Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  On reflection, Toby was just what the gallery needed after the financial hardship of the past couple of years, which nearly brought closure to the premises after over two decades of sustained success. This was the real damage that divorce brought to the table, Michael reflected ruefully. Well, that and the demands of the taxman and a certain Lauren O’Neill, his former lover. Christ, she was now an afterthought but the truth of the matter – his downfall – lay in the catastrophic liaison between them. It nearly caused the death of everyone he held dear. What was he thinking at the time? Was he so far from reality that his pursuit of lust and greed overwhelmed, even buried, his sense of common morality? Was she that intoxicating..?

  The straight answer was yes. It was a shattering time, one in which he so nearly lost his life too. Lauren sadly did, and he felt utterly responsible for this terrible loss, even though she was perhaps the architect of her own demise. A blackness descended over him. It took several minutes of intense argument with himself before he gained a welcome release from the vice-like grip of depression which often imprisoned him. He felt sickened by such morbid recollections. He breathed in deeply and counted down, trying to relieve his sense of panic. Now, thankfully, he was free again…the demons pushed away temporarily. But for how long?

  He thought of Toby once more. His youthful enthusiasm in the business was a breath of fresh air. He hit the ground running, leaving behind the financial stock market of New York and encompassing the world of art with a vigour that reminded Michael of his own zest for life three decades hence. If the truth be told, it was the very best thing when his son joined the business and brought in much-needed investment. Without it, the gallery would have folded. Michael’s world would have folded too. Instead, he rediscovered his son into the bargain and, in spite of his own obvious and old-fashioned way in doing things which was bound to rattle Toby’s cage, he had great admiration for how the new broom swept in and guided Churchill Fine Art back to rude fiscal health. Once again, they were at the forefront of leading London galleries, marketing and selling prestigious international fine art to the rest of the world. It felt good, even if there was a big “but” in the equation…Toby was the future. It was the gradual endgame for Michael, and perhaps not a bad thing, given the way in which he had cheated death. His presumption of natural health would definitely never be the same again, but working a couple of days a week allowed him a certain dignity, and the chance for him to bow out gracefully over a period of time. He felt like a liability, especially to his son, but Toby, he knew, recognised the limitations and sidestepped them, allowing his father to make a decent contribution before declining ill-health and enforced retirement became a certainty. He wasn’t old, for heaven’s sake, but he felt ancient. The mind was willing, but the broken body screamed for help. The healing from the wounds was terribly slow and unforgiving, particularly the painful skin grafts to protect his flesh. Christ, the ravages of the fire…

  Even now, many months later, Michael detested the smell of smoke, even a single whiff of a lighted cigarette from a passer-by in the street made him feel nauseous. Such a simple intrusion caused misery, and sent him back into the rolling fireball of hell, where the heat scorched his eyes and the flames melted his skin. He was sickened whenever a news bulletin on the TV featured a building ablaze… he imagined people being trapped inside as white-hot debris engulfed them. He had been in that god-damn hellhole, and survived. Got the T-shirt. Sometimes, at his lowest point, he wished he hadn’t escaped from the burning barn. Sometimes, he cursed the name of Marcus for saving him. It was a living nightmare, this burden of life, but he didn’t dare share these darkest thoughts with anyone. Time was not a healer. Time just prolonged the agony. He kept quiet about it though.

  Gemma’s voice cut in: ‘Mr Strange, telephone in reception for you.’

  Michael looked up from his desk and knew his mind had wandered. He caught sight of Gemma, who was staring at him strangely. He guessed she was balancing on an edge somewhere between leaving him to his bizarre parallel world or disturbing him once again with the same message, hoping that it would eventually get through to his brain. He imagined he looked oddly vacant to her. Utterly lost. Sadly, he was.

  She decided to repeat her words.

  He knew that he had let the subconscious wasteland in his tortured head overtake the more pressing matters of the day. For a split-second, he thought Gemma held pity in her eyes and he realised that he had not been aware that she was standing there; such was the intensity of his…what was it?... propensity to dwell in the shadows of his gloomy past.

  ‘Mr Strange…?’

  Michael stood and followed her from the room. He took the phone and surveyed his surroundings, checking up on Ronald. The gallery looked half-decent, given the difficult circumstances his colleague worked under. Good on him, Michael thought. He then caught Gemma’s attention once more and mouthed the word ‘tea’ to her, raising an invisible cup to his lips. Watching her turn smartly in the direction of the kitchen, his mind focused on the call. The usual patter kicked in on autopilot:

  ‘Michael Strange, the Churchill gallery. How may I help you?’

  ‘Christ, good to hear that you’re back at the helm.’

  ‘Terry, is that you?’ Michael’s face lit up in an instant. He thrilled at the sound of his old drinking pal’s voice. It had been several months since they had last spoken, and then at a time of great tension and sorrow as Terry, a journalist, helped him come to terms with the destruction in his life and the aftermath of Lauren’s shocking death. Suddenly though, Michael’s fleeting elation at hearing his friend’s voice turned sullen. His eyes narrowed. Was this phone call a return to the dark days? He recalled a conversation they had several months ago, when Terry brought the terrifying news that Maggie was back on the scene and on the prowl again, intent on revenge for her sister’s death.

  Michael spoke guardedly, not wanting to disturb the hornet’s nest. ‘Where are you, Terry? What have you been up to?’

  ‘I’m about to run a story on Northern Rock. My investigation has revealed a cash shortfall in the bank. I’m predicting a loss of confidence in the financial markets. Ever heard of the term sub-prime?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Well, you soon will. Read it: The shit’s about to hit the fan. I have a lead story out tomorrow. Should be fun. My editor is nervous. When I did a similar exposé last month comparing the US banking situation with our credit woes, he suddenly had both the financial regulators and the government on his case. I was accused of scaremongering. But this is going to be big. Bloody fucking big.’

  ‘Have you phoned just to tell me that?’ Michael knew the answer already. The history between the two of them didn’t usually involve monetary tips and banking regulatory gossip. He caught his breath.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thought not.’

  There was a silence, before Terry said: ‘We need to talk.’

  Michael took up the reins: ‘About global fiscal policy?’

  ‘Not exactly…’

  Michael was tired and impatient. Spit it out, man!

  ‘How about a pint?’ Terry asked.

  ‘When?’

  Another silence as Gemma placed a cup of tea beside him.

  ‘Michael,’ Terry urged, ‘I think we should get together pretty sharpish.’ His tone was flat. ‘How about tonight? Drinks on me.’

  ‘That important, eh? Do you want to tell me what this is about or is it just an excuse to drown ourselves into a drunken stupor?’

  ‘Ah, those were the days! Rather more serious than that, I’m afraid. Meet me at the Wessex at seven. They do a two-for-one bar meal and a bottle of house plonk for a tenner. As I said: my treat.’

  ‘The last of the big spenders.’

  ‘After my newspaper article, there’ll be no more big spenders. You’ll be grateful for my generous offer. Beyond that, it will be worldwide melt-down for everyone. See you later. Oh, and if you have shares in the Rock, sell now.’

  Be
fore Michael had time to reply, the line went dead. And so did his sinking heart. The proposed meeting would have nothing to do with international banking, nor global Armageddon, of that he was sure. No, Terry had other business too sensitive to discuss over the phone. Michael knew the subject of their forthcoming conversation. He just knew. Then he searched his memory: He did have shares in the Rock!

  They were as safe as houses, surely…

  He let the tea go cold.

  ***

  The rest of the day ran relatively smoothly, despite Michael’s foreboding after Terry’s call. Toby arrived at just after twelve and the glaziers followed at two. The activity of the workmen made business impossible and Toby decided to close the gallery to the public, until the dust and noise had abated. After his earlier efforts, Ronald was going spare, much to Michael’s amusement. Gemma, bless her, made copious amounts of tea and coffee for everyone. At four, Michael got the alarm company to reinstall the security as the glass was cleaned down after the workmen had finished. It had been a horrible day, both frustrating and dirty. Eventually, Michael finished at just after five, took the tube, bought a copy of the London Evening News and got back to his apartment in Chelsea, where he showered quickly and then changed into a long sleeve polo shirt, jeans and chinos. He had a sneaky gin and tonic and scanned the paper for city gossip, picking up on the problems at Northern Rock. Terry was on the button again: A real pro. Then the worst kind of headline hit him between the eyes on page three:

  TOP ART DEALER TO BE QUESTIONED AGAIN

  Michael’s insides somersaulted. Sweat formed on his brow. This fucking story would never go away. He read on:

  The eminent art dealer Michael Strange of Churchill Fine Art in Mayfair is to be questioned again by police about the death of Lauren O’Neill, a client of his, also, allegedly, his lover, who was the victim of a devastating fire at her home in Surrey last year.

  What really happened at Laburnum Farm on that fateful day remains a mystery, and Strange is expected to help with ongoing enquiries. The 43-year old woman died, trapped in the burning barn with her sister, Maggie, who miraculously survived alongside Michael Strange and his assistant Kara Scott and her boyfriend, Marcus Heath. At the time, it was suggested that they had gathered at the farm to discuss the sale of valuable paintings. However, the events leading up to the tragic incident have never been fully explained , due to a court order protecting the true identity of Ms O’Neill –As a minor she was convicted of a murder and served her custodial sentence in a psychiatric ward in Dublin before being released in the 1980s. Until the recovery of her body, Lauren's whereabouts had remained unknown. The inquest, held behind closed doors, recorded a verdict of death by misadventure.

  Dizziness overcame him. He took a gulp of his drink and slumped in an armchair overlooking the Thames far below, which churned its silver coil into the distance …much the same way as his gut churned, in turmoil. He tried to avert his eyes from the text but something compelled him to prolong the agony:

  Since the day of the fire, questions have been raised about the relationship between Mr Strange and Lauren O’Neill, how the fire started and why the five people were at the farm that fateful day. It has been suggested that an argument ensued over the ownership of the paintings by the deceased artist, Patrick Porter.

  Our enquiries have been hampered by the court order protecting the identity of the victim, although we are now in possession of her real name. The police have refused to be drawn on why further investigation is necessary, but we understand it concentrates on the fraudulent nature of how the paintings were to be sold secretly on the black market. Michael Strange has always denied this allegation.

  We understand the police wish to interview all those present on the day to re-establish the motives of each and dismiss the persistent rumours that Ms O’Neill (who was separated from her husband) was killed in a confrontation over the art collection. Were there other mitigating circumstances held back from us? Some newspapers have suggested that Laburnum Farm is now a murder scene. Lauren’s older sister, Maggie Conlon, is wanted urgently for questioning. Clearly implicated in this mystery, she is believed to be still on the run. A police spokesman has warned she is a danger to the public and should not be approached. Both sisters had a history of violence..

  Michael Strange has always maintained his innocence in relation to Lauren’s death and emphasised that his role, as that of his colleague Kara and her boyfriend, was purely professional in all dealings with the deceased. He was badly burned in the inferno and has only recently returned to work.

  A spokesman for the police stressed that Mr Strange has fully cooperated with the investigation and his eyewitness testimony will help shed further light on the case. Lauren O’Neill is survived by her estranged husband, Julius Gray, who lives in Venice with his long term Italian girlfriend and their daughter. He too is expected to be interviewed.

  Michael discarded the newspaper and searched the mail and found what he was looking for: A formal letter from the police instructing him to arrange an appointment for the interview at the earliest convenience. They weren’t wasting time.

  The phone rang, and instinctively Michael knew who it was. He listened with all the enthusiasm of a blind man trying to cross the road.

  ‘It’s Toby. I’ve just read the London Evening News…’

  Michael sucked his breath in. ‘I’m so…’

  ‘This will kill us, Dad…when will it end?’

  ‘I didn’t expect this, Toby.’

  ‘Well, we got it that’s for sure. All barrels blazing.’

  Michael refrained from responding.

  ‘We need to talk in the morning,’ Toby said, and then disconnected the line.

  Michael felt horrible; there was a feeling like a bottomless pit in his stomach. Somehow the meeting with Terry now filled him with renewed horror: more grief on the horizon. He downed a second gin and tonic and slowly headed off to the Wessex on the King’s Road.

  ***

  The bar was surprisingly noisy, with many late night shoppers taking advantage of the bargain half-price meal for two. If Terry’s earlier pronouncement of universal doom and gloom was true, then Michael surmised that this was to be the Last Supper. To die, die full.

  He searched around and found Terry, who had grabbed a table at the rear of the building, in a darkened corner. This instantly worried him.

  ‘I’ve ordered,’ he said matter-of-factly as Michael approached timidly. ‘You’re late, and I wasn’t going to lose the deal.’

  Michael sat down. ‘Great to see you too…’

  Terry ignored him, and replied, ‘Red chicken curry and a bottle of Tiger beer. Can’t beat it. You get a choice of wine or beer.’ Then he stared back, examining his visitor’s face. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘And you haven’t changed. Still the same rude fucker with the ugly manners of a farm pig ready for slaughter.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m also the best journalist in London with a nose for a cracking story…which reminds me.’

  Michael dived in: ‘A hack, working on the cheap end tabloids. And don’t mention the bloody news story on you- know-who. I’ve already had an earful from my son.’

  ‘It’s unavoidable. These things never go away,’ Terry countered, ‘it’s how you deal with it that matters. When are you going to speak to the police?’

  Michael frowned. ‘They can wait…’

  As if by magic, the food and drinks arrived, courtesy of a cherub-faced young girl who looked like the singer, Sarah Brightman.

  ‘Thanks, Luv,’ Terry said, as she placed the plates and cutlery on the table. He tossed some coins on her tray. ‘Give my regards to Sir Andrew.’

  She stood back, studied him in bewilderment, and murmured, ‘Watcha say?’

  Michael rescued her. ‘Forgive my friend.’

  ‘Whatever…’ The girl said and disappeared into the crowd.

  The two men clinked bottles, grinned and downed the beer.

  ‘Great to se
e you,’ Michael said, swigging greedily and tucking into the piping hot curry. It wasn’t bad either. Good pub grub.

  ‘Chelsea are still crap,’ Terry responded. ‘Wait till the Gooners thrash you at the Emirates next month. I have tickets…fancy the humiliation?

  ‘Are you treating me?’

  ‘Winner pays. Game on?’

  Michael sensed his moment to strike. ‘How much do I owe you then?’

  ‘Smart-ass.’

  The table became littered with beer bottles. Eventually, Michael checked his watch and ordered coffee. His patience was wearing thin: When was Terry going to raise the subject, the one that was too sensitive to discuss on the phone? They had covered most banal subjects and the conversation was becoming exhausted. Michael picked up that Terry was becoming somewhat agitated.

  ‘Well?’ Michael asked during a prolonged silence. ‘What’s so damn awkward that you avoid the very topic that brought us here in the first place. We’re suitably pissed not to feel aggrieved or embarrassed by what needs to be said. Spit it out. What’s the problem, Terry?’

  Terry fidgeted on his seat, and said: ‘Two things, actually. One is a bit embarrassing, and ultimately damaging to your reputation and could…’

  Michael laughed and jumped in: ‘Embarrassing? That’s a word I seldom associate with you!’

  Terry lowered his eyes and folded his arms. ‘…And could threaten our friendship. The other issue, personal to me, has certainly got me fucking angry to the point of despair.’

  ‘Christ, Terry. You’d better talk.’

  The two old friends stared at each other. They both had a haunted look. The intervening years hadn’t been kind. Terry’s eyes suddenly became moist and his mouth tightened. Michael detected fear in the air.