by Janet Pywell
The thread of my conversation is sliced with finality like a guillotine separating a head from its body and I sit wondering what to say but it is Josephine who speaks next.
‘He was living with Glorietta Bareldo when I met him. Glorietta and I were rivals in every sense of the word and that was the final straw for us both.’ A frown creases her forehead giving her a slightly puzzled air and she sighs. ‘It’s not a secret. It’s all on the Internet.’
‘Karl Blakey wrote about you. You have an injunction against him.’
‘If he comes near me again I would be capable of killing him,’ she replies. She looks fragile and far too ill to murder anyone but I contemplate the extent of her hatred for this man as I take deep gulps of my pint.
I deliberately smack my glass on the table and wipe my mouth on the back of my arm willing her to squirm at my uncouth manners. ‘I read about your career and your rise to fame and how you turned to cocaine. Then you went to Italy to make your comeback for the role of Tosca. I even listened to you singing…’
‘You bought the CD?’
‘I listened on iTunes…’
‘Did you like it?’
‘Can’t bear it.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t understand it.’ I pick dismissively at my burger. Why does she make me feel as if I need her approval?
‘I Googled you, too,’ she smiles. ‘You are well known in the art world. You have a very good reputation.’ She hides her fish under mashed potato. She has barely eaten a thing.
‘You don’t strike me as a woman who spends a lot of time on the computer.’
‘I don’t have much else to do these days.’ She stares defiantly at me and any sympathy I have for her instantly disappears.
‘You have, Andreas.’
‘Thankfully yes. He is a diligent student. Remarkably well educated and extremely polite – all the qualities I admire in a person.’
I don’t reply and we order coffee from the hovering waitress.
Outside it begins to drizzle and the Thames rises, lapping in small swells and I remember sitting outside in the summer and when it was high tide how the water came up beyond our seats.
‘I do love London. I have been here many times. I have an affinity for this city.’ She tells me how she sang in the Royal Albert Hall, the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden and at the London Coliseum in St Martin’s lane. We talk about London, the West End, the markets and the museums. She seems reticent and thoughtful and I wonder if she misses the fame and adoration of her past.
As we leave the restaurant I indicate the old tidemark on the wall. ‘The Thames rises to here at high tide.’
‘I never knew that.’
I point to the tables and benches. ‘We have to move inside and all the footpath gets flooded too. I’m surprised you don’t know this. You seem to know London so well.’
‘It was a different time. I was always working, rehearsing, training and practising. There was no time for enjoyment.’
‘I thought that had been your downfall – wasn’t that the problem?’ Her head turns away but not before I see a flash of stark regret in her eyes and I am ashamed. ‘Javier tells me that you have an emotional attachment to the city,’ I add to make amends.
She looks around as if considering this statement and her eyes travel along the river. She walks carefully carrying her right arm across her stomach as if protecting herself and I consider taking her arm but she walks on ahead of me.
‘You know Javier’s family well?’ she asks, when I catch her up.
‘I haven’t seen them for a few years. He has two younger brothers who are very different.’
‘He’s lucky to have a kind family.’
‘They don’t always get on.’
‘Why?’
‘His father remarried and the boys are from his second wife.’
She seems to consider this. ‘And your family?’
‘My parents were bikers. They travelled around Europe. They had no roots. I was just extra baggage. Mama wasn’t the maternal type. Why they had me is a mystery. Papa says she was jealous of me but I don’t know why. She was young and beautiful and she had everything.’
‘Do you see them often.’
‘My mother died when I was fourteen.’
Her step falters and she touches my arm. ‘I’m sorry–’
‘It is a time that I don’t talk about.’ I walk on ahead. I am not interested in her pity but I rub my fingers across Scream on my forearm.
‘You must have loved her a lot.’ She catches me up.
‘I hated her.’
We walk in silence with only the clipping of her heels, the rowing Cox and a tired Jumbo for company until she says. ‘And your father?’
‘He’s a mechanic.’
‘Here?’
‘In Malaga – he has a garage – he repairs motorbikes. Javier will be home soon,’ I say, glancing at my watch and I have a feeling that, like me, she can’t wait to see him.
I have done my best. I have been friendly and I have revealed more of me than I had intended – purely to make amends for Dresden. I have tried but we have nothing in common. She clearly adores Javier and if she befriends me then she is a step closer to him and I feel a sudden surge of loathing and revulsion toward her just as I did toward Mama and I suddenly want to be on my own.
As we come out of Ship Alley a white van is parked in front of my flat. Its back doors are open and Roy is carrying one of Mrs Green’s cabinet display cases. I slow down and wait for him to go back inside. I want to avoid him but I also want to know what he is doing with her furniture and where he is going. She’s barely been dead twenty-four hours.
‘Is everything alright?’ Josephine asks.
I’m unlocking the front door when Annie appears in the doorway. She stops abruptly at the sight of me and is about to speak but Roy’s voice shouts out from inside. She places a finger to her lips and disappears inside toward the direction of his voice.
Josephine witnesses our exchange and raises an eyebrow but I ignore her and inside the flat I throw open the patio doors. Cool air rushes in and I turn up the heating.
‘It smells of paint. Are you decorating?’ she asks.
‘Annie, the girl next door has been painting.’
‘Nice colour.’
‘Her mother-in-law lived next door and she passed away yesterday. So now I don’t know if the rest of the apartment will get painted. She was supposed to do the hallway and the two bedrooms but now…well, I don’t know what will happen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Wait a second.’ I leave her while I go to my bedroom. I open the wardrobe and I am still smiling when I return to the living room a few minutes later.
‘Mrs Green was an adorable old lady – almost ninety. She wanted to meet you.’
‘Me?’
‘She liked opera music. She was a fan of yours. I was going to invite her for dinner so that she could meet you.’
‘That would have been …kind of you.’
‘I liked her.’
‘She lived alone?’
‘She didn’t speak to her son until she became ill just before Christmas. Then they moved in to look after her – her son is after her money.’
‘You don’t like him?’
I shrug. ‘She was lonely – they didn’t get on. She hadn’t seen him in years but they made it up in the end. There’s a difference between loneliness and being solitary.’
‘Which are you?’ Josephine asks.
‘Solitary. And you?’
‘Like you, I have learned to be alone.’
‘Drink? Tea? Wine?’ I ask.
‘Wine would be lovely.’
I open a bottle and pour two glasses. Josephine wanders around my living room reading book spines, picking out art books and flicking though pages before replacing them on the shelves. I whistle The Killers, The Way it Was, as she walks around the room studying the artwork.
Where is Javier?
‘Is this an original Byrones?’
‘A copy.’
‘And this one an original Frampton?’
‘A print.’
‘You like modern art?’
‘My religious paintings would look out of place hanging up in here. I painted one of Christ on the cross with the tide of the Thames rising around him and the disciples at his feet trying to hold back the waves.’ I don’t know why I am telling her this.
‘Like Moses and the parting of the sea?’ she asks.
I smile. ‘Light from a plane flying into Heathrow illuminates Christ’s face. It is distorted and twisted with sadness – not at his fate – he was more concerned that his followers would drown so he implored them with his eyes to leave him alone. There was Peter the fisherman and Joseph – Jesus’ father, no one really knows what happened to him but he was there with Judas who I painted like Neptune. Judas the traitor – the murderer – the instigator, so I called it Betrayer.’ I pause and tilt my head to one side contemplating the empty space on the wall where Javier’s mural had once been. He had been upset and angry this morning but because we were both dealing with Mrs Green’s death it didn’t seem the right time to argue about his charcoal drawing.
‘What happened to it?’ Josephine asks.
I look blankly then remember that she is asking about Betrayer.
‘It’s hanging on a wall in Spain.’
‘Is it for sale?’
‘No.’ I look at the Virgin tattooed on my finger.
‘Are there no women in the painting?’
‘No.’
‘Why not paint the Madonna?’
‘I never paint her. She is like my mother. Beyond my grasp of comprehension.’
‘Your mother?’
I nod. ‘She was an unusual woman.’
‘Don’t you miss her– even a little?’
‘I wish I could remember her kindness.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ Silence stretches between us like a taught tightrope. ‘Were you close to your mother?’
She brightens pleased I want to know about her past. ‘My parents were very poor. They were humble farmers and they both worked hard to support me. My father died when I was in New York but my mother still encouraged me to come to Europe.’
‘Does she – is she…’
‘Still alive? She’s almost ninety. She moved to Florida ten years ago and developed a new lease of life,’ she laughs.
‘Do you visit her?’
‘Not for a year or so but I will soon. Once I’m well enough to travel long haul. Did you know your neighbour well?’ she asks, changing the subject.
‘I think so. She had terrible arthritis and didn’t go out much. She liked company and she took a great interest in art.’
Why do I imagine Mrs Green would be like Josephine’s mother?
I shake my head to rid myself of the confusing images and wish that Javier would walk through the door.
‘And she liked opera music,’ she adds.
‘Didn’t I read somewhere that you once saw Vermeer’s The Concert in an apartment somewhere?’
She closes a book decisively and walks toward the breakfast bar where I am standing. ‘Yes, in Munich. Why?’ She picks up the chilled glass of wine.
‘Obviously not the original,’ I probe.
‘It was an excellent copy. The man I was visiting – a German called Dieter Guzman – told me it was a forgery but I would never have known. This is a charming apartment and so close to the river…may I have a look around? What a lovely little patio.’
It wasn’t the original.
‘What about the story in the newspapers about the Romanian who–’
‘Written by Karl Blakey? I wouldn’t believe a word.’
She wanders around the apartment trailing a finger across the furniture
‘Checking for dust?’ I ask. ‘I’m untidy. I’m not house proud.’
She smiles and takes a step toward the corridor – toward my bedroom. ‘Can I look down here?’ She walks with confidence and her heels click on the wooden floor. She opens the door to Javier’s room. It is tidy and she stands in the doorway as if memorising every detail.
My room by comparison is untidy. Drawers lay open, clothes have been tossed on the floor and the duvet lies in a heap on the double bed. I am conscious of the Vermeer hiding in my wardrobe.
She utters a small cry. ‘My goodness – he paints at home too.’
‘These are not Javier’s – they’re mine.’
Her eyes travel quickly over old prints and frames that I brought at the markets. The easel is covered with a discarded sheet.
‘But you said that you don’t paint. Is this a water colour?’ She moves the sheet to one side and regards the painting.
The front door bell buzzes. We both stare at each other. I don’t want to leave her alone with my painting.
‘There’s someone at the door,’ she says unnecessarily when it rings for the second time.
‘That will be Javier. He’s forgotten his key again.’
I wait for her to leave the room but she seems intent on staying so I move away and when I open the front door Annie is standing on the step and the white van is gone.
‘I wanted to speak to you – just in case I don’t get chance to at the funeral.’
‘When is it?’
‘Not sure yet – maybe a week – ten days.’
‘What are you doing with Mrs Green’s furniture?’ I ask.
‘Roy is selling some things. He’s taking them to an auction. We’re moving back to Newcastle.’ She stands just inside the door and faces me. ‘But the thing is – I found out Roy wasn’t in Poland or Slovenia when Gran died. He was here in London. I found his flight ticket in his pocket. I think he killed her, Mikky.’
‘What?’
‘I think he came to the house that morning and killed her.’
‘But we found her…’
‘I know but think about it. You went to the corner shop, didn’t you? Remember? To buy doughnuts and you thought you saw his car.’
‘I did but–’
‘He must have come back and killed her.’
‘But how? Why?’
‘He suffocated her – with a cushion – don’t you understand. He owes so much money. He’s a gambler, Mikky. He wanted her money all along. He only moved in because he was going to inherit everything. He never loved her. He hated her. He’s even hidden the Vermeer that’s supposed to go to a man in Bruges.’
Hidden the Vermeer? He hasn’t noticed I have swapped it.
‘There’s a terrible draught with the door open.’ Josephine’s voice cuts across the lounge and we both turn around.
‘I must go and collect Max,’ Annie whispers, ignoring Josephine. She has one foot outside the door as she adds. ‘I’m worried, Mikky. I’m really frightened of him.’
It is only after she is running down the path toward the nursery and I am closing the door behind her that I realise Annie has a bruise around her swollen left eye that she has tried to conceal with thick makeup.
‘You left me with her all afternoon,’ I complain to Javier after Josephine leaves in a black cab. It’s after seven o’clock and I’m tired. I put my feet on the coffee table and yawn. ‘You have no idea how difficult she is. All she wants to do is talk about you. She even wanted to see where you slept. She made some pretence of wanting to look around. That woman is seriously creepy.’
‘And you are so intolerant,’ he replies. He smiles at me, which only increases my irritation. He sits beside me and crosses his legs nursing a glass of Pinot Grigio.
‘Why did you insist that I go to that bloody opera?’
‘You need educating.’
‘I don’t want to go.’
‘You’ll love it,’ he replies. ‘Glorietta Bareldo will be amazing and besides Andreas is also coming so we will all be together – one big happy family.’
‘Yippee dooh dah – I should have go
ne to South America with Oscar – I could have been his secretary.’
He laughs.
‘How do those two women become best friends after sleeping with the same man, anyway?’ I ask.
‘They’ve a lot in common.’
‘You’re impossible, Javier and this is a nightmare. Can you hurry up and paint her bloody portrait and we can go back to normal?’ But as I say this I realise nothing will be normal again. There is no going back. Mrs Green is dead. The painting is in my room and everything has changed.
‘Annie was hysterical when I saw her and she had a bruise on her face. She seems to think that Roy killed his mother to get his inheritance.’
Javier looks at me with interest. ‘Really? What about the painting?’
‘He’s giving it to a man in Bruges. Mrs Green left it in her Will.’ And to change the subject I tell him what Annie told me. ‘Roy was in England, that’s how he came home so quickly yesterday. She found his flight ticket. She thinks he came to the house while she was painting and he suffocated his mother with a cushion.’
‘And you think you saw his car?’
‘I did but I also thought I saw you. I went running down the tow path thinking it was you.’
Javier looks at me. ‘It’s beginning to make sense then.’
‘What is?’
He leans forward and pours wine into our glasses. I am beginning to feel light-headed but I drink it anyway.
‘You will never guess who I spoke to?’
‘Who?’
‘Karl Blakey.’
‘What? Are you nuts?’ I sit up straighter.
‘I had to.’
‘Why? Josephine has an injunction against him to stay away from her and if she finds out that you have spoken to him she will be furious and will probably even cancel the commission.’
‘Karl won’t say anything. He’s promised me. Besides I’ll be finished Josephine’s portrait in a few months then I can do what I like and speak to who I want.’
‘And you believe him? You trust Karl Blakey?’
‘He’s a really nice guy. He’s intelligent, articulate and interesting. He’s a professional. He’s an investigative journalist and I like him.’