by Janet Pywell
‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ Josephine says. We are alone and I’m feeling more awake and stronger. I am recalling more of what happened but the details still evade me. I try to sit up and Josephine helps me get comfortable placing the pillows behind my neck.
‘Roy beat you then set the building on fire and left you for dead,’ she says.
‘Karl Blakey was there– I think I told him I had burnt the painting.’
‘But he went back inside. The Guardia Civil found his body,’ she says.
Her nemesis is dead. How does she feel?
‘He saved me. Why?’
‘I think he wanted to be the hero – the one who found the painting and returned it to the Isabella Stewart museum.’
‘But now he’s dead?’
‘Yes.’ Josephine’s eyes do not leave my face.
‘I didn’t like him – but I am sorry.’
‘I know.’ She takes my fingers and holds them tenderly.
‘He saved my life.’
‘I have to be grateful to him for that.’ Josephine holds my fingers and we lock gazes then I close my eyes.
After a few moments I feel her prize open my fingers and she slides something cool into my hand. ‘The Madonna saved you,’ she whispers.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘In the pocket of your jeans.’
It seems surreal as if it all happened to someone else but the pains in my body tell me the truth.
‘Karl is dead but I survived. The painting is gone,’ I say.
‘The Inspector and his team are going through the debris. It’s difficult because it was an art studio but they’re hoping that some chemical analysis of paint or canvas that was saved in the fire will give some indication that it was burnt.’
‘But it wasn’t the original…’
Josephine shrugs. ‘We shall see. You were lucky.’
‘Did they find Roy?’
‘Not yet, he may need medical treatment if that paint brush hurt him like you think it did. He could still be on the island. There are police outside just in case he comes looking for you and they’re keeping a watch on the airport and the ferries.’
‘He won’t come after me now. The painting is gone.’
‘I can’t believe you burnt Mrs Green’s painting?’
‘It was a fake.’
‘You mean after all that trouble, you set it alight?’
‘I know a fake when I see one and it wasn’t a particularly good one either.’
‘Why did you steal it?’
‘I hoped it was the original but I knew as soon as I took it from the frame that it wasn’t.’
‘So why take it to Mallorca?’
‘I didn’t know what else to do with it. I had to get away after I went to see Angela Morris – you know – the nurse, and I was upset. I just had to get out. I needed to be on my own.’
Josephine sighs and I wonder if she believes me.
Does the private investigator still follow me?
‘So, you broke into your neighbour’s house and stole the painting. Then what?’
‘I cut it out of the frame, rolled it up and posted it with some other canvasses to Mallorca but it was a forgery,’ I say. ‘Roy was trying to sell a fake. Mrs Green knew the painting was a forgery. She pretended it was real to get Roy to move back in and take care of her. She was a wily old woman.’
‘How could she be so sure he would believe her?’
‘He wanted to. He had lots of debts and she dropped enough hints that it was the original. It was like dangling a carrot in front of a starving donkey.’ My head throbs and I reach for my forehead. ‘What did he do to me?’
‘He used a scalpel to cut into your forehead.’
I begin tugging the bandage, unwinding it and pulling in loose.
Josephine leans closer and holds my wrists trying to stop me and I smell her familiar lavender cologne.
‘Get off! I want to see it. What did he do?’
She lets me go then helps me gently to remove the bloody bandage leaving it laying coiled on the sheet like an inert bloody white snake. I pull off the padded gauze.
‘Mirror?’ I demand.
She takes a cosmetic mirror from her handbag. ‘Mikky, I have to tell you–’
I snatch it from her and hold it to my swollen face. There are five ragged letters scored across my forehead. I read them back to front in the mirror trying to make sense of what Roy did to me. ‘Oh no.’
‘It will be all right. I will get you cosmetic surgery.’
I throw her small mirror onto the bed lean my head back and close my eyes squeezing the tears tightly inside. Silence envelops me. I will not sob aloud. She must not see me this way. I will not lose control.
‘It will be okay, Mikky! I’ll look after you.’ She picks up my hand and I am too upset to pull away from her. My eyes and my trembling mouth are firmly closed and I try and block out the pain of the five scratched letters scored raggedly into my forehead: T-H-I-E-F.
‘Javier called you again. He has phoned twice a day for the past three days,’ Josephine says after my siesta.
‘How is he?
‘He wants to come over. He wants to see you.’
‘He can’t travel.’
‘He can with a cast, although not easily.’
‘What did he say about Karl?’
‘He was shocked – upset.’
‘I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to see anyone.’ I turn away and gaze out at the turquoise blue sky where palm trees are bending in the gusty wind and I imagine my favourite beach near Tarifa, Spain’s most southerly point, beyond Gibraltar and Algeciras with the Atlas mountain of Morocco across the Atlantic.
‘I have organized a consultant to visit you about cosmetic surgery. He is the best.’
‘I think I might leave it. It will remind me of who I am.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re feeling sorry for yourself. There are many people much worse off than you. We will get you sorted then we can carry on with our lives and it will be as if none of this has happened.’
I gaze at her and say nothing.
‘In a year’s time we won’t even remember all this.’ She affirms with a nod of her head. ‘I will arrange some exhibitions for you and you’ll be a recognized artist. Dolores told me that most of your artwork was in the art gallery. Was it a coincidence that you moved them in there?’
I shrug.
‘Well, I’m pleased that my painting is not damaged. You will still finish it for me, won’t you?’
‘Have you always been so bloody optimistic?’
‘Not until recently but when I saw you lying on the pavement in front of that burning building, I knew that I would do anything to make your life better. I said a prayer to the Madonna and she answered me. You have been saved. Now it’s time to get well again and to live. We can get to know each other – if you will let me share your life?’
I am reluctant to push her away and I’m also curious. I wonder what it would be like to have a mother like her. She holds my hand and traces the contorted face of Scream with her finger.
‘Do you like it?’ I ask.
‘It’s excellent but I don’t like the sentiment behind it. I don’t want you to feel so angry and frightened – as if you are having a breakdown.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘We need to heal together, Mikky. Why don’t we take some time out and spend a while getting to know each other. I could rent us a place to stay – anywhere in the world – so that you can get well again; feel the wind on your face and the sun on your skin. What do you think?’
‘And what if the truth comes out about us?’ I ask.
‘Then we will deal with it together.’
‘What if all your fans want to know who the father of your daughter is? What will you say?’
‘We will think of something. Sometimes, like the Queen of England, it is best just to say nothing and to behave with dignity.’
�
�Will I tell, Javier?’
‘That is up to you. The press have been waiting outside the hospital but I have managed to avoid them. Your story has been in the newspapers because a journalist saved you–’
‘They will find out…’
‘There are always rumours. The hospital staff know the truth because I told them I would give you anything. When we arrived here you were so badly beaten they thought you may need a kidney and I offered mine.’
‘Thank you–’
She smiles and I am comforted by her presence. I’m getting used to her beside me and my eyes begin to close. ‘Sleep, my darling. I will be here with you. I will protect you.’
Her fingers lightly caress my cheek and I’m aware that this is my mother’s hand and this is how it feels to be loved. A flicker of tenderness is ignited in me and the sense of vulnerability is overwhelming. Although I know I shouldn’t get used to it, I think it will be just until I’m better and a feeling of relief and contentment washes over me that is so strong it causes large tears to well up and when I fall asleep the pillow is damp against my cheek.
Javier phones my mobile I swing my legs over the edge of the bed but it makes me dizzy, nauseous and light headed.
‘We’re in the same boat,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Neither of us can move.’
‘At least you are at home and Oscar is running around after you. He’s probably treating you like a king.’
‘All true – are you feeling bad?’
‘More of a damaged ego – I got it wrong. I should never have got involved with the painting at all.’
‘Why did you switch it?’ he asks.
‘I was hoping it was the original.’
‘When did you realise it wasn’t?’
‘After I stole it but it was too late to put it back – and to be honest I thought the whole thing would blow over. I was sure Roy would realise his mother had said it deliberately so that she had company.’
‘So what happened over there?’
I tell him how Roy came to the studio and how Karl rescued me from the burning building.
‘You’re lucky.’
‘Yes – really lucky. I now have the letters T–H–I–E–F sliced into my forehead,’ I sigh. ‘Anyway, how’s the commission coming on? Have you finished Josephine’s portrait?’
‘It will be shipped over to Italy in a few weeks.’
‘Have they seen it?’
‘I sent photographs and to Josephine.’
‘Is she pleased?’
‘You should ask her yourself.’
‘I will.’
‘She’s been very good to you considering how rude you were to her. She will pay for cosmetic surgery – and she’s paying for your private treatment. You’re a very lucky girl. I honestly don’t know why she’s bothering with you.’
‘She’s kind.’ I am not ready to tell him she is my biological mother. It’s my secret.
‘I still can’t believe you set fire to the painting. Why?’ he asks.
‘It was a fake.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t paint a fake yourself? And substitute it?’
‘Do you honestly think I could copy a Vermeer so easily?’
‘You copied the one that you hung back up in Mrs Green’s house.’
‘Yes, and even Roy knew that it was rubbish.’
‘Did Karl say anything to you, you know before…?’
‘He wanted the painting, Javier. He saved me just to get the painting.’
‘You know he was convinced Josephine is hiding something else – like she has a big secret. Do you know what it is?’
‘No.’
‘Why has she spent so much time over there with you? It is it because of the Vermeer?’
‘You would have to ask.’
‘She’s obsessed with doing the right thing. Perhaps she thinks you still have the painting? Have you thought about that?’
I’ve thought of nothing else but I reply.
‘Well, Javier – I don’t have it! Once the forensic evidence is complete and they find nothing to suggest that it was the original, all the fuss will die down and everyone will realise that Mrs Green was having a laugh at everyone’s expense.’
‘You are getting on well with Josephine – are you friends, now?’
‘When we found you in Mrs Green’s house we thought we’d lost you and I got to know her. We spoke for hours that morning. She’s very fond of you, Javier.’
‘So you like her now?’
‘I respect her.’
‘Umm. So what are your plans?’ he asks.
‘I’m having an operation on my shoulder tomorrow morning but when I leave here Josephine has asked me to stay with her in Dresden or she says we can go somewhere else – somewhere warm. She says she will look after me.’
‘And will you go?’
‘I can’t fly at the moment. My head feels as though it has razors inside. I think I’ll just stay on the island. The studio got trashed and burnt but the main structure of the building seems okay, luckily it’s separate to the art gallery. Dolores said I can stay with her at the villa but I don’t know yet...’
‘So it’s all over,’ he says. ‘When will you come home?’
‘I don’t feel right about going to England at the moment.’
‘I was thinking the other day how you were so keen to find somewhere to live in Strand-On-The- Green. You were like a woman possessed and it didn’t take you long to make friends with Mrs Green either…’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Nothing, I’m just–’
‘Don’t, Javier. Don’t start jumping to dangerous conclusions that could get us all into trouble. Mrs Green is dead. Annie is dead and so is Karl Blakey. Roy will be found – he can’t hide forever. There’s nothing left to discover. There is no secret. So, get well and go on holiday to South America with Oscar and live happily ever after. He suits you. It would never have worked out between you and Karl anyway. Take some time out, Javier. But please whatever you do forget about that bloody fake masterpiece.’
The following night I’m recovering from an operation on my shoulder, Josephine looked tired and worried and she needed to rest so I sent her back to the hotel.
I lay dozing still drowsy from the anaesthetic in that state of imagination and day dreaming before sleep takes its grip and I fall into dark oblivion.
I turn quickly, the footfall is soft but I’m suddenly alert. He looks vaguely familiar and self-consciously I pull my gown to cover the gruesome image on my chest of St. John the Baptists’ severed head and Salome’s gloating smile.
‘You don’t have to – I’ve seen all your tattoos.’
‘You’re the angel from my dreams,’ I whisper.
‘Er no, but I am your nurse from Intensive Care. My name is Eduardo.’ His laughter is light and teasing.
‘I’d prefer an angel but you’ll have to do if that’s all God can spare.’
‘I think you don’t need an angel. You have someone far more important looking after you.’
‘Like who?’
‘A mother.’
‘The Madonna?’
‘Not that mother.’
He sits beside me on the bed. ‘I wanted to make sure you are behaving yourself.’
‘I can’t do much else.’
‘You will be better soon. You will be able to go next week.’
‘Bliss.’ I sigh dramatically.
‘Where is home?’
‘I haven’t decided,’ I reply.
He smiles. ‘I’m from Cadiz.’ Then he asks me about London and we talk for while and I’m surprised that he talks candidly about himself and I’m comfortable in his company. It is the end of his shift and he tells me he lives in Palma. He rides a motorbike to work and he says he is going home for a cold beer on his terrace.
‘I could drink one now,’ I say.
‘When you are better I will invite you for a drink and we can watch the sunset together.’
My e
yes are heavy and I fall asleep without saying goodnight and I dream of a brilliant orange sky and the lapping of the Atlantic and salt on my lips.
The next morning Eduardo pops in before his shift with the excuse that he wants to make sure I slept well. ‘There’s a guy hanging around outside who wants to talk to you. I think he’s too old to be your boyfriend…’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘No?’ Eduardo smiles.
‘What does he look like?’
‘Medium height, hair tied back in a ponytail, tattoos and silver rings on his fingers.’
‘Oh!’ I stare out of the window at the blue sky wishing I could run away.
‘Do you have someone to take care of you?’
‘You mean to cook and clean?’
‘No, I mean someone who will keep you out of trouble and stop you from getting into more cuts and scrapes.’
My finger automatically traces the outline of the word on my head covered with gauze. ‘It is quite unique.’
‘Not a great character reference though if you are looking for a job.’
‘I’m a freelance photographer.’
‘Just as well, much better for you to be behind the lens.’
‘I photograph nurses for magazines who have the potential to be male models– are you interested?’
‘No.’ His eyes do not leave my face and his smile widens. ‘Besides I think that isn’t true. It’s just a ploy.’
‘Ploy?’ I smile, ‘For what?’
‘For you to flirt with me and to see my body.’
‘I don’t know how to flirt. Besides I’m not looking my best.’
‘You can look better?’
‘I’ve been known to make an effort. A little makeup and a hat.’ I indicate the brim that would cover most of my face.
‘A black pointy one?’
‘I was thinking of something prettier – more feminine.’
‘You’ll never hide all that hair.’
‘I’ll use a balaclava.’
‘Ah? And what about in the summer when it gets hot and we go to the beach?’
‘Swimming cap?’ I giggle.
‘You like the beach?’
‘I like to sunbathe.’
‘I don’t suppose you want to learn how to kite-surf, do you?’ he asks.
‘Can you teach me?’