by Matt Drabble
After about half an hour, he turned to the barman again. ‘You know, I had some friends who came through here a couple of years ago,’ he said casually. ‘They told me that they met some old British guy who was living somewhere near here.’
The barman raised an eyebrow as though it didn’t mean anything, yet he looked interested.
‘What was his name, honey?’ Travis said, turning to Charlotte.
‘Um, I can’t quite remember. Darnes or Barnes, something like that I think,’ she said, playing the game.
‘No old English man around here,’ the barman replied.
Travis could smell the lie. ‘Yeah, that was it. Barnes,’ he said loudly enough for the old men at the bar to hear. ‘Our friends wanted us to say hi to him if we were passing.’
The barman’s face went stony hard and his limited English became a lot more limited. ‘No understand,’ he said with a shrug and turned away.
Like hell you don’t, Travis thought.
‘Barnes?’ one of the old men piped up.
The barman glanced hard at the old man and Travis easily translated his firm rebuke.
‘He said, it’s none of your business,’ he whispered to Charlotte.
A moment later one of the older, slightly drunker men said something and Travis clearly caught the word monastere.
Ah, Bingo! Old English guy lives at the monastery. Travis watched the barman shift uncomfortably. It obviously wasn’t meant to be common knowledge that Pierce Barnes was here. If the man was hiding, then the locals may well be on the payroll to keep the secret. Travis didn’t feel a threat from the barman, only an awkwardness that someone was asking.
‘Well, maybe we were mistaken,’ he said, preparing to leave. ‘How much do we owe you?’
‘Ten euros,’ the barman answered.
Understood a money request, Travis mused to himself. He laid down a twenty euro note on the bar. He thanked the barman and waved his goodbyes to the other patrons. Charlotte followed him outside with a scowl which crumpled her pretty features.
‘What are you doing?’ she said. ‘They know where Barnes is. We could have got an address for him.’
‘Easy,’ Travis said as they made their way stealthily to a convenient spot facing the bar but concealed behind a leafy tree. From a high vantage point, the cobbled street overlooked the flowing river below them. The buildings were all old with a crumbling charm. The street was devoid of traffic, with little sign that the locals required the use of motorised transport. Digging in his pocket, Travis took out a digital camera he had purchased on the ferry.
‘Move to your right,’ he instructed a grumpy Charlotte ‘And try to smile. I promise it won’t hurt.’
He moved her into position; just a loving husband taking photos of his pretty wife while on holiday. He framed her in front of the bar on the other side of the road, and watched through the viewfinder. Pretending to adjust the camera, he bided his time and while waiting he was struck by the way the sunlight caught her deep red curls, and for the first time he really studied her face. Unobstructed by the conventions of modern society the camera allowed him to trace her features without detection and he found himself transfixed. It was a strange and disorientating moment; his mind was suddenly racked with doubt and attraction, guilt and desire. He was saved when a flash of movement from the bar behind caught his attention. He mentally shook his head and got back on the clock as the barman walked a little too casually and carefully out into the day.
‘I just bet I know where you’re going, my friend,’ he whispered to himself in triumph.
Charlotte turned slowly and saw the barman. She looked back at Travis with a smile that was teasing, but not unpleasantly so. ‘Show-off,’ she mouthed.
After a few discreet moments, Travis crossed the road with her and they followed the barman at a safe distance. At some point as they walked through the cobbled streets, glancing once or twice into shop windows, she took his hand. Just playing a part, he told himself as they strolled in the sunshine. Just pretending to be a couple, he thought, but nevertheless his cheeks flushed warmly.
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Together with Parker, Charlotte trailed the French barman, her eyes never diverting from their prey. She had felt that the situation called for a recognisably tourist couple, and had taken Parker’s hand as much on instinct as anything else. And yet his soft palm was somehow reassuring and not disagreeable.
She could see the appeal of the quaint village, with the narrow cobbled streets and attractive rural shops. She had never actually been on a holiday since her parents took her to Dorset the year before … before … She shut the thoughts down fast; this was no place to take her eyes from the prize. She had made a promise to herself and to their memory that she would find the Montague Portrait and destroy it.
The barman walked at a steady pace. She had already determined that he offered little threat, but she was annoyed that it was Parker who had been able to spot that he was of some use to them.
As they reached the top of the hill that led out of the built-up town area, the buildings became more residential and less commercial. The higher they climbed the more luxurious and affluent the houses grew. She was beginning to feel concerned by their lack of cover when Parker suddenly grabbed her and kissed her. Her immediate thought was to fight the attack, to raise her barricades against the intrusion, to scream obscenities at his impudence, but she became aware that her body was instinctively melting against his.
‘That was close,’ he said looking past her up the road as the barman turned into a driveway. ‘He nearly saw us.’ He took a deep breath, as though he had just realised what he had done. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled with flaming red cheeks. ‘But he turned around before he went in. He’d have seen us –’
She stomped past Travis, half annoyed at him, and half annoyed at herself for her own body’s betrayal. She stopped just before the house where the barman had entered and peeked cautiously around the corner of the tall hedge. It was a huge house, perched magnificently on top of the hill facing down into the valley, with a Mediterranean red tile roof, and walls of stone blocks aged to perfection. Two columns framed a large double fronted glass door through which the barman had just disappeared.
Parker joined her, his face reddened either from the kiss or the hike up the hill, or maybe both, she mused.
‘What now?’ she asked him, deferring to his area of expertise, still with some reluctance.
‘I thought we’d take a leaf from your playbook and bundle straight in,’ he said, walking past her and smiling.
Following in his wake, she wondered if this was really the right way forward. ‘We don’t know how many people or indeed just who is in there?’ she said.
‘Well, we won’t find out until we knock,’ he said, grinning infuriatingly.
Needing to take her frustrations out on something solid, she reached out past him to bang on the oak door.
‘No,’ he whispered, grabbing her arm. ‘Voices. Round the back.’
She followed as he crept around the side of the house towards the rear garden. She could see the barman talking to an elderly man who was sitting on a garden bench with a basket of tools by his side. The two men must have sensed their presence and both looked up in unison at the intruders.
The barman then spoke in perfectly reasonable English: ‘I’m so sorry. They … they followed me from the bar,’ he said to the old man beside him.
‘Do not worry, my friend. It’s not your fault,’ the old man said, patting the barman on the arm.
The barman walked up to them with an angry scowl on his face. ‘It is bad you come here. He is old man and not well.’ He waggled a finger.
‘You have no reason to worry. We mean him no harm, I promise you,’ Parker said in a serious tone as he met the barman’s angry stare.
‘You sneaky one, my friend,’ the barman said, smiling grudgingly.
‘Come over here then, if you’re coming,’ the old man called from the garden bench. ‘My eyes
don’t work as well as they used to.’
As soon as the barman left, Charlotte began walking towards the old man. Parker took the lead, and she was happy for him to do so, as she felt that he had more skill in the art of conversation than she had.
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‘This is some house you have here, Mr Barnes,’ Travis said as he looked around the grounds appreciatively.
‘Who?’ the old man asked.
‘Mr Barnes, Mr Pierce Barnes,’ Travis said, still looking around the garden. ‘You don’t think we would come this far to find you, without knowing who you were, do you?’
He looked at the old man for the first time; he appeared hale and hearty with a healthy tanned face, an ample head of snowy white hair, and twinkling green eyes that were full of life. He wore a pair of denim blue canvas overalls that were stained with paint spots of various colours. He was supposed to be more than a hundred years old, but he looked someway short of that. Travis did not want to show any doubt on his own face and so kept it rock steady.
Eventually the old man broke the silence. ‘And just who are my lovely visitors today, may I ask?’
‘Tony and Debbie …’ Charlotte started to say.
Travis cut her off sharply. ‘Travis and Charlotte. We’re here about the Montague Portrait. Joseph Delaney gave us your name,’ he said.
‘Ah, Joseph. And how is my old friend?’ Pierce asked.
‘Hanging in there,’ Travis said. ‘But apparently you’re faring a little better,’ he added, looking around.
‘The spoils of war,’ Pierce said with a glint in his eye.
‘War?’ Charlotte asked.
Pierce smiled. ‘Poor choice of words, my dear’.
Was it? Travis thought to himself.
‘Well now, why don’t we have ourselves a little drink and you can ask your questions and I’ll see if I am prepared to answer them, or if my memory is that of an old and confused man.’
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Five minutes later they were perched in Pierce Barnes’ bright and airy kitchen, sipping a delightful glass of white wine that he assured them was made locally in the valley they could see stretched out before them.
‘So why don’t we get down to it?’ Pierce said. ‘I’m guessing that you both have a tale to tell and you think that I have one as well.’
‘Yes,’ Travis said. The old man was sharp and required respect, but he noticed that Charlotte only nodded in agreement.
‘Well then, the price for the answers you seek is your stories,’ Pierce said with a small private smile. ‘Only if your tales tickle my taste buds will I give you what you desire.’
‘Okay,’ Travis said, and told his story.
On the rare occasions when he told of his heartbreak, he hoped that the story would get easier over time. It never did; his grief was always raw as though Amy had died only yesterday. But he needed to get through to Pierce that he was not about to turn away from this trail.
After he had finished, it was Charlotte’s turn. He would have liked to spare her the same fate, but he instinctively knew that Pierce was far too sharp for them to skip a story. Wherever Mr Pierce Barnes fitted into the equation, his information was essential and his price had to be paid in full.
In its own way her story was every bit as emotional and gut wrenching as his, and when she had finished her determination was as clear as his own.
Tissues were handed around to wet eyes before Pierce spoke.
‘All right then, I’ll tell you what I know and then I hope you will both turn around and head home, away from this madness.’ He sighed heavily. ‘It was 1923 and I was seventeen years old and working as an apprentice for an artist named Benedict Worthington.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AN EVIL BORN OF BRUSH AND STROKE – 1923
Pierce Barnes needed the work, needed the money, and it was the only reason he stayed. At seventeen years old and full of the conceit of youth, he had little experience of the world, but he knew that there could not be many men like his employer Benedict Worthington.
Pierce was a small, skinny boy with the heavy burden of providing for his mother and sisters. His father had left the day after he was born and it was hard not to take that personally.
The job with Benedict Worthington seemed like a godsend to his wishes. The money was good, the work was not taxing, and the hours allowed him to run the household while his mother worked.
Worthington was an artist who tended to keep unsociable hours and it was Pierce’s job to be present as and when required and to do whatever was needed. Worthington was a dropout laden with the benefit of a large family inheritance. He was dripping in both money and boredom; that was until he discovered art. Benedict Worthington immersed himself in his art with absolute clarity of focus and direction. But unlike most of his hobbies, for once his interest did not fade. This one took deep roots in his soul and festered. Perhaps the most unfortunate thing about his new hobby was that he was actually very talented. If he hadn’t been, then maybe he would have done the world a favour and given it up. There were two things that ran in the Worthington family: money and insanity, and unfortunately Benedict inherited both.
Pierce noticed that Benedict’s moods began to alter and change as quickly as the winds blew. One minute he was bouncing off the ceilings, full of the joys of spring and the love of his newly discovered talent. The next he was sitting in a deep black hole of despair, suffocated by the pointlessness of his own existence.
Sometimes he would be on hand to see Benedict attack his canvas like a man possessed, his hands slashing furiously with brushes and paint as he barked orders and demands at Pierce. Other nights Pierce would have to sit and listen to the disturbed thoughts that spilled from his employer’s twisted black heart. It was these nights that would scare him the most. He could take the shouting and screaming. He could take the throwing and smashing; it was when the room and Benedict were quiet that he was scared the most. But the money was good and he had his mother and sisters to consider, and he did not have the luxury of being able to walk away from scary nights.
His dark and turbulent world was further complicated when Hugo Montague darkened his door and changed everything.
Pierce knew Hugo by reputation alone, and that was enough to know that he was a man to be avoided.
Benedict lived in the loft apartment at the top of a deserted building he owned in one of the seedier parts of the small city. He demanded access to his vices at any time of the day or night, whether they were of a feminine or pharmaceutical nature. Pierce knew the area well, as his family lived in little more than a hovel within the same setting and he wasn’t afraid to walk his streets at night. The rats were carnivorous but they were rarely cannibals; only the lost and lonely who wandered off of the beaten track found themselves dumped naked in builders’ skips or wheelie bins.
Hugo was a man of wealth and taste, as the song lyric went. He was a powerful man in the city with an aura of invincibility that he wore at all times and on all occasions. He owned most of the industrial district, and his factories pumped endless pollution unchecked into the sky above the city’s horizon. His power derived not just from his fortune; it was a power that emanated from his very soul. With his mere presence he commanded a room; he could control others’ wills with a single finger and he could end a discussion with a single silent stare.
Hugo was in his late thirties when Pierce first met him. He was doing his usual cleaning up one evening after Benedict had finished working. Benedict was currently in a working phase and the canvases were strewn around the loft with abandon, some almost finished, some hardly begun. Pierce was sweeping the hardwood floors when the lift cranked into life and began to rise from the depths of the building. He turned in surprise, as Benedict hated the contraption and never used it, always favouring the stairs. The lift opened directly into the sparse apartment with wooden boards that rolled up before the metal cage opened.
Gripping the broom firmly, Pierce faced the lift. It wasn
’t totally unheard of for strays and stragglers to search seemingly empty buildings in the neighbourhood, and Pierce figured that he would make the intruder truly unhappy that someone was actually home. When Hugo Montague stepped into the room the courage drained from his body as the colour drained from his face.
Pierce stood before him and felt the weight of Hugo’s personality bearing down on him. Hugo dominated the air around him. He was tall and lean with a predator’s poise. His face was long and thin, with dark eyes seemingly empty like a shark, and naturally blond hair swept gracefully with a Brylcreem shine. He wore an expensive and beautifully tailored beige check suit that contoured his athletic physique perfectly.
‘I’m looking for Benedict Worthington.’ Hugo spoke with a clipped accent that demanded respect.
‘He’s … he’s out,’ Pierce stammered, more than a little shaken.
‘And when will he be back?’
‘I don’t know,’ Pierce said, wishing to God that he did.
‘Well, I think I will wait,’ Hugo said absently as he wandered around the largely empty apartment.
He eventually sat down on a filthy and unused armchair that had more than its fair share of rat stains. Placing himself neatly in the chair, he crossed his legs and smoothed out the creases in his trousers – oblivious of the mess around him.
Pierce found this to be the most disturbing of all. The man was wearing a suit that must have cost more money than his entire family had ever seen in their lifetime, and yet he sat in the filth as though he cared little for the world around him; as though the stains and the dirt would not dare to touch him.
The next thirty-five minutes were the longest of Pierce’s life. Hugo did not utter another word and merely existed in space and time regardless of his surroundings. Pierce carried out his duties with trembling hands and shaky legs. He swept and cleaned; he washed the brushes and cleared the remnants of Benedict’s scattered meals. When the front door below slammed open and then shut, he breathed the longest and heaviest sigh of relief of his life, but wished he could make a swift exit: the last thing he wanted was to be caught between two men of equally scary natures.