far more pricks per minute than tattooing by hand, but it's all so clinical these days."

Winding through the halls, Minx stopped at a booth dedicated to implants. The walls were covered with objects that could be put under the skin. The man running the booth had a row of beads in his skull, raised bumps like a dinosaur spine. A raised cross implant with bulbous ends sat in the middle of his bare chest, skull tattoos erupting with flame on his pectoral muscles.
 

"Hey Zee, d'you know where Tem Makaore's stall is?"

Zee turned and his eyes were kind, soft brown like a puppy and Jamie instinctively warmed to him, despite his unusual looks. He bent to kiss Minx's cheek and smiled at Jamie and Blake.
 

"He's down the back of the vaults 'cos he booked late."

Jamie leaned closer to examine some of the items on show. There were different sizes of horn from little bumps to several inches, as well as thin batons and rings. Zee noticed her interest.
 

"Skin is remarkable," he said. "You can stretch it over things and it will accommodate. So you can embed a small object at first, a round marble, for example, and the skin will stretch around it. Over time, you replace the small object with a larger one. Or you can have silicone injected to stretch it slowly into shape."
 

Blake pointed at a row of long metal spikes for skull implants.

"How can you possibly sleep with those in?" he asked.
 

Zee smiled at the question, keen to talk about his art. "The implants in the skull are actually metallic studs so the spikes can be attached by day and removed at night."

"That's pretty cool," Blake said. "Not sure how well it would go down at the office though."
 

"People are trying all kinds of things these days," Zee said. "Braille implants for example, to enable blind people to enjoy body modification. There's also a rise in magnetic finger implants which act like another sense. The wearer can feel magnetic fields, from portable electronics to invisible magnetic fields. Split tongues are requested more in these days as dragons have seen a resurgence in interest.

"Ultimately, I'm a skin artist, and the bodies I work with are temples to my god. I create the implants that result in a changed shape. I carve away excess flesh to leave an artwork behind. I restructure to create." He pointed at a photo of an ear reshaped into that of a cat. "Individuation is the point. To be set apart from mundanity. I mean, look at our developed world. How many people are trapped in lives of quiet desperation? I help people escape that through embracing their power. I match the outer body to the inner vision of self."

"It's fascinating," Jamie said. "I hope we have time to come back later."

They walked away from the stall, heading down the stairs towards the vaults.

"Zee's lover died a few years back," Minx said as they descended. "He had the ashes put into that hollow cross and implanted them over his heart."

Her tone was respectful, both of his choice to implant and his method of remembrance. Jamie understood that need to have the dead so close they could not be forgotten, even for an instant. Ashes could be made into glass and diamonds now, turned into tribute jewelry. She had also heard that they could be mixed with ink and used in a tattoo. That thought actually appealed to Jamie. Polly had understood the attraction of the macabre and would have laughed about it.
 

The vaults level had an eclectic range of stalls ranging from tattoo inks and equipment to a cabinet-of-curiosities shop, selling animal skulls, taxidermy, and art made from human teeth. The buzzing of her cellphone caught Minx's attention and as she answered, she pointed Jamie and Blake towards the back of the vaults, waving them away.
   

"Maybe you can say goodbye after her next show," Jamie said with a smile as they walked down the corridor.
 

"I don't think I could keep up with her," Blake grinned. "This place is amazing, though. I keep wondering how much of this will end up in the British Museum eventually, part of British civilization in the twenty-first century. Future academics will be musing over the tribal markings and obscure implants from this age, as they do over ancient peoples."

Several booths hung with Maori and Polynesian designs sat in the corner of the vaults, the distinctive use of white space highlighted in bold black to create
koru
spirals and geometric shapes. It was quieter down here, the sound of the bands muted by thick walls and flooring.
 

Three men stood near one of the booths, drinking bottles of beer. They turned as Jamie and Blake approached, their faces marked by tribal tattoos, their body language aggressive. Jamie took a deep breath.

"We're looking for Tem Makaore," Jamie said, although Blake was clearly looking at one of the men more intently. He had distinctive facial moko, the blue-black ink curving around his chin and jawline, bisecting his nose with geometric shapes, sweeping up from his eyes like the wings of the dawn. His lips were fully tattooed and the fierce markings made him look like a warrior from another time, incongruous against his black t-shirt and jeans. Jamie had a fleeting desire to see if the ink continued on the rest of his tightly muscled body.

"I'm Tem," the man said, his face breaking into a smile. The warrior persona dropped away. "Kia ora. What can I do for you?"

"A friend of ours, O, is missing. We wondered if you'd seen her?"

Tem frowned.
 

"Of course, I know O. I'm super proud of her ink and I don't get to do such extensive work too often. We met for a drink last night about eight and she was meant to come by today, but I haven't seen her since then."

"We're worried about her," Jamie said. "Did she tell you anything about where she was going after you met?"

"No, but I wouldn't expect her to. But she wanted to talk about new ink, which means something has happened in her life. Something has changed. You see, the soul can't speak in words." Tem smiled, his eyes wistful, and Jamie wondered at the bond between tattoo artist and the skin he worked on. "The soul can only speak in symbols and patterns and every person will choose something different. Or, if they choose the same symbol, the meaning will be different."

"What did she want done?" Jamie asked.

Tem gestured for them to come closer and see some of the designs on the wall of the booth.
 

"She only had vague ideas and it's bad etiquette to ask the meaning of someone's tattoo," he said. "It's possible that the person themselves won't know what it really means." He pointed to his facial moko. "To try and put these markings into words will lessen their power. But you have to understand that to tattoo or modify your body is to embrace the shadow side of yourself. That's why many can't do it.

"Most people cannot bear to look into that darker side, preferring to keep the mask of normality. But to repress the shadow for too long will mean it eventually has to escape in other ways. Into compulsions, into chaos." Tem looked at Jamie, his dark brown eyes as tangled as an ancient wood. She saw secret things hidden in those depths, a glimpse of an older world. "I think O's octopus has been dominant for too long and to change, she has to ink something new. But I can't tell you what. She wanted to know how long I was in town as we'd need several sessions. But she was ready to walk through the fire again."

Jamie tilted her head to one side, his words puzzling her. "What do you mean by that?"

Tem pointed at the tattooing instrument on the bench. "That is for pain but also for change. After all, nothing worth doing is entirely painless. Friendships fade, marriages break apart, families splinter, but your body is yours until the end. What you do to it will be with you every day until you breathe your last. So you mark your skin to mark the path through the fire of life, and after the change is complete, the wound is bandaged and you can heal."

A picture on the wall drew Jamie's eye. A woman stood side on, her arm lifted to reveal a tattoo that opened up the inside of her body as if she were clockwork. Behind broken ribs, cogs and wheels turned, pistons pumped and over them lay a network of bones and skin. It was a macabre optical illusion of a steampunk hybrid. Next to her was a woman with blonde hair, her dark eyes staring into the camera from a face of blue and purple swirls, her whole body encased in ink.