Portrait of Shade

by Benjamin Ford

  ‘What have you done to upset Nola?’ he asked as he set the morning newspapers down on the desk. ‘She looked quite distraught!’

  Eudora looked up at him, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. ‘I can barely bring myself to believe it, Nate, but I have this horrible feeling gnawing in the pit of my stomach.’

  ‘You think Nola might have something to do with what’s going on?’

  Eudora nodded. ‘I don’t want to think it’s possible, but it seems increasingly likely.’ As she told Nathan what Nola had said about Gaia sending the painting to Sotheby’s, and about the mysterious Don Dusan, Eudora found the paperwork she was looking for. ‘The petty cash is missing. One thing Gaia was always meticulous about was maintaining her records of the petty cash.’ She jabbed the paper in front of her. ‘I thought it had been stolen, along with the painting, but here, Gaia has recorded giving the whole five hundred pounds to a Don Dusan!’

  ‘Which perhaps means this man is real, even though the story of sending the painting to Sotheby’s is a lie?’

  Eudora nodded. ‘Clearly Gaia found out something about Nola that made her suspicious. Nola doesn’t know who this Don Dusan is, but this is definitely Gaia’s handwriting, so she must have trusted him with the painting as well as giving him the cash.’

  ‘So who is Don Dusan?’

  Eudora shrugged helplessly. ‘I only wish I knew!’

  Chapter Ten

  The man with the invented name Don Dusan sat alone in the dimly lit hotel room, resting with his back against the headboard of the bed and his feet on the mattress. The odour of mothballs emanating from the clothes he had been loaned did not bother him as much as they had the woman down in reception. She had wrinkled her nose in disgust when he asked for a copy of one of that morning’s newspapers. When asked which one he wanted, he replied that he did not mind, and upon returning to his room with a copy of The Sun, he had been shocked at the contents of page three, but considering the off-manner with which the receptionist had greeted him, he felt it prudent not to complain.

  Although he could read only a little English, he knew what he was looking for, and found no articles concerning the events that he knew would have happened last night; in fact, it contained little at all of any interest to him. He did not know what to make of the paper, which seemed somewhat irredeemably tacky to him. From what he had seen so far, he firmly believed civilisation had regressed over the centuries, and he was quite glad he had no need to spend the rest of his days in this time. In some ways, he regarded himself as lucky, and he pitied the others, especially his old friend Constantine, and even his nemesis, Diocletian. He felt his prison was paradise compared with the outside world, but he wished it were all over. He wished that he could rest in peace at last; he wished that he and the others could at last feel the sanctity of death. However, with Diocletian there could be no peace, not ever: not in life, and not in death.

  He looked across the room at the painting. He looked at the three faces that stared back at him: three familiar faces that were outside of time itself; three people whose semblance had been painted from the memories of more than one lifetime. The likeness of the three people was so lifelike that it felt in some way like looking into a mirror to the past; a past he had no wish to remember, but a past he also could not forget.

  How long ago had they all been at Salona, the day Constantine had persuaded him not to forgive Diocletian for his crimes, the day Diocletian had breathed his last, and uttered his curse that would plague them all for so many lifetimes? How long ago had they all been reunited in yet another new life? How long ago had the portrait actually been painted? It seemed like a thousand years ago; it felt like yesterday.

  How long ago had they all last been together?

  Civilisations had come and gone, but the hatred directed at both Constantine and him lingered still. Maybe it would be easier to capitulate to his adversary and give Diocletian what he wanted.

  Don Dusan stood up and crossed to the window. Dusk was falling outside, and somewhere out in the encroaching darkness, Diocletian awaited.

  * * *

  Eudora was alone in the gallery, secure in the knowledge that two new locks and two bolts replaced the single lock to the apartment, protecting her from the outside world. Since Nathan was a superior cook, Eudora had dispatched him to his home to prepare something delicious, and had promised she would leave the gallery by nine at the absolute latest.

  With the final piece of paperwork at last completed, she picked up the phone and dialled Nathan’s number. He picked up the call almost immediately. ‘Darling, I’m just leaving the gallery now,’ she said.

  ‘That’s fine. Dinner should be ready by the time you get home.’

  Eudora smiled. Home! It was the first time Nathan had referred to his house as her home, and it felt good. ‘I can barely wait!’

  ‘See you shortly then.’

  Eudora hung up. She tidied her desk, picked up her car keys and handbag, and left the office, switching off the light as she did so.

  Halfway down the spiral stairs, she froze in her tracks at the sound of breaking glass coming from below at the front of the darkened gallery. She held her breath, bending slightly to peer through the gaps in the balustrade. In the internal gloom, she could see two figures silhouetted against the diminished sunlight outside. One of them reached through the broken pane of glass adjacent to the door, struggling to locate the latch. Eudora cursed the fact that she had told the police there was no need to maintain a watch over the building.

  As she saw it, she now had two choices. She could continue down the stairs and hope to scare off the would-be intruders – but considering what happened to Gaia and Isadora, that did not seem especially prudent. The only real course of action was to retreat upstairs and try to leave through the fire escape.

  Suddenly the door was open and the men were inside. Convinced they had not yet spotted her, Eudora slipped off her shoes and carried them as she ran back up to the apartment. She was not about to hang around and see who the men were, and she did not care if they helped themselves to the entire stock.

  At the top of the stairs, the strap of her handbag snagged on the top of the curved balustrade, spilling its contents all over the floor. The two men suddenly shouted, and ran for the stairs.

  Abandoning her handbag, Eudora dashed for the fire exit, and as she struggled to unlock the external door. Whimpering with fear as she heard the men approaching, she finally wrenched it open and threw herself down the stairs two at a time. Stumbling several times in her terrified haste, she felt like a rabbit must when chased by a hungry fox.

  She was clearly aware of heavy footsteps clattering on the metal grating behind her. She could hear the spittle bubbling at the corner of the man’s mouth as he fought to control his ragged breathing as he flung himself down the stairs behind her. He sounded like he was catching up fast, but Eudora had seen too many old Hollywood movies to make the mistake of turning to see how close he was.

  Eudora put on a final desperate burst of speed, almost tumbling down the final couple of steps, and as her feet collided with the concrete paving of the alley, she ran headlong into the waiting arms of the second man, who had obviously gone back down the stairs inside and come out through the front of the gallery.

  She screamed, struggling to extricate herself from his grasp, but he was immensely strong. Twisting her round so she faced away from him, he silenced her scream with one of his large sweaty hands, still maintaining his vice-like grip on her arms with his other hand. His muscles bulged and gleamed with unsurpassed strength. She fought for breath, desperate not to panic, but equally desperate for freedom.

  The man relaxed slightly, a foolish mistake of overconfidence.

  Eudora kicked him sharply in the shins with her heel, and though it was in itself an ineffective gesture, it startled her attacker, allowing her to free one arm and elbow him deftly in the ribs. He cried out in a cloud of pain, releasing his grip on his captive.

 
; Struggling maniacally, Eudora freed herself from his slackened grasp and ran down the alley towards the street at the front. There at least – she hoped – she would find the safety of company from a passer-by, or perhaps another shopkeeper.

  She ventured a glance behind and shrieked. The man who had chased her down the staircase was bearing down on her, his mask of fury absolute, the knife in his hand signifying clearly his intent. Eudora realised she stood no chance against him, but if this were her fate, she would not surrender without a fight.

  She turned to flee, and the man launched himself at her legs, bringing her down with an expert rugby tackle.

  ‘No!’ she cried, tears coursing down her cheeks as he dragged her back to the darkened alley where his felled comrade waited.

  ‘Shut up, bitch!’ hissed the man she had elbowed.

  He slapped her face with such force it twisted her neck with a sickening click of bone, sending a burning sensation of pain up to her cheeks and ears whilst a cold shiver of fear swept down her body. ‘Are you going to kill me the same way you killed Isadora and Gaia?’ she choked in a tone that implied more bravura than she actually felt.

  She was quick witted enough to notice the look of surprise on the faces of her assailants. Clearly, they had not expected her to start talking to them, and suddenly she was less afraid – in spite of the knife. For two men to attack a woman with a knife was an act of supreme cowardice. Perhaps she could induce some kind of emotional response from them, intimidate them into releasing her.

  Fortified with increased courage, Eudora fixed them pointedly with her coldest stare. ‘I know it was you who killed them. I saw you!’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said the man who brought her down. ‘We made sure there were no witnesses! There was nobody around!’

  Eudora smiled benignly. ‘Well, at least you’re honest. You’ve admitted your guilt!’

  A punch to the stomach winded her, forcing her against the wall. Her legs went weak and she sagged to her knees. Only the rigid support of her attackers kept her upright.

  ‘I wasn’t actually there!’ Eudora gasped through her pain as she fought for breath. ‘But then it turns out that one doesn’t actually have to be present to witness something!’

  They hit her again, harder than before. Eudora’s heart was hammering so hard against her ribcage that it felt like it was trying to break free, whilst the pounding in her brain threatened to split her head in two. Through her tears, she could not focus.

  ‘Why don’t you finish me off like you did Gaia and Isadora?’ she tried to shout, but her tortured lungs still had insufficient air, and her fiery throat felt in need of a plentiful supply of soothing ice. Was this the agony of dying? Was this the anguish that her cousin and sister felt as they were robbed of their lives?

  Through the haze of pain, Eudora sensed one of the men bend down, presumably to retrieve the knife from where it had fallen. The two men had had plenty of opportunities to kill her, even considering her struggles. Why had they not finished her off before now? It would remain a mystery, for they clearly had grown tired of whatever games they had been playing, and now her end had come. She closed her eyes, having no wish to see the blade as it flashed towards her.

  Even through the pain and the buzzing in her ears, she heard the sudden commotion at the end of the alley. One of the men seemed to move away, muttering something that she could not comprehend, and then there was a thud and silence.

  The man who had tightly held onto her released his grip and Eudora sank to her knees, keeping her eyes tightly shut as she heard his footsteps running down the alley, and when he then let out a muffled cry, the silence was absolute.

  Tentatively, Eudora opened her eyes, cautiously peering beneath her trembling supporting arm to see both men sprawled out unconscious on the ground. She falteringly clambered to her feet, clutching her aching stomach. She reckoned it felt like she might have a couple of cracked ribs, along with a few cuts and bruises. By the looks of it, her assailants had suffered far more than she had. She knew she was lucky to be alive… but what had happened to the two men? Who had been her saviour?

  She turned at the sound of footsteps at the end of the alley. A shadowy figure stood at the far end, silhouetted against the light from the streetlamp, approaching her slowly.

  ‘Please, I mean you no harm,’ said the figure in a distinctly masculine voice, tinged with a vaguely foreign accent that sounded like it might be French. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

  As he drew closer, Eudora began to make out his features. His mane of untidy blond hair ruffled in the slight evening breeze, as did the brown robes he wore.

  Eudora squinted at him. ‘I think so,’ she muttered. He looked strikingly familiar. Blond hair… brown monastic robes… was it possible? She shook her head to clear her befuddled thoughts. What she was thinking was impossible. ‘Thank you. Did you do this?’ She indicated the prostrate men on the ground, and then found herself drawn back into the impenetrable black depths of her saviour’s eyes. His thin mouth looked as though it was not made to smile, but suddenly broke into a wide grin that enlivened his face and lightened Eudora’s heart.

  ‘To rescue someone of such beauty is an honour,’ he said in a gently reassuring tone. ‘I am duty bound to rescue any damsel in distress. Two men against one woman is most unfair.’

  ‘Cowardly, I would call it!’

  ‘Is something wrong, my dear?’

  Eudora realised she was staring at him rudely. ‘I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, but for a moment, I thought perhaps we had met before. I fear I was mistaken.’

  The stranger smiled at her, and despite his smile, Eudora sensed an undeniable scent of unease emanating from him. He took her arm firmly yet not painfully, leading her down the alley towards the street. ‘I think perhaps we should get away from here before these ruffians awaken.’

  There was no way Eudora was going to argue with that. ‘We should call the police, but I don’t want to risk going into the gallery again, in case they wake up whilst we’re in there.’

  The man grimaced in sudden pain, and when Eudora asked what was wrong, he muttered something about one of the men having hit him, and then continued as though nothing had happened. He untied the rope belt from around his waist. ‘Wait here, my dear. I shall bind their hands and tie them to the staircase.’ He disappeared down the alley once more, returning several minutes later. ‘They will not be going anywhere, so we can return to your gallery safely.’

  Once in the gallery, Eudora reached for the phone, and was annoyed to find there was no dialling tone. ‘I’ll have to call the police once I get home. Good job you tied them up so they can’t go anywhere!’

  ‘Indeed.’ The man reached for her hand. ‘Are you certain you are quite all right, Miss...?’

  ‘Donat, Eudora Donat. Yes, I think I’m all right. Bruised and shaken, but still alive! And who are you, sir?’

  For a moment, the man did not respond, and in that instant, Eudora once more studied him closely in the light. There was definitely something disturbingly familiar about him.

  ‘I am Spiridon,’ he finally said with such calmness to his tone that Eudora never once doubted the truth of his sincere words.

  Eudora gasped in shock. ‘You’re Spiridon, from the painting? Yes, I thought I recognised you. But I don’t understand… it’s just a painting! Splashes of colour composed to create a picture. Pictures cannot come to life!’

  ‘Ordinarily that would be so, but not in this case.’

  Eudora stared at him. ‘Would you like to explain that?’

  He looked at her with a most forlorn look on his face. ‘The painting is my prison. I am not alive. I am not really here.’

  Eudora chuckled and prodded him. ‘You could have fooled me.’

  He scowled at her, irritated at the cavalier manner with which she viewed the situation. ‘Periodically I am able to manifest my spirit into a physical entity, usually when someone in the vicinity of the painting is in peril
. I am able to use my strength to assist. In fact, it is quite beyond my capability not to assist. It is a curse, if you like; a part of the prison that allows me tantalizing snatches of freedom that can never really be mine for more than a brief moment in time.’

  Eudora’s face fell. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Such is the price of immortality. I will live forever in the painting, never to be free for longer than forty-eight hours.’

  ‘You’re immortal?’ gasped Eudora incredulously. ‘Was that something you chose?’ If it was something he had chosen, then Eudora felt unable to sympathise. She had read enough fiction to know there was always a price to pay for such things! Spiridon’s price was not one she would herself have willingly paid.

  ‘Absolutely not!’ he spat. ‘A powerful warlock placed a curse upon me. I was banished unwillingly into the portrait.’

  ‘Who was this warlock?’

  He was vague in his response. ‘It was he who has no name.’

  ‘Tell me, Spiridon, what happens to you after forty eight hours of freedom?’

  He shook his head. ‘Do not ask me that, for you do not wish to know the answer. Be assured that it will not be pleasant!’ He clasped her hands in his, and Eudora could not help noticing how beautifully manicured they were. ‘I came back tonight so I might return to the painting, but the painting has gone.’

  Eudora’s mind was racing. Why did she so mistrust the man who had just saved her life? Something about the things he was saying did not add up – but she could not quite put her finger on what it was. ‘So you didn’t actually come out of the painting to rescue me then?’

  ‘No. I saved Gaia.’

  Eudora gasped. ‘You were here when Gaia was attacked?’

  He nodded. ‘They looked like the same two men who attacked Isadora, and the same two men who attacked you tonight, so they were obviously looking for something in particular.’

  Eudora was on the verge of asking how he knew who killed Isadora when he had not been there to save her, but she stopped herself in time, realising that she should not let him know he had betrayed himself. Whoever this man was, he most certainly was not Spiridon, which meant he was most likely conspiring with the two men in the alley. My God, she thought, he probably hasn’t secured them down there after all! I need to get away from here fast! ‘I’m afraid Gaia was killed. The men must have come back after you saved her. Why didn’t you stay close to the painting? If you had done that Gaia might still be alive.’