‘Shush, Peter. Now’s not the time.’
‘Mum, she started it, she asked.’
Isabelle sat up. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Izzy, maybe you should lie down. You don’t want to hear your brother’s silly story.’
‘I’m fine. Go on Pete.’
‘Well,’ he said and leant across the table. ‘I was fixing some of the loose bricks when one of them fell out. It left a big hole. When I put my hand into it, I found a black book hidden inside.’ Peter paused.
‘Go on.’
‘Load of old rubbish.’
‘It’s not, Dad. I showed you the thing.’
‘Yes, you did. A funny old thing it is too.’
‘What? Tell me,’ Isabelle said and slapped her hand on the table. Her mother shook her head and cleared the dirty dishes away. ‘Are you going to carry on with your story?’
‘If Dad will let me?’
‘If you must.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Don’t take anything he says too seriously, he has a vivid imagination.’
‘Ron, help me with the washing up.’
‘Okay, I’ll dry,’ Ron said, picked up a tea towel that was hanging over the back of his chair and joined his wife at the sink.
Peter shuffled closer to Isabelle. ‘The book was full of these really weird diary entries. They start at 6th December 1649 and end on 6th January 1650. They didn’t make much sense really, lots of stuff about “The Master, his doings,” and “his black ways will be our downfall,” and the like. All of the entries mentioned a little boy called Roland, who was in some sort of danger. I couldn’t really understand everything; it was a bit flowery, you know, the language. But the last page entry is really spooky.’
‘In what way?’
‘The pages are all charred. You know, like someone tried to burn it.’
Isabelle chewed on her bottom lip. ‘Where’s the book now?’
‘Do you want to see it?’
‘Well, yes.’
Peter put his hand under the tablecloth and pulled out a drawer. He picked up a small blackened, leather bound book, and placed it on the table in front of his sister. Isabelle touched it and drew her hand back quickly. She stared at the red mark on her finger and showed it to her brother.
‘When did you do that?’
‘Just now, when I touched that book.’
‘Very good, Sis. Almost had me there.’ Peter pushed the book towards Isabelle. She leant away from it and began to sniff. Her brother pointed at the relic. ‘Look inside, go on.’
Isabelle shook her head and coughed. Smiling, Peter opened the charred diary. He flicked through the pages and read out an extract. ‘Listen to this, “My darling, Roland, woke from his feverish slumber. The Master was pleased. I did not like the smile he gave me, or the touch of his hand upon my intimate place. I will not unlock my door tonight. I will not let him in.” Good stuff eh? There are loads like that. Then a bit about a gathering and that Roland kid being, “Made ready.”’ Peter grinned at Isabelle. She did not return his smile.
‘What does the second to last page say?’
‘Doesn’t make much sense. Listen, “They will not have him. I will not let them. I will save my darling boy, we will go to heaven.”’
Isabelle began to breathe heavily. She leant forward and coughed. Struggling to take in air she spluttered, ‘Can’t breathe.’ Peter stood and slapped her on the back. Isabelle hacked up black.
‘Yikes, Izzy, have you been smoking?’
Ron turned and stared at his daughter. ‘What’s going on? Are you okay?’
Her mother poured out a glass of water and handed it to Peter, who sat beside his teary-eyed sister. She took the glass from him, sipped the drink and gradually calmed. Her father rubbed his unshaven chin and drew in a long deep breath. ‘Is it the chemo?’ He stroked her hair.
‘Don’t know. They said there would be side effects.’
‘Coughing up tar is one of them?’
‘Maybe, Dad.’
Ron kissed the top of her head and went back to drying dishes. Peter closed the book and put it back into the drawer. Isabelle swallowed down some more water.
‘Finished?’ her mother said. Isabelle nodded. ‘Right, I’ll just wash this then.’
She watched her mother clean the glass and hand it to her father. He rubbed it so hard it nearly shattered. She pinched her nose and closed her eyes, unable to bear the uncomfortable silence. When she opened them again, her family were staring at her as if she was already a corpse. A sharp pain cut through her head. She put her fists against her temples. ‘Stupid headache,’ she said, opened her eyes, and smiled at their concerned faces. ‘I’m okay, really. Pete, why don’t you read some more from that book?’
Peter looked at the floor. ‘Nah, it’s just a stupid old book. I shouldn’t have said anything.'
‘No, you shouldn’t, you’ve upset your sister.’
‘He hasn’t, Dad. I’m just tired from the drive down.’
‘You do look a bit washed out.’
‘You know what? I think I’ll go back to bed for a bit.’
‘Yes, you do that and I’ll give you a shout when it’s lunch time, okay?’
‘Yep, that’s sounds fine. Thanks, Mum.’
Isabelle stood and went back upstairs. On entering her bedroom, she smelled smoke. Sniffing the air trying to identify exactly where the burning odour came from, she moved around inhaling the fumes, following their scent, until she came to the wardrobe. The smell of burning was overpowering, and she pinched her nostrils. Then she reached out with her other hand, took hold of the handle and pulled the wardrobe door open. The smell of burnt flesh blew into her face, she gagged and turned her head away. A sob, juddery, raw, made her turn back to the open wardrobe. It was the panting sound again, only louder. Isabelle knelt down and peered into the blackness of the cupboard. ‘Shush, now, shush.’
The voice pelted out. Isabelle fell back onto her ankles and covered her mouth with her hands. A muffled sobbing came from the place where she had seen the child squatting the night before. She shuffled away and stared at the wall. The yellowing plaster moved in and out like sickly lungs. As she watched, a small mouth appeared. It opened and closed as if trying to suck in air. ‘When can I come out?’
‘What? Who’s speaking?’
‘It’s me mama, Roland. Can I come out now, it’s too hot. I can’t breathe. Mama? Mama, where are you? Mama!’ The child’s voice became hysterical and it shrieked the last, ‘Mama’ so loud that Isabelle thought her eardrums would bleed. She felt something tickle her wrist, looked down and saw the imprints of five small fingers on her skin.
Isabelle rubbed her arm until the marks disappeared. Then a different voice spoke, ‘Shush, now. Just a little longer.’
A low moan came from the skirting boards and crept towards her like a snake. The sound became a long, high-pitched wail as it slithered up her thigh and wrapped itself around her waist, neck and chest. She clutched at her throat and realised the scream came from her open mouth. She fell against the lumpy wall, pressed her ear against it, then placed her hand upon the undulating surface.
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she breathed into the plaster.
A loud shriek caused her to jump. ‘Let me out, Mama!
A frantic scraping, sniffling, whining sound began. Angry, wild as a rabbit caught in a trap, it grew louder and screamed inside her head. Isabelle clutched at her ears and tried to stand. Her legs would not move, as if anchored to the floor by a heavy weight. She tried again, but fell forward onto her hands and knees. Her wig slid from her head and lay on the carpet like a dead rat.
Isabelle lifted her head level to the spot where the childlike whimpering came from and saw the face of a little boy. Its skin was blackened with smoke and grey mucus slid down its singed lips.
‘Mum! Mummy!’ Isabelle called, but the sound did not travel far. Tiny fingers snatched it from her mouth and pulled i
t into the wattle and daub. She pressed her head against the bumpy surface. Her words trailed away, lost amongst the ancient mud and straw.
Her body went limp. She felt a hand against her cheek. It pushed her face against the wall, where it stuck. The lime and mortar crept around her flesh, yanking at her skin, filling her mouth with dust and rotten wood.
She struggled to lift her arms, to get her fingers near her lips, to drag it out, to breathe.
Isabelle choked, coughed and clawed at the filth that was suffocating her. A thin fluid trickled from her nostrils and ears.
Gasping, she felt the hands of a child wrap around her neck and squeeze.
Isabelle stopped breathing.
‘Shush. Shush now. That’s right. Good girl.’
The End
Earnest Thirk
It looked as if the sky had turned to liquid and was running down a tree trunk. The strands of blue flowed into each other forming a tangled, twisted trail that poured down the glass. Stopped from seeping onto the floor by silvered strips of lead attached to the frame. Lola wanted to reach out and touch the window to see if it was actually wet. But there were too many guards around so she put her hands inside her pockets instead.
There was a plate below the artwork with small black letters written upon it. Lola leant forward and squinted.
‘Too small,’ she said and rummaged around in her coat pocket for the spectacles that weren’t there. She stepped back, stared at the intricate swirls of etched-in colour, closed her heavily lashed lids, and heard a male voice say, ‘“The last remaining work by the artist is a testimony to his skill as both a painter and a master in the art of stained glass.” It is beautiful isn’t it?’
She opened her eyes, straightened her back and saw a young man dressed in a grey shirt and black trousers grin at her. She noticed that his teeth were uneven and chipped, and involuntarily covered her mouth with her hand. The man closed his.
Lola offered her gloved fingers to him. He touched the tips with his thumb and forefinger, and bowed.
‘Raphael Bluet.’
‘Lo...Cherise Trent’
‘Oh, I know who you are, you’re, Lola Strutt. I’ve seen all your movies.’
Lola sighed and pulled her hand away.
‘Don’t worry I’m not a stalker or anything.’
‘Really? Then how did you know who I was?’
‘Your disguise isn’t very good. That raincoat is miles too big for you.’
Snorting, she readjusted her blonde wig.
‘I wasn’t following you, I came to see this,’ Raphael said and pointed at the small stained glass window. ‘I’ve never seen anything so, so…fluid whilst remaining solid.’
‘Exactly. You have an artist’s eye Raphael. You must be a fan of his work also?’
‘What there is of it. I’ve only actually seen one sculpture, one painting, and now this window.’
‘I think this is his best piece,’ Lola said and turned back to the glass.
She tilted her head to one side and peered at one particular swirl. The more she stared at it the more it ceased to be an abstract form. Lola bent close and saw that it was an easel. Exactly like the one she used to lean against in-between sittings.
She shifted her gaze to one shape after another. Each time she did so they became something else. The large French doors that led onto his ramshackle garden; the mullion windows that cast a soft light upon her naked body; the thick grey smoke that curled from his Russian cigarettes. Lola blinked and the images faded away.
‘It’s so weird that you’re into this kind of stuff,’ Raphael said.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t see you as the arty type.’
‘I see. We’ve only just met and you think you know me?’
‘Sorry. That was a bit rude.
‘Just a bit. Don’t look so crestfallen, I forgive you. I forgive you because you’re here, and because you understand his work.’
‘I think I do, but what I don’t understand is why he destroyed everything.’
‘Not everything.’
‘Such a waste.’
‘Not to him. Art was more than the object, more than the value of the piece. It was a way of giving himself to the world without actually having to be part of it.’
‘I suppose that was what attracted people to his work. The unattainability. Must have been the only artist to make money out of hearsay.’
‘If people want to pay for art they can never have, then why not give them what they want?’
‘The Emperor’s new clothes.’
‘Except that he did make things. Beautiful things, but they were never good enough. I think he wanted to create something that eluded him.’
‘The sign of a true artist, I guess. I wish I had that kind of discipline. That objectivity.’
‘No, you don’t. You’re young. Be spontaneous. Make mistakes. Enjoy what you do, who you are. Be happy while you can.’
Lola leant forward and felt the heat of Raphael’s breath on her exposed neck. She turned up the collar on her black raincoat and stepped away from him. She had felt such warmth, such proximity before, but it was a long time ago. A time when her flesh looked good in any light. Raphael turned to face her. She avoided his gaze and looked up at the whitewashed walls and ceiling of the gallery.
‘A month ago this was a disused warehouse. An anonymous patron bought it and transformed it into this rather sterile environment. The window looks so alone here, so lost.’ Lola took off her glove and touched the plaque. She let her fingers slide across his name and pressed her palm against the date of his death.
Raphael shuffled his feet and coughed. ‘When I found out that the last of his work was going to be on display, I got really excited. I mean, it’s historic. I thought there’d be more people here.’
‘You missed the rush. The place was packed this morning. They were giving away one hundred avocados dipped in creosote. I was almost crushed in the stampede.’
‘But he did that thirty years ago. I mean he made three then smashed them in front of the Tate. Why would anyone want a reproduction?’
‘Because of the limited supply, and the occasion. You’ll see they’ll be selling for millions in the next few days.’
‘Before they go off.’
Lola smirked. ‘That’s the beauty of it. That’s what art is these days. Hype and illusion.’
‘He’ll be turning in his grave.’
She bowed her head and swallowed.
‘Lola, have you been here all day?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must be his biggest fan.’
‘Perhaps. You too Raphael, by the look on your face.’
‘First time I saw ‘Drops In Anger After The Rush’ I couldn’t sleep for a week. The passion in the strokes, the reds bleeding into one another and the scale…’ Raphael put his hands to his face and stepped back shaking. Lola touched his arm and felt the pounding of his heart thump against her fingertips.
‘You understand.’
He took her hand, pressed it against his forehead and closed his eyes. She stroked the outline of his face, taking note of a small scar above his lip.
‘What happened here?’
Raphael opened his eyes and stared into hers. ‘I got into a fight when I was twelve. Some bloke had the nerve to say that Thirk was an overrated hack. I threw myself at him like a mad dog and he swiped me away. He wore a ring the size of a doorknob and it took a piece off my lip.’
‘That’s loyalty. He would have appreciated that. Although, he would never have condoned the use of violence to defend his good name.’
They both stood back. Raphael twisted his neck, tilted his head and squinted, in order to gain a better perspective of the piece. ‘They said that people actually murdered just to get their hands on his work.’
‘They did. That’s why he stopped. Can you imagine having to live with that kind of guilt? He felt responsible.’
‘So destroyed what was
left?’
‘The only way to stop them.’
‘It must have killed him not to paint, or sculpt, or…’
‘It did.’
A young couple walked in between them. They stood in front of the window and the woman took a camera from out of her shoulder bag. Before she could lift it to take a picture, a guard snatched it from her hands.
‘No pictures. It clearly states that on the poster at the entrance. I’m afraid I’ll have to confiscate this, or ask you to leave.’
The woman put her hands on her hips and said, ‘That is my property. You have no right to…’
‘Come on Gail, it’s not worth it. We’ve seen the thing, let’s just go.’
‘Fine. Don’t know what all the fuss is about anyway. I only came ‘cause you said there would be celebs knocking about. Camera, please,’ Gail said and held out her hand. The guard placed the camera into it and gestured towards the exit. ‘All right, we’re gong.’
The guard nodded to Lola and escorted the couple out of the building.
‘Philistines. He hated that kind of fan. No one knows what he went through to produce a piece. It tore him apart sometimes. ‘Raphael? Are you listening?’
Raphael blinked. ‘I was wondering what the other four pieces were like?’
Lola smiled and touched his arm. ‘There were two sculptures: a bird in flight and an abstract piece depicting earth’s creation. One painting of the sun and a charcoal sketch of a reclining woman.’
‘And they were all stolen right after his death?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose the thief will try and sell them for some ridiculous price.’
‘That won’t happen.’
‘How do you know?’
The lights in the gallery began to flicker, guards looked around the room and spoke into walkie-talkies.
‘I just know.’ Lola took hold of Raphael’s hand. ‘This is very important to me. I promised him that I wouldn’t let them have it. I promised, do you understand?’
‘You knew him?’
‘The sculpture you saw…’
Glimmer and other Stories Page 6