people shouting. He eyed the junction but saw only passing cars, their lights piercing the night air like laser beams. He pressed Jack’s doorbell.
Several seconds later a tinny voice said, ‘Heh.’
‘Jack?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Your father.’
‘Heh, Andy, didn’t recognize the voice. Up you come, man.’
The lock buzzed, and Gilchrist stepped into a dark close that echoed with the sound of his footfall. The door thudded behind him. On the third-floor landing, Jack was waiting. They hugged, tight, and when they parted Gilchrist dabbed a hand at his eyes. Jack faced him, eyes glistening in the chilly landing air.
‘How are you holding up?’ Gilchrist asked.
Jack shrugged. ‘Over the worst of it. Pity you couldn’t make it yesterday.’
‘Got an urgent call. Pressure of work, and all that.’
‘Turned out to be a good do. Well . . .’ Jack gave a twisted smile. ‘If you could ever call a wake good.’
Gilchrist tightened his lips, held out The Macallan 10. ‘It’s a bit early for Christmas,’ he tried, forcing a joke. ‘But anyway, Merry Christmas.’
‘Any excuse’ll do, right?’ Jack studied the label. ‘This looks good enough to open right away.’
‘I see you still take a lot of persuading.’
‘Only where drink’s concerned.’ He placed a hand on his father’s shoulder and pressed him towards the open living-room door.
Gilchrist stepped into a room he remembered as being dull and drab. Now, woodwork sparkled with off-white gloss. Bold oil paintings of indeterminate subject hung from ceiling to floor on every wall and brightened the room in blues, greens, reds, yellows, with shapes that swirled and swooped like some multicoloured maelstrom. He recognized Chloe’s work.
‘Can never sell them,’ said Jack, and placed two tumblers on a bleached coffee table stained with enough paint for Gilchrist to think it doubled as a palette.
Jack cracked open The Macallan 10.
‘How are her exhibitions going?’ Gilchrist asked, and almost cringed at his question. He had promised to come along to the most recent one, but had called off at the last minute, tied up with the case of the week.
Jack poured a hefty measure. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘A lot of interest in her work.’ He handed the glass to Gilchrist. ‘But they pissed me off in the end.’
‘They?’
‘All those wankers who think they know a bargain when they see it.’
‘You don’t like her work?’ Gilchrist asked, failing to hide his surprise.
‘I love her work. She’s brilliant.
Was
brilliant. I told them that.’ Jack held out his glass, chinked it against Gilchrist’s. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and threw it back as if it was a shot, then grimaced. ‘How good is that?’
‘Good enough to savour?’
‘Always like to slam the first one.’ Jack refilled and took a measured sip, licked his lips. ‘Well, this one guy in particular. A real English plonker. Fancied himself as some art connoisseur. A right prick. With the grey-haired ponytail and the bow tie and the public-school voice. Offered me ten grand for the lot. I told him to fuck off.’
‘I can’t imagine that going down well.’
Jack chuckled. ‘He kept upping it, as if that was going to make me change my mind. When he told me twenty-five was his final offer, I told him I wouldn’t sell even one of them for that. He looked at me like I was crazy. Just like you’re looking at me now.’
‘Twenty-five thousand’s a lot of money.’
‘And your point is?’
With Jack it was never about money. It was about freedom of expression, the exploration of self, the discovery of the new or even the old. Jack would never change. But paintings did not pay bills, and Gilchrist worried that Jack always appeared to live a penny or two above the poverty line. Chloe’s display, rather than putting money in the bank, was also keeping Jack locked in the past, not letting him move forward.
‘How’s your own stuff selling?’ he tried. ‘Last I heard you were
Several seconds later a tinny voice said, ‘Heh.’
‘Jack?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Your father.’
‘Heh, Andy, didn’t recognize the voice. Up you come, man.’
The lock buzzed, and Gilchrist stepped into a dark close that echoed with the sound of his footfall. The door thudded behind him. On the third-floor landing, Jack was waiting. They hugged, tight, and when they parted Gilchrist dabbed a hand at his eyes. Jack faced him, eyes glistening in the chilly landing air.
‘How are you holding up?’ Gilchrist asked.
Jack shrugged. ‘Over the worst of it. Pity you couldn’t make it yesterday.’
‘Got an urgent call. Pressure of work, and all that.’
‘Turned out to be a good do. Well . . .’ Jack gave a twisted smile. ‘If you could ever call a wake good.’
Gilchrist tightened his lips, held out The Macallan 10. ‘It’s a bit early for Christmas,’ he tried, forcing a joke. ‘But anyway, Merry Christmas.’
‘Any excuse’ll do, right?’ Jack studied the label. ‘This looks good enough to open right away.’
‘I see you still take a lot of persuading.’
‘Only where drink’s concerned.’ He placed a hand on his father’s shoulder and pressed him towards the open living-room door.
Gilchrist stepped into a room he remembered as being dull and drab. Now, woodwork sparkled with off-white gloss. Bold oil paintings of indeterminate subject hung from ceiling to floor on every wall and brightened the room in blues, greens, reds, yellows, with shapes that swirled and swooped like some multicoloured maelstrom. He recognized Chloe’s work.
‘Can never sell them,’ said Jack, and placed two tumblers on a bleached coffee table stained with enough paint for Gilchrist to think it doubled as a palette.
Jack cracked open The Macallan 10.
‘How are her exhibitions going?’ Gilchrist asked, and almost cringed at his question. He had promised to come along to the most recent one, but had called off at the last minute, tied up with the case of the week.
Jack poured a hefty measure. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘A lot of interest in her work.’ He handed the glass to Gilchrist. ‘But they pissed me off in the end.’
‘They?’
‘All those wankers who think they know a bargain when they see it.’
‘You don’t like her work?’ Gilchrist asked, failing to hide his surprise.
‘I love her work. She’s brilliant.
Was
brilliant. I told them that.’ Jack held out his glass, chinked it against Gilchrist’s. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and threw it back as if it was a shot, then grimaced. ‘How good is that?’
‘Good enough to savour?’
‘Always like to slam the first one.’ Jack refilled and took a measured sip, licked his lips. ‘Well, this one guy in particular. A real English plonker. Fancied himself as some art connoisseur. A right prick. With the grey-haired ponytail and the bow tie and the public-school voice. Offered me ten grand for the lot. I told him to fuck off.’
‘I can’t imagine that going down well.’
Jack chuckled. ‘He kept upping it, as if that was going to make me change my mind. When he told me twenty-five was his final offer, I told him I wouldn’t sell even one of them for that. He looked at me like I was crazy. Just like you’re looking at me now.’
‘Twenty-five thousand’s a lot of money.’
‘And your point is?’
With Jack it was never about money. It was about freedom of expression, the exploration of self, the discovery of the new or even the old. Jack would never change. But paintings did not pay bills, and Gilchrist worried that Jack always appeared to live a penny or two above the poverty line. Chloe’s display, rather than putting money in the bank, was also keeping Jack locked in the past, not letting him move forward.
‘How’s your own stuff selling?’ he tried. ‘Last I heard you were
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