All the Rage

by Spencer Coleman

  ‘Is that a promise? ’ Kara said.

  He saw her vulnerability and recalled her telling him once of her parents’ difficult relationship. After they divorced, her distraught father died within two years of the enforced parting. Often, though, her mother would still talk to him to find guidance whenever she had a problem to solve. This, according to Kara, gave comfort and a sense of belonging, and she too spoke to her deceased father whenever she needed help. He was still alive, in her mind. This, her mother had explained, was being truly receptive to the impossible: talking to the dead. You had to believe.

  ‘A solemn promise,’ he said with a final hug, still troubled by his own dream. What did it signify? It was so vivid, almost suggesting a corridor between those living and those dead. He shivered, as she shivered too. Then, the word receptive invaded his head again…from where he did not know.

  A taxi came into view and Michael hailed it to take Kara home. He decided to walk his short journey home along the King’s Road; it would help to alleviate his overstretched stomach. The joys of middle age crossed his mind as he helped Kara into the cab.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said, and leaned forward from her seat and kissed him again. Then he closed the door. As the tail-lights disappeared from view, Michael crossed the road and made his way down the empty pavement. It was past midnight, but he was in no hurry to arrive at his vacant and lonely apartment.

  ***

  Marcus was in no mood for niceties. It galled him to witness this act of tenderness. Shocked and confused, it hurt him that he could not provide the kind of love that she so obviously desired. He felt isolated. He so wanted to help them, damn it, but this “thing” was now getting in the way. Big time. He headed for the bright lights of a nightclub, one which would keep him in cold comfort as he drowned his sorrows and got blind stinking drunk. He was good at that.

  ***

  In the shadows of an alleyway, a match flared in the gloom as Lauren lit up a cigarette. She stepped out onto the pavement. Her face was partially hidden by the upturned collar of her long black raincoat, and the trilby hat stylishly tilted to one side of her head. But, under the glare of an overhead lamp she was suddenly exposed: The white skin, red lipstick. She was now also recognisable. But Michael and that damned girl were long gone. She searched the street with her intense gaze. It was deserted. The agitated young man was long gone as well. The restaurant lights dimmed. Outwardly, she appeared to be unperturbed and in control. However, under the cool calm surface, a burning rage simmered behind those unfeeling dead eyes. She had witnessed everything just moments earlier, and felt utterly diminished by their mutual show of public affection, which repelled her. As she moved into the road, Lauren inhaled deeply and recalled the image of the two of them kissing. It was the ultimate betrayal. Two could play this game, she decided.

  Across the road, she saw a vagrant come into view, moving in her direction. She guessed this was his place to settle down for the night.

  He cursed aloud, seeing her there. Lauren held ground, finishing the cigarette. A stray cat darted between them and disappeared just as quickly, sensing the fear in the air.

  Lauren stubbed the cigarette on the tarmac and finally moved away. She caught sight of the tramp returning to his territory. Just then, she realised that her white silk scarf, which had been loosely draped around her neck, had slipped to the ground in the alleyway. No matter. He could have it and use it as barter for a swig of cheap whisky. Now it was his possession. Just like Michael was her ultimate possession.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘What the hell do we actually know about Patrick Porter? ’

  Ronald had remained impassive up to this point, allowing his boss to let off just enough steam. Then he responded, ‘Are you actually asking me? ’

  Michael sat at the outer desk in the main gallery, searching through the backdated brochures which he had accumulated on the deceased artist.

  This time he swore. Looking up over the rim of his glasses, he remarked, ‘Just thinking aloud, Ronald. ’

  ‘Odd,’ his assistant observed. ‘Some artists have an aura attached to them. This is often built on a somewhat flimsy reputation. It’s called hype. In the case of Patrick Porter, it was the manner of his death that was intriguing and puzzling. Like John Stonehouse…one day he’s here, the next he’s gone. Or is he? Apparently, just like in the case of the disgraced politician, his discarded clothes were also left on a beach, near Flamborough Head. Suicide or another bloody fiasco? A cryptic suicide note suggested that a troubled life left the artist with no alternative but a rather horrible death by drowning at sea. The body was never recovered, presumed dead. ’

  ‘When was that? ’ Michael asked.

  ‘1996, he was only thirty. ’

  ‘Hmm, and he had such an impressive career for someone so young,’ Michael said, turning a page. ‘It mentions here that he was born in 1966, near Bunratty Castle, County Clare. ’ This prompted him to mutter, ‘the year Lauren was born. ’ Ronald didn’t appear to have heard. Michael’ smoving finger underlined the continuing text. ‘He was the only son of a dock worker. No formal education. No formal art training. Completely self- taught. Over the years, Ronald, how many of his originals have we handled, do you think? ’

  ‘Three, possibly four,’ Ronald guessed, with a shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘From what source? ’

  Ronald pondered. ‘Usually private sales, the odd auction, but I can look them up. ’

  Michael had deliberately withheld the impending sale of Lauren’s collection from his colleague. Ronald adored gossip, and could never be entrusted to keep information from Adele. Kara was already working on a secret list of potential clients who would be interested in acquiring a painting from this prized collection. It was imperative that those contacted thoroughly understood the need for no publicity. It was to be a secret sale. In fact, Kara’s job was made easier as many clients insisted on this. It was called money-laundering.

  In three weeks’ time, Ronald would be in New Zealand on vacation for nearly a month. This was the time to conduct the sale. Already, Michael had earmarked the basement gallery for the display, away from prying eyes. The next trick would be to keep Adele at a safe distance, away from the fun and games. Fortunately, this exhibition space was concealed behind locked doors. A faultless plan was taking shape.

  In the meantime, Michael himself was informing clients directly, organising a closet viewing. Exclusivity was always the key to success. In a separate negotiation, he and Lauren had already agreed on a sixty/forty split, hers being the greater amount. Of course, he would have to charge VAT on top, which would come out of the overall total, minus cash sales of course. If the sale was entirely successful, Michael confidently predicted a gross turnover figure of around £1. 6 million, netting him £640,000, give or take a fiver. He jotted these figures down and smiled. It made impressive reading. On a good day, with eager buyers on tow, it could be even better.

  Keep all this from the grasping reach of his estranged wife, and he could settle his tax bill and other outstanding amounts and allow himself a considerable cushion when the divorce settlement kicked in. Twelve paintings. Twelve golden geese. Already, over seventeen clients had responded. There was a fantastic chance that these figures could increase in value with greedy demand. The stakes were high, incredibly high.

  ‘Ronald,’ Michael said, after savouring the thought of this considerable pot of gold, ‘find me as much information you can on the artist, will you? In particular, have you noticed that in all of these brochures there isn’t one recorded photograph of the artist himself? Somewhat baffling, don’t you think? Try and dig me one out. ’

  Ronald stifled a yawn. ‘I’ll be on to it straight away. ’

  ***

  Later, Michael caught sight of Kara. She appeared a little preoccupied and tetchy. He dismissed this as probably a symptom o
f PMT. That morning, and much to his relief, there was no package awaiting him, and therefore the air was more relaxed. Things were at long last going at a smooth pace, without hindrance.

  The dream still bothered him though. It kept flashing into his head. He related it to how death might be: the afterlife? A portal to those still living, a means of communication? He banished such a far-fetched notion from his mind, but it wouldn’t go away entirely.

  Neither would his thoughts of Lauren. She had not replied to his phone calls or emails. He was anxious to bring her up to speed on the forthcoming sale and fix a time for Kara’s proposed visit to the farm. Then there was the small matter of removing the paintings by Securicor, and keeping them under lock and key until the sale. She would be delighted with the progress, he was sure. Things were moving lightning fast.

  In his office, he went over the DVD time and time again, and re-read the newspaper report. He had a friend, Terence Miles, who worked for News International at Wapping. Michael phoned and asked him to search out the case of the 1978 fatality in Dublin. Perhaps then he would be clearer as to the connection of all these untied fragments that needed piecing together. At the back of his mind, a picture began to form. But the images were still too murky to decipher.

  And what about Maggie? They had agreed to keep in touch, whenever he felt the need. Because he was involved in such a volatile relationship with Lauren, Maggie had given him an emergency number in which to reach her. In this way, she could offer some kind of support, even from afar. It was a case of when and not if, she had stressed. In the meantime, Maggie had returned to her family in Limerick and waited for the next crisis to loom.

  The door to his office suddenly burst open. Kara stood there, ashen-faced and clearly agitated.

  ‘Christ! ’ he said, ‘What’s the matter? ’

  Kara bit her lip. ‘It’s Marcus. He didn’t come home last night. He’s been staying over for a few days and I’m worried. I left a message on his mobile. Apparently, the police had retrieved the phone from a gutter and called me as the last number dialled. ’

  ‘The police…what’s happened, Kara? ’

  ‘He was found about an hour ago down behind the embankment near Blackfriars. Apparently, he was unconscious and bleeding. He’d fallen. He’s been admitted to hospital to have his stomach pumped. From what I gather, Marcus had been on an all-night drinking binge, finishing up with the meth drinkers under the bridge. ’

  ‘Do you know which hospital he’s been taken to? ’

  ‘The one just down from Whitechapel. ’

  ‘The Royal London. ’ Michael rushed to her side and hugged her. ‘Go to him,’ he said.

  Kara burst into a flood of tears.

  ‘I’ll take you,’ he said. Without stopping to turn off the DVD, they rushed from the gallery in a wild panic. Ronald remained in the middle of the gallery, gape-mouthed, seemingly puzzled by their antics. Michael had caught sight of him. He had no time to give an explanation.

  ***

  At the hospital Michael and Kara were informed at reception that Marcus was out of immediate danger. Her relief was overwhelming, so much so that her entire body reacted in an uncontrollable shake. She let Michaelsit her down, wrapped in a heavy blanket provided by a nurse. In the meantime, a doctor explained the patient was being detained overnight as a precaution and would be released the next day. It was a close call.

  Kara gathered his shirt and jeans, which were caked in dry vomit and blood, and arranged to return the next morning with fresh clothes, for when he came home. She was determined to look after him. He could stay at her place for as long as he liked. As soon as he felt better, Kara concluded, they had some serious talking to do. Whatever problems he had, she vowed to help him recover from them. In the meantime, she sat by his bed and stroked his hand. He was oblivious to her concern, with eyes firmly shut and a breathing tube shoved down his throat.

  ***

  Michael did all he could and eventually left them to it. He headed back to the gallery, greatly relieved that Marcus would be fine. Kara would look after him, he was sure. On his return, he was annoyed that he had failed to switch off the television. Had Ronald been witness to the DVD? He sighed heavily, and placed it back into the safe. A very strong black coffee followed. He then told Ronald what had happened. The rest of the day was a blur.

  At home that evening, Michael settled into a malaise of either rubbish channel hopping on the TV, or an even poorer attempt at the crossword solutions in the newspaper. Such glamour, such panache. Add to this an even worse mix of takeaway Chinese and overindulgent drinking in whisky and wine and anyone would get the picture: sad lonely living. For once, though, it was sheer bliss. There was something to be said for living selfishly on your own, he thought.

  Sprawled on the sofa, half cut, he rekindled the happy memories of his night out with Kara…his daughter! God, it made him smile and cringe all in the same movement: had he really said that to her? With so much falling down all around them, he meant every single word, even though he still needed to nullify his suspicion of her involvement with Antonia. He didn’t want to believe it. When this was all over, he would make sure that she and Marcus would find a safe and loving world in which to live. It was a promise from him to them.

  When this was all over…The words stuck hard in his throat. The 10 o’clock news on the TV announced the usual flurry of obnoxious headlines featuring gang youth warfare, child pornography, abuse in an old people’s home and corruption in the city. It finished with a postscript of news just breaking: a spate of racial fighting between rival mobs in Leeds city centre. Bad news was the order of the day.

  When this was all over. What else had he spurted out, ‘…a safe and loving world in which to live? ’ Crap. It would never be all over. Blackness descended. The whisky glass fell from his grasp and tumbled to the floor. The gold liquid spread quickly and stained the carpet. With his eyelids folding over, Michael thought only of anger and spite and frustration: a rage of sorts.

  ***

  At breakfast next morning, he had no appetite for food. Instead, he drank milk. On the doorstep was a pile of letters. He recognised them all: official correspondence from solicitors, accountants, the tax office, circulars. He scooped them all up and rammed them with the others into the bin in the hallway. By now, it was overflowing.

  He returned to the kitchen and rang Lauren. No answer. He rang Kara: the answerphone kicked in. He rang Adele. Answerphone again.

  ‘Bitch! ’ he cursed. It was going to be that kind of day. Again.

  He took the car into town and instantly regretted it. Gridlock. He pondered the choice of either turning around or ploughing on, but everywhere was congested. It was a bad, bad day. Ahead, he could see flashing blue lights. Heavy rain hit the windscreen. From the rear, a car horn beeped impatiently. A motorcyclist weaved past at speed, dislodging his wing mirror. Jesus. The fury burning within him was bubbling to the surface like molten lava, ready to explode.

  His car phone bleeped.

  He engaged loudspeaker and said, ‘Hello, Michael Strange. ’ He kept his eye on the slow moving traffic. He edged forward, bumper to bumper.

  ‘Michael, this is John. ’

  His stomach knotted. ‘We have nothing to say to each other, so fuck off. ’ He imagined John standing next to Adele, comforting her.

  ‘Michael, hear me out. We need to talk. ’

  ‘We need something, and it probably involves the use of my fist.’

  ‘I know you’re angry, but there is no need for the abuse thrown at Adele. Your comment on the answerphone upset her. ’

  ‘Christ, John, you’ve got a bloody cheek. I’ll upset Adele just as much as I want to. What has to be resolved is between us, do you understand? ’

  ‘She is vulnerable, Michael. ’

  ‘Tough. ’

  ‘I’m warnin
g you, Michael. I thought you would show a degree of compassion…’

  ‘Compassion? You can shove any notion of compassion straight up your arse, John. I suggest that you and Adele slink off to your little hole and bury yourselves deep enough for the rest of us to avoid the stench. Is that abusive enough for you? Now fuck off. ’

  He pressed the button to disconnect them. In the same moment, he pressed down hard on the car horn. He was getting even hotter under the collar. Fuck them all.

  He arrived at Cork Street fifty minutes late. Ronald had the day off; Kara was excused for obvious reasons. He hated being late. It always put him in a bad mood. He resigned himself to another bollocking day in the gallery. In spite of two aspirin, he couldn’t shift the monumental headache blasting across his brain.

  At lunchtime, Kara rang in. It was good news. Marcus had been discharged and they were home at last, where he was confined to bed. She was exhausted and still tearful, but enormously grateful for his safety. Kara also explained they had deliberately avoided the reasons for his lapse into a drunken stupor. Things were still too delicate and that could wait for another day. Michael almost laughed. A drunken stupor was often a great state to be in.

  He consoled himself with a ham and salad sandwich. It was dull. The day unfolded in just the same manner. Nearer closing time, a bohemian type came in and tried to introduce her work to the gallery. The metal installation was ghastly. It was the wrong day to call, but she wasn’t to know that. Michael gave her short shrift. She departed rapidly, muttering some kind of obscenities under her breath. Try the local tip, he had suggested helpfully. He hated himself, but what the hell.

  Another visitor, someone he instantly recognised, shoved past the irate artist as their paths crossed on the doorstep.

  ‘Blimey,’ Terence Miles said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Do you treat all the girls the same way, Michael? ’