by John Harvey
‘I suppose.’
She accepted water instead of coffee or more tea, peered restlessly at this and that, unable to settle.
‘What’s up here, then?’ Olivia asked, turning her head towards the stairs.
‘Nothing. Nothing, special. Don’t …’
But already her young legs had taken her up out of sight, Sloane following in her wake.
‘Wow!’ Olivia exclaimed, looking round at the canvases that lined three sides of the walls in piles of four or five or more. ‘Whose are these? Are these all yours?’
Without waiting for an answer she moved from one to another, pulling canvases out, then sliding them back. ‘They’re brilliant, right? I mean, the colours …’ She stopped, sensing Sloane’s uneasy silence, the near embarrassment on his face. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘You don’t like them or what?’
‘They’re okay. Better than the others, at least.’
‘What others?’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘The ones I burned, painted over, threw away.’
‘Now you’re joking, yeah?’
Sloane shook his head.
‘Then you’re crazy. Got to be. Look, look at this.’ She lifted a squarish canvas high off the ground, a flurry of squiggly, expanding technicolour lines exploding across a deep blue, almost black ground. ‘That on your wall, you’d never tire of looking at it. See something different every time.’
‘Take it,’ Sloane said.
‘What?’
‘Take it with you, put it in your room.’
‘I couldn’t afford …’
‘It’s a gift.’
‘I couldn’t … You can’t just …’
‘Olivia, please …’
‘No, I can’t.’
Sloane laughed. ‘Then you were just being polite, being kind.’
‘No way.’
‘Have it then. Please. Say it’s for your father if that makes it easier. Something against his return. But take it when you go.’
She was smiling at him with her eyes, sizing him up anew. ‘All right. I will.’
‘Good. Now can we go back downstairs? It depresses me up here. Besides, I’d like some food.’
They walked to an Italian restaurant on the high road and ordered pasta and salad, a bottle of house wine.
‘Wherever my dad is,’ Olivia said, ‘he’s all right.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just know.’
Over the meal, Sloane asked Olivia about the university, her course, friends, the student house with its shifting population where she and her friend Nicky lived. It was Nicky, whose parents lived relatively close, that she had come down with that day.
‘Do you still paint?’ Olivia asked, accepting more wine.
Sloane shook his head. ‘Not really. Hardly at all.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just don’t.’
‘You should.’
He shrugged, willing her to change the subject; reached for his glass.
‘Think of all the people who’d give their right arm to be able to paint like that.’
‘Perhaps not exactly like that.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Despite himself, Sloane was smiling.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re laughing at me.’
‘No. No, not for a minute. I promise.’
‘Good.’ She reached up and pulled her sweater over her head, sleeveless T-shirt snug against her breasts, white cotton against metallic brown skin. Then laughed as Sloane caught himself staring and quickly looked away. ‘Here,’ she said, lifting the water glass, ‘have some of this, old man. Cool yourself down.’
Back at the studio he surrounded Olivia’s painting in bubble wrap and then two large sheets of brown paper, taping the edges carefully down before tying it all with string.
‘You sure you’re going to be able to manage this?’
‘Sure.’
Nicky’s parents lived somewhere off the Holloway Road and that was where Olivia was going to stay. Sloane had already phoned for a taxi. There was coffee on the stove.
‘What you said about your dad, his being okay,’ Sloane said. ‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Thanks.’
He had barely poured the coffee when the taxi arrived.
‘I’d better go.’
‘Yes.’
At the door, holding it open for her, the painting awkwardly between his arms and hers, Olivia leaned quickly towards him and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You know what you ought to do?’ she asked.
‘Besides paint?’
‘Besides paint.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Find yourself someone, before it’s too late.’
He watched the taxi drive away, the quick blink of the brake lights before it turned from sight, shut and locked the door, and leaned back against the wood, eyes closed.
30
Sloane was up at five thirty, pulling on dungarees, splashing cold water on his face and combing his fingers through his hair. Through the upstairs windows the sky was limpid grey, waiting for the light. He selected a canvas he’d begun work on years before, a dull catechism of uneven squares, grey and muddy cream, rising one above the other without belief or reason. It was wider than the span of his arms, above head height when he raised it off the floor and secured it to the wall. He levered the lid from a large can of matt white paint, stirred it strongly with the handle of a long brush before pouring some liberally into a large tray and using an ordinary household paint roller to cover up what was there before. In some places he rolled the paint on more thickly, not waiting until the first application had dried, the edge of the roller making faint over-lapping horizontal lines in the process, some of which he eased away, leaving the remainder as they were. Towards the lower right section a smudge of grey, no bigger than a hand, showed through and this, too, he left.
When finally he stepped back, the first task done, his arm ached, the light had changed in the sky and what he was looking at resembled a painting by Agnes Martin, a parody of it at least, without her hand-drawn geometric lines, without her mystery.
He went downstairs to make coffee. Carried it back up and began collecting tins and tubes of paint, arranging them in a rough cluster on the floor and then shaking, stirring, squeezing, sorting through, daubing samples on to a piece of wood; shades of purple, shades of gold.
The adrenalin firing through him, the muscles of his stomach contracted, knotting, bending him forward, cramped, where he stood.
At the last moment he moved away, searching for a colour he had seen in his mind and had yet to find. A pale violet, pale yet clear. He found something comparable, brighter, darker, and decanted some into an empty tin, adding linseed oil to lighten it down.
Only when he was satisfied he had the right shade did he reach for a fine, sable-tipped brush and, after stepping back to judge the necessary balance with the existing smudge of grey, make the first fresh mark, a curve of violet tapering away, the size and shape of a feather on a magpie’s wing, the shade of skin seen by certain eyes in failing light.
Where previously he might have gone barrelling in, taking out his frustrations, his anger, on the canvas, now he made himself wait, reined himself in.
When he was certain, and only then, he fired up a four-inch brush with gold and made a broad stroke, high up, right to left, angling in. Another above. Another below. Then purple, no, not the purple, not yet. White. More white. White on white. Shiny this, and thick, laid on with a palette knife, then worked at with a sponge, textured and teased. Moved around. He seized a tube of paint, pinkish hue, rose pink, and squeezed it directly on to the centre of this new white mass, letting it slide slowly down before attacking it with a turpentine-soaked piece of cloth, blending the two till the pink had all but disappeared.
He wanted breakfast, he wanted something, he wanted lunch.
What he found were a tin of sardines soaked in oil, another
of cannellini beans, a jar of sun-dried tomatoes, as yet unopened, and, hiding behind the marmalade, a slim, black and silver tin of anchovies. All of these he emptied into one large bowl, stirred with a fork, added a splash or two more of olive oil, then took the bowl upstairs and sat cross-legged on the floor opposite the painting, eating with fork and fingers both, finally licking his finger ends. Finished, he set the bowl aside and continued to sit.
His intention had been to add the purple gradually, spray it, possibly, from the end of a brush held an arm’s distance away. A flick of the wrist. A technique he remembered Jane practising to great effect. All the more reason, perhaps, for not doing it now.
Instead, he ferreted for the largest of his brushes, almost a hand’s breadth wide, and plunged it into the purple paint, quickly lifting it, dripping, to the top of the canvas, right of centre, and drawing it smoothly down in one long descending motion that took it, colour perceptibly thinning, to within inches of the bottom frame, missing the original grey by a whisper as it slid past.
He hadn’t heard the knocking at the downstairs door and, when he did, had no idea how long it had been going on. Dumar, he thought, or Olivia. Both together.
When he opened the door, paint splashed here and there across his overalls, along his arms, tattooed in fine lines across his face, it was to find Dutton and Boyd on the pavement, a third man, taller, one he did not recognise, standing in their wake.
‘Been hard at it, I see,’ Dutton said, nodding towards Sloane’s dungarees.
‘Rolling on the canvas, is it?’ said Boyd, the Swansea lilt more pronounced than usual. Either he’d been home for a few days, or his mam and dad were staying. ‘Marvellous, that contiguity with the actual surface. No substitute for a bit of actual skill, of course. Control. Perspective. Someone like Rembrandt now, brushstrokes fine as a hairline fracture.’
‘Always bothered me, that,’ Dutton said. ‘How come, when you can obviously paint properly – that Singer Sergeant forgery, for instance – how come it is you waste your time on the sort of shit you do?’
‘Fuck off,’ Sloane said.
‘No way to take a smidgen of constructive criticism,’ Boyd said.
‘You can fuck off, too.’
‘I think,’ the third man said, speaking for the first time, ‘we’ve had just about enough of this Edinburgh Fringe badinage, don’t you?’
‘Right, Mr Elms,’ said Boyd, properly deferential.
Sloane thought Elms had the sort of accent that went perfectly with his suit and tie, the kind of public school vowels, supercilious and slightly menacing, that set you up for a life in merchant banking or cricket commentating. Sloane didn’t think that Elms, however, was currently following either of those career paths.
‘Perhaps,’ Elms said, addressing Sloane directly, ‘you’d care to invite us in.’
Sloane didn’t budge.
‘What Mr Elms might have said,’ Dutton offered, ‘is that although we’d have been happy to invite you round the corner with us, stand you egg and chips, a mug of tea, our understanding is that the café’s closed, due to unfortunate circumstances.’
Bastards! Sloane thought. You bastards!
He stepped aside and waited while they walked, one, two, three, through the door. Elms went immediately to the far end of the settee and sat down, arms lightly folded, knees together; Dutton and Boyd, true to their nature, took advantage of the chance to snoop in corners, commit to memory, admire.
‘Open plan, very nice,’ Dutton remarked. ‘Bit like wandering round Ikea – except for the furniture, of course.’
Boyd was on the first tread of the stairs before Sloane stopped him with a shout.
‘Later, perhaps,’ Boyd said, attempting a bashful smile in his retreat. ‘At your invitation, of course.’
Sloane took a seat facing Elms. ‘Dumar,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’
‘Quite safe,’ Elms replied, overriding Dutton’s attempt to circumlocute.
‘Where?’
‘Near Salisbury. A former army barracks, spartan, but given the deprivations your friend is used to in his own country, not uncomfortable. One of several facilities currently in use for asylum seekers and the like.’
‘Is that what he is, an asylum seeker?’
‘Oh, my, I hope so. I mean if not that, then what? His documentation, such as it was, was niggardly in the extreme.’
‘Illegal,’ Dutton said. ‘Your pal, Dumar, an illegal immigrant ripe for transportation, that’s what Mr Elms means.’
‘How about a victim of police harassment?’ Sloane said, temper in control but only just. ‘Him and his daughter both. And you …’ He was looking at Boyd now, pointing in his direction. ‘If you open another one of those drawers, I’ll break your fucking arm.’
Boyd made a move towards him, bristling, but Dutton stopped him with a warning. ‘He just might, you know. Remember what he did to Parsons’s nose.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Boyd said, beginning to chuckle. ‘The parson’s nose.’
‘How come,’ Sloane said to Elms, ‘you’re at the beck and call of these clowns?’
‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ Dutton said. ‘All the departments of the law pulling together. One of the triumphs of New Labour, I think it’ll be seen as, greater police powers, computerised intelligence gathering, DNA banks, saying bollocks to the jury system.’
Sloane ignored him. ‘What’s the deal?’ he said to Elms. ‘I suppose there’s a deal.’
By way of an answer Elms nodded at Dutton, who pulled an envelope from his pocket and from that removed a number of photographs, grainy for the most part, the result of working with a fast slim telescopic lens.
Parsons, of course, Sloane identified instantly, but the woman … Smart in a loose-fitting linen suit the colour of pale wheat, her hair recently shaped and cut, Valentina Ceroni looked altogether different from the person he had known in Italy.
‘When were these taken?’ Sloane asked.
‘Six days ago, seven. Ceroni was in London for a series of meetings. The Jane Graham Foundation – you know about that, of course – setting up a board of trustees.’
‘And Parsons …?’
Dutton smiled a thin-lipped smile. ‘Other interests, we think. A stash of paintings for sale, Pollock, Kline, you know the kind of thing.’
‘Parsons,’ Sloane said, ‘wouldn’t know a Franz Kline if it stood up and bit him in the arse. You know what he specialises in as well as I do.’
‘Nevertheless, rumour has it he’s offered to broker the whole deal. And put ten per cent of his fee back into the Graham Foundation.’
‘Then he’s set to make a lot more some other way,’ Sloane said.
‘Don’t altogether believe in his altruism, then?’ Boyd said. ‘I must admit I found it a little hard to buy into myself.’
Dutton shuffled the photographs back into a neat pile. ‘One way or another, Parsons has been slipping through our hands for years. No thanks to you on that account. If we can move on him here, proof positive, there’s a lot more he’ll fall for, mark my words. Put him out of business for a long time, maybe for good.’
Sloane looked at the photo uppermost, Valentina with her face angled towards Parsons, listening intently; Parsons himself, smooth, confident, self-assured. ‘Like I said before,’ he said, addressing Elms, ‘what’s the deal?’
‘It’s simple,’ Elms replied. ‘In the matter of Parsons, you agree to help our friends here obtain a conviction. Cast iron. We recommend the tribunal looks favourably on your friend’s application for asylum. Quid pro quo.’ Elms paused, watching Sloane’s face.
‘Dumar,’ Sloane said, ‘he’ll be able to stay permanently, officially? Not some bloody carpet you can yank out from under him the minute you’ve a mind.’
‘I think you can rest assured.’
‘And his daughter?’
‘A fine student, I believe. Lively mind. The kind of citizen we need.’
‘All right,’ Sloane said, after a long moment’s t
hought. ‘All right.’
Behind Elms’s back, Dutton and Boyd were exchanging smug grins.
31
He caught up with Parsons at an opening, the Shirin Neshat at the Serpentine. Large black and white photographs displayed sparingly on the walls, Women of Allah, faces defiant, beautiful: one woman in particular, a gun held close against her cheek, the barrel end staring out, mirroring her eye, calligraphy covering every inch of her skin, words in Farsi she can only think, not speak. And moving between them, these fashionably dressed, articulate people, women and men with glasses of Shiraz or Chardonnay in their hands, all chattering at once, all avoiding their accusing gaze.
In the dark of separate rooms, Neshat’s videos were playing, Iranian men and chador-clad women side by side on separate screens, voices that are insistent, keening.
It was coming out of the third of these that Sloane saw Parsons, a soured expression on his face, one hand cupped against an ear to shield it from the sound.
Seeing Sloane approach, he flinched, as if expecting to be hit.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sloane said, hands carefully at his sides. ‘I’m over that now.’
Outside the gallery, on the broad flagged stones, the lawn leading out to the edges of the park, people stood in twos and threes, cigarettes bobbing like fireflies. Sloane was wearing a loose black designer suit and collarless white shirt, both bought that morning at the Hampstead Oxfam shop, all the better to blend in, deep pockets to house the tape recorder Dutton had issued him more comfortably.
‘Let’s walk,’ Parsons said. ‘It’s a lovely evening.’
They crossed the road, the soft sanded strip on which horses are daily exercised, down through the crowded car park towards the lake. Looking back, the gallery resembled a ship, all sails alight. Parsons chose a seat some little way along. In silhouette, ducks threaded their way up and down the lake. The music from the gallery could still be heard above the movement of water, the occasional cry of birds.
‘That bloody row,’ Parsons said.
Sloane said nothing.
Parsons lit a cigarette, leaned back and held the smoke down in his lungs. ‘I’m rather pleased to have bumped into you, actually. If we have really put all that silly unpleasantness behind us.’
