Local Artist

by Paul Trembling

  And, as the waiter had indicated, it was very full, every table occupied by chattering people and steaming plates. The smell of mingled menus filled the room, wine was flowing, and a good time was being had by all.

  I slipped past as inconspicuously as possible, keeping to the side of the room and avoiding the waiters, till I reached the sanctuary of the bar.

  Thirty years ago I had groped my way down a dark passage, calling out as I did so, even though I was already certain that the place was empty. But I hoped that I might find a room with an un-boarded window that would let in enough light to change by. I was soaked, of course, but I had a spare pullover in my backpack, if the rain hadn’t penetrated it.

  There had been a side door, I remembered, but it was either locked or jammed. I carried on to the end door, and that creaked open. The room beyond had had two filthy skylights in a sloping roof that allowed in a little dim illumination. I’d stepped through, relieved to be out of the oppressive darkness of the corridor. Stood there for a moment, peering into the shadows that fringed the skylights and feeling my heartbeat slowing.

  The sloping roof and skylights were now covered by a low ceiling. The room itself continued the farmhouse theme, but with comfortable leather armchairs, a central fireplace burning merrily, and wooden screens here and there to give a cosy atmosphere. In contrast to the main restaurant it was almost empty – just a couple whispering together in a corner, and an elderly gentleman reading a newspaper near the fire.

  And the barman, much friendlier than the waiter.

  “Afternoon, ma’am. Can I get you anything?” he asked with an actual smile.

  “Just a fruit juice. I’m driving. Or do you have a ginger beer?”

  “We certainly do. Take a seat, I’ll bring it over.”

  I hitched myself up onto a barstool. “This is fine, thanks.”

  That time before I had stepped hesitantly forward, shivering with cold, my nostrils filled with the miasma of an abandoned house, all damp and decay. It didn’t seem possible that this was the same place.

  Until I turned on the barstool and saw the part of the room that had previously been concealed by a screen.

  On the far wall was a window. Not a window, the window. The window from the picture, the window from my memory. No longer boarded, clean glass letting in a rush of autumn light. No single shaft illuminating a flower, no dim grey outline such as I had seen. But the shape was the same, even the line of the beam above it, though half concealed behind the new ceiling.

  And if that was the window – then where I was sitting now…

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” The bartender sounded genuinely concerned. “Only you’ve gone a little pale.”

  “I’m OK. Thank you. Just a bit of a… I’m fine. The drink will help.”

  I took the ginger beer from him, wishing it was something stronger. I dug out my purse, concentrated on counting out the money, the familiar act grounding me in the here and now. Pushing the memories back thirty years, where they belonged.

  I managed a smile, and the bartender nodded, though still looking concerned. “Well, if there is anything…”

  “Of course. Thanks.” I took a drink and steadied myself. It’s in the past, Sandra. I said it to myself, and was careful not to mutter the words, mindful that I was being watched. There’s nothing here now.

  Despite which, it was an effort of will to turn around again, and remember.

  The faint grey light that made it through the grimy panes had dropped exhausted to the floor, making no effort to illuminate the rest of the room. My eyes were dark-adapted from groping through the corridor, but even so I couldn’t make out anything other than flagstones, beams, and the faint outline of the window.

  And something else. In the darkest shadows between the skylights, a suggestion of… something. Someone?

  “Hello?”

  No reply. Of course not. All I could make out was a smudge of darkness within the darkness, a shadow slightly more solid than the shadows around it.

  And if it was a person they were impossibly tall, I realized. Eight foot, at least.

  I stepped forward, wondering. Even as I came closer, I still couldn’t make out any details.

  Then my foot caught on an uneven flagstone. I stumbled, hands outstretched, grabbing for something to prevent me from falling. And as I touched the shadow, it moved.

  It swung away from me, and I fell forward, right forearm smashing painfully into the floor but at least protecting my face.

  I lay there for a moment, moaning with the pain from my arm, lifting myself up on my left hand to protect it but afraid to move further in case it was broken and I made it worse.

  And behind me, above me, was a noise. The noise I would hear in my nightmares for years.

  A slow, rhythmic creaking noise. From the rope, or the beam it was attached to. I never knew. The noise of something swinging.

  In my dreams it always started as I went down the corridor. But it hadn’t actually begun until I’d stumbled and fallen and started it swinging.

  I had the bizarre thought that it was a punchbag. I’d felt some sort of cloth under my hands as I’d tried to hold it for support. Felt something cold and heavy underneath. I’d touched something like that at a gym once, something solid but not hard, covered in cloth. Something that swung when you pushed it.

  For a moment I was sure that was what it was. That some past occupant had set up their own gym here in this back room and the punchbag had been left behind.

  Very carefully, still protecting my right arm, I rolled over onto my back and looked up.

  It was not a punchbag.

  Pale in the dim light, a face stared down at me. The eyes bulged. The mouth gaped open, the tongue hung out.

  As he swung, he moved towards me, then away, then back. He twisted slightly, looking first over my shoulder, then into my face, then down by my side. And back. Looking past me, through me, beyond me.

  I learned afterwards that he had been wearing dark clothing, that he had long dark hair, that his hands had been forced into his pockets and a rope tied round his body to keep them there, so he could do nothing to help himself. And because of that, all I could see in the faint light was his face, floating backwards and forwards eight feet above me.

  All I heard was the creaking of the rope.

  I knew he was dead. I don’t know how I was so sure, and perhaps I should have tried to help him, tried to get him down. They asked me about it afterwards, and I felt guilty that I hadn’t tried. But all the same, I was certain he was dead, and of course I was right.

  So I didn’t try to do anything for him. I just backed away, sliding myself across the floor, getting as far away as I could. I don’t think I screamed. I would have done, but it was hard just to keep breathing; it felt as if the air had gone solid in my throat and I had to force it in and out.

  I slid back across the floor until I reached the wall, then dragged myself up and pulled myself along it, looking for a way out. But there was only damp brickwork – until I reached the window and began pulling at the boards, but they were too well fixed, securely screwed in, and though I tore my nails I couldn’t move them.

  That was the same window I was looking at now.

  The body would have been… I turned my head, looked up… The ceiling gave no indication of where the beams above were, but…

  Just next to me. Thirty years ago, it would have been just next to me.

  “What’s wrong? Miss – ma’am?”

  The barman was looking at me in shock. Fear even. Not surprisingly. I was shaking so hard that I’d spilled ginger beer over my hands. It was dripping on the carpet.

  If he’d been here thirty years ago, he’d have reason to be in shock, I thought. But thirty years ago he wouldn’t even have been a premonition in his dad’s mind, let alone a twinkle in his eyes.

  The thought sparked an inane desire to giggle. I choked it down, before it became hysteria, and forced myself to take another drink.

/>   “I’m OK, really,” I said, trying to control my voice to sound OK. “Sorry about that. I thought I saw a… a spider, that’s all.”

  “A spider?” The lad looked up at the ceiling, and down again. “Are you sure?”

  “No, not really. Imagination. I don’t like spiders.” A lie. Spiders have never much bothered me. Not the native ones, anyway.

  “I’ve got to go.” I finished off what was left of my drink, and put my glass back down on the bar. “I… tell me, do you know anything about the history of this place? Before it became a restaurant?”

  He looked confused by the sudden change of topic. “No – sorry, I’ve only worked here a month.”

  “Oh. Never mind. Not important. Well, I’ll get off. Is there another way out?” I didn’t want to go back through the restaurant with my muddy jeans and now damp cuffs.

  “Yes – if you go down that corridor…” he indicated a passageway that ran off behind the bar, “… past the toilets, there’s a fire escape. You’re not really supposed to use it, but we do all the time. It just takes you out behind the bins, and then you’re in the car park.”

  He looked relieved to be rid of this unstable middle-aged woman, and I couldn’t blame him.

  Back out in the fresh air, I took time to walk all round the car park. The main road out through the village hadn’t been there before, of course. When I’d finally found my way out all those years ago – back along the corridor to the front door – the sky had lightened enough to show an overgrown cart track running off from the side of the building, running in the same direction that the footpath now did, I realized. Where the footpath turned, but a track continued – that had been where I’d gone. Running. Stumbling and slipping, sobbing and gasping for breath, but not daring to stop until I’d reached the main road again.

  I went back to my car, opened the boot, and made a big fuss of Brodie, finding relief from my memories in the present-day reality of his warm fur and doggy smell. He, of course, accepted it as his natural right.

  “Let’s go home, eh? I’ve had enough of this place.”

  Brodie barked assent, so I got in, started up, and pulled away.

  I took the new road out of the village, the one that would have saved me all that grief if it had been there the last time I visited. A short drive, a new bridge over the river, and out onto the main road back into town.

  But we’d only travelled half a mile when I saw the lay-by on the opposite side, and made a sudden decision to pull across the road and park again. Fortunately, the traffic was still light enough to do that safely.

  “You might as well know the rest of the story,” I told Brodie. “This was where the cart track came out. That gate there.”

  He whined hopefully, wondering if he was going to be treated to a second walk.

  “No, we’re not getting out. I just wanted to see if it was still there.”

  I rolled the car forward a short distance, until we were alongside the gate. Beyond, the track continued, crossing the river on a bridge of grey stone that had probably served local farmers for over a hundred years.

  It had looked no different thirty years ago. Not that I’d stopped to inspect it. But I could still feel the relief from when I’d found it and had realized that I wasn’t trapped by the river.

  “There was a lorry parked up just here. The driver had stopped for a flask of tea and a sandwich. His name was Godfrey, would you believe? Not a lorry driver’s name at all! Godfrey Payne. A skinny little man, probably the far side of fifty. I don’t know what he thought when I started hammering on his door and shouting. A young woman, soaking wet and near hysterical, gabbling on about a hanging body… But he was all right, was Godfrey. Put down his sandwich, screwed the top back on his flask, and said, ‘Get in then; we’d better go to the police.’”

  I remembered being in the cab of the lorry. It smelled of oil and sweat and strong tea. It was warm and dry and – most especially – safe.

  Godfrey had been a star. He’d driven me all the way into town, right up to the Central Police Station, parked up, and accompanied me inside. He’d insisted on talking to an officer, made sure they were taking me seriously, and gave his own statement before he finally wished me good luck and went his way. I never saw him again, but ever since then, when people in church have talked about “ministering angels” I’ve thought of Godfrey.

  I sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the Godfreys of this world, waited for a break in the traffic, then pulled back out and headed home.

  *

  My plan was a long soak in a hot bath: memory had set a chill in my bones. But as I turned the final corner and saw home, I also saw a van parked outside. It had a big blue logo on the side – “Fastrack Distribution”. Which meant that Rob had dropped by for a visit.

  He was sitting in the van, saw me coming, and waved. I waved back, pulled into the drive, and let Brodie out to do the greetings.

  I’ve never known someone who changed as much and as quickly as Rob Seaton. When I first met him he was a big, shabby, friendly bloke, whose main interests in life were TV and sport. He was the sort of man who needed a good woman to take him on, but it would have been a big project and up to that point no one had attempted it.

  He was still friendly, but dressed better and thought deeper. I put the change down to the influence of several women in his life, one of them dead. Laney Grey, the poet he’d accidentally killed, had catalysed a huge change in him through her death and her words.

  Roshawn Skerrit, Laney’s grandmother, had also made a big impression. But the biggest changes had been made by June Henshaw. They had officially been an item for at least six months now, but unofficially (because the police are cautious about relationships with members of the public they meet during the course of their duties) for over a year. It was June who had got him to ditch the tatty leather jacket, faded jeans, and grubby T-shirts that had constituted the major part of his wardrobe, and that had been a huge step forward.

  I’d had a part to play as well. Mostly in educating Rob about the world of literature in general and poetry in particular, which had been – literally – a closed book to him previously. But he also came to me for advice in other matters.

  After fussing Brodie for a suitable length of time, he turned to me. “Hi, Sandra,” he said with a grin. It faded quickly as he composed himself to say something serious. “I’ve been away for a bit, but I heard what happened at the library. Terrible shock for you, it must have been.”

  Rob’s sympathy came from a place of knowledge. He knew all about terrible shocks.

  “It was. But we move on. To be honest, my big worry at the moment is for Emily. You remember her?”

  He nodded. “Brown hair, glasses, very efficient.”

  “Yes… well, she’s gone missing, and the police think she might have been involved. But perhaps June told you already?”

  “No, June doesn’t like to tell me about anything she’s working on. She’s very cautious about revealing information. Usually. I’m very sorry to hear about Emily.”

  “Thank you, Rob. Come in and have a cup of tea. But I hope you’re not planning to ask me anything about poetry. I’ve had a difficult day, and I’m not in a literary frame of mind.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that. Only I was hoping to pick your brains about something. Not poetry, though. And it is a bit urgent, really…”

  “Oh, OK then. Since I’m putting the kettle on anyway.”

  We settled ourselves in the kitchen with tea and biscuits.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask how you were doing,” Rob said as he dunked a jammy dodger. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard what had happened. It must have been…”

  “It was,” I agreed. “But I’m OK now, thanks for asking.”

  He stuffed the soggy biscuit in his mouth and nodded. “Good. Glad to hear it.”

  “So what was it you wanted to ask about?” I wiped a few damp crumbs off the tabletop. June still had a lot of work to do.

 
; “Well – this, actually.” He produced a small box from his pocket, and flicked it open. The ring inside was surprisingly tasteful: diamond and sapphires in an elegant setting that hinted of hands clasped around the stones.

  “Oh, Rob, it’s lovely! But I shall have to talk to Graham first.”

  He looked surprised and shocked simultaneously. “No, it’s for June, not you!”

  “Really? You drink my tea, eat my biscuits, and break my heart?”

  We laughed together, Rob with perhaps a touch of relief that I was joking.

  “Seriously, it’s a beautiful choice, Rob. I’m sure June will love it. Can I get in the first congratulations?”

  “Ah. Yes. Well, that’s what I was wanting to ask about, really.”

  I sighed inwardly. Not just a simple matter of approving the ring, then. “What’s to ask? You’ve been going out for long enough to know, surely? And I’ve been thinking it was about time you moved things on a bit.”

  He looked at the ring, flicked the box with his finger. “You’re right. It is time. But… thing is, Sandra, you and Graham have been together for a long time. Which is good. I admire that. That’s the sort of relationship that I want. I’m just not sure…”

  I broke into the pause. “Not sure about what? Not sure about June?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “No, not that. It’s me. I’m not sure if I’ve got what it takes. To be that long-term. I… I just don’t want to let her down.”

  I sat back and cradled my cup. “I’m not sure that I’m the best person to advise you, Rob.”

  “You’re the only person I know well enough to ask. The only person who knows all about long-term relationships, anyway. How can you be sure of staying in love that long?”

  I met his gaze. “You can’t be sure. That’s the thing about love. It’s not a fairy-tale fantasy, it’s not guaranteed. What is guaranteed is that you will let her down sometimes. And she will let you down. Just as Graham has let me down and I…”

  Unexpectedly, I choked. Something had caught in my throat. I washed it down with tea.