And so close he would have bet his life on it—quiet but deep: “Would you like to hear another?” followed by a soft coo like some bird.
The man’s voice had to be Farquar, the primitive bastard! So this was his sense of humour. It had to be Farquar. Galveny was thinking fast. Stabbing Farquar in the back now was impossible, and gunning the man down would have needed that poacher to do the work. The only thing for it was to return the next night, alone. Not entering the forest, of course, but by skirting its edges, Galveny reckoned he could set fire to the blighted place, with Farquar trapped in it proper, like an ape in a cage.
Galveny opened his mouth to demand release when something tickled his right ear, and into it poured a warm, moist, low, musical, pitiless chuckle.
His mind, already crazed, shattered. The wire in his left ear drove in further.
Maybe he closed his eyes—he was beyond knowing.
He felt the fetid breath of the forest drip into his every pore.
He heard the swishing hiss of a cobra.
The yipping of a fox.
The love-gurgles of turtledoves.
Strains of a current craze-song for a fox-trot, words and music that bore into you.
A man’s conversational syllables, deep as stones dropped in a well.
A ripple of woman’s laughter.
But perhaps his last feast of sensations was of smell—that most restoring of all cups—a cup of tea with a kick in it. His nostrils dilated. Hot with a drop of something ineffable—sweet, rough, strong.
* * *
Bite and burrow, swell and rot. The flesh is weak, but the rods have never weakened. His skeleton is held bolt upright in that impenetrable tangle.
Chiaroscuro
Charlotte Kieft
Chiaroscuro
Melanie Gibbs: second solo exhibition
Opening
Thursday 30th April, 7pm
Venue
Basement, Dougall-MacMillan Building
Sue stared at the invite to her sister’s new exhibition, then at the crumbling stairs in front of her. Basement? I guess that meant she had to go down. Not that the staircase looked that safe, with only a flimsy wrought iron bannister for protection from the long descent into darkness. She shivered as she clacked down on her teetering heels, the temperature dropping with each step.
When she was about half way down, Sue heard voices above her.
“It makes sense that Mel would have her opening in a converted toilet,” a voice sneered. “I love her dearly, Roger, but we all know that’s where her paintings belong.”
Sue recognised the round vowels of Fi, Mel’s old boss from the Wellington City Gallery, and gritted her teeth. Bloody bitch.
The stairwell took another turn and opened onto a landing where light poured through a doorway. She raised her eyebrows as she peered into the room beyond.
Her sister’s new flat-cum-studio-cum-gallery appeared to be a converted bathroom: an ancient porcelain urinal stretched along one wall, followed by three cracked hand basins. The floor was chipped blue and white Moorish tiles, with an elaborate metal grate in the centre. The room’s small windows were frosted glass, high up on the walls. Candelabras stood strategically around the room, their dancing flames illuminating where the dim electric bulbs couldn’t reach. And all along the walls lurked dark paintings.
A dozen guests were already circling the artworks, the buzz of their talk reaching Sue where she stood. She smiled in surprise and delight. So the paintings were more of a draw card than the wine and snacks this time? It was better than could be said for Mel’s first solo opening.
Her sister hurried over. “You said you’d be here early!” She blinked, as if fighting tears.
“Didn’t you get my text?” Sue held up her phone. “There was an emergency at work. I had to call in some favours to get here at all.”
“I bet if I’d designed a new smartphone, you’d have found a way to be her on time.” Her sister’s eyes were wide and wounded. “You’ve never seen the value of art—or supported my dream of being a full time artist. All you care about is that stupid security firm you work for.”
“Oh dear. I do hope we’re not interrupting something.” Fi glided through the doorway, her immaculately groomed husband trailing in her wake like the ultimate accessory.
“Give one of these to everyone as they come through the door.” Mel thrust a stack of flyers at Sue. “That’s if you can spare me the time away from your ‘real work.’” She turned her back to her sister and addressed her guest. “Darling! So good of you and Roger to come.”
They exchanged air kisses.
“What an a-mazing place?” Fi waved a slender hand. “Very Morocco meets Warhol.”
“It’s one of the oldest stone structures still standing in Wellington.” Mel gave a brittle laugh. “It’s been declared an earthquake-prone building. Officially no one’s meant to be here,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “but, seeing as it’s empty, the owner’s letting me work—and live—here in exchange for a painting.”
Fi raised a plucked eyebrow. “He actually likes your Spring Gelati Collection? You know, my dear, I always thought it sounded more like the name of a teen fashion line than an exhibition.”
Mel flushed. “Not those paintings! One of my new ones.”
Desperate to defuse the tension, Sue looked at the flyers for inspiration. “You’ve called this one Chiaroscuro. What does that even mean?”
“It’s a Renaissance painting term”—Fi rolled her eyes—“referring to the use of strong contrast between the light and the dark.”
“Hmmm.” Sue smiled blankly and nodded.
“Like Raphael,” Roger prompted.
Sue shrugged. “I thought all paintings were about contrast?”
Fi gave an exaggerated sigh. “Sometimes I find it hard to believe you two are related.” She hooked her fingers into the curve of Mel’s arm. “Now, why don’t we go take a look at these . . . chiaroscuri?”
* * *
Sue examined the last of the paintings, disquiet gnawing at her belly. Her sister’s new works were certainly . . . different. Every one of them included the figure of Mel herself, but the backgrounds were dark and shadowed, with her sister’s pale skin the only patch of light. Sometimes Mel was pictured alone in subterranean passageways, wandering as though lost. Other times, she was just standing there, head hung low, face pallid. In one, strange shadowy shapes surrounded her. And what could be glimpsed was the stuff of nightmares: misshapen creatures with clawed hands and malevolent eyes that glowered out of the canvas.
“Mel, darling, this is astonishing work.” Fi’s voice was audible from across the room.
Sue glared at her, suspecting sarcasm, but both she and Roger seemed genuinely entranced. And, for once, she had to agree with her sister’s friend. The artworks were beautiful—but the subject matter sent the hairs on the nape of her neck prickling.
“Did you see who just arrived?”
Sue jumped at the voice in her ear, her heart thundering. She hadn’t noticed Mel sidle up.
“Beauden Barnett!” Her sister’s voice was shrill with excitement.
“What? The rugby player?” Sue stood on her tiptoes and scanned the crowd. “Have you seen him in action? Now there’s a work of art!” She snorted. “By the way, I think you’ll find his name is Barrett, not Barnett.”
“Not the All Black.” Mel pouted. “The famous art dealer! His blog ‘art:i:face’ has a huge worldwide following.”
Sue followed the direction of her sister’s gaze to a cadaverous man with a shock of silver hair. He was dressed in a T-shirt that declared ‘Art is dangerous’ and skinny black jeans shot with metallic thread. He stood in front of the paintings, an intense expression on his face as he tapped a fountain pen against his lips.
“Do you think he likes them?” Mel squeaked.
Sue shrugged. “How would you tell? He’s so full of Botox I doubt his face can show any expression, approving or otherwise.
”
Her sister let out a high-pitched giggle, and then turned away. “Oh God. He’s coming over.”
“Beauden.” He tucked the pen behind his ear and held out two skeletal hands to her sister.
“Mel. Melanie.” She handed her drink to Sue, and then hesitantly offered her palms.
He grabbed them both and squeezed. “What a marvellous exhibition. Chiaroscuro, but with a definite emphasis on the dark.” He gave the shadow of a wink. “A far cry from your previous offering. But tell me.” He pulled a notebook and retrieved his Montblanc from behind his ear. “What changed? Why this sudden about turn—from Pretty Pretty to Edgar Allen Poe. Do you have something I can share with my readers?”
Mel swallowed and raised her eyes to the ceiling as if searching for inspiration. “When . . . when I left my job at the Wellington Art Gallery to paint full time, I was so full of optimism. I knew no one thought I’d make it—but I was sure I could prove them wrong. But then I had my first exhibition and it was universally panned.” She shook her head, her eyes flicking to Beauden then away again. “It was the lowest point of my life. For ages, I couldn’t paint; couldn’t even get out of bed.”
“So the dark mood of these paintings arose from the initial failure?” Beauden scribbled away in his notebook, his eyes glittering.
Sue scowled. Now she remembered him—this Beauden Barnett had written a scathing review. Her sister had cried for days after reading it.
“It was from the depths of such despair, that all my pretence was stripped away,” Mel continued, “and I was finally free to paint at a level I’d always believed I was capable of—even if no one else did.”
‘Fabulous.’ Beauden pulled a business card from his pocket. “How long before you can paint . . . let’s see . . . twelve more.”
“Wh . . . what?” she squeaked. “You mean me?”
He gestured towards the easel in an unlit corner of the room. “I’ll need more paintings like these if I’m to get you ‘out there.’ There’s an opening at the Windmill Gallery in three months time. Let’s take your Chiaroscuro out of the darkness and into the light.”
Mel raised her hands to her mouth. “An exhibition? At your gallery?”
Sue put her arm around her sister’s shoulders, forcing herself to smile. “Looks like that dream of yours is coming true, after all.” She tried to keep her tone light, but all the while her eyes roamed across the canvases and her feeling of unease grew. Surely creating such haunting images came at a cost?
* * *
Sue knocked on the door to Mel’s basement flat. No response. She glanced at her watch. 11.20am. Her sister couldn’t still be asleep, could she?
Two months had passed since the chiaroscuro opening and they’d hardly seen each other since. This last week, Mel hadn’t even been responding to her texts or emails. As Sue happened to be in the area for work, she decided it was time to pop in and check on her sister.
“Open up! It’s me!”
She tried the handle, grimacing when the door swung inwards. Why had Mel asked her to put that extra lock on if she wasn’t even going to use it?
“Who’s there?” Her sister moved towards the door, her arm raised to shield her eyes.
“For God sake, put some clothes on!” Sue averted her gaze, but not before she had seen the thin streaks of paint slashed across her sister’s naked torso.
“What?” Mel looked down and shrugged. “I had my nightie on when I went to bed.” She gestured to the white cotton shift lying on the floor.
Sue flicked on the lights. For all the good it did. “Here. Put this on.” She threw a fleecy dressing gown at Mel.
“My body. The paint . . . ” Half-clad in the dressing gown, Mel rushed over to the easel and clapped her hands with delight. “It’s happened again!”
Sue frowned. “What’s the big deal? You’re an artist, remember? It’s not that surprising to find a painting or two lying around.”
Mel moved closer to the easel, her head tilted to one side. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She traced her own outline with her fingertips, a smile playing across her lips.
“Whatever happened to modesty?” Sue huffed, but then her gaze fell on the painting. “Oh my God.” She swallowed convulsively. “How are you going to explain that one to Beauden?”
“He’ll love it. I love it. Don’t you?” Her sister’s voice was brittle.
Sue took a deep breath. Remember. Be encouraging. “It’s very . . . ” The words caught in her throat and she shook her head. “Jesus, Mel. It’s so like gazing into the darkness and realising there’s nothing—nothing good or kind—out there.” She searched her sister’s face, taking in her lank hair, sunken cheeks and the dark rings under her eyes. “What’s going on? Are you depressed? You’re not on drugs, are you? I know lots of artists use them for inspiration—”
“Of course not!” Her sister stalked over to her tattered armchair and slumped into its embrace. “I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m finally living my dream.”
Sue gestured towards the painting. “Why the hell would someone who’s ‘fine’”—she made air quotes—“paint something like that?”
“Why? That’s the least of my worries.” Mel threw her head back and stared up at the ceiling. “At this point, I don’t even know how I did it.”
“What are you talking about?” Sue frowned.
Mel pulled her knees up to her chest. “Every night since I’ve moved here, I’ve slept badly. And when I’d wake, I’d feel drained.” She bit her lower lip. “The strangest thing of all was in the morning my body would be streaked with paint, as you see me now. And on the easel would be a painting that hadn’t been there before.”
“What?” Sue screwed up her face. “That makes no sense.”
“Tell me about it.” Her sister sighed loudly. “At first, I thought someone was sneaking in here at night after I’d gone to sleep. Yeah, I know. It sounds crazy. Who’d break in and paint?”
“Ah!” Sue drew upright. “So that’s why you got me to install the extra lock?”
“But the paintings continued.” Mel chewed her lip. “All I can think of is that I must be doing them in my sleep. That I’ve tried for so long to be this great painter, I’ve smothered all my talent in my waking life. So my subconscious has taken over and I can only paint when my conscious is dormant.”
Sue barked out a laugh. “Really? Sleep painting? Is that what you’re going with?”
“Trust you to be so sceptical,” her sister spat out. “Don’t you remember how I used to sleep walk as a child?”
Sue nodded, feeling a stab of guilt. She’d promised herself she’d be more supportive, but sleep painting? The idea was ridiculous. She crouched down by the armchair and took her sister’s hands in hers. “Look. Why don’t you come and stay with me for a while? Beauden’s put you under a lot of pressure—and living in this . . . this . . . toilet can’t be helping your state of mind. My place is big enough. And a damn sight more comfortable.”
“Come and stay in your Churton Park McMansion?” Mel’s lip curled. “It may be more ‘comfortable’, but it’s got no creative energy. This place inspires me. Since I moved here, I’ve started to really paint. I’ve only two weeks and one final artwork to do. Beauden’s counting on me. I’ve got to do that painting. No matter what.”
Sue’s gaze slid to the canvas and she shivered. “Then at least let me help?” she suggested in a softer voice. “How about I get the techs from my firm to set up a security camera in here?”
Mel snorted. “Are you crazy? I don’t want those nerds spying on me.”
Sue lent forward. “I’m the only person who’ll have access to the feed—and the recordings will remain your intellectual property.” She gave an encouraging smile. “Just think—this way we can solve the mystery of how you’ve been creating your masterpieces.”
Mel sat bolt upright, her eyes shining. “What a fantastic idea! We can show the footage at the exhibition—the artist live-streaming her dreams o
nto the canvas. I can’t wait to tell Beauden!”
Sue sighed with relief. At least she’d find out what was really going on with her sister. And she’d bet her McMansion it wasn’t sleep-painting.
* * *
Sue stifled a yawn as she drove down the Hutt motorway towards the city. She’d been working 16 hours straight. It was 2.30am and no one else was on the road—just her and the harbour and the glittering lights of Wellington. She idly swiped her finger across her tablet, which sat in its cradle on the dashboard, to bring up the camera in her sister’s flat. Not that she expected to see anything. The techs had installed the camera two nights ago and none of the footage so far had shown any sign of sleep painting. She smiled as she saw her sister on screen, fast asleep on the fold out couch, curled in on herself.
“Lying down on the job again?” She barked out a laugh. “What’s happened to that busy subconscious?”
The flicker of movement was so unexpected, she didn’t see it at first. But then it happened again.
“What the fuck?!”
Sue slammed on the brakes, sending the tablet flying and her car fishtailing across the motorway until it came to a screeching halt mere centimetres from the guard rail. She raised her hands to her chest. Her heart felt like it was trying to stampede out of her rib cage.
“I must be more tired than I thought,” she muttered out loud to break the silence.
Sue picked up the tablet and swiped her finger across it to bring it back to life.
The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2014 (Volume 5) Page 42