He was back. Where he felt that he belonged. At his desk (or in this instance, his dining table with the drawing board fixed to the surface). He had been here numerous times since the accident, yet never with this intent. He had been outside himself, going through the motions. He could argue that he had been going through the motions before the accident, but not like this. Never like this. Not with this particular book. There had been no lackadaisical approach here. He had been consumed, and the fact that he had let this passion slide beneath him was now a source of mystery.
Three complete drawings, all detail illustrations, lay side by side on the couch. Each one inked and watercolored, paper dark and stained at the edges, curling in on itself like the legs of a dead insect.
That was not what has his attention. Here before him was the fourth drawing, the one he had been working on when
I want to see the tigers
He had chosen to stop. To down tools, as it were. To move on to other projects.
Because part of me was missing, he thought. Why follow that thread when I can seek solace in the mundane.
He had been on his own staircase. Metaphorical of course. His own journey of redemption. Here, in there drawings, lived the part of him that he had locked away. That creativity, that imagination. Mamoulean had said there was something there. He said his criticism was meant to provoke something better. To force Adam’s hand to create something worthy of what he was capable of. He had balked at the notion. He had refused the jump and let himself be put down. He hadn’t run the course.
I deserved what happened then.
That wasn’t true either. He was on a course of redemption. Here, with Daphne’s work. A fucking child’s fable. She could dress it up all she wanted. Jane could give him the hard sell, but it all amounted to the same thing. It was a bloody fairytale. He had illustrated fairytales before and since.
Only thee was something more here. A lot more.
She hadn’t been wrong when she had said how important it was. He had only read half of it. He only had half of it. Yet that was enough.
Looking at it now, in all it’s glory, he was immediately reminded of something. Something recent. He was drawn inexorably to what he had created. To what an older version of him had created. This was the real him. He had been hiding ever since the trauma. Ever since she had left him.
But she left before. She left because of -
The fucking phone. That dated piece of shit I bought for a tenner and rammed a cheap supermarket simcard in it. Like I was too clever for her.
It was true. If she hadn’t found that bloody phone, none of this would have happened. It as her fucking fault. Why did she have to look in it? Of course he hadn’t put a code on it. He didn’t think that she would damn well find it.
He held his breath for a moment, realisation hitting him. The phone. It was that phone. The phone. He had it, then didn’t have it. Where was it? He had found his original phone again, in his bedroom, where he had thrown his secret phone.
Shaking his head. The logic of it was fuzzy, but so much was fuzzy. Yet it didn’t really matter. Things like his phone and time. They weren’t as important. Back when he was in the middle of his work, he would often lose track of time. The only important dates were deadlines. After all if he missed those, his work would go uncollected, his wages unpaid. The work would be rolled up and cast aside, never to be seen. And it deserved to be seen. All of it. Was he not worth that? He was worth so much fucking more than a book illustrator.
Except this book. This books was different.
“You will look after it Adam, I trust?”
He had promised her. He still had it. She wanted him to finish it. Which meant she must have finished the story. More would be forthcoming.
Something puzzled him. Had he not recognised her at the gallery? And she him? Yet they were strangers to one another. Or near enough. They had much shared history, some of which he recalled and presumed there was more. Yet they had spoken little, and of d’Marcan’s work more than anything. She had been held in rapture by it.
Fo Ivy, In Her Infinite Rapture.
It wasn’t even for her. Trent didn’t know her. She was, or rather, his work was, for her. She was
mine?
someone that should have been mine.
A loud crack from the glass window, covered in vines, caught his attention. It was a mere two feet from him, and he could see a small crack appearing from that lower corner, where the ivy had appeared from. Only it hadn’t really appeared there. It must be growing from somewhere else. Somewhere further down in the building, somewhere
APARTMENT ONE
that he couldn’t know. Somewhere warm. And dark.
WHUMP
The far wall almost perceptively bulged in, visible in the corner of his eye as he turned back to his desk, and his work.
“Fuck you” he breathed, and opened the wooden box where he kept his pencils, inks and watercolours. He didn’t expect any of them to still be useable and was rather surprised to see that they were. The tubes of paints had oxidisex and were rusted, but the plastic lids and seals were intact save just a few. The pens were in another airtight box and when he opened it and tried one or two out on the skin of his hand, he was pleased to see a good black flow. The pencils were…well, they were pencils. The wood wasn’t damp and they didn’t seem broken.
He took out a large sheet of paper from the box and secured it to his board. There was some tape on the desk and he used it to flatten down the corners. He wasn’t sure exactly what he should be illustrating, but thought back to the story, and let that first paragraph wash over him. He just need to lose himself in it. To become a part of it. Then he would produce his best work.
Like Trent had, before he -
Will you actually get financial compensation for this? You haven’t spoken to her about -
You haven’t even seen her -
You have seen her -
And she feigned ignorance of you and you of her, why would -
WHUMP
“Jesus,” he breathed. He needed a fucking drink. To hell with this. There must be something in this bloody place.
That’s when he remembered.
His bedroom.
At the back of the cupboard. He had put a bottle of malt out of sight, wishing to keep it a little longer, a gift from someone. A previous client perhaps.
Why don’t you find out if you’re going to get paid first.
That would be logical. His phone. His phone. He picked it up from he chair pocket and found the number for Hounsett. Jane would know. The money side of things was through her. He just had to speak very nicely to her and hope that she didn’t hold a grudge. Surely Jane would have been contacted as well, that this work was still ongoing, that new drawings were required. Jane should have told him. He might have a few words to say to her on that, as it happened. But first, softly softly.
The phone still had charge. He found the number and dialled.
Three rings then an answer.
“Hounsett,” the young well manicured voice on the other end of the line said.
“Is Jane available please? It’s Adam Campion.” He attempted to sound as firm and professional as possible, even though the mere act of talking on the phone to anything akin to a business conversation was causing him no small amount of stress, to the extent that he began to feel too hot again, noticing how humid it had become in the room.
“Jane who? Sorry, I’m not familiar.”
“Jane…” Shit, what’s her fucking surname. “You know. Jane. Marketing. She’s the head client marketing liaison erm…woman. Jane. I’ve been dealing with her for years.”
“Sorry, are you sure you’ve come through to the right business? Hounsett Publishing.”
“I know who I’ve fucking called.” So much for keeping things professional. “I need to speak to Jane about one of your clients, that I have been contracted via yourselves to produce work for.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m just checking the database now. Our head of marketing is listed here as an Amber Campion. I can’t put you through to her because she is taking a family holiday at the moment and isn’t expected back for another two weeks. Can I send an email to her for you? Or is there anyone else I can put you on to?”
“The hell you mean Amber Campion? That’s my…she was my…”
“Contact liaison?”
“No my…I…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t right. There was some serious pisstaking going on here and it wasn’t in the least amusing.”
“Look, I know she’s really pissed at me. I know that she will have left you a bloody script just in case I ever phoned back. I know that you are all having your little joke at my expense. A bit of revenge for how I was on the phone last time. Look I…” What was he going to do? Apologise? Why the hell should I. “I just want you to know there’s no hard feelings and I’d like to speak to Jane please.”
“Please,” the voice on the other end said.
“What?”
“What?”
“Right, okay. I’m hanging up now. I’ll call back another time when you’ve all grown up a little bit. Maybe when you yourself has graduated up to the big school. Would you like that? Mixing with the big boys and girls?” His temper had flared now. Again. Ah well. “Once you’ve stopped pissing your pants at the sound of the bell you can -”
“Turn around,” the voice on the phone said. It sounded a little different. It sounded wet.
“Sorry?”
“Turn around.”
“I don’t know what -”
There was a click as the line was disconnected. There was only the sound of static in his ear.
He stared at his phone momentarily, thought about redialling and then thought again. Screw them. They had a joke at his expense. They were still sore. He should have credited them with more maturity than this but he guessed not.
He didn’t need Jane’s reassurance. She wanted him to finish it. Payment would be incoming. The sooner he did, the sooner he would get paid. The sooner he would be able to eat. Not that he had been hungry. The crackers had awakened something primal in him momentarily but he was okay. A drink though. Oh boy a drink.
That whisky called to him, and he was all too ready to answer.
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