***

  This is Stephen Hargadon’s sixth story to appear in Black Static, including his very first published story ‘World of Trevor’ in issue #40 and his most recent appearance ‘Listen, Listen’ in issue #51. He was joint runner-up in the 2016 Irish Post short story competition. His work has appeared in a number of publications. He is currently working on a novel. Visit him online at stephenhargadon.co.uk.

  IN THE FRAME

  CHARLES WILKINSON

  Luke’s walking away from the old town and downhill towards the railway station. Tint of dusk-pink below grey cloud cleamed like stucco above the terraced shops; to the west, the sleeping blue mountains. Past a dingy hairdresser’s with the door open – one chair with a man having his hair clipped by a bald barber; a newsagent’s with last century lettering above the lintel; the yellow fascia of a takeaway – sour scent of grease; a curry house boarded up.

  Beyond, the road widening into double lanes: a vista of retail parks, fast food chain restaurants and squat white hotels with flat roofs and rooms for conference delegates and commercial travellers. A strange part of town to put an art gallery, but Callum had been clear: It’s in a unit on the Endfield estate, not far from the station. It’ll be amazing. Like a total synaesthetic experience: words, pictures, lights, ambient sounds. It’s not just some old guy’s easel paintings. Patachandra’s an incredible all-round artist.

  He should have brought his phone or at least written down the directions. But Luke tells himself he likes getting lost. The benefits of a digital detox: a few wrong turns bringing a fortuitous discovery and he will have an excuse to use the word ‘serendipitous’ when he arrives. He wonders what sort of people will be at the gallery. After a man in a fedora got off the train at Reading, he’s seen no one dressed remotely like himself: a Trilby, tight selvedge jeans, worn with vintage tweed jacket, red brogues and a spade of beard, which has attracted a few jibes from youths in tracksuits and baseball caps. Perhaps he’ll look out of place even at the gallery. There’s something incurably small town about Callum and his friends, half of whom had only managed the foundation year at the local art college before settling for work as bartenders or baristas.

  Heavyweight petrol fumes at the traffic lights. Gridlock at half past five. He tries to put back the bounce in his stride, but already clammy evening mingles with the scent of asphalt and exhaust. In spite of himself, he feels irritable as the lights change and the traffic snarls off. Now he’s left the small shops behind he’s a solitary pedestrian, beginning to stumble as he walks on a narrowing path by the grey river of road that separates him from the glimmering shopping malls and warehouses on the further bank. There’ll be no chancing upon a charming artisanal bakery or undiscovered bistro.

  Then the sign to the railway station. A sharp turning and he sees the gables of red-brick Gothic; the stacked mock Tudor chimney on what must once have the stationmaster’s house.

  It’s darker now. The moon emerges as a brass rubbing: pencil marks on a roundel of white paper. To his left, a car park and a vast supermarket lit up like a priory. Tiny worshippers are filing in under a portico gleaming with buttery yellow light. There are no signs of an art gallery. Two taxis are idling at the rank outside the station entrance.

  “Excuse me,” he says.

  The driver winds down the window. Apart from the lights on the dashboard, it is dark inside the cab.

  “Do you know where the Golden Age Art Gallery is? I’m told it’s on an industrial unit not far from the station.”

  “Sorry, mate. You won’t find no art galleries. Not round here.”

  Although he can’t see the man’s face clearly, he can hear the smirk in his voice. Even so, he persists.

  “The Endfield estate. My friend was very definite about that.”

  “Could be near the bus station.”

  The man makes a movement with his hand and the window slides up with a derisive hiss. The narrow path beyond the station recedes into the shadows, a high fence on one side, tall trees on the other. Luke turns in the direction of the car park. Every space is occupied, but there is no one walking across the tarmac, either towards or away from the vehicles. For a moment, it is almost unnaturally still, as if all the drivers are congregating inside the supermarket, their heads bowed. If there are any units with small businesses and workshops, they could be on the other side of the road – or at the end of the path, which must lead somewhere. With the light fading fast, it makes sense to check the path first.

  He’s only a short way in, yet he can hardly make out anything more than a foot ahead. As he glances up for reassurance, the night sky is still bright enough for him to see the tangled black branches marking the distance between himself and the magnitudes of space. His shoes are beginning to slip on what feel like fallen leaves; the air smells dank and muddy. Then just as he tells himself it would be wise to turn back, he sees a puddle of yellow light. He turns the corner. On the right-hand side, there’s a low wooden building with a porch. Two men are standing outside on the decking, one on either side of an open door. At first, Luke’s reminded of nightclub bouncers, but as he moves closer he notes they have a curious solidity, as if they have been standing there for a very long time. They are dressed in brown and green fatigues, yet their uniform looks more arboreal than military. Their large white faces are flat, the essential features of mouth, eyes and nose almost insignificant in the surrounding flesh. Above the lintel is a triangular sign on which the words the albion bowling club have been painted in spindly, dendritic letters. Neither of the men turns towards Luke as he walks between them and into the club.

  He’s in a space unaccountably larger than the building’s facade implied. In front of him is a long bar with brass rails and beer pulls; to the left are raised ten-pin bowling lanes, so numerous that they recede into the distance. A few people are playing. None of them glances towards Luke as he walks to the bar. At the very far end, a woman is putting glasses back on to a shelf. He’s about to go round to her, when she turns and at once hurries towards him, a white dish cloth flapping on her arm. Once she’s within a few feet of him, he notices her thin pale features and wide eyes, agog with wonder – or fear.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but do you know where The Golden Age Art Gallery is? I’m told it’s nearby.”

  “No, no. I don’t know anything.”

  “It’s near the station. It has to be somewhere close. On some kind of industrial park, I believe.”

  “I’ve told you – no! This area… I don’t know anything about this area.”

  She has half turned away from him, as if she will rush back to her task the second she is certain he will leave the building.

  “But surely—”

  “Ask them, ask them,” she says, pointing at the door and then edging away.

  He checks his watch. It is disturbing that no one has heard of the gallery. He will have to inquire at the door. Why didn’t he ask the men on his way in? Neither of them has looked in his direction, but is it possible they are standing closer, as if ready to slide together like two great panels of oak?

  ***

  Luke walks up the ramp and past a blackboard on which the words exhibition open have been chalked in a wavering hand. Inside, people are milling around, taking off coats, hats and scarves. There is a table by the door, but no one manning it; the event must be free. As he enters, he’s surprised there’s no catalogue on the table – not even a sheet of paper with the prices of the paintings listed. In the next room, some people, who have the look of middle-aged, provincial gallery goers everywhere, are staring at what appear to be blank white canvases. Such predictable fare! Perhaps Patachandra will appear later. He hopes there will be more to the event than white on white: abstract painting being pushed to a place where it’s already been too many times before.

  There’s a makeshift bar on which glasses of red and white wine have been arranged in rows, but no sign of Callum lingering there. It is unlike him to be late. Luke takes a glass of wine and follows a man in jeans and a brown corduroy jacket into the first room. The pictures are numbered but untitled: the first is an unprimed canvas in a simple wooden frame; the second’s painted completely white. The exhibition is strangely well attended, but considering ‘absence’ is the subject matter the crowd’s moving very slowly. Luke recalls attending similar events with Callum’s sister. After his move to London, she followed him there. Her suicide on the London Underground occurred three months after the breakdown of their relationship. Although her brother has been admirable in his refusal to link the events, there is information that Luke has not shared with him. How many times when there’d been a delay on the underground had he made his views clear to her? I’ve nothing but contempt for those who throw themselves on the line. There are so many more perfectly adequate ways to dispose of oneself without inconveniencing other people. It’s just an act of petty spite. Those words or something very similar.

  A woman moves past him and on to the next picture. Perhaps the point of the absence in front of him is to make him reflect. Is that why people have been proceeding slowly, looking for ‘echoes’ of what perturbs? Although he’s always argued that a certain amount of emotional dishonesty has its uses, it is impossible for him to deny a connection between what he said and the manner of her passing. She’d left no note, and so fortunately no one’s pinpointed the reasons for her death. Her motive must have been more than a desire to cure him of contempt.

  The next canvas has a touch of cream in the white – and brush strokes that are more in evidence. He looks around for Callum. Now he recalls it is his friend who is giving him a lift back to the village where they grew up, as well as a bed for the night. He thrusts his hand into the pocket where his phone would have been. Should he ask someone to lend him one? He can’t remember the number. Panicking prematurely is not the answer. Callum is bound to turn up. It is inconceivable he’s forgotten. Besides, he could still be somewhere in the gallery. How many more rooms of blank pictures are there?

  As he proceeds, Luke once again has the impression of being in a space that is larger than he’d suspected. Yet when he tries to summon an image of the building from the outside, he recalls only the ramp and the open doors revealing the gallery goers in the foyer. He runs a mental rule over the evening’s events: everything clear until he turned to leave The Albion Bowling Club. Then only a faint recollection of being directed, presumably by the men on the door, to cross the main road, turn left and go over a bridge. He remembers nothing from the journey, apart from what is less a visual memory than the residual physical sensation of having crossed a bridge.

  The pictures are still blank, aside from a few scarcely detectable lines, possibly tiny cracks, on the white vacancy. He inspects another five canvases before it’s apparent that they’ve been painted in a shade of white that’s almost grey. Then he sees Callum standing by the door that leads onto the next room. His friend, who has his back to him, is dressed in his habitual uniform of black denim. He is studying a canvas on which the lines now suggest the shape of snowy mountains beneath a vast white sky.

  “Hello, Callum,” he says, tapping his shoulder.

  The face that swings towards him is not that of his friend. This man’s older and has a wispy beard; surprise swims in his pale green eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” says Luke. “A case of mistaken identity. I’m supposed to be meeting someone here.”

  “So your friend’s a member, huh?” The accent is soft North American, possibly Canadian.

  “No…er…perhaps. He simply told me to come here… The Golden Age Art Gallery.”

  “Just one problem,” said the man, smiling distantly. “This isn’t it.”

  “Well, where am I?”

  “This is a private view. For members of the Gogmagog Group.”

  “Oh, who’s the artist?”

  “There’s more than one. We collaborate and then exhibit anonymously.”

  “I was told the Gallery was here.”

  “Really! Who by?”

  “The men on the door at The Albion Bowling Club.”

  “Huh, those guys. They’re such humorists. The Gallery’s right at the back of the Bowling Club. I’ll tell you what…when I’ve finished, I’ll drive you over. I might have a beer and then see what’s on.”

  “Some sort of multimedia artist. Patachandra.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be outside once you’ve finished.”

  Luke thanks him and goes on to what proves to be the last exhibition space. The canvases are larger. Now the lines of the landscape are more definite; in the foreground, there’s often the suggestion of a frozen stream; in one, the clouds have been given greater density, the whole sky freighted with a cargo of snow. But picture by picture the valleys, crests, and summits suggest the folds of bedclothes and crinkled sheets; then the shape of a giant sleeping under a counterpane of ice. Only the last painting implies an awakening: the snow feathery, except on a crag shaped like the hand of a colossus, reaching upwards, as if to drag some vast body through the blankets of sleep.

  ***

  They’re walking past the station. The rush of a train, not stopping. Through the entrance Luke glimpses the windows flashing like white card after white card slapped down onto the dark night’s table. There’s one lancet window in the facade lit up even though the ticket office has closed. The roar of the engine and carriage-rattle changes key – then fades.

  “What did you make of the exhibition?” says the Canadian, who’s walking beside him.

  “In the end, it turned out to be just another raid on the myth kitty.” As soon as Luke says these words, he remembers his companion must be a member of the Gogmagog Group.

  “But that is not to…” The dishonest words stick on Luke’s tongue.

  “The show was by losers, for losers, and about losers. Is that what you were going to say?”

  “No, not all. I’m sure that in its own way it is all very…worthwhile.”

  “That right? Well, the giants lost. You’ve got to admit it.”

  As they reach the narrow path, the Canadian falls a step behind.

  “Are there any connections between the Gogmagog Group and the Golden Age Art Gallery?” Luke asks, over his shoulder.

  “You could think that, I guess.”

  For a moment, they continue in silence. He hears the Canadian’s breathing and the sucking sound of shoes on the mud. It’s now so dark Luke can hardly see anything. He looks upward. The sky seems closer, slammed down like a black lid. He doesn’t like to admit he’s not entirely grasped the gist of the Canadian’s meaning. Of course, they were both aware of the legend that the Ancient Britons had overcome a race of giants, but it was implausible that anyone could take this defeat personally. Nevertheless, the man had gone from apparent affability to being very put out.

  “This group? I’m sorry if I was a little dismissive. In fact, some of the work is technically very assured.”

  No answer. Luke stops and turns round.

  “Hello? I was saying that the—”

  The darkness is shiny, almost palpable. If he stretches out a hand, it will be sticky, as if just macadamised. Presumably the Canadian has turned back, although he did not hear him squelch away. Whatever the explanation, the man has vanished in a thoroughly ill-mannered fashion. Luke walks forward, listening for sounds of movement behind him, but there is nothing.

  Just as disquiet turns to panic, he spots the pool of yellow light at the corner. He quickens his pace and then, sooner than anticipated, he’s walking towards the entrance. For a second, he thinks he’s come to the wrong place. Instead of the men by the entrance there are two wooden statues well over eight feet tall. As he draws nearer, he can make out coarsely carved facial features and claw-like hands. The bodies are in the process of emerging from timber; below the thighs, the legs are separated by a single stroke before uniting to disappear beneath the bark. He’s relieved the bar is open. As he strides inside, he scans the seating area for Callum. He can only hope he hasn’t given up and gone home. Several of the lanes are occupied; he hears the clatter of a flush strike followed by the whirr of the pinsetter. Those playing wear the uniform of postal workers. Most of the tables are occupied. It’s not until he reaches the bar that he sees Callum seated on a stool at the end farthest from the entrance. He waves, but his friend is hunched morosely over a pint glass.

  “Hi, Callum,” he says. ‘Sorry I’m late. I was here earlier, but I was given completely erroneous directions and…”

  Very slowly, Callum straightens; twists his upper body towards him. His face is different: somehow larger, rougher, although the eyes have shrunk and appear wider apart, isolated screw-holes with a deep glint of disappointment.

  “Drink,” he says.

  Although it is more an imperative than a question, Luke tries to take control: “I rather think not. It’s very late. We’d better go straight through before the event’s over.”

  “Late, early. That sort of stuff doesn’t work round here… Drink,” he adds, and this time it sounds more like an explanation. Nevertheless, he slides off the stool and stretches.

  Then Luke notices: his friend’s stained jersey with holes at the elbow; the shirt collar worn down; too large trousers, shapeless and ripped; a patch over one knee. Has he lost his job?

  “Well, it’s good to see you. How are…”

  “Things?” A terrible, stretched smile. “Still, you’re looking prosperous. Right on track.”

  “I haven’t done so badly. Since you mention it.”

  Now Callum is standing he’s considerably taller than Luke – which certainly wasn’t always the case. Possibly the floor slopes in a way not obvious to the naked eye.

 

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