Chapter Twenty-One Tristan #2
I clicked. The article was short. Almost careless.
Another casualty in a line of many. The price of being poor.
Local man, twenty, pronounced dead at the scene.
Survived by older brother, Lennon Foster.
There were a few photos. One of him, Levi, grinning for the camera, tongue out, peace sign raised, tight locs glinting under summer light.
Then another: two boys, maybe sixteen. Arms slung around each other.
One grinning wide, the other half-turned, shy, caught mid-laugh. Levi. The one who hadn’t made it.
I stared for a long time, unable to look away from that smile. The one that had once meant something to Razor. To Richie.
Then something else drew my eye.
The background.
A café sign, sun-faded but clear enough: Smokey Joe’s Café, Hackney High Street.
I leant back, biting my lip. The odds of it being the same place I’d heard Razor mention on the phone were slim to none. And even if it was, considering going there to scope it out was stupid. Reckless. Obsessive. Bordering on insane.
But I knew I would.
I had to know if he was still alive.
That was all.
I didn’t sleep.
* * * *
By dawn, I was up. Coat on, phone and wallet shoved into my pocket, and as London began to stir, I left Clerkenwell behind.
I walked to Farringdon, caught the Overground east. The carriage smelt of metal and rain, of people heading to early shifts and last trains home.
I’d tried to look the café up, but it wasn’t the sort of place that had a website or took bookings.
It was a proper greasy spoon. Plastic menus.
Formica tables. Tea served so strong it could strip paint.
But I’d pieced together enough from social media posts to know roughly where it sat.
Between a bookies and a Londis. Maybe a barber next door.
Hackney was a split creature, though.
One side gleamed. Hackney Wick had its warehouses turned art studios, canal side cafés, brunch spots with prices making even me arch a brow. The other side was older. Traditional. Tower blocks. Social housing estates. The remnants of East London before the Olympics had given it a facelift.
It looked different in daylight.
The last few times I’d been here, it had been at night where the streetlights hid the cracks, neon softening the edges.
But in the cold morning light, Hackney didn’t pretend.
It was all brick and concrete, corner shops opening, pigeons fighting over chips on the pavement. Real life waking up, unfiltered.
Eventually, I found the place. Its faded sign half-obscured by scaffolding where the market was waking up.
Stalls creaked open, metal poles clanging, voices carrying through the cold air.
I stood across the road for a while, coat zipped, hood up, watching the door open and close as people came and went.
I hadn’t come all this way to stare.
So I crossed, got honked at by a black cab for taking too long, and the driver leant out the window to shout something rhyming with punt. I didn’t bother apologising. I kept walking, heart thudding, until I was in front of the door.
Then I drew a breath and pushed it open.
The air inside was warm, thick with grease, coffee, and the faint tang of fried bacon.
I kept my hood up. Just in case. A few people dotted the café.
A couple by the window sharing toast; two older women in cardigans, their tea steaming beside a small dog under the table; a builder in high-vis with The Sun spread open next to his full English.
“You in or out?” a bald man bellowed from behind the counter.
“Uh… in.” Christ, what was I doing?
“Take a seat, I’ll come to ya.”
I picked the corner table by the window facing the door, back to the wall. From there I could watch the street, see anyone coming in. Including him. The last thing I wanted was for Razor to walk through that door and see me. Which made it all the more ridiculous why I was here at all.
“What can I get ya?” The same man came over, pen behind his ear, tattoos of crossed hammers climbing his neck.
“Coffee, please.”
He gave a look that said tourist and trudged off.
A moment later, a mug hit the table with a solid clunk. Not the barista stuff I was used to. No, this was instant. Served with a tiny pot of milk and sachets of sugar. I added both, stirred, and forced myself to drink. It tasted burnt and bitter. But it was hot. And right now, that was something.
Then the door jangled open, and my stomach dropped.
A man stepped in. High-vis jacket, hard hat tucked under his arm, steel-capped boots echoing against the tiles. Big, broad-shouldered, Black, with an easy kind of smile saying he knew this place. I sank lower in my chair, told myself I was being ridiculous, that there was no way—
“Usual, is it, Len?” the man behind the counter called.
Len.
My pulse kicked.
“Cheers, Joe.” The man leant his elbow on the counter. Lennon. It had to be. The Lennon. Razor’s best mate. Levi’s brother.
Joe, the bald owner, snapped a lid onto a takeaway cup and slid it over. “You seen him?”
Lennon huffed a short laugh. “No. You?”
“He’s too important for here now.” Joe handed over a roll in a brown paper bag, grease seeping through. “I’m waiting for when he needs my help with a bit of washing, if you catch my drift.” Joe winked.
“Unless he’s other thing,” Lennon said quietly.
“Not your Rich.” Joe shook his head. “He’s invincible.”
“No, he ain’t.” Lennon took the bag. “You don’t know him like I do.”
He turned and his eyes found me.
Even with my hood up, even half-hidden in the corner, he saw me. Looked right through me. I froze, pulse hammering, and for a second, I was sure he knew. He couldn’t have. But he looked at me as if he did. Or maybe I looked more out of place here than I gave myself credit for.
Then he strode towards the door, pushed it open and stepped out into the street.
I was on my feet before I’d even thought about it, dropping a note on the table, coffee half-full, and pushing through the door after him.
Daylight hit hard. Cold air in my lungs, too sharp, as if trying to knock sense into me.
I stopped on the pavement, told myself to turn around, then muttered a curse and kept going.
He was halfway down the street, cutting into an alley when he stopped. Turned. “What’s your fucking game, eh?”
I froze.
And realised how I must look. Long black coat, hood up, moving fast behind him. I’d never been accused of looking threatening before, but paranoia’s second nature to people who live with it.
I shoved the hood down, hands raised. “Nothing. Sorry.”
Lennon frowned, dragging his gaze over me from head to toe.
The tension eased a fraction. He’d decided I wasn’t a threat, just an idiot.
Probably thought I was some prick from the department of work or pensions on a walkabout, catching those claiming benefits who could work.
Which, if Razor had been honest about him, Lennon shouldn’t be worried about.
“Are you following me?” he asked.
“No.” I stepped forward, winced. “Sorry. Yes. Maybe.”
“Fucking hell, that’s clear, innit?”
“Are you Lennon?”
He frowned. “Yeah. What of it? And you are?”
“I…I heard you in the café just now.”
“And?”
“About Richie.”
He blinked. “What d’you know about Richie?”
“Not much. Hardly anything, really.” I stepped closer, testing the water, trying to find a scrap of courage. “I know a little about Razor.”
Lennon gave a short, humourless laugh. “If you’re a customer, mate, you don’t need to go ghost-hunting. Half the lads round here’ll sell you whatever you’re after.” He gestured at the high street with his hard hat. “Pick a corner.”
I could hear the resentment beneath the words. The wound unhealed.
“No… I’m not a customer.” I almost laughed, because technically, once upon a time, hadn’t he started that way? “I’m a friend.” The word felt wrong in my mouth. “Sort of.”
“Friend?” He looked me over again, disbelief in his eyes. I couldn’t blame him. Razor didn’t collect friends who looked or talked like me.
“Briefly,” I said, the truth of hitting harder than I expected
Lennon straightened. Exhaled. Something seemed to click. “You know him as Rich?”
“Yeah.”
“He told you his name?”
“Yeah. And yours.”
Lennon cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. “Razor don’t do that.”
“I know.” I inhaled, shakily. “But Richie did. Once. He…also told me about Levi.”
Lennon jolted. Swallowed. Went to turn away. “Fuck this.”
“He told me how guilty he was,” I called before Lennon could scarper. Lennon stopped, but kept his back to me. Waited. “And how it’s eaten him up inside and how much he cares about you.”
Lennon turned. Slowly. “Those ain’t Richie’s words.”
“Paraphrased. For haste.” I stepped closer. “Sparing you the long version I was given. But he meant it.”
Lennon breathed out through his nose, shaking his head.
“He told me you have a beautiful girl with twins on the way. That he misses you.”
Lennon lifted his gaze, eyes glassy. “I can’t hear any more of this.”
“Tell me he’s okay. Please.” The break in my voice caught me off guard. I hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. Hadn’t meant for anything to show.
Lennon studied me for a long moment. Not the quick, dismissive once-over people usually gave.
This was slower. Measuring. As if lining things up in his head.
The way I stood. The way I couldn’t quite keep still.
The fact I was here at all. He didn’t need to be a genius to work the rest out. I didn’t hide it.
“He went to you,” Lennon said eventually. “After the warehouse fight.”
It wasn’t a question.
I didn’t trust my voice, so I nodded instead. Small. Careful. Enough to confirm without betraying him. Enough to say yes, he came to me, without saying what that had meant.
Lennon’s jaw tightened. Not angry as such.
Nor even really surprised. More… adjusted.
As if something he’d half-seen had finally come into focus.
And standing there, under that quiet, knowing look, all I could think was how badly I wanted to say it out loud.
That he’d been in my bed. That he’d chosen me.
That for a handful of hours, in a city that chewed men like him up, Razor had come to my door as Richie.
And that somehow, impossibly, it felt as if I might have mattered.
Lennon breathed out a dejected laugh. “He could’ve told me.”
“He said you probably already knew.”
“’Course I fucking knew.” Lennon dragged a hand over his forehead, hard hat swinging from his fingers. “He ain’t half as unreadable as he thinks he is. Not to me.” He blew out a breath. “So how long were you two… a thing?”
“Not long,” I said. “Barely anything, really.”
“Long enough to count, though. For him to hand you the real bits.”
I could feel my blush. “If it helps, he was on very high dose painkillers.”
“I’d rather he’d felt every inch of his pain.”
“He did.” I held his gaze. “Probably always will.”
Lennon’s anger collapsed into something smaller. Sadder. “And long enough for you to get caught on him like this. So what was it? Those eyes? That stupid lost-dog look he does?”
“Honestly? It was everything.”
“Huh. Yeah. I’ll bet.”
“Do you know if he’s okay?” I chewed on my lip.
Lennon shook his head. “He’s not been around. That means one of two things.”
“Which are?”
“He’s moved up. Big time. No more street graft. Corner office. City views.” He flicked his hard hat in a loose circle, a humourless smile tugging at his mouth. “Metaphorically speaking.” Then his expression flattened. “Or he’s in a body bag.”
The air left my lungs. “And if you had to put money on which?”
“I don’t have the money to gamble with.”
“But if you did. If I staked it for you.”
Lennon studied me for a moment. “Forget about him.” He glanced away. “He’s trouble. A walking disaster. Only ever looks out for one person.”
“You really think that?”
“If I didn’t, I couldn’t stand hating him.”
“But you don’t hate him. Do you?”
He snorted. “Course I don’t.” His gaze dropped, then lifted again. “Same as you won’t forget him. He’s got a way of doing that. Gets under the skin of people who actually see him.”
I managed a shrug. Something close to a smile.
Lennon watched me for a beat, weighing it up. Checking if I meant what I was saying. If I was as concerned for him as I sounded. I was.
“If you do know him,” he said, “then you’ll know he’d never leave his sister. And seeing as she ain’t come running to me yet, I’m guessing he hasn’t left her.”
Relief flooded me.
Lennon nodded, as if that settled it. As if we’d both reached the same conclusion and were choosing to walk towards it anyway.
Then he turned and went, swallowed by the street, the city waking around us.
Engines coughing to life. A siren somewhere distant.
The sharp, clean smell of rain rising off warm pavement.
Forget him.
As if I ever could. He was in my blood, in my bones. Threaded through me like the sweetest poison I’d ever tasted. You don’t forget the thing that changes your chemistry. The man who rewires you from the inside out.
I couldn’t.
But I walked away. Not because I didn’t want him, but because wanting him didn’t erase the cost of being with him. Knowing he was alive had to be enough. And if I was going to claim the future laid out for me—polished, protected, paid for—I couldn’t afford to fall in love with a man like Razor.
I’d just have to learn how to live with the craving.