All the Rage (35 page)

 

A Call To Witness

 

Winter, Mayfair, London, 2006

 

A million deadly shards of glass lay sprinkled like jewelled confetti outside the vandalised grand facade of the gallery. Snow fell gently.

The glazier trod carefully, crunching glass under foot, as he expertly removed the last of the razor sharp broken fragments still lodged precariously in the window frame. It was hazardous and noisy work, hampered by the slippery pavement as the snow turned to sleet then to rain. A thin drizzle descended through the artificial light from the Georgian street lamps. With the remainder of the splinters cleared away, the man and his colleague worked methodically and silently on the boarding-up process. Between them, they heaved several enormous sheets of heavy MDF into position, covering up the gaping hole which had, hours before, been part of the most impressive shop-front on the street. It was now a repaired wreck, a sorrowful sight amongst some of London's finest shops.

The loud retort of the nail gun fractured the air, repeatedly. Those that lived in the apartments opposite peeped through curtains to express their displeasure at the continued disturbance to their sleep. One or two late night revellers gathered on the pavement, watching the activity as the alarm continued to shrill. The flickering strobe lighting danced off the walls of the wet buildings.

Within the gallery framework of interconnecting rooms, a man, standing alone, looked on at the surrounding chaos, his eyes as dark as the night that engulfed him. For a fleeting moment, he was happy to remain anonymous, alone with his puzzled thoughts. In the choking dust and debris, he saw a parallel scene of his own making: a fading picture of ruin.

He managed to clear his head of such a mundane judgment and dragged his weary limbs to the pavement, a mobile stuck to his ear as he tried to contact his colleagues. The workmen, meanwhile, had thankfully downed tools and one of them busied himself with documentation. The other lit a cigarette, his beer belly protruding flabbily over his trouser belt. The alarm automatically ceased at last, and in the relative calm, the man with the phone took the opportunity to punch in fresh numbers on his keypad. He waited, agitated. Outwardly, he remained calm but his voice wavered and betrayed this facade.

‘It's Michael. I'm here now,' he explained. ‘No, no. The paintings are fine. No damage, but it's a miracle, I can tell you. ' He waited, listening to the response; then added, ‘I need you to come in early in the morning to help with the cleaning-up operation. ' Pacing back and forth, he listened again; then said, ‘thanks. '

With that, he clicked off, pondering the next move. In the light, his silver hair glistened. Rain settled on his jacketed shoulders. Punching the keypad once more, he spoke quickly. ‘Toby, it's me. I hope you get this message. Just an update from our earlier conversation…everything is under control. I've just spoken to Ronald. He's coming in early tomorrow to help. The alarm company is on the way now. I'll stay until the premises are secure and the police have done their report. No need for you to come out. Luckily, there is no damage to the artwork. It appears that someone threw a brick at the window, probably some drunken yob ejected from the nightclub down the road. It's happened before. ' He yawned, aware that a police car was parking up opposite, and continued:' The glaziers are here, and should be finished shortly. I'll speak to the insurers first thing tomorrow. 'He fell silent again; checked his watch and then said, ‘Should be wrapped up by midnight. Hope the concert was good. Perhaps I'll grab a cup of tea but, in the circumstances, a double whisky would be preferable. Anyway, get here when you can in the morning. I'll open as normal. OK. Bye for now. '

Michael clicked off, and suddenly felt the chill of the November night clatter his bones. Retreating once more into the gallery to find warmth, he offered tea to the workers and moved to the kitchen, switching on the interior lights as he went. This incident with the broken window spooked him more than the previous occasions, however seldom they occurred. The shock never diminished. You just have to deal with it, he reminded himself. Usually, it was an empty bottle of beer that did the damage, never a brick. This was a deliberate act of destruction, he sensed, not just an impulsive booze-induced prank. Many years ago, someone even pissed through the letterbox.
This
was more sinister. It implied a personal statement of attack. In his increased anxiety, Michael dropped a mug of tea onto the floor, smashing it. Scolding water splashed his trousers, instantly saturating his legs. He cursed.
Fuck.
He tried again, refilling another cup with trembling hands.
For Christ sake, get a proper grip.

Out on the street, he encountered the workmen and offered the hot beverage. One of them (the one with the gut), handed him a piece of blackened rock.

‘That's what did the damage, Boss. Found it at the back of the window. '

Michael took the offending missile. ‘What is it? ' he asked.

A policeman approached, reached out and inspected the evidence.

‘Flint. Unusual… especially in this neighbourhood,' the officer pondered. ‘This is the kind of thing more suited to a country barn, hardly a Mayfair mansion. '

Michael's heart pounded; his mind racing.
What did he just say?

The officer, peering at a notepad, said mundanely: ‘Our station had a call-out from a Michael Strange, a key holder…is that you sir?'

Ashen-faced, Michael stared at him. Preoccupied suddenly by a ghost from the past, he nodded his reply and felt the jagged edges of the piece of flint as he took hold of it again. His world almost somersaulted in that second.
Christ: a barn.
That's what the officer implied. His brain shifted gear, shuddering at the memory – and acrid smell – of flames and burning flesh. He was still haunted by his lucky escape from the fire at Laburnum farm. This incident brought it back so vividly, with the reference to the chunk of flint. Was there a connection between the two? Surely, surely not…he closed his eyes for a moment and thought first of Lauren, and then Maggie; the two psychotic sisters who, not so long ago, had almost destroyed him.

Lauren was dead. Was this the work of her mad sister hell-bent on revenge? It didn't bear thinking about, but the possibility was strong: compelling, in fact. He opened his eyes, felt dizzy and in the same instant nervously scanned the road in either direction. Maggie was a very dangerous fugitive with murder in her heart. She had tried to kill him once before. She would try again given the chance.

‘Sir. . ? ' The policeman repeated. ‘Are you the key holder? '

Michael caught his breath and thought of the double whisky again. No amount of firewater would calm his unease on this night.

It had to be
her.
She was out there somewhere, watching his every move from the shadows.

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