Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  Michael shook his head. ‘And she so nearly succeeded,’ he concluded.

  Terry approached, having overheard the conversation. He put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘Lauren also returned to the farm. I found this.’ He handed over the bracelet. ‘Is it hers’?’

  Michael frowned. It looked familiar.

  ‘You, of all people, understood the deep-seated problems that invaded her head,’ Terry said. ‘The abuse she suffered as a child from her father’s hands. Her time in prison for his murder. The death of her baby brother. All this changed her for the worse. That’s what trauma does. It was this split-personality disorder which ruled her life, and betrayal was something she could not forgive…and that extended to all those who crossed her path. No one was ever excluded from her radar of hate, and time was not a healer for her. In fact, it just festered within her head, building the intensity of misguided notions of what love was about for her… something she was denied in her childhood.’

  ‘She put me on a pedestal,’ Michael said, ‘and I couldn’t live up to her expectations. It was infatuation, nothing more. But ultimately I failed her.’

  Terry added, ‘No one could live up to her expectations, but is that so surprising if you consider her history? A history of mental anguish, and, to top it all…a wrongful conviction for a crime that she didn’t commit. She was even shafted by her own flesh and blood, Maggie. Lauren was a victim of circumstance but in her troubled mind it was those she loved who ultimately let her down. Think about it, it started with her father, then her husband, then Maggie and the biggest sinner of all…you. But she didn’t want to sacrifice you. She wanted to recapture you. Possess you. Nobody else was going to have you.’

  Michael thought about it, and cursed under his breath. ‘The biggest sinner of all,’ he repeated, his heart full of remorse. What had he done to all those he had loved? He closed his eyes, thought of the demons that had driven him to the point of insanity. He had quarrelled endlessly with his own conscience in regard to the ethical issues that had taken him down this path to near oblivion. He had hurt many people in the process, and sacrificed his right to judge others when his own moral compass was damaged and unreliable. This weakness carried him forward, on a daily basis, but ultimately it was a damning verdict on the way he conducted his life: A life imperfect, an existence without a clear conscience between what was good and what was evil. He was driven by hunger, putting the needs of himself above all others. He undermined those he cherished and put their lives at risk by his basic disregard for their safety. He let greed drive his desires in both love and financial matters. He felt morally bankrupt. Without honour.

  Kara had survived her ordeal, again. She too stood wrapped in a blanket, held in a tight embrace with Gemma.

  She caught Michael’s eye, hobbled over and embraced him, tears flowing. It was all over at last.

  He hugged her in return, fearful of letting her go, fearful of making empty promises once again. But this time his faith was restored, knowing that Lauren and Maggie were no longer able to assert their wicked dominance over all of their lives. Theo too. They had each paid the ultimate price. Theo was a thug. He lived and died by the sword. Maggie sinned by corrupting her own flesh and blood, going to her watery grave with a pious notion of believing she was above those who foolishly stood in her path. Including her sister. She never saw her own faults, only in those who she considered to be the enemy. And she had only one way of dealing with them. Her heart was black. Her mind callous and mean-spirited.

  Only Lauren could truly seek forgiveness for crimes she did not commit, those she was not aware of, such was her gigantic struggle with the demons that infiltrated her mind. They controlled her, baited her and led her on a wayward path between beauty and destruction…the utter beauty of her inspired painting under the guise of her brother, Patrick, and the intended destruction of all those she loved and treasured, as if by killing them off somehow preserved the sanctuary – the wall of defence that she hid behind – that was so vital between the balance of reason and insanity in her twisted existence. It was this perpetual fight against the wrongdoing of a society that she couldn’t fit into which ultimately conspired toward her downfall.

  Lauren was dead: At peace with the world. Her fitting legacy was the great and majestic paintings of Patrick Porter. They would live on forever, perfect and grand – a kind of poetry in paint – from the hand of an artist untouched by any other notion than the innocence she found in her lost brother. This body of work would remain untarnished, unlike her brutal upbringing. Michael decided he would always honour her memory, if not her misguided and evil actions.

  Lauren O’Neill, RIP.

  Maggie Conlon could rot in hell. Revenge wasn’t her motivation, as they first thought. Her needs were spitefulness and a murderous spirit. She wanted Michael silenced because of what he knew of her past…and she wanted the stolen painting back. One of them had it, she knew. Which one, she didn’t care: They were all going to die, in her book. She was pure evil.

  She had gradually plundered the paintings, and wanted every one of them back. Her sister could pursue her pathetic misguided notion of love. Julius could have the farm, she bargained. But how long would it have been before she wanted the proceeds from that too? She was relentless. She considered everyone else weak and expendable.

  Michael knew something was amiss when he discovered the Patrick Porter in the Venetian house. It was one of the original twelve, held supposedly under lock and key for safekeeping. How could it suddenly reappear? He knew that someone was playing a game…of blackmail. And then it all fell into place when Julius confessed his complicity in raiding the collection. They were all desperate people, including himself.

  Even the hapless Sheila Cox became a victim, trying to help other people in their hour of need.

  Michael took a deep breath.

  He felt renewed optimism, a heightening of his senses, a faith restored but where that inner strength came from he did not know. Beyond his gaze, a young man came into view and briskly walked towards them, a bundle in his arms and two police officers by his side.

  Michael gradually pulled away from Kara, kissed her brow and silently turned her towards her future. She caught sight of Marcus and little Harvey Heath and bit down on her lip, her eyes moistening.

  ‘Go,’ Michael said, edging her forward with the palm of his hand. And in that moment, he imagined a little bird taking flight for the first time as its fragile wings spread and fluttered, and he smiled triumphantly as Kara took her first hesitant steps toward the rebirth of her trust in human kind and the search for new beginnings.

  For Michael, in the company of Terry and his own precious son, it was a call to witness, a poignant moment to cherish. And in his mind he thought he saw Kara, like the little bird he imagined, soar into the sky and rejoice at the privilege of life and the family embrace which awaited her, such was her exhilaration at reuniting with those that she loved so dearly and so nearly lost.

  It began to rain heavily, but Kara Scott didn’t care. She was going to get married! Damn sure of it. Her pace quickened. Then she ran across the cobbles, hands outstretched, as Marcus eagerly walked into her arms.

  EPILOGUE

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  ‘How much do you want for it?’

  Michael remained calm and considered his options. His client was old school, old money. He knew the worth of things, especially art, and Asian art in particular. He stood beside the elderly client in a darkened room at the rear of the gallery and remained impassive, as they quietly examined the tiny ornament which sat modestly upon the illuminated blue velvet-lined table top.

  ‘Sixty thousand, cash,’ Michael ventured. He had done his research and felt confident in his valuation.

  The man lifted the tiny jade vessel carefully to the light and turned it with his fingers. A thin smile crossed his lips as he marvelled at the exquisite craftsmanship.

  Michael had known the collector for many years, first introduced
by his father when he was wet behind the ears, but they had a fondness for each other… borne from the many successful dealings they shared over the course of the intervening years. They always conducted business in this manner: In secrecy and with hard cash. The man had impeccable taste, an eye for treasure and a lust for the seemingly unobtainable. It centred on ownership. Michael knew the feeling well.

  ‘Fifty thousand, not a penny more, Michael.’ He replaced the vessel on the ebony stand and pushed a leather briefcase with his foot across the floor to where Michael stood. Michael bent down and opened the case and leafed through the cash pile.

  ‘You don’t need to count it.’

  Michael closed the lid and locked down the hinges. He deliberately pondered his reply for affect, but they both knew the game. He then extended his hand.

  ‘Deal.’

  They shook hands warmly. Michael placed the vessel gently in a cushioned wooden box, closed the lid and handed it over, escorting the man to the front door. A chauffeur driven Rolls-Royce waited outside on the street, engine purring. They bade farewell.

  ‘To the next time,’ the man said fondly. Then he was gone.

  After his departure, Michael locked the door and poured himself a 12 year-old single malt whisky, savouring the rich smooth taste as it ignited joyfully in his mouth. He then switched on his laptop, hesitated, and emailed Agnes (careful to use her work address) and asked for her bank details, adding that he had a little reward for her. It was the first time that he had communicated with her since the end of the affair. So much had happened since then. Terry’s lurid story had broken across the nation, bringing widespread notoriety to his life. He was now a newsworthy superstar as word spread to all corners of the planet. He was the hottest celebrity in town. He had a stark choice: Hide and be picked off by the ensuing media or relish the global attention and go with the flow.

  He chose the latter route. His star was once again in the ascendancy, and on balance he rather enjoyed the attention. And rather enjoyed the painting that Lauren had done, which he now displayed on his wall at home. It was reminder of the sacrifices they had all made. As agreed with his son, he had resigned from Churchill Fine Art and set up his own art consultancy, advising on rare acquisitions, insurance valuations and building up corporate collections and private purchases for wealthy clients from around the world. Although he worked from home, he also acted as a consultant to the gallery on one day a week…thus enabling him the use of the premises whenever it suited him. His new business flourished. This was one such case, with a slight difference. The object of desire had personal history.

  The response from Agnes came back quickly:

  Why?

  He was amused by her terse response and replied:

  Because you earned it, big time.

  She sent:

  How?

  He sent:

  Because I screwed up. You don’t need to ask how. Take it and enjoy.

  She replied with the bank details.

  No further encouragement was needed, he noted. He then added :

  Thanks for everything. M.

  He transferred online a twenty-five thousand pound deposit into her private account. It was the least he owed her. Then he refilled his glass, with a generous measure this time, and toasted his good fortune. He missed her, but she remained in Venice with her family and that was how it was going to be, he guessed with a heavy heart. Who knew what tomorrow would bring though? The thought struck him: Perhaps he would look up an old friend at Momo’s. He lifted the case and placed it in his safe, then pondered his next move, a little richer and a little wiser. This is what he did know for sure: Theo would not be chasing him for the Chinese vessel, nor for the cash.

  Not now, not ever.

  An email came in which simply said:

  Wow!!

  He smiled, switched off the computer and lights, locked the gallery door and walked out into the cold air, unaccompanied once again. He sighed, looked up at the Tobias Strange Fine Art sign and smiled again. He then ambled into the night, aware that it was his own footsteps he could hear as he strode down the deserted street in the city he loved above all others.

  Greed was a lonely warrior, he now knew.

  About the Author

  Spencer Coleman

  Martin Spencer Coleman was born in 1952, Leicester, England. He has been a professional artist and gallerist for over thirty years handling the work of artists from all around the world. A keen sportsman he is an avid follower of Portsmouth football club. Over the years, he has written several magazine articles and been regularly interviewed on BBC radio in connection to his artistic endeavours. His paintings are collected worldwide and one of his fine art prints "Bottoms Up" was an international bestseller. He currently lives in Lincolnshire and has one son, Jordan. This is his first novel.

  www.spencercolemanfineart.com

  Email: martinspencercoleman@gmail.com

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