Kismet

Tara Simpson looked over her shoulder at her husband. He was staring intently at the television screen squinting at the football results.

“Car will be here in five sweetie, I’m just nipping upstairs for my coat.”
Tara heard a slight grunt, and she took this as adequate response.

The coat lay on the bed, next to her handbag. It was new; an expensive cream with silk cuffs, long and soft and luxurious. Wrapping it round her shoulders Tara hugged herself with excitement, nervous flickers quivered in her stomach, she took a deep breath to try to calm them, but it didn’t work. Her fingers shakily checked inside the bag, it was all in there, neatly stored in a nice lilac file, next to keys, make-up and the new calf skin purse. Car keys? Quickly she slid a finger into a side pocket, silly, she breathed to herself; of course they were still there.

As she left the room she paused to check her reflection, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shiny, her insides were ready to burst with excitement and anticipation.

“Car’s here.” Doug’s voice grunted up the stairs. Tara knew he was annoyed, fed-up at missing the game, tired from working, cranky because of the restless nights he had been enduring lately.

“Yup, I’m here.”

They didn’t talk much in the car, Tara wanted to concentrate on her thoughts and Doug wanted to think about the bet he’d put on Rooney scoring the first goal. Eventually he did ask “so where’s this place we’re going to?”

“Almerson’s Country Hotel, Michelin star restaurant, Paula read me the reviews a few days ago and I thought we deserved a treat.”

The driver squinted in the rear view mirror “pricey mate, hope you’ve got your gold card ready.”

“Actually it’s my treat,” Tara chirped back.

Doug squirmed a bit in his seat. Something was going on. The last time Tara had taken him out for a meal it was to tell him her Dad would be staying with them for a week. He didn’t want to ask about it now; the miserable bloody news could wait until he’d had a couple of drinks.

Eventually they drew up at a large pink painted building lit with lanterns and semi covered in wisteria. The windows glowed with candlelight and white-jacketed waiters could be seen gliding between tables. Doug groaned inwardly, how much was this wretched place going to cost? The evening stretched before him, long, boring and pretentious.

He glanced at Tara, enveloped in cream, her dark hair falling in large curls around her oval face. She did look gorgeous he admitted to himself but not to her.

Tara had already leapt out of the car and paid the driver. Something had to be going on, she seemed hyped up and excited. Doug prayed she wasn’t pregnant, five years of marriage and no kids, he counted his blessings then thought about Rooney, decent return if he got his act together and scored within the first fifteen minutes.

A waiter clutching huge white napkins settled them down at a table near the centre of the restaurant. Tara glanced around, hoping there wasn’t anyone she knew; fortunately none of the faces were recognisable, she sighed with relief.

Doug squinted at her “what’s up with you then? What’s all this about?”

“Let’s get a drink.” Tara signalled to the waiter, ordered two glasses of champagne, and grinned at Doug. “Isn’t it nice to be out for a change, and it isn’t the pub?”

Doug couldn’t agree, he’d much rather be in the pub. “Well?” He leaned back in his chair; decided it was uncomfortable so leaned forward on the table knocking a small flower arrangement to one side. “Out with it.”

Tara didn’t feel ready to talk about what they were there for, the waiter arrived with the champagne and she felt immensely grateful to him. “I ordered Cristalle, imagine! Costs a fortune but it’s worth it. We had it at Cheryl Merryweather’s when she got engaged to Nigel. He owns half of Suffolk, so we decided he could afford it.” Tara took a long sip while she watched Doug’s face darken with disgust.

“So you having it off with him or something, thinking you can afford it too?”

Tara laughed a little too loudly, “oh Doug, you are funny! He’s got a honking great nose and a pigeon chest; I wouldn’t go near him for all the money in China. And he laughs like this ‘waah, waah, waah!’ It’s awful. Cheryl isn’t bothered though or doesn’t appear to be, she’s hired a personal trainer and to be honest, I think he’s in charge of the marital duties.”

Just as Doug was about to ask again what was going on, the waiter arrived to take their order. It wasn’t until dessert that he got the opportunity to pursue the reason for this extravagant night out.

“Just got to visit the ladies.” Tara felt a bit sick now, she would have to get the file out when she’d calmed down in the toilets. She had thought the alcohol would calm her nerves but it actually made them worse. It was like living in a dream, her head swam, her thoughts ran into each other and her breathing was all over the place. Sitting on a toilet with the seat down she held her hot forehead in her hands. It’s going to be all right, she told herself and started to rehearse the words over again.

“Well Doug, now I can tell you why we are here.” She watched herself as if from above, her words were crisp and calm; her eyes met his with cool determination. Tara reached into her bag and withdrew the lilac folder.

Doug clasped his hands together as he always did when expecting the worst. He hadn’t shaved very well and the odd tuft glistened on his chin. Seeing the folder, his first thought was ‘property’. She wants to move again he thought, oh God. How many times had they been through this one? Not another bloody barn conversion in the middle of flaming nowhere. Even Rooney scoring that goal wouldn’t help with this. Worse still, perhaps she’d found some stupid nail salon to snap up, or tanning shop. Would she never let it rest? He earned the money, he called the shots and that’s how it was and would always be. This women’s lib got worse and worse and he wasn’t having it in his marriage. He’d have to be gentle of course otherwise it would be tears all the way home in the taxi.

“C’mon then darling, show me.” He tried to keep his voice soft and encouraging but it came out whiny and bored.

Taking a deep breath Tara pulled open the file and pushed an A5 piece of paper towards him. Doug picked it up at one corner, it was a photograph, he braced himself for the barn conversion but the image wasn’t of a building it was of two figures entwined in a car, faces stuck to each other, at the mouth. He narrowed his eyes; the car was dark blue with a VW badge, his car. “And this is?” He started to say but the words left him in a whisper.

“Here’s another one.” Tara pushed another piece of paper into his hand, glossy photo paper.

This picture showed the same couple, arms tightly wrapped around one another’s bodies, the girl’s white blonde hair trailing down her back.

“And here’s the report.” Tara pushed the third and final piece of paper at him.

“Her name is Tanya, 28 years old. I’m being stupid, you already know that!” Tara laughed and enjoyed watching the realisation spread across his face that he’d been caught, bang to rights. “The private investigator did a good job, I’ve got times, dates, places, the whole lot, I can prove it all.” His expression right now was her reward, her reward for patient hours spent waiting by the phone for progress reports.

“I don’t understand…”

“Really darling, you don’t?”

“No I mean…” His expression had become glazed, his eyes barely focussed as they cruised around the restaurant. It didn’t make sense, she could have served all this up at home, thrown things at him, cursed, kicked and screamed. Isn’t that what women were supposed to do in this situation? “I mean; I don’t know what to say.” And very truthfully, at this precise moment, he didn’t.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter Doug. Really it doesn’t.” She shuffled the pictures and report back into her bag. She tried to stop herself smiling but really she couldn’t. “Look, I’m off now.”

Stupidly Doug watched as she called for her coat, let the waiter help her into it and disappear out of the restaurant.

In the car park Tara quickly sought out the Porsche cabriolet, pearl white with a black hood, and confirmed the number plate, T1P5Y, swiftly she lifted the keys out of her bag and pressed the button. The headlights shone and the doors clicked open and within moments Tara had switched on the ignition and roared off into the darkness, laughing loudly to herself.

Back at home the locksmith waited, his van beneath the yellow porch light, made Tara sigh with relief. He set about his work the second she stepped inside.

She lifted the phone “it’s done. I can’t believe my own patience and I was so cool!” She squealed into the receiver. “A whole week, my lucky numbers, all that money, made for life, and him caught bang to rights. He doesn’t know about the win. Yeah £7 million and he won’t get a penny, locksmith is here now. Yes, I’m all right darling. He won’t be!”

Tara’s howls of laughter rang around the house as Doug realised he’d left his wallet at home.

All characters fictional. This is a work of fiction by Petra Kidd!

Copright Petra Kidd

The Model

This was the second but last model for the day and Joshua Berg didn’t look up when she entered.  He heard her give a little cough which, he knew, was to gain his attention but for now he had to focus on light readings, anyhow, he wasn’t ready to make small talk.

 

Shuffles around the studio, someone flicking a tape, colours shifting across the window with the passing shapes of the sky, he was aware of all around him, but intent on his art.

 

“Re-arrange the cloth, I want the blue, get the white chair and angle it diagonally, I want it pristine so wipe it down.  Get her sitting astride it with the back of the chair against her chest, I’ll move her when I’m ready,” all this in muttered undertones to his attentive assistant Gavin, a slick individual, willing but not too obviously eager.

 

Berg pressed a finger on the shutter, a random shot to test the light.  Checking the digital screen he saw the girl for the first time.  Her oval face had turned toward the window, tilted up with eyes lowered, her neck stretched forward showing the length and curve of her throat.  Purple black wisps of hair curled at her sharp jawbone, clinging there as if glued.  Her arms made triangles with her hands resting on the back of the chair, one leg outstretched, the other curled beneath her.  Joshua couldn’t have placed her better himself.

 

Removing his gaze from the screen he shot out a surly “good afternoon.”  Returning the gaze with a slight smile she repeated the words in a soft posh roll of the tongue.

 

Plum in her mouth, he thought, nice.  So many of these girls looked positively aristocratic and then gobbed out words from the gutter.

 

Joshua turned her in every direction, zoomed into her navy eyes with his curious and unforgiving lens.  Circumnavigated her poreless flawless skin with close ups to make the most perfect wince.  He had her legs stretched out forwards, to the side, yoga like, supple poses, hard angles, soft curves.  Her shoulders leant to the right, to the left, arms outstretched toward him, behind her head, fingers in her hair, her wide lips in a pout, stretched across arctic snowdrop teeth, lips curled in disdain, a furrowed forehead, anger, bemusement, bewilderment, confusion, self-satisfaction, glory, dreamlike and so it went on.  Joshua made her give him everything, every emotion a human can show.  Not once did she complain or sigh or answer back.

 

Later he stroked her hair as he talked to her, much later he stroked her back as they sat together in the pub.  “Will you be my muse?” He said.

 

There began a love story, there began an epic story, the famous photographer and his model became the subject of more photographs than he had ever taken.

The Hitman’s Hole of Cash

A little old man is burying cash in his garden…but why?

Gab is digging away while his wife sits inside, oblivious to his plan.

The Hitman’s Hole of Cash

 It was dark and he was tired.  Midwinter somewhere in Somerset, ice hard ground and a spade with a broken handle, Gab was trying to bury cash quietly so that her indoors couldn’t hear.

 

“Whaddya goin’ out there for?”  She’d whined as he’d pulled on an old overcoat with ripped seams sparingly patterned with a variety of stains including beer and grass.

 

“Dog crap.”  It’s all he needed to say.  She didn’t want to do it, old Missus ‘strong smells make me gag.’  A handy excuse to shut her up, he heard her turn up the telly and sighed with relief.  He didn’t need her looking over his shoulder tonight, nosy old bag.

 

Gripping the spade midway down the handle, Gab took a deep breath and attacked the surface layer of ice, gritting his teeth at the clanging of metal against stone.  He’d chosen this spot because it was not near the tree, the huge Elm reached out towards him in the dull light of the moon.  He imagined the branches becoming arms around his neck and shivered.  Drafty splits in the coat were letting in freezing air around his kidneys.  Wadded notes furled in strong elastic bands, hung heavy in the bag at his waist.  The earth moved reluctantly beneath the ancient spade.

 

“Buy a new spade for goodness sakes.”  Missus ‘I don’t want to move out of this chair’ said.  But she didn’t think to buy a new one for him.  Overweight and undernourished she was, he thought, with bitter humour. She’d got no fear of him knocking her off, not with this rusty old spade to dig her grave.  As he carried on digging he did mental calculations as to how long it would take to dig a hole big enough for her.  Love’s young dream, she’d weighed barely eight stone when he met her, gleaming black hair and wide green eyes, all she had now was a wide backside and missing teeth.  The voice once sweet and melodic to his ears now grated with gossip and nasty jibes.  This money would stay safe from her.  She never did anything but sit in the garden when the sun was strong enough to redden her face and tan her chubby legs. 

 

Gab stopped for a rest.  At nearly seventy his breath wasn’t abundant anymore, he imagined his lungs had shrunk to the size of tennis balls.  That’s how they felt on this night of bitter cold.  A lifetime of physical labour had left him with strong arms though; his forearms reminded his missus of lamb legs, tawny brown fresh from the oven.  Trust her to liken him to food, that’s all she ever got excited about these days – fortunately.

 

Squinting at the moon, Gab imagined how things could have been if he’d jumped ship in Freemantle and disappeared into the open plains of Australia.  He could have been anything there, no doubt the Navy would have tracked him down and slung him in the slammer had he tried any such foolery.   No, his fate had been sealed.  The Navy, then the second half of his lifetime spent on the land dreaming of the sea.  Gab had worked as an odd job man, hardworking and with limitless energy he soon made a name for himself; he’d taken on a mate to help, another ex Navy lad and the business grew into plumbing, painting, building work, at one point they even took on a gardener.

 

Not having a spare moment to spend the cash and with no expenses other than food and board, Gab soon had a tidy sum tucked away in the bank.  Then he met Millicent Rummell, his future wife who had a playful giggle and tiny waist.  Barely five feet high her head barely reached above his elbow.  It was like having a life size doll.  Millicent had her own cash so he didn’t have to spend much on her; fiercely independent she paid her own way.  At first Gab thought this would be a bar to romance.  Didn’t men pay the restaurant bills and for drinks in the bar so that they could sneak a kiss and cuddle on the way home after all?

 

It wasn’t a problem.  Millicent had a voracious appetite for sex and let him know it on their first date.  It was unheard of in those days for a woman to be so forward but her comments and shameless flirting had him blushing, interested and committed in nought to three months.  They married quickly; partly because Gab felt worried she might fall pregnant before they could tie the knot but mainly because he wanted God to forgive his lust and marriage made it instantly legitimate. 

 

Millicent fell pregnant a month after the wedding and Gab breathed a sigh of relief at his own due care and attention in the matter.  Millicent didn’t like being pregnant, lost her libido and whined all the time.  Gab fell out of love quickly and threw himself further into work to ignore her, no cosy couple counselling for them.  They named the first child after his father Victor; the second after her father George, the third Tony (after Antony Hopkins, her favourite actor), and the fourth Jensen because Millicent liked the name (a former boyfriend.)

 

Gab knew that they weren’t all his except for the first, Victor had his father’s eyes and quick humour, muscular arms and a desire to work hard.  He didn’t like school but preferred to earn cash gathering apples and pulling weeds for old folk in the area where they lived, he grew honest and strong.  George had red hair, a lisp and a propensity to extreme laziness, Tony grew wiry, athletic and moody in the extreme, and Jensen unsecretly dressed in girl’s clothing from a young age.

 

Millicent favoured the latter three sons and saved her sharp tongue for Victor as her resentment and loathing of Gab increased with his apparent lack of affection for her.

 

They should have split but they didn’t.

 

The hole didn’t have to be wide but it had to be deep, very deep.  Despite the cold night air, Gab felt beads of sweat on his brow.  Shadows kept obliterating the moon, so for minutes at a time Gab would shovel blindly then his busy figure would be highlighted in silvery shafts of light, streaks of his ashen hair glittered and his eyes fired with determination.

 

If Millicent could see his endeavour, his wish to hide the fruits of his labours from her, how hurt, furious, curious would she be? 

 

Gab finally threw the spade to the ground, ran the back of a hand across his forehead, unhooked the moneybag from his belt and slung it into the hole.  A night owl hooted, Gab’s heart flickered, breathily he leant forward to reach for the spade but a crushing pain enveloped his chest, his breath rasped as his eyes rolled and he fell across the spade catching his left ear, blood spilled into the earth as Gab lay gasping for breath.

 

“I fell asleep.”  A weary Millicent told the ambulance men.  “I lost all track of time.  The last thing I remember was him saying he had to clear up after the dog.”  Her fingers absently stroked their Yorkie’s head.  “It was past midnight when Joey here woke me, and led me off to find Gab.  Good dog,” she muttered absently at the whimpering pint size pooch.

 

Gab didn’t make it to hospital; he died on the rug in his living room.  The first thought Millicent had, and she fleetingly felt guilty for it, was ‘hopefully he won’t leak.’  Later it came to her she’d read about bodies leaking somewhere.  Perhaps it was shock, she’d read a lot about that too in newspapers.  Millicent didn’t know who to phone first, she should have phoned Victor but felt worried he’d be too upset, being the closest to his father (and in truth his only natural son), she thought of phoning George but wasn’t sure if he would bother to phone back if she left a message on his answer phone.  Tony would likely blame her because everything was always someone else’s fault and what on earth would Jensen be wearing?  Thoughts flooded her mind then flitted around unable to rest and give her a solution.

 

“Have you got anyone you want to contact dear?”  The taller of the two ambulance men leant down and touched her shoulder.  “I’m sorry, it was, er well quick anyhow.  You’ll need to call an undertaker.  Erm, do you have one you’ve used before?”

 

Millicent sat gazing at Gab’s body spread before her, his eyes were only half closed which made her think he might be fooling around, that would be typical of him, always bating her.

 

Seven days and five hours later, three figures clad in suits of varying expense, helped pallbearers lift their father’s economy coffin into the local church.  Gab had left simple instructions that his funeral involve a short sermon, three hymns including ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, and two other obscure ones because it amused him to think of people trying to follow the tune and failing.  That was his sense of humour.  Only Victor got it, he wasn’t the type to chuckle but it did raise a wry smile upon his weary features as he watched the tiny congregation’s confusion.

 

Jensen arrived late.  The family heard the clatter of stiletto heels and winced at the realisation he’d actually worn them to church.  No one dared look round.

 

The Wake was held at home, aside from the sons, two of their wives and two grandchildren, three neighbours and Howard, one of Gab’s oldest Navy friends no one else attended.  In truth, Gab and Millicent had made few joint friends over the years on account of their unloving, unsociable relationship.

 

A month passed, then one early spring day full of low lying mist and chirping hopeful blackbirds a stranger came calling at Millicent’s front door.  A small oriental man with a bent back and bow legs tapped at the letterbox with some gusto.  Getting no reply he hammered his fist on the peeling paint with strength no viewer would have thought him capable of.

 

Millicent had been moaning on the phone to a friend about how she had to do ‘bloody everything’ now.  She ignored the knocking at first thinking it was probably kids but with the more determined hammering she excused herself and rushed to answer.

 

“Halo, my name is Philip Jones.”  The man extended his right arm to shake hands in greeting.  “You mus’be Millicent?”  Philip Jones’ words were high pitched with the tinny quality of a very old man’s voice box.  “I very good friend of Gab an’ I her he pass away.  I very sorry to her this.” 

 

Millicent stared at the little man’s sucked in features.  His eyes twinkled with good humour as his words spluttered and spitted between yellow stubs that once were teeth.

 

“I make Gab promise, once he save my life.  I drowning off coast of Indonesia an’ he dive in, save me with no thought his own saf-ety.  I tell him, one day, I return favour.  Howard from Navy days, he tell me of Gab’s sad departure from this world.”  The little man’s arms swung about him as he talked in some excited dance of emotion.  “I promise Gab, one day I help him, or his fam-ily, to thank ‘im for save my life.  Now I am here, I wan’ you tell me, what you need me to do.” 

 

Millicent carried on staring, her mouth open and her eyes narrow.

 

“I see you speechless, heh heh.  Is ok.  You think I could come in for cup o’ tea, I come long way you know. I live near Nottingham.”  With this, the tiny frame pushed past the gaping Millicent and headed for the kitchen.  “I ‘ungry too, any cake or biscuit.”

 

The heirloom clock passed down from Millicent’s great Aunt ticked four o’clock and still Philip Jones talked.  He couldn’t be stopped apparently.  Millicent now knew about his extensive family, his wayward daughter, his series of beautiful wives, how Gab had gotten him drunk after saving his life, what his favourite meal was (fish and chips), his arthritic knee, his slow moving bowel, the strange weather patterns of Nottinghamshire, intolerant neighbours, his hatred of frogs and other small hopping creatures, how meals on wheels let him down frequently, grandchildren he’d lost count of, the corns that gave him trouble, and of course, how handsome he’d been in his youth.

 

Millicent yawned pointedly, but still he went on.

 

“I will have to stay for dinner of course.”  Philip informed her, his head on one side in appeal, as if he would not take no for an answer.  “I have bag in my car, I can stay overnight here, yes?  Gab would want me to stay.”

 

By now, Millicent felt incapable of argument and only wished the man quiet.

About 2am in the morning Millicent woke.  A light flashed across the curtains and then disappeared.  She could hear a shuffling, not in the house but it appeared to be coming from outside.  The air felt cold above the blankets heaped upon her stout body and she didn’t feel inclined to move herself but hearing the sound of metal on stone she had a sudden thought of ghosts.  Could it be Gab? Wrapping the top blanket about her shoulders she shuffled to the window and peered between the curtains to see the tiny figure of Philip Jone’s on his knees by the large Elm.  He appeared to be scraping earth around with a spade; shiny metal glinted in the moonlight.

 

Philip Jones fingered the piece of paper in his pocket.  He’d kept it even though he didn’t need to because he remembered every word written upon it.  “Philip, my old mate” it read “in my garden by the large Elm tree there is the money I promised you.  This should see you right.  I’ll be gone when you come but make sure the job is well done.  You know what I mean.”

 

Millicent’s rasping voice growled in the little man’s ear, he swung round lifting the spade to shoulder level and smacked the blade of the spade into her left ear knocking her sharply sideways to the ground.  The impact broke her neck with such swiftness Philip congratulated himself on retaining such fighting prowess.  Her spinal cord snapped and the shock killed her.

 

Having retrieved the cash, Philip Jones carried on digging until the hole became big enough to bury the body.  He may have appeared frail but he remained as strong as any ox.  Later in the kitchen he counted the money then read Gab’s letter again.  “She’s (Millicent) given me a life of misery, only one of my son’s belongs to me, she nags and whines and I can’t stand it any longer.  I’ll disappear for a while and leave you to do the deed.  I know it’s a lot to ask old pal but a life for a life.  Just for pity’s sake burn this letter as soon as you have read it.” 

 

Philip lit a match and in moments the letter was gone.

 

 

The Three Legged Wicked Eyed Horse

The Story of the Three Legged Wicked Eyed Horse ended up being longer than I intended. It’s the story of a young man who gets transfixed by a painting and it leads him to another world.

 

It glared at him from canvas, a living demon in paint.  The first time it caught his attention (how could it not?) He stopped in his tracks and stared back.  It made him uncomfortable, the wild frantic stare of a horse caught in time.  A sick creeping feeling curled in his gut, he felt the horse in the picture was accusing him of its own imprisonment.

 

Quickly turning on his heel, the man with auburn curls left the spot and tried to focus on another artwork but everything he looked at brought back those wild eyes.  Even when he stared at a blank wall trying to clear the image he could not.  It pulled him back with force as strong as gravity, he could not resist; there was nowhere else to go but back to the painting.

 

Somehow he hoped he had imagined the fear, an irrational fear born from the uneasiness he had woken with that morning.  He told himself he was neurotic and being weird, he’d had nightmares lately of being chased and this made his waking hours uncomfortable.  Not wearing pyjamas meant that the light cotton sheets on his bed became soaked in night sweats, his skin pricked as if he had developed an allergy.  But he had not.

 

“Thing’s only got three legs.”  Another man with broad shoulders that smelled of tobacco and beer breathed heavily beside him.  How could he even have noticed the legs when the eyes that bore into your very soul were the most remarkable feature of this painting?  He said nothing, hoping that the man would leave him to this devil that compelled him with fear and attraction.

 

“Bloody hideous, bet they don’t sell that.”  He held out his meaty lump of a hand.  “Russ Devine, art collector.”

 

“George er George Walford.”  George wanted to be left alone so he turned slightly away from the man and reached in his pocket for a mint.  Russ Devine didn’t want to be left alone though, he wanted to complain about the picture.  He wanted to know why this idiot had become so transfixed. 

 

“Oils, it’s painted in oils of course.  Thick and clumsy if you ask me, garish use of colour, the blues are too bright for my liking.  Angles are awkward, and whoever saw hooves like that?  Some devil worshipper must have done this one.  It’s amazing the rubbish that turns up at these places.  Been in some Aunty’s attic for decades I suppose and now they are foisting it on the poor unsuspecting public in the hope of making a few bob.  Tragic.  Bet they’ll never sell it.”  Russ Devine stretched his arm out to lean huffily on the wall next to the painting.  His heavily browed eyes rested upon the young man beside him and George shuffled his feet uncomfortably aware he was being appraised.

 

“I suppose you’re a student or teacher?”

 

George sighed inwardly, why was it so obvious to others what he was?  Why couldn’t he be mistaken for a racing driver or accountant?  “Mmm, teacher.”

 

Russ Devine grunted with self-congratulation. “Thought so; stand out a mile, teachers.  I suppose you teach history of art or some other cop out of a subject.

 

George taught English and business studies to disinterested fifteen year olds in a barely mediocre comprehensive always in fear of ‘special measures.’  He didn’t like his colleagues and could count the number of pupils he had any time for on one hand.  Right now he didn’t want to get into a conversation with this blustering know it all.  “I don’t teach art of any kind,” he said softly without looking at Russ Devine.  Taking a step back he longed to make his escape but the horse glared as if daring him to turn away.

 

Russ Devine stood watching George; he’d crossed his legs putting his full weight onto his right arm.  “So,” he said, “what do you teach then?”

 

“I’ve got to go.”  George couldn’t move; he stood gazing at the horse. 

 

“Well are you going to put a bid in for it or what?” 

 

“A bid?”  He hadn’t thought of buying the painting even though he could barely tear himself away from it.  Perhaps he should.  A corner of his mouth curled upward as he thought of his looming credit card bill; that would prevent him doing anything foolish, like actually bidding for such a freakish painting.  “It’s not my thing.”  For a moment he thought about what his ‘thing’ was.  Dull seascapes given to him as a moving in present from his mother who’d apparently bought them in an upmarket department store.  She hovered while he hung them to ensure they were straight, and he thought sheepishly, to ensure that he actually did bother to put them up. 

 

“Yup, ‘cos it seems like you can’t bear to take your eyes off the damn thing.  Piece of crap, it really is.”  Russ Devine stuck a finger in his ear and twisted it.  George glanced at him out of the corner of his eye hoping Russ didn’t do something disgusting like rub earwax on the pristine gallery wall.  He wouldn’t put it past him.  Now he felt challenged, perhaps he should buy the painting but wouldn’t such a powerful demon bring bad luck or make him nervous as he moved around his innocuous bachelor pad?  It certainly wouldn’t help with bad dreams; it would more likely encourage them.  The horse in the picture grimaced showing yellow pegs of teeth, long and dangerous.  White spittle hung at the corner of its mouth.  Why the hell did he feel he shouldn’t leave it here?  Was he worried what might become of the person who carelessly purchased such a dangerous piece? 

 

George shifted his attention to the horse’s legs.  Three of them, not because this horse didn’t really have four legs but as it reared one of the legs had been obscured, well according to the artist’s eye.  George wondered how the artist had felt when he had completed such a ferociously evil piece.  Or she, yes that was a possibility, though the sheer power and dangerousness of the artwork suggested no femininity, he could not rule out the fact this picture may have been painted by a woman.   

 

As if reading his mind, Russ Devine pushed away from the wall and stuck his face in front of George’s “course, could be a woman painted this monstrosity, some bitter bitch full of angst!”  George recoiled at Russ’s tone and the fact it appeared he had the ability to read minds.

 

“Oh, well it could be I suppose.  When do you think it was painted?”  He asked in spite of himself.  He really didn’t want to carry on a conversation with this revolting man but not talking him to him meant stepping away from the painting and the more he hated it the more he liked it and the less he felt like leaving it.  And they say women are complicated, he thought to himself.

 

Russ Devine smiled.  His teeth weren’t that unlike those of the horse except for the tobacco stains and lack of spittle.  “Can’t you tell it’s modern?  Perhaps thirty years old, certainly no more.  He stuck his forefinger on what appeared to be a scribble of a signature in the left hand corner.  “See here, I think I can make out a seven, probably around seventy-six.  Oil takes forever to dry, sometimes up to a year.  Bloody pain in the arse to work with I should think.  Some artists show their work still wet.  Can’t afford to starve while waiting to earn a buck.”  He laughed into his hand like a naughty schoolboy. 

 

Allowing himself one last thirty second gaze at the painting George then turned on his heel and walked away without so much as a ‘cheerio’.  It was something he did with cheeky pupils when they’d pushed their luck too far.  George’s young looks and soft curls made him a target for the bullying types but ignoring them always seemed to work and cause the least amount of stress.

 

As he lay in bed that night, this time wearing a t-shirt and shorts because he was sick of waking up entwined in clammy cotton sheets, George thought about the picture and decided he either needed to go back and buy it or at least find out about the artist.  He thought about his own reaction and Russ’s behaviour.  Why was he transfixed and Russ so interested in his feelings about the painting?  George was used to ignoring things, piles of paperwork needing to be marked, dirty dishes, pretty sunsets, an adoring mother and manic father, foul mouthed pupils and patronising colleagues.  George always managed to find a way to shut out what he didn’t want to see or know, it was how he survived without ‘going round the bend.’

 

No sooner had his head hit the pillow than the phone rang.  It was his mother.  “Just wanted to say night night.”  A searing jolt of fear shot through George’s too lean body.  His mother always fussed and fetted him but ringing to say ‘night night’?  That hadn’t happened since he left home, why now?  He shivered and reached for a sweater thrown down by the bedside.  “Er Mum, can we talk for a minute?”

 

“Of course dear.” She sounded delighted and eager.  George realised he rarely gave her the time of day.

 

“It’s just, well it’s going to sound silly.”  He knew the words would in fact sound crazy once they had left the darker regions of his mind but he just wanted to be reassured he wasn’t in deed going mad.  “I went to this art gallery place today and saw a painting.”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“It was of a horse, a wild-eyed creature.  Well, the thing is, well I couldn’t stop looking at it.”  He paused wondering how this was sounding to his sensible but fussy mother who thought art was simply to cover space on walls and ignored forever more.  “It was kind of evil and horrible but I couldn’t, well I couldn’t tear myself away.  Weird isn’t it?”

 

After a long pause his mother said quite simply and calmly “George, I’m worried about you.  You are so thin and your eyes are bloodshot through lack of sleep.  I think you should see a doctor.  Your work is so stressful and I’m not sure that teaching is the thing for you.”  Her voice remained even and soothing, just as calm as when she’d stroked his forehead before he fell asleep as a child.

 

“I, I can’t get it out of my head.  And there was this awful man called Russ Devine who kept insisting what a dreadful painting it was but he couldn’t seem to leave it either.”

 

“Come on George, that’s enough.  It was a painting nothing more.  Calm yourself.  Did you eat tonight?  If only you would work less and find yourself a nice companion.”

 

George had heard this before.  His mother wasn’t sure of his sexuality, thirty and no serious girlfriend, always a loner, never had a ‘proper’ relationship.  The word ‘companion’ was to tell him she didn’t mind either way but anything would be better than his insular life and these late night ramblings.  “Love you Mum” he said and hung up.

 

All day the next day George thought about the horse, the eyes, frantic wild orbs of anger, the bared teeth manically grinning, the sweating forelock, the raised legs kicking at some mystery demon.  He paced the staff room during breaks and stared off into space during lessons.  He would have to go back to the gallery and find out more.

 

As soon as the last bell rang, George gathered books and papers together shoving them into a rucksack left over from his own student days.  Mrs Stubbs, a short stern mathematics teacher threw a disapproving look his way as he bolted down the corridor, elbowing children out the way but he didn’t notice.  He didn’t notice the rain splats upon his face, as he tore out of the building desperate to reach his bike, nor the yells from a boy telling him he’d dropped his scarf.  George straddled his bike, pulled his wet matted fringe out of his eyes and pushed off weaving in and out of children reaching the gates as fast as he could.  Soon he hit the bridle path near his apartment, glad to be away from the heavy traffic he concentrated on his lithe legs turning the pedals as fast as they could.  As he pedalled he tried to remember the gallery opening hours, or more precisely when they might be closing.   Eventually he saw the white lights and wide glass doors of his target destination, glimmering white beacons urging him forward in the autumn dusk, a sailor to the shore. 

 

The doors opened automatically, George glanced back to where he’d left his bike, against the railings opposite the gallery; he hadn’t bothered to lock it in his haste but for now it didn’t matter to him.   The painting had been away from the main gallery in a smaller anteroom with a glass skylight, his eyes darted nervously around the empty room half expecting someone to appear and try to eject him, but no, finally after long hours of thinking about the painting, he stood before it once more.  It seemed even brighter and more challenging, this time he noticed the carved frame, a small scar curving near the right eye, eyelashes thick and black, the widely flared nostrils, he could almost hear the horse snort and whinny. 

 

“Russ said you might be back.”  A soft breath touched George’s ear and he flinched, in fact he practically recoiled.  “Disturbing, isn’t it?”

 

He hardly dared turn to look at where the voice came from but having been struck like a thunder bolt by the sudden awareness he wasn’t alone with the painting he turned sharply to see a startling woman of over six feet tall staring back at him.  All he could see for a moment was a bright red mouth in some kind of sneer; then he refocused on her long smooth nose, momentarily glancing up at her black eyes, he quickly looked away, not wanting to appear like a foolish schoolboy he stared back at her trying to show he wasn’t as thrown by her presence as he in fact was.  The woman stayed put, which made the lack of distance between them uncomfortable.  George wanted to step away but he didn’t want to be any nearer the painting either so he remained where he was.

 

“Mmm, you look panicked.  Sorry if I scared you?” 

 

George shook his head feeling panicked and scared. 

 

“I want to tell you something.”  She put her face closer to his, so close he could feel her breathe in his face and it smelt sweet, like liquorice or aniseed.  She was so close he didn’t even know what she was wearing, he hadn’t seen, couldn’t see.  Peculiarly this suddenly became important to him so he glanced down.  It appeared to be a robe, a long robe with sequins in the shapes of tiny flowers, blue, cream and white petals on a purple background, unusual, exotic even.  As his eyes travelled down her body, she reached to her waist, pulled a cord and suddenly revealed her nakedness beneath the robe.

 

George stepped back, shocked and immediately embarrassed but these feelings were quickly replaced by fascination.  The woman had a scar running down her belly from beneath her right breast, it appeared to be an old scar because it formed a white ridge along her dark tanned skin.  He almost reached out to touch it but just stopped himself in time.

 

“Nasty huh?”

 

“I don’t understand.”  George heard his own voice, harsh and high.  “Why are you showing me?  I just came to see the painting.”

 

Her fingers rapidly retied her robe.  “Because that brute you appear so enamoured with did it to me.  Piper was my horse.  My Father gave him to me when I turned fourteen, he was five and when I was nineteen he attacked me.  When I say ‘attacked’ I mean he brutalised me.  I went to hug him one morning as I always did and he butted me with his head almost knocking me out, I lay on the ground dazed and he tore his teeth down my stomach, ripping my riding shirt clean open.  Piper had always been wild but he’d never done anything like that before.  I needed over a hundred stitches.”  She stared into George’s face with an expression of angry defiance.  He wondered why he should feel guilty; he’d only come to stare at the painting.

 

“So are you going to buy the damn thing and put me out of my misery?  I painted it and then I had him shot.”

 

George didn’t know what to say, his arms hung like lead weights and his head ached under the bright lights.  The horse had lived up to the painting and been a living demon but his temper had been rewarded in a most cruel way.  George couldn’t decide which he hated most, the horse, or this powerful angry woman confronting him when he had done no wrong. 

 

“I’m tired of people admiring him when he caused me so much pain.”

 

“And you feel guilty for shooting him, even so…” George stared at his feet, not wanting to look at the dead horse.  “So why have his painting here, if you hate him so much?  I mean who is going to want to buy him after what he did to you and when he looks like a demon?”  George began to feel annoyed with this odd woman in her robe who had shocked and humiliated him with her revelations both physical and mental. 

 

The woman ran spidery fingers through coarse hair, which hung limply at cheekbones carved harshly beneath sallow skin.  She resembled a ghost but her voice reminded him she was certainly of no other world than this.  “Guilty me? Why should I feel guilty?”

 

“Well it seems, I don’t know, kind of…”

 

“Weird to use him.  First I paint him, then I shoot him?”

 

“You said you had him shot.”

 

She looked away, her fingers interlocked, tight white knuckles straining beneath the skin.  “I said that so you wouldn’t think I was totally mad, the thing is, at the time, I was.”

 

George didn’t even know her name.  This occurred to him as he tried to read her expression.  Right now he should leave, the painting had been frightening enough without this crazy woman and her wild story.  Was it a story?  She seemed emotional and desperate enough not to have made it up. 

 

“It’s hard you know, to live with the knowledge you have killed a living thing, however bad it was, it was a creature of God.”  This she murmured heavily as she wiped her thickly lashed eyes.  “I’ve felt trapped for so long by the picture I created, I am desperate, desperate for someone just to take him away.” 

 

It occurred to George he’d never asked the price, but then he’d never had any intention of buying the painting.  “How much?”  He asked and his voice echoed round the gallery as if it belonged to someone else.

 

“You don’t want to buy it.  Now you know my miserable story it is even more unattractive to you.”

 

“I wanted to know.”

 

“No, no, you didn’t.  This is no joke; I desperately need a serious buyer.”

 

George shrugged.  He’d had enough.  This whole scenario had worn him out and he wanted to leave.  “Ok, well I can’t help you then, I’m sorry.”

 

“But, but you wanted to know how much.”

 

“Like you said, I’m not a serious buyer.  I just became, er entranced by the painting.  Now I know the story, look I wouldn’t ever have enough money anyhow.  Best I go.  Sorry.”  George turned to leave but she grabbed his arm with both hands.

 

“Please take it, please take it from me.  I can’t bear to look at it another day.  Please, take it, I beg you.”

 

George stared at her disbelievingly, “I can’t just take it.  It’s a great picture, someone will buy it one day.”

 

“Listen to me George, it will be worth a lot of money, just take it. You will be doing me the greatest favour.”

 

“But he’s an unknown horse.  It will never be worth a fortune.”

 

“He will, he will, trust me.” 

 

She had begun to unwire the painting already, carefully pulling the heavy ornate frame from the wall.  “You came on your bike.  I’ll give you a lift home.  I don’t live far from you.”  Releasing the wire that had been holding it with utmost care she gently placed it on the floor, leaning it against the wall.

 

“How do you know my name and where I live?”

 

“Trust me George.  Wait here, I’ll go and get my car, just hold him.”  With this, she thrust the heavy painting into his arms and disappeared to the rear of the gallery, her flowered robe billowing out behind her as she fled.

 

George stood transfixed, he watched her go but then his head swivelled back to the painting of Piper, even more fascinated now he knew the horse’s name.  He imagined the scene of the young girl reaching out to her beloved horse only to be mauled for her display of affection.  Piper glared back with defiance, his eyes showing no remorse at all.  George wondered how it felt to do something so terrible and yet not be touched by it; even an animal must experience some realisation of the consequence of its actions, surely? 

 

Although the gallery felt cool George felt hair prickle on the back of his neck and a hot flush creep across his face.  Why ever had he felt so compelled to come back here to see the painting?  Looking for adventure?  Well he’d certainly found it.

 

The woman returned waving both her hands frantically “pick it up, quick now, the car’s on double yellows.”

 

George stared stupidly at her for a moment before turning to lift the painting from the floor.  It lay heavy and awkward in his arms, what would be the consequence of his actions now?  He knew that if this led to trouble he wouldn’t be as defiant and untouched as Piper even though his actions weren’t causing physical harm to anyone.  It was the first time he acknowledged to himself that he might experience trouble from his encounter with this bizarre woman and her evil horse; it made his stomach churn and his ears rush with blood.  “Look, I want to leave it.  I don’t want to take it, please let me just leave it.”

 

“No time, c’mon, don’t just stand there like a bloody lemon!”  Her eyes flickered with anger and for a moment George could see an expression similar to Piper’s fury contort her face.  She seemed to be in a panic and despite his fear, George responded to her command.

 

Now, almost ten years later George turned to Madeleine and smiled.  “You still make me do things against my will.”

 

Madeleine leant towards him and kissed his cheek “but the difference is you don’t get so worried.  Who’d have thought a twist of fate could bring such riches?  This yacht is gorgeous darling; you have such taste for a boy who was once just a poor little teacher.  It’s a shame that Piper brings such bad luck to people, I’m glad we offloaded him quickly.  That poor banker whose fraudulent little schemes backfired must have rued the day he bought old Piper and now that widowed heiress, what a freak accident!  Poor husband shot by a fellow hunter because he tripped.  Just as well our Three Legged Wicked Eyed Horse keeps coming back to us, he fascinates people so much doesn’t he?”

 

“Seems I’m the only lucky one so far…” said George taking another sip on his Mojito but keeping an eye on the horizon where storm clouds were gathering…