A peculiar sense of being watched washed over him and he scanned the empty night. There were no odd sounds or twitching bushes he could see. Still, the unease wrapped itself around him. He’d have one last scout around the house, a quick one, then he’d go. He wouldn’t give the farmer the satisfaction of getting him as well and he wouldn’t be as easy to overpower as Anita, that was certain.
The dining room had nothing of value other than more stacks of artwork Anita had been working on. Two paintings caught his eye; one a delicately rendered painting, devoid of people, a study of a stool by a fireplace, dark and brooding. The perfect thing for a gentleman’s study or office. The other painting was a landscape with a pebbled beach as a backdrop. The upturned hull of a boat dominated the foreground. The landscape brought back fond memories of a childhood spent racing at the local yacht club. Yes, he’d have that one too. He moved them both to the doorway and as he dumped them on the floor, he spied a gold cufflink. Somehow the cufflink had become caught in the gilt fretwork of the frame with the name Abraham scrawled on the reverse. He slid it into his pocket and a fleeting smile dashed across his face.
Through to the drawing room, his eyes lingered on the netsukes he’d admired only the day before. He patted his pocket before realising the broken jade head was no longer there. What had he done with it? It didn’t matter; it was worthless anyway, nothing more than a trinket. Selecting two more at random, he shoved them deep into his pocket.
To the kitchen now, Yvonne had been cataloguing jewellery there. Although he couldn’t remember her finding anything valuable, it never hurt to have a few small pieces of gold tucked away for a rainy day. Gold was such a portable commodity, no one ever questioned the provenance of an old wedding band or an odd cufflink, the usual detritus of a house move or the death of a relative. It wasn’t as if he was hocking off one carat diamond rings regularly.
Scooping up a handful of jewellery, he let the pieces slide through his fingers until he snagged a gate link bracelet with a broken security chain and a gold tie clip. They joined the netsukes in his pocket. A last look in the study and then upstairs to double check Anita wasn’t hiding in her room or in any of the others.
There was nothing of any obvious value in the study and he had no desire to spend the time it would take sorting through hordes of books on the off chance any of them were valuable. He had to get out of this place before the farmer found him.
Striding upstairs, he barged into Anita’s room. It was as he’d left it; the half-charred portrait hanging out of the fireplace, clothes strewn around the floor. Realisation dawned that there was a flaw in his plan so he shovelled Anita’s things into her bag. Damn he was lucky he’d come upstairs. Checking the open wardrobe he batted at the clothes, pawing them to check if Anita had hung anything up. The ancient dust swirled around him, castigating him for disturbing the history hanging on its rails. A violent sneeze wrenched his neck and a shot of pain flew up one side.
Bending to stretch out the pain, he caught sight of something at the back of cupboard. He pulled out a velvet drawstring bag, with enough heft to it to excite him. Hidden treasure. Without checking its contents he added it to his pocket, which now bulged cartoon-like at the front of his pants.
He hurried to check the drawers of the dressing table, the pain in his neck indescribable. The clothes all looked like clothes anyone could own. He had no clue if they belonged to Anita or not. Slamming the drawer shut, he decided it didn’t matter. He’d packed everything which looked modern so now it looked like someone had rifled through it on a baggage carousel, but he could close the zip and that’s all that mattered.
The other rooms contained nothing of value. Callaghan had only half looked, more focused on listening for… the others, the farmer. He didn’t want to be surprised. He knew the value of surprise; that sense of titillation when someone didn’t know you were behind them, watching them. That moment he’d watched Anita sleeping had been exquisite. The waking of her, even more so.
He flinched. What was that? The rustle of paper? Creeping to the edge of the stairs, the front door stood wide, opening to a dark beyond. The patio doors were still open, causing the cold to flood every room. Between them the open doors created a torrential draught. His fingers tingled. The cold. The wind must be playing with some papers somewhere in the house. He persuaded himself to ignore the sound. He’d check upstairs, giving him to chance to see if there was any sign of life on the long driveway and then he’d go. Unbidden, his body shuddered again.
The turret door lay open, sagging on its hinges, moving fractionally in the unseen breeze. Callaghan was no more afraid of going upstairs than he was of his own shadow, yet he still felt as though someone were watching him. That bloody portrait which looked like Yvonne. His mind had persuaded him it was a painting of her. Funny thing the mind, it had the power to delude you regardless of the evidence. He’d dispose of it as soon as he’d checked upstairs. No one would miss one shoddy painting. The painting of Anita though, that he’d keep.
The lantern cast its glow about the room, blinding him as he made it upstairs, rendering outside an impenetrable wall of black. The light illuminated another painting on the easel, the painting of a man he didn’t recognise. Callaghan lifted the lantern off its hook to take a closer look and the light reflected off the paint. The shiny, wet, fresh paint.
Pinned to the chest of the man in the portrait was a diamond brooch, its facets gleaming in the light. The brooch Yvonne had obsessed over before she’d disappeared, before he’d found the painting which looked like her. And the painting of Scott. And Anita.
Chapter 58
Callaghan dropped the lantern and ran down the turret stairs, grabbing Anita’s bag and the portrait of Yvonne as he went. On wings he didn’t have he flew down the stairs, tripping over the bottom step. The bag, the painting, and Callaghan, crashed to the ground. Yvonne’s portrait disintegrated - the suitcase pulverising the stretched canvas. Unseen, a silver ring rolled away from the frame and across the floor, spinning to a stop amongst the other damaged portraits. Yvonne’s silver ring. There could be no salvation for Yvonne now.
Crying out as he landed, he glanced at the ruined portrait before pulling Anita’s bag free from the canvas. His tumble making the strain in his neck ache even more but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. He wished that the effects of the alcohol hadn’t worn off so quickly. He could have done with being far less conscious of what was happening. He’d have a drink at home.
Grabbing the two paintings he’d left in the doorway, he limped to the front door.
“You’re next.”
He spun round but there was no one there. He frowned. He’d heard someone, he was sure. He struggled with the pain inching its way up into his temples. A flicker at the top of the stairs distracted him, the orange flicker of a flame leaking down the hallway. The wood panelling the perfect fuel for a hungry fire. It had been the sound of the flames he’d heard.
It was tempting to hurl Anita’s bag into the fire, then they’d presume she’d died in the blaze. The perfect ending to a tragic tale. That story would be no good if she turned up, although he thought that unlikely. People might think him a monster but he’d never murdered anyone. That he’d thought about it was of no consequence. He wasn’t going to be here when the farmer returned and a fire was just the sort of thing to bring him out from wherever his hellhole of a home was.
He struggled down the steps, into the night, as the fire leapt down the stairs and danced through the dining room into the drawing room, where the twisted faces of the netsukes darkened and cracked under the embrace of the flames.
En masse the ravens took to the sky, their screams reminiscent of a child screaming. Moths flocked towards the flames and Callaghan swatted them away as he limped to Anita’s car, their velveteen bodies scorched by the heat they were so attracted to.
The birds were nowhere near him but their screams were killing him as they swooped on the moths. The pains in his joints crushin
g him.
He threw the paintings into the passenger seat and climbed in behind them. All care of the delicate gilded frames gone now. The screaming of the ravens so loud and so close. He thought he was dying, his neck pain joined by new aches in his arms and legs. He struggled to get the key into the ignition. After two attempts, a burst of music from the radio joined the screams of the ravens. He turned the key and the engine spluttered once and died. He tried again. On his third attempt, the engine took, the rumbling sound still not drowning out the cries of the filthy birds.
He slammed his door shut, cranking up the heat. Everything seemed harder to do, working the clutch and accelerator taking momentous concentration.
The house behind him curtained in flickering orange silk as the flames devoured the old wood. He didn’t see the little girl standing in the doorway, a piece of drawing charcoal in her hand, as she feverishly tried to finish her portrait, her incandescent screams of rage at his escape joining those of the ravens.
He didn’t see Abraham bending to pick up the broken doll. Examining it and realisation of what Ruth had done dawning on his face before he cradled it in his arms as if it were real. As if it were one of his own lost children.
Callaghan could barely focus on the driveway as he manoeuvred his way down the narrow gravel drive disguised by snow and night. Even with his headlights on high, his vision narrowed as though he were looking through a pinhole camera. Unaware as he drove away from the house with her empty frame in his car, that he was pulling Ruth with him; away from the only home she’d ever known and severing the power she possessed.
Callaghan didn’t look back at the conflagration behind him. He was oblivious to the flames licking at the art paper and charcoal pencil Ruth held - the unfinished portrait of Callaghan turning to ash in her tiny hands. He didn’t see the jade dog’s head tumbling from her pocket and shattering in the heat.
But he felt the incredible release of pain, as if he’d been injected with morphine. As the pain disappeared, his vision returned and he pressed harder on the accelerator, all caution gone. He was going home.
Abraham stood next to Ruth. The memories of loss dredged up by the damaged doll, now lost to the flames.
“Daddy,” Ruth cried, hands smeared with charcoal, eyes huge in her terrified face. The acceleration of Callaghan’s car pulling her from her home. Pulling her away from the life she had created for herself and away from the lives she had destroyed for others.
Abraham abandoned the china-faced doll to the hungry fire and took his daughter into his arms. Forgiveness a release.
As Ruth crumpled into her father’s embrace, they vanished. Obliterated by the monster in the car.
Acknowledgments
Authors work best when they’re supplied coffee, wine, and reviews, in that order. If you enjoyed reading PAINTED, please consider leaving a review online. I’ll accept wine, but leaving a review might be easier.
You wouldn’t be reading this book if it weren’t for the support I received from the incredible people in my life.
Firstly, thank you to Fletcher, Sasha and Jetta - my family; for allowing me to travel on this bookish journey. Your support means everything.
To Emma Oakey, my editor, my friend. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I wish you still lived in the same country as me.
Andrene Low, an exceptional author in her own right, answered all my queries and questions at the drop of a hat, or at the many, many, pings of the Facebook messenger app.
Linda Surles. Everyone needs an American eye, and Linda gave me two of hers!
Many grateful thanks also to Vicky Adin for her continuity prowess, and to Kate Sluka for her enviable proofreading skills. Thanks also to Jillian McKenzie for advising me on the art side of things. And thank you to Geraldine Brettell for slapping away the comma’s, among the many other extraneous words.
If I’ve confused anyone with my Antipodean terminology, or spelling, or random words, it is entirely my fault. Linda, Emma, Andrene, Vicky, Jillian, Geraldine and Kate did their best with what they had to work with.
I still think my best typo was writing cellophane instead of cellphone. We should all spend more time creating with cellophane instead of playing on our cellphones xxx
About the Author
For many years Kirsten McKenzie worked in her family's antique store, where she went from being allowed to sell the 50c postcards in the corner of Antique Alley as a child, to selling $5,000 Worcester vases and seventeenth century silverware, providing a unique insight into the world of antiques which touch every aspect of her writing.
Her historical time slip novels, 'Fifteen Postcards' and 'The Last Letter’, are described as The Time Travellers Wife meets The Far Pavilions with a dash of Antiques Roadshow. Or as one reviewer put it, “Antiques Roadshow gone viral.”
Her first horror novel, 'Painted' was released in June 2017.
Now a full time author, she lives in New Zealand with her husband, daughters, and an SPCA rescue cat, and can normally be found procrastinating on Twitter.
For more information:
www.kirstenmckenzie.com
Also by Kirsten McKenzie
Fifteen Postcards
The Last Letter
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