Part 35 – Imitation is the highest form of flattery

As Frank got into his car he couldn’t get the number out of his head. £34,700! How had it ever got to that level? He knew there was an overdue credit card and the interest was stacking up; there was a store card; A gas bill; leccie bill; water bill; council tax and the car insurance was due imminently too. Then there was another credit card, one that Frank had not even realised that they had.  As he had ripped open the small brown envelopes he had become more and more frenzied, the beads of sweat forming on his forehead and his heart racing faster and faster, beating irregularly like a strong wind in a slack sail, pounding the canvas against the mast. Once he had finished Frank filed the bills neatly, in chronological payment order and looked up at the clock and it was time to go. He had already written out the cheque for the first payment and that had at least made him feel good about himself.

The air was heavy and the sky grey. The atmosphere was thick, not just with anticipation of the illegalities before him but with the impending storm blowing in from the across the Atlantic. Frank once more made his way across town to the place that Celia had taken him the previous week. Once there he went down the steps to the front door with the peeling paint and upon knocking was handed another rolled up canvas, this time a scrap of paper with a printed address. “After delivery burn the address” were the only instructions he had been given by the spotty youth with the oversized jumper. Frank returned to the car and tucked the painting behind his seat. As he waited at a set of red traffic lights a few spots of rain decorated his windscreen. Frank grimaced. He knew this would complicate matters. He had decided he would collect the painting, then collect his evidence taking pictures of the canvas and pictures of the delivery address, the packaging and noting the time and date and description of the guy behind the door. With the deluge of rain that the heavy sky above promised Frank was not sure quite how he would execute his plan. He needed to be undercover and it had to be private.

Frank drove on to the outskirts of town, further and further from the buzzing metropolis. As he racked his brain for somewhere that would give him shelter the rain fell heavier and heavier, pounding the car. As he did so he spotted out of the corner of his eye a disused garage, the canopy still mainly intact, just a single chain cordoning off the garage. Frank pulled over and hopped out of the car, moving the poles suspending the chains, and the tyres that weighted them. He slid back into the car, his rain coat dripping, and drove the car under cover. Frank stared into the cascading rain, falling in sheets on the sodden ground. A thunder clap struck in the distance and looking about Frank was reassured that there was no one to disturb him. The ground was dry and so Frank removed his rain coat and opened the rear door of the car. He had come prepared and brought with him a separate canvas and spread it out on the floor to lay the art work upon. He then took his camera out of the car and got it all set up. As he unrolled the canvas he gasped. In front of him was a Bacon! ‘Study after Valazquez III’. You cannot confuse the raw introspective depiction of the human condition that Bacon illustrates so well. Frank remembered when he was a boy the ‘Study After Valazquez’ series disappearing and later the first two reappearing. This time he knew for sure though, even without consulting the Art Doctor, that this was not a genuine Bacon. Once it was safely in the centre of the canvas, protected from the hard asphalt below Frank respectfully took the photographs, marvelling at how perfect the brush strokes depicted the image that he had seen so many times in his mother’s art books and later he had done a project on it at college. He once more took a small paint sample. This time he was prepared and had brought with him, especially for the job, some cling film to wrap it securely anf keep it free from contaminants. He couldn’t quite get over the concept and the level of flattery at having your work imitated on such a scale. Maybe one day someone will be imitating his Celia’s art? Who knows? He rolled up the canvas once more and returned it to his car in the same packaged format that it had been entrusted to him in less than an hour ago. Frank got back into the driver’s seat and took off down the road, keen to make up on lost time. As he drove he felt very smug about the evidence he had gathered. What’s more, now that the adrenalin had depleted he was feeling much more confident about paying off the outstanding debts. The rain still thrashed the bonnet of the car as Frank sped down the country lanes heading deep out into the area where his 1997 road map was taking him to. He had never really been one for gadgets and despite the success of his new found internet skills he hadn’t yet ventured into satellite navigation systems although at this very moment he was beginning to wish he had!

 

Part 34 – Coming Clean

Rachel had driven herself home in some kind of trance. She couldn’t say how she got from the hospital back home but she did and she had sat in the lounge three days later. She remembered listening to the clock ticking loudly from its throne on the mantel piece, and feeling the brushed velvet of the brown sofa soft beneath her bare calf protruding from the hem of her dressing gown. Celia was still at university and Frank was out at work. Rachel stared, soaking up the atmosphere. The last three days had been some of the most difficult of her life. She had not found the words to tell Frank or Celia about her diagnosis. It felt as though saying it out loud would make it more real. Every time she had seen Frank she had opened her mouth to say something.  Keeping things from her husband didn’t come naturally to her, but then, neither did the words. She would practise in the mirror

“Frank, I’ve something to tell you”…

“Frank, I got some news and it’s not good I’m afraid”….

“Frank, sit down a moment, we need to talk”…..

It didn’t matter how many times she practised and how many different ways she tried to put it into words, when the moment came the words just didn’t. They stopped, half way up in her throat, couldn’t break free. They were there in her heart but not where anyone could hear them. Then, at night she would weep. Weep for the secrets she was keeping, weep for the life she would leave, and weep for all the things that she hadn’t yet finished. Rachel kept picturing herself in the consultant’s office. You would think that as the news came from an old colleague it would have softened the blow but it didn’t. The words, as Rachel replayed them again and again in her head looking for a loophole, a clue as to how she could cheat death, sounded just as cold and sterile as they would had they been from a complete stranger.

 

Later that day when Rachel got back from the shops Frank was home already. Rachel walked towards Frank who sat at the kitchen table, his hands locked tightly together. She knew that he knew. He looked at her quizzically, a soft look in his eyes reflected the hurt that he felt as he asked her when she was planning on telling him.

Rachel knew that demanding to  know how he knew was no defence and it didn’t matter. The important thing was that he did know. The best thing she could do now was to present her side of things as this jury would be out very soon and she didn’t have long to present her case. Rachel had proceeded to explain everything to Frank; the headaches, the twitching, the difficulties at work, then the scans and appointments and how she had tried so hard to tell him but she couldn’t find the words – the words to tell her husband that he would be sailing the remainder of their voyage alone.  As she had explained the situation she could see Frank reacting to each blow, caused by a new piece of information. Watching her husband and seeing him hurting Rachel had felt her own tears well up hot behind her eyes and willed them not to overspill.

 

They had sat for hours, holding each other, as the sunlight waned around them. With no thought for food or sleep the two lovers just held each other tight. Brought together once again, this time by fear, sadness and desperation their bodies moulded together. Eventually Rachel spoke up, ending the silence.

“I should tell Noney, I just can’t work out how to”

“Tell her when she’s home”

“Will you be there?”

“Of course” Frank had promised. And he was.

 

Finally sleep pulled Rachel away from this bitter sweet memory as it graced Rachel with its elusive but valued presence and she closed her eyes and drifted into a happier land, even if just for a few hours.

 Present Day

The next evening Frank sat at the kitchen table. It was eleven o’clock at night and he had another delivery to do that evening. He could not help but feel slightly nervous. He now knew what was going on and didn’t like being a part of this illegal activity. At least Celia only knew them by chance and it wasn’t her wrapped up in something. At least he knew that he was doing it for the greater good thought Frank. He was gathering information to take to the police. As he sat there he looked across at the bureau drawer, full of its secrets, its fire breathing dragons, skeletons, monsters, rabid dogs and poisonous snakes. He knew that he had to confront it, to work out exactly how much money he needed to get rid of all of his outstanding debts. Then he could plan, he could do enough work to make it a manageable amount and then he could go to the police with the evidence he had gathered. He was sure the police would understand that he was helping them and had to keep accepting the money as to not do so would make him less believable as an employee. They had to see that right? And, if he didn’t have the money, then he couldn’t pay it back to the authorities could he?

As he looked at the clock for the third time in five minutes and realised that he still had fifty three minutes before he had to leave the house. He took a deep breath and stalked across the kitchen where, in a fit of determination he pulled the drawer out of the bureau and lifted it up onto the kitchen table before one by one opening each brown envelope and sorting the bills in to suppliers, black bills, and red bills. Once sorted he pulled a calculator out of the kitchen drawer and began to face reality.

 

 

 

Part 33 – Nightime Terror

As Rachel slept fitfully in her bed, her unconscious state took her back to a place where she hadn’t been in a professional capacity for a long time. Walking brusquely up the hospital corridor in her suit, her lanyard bouncing against her chest she carried a tray of anaesthetic drawn up and ready for theatre.  As she walked she began to feel that familiar twitching once more. As she progressed down the corridor the twitching in her arm became more violent. She fought to control her limb as it disobeyed her once again. Rachel stood still and concentrated on telling her arm to stop but it made no difference.

She walked into the theatre, her footsteps echoing in the cold and sterile room. From the corner of the room an old woman appeared, curled over with old age, her grey hair bobbed courteously, obediently around the nape of her neck. She was wearing a theatre gown and surgical mask. Rachel walked across to the operating table that stood in the centre of the room and climbed onto it, lying down, still fully dressed. As she lay down she pulled the operating theatre lights closer towards her. Thousands of little lights illuminating every part of the room and dazzling Rachel. As Rachel became accustomed to the lights and their new position she could make out the little old lady in the corner of the room. As she looked the old lady turned around, the two eyes peered out over the mask were an icy blue; piercing and familiar. The face was gaunt and grey behind the mask. Her sinewy arm reached out. Gnarled and slightly decomposing  fingers clutched a scalpel with confidence and unexpected dexterity. The blade glistened beneath the operating theatre lights. Rachel looked on in horror as her mother walked out of the shadows and towards the operating table still the mask still covering her decomposing face, scalpel outstretched, a smile beneath the thin veil of fabric.

Rachel sat up in bed, her nightdress soggy from perspiration, her heart was racing.  With almost identical speed Frank sat up next to her in the bed ‘What’s wrong, what’s happened’. Rachel realised the deafening sound ringing in her ears was that of her terror, her mouth open wide still emitting a sharp, shrill sound, telling all of her terror. Realising this Rachel stopped screaming and flung herself into Frank’s arms. As he held her she sobbed into his chest. The tears slid down her cheeks and onto her husband. She didn’t tell him her dream. She didn’t want to share with him her nightmares, he’d had and would have enough of his own to face, some of which he would have to face alone, without her adding her more to the pile.

Later that night as Rachel lay in bed listening to Frank breathing heavily beside her. She listened to the clock in the hall downstairs its rhythmic ticking reaching out to her like comforting arms, enveloping her in the dead of the night. It was no wonder she was having nightmares Rachel reflected, it was a year to the day that she received the diagnosis that had changed life for her as she knew it and with that milestone a bell knolled, reminding her that her time was running out.

Rachel had been dismissing a nervous twitch for a while but after several weeks it had grown so severe and so regular that it could not be ignored and Rachel had sought a medical opinion. If she was honest with herself she knew that there was something wrong, the nausea, the headaches behind the eyes, the feeling of pressure and fogginess. Usually the headache would come knocking at about four in the morning, waking her from her slumber. A couple of pills usually helped her get back off to sleep but the headache would still be there, behind her right eye when she awoke, taunting her. The Doctor had referred her to the hospital for scans. Sure enough after an MRI scan, firstly without dye and then with dye a consultant had come to see her as she waited. He’d confirmed that Rachel had a grade three brain stem glioma. Rachel knew all too well what this had meant. Her mind had whirled through the people that she had looked after and anaesthetised that had been going into the operating theatre to have brain tumours removed. Most came out, but some didn’t. Those that did come out were often bought more time, rarely given back their happy ever after. Rachel felt nauseous as she tried to take in the news. She wanted to cry and beat her fist against the door; against the table; against the doctor but she knew it wasn’t their fault. She had tried to remain composed her whole life and she wasn’t about to surrender her composure now. She took deep breaths and willed the tears to stay where they were, not to spill out down her face, coursing over her cheeks like rivers bursting their banks. The Consultant had gone on to explain that the tumour’s positioning on the brain stem meant that it would be impossible to remove and whilst its growth may be slowed by a combination of radiotherapy and chemotherapy it was unlikely that they would be able to stop it from growing further. Rachel was hardly listening. All she could think of was Frank and Celia and how her role on earth wasn’t done yet. There was still so much that she wanted to do. Rachel looked up at the Doctor, trying hard to focus on what he was saying but she couldn’t understand, despite it being the language of her own profession.

“How long” she asked with a shaky voice, barely audible in the quiet room.

“I am afraid we can’t really say for sure” The Doctor replied. “Could be a months, could be a year or, if things go well, two”

“A Year” Rachel had echoed. Her mind didn’t whirl any more, it was blank, a wall, whitewashed. At this point she hadn’t even felt like crying anymore. The only thing that had occupied her entire being was a disbelief so strong it was tangible.

Part 32 – Chemical Compounds

The phone rang. Frank reached for it and picked up with his usual greeting. “Hello is that Frank” the voice asked on the other end of the phone. “Yes speaking” Frank used his best phone voice.

“Frank it’s Doctor Dave. I received the samples that you sent in earlier this week and can confirm that there are traces of Titanium Dioxide in the sample which makes it negative. Sorry to be the one to have to break the bad news” Frank felt sick. Upon hanging up the phone he turned his attention back to his now soggy Cornflakes as he contemplated his next steps. It had been several days since Frank’d had to deliver the canvas. Celia walked into the kitchen at breakfast and slid Frank an A4 envelope. Frank curiously picked up the envelope and prising it open peered inside. The envelope was stuffed with £250 in £10 and £20 notes. A shot of excitement surged about his body, finally he could pay some of the bills off. The relief would be quite amazing.

Then the reality of the situation and Frank’s moral compass kicked in. What was he to do now? The last few days had been confusing to say the least. It had been a few days since Frank had decided to investigate what it was he was being asked to deliver. He had opened the canvas bag the other evening Frank had been astonished to see a piece of art that he recognised. Signed by the artist. He had stared speechless at the canvas stretched out before him. He had recognised it. Plain as day; was certain; it was a Tissot. In fact it was not just any old Tissot it was the famous ‘Apparition’, the one that had been missing since the end of the 19^th Century. It had been on the front cover of a book that his mother had when he was a child. He would sit and stare at the book for hours, entranced by the intricacy of the brush strokes, the blend of the colours. Frank was sure that only a Mezzotint remained. And yet, all the Tissot trademarks were there. Frank had quietly rolled up the canvas once more and with it safely in hand he tiptoed out of the room, down the stairs and into the lounge to the family computer. Pushing the on button he waited impatiently as the black screen turned to blue, then to a photo of himself, Rachel and Celia taken before Rachel’s hair had fallen out. As ever the beauty of his wife struck him like a thunderbolt. As he waited he looked once more at the Tissot in his hand. He was intrigued. How had this painting, missing for many years suddenly turned up in his possession, if indeed it had. He had to learn more.

Frank’s research skills were somewhat sketchy to say the least. It wasn’t often that he used the internet but since Rachel’s diagnosis his research skills had improved substantially. Not wishing to push Rachel to confront more of her illness than she was ready to do so Frank had asked Celia to help him learn how to use search engines properly so that he could spend the evenings that he couldn’t sleep looking up terms online and trying to make head or tail of what the staff at the hospital were telling them. The welcome screen had flashed before him and he sat down, placing the Tissot on the desk next to him and searched under ‘The Apparition’. Up sprung an image, identical to the one meticulously brushed in oil on his desk. He zoomed it up, studied it, unrolled the canvas, studied that. He got up, turned on the lights, turned on the lamps, studied the oil painting once more. Then he did a more general search.

Sure enough a mezzotint existed of the Apparition which itself went missing at the end of the nineteenth century whilst Tissot was still alive. Frank had puzzled most of the night over how the painting could have been missing for so long and then turn up in his care. Frank had begun to wonder. He had typed into the computer ‘how to tell an art forgery’ and, sure enough the computer presented pages of links on spotting a forgery. Frank had clicked on the first site, nothing terribly useful, he’d clicked on the second link, same information. The third link he had clicked on was further down the list of sites and gave practical advice on what to do if you think you have a fake. So, in accordance with the advice, Frank took a paint sample and send it to ‘The Art Doctor’, to have the paint analysed. He had found the thought that he could be involved in something illegal and morally wrong such as cheating people to part with their hard-earned cash under false pretences sickening.

Frank had gone back to bed and had lain there all night aware of Rachel’s breath on the back of his neck as he thought through what he had found, what it might mean and whether or not it actually was a genuine piece of work.

Later that day Frank had received the call telling him that the funds had been received and that the art should be delivered. The call had sent him into a spin. How could he possibly delay several days until the results came back. He had concluded that he didn’t need to. He had to carry on as normal just in case. He would just make the delivery and wait on the results to determine whether or not he continued with this job and that is what he had done. Now that he knew for certain however, how could he continue to do this job knowing that what he was doing was both illegal and morally wrong?

Part 31 – Curiosity Burns…

Frank lay in bed. Rachel lay next to him, fast asleep. She seemed to be sleeping better at night now, and in turn smoking less. As he looked across at his wife, sleeping in blissful ignorance of how their world was changing. Something wasn’t right about his new job and he couldn’t put his finger on it. The people he had met were sullen and unprofessional, the premises looked unkempt. It just wasn’t right and no matter how much Frank wanted to trust his daughter he couldn’t help the nagging seedling of doubt that was growing in his mind.

Earlier that day Frank had followed to collect his first assignment. He and Celia had driven across town and parked up before he had got out of the car and followed Celia down some stone steps only to be confronted by a heavy green door. Its paint was peeling and revealing the multitude of colours it had sported through the different fashions. Celia rapped her knuckles six times against the hard wooden door. Then they had listened to the clunk and swish of locks being withdrawn into their housing before the door swung promptly open. Celia and Frank crossed the threshold. The hallway had been cold and a young gangly boy with brown hair had received them. He seemed to acknowledge Celia with a degree of reverence but still didn’t say anything to her. As Frank turned around he thought he saw a knowing look of familiarity pass between his daughter and this young man. He couldn’t help but wonder exactly what their relationship is.  

Frank had been given a long thin canvas bag. As it was handed to him by the young face Frank felt the young man’s reticence. Eventually the young man let go of the bag. He then proceeded to read Frank and address.

“Have you got a pen and paper please?” Frank asked.

“You can’t write it” he droned.

“But….”

Celia sent Frank a stern look. Frank was puzzled. Surely they want to make sure that the art work goes to the right address?

He dutifully took the package and with Celia hot on his heels, they left. As they were crossing the boundary Frank turned back.

“What about my pay?”

“£250 cash upon safe delivery”. The young boy was rude and abrupt. Frank would never allow his son to talk to someone in such a way…if he’d had a son”

The next day Frank had to meet so He couldn’t help but wonder what it was. He looked across at the canvas bag tucked beside the bureau in the corner of the room.  He slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the carpeted room, each floor board creaking as he went. He reached the bag and unzipped it, so carefully, so slowly. He slid the bag down the outside of the cardboard tube that housed the precious contents. He slid the art work out of the cardboard tube, gently and quietly, taking care not to wake his wife who slept only a few feet away. His heart was beating fast as he lay the canvas on the floor and unrolled it. Frank looked on at the image on the canvas, the fine, immaculate brush strokes, the detail, so precise. Frank gasped as he recognised the piece of art laid out before him.

Part 30 – One Door Closes…Another Opens

The front door opened, giving way to a very tired looking Celia. She was earlier than usual.  Frank looked up and quickly wiped his cheek dry with the back of his hand. Celia’s footsteps on the wooden hall floor echoed along the hallway giving Frank warning of her impending entrance. Frank looked up as Celia, dressed all in black entered the room. She had worry lines embedded into her  furrowed brow and her eyes looked tired and blood-shot. “Hi noney, you’re back early ” Frank put on his best cheerful voice.

“What’s up Dad” Celia asked as she walked over.

“Nothing, nothing dear”

“ I can see you have been crying, your eyes are all blood shot and there is a tear stain on your newspaper. I am not a child anymore Dad, You don’t have to pretend! Frank looked down, sure enough a small tear stain decorated the corner of his newspaper.  What was she?  Some kind of superhero with special perceptive powers?”

“Just trying to work out the bill situation that’s all Noney” he replied, trying hard to make light of the situation”

“Still no better?”

Frank shook his head glumly. Celia pulled a chair up beside him. She looked pensively around, almost nervously.

‘You know, I know of a way you can make some extra money if you want to?’

‘How’s that?’ Frank quizzed.

‘Well, I know this guy. He’s an art dealer and he is looking for a new courier for expensive pieces of art.’

‘Errrm, I don’t know about that. I don’t have the right sort of vehicle or security’.

‘But you’re unknown. What better security is there than something being exactly where you don’t expect it to be? Go on. It’ll be really easy and you would be helping out a friend of mine too!’

‘Well, I guess I could give it a go. How much does it pay’

‘It’s worked out for each job. Best not to tell anyone though. We don’t want Mum to find out about the money situation and start worrying now do we?

‘No..indeed’ Frank answered distractedly. It seemed almost too good to be true, good money for a few deliveries here and there…A lot of responsibility though!’  

‘Excellent’ Celia got up, as she walked away from the table the gravity of the situation fell away from her like snow in an avalanche, piling instead at Frank’s feet. Frank sighed. He didn’t like all this secrecy and felt uneasy about his discussion with Celia but, she was his daughter, she wouldn’t do anything to put him in danger or to get him into trouble. ‘I just have to let go and trust’ thought Frank.

Part 29 -Surrender to Self Pity

Frank sat in the kitchen, the small grandfather clock in the hallway struck nine with its rich tones echoing about the old hallway. Rachel had gone to bed. Frank hated to see his wife so tired and wiped out all of the time. It was so different from the woman he had known and loved for so long that seemed to revel in the joie de vivre. Frank stared at his hand, his thumb caressing the crystal cut glass in his hand that held the promise of the warming sweet nectar within. Brandy was fast becoming his sidekick, the Robin to his Batman, the Watson to his Holmes.  It helped him forget about the ever mounting piles of brown envelopes that having overflowed the draw were now shacking up house in the drinks cabinet; another place Rachel won’t look. There were no new contracts at work and the last piece of work wasn’t far off being complete. Frank was working just a couple of hours a day, trying to increase his employment length but he couldn’t see where next month’s money was coming from. He had no idea how he was going to make the payments.

He was getting worried about Celia too. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get rid of the nagging feeling of foreboding that occupied him day and night. Something was wrong with her but she wouldn’t open up to him. He had tried talking to her, being around her more often and he had tried to suggest some joint activities, some real Daddy daughter time like they used to have, but Celia was having none of it, still leaving the house in the evening and getting back in the early hours. She looked more and more tired by the day and at present more than a little sombre too. One morning Frank was convinced he had heard her crying in her room as he made one of his ever increasing trips to the bathroom in the early hours.

Rachel at least was doing well. She was more like her usual self aside from her energy levels and the physical appearance. Her blood count was at its lowest for some time, so Rachel was most prone to illness and infection and, therefore, was staying at home as much as possible for the moment. This in itself caused problems as Rachel was getting bored sitting around the house. One of her friends from the hospital was visiting her from time to time and would stay for cake and tea, These visits seemed to keep Rachel going, as after the visits Rachel always seemed more positive and resolute and this would usually last a few days before she began to slip back in to the abyss of boredom that was becoming her home.

Frank stared into his glass and as he reflected what a mess his life had become a tear slid down his -cheek. He wasn’t one for self-pity but, right here, right now, with no one to see him he capitulated to the monster inside that was desperate to escape, albeit for just a few moments.

Part 27 – Too little too late

Si started to panic. Was he really going to just drive off, to leave him here? Without a painting or the money there was no telling what would happen to him. It would be over. Without the painting or the money they were sure to tell his wife everything. When Si had tried to get out of this work before, they had threatened to tell his wife everything; how he had been married to a prostitute and how he had ‘abandoned her’ when she got mixed up in drugs and left her to commit suicide. All of the things that he had tried to shelter his wife from knowing all these years would all be shunted out into the open with no cover. That would be it, Si’s life as he knew it, over forever. He stood, defiant in front of the car, the hum of its engine now masking the sound of his former brother in law’s voice. The two men had to shout across the sound of the engine to be heard. ‘Don’t be crazy now, let’s talk about this’ Si attempted. ‘We could have talked about this any time, why bother tonight?’ Came the slightly slurred response. Was that alcohol Si could detect in his voice? Si became aware of his breathing, so rapid, feeding his pounding heart with oxygen. ‘Because we are both here’ Si returned, floundering slightly for an answer. Si looked hard into the headlights but the beams that shone out across the car park into the cold night stopped him from being able to read his opponent. He could still only make out an outline, a featureless, expressionless outline in the cold night. Still holding his hand to his eyes to shield them from the hostile headlights he looked for the right words. The words that would make a difference and stop his assailant, save his marriage, enable his son to grow up with a father. The most important words he had ever had to find and he all he could think of was his son, oblivious, tucked up in bed, fast asleep, beneath his Barney Bear duvet cover. Oh, to be anywhere but here right now. Still struggling for words Si gave in looking for the right words and decided to settle for any words. ‘Stop the engine’ No response. ‘Please, stop the engine, let us talk’ ‘You didn’t want to talk when you walked away from my sister so why would I want to waste my time talking to you now?’ The lights got stronger. Si could see nothing. He heard the accelerator, the increase in revs, the spraying of gravel beneath wheels starting to turn on the loose stones underfoot. The engine growled like a caged lion about to pounce, the lights got nearer. Si looked on, as the car began to close in the fifty metres that had stood between them Si looked on, the realisation of what was about to happen freezing his muscles, routing his feet to the spot as he watched in horror and disbelief as the car swung towards him, the driver’s door still wide open, swinging precariously with the movement of the car. He looked towards the light in horror and shouted ‘No’. The smell of petrol and a flash of light. The car sped off across the gravel and out of the car park away from Si’s body face down on the cold, unforgiving ground.

Part 26 – From Out Of The Darkness

Si ran out into the moonlight and out into the middle of the car park, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. The brief interim of the light in the hallway of the building had been enough to trick his eyes, shocking him with darkness as he ran out into the open. The single overhead security light made a poor effort to penetrate the darkness. He was desperately trying to find the man with the gun. 

The night was still and quiet, stars twinkling high above, oblivious to the evil that was beginning to unfold; the whirlwind of guilt, hatred, fear and envy unleashing itself on the car park below. As Si looked out into the darkness a sharp pain coursed through his head as lights were turned on in one of the cars, dazzling him. Si winced and tried to shield his eyes from this new assault.

Si heard a voice. It was calm and confident. Unfeeling and perhaps a little slurred.

“I know who you are Justin Simons . You can run but you can’t hide”

It was a familiar voice, one that he hadn’t heard for a long time. A shot of fear reverberated through Si’s bones. He hadn’t been called Justin for a long time now and he thought that he had escaped his past. The only people who still knew what had happened were those that he worked for and as long as he was doing what they wanted they would keep it quiet. At least that is what he had been promised.

Still standing stock still in the headlights of the car Si waited, stalling for time, desperately trying to place the voice.

“You thought you had got away with it didn’t you?”  The voice continued. “You thought that just because you could walk away and start again that I wouldn’t find you. Did you ever think I would stop looking for you after what you did to my sister?”

The voice….It was his late wife’s older brother. Si hadn’t seen him since before he had walked out of that flat. Realisation sunk in, and Si, horrified at the responsibility he had been given opened his mouth to speak. But then closed it again, trying hard to peer through the light. If he could just make eye contact….

“Where’s the money?” Si stuttered. His uncertainty spilling out over the armour of confidence that Si had been wearing until now.

“Oh, there is no money. And now there’s no painting either” Came back the calm, calculated response. 

“Where is it? I need it back” Si countered. He could feel the panic rising in his chest and cascading out into his voice. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t be seeing it again” came the emotionless reply.

Silence. Si contemplated his next move.  Was he bluffing? Had he got the painting in the car? Could he get it back?

The person behind the lights reached into the car. The car engine leaped into life with a throaty growl, a predator lurking in the shadows.

Part 25 – Counting the Opportunity

Si took his hand away from the over-stuffed gym bag and slowly, gently lowered his own canvas bag to the floor. He then raised his hands above his head, thrusting them up into the moon light in the high ceilinged room. He didn’t recognise the voice but he could hear his captor’s steady breathing in the small space. He could smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes and the coffee on his breath.  He could feel the barrel of the gun still focused on his head, lest he should make an unpredicted move. Not that there would be any point in that thought Si, there is nowhere to go!

Si thought about the money in the pump bag. Half a million pounds in total. What he could do with half a million. It wouldn’t be all for him though. He would usually take about ten percent of that. The Organisers took about half, the artist would take about a third of the total and some other overheads usually came out before Si got his cut. Doing the maths in his head Si worked out he would be left with about £50,000! More than Si had ever made in any single job before. Imagine what he could do with that. They could get a bigger house, or a new car. He could buy his son the sandpit he wanted or the bike…or both!

‘Give me the bag’ the words jolted Si back to reality. Si looked about him, desperate to find a way out. His arms lowered and he reached out for the canvas bag that had been his sidekick for the duration of the long journey North. His grip tightened on the canvas bag. He turned to his captor. A shadowy figure in the dim light, tall and stocky with medium length hair, greased back, the grease reflecting the moon light.

Si felt a sweat build up at his temples despite the chill in the damp air and his heart was pounding relentlessly as if it was about to break out of his chest

‘We can do this the hard way’ the voice began.

‘Or we can do this the easy way. Hand over the canvas’

‘Where’s a’ money? ’ Si summoned all of the strength he could and hoped that his voice would not betray his pounding heart.

The shadow nodded in the direction of the pump bag that still hung, lonely on a hook above the team benches. Si checked his position, he stood right between the stuffed pump bag and his captor. He took a step towards the pump bag.

‘Later’ the voice boomed. The art first’.

Hesitantly, Si held out the canvas.  

The stranger took the canvas in his big hands and took it out of the canvas bag, its protectorate since its birth. He slid it out of the protective bubble wrap, held it up to the moon light and unrolled it’ As he did so a small smile spread across his hard thin lips. He rolled it back up and slipped it back into the bubble wrap and then into the canvas bag.  

With that the captor withdrew his gun, turned on his heel and left, dropping the door behind him. Si breathed a quick sigh of relief before reaching for the pump bag. Marvelling at his luck, and at how he had expected the situation to have become much more complicated Si pulled the bag off it’s peg. Placing it on the bench below he grabbed the cloth sides and pulled them open, peering in through the hole at the top of the bag at the elastic bound bundles below.  In a moment of horror Si realised that the bundles were not of notes but of paper, cut up to match the size of sterling notes and bound together with great care with elastic bands. Si turned on his heel and ran out into the car park.