PAINTED

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Hers was the largest bedroom, equipped with a kidney-shaped writing desk set up by one window and an occasional table and two armchairs by the second window. Her belongings laid out as if it were her own home. As diametrically opposite to Anita as possible.

  She’d unpacked her toiletries bag onto the dressing table. Everything was laid out with military precision. Deodorant, perfume, her contact lenses solution, sleeping pills, painkillers and a beautician’s counter worth of makeup and creams. Selecting a vanilla scented body lotion, she massaged the cool cream into her hands and wrists. She pulled off her sweater and her long sleeve t-shirt and set about rubbing the expensive lotion into her aching forearms, upper arms and finally her shoulders.

  Rubbing the remnants of the cream into her hands, she realised she’d left her rings downstairs. Every one a connection to someone special — the silver one a gift from her father, long gone now, but his ring lived on. The gold buckle she’d earned from a summer job working for a family friend in a main street antique shop. The opal ring had been her mother’s engagement ring. Considered ugly now, it was everything her mother had been — colourful, brash, larger than life. And the pearl one, six pearls for six wonderful years. He’d promised a diamond to replace the pearls, but that nirvana had been stolen from her. Lives are lost and so are engagements. Too many years ago to dwell on, but the ring was a reminder that love is like the grain of sand which forms a pearl. If you cosset love, if you feed it and protect it, it will turn into a pearl. If you don’t, it runs through your fingers. Lost forever.

  Chastising herself for not thinking to pack a muscle rub, her mouth narrowed as the pain made its way up into her neck. The discomfort from her self massage was worth it, to loosen up the muscles and relieve the tingling she was feeling. She ignored the chill in the room as she waited for the moisturiser to soak in. Popping two pills from their foil cells, she swallowed them dry. She’d get a drink downstairs.

  She wandered downstairs, ignoring the voices she could hear in Anita’s room. Callaghan was always so bloody measured. She’d never seen him lose his cool, or speak out of turn. He’d make a good politician, or lawyer. Trust him to weigh up the evidence first. She knew Anita had stolen the brooch and she’d prove it, as soon as the painkillers kicked in.

  Her work in the house was almost done. She hadn’t bothered going into half the rooms. Jewellery and silverware were her primary areas of ability so she hadn’t looked in the nursery, the scullery, the bathrooms or any of the sheds and garages. She’d done the kitchen, the dining room, the drawing room and most of the bedrooms. Some of which contained only a bed and a set of empty drawers and they held no interest. She hadn’t done Anita’s room or the room the supposed lawyer had been using. Which only left the study. She’d get that done next, then hide herself away upstairs in the turret and admire the view while the others did whatever it was they needed to do. The turret would provide a nice secluded place to ring Warren and fill him in before the packers turned up. She knew she’d get a cellphone signal up there.

  Like an idiot, she realised she hadn’t even checked her phone. The thing probably wasn’t even charged. The battery never lasted a whole day at the best of times and out here it would’ve wasted all its energy searching fruitlessly for a signal. Damn it.

  Slipping her rings back on, she chose a now stale pastry from the kitchen, grabbed her work bag from the kitchen table and made her way to the study. Closing the door behind her was a relief, as it was doubtful the others would come in here soon. Ignoring the untidiness of the shelves, she switched on the banker’s lamp and looked for somewhere to charge her phone. Just like Anita, she found that the only socket was the one the lamp occupied. No problem. She fished a double plug out of her bag and the battery icon appeared. Excellent.

  She walked around the messy room, taking in the assortment of trinkets adorning the shelves. A copper and brass powder flask caught her eye. Beautifully polished, art nouveau style. A quick easy sale that one. These days anything military, in good condition, sold above its auction estimate. So many collectors were emerging from the affluent Far East that stuff like this flew out the door. Tagging it, she left it on the desk to be packed later. Two silver photo frames. The pictures inside the frames were less than inspiring. Prising open the backs of the frames, she slipped the photos out. Nothing written on the back to identify the people in the photos though — children on a picnic in one and a couple standing on the front steps of the house in the other. Given the stiff unsmiling poses and the clothing, the photos were early last century. The frames hallmarked London 1911, which tied in with the age of the photographs.

  Yvonne froze. She carried the photograph of the couple over to the window where the light was better. The woman in the photo, there was something on her tailored coat. It was the brooch, there in all its glory. A manic grin spread across her face. Anita may have burnt the painting, but now she had proof that the brooch existed. She wasn’t letting this one out of her hands. Excitement flared inside her. A movement outside distracted her — the flash of a man lumbering at the far end of the garden, a mutt by his side. She wondered if that was the dog from last night but was too entranced by the photograph to give it any further thought.

  Turning away from the window, she lurched into the edge of the heavy desk. Pain coursed through her. Doubled over, she rubbed her sore thigh, which added to the dull throb running all the way down her right side. The painkillers had done nothing.

  She hobbled to the foyer, leaning on the post at the bottom of the stairs for support as another wave of pain hit. Her hand tightened around the photograph. She had to force her fingers to relax before they ruined the photo. The picture was swimming in and out of focus, her eyesight blurring. Terrified she was experiencing a stroke, she waited for the sensation to pass. She needed to show the others this photo — validation of what she’d accused Anita of. Shaking her head, she crawled up the stairs on all fours; her weakened right-hand side causing a lopsided gait. Time and time again she crashed into the balustrades before changing direction and forcing herself up another step. The steps themselves multiplying and contracting as her vision played tricks on her mind. She needed to get to Anita’s room — the closest door to the top of the stairs. Reaching the last step, she lay panting — half up and half down.

  She had no energy to call out to the others, who were still enjoying their little tête-à-tête in the bedroom. She convulsed as another wave of pain traveled through her. Whimpering, she could barely breathe. Hearing a noise, she tried lifting her head. The pressure was incredible. At the end of the corridor was a man.

  “Scott,” she wheezed.

  He walked closer, his black suit blending with the nocturnal shadows. It wasn’t Scott. This must be Anita’s lawyer making an appearance, except… he looked so familiar.

  He stopped a little away from Yvonne, close enough for the hall light to illuminate his face sufficiently for recognition to set in. Yvonne pulled herself up, limbs sluggish, refusing to obey her. She tried to take a step, to make it to Anita’a room. Another wave of pain crashed against her and she fell against the newel post. Scrambling to stop herself falling, she caught her rings on the fretwork of the stairs. There are only so many knocks a ring will withstand before the metal weakens or a stone dislodges from damaged claws.

  Knocked free from their setting, the jumble of pearls from Yvonne’s ring bounced down the stairs, gathering momentum as they went, skittering across the floor in a hundred different directions. The tiny pings of their bounces growing fainter as they fell.

  The man in front of her was the man in the photograph. Wracked with pain, she could do nothing as he leaned towards her and plucked the photograph from her arthritic-like hand. She tried to cry out, but had nothing left. She certainly had nothing left when he reached out and pushed her.

  Chapter 37

  Up in the turret, a little girl threw herself onto the window seat and hugged her knees. She’d run up here like a rabbit after the loud lady
had fallen down the stairs. Clicking her silver pen, she giggled to herself as she watched the last strokes applied to the painting on the easel in front of her.

  This one made her laugh. What a silly lady. She’d looked so funny falling down the stairs, like a clown doing cartwheels at the circus. She wanted to gather up all the pretty little white pearls from the lady’s ring, but he’d sent her away. Luckily she’d got back to the turret in time to see strings of those same pearls being strung around the lady’s wrinkly neck, like a noose. She giggled again.

  It was so funny adding something in that was never there in the first place. A joke no one else got. A joke just for her. Her brothers had never let her play with their Meccano, and now she had it all to herself, just like her sister’s china-faced doll. Although she’d smashed that rosebud-lipped doll’s face against the tiles outside. She didn’t want it anymore; it reminded her of her sister. She didn’t want reminding. She didn’t want reminding about any of them. She wanted her Daddy all to herself. Soon she would have him all to herself, again.

  “Finish the other one now,” she directed.

  The artist flexed his knotted fingers. “My hands are too tired now, I need to rest them,” he replied.

  The angelic faced child scowled, her pretty mouth twisting into something ugly. She flounced off. She’d have to find something else to amuse herself with. It wouldn’t be hard. There were still two other people in the house.

  Chapter 38

  Interrupted by the sound of an almighty crash followed by absolute silence, Callaghan had no time to digest what Anita said about the portrait screaming. Racing from Anita’s room, with her limping behind, he cast around for the source of the sound. He couldn’t see anything. He’d heard something falling down the stairs, something large he was certain, but the upstairs hallway and foyer were empty. It didn’t make any sense. Only dust motes played in the air as if they’d been disturbed. But by what?

  “Go back to bed,” he instructed Anita, once he realised she’d followed him. As he turned to usher the girl back to her room there was a hammering on the front door. The booming echoed through the house and in the absence of anyone else running to open it, Callaghan strode down himself, casting his eye around for any evidence of something at the bottom of the stairs.

  He pulled the door open and in front of him stood a weatherbeaten old man, the epitome of country farmer, in boots and an overcoat, with heavy work-worn hands, and a squint from too many years working outside. He wasn’t dressed like a lawyer. The whereabouts of Anita’s lawyer niggled away at him. He didn’t want to give in to the suspicion that Anita was playing them all. But it was a bit hard to keep coming to her defence, the longer the mythical lawyer never showed up.

  “Yes?”

  The farmer narrowed his eyes at the sight of Callaghan as if he’d expected someone else at the door.

  “Found these down by the water, looked like someone had been in the water. Thought I’d check and see things were all okay up here.” A pair of waterlogged men’s suede shoes in his hands; good only for the trash heap now, but Callaghan recognised them immediately. They’d been the source of many hours of amusement on the drive here; Scott’s expensive Nordstrom shoes, shoes he’d taken great pride in keeping pristine to the point of teetering on the cusp of being too pedantic about them. After all, they were just shoes.

  Callaghan took them from the other man’s hands. He had a hundred questions, but didn’t want to know the answer to any of them.

  “You all right missy?” the farmer called up to Anita, who stood unsteadily at the top of the stairs.

  She nodded.

  “She’s fine. She’s hurt her foot but we’re fine.”

  The old man’s brow creased but he nodded.

  Callaghan watched him clear his throat, as if there were something else he wanted to say, but he snapped it shut and turned away.

  Anita called out but the barking of a dog drowned out any sound he would’ve heard. Callaghan slammed the door shut and wheeled away, bellowing out Scott’s name, discarding the sopping wet shoes on the tiles. “Scott, you come down here now. Scott?”

  No answer.

  “What’s happened to Scott?” Anita called out.

  No answer.

  Like a madman Callaghan crashed open doors, his voice hoarse as he yelled for Scott, his anger level rising. Taking the stairs two at a time, he dodged Anita shivering at the top and carried on with his destructive rampage; plant stands and hall tables swept from his path.

  On the stairs, Anita flinched at an urn smashing on the floor but even that didn’t put a halt to the increasing volume of Callaghan’s cries. The sound of his body hitting an immoveable object did.

  He collapsed at the base of the turret door, groaning.

  “Callaghan, what’s going on?”

  Pushing himself to his knees, he stood up, trying to rotate his arm. Pain twisting knife-like in his shoulder socket. He’d dislocated it. He let his useless arm hang by his side, using his other hand to wrench at the door. It wouldn’t open.

  “Open up you bastard.” Kicking the door, he rattled the knob as if his life depended on it. “Scott, open the bloody door. You’ve had your fun.” One final boot into the bottom of the door, and he stomped back to Anita, who shrank back from the anger radiating from him.

  “What happened?”

  Callaghan grimaced, eyes closed, he was a picture of pain, “Dislocated my shoulder.”

  “What about Scott?”

  “He’s locked himself up there.” It was then he noticed the sheen of sweat on Anita’s face, her eyes tiny pinpricks and her teeth chattering as she wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Why did he have Scott’s shoes?”

  Anita was in no fit condition to question Callaghan any further. It was obvious she wasn’t fit for anything. A shame that, he thought, ushering her back to her room. She complied with minimal fuss as he put her back to bed. Brushing his good hand against her forehead he pulled back, the heat from her brow burning. His medical training went as far as the required workplace first aid certificate they sat every two years. But he wasn’t equipped to deal with a blood infection.

  His concerns over Scott’s behaviour roiled about in his stomach. What the hell had Scott been doing outside? What was he playing at? It had dawned on him that out of all the rooms he’d searched, Yvonne hadn’t been in any of them. Were they both upstairs having a right royal laugh at him? His fists clenched. He thought he’d left that behaviour at school. It surprised him when adults stooped to playground bullying when things didn’t go their way. It wasn’t his style to comment but so help him God, if those two didn’t show their faces in the next hour, he’d drive Anita to the nearest doctor’s surgery himself. And they could bloody well fend for themselves.

  Anita had slipped into a fevered sleep so she’d be no use helping fix his shoulder. He’d not be able to fix it in here, he couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t scream. It’d been several years since he’d last dislocated it at college but he well remembered the pain.

  Closing Anita’s door, he made his way downstairs. Every tread sending shards of glass through his empty socket. Making it to the drawing room, he collapsed onto the couch and prepared himself for what was coming next.

  Salvation beckoned to him in the form of a decanter in the liquor cabinet. The amber liquid’s golden glow a promised balm to the exquisite pain in his shoulder. The smokey peat spilled up from the tumbler as the whisky hit the crystal. It didn’t last long. Callaghan tipped the whole thing down his throat. The burning sensation a thousand times less unpleasant than the pain he was in.

  He poured himself another drink, a modicum of guilt came over him; this was stealing although no one would begrudge him the alcohol given what he was planning to do. He’d planned to sip this one, but even lifting the glass to his lips was agony. Eyes shut, he knocked back the second glass which sent fingers of fire to the edge of his extremities. The liquor had anaesthetised the pain sufficiently for h
im to do what he needed to do.

  Leaning against the doorframe, he took a deep breath, turned, and slammed his unaligned shoulder back into place.

  The alcohol had done nothing to mask the pain of hitting the doorframe at the wrong angle; Callaghan screamed — a guttural primordial scream from deep within. Eyes glassy, sweat coursing down his face, he lined up for a second time. The second attempt left him on the floor, silent tears on his cheeks but his shoulder was back in its rightful joint.

  Chapter 39

  Anita fluttered between awake and asleep. The clicking a regular cadence in her ear, too hard to pinpoint in her fevered state. It reminded her of the clicking beetles which sometimes made their way inside in the summer months. The sheets clung to her like an old lover’s embrace at the end of a relationship; familiar but unwelcome.

  Click. Click. Click

  The clicking mirroring her heartbeat.

  Opening her eyes confused her. She wasn’t at home; she wasn’t sure where she was. Adrenaline flooded her body. Was he here? Paralysed, just like the night of her rape. Too afraid to fight, too weak to resist. The foul taste of fear filled her mouth. She wanted to sit up but was too terrified that even that infinitesimal movement would attract the attention of… who, exactly?

  Her cloudy mind clicked in time with the clicking in her room. Her room in the house. The house with the portraits. That’s when the terror dissipated like the fog in the morning. Someone must have put her back to bed because she didn’t remember getting into bed. Flames flew up her leg when she moved as if there was a shackle around her ankle. The clicking continued.

  The room had sunk into dusky greys, where even the brightest of colours morphed into a tonal grey, blending into everything else. Where the edges of the rug reached up into the wardrobe and neither object had a beginning nor an end. The walls transformed into window frames and the curtains became an extension of the chair — a hybrid installation more at home in the Museum of Modern Art than a bedroom. An optical illusion, but to Anita’s fevered eyes, it was as if Salvador Dali himself had decorated the room while she slept. Where was that clicking coming from?