by Helen Grant
‘I guess it worked, then,’ commented Veerle. ‘But I still don’t see where the devil comes in. Anyway, whoever paid for it, it was still supposed to go in the cathedral.’
‘I told you it was a long story,’ said Bram. The light was fading fast now and Veerle could not see his face very clearly, but she could hear the grin in his voice.
‘OK, go on,’ she said.
‘Hubert’s painting has some kind of power in it, if you believe the story. And not a good power. Did you know that every single figure that appears in the painting had a real-life model? Not just Joos Vijdt and his wife. There are a hundred and seventy people in that painting, and every single one was a portrait of a real person, back in fourteen hundred and whatever.’
‘So this strange power – it was like voodoo or something?’ said Veerle. ‘Anyone he painted, something bad happened to them?’
‘The exact opposite,’ Bram told her. ‘Anyone he painted . . . didn’t die.’
‘So he painted them and nothing happened to them? I don’t see—’
‘No, I mean they didn’t die. Ever.’
Veerle stared at him.
‘Well, they didn’t get old and die,’ Bram qualified. ‘They could still die by violence. And they could still die if something happened to the painting. I guess that’s why Joos Vijdt commissioned it as a gift to the cathedral. It would be safe in there, or so he thought. A hundred years later rioters got into Sint-Baafs and tried to destroy it, only he had no way of foreseeing that would happen. Anyway the church staff hid it, so maybe old Joos was right to trust it to them.’
‘This is a completely weird story,’ said Veerle.
‘That’s not all of it. Halfway through completing the painting, Hubert died and his brother Jan had to step in and finish it. That’s what it says in the guide books, anyway, and on Wikipedia: that Jan took it over when Hubert died. Keeping it in the family or something. But actually Jan was going to take over long before his brother’s death. A year before he died, Hubert had a visit from the town magistrates. Maybe there were already too many rumours going around about that painting, and about what Hubert was trying to do with it, and they were trying to put a stop to it. Supposedly they went to see him to commission a painting of Saint Anthony, but Hubert never painted it.’
‘So that was just an excuse?’
‘An excuse . . . or a warning. Saint Anthony – he’s nearly always painted being tempted by the devil.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Veerle.
Bram shrugged. ‘Grandparents, Ghent born and bred. My grandfather didn’t have much time for any of this stuff, but my grandmother was into it in a big way. She was really superstitious.’
‘It’s incredible. So what happened when Hubert died?’
‘They buried him in the cathedral.’
‘Even though he’d been doing black magic?’
‘Well, that’s the point. They buried most of him in front of the altar, but they cut off his arm and put it in an iron casket over the main door. It was his right arm, the one he painted with.’
Veerle shivered, suddenly conscious of the cooling night air. ‘That’s nasty.’
Bram moved a little closer, leaning towards her in the dark. ‘You know, The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb is the only surviving painting by Hubert. There are loads by Jan, even though Hubert was the older one and the court painter. My grandmother reckoned they destroyed them all when they found out what Hubert was doing.’
‘They must have realized there wasn’t really any magic, though,’ said Veerle, ‘when Joos Vijdt and the other people in the picture started dying.’
‘That’s just it. According to the legend, they didn’t.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘I’m not saying I believe it. That’s the story. Joos Vijdt and his wife Lysbette and all the rest of them just carried on living, not getting sick, not getting any older.’
‘That’s insane. If that were true, there’d be a hundred and seventy people walking around Ghent right at this moment, looking just the same as everyone else, except they’d be over five hundred years old.’
‘Assuming none of them got killed in a war or died in an accident. In five centuries some of them would be bound to have been killed.’
‘You’re talking like it’s true,’ said Veerle.
‘I’m just saying.’
‘And I still don’t see where the demons on the rooftops come in. Are they trying to kill off these people, or what?’
‘No, they’re preventing them from dying.’
‘Preventing them? Why?’
‘It’s their punishment. They didn’t want to die, so now they can’t. They have to keep roaming the streets of Ghent. As long as even one of them is left alive, the souls of the other ones can’t rest. So the demons are there to make sure they never do get to rest.’
‘Not guardian angels . . . guardian demons.’
‘Fallen angels.’
Veerle hugged her knees, resting her chin on them. For a few moments she was silent, then she said, ‘Suki must have got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘Well, yeah, obviously,’ said Bram.
‘No, I don’t just mean because she believes in them – the demons.’ Veerle glanced at Bram. ‘Look, there was a guy at my school, Daan De Moor – I didn’t know him but he was in my year. He fell off a building somewhere near the Belfort tower – or maybe he jumped.’
She saw Bram wince. She went on, ‘The school seem to think he jumped. They’ve been giving us lectures about talking to someone if . . . you know.’ Veerle sighed. ‘Suki was winding everyone else up by saying that it was the demons who did it, that they pushed him. But that wouldn’t make sense at all – if they were supposed to be preventing people from dying.’
It came back to her then – the mention of salt, where and when it had been. Suki had mentioned it, saying perhaps Daan had gone to the rooftops prepared, armed with salt to keep the demons off. That didn’t make sense either, though, not if the demons were there to prevent people coming to harm.
‘Only some people,’ Bram was saying. ‘The people in the painting. It’s just an old story, anyway.’
‘I know,’ said Veerle, ‘but doesn’t it creep you out just a little bit? I mean, when you’re up here on your own?’
There was a pause as Bram thought about that. Veerle had expected him to come straight back with, No, not at all, but after a brief silence he said, ‘Not really. I’ve never seen anything.’ He put the merest emphasis on the word I’ve. Veerle thought he would say something more, but he didn’t.
The light had almost gone. Bram was simply a silhouette against the darkening sky.
Veerle pulled her jacket closer around her body. She felt chilled. The surface she was sitting on was suddenly numbingly cold. Even the great bulk of the Gravensteen castle no longer looked grand and romantic now that it had lost its halo of flaming sunset. It looked like what it was: a twelfth-century fortress with a torture chamber at its heart.
No need to make up stories about demons, she thought. There were enough human ones; she, more than anyone, had cause to know that. Unconsciously she rubbed the scar on her forearm.
‘I should get home,’ she said. She slid off the block they were sitting on. As Bram jumped down beside her she said, ‘That was an amazing story. It’s like the plot of a film or something. I didn’t expect to end up discussing guardian demons.’
‘Me neither,’ said Bram.
There was something in the way he said it, some very slight emphasis, so slight as to be almost unnoticeable, that warned Veerle what was coming, but it was too late to step away. Bram slid his arms around her and then he was looking at her, his face very close to hers, and that was the moment when she should have pushed him away, but didn’t. The feeling of his arms around her, the warmth of his embrace, were so unexpectedly comforting. He smelled faintly of citrus and pepper, clean and masculine.
It was simply too easy to let him go on holding h
er. She hadn’t actually seen Kris in person for weeks before yesterday’s débâcle. Geert never really hugged her, except in an awkward, arm’s-length sort of way; they had been apart too long. Anneke certainly never did. Veerle hadn’t realized how much she had missed the simple human warmth of being held. She felt safe, and that was strange because safety wasn’t something she normally craved, not after years of being told to be careful all the time. She’d learned to wear her independence like a suit of armour, never revealing all of herself to anyone. Concealing her activities from her mother. Keeping her relationship with Kris and everything that went with it from Lisa and her other school friends. And Kris – she’d agonized for ages before telling him about her problems with her mother, wanting to keep the part of her life that was with him separate from all of that.
But Bram – she’d told him everything, hadn’t held any of it back, even the things that could have incriminated her if he were the sort to tell tales. And here he was, with his arms around her, holding her tight, and for once it was such a relief to lean on someone else that she just closed her eyes and let him hold her.
It was now so dark that she wondered dimly how they would manage to climb down the front of the house again, but mainly she was glad of the darkness because they could not clearly see each other’s faces when he began to kiss her. She felt his lips touch the side of her face, close to the jaw line, and then his hand pushed her hair back and he was kissing her in earnest, first on the soft skin close to her ear and then on the mouth.
Somewhere at the very back of her mind an alarm bell was ringing, but it was distant and useless, like the beeping of a fire alarm drowned out by the roar of a conflagration and the bursting of windows. Bram’s arms around her were comforting, that was true, but he was undeniably attractive as well; he even smelled good, and he was incredibly good at kissing. Embarrassingly good at it, in fact. Veerle was tingling all over, as though her entire body were blushing at the effect he was having on her.
It was not until she found herself pressed back against the wall and there was a more insistent tone to Bram’s kissing that she came to her senses. When they came up for air she placed the flat of her hand on his chest and held him away from her.
‘Bram . . .’ she began.
When he tried to kiss her again she almost weakened, but then she made herself push away from him, gently disentangling herself from his embrace.
‘Veerle . . .’
‘Bram, it’s too fast.’ There was a riposte to that – they both knew it: Kris has dumped you for someone else. Forget him.
Reaction was setting in; guilt was seeping in at the edges of Veerle’s consciousness.
If he says it I’ll never forgive him, she thought.
He didn’t, though. What was passing through his mind at that moment, it was hard to say. It was so dark now that she couldn’t see his expression and she supposed, thankfully, that he couldn’t see hers, couldn’t see what an effect he had had on her.
‘OK,’ he said at last. Veerle felt him touch her face in the dark, his fingers warm against her skin as he brushed the hair back from her brow.
There was a long silence between them, silence that could have been filled by one or the other of them saying Sorry, or Bram saying When . . .? or Veerle saying I don’t know when. Instead, neither of them spoke, preferring not to conjure up the spectre of the word Never.
At last Veerle said, ‘I have to get back.’
They crossed the rooftops, moving carefully in the dark. Once or twice, when she was waiting for Bram to go ahead, Veerle paused to look around, scanning the rooftops for any sign of life, feeling foolish even as she did so. Everything was silent and still.
Veerle had been wondering whether it would even be possible to climb back down the house Bram called de ladder now that it was so dark. Bram didn’t seem concerned, however, and in fact when she peered down from the safety of the corbie steps at the top she realized that the climb was well lit, thanks to the lamp on the wall.
Footsteps sounded on the cobbled street below, and voices floated up: a couple of women, chatting animatedly. Veerle ducked back, out of view. She was very aware of Bram at her side, although he was little more than a dim silhouette in the gloom. She was beginning to feel very anxious to get down to street level and make her way back to Bijlokevest. It was not that she wanted to get away from Bram, exactly. She just had to be alone for a while, to think.
The last time I did any exploring like this it was with Kris, she thought, remembering the time she had clambered through the bathroom window of a big Art Deco villa after a hair-rising climb up the stuccoed walls. The bathroom had been decorated with a dizzying pattern of black and white tiles and she had sat on the floor, feeling slightly light-headed and full of relief, before getting up and going downstairs to let Kris in. They had eaten pizza from the freezer at an enormous dinner table designed for many more than two.
The thought of Kris was like an actual physical ache under her breastbone. Veerle looked down at the cobbles below, gilded now by the soft yellow glow of the streetlamps, and she felt Bram touch the side of her neck, very lightly. She knew that if she responded, if she turned towards him, he would kiss her again.
You can think about this for ever and there won’t be any answer, she thought.
The women had turned the corner at the end of the street and disappeared. Bram glanced swiftly left and right, ascertained that the coast was clear and swung himself over the corbie steps onto the façade of the house. He climbed down swiftly and efficiently, looking up several times to make sure that Veerle was following.
When they were both standing on the cobbles Bram said, ‘I’ll walk you home.’
‘No,’ said Veerle instantly, and then, realizing she had spoken abruptly, ‘My dad will just ask millions of questions.’
Bram shrugged. ‘Nearly home, then.’
There was no arguing with that. They set off side by side down the lamplit street, and when Bram took her hand Veerle didn’t try to pull it away. By the time they came out of the maze of backstreets into the square in front of the Gravensteen the floodlights had come on, turning the ancient stones gold.
Even at this time of year, when the summer holidays had long gone, there were still tourists in the city, strolling about or sitting outside the bars and cafés. As Veerle and Bram passed across the square she heard snatches of different languages – German and what might have been Spanish. Nobody took any particular notice of her and Bram. They were just another couple enjoying a clear dry evening in the old part of the city.
It made Veerle feel strange, as though there were some disconnection between her inner self and the girl who was strolling along Rekelingestraat hand in hand with the blond-haired boy, as nonchalantly as though she had always lived here, as though it were her city. The outer Veerle did live here now, of course; she had a life in Ghent – a school, a place to live; even, apparently, a boyfriend. So why did she feel as though her real self were somehow inhabiting an avatar?
Bram was true to his word: he walked her nearly all the way home, but left her at the corner of Bijlokevest, where there was no danger of Geert or Anneke seeing him unless they were actually hanging off the front balcony wielding a telescope.
‘I’ll phone,’ said Bram when they parted.
Veerle thought perhaps he would try to kiss her again, but when he leaned towards her, all he did was brush his lips lightly against her cheek. Then he was gone, and she was alone. Veerle looked after him for a moment, and then she turned and walked back to the flat.
18
On Monday morning the sky was grey and there was a coolness in the air that suggested rain to come. As Veerle walked to school, Geert pacing along beside her, she came to a decision. When they got to the street where the school stood she said, ‘You don’t need to stay.’
Geert stood still in the middle of the pavement, his battered briefcase clasped in his large hands, and looked at her carefully.
‘Really,’ sa
id Veerle.
‘All right,’ said Geert. He continued to study her for a moment, his lips pursed, and then he said, ‘See you later,’ and turned to go.
‘Bye,’ said Veerle to his retreating back. Then she went into the school.
At the first break she went down to the front door and looked out. The street was empty. Geert had taken her at her word, and really gone. If she wanted to leave school herself, skip the rest of the day, there was nothing stopping her.
She didn’t, though.
When she got back to the flat on Bijlokevest that after-noon, Anneke was waiting for her. Anneke was mostly there when she got home, but quite often she would be taking a nap on the bed she shared with Geert, pillows supporting her on all sides like ship wedges, or else sitting on the couch in the little living room, with her feet up on a padded stool. Today, however, she was on her feet, and when she heard Veerle’s key in the lock she came out of the kitchen into the hallway, moving ponderously with a hand under her belly. It always made Veerle nervous when she walked around like that: it looked as though Anneke was about to give birth at any moment. Being alone with her was about as relaxing as spending the night of a full moon alone with a suspected lycanthrope.
Worse, Anneke did not look happy. There was a peevish expression on her face; her eyebrows had drawn together so that there were little vertical creases between them, and the gaze of her grey eyes was distinctly hostile. With her free hand, the one not supporting her belly, she was holding onto the doorframe, as if to say, Look, you made me get to my feet and I can barely stand.
Which, thought Veerle, was probably true, but she had no idea what she had done.
‘Someone called here for you,’ said Anneke.
‘Oh?’ said Veerle. She could not think of anything else to say until she knew the reason for Anneke’s indignant expression. Bram, she thought.
But it was not Bram.
‘He said his name was Verstraeten.’
Kris.
Veerle felt a cold lurch in her stomach, as though she had trodden on rotten ice and gone right through; as though she were falling. The shock was followed by a swift and entirely irrational stab of guilt: He knows I was with Bram.