The Horse's Arse

by Laura Gascoigne

  “Except to me.”

  “Or someone who wanted the information on it,” put in Yasmin.

  The senior officer smirked at the junior one. Detectives saw master criminals everywhere.

  “What information was on it?” he asked Daniel with an air of condescension.

  “My thesis.”

  The junior officer was picking photographs off the floor and looking at them. The senior officer cast a disinterested eye over his shoulder.

  “And what was that on?”

  “Sheddism.”

  He hoped they wouldn’t want an explanation, but they waited.

  “Sheds in the history of art.”

  “Blimey! They’ll be doing thesises on garden fencing next. You won’t need to go to uni to do it, you can just B&Q it.”

  He addressed the last remark with a smirk to his junior colleague, who was tidying the photos onto the desk.

  Daniel tried a smile. Yasmin’s face told him not to bother.

  “Contents insurance?”

  “Err, no,” said Daniel.

  “Bad luck, mate. Still, you never know, it might show up. If something’s not worth selling it often gets dumped in the nearest bin. Might be worth asking your neighbours before the bin men come.”

  Daniel nodded.

  “If we find out anything more we’ll let you know. If it’s the usual gang of hoodlums they’re all underage. Nothing we can do about them, and they know it.”

  “Thanks anyway,” said Daniel.

  Yasmin saw them out, then went on with the tidying of the photos while Daniel watched her helplessly from the sofa.

  “If you’re hungry,” she said when she’d finished, “I’ll cook you supper.”

  “What with?” he heard himself asking.

  It sounded rude, but it was genuine surprise. Last time he looked in the fridge there was a can of beer and a radish.

  A small frown of impatience knitted Yasmin’s eyebrows.

  “There are shops! I passed one on the corner. We can talk about this,” she waved at the window, “over dinner.”

  Before he could answer she had let herself out.

  Daniel hardly had time to transfer his dirty laundry from the bookcase in the living room to the laundry bin in the bedroom and to shake out the duvet before she was back, weighed down by two bulging carrier bags.

  “How did you get in?”

  “I left the door open. No point in shutting it after the horse has bolted.”

  “What have you got in there?” he gawped at the bags. “You’ve bought the whole shop!”

  “In your present state, you qualify for home help,” she pushed past him with the bags, “and for a single mum this counts as a fun night out.”

  He followed her meekly into the kitchen, where she heaved the bags onto the counter and itemised the contents as she unpacked.

  “Milk. Butter. Eggs. Bacon. Bread. Apples. Mushrooms. Potatoes. Lettuce. Tomatoes. Toilet rolls,” she looked up at him, “I think of everything. And a bottle of Spar’s best Pinot Grigio. Tonight’s menu, in case you’re wondering, is mushroom omelette with boiled potatoes and salad, followed by…” she reached into the bottom of the last bag and pulled out a carton “…Häagen-Dazs pralines and cream ice cream. I hope you don’t have a nut allergy. They had cookies and cream but this is nicer.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  Daniel watched speechless with admiration as she prized open the frosted-up freezer compartment and rammed in the ice cream carton, then pulled open the fridge, picked a wrinkled radish off the top shelf, squinted at it, held it up for his inspection and without waiting for a verdict, flipped the swing bin lid and tossed it in. She replaced it on the empty shelf with the Pinot Grigio.

  “There,” she said in a tone of semi-finality, and began opening and shutting kitchen cupboards. “Where do you keep your pans?”

  Daniel sat down, propped his crutches on the counter and pointed mutely at the bin.

  She pulled off the lid and fished out a pot and a frying pan, followed by a spatula, a wooden spoon and a stack of dishes. She transferred them to the sink, squeezed on Fairy Liquid and turned on the tap.

  “If you’d kept your computer in the bin, it wouldn’t have been stolen.”

  Dinner tasted like a feast to Daniel; the queasiness he had felt all evening vanished. While they ate she asked him about the accident and the burglary. She seemed to think it was more than a run of bad luck.

  “What was on the computer?”

  “Three years of work on the thesis, including pictures, all backed up, thank God. Research on articles for Marquette. And all my personal data, contacts, photographs.”

  Yasmin looked worried.

  “I suppose you know about Orlovsky’s links to the Russian mafia? Five years ago the Serious Fraud Office tried to pin a charge of money laundering on him but the case never came to court: the key witnesses all lost their memories except for one, who lost his life when his business burned down. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. I never thought you’d get yourself in this deep.”

  “Aren’t you being a little bit alarmist?” protested Daniel, secretly enjoying her concern. “I’m an intern on a two-bit art magazine with a readership, in a good month, of under 5,000. I’m not a threat to the Russian mafia. I’m a nobody.”

  “You’d be better protected if you were somebody. Do you know the average length of the police response time on an ‘I’-grade ‘immediate response’ 999 call? Twelve minutes. Longer than it would take you to get out of the house and halfway down the street, even in your present condition. Assuming you were given the chance to get out.

  “I think I’ll stay the night, if it’s OK with you.”

  This was not how it was meant to happen.

  “I can sleep on the couch,” offered Daniel.

  “With that leg,” she laughed, “you wouldn’t fit on it. You’ll be better off sleeping in the bed with me. If there’s any breaking and entering it’ll be through the front and we’ll have time to get out through the bedroom window. If we shut it after us, they’ll think the place is empty. Just remember to take your crutches with you. What does your bedroom back onto?”

  “The East Coast Main Line.”

  “Perfect. If they stake out the place we’ve got an escape route.”

  Daniel didn’t argue, he was lost for words. This was not how it was meant to happen, but it was fine by him.

  Better than fine, it was utter magic.

  Amazing what can be done with a leg in plaster. Afterwards they drifted off to sleep like babies, until a sudden loud crash by the bedroom door had them both sitting bolt upright in bed.

  Yasmin was out of bed and across the room before Daniel could disentangle his leg from the duvet.

  She was back in bed almost as quickly. The rumble of a passing freight train had dislodged Daniel’s crutches from the radiator where he had propped them for the night.

  When he woke the following morning, she was gone. In the kitchen he found a note on the dirty dishes:

  “DO NOT THROW AWAY. Can be reused after washing.”

  Chapter XXXVI

  ‘MYSTERY DEEPENS OVER ‘WISE BEQUEST’ TO STATE – BERNARD ORLOVSKY REVEALED AS DONOR’.

  The Telegraph had picked up the Marquette story, as had all the other papers arranged on Nigel Vouvray-Jones’s desk in readiness for his arrival that Tuesday morning. ‘MONKEY BUSINESS OVER WISE LEGACY,’ insinuated The Guardian over a picture of a stuffed monkey with its fingers in its ears, a work by contemporary taxidermist Poppy Vaughan titled ‘Hear No Evil’. ‘WISE BUYS BY BERNARD ORLOVSKY?’ questioned The Independent under a photo of the dealer getting into his car.

  The other papers just recycled Daniel Colvin’s article, but The Times correspondent, under the headline ‘FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE’, had done some research of her own and drawn attention to an exhibition of Russian contemporary art being planned for the State Gallery’s new extension the following autumn. Reports had been confi
rmed by sources in Moscow but not by the State. “It’s some way off,” the State spokesperson had said, “and the programme has yet to be finalised.”

  The media furore was a small source of satisfaction in what, for Vouvray-Jones, had been a wretched week. Anything that made Jeremy Gaunt feel bad right now made Vouvray-Jones feel better. He blamed the State director for what he saw as the hopeless mismanagement of the Boegemann exhibition the previous summer. If there was an opposite to a buzz, he’d succeeded in creating it.

  True, the timing of Wise’s death had been disastrous and the fact that it had dominated the arts pages that week could not be blamed on the State. But the Boegemann show had been badly curated, badly presented and hopelessly publicised. It had left the critics cold and the arts correspondents – who could usually rely on Boegemann for a salacious story – in the lurch.

  God alone knew what had got into the Dutchman, but he had conducted himself impeccably throughout. The combined result was that last week’s RDV auction had been a washout. Two smaller pictures – uncharacteristic flower paintings with red touches – sold for above estimate. Only a handful of other lots reached their reserves, leaving the auction house holding an aborted baby, a bunch of hand-grenades and yards and yards of concrete barriers and razor wire.

  Was it any wonder, in the present climate, that collectors craved colour and preferred Matisse’s comfortable armchair to an electric one, unless it was nicely tinted by Andy Warhol? Thank heaven for Derain, the colour of money. Everything was riding on that now. Duval had really taken it to the wire, hanging onto the picture for so long. The auction house had been left with just two weeks to fly the painting between interested collectors in Switzerland, Japan and Qatar.

  Still, with luck the wait would have sharpened their appetites as it had sharpened his. He anticipated the painting’s arrival with relish. Crispin Finch had been sniffing around, pestering him for a look. He was hoping to splash the story in November’s Marquette, and now that Marquette was hot the mainstream press might follow. The history of the picture’s reappearance made such great copy that even Cassandra Pemberton hadn’t fucked it up.

  In the photographs Duval had had taken for the catalogue the picture appeared in pristine condition. It didn’t look as if it had sustained much damage, but James was a stickler for conservation and had insisted on overseeing the work himself. He was still fussing over the Modigliani nude Nigel had hoped to include in the same auction.

  A disappointment, but one mustn’t be greedy. That treat would have to wait for next February’s sale, for which he had three other plums lined up: a Vlaminck Hillside with Houses, a Marquet Pont Neuf in the Snow and a Jawlensky Still Life with Fruit and Flowers. Cassandra Pea-brain Pemberton was working on the catalogue entries now. She could write what she liked; the works spoke for themselves. He’d seen a scan of the Jawlensky on Friday – it was a cracker.

  No doubt about it, James had rescued him from the brink of disaster. He owed him lunch.

  Chapter XXXVII

  “It’s great you’re in the police force, Mum. All my mates except for Kieran are going to boring shops and offices and I’m going out catching thieves.”

  It was Take Your Child to Work Day and Yasmin and Sami were in the car on their way to Bounds Green to investigate a suspect. A Haringey Council officer following up a planning complaint had reported seeing what he thought were two stolen paintings in a large garden shed behind a house off Bounds Green Road. The paintings were signed ‘Marquet’ and ‘Flamingk’ – famous artists, apparently, with pictures in museums – and the householder, a Mr Patrick Phelan, had been acting suspiciously.

  Under normal circumstances Yasmin would never have dreamed of taking Sami to a possible crime scene, but from the account of the planning officer, a Mr Hank Dooberry, the owner of the shed was a crazy old artist. With crazy old artists Yasmin instinctively felt on safe ground. And there was no one to leave Sami with at the office.

  Anyway he was a smart kid. He could look out for himself.

  “Mind what you say when we get there,” Yasmin eyed him in the rearview window of the Nissan Micra as they drove north up the Blackhorse Road. “Remember I’m your mum, not a policewoman – we’re going to enquire about art classes. Keep your eyes peeled but try not to look suspicious.”

  Sami widened his eyes into a semblance of innocence.

  “That’s good!” laughed Yasmin, “except it makes me suspect you. The point is, we don’t know the suspect has done anything. The law says you’re innocent until proven guilty.”

  “The law for grown-ups,” said Sami.

  * * *

  No.15 The Mall was a small semi-detached late Victorian red brick villa, set back from the road behind a screen of trees. Dooberry had said the shed was accessible from the side alley and sure enough, when they went round the side they found a sign saying ‘THE SHED’ in splodgy writing and a chain saying ‘PULL’.

  Sami pulled, and giggled at the clang of cowbells. This was going to be more fun than Azeem’s day with his mum in Iceland, though not as much fun as Kieran’s with his Dad at Kwik Fit.

  * * *

  Like the sanctuary bell at the elevation of the host, the ringing of the cowbell coincided with the final brushstroke that put the seal, as it were, on The Seventh Seal. Pat’s release from copying duty had opened the floodgates, sweeping away the psychological obstacles of a lifetime with the force of the resulting surge. He had never experienced a rush of inspiration like it – the roar was audible. Six of the Seals had now gone to glory and only the Fourth – The Pale Horse – was still kicking against the pricks. But its days of resistance were numbered and it knew it. The momentum from now on was on Pat’s side.

  Ten o’clock on a Thursday morning. Who could it be?

  Things had gone quiet since the planning inspector’s visit but Pat had a feeling he wasn’t out of the woods. Dino had told him that if a shed breached planning regulations the council had the authority to take it down. If they demolished The Shed of Revelation at this crucial juncture The Pale Horse might never pass the finishing post. Pat hadn’t liked the way the inspector had looked at the Vlaminck, even though it was no business of his. Who could object to an 8x10in scrap of canvas? It wasn’t in anyone’s way, not even Ron’s. Still, he was sure his neighbour was behind it. Crabby old bugger should get himself a woman, find a better place to poke his nose than into other people’s affairs.

  The bell clanged again, insistently, and for a moment as he crossed the lawn the idea popped into Pat’s head that it might be the police. So it was with relief that he saw, framed in the fox flap, a pair of red ballerina pumps and a pair of child’s trainers.

  The relief turned to pleasure when he pulled back the door to reveal a dusky green-eyed odalisque and a wide-eyed boy. He stood back to frame the vision in the doorway against the late September light of the tree-lined street.

  Venus and Cupid. A touch more vegetation, a few fewer clothes – a gold choker for her, a bow and wings for him – and there you had it, Cranach was your uncle.

  “I’ve heard about your art class,” said Venus, “and I’m interested in joining.”

  “Mum’s an artist,” explained Cupid.

  “Yes, but I’ d like to be a better one,” Venus added, glaring at Cupid.

  “We’d all like that,” said Pat, letting out a sigh.

  “When are your classes?”

  “Friday mornings 10.00 to 1.00.”

  “Mum’s at work then,” put in Cupid. Venus trod on his foot.

  Clumsy, thought Pat, for someone with such dainty tootsies.

  “I could take time off… or perhaps you do one-to-one tuition?”

  That was more like it! Imagine this beauty dropping into his lap. He wondered if she’d exchange free tuition for modelling. He pictured her with a camellia behind her ear – no, on second thoughts a marigold, Herb of the Sun, to complement the sea-green of her eyes.

  “I haven’t introduced myself,” she held out her
hand. “Yasmin Desai. This is my son Sami.”

  A marigold behind the ear, and a wreath of jasmine. Pat took the hand in both of his and squeezed.

  “Why don’t you come in? I was just making a cup of tea. You can look around and see what you’d be signing up to.”

  “That would be great, if we’re not disturbing you.”

  Pat led the way down the alley towards The Shed.

  “This is the operational hub and the seat of inspiration: The Shed of Revelation. Go on in and I’ll bring the tea. Mind the wet paint,” he said to Sami. “Sugar?”

  Sami nodded. “For me, not Mum.”

  “Right you are,” said Pat. Of course Cupid took sugar.

  He saluted and disappeared into the house.

  * * *

  Yasmin stood on the lawn in front of the shed. It was certainly imposing. Not easy to achieve in creosoted clapboard, but this suburban structure somehow pulled it off. There was something about the proportions. Were they Palladian? She took some photos for Daniel from different angles.

  “He’s a funny man,” whispered Sami as they climbed the steps to the verandah. “Did you see his hair? And he’s wearing purple socks.”

  “He’s an artist,” said Yasmin, opening the shed door and finding herself face to face with the evidence. A canvas leant against the wall opposite the entrance, gleaming with juicy freshly applied paint. Yasmin had never seen anything quite like it. The elongated format and visionary colour reminded her of the decorative panels of Odilon Redon, but this was Redon with a bomb under him. Instead of Redon’s dreamy verticals this picture was all diagonals, threatening to tear the composition apart with the tension of opposing forces.

  At the top, a massive angel’s head thrust out of purple shadow with fiery locks streaming upwards in a conflagration of orange and yellow. To the right of the head, a river of blue and red snaked around the form of a flaming mountain into a deep black pit on the bottom left. From out of the pit a giant blue hand reached up, releasing an inky swarm of insect-like creatures that merged with the smoke from the burning mountain. On the bottom right a herd of wild green horses, also aflame, charged past the pit behind a fluttering red pennant. In the eye of this compositional storm, at the picture’s centre, the angel’s hand gripped a golden scroll, while beneath the scroll its two muscular feet were firmly planted, one on the earth, the other in the water. In the picture’s top left hand corner, on a counter-diagonal, a bunch of golden trumpets blared in the angel’s ear, while on the top right was a single point of stillness: a triangle of translucent green worn like an ornament in the angel’s hair.