The Forger and the Thief by Kirsten McKenzie

Author:Kirsten McKenzie
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-9951369-2-2
Publisher: Kirsten McKenzie

The sound reverberated off the stone walls, amplified by the ancient tiles. Stefano’s heart stopped, and he needed only to follow the hubbub of the tourists to identify the source.

There was something about a disaster which drew the crowds, and from the wave of excited gasps, he expected an absolute catastrophe.

Like shells on a beach after a storm, fragments of the fingers and toes of an ancient sculpture littered the floor. A polished arm lay at the feet of a crying boy, snot dribbling from his nose, his teacher tugging at his jacket. A squall of similar children tittered in delight at the devastation in front of them, the noise a crescendo echoing through the halls.

Tears sprung from the corners of Stefano’s eyes. David lay broken on the floor. Not the David, but a lesser regarded version by Bernini. A sculpture Stefano had spent his entire adult life caring for. It was like losing a child. He... no, he wouldn’t think of that. Grief threatened to crush him.

The museum director arrived.

‘Merda.’ One all encompassing word, blanching his skin as he surveyed the carnage.

‘That will be hard to glue back together,’ the policeman said.

‘Clear out this room, close it off,’ Seuss commanded.

Stefano flicked his eyes towards the security guards who’d arrived slower than a sloth on heat, flinching as Seuss barked at them, gawping at the destruction. Would they still have a job after today?

The guards bustled into life, ordering the visitors to leave and placing inadequate velvet barricades across the doorways.

‘Do you want to find out who was responsible?’ Stefano overheard the policeman asking Seuss, recognising the reproach in the policeman’s voice. Seuss wouldn’t put any effort into finding the culprit, he’d had an unidentifiable number of artefacts go missing under his watch and hadn’t lifted a finger, until today.

‘There’s no point. Unless someone admits to it, there is little we can do,’ Seuss replied.

‘But the cameras?’ the policeman gestured towards the cameras Stefano had helped instal.

Seuss shrugged. ‘Even if the guards were watching the screen, look,’ he said, gazing around the hall, ‘everyone has left. Even if we identified the person responsible from the footage, they are long gone. No, this is now in the hands of our insurance company to sort out. It is convenient that you are here. You can tell them that the museum was not negligent in its duties. We’ll go back to my office and await their call.’

Stefano watched Seuss striding back to his office, the policeman following. He stood like a lost soul amidst the devastation.

‘I’m not sure if I can repair this,’ said a voice behind Stefano.

A short woman moved next to him, her stubby fingers laced through her short hair. Karen Knowles, the museum’s lead curator.

‘Karen,’ Stefano nodded to the curator with a grudging respect. When the museum had appointed a New Zealander, he’d raised his eyebrows at the decision to use someone from a country with less history than his furniture. But she had headed off the director’s more outlandish

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