PAINTED

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Chapter 29

  Scott woke in the morning, disorientated. The bed lumpier than he preferred, surrounded by sour-faced portraits, with an arctic breeze moving the moth-eaten curtains. The billowing curtains allowed the morning light to fall across his face and it was a combination of the light and a blinding headache threatening to split his skull, which woke him.

  He stumbled from the bed, fighting his way to the bathroom. The pain from the headache so intense he could barely see. Wrenching open the door he fell into the bathroom, sank to his knees and heaved into the toilet. Great gushes of vomit splashed into the water. Again and again he threw up until there was only foul tasting bile left.

  He rested his forehead against the porcelain seat, the chilly ceramic helping to ease the pain radiating through his head and now his hands. He flexed his fingers, rubbing the sensation away. Pushing himself up, he stood in front of the foxed mirror. Broken capillaries flushed his cheeks, his eyes more bloodshot than after a boozy night out with the boys. He was a wreck.

  A clean towel beckoned to him from the rail and he looked around for a shower. A decent shower would wash away most of his headache and the pain. Damn it, only a bloody bath. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a bath, maybe when he was eight? It was his only choice.

  The antiquated taps rewarded him with the gushing of hot water and the room filled with steam. He sloughed off his clothes, keen to wash away the pervasive scent of vomit.

  The water temperature bearable, he climbed in, curling his lanky frame into the tub. The problem with bathtubs was that one end of you was always cold. You could either submerge yourself under the water but then your legs would freeze. Or you could have your feet and legs warm beneath the waterline but then your shoulders felt the chill. Only a contortionist could fit all of themselves under.

  Scott submerged himself, hot water flooding over his face and through his hair taking with it most of the pain. He rubbed his face, the vigorous splashing sending rivulets of water over the bath’s edge. Oblivious to the minor flooding, Scott grabbed a long handled brush from beside the bath and a cast around for body wash. A well used, long forgotten bar of soap lay on the edge of the bath. He tried not to imagine who may have last used it, and gritting his teeth he scrubbed at the imagined grime covering him from head to toe. It wasn’t as good as a shower but it was hot and there were no random hairs stuck to the soap… He submerged himself again, eyes closed, the water blocking out the world.

  The hot tap turned on. Scalding water trickled out, the flow becoming stronger the more the tap turned.

  Scott shot up, spluttering and swearing and scrambled out of the bath in a flood of expletives and tried turning the tap off. He jumped back shrieking as his skin made contact with the super heated brassware.

  Hopping around the bathroom naked, he was in no position to notice the lock on door disengaging as he was bathing his hand under the tap in the sink. And then the door opened.

  “Oh my god, have you never heard of locking a door?” Yvonne squealed.

  “Christ almighty, I’m naked here, give me a moment,” Scott yelled, his hand still under the running water. The towel too far away for him to reach without leaving the soothing cool water. Even to the casual observer, it was clear Scott was in some discomfort.

  “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” replied Yvonne, walking in and handing Scott the towel to cover himself. “What happened?”

  “Seriously Yvonne, this is not okay,” said Scott, wrapping the towel round his waist.

  “You’ll need cream on that,” Yvonne said after examining Scott’s hand under the tap.

  “No shit,” Scott said. “I can’t believe there’s no safety valve for the temperature.”

  “It’s an old house Scott, what did you expect, the Hilton? Come on, get out, I need the toilet.”

  Mumbling under his breath, Scott returned to his monastic room to get changed. At least his headache had mostly gone and a couple of painkillers would take care of the remnants. Pulling on his sweater made more awkward by the scald on his hand, which hadn’t disguised the unusual pins and needles radiating up his arm. The bed was to blame, for sure. He tried not to look at the scowling portraits on the walls, watching him, judging him.

  “What are you looking at?” he said, pulling a portrait of an elderly matron off the wall. He stacked three other portraits of relatives or descendants on top of the old woman’s picture. Each time he lifted a painting from the wall, his hand smarted more than the initial burn but there was no way he’d sleep another night with these people on the walls.

  Finally the walls were bare and the bed laboured under the weight of a dozen oak framed portraits. Telltale lines of decades of dust showed where each portrait had hung, with spider carcasses littering the floor.

  He wiped his dirty hands on the eiderdown, leaving two hand shaped prints. Hefting one pile of frames up, he made his way down to the dining room, and dumped them on the table, wincing at the uncomfortable scratching sound the frames made on the table underneath the protective cloth. That wasn’t good. Still, not his problem. He’d done Anita a service by bringing them here. If she’d been more onto it, she would’ve had this lot catalogued and ready for the packers. He had real doubts about her now. All that talk about the lawyer, yet apart from a red sports car in the drive, which could’ve belonged to the original owner of the house, there was no evidence of anyone else having been here. Scott discounted the stuff in the other bedroom, coincidental. The more he thought about it, the more he believed Anita had used the lawyer as an excuse for slacking off.

  There was no coffee ready or breakfast, so he tried to light the belligerent antique stove. After several failed attempts, and a dozen broken matches, he got the gas going, and thumped the kettle onto the stove.

  Outside the sun pushed through the clouds, the diamond-like snow glistening, highlighting the deep paw prints from the dog from last night. He could’ve been bitten, dying a painful death from rabies in bed. It was damn irresponsible of Callaghan to force him to hunt a mythical lawyer. Anyone could see the girl wasn’t all there. She was nice enough, but something was off.

  The kettle whistled, just at the same time as he could’ve sworn he heard a child screaming outside. Screaming? No, it was his imagination. Stirring his coffee he looked out the window. There was that sound again. Faint, but it sounded like a child. Not a scream, a yell? If that dog was still out there that child would be in trouble yelling so loudly. Jesus, look at the position that put him in.

  Moving to the kitchen doorway he called out for Callaghan. No answer. Shit, he’d have to go outside. Why him? He didn’t even have a coat, and there was no way a child should be out there alone, not with a crazed dog loose. He’d never forgotten when a boy at school was attacked on the lower field one lunchtime. Two dogs had run riot before pouncing on a boy, tearing great strips off his face. Flaps of flesh hung down like a cascading waterfall. He’d avoided dogs since then. Even as an adult he steered clear of dog walkers and often crossed the road to avoid a dog coming the other way. It didn’t matter if it was a labrador or a poodle, dogs scared him.

  Turning the gas off, he picked up the skillet from the draining board, wincing as the cold metal hit the fresh scald on his hand. Still, brandishing it like a sword, he opened the back door. Winter swamped the kitchen, and he stepped over the threshold, eyes darting left to right. Scott contemplated calling out to the child, but didn’t want to attract the dog. He crept forward, feet crunching on the path. Snow blown in by the wind covered up his footprints. The tree branches braying like fairground donkeys under the weight of the snow.

  His head snapped to the side, it was less distinct now but still the sound of a child. He pushed past the trees, snow avalanching around him. The calls of the gulls above cohabiting the air, confusing his sense of direction. Scott turned around, and turned again, uncertain as to the true direction of the child.

  “Hello?”

  A faint echo came back. Scott
froze, straining to figure out the direction, the skillet heavy in his hand. He hefted it to the other side. God it was cold. He took a step forward. Paused. Another step, the pan dangling from his weaker left hand. A howling shook more snow from above. A howling which cut off. Scott panicked, running through the shrubbery, thrashing at the brambles tearing at his clothes. He was about to be mauled.

  “Help!”

  Melting snow drenched his hair and ran into his eyes. The pain which had crept up his arms all morning, exploded through his shoulders, crippling him. He tripped. The skillet clonked on a tile concealed by the snowy blanket. Crawling on his knees, his trousers soaked through, Scott cried out for help. His cries echoing those of the child he’d forgotten.

  Snot bubbled from his nose, joining the salty tears and sweat pouring forth. Lurching to his feet, he tried to get his bearings. He wiped his face, smearing grit from the ground through his stubble. It had fallen silent around him. Even the gulls above had vanished. The soothing sound of trickling water emerged from the silence. Melting snow or a virgin stream? His arms and shoulders ached more that he thought possible. Pain coursed through his neck, radiating up to his skull. His lips were numb. Was this the onset of a stroke? Where the fuck was the house?

  The child cried out again. She sounded closer than she had before. Petrified the dog would find him, but it could just as easily attack the child, he took a deep breath and followed the sounds of the child’s cries. Freezing in saturated clothes, and with a migraine he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, it was tempting to give up. But he wasn’t callous, he wouldn’t let a rabid dog maul a child. He was a grown man.

  One more step, and then he slipped down an incline; the reeds disguising the start of a body of water. Scott backed up. Brilliant, bloody brilliant, now sludge from the muddy edge caked his suede shoes. They were unsalvageable, but he had no time to worry about them now. Where the hell was the girl?

  There was no sign of her, or the dog. And there was no way to cross the water to get to the building in the middle. How did a child get there? It made no sense. He inched his way along the bank, looking for a causeway or stepping stones, a bridge or anything. The cries had turned to sobs, hiccupping across the water.

  “I’m coming, hang on,” Scott called out.

  Dimly remembered swimming lessons reminded him that swimming with shoes on was ill advised, so he pulled off his ruined shoes. He grabbed hold of a clump of reeds and probed the edge of the pond with his feet.

  The water shot ice into his veins, too cold to cry out, he clamped his teeth together to stop them from chattering. The sludge under foot provided no grip. There was no sign of life within the watery expanse save for the drowned moths floating on the surface.

  Putting all his weight on the reeds, it was no surprise when they pulled free from the earth, sending Scott tumbling into the water. He scrambled to find his footing on the silty bottom and coughing and spluttering he fought his way to the side, the frigid water clinging to him the way the icicles clung to the bushes around him. Using the last reserves of his strength, honed from too many hours in the gym, Scott hauled himself out of the water.

  Pants ruined. Shirt ruined. His wristwatch, ruined. The watch he’d bought with his first substantial commission from Nickleby’s, and of the numerous things he’d bought over the years, it was still his favourite possession. The 1942 rose gold Breitling the one thing he’d save from a burning building. The only silver lining being the house was visible through a narrow line of sight from his prone position in the filth of the water’s edge. Gloomy forgotten windows stared at him, void of light. He couldn’t see the bottom floor, only the second floor and the turret… awash with light There was a man in the turret, his face concealed by the easel. A man he didn’t recognise. The lawyer?

  Then Scott cried out and pulled himself into a foetal position as pain coursed through his body, radiating down from his head, engulfing him in a pain so intense Scott stopped functioning on any rational level. His legs shot out as if great volts of electricity were running through them. His bowels gave way. Somewhere in his mind he appreciated the warmth of the urine, but that flicker of humanity was snuffed out as his jaw locked in a macabre approximation of a grimace.

  And then as abruptly as his death dance began, it stopped. And the carefree giggles of a child, a girl child, danced across the water from the middle of the island.

  In the turret the artist applied the final touches to the background — water reeds flowering in a summer haze, sprinkled behind the man in the portrait. His dark hair mussed by an invisible wind, his hand hanging limply in the still water from the confines of a gaily painted wooden dinghy. Concentric ripples radiated out from his hand, the strap of a wristwatch visible below his shirt sleeve, the brand of the watch unmistakable despite the tiny writing. Breitling.

  Chapter 30

  Anita woke up and stretched. Mid stretch she froze, legs fully extended. She’d become used to the extraordinary weight of the comforter on her legs and it wasn’t there. Instead her legs were covered by a soft throw. The throw which had been hanging on the back of the chair.

  Anita pulled herself up, the lightweight blanket coming with her. Her duvet folded back upon itself although she had no recollection of pushing off her covers; of getting out of bed to drape the lighter blanket over herself. She shivered. Any comfort she’d felt when she first awoke gone. She’d drunk some wine the night before but not enough to have suffered any memory loss. Nothing else in her room had been moved, she didn’t want to move either, but her bowels gave her no choice.

  Lowering her feet to the floor, she eyed the duvet, its feathery warmth suddenly so sinister. Why couldn’t she remember folding it back? The room was freezing during the day and glacial at night, she’d would never have exchanged the heavier comforter for a summer weight throw. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders and padded over to the dressing table where the sight that greeted her was reminiscent of how she’d looked in those early days after her attack. Dark rings pulled her eyes downwards. Pale skin, as if sunlight was a foreign concept. Even her hair had lost its shine.

  She felt dirty, unkempt, and worst of all unsafe. She’d moved beyond enjoying the solitude so many took for granted, to looking over her shoulder and jumping at shadows. She thought she’d left all that behind her but now darkness had resettled upon her shoulders. And once again it was a man who’d done this to her. He’d ruined her solitude, destroying the carefully reconstructed world she’d built for herself. A world in which she could function as an adult, doing grown up things, like finding employment and performing at an acceptable level within that job. She couldn’t let it happen again, to be constrained by the emotional, or physical, subjugation by a man, against her will. She needed to speak with her mother. After that she’d straighten her shoulders, push her sleeves back and present herself to her colleagues as a more than competent art appraiser, one destined for great things.

  She grabbed her cellphone, again no signal showed but there was enough battery left she knew she could quickly call her mother. If Scott had found a signal upstairs, then she could too. But a bath and breakfast first, otherwise the others might come looking for her and she wanted to talk with her mother with no one hovering around. All girls, no matter their age, whether they are broken or whole, need their mothers.

  Yvonne and Callaghan descended the staircase at the same time with Yvonne regaling him about her eyeful of Scott in the bathroom and it was a merry pair which made their way into the kitchen.

  If the foyer and staircase were frigid, the temperature in the kitchen was subarctic. With the door wide open, wind flew in across the open fields and a small drift of snow had spread its icy tentacles across the tiled floor.

  Yvonne and Callaghan exchanged glances. The door had been shut when they’d gone to bed. Yvonne shrugged. It was an old house and she pushed the door shut, thumping it with her hip until the latch engaged in the doorplate.

  “You didn’t want to kick tha
t snow outside first?” Callaghan asked, nudging the snowdrift with his boot.

  “Ah, not using these,” said Yvonne, pointing to the slippers on her feet, decorated with cartoonish sausage dogs. “It’s far too cold in this house to wear anything else. I had to wear most of my clothes in bed as it was. Do you think you could see if you can get the furnace working?”

  “Sure, after breakfast,” Callaghan said, opening the fridge, looking for the milk.

  “Milk’s here,” Yvonne said, holding up the bottle Scott had left on the bench. “At least there’s no chance of it spoiling in the heat,” she joked before sniffing it for any sign it had gone off. “Trust Scott to have made himself a coffee and not one for the rest of us. Bet you he’s upstairs on the phone to his girlfriend trying to ignore that I’ve just seen him naked,” Yvonne laughed.

  “He didn’t finish his coffee though,” Callaghan said, tipping the mug of cold coffee into the sink. The brown liquid raced down the plughole.

  Yvonne didn’t seem fazed, she’d become distracted by an oblong silver tube she’d discovered under the teaspoons in the drawer. “Look at this.” The cigar cutter wasn’t remarkable but Yvonne seemed happy, pulling out her loupe to read the hallmarks, her own coffee cooling by her elbow.

  “Breakfast is ready,” Callaghan announced. “Where’s Anita?”

  Yvonne hadn’t even registered the breakfast Callaghan had laid out; bread rolls, juice, three different cheeses, ham, smoked salmon slices and cherry tomatoes. She clapped her hands happily as she spied the spread in front of her. “This looks fabulous.”

  Yvonne pushed her treasures to one end of the table, and was already lathering butter onto her bread rolls as she chatted about her home ownership dreams and how this was exactly the type of house she hoped to own, except less haunted than this one.

  “Seriously Yvonne, a haunted house? Have you seen any ghostly apparitions?” Callaghan said.