Blood for Blood Page 6

  ‘Grotesque,’ they said of my work. ‘Twisted’. Lesser talents garnered acclaim through subject matter found in a vase or a meadow. They played it safe. Cowards. No originality. Flowers need not be set in a meadow to attract the art-loving public. Other settings can attract artistic acclaim. As does notoriety. The cutting off of van Gogh’s ear is as much in the public consciousness as his Irises. I was a great disappointment to my father. And so endeth the personal history lesson, excluding reference to one period in my life to which I shall not refer. It was most disagreeable.

  I found little in the way of cash in Jackie and Lisa’s apartment. I never take personal items, such as jewellery, and of course never televisions or anything of that nature. Selling them on might attract the police. I do however always take home videotapes.

  Jackie’s and Lisa’s were particularly entertaining. I viewed them at home over a bottle of Chablis. The camcorder on a tripod in their bedroom – which I did help myself to (I had it in mind to film their final moments, which I could then study in detail in order to improve my technique) – had indicated that they were lovers. One tape showed them in bed with a third girl, a delicate little creature with blonde hair, sandwiched between them. I watched them for an hour or so and then an idea presented itself, and I decided to do what I had never done before: indulge myself. I compiled two copies of the tapes and addressed one to each of their mothers.

  The fact of the matter was that I had selected the two models because I had never before painted a pair, only singles. And I wished for one particular piece, over and above December, to crown my collection. I was also anxious that when the finished work was eventually sent to a gallery of my choosing, its existence would be marked by something fresh and original. A unique provenance, as it were. It would not only depict two lovers, it would carry attached to it the story of how their mothers had been involved in its creation. I had a provisional title for it: Duet. Artists must name their work.

  Then I went downstairs.

  In each of their rooms I placed a very large wooden box, then went into room number three and raised a flagstone. The rats came out from below it – the large black variety that grow to eighteen inches, including the tail – up through a chute I’d made and into a hutch. I closed off the chute, emptied the hutch into the box in Jackie’s room, repeated the exercise until it contained thirty or so, bolted the lid, then did the same in Lisa’s room.

  Rats were not my first choice, I feel it necessary to point out. I had initially considered Dorylinae as a method of extracting information. Dorylinae may be better known to you as army ants: nomadic predators spectacular in their hunting raids. They form a family group, the Formicidae, which divides into ten subfamilies. Their posterior abdominal stings inject venom which allows a colony to pick a rhinoceros clean in three days. On the march they will eat any living thing too slow to get out of their way. And therein lay my difficulty. My rooms afforded no sanctuary in which a model could get out of their way.

  You see, and I concede that I have studied this only on a cursory level, though I have also had some experience from quarters that most people would rather not hear of, the art of interrogation appears to lie in applying the most pressure while creating the least pain. I’m referring to my own particular needs: pressure can be damaging emotionally, whereas pain is invariably damaging physically. Too much physical damage and the model’s natural beauty becomes scarred and diminished, and death may occur before information is extracted. Counterproductive. Time is also a factor. By allowing the model to witness the painful outcome of non-cooperation, it is not so much the pain itself but the thought of the pain which generates the most fear.

  I had had in mind a variation of an old Native American method. Whereas they would bury a victim up to his neck in sand (ambient temperature courtesy of the parching sun), his mouth fixed agape to facilitate the unbroken flow of treacle from an anthill to his oesophagus, then smash the anthill, enabling the little fellows to eat their way along the trail (their advance to be assessed at his leisure) and find within him enough food to do them for the winter, I myself found the ritual to be unsatisfactory for my own particular purposes, the vocal chords being necessary, as it were, to extract information. Far more conducive to start at a person’s other end.

  By placing a piece of meat on the ground, then allowing a number of ants to feast upon it, the attentive victim would observe that which lay in store should he or she choose to be uncooperative. By then strapping the victim – in this case my two guests – to the floor, legs apart, and pouring treacle, by way of a funnel, in through their aforementioned ‘other ends’, the ants could then consume the treacle all the way into their insides, which would be subjected to the same fate as the meat. Nature’s original pincer movement.

  But I forewent this technique. Ants are difficult to control. Not all would follow the treacle. Others would feast on the subjects’ skin. Painting them would be less rewarding, particularly if their faces and breasts had been pincered.

  Rats, of course, are ultimately and more speedily capable of creating a similar conclusion. Hence my use of the wooden crates. Once locked in, the rats could not get out; though, to the victim, they eventually would. Which engendered a quandary. What, after all my safeguards, if they did get out? I would not be any more celebratory than my models, whom I did not wish to be blemished. This I would overcome by introducing a measure of incentives. I would furnish replacement timbers, hammers and nails. You may feel constrained to point out that by so doing, my guests could avail of an opportunity to bludgeon me to death, or to knock a hole in the wall and make their escape. Do not alarm yourself. I was imminently cognisant of the former; concerning the latter, the walls’ cavities were steel lined and the doors of sufficient tenacity to withstand a horde of Olympic hammer throwers. A trifle overstated, that last remark. My apologies to you for my eagerness to allay your concerns.

  Suffice it to say that the self-explanatory nature of the incentives would allow my guests to consider the benefits of incrementally frustrating the rats’ inexorable foray by shoring their defences. You may question the wisdom of this. Better to expedite matters without the comfort of reinforcements. I concur. Alas, it has been my unfortunate experience to arrive home late only to discover that the weight of the rats lunging against the inner surface of the crate compounded to create its dislodgement. I did not wish to lose a model in that fashion a second time. Besides, the replacement timbers, one each only, were of lighter quality than those used in the crates’ construction. They would prolong, not halt.

  Having arranged for both Jackie and Lisa to awake to these considerations, I then got a good night’s sleep, and the following morning brought them the radio, for their entertainment, then made myself a nice hearty breakfast.

  The news was on as I came back down and found them both gazing out through the serving hatches I’d made for their convenience, listening to the broadcaster reporting that, ‘Gardai are calling for information on the disappearance of two young women: Jackie Hay, last seen wearing a red skirt and pink sweater, and her flatmate, Lisa Shine, wearing black Lycra leggings and a lemon V-neck jumper, walking their dog towards St James’s Park, south Dublin, last night at around half past ten. Both are aged nineteen. And now the sport.’

  Sport – how appropriate.

  I switched off the radio and presented myself.

  ‘Jackie, Lisa. I am Hockler.’

  They eyed me up and down. I’m quite a figure of a man, you know. Six foot six and not an ounce of fat.

  ‘Please, Mr Hockler—’

  ‘Not “Mr”, Lisa, “Hockler”.’

  ‘What do you want with us, Hockler?’

  ‘I want you for my work, Jackie. I’m an artist.’

  ‘Please, plea-ease, I’ve got a little baby.’

  ‘Oh have you, Lisa? How old?’

  ‘Eleven months.’

  ‘You must be very proud.’ Odd, I hadn’t seen a baby in their flat – not as much as a pair of rubbe
r knickers. And her proclivity to sapphism hardly suggested heterosexual issue. Perhaps the prefix ‘bi’ would better connote than ‘hetero’. ‘Now, Lisa, time is moving on. I’ll show you where I work.’

  I unlocked Lisa’s door. She retreated and curled up in the corner, hiding her face.

  ‘Would you rather I showed Jackie?’

  Her second and third fingers parted, revealing a recoiling eye, in turn towards myself, the crate then back again. Then in a barely audible whimper, she uttered, ‘No.’

  The rats were distracting her. They often get excited at such times, in anticipation of being fed.

  Jackie, however, appeared less perturbed by them. ‘Leave her alone,’ she interceded.

  ‘As you wish.’ I locked Lisa’s door and unlocked Jackie’s.

  ‘What – you expect me to follow you? Just like that?’

  ‘Jackie, you did object to my taking Lisa.’

  She hesitated. This was new to me. I had never before had two models (my apologies: prior to renovating, there had been an earlier opportunity which had proved short-lived and therefore unworthy of recounting) and had not expected one to appear to put herself forward in place of the other only to retract. They say that models can be elitist. Clearly this was an example of that. Prima donnas. ‘Well?’

  Jackie stepped into the corridor, regarding Shirley warily. I had made Shirley crouch at the foot of the steps leading up to the kitchen. She can be intimidating. One cannot have one’s models kneeing one’s groin and attempting to flee, as one debilitating experience (to which I have just briefly alluded) had taught me.

  At moments such as this, I find it most interesting to observe models’ eyes and body language. Without exception, wariness, of a different nature to that which she had shown towards Shirley, accompanied Jackie’s demeanour. Whereas she had regarded Shirley with alarm, I was treated to a glare, both appraising yet wincing. Her colleague, I suspected, was exhibiting similar apprehension. Alas, it is not a deportment that extends itself to the studio. A pity. I should so like to capture it on canvas.

  ‘This way.’ I opened the door to room number four. (I had removed its five incumbents – Shirley’s now-grown pups – to room number three. Like the rats, they too, for identical reasons, can become overexcited at the thought of models, once they have outlived their usefulness.)

  Shirley came up behind us, growling as we entered.

  ‘She’s merely jealous, Jackie,’ I explained, ‘because I’m holding your hand. She likes me all to herself.’ Shirley snarled at her. ‘Now, now, Shirley, I’ve told you about that before. Come along, Jackie.’

  I led her in through the internal door and down the steps to my studio. She entered guardedly, the freezer, in particular, as the motor came on, startling her further. The newspapers had reported my having taken what they had referred to as ‘physical trophies’. I suspected that Jackie was aware of this disclosure and had now made the connection. She was looking at the freezer the way people do not normally look at freezers, assessing it not as a two-door model with a fridge on the top, but rather in terms of its likely contents. I opened the top door. Strange how such an everyday action in a kitchen can pass unnoticed, yet in a given set of circumstances can engender a heart-stopping reaction.

  ‘Would you care for a soft drink, Jackie?’

  She declined or should I say ‘jerked’ her head repeatedly from side to side. Far too many jerks for one simple ‘no’. She had expected the compartment to contain something other than Coca-Cola and pineappleade (the latter a favourite of mine). I did not open the lower door. What she would have seen inside would have put an abrupt halt to my guided tour.

  ‘Now, this is where I work. Not the most luxurious of studios, but I get by. Henceforth I intend to prepare all my models and place them here on this table. As you can see, it has a zinc top, a touch too cold for the purposes of sitting. I have purchased various materials with which to cover it to provide a backdrop: velvet, silk and so forth.’

  She herself, of course, would never view the finished work. This too was preying on her mind.

  ‘And when I have finished, I hang my paintings in here.’ I showed her through to my private art gallery. She was the first to have ever received a private viewing. ‘And here, Jackie: I’ve reserved this space for you.’

  It was quite a commanding space, in the centre of the wall between a portrait of a redheaded model named Clare and a raven-haired model called Katie. Again words failed her, as they would have any female finding herself in this situation. She could hardly take it in.

  ‘Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? You can tell Lisa all about it when you get back.’

  This was to form a precursor to a little expedient I was contemplating. I had experienced, in my early to mid-teens, that foretaste engenders compliance. More anon.

  As I had anticipated, she fainted. I carried her back to her room.

  * * *

  ‘Now, I’d like you to tell me about your friends. Girlfriends. You first, Jackie.’ The question somewhat betrayed my intentions.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I should like to get to know them.’

  ‘I have no friends.’

  ‘Lisa?’

  Lisa was still curled up in the corner, her head on her knees.

  ‘Lisa?’

  Nothing. They needed more time. I had surmised as much. Hence my preparations. Though how long they would hold out had yet to be put to the test. The strange thing was that neither had made reference to the rats. They seemed to accept them as part of their predicament, over which remonstrating would hold no sway. Both stayed away from their respective crates, though they were clearly unhappy at their presence, and appeared to cringe more than a little during momentary increases in rustling and so forth, particularly Lisa – but that was the extent of their distraction. This surprised me.

  In the case of the rats, as opposed to the ants, experience had taught me that information can be extracted over a period of time, usually no longer than a fortnight, by placing the subject in surroundings such as those I had borrowed good money to engineer, or similar, with no outside contact, a cold floor to sleep on, the rats starving and gnawing at the wood, driven by the smell of what little food the subject was being fed, incessantly squeaking, on and on and on, until the subject begins to hallucinate and then sleepwalks. I then enter, open the box, let the rats loose then leave. The subject then snaps out of it and believes that he or she has let them loose. I then re-enter with a blazing torch, disperse the rats, usher the subject into another room and start again. The subject is then reluctant to go back to sleep in case of a recurrence.

  I wasn’t quite sure what I would do if none of this worked in respect of Jackie and Lisa. I would clearly have lunatics on my hands. And because lunatics are irrational, irrational thought often has to be applied in dealing with them. I would have to come up with something else. I did not think it would come to that. Moreover, I did not know how to think irrationally.

  I tossed an already-dead rat with a knife wound, and a live rat to feed on it, into each of their rooms to exemplify the outcome should the others eat their way through the timber, which, I believe I neglected to add, had been steeped in beef stock to create incentive. The psychological effect of this is advantageous. I left them for thirty-six hours, until the following night, when I returned with a bottle of wine and a glass, pulled up a stool and tried again.

  ‘Tell me about your friends, Jackie.’

  ‘My friends?’

  Her spirit had gone. A fortnight had not been necessary after all. The foretaste had contributed towards bringing her acquiescence to fruition. I was so glad. And, of course, anxious to proceed to the studio. ‘Yes, girlfriends. Their names, please.’

  She came to the door and spoke through the small serving hatch. From the calculated nature of her responses, I knew that she had been assessing her personal relationships. (It reminded me of having been made to go to confession and of being careful to
avoid implicating others, especially those who were part of their regime, that is to say the ‘religious’. I shall linger on that point only to convey that the seal of the confessional did not safeguard against reprisals. It is unforgivable to raise a subject then refuse to elaborate. Still, such is life sometimes.)

  The interrogation book I had read (it was written in an unusual style, incidentally – in a kind of telegraphese) stated: ‘Implications of informing on friends or comrades, as seen by subject. Informing by subject would be weighed against the benefits it might bring. Would informing buy subject time? How much time? Enough to escape while information is being verified? Once free, subject can alert comrades, those they have informed on, and thus remove the threat to them which the imparted information might engender. Informing, in that context, means nothing. No one gets hurt. Desperation. The will to live can become paramount. If subject informs, will he or she be looked upon favourably and spared?’

  ‘Who’s the third girl with you in the video, Jackie?’

  ‘Gemma Small.’

  ‘Gemma Small? Nice name. Do you think she’s pretty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who else do you include among your friends?’

  ‘Lucille Kells.’

  ‘And do you think she’s pretty?’

  A nod. Again, according to the book: ‘A nod constitutes less guilt than the spoken word. It makes it seem like the subject isn’t naming names.’

  ‘Do you like them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I wondered if that were true. Was she telling me the names of her best friends or of those she disliked? Clearly she did not dislike Gemma. They had shared a bed. Perhaps they had fallen out. I’m sorry, that sounds as if they had fallen out of bed. Perhaps they had had a falling out.