The Lock Up

CHAPTER ONE

The fingers slowly bent backwards, snapping one by one with a sickening crack, hanging like pale ribbons tangled in a breeze. “No!” Edgar cursed under his breath as he watched the fruits of his labour fall apart in front of him. The clay continued to crack along the length of the arm and torso of the figurine. He sighed and stared at the window, sunlight streaming in and slashing its way across his latest creation. It was the heat and light that had caused the clay to dry too quickly on the outside, forcing it out of shape. Angrily, he pulled the shutters back across, convinced he had shut them when he had left that morning. The whole thing was ruined, nothing but scrap.

“What the fuck do ya think yer doin?” The grating voice crawled up Edgar’s spine and he froze. He was back.

“The eh… the light…”

“What about the goddamn light?”

“It’s damaged my work, too hot, and the clay…”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your pathetic hobby.”

“It’s not a hobby, it’s my livelihood.” Edgar stood straighter and stuck out his chin in defiance at the shadowy figure lurking in the gloom of the doorway to the other side of the lockup.

“Yeah, whatever, fruit loop.” The hulking shadow slid into Edgar’s side of the shared unit, the cruel features of Henry illuminated in a sickly yellow-white glow cast by the single lamp above the workbench, making his face distorted and inhuman. “When I’m working, I need all the light I can get in this shithole.”

Edgar shrunk, deflated, and intimidated by the overwhelming presence of his co-inhabitant. Moving back, he began to dismantle the figurine and break up the now useless clay, hoping to at least save the frame it was built around.

Henry watched his every move with hungry, malice-filled eyes. “Want to see what I’ve got to play with?” A grin cracked its mirthless way across Henry’s face.

Edgar paused, his back to the doorway. He could feel the eyes boring into the back of his head and his heart was gripped in ice. Schooling his features from fear to interest, he turned and smiled weakly, nodding, and indicating that Henry leads the way. He followed at a distance into the darkness that was Henry’s workshop, a row of ancient lights casting a ghastly, sickly yellow glow over a vehicle shrouded with a tarpaulin.

Edgar paused as a chill crept up his spine. Henry slowly pulled the sheet from the damaged vehicle, dented and broken at the front, its bonnet crumpled like the wrinkled face of Henry, who was grinning manically, his eyes revelling in the horror that Edgar tried to hide.

“Where did you get that?” Edgar tried to control the tremor in his voice as the words squeezed themselves through his tight lips. Flicking off a piece of mud stuck to the buckled roof support of the rusted and dented car,

Henry took his time in replying. “Well, I was looking for a new project and hey,” he gestured at the wreck, “this came up in a junk sale.” Trying to hide his smile, he slowly walked around the car and leaned across to Edgar. “It was cheap. They say it was pulled out of a ditch on some godforsaken back road. Police had it a while, think it was involved in some hit and run incident.” Henry didn’t miss the flinch and flicker in Edgar’s eyes, despite his attempt at keeping his features schooled.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, never did catch the driver. They say a couple of people died, but hey, you know how stories grow arms and legs.” The grin was humourless. “Can’t say that about the victims though, can we.” Henry laughed a grating, vicious cackle.

“You’re a sick individual, Henry.” Edgar could feel a cold sweat break out on his brow.

“Maybe, fruit loop, but not as sick as the fucker who mashed up two pedestrians then drove off.” His face twisted in mock innocence. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Edgar swallowed hard, his heart racing as he backed away to his own side of the unit. “I’m not playing your stupid games, Henry, I’ve got to go home.” He turned and fumbled with his keys as he stumbled towards the door.

“Just lock the whole fucking unit, Edgar. I’m pulling an all-night stint, want to get some answers from this hunk of metal.”

The steel lockup door slammed shut and with trembling hands, Edgar turned the key in the old lock. He was furious with himself for letting Henry get to him; he had truly hoped the shithead had gone for good. It had been a few months since he had disappeared from the lockup that he had asked to share.

Edgar remembered the dark and drizzling day Henry walked into his life. It had been a couple of weeks after the… Edgar stopped his train of thought, shuddering. He had been unsure of Henry from the start; there was something repulsive about him, a darkness, like black mould eating through a wall.

But things had been tough; there was an economic downturn, his art wasn’t selling as much as it used to, and he wasn’t exactly an ‘A-lister’. So, he had reluctantly agreed, letting Henry use the old garage section that still had a pit and small office. It was dark and unsuitable for Edgar’s work – ironically, he usually needed full light to work the details into the models, but not today, not for this work. He gritted his teeth at the destroyed figure. That would cost him. He would have to start again and use more of his rapidly dwindling clay supply.

Sticking his hand into his pockets, Edgar fished out some small change – there was enough to buy some of the overprocessed gloop that passed for burgers in the fast-food place on the corner of his street. He crossed the road in the diminishing light and pulled his hood up over his ponytail of greying hair, stray strands catching on the stubble peppering his thin chin. Standing at the counter waiting for his plastic burger, he mused on his forty years on this beautiful world.

Almost all of it had been torturous in one way or another, his artistic temperament allowing him to not only see the glorious detail in everything around him but also the stark horror and desperation that flowed through a deprived area in a backwater town. Everything stood out in harsh details; he could see the good and the bad that existed side by side in the polished images of everyone – everyone, that was, except himself. Edgar was the epitome of the struggling artist, gaunt with a pale complexion and haunted-looking eyes.

Dotty leaned over the counter, pressing the wrapped box into his hand. “Gave you some extra fries, sweetie, you need some meat on your bones.” She smiled kindly, her blood-red lipstick unable to hide the cracks and wrinkles of her lips.

“Thank you, Dotty, I will pay you back, I promise.” Edgar took the bulging box and nodded, trying to hide his shame. This is what he had been reduced to; grateful for charity from an old lush working a late-night burger joint.

He crossed the street to the run-down apartment building and climbed the stairs to his attic studio room. He squeezed through the door and leaned against the wooden frame, rotten with flaking paint, his meal still clutched in his hand. Taking two steps to his right brought him into the ‘kitchen’, which was a worktop, two cupboards and a tiny hotplate, set stupidly close to the tiny refrigerator lurking under the work surface. He pulled out a plate and gave it a cursory rub to remove the thin layer of dust, emptying the contents of his meal box onto its surface. The fries threatened to fall off the edges, but he skilfully stacked them up as he fished out a knife and fork. Edgar surprised himself sometimes; most people would have eaten right out of the box, but no, he was determined to maintain civilised behaviour.

Walking a further two steps, he reached the single armchair with the small table pulled up close and sat down, placing his plate gently on the scratched and scored wooden surface. To say the flat was bijou would be wildly exaggerating; it was a glorified attic which miraculously managed to squeeze in the kitchen separated by a paper-thin wall from a shower room with a toilet.

To free up space, Edgar had fitted a cabin bed recycled from an old boat. It could be folded up against the wall for extra room and it was just big enough for him alone. Not that Edgar was expecting any company, no; his life in that respect had been one failure after another until he had decided that a companion was never going to happen. Hell, he would have settled for male or female at one point, but not anymore; he just didn’t have the energy for anything other than his work.

The only thing Edgar liked about this shitty place was the ceiling-to-floor window which took up the entire wall on the far side of the tiny room. He loved that window. Often at night, he would sit with no lights on to pollute the view and gaze across the small town to the distant mountains, marvelling at the myriad of stars glistening across the sky unencumbered by light pollution from the sparsely lit town. Edgar didn’t possess a television – life was his entertainment. Sitting in the dark, no one outside could see him watching them act out their personal dramas for his amusement.

Leaning back in his chair, the dirty plate pushed to the side, Edgar gazed at the stars and tried to quell the niggling fear inside of him. Henry was up to something; he could sense it as surely as a mouse senses a cat lurking in the dark. How the hell had he found that car? Could it just be chance? Such things were possible, but knowing what Henry was like made him uneasy; the odds against him finding that particular car, the costs of recovery, then bringing it back here, were astronomical. If he didn’t know better, Edgar thought that all the time Henry had been away he had been looking for that car, as if he knew his dirty little secret.

Taking a deep breath, Edgar stood up and washed his plate and cutlery before carefully putting them away. He needed to paint. A wooden board on an easel always had paper pinned to it, but tonight Edgar needed oil, not watercolour – no pastels or subtlety was required here. He rifled through a stack of old work and found a canvas that he placed on the easel, lit by the faint streetlights and starlight from outside. The canvas had an old work still adorning its surface, a pleasant but cliched pastoral scene of trees, meadows, and cows. Picking up his palette, he used a flat knife to score a streak of blood-red paint across the blue sky and grazing oxen. This was going to be an abstract, a reflection of his mood, and his mood that night was dark.

CHAPTER TWO

The steel door rattled open, scraping its bottom edge along the gravel. Edgar stepped through, bracing himself for abuse from Henry, who would probably still be sleeping in the old office after his ‘all-nighter’, most likely fuelled by Mr Jack Daniels. He was met by silence. Frowning, he peered into the darkness of the garage section and saw the side door swinging slowly in the light breeze.

“What an arsehole!” Edgar fumed as he stormed over and closed the door, locking it from the inside. He didn’t have much but he did have re-sellable welding equipment along with various lengths of steel and wire to make frames for his creations. Taking a deep breath, he regrouped and went to work trying to recreate his figurine from the previous failed attempt.

Eight hours later, he was done. Henry hadn’t appeared and from what Edgar could see the wrecked car was still under the tarpaulin in much the same condition as the previous day. Looking around for inspiration on where to place the wet clay to dry slowly over the next few days without the risk of heat stroke from an uncovered window, he was startled by a knock on the door. “Hello? Anyone in?” An elderly lady popped her head around the frame and squinted into the workshop.

“Hello, yes, sorry, was at the back. Can I help you, madam?” Edgar strode forwards, wiping the remains of the wet clay from his hands.

“Well now, what a polite young man.” She moved in to meet him, her expensive shoes and designer coat not going unnoticed by Edgar; this lady was most definitely well-heeled.

He smiled ingratiatingly. “Thank you, madam. Sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink, even the water is not suitable for human consumption, I’m afraid.” The smile faded slightly on the lady as she tried not to show disgust at the mere thought of drinking anything from a lockup.

“Well now, that’s absolutely fine. I’m looking for an artist, a Mr Edgar Hydeford?”

“That will be me, madam.” Edgar extended a now clean hand which she gracefully intercepted.

“Oh, well, that’s fabulous, please call me Angela.” She smiled again warmly at him. “Angela Worthing.”

“How can I help you, Angela?” He watched as she glanced around the workshop. Model frames lay around in various stages of construction.

“Well now, I was told you were an artist, not a sculptor.” Angela seemed to glide on her fancy heels towards his newly finished work. “This is breath-taking.” She admired the slowly drying clay with a connoisseur’s eye.

“I’m both, Ms Worthing.” She turned and regarded him, not missing his more formal response.

“Well, that’s even better.” She grinned mischievously at his puzzled look. “I am an art dealer of sorts and I have a few stores dotted here and there around the country. We support local talent, promote them and give them a wider audience.” She paused as Edgar’s face took on a cynical look.

“How much?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How much do I have to pay for you to display my work?” He leaned back against the counter, arms folded with disappointment churning inside of him. He had met these scam artists before.

“Oh no, Mr Hydeford, you are mistaken. I wish to purchase some of your work to display in my new store.”

“Where would that be?”

“Main Street, just down from Bingo’s Burger, you know, in town.” She stepped forwards and placed her hand gently on his arm. “I know there are some unscrupulous dealers out there; that is why I started my business. You will be paid a fair price for your work, and if you are given any commissions on the back of sales from my shop, well, they are one hundred per cent yours, we don’t take a penny.”

“Is that the double unit that was being renovated over winter?”

“Yes, do you like how it has turned out?”

“Well, to be honest, I never really took much notice.” Edgar stared at her in disbelief – this was an opportunity of a lifetime. The break he had so longed for was standing right in front of him. “I’m sorry, Angela, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything, it’s just that I have been scammed before.”

“Not at all, not at all, I completely understand. Here…” She placed a very expensive business card in his hand. “These are my contact details. If you could provide me with a sample of your work in two weeks’ time, that would be wonderful.” She glanced again at the new work. “If this is complete by then I will most definitely buy it.” On silken heels, she turned and noiselessly glided out of the lockup into the bright sunlight beyond.

Edgar stared for a moment in shock at the card, then shaking his head he rushed to the door but was too late, a sleek Bentley was disappearing along the potholed road, skirting around the worst of the caverns, its purring engine almost silent.

Later that night, Edgar sat and flipped through his paintings, selecting his traditional watercolours with sellable but predictable scenes, the sort of things a chain hotel would put in their rooms or foyers. Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder at the oil canvases stacked facing the wall. All his work in oils were abstract, wild, obscure, impulsive; not for your average buyer, maybe not sellable at all. Edgar never showed his oil work; it was his secret release, a window into his troubled soul. He mused; maybe this time he could show just one, just once.

Gingerly, he approached the small stack of work as though it would turn around and snap at him like a cornered wild animal. He pulled the first one free. A spiralling flash of yellow, reds and greens filled the canvas with their frenzied activity, seeming to move by themselves off the flat surface as they rushed around in eternal confusion. He put it to one side and picked the next one; this time, a flat study in blues of different lines pulled the viewer’s eye into an offset focal point filled by a tiny figure curled up in a ball, hands covering the head, trying to block out its surroundings. He nodded and put it in the watercolour pile. The third was a mix of black and dark grey waves, like an angry ocean at midnight lapping around a single circle of white, the edges blurred as they merged with the darkness around it. Again, this went into Angela’s pile.