Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Four - Part Nine

The entire staircase was filled with light from the paintings. When Sam saw them he felt agitation and suspense. This was the right place. He was minutes perhaps from finding out where Jack was. Which was fortunate; Harrison, his private detective, had just called. The electoral register was a dead end.

Directly on the other side of the front door the stairs reached down what looked like two storeys. The paintings covered every brick: black paint as a base then the images themselves in bright luminous and ultraviolet colours. Sam started down the steps.

It was the Apocalypse: the image on the walls and roof, a huge mural that stretched all the way down the stairwell to the cellar bar; a nuclear blast, tearing apart the bodies of men and women; of the children; the souls of the dead being ripped from their bodies. The pain and misery was captured perfectly in the medium. It was a stark work of clarity but was imbued with an abstractness as well. In the same moment the faces were perfectly realistic and transcendent. It was different from anything Sam had ever seen.

Near the bottom of the stairwell were angels, gathering the souls into their arms, an image that could have seemed claustrophobic and dark but didn’t. The pain of the bomb meant nothing now to these spirits. They had escaped all suffering. It wasn’t a tragedy at all.

As Sam got down to the bottom of the stairs he reminded himself who the artist was. It wasn’t beautiful; it was filth; horror that had sprung from that man’s mind.

The pub was quiet; no more than eight people drinking or playing pool, apart from the barman. The bar ran round the opposite left corner; circular tables filled the lower floor area; alcoves around the entire room, each one lit up and filled with a picture, painted again right onto the black bricks. Sam didn’t look at them as he crossed to the bar.

Man in a suit serving: he looked out of place as though he wasn’t used to it. A woman was sipping from a wine glass and talking to him. Sam caught his eye. “Hi there. You the owner of this place?”

The man nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Yes I am. What would you like?”

“Actually I was wondering about these paintings. They’re amazing, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.” The man nodded, scanning the room. “I love them. I love this place actually. They’re the reason I own it at all you know.”

“Really?” Sam leaned onto the counter.

“Yeah. A fried of mine’s the artist who did it all. He gave me the idea of buying the bar in the first place. When I saw his paintings I just had this vision of how the place could look with his paintings in every alcove. So I hired him to do it when I bought the place.”

“What’s the artist’s name?”

“Jack Catholic.”

“Never heard of him,” said Sam, shrugging.

“He hasn’t made it big yet,” replied the owner, “but he will. Wait and see. And then this place’ll be worth millions.” He laughed. Sam laughed too, turning away to scan the other people for a second.

“You two talking about Jack?” The woman leaned closer to join in the conversation: thick black hair greying at the roots; red dress revealing the curve of her breasts and the smooth skin on her shoulders. She looked forty-five, plus or minus four.

“Yeah,” said the owner, “About the paintings.”

“They’re amazing aren’t they?” said Sam.

“Yes,” she replied. “Beautiful.”

“Does the guy who painted them still live in London?”

“Far as I know,” said the owner. “Haven’t seen him for a while now. I think he moved but he’ll be back soon enough. He always returns eventually.”

The fingers tightened in Sam’s fist. They weren’t going to be of any help in finding him.

“He’s got that girlfriend now,” said the woman; twitch of irritation in her eye. “That’s why we haven’t seen him.”

The owner shrugged. “If you’re interested in buying any of his work I could give him your name and number next time he comes in.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think I could afford anything like that at the moment and I’m not going to be in London long anyway.”

“Pity,” said the woman. “He’s an amazing guy.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He’s something really different. It’s like he isn’t just human like the rest of us, do you know what I mean?”

“Not really,” said Sam.

“Like he lives in a different sphere from the world that lets him paint the way he does. I can’t really explain it. You know what I mean Frank, don’t you?”

The barman nodded. “I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“And you never will again,” said Sam, turning.

“Say what?” asked the barman.

Sam didn’t reply.