“It depends on the strength and type of acid used, I imagine. From an international point of view, this is very embarrassing for us, Mr Bryant,” said the warden. “Many of the paintings in the show are on loan from the Commonwealth.”
“Including the one that was attacked?”
Stokes nodded miserably.
“Where had it come from?”
“A gallery in Southern Australia. Adelaide, I believe.”
“The painting is insured, though.”
“That’s not the point.” Stokes drained his mug and set it down. “It’s not a particularly important picture, but even so it’s quite irreplaceable. If it can’t be saved, Mr Bryant, a piece of history has been eradicated for ever.”
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
4
Liquefaction
The stalking man halts dead in his tracks, and I rush up behind him at such a terrible speed that I can’t stop, and the future turns, and the vile beast is at once both familiar and strange, horrific and inevitable. My mouth stretches wide to scream, but he reaches out and fills the betraying cavity with his hand, and I can’t breathe. His fingers reach into my throat, nails tearing at my mouth, reaching deeper and deeper towards my soul, and I know that I will die in a matter of seconds…
Her scream was muffled by the bedclothes knotting themselves around her. Jerry fought her way free and jumped from the sweat-soaked bed. She fell to the floor and lay naked on the carpet, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal.
She had never seen anyone die before. Was it any surprise she was having nightmares? He was supposed to have suffered a heart attack. But why had there been so much blood? The man was old enough to die, perhaps his time had come – and yet – to be confronted with such sheer, overpowering finality. Her childhood had passed in the quiet frustration of being seen and not heard, in the patient wait for a chance to show the world what she could do – and to be confronted with mortality now, to be gripped by a man in the very act of leaving the world, what could be a more terrible omen for the future?
The dream was an old one in a new guise. As she angrily thumped the pillows, determined to blot out visions of darkness, she knew that something had awoken inside her.
The therapist would want to know why she had missed her last session; he’d be waiting to report her latest imagined ailment back to Gwen. At least lying to him gave her something to look forward to.
VANDALIZED PAINTING SPARKS SECURITY ROW
The National Gallery is at the centre of an escalating international row following an incident yesterday afternoon when a valuable artwork was vandalized beyond repair. The painting,
The Australian minister for the arts, David Carreras, has lambasted the National Gallery for its ‘shoddy and inadequate’ security arrangements, and is said to be considering legal action against the British government.
As this year’s Commonwealth Congress is expected to examine new European rulings on the movement of national treasures between member countries, Mr Carrera’s rebuke could prove to be an ill-timed embarrassment for the government. In the light of the vandalism, the Greek government is expected to renew its campaign for the return of the Elgin marbles.
Leslie Faraday, the newly appointed junior arts minister, is now likely to head an inquiry into the gallery’s security arrangements. Faraday’s appointment is a highly controversial one. It is only two weeks since he allowed New York’s Museum of Modern Art to purchase Andy Warhol’s
The offices of North London’s Peculiar Crimes Unit had finally been settled directly above the red-tiled arches of Mornington Crescent Tube station. After two months the space was still cramped and overflowing with packing crates, most of which were filled with bulky pieces of technical equipment.
The unit had left its old home in Bow Street (where it had been housed for more than thirty years) to devote more time to its specialized investigations away from the distractions of round-the-clock petty crime. Set up by a far-sighted government during the war, the PCU remained the last resort for unclassifiable and sensitive cases. Police stations like Bow Street and West End Central were occupied by the daily churn of ordinary criminal offences, crowded with colleagues asking for advice and reports waiting to be filed. Too much procedural paperwork, too little room to think. One day, the detectives hoped, the Peculiar Crimes Unit would be freed from the Met’s interference in their business, but that time was still a long way off.
Here, above a busy junction pulsing with traffic, it would at least be possible to concentrate on complex cases serially, with less interference and interruption. Only time would tell whether the new system worked or not. Failure would prove costly for police and public alike.
A series of piercing horn blasts caused John May to tip his chair forward and watch from the arched window as, two floors below, another black diplomatic limousine was escorted through a red traffic light by police motorcycles. He’d read that Common Market delegates were gathering in London for next week’s conference. That meant the usual abuse of diplomatic immunity privileges, traffic accidents and shoplifting charges quietly folded away. Momentarily distracted, he missed what Oswald Finch was saying.
“Repeat that?” he asked, pressing the receiver closer to his ear.
“…Vascular dilation to an extraordinary degree, and tissue lesions you could poke your fingers through…”
“Wait, backtrack a minute, Oswald, you’re losing me.”
There was a sigh of impatience on the other end of the line. “Really, John, it would be better if you came and saw this for yourself. He’s laid out right in front of me. It’s absolutely incredible.”
“Oswald, do I absolutely have to?” John grimly recalled the stench of chemicals and cheap aftershave that always accompanied his meetings with the pathologist. Finch was a brilliant man, but possessed the same graveyard enthusiasm for his job that troubled children had for picking insects apart. His was not just a career chosen by individuals for whom death holds no terror. It was chosen because he really,
“You know, autopsies usually only take a couple of hours, but so far I’ve spent over seven on this one. It’s playing havoc with my timesheet. You really should see what I’m seeing, John.”
“All right. Give me fifteen minutes.” May replaced the receiver, checked the baleful sky beyond the window, and reached for his raincoat. He needed to find his partner, and he had a good idea where to look.
The strength of John May’s surprisingly handsome features, the straightness of his spine, and the clarity of his eyes commanded immediate attention. Those unfamiliar with his profession would have marked him for a corporate head, a natural leader. He continued to dress fashionably, although it was difficult in a London currently enslaved by cheap Lord John suits with foot-wide lapels, and although his immaculately groomed mane showed a few grey flecks he continued to enjoy the fascinations of his youth, those fascinations being, in no particular order: police investigations, gadgets, women, classic cars, television (all three channels), and science fiction. Members of what were once called The Fair Sex still featured in John May’s life; he would always turn to appreciate an attractive face or figure, and would be flattered to find his attention still reciprocated. The minefield of modern sexual politics lay waiting in the future.
The girl standing behind the multicoloured counter of the Brasilia Coffee House smiled when she saw him enter. “If you’re looking for Arthur, he’s back there,” she told May, pointing to the rear of the steamy cafe. “He’s very moody this morning. It’s about time you did something to cheer him up.”
“All right – I get the hint.” He threaded his way to the back of the room.
