PICTURES OF LIFE – Chapters 1-2

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CHAPTER ONE

He was beginning to sweat, and he knew he was reaching his climax. Momentarily, he looked out of the window and saw the full moon in the sky. The houses in the street seemed to radiate its mystery. What lives are led in those houses, he asked himself, what tales could be told?
Such thoughts seemed important to him at that moment. He was so close to completion. He pushed back his over long brown hair and gingerly scratched his beard. Then, summoning every last ounce of will, he picked up his brush and, in a flurry, carried out the strokes that would complete the picture. And as he lay back, exhausted, Peter Picasso knew he had produced his masterpiece.

Dale Crawford was not, yet, in the mood for laying back. He, too, was approaching climax, but not of the artistic kind.
Beneath him, Rachel Hollis writhed. She enjoyed her occasional night with Dale. A little rough for her usual tastes, he nonetheless had a ruggedly handsome face topped with blonde hair, and a muscular body that allowed him the strength to please her like no other man could.
She held his muscular frame tightly as she climaxed, digging her nails into his buttocks. Then, as the waves of pleasure began to fade, she released him from her grip and relaxed.
‘Thank you, Mr Crawford,’ she eventually said, catching her breath and offering one of those smiles.
Dale lay back beside her, a cigarette in his mouth. ‘Don’t say that,’ he snapped, aware of the age difference between them. He was thirty two years of age, whilst Rachel was barely twenty. And that wasn’t the only barrier between them, for whilst Dale struggled to make a living as a taxi driver, Rachel Hollis came from the richest family in the street.
He turned to look at her, immediately putting such thoughts to the back of his mind. What else could he do as he feasted his eyes upon her. For Rachel lay back, the sheet by her waist, her breasts firm and inviting. Her long brunette hair fanned out on the pillow, and her eyes stared longingly. All Dale wanted to do at that moment was kiss those beautiful lips once more and take her.
It was at that point that there was a scream from the next room.

But had he?
This was the thought that occupied Peter Picasso at that moment. Had he painted his masterpiece? He was no longer sure. And as self doubt invaded his world, he began to sweat.
Predictably, he did this a lot. In his mid-thirties, he had been artistic for as long as he could remember. As a child, he doodled away, placing everything in his life in pictures. Indeed, his pictures were his mind; his thoughts, his hopes, his fears, his happiness?
No, not happiness. There had been little of that in his life. Orphaned at an early age, his life had been one of children’s homes and foster parents – of campuses and bedsits – with nothing to impede his artistic temperament. Or maybe his pictures were simply his neuroses given expression?
Peter Picasso thought about this a great deal. He thought about his ability and he thought about his mental health. Maybe he was just mad, and his pictures an anarchy of mind which guaranteed his madness would continue. Aware of this, he had changed his name to Picasso, as this reflected the man more than his original Gainsborough.
He looked at the painting once more. At first sight, it seemed a normal painting – nothing special. It was a view of the street at night from his window. It was only when you looked deeper that you noticed each house seemed to echo the personality of the occupant. Hence, some houses were happy, others were sad. The occasional one was hardly there at all, as if ghostly.
Jack’s house was like that. And Peter wondered why …

‘Don’t go,’ said Rachel as Dale Crawford rose from his bed.
Dale looked back to her as he put on his dressing gown and scowled. ‘Don’t be selfish,’ he said, ‘you know I’ve got to go.’ But such duties were an alien world to Rachel Hollis.
In the next room, Bobby Crawford was sat up in bed, his eyes staring into space. As Dale entered the room, he wished he wouldn’t do that. It spooked him every time.
Momentarily, he sat on the bed beside his son and said: ‘Another nightmare?’
Bobby Crawford was ten years of age with mousy hair and a squint. With a slight, almost pained body, Dale wondered if he would ever grow up to be a man. But every time he thought so, he chastised himself and reminded himself of his love for his son.
Bobby yawned, turned to his father and said: ‘I was in this hole and I couldn’t get out and I thought I was going to die and it was horrible dad … ‘
Dale caught him in mid-stream, placed his arm around him and pulled him to his chest.
‘Well, it’s over now, Bobby. You can go back to sleep.’ And as he cuddled his son he heard the rush outside in the landing, and the slamming of the door. It’s over now, he thought. Until she wanted him once more.

Why the thought came into his head, Peter Picasso had no idea. Maybe it was the product of his chaotic mind. But the thought entered his head that Jack was no longer alive. Then another thought came to him and he rushed to the picture and painted.
Soon, sated, he lay back again and observed.
Flames licked at the walls of Jack’s house, and smoke billowed into the sky; whilst outside, a yellow, flickering flame erupted, framed in a window, but as yet, unobserved.

CHAPTER TWO

Jack Thomas was approaching the twilight of his years, but at eighty years of age, even he couldn’t have imagined how close the end was. He was not a rich man, neither had he been a particularly moral one, but he considered it had been a good life. And he would have felt cheated to go in such a way, if he had had the presence of mind to think such thoughts.
The flames, when they came, were swift and cruel. They seemed to burst into the room, preceded by a sudden rise in temperature. As they arrived, it seemed as if they were a monster, probing this way and that, searching for something else to consume. And it was almost as if they spied Jack, said ‘aha,’ and pounced.
The kiss of flame on his body prompted Jack Thomas into action. After all, before this he had been simply mesmerized, watching the monster before him. But when action suggested an escape through another door, he was shocked to discover the monster had spawned a twin, which at that moment consumed his door frame.
When Jack Thomas finally did do something, he was crazed and desperate, rushing through the flames and erupting as if a fireball.

Vernie James had no idea of the drama being enacted so close to him. True, the flames had not burst from the confines of the house, and it was even still possible not to smell the burning. But even if the signs were apparent, it was doubtful that Vernie James would have noticed. For Vernie James was thinking only of the woman he had had that night.
It was typical of Vernie. A man of fifty with dyed black hair and tailor-made suits, his self-importance was evident. Not particularly tall and not particularly good looking, he nonetheless had a confidence that overrode his physical limitations. And it was a fact that women tended to be fascinated by him. Although, it must be said, not as fascinated as he was with himself.
Vernie James smiled as he exited his car, but it was a smile without mirth. Infact, it was a smile devoid of most emotions we would normally associate with a smile. When Vernie James smiled, it was a smile of conquest; another notch on his mission to raise his self-esteem, to be better than the rest. It never occurred to him that with such an attitude he couldn’t even enter the race.

It was as he was locking the car that Julia James, his wife, found herself stood at the bedroom window. Forty years of age, Julia James still retained the good looks of her youth, but a closer inspection would out the fact that age was creeping upon her swiftly. Yet whether this was due to the advance of years or the miserable existence she was forced to endure is open to debate.
Her head throbbed as she stood there, glaring. She flicked her long blonde hair out of her eyes to get a better look. This was due not only to the gloom of night, but the fact that drink often makes the eyes refuse to focus.
Images flooded into her vision – of Vernie dead, mutilated, made to cease to exist. It was a fantasy that seemed to keep her sane. But we must question if having such fantasies could be classed as sane in the first place. But we can forgive Julia James her fantasy – it is well deserved; she has lived the life and gotten the T-shirt.
She wasn’t quite sure why she took her eyes off her husband at that moment. Maybe Vernie’s intent to look across the road passed, psychically, to her. But at the same moment, two pairs of eyes noticed the flickering orange in Jack Thomas’s window. Yet, once this synchronization had ceased, actions were different. Vernie James hurried along the footpath and disappeared as quickly as possible into his house. He passed Julia on the stairs as she ran, exited the house and screamed ‘fire!’

Dale Crawford lay in bed thinking, his arms behind his head on the pillow. Rachel had invaded his thoughts briefly, but he realized she was not an important part of his life. She was a distraction, a means to let off steam, to ease his frustrations. If she never came back, he would miss what they did, but it was doubtful he could miss a selfish girl such as her.
No, principal to his thoughts was Bobby. Why had the nightmares begun again? They had seemed to ease after his mother had …
He couldn’t bring himself to think about it. It was too painful. For him and for Bobby. But time was healing now. He no longer thought of her every second of every day. And Bobby’s nightmares had stopped. But now …
It was at this point that a sound invaded his thoughts. At first he didn’t realize what it was. He had a vague idea that Julia James was in the street, screaming. Rumours had been going about that she was drinking again, but Dale hoped they were untrue; hoped she was not out there, in a drunken stupor. Then the word, ‘fire,’ entered his brain, and Dale Crawford was immediately alert.
He ran down the stairs four at a time, fastening the belt of his hastily retrieved trousers, and burst through the door. Flames could now clearly be seen leaping out of Jack Thomas’s house. A crowd had begun to gather, several people advising, ‘I’ve rung the fire brigade.’ But the thought struck him, why is no one going in to save him?
Dale Crawford realized immediately that he would have to be that person. As such, he steamed through the crowd and began to kick the door with his foot.
At that moment the flame-monster decided to vent its anger, and a window exploded in a cascade of glass and flame. A pulse of heat erupted from the house, and Dale was thrown to the ground. Immediately attempting to rise and try once more, a hand touched his shoulder and he turned.
‘Don’t do it, Dale,’ said Julia, ‘it’s madness.’
In the heat of chaos, sanity can sometimes rule. And Julia, leant over him in the glow of the fire, lighting up her face, had a calming effect upon him. He looked at the fire and realized the hopelessness of further heroism, and in the distance a siren could be heard.
Slowly, Dale Crawford stood up, dusted himself down, and was surprised to find he was holding Julia’s hand. And even more surprised to realize it felt right.
A second’s guilt invaded his thoughts then. Julia was married, and instinctively he turned to her house, hoping her husband wasn’t watching.
Vernie was stood at the bedroom window, his body highlighted by the flickering light of the fire. But he wasn’t watching Dale or Julia. He was staring, fascinated, into the flames. And it immediately occurred to Dale what a coward Vernie James was.
He felt guilty no more.

(c) Anthony North, October 2007

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