by Clive Barker
The cows were up, standing mute and sentinel around Camille’s frozen body.
Herb flicked off the safety, shouldered the gun and aimed.
A waste of a good marksman to shoot a standing cow.
He hit the first one between the eyes. It fell in a heap.
He chambered another round. Another clean, perfect shot and the cow fell where it stood.
The rest of the cows mooed and shuffled, but stood their ground.
“Stupid scrubs!”
Herb took aim and dropped another. Blood turned the snow into pink slush.
His breath faltered. He gagged. Coughed out a hunk of flesh the size of a pocket-watch. It steamed in the cold air.
He fired again at the herd. Another animal went down. He counted a dozen still standing.
He shouldered the rifle, but coughed again, throwing off his aim, sending a bullet into a cow’s withers. It bawled in pain. Herb spat out an eyeball. He gagged again, doubling over, leaning on the butt of his rifle. His heart thundered in his ears. He coughed up a chunk of flesh and it splattered on the porch. Again, he recognized it. It was the bruised areola and nipple of Camille’s right breast. He’d bruised it a week ago when he bit down too hard on it. She wasn’t even a good fuck any more. Just lay there like a bale of hay. Sheep fucked better than her.
He stood. Aimed. Fired.
Aimed. Fired.
Soon, only four were left standing. He decided to go into the pen. No need to waste any more bullets. And who should he call to pick up the beef that lay steaming in the snow? He’d have to think of something.
He set the rifle down on the porch and walked out to the pen. The live ones eyed him, their big flat heads bobbing back and forth like boxers gauging an opponent. Why didn’t I shoot the fuckers days ago? he wondered.
His throat clogged and he spit out a toe. Spots of red polish glistened on the cracked nail.
He stepped up to the circle of cows. The remaining four shuffled in front of him.
“Don’t learn a goddamn thing, do you?”
Fuck it. Not putting up with ’em any more. Too old to dick around.
He backed up to the fence where a rusting awl rested against a post. He carried it to the cows, lifted it to the air and brought it down hard on top of a wobbling head.
Fell like a rock.
He did it three more times until all the cows lay dead and steaming. He swung a few more times on the prone, bulky flesh because it made him feel alive, made him feel like a man. And wouldn’t his father be proud? This is what being a man is all about.
He dropped the awl and stepped onto a bloated belly, steadied himself and hopped into the center of the circle where Camille lay.
He reached down to pick up his wife of fifty-three years. His hands broke through the icy crust that had formed around her body.
There was nothing there.
Nothing left of her.
Not even a pile of old, wet bones.
Again, he felt a pressure on his lungs. Something crept up his throat. He sat down in the middle of the cows.
“Geez-um,” he mumbled.
He wondered how long this was going to take.
He began to cough.
Depth
Rio Youers
Donations were to be made to the Bluebell Hope Foundation, a charity established in support of children with acute lymphoblastic leukemia, and one that James Cloak held close to his heart. His son, Stuart, had been diagnosed at the age of four, and had battled courageously for over two years. Twenty-six and a half months, in fact. Eight hundred and six days. James had counted every one of them. At the end, he saw a place where peace and pain were intertwined. The shape they made was crystalline: almost too bright to look at, formed of many moments, and with edges that could cut to the bone.
James spent five hundred pounds on a ticket to the fundraiser dinner, and another two hundred on the raffle, winning a makeover at Maison d’Allure and a signed copy of some bawdy pop star’s book—prizes he had no use for, and which he passed on to the silent auction. His interest—and a contributory reason for attending the event—was in the artwork displayed around the hall, donated by local artists, primarily to raise money for the cause, but also to bring attention to their work. Much of it was not to James’s taste. Landscapes and still lifes, for the most part, suggesting talent but little depth. He wanted to be spoken to, carried away. If he could view an entire painting within thirty seconds, every brushstroke and intention, it would never inspire him. James demanded layers, in art and in life. He was moved by character…by story.
Angelique Mayer was the curator of the Simpatico Gallery in Upper Marton, and had procured, through wile and influence, the paintings for tonight’s event. She was a tall woman with a savage buzz cut and a ring through her septum. Electric blue fingernails and a barcode tattooed on the back of her neck. She had a pierced tongue, too, which James heard rattling against the backs of her teeth when she spoke.
“A Measure of Sin.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The title of this piece.” She tilted her chin toward the painting that James was looking at. “The artist is Belarusian, but lives in Bickford now. She does her initial sketch work in the dark, to better ‘channel her essence.’ Obviously, the work is completed with the lights on.”
James nodded. “An apple,” he said. “Alone, in a bowl.”
“It symbolizes greed, consumerism, and materialism. She was going to call it iWant.”
“Well,” James said, moving on. “I don’t want. I’d be far more interested if the apple were outside the bowl. It would make me wonder what was happening beyond the canvas. It would ask more questions.”
“Do you feel it’s the artist’s responsibility to ask questions?” Angelique asked. A smile tweaked the corners of her mouth. “Or to provide answers…to recreate what is?”
“Both, I’m sure,” James responded after a little thought. “I can only tell you what moves me, as an enthusiast. It’s that…unseen thing, that invisible wash of genius that turns a painting of an apple into a masterpiece. It’s the same with literature. All writers use the same twenty-six letters of the alphabet. They have the same words available to them. But with great writing, there’s a power that breathes between the lines. It’s about placement and weight; the shaping of a thing that has no name, and no face. Anything less is akin to joining the dots.”
“Indeed,” Angelique said. “But all things—not only beauty—are in the eye of the beholder.”
“And so the world turns,” James said, and with a grin stepped to the next piece. He held out both hands. “Here, this is better. See how the man’s shadow, and the building’s shadow, fall in opposite directions. And look…an old gramophone in the grass.”
“It’s called, Fracture of Time.”
“It’s not great,” James said. “But it’s better. It has depth, at least. Ambition. I think I’ll bid on it, because I’m here to support the foundation…although I don’t want to outbid someone who actually wants it.”
He took a pen from his jacket pocket and looked at the bidding slip accompanying the piece. So far the highest bid was three hundred and fifty pounds. He’d go four hundred, he decided, keeping it within reach for anybody with a genuine interest, and earning a few more coffers for the foundation in the bargain.
He was about to set pen to paper when he felt Angelique’s hand on his upper arm.
“There is another painting,” she said. Her bright eyes shone and the corners of her mouth tweaked again. “It’s in the back; I deemed it too inappropriate to display.”
“Really?” James popped the cap on his pen and slipped it back into his pocket. “Now you have piqued my interest.”
She nodded, curled her finger in a come-hither gesture. “You want depth?” Her blue fingernail flashed and her tongue bar tapped against her teeth. “Follow me.”
* * *
“You know what you want, at least,” she said as they walked. “I can appreciat
e that.”
“I’ve been an art lover for many years,” James said. “It’s only now—well, since my divorce—that I’ve been able to begin collecting.”
“Your wife didn’t approve?”
“We had a difficult marriage,” he replied. There was no need to elaborate; unburdening on a stranger rarely made the best first impression. He adjusted the conversation instead. “I’m something of an aspiring artist myself.”
“Interesting.”
They progressed down a short corridor to a door marked STORAGE. Angelique took a cluster of keys from her handbag and jangled through them until she found the correct one. She unlocked and opened the door.
“And do you possess,” she began with a smile, “that invisible wash of genius?”
“Hardly,” James admitted. “I’ve yet to paint anything, in fact.”
“Oh?”
“I’m waiting until I have something to say.”
They stepped into a room cluttered with folding chairs and tables, and boxes stacked in a manner that defied the laws of physics. There was a desk beneath the window, its broad surface the only free space in the room. A mounted canvas, covered by a drop cloth, leaned against the nearest wall. Angelique snaked toward it, removed the cloth, and placed it on the desk.
“I apologize…the light isn’t great in here.”
“It’s fine,” James said, leaning forward—almost pulled toward the piece. “Abstract expressionism. Drip painting. Reminiscent of Pollock’s Number 23…though less busy, of course. And in red.”
“Red,” Angelique said. Her smile wasn’t particularly warm.
It was a portrait canvas, measuring, by his eye, three feet by five. The background was white, slightly yellowed by age. The paint—dripped haphazardly across the canvas—was a deep red. Almost maroon.
“Is that acrylic?”
“No.”
Upon closer examination, James saw varying tones to the color, some drips a brighter red, some almost pink, relative to how they’d been applied. This gave the piece a linear perspective—depth to the eye, as well as the mind. There was also something familiar about the placement of the drips. Not so haphazard, after all. Or maybe, James thought, he was inventing something that wasn’t there: a reason to want it. He’d done the same thing in the last bitter months of his marriage.
“These drippings,” he began, twirling his finger. “There’s something about them. A familiarity. I can’t quite place it.”
“A distinct pattern?” Angelique asked.
“I’m not sure,” James replied. “And next time I look at it, I may see something completely different.”
“Enough depth for you?”
“It’s certainly striking,” James admitted.
“In that case,” Angelique said, “I believe full disclosure is in order. I have endeavored to find out as much about this painting, and its artist, as possible. But it hasn’t been easy. So I’ll tell you what I know, and you can make a decision from there.”
James frowned. “Should I be alarmed?”
“Well, I found it just unsettling enough that I wouldn’t exhibit it tonight.” Angelique stepped back and looked at the painting. Her eyes glimmered in the off-yellow light. “But not so much that I didn’t bring it with me, or that I wouldn’t sell it to an informed and willing patron.”
“Go on.”
“The artist is Edward Stickling. Have you heard of him?”
James shook his head.
“His most famous piece is Rise of Tides, once owned by a young Adolf Hitler, which is extraordinary when you consider the Nazis’ distaste for entartete Kunst—degenerate art. It is now displayed at the Pinakothek der Moderne in Munich. Stickling himself went insane and committed suicide in 1953.”
“Not the first artist to lose his marbles.”
“Quite,” Angelique agreed. “This piece—it’s called Typing the Canvas—was completed in 1942. Five years before Pollock’s drip period, incidentally.”
“I’m already sold,” James said.
“Allow me to finish.” Angelique narrowed her eyes. “There’s very little about it in biographies. Perhaps because it was hidden for so many years…”
“Hidden, or lost?”
She inhaled and plucked at her lower lip, then tapped the backs of her teeth with her tongue bar. A contemplative device, James thought. He wondered if she were married, or partnered, and believed such a mannerism could drive a person to tears.
“There’s a suggestion,” she began, “that the painting is cursed.”
James smiled and rolled his eyes. “I believe in the power of persuasion,” he said, gently touching one corner of the canvas. “I believe in coincidence. But curses? No…sounds a little Bill Stoneham to me.”
“Stickling went mad. He sawed off his painting hand with a breadknife, then clambered onto the roof of his Buckinghamshire home—don’t ask me how—and leapt to his death. This piece, along with other works, was purchased at auction in late 1953 by a collector from Edinburgh. He died of a brain hemorrhage two years later.”
“Coincidence,” James said. “Much like the fact that I’m from Buckinghamshire, too.”
“Full disclosure, remember?” Angelique smiled and raised her eyebrows. “I don’t want any blood on my hands.”
“Continue.”
“The painting was inherited by a family member. A nephew, I think. The dates are muddy, but let’s say 1957. Within weeks he began hearing voices in his head. He claimed the painting—this painting—was talking to him. He was admitted into psychiatric care, and released in 1962. No sooner was he out than he killed three people with a screwdriver.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“He died in a high security hospital in 1964. Typing the Canvas, meanwhile, was in the possession of the nephew’s ex-wife, who’d wrapped it in a blanket and put it in the attic. She didn’t go mad or die of a brain hemorrhage, although she claimed her house was haunted—would often see shrouded figures standing in the hall. She made no association between the visitants and the painting in the attic. At least not until she got rid of the painting, and the visitants went away.”
James smiled, shook his head, said nothing. He didn’t believe in curses, and he certainly didn’t believe in ghosts. He looked from Angelique to the painting, and was again drawn in by the subtle use of color. He may have stayed there, lost between the lines, had Angelique not resumed talking and pulled him out. There was a moment’s discomposure, like waking from a vivid dream.
Something about those drips, he thought. Those lines.
“I found all this out through phone calls, trips to the library, and the wonder that is Google.” Angelique linked her hands and looked at James. “And from the previous owner, of course, a collector from Harrow, who also experienced intense headaches and notable discomfort. He was more than happy to pass it along to me—at no cost.”
“Very generous.”
“Indeed.” That smile again, which tweaked the corners of her mouth. “Now, I’m not saying I believe any of this; I’m something of a skeptic, too. But I should tell you that in the ten days this painting has been in my possession, I have also experienced quite awful headaches. Migraines, I’d say. And some terrible nightmares, too.”
“The power of persuasion,” James said.
“Probably…but sufficient for me to withdraw the painting from tonight’s fundraiser. I felt it the proper thing to do. Even so, I’d rather not take it home with me.”
“You won’t have to.” James pulled his checkbook from his pocket. “Did you have a number in mind?”
“There’s one more thing.”
“You’re determined to make this difficult for me.”
“This isn’t acrylic, or enamel.” She swirled one finger at the painting, indicating the nest of red lines. “It’s blood. Human blood.”
James faltered for the first time. He took an involuntary step backward and his mouth hung open, caught between saying something and remaining silen
t. The air between him and Angelique thickened. He could almost see it; tiny, damp crystals that sagged in the yellow light.
“Okay, that’s…interesting.” He ran a hand across his face. There was sweat on his upper lip and he smeared it away. “His blood? Stickling’s?”
“No. Or at least not exclusively.” She tapped her teeth again. “Tests have pulled four different blood types. There’s no solid information as to where the blood came from. Perhaps volunteers or accident victims. One document—by no means reliable—suggests it was procured from cadavers.”
“Delightful.”
“With a mortician’s consent.”
“Which makes it entirely acceptable, of course.” James rolled his eyes, then frowned and took a step closer to the painting. He’d noticed something—a smudge of sorts—in the lower right hand corner. “And what’s this?”
It was a fingerprint, quite small, also in blood.
“You wanted depth,” Angelique said.
“Stickling’s fingerprint? A signature?”
“Doubtful,” Angelique replied. “It’s too small. Maybe his little finger. But he signed it in his customary way in the bottom left hand corner. And he never marked his other work with fingerprints. No, this is a unique touch. We don’t know who it belonged to, or why it’s there. We’ll never know, either. Add it to the mystery.”
James shook his head. “It’s altogether fascinating.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Any more surprises?”
“I’m done.”
“Good,” James said. He smiled and opened his checkbook. “Now let me buy the wretched thing.”
* * *
It had been a long evening. He’d shaken many hands and talked to many people. After buying Typing the Canvas, he’d returned to the hall where he was asked, as a parent directly affected by acute lymphoblastic leukemia, to make a speech. This he did, and without qualm. He never mentioned Stuart in his speech—how he’d faded like a bright color under too much sunlight. He never mentioned the days of useless prayer or the arguments with Annie. He talked, instead, about hope and possibility, love and support. When he’d finished, there were more hands to shake, and enough pitying expressions to make him want to run screaming into the night. He endured, though, and always with a smile. As a result, he was now incredibly tired and irritable. He had a headache, too.
