Phoenix Simpson

Chapter 3

I stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen.

So far, the only thing on the white screen was my name. Phoenix Simpson. I'd never written a CV before. I didn't even know what it stood for until I'd searched it in a moment of desperate boredom. Turned out it was the Latin phrase 'Curriculum Vitae'. Course of Life, in English. With no qualifications, achievements, or previous jobs to put, I'd ended up thinking about the course my life had taken. There was no resentment towards my younger brothers. My bitterness was all speared towards my parents. It was their fault that I'd had the responsibility of being two parents at once, and running a household of seven, all dumped on me at fifteen years old.

Huffing out deeply, I looked away from the white screen and let my gaze scan the dreary library. I couldn't remember the last time I'd visited one of these, let alone sat in one for two whole hours. I was on the first floor, away from the loud, annoying children chanting on the ground floor. But clearly not far away enough. I could still hear them pelting their nursery rhymes at the top of their tiny lungs. Whose great idea was it to have a children's sing-along-session in a library anyway?

Pushing my chair back, I stood up, wanting to stretch my legs. I'd chosen to come to the library not just in a search for quietness, but I knew if all things went to shit, I could try Plan B. Walter had touched on Plan B a couple of months ago, right before we moved. I had decided that the gang stuff was all over, and now we had to find another way of making a living. It may have been a throwaway comment that Walter had made, but it had stayed in my mind. Starting a business. My father did it, so why couldn't I?

Sure, my father's boating business was a front for all the illicit schemes he ran, but running a business wasn't that much different to running a gang. Where there was a demand, there needed to be a supply. I didn't know anything about speedboats or yachts, but there had to be some legal things I was interested in.

Closing my laptop, I eyed the people in my close vicinity, deciding whether I should leave my belongings unattended or not. Dover wasn't London, but still. My trust for anyone other than my family, was little to none. I'd seen people leave their whole bags behind, laptop open and charging on tables as they went to the toilets. I wasn't about to go that far. I made sure my laptop was locked and closed, and that my wallet was in my pocket. Apart from the old man sleeping in the plush chair in one corner, and the girl – probably a student – pouring over her textbooks with a highlighter in hand, the place was quiet.

I walked across the threaded blue carpet, scanning the categories of books they had labelled on the shelves. Well, they weren't really shelves that were built into walls. This library was more modern, I supposed. The books were kept in white cabinet like bookcases, which had wheels on the bottom of them. I made my way between the haphazardly arranged 'bookshelves', reading 'COOKERY', 'LANGUAGES', and finally 'BUSINESS'. Stopping in front of one section, my eyes trailed the various titles. There were books on how to influence people, how to be productive, and how to negotiate. I didn't actually know what I was looking for. To understand how to run a legitimate business, I needed to know how business and the law integrated. That was just the tip of the iceberg. There was so much to it all. People went to university and did whole three-year degrees on the subject. And I was thinking one or two books could cut it?

Shoving a hand through my hair, I tore my gaze away and turned to leave. Except someone was now standing in the aisle I wanted to pass through. Breathing heavily through my nose, I stood there blatantly. The man had a backpack slung over one shoulder, his lightly bearded face buried in a book that was from the Business category. He either didn't notice me, or he didn't care.

Clearing my throat loudly, I stared at him as frustration played across my features. This time he looked up, turning his face towards me. Our eyes met and I frowned sharply. I knew this man. But it couldn't be him. The man was dark skinned, his eyes a deep brown. He could have been anyone, yet he looked so familiar.

"Do I know you?" he was the first to ask, a furrow between his brows.

I couldn't tell if he was asking because he recognised me, or because I was staring at him like I recognised him. At the same time, I kept reminding myself that it couldn't be him, because that would be impossible.

"No," I answered gruffly.

"Then, can I help you?"

I narrowed my eyes at him, "What's your name?"

He arched a brow, "I thought you said you didn't know me."

"I might," I muttered. "Just, what's your name?"

"Depends who's asking," he shrugged a shoulder, a faint smile on his face as he turned back to his book.

Tensing the muscles in my jaw, I stepped closer so that we were about a meter apart.

"I'm Phoenix," I said lowly.

He looked back at me then. Properly this time. I could see him raking his mind as he searched my face.

"I'm Jazz," he said finally.

I inhaled, my heart beating against my ribs hard enough to make me short of breath. My foot moved backwards, catching against the carpet.

"Hey," Jazz, closed the book in his hand. "Wait."

I shook my head, swallowing thickly. I turned my back on him, but only managed two steps before I felt his hand on my shoulder.

"Get the hell off me," I snapped, spinning round to shove his arm away.

"You knew my brother," Jazz said.

It wasn't a question. He remembered.

I dropped my gaze, staring at the ugly blue floor with the light blue rectangles overlaying the dark blue background. Why did they always choose the most boring décor for the most boring of places?

"Phoenix?"

"I knew him, yes," I answered, still glaring downwards.

Any other name, and I wouldn't have remembered. But Jazz was a name I had somehow retained in my mind. Mostly because it was a nickname, and being in a gang meant you got good at keeping a record of nicknames. But from my memory, Jazz himself wasn't affiliated in any gang. His chosen nickname was simply because he liked that genre of music. Why I knew that? Because his brother had been my cellmate.

Eddie Appiah. Serving four years for possession of Class B drugs with the intent to supply.

I never spoke to any of my brothers about what happened during my fourteen months in jail, not even Landon. But here I was looking at someone who knew about the worst thing that ever happened in there.

"I'm...going," I muttered, turning to leave.

"Wait," Jazz reached for my shoulder again before he let his hand fall to his side. I noticed the skin on the back of his hand was shiny and wrinkled. "What brings you here?"

I blinked at him, stunned into silence. He remembered who I was, and he wanted to carry on talking to me? If our roles were reversed, I'd probably be pummelling his face in. It didn't make sense.

"I moved here," I shrugged loosely.

"From London?"

"Yeah."

"Wow," he smiled faintly. "Small world, isn't it?"

I frowned, wondering what angle he was trying to take. Play the nice card, but for what reason?

"How come you're here?" I asked him.

"Moved here too," he looked around the library. "Been here for a few years now. I own a business in town."

I couldn't help the quirk of my brows, "You own a business? Then why are you reading about starting one?"

"Never hurts to know more," Jazz chuckled. "These books are ninety percent bullshit, but there's ten percent truth in them too."

I glanced to the book he was holding, noticing that the skin on that hand too had the same marred appearance. It must have been some type of scarring.

"Fire," he said.

"What?" I met his dark eyes.

"I burnt my hands in a fire," Jazz explained, raising both his hands and giving them a turn.

"Oh," I mumbled. "Shame."

He laughed, tipping his head back as if what I'd said had been so funny.

"You could have said it like you meant it," he grinned, lowering his voice after we were given a couple annoyed looks.

I had meant it, but I didn't bother to try and convince him.

"Anyways, you looking for business tips too?" he asked me when it became clear I wasn't going to say anything else.

I looked away, scratching my stubble, "You could say that."

"Are you starting up? Or you already have something going?" Jazz seemed awfully interested.

"I don't know," I snapped. "Just...looking...around."

"Okay," he raised a hand as if backing off. "Well, if you want to talk about business, or you want any help, here's my card. I might even have a vacancy in my business, if you're interested."

Help? I hated that word. I never needed help. I'd never ask for it, and I still wouldn't accept it when offered. And who said I was looking to work for him anyway? Since when did this become an interview?

Jazz fished out a small card from his wallet and held it to me. I glanced at the black card with gold and red accents, then back at him. We watched each other as the seconds ticked by, and finally I reached out to take the bloody card. I shoved it in my pocket without looking at it, and I caught another smile on Jazz's face, as if he knew something I didn't. I was about to demand what was so funny, but he was already drawing away.

"See you around," he nodded at me as he left.

I watched him go. He was as tall as me, maybe a little taller, his shoulders broad and body packed with as much muscle as I had. Only when he was going down the stairs to the ground floor, did I pull his card from my pocket and read what it said.

Kulture. Fashion Brand. Jazz Appiah.

Fashion? He thought I'd be interested in that? Iscoffed to myself, stuffing the card back in my pocket and heading to my table.In the corner of my mind, I could hear Landon's voice telling me that anopportunity was an opportunity. Jazz may not have known me personally, but he knewabout me through his brother and that seemed to be enough. For some reason, Idoubted my lack of a CV would be a hinderance. But still, I wasn't that desperate.