by Simon Hall
The ninth print was of a chessboard, with just the white king remaining, surrounded by a black knight, queen and pawn. A hand hovered in the painting but it wasn’t clear to whom it belonged. A gold wedding ring shone on the index finger. In the background was a grandfather clock, the time showing five to ten, but the odd thing about it was there were no numbers 11 or 12 on the face. This time the clock’s hands weren’t limp but straight and sharply pointed. It was print 3/4.
‘What do you think?’ asked Abi. ‘You’re the first person from outside to witness it as he wants it to be seen.’
Good question, what did he think? Part of him wanted to say how impressive, stunning in fact, the pictures were. But Dan sensed he was feeling annoyed, as if he was being played with, used, and he hated that. Plus the pictures were full of intellectual arrogance and teasing, and that was even more irritating. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but admire the idea, it was clever and intriguing…
Dan was saved from having to answer by Joseph McCluskey sticking his head around the door. ‘They’re still in there, lapping it up, photographing, filming and writing. Just like a flock of sheep,’ he rasped. His face lit with a grin. ‘Anyone fancy a cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘The shepherd doesn’t mind making them.’
Adam was washing his hair in Dan’s shower when his mobile rang. The shampoo was annoyingly sticky, that hair thickening stuff. He hadn’t realised Dan was worried about his hair receding. You didn’t have to be a detective to learn a lot about a person from their bathroom. He wiped the soap from his eyes, fumbled out around the sink and picked the phone up. Good job he’d left it to hand. You just knew a call would come when you least wanted it.
‘Sir, Suzanne here,’ came the rushed words. He had to listen hard to hear what she was saying. ‘I think we’ve got another one. She’s just called in. It took ages to calm her down before we could work out what happened. A team’s on the way around now.’
Adam hoisted a greying bath sheet around his shoulders and tried not to think of the last time it was washed. He spat some soap from his mouth.
‘Any details, Suzanne?’
‘Sounds similar to the last one sir. Raped in her own home. She’d just got back from taking her little girl to school. It looks like he got in through an open window at the back of the house.’
The side of his fist hit the white tiles on the bathroom wall and a couple of bottles of after-shave rattled. ‘Any more info?’
Suzanne knew exactly what he meant. ‘I did ask, sir. She was in too much of a state to talk properly, but she said he did leave something behind. She hasn’t touched it, but says it looked like some kind of kid’s hat.’
He’d hardly needed to ask, knew it was the same man. Mission number two of six completed successfully he’d be thinking, congratulating himself, savouring another victory, lifting a pint and smoking a cigarette to celebrate. The bastard. No more, please no more. What did he mean please? It was his job to make sure there were no more.
‘Her age?’ Adam asked.
‘About 30.’
‘I’ll meet you at the scene.’ He dried himself quickly and strode into the spare bedroom.
They had a serial rapist on their hands, one whose way of working was already clear. Young women, living with their children, no man in the house. The attacks were well planned. And the motive, yes, sex, of course, but that was the easy answer. Wasn’t he thinking it sounded like revenge too? The actions of an angry and embittered man? Someone who hated women, for whatever reason.
He wouldn’t have time to go back to his flat for a change of clothes. Yesterday’s suit would have to do, thankfully he’d hung it up carefully. The shirt was grubby though. But Dan was roughly the same size, wasn’t he? He scanned the rack of shirts, chose a light blue one to match his navy suit. Dan’s ties were a bit bright for a rape case, but he managed to find a darker blue and subtle diagonally striped one. It would do. He’d need to look decent, he had to get this on the TV. It was time to put out a warning.
The door opened again and McCluskey stood in its frame, his figure silhouetted in the daylight streaming from behind. He paused, silent and still, then projected his voice theatrically into the room.
‘So you come not to praise McCluskey but to bury him?’
The artist began handing around tea and coffee from the tray he carried. Nigel took his but carried on filming. He was only on picture five, the detail in the works took time to capture. As they didn’t know what was important he was trying to cover it all. If the answer was revealed, they’d need to show the parts of the pictures which pointed to it.
‘I wouldn’t be so Shakespearean,’ replied Dan, prompting a slow nod from McCluskey. ‘Anyway, the people we interviewed outside were full of praise.’
McCluskey made prolonged eye contact when he talked, as if he was looking into you. Those eyebrows were like the eager shoots of spring above the shining, mocking eyes. Dan held the stare on principle, but it was unsettling.
‘Diplomatic,’ McCluskey said slowly. ‘But not your opinion. What does the man from the media really think of my little scrawls?’
Dan turned to the last of the pictures, then back again, giving himself time to think. ‘I’d say they’re fascinating,’ he replied.
The artist studied him, but said nothing. He clearly expected more.
‘There’s so much thought in them,’ Dan added. He swallowed a spike of annoyance, a buried memory of a feeling similar to being pushed for an answer by a disliked teacher in front of a classroom. ‘Or is that just a bluff?’
McCluskey’s spraying eyebrows rose. ‘The answer is in there, I promise you that,’ he said, turning to the first of the pictures. ‘But so are many iron pyrites.’
Another test. The words were familiar, but how? Something from many years ago. Dan searched his memory, right back to school days. He thought he’d got it, took a gamble. ‘Fool’s gold?’ he asked, trying not to sound hopeful.
McCluskey turned back, nodded. ‘Very good. You wouldn’t expect me to make it too easy, would you? And surely it’s a better story for you if it goes on and on, with more of these hopeless wrong guesses we’re inundated with? It keeps the suspense and drama going, doesn’t it?’
‘And the amusement for you, the shepherd? And the growth of the legend?’
He shouldn’t have said it, Dan thought. It was hardly professional to be drawn into an argument with your interviewee, especially when he knew very well how much you needed his words. If he backed out now, refused to talk… But McCluskey didn’t look ruffled at all.
‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘And what would you say is wrong with that? Trying to make some kind of a mark on the world? Provide a little enjoyment and entertainment for a few people? Perhaps even teach a lesson, achieve a little justice and right some wrongs in the process?’
The two men stared at each other, Dan determined not to break the look. What did he mean by righting wrongs? And what was this lesson he kept talking about?
‘As you’re going to be asking me some questions, I think it only fair if I get to ask you one first,’ said McCluskey, still staring at Dan. ‘If that’s alright with you?’
Dan shrugged. ‘Sure.’ What else could he say?.
‘We all have our little interests and weaknesses,’ the artist continued. ‘Mine happens to be crime. Not the mundane stuff, but the deeper plots, and what drives people to them. Your reporting of crime is always thoughtful. You’re one of the rare few who tries to get behind the facts and into the underlying motives. You look for the insight and you seem to be able to understand people and see it.’ He paused, the burning stare again. ‘I like that. It’s exactly what we artists do when we paint. Well, the decent ones anyway.’
Dan stayed still, facing the man, aware now that he wasn’t the only one who’d prepared for this meeting. He could feel the room around him
had gone quiet as Nigel and Abi listened in.
‘Plenty was written about the Bray case,’ said McCluskey, nodding slowly. ‘It was an extraordinary one. And the word was that you saw the solution. But it was never made clear in the reporting what led you to it. How did you solve it?’
Dan let out a deep breath as his eyes filled with the past. He’d been over that so many times in his mind. It was too ridiculous to talk about, but still so vivid and strong. 15 years ago now. Thomasin, aged 21, the last two weeks of their final term at University. They’d been in the same year, but had only met in the last fortnight, and she was so beautiful, so clever, so funny, so warm, so loving… so perfect.
They’d tried to make it work, but the simple college days were fading and the merciless currents of life had begun pushing them apart. They hadn’t had enough time together to establish the foundations to make the relationship last. Every other woman since had been compared to her, and none had ever come close. Nowhere near. How could fate play that spiteful trick on him so young?
Dan blinked the memories away and said finally, ‘The best I can say is that I think I understood how deeply you can be affected by one single event in your life. I knew how some people can never truly be freed of that weight, and how it can stay with them until it drives them to one day find some resolution.’
McCluskey held the stare, nodded slowly. ‘And in the Bray case, it was revenge?’
‘Yes. He’d broken people’s lives and that had to be avenged.’
‘And in your case?’
Dan could feel the room’s silence, the eyes on him, but why was he was still tempted to tell McCluskey about Thomasin? A feeling like being in a confessional? To this man he didn’t know? No, not now, not ever. No one knew and no one would. No one would know about the catalogue of sticking-plaster relationships that had followed, the attempts to cover the cracks in a fractured heart. Continued to follow he thought, as Kerry walked across the stage of his mind, head held high, not looking at him.
‘Mr McCluskey, I’d love to stay and talk, but we have to get the unveiling of the last picture on the lunchtime news.’
Another silence as they stared at each other, then a faint nod from the artist and a swell of relief in Dan. He thought he managed to disguise it, but he wasn’t sure.
‘You’re very privileged you know,’ McCluskey said, turning back to the last of the pictures. ‘No one from outside has seen the series properly yet.’ He looked up and reached out a hand to touch the alarm clock, as though wanting to adjust its time. ‘Abi’s acquaintance with your editor and her kind offer to let me write my own obituary swung it. It was something I couldn’t refuse, and that doesn’t happen very often, not to a man in my time of life.’
McCluskey flinched and let out a deep wracking cough, his body shaking. He took a couple of deep breaths and composed himself. Abi was at his side instantly, an arm on his shoulder, fear in the tightness of her face.
‘OK, OK...’ he said to her breathlessly, gathering himself. ‘Now, time is something I don’t have the luxury of, so shall we get on with the interview? In here, using the pictures as a backdrop?’
‘Yes please,’ Dan replied.
‘Almost ready,’ said Nigel, ‘just give me a minute to get a couple of details of number nine and I’ll be with you.’
‘So what do you want to ask me?’ said McCluskey, putting an arm around Abi who looked up to him in the most adoring way Dan had ever seen.
‘I suppose I want to know how you’d like to be remembered,’ Dan replied, surprising himself. So his brain had finally come up with an idea. ‘And also about the last months of your life, the Death Pictures and your reconciliation with your enemies. All that sort of thing.’
‘Fine,’ McCluskey said, drawing himself up slowly. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to talk about. Abi my love, please don’t stay with us for this, it’ll be too upsetting for you. I’ll come and find you when we’re done.’ She turned without a word and walked out through the door.
Nigel positioned McCluskey so they had a backdrop of the last three pictures. He clipped a microphone onto his shirt and Dan took his position by the side of the camera.
‘The first question, I’m bound to ask,’ said Dan, bringing a wan smile to the artist’s face. ‘Can you offer any help to the thousands of people who are trying to solve your puzzle?’
‘No,’ came back the instant reply. ‘Except to assure them the solution is in the pictures here and may come as a surprise. I certainly hope it will.’
A word in the answer surprised Dan.
‘You said ‘here’. Do you mean here in the gallery, with all the pictures in their position in the series is the place to solve the riddle?’
McCluskey nodded. ‘You’re listening. Very good. Or shall we say… I’d consider the studio by far the best place to solve the riddle. All the information you need is here in front of you. If you were to buy some prints of the pictures elsewhere, it may not be. It may, but then again, it may not.’
What did that mean, wondered Dan? That the answer may not be just in the pictures, but there was something here in the studio as well? He was tempted to look around, to see what it could be, but stopped himself. I’m thinking like I’m trying to solve the puzzle, not an interviewer.
‘Could you explain what you mean by that?’ Dan asked.
‘No.’ A shake of the head, the smile still there. ‘It’s all part of the mystery.’
Dan nodded. He’d been expecting that, knew he wouldn’t get any further, had his next question ready. Time to move the interview on, he had lots to cover. But what did McCluskey mean? Was it part of this lesson he had to teach?
‘You were given up to a year to live when you started the pictures. That time is almost up now.’ Dan heard the whirr of the camera’s motor next to his ear as Nigel zoomed the picture in for the powerful close up of the artist’s face. ‘What’s it like feeling your time is running out?’
He’d expected some defensive reaction to that, probably even wanted it, but McCluskey remained inscrutable.
‘It’s like feeling the driest, most powdery sand slip through the fingers of your hand. It feels strangely beautiful. It looks beautiful. You’d like to stop it but you know you can’t. You’d like it to go on for ever, but you know it won’t. You know each passing second brings you closer to your hand being empty. And with that is the certainty that soon it will be empty.’
Dan tried to disguise the shudder he felt run across his shoulders. He looked down at his notebook to check his next question.
‘You’ve made a point of reconciliation with all your enemies in these last few months. Why?’
McCluskey spread his arms, as though appealing to the sky.
‘I want to go to the grave content. I want my soul to fly unburdened.’ His words came softer now, and Dan wondered if he could see the cover of his preparation for the interview thinning, the real feeling starting to show. ‘I don’t want the nagging weight of unfinished business to bind me. I don’t want the drag of regret to inhibit me. I want to leave this beautiful planet calm and at peace with it.’
McCluskey looked expectantly at him and Dan was tempted to ask his next question, but decided to take a risk. He’d learnt early that the greatest art of the interviewer is knowing when to stay silent. It could leave you looking foolish, unsure where to take the discussion, or it could prompt real passion. Dan held the artist’s look, said nothing.
‘When I was told I had under a year to live,’ continued McCluskey, his voice hoarse now, ‘I was angry. In fact, I was livid. I raged and shouted and screamed at how unfair, how unjust it was. But then I realised it was an opportunity. How many of us get notice of our departure date? I realised I had a chance to do all the things I wanted to do and leave this earth without regret. Who among us can say that?’
Dan let the word
s settle, then asked. ‘And why the raising money for charity with the pictures?’
‘The easiest question so far. I have a little talent for doodling. There are many deserving causes. I don’t need the money where I’m going. Why not help them out in their good works? I’m not a believer, but I have been a gambler. If I’m right and there is no God, I won’t lose out. But if there is, I might as well insure myself and do some good works before I get to the Pearly Gates of Heaven. They might just squeak me a ticket in.’
Dan heard a quiet huff from Nigel. A gentle Christian, he was bringing up his sons in the same way and didn’t like to see religion mocked. But that was a hell of a good answer, and he couldn’t fault the logic.
‘Finally, as you know, this interview is for broadcasting after your death.’ Dan paused, let the words echo from the stone walls. Nigel zoomed the shot in again. This was the killer question, the most important of the interview. ‘How would you like to be remembered?’
McCluskey looked down at the ground for a moment, then gestured to the paintings behind him. ‘Remember me with this. Remember me as a man who had a small talent and did his best with it.’
Dan stared at him and thought he could see a moistening in the edges of his eyes, just a slight shine but it was there. At last, a question gets through his defences, thought Dan. At last.
‘Remember me as a man who didn’t always lead a good life, but tried to do his best in the end. Remember me as someone who liked a little game with his pictures, but only for the best of motives. Remember me as someone who tried to right the wrongs he saw around him before he left the sweet wonder of this beautiful and precious earth.’