Call to Witness

by Coleman, Spencer;

  Paranoia seeped into her every thought. And then there was the man. She had spotted him twice now, and searching the dimly lit street from her bedroom window, peeping from behind the drawn curtains while Marcus sat glued to the TV, she saw him again standing in the darkened recess of an alleyway maybe fifty feet away to her right. Was this the same man she saw last night? He was as usual smoking a cigarette, the red needle point flaring every now and again in the night sky. He was bald-headed, shaven to be exact and possessed a muscular body. He was perhaps thirty-six, probably older, but the word soldier sprang into her mind when she tried to sum him up. Was Marcus aware of this stranger in their midst? Was that why he, too, habitually stared beyond the window, seemingly on edge, which was not his usual style. What on earth was going on?

  ***

  He never made the flight. Too exhausted from the brutal interrogation by Terry, instead Michael slept and hid from the world he thought he knew. It took another 48 hours before he resurfaced, goaded mainly by repeated phone messages from Toby asking where he was (each call becoming more and more agitated), and concerned calls from the concierge checking his whereabouts as he had not detected his usual coming-and-goings over the past two days.

  Unshaven, Michael sat around in his dressing gown, becoming more and more morose. The meeting in the safe house had knocked the stuffing right out of him. He was feeling sorry for himself and that sickened him still further. What was happening to him?

  His troubled thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. He was slow to get to it and the voice message kicked in. He expected to hear the voice of Toby; instead, it was Martin Penny. Michael’s ears pricked as he listened intently to the significance of the words:

  ‘No sightings on CCTV, Michael. As you are aware, those positioned near the gallery are swivel cameras which rotate at regular intervals to monitor traffic at each end of the road. The culprit who smashed the window used this to their advantage, coming and going as the camera panned away from your shop-front. Easy to do. Looking at the plan of the street, he or she escaped down the alleyway between streets, the one just down from your location. This way, no one from the flats opposite would have seen the person responsible. It would have taken just seconds. In the case of Marcus’s gallery, they don’t have CCTV at that spot. They rely on security manning the dock, but this only occurs every hour or so. Again, we cannot pinpoint who the person was, or why this identical incident was seemingly reserved exclusively to the both of you. Of course, we do know the reason but the police have nothing to go on, simply because…’

  Michael pressed the button and interrupted his flow. ‘I know, I know, because a jackass idiot like me thinks he knows better! What the fuck do I really know? Perhaps the police should be brought in after all.’

  ‘I’m making good progress, Michael. I’ve established that a thick-set woman was spotted moving between floors in the NCP underground car park, just twenty minutes before you discovered the graffiti on your bonnet. This woman was spotted by security and questioned. She departed soon after on foot. Interestingly, she was of Irish descent, carried a holdall and had scar tissue on her face. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Maggie,’ Michael announced. He then slumped into a chair, defeated.

  ‘We are checking all the local hotels and bed and breakfast establishments to try to locate this woman. This is our first sighting, Michael, and a good one, I think. I’m dropping off the radar for a few days so you will not be able to contact me. I’m going to call up a few favours from my Irish friends, and pass the word around the bars in the area. Let her know that we are also in on the game plan…this might spook her into making a mistake. Then we’ll be ready. OK with this?’

  Michael was crestfallen, barely taking the words in. He was ready for a fight, but his iron will, which he thought was impregnable, was now shattered. Where had his strength evaporated to?

  ‘OK with this?’ Martin repeated; his voice stern.

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘Good. I need you to hold firm.’

  The conversation was terminated.

  Michael managed to reach the bathroom, and then threw up in the toilet basin. He stared closely at his waxy features in the mirror. He didn’t recognise the man who stared back. He chastised himself quietly: God, get a grip and hold firm. Martin was right. Slowly, he showered, shaved and cleaned his teeth, the first time in two days. It took three goes to get rid of the vile taste in his mouth and throat. He dressed without enthusiasm, putting on whatever came to hand: corduroy pants, plain white shirt and moss green v-neck sweater. He ran his fingers through his damp silver hair and suddenly thought of Agnes…

  ‘Bollocks!’ he barked, and grabbed for the phone, keying in her number in frantic prods. No answer. He left a muddled message, explaining lamely his reason for missing the flight to Venice, and more importantly, their dinner date. He concluded with a pathetic plea for forgiveness and over used the word ‘Sorry’ four times before ending the message. He hated letting her down and felt like shit.

  Then he did something which he had fought against for ten years. The craving had never left him. He found what he was looking for in a top drawer in the kitchen. The unopened packet lay in idle temptation. At first, he closed the drawer slowly, then reopened it quickly. Fuck. The packet stared him in the face, compelling him to destroy in one split-second the very thing he had stayed defiant against for so long. The vow to give up smoking. The wickedness of desire tore at his weakening mind. Go on. Just one…

  He removed a cigarette, felt its smoothness between his fingers and became intoxicated with the over-riding need to light it and inhale deeply…Go on, Stop it idiot, Go on, Stop…his brain then moved into automatic drive as he snatched the box of matches and eagerly slid back the patio doors to the balcony. Just then, in the exact same moment it seemed, he heard the same movement higher up, and was aware that the doors above had closed as his had opened. Odd. He moved to the handrail, turned, peered up and cast his gaze between the gaps in the hardwood floor to the balcony above his. Nothing, but someone had been there. Just coincidence? Or was he being watched…?

  Crazy. He held the cigarette to his lips. The taste of tobacco was overwhelming. His hands trembled, fumbling with the matches. Lighting up, he leaned over the balcony and was suddenly distracted. He realised that he could peer into the apartment below, and a good deal into the next room along, which featured full length windows. Stretching a little further, he could make out a leather armchair, a stereo system, part of a rug and the beginnings…of a sofa? The point was, with a little imagination and maneuverability he could quite easily scan half of the damn room. He pulled back from the edge, thought long and hard, and imagined Marcus laughing at him with the words James Bond ringing around his insane head. This was getting ridiculous. This was getting beyond the realms of normality. What else was he going to start imagining next? He again looked at the apartment above his. Just suppose he was being snooped upon…he often moved around his home with the curtains drawn back. Why would he close them, being so high up? It was absurd, this paranoia. But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he quietly extinguished the discarded cigarette, slid the balcony doors shut and drew the curtains in broad daylight. Madness.

  ***

  At Churchill Fine Art, Gemma took a phone call at the same moment Michael refrained from reacquainting himself with an old sinful habit. While he was away, she had held the fort brilliantly, working front of house with assured confidence. She was beginning to win over Ronald (who generally kept his distance), and felt comfortable with customer enquiries. She logged everything in a notepad for Michael’s return, including a potential fifteen thousand pound commission from a new client. That would impress her boss. He was a hard nut to crack, especially as she was aware of how brilliant miss goody two shoes had been as her predecessor. She could barely bring herself to say the name. So she didn’t. Gemma was the new girl on the block. Fuck that what’s-her-name…she was history.

  ‘Churchill Fine Art, how may I hel
p you?’ Her voice radiated supreme confidence. Nothing could faze her.

  A man’s voice said: ‘I need to speak to Michael Strange: Now.’

  ‘Mr Strange is currently unavailable. May I take a message?’

  ‘When will he be available?’

  Gemma detected a shortening fuse from the caller.

  ‘He is out of the office at present. May I take a phone number…’

  ‘Get him to a phone within one hour. One hour, do you understand me?’

  She tried to remain cool. ‘Can I at least take your name and ph-’

  ‘My name is Theo. He will know who I am. Tell that deceitful little piece of shit that he has betrayed me, that he has stolen money from me and that I expect a fucking explanation from him in exactly one hour from now, without fail. Tell him we had a deal and I don’t take kindly to anyone who reneges on a contract of honour. He owes me, so make sure you give him the message, because I will make you equally accountable as that little shit if he doesn’t answer my call in…58 minutes from now. Get it?’

  Gemma froze.

  ‘Do we have an understanding, cunt?’

  She almost dropped the phone. What did he just say? Shocked to the core, she mumbled something about needing his surname but this man was on a roll.

  ‘Fuckass, lady. Theo is all you need to know. Mess with me and I’ll mess with you, and Theo is a name you are never likely to forget. You now have under 56 minutes sweetheart.’

  He clicked off.

  Gemma was speechless, left standing with the telephone hanging by her side, the dialling tone still audible above her shallow breathing. Her legs turned to jelly as she held onto the desk top for support.

  Looking around, she was alone. Had this call really happened? Was this some kind of prank, a weird initiation test dreamt up by Ronald? Was he that sick? She imagined that his face would suddenly pop from around the door in uncontrollable fits of laughter…

  But he didn’t. This was no game. This was a sicko weirdo mental case psychopath on the loose…and what did he just call her? What disgusting word did he use? Was that even allowed?

  Heart pounding, Gemma realised that she still had a lot to learn from this profession. That call certainly came from leftfield. Any imagined confidence was now shot to pieces. She checked the time and tried frantically to locate her errant boss, and fast. Boy, was he in trouble.

  ***

  Michael got the message on his mobile, took the tube and arrived at the gallery with five minutes to spare. Gemma was on another planet, sitting in the staff room drinking copious cups of tea. She was ashen-faced and still shaking. Michael got her to relay the conversation – every word – and ordered a taxi to take her home. By way of compensation he offered her the day off tomorrow which she duly accepted. He was aware the abusive phone call was a hard lesson to endure but she had handled it pretty assuredly in the circumstances. Theo would have to deal with him now, and he was ready for a battle. He wasn’t having any of his staff being intimidated and insulted. It was late, and Michael wanted to be alone to take the call so he sent Ronald home as well, who was equally upset at the abuse Gemma was subjected to. Michael decided he could then close the gallery a little early; after all, he would be in no frame of mind to talk to customers after his slanging match with Theo. And that’s what it would be: Guaranteed. Who did this shitty little upstart think he was?

  The time of the supposed phone call elapsed. Michael waited, sure that Theo had something up his sleeve. Come on. Half an hour passed. It was four-thirty. Michael lost patience, cleared his desk, closed the shutters and dimmed the lights. He moved downstairs to the kitchen and washed the dirty cups. He was suddenly aware of a noise upstairs. Fuck, he had forgotten to lock the main entrance door, his mind racing around: he wasn’t thinking straight. He listened again and heard movement. Searching around, he picked up a kitchen knife and ascended the stairs.

  He moved silently into the main showroom, which was still half-lit from the overhead spotlights. Nothing untoward. Then he spotted it. The front door was ajar. Christ. He saw a shadow move across the floor to the adjoining gallery. He held firm (recalling Martin’s words) and shifted his emphasis by sneaking down the corridor at the rear of the building where he could then surprise the intruder, who would surely not expect a confrontation from this angle of attack. He suddenly had a terrifying vision invade his brain: Please, please do not let this be Vlad the impaler. His heart sank at the very notion. He needed a bigger knife. He reached the end of the corridor, hardly daring to breathe. Should he call out? Turn back and make for the exit door? Where was this foolhardy bravery coming from?

  He edged behind a large podium which displayed an impressive bronze of a polo player on horseback. He crouched down and listened. There it was again... The shuffling sound seemed to come from the main showroom. Damn. Michael tiptoed across the floor, taking a stance behind a hanging partition. A fine nude painting by the Russian artist, Krutov, hung close to his face as he waited for either divine inspiration or a panic attack to hit him. He did a double-take. He couldn’t help but notice that the figure of the female had her legs spread apart, his eyes level with her exposed vagina, just inches away. He felt like Inspector Clouseau. Christ, I just don’t need this…

  Then he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Someone was right behind him. He could sense it. Although he felt paralysed with fear he managed to clasp the knife tightly and steadied himself to strike. Quickly, he turned, and raising his hand, prepared to confront Vladimir, Theo’s henchman. He could hardly draw breath. His life flashed before him as he faced his nemesis.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he screamed. He wasn’t expecting this situation…

  ‘Why am I not surprised to find you in a position of carnal absurdity, Michael,’ the woman said, suppressing a giggle.

  He lowered the knife in a hurry.

  She in turn raised her eyebrows and stared beyond him to the lewd painting behind his head. ‘Having a good look, I see. Sex and depravity is the story of your life, I hear on the grapevine.’

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Jesus…what are you doing here?’

  ‘I was hoping for a slightly better welcome, to be honest with you.’

  Michael reached out to hug her, his relief palpable.

  The woman stood back. ‘Is the knife really necessary?’

  ‘You scared the shit out of me, creeping around,’ he replied.

  ‘Expecting trouble?’

  He smiled for the first time, hugely relieved, aware though that a cold sweat varnished his body beneath his clothes. This was a happy turn-up for the books, it had to be said. It certainly was preferable to a fight with the mad Russian.

  Although caught off-guard by her remark, he murmured: ‘Certainly not expecting you, Agnes.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘It’s like this,’ Michael explained, desperately hoping that Agnes would sympathise with his predicament. ‘On the one hand I have a madman on the loose, chasing me for money which he thinks I owe him. Being of nervous disposition, I naturally thought it was him or his henchman sneaking around the gallery. It turned out to be you, thankfully.’ He hesitated, hoping she was on his wavelength, before continuing, ‘And on the other hand I have a mad bad woman on the prowl trying to cut my balls off…which I was half-expecting when I saw the door open. Now you can begin to appreciate why I was brandishing a knife.’

  ‘I hope I am not the mad woman in question, and I certainly was not sneaking around the gallery. The door wasn’t locked and I knew it was not normal closing time…so I entered, but quietly.’

  ‘So you were sneaking around!’

  Agnes smiled, beautifully. ‘I was cautious, something didn’t look right…the lights were dimmed so I came in to check if everything was OK…like a good citizen, no?’

  ‘…And nearly got killed in the process.’

  ‘Not the normal welcome one would expect when entering into a prestigious London gallery.’

 
; Finally, after sparring for a few more minutes, they laughed and hugged warmly once more. He then made tea to calm their nerves. An hour passed in a flash, as he tried to make sense of things, with Agnes looking on incredulously as she listened to his preposterous story of skulduggery with much bafflement. After Michael finally switched off the lights to the gallery, set the alarm and locked the door behind them, he strolled arm in arm with Agnes to a Thai restaurant nearly. It was a chance to unwind and chill out in the company of a dear, dear friend. The feeling was mutual, he hoped. Theo, for the time being was forgotten. Why hadn’t he phoned? What was he up to now?

  ‘I’m so pleased you are here,’ Michael said, taking her hand instinctively as they sat down at a table. ‘What brings you to London?’

  ‘To be honest with you, I was worried. Your message on the answerphone was garbled. First you were coming to Venice, and then you were not. What is a girl supposed to think?’

  Michael was surprised. ‘You came to London for me?’

  Agnes lowered her eyes. ‘Yes.’

  He was momentarily taken aback and tried to explain. ‘I panicked, I’m afraid. Everything is up in the air these days. I hated the thought of letting you down, but I allowed problems to pile up. For instance, I have the dubious pleasure of being the headline feature in a high profile magazine next month. This could kill me, Agnes. I’m collaborating with the journalist – an old friend – to assert damage limitation on the story and unfortunately everything got on top of me. I let you down.’

  ‘I could hear the fear in your voice,’ Agnes said, holding onto his hand without letting go. ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘You’re here now…’

  ‘I had to come…’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone better.’

  He wanted desperately to kiss her on the mouth, but such an inappropriate desire had to be dismissed: she was a married woman. It was unthinkable to try it on with her. They drank chilled Pinot and ordered the food from the set menu. Michael sat back and marvelled at how young and vibrant she appeared, with new blond highlights in her hair and a navy blue velvet dress adorning her slim body. In truth, he was bowled over at how good she looked: Fabulous, actually.