Chapter 1 - Ewan and Emily
Ewan
Five Years Ago…
The wind whipped my hair against my forehead as I looked out over the choppy waters below. Scotland will be behind me soon. Nothing but a memory of cobblestone streets and pubs filled with laughter. I was leaving it all behind. Trading the rugged landscape of my homeland for the unknown expanse of America. What waits for me? How different would it be? These questions spun around my head like the sea mist enveloping the cliffs.
My fingers grazed over the intricate designs etched onto my upper arm. Tracing the lines of a Celtic knot and thorns. Each tattoo told a story, a chapter in my life that had brought me to this very moment. Some represented triumph while others served as painful reminders of mistakes made. But every single one of those marks was part of who I am today.
A particular design caught my eye. A dragon wrapped around a sword, its fiery breath illuminating a cross. That piece held significance beyond measure. It represented my faith amidst darkness, my strength during weakness. It symbolized hope when times seemed hopeless. Its presence reassured me that whatever challenges waited for me across the ocean. I wouldn’t face them alone.
America loomed large in my imagination, full of promise and opportunity. Yet, apprehension nagged at the back of my mind. Would I fit in? Could I start anew without being weighed down by my past? Only time will tell. For now, I took comfort in the knowledge that wherever I went, my tattoos would remain constant companions. Silent testaments to my journey thus far. With a heavy heart and uncertain steps, I turned toward the future. Ready to embrace whatever destiny had in store for me.
Two Years Ago…
As I dipped the needle into the black ink, my gaze fixed on the work in front of me. The man’s muscular arm stretched out on the table. And there I stood, Ewan McAllister, a Scottish expat turned LA tattoo artist. Tasked with creating a live tattoo art demonstration at one of the most prestigious galleries in the city.
The gallery itself had transformed for this event. Morphing from its usual sleek white walls and minimalist design into something different. The space now hummed with energy that perfectly reflected the spirit of LA. Paintings hung next to sculptures. Which sat beside installations made entirely from recycled materials. There was no room here for tradition or convention, only innovation and experimentation.
I found myself drawn to the centerpiece of the exhibit. A massive interactive piece constructed with interlocking blocks that reminded me of Legos. People milled around it, adding pieces and disassembling others. Constantly changing the structure until it resembled nothing recognizable anymore. It felt oddly fitting somehow. A representation of how quickly things changed in this city. Especially when you least expected it.
But right then, all attention was focused on me, as I began etching lines onto skin. To some, it might seem strange to view tattooing as an art form worthy of such highbrow consideration. But here I was, surrounded by works created using paints and chisels. Yet mine involved needles and ink instead. Wasn’t it all just another way of expressing ourselves? Of leaving our mark on the world?
My subject today was a burly man named Mike. He worked as a construction worker during the day and moonlighted as a bouncer at night. He wanted a tribute to his late wife. Whose memory still haunts him after three years since she passed away due to cancer. Her favorite flower was lilacs. He requested a large purple bloom with a few simple leaves sprouting upwards. Simple enough request, but emotionally fitting nonetheless.
As I guided the needle along his arm, I couldn’t help thinking about my own past. About how much I’ve tried to forget everything that happened back home in Glasgow. Like my boxing career cut short because of injuries sustained outside the ring. Yet, despite my efforts, memories continued to surface. Whenever I picked up the gloves again or put down the ink bottle. Like tonight. When I looked at Mike’s determined expression and saw reflections of myself. Or when I glanced at the crowd gathered around us. They eagerly watched as I brought Mike’s vision to life. I couldn’t deny the similarities between this setting and the ringside audiences cheering me on years ago.
In many ways, tattooing provided me with a new purpose. A means to connect with people without having to speak too much about my history. Here, among these strangers, I found acceptance and understanding. Not once did anyone probe deeper than necessary, content to let me exist simply as ‘the tattoo guy’. Perhaps that’s why I fell in love with LA. Because it gave me permission to reinvent myself. To become whatever version of Ewan McAllister I desired.
Yet even as I lost myself in my work, I couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that change was coming soon. That my carefully crafted facade would crack sooner than later. Exposing the truth hidden beneath layers of lies. Because no matter how hard I tried, there was one thing I couldn’t escape. The fact that I was still running. Running from the consequences of my actions. From the choices I made and the regrets that followed.
As I wiped the excess ink from my station, my mind wandered to darker places. To the unshakeable guilt, I still carried from that fateful night in Glasgow. When everything fell apart. No matter how many miles I put between us, it was always there, a ghost over my shoulder.
As I finished the final line of the tattoo, I stepped back to admire my handiwork. Mike’s face lit up with pride and gratitude. His eyes filled with tears as he ran his fingers lightly over the image. For a brief moment, I forgot about my own troubles.
Emily
I stepped into the gallery. It wasn’t just any ordinary night. It was the opening of an ambitious new exhibition that promised to push the boundaries of art itself. But I wasn’t there for the art. Not exactly.
A recent string of high-profile art forgeries had rocked the Los Angeles art scene. It left collectors and curators alike wondering how such elaborate hoaxes had gone unnoticed. And tonight, I hoped to get closer to the truth.
My client suspected that these forgeries weren’t the handiwork of copycat artists. But rather something much more sinister. She believed that someone was targeting specific works of art for nefarious reasons. And she wanted answers. So, here I was, Emily Turner, school teacher by day and PI by night. Ready to dive headfirst into the murky waters of the LA art world.
As I made my way through the crowded gallery. My attention was drawn towards a makeshift stage set up near the center of the room. On it sat a muscular man, with intricate tattoos covering nearly every inch of his exposed arm. He wore an intense look of concentration. As he guided the needle of a tattoo gun along the contours of another man’s arm.
This must be Ewan McAllister, I thought to myself. The Scotsman whose unique brand of artistry had captured the imaginations of collectors. Rumored to have a checkered past and a penchant for trouble. A few years back, Ewan had opened up shop in Los Angeles. He quickly established himself as one of the most sought-after tattoo artists in town.
As I approached, I couldn’t help but admire the intricate details of his tattoos. “Amazing work,” I commented, unable to tear my eyes away from his work. He glanced up, his piercing blue eyes meeting mine.
“Thank you,” he replied in a gentle Scottish lilt.
My eyes were drawn to the intricate tattoos covering his arms, each one a piece of art. “Your work is impressive. How did a Scotsman end up tattooing in the heart of LA?”
He gave a wistful smile. “I needed a change.”
I sensed a vulnerability behind his voice. “I imagine tattooing and boxing make for cathartic outlets, ” I noted, looking at the worn wraps and boxing gloves peeking from his gym bag.
“Aye, you are right,” he replied, “pouring my emotions into my ink gives me solace. The adrenaline of the ring helps quiet the demons.” He paused, seeming surprised at his own candidness.
He continued working while I watched. Mesmerized by the skill displayed by such large hands. Hands that looked roughened by years spent honing skills few ever get to witness. Let alone possess. With each pass of the needle, he revealed more than just a design. Each stroke told a story.
He then finally finished his session, signifying the end of his performance. Applause erupted throughout the crowd. Many congratulated him on his impressive feat. Some asked questions regarding his process or inspiration. I noticed a certain hesitation in his mannerisms, almost as if he felt slightly out of place.
When he stepped down off the stage, he headed straight towards me, instead of joining the crowd of artists and patrons mingling nearby. Perhaps it was my obvious enthusiasm for his work that caught his attention. Or maybe he sensed a kindred spirit in someone else who didn’t quite fit in either. Whatever the reason may have been, I welcomed the opportunity to speak with him further.
Up close, he towered above me. Dark stubble dusted his cheeks. Giving him a roguish appeal. It only served to heighten his already considerable looks. Beneath the surface, however, lay a sadness I couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Hello,” he greeted me gruffly. “What brings ye here?”
His question took me aback somewhat since I hadn’t expected him to approach me directly. Nevertheless, I answered honestly, hoping my response wouldn’t come across as too forward. “Your work actually,” I replied truthfully. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
A shadow passed over his features briefly before disappearing again. Replaced by a guarded smile. “Yeah? What did you think of it then?”
I considered my reply carefully. Wanting to express my appreciation without sounding condescending or patronizing.
“I thought it was amazing,” I admitted openly. “There’s definitely an artistic quality to what you do. Regardless of whether or not society considers tattooing as ‘real’ art.” He gave a wry grin, his lips curving into a half-smile, “Aye, many folk cannae see things the same way as ye do.”
We stood in silence for a few seconds, neither of us knowing quite what to say next. I tried desperately to think of something intelligent or witty to break the ice. But my brain refused to cooperate. In the end, it was he who broke the impasse, extending his hand towards me in offering. “Name’s Ewan Mcallister.”
I extended my hand in introduction. “I’m Emily Turner.”
His palm was calloused and warm against mine, somehow sending a shiver through me.
Ewan nodded, seemingly satisfied with my terse introduction. “Pleased ta meet ye, Emily.” His eyes locked onto mine, holding me captive for a few seconds. I struggled to maintain eye contact.
Then, Ewan released my hand and stepped backward. Granting me some much needed breathing space. “So, what brings you take this fine establishment tonight?”
It was my turn to shrug nonchalantly. “Just doing some research for a case,” I lied smoothly. Technically speaking, it wasn’t entirely false. I was indeed investigating cases of art forgeries. But I conveniently omitted the fact that my primary target happened to be standing right in front of me.
Ewan raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Research, eh? Sounds interesting.”
I smiled tightly, hoping that he wouldn’t press the issue further. Thankfully, he appeared content to drop the topic altogether. Instead choosing to change direction completely.
“How about ye join me for a drink later on?” he suggested casually, gesturing towards the bar located adjacent to the exhibition hall. “It’d give us a chance to get better acquainted.”
Part of me wanted to accept his invitation immediately. Eager to spend more time in his fascinating company. As well as learn everything I possibly could about him for my case.
However, another part of me remained cautious. Cognizant of the peril inherent in getting too close to a potential subject.
I had to tread carefully, balancing my investigative instincts with self-preservation. Too much too soon might raise his suspicions. But an outright rejection could shut the door on this opportunity altogether.
In the end, professionalism won out over personal desire. I politely declined his offer. “Maybe some other time,” I demurred evasively. “I really need to get home.”
And that was the truth. I need to get back home to my daughter and send my babysitter home.
Disappointment flashed fleetingly across Ewan’s face before vanishing just as quickly. “Aye, fair enough,” he conceded, “Perhaps we’ll run into each other again sometime.”
With that, he turned and walked away. He disappeared into the crowd gathered around the various displays. As I watched him go, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d just missed out. On the best opportunity I would have to ask him some questions about the case I was working on.
I felt his reaction to be a bit overreacting but what could I say? I needed to get home. I will be seeing you again, Ewan McAllister.
