The Artist (2/7) By The Silver Fox

(1/7), (2/7), (3/7), (4/7), (5/7), (6/7), (7/7).

What did it was the fact that Swee'pea's head was animated so that it bobbed back and forth with each tick of the clock in a manner that did indeed suggest that Popeye was but scant moments away from experiencing a reaction that had hitherto only been conceivable with the help of a tin of really top-whack, genetically-modified spinach - violent eruptions from his corncob pipe, and all. As a distraction from unwholesome reality then, it was a dead loss.

The artist was just about to tear his gaze away from the clock (thinking that perhaps a quick shuftie at a tinted enlargement of a newspaper photo of Pol Pot might afford him some light relief), when he realised that its illuminated hands were indicating that the appointed time was almost upon him. "Maybe they'll be late" he thought, "or - better yet - maybe they'll not come at all." This brief moment of optimism lasted only as long as it took him to remember what he'd been told many times before: these people were professionals, and as such, took pride in being punctual. And indeed, there did seem to be something reproachful about the sound of the doorbell as it flung itself full-tilt at his nervous system. If a doorbell can be said to have subtext, the implied message within the monotonous high-pitched jangling was something like this:

2am, we said - 2am. But here you are, standing around like a slack-witted oaf, peering around your poxy living room at this dispiriting collection of dust-bound miscellany - gawping at each item of car-boot-sale tat as though it were the Elgin Cunting Marbles - what is that about, eh? It may not have occurred to you, but beyond the dingy confines of this rats' nest you live in (and beyond the far dingier confines of your half-arsed, vague, and happily fruitless ambitions) there is a world full of people with things to do, possessed of the wit and ability with which to do them. That is how things happen in the world, my friend: people get it together.

Perhaps you are better informed, but to our knowledge, there exists no field of human endeavour that has ever been advanced by people standing outside doors in the middle of the fucking night like idiots because some retarded crapsack on the other side has neither the sense or the common courtesy to honour his commitment to what is - let's face it - a very simple arrangement by opening the fucking door at 2am like he's fucking supposed to! Having opened the door like he was fucking supposed to, the artist was a little disconcerted to get the impression that he hadn't. Normally, his door gave onto a rundown street, and the absence of that familiar scene on this occasion left him both puzzled and disturbed.

Even allowing for the lateness of the hour and the local council's rather haphazard approach to street lighting, he should have been confronted with something less unsettling than a solid wall of darkness, he thought. When the solid wall of darkness spoke in a genial, measured tone his disturbance lessened slightly - though his puzzlement momentarily went off the scale. "We're not late, are we?"

Stepping back and lifting his head slightly, the artist was able to discern that the penumbrous formlessness that seemed to have replaced the outside world was, in fact, an enormous man whose frame filled the doorway almost entirely. From the slivers of sodium light that squeezed their timid way through the chinks of empty space not occupied by the giant, a tousled mop of hair, a benign expression, and a shirt of quite unsettling paisleyness could be observed. Unfortunately, in the last case; it was truly awful - ruffles and everything. "No; not at all," the artist managed to squeak after having taken what felt like a geological age to process things. "Two o'clock, right?" "Indeed so. Well...here we are." As the artist digested his well-spoken caller's words, he became aware of a powerful scent that seemed to rise from the doorstep beneath his feet; a rich, yet strangely cold aroma, redolent of autumn and something much, much darker. Before he could give it a name, his visitor stepped back from the doorway and turned to one side and the odour was drowned out by the usual dog shit and post-industrial despair pot-pourri of the street. A thumb only slightly smaller than a peeled banana was jerked into the night, and a tortuous metallic screeching noise rent the silence. Peering past his visitor's bulk, the artist saw that the noise was coming from the front passenger door of an ancient Volvo estate car. Slowly, painfully, in a series of jerky movements reminiscent of a Ray Harryhausen dinosaur, the rust-cankered door opened wide enough for a second caller to emerge.

Continued...Next Page (3/7)

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