and fled for his life.
11
Lorraine didn’t have a clue what it was at first as Stella held out the item, pushing it toward her until she took it. The odd-shaped curve of tinted plastic was scratched and flecked with dried mud. At either side were holes, presumably where fixings had once been. They were both cracked.
“Thanks, love,” Lorraine muttered as Stella went outside.
Jo looked up from the pile of sandwiches she was cutting for their lunchtime picnic. “What on earth is it?”
“Gil said I had to give it to you,” Stella yelled back from the garden. “When I saw him in the village earlier.”
Jo squinted at the item. “Poor Gil. I feel sorry for him sometimes.”
Lorraine was about to ask why, but Stella came running back inside,through to the hallway, returning a moment later. “He told me to give you this as well,” she said breathlessly. “It’s horrid but amazing.”
Lorraine unrolled the sheet of A4 paper. The lines didn’t resolve immediately, but when they did she wasn’t sure what to be more shocked by first, the sublime quality of the pencil drawing or its subject matter.
“Good grief,” she said.
“Ah, that must be one of Gil’s drawings,” Jo said, casting a quick glance. “He’s bloody talented. I keep telling Sonia they ought to take his work to a gallery or something. He could make a fortune in London.”
“Not with pictures like this he couldn’t.”
The drawing was obviously done by someone with an eye for detail and photographic accuracy, but with a very troubled mind. The face of the dead body was actually a rotting skull, flesh peeling away from shattered bone with medical detail, while the rest of him was bent around the metallic form of a crumpled motorbike. Lorraine supposed it was nighttime. There was something ethereal about the tones that suggested moonlight—a full moon, she guessed.
Lorraine had seen a lot worse in real life but still, the image made her feel sick. And concerned. She hoped Stella hadn’t studied it too closely. She wasn’t overly protective when it came to gore and grisly stuff in films, but somehow this was different. Being hand-drawn, it was more personal, more real.
“Take a look,” she said to her sister.
Jo wiped her hands on a tea towel and moved round next to Lorraine to get a better look at the drawing.
“Oh God,” she said as she took the paper and pulled it close.
“It’s nasty all right.”
Lorraine went back to the bit of plastic she’d placed on the pine table among the typical family detritus that had built up there—a pencil case, letters half out of envelopes, a stack of junk mail andfree newspapers. She turned the object over a couple of times, put it down again, and returned to where Jo was standing.
“Why would he draw something like this? And why give it to me?”
“What do you think it means?” Jo said, handing the picture back to Lorraine, instinctively washing her hands before touching the food.
“Autistic people sometimes have problems expressing themselves verbally. Given the subject matter—a dead man and a motorbike—it could be he’s still very upset about losing his friend.”
Jo was nodding, taking bottles of chilled water from the fridge and loading them into an ice box. “That sounds plausible.”
“Should we mention it to Sonia? Perhaps call in on the way to the castle.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Jo replied. “I know it might look as though Gil is upset, but he and Dean weren’t exactly best mates. Gil would have just latched onto him.”
Lorraine nodded slowly, watching as Jo busied herself. “Maybe we should tell Tony then.”
Jo looked up from her packing, her face white and tense. “You have to interfere, don’t you? Why don’t you just admit it, Lorraine? You’re jealous. Jealous because I live in this house and jealous of me having friends. Most of all, though, I think you’re jealous because I ditched Malc, and because I have a lover.”
11
Lorraine didn’t have a clue what it was at first as Stella held out the item, pushing it toward her until she took it. The odd-shaped curve of tinted plastic was scratched and flecked with dried mud. At either side were holes, presumably where fixings had once been. They were both cracked.
“Thanks, love,” Lorraine muttered as Stella went outside.
Jo looked up from the pile of sandwiches she was cutting for their lunchtime picnic. “What on earth is it?”
“Gil said I had to give it to you,” Stella yelled back from the garden. “When I saw him in the village earlier.”
Jo squinted at the item. “Poor Gil. I feel sorry for him sometimes.”
Lorraine was about to ask why, but Stella came running back inside,through to the hallway, returning a moment later. “He told me to give you this as well,” she said breathlessly. “It’s horrid but amazing.”
Lorraine unrolled the sheet of A4 paper. The lines didn’t resolve immediately, but when they did she wasn’t sure what to be more shocked by first, the sublime quality of the pencil drawing or its subject matter.
“Good grief,” she said.
“Ah, that must be one of Gil’s drawings,” Jo said, casting a quick glance. “He’s bloody talented. I keep telling Sonia they ought to take his work to a gallery or something. He could make a fortune in London.”
“Not with pictures like this he couldn’t.”
The drawing was obviously done by someone with an eye for detail and photographic accuracy, but with a very troubled mind. The face of the dead body was actually a rotting skull, flesh peeling away from shattered bone with medical detail, while the rest of him was bent around the metallic form of a crumpled motorbike. Lorraine supposed it was nighttime. There was something ethereal about the tones that suggested moonlight—a full moon, she guessed.
Lorraine had seen a lot worse in real life but still, the image made her feel sick. And concerned. She hoped Stella hadn’t studied it too closely. She wasn’t overly protective when it came to gore and grisly stuff in films, but somehow this was different. Being hand-drawn, it was more personal, more real.
“Take a look,” she said to her sister.
Jo wiped her hands on a tea towel and moved round next to Lorraine to get a better look at the drawing.
“Oh God,” she said as she took the paper and pulled it close.
“It’s nasty all right.”
Lorraine went back to the bit of plastic she’d placed on the pine table among the typical family detritus that had built up there—a pencil case, letters half out of envelopes, a stack of junk mail andfree newspapers. She turned the object over a couple of times, put it down again, and returned to where Jo was standing.
“Why would he draw something like this? And why give it to me?”
“What do you think it means?” Jo said, handing the picture back to Lorraine, instinctively washing her hands before touching the food.
“Autistic people sometimes have problems expressing themselves verbally. Given the subject matter—a dead man and a motorbike—it could be he’s still very upset about losing his friend.”
Jo was nodding, taking bottles of chilled water from the fridge and loading them into an ice box. “That sounds plausible.”
“Should we mention it to Sonia? Perhaps call in on the way to the castle.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Jo replied. “I know it might look as though Gil is upset, but he and Dean weren’t exactly best mates. Gil would have just latched onto him.”
Lorraine nodded slowly, watching as Jo busied herself. “Maybe we should tell Tony then.”
Jo looked up from her packing, her face white and tense. “You have to interfere, don’t you? Why don’t you just admit it, Lorraine? You’re jealous. Jealous because I live in this house and jealous of me having friends. Most of all, though, I think you’re jealous because I ditched Malc, and because I have a lover.”
Similar Books
