Too Much Sky Part 5

It's always a surprise...how things unravel so quickly. I guess it shouldn't be really – a surprise I mean. How things change, how life changes, like the weather, like the time of year – how the dark hours of morning become light, and there is a moment somewhere in between where it's still dark, the world has turned ink-purple, you can see your hand in front of your face but not further away, and your looking for the crossover, staring right into that darkness with unblinking purpose and time stops, we count the breaths, concentrate – concentrate... and somewhere miss the moment, always miss the moment; just there again, this world, back once more and out beyond stretches the wide sea and the glow of morning. Maybe it's just my tired eyes or the unpredictable effects of the whisky – of course there must be a crossover - or perhaps I'm thinking of something else. I don't remember getting so old.

I found nothing, searched the whole house, wondered at scratched boards and stains I could not remember, checked every room – there was a stench...indescribably rank, death and sewers...but an hour spent and nothing. I held him close and after a time his eyes closed and his breathing settled. I listened for sounds, looked for movement in the periphery of vision, but exhausted stumbled into a half-sleep under the rattle of the sash windows caught in the gusts of wind.

We took several more paintings up to the galleries the morning after, I'd sold a number of pieces and as predicted earned most for the large landscape despite the blemish on it – or perhaps because of it, who knows – anyway the two proprieters were asking for more and I'd worked hard knowing the end to the summer season would mean less income and we would need to survive the winter months. I didn't mind Tom playing in his own world during this time – it was good for the imagination and had been how I'd spent most of my summers and as we'd been happier and I could easily keep an eye on him, knew where he was at all times, I could work easily and quickly.

I tried over breakfast to learn more of what had happened in the night, but he would say nothing, and I saw again signs of how he used to be – just after I mean and so left it, talked about the paintings, buying Ice-Cream, how if he wanted we could go crabbing off the quay later, but he stared silently at the passing landscapes, his hands continually mimicking rolling and unrolling twine, even after I had placed the weight of mine on top to stop him, the faint replaying of movement like a small bird's heartbeat. At the gallery he found a corner and continued, watching the people who stopped to look at the window displays, making them feel awkward by ignoring their playful winks and smiles. I sensed the discomfort of the the owner straight away, over egging how good the paintings I handed over, the sums slightly higher than I had remembered – a problem she said with the large landscape, she was vague, said the buyer had found it like this and had returned it.

“What's wrong – did it not go with his wallpaper?' A nervous laugh, she disappeared then and came back with it wrapped and ready to take away.

“It's strange, I've never seen colours run like this – yet it seems dry, there's no residue when you touch it, but as you'll see it's completely ruined, I'm very sorry, such a shame – one of the best pieces I have had the pleasure of handling...' she trailed off, began discussing the other pieces and then handed me an envelope containing a cheque – considerably less because of what had happened, but once the disappointment had settled, I still left with that same feeling I used to love so much; the thrill of someone buying my work - even on this scale it felt really good, an affirmation I suppose that it was not all a fluke the first time – that it hadn't all been a giant mistake.

I remember the first time I saw him because I was trying to find a way of removing the canope I had just put into my mouth without retching or causing a scene, and as I passed him I wondered why anyone would bring a carving knife to an art exhibition. At first I thought the screams were because someone had spotted me spitting anchovy and courgette into the base of a potted plant, but then scuffling more shouting and a commotion began. He was on the floor retching lines of scripture, his face bulbous, the spit dribbling from the the corners of his mouth – I'd never seen such hate and that was what I remember most – the intensity of that hate – his eyes bloodshot, the tears. He'd slashed and pretty much destroyed one of the centrepieces, 'White Lines of Paradise' a painting depicting a very different last supper involving lots of cocaine and dancing girls. People were putting there arms around me, trying to comfort me but I said nothing and watched as he was dragged dead-weight across the plastic floor, still screaming. He was at the end of the Long Gallery, and turned, looked up, found me through the bodies around, smiled through his hatred, much calmer now, allowed himself to be man handled out silently – until that point I hadn't realised he'd known who I was.

The sycophants crowded around, alcohol put into my hands but my mind was far from the the broken artwork that was being taken down as they talked at me, comforted...

It was the smell of burning I found odd – all along the drive as we came through the avenue of trees. Tom was busy in some new toy, we'd both been for haircuts, the same one, just how you liked us to be, and before I could stop him he was out of the car, calling your name running across the drive and through the open door – couldn't contain his excitement, wanted to show you his short haircut, the new toy bought for being good. When I think back now I must have sensed something – I left the car running, the doors open and just followed into the house. It was the absence of the dog not greeting us that was strange at first, and the fact nobody answered my calls. I remember stopping at the base of the stairs and just thinking I should go out and start again because something wasn't working about this. Then Tom's screams and the slamming of doors and I don't remember climbing the staircase, or breaking through into his bedroom, but I do remember grabbing at someone as they forced their way through the window, my nails tearing as I clung hopelessly to their clothing, feeling desperate, a low dread gripping me as they slipped away. I did not see them disappear across rooftops, drop to the ground, run around to the back of the house - I remember flailing around like a madman looking for Tom, wardrobes, under beds, noticed the bathroom door closed and listened, listened to sobbing, asked if he was hurt, asked again, asked again, told him it was al-right, to stay where he was, stay inside, not open the door for anyone except me, that everything would be fine that I would be back soon.

In the kitchen I found the dog dying, foaming at the mouth, her eyes following me and I bent, stroked her ear, watched a hole in her side darkly haemorrhaging across the slate floor; she had dragged herself about five yards, the stain of blood trailing behind and leading to the patio doors.

I think I grabbed knives, I might have been sobbing in panic, I wasn't thinking clearly – just ran out and saw him him kneeling in front of the pyre. Did I call your names? I think I did. I think I must have screamed your names but it all seems silence now. How he stood then, turned to me - I couldn't understand why his clothes looked so wet, it hadn't rained, but he was sodden, he held my stare, I don't think I asked him where you were – I think I knew then, I think that was the point I knew you were both gone and I just stood there dumbly, watching him staggering slowly backwards and I was still thinking careful, you're getting close to the fire, you're going to burn – then like kindling taking a spark, he too became flame, utterly engulfed, his clothing melting away, his body cracking, the head obscenely charred, bare, and he fell backwards - but no scream escaped, no uttering of pain.

They couldn't be sure if you were already dead before the fire took hold; you were bound together, he'd built the bonfire around you, made a frame from my paintings and broken up chairs and a table to make it burn hotter. For months I couldn't stop thinking about the petrol, how she wouldn't have known to close her eyes, how it would have burnt Sarah's eyes, that she would have been in pain and that you couldn't comfort her, that she would have been in pain and scared, that she would have been hurting...

I don't think you both felt the fire, I think you were already gone, she must have died in your arms, you were comforting each other, you told her how much you loved her, you both didn't feel any pain – that's the only way it could have been.

When we got back to the house the sun had found a way through the low cloud and Tom wanted to play in the garden. I took the picture up to the studio, carefully cut through the taut brown paper, opened the string. The landscape was gone, some lines were visible here and there, a hint of colour - but the darkness had spread, the darkness had covered everything.