The Death Pictures (8 page)

Dan stayed still, facing the man, aware now that he wasn’t the only one who’d prepared for this meeting. He could feel the room around him had gone quiet as Nigel and Abi listened in.

‘Plenty was written about the Bray case,’ said McCluskey, nodding slowly. ‘It was an extraordinary one. And the word was that you saw the solution. But it was never made clear in the reporting what led you to it. How did you solve it?’

Dan let out a deep breath as his eyes filled with the past. He’d been over that so many times in his mind. It was too ridiculous to talk about, but still so vivid and strong. 15 years ago now. Thomasin, aged 21, the last two weeks of their final term at University. They’d been in the same year, but had only met in the last fortnight, and she was so beautiful, so clever, so funny, so warm, so loving… so perfect.

They’d tried to make it work, but the simple college days were fading and the merciless currents of life had begun pushing them apart. They hadn’t had enough time together to establish the foundations to make the relationship last. Every other woman since had been compared to her, and none had ever come close. Nowhere near. How could fate play that spiteful trick on him so young?

Dan blinked the memories away and said finally, ‘The best I can say is that I think I understood how deeply you can be affected by one single event in your life. I knew how some people can never truly be freed of that weight, and how it can stay with them until it drives them to one day find some resolution.’

McCluskey held the stare, nodded slowly. ‘And in the Bray case, it was revenge?’

‘Yes. He’d broken people’s lives and that had to be avenged.’

‘And in your case?’

Dan could feel the room’s silence, the eyes on him, but why was he was still tempted to tell McCluskey about Thomasin? A feeling like being in a confessional? To this man he didn’t know? No, not now, not ever. No one knew and no one would. No one would know about the catalogue of sticking-plaster relationships that had followed, the attempts to cover the cracks in a fractured heart. Continued to follow he thought, as Kerry walked across the stage of his mind, head held high, not looking at him.

‘Mr McCluskey, I’d love to stay and talk, but we have to get the unveiling of the last picture on the lunchtime news.’

Another silence as they stared at each other, then a faint nod from the artist and a swell of relief in Dan. He thought he managed to disguise it, but he wasn’t sure.

‘You’re very privileged you know,’ McCluskey said, turning back to the last of the pictures. ‘No one from outside has seen the series properly yet.’ He looked up and reached out a hand to touch the alarm clock, as though wanting to adjust its time. ‘Abi’s acquaintance with your editor and her kind offer to let me write my own obituary swung it. It was something I couldn’t refuse, and that doesn’t happen very often, not to a man in my time of life.’

McCluskey flinched and let out a deep wracking cough, his body shaking. He took a couple of deep breaths and composed himself. Abi was at his side instantly, an arm on his shoulder, fear in the tightness of her face.

‘OK, OK...’ he said to her breathlessly, gathering himself. ‘Now, time is something I don’t have the luxury of, so shall we get on with the interview? In here, using the pictures as a backdrop?’

‘Yes please,’ Dan replied.

‘Almost ready,’ said Nigel, ‘just give me a minute to get a couple of details of number nine and I’ll be with you.’

‘So what do you want to ask me?’ said McCluskey, putting an arm around Abi who looked up to him in the most adoring way Dan had ever seen.

‘I suppose I want to know how you’d like to be remembered,’ Dan replied, surprising himself. So his brain had finally come up with an idea. ‘And also about the last months of your life, the Death Pictures and your reconciliation with your enemies. All that sort of thing.’

‘Fine,’ McCluskey said, drawing himself up slowly. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to talk about. Abi my love, please don’t stay with us for this, it’ll be too upsetting for you. I’ll come and find you when we’re done.’ She turned without a word and walked out through the door.

Nigel positioned McCluskey so they had a backdrop of the last three pictures. He clipped a microphone onto his shirt and Dan took his position by the side of the camera.

‘The first question, I’m bound to ask,’ said Dan, bringing a wan smile to the artist’s face. ‘Can you offer any help to the thousands of people who are trying to solve your puzzle?’

‘No,’ came back the instant reply. ‘Except to assure them the solution is in the pictures here and may come as a surprise. I certainly hope it will.’

A word in the answer surprised Dan.

‘You said ‘here’. Do you mean here in the gallery, with all the pictures in their position in the series is the place to solve the riddle?’

McCluskey nodded. ‘You’re listening. Very good. Or shall we say… I’d consider the studio by far the best place to solve the riddle. All the information you need is here in front of you. If you were to buy some prints of the pictures elsewhere, it may not be. It may, but then again, it may not.’

What did that mean, wondered Dan? That the answer may not be just in the pictures, but there was something here in the studio as well? He was tempted to look around, to see what it could be, but stopped himself. I’m thinking like I’m trying to solve the puzzle, not an interviewer.

‘Could you explain what you mean by that?’ Dan asked.

‘No.’ A shake of the head, the smile still there. ‘It’s all part of the mystery.’

Dan nodded. He’d been expecting that, knew he wouldn’t get any further, had his next question ready. Time to move the interview on, he had lots to cover. But what did McCluskey mean? Was it part of this lesson he had to teach?

‘You were given up to a year to live when you started the pictures. That time is almost up now.’ Dan heard the whirr of the camera’s motor next to his ear as Nigel zoomed the picture in for the powerful close up of the artist’s face. ‘What’s it like feeling your time is running out?’

He’d expected some defensive reaction to that, probably even wanted it, but McCluskey remained inscrutable.

‘It’s like feeling the driest, most powdery sand slip through the fingers of your hand. It feels strangely beautiful. It looks beautiful. You’d like to stop it but you know you can’t. You’d like it to go on for ever, but you know it won’t. You know each passing second brings you closer to your hand being empty. And with that is the certainty that soon it will be empty.’

Dan tried to disguise the shudder he felt run across his shoulders. He looked down at his notebook to check his next question.

‘You’ve made a point of reconciliation with all your enemies in these last few months. Why?’

McCluskey spread his arms, as though appealing to the sky.

‘I want to go to the grave content. I want my soul to fly unburdened.’ His words came softer now, and Dan wondered if he could see the cover of his preparation for the interview thinning, the real feeling starting to show. ‘I don’t want the nagging weight of unfinished business to bind me. I don’t want the drag of regret to inhibit me. I want to leave this beautiful planet calm and at peace with it.’

McCluskey looked expectantly at him and Dan was tempted to ask his next question, but decided to take a risk. He’d learnt early that the greatest art of the interviewer is knowing when to stay silent. It could leave you looking foolish, unsure where to take the discussion, or it could prompt real passion. Dan held the artist’s look, said nothing.

‘When I was told I had under a year to live,’ continued McCluskey, his voice hoarse now, ‘I was angry. In fact, I was livid. I raged and shouted and screamed at how unfair, how unjust it was. But then I realised it was an opportunity. How many of us get notice of our departure date? I realised I had a chance to do all the things I wanted to do and leave this earth without regret. Who among us can say that?’

Dan let the words settle, then asked. ‘And why the raising money for charity with the pictures?’

‘The easiest question so far. I have a little talent for doodling. There are many deserving causes. I don’t need the money where I’m going. Why not help them out in their good works? I’m not a believer, but I have been a gambler. If I’m right and there is no God, I won’t lose out. But if there is, I might as well insure myself and do some good works before I get to the Pearly Gates of Heaven. They might just squeak me a ticket in.’

Dan heard a quiet huff from Nigel. A gentle Christian, he was bringing up his sons in the same way and didn’t like to see religion mocked. But that was a hell of a good answer, and he couldn’t fault the logic.

‘Finally, as you know, this interview is for broadcasting after your death.’ Dan paused, let the words echo from the stone walls. Nigel zoomed the shot in again. This was the killer question, the most important of the interview. ‘How would you like to be remembered?’

McCluskey looked down at the ground for a moment, then gestured to the paintings behind him. ‘Remember me with this. Remember me as a man who had a small talent and did his best with it.’

Dan stared at him and thought he could see a moistening in the edges of his eyes, just a slight shine but it was there. At last, a question gets through his defences, thought Dan. At last.

‘Remember me as a man who didn’t always lead a good life, but tried to do his best in the end. Remember me as someone who liked a little game with his pictures, but only for the best of motives. Remember me as someone who tried to right the wrongs he saw around him before he left the sweet wonder of this beautiful and precious earth.’

Dan didn’t often feel pressure when he was editing a report, but now the base of his back ached. McCluskey’s teasing, vanity, games and riddles may have been annoying, but he’d been touched by that interview. They weren’t using it in this item, instead saving it for his obituary. This was a story about the unveiling of the last of the Death Pictures, but he still wanted to do his best for the man. So many stories they covered were mundane, fillers, forgotten within minutes, meant nothing. This was one of the rare few that felt different.

To open the report, Jenny, the picture editor, put down the shot of McCluskey standing by the curtained picture, ready to unveil it. Dan added just a few words of commentary, less is more, the golden rule in television; ‘So this is it, the last of the Death Pictures.’

The cord was pulled and the picture revealed. Dan said nothing over the shot, just let it run, the noise of the photographer’s flashes and the viewers fascination with the painting meant no commentary was needed. Then they edited in a close up of the artist’s exultant face and some of his words about the answer being in there.

After that it was shots of the crowd, one with the surf shop in the background. Then came the interviews with the people talking about why they’d come to see the unveiling. The shots in the gallery of all the pictures together were next, using lots of Nigel’s close ups of the detail, the people, the places, the numbers. Dan added a few words about them going on display from tomorrow at the studio, with the riddle still to be solved. And as he sat in the edit suite, he found himself staring into the images, wondering what the message and lesson in there was, and why it was so very important to Joseph McCluskey.

* * *

The report led the lunchtime news, as befitted it, in Dan’s view at least. He did a similar version for
Wessex Tonight
, just a little longer with some extra shots of The Death Pictures all together.

It was almost six o’clock. Lizzie had seen the report and approved it in her less than wholehearted way and Dan was packing up his satchel, ready to leave. He didn’t take offence. He’d never seen her fulsome in her praise of a story in her life, merely satisfied or, if you were lucky, pleased. He sometimes wondered if exclusive footage of an alien landing would see her very pleased.

Dan sat at his computer and filled in a couple of expenses before he forgot. He was sure the company owed him hundreds of pounds in forgotten claims. Then he debated whether he could be bothered to stop in at the supermarket to get some food. But it would be busy and some beans on toast would hide the staleness of the bread, wouldn’t it? That way he could take Rutherford for a run, then eat and have a quiet and early night.

He felt tired and lethargic, the hangover from last night with Adam. But might there be some time for a look through the Death Pictures, just to see if he could spot anything that could be a clue to the riddle? He hoped not, but suspected he wouldn’t be able to resist.

He was about to log out of the computer and set off home when his mobile rang. Adam.

‘Hi, mate, how you doing?’ Dan asked, the phone balanced between his chin and shoulder.

‘Bad. No, make that bloody terrible. We’ve had another rape, the same bloke as the first and I think there are more to follow.’

Dan fished his notebook out of his satchel and began writing. ‘I’ve got to get a warning out and I’ve got to do it as soon as possible,’ Adam continued. ‘We’ve got to get this guy, or at least stop him striking again. The woman from the first rape will talk to you. She’s still weak and nervous, but we’ve told her what’s happened with the other attack and she wants to do it. Can you get something together now?’

Chapter Four

Dan ran downstairs, taking them two at a time and jumping the final flight. He spun around the corner and into the studio’s bar, a small but comfortable room full of soft, burgundy furniture and bowing plants. Faces turned in familiar anticipation, each expecting to be called away. One by one they relaxed as they followed his look to Nigel. He sat in a corner, chatting with a couple of engineers and sipping happily at a bottle of beer.