by Janet Pywell
‘But he lied to you.’
‘He believed in me.’
‘He told you I was a boy! He betrayed you, as you have now betrayed me and when the police come, I will tell them you’re wasting their time. There is no proof or a shred of evidence that the painting was the original or that I stole it.’
‘I will fund your career. I will get the art critics to take note of your work. I will support you. I promise. I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life incarcerated, beaten or abused in a prison. You are worth more than that. I believe in you–’
‘Why?’
‘I am an artist too. I sing – I sang – it was my passion and my life. It was my dream and I would have done anything but I was lucky, I met a very kind man who allowed me to discover myself and to explore my deepest desires. He gave me my life–’
‘And just look where you are now.’
‘I’m in the most important place in my life – right this minute. Here. Now. With you! I would not wish to be anywhere else.’
I laugh. ‘You’re very funny. You call the police then come and tell me that you are doing it all for me. You’re fucking nuts.’
We both turn at the sound of the door creaking very slowly open.
My mouth dries. My body is taut. This is it.
‘Get out,’ I hiss at Josephine. ‘Get out now…Get the fuck out!’ I shout. ‘You’re not wanted. Go away. Piss off out of my life…’
The door opens and Maria’s head appears with her cheeky elfin grin. ‘Mikky? Are you all right?’ she says.
Wordlessly Josephine clutches her shawl, straightens her back and slides her body sideways past my nakedness and out of the door without a backwards glance.
‘I have to be alone. Get out, Maria. Stay away from me. Don’t come here any more!’ I shout in the most angry and aggressive voice I can muster and I’m not proud of myself as shock registers on her face and tears well in her eyes and she scuttles away.
My carefully laid plan is unravelling but I must face what’s coming. It’s my only option and I must do it alone. I can hope for a miracle but as God hasn’t looked after me so far in my life I can only assume that he will probably forget about me again.
By mid-afternoon I’m still waiting. What’s taking him so long? My body is straining for each sound, each rev of a motorbike, every dog bark or squeal of a cat, even the whisper of a voice from the street. Then when the door eventually creaks open, I flinch and the muscles of my body are coiled tightly and my breathing is controlled.
Roy’s beard is long and unkempt. His eyes are red and tired and his temple still carries the fading bruise from Annie’s beating almost three weeks ago. His shirt is creased as if he has been sleeping rough but he moves lightly on his feet but with caution, his fists are clenched at his side.
‘Hello, Mikky.’ He closes the street door gently. ‘There’s no point in waking the neighbours from their siesta, is there?’ He puts a finger to his lips and looks around scarcely believing his luck that I am alone and a vulnerable target.
I have a kitchen knife at my elbow but his stride is long and quick and he takes me by surprise grabbing my arm and shoving it behind me in an arm-lock. My left hand still clutches a paintbrush but he takes it gently from my hand and places it on the counter.
‘We can make this as easy or as difficult as you like. First, I will tell you what’s going to happen then I will give you some choices as to how it will happen. You see, I know you have the painting.’ I wince in pain as he tightens his grip. His breath is stale and his eyes staring as if he hasn’t slept. ‘And, you’re going to give it to me and the choice you have is how you are going to do it – the right or the wrong way? What do you think?’
‘I don’t have it.’ I grit my teeth as a sharp pain shoots up my arm to my neck.
‘Ah, I see, so it will be the hard way, so where is it?’
I swallow with difficulty. I think he will break my arm. He will never believe my story about Josephine. ‘In London…’
He laughs and I scream.
‘Now, now, now, there’s no point in lying to me. It will only hurt you more in the long run. Let’s do this amicably and get it over with, shall we?’
I’m like a rag doll in his arm, limp and ineffective but I nod. The pain is making my knees weak.
‘Let’s try again. Where’s the painting?’ He’s like a father talking to a baby who’s lost a toy: when did you last have it?
‘In the studio.’ I flick my eyes to the ceiling.
‘Come on then. You lead the way.’
His grip is like cement and we walk like scuttling crabs up the stairs.
‘Where?’
I gasp in pain.
‘There.’ I nod my head to a stack of canvasses propped against the wall.
‘I haven’t got all day, Mikky.’ His tone is calm and casual as if he is a thoughtful friend.
‘That wall – there.’ I nod with my chin.
‘Show me.’ He could snap my right arm without any effort so I shuffle and when I bend forward he loosens his grip. I flick randomly through some of the paintings stacked against the wall, a Frampton and a Picasso then my hand reaches the Vermeer.
‘You cut it from its frame,’ he says.
‘Couldn’t bloody carry that too,’ I hiss.
‘You bought it over here?’
‘Wrapped between two other canvasses.’ I hold it out.
‘Put it on the floor.’
I place it at his feet and as I stand up he spins me around and removes wire from his pocket but I grab a paintbrush from the easel and lunge toward him pushing the pointed end deep into his cheek narrowly missing his eye. He screams and holds his face but he sidesteps and balls his fist into my chest. The punch goes through the cavity of my lungs but as I double over I reach out and fling a jam jar into his face, dirty water splashes into his eyes and his elbow deflects the glass. It shatters on the floor at my feet and as I bend, I snatch the canvas. Staggering away from him I reach out with my free hand and grab a silver candlestick.
‘I’ll break your fucking neck,’ he growls then lunges for me but like a bullfighter I move deftly to one side and whack his head. He dodges the blow but his hand grips my throat and I knee him between his legs. He grunts, releases his grip and backs away, panting heavily. He is about to jump me but I shout.
‘Wait!’
He pauses. Blood falling from his cheek and we stand a few metres apart.
I flick the lighter and hold the trembling blue flame to the corner of the painting.
‘No.’ He holds out his hands. ‘Don’t!’
‘Don’t make me,’ I shout.
‘You wouldn’t.’
I’m winded and panting heavily. I can barely breathe. Pain ricochets across my chest. The room is spinning and I grip my stomach muscles forcing blood to my head to stop myself from fainting.
This is it. This is the end. My fate is sealed.
The flame licks the edge of the canvas. It sizzles slowly then a sudden flare and it begins to burn, glowing and crackling and I feel the heat on my fingers.
His mouth hangs open. Disbelief in his eyes and I think he is about to throw himself at me so I toss the burning canvas to the floor and prepare to take his body against mine but he checks his step and with slow control he lashes out and punches me in the face. I crumple to my knees and watch him dousing the flame stamping, cursing and swearing.
‘She never owned the original. It’s a fake,’ I shout.
He picks up the charred painting and hot burning ash falls to the floor. He blows on his fingers and wipes blood from the gaping hole in his cheek. His eyes burn with anger. ‘You bitch! You stupid fucking bitch.’
‘She lied to you,’ I shout. ‘She wanted you to move in so she wouldn’t have to go into a home. She knew it was a copy.’ I shuffle away from him, backing against the wall, my knees hunched in front of me. My stomach heaves and pain causes green bile to spew from my mouth and I am sick.
He lo
oks at my workbench and picks up a scalpel. It glistens in his hand and I scramble to my feet but he is faster and stronger than me. In two strides he’s beside me. I push his fist away, thumping his arms, his face, his chest but he grabs my throat and the pain is excruciating. I cannot breathe and fear shoots though my veins as he holds the sharp, cold instrument to my cheek and then it all goes fuzzy and his slobbering breath covers me like an invisible fog and I slump, like a willing lover, in his arms and lose consciousness.
When I wake I’m lying on the cold cement floor. My head is burning and I cannot move. My eyes won’t focus. Blood is trickling down my face seeping into my mouth. I cough. I choke. I spit.
I’m on fire.
My head is too heavy to lift. My world is silent filled only with my shallow breathing. My head is raw, open and vulnerable. Nothing makes sense. White noise fills my ears. Vibrant electricity. My lips are swollen with sticky tears.
My left cheek lays pressed against the floor and through my right eye it looks as if the studio has been raided; canvasses are slashed and torn, paint is dripping from overturned pots and easels lie broken. Swirling smoke drifts up the stairwell. I cough and try to move leaning shakily on my elbow but my legs are like dead anchors weighing me down. They refuse to move. My arms give way and my body collapses, the room swirls and I succumb to a world that welcomes me with darkness and the promise of sleep. It drags me deeper into its clutches and into obscurity that will last for eternity, a world without pain, without torture and without hurt. From behind my burning eyes and inside my throbbing head I see the familiar flashing red lights from a pinball machine:
Game Over. Game Over. Game Over.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘On the floor I am more at ease. I feel nearer, more a part of the painting, since this way I can walk around it, work from the four sides and literally be in the painting.’
Jackson Pollock
A wet cloth goes over my face. Hands are under my shoulders and I am dragged along the floor. My ankle catches and a man curses. He kicks out. My chest is exploding and I am bumped down stairs: choking, bleeding, coughing and crying. Thick smoke fills my nostrils and mouth, and a roaring heat intensifies burning my face, it’s the pain that makes me scream as I’m pulled to my feet and he flings my arm over his shoulder. The other arm dangles uselessly at my side. He uses his hips to balance my weight and lifts my feet from the floor but he’s not strong nor fit and we stumble against a chair and fall. My head is bursting, hanging off, hanging loose as he grabs me in his arms again and we stagger through the dense smoke and finally we are outside. The air is fresh and the sun is warm and I gasp for air, coughing and choking bile from my throat and he lays me on the ground.
‘Mikky? Where is it?’
My vision is blurred but it’s still daylight and the sky is deep blue. His face is only inches from me and his eye is swollen and a graze on his cheek is bleeding onto his chin.
‘For God’s sake, Mikky! I haven’t come all this bloody way to rescue you! Where is it?’ He shakes my shoulder. ‘Where’s the painting?’ He shakes me harder and a wave of nausea fills me and I turn on my side and heave.
‘Chrissake!’ His voice is angry and impatient. ‘The Vermeer, is–it–in–there? What?’ He leans forward putting his ear to my lips.
‘Burnt…’
‘Inside?’ He staggers to his feet clutching his ribs.
‘Gone…’ I say but he doesn’t hear me. My vision blurs and fades but not before I see Karl Blakey disappear into the burning building without a backward glance.
‘Mikky?’
My head lolls to one side. I cannot lift it. My mouth is dry and my lips are on fire.
‘Mikky!’ Dolores’ is wiping my cheeks with a wet towel. ‘Graçias a dios, she’s alive! What happened?’
I try to speak but I am wracked in pain.
‘Tranquila!’ She slides her hands under me and hoists me up so that I lean with my back propped against her chest. Her breath smells of tobacco but I welcome the strength of her body and her bony fingers that soothe my arms and she pushes matted hair from my face.
‘The ambulance is on its way–’ Josephine’s voice?
‘Burnt?’ I whisper. My voice is slurred. My tongue won’t work and my eyes are heavy. They won’t stay open.
A cool, damp cloth is pressed against my forehead. I want to drink it. ‘Come on, Mikky. You’ll be all right. Everything will be fine. Come on, my sweet girl. I’m here and I will never leave you again.’
Josephine?
‘I told you to stay away…’ I mumble.
‘She’s losing a lot of blood,’ Dolores whispers.
‘I won’t let her die,’ Josephine replies and presses water to my puffy lips and swollen eyes.
‘Did …he …find it?’ I slur but no one answers me.
‘They’re sending an air ambulance to get her to Palma quicker,’ Josephine says.
‘I hope they hurry,’ replies Dolores.
The pain is too much and I pass out.
A smiling angel in a white tunic is beside me when I open my eyes. His fingers are cool, long and slim. He holds a plastic cup to my lips and places a hand gently behind my neck and this simple kindness reduces me to tears.
‘It’s shock, Mikky. But you’re on the mend now.’ His voice is soft and caring. His eyes are the colour of cinnamon and he has bleached blond hair.
The intensive care unit fades in and out of my consciousness but I watch him write something then he checks a tube in my arm. I don’t remember much else apart from Josephine’s hollow-eyes and vacant stare.
‘Your mother has been here around the clock. She only went back to her hotel this morning after I insisted – she needed a shower.’ His smile is broad and his teeth white against his smooth olive skin. I cannot take my eyes from him as he glides effortlessly like a silent, well-muscled ballet dancer and I am left with his image planted firmly on my retina when I drift back to sleep.
My angel.
When I open my eyes I’m in a private room. It’s bright and white and light. My eyes hurt and there’s a tight vice around my head that grips my skull. I fade in and out of sleep and when I open my eyes Josephine is sitting beside me in an upright leather chair. Her eyes are ringed black and she is pale and gaunt but her face breaks into a worried grin and she leans across the bed.
‘Mikky!’ She clasps my fingers.
I raise my hand to the gauze bandaged around my head as she plumps crispy cotton pillows behind me.
‘How are you?’ Her eyes are filled with tears.
‘Terrible.’
‘You’re going to be all right.’
She follows my gaze as I look around the private room. ‘I brought you flowers and grapes,’ she says.
‘Unoriginal.’
‘They’re supposed to cheer you up.’
‘It worked – I’m happy.’ I attempt a smile and hold my hand to my head.
‘I can ask for some painkillers.’
‘Please...’
‘You will make a full recovery. No kidney needed.’
‘I’ll kick his arse next time.’
‘Did Karl do this?’
I shake my head. ‘Roy.’
‘Roy?’
‘I stabbed his cheek with a paintbrush.’ Images come back to me and my eyes begin to close and I doze off, and this becomes the pattern, and each time I wake Josephine is sitting beside me
The following day she is in her usual place, protectively, on the edge of my bed but this time a lanky, pale, bald-headed man is also standing at the window.
‘This is Inspector Torres. He’s with the art squad from Barcelona,’ she explains quietly.
He moves around the room, stares out of the window then sits in the chair beside my bed.
‘How are you feeling, Señorita?’
‘So-so.’
‘We want to catch the person who did this to you. Can you tell me what happened?’
I don’t answer. It’s too compli
cated.
‘Who did this to you?’ he insists.
‘Roy…Green.’
‘Why?’
I look at Josephine and she says. ‘I told the Inspector what happened in London.’
‘What did he want?’ The Inspector moves closer to the bed. ‘The painting?’
I don’t answer so Josephine prompts me. ‘Can you remember?’
‘I stabbed him…’
The Inspector leans forward to hear me better.
‘With a paint brush…’
‘Did he come for the painting, Mikky?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘Was he alone?’
I nod.
‘And he beat you?’ says the Inspector. ‘But you stabbed him with a paint brush?’
I motion my action with a loosely clenched fist. ‘He was bleeding.’ My voice is rasps and my throat is dry.
‘Can you tell me what happened exactly?’ When he leans forward his bald head catches the sunlight and it shines like polished marble. ‘Did you give him the painting?’
‘Burnt it.’
‘Roy burnt it?’
‘I – it was a fake,’ I mumble.
Josephine and the Inspector swap glances.
‘Was Karl Blakey there?’
I shake my head.
‘When did Karl Blakey arrive?’ he asks. ‘Before Roy or after Roy?’
‘After.’
‘So Roy set fire to the studio, did he?’
I shrug and nod.
‘But Karl dragged you out and saved you?’ he says.
‘The building was on fire.’ I try to remember.
‘He must have gone back in…’ Josephine says to the Inspector.
‘Did you see Karl Blakey go back in to the building?’ he asks.
‘I think so...’
‘Why?’ The inspector rubs his marble crown.
I’m trying to remember but my head hurts and I close my eyes.
‘The painting,’ Josephine says holding my hand. ‘Did he go back inside to get the painting?’
I open my eyes. That’s it. ‘Yes.’