Saturday's Child by RAY BANKS

Author:RAY BANKS [BANKS, RAY]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: det_crime
ISBN: 0-15-101322-5 / 978-0-15-101322-7
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2008-10-24T04:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-NINE

More time to kill, and the beer is wearing off. I think about another drink, maybe something stronger, but I don't want to chance it after last night. It's a short step from that first shot to becoming a bloodstain on a bed sheet.

Instead, I wander into town, looking for something free to pass the time. Pass a pub that looks too dingy for me and check my watch. Just after four. I find myself outside a gallery, then inside. Not my usual cup of tea, but it'll while away a couple of hours. A sign says I have to turn my mobile off. I ignore it.

An exhibition of portraits, or so the posters say. I follow the signs, stop in front of a huge painting. Proper Old Testament stuff, it looks like. When I read the plaque, it tells me it's the destruction of Sodom. From the looks of it, a Catholic put that bastard on canvas, probably Scottish. Fear and sadism. I remember it from my childhood. Sometimes I thought about telling my dad I was gay, just to see him hit the roof. But cowardice kept the thought at bay.

I move away from the painting, scan a couple of country- side landscapes that don't do anything for me. Usual sheep and lakes. An England that never existed except in the imaginations of those rich enough to buy this shite.

A guy in a black leather jacket shows the same distaste. I don't blame him. Then I head upstairs for the portraits.

The door to the exhibition has a blackout curtain over the

glass panes. Looks like it's closed, but I try the handle anyway. When I step inside, it's dark apart from a circle of upturned televisions in the centre of the floor. And this white noise of voices, sounds like screaming, and they're all out of sync. Movement catches my eye, and there's a young guy bent almost double, walking around the circle. For some reason, I can't breathe.

I stare at the young guy, wary of him. It sounds like a killing floor in here and the way he moves — slow, deliberate steps backwards, thrown into relief by the flickering tellies — he looks like something out of Twin Peaks. Jerky, but purposeful. I can't quite make out his face, not sure if he has one.

He looks straight at me and I nearly shit myself.

Not as much as he does, though. He twitches with fright, then straightens up, makes for the door.

Christ. The guy was just like me. And we scared the hell out of each other. I stay in the room for a while longer, crane to see what's showing on the televisions. A choir, different shots, looks like old footage from the Proms.

No wonder he got a fright. This is some creepy stuff.

The door squeals open again, and the guy in the black leather jacket steps into the room. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look at the televisions.

He just watches me.

I watch him right back.

I stay where I am.

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