The curtain was swept aside and Martin and the nurse both spun guiltily on their heels.
A large black man filled the opening that had been made. A large winter coat covered his broad barrel of a chest and dropped to just below his knee, giving him the impression of an immovable and imposing monolith. The oversized thick lapels were fastened close to his neck making his round head appear like a boulder balanced on his shoulders. His face was chiselled with a hard scowl of brooding determination. Jet dark curls of wiry hair clung neatly to his head like moss with a rich weave of greys and silvers. His eyes squinted closed. He brandished a long piece of intricately carved wood before him. It was too long and thick to be a cane and too short to be a staff. He held it in a commanding grip that angled the wood down to the floor without allowing it to come into contact with it. He held a worn and antiquated black leather Gladstone bag in the other hand.
Martin swallowed against the constriction of his throat and was thankful that the nurse broke the silence, as he was sure he wouldn’t find his own voice. The young nurse’s objection to the man’s presence started strong, having seemingly been startled by the large man himself, but it began to trail off as the nurse realised who the man was.
The black man’s face darkened, creasing around his words and gathering shadows under the harsh lighting as he spoke. His voice was deep, arrestingly commanding and well articulated, and he possessed a curiously haunting undulating dialect that Martin considered to be a mix of French and German. “I am fully aware this is a private area, and yes; I am looking for someone, but it appears that my search is now o-ver.” The authority the man possessed was chilling.
The nurse and Martin looked to the girl, whose smile was suddenly more definite and flickered with life. Not the greeting Martin was expecting her to have for her pimp. He experienced a twinge of jealousy that was both unexpected and uncomfortable in its clarity and its inappropriateness.
A tight smile briefly softened the black man’s features in response to her smile, several gold teeth winked among his yellowing originals. “She is my ward,” the man announced precisely. The smile dissolved and his fierceness returned. He pressed the point of his staff onto the floor and rested both hands on its flat head, posturing behind the claim. “I have come to take her home.” His shuttered eyes flickered and flashed the whites of his eyes as if there was a building power within his head that culminated in his eyes snapping fully open. Martin found the force of the man’s statement emboldened by two blank white eyes staring into him.
Martin had returned to his vigil outside the cubicle. The coffee in his trembling hands had cooled but was too bitter to be enjoyable. The Mars bar in his pocket had become more appealing, and he wanted nothing more than to cram it in his mouth and devour it, but he didn’t know if the black man would want to talk to him again. The man had asked to be alone with the girl, the girl who now had a name, ‘Ivory’.
Martin could see why he called her that, but it couldn’t be her real name. It had to be her ‘street’ name – if there was such a thing. The blind black man called himself ‘Ebony’: ‘Ebony and Ivory’… Martin strangled a laugh at the absurdity of it. It wasn’t that funny but he needed a reason to laugh tonight. He knew the humour that ached to be free was relief that the girl wasn’t hideously maimed and disfigured, disabled or dead, and that she didn’t seem full of hatred for him – although he was sure he had misread the smile she had sent him. He was also relieved that Ebony had restrained any ire and not revealed any intention to knife him or shoot him, that neither the girl nor the pimp were interested in the nurse’s insistence that they contact the police regarding Ivory’s statement about the accident. When the nurse had looked at Martin after this exchange there had been a look of disappointment on his face. Little shit.
The curtain around Ivory’s bed snapped open and the man called Ebony stood facing Martin but stared through him with blinkered slits of white while talking to a nurse Martin hadn’t noticed entering that area. “I have looked after the girl for all her existence.”
At first Martin thought he was making the statement to him and he had stumbled over how to reply until Ebony’s voice whip cracked the air again, the peaks of his voice cut as precisely as a scalpel blade while the lows were as soft and gentle as silk. “I believe I am capable of deciding whether or not she is fit to travel.” He stalked forward, with his staff held before him like some totem of power or status. The girl emerged from his silhouette like a sun reborn from an eclipse. She was standing and walking with apparent ease, and this startled Martin. Surely she would need to stay overnight?
The girl snaked an arm through Ebony’s and despite being blind, he lead the way with a determined step, his long coat swept out from his body and gave the appearance that he was gliding. Martin was arrested by her black glossy eyes that were fixed upon Martin as she walked with Ebony in his direction. In seconds her route took her past and beyond him to the doors. She turned her head a fraction, the slightest of movements, and her petal lips blossomed once more for him. A ‘thank you’?
Then she was gone.
That was it.
Gone.
Strangely he felt bereft. As if her leaving had dragged his insides after her. That was it. The encounter was over. He found himself sitting, weakened by the moment being over, the experience passed. The night had been an exhausting rollercoaster for his emotions, with the exhilarating climb of his anger followed by the plummeting despair of fear and guilt from the accident, and then that strange warm feeling inside him that he normally only found after a cup of tea and a pastry or a chocolate bar. There was also the discomfort and dissatisfaction that her absence created within him.
Chapter Three
The car had been undriveable and Martin had arranged for it to be towed away, Jenny couldn’t have left the kids to come and collect him in their Ford Focus estate, so he made his way back home to Finsbury Park by cab. He pressed the money into the driver’s hand and left him to keep the little change that would be left from the fare. He stood before the dark edifice of his home. It had been a stressful place to be lately, they had a busy life as it was with the kids and their little friends needing ferrying about to and thro after school and at weekends but Peter his father-in-law had had a heart attack three weeks ago and they had been driving to the hospital in Suffolk every other night so that Jenny could be with him and her mother. Thankfully he had recovered well and was home now and the normal chaos and demands of family life had returned. He couldn’t wait to get in and close the door on the night.
He dead locked the door and planted his keys home on the flat top of the stairs newel post. The hall was dark except for a strip of light that filtered through the part open door to the back room. He could tell by the volume of light that it was coming from the standard lamp, and that Jenny would be in her armchair beneath it with a book in her lap that she wasn’t really reading for the worry. He had text her that he had hit someone with the car and she had wanted him to call her, but he didn’t want to have to deal with her angst on top of his own and he sent her updates by text. He would have to recall all the events to her now. The thought of having to revisit it all depressed him. He just wanted to have a drink and something to eat and go to bed. He decided that he wouldn’t tell her that the girl he had hit was a prostitute, or about her strange appearance.
He pushed the door open and peered in to the room. Jenny was sitting in her chair under the standard lamp, leaning out from her chair like a cat alerted to a noise and poised to spring to life, her book closed in her hand with a finger hooked into the pages to keep her place.
“It is you. I thought one of the boys had come down again.”
“Hi.” Martin said gently. He tried a reassuring smile but he wasn’t sure how it looked from the outside.
She dumped the book on the side table and jumped up to him and threw her arms around him. He did the same back although he didn’t feel the need to. A hug wasn’t going to change what had happened,
and it was getting between him and a desperately needed cup of tea and a sugar fix.
“I was so worried,” she said into his chest.
“I told you not to. I’m fine. And as far as I know the girl is okay too.”
“You were so lucky.”
He really, really, didn’t need to be told that. He had been saying it to himself enough, and it always led into thinking about how badly it could have turned out and how close he had come to killing someone that the guilt was tangible. “I know.” He shifted his hands to her face and moved her away from his body for a kiss. She looked pale and drawn with worry. It made her look old. He kissed her then ran his hands down to the tops of her arms. He had successfully broken the hug and held her away from him. “Even if I had been driving under the speed limit instead of on it I still would have hit her. She just ran out of nowhere.”
“Awful.”
It was more awful that he had been speeding but he couldn’t face Jenny’s ire at his stupidity on top of his own self-criticism. “Yup. It was pretty much the finale of the evening. Oh, and I’m pretty sure the car is a write-off.” He moved around her, back into the hall and then into the kitchen. He went straight to the kettle, offered to make Jenny a drink that she turned down, and went about making himself a tea. He nodded to a cluster of coloured sheets and a crudely fashioned trophy on the breakfast table. “What’s all that?”
Jenny scrunched her eyes and shook her head as if trying to shrug an annoying fly from her nose. “Oh, it was Oscar and Finn, they made you a few things to cheer you up after not winning.” She held up two coloured sheets of paper painted with even more colours. “They are your very own UDAC certificates congratulating you on how amazing you are, and your very own prize-winning cup.” She pointed at the trophy made from things he recognised from the recycling bin. “I would advise looking and not touching though.” She flashed her hands to show palms and fingers as gold as the trophy. “Not sure whether the paint they used is going to dry or not.”
He felt a suitable tug on his heart strings at the cuteness of the gesture but nothing could console him from losing. “That’s really nice.” He blew on his tea.
“Well, how are you?”
He rummaged through the breadbin. He knew that she was now asking about the UDAC’s. He was angry that the accident had stolen the focus from the awards night, but felt guilty for thinking feeling that way. It was hard to demand people acknowledge his pain when he had traumatized someone else by nearly killing them, but losing tonight was like proving a point that he had been trying to make for some time. For six months he had been struggling to paint with any conviction of talent and he had told everyone around him that he was failing, that his work was rubbish, and that he wouldn’t get a UDAC this year. Maybe tonight would finally convince all those that had smothered him with platitudes. Tonight he was a failure. “Shattered.” It was the only answer he could manage but it summed up how he felt physically and emotionally after months of preparing to lose. He plucked a yum yum from a packet and took a hearty bite and chased it with a sup of tea. It felt hot sweet and doughy in his mouth. Comforting.
Jenny closed on him and placed her hands on his belly. “I’m really sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Not as sorry as I am.”
“I was gutted when you text me the news. I just wanted to be with you.”
He felt a bruise of guilt for not letting her go. “I know.” Maybe he should have let her come tonight. He wouldn’t have been driving in one of his rages then.
“Did you speak to Richard?”
Martin took another bite and sip and shook his head. Thankfully Hadleigh had been surrounded by congratulators after winning. Martin had caught his eye when he was sure he couldn’t get away from the crowd and gave him a nod of recognition and a gesture of applause that saved Martin from actually having to talk to him.
“Did he deserve to win?”
It was a strange question for Jenny to ask and a difficult one to answer. He didn’t like sculpture in metal, but the piece entitled ‘square peg’ had an aesthetic to it. It was a large sphere of oxidised iron with one hemisphere being ripped open from within by an emerging cube of polished steel mesh. Within this cube was a white plastic sphere that lit up every three minutes, starting with a soft orange glow that built into a brighter more vivid colour. It’s brightness distracted the eye from the mesh case it sat within and lit up the inside of the large sphere that it emerged from, revealing that the sphere’s interior surface was lined with rusted bolts, nails, hooks, razors and barbed wire.
Martin pulled out the small business card that described the piece. He had arranged that every piece on show by the art department had cards printed for people to take and deliberate over as they looked the item over. “ ‘It is about ‘coming out’ as different in a world that can be cruel to non-conformists, and how if given time the ‘square peg’ can be seen as something else; something acceptable.’ I know I hate sculpture but the piece did actually say what is printed on that card. It was good. It was personal, it spoke to the people that viewed it, and it made a comment on society that the individual could relate to, it evoked sympathy and empathy. Everything that my work did not.” During her own private viewing Jenny had carefully and sensitively suggested that Martin’s entry had lacked these points. She stared at the darkness outside the kitchen window as he fed them back to her.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re an art critic. I value an honest educated opinion over the desperate clichéd positivity of fawning apologist friends.” He popped the last of the yum yum in his mouth.
“This is really getting to you isn’t it?”
She had lived with him for the last six months, he didn’t need to answer.
“Honey, you have a good job, you’re a dad with kids that love you, you have a nice home, and you’re married to a wife that loves you to bits.” She bopped her pelvis against his, except his stomach stopped it a foot short of his groin and was a reminder of how out of shape he now was. He regretted the Mars bar he had scoffed in the cab and the yum yum he had just eaten.
She kissed him again. “You’re a good kisser.” She ran her fingers through his waves of hair and traced them down his neck, causing him to flinch as they tickled their way down to his shoulder and then his collar bone. “You’re a good lov-er,” she said huskily in a mock-sexy voice.
“Not now. For Christ’s sake.” Of all times. Not now. Feeling like a loser
“When is a good time?” She snapped.
She stood before him with her chestnut hair hanging untidily about her face where it had slipped out of her crude ponytail, and any suggestion of shape or form to her body was smothered by the old baggy and tatty jumper that served as her housecoat when she slouched over the ironing, cleaned the toilet or did the cooking. She had hardly put much effort into a seduction attempt. A quick fuck wasn’t going to make everything better. He didn’t want to have to switch off his feelings to meet her needs.
“Clearly not when I have fucked up twice in one night!”
One of the boys called down with a whiny voice and Martin swore at himself for shouting and waking him.
Jenny held both thumbs up and flashed him a fake smile. “Score. Now you have made it a hat trick.” She backed away to the door, heading to the crying from upstairs. “You’re hardly ever here emotionally.” She whispered. “I was just trying to find a way to connect.”
“Very opportunist of you.” He bit back.
“Someone has to seize the moment and take the initiative. It sure as hell won’t be you.”
“Okay, next time your father has a heart attack I will give you a quickie on top of the tumble fucking dryer.” He hissed at her as quietly as his rising anger would allow.
She stormed off up the stairs with tears in her eyes. He slammed the breadbin lid against the wall, snatched another Yum Yum from the packet and shoved it whole into his mouth and gnashed bitterly at it, swallowing with self-loathing.
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Chapter Four
Phil McDonald stood with one hand on his hip and the forefinger of his other hand pressed to lips pursed in contemplation. He studied the large canvas that dominated one end of Martin’s studio classroom that held the picture that had failed to impress the judges the night before. Martin rolled his wedding band around his ring finger. The band had thinned after twenty years. Strangely it was symbolic of how he and his marriage had both worn each other down over time. Jenny replated hers every year, kept it flawless and in shape.
“It is a good piece,” Phil, or Donnie as everyone knew him, spoke his conclusion from behind his finger.
Martin rested against a desk with his arms folded and nodded. “Thank you. It was a shame the judges didn’t think so though.”
“Is it too challenging?” He grimaced and rubbed a hand over his shiny scalp. Donnie’s dark hair had receded to the sides of his head long before Martin had met him and befriended him on the campus.
He shrugged. “Isn’t art meant to challenge, Donnie? Whether it is to challenge the imagination or the intellect.”
“I can see what you have done. It’s a retake of Fildes’ Houseless and Hungry isn’t it?” He cast a hand over the picture and circled the line of youths in hooded tops and baseball caps propping themselves up against the wall of a job centre, smoking cigarettes and texting on mobile phones. “These Chav’s that dominate your picture are the modern vision of the ‘destitute’ that Fildes portrayed. But you aren’t forcing people to acknowledge the underclass as Fildes was, are you?”
Martin answered with a smirk, but that wasn’t enough for Donnie who hooked his thumbs in his red braces and stared seriously at him over his thick black rimmed glasses until Martin shook his head in concession.
Ivory Page 3