The Word 9/The Word 9 (Disk 2 of 2).adf/Files_2/11-StillLife2.txt/11-StillLife2.txt

Text File | 1996-01-17 | 8KB | 197 lines

|1-Still Life



Continues from part one...


 Carl  had obtained a special preview ticket to the new gallery.  All of
Harveys  high-fliers  and personalities were there.  Even the mayor, who
was to open the exhibition and gallery.

 Graham  Harcourt was there, so was Lady Gorde, from England.  There was
also  a  small  army  of  art critics.  It seemed that Leopold Verescrue
hadn't displayed any of his work for years.

 Carl  had  to  pull  a lot of strings and ask a lot of favours to get a
ticket  to this prestigious event.  The Gallery would open to the public
in a few weeks, but Carl needed to see the paintings now.

 "I  now  declare  the  Leopold  Verescrue  Gallery,  " began the mayor,
turning  to  his  audience  with  his scissors upraised.  He snipped the
ribbon  across  the  door.   "Open!".   There  was a polite applause and
everyone went in.

 "Good morning, distinguished guests." said a somber man waiting inside.
"I  am  Leopold  Verescrues  agent  and I'm here to introduce you to his
work..." the man droned on and only the critics seemed to be listening.

 "Why  isn't  Leopold  here  himself?"  he heard a man whispering to his
wife,  perhaps  a bit too loudly.  Evidently it was too loud because the
agent heard and replied.

 "Because,  Sir,  Mr.   Verescrue  is somewhat of a recluse, and is very
publicity shy.  He prefers to let his work speak for him."

 That shut the man up.

 Soon the agent had finished talking and Carl had an opportunity to look
around.   It  seemed this Verescrue had an appetite for human suffering.
All  the  paintings  depicted humans in horrific situations.  There were
scenes  of  murder,  of sadism, of cruelty, of simple evil.  Wherever he
looked  Carl  could  see  people  in  distress,  people  in  unspeakable
suffering.

 Carl  noticed  the picture he had seen on TV.  He pulled out one of the
photos he was carrying and discretely compared it to the painting he was
looking at.

 It  was  Josie  Harcourt.   An  older,  evil looking Josie Harcourt but
definitely  her.   A  critic must have been watching, because one walked
over.

 "Remarkable, isn't it?  Mr..."

 "Carl Meister."

 "I'm Jake Davidson, of Art Monthly.  Mr.  Verescrue has a taste for the
other  side  of human nature, doesn't he?  It's amazing how he can paint
the darker side of his subject."

 "He uses models?"

 "Yes,  of  course.   But he never reveals who the subjects are.  Anyone
who  is  chosen  by  him  signs a secrecy agreement and tells no-one.  I
interviewed  Mr.   Verescue  a  few  years  back.  I found him rather...
impulsive." Jake shuddered.

 "So,  nobody knows who Leopold Verescrue paints..." Carl was talking to
himself but Jake answered.

 "Nope.   It's strange how anyone agrees to painted by him.  But I guess
it's just good old human curiosity."

 "Yeah, and you know what they say.  Curiosity killed the cat."

 Carl  found  Verescrues address with no trouble.  His house was high on
the hill, near the old abbey.  Carl knocked loudly.

 "Come  in."  said  a  voice from the intercom near the door.  The doors
latched  opened  with  an  audible click.  "Please close the door behind
you.  I'm in the studio, second door on your left."

 Carl  did  as  he  was told and found himself face to face with Leopold
Verescrue.

 "Mr.  Verescrue?  I wondered if you would answer a few questions."

 "Of  course,  Sheriff Meister." Verescrue talked quietly in person.  In
fact,  he almost hissed.  He was tall, and elderly.  He wore a long robe
of  some  heavy  material  and  sat  behind  an easel.  "Please sit." he
motioned to the chair opposite him.

 "Mr.   Verescrue," began Carl.  "Do you know this woman." He showed him
the photo of Josie Harcourt.

 "Yes.  She was a model for me once."

 "And this man?" He showed another photo.

 "Yes.  Him too." All the time Verescrue was painting as he talked.

 Carl showed the rest of the photos.  Verescrue agreed to having painted
every one.

 "What  happened  to them?  " Carl tried to catch Verescrue off balance.
But  Verescrue  remained calm.  Quietly talking and painting at the same
time.

 "They killed themselves."

 There   was  a  silence,  silent  except  for  the  brushing  sound  of
paintbrush.

 "I  am  going to put you under arrest, Mr.  Verescrue.  but first, tell
me, why did they kill themselves?"

 "To feed me."

 Carl suddenly felt cold.  Who was this Verescrue?  Why did he remain so
calm?

 "They  didn't  want  to  know  the  truth.   I paint what I really see,
Sheriff,  and  they  couldn't  take it.  I am an old man, older than you
will  ever imagine.  I feed of their life, and paint what is left.  What
will  be  in  the  future, Now!.  Josie Harcourt, she dreamed of being a
life  saver,  a modern mother theresa.  She dreamed of being a beautiful
lady, sacrificing herself for others.

 "But  she wasn't.  Deep inside she was pure evil.  I painted her as she
really was.  She was old, dead inside.  She cared for nothing.  Not even
herself.  She cut her throat gladly.  She was fulfilling."

 Carl didn't want to here anymore, but Verescrue kept on talking.

 "That  other  man, Terence Grant.  He wanted to be a great designer, an
architect.   I showed him what he was destined to be.  An evil landlord,
he  was  to  design  modern,  but unhealthy, tower blocks.  Thousands of
families  were  to  live  in them, in tiny cramped spaces, infested with
rats.   Is hoed him what he was to be, a millionaire, feeding off others
distress.

 "He  couldn't  stand  it.   He  leapt  from the window and landed, neck
outstretched,  across  the  sheet  metal I had kept there.  He jumped to
soon, though.  I didn't have a chance to feed.

 "And  what about this one?  I don't suppose you've seen this piece yet.
I  just  finished it this morning." Verescrue uncovered a small painting
next to him.

 It depicted a woman.  She held in one hand a dagger, and in the other a
struggling baby.  It was obvious what the woman would do.  The woman was
Francis Greenberg.

 "She's  allways  wanted  to  be  a  nurse, you see.  I allowed her that
dream.   She  arrived  this  morning, asking questions just like you.  I
think she's been following you.

 "And  now  you, Mr.  Meister.  What have you in your future?  What do I
see in your life?"

 Don't  show  me, please!  I don't want to know!  Carl silently pleaded.
But he couldn't speak, couldn't move.

 Verescrue slowly turned the easel around.

 It  showed  a  man,  holding  a gun.  He was dressed in a police bikers
uniform.   He  stood  there, wearing dark glasses and a white motorcycle
helmet.   A  man  cowered  before  him.  The policeman held a gun to his
head.   Scattered  around  the  floor were packets of what could only be
cocaine,  the  white  powder  lay  everywhere.  It was a corrupt cop.  A
classic case of drugs, money and power.

 And it was him.

 It  was  too  much.   He couldn't think coherently.  He sobbed quietly.
All  of  his ideals were shattered in that picture.  It couldn't happen!
But  in  his  heart  of hearts he knew that it could be true.  It dug up
painful memories, long buried thoughts and emotions.

 He  couldn't  let  it  come  true.  Next to him was a glass.  He hadn't
noticed  it  before,  but  there  it  was.   Carl  took it and drank its
contents in one gulp.

 For  a  moment,  nothing  happened.   But  them Carl fell to the floor,
throwing  the  glass  against  a  wall.   He stretched and compressed in
intense  muscular  spasms.   His face carried an unholy grimace; a death
mask.  Then he stopped, and finally relaxed.  He was dead.

 Verescue  seemed  to  be in a state of ecstasy.  He panted heavily, his
eyes  half  closed.   But then he laughed.  Laughed as loud as he could.
With  a  bit  of  luck this picture could go into the gallery within the
week.

 It was his best work yet.

End