Rodeo

I wondered what it was that had me aiming to please Oran.  From the smashed Wolf Man mug to execution of a burglary, I had gone out of my way to keep the man happy, a man who in all truth was not the sort to elicit respect or kind treatment because he wasn’t prone to dealing out much of it himself.  I never saw my own self as eager to be liked but both Berrills had certainly made strong impressions on me. This would be the second breaking-and-entering in a month brought about by my association with the hermit siblings.  I wasn’t sure how a judge would assess each case if they were brought before the courts, but, as with the cinema trespassing, there would be no actual breaking done because someone had very kindly left the back door of the building open.  I wasn’t completely surprised.  It wasn’t so tempting a property for local wrongdoers.  And the wall was an oppressive one.  Not a wall the common thieves of Earlship would be interested in scaling.  I surprised myself by getting over it in the state I was in. 

 

Fully aware I was committing a felony, there was consolation to be had in situating my predicament within the great and distinguished history of art theft in Ireland, a footnote would be good enough, bearing in mind my violation was not in the same league as the Russborough House robbery, and our Montescu martlet was no Goya or Vermeer.  Also, I took comfort in the premise that everyone might forgive me for the crime when they heard it was Lavery I was stealing from.  They may see him as the Sheriff to my Robin.  And The Martlet itself a corrupt and evil system which no self-respecting working man or woman should trust anyhow.  I could ride some of that wave of hate against my employer and maybe get away with it.

 

Having gained access to the building I found myself in the large pantry in the back which nobody but the cleaners used – cupboards were bare but for cleaning materials; through the adjoining corridor, I passed Ida Roche’s office on the right, the only space for a member of staff on the ground floor, since the main offices were on the floor above.  Before ascending the stairs, my heist was put on hold, as I heard, or thought I heard, the sound of voices coming from somewhere close, perhaps even from within the building.  But I wasn’t fit to scarper just yet; the sound was so faint I couldn’t be absolutely certain of its origin.  I kept moving up the stairs and when about to reach the very top, it became clear that there were indeed voices nearby; in fact, they were emanating from the offices frontwards.  I was about ready to turn and get out of the place when the door at the top of the stairs opened.  The long woman’s shadow beamed across the ceiling.   

‘Jesusmarinjoseph!’ cried Phyllis Berrills, when she saw me there.  ‘What are you---?’

‘What are you---?’ I returned.

Then a voice behind her.  Arthur Lavery suddenly there too.  He was wearing his Guns N’Roses T-shirt which I hadn’t seen him in since he was asked to host at the Maytime Festival, when he attempted casual attire on stage with all the desperation of the most cowed politician history ever witnessed.

‘What are you---?’

There was nothing to return but the truth.

‘I’m drunk.  And I broke in.’

‘Why for the love of God?’ asked Phyllis.

‘I had it in my head to pilfer something.’

‘And we caught you in the act,’ said Lavery.

‘As I the pair of you, it appears.’

Awkwardness.  I prided myself in my ability to jockey criticism and point the finger at anyone but myself, even to dropkick the subject altogether.  It was a hard-attained skill I put down to the years of copyediting. 

‘Nothing happened,’ said Lavery, shiftily.  ‘I’m a married man.’

‘I can attest to that,’ said Phyllis.  ‘But, come on, Arthur, there’s no denying this all looks rather curious.’ 

‘I wouldn’t judge either of you for it,’ I said, reassuringly.  ‘It pleases me to know you’re satisfying the carnal needs.  And it’s common knowledge that Mr Lavery is no stranger to infidelity.’

‘Here, don’t you go sticking your nose in my private affairs, I mean, transactions, I mean, you know, comings and, I mean, goings, you know . . .’

‘Give it a rest, Arthur,’ said Phyllis.  ‘He invited me round here after the fire.  A dalliance was probably on both of our minds but we’d yet to discuss those matters until your intrusion.  All we’ve done so far is a little brandy.’

‘My apologies,’ I said.  ‘Companionship is of utmost importance in this world, I know all about it.’

‘My better half, you should be aware, is a respectable and greatly enlightened woman.  Ever since our wee ones left the nest, there’s been unanimity between us with regards the marriage, our union is one of total esteem for the other’s unique and individual demands.  Anyway, let’s get back to the little issue of your malfeasance.  Did you mean to break the safe open?  You wouldn’t be leaving with much.’

‘No, I was after something else.’  Glancing towards Phyllis.  ‘I was trying to help you and Oran out if you must know.’

Phyllis sighed and withheld.

‘I wonder what help this paper could be to the Berrills any longer,’ pondered Lavery.  ‘Much havoc has happened already.’

‘The fire,’ I said.  ‘They aren’t insured for it.’

‘Well now, that’s pretty foolish.’

‘The original policy expired,’ said Phyllis.  ‘Who expects a fire anyway?  Most people will go through their entire lives without their houses catching fire.’

‘No knack for security.’

‘If we’d known a thief was buzzing around, we’d probably have locked up better.’

‘I’m no thief by nature,’ I said. ‘But I won’t lie: this isn’t my first rodeo.’ 

‘The first time you’ve been thrown from your steed though,’ said Lavery.

‘Betrayal to burglary in one evening,’ said Phyllis.  ‘Good job.’

‘Betrayal – what do you mean . . ?’ I said.

‘I’m only messing, ye muppet.’

‘I thought you’d know better,’ Lavery then said to me.  ‘Crime doesn’t pay.’

‘Neither does the job.’

‘Oh, now it all comes out!  You’ve picked a funny time to ask for a raise, you cheeky wee prick. Am I to call the guards now?’

‘I’m sorry, will you not,’ I said, pleadingly.  ‘I’ll be honest with you, I wasn’t even sure if I was going to go through with the whole thing.’

‘Nor me,’ said Phyllis, quietly, to herself.

‘You’re partially there,’ said Lavery.  ‘You got as far as here and now.’   

‘I’ve a few in me, I hope you understand.’

‘I understand the appeal of the drink, but not your penchant for larceny.  Which reminds me.  What exactly did you mean to pinch anyway?’

‘The painting.’

‘What painting?’

‘The Martlet.’

‘Oh, the one in my office?’

‘That one.  Yes.’

‘Oran’s got inside his head,’ chortled Phyllis.  ‘The assumption is it’s a rare and valuable fake painting.’

‘It’s not fake,’ said Lavery.  He continued talking as he turned and glided towards his office.  Phyllis and I followed.  ‘I’ve been up close to it.  The paint is very real, I can assure you.’

‘It’s the artist that’s fake.’

‘Oh – a famous one?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said.

 

Lavery brought us into his office and we all took a closer look at the painting.  It was a competent piece of art and certainly unusual.  The background sky was caught between dusk and night-time with gemlike stars visible above the bird and vermillion clouds below it.  There was something like sarcasm in how Montescu had chosen to portray the martlet.  It wore an expression as ambiguous as La Gioconda’s.  It appeared bemused by its own quandary – that it was a bird in flight with no feet with which to land.  It seemed aware of itself, even aware of the painter capturing it in this state of being, and there appeared also (to my eyes, at least) a somewhat kamikaze attitude in the way it jutted its frustrated head forward, as though it knew there was no going down for it, except upon death.