PAINTED

by Kirsten McKenzie

  “ANITA,” Alan yelled, his eyes wide, the whites the only spark of light in the hallway, his anxiety rising.

  Behind him walked a shadowy form, a masculine figure, an older soul. One who hadn’t expected to be walking these corridors again. In the gloom he stretched, his black suit showing no signs of ageing, uneaten by moths or time. Adjusting his cravat, he straightened the tiepin which had moved as he’d climbed out of his frame.

  Chapter 18

  Anita plugged the laptop into the one power point. She wanted to wait till the laptop had powered up, but a sense of guilt over Alan’s legs and her own rumbling stomach sent her to the kitchen. She puzzled over the portrait. Worrying at it like a dog with a bone, she forgot what she was doing until she found herself standing in the kitchen with a wooden spoon. She couldn’t shake the crazy thoughts crowding her mind, they were too fantastical. She tortured her brain for a logical explanation, perhaps there were two paintings and the lawyer had found the second one — an early draft of the completed portrait. Maybe the original painting was in the foyer with the others? That was the only explanation. If true, why hadn’t Alan said anything? Trust him to get joy out of playing mind games.

  Still, a seed of doubt niggled at her, whispering there was only one painting. She would have remembered if there’d been a partial study of the portrait somewhere else in the house. She pushed the problem away, ignoring it for her own sanity. Satisfied she’d figured out a solution, as convoluted as it was, she resumed her efforts in making a dinner for them both. She also persuaded herself that purposely burning the lawyer’s meal would be childish.

  An ancient radio lurked behind a letter rack and a salt-glazed pot, filled with coins, milk tokens and orphaned buttons. If she’d tipped out the pot, she would have found a gold cufflink inlaid with the same enamelling on the tiepin in the painting she’d catalogued.

  The batteries had enough life left to power the radio and she spun the dial until she found a station playing static-free music. Turning the volume up, she set to preparing a meal with the diminishing supplies in the fridge and pantry. At this rate they’d have to experiment with the cans hidden at the back of the pantry whose labels had become adrift. She didn’t fancy encountering a can of cat food twenty years past its use-by date. She sent a silent prayer to the weather gods that the snow reinforcements would arrive soon. The concert performance disguised the crashing of the wooden frames and drowned out the house’s creaks and groans. Anita carried on cooking, serving the meal normally reserved for the end of the pay week, leftovers.

  Anita finished one glass of wine while cooking; a hearty red which knocked the edge off the unease swirling around her, leaving only a dash more than a glass in the bottle.

  Pouring it into her glass she left it on the kitchen counter for later, putting the empty bottle by the back door for recycling. She’d tell Alan that there was none left. Given it was unlikely he’d wander into the kitchen tonight, she’d be able to enjoy it in solace as she did the dishes. Anita laughed at the thought of the pudgy lawyer offering to help. No, the glass of wine would be safe for her to drink at her leisure later. She’d be able to curl up on the chair with a book and the wine, safe from the lawyer’s glances and obnoxious comments.

  The radio reminded her of her mother’s kitchen radio; permanently tuned to a talkback station. Anita despised talkback, but it gave her mother a measure of comfort on her long days at home. She’d rather listen to Polish folk music than talkback.

  There’d be something on the study shelves she could read. The kitchen was more homely though, less intimidating. Anita shrugged. She had to charge her computer and needed to be somewhere where the lawyer wasn’t. Work-wise she wouldn’t achieve anything until tomorrow. The study then, straight after dinner, stuff the dishes.

  Oblivious to the lawyer’s frantic cries, she laid out the plates on a butlers tray she’d found next to the refrigerator. Brushing the dust off showed half a dozen different inlaid woods arranged in a floral pattern in the centre. All native timbers from the region, but more unusually, intact. No pieces of the marquetry were missing, which given its art nouveau riches and its probable age, was a miracle. Swapping out her glass of wine for two tumblers of water, she picked up the tray. Conscious she was still only wearing socks, she manoeuvred her way through the door and down the hall.

  Leaving the warmth of the kitchen, there was no light in the hall. She hadn’t turned the lights on, on her way to the kitchen, and she had no hands free to now. Bugger. She didn’t want to carry the heavy tray back. She knew the way to the dining room off by heart so the lack of lighting wasn’t an issue, but as she made her way down the hall, a weird feeling settled on her, making the tray even heavier.

  Her elbow hit one of the taller plant stands, slopping water over the dinner.

  “Shit,” Anita mumbled, changing to a more centred course.

  “Alan, open the door?” she called out as she emerged into the foyer. Idiot must have shut the door because there was no light to guide her.

  “Can you please open the door,” Anita tried again.

  Acting subservient to live and work in peace was not worth it. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to cope much longer if the lawyer was staying, although giving up went against her nature. She’d worked so hard to get to where she was, to overcome her fear of strangers and of being somewhere alone. This job was her new leaf. A fresh start without fear holding her back.

  “Alan?”

  Grinding her teeth, she bumped her hip against the door and overbalanced. It wasn’t shut at all. Tumbling into the void, the dinner flew through the air. Anita screamed before landing atop a mash of watery bacon and wilted greens.

  “Alan, turn on the bloody light.”

  The light flicked on.

  Alan wasn’t there but Anita didn’t notice. She was on her knees trying to scoop up the ruined meal. She decided if she faced the lawyer she’d say something which would be career suicide. Prudence over pain won out.

  One plate and both glasses broke, with Murphy’s Law dictating that the broken pieces travelled further than physics allowed. Her hackles rose as she fumbled with the broken crockery. She was about to stand up, her tray heaped with glass and congealing food, when she spied something wedged under the table.

  She wiggled the tiny piece of metal until it sprung free from its prison under the brass claw foot of the table. A gold shirt stud, edged with black enamel. It had a sense of familiarity. Not at all valuable without the rest of the set but if it was gold there would be a residual value. She added it to the tray and stood up, ready to face the lawyer. But he wasn’t there.

  “Idiot,” Anita muttered, walking out of the dining room, the tray held tight against her stomach.

  In the foyer she stood aghast. The darkness had disguised the mess but the light from the dining room showed frames strewn across the entire foyer. At least one looked like a foot had gone through the face of the portrait, a gaping hole in the centre. She couldn’t hold back the tears.

  She lowered the tray to the ground, the shirt stud forgotten. Turning the lights on revealed the carnage inflicted by Alan’s flailing about. She couldn’t help the murderous rage which thudded through her veins. If he even dared to show his face she’d kill him.

  She moved the damaged paintings to one side, their gilt frames crumbling under her hands despite her careful efforts. Most of the paintings had fallen face down, saving them from further damage. The recycled sarking on their backs protecting them, for an eternity or until someone deconstructed them for something else. It happened all the time. Fashions changed. Families fell out. Various subjects considered immoral after a change in church or leader, so they’d remove the picture and have something else framed in its place, or stapled over the top. Art restorers the world over stumbled across masterpieces hidden for decades, or centuries, under more modern pieces.

  Anita pushed the first stack against the wall, satisfied these weren’t damaged. She bent to grab a smaller fram
e which had half slipped under an occasional table.

  She picked it up to check for damage. And screamed.

  Chapter 19

  Anita dropped the frame, scuttling backwards until she hit the wall. The painting crashed onto the marble tiles; the sound echoing throughout the house.

  “Alan? Alan, where are you?”

  Anita’s hands were shaking. She pressed them against the wall. The empty frame stared back at her. This she wasn’t imagining. It was the frame which contained the portrait of the little girl. And now it was empty. Oh, for sure it still contained a piece of canvas, with the likeness of a small dinghy at the forefront. But it was as if the little girl had stepped away from the boat, dashing away from the artist to join her brothers and sister. It was impossible.

  “ALAN?” Anita cried out, never once taking her eyes off the empty portrait. There was no response.

  Anita inched her way towards the front door, the breeze from outside nudging her ankles through the bottom of the door. Wrenching the door open, she searched for Alan from the relative warmth of the doorway. The front porch blanketed with unmarked snow, the driveway showing two misshapen lumps — her car and Alan’s, with no sign of the pudgy lawyer. He was still inside then, somewhere, playing games with her.

  She slammed the door shut, turning back to the foyer, heart thudding in her chest. There at the top of the stairs, a flash of white and running footsteps.

  Anita cursed and ran to the staircase. Bugger her career, this guy was an idiot and she’d had enough.

  In her socks, she flew up the stairs in time to hear the turret door slam shut. The foyer light didn’t penetrate that far, but sound carried and now she knew where he was.

  Right then, let’s have it out.

  Without thinking about last time, Anita made her way along the hall. The light from her bedroom stretched far enough for her to reach the turret door without hitting the plant stands dotted along the walls.

  She ran up the stairs, rage fuelling her speed until she reached the top, where in the middle of the turret room stood the stool and the easel, and nothing else.

  Anita spun round. He’d come up here, she’d seen him at the top of the stairs. Heard him running. There was nowhere for him to hide.

  “Alan?”

  The anger from moments earlier replaced with the fear she’d felt downstairs. She couldn’t pinpoint what was going on, but someone was playing games with her, and the joke wasn’t funny.

  There was no light switch in the turret room, only moonlight diffused though the falling snow. The portrait on the easel a smudge in the night, featureless and unfinished, and Anita was grateful it was too dark to see it.

  She sat on the window seat, pulling her knees up to her chest, clasping them with her arms and watched the door. Two could play at this game. The storm outside no distraction to the fear which was her constant companion. Confident that sooner or later Alan would tire of playing the cat to her mouse and hunt her out, she’d wait.

  Anita woke with a start, her body cramping on the horsehair seat. She rubbed her face, waiting for daylight to break. Darkness greeted her as her eyes adjusted.

  She stretched out her legs and massaged the back of her neck. She’d fallen asleep waiting for Alan to tire of his childish games and with no phone she didn’t know how long she’d been out. Her uninterrupted view of the quarter moon and a galaxy of stars proved that the snow had stopped. She stood up, legs protesting at the sudden stretching of muscles. Anita’s stomach rumbled. Memories of the ruined dinner and the damaged art swept in. Damn him. She’d wake him and give him something to jump at, serve him right for playing with her as if she were a marionette doll.

  She slipped downstairs in the moonlight, her empty stomach and the wish for revenge more pressing than the unfinished portrait standing sentinel. A painting now sporting flowing locks of dark brown hair peppered with hints of fiery auburn. Hair very much like Anita’s own.

  Anita shuffled along the hallway, the pins and needles in her legs taking their own sweet time to work their way out. The hall was lit by the light coming from her bedroom doorway. Alan’s door shut tight.

  “Wanker,” whispered Anita as she stood outside.

  Tempted to hammer on his door like an angry landlord, she found her hand lifting as if by magic, poised to strike. And again, her upbringing stopped her and she lowered her arm, eyes downcast. Keep the peace, make peace, do nothing to upset the apple cart. God she hated herself sometimes. Where was her backbone? Somewhere in the 1800s she suspected. Women hadn’t come as far as she thought. Still subservient, playing second fiddle.

  She turned away, making her way back to the kitchen. She was hungry and there’d be no more sleeping for her tonight until she’d had something to eat.

  At the bottom of the staircase, she skirted the paintings in the foyer. She didn’t know how Alan had pulled it off, but the state of the art in the foyer made her skin crawl. She didn’t believe in ghosts but apprehension settled on her shoulders, chilling her, which was nothing to do with the cold upstairs.

  In the sanctuary of the kitchen, with its familiar appliances, and with the radio tuned to a concert programme, she felt safer than she had upstairs, or in the foyer. Humming along with the music she opened the fridge. She took the cheese, ham, and pickle back to the bench where the last of bread was in the wooden bread bin. This would be a fantastic sandwich and she experienced a moment of peace. She’d never spent much time in her mother’s kitchen — it had been at the other end of the house, but kitchens always seemed safe. It's easy to be happy when you’re surrounded by the sensual smells of food.

  Sandwich made, she found a plate. She needed to do the dishes now she was running out of clean crockery. She remembered the glass of wine she’d poured. Wine and a sandwich, the perfect partnership.

  Turning to where she’d left the glass earlier in the night, her hand hovered. It wasn’t there. She looked around the sink, the bench, the scrubbed pine table. Gone. Her hands clenched into fists, she tried to breathe through her anger. Not only had the bastard ruined dinner and damaged the art but he’d damn well stolen her drink too.

  Her appetite gone, she forced the sandwich down, regardless. A glass of tap water did nothing to sate her thirst. She’d wanted that wine. Like an alcoholic, she knew nothing would soothe the craving she had until that first sip of wine was past her lips. She’d drunk like a madwoman after the rape; it was the only way she could sleep, eschewing the sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed. She preferred self medicating with wine. Lots of wine. With great difficulty, she’d weaned herself off her bottle a night habit after seeing the recycling bin full one morning. Full to overflowing, and not with milk bottles or jam jars, but of sour smelling empty bottles of pinot noir and cheap shiraz. She needed a drink.

  Opening cupboards and shifting jars around in the pantry uncovered no wine. It wouldn’t surprise her if the bastard lawyer had whipped it before she’d arrived. She slammed the cupboards, hoping the sound would make its way upstairs and wake him.

  “Stuff it,” she said, before flicking the lights off, too upset to worry about the near total darkness in the hallway. She almost turned the foyer light off, but self-preservation stepped in. Leaving it on, she hurried upstairs, slamming her bedroom door shut. All pretence of polite civility absent now.

  And in the study, a man sat at the desk, savouring the taste of the wine on his tongue. A newer vintage than him, but old enough that it could be savoured, the echo of long summers captured in the glass. He gazed at the unframed canvas propped on the bookcase. It’s not his best work. Nothing done in haste is ever truly great, but it is a fair likeness. He was particularly proud of the eyes, they held the right shade of surprise.

  On the floor, the little girl in the white dress doodles with a silver ballpoint pen, fascinated by the sound the spring makes every time she presses it.

  They pass their time in companionable silence, the clicking of the pen the only distraction.

 
Chapter 20

  Winter sun filled the bedroom, cloaking the room in a false summer haze. The insinuation of warmth was enough that Anita woke up happy. The trauma of the previous day left behind to the terrors of night.

  She climbed out of bed. Today she’d ignore Alan. Losing her cool with him was unprofessional. She was not a toddler; she was a grown woman doing a job.

  Comfort won out over glamour. A chunky jersey, the woollen socks she’d worn yesterday, jeans. Nothing fancy, just warm. She hoped the rest of the team would arrive soon with provisions. She considered the contents of the kitchen as she walked downstairs. Alan’s door was still shut. Good, he could make his own breakfast. She wasn’t a scullery maid nor a housekeeper.

  There wasn’t much left worth eating, as far as she could recall, and a scout through the fridge confirmed it. She uncovered a container of oats of unknown age. Adding milk and a liberal serving of sugar might make a palatable bowl of porridge, leaving enough milk for her coffee.

  Tipping the milk into the saucepan and mug, she placed the empty bottle next to the wine bottle. That’d teach him to finish her glass of wine. The stovetop made quick work of the porridge, and the sugar improved everything. Her stomach full, she made her way back to the dining room to start work before remembering her laptop was in the study.

  Spinning on her socks she set off down a different corridor, the hallway Alan had last walked.

  In the poor lighting she didn’t see the overturned plant stand until a shard of pottery pierced her woollen sock, sinking itself into her soft heel.

  “Christ!”