The Artist of Death - chapter 2

The Artist of Death – Chapter 2

Tobin sat back in his chair, crossed his arms and stared with an overwhelming feeling of dejection at the plaster figure that he had been working solidly at for the past fourteen hours. He shook his head sadly and tossed down his file in frustration. He had in his head what the product should look like but what he saw before him was no where near what he wanted the finished image to be. He worked from his imagination. Seldom did he make drawings of what he was going to do before setting out. An idea came into his head and he went with it. This might be one of those times when he needed to break the rule.
Taking a deep breath and blowing it out through his nose he got off his stool and trudged from his studio, downstairs into his kitchen. As the electric water jug came to the boil he heard the grating, putt-putting of the mail man’s motor cycle outside and pulling back the net curtain he saw him thrusting some envelopes into his mailbox.
More bills, he thought. Poverty stalked him daily. So close was its presence that it now sat in his arm chair, legs crossed, and leered at him.
With muddled thoughts he finished making his coffee and wandered out the door to retrieve his mail. The hinge of the metal flap groaned and squeaked as he pulled it up and, as it always did, the box twisted on its pole.
As he grabbed the letters he straightened the box, an almost daily ritual. Almost daily because sometimes he never got mail, then he wandered back inside. Slowly he read through the senders address. Two bills, one was his credit card; he tossed these to one side. He didn't need to open them, not now. He wasn't going to depress himself by reinforcing the fact that he owed three and a half thousand dollars on his credit card. The other was his phone bill. That one wouldn't be so bad.

The third article was the one that most intrigued him: A cream envelope, type written. He plucked his letter opener with its tiny bronze colored figure of a kangaroo on it out of the tomato can that served as a pen holder and slit open the flap.
He pulled out a single sheet of paper, cream, just like the envelope and read the letter head; 'Mocock Gallery of Fine Arts.'
The letter, succinct, was three paragraphs long. The first introduced the sender. The second telling him what they wanted. His heart skipped a beat and his spirits soared. It was several moments before he calmed himself enough to read the third asking him to respond.
Punching the air in triumph he snatched up his phone and punched in the number of the gallery.
Nervously he waited while the phone rang. Five rings and then he heard a woman’s voice on the other end. "Hello, can I please speak to Emma Mocock," he asked.
"This is she," the voice came back.
"Emma . . . this is Tobin Goffe. I . . ." He never got the rest of his sentence out as the female voice interrupted him and then totally overwhelmed him with its voracity.
He grinned broadly as she confirmed was she had stated in her letter. He had been asked to supply eighteen assorted paintings of oil, acrylic and watercolors for an up and coming exhibition.
"No problem . . . yes, yes of course . . ." he stammered, ". . . inside three weeks . . . yes, fine."
After he had put the receiver down he read the letter over again. Emma Mocock had seen a work of his, an impressionist painting done in oils and she found it, as she reiterated on the phone . . .
". . . Fascinating, darling . . . at last someone with imagination and talent . . . its fresh, vibrant . . . it demands your attention . . . "she had gushed,

"It's been too long since someone with your innovative ideas appeared on the scene. . . . Let me have a selection of your works as soon as possible . . . keep in touch . . . please."
He gulped down his coffee and raced back up to his studio. No way in hell did he need three weeks, in his studio there were enough of his works to fill any gallery around town.
Taking a deep breath he surveyed his studio. This was where he did all his work. An area of no larger than twelve feet square made smaller by the fact that it was half in the roof and the walls slanted inwards and upwards to the apex. Two windows, one on each side of the roof let in the light of day. The glass had seldom been cleaned, if ever and what light that did get through was diffused because of the grime. The floor was littered with the remnants and debris of plaster-of-Paris and empty paint tubes, dust and dirt completed the mess, which Tobin added to on a daily basis. Half finished works were discarded like a toddlers toys at the far end of the studio, waiting the time when he might feel the urge returning to getting back and finishing them.
He looked at the canvasses of his completed pieces, stacked eight, nine deep against one of the walls and then kneeling began sorting through them. Five hours later, after picking and sorting, rejecting and reselecting, he had arrived at what he felt was the cream of the crop. He struggled to his feet and his knees, aching from kneeling, complained bitterly. Hobbling across the studio he sat in his Windsor chair and looked at his selection with quiet satisfaction.
This wind fall had come at the best possible time. His savings from his previous job had begun to wear thin. It might have lasted him another month but then he'd have to re enter the work force and his dream of being a self employed artist would once more taken second place. He would spend the next few days framing the paintings.
It was late afternoon and he'd scoured all the second hand dealers he could find in an effort to get what he wanted but it was his old friend Des Carter, as usual, that rescued him.
Tobin strode past the usual jumble of bric a brac scattered outside the front door, entered the dimly lit shop and scanned the interior. Spying a stack of frames to one side and more piled nearby on shelves, he picked his way gingerly over to them. Des's shop was the usual obstacle course and reaching the frames, began to shuffle through them.
The shops grubby proprietor traipsed over to him. "Ow yer goin' Tobin my boy?" he rasped, the familiar cigarette flapping from the corner of his mouth as he spoke.
"Good Des, really good thanks."

"What yer after?" he asked, taking a suck on his cigarette before taking it from between his lips with two nicotine stained fingers.
"A few decent picture frames.” Tobin scanned the assortment of frames, narrowing his eyes slightly when he thought he spotted some that he could use. “You don't mind if I sort through do you?"
Des shook his head and shrugged his shoulders at the same time. "Nah, help yerself. Ere let me give you a hand," and he lifted a few from the shelves.
"Des," began Tobin, "I really appreciate you helping me out like this. I'll pay you just as soon as I get some money."
"Yeah, yeah," replied Des. "Tobin, there's no rush son. I haven't sold a frame for months so I'm not missin' anything. Come to think of it we ain't sold much of anything," he moaned. He looked over the selection that Tobin had made and asked, "You got enough there. ’Ere," he said, dusting off an ornate gilded frame and handing it to Tobin, "take this one too."
"Thanks Des, you're a real pal."
The cigarette resumed its position in the corner of Des’s mouth as Des grasped a framed and examined its edges. “I know. Jean says I'm a mug, but I tell 'er, if yer can't help out a mate, who or what are yer, that's what I say."
The process of picking out the frames took longer than Tobin had wanted but then he knew that his presentation had to be spot on. Carefully he looked each frame over, looking for any damage that might be too severe to correct until he had the amount he wanted and the sizes needed. Most of the frames would have to be altered to accommodate the different size canvases that he had. It wasn’t a problem that caused him any concern. He had the necessary tools to take care of corrections and it wouldn’t be a long job.
Des helped Tobin load the frames into his Toyota Corona and the old man watched as the beat up vehicle pulled away, blue smoke belching from its exhaust pipe, like smoke from a wheezing dragon with a heavy cold.
"Too much bloody oil in the engine," he muttered, "I keep telling him 'e puts in too much but does ‘e listen, nah, of course not." Des shook his head and went back into his shop. Des’s inflated balloon feeling of well-being was soon punctured.
"Des Carter you're a bloody fool," his wife chastised him as he shuffled back to the desk, "you know you'll never see a cent for those frames. God almighty man! If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times . . ."
"Yeah I know. It's locked into my brain. I've 'eard it that often... "
"So, why is it that you take no notice? Gawd, give me strength, times is tough enough as it is wivout you givin' stuff away . . .

"Jean, please,” Des interrupted, "'e's a mate . . ."
"'E's a blood sucking, idle toe rag," she exploded. "'e gets a job for a few months then chucks it in an' then sits on his ass all day paintin'. ‘Ave yer seen some of his stuff? Shit, Des, monkeys could paint better than some of the garbage 'e churns out . . ."
Des had given up listening, his attention focused on the crossword.
"You listening?" she asked, prodding his arm.
"Not any more."
Jean angrily began to stride away then stopped. "I don't know why I waste my breath, really I don't."
"Me neither," he muttered under his breath.
Des and Jean had been married close on forty years and had grown comfortably apart, yet not too far to call the marriage quits. Although they bickered and quarreled constantly, their need for each other far outweighed their desire to be apart permanently. They understood each other perfectly and knew their boundaries. While love and lust dominated their younger lives together, companionship and an understanding tolerance prevailed in their daily togetherness now.
Jean had been a very pretty woman in her youth with brown hair that shone like polished bronze. Years later, four children and a hard life of constantly wondering where the next dollar was coming from and an over exuberance in soft-centered candy had taken its toll, so that now instead of the slim girl who used to glide into a room, she now gave the impression that she was pulling lead weights across the floor. Her shoulders were always hunched. Jean didn’t have a single spare tire around her waist; she had four.
Des although still fairly solid looking had done what all middle-aged men had done; developed an overly large stomach so that when he stood naked down to his belt-line his belly hid the buckle and the belt for that matter.
Jean glared at him and with a wave of frustration strode off to the back of the shop. Both knew there was little point in pursuing the disagreement. Neither would win and frustration and resentment would be the only victors.
Two days of solid work, Tobin finished putting the last frame on a favorite water color of his and stepped back. All the frames he had got from Des's had needed a little restoration work, some more than others, done on them but the colored mounts he had used transformed his work and he was more than pleased at the final results.
He called Emma.
"Tobin, darling! So good to hear from you. How's it all coming together?"
"All ready," he replied.
"Wow, that was damn quick! You don’t hang around, do you?’" she enthused,
“It wasn’t hard. In my studio I got a monstrous collection to choose from the biggest problem was choosing what to put in.”
"Well goody. I'll arrange to have them collected tomorrow morning if that’s okay. Will that suit you?"
"Sure. Yes that's . . ." he never got the chance to finish.
"See you in the morning then," she chirped. "Byeee."
He heard the click as she rang off.

Tobin wasn't sure what to make of Emma. She had the refined tones of an educated woman; the attention span of a three year old child and the avidity of newly-weds on their wedding night. Scratching his head he tried to put a face to the voice but came up with nothing.
Rubbing his hands together in triumph he picked up the evening paper and sat, with a satisfied grin on his divan. Riding on a wave of euphoria, he turned the pages without really taking anything in. He felt sure that this was his big break. Already he could see the dollars rolling in as he sold picture after picture. He turned the page and his eyes were met by a scantily clad woman with alluring eyes and full breasts.
The name caught his attention, 'Nikita's Lounge and Bar.' He read through the advert. "A good way to celebrate," he said to himself. “Have a little fun and entertainment.” Then he remembered his precarious financial situation and pushed the thought out of his mind.
Tobin's mind spanned the years and his thoughts rewound to when he and Laura spent so much of their time together taking each other to the giddy heights of sexual ecstasy before Robert sped up in his Porsche and wasted no time in snatching her from his grasp and whisking her off into the sunset, screeching tires and all. God, he thought, had it had been that long? That was past. It wouldn’t be too long, he mused, and he might be riding around in his own flash sports car. Laura was nothing more than a faint memory now. He’d had happy times with her and there were times when he missed her. But he felt sure she hadn’t given much thought to him when Robert soothed her mind with thoughts of jewelry, fast cars and a seemingly endless opportunity to travel and none of it costing her a bean.
He still had some pictures of her around some place. Sketches that he had made when they were young and in love, or so he thought. Did she truly love him? Perhaps she did at one time but that emotion, on her part, evaporated rapidly when a life of ease and comfort was waved in front of her nose. Losing her was a body blow that he found difficult to recover from and he had been alone ever since. True, there were times, many of them, where a woman had expressed a deep and intimate attraction for him, even to the point where he felt something for her in return. Yet the hurt that had been inflicted on him had scorched him too deeply for him to want to risk getting third degree emotion and psychological burns again. So he did what any sensitive creative person in their right mind would do; buried himself in his work and fuck the rest of the world.