PAINTED

by Kirsten McKenzie

  One hesitant step taken, followed by a second, and another, as she probed her way back to the house, clinging to the shapeless shadows. An explosion from the undergrowth floored her, throwing her into the brambles. Anita threw her arms over her face, trying to fend off the monster laying into her. With no strength for a breath or for anything more than protecting her face, she curled into a ball and waited to die. Apologising over and over to her mother, for not listening to her advice, for not ringing, for not saying I love you often enough. Until finally she wept, calling out for her mother to save her.

  Chapter 43

  Head bent over the tractor’s engine, he didn’t hear the dog’s muffled whining, a mumble over the coughing engine.

  “Stupid thing. Come on, take,” the farmer cajoled the engine. Damn thing kept cutting out. It’d turn over okay, idle a moment, then cut out. Happened every year round this time, it was the cold. Every year he promised he’d put money aside over the summer to buy a new one, a secondhand one. There was never enough money round to splurge on a new one. Still, it had to get him through the rest of the winter, being swiped off the road hadn’t helped the old thing.

  Hands covered with grease, the wrench slipped from his hands just as the engine died a third time. Clanging against the chassis, the wrench fell into the wintery grass, the dull metal camouflaged by the filthy snow and the morass of weeds. Now the dog’s whines were as clear as a bell.

  “What is it, boy?”

  The dog took off across the field, barking frenetically. Birds took flight in front of him; panicking they shot off in every direction, wings beating against the still sky, their own cries in chorus with the dappled dog.

  The farmer wiped his hands on a cloth, the smears of grease adding to a decade of stains already there. A dozen seasons of berries, eons of oil leaks and rain-covered seats. He whistled after him, the piercing sound flying through the air. It made no difference to the dog who barrelled into the undergrowth as if it were a pall of smoke wafting across the countryside.

  He dropped the cloth on the overheated bonnet and strode after the wayward animal.

  It wasn’t hard to track him down. His whines cut through the brush like a knife through butter. At first he thought Ace had been injured but his whines were more concerned than hurt. An animal in the bush? He couldn’t think what else could be out here.

  “Come away Ace, leave it,” he called out. Last thing he needed was for Ace to take a bite out of a rabid animal. He shone a powerful torch into the bushes until he spotted what his wayward dog had run off after.

  “Heel Ace, heel. Leave it,” slapping his hand against his grubby corduroy thigh, he summoned the dog. Shock flushed his face when he peered into the undergrowth, and found the woman from the house on the ground, half obscured by the remnants of autumn’s leaves. The shock shouldn’t have been a surprise - the house had a reputation. She wouldn’t be the first person to stay in the house before melancholy took over. Most threw themselves off the cliff and were swallowed by the sea. One more funeral without a body. He’d warned them. He’d warned them all. That house did funny things to people. Poor girl, she’d seemed nice and well balanced when he’d last rescued her. Still, some people were most susceptible to their environment. She needed to get away from this place before it drove her too far towards madness.

  Anita was too far gone to notice the light from the torch or the soothing words he muttered in her direction. There was no recognition. He gathered up the cowering woman, careful of her cuts and scrapes. Hefting her into his arms, he stood up.

  She struggled, thrashing like a cornered calf. The scent of oil on his hands penetrating her subconscious and tapping into her deepest fear. But he didn’t know and clasped her closer. She pummelled at him, screaming. Her fists beating against his chest, useless against the larger man. She bucked in his arms, her incoherent screams ragged in his ears.

  Ignoring her, he turned towards the house. Kubin’s place was closer than his own but if she’d run from it, should he take her back? He clasped her tighter. He needed to get her inside and the artist’s house was closest. She had friends there to care for her. How she came to be out here wasn’t his business. They’d ignored his warnings, so he’d have to tell them again — they should leave, before it was too late.

  Shifting the weight in his arms, he staggered towards the house, the dog by his side whimpering, the sounds from the girl worrying the dog.

  “Quiet now, quiet. You’re okay,” he said, trying to calm her. She was in her own world. His words making no impact. Her struggles were slowing, more from tiredness he suspected than from his ineffectual words.

  Halfway back, he saw one of the city boys scrambling down the hill. His eyes full of concern, not like Gates Junior when he’d pulled the girl from the pond. Gates had only been concerned about himself.

  He called out to the man and the girl threw herself against him. He stumbled and dropped her as he tripped over. There was a sickening thump as her head struck the frozen ground. The farmer lay dazed himself on the ground. The dog nuzzled at his master, whining until the farmer shook himself. He took hold of the proffered hand from the other man, and pulled himself up, dizzy from the sudden movement.

  The girl’s body was limp but she was breathing. He tried to pick her up but the pain from his fall was too intense and he stepped back, swallowing a guttural grunt of pain. Cursed with age, he was grateful when the other man picked her up with an ease only the young have. The physical relief immediate, but mentally he was still worried, as was the dog. Ace alternated between whimpering and a low growl as if he knew something was off. Stupid animal, what did he know? He was just a dog. Still, the dog’s whimpers forced deep lines up his forehead.

  “Stop it. Leave it now, Ace.”

  Despite his concern he didn’t waste time with polite conversation. She needed to get inside as soon as possible.

  “You get her inside. Get her warm, then leave, all of you. Preferably tonight if you can.” He was a man of few words, but he tried to tell him. To warn him.

  The man looked back at him and nodded, an odd look on his face, but he’d gone before the farmer could analyse it. He watched as the city boy carried her back to the darkened house.

  He lost sight of them in the evening gloom. A single light shone up in the turret where it always had when old Kubin was alive. He could only just make out the sight of someone sitting at the easel, a canvas in front of them. They were playing with fire up there. Something wasn’t right about the house. He knew it and so did his father. The painting hanging over his fireplace at home all he had left of his mother after the same despondency had struck her after she’d sat for her portrait. He couldn’t blame Leo. It’d been another artist who’d painted her, Leo’s father, George Laurence Kubin. His father never forgave the artist for sending his wife into a spiral of depression, forcing her brooding body over the cliffs, leaving behind a baby, a broken-hearted husband and an empty coffin.

  Chapter 44

  Callaghan swore under his breath. He’d just got Anita over the threshold before she slipped from his grasp. He caught her awkwardly before she hit the tiles.

  Half carrying, half dragging, he got her into the drawing room and onto the couch. She hadn’t woken, and lay with her fists clenched, covered with scrapes and congealed blood. He wasn’t squeamish, but dealing with someone else’s blood... he couldn’t clean her up, Yvonne would have to do that, or someone else. Still, tracing her body with his eyes was an enjoyable moment. A pretty girl.

  Annoyed the farmer hadn’t followed them to the house to help, he didn’t want to be in this house any longer himself. Now he was stuck here till Anita woke up. The lights flickered and Callaghan looked up, the electricity failing was the last thing they needed. The flickering steadied; he carried on breathing. His breath hanging in the air a sign of how cold the room was as if winter herself had taken up residence inside. It made no sense for it to be colder inside than out. Being torn down the best thing for it, the
old house was probably crawling with termites or other vermin. He shuddered, his fastidiousness insulted by the thought, and by the cold.

  Crouching in front of the fireplace he lit a match to the half-charred pine cones in the grate. The match burnt down to his fingers without touching the brittle cones. He lit another one and cast around for some paper to use as kindling. Nothing. Again the match stung his fingers. He dropped it, sucking on his burnt fingers. He remembered the paper in the old nursery. Perfect.

  Looking towards Anita he shrugged off the feelings of unease creeping up, casting its fingers into his spine, massaging fear into his cerebral cortex. He needed paper for the fire, that’s all. He’d get the girl warm, awake, then he’d put her in the car and drive somewhere, anywhere but here. As for Scott and Yvonne, he couldn’t think of them, especially not the portrait of Yvonne upstairs. His skin crawled, he’d think of them later. Being alone with Anita had its appeal.

  Leaving the drawing room, he paused outside the nursery door. He wasn’t scared of much but every step he’d taken down the hall was shot with inexplicable dread. He needed paper and there was plenty in the waste paper basket.

  The door opened and flicking the bakelite switch filled the room with light. It looked as it had earlier today. Was that only today? It felt like a lifetime ago. His stomach rumbled, reminding him how long ago it had been when they’d eaten together as a cohesive unit. The room was identical, the same spider feasting on the moth in the corner, spinning a silvery cocoon around the moth’s carcass. He felt sorry for the moth, helpless in a web not of its own making. He felt the same way — stuck in a life he didn’t want. He wasn’t the man people thought him.

  Shaking off the melancholy, he twisted handfuls of paper into tapers for the fire. Oblivious to the words on the pages; ignorant of the images roughly sketched on the pages — images of people long gone. No longer loved nor remembered by anyone left living. In his haste, he didn’t register the click, click, click of a pen in the shadows.

  Back in the drawing room, he shoved the papers into the fireplace. After striking another match, the paper caught, and the fire flared, spreading with ease to the pine cones and the kindling. The house filled with a deep baritone cry. Callaghan ignored it, it was the sound of the fire raging through the sap and the damp wood; it was nothing he hadn’t heard before.

  He moved the hair stuck to Anita’s brow, his fingers lingering on her forehead, enjoying the feel of her skin under his skin. He pressed a fraction harder. She mumbled but didn’t wake.

  “Anita, wake up, come on now.”

  There was no change.

  “Come on Anita, wake up, it’s just us here,” Callaghan said.

  The girl moaned on the couch, her forehead as hot as the fire in the hearth. He tucked a blanket around her. She flinched before settling again. Callaghan sat on his ankles, looking around the room. The flickering fire casting obscene shadows which made the netsukes writhe grotesquely in the fire’s reflection. The ravens on the hearth tiles darted to and fro, looking for something that wasn’t there.

  He needed a drink; not something alcoholic: he needed water. Flicking switches as he went, he walked into the kitchen and reached for the tap. His hand froze. Scott’s face was behind him, reflected in the window. Only it wasn’t Scott.

  Callaghan turned, his mouth dry. Scott was hanging on the wall. Mouth open, eyes wide, his shirt awry on his shoulders, smudges of grey along the collar. Motionless, within a gilded frame upon the wall. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.

  He lunged at it, ripping it from the wall. Whether he noticed that the paint was still wet, he couldn’t have said, but he threw the painting onto the table. He grabbed a black-handled knife from the cutlery drawer, the sort used for deboning fish, and slashed at the canvas. A violent strike across the centre of the face, the two sides peeling back like petals.

  “That’s what I think of your sick joke,” he yelled at nothing, brandishing the weapon. Red paint clung to the serrated edges of the knife.

  He needed more than water now. Even if he emptied the whisky decanter, it wouldn’t be enough. Leaving the scarred portrait on the table he stumbled towards the hallway, knife still in his hand, a great thirst consuming him.

  The fat decanter sat where he’d left it, brooding with its amber belly, enticing him to drown his sorrows within its crystal arms. He sloshed a fair sized portion into his glass. Laughing as he tossed the drink back, at how much Scott would hate that portrait. The artist hadn’t captured him at his debonair best so he’d done Scott a favour by destroying it. He couldn’t wait for his friend to see it, knowing they’d laugh over it together. But deep in his subconscious, he knew Scott would never see it. A ludicrous thought. Madness, much like Yvonne’s painting upstairs. Scott and Yvonne. Would he be next? Fear joined the whisky burning his throat.

  The knife lay next to his hand on the cabinet. The black handle obscene against the warmth of the walnut veneer. Callaghan pushed it with his finger, the weighted handle spun in a perfect arc, the blade flashing towards him and then away. Like a lethal game of spin the bottle. The girl on the couch murmured. He spun the knife a second time, a little harder. This time the knife over rotated, falling to the floor, missing his foot by less than an inch. So anaesthetised he didn’t flinch. Scooping up the knife, he slammed it into the veneer. Crystal glasses rattled against the tray. The girl stirred.

  Callaghan poured another drink, his stained fingers filthy against the faceted glass. The decanter almost empty, he ran his fingers along the diamond pattern of the crystal bottle. Solid, heavy, lead based, the most perfect receptacle for whisky ever designed. He had a small collection at home, broad based Baccarat and delicate Tiffany decanters. This would fit his collection.

  Head fuzzy with alcohol and lack of food, he couldn’t follow any coherent thought and slumped onto the couch, spilling the strong smelling liquor. What a waste. He wiped it with his free hand. He flexed his fingers; the knuckles cracking. They’d always done that. Drove his mother insane. The doctors put it down to too much exercise when he was young. Seemed you couldn’t win these days. You either didn’t exercise and got fat and lazy in front of a screen, or you exercised too much and wrecked yourself. His joints had never bothered him. It’d been a party trick when he was a teenager, clicking first his ankles, his wrists, and then his fingers. On a good day his neck would crack both ways, and his elbows. He’d never been able to sneak out, his ankles creaking every time he inched down the family staircase and his mother had hearing like a hawk.

  Where were these thoughts coming from? Flexing his fingers again, he swapped his glass to the other hand. His knuckles, discoloured by decades of furniture oils and stains, clicked again, the noise echoing through the house. Which was odd because it really was such a little sound.

  Anita stirred again, her hands coming up to her head.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Anita tried opening her eyes. One eye opened, the other swollen like a ripe peach, whipped by a branch, it wouldn’t open more than halfway. Funny he hadn’t noticed before. Shocked into sobriety now he was properly looking, he saw she was covered with scratches and streaks of congealed blood, her feet encased in dried filth.

  With a start he remembered the infection in her foot. He hadn’t thought to clean it. For someone who’d been thrashing like a lion in a circus cage only an hour earlier, she was oddly still… was it only an hour, he couldn’t be sure. The clock on the mantel had stopped, and he didn’t wear a watch. Some people did. Scott did, but he hadn’t worn one for years, stupid things got in the way.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Weird how she lay there, staring at him. He waved a hand in front of her face, his fingers clicked, and then his wrist. She blinked and tried to talk, but seemed to have trouble. He held his whisky up to her lips, and her good eye screwed up in response.

  “Water,” she whispered.

  Wrestling with himself, his public persona emerged. He’d get her a drink, to show she
needed him. It was always good to be needed, it made it easier down the track, normally.

  “Thirsty,” Anita said.

  “Of course,” Callaghan said, smiling. Water, some food, and then they’d leave. The devil could take Yvonne and Scott for all he cared. Maybe the two of them were off on some lovers tryst somewhere, with Anita’s elusive lawyer? He didn’t care if all three of them were shacked up in some outhouse. He needed to leave, soon. He had an important date with the lovely Anita that he’d been thinking about for a long time.

  Chapter 45

  The raven perched on the edge of the gable. Ruffling its feathers, its beak opening and closing as if it were holding an unseen conversation with the world. It could have been sharing a warning about what it had seen through the windows of Kubin’s not-so-empty house. A home is a receptacle to hold a family together — the photos on the walls the bruises of childhood, the crockery in the cupboards the eclectic memories of meals past. The empty clothes left hanging in the wardrobes mere shadows left behind, waiting to be sewn back on… this was no home.

  The little girl wanted the pearls. She wanted to play with those pearly white balls and it wasn’t fair she wasn’t allowed to have them. George would’ve let her have them. He always gave her what she wanted. She always got what she wanted.

  She liked collecting things. So far she had a pretty watch, and a shiny pen, and a mountain of other trinkets she’d squirrelled away from people who’d stayed at the house. Things they’d never miss, or need again, like Mummy’s beautiful star-shaped brooch. But now Daddy had taken that away and he wouldn’t let her play with the pearls the lady let roll down the stairs. She wasn’t happy; it reminded her too much of that last summer with Mummy.