OxCrimes

  The day of the Diamond Jubilee came, and the ex-pats arranged to meet in Celestia’s living room to watch the highlights, where many toasts to the Queen would be proposed. But there was no answer from their usual shave-and-a-haircut knock, and after waiting around outside for a while in confusion they retired to the village square, where Eduardo served them all red wine and ham. It was decided that Celestia had probably gone to visit her sister, and a few mean remarks were made about her thoughtless timing. Lola said that Celestia acted as if she was the queen of the town square.

  A week later, Lily went to the orange grove that ran beside the plaza, to sit and read a book. While she was sprawled there in the shade beneath the orange trees, her mother came looking for her. ‘This just arrived for you,’ she said, handing her a manila envelope that said DO NOT BEND on the cover. ‘It came in a special delivery from England.’

  Lily screwed up one eye at the envelope. ‘What is it?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said her mother, sitting down under the tree beside her. ‘Well go on, open it.’

  Lily carefully unstuck the flap and withdrew two stiff sheets. The first was embossed with the royal crest of Buckingham Palace and read;

  Dear Celestia Kerr (just the name was handwritten)

  I am instructed by Her Majesty the Queen to accept the present of a Union Jack which you sent Her Majesty.

  The Queen thought it was kind of you to wish her well on the occasion of her Diamond Jubilee and would like to thank you for this thoughtful gesture.

  Yours sincerely, (There followed an unreadable handwritten name that might have been Annabel Fitz-Something).

  Lady In Waiting

  ‘But I didn’t send the Union Jack,’ said Lily. ‘Caterpillars can’t make silk.’

  ‘No,’ said her mother, ‘but the ladies of the village can. I think they made it for you.’

  And there on the second page was a photograph of the Queen walking among children outside Buckingham Palace, with a wonkily knitted Union Jack among the gifts displayed on the railings behind her.

  ‘You made something good happen, Lily,’ said her mother, sounding rather wistful.

  Lily laughed, and ran all the way to Celestia’s house. As she passed the church rockery, she imagined a hundred red, white and blue butterflies dislodging themselves from their branches to flutter about her head.

  She knocked on Celestia’s door but there was no answer, so she pushed open the letterbox flap and looked in. Once her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, she could make out the legs of a tipped-over chair, and something glittering on the sun-pooled kitchen floor, green shards of a wine bottle. The red wine had dried out on the sunny tiles and looked like a bloodstain. It seemed strange, because Celestia was usually very tidy.

  On her way home, she passed by the back of Celestia’s neighbour’s house and was surprised to find the yard door standing wide open. Shyly walking up the path and peering inside, she saw that although most of the living room furniture was still there, the tablecloth and sideboard photographs had all gone. The rooms felt still and empty.

  The next few days were odd; cars came and went. There were stern-looking strangers in Eduardo’s café. The women stopped talking whenever Lily walked near them. She sensed that Celestia would not be coming back, but it came as a shock to think that she might be dead.

  The town square looked wrong without her.

  Lily walked through the bare little cemetery behind the church. The ground was too seared and arid to be dug out, and most of the residents had been placed in raised tombs, surrounded by votive offerings of dried-out flowers and bleached photographs. Now a new one had appeared, much smaller than the rest; a white marble square with a little metal pot on it, awaiting a plaque. She remembered what Celestia had said about nature always doing what it needed to do, and realised, with a terrible sensation sinking into her heart, what might have happened.

  Lily’s father was away and her mother was too busy, so she went to the stone-setting by herself. She sat with Maria Gonzales and Lola, and some of the ex-pats. The priest had nothing much to say, and the service was thankfully short. Afterwards Eduardo served free lemonade in the café. People seemed relieved somehow, as if an awkward matter had finally been resolved.

  Lily wondered about the diamond. She made a point of pinning the photograph of the Queen and the caterpillar flag to the whitewashed wall outside Maria Gonzales’ shop, so that Celestia would not be forgotten. There it remained for almost a month, until someone backed into it, knocking a hole right through to the organic jams.

  LOUISE WELSH is the author of six novels, most recently The Girl on the Stairs (2012) and A Lovely Way to Burn (2014). She has received several awards and international fellowships. She was born in London in 1965 to Scottish parents and spent the first year of her life in the city. Louise lives in Glasgow with the writer Zoë Strachan.

  Reflections in Unna

  Louise Welsh

  Hugh’s job was to look, listen and record, but he was barely aware of the scent of gluhwein spicing the chill air or the crush of shoppers busying the Christmas market, as he made his way across Unna’s main square. Hugh’s mind was full of curses and calculations. His credit card had been rejected in a restaurant the previous night, and his unpaid hotel bill burned beside the slim fold of euros in his wallet.

  ‘Fuck!’

  His breath clouded the air and Hugh realised that the word had escaped his lips. The realisation broke the spell, plunging Hugh back into the world of cold and colour. Beside him a clutch of merry drinkers, faces as red as their Santa hats, raised their glasses in a toast that set them all laughing. Hugh stared. Now his awareness had returned it was as if he could distinguish every atom of Unna. One of the drinkers gave a rumbling addendum to the toast. Hugh saw the plump tongue inside the man’s mouth, the scrofulous flakes beneath the start of new stubble, the woollen scarf, remnant of some previous Christmas, tucked around a neck that was loose on its bones. The drinker caught his gaze, but Hugh had already turned away, distracted by the ding of the fire engine on the children’s carousel. The carousel was ribboned with flashing lights that sent the children’s faces red, yellow, green, blue and then back to red again, their features puckered with delight. They screamed and hooted like a clan of miniature devils. Hugh saw the parents waiting on the sidelines and wondered how they could bear to see their children’s features so distorted.

  He was colder than he’d ever been. He thought again about his hotel bill, the fee that was no longer going to save him. It had been stupid to set off for the Ruhr before the editor of the in-flight magazine had given him definite confirmation, but her reaction to his proposed feature had seemed so enthusiastic and his need for a commission had been so great that Hugh had broken the golden rule of travel journalism and embarked before his expenses had been assured.

  He rubbed a hand through his thinning curls. He should go back to his hotel, but the thought of the empty room with its double bed stayed him. It was better to remain out here, amongst the noise and the people. But he was so cold.

  It wasn’t simply that this commission had folded. Newspapers were reeling from the assault of the Internet and making cuts wherever they could. Guidebooks were in trouble too. The virtual world had skewed reality. People preferred to trawl the web for star ratings from anonymous tourists, who probably knew as little about the country as they did. Hugh hadn’t had a decent assignment for a year. He’d jumped at this chance because he thought it might be his last. In the end it wasn’t even that.

  He stopped at a display of colourful woollen hats. His head was so cold he felt his brain may freeze. The hats were equipped with pompoms and earflaps and decorated with stripes, dots and zigzags. Some of them bore the outlines of animals that may have been reindeer. Their bright patterns reminded him of a trip he’d taken to Peru a decade ago. For a moment the clanging bell on the carousel became the clank of the bell tethered around a yak’s neck as it wandered slowly up a mount
ain pass towards milking. He saw the edge of a valley where he and his guide had spent the night, remembered the warmth of the place, the air that expanded your lungs rather than shrunk them with cold.

  Hugh favoured sombre clothes but suddenly he desperately wanted one of the hats. He lifted a yellow and green one and caught the stallholder’s eye.

  ‘How much?’

  The hat seller was wrapped in a Puffa jacket filled with goose down. He had a woollen scarf tucked neatly around his neck and one of his own hats on his head. His gloves were fingerless, the better to handle money. He rubbed his hands together then blew on his fingertips.

  ‘Thirty euros.’

  Hugh pressed the hat between his fingers, feeling the rough yield of the wool, he could barely think for cold, but he replaced it.

  The stallholder nodded, as if he had known all along that the price would be too high. He took a red patterned tammy complete with knitted bobble from beneath the counter.

  ‘Only five euros.’

  It was a poor copy of the hats on display, made with cheap synthetic fibres rather than the good thick wool Hugh had coveted, but he reached into his pocket and counted out the last of his change. He waved away the seller’s offer of a bag and pulled the hat onto his head. Hugh knew he looked ridiculous, but he no longer cared.

  He walked away from the market square, down one of the side streets. It was a remnant of the old town, narrower and more curved than most of Unna’s roads, hinting at a medieval past. Most of the shops that lined the street were dark, but here and there a restaurant window glowed, amber and inviting. Hugh caught glimpses of diners gathered around tables, he thought of duck breast and red cabbage, dumplings and foaming beer. But, hungry as he was, he would have exchanged the prospect of a meal in return for some company.

  There were still a hundred euros in his wallet, too little for his needs, but more than enough to buy a drink and some fellowship. He remembered a kneipe he’d passed earlier. He’d almost decided to retrace his steps when he saw the painting.

  The shop was tiny, no more than a door in the wall next to a window grimed with neglect, but beyond the glass a light burned bright. Hugh crossed the street and tried the door. It opened and a bell tinkled as he entered.

  The old man behind the counter gave him a suspicious look, but Hugh’s father had been a dealer in art and antiques and he was used to the wariness of the second-hand trade. Hugh examined a balding china doll whose perfectly rendered teeth turned her smile into a snarl, a plaster cast of a long-dead toddler’s tiny foot and a china jug decorated with cavorting nymphs. He took his time, just as his father had taught him to on the long excursions around the countryside which had first awoken Hugh’s love of travel. He asked the price of each piece before moving on with the smile of someone considering a purchase. Finally he tipped the hand of a metronome. Only then, to a tick, tick, tick, tick set in slow time, did Hugh pick up the small oil painting.

  It was a portrait of a young woman brushing her hair in a mirror. The precision of the artist’s brush strokes had rendered the girl’s image almost photo-clear, but its impossible perspective countered any thoughts of realism. The crazy angles revealed both the girl and her reflection, and this was where the real strangeness struck, because although the girl and her mirror image seemed the same person, the face in the glass was altered, transforming sweetness into cunning.

  Hugh caught his breath. He felt the proprietor’s eyes on him and realised he’d been staring at the picture for too long. He set it down and started flicking through a shoebox filled with photos of the no-longer-dear departed. Finally Hugh turned towards the door. Only when his hand was on the knob, the bell poised to announce his departure, did he ask, ‘How much is the painting of the girl?’

  The shopkeeper’s rheumy eyes seemed to stare above Hugh’s head, no not above his head, but at the silly hat still perched upon it. He moved his jaw, as if trying to work up enough saliva to speak, and then whispered, ‘One euro, Sir.’

  Hugh’s father had impressed upon him that a surprisingly low price could be as unattractive as an extortionate one. Sure, a bargain wasn’t always bad news. The dealer might be broke, or have spotted something he thought he could make a bigger killing on elsewhere and need to raise enough cash to buy it. But an unexpectedly good deal could also be a sign that the piece had been come by dishonestly. And that could lead to trouble.

  ‘It’s like paying pass the parcel with a bomb son. Sooner or later it’ll blow up in someone’s face. You don’t want it to be yours and the best way to avoid that is by not getting involved.’

  The price the old man had asked for was ridiculous. Even if the antique dealer didn’t know the true value of the painting he had surely thought it of some worth when he’d put it in the window.

  Hugh said, ‘That’s too low.’

  But the dealer had already taken the painting from the display and was wrapping it in a sheet of newspaper. He thrust the package at Hugh.

  ‘Here.’

  In his heart Hugh knew something was awry. But he reached into his wallet and took out one of the two fifty euro notes tucked within. The old man’s hand shook as he counted the change onto the counter.

  Hugh let the door swing shut. He looked back at the shop and saw the antique dealer watching him through the murky window. The old man caught his eye and started back into the darkness beyond. Hugh shook his head and grinned, all his misgivings forgotten. He felt jubilant. The painting was his passage out of trouble. With its help he would pay his hotel bill. More than that, it had suggested a new path to him. He could take on his father’s profession for a while, hold onto the rental car he’d hired and search the towns of the Rhur for antiques he might sell once he got back to London. It was the first time in a long time he’d been able to think of the future. Hugh hugged the painting to his chest.

  There was something familiar about the silhouette of the stranger walking up the street towards him. As he drew closer Hugh realised what it was. The man was wearing the same ugly hat as himself. He laughed out loud and raised his hand in greeting, as a man might hail a passer-by when he’s drunk enough to believe the whole world his friend. But the stranger kept his head down and strode on. As Hugh approached the top of the street he heard the distant tinkle of a shop bell, but his mind was on the good fortune that awaited him and he thought nothing of it.

  He had almost reached his hotel when he heard footsteps ringing against the pavement. Hugh turned and saw a man of about his own height sprinting towards him. He knew no one in Unna, and his urge was to run, but Hugh held his ground, gripping the painting firmly at his side, balling his free hand into a fist. The man halted about a metre away. He had thinning curly hair and a broad pleasant face which relaxed into a smile. Despite the swiftness of his approach his breaths were even and shallow and Hugh blessed the instinct which had told him not to try to outrun the stranger.

  The man held up his hand to indicate that he meant no harm and said, ‘I think you may have something that belongs to me.’

  Hugh noticed a flash of red sticking out of the man’s suit pocket, a pompom that matched the silly hat he’d bought in the Christmas market. ‘I doubt it.’ He tightened his grip on the painting and walked towards the glass front of his hotel.

  The stranger jogged swiftly to his side.

  ‘My grandfather’s losing his wits, old age is cruel. The painting was already promised to someone else.’

  Hugh felt a flash of shame, but penury had made him desperate. They had reached the pool of light thrown onto the pavement from the hotel’s foyer. Hugh faced the man and asked, ‘What will you give me for it?’

  The man looked beyond Hugh, into the hotel lobby where a group of businessmen were introducing themselves to each other, full of smiles and bonhomie.

  ‘A hundred euros.’

  It was nowhere near what the painting was worth, nowhere near enough to cover his bill. Feeling like a thief Hugh said, ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  The man
moved out of the gloom. His face was arctic pale, his mouth a colourless gash. His overcoat flapped open, exposing the maker’s label on the inside pocket, and within that a glint of metal, scalpel-bright. He stepped closer still and the light of the hotel illuminated the blood splattered across the front of his shirt.

  Hugh saw the horrid redness. He moved towards the stranger, his own mouth thick and stupid saying, ‘You’re hurt’. Then just as quickly he found himself jerking away, as he remembered the man’s athletic sprint, his easy breath, and realised that the blood decorating his chest belonged to someone else.

  There was a sudden bustle of heat and chatter behind him. The businessmen had finished their introductions and were leaving the lobby. Hugh said, ‘I’ll return it to your grandfather myself first thing in the morning, no charge.’ He pushed through the departing group and into the neon brightness of the reception, retrieved his key from the desk clerk and ran up the fire escape, feet clattering against the metal as he took the stairs two at a time.

  Hugh’s hotel room was almost, but not quite dark. He lay on the bed with the unwrapped painting propped on his stomach and stared into the eyes of the girl and her reflection. It was hard to tell which of the faces was the most beautiful. They both had ebony black hair, pale skin livened with the slightest touch of rose, red lips dark as vampire’s desire and green eyes in which wide black pupils gleamed. Perhaps the mirror held no glass and the other girl was an evil, almost-twin smiling though an empty frame.

  Hugh glanced at chair he’d propped against the locked door to his room. The wisest course would have been to surrender the painting to the stranger, but now that he was alone with it he felt mesmerised. He traced his fingers lightly over the artist’s initials; GL.

  Gustav Loring had been a rising star in a German art movement outlawed as decadent in the late thirties. He’d left for America just before he was obliged to sew a pink triangle to his coat and once there had made his way to Los Angeles where he had discovered a talent for set design. Loring had been on the cusp of a lucrative career when he’d crashed his car on the way home from a party in the Hollywood Hills, killing himself and scarring the promising young actor in the passenger seat so badly that he was forced to play villains for the rest of his career.