This is Composition No.12. measuring 81cm x 48cm. It is inspired by that great Ukranian artist Kazimir Malevitch.
He was an avant-garde artist and art theorist, whose pioneering work and writing had a profound influence on the development of abstract art in the 20th century. Born in Kiev to an ethnic Polish family, his concept of Suprematism sought to develop a form of expression that moved as far as possible from the world of natural forms (objectivity) and subject matter in order to access “the supremacy of pure feeling” and spirituality. Malevich is also considered to be part of the Ukrainian avant-garde (together with Alexander Archipenko, Sonia Delaunay, Aleksandra Ekster, and David Burliuk) that was shaped by Ukrainian-born artists who worked first in Ukraine and later over a geographical span between Europe and America.
Early on, Malevich worked in a variety of styles, quickly assimilating the movements of Impressionism, Symbolism and Fauvism, and after visiting Paris in 1912, Cubism. Gradually simplifying his style, he developed an approach with key works consisting of pure geometric forms and their relationships to one another, set against minimal grounds.
This painting is for sale. Sensible offers only please to mikerickett007@yahoo.co.uk. Buyers must be prepared to collect or arrange shipment.
I haven’t, in truth, known Dr Irwin Jacobs for very long. I would stop short at calling him a friend because I don’t honestly believe he has anyone he could apply that title too. While appearing outwardly friendly, in reality, he struck me as a very self-contained person; a very private man who only very reluctantly reveals anything about himself.
I first met him in Llandudno in North Wales at a conference on The Study of Personality Disorder. It was organised by SANE, the mental health charity and was attended largely by medics and psychiatrists and others involved in the provision of mental health services. I was there as a freelance journalist with an interest in mental health, having written on many occasions about how destructive it can be to families and relationships.
I literally bumped into him at the hotel bar where he was sitting on a stool staring gloomily into a gin and tonic. I rather clumsily managed to spill his drink which he was about to sip. I naturally apologised profusely and immediately offered to buy him another, but he waved the offer away.
Dr Jacobs has a rather Teutonic face; startling blue eyes, a square jaw and a firm mouth that is not given to smiling. His thinning grey hair sits above a furrowed brow and a sallow face. We shook hands and I apologised again.
I sat on a stool next to him and introduced myself. I am Dominic Howard, quite well known in my chosen field by mental health professionals, even if I do say so with a degree of modesty! After we concluded the introductions, I asked him about his practice. He immediately became quite animated and went into some detail about the problems some of his patients present. It was, however, punctuated by nervous glances around the room, his eyes flickering from side-to side as though expecting a friend or colleague. I looked around but there were just other delegates standing in small groups in earnest discussion.
‘Are you expecting someone,’ I said, standing up, preparing to leave.
‘No, No,’ he said, placing a hand on my arm with a look that invited me to sit. I did so. ‘I thought I saw a cat,’ he muttered, almost under his breath.
I stared at him. ‘A cat?’ I repeated looking around the bar.
‘I’m allergic to them,’ he said by way of explanation, looking around furtively. For some reason I did not believe him but why would he lie about something like that? Our conversation then turned to topics to do with matters of the mind. It ended with us exchanging contact details. As a journalist I have always found it useful to collect people who are experts in their fields and for all his odd behaviour, Dr Jacobs did appear to be highly knowledgeable. We shook hands and parted.
That was a month ago and I have been busy writing a feature on stress at the workplace, a subject close to my heart, when I routinely look at my email queue and there is one from Dr Jacobs inviting me to call round for supper. To say that I am surprised would be an understatement.
I note that Dr Jacobs lives at Bedford Square, which is not that far from my apartment at Ridgemount Gardens, near the University of London. I reply saying that I would be happy to call round. I am curious, more than anything else, to see what life is like at Bedford Square. I note his address is not an apartment!
The door is opened by a man formally dressed. He asks me to identify myself and ushers me into a small but comfortable room to the left of the front door. I take it he must be a butler or manservant. I am astonished that they still exist in the 21st century.
Five minutes later he returns and invites me to follow him to a plush, but rather austere lounge. Jacobs is standing near an open coal fire. He steps forward and we shake hands. He treats me to a rather watery smile and waves me into an expansive easy chair. The Butler, who he addresses as James, is standing nearby awaiting instructions. Jacobs orders two whiskies.
I gaze around the room. It is slightly Edwardian; not quite Victorian but fussy in that everything obviously has its place. Along one wall are shelves full of tomes. I am always fascinated by bookshelves; what treasures are hidden away there, I wonder, and I am sorely tempted to explore, but I don’t. Instead, I look at Jacobs who is staring around the room furtively.
‘Do you hear anything?’ he asks softly.
I listen. There is just a heavy silence which is interrupted by James bringing our whiskies. I stare at him. His face could be made of stone. It is set and expressionless as he sets our drinks down on occasional tables.
‘I am informed by cook Sir, that dinner will be served in 30 minutes,’ he announces in a monotone. Jacobs nods in acknowledgement and James glides out of the room.
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ I inform Jacobs, ‘apart from the occasional car passing outside.’
‘You didn’t hear a laugh,’ he asks, looking at me closely. I shake my head, puzzled, and enquire why he asked.
He stares at a corner of the room. This is a strange house,’ he says. ‘Once the servants have left, I can’t help feeling that there are other people here. I can hear them. Mutterings and laughing, sometimes all night long. There is a cat too. I have no idea how it got in here but I see it every night, lurking in corners.’
I look around the room and then say breezily that there is no sign of any cats now and then ask him how long he has lived at Bedford Square.
‘It was bought by my grandfather,’ he says, relaxing a little. ‘We have lived here for three generations. Both my father and grandfather were medical men. I am the only one to practise psychiatry.’
‘Did you never marry,’ I ask a little hesitantly wondering if he might be offended by such a personal question.
He frowns and replies that he did but that his wife died suddenly just two years after they were wed. ‘It was toxic shock. She died in just two days of the bacteria taking hold,’ he says quietly. I have been alone ever since.’
Suddenly, James appears to announce that dinner is served so we follow him into another spacious room with a dining table in the middle with seats for ten people. There are two place settings at one end. The room is mostly lit by candles, two candelabra on the table and two meagre wall lamps which together manage to cast ominous silhouettes on the walls.
Dinner passes in a gloomy silence and it is with some relief that we eventually rise to leave the maid to clear away the dishes. We return to the lounge which is also poorly lit with just two small wall lights.
Jacobs walks over to a cabinet and holds up a bottle of Martell. I nod and he pours two large measures and returns to his seat by the fire. He begins a conversation about psychiatry and the unusual symptoms displayed by his patients. I listen with interest as he describes Clinical Lycanthropy.
His patient involves a delusion that he can transform into an animal. It is often associated with turning into a wolf or werewolf; the name of the syndrome originates from the mythical condition of lycanthropy or shapeshifting into wolves.
‘The patient genuinely believes he can take the form of any particular animal and during delusional periods he can act like the animal.’
He goes on to talk about another patient who suffers from Alien Hand Syndrome which is characterized by the belief that one’s hand has its own life. Individuals experiencing the syndrome have normal sensations but feel their hand is a separate entity: The affected hand has its own agenda. This syndrome may occur in individuals who have damage to the corpus callosum, which connects the two cerebral hemispheres of the brain.
All very interesting but I notice that while he is talking, he is casting nervous glances around the room. He notices that I have almost finished my brandy and offers a refill and when I accept, walks over to the cabinet which is in a half light.
As he uncorks the bottle, I fancy I see a shadow to his right which appears to be bending over him. He suddenly starts and shouts ‘No, no, go away, damn you,’ waving his arms wildly. He steps back and glances in my direction.
‘Forgive me,’ he says. ‘That was not intended for you.’
‘I thought I saw a shadow,’ I say looking around the room. ‘But it may have just been a trick of the light.’ I smile a little uncertainly.
‘She is plaguing me,’ he mutters taking a large gulp of brandy.
‘Who is?’ I ask.
‘A patient of mine who died about a year ago. In fact, she committed suicide,’ he says with a finality I find rather strange.
I begin to think of what excuses I can conjure up to escape from this place with its sepulchral atmosphere. Did I imagine that shadow? Did he? Has this gloomy dump somehow infected his subconscious into making him believe he is haunted?
Just then there are measured footsteps in the corridor outside, becoming louder as they approach the door. We both stare at it, and then they stop just as suddenly as they started. The door handle turns slowly twice and then stops.
‘Is that the butler?’ I ask, but his face is white. ‘Why doesn’t he come in?’
‘The servants have gone home,’ he replies quietly twisting his fingers around in his lap.
I stand up and walk quickly to the door and wrench it open. There is nobody there but for some reason my eyes are drawn to a dark patch by an occasional table with phone directories on top. I can see two yellow eyes staring at me malevolently. They become larger and larger and begin moving towards me and I swiftly return into the room and slam the door behind me. I lean against it and then slowly walk back to my chair and sit down.
‘What did you see?’ he asks softly.
‘I thought I saw a cat,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I have no idea who the footsteps belonged to though because there was nobody there.’
I decide it is time to go. I stand up and thank him for his hospitality. He also stands and we both walk to the door, a little warily in my case. The hall is eerily silent as we walk down its length. He opens the front door and I step outside. I turn and thank him again but just before I walk away, I ask. ‘Are you going to be alright?’ He doesn’t reply. He just closes the door silently.
It is two weeks since my eerie supper with Dr Jacobs and I have managed to put him to the back of my mind. I am about to file a story for the Telegraph when I feel my mobile phone vibrating. I stare at the screen. It is Dr Jacobs. Why on earth is he ringing me? I click answer and am about to ask how he is when he asks me if I could round to Bedford Square later. He sounds strange. His voice has a rasping quality and is slightly tremulous. I reluctantly agree.
I ring the bell and wait. Nothing happens. I ring it again. There is still no sign of life. I am about to walk away when the door half opens slowly revealing Jacobs. I stare at him in astonishment. He is unshaven, his jacket is open, his shirt half undone but it is his face that startles me. It is gaunt. His eyes are bloodshot.
He slowly opens the door wider and I walk in with some trepidation. When in the hall I ask him where the butler is.
‘He left,’ he says. ‘He said he could no longer tolerate the things that go on here and just walked out’
I am about to say that I could hardly blame him but don’t. Instead, I follow him into the lounge where the curtains have been drawn back to fill the gloomy room with daylight. It looks no more inviting than it did at night. He walks over to the drinks cabinet and offers me a whisky. I decline with a shake of my head. It is just 10.00am.
‘What has happened to you?’ I ask indicating his open shirt and generally unkempt appearance.
‘I can’t sleep,’ he says. ‘It won’t let me. I get no peace, none at all.’ He glares around the room. ‘Very soon I imagine cook will leave and then God help me. I have no idea what I will do.’
It is on the tip of my tongue to say that he will have to do what most other single men do; cook for themselves or eat out, but I don’t.
As he talks, I find myself looking at the door. I have no idea why. It might have been a movement that caught my attention, I’m not sure, but then as I look, the door handle begins to turn very slowly in one direction and then in the other. I stare at it in dreadful anticipation at what might be on the other side but the door remains closed.
Jacobs has walked over to the window and is staring at the street outside. ‘Is there anyone else in the house?’ I ask.
‘No, just us,’ he says, turning around. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I thought I saw the door handle turning,’ I say. He simply shrugs and turns back to the window. ‘Why have you asked me here Dr Jacobs?’
‘You have some idea of what I am going through,’ he says. ‘You know it is not the result of a fevered imagination or hallucinations. I just want someone to record what I am going through.’
‘There must be a cause though,’ I say. ‘Do you have no idea why you are being persecuted. There has to be a reason.’
‘I think it may be the result of a fixation my former patient entertained about me,’ he says staring at the other end of the room. I follow his gaze and there just by the door is a large black cat, its yellow eyes staring, unblinking. There is something malevolent about it.
‘Get away from me,’ he yells, throwing a book at it. But the cat has vanished.
‘It is always here,’ he growls. ‘It watches me day and night. There is no respite. I can hear it growling wherever I go.’
I am standing a little way into the room near the fireplace which is unmade. There are half-burned documents in the grate. Jacobs has resumed staring out of the window so I bend down and grasp the two pieces of paper. I hastily stuff them in my pocket and as I do, I hear a dry chuckle in my right ear. I start backwards and almost fall over an occasional table. He turns around and asks if I am alright. I tell him I lost my balance.
‘All I would ask you do is to make a record of what you have heard and seen here,’ he says. ‘My colleagues in the profession will be interested that my experiences have been verified by an independent witness.’
‘Surely they will be interested in the likely cause as well,’ I say. He turns back to the window.
‘That will be a matter of some debate I imagine,’ he says quietly.
I take my leave of him. He doesn’t offer to show me out so I make my way down the hall half expecting some horror to emerge from the shadows, but there is just an ominous silence.
I cross the road and look back at the house. I can see Jacobs in the window staring gloomily at the sky and then I look more closely. Standing behind him and slightly to his left is another figure, the figure of a woman, an old woman with a pinched face and a shawl around her shoulders. She is staring at him malignantly. I continue staring for perhaps a minute or two until the figure gradually fades from view. I make my way out of the square back to Ridgemount Gardens.
I had forgotten about the pieces of paper I found in Jacobs’ grate. I take them out of my coat pocket and lay them out on the table. The top halves are unburnt and one appears to be a bank statement belonging to a Catharine Bancroft. There are just three items visible, all withdrawals totalling £100,000. The other is a letter addressed to Jacobs saying that he had been granted Lasting Power of Attorney for Ms Catherine Bancroft. The rest of the letter is burnt. I assume she is or was a patient of his. Why, I wonder, has he attempted to destroy them in the grate? Then, another thought occurs. Could she be the patient he referred to?
I decide to go online and see what a Google search reveals. The first is a news story in which police are appealing for information about Catharine Bancroft, aged 78, who vanished a year ago. I read the story. It seems she told a neighbour she was going to a local shop in south London and was never seen again. The neighbour is later quoted as saying she was devoted to her cat which had also disappeared. It was, apparently, a large black cat which she doted on. It was always with her. I stare at the photograph. There is no doubt about it. She is the spectral figure I saw standing behind Jacobs. And the cat I saw was no doubt hers too.
The second news story that comes up is five years earlier in the Daily Mail saying the actress Catherine Bancroft was retiring from the stage after a lifetime in the theatre. It seems she was a regular in West End productions. It goes on to list many of the shows she appeared in.
So why would she be haunting Jacobs, if indeed it was her I saw? And why did he say she committed suicide, if indeed it was Miss Bancroft he was referring to? The inescapable conclusion, given the documents I found, is that Jacobs was somehow involved in her disappearance but I find that difficult to believe. He may be a little odd but an eminent psychiatrist like him murdering and stealing from a patient is difficult to believe. Surely not. There must be another explanation.
But if she weren’t murdered, what could have happened to her? Suicide is simply out of the question. A well-known actress like her taking her own life would have been certain to have made the headlines.
I scroll through the other news items in which Catherine was mentioned but the headlines get smaller and the stories shorter as time goes on and there is no trace of her. There is only one story in which Jacobs is mentioned and that was when he revealed that she had been a patient of his for some time. No significance appears to have been attached to that.
I decide that I can do no more but I write up my research and file it away thinking that if Catherine does re-appear there will be story in it. I put Jacobs out of my mind and immerse myself in more pressing matters.
It is just a week later when I am sitting in a coffee shop sipping a cappuccino reading the Guardian when my mobile rings. I sigh and am minded to ignore it. I value my thinking time and interruptions are annoying. I glance at the screen which is saying ‘Dr Jacobs’. I really do not want to visit him again in that creepy house of his but I decide to answer and make an excuse, if indeed that is what he wants.
I click on it and listen but all I can hear is an odd subdued, whispered, muttering. I keep saying ‘Dr Jacobs, are you there’ but there is no answer, just the muttering and a strange, rather eery rustling sound.
Then, suddenly, there is scream which is so loud I almost fall off my chair. The two people sitting at the next table glance at me curiously as I hold the phone away from my ear. When I listen again there is just absolute, total, silence. Then I hear a sound that chills me to the bone; it is a sound I last heard in a butcher’s, the unmistakable sound of flesh being sliced. I rush outside and hail a cab, telling the driver to take me to Bedford Square.
I stand looking uncertainly at the door. What am I going to find behind it? Perhaps I should have rung the police first, but then if nothing gruesome has happened despite the scream, I would look foolish. For all I know Jacobs might have just been having a fit of hysterics. Having said that my instinct is telling me otherwise.
There is no movement in the windows; no lights are shining; they just stare down at me ominously. I press the bell and wait. There is no response. I press it again and notice that the door appears to be very slightly open. I push it gently and it swings open very slowly as though by an invisible hand, revealing the cavernous, dinghy hall.
I stare into its gloomy space. There is no movement, no sign of life. I suddenly have an almost overwhelming urge to walk away from this place but I know I must enter; something is compelling me to.
I walk slowly, fearfully, down the hall. I call out to Dr Jacobs several times; there is no answer, just an oppressive, brooding silence. I reach the lounge and stare at the door. I want to turn back; what will I find in there?
As I stand there transfixed, the door gradually opens of its own accord. I step hesitatingly into the room which is in partial darkness due to the curtains being slightly open. At first, I can see nothing in the gloom. I was expecting to see Jacobs in his armchair asleep but the two chairs are empty.
It is only then I notice the smell. It is a sickeningly dry, sweet metallic scent on the verge of being pungent and slightly suffocating, mixed with the odour of burning.
It is only when I walk past the first armchair that I see it. At first, my senses cannot interpret the scene that confronts me. I stare in open-mouthed horror at the carnage that lies before me. Bile rises up and I rush to a plant in the corner and throw up. I leave the room trembling, the scene etched into my mind.
Jacobs, or what is left of him, was lying in the hearth in front of the fire which had been lit and which was casting a red glow on the room.
Embers from the fire had somehow fallen on his chest and burned their way into him exposing a few ribs. He is lying in a pool of blood, but the most horrific sight is his face which has been shredded as if by a claw. One eyeball has been forced out of its socket and hanging down his cheek.
I stumble to the end of the hall into the kitchen and pour myself a tumbler of water. I sit on a chair until my breathing returns to normal and my heart stops its wild beating. Something is telling me to return to the room. I walk to the doorway and there, in the centre of the room, is an elderly woman. I know immediately it is Catherine Bancroft. She is staring at me, tears trickling down her cheeks. At her side is her cat, also staring at me, its eyes no longer glowing. She raises an arm and points to the floor and they both slowly disappear.
It is two weeks later that police discover a body in the cellar. It was quickly identified as that of Catherine Bancroft. I had some difficulty persuading them to search the cellar without revealing that it was Catherine herself who pointed it out. The half-burned documents I produced persuaded them that it was a possibility that Ms Bancroft had been murdered.
At the inquest, forensic scientists were unable to satisfactorily explain how Jacobs sustained such horrific injuries. An open verdict was recorded.
Just two days later, I found myself wide wake at 2.00am. I glance at the window. I always leave the curtains half drawn to let in light. The moon’s rays cast a sombre light on the opposite wall. I stare at the windowsill.
I thought that everyone who read the first chapter of Terminal Three might like to know that a new chapter will be published every Friday.
In the first two chapters, Nicola’s ghost is talking and then in chapters three and four the narrative changes to 12 months ago when she is alive and events in her life are outlined.
The story switches from the present to the past until gradually both merge at the towards the end and the reason why Nicola died is revealed.
‘Where have you been?’ grumbles Alex as Nicola slips off her coat and sits, smiling winningly, at their table in the fashionable French restaurant in Manchester city centre. ’I’ve been waiting twenty minutes. . . and not for the first time.’ He stares at her irritably.
‘Have you ordered wine?’ she asks, picking up the menu, completely ignoring the question. It’s not the first time Alex has complained about her timekeeping or her sessions with Evie, or with her sister Pam for that matter, or with anything that does not involve him.
‘I thought you might like a G&T first,’ he mutters, glancing at a waiter approaching with two balloon glasses, one with lemon and the other with slices of orange he had reluctantly specified when ordering.
He stares at her glass when it arrives at the table. ‘Nobody has orange with gin and tonic,’ he growls. ‘Why do you have to be so sodding different? Do you do it deliberately just to annoy me?’
‘Perhaps I do just to wind you up. It’s a new hobby I’ve been working on. Quite apart from that it happens to be the way I like my gin’, she says taking a large gulp. ‘And since it’s me who’s going to drink it, why do you care? And while we’re at it, if you are going to start braying on about me going out again, I’m off to watch the traffic which will be more entertaining than listening to you.’ She stands and reaches for her coat.
‘OK. OK. I’m sorry,’ he says hurriedly holding up both hands. ‘It’s just that I miss you. You do know that don’t you? We don’t spend enough time together as it is, and I get jealous when you spend time with other people.’ He hesitates and looks at her artfully. ‘I have a suggestion to make which I’ll tell you about later.’
She sits, not being too sure how to take that. Why is he being so enigmatic? It just isn’t like him. In the few weeks she has known him he has been anything but that. She raises an eyebrow questioningly. He grins mischievously. ‘You’ll have to wait. In the meantime, . . . cheers!’ He raises his gin glass and so does she, wondering what he has in mind and whether she will like it, or not.
It has been quite a few weeks since he first asked her out at the book launch and if she is honest, she still cannot give a sensible answer if anyone asks why she agreed to that first date. The TV crew had sneered at him, especially at his apparent ignorance of the requirements of broadcast journalism and it had been more than the usual hostility between journalists and the PR fraternity. He had come across as smooth and insincere just like many of his contemporaries who have often been compared to a fanatical religion: an echo chamber of bloated self-importance and self-righteous froth.
Nicola knows full well that PR people are known to have hides that you could line your shoes with and there are those who describe themselves in grandiose terms almost bordering on black magic.
There have been times when she has been plagued by PR people herself and on one occasion, she became so annoyed and frustrated with the constant calls that she had told that particular Mr Silver Tongue to go fuck himself. She felt a little ashamed afterwards but despite that it worked! She never heard from him again.
All of which makes it even more bizarre that she should agree to a date with her very own Mr Silver Tongue. Maybe it was because it had been some time since the last love of her life had departed after getting a better offer from his ex. It had succeeded to her subscribing to the ‘all men are bastards’ club for a while and she had devoted her energies to work and to art, which she rather successfully did at uni. It had also been some time since she had been out with anyone other than Evie and Pam.
When Alex had asked her, a bit hesitantly, she had been rather tempted to tell him to closely examine his backside, but then she thought it might actually be fun to listen to all the bullshit while enjoying an expensive night out. She had smiled when the thought had occurred that people like him are usually so self-opinionated that they don’t realise that they are being ridiculed, especially if it’s with po-faced sincerity.
But it had not turned out like that at all. He had been self-effacing and had appeared really interested in her life and her career to the point that she realised that it was she who was doing all the talking and not him.
When he had dropped her at her house feeling rather pleased with herself, she had opened the door to be rapturously welcomed by Sonny who had appeared holding his lead. She told him earnestly that she had been out with a nice man who had bought her a lovely meal and given her plenty of wine and that she really didn’t feel like going for a walk.
But Sonny was not about to be cheated out of his nightly walk sniffing out the squirrels and the fox who also enjoys the nightlife in his neighbourhood. He had gazed at her wistfully and stood on his back legs placing the lead in her hand.
‘OK, just once around the block, no more,’ she had said to him sternly.
That date led to the second which was a visit to the Palace Theatre to see a thriller called ‘The Bodyguard,’ followed by another meal. That had gone well too; indeed, even better in that he had begun talking about his life in a very understated way. Gone was all the bluster and the self-exaggeration that went with the public image and instead there was a man somewhat uncertain of his identity in the complex world of publishing and PR.
The biggest difference, however, to the first date was that it had ended in a kiss in his car when he dropped her home. And it wasn’t just a casual peck on the lips either. Well, it had started that way, as is so often the case, but she ended it when it became increasingly passionate, and a wandering hand began to explore a breast. She had gently removed it, smiling, saying it was time to say goodnight.
In truth, it had been some time since she had shared a bed and although she could feel herself becoming aroused, she was not sure she was ready to share one with Alex. She was greeted, as usual, by Sonny and this time she needed a walk in the cold air asking herself the question if she would; if indeed she should, invite him in next time.
But, of course, inevitably she did after the next date. The next morning her thighs were sore which puzzled her until she remembered what they had done when passion had ruled, and inhibitions were forgotten.
It had been quite some time since anyone had been so attentive to her needs. There had been too many ‘fuck and forget’ sessions when she was younger when her body had simply been used leaving her feeling cheap and frustrated.
Since then, Alex had become a regular visitor, sometimes staying the night, especially of a weekend, but more often leaving her in bed asleep and quietly closing the door on his way out. Nicola increasingly began to feel that perhaps, just perhaps, Alex could be THE ONE. Sonny was not so sure. He regarded Alex warily keeping his distance and ignoring invitations to be stroked.
It was about this time that she confided developments to Evie. ‘You did what,’ was her yelped response. ‘Are you crazy? You let a creep like that shag you. Have you lost your mind for chrisake?’ She had stared at Nicola frowning. ‘You’re going to tell me that you’re in love with him next I suppose.’
Nicola had shaken her head saying: ‘Nooooooo. It’s just nice having someone who is good in bed and who treats me like a princess when we’re out.’
Evie shakes her head sadly. ‘You’re just being used. It will not end well. Just keep him away from me.’
Nicola’s colleagues at the BBC were, of course, entirely unaware of any of this. She could not face the hilarity, the sniggering, and the sideways glances during whispered conversations.
It was a little later that Alex had complained about her going out with Pam instead of seeing him. She had deferred then thinking that it was natural and pleasing that he would want to be with her. But then a major row had developed a week later when she announced on the phone she was going out with Evie. It had ended with her turning her phone off and then having a riotous time in a club where Evie was a regular.
Since then, peace has been restored apart from a new niggle when he passed comment on the way she dresses which he described as ‘provocative’. It first she took it seriously but after the third time she became annoyed and decided to neutralise it by simply grasping his balls and squeezing. Not too hard, mind you. That really won’t do. Happily, it has had the salutary effect of making him wary about criticising her, and on the rare occasion he does, he makes a point of doing so from the other side of the room.
But now their meal is over, and he is staring at her meaningfully. ‘Don’t you want to know what my suggestion is?’ She stares back and nods. ‘Will I like it?’ she asks hopefully.
‘Hope so.’ He grins.
‘Well, let’s hear it. Don’t be so bloody mysterious.’
‘I think we should move in together.’
‘You want to move into my house?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, I think you should sell that old pile and we can buy a nice modern apartment in central Manchester instead. It would be really convenient for me.’
‘Would it? What about Sonny? He wouldn’t like to live in a flat. He loves the garden.’
‘Well, we could just find a good home for him.’ He looks at her, pleased with himself.’
I never really believed in ghosts when I was alive which is deeply ironic since I seem to have joined the legions of the dead and therefore should qualify for ghostly status. Or do I? Hmmm. Thinking about it, I wonder if you have to haunt somewhere to be a real ghost. In other words, just being dead doesn’t hack it. You have to hang out somewhere as well, which probably implies that you must have a reason to hang out in your chosen location.
I suppose that could apply to me. After all, I’m in Manchester Airport and I am definitely dead, but what is against it is that nobody can see me; or is even aware of me. I feel a bit thwarted about that. If I’m not a ghost, what am I doing here? I remember one Christmas when Evie and I and one or two admirers were huddled around a fire busily emptying a bottle of Champagne when somebody decided to ‘do’ the creepy ghost thing. We had switched all the main lights off and lit a few candles which threw flickering orange shadows around the walls. All very atmospheric, especially when you are full of booze with the prospect of sex a little later.
Anyway, the point I want to make is that somebody started talking about Ann Boleyn who reputedly haunts the Tower of London. Thinking about it now, that means she is still hanging out there after over 480 years!! That is an utterly horrifying prospect. Does that mean I am destined to spend hundreds of years in Terminal Three? A few hours are more than enough for most people.
Ghost or not, I think it all comes back to the reason I am here. I have no idea why Ann Boleyn is still wandering around the Tower after all this time, but I think I am beginning to understand something I had not appreciated at first. I feel drawn to this place. It is difficult to explain but I don’t think I will be able to leave until . . .what? And that is the clincher because I just don’t know.
The other thing I am also beginning to appreciate is that time is somehow different when you’re in spirit mode. That would explain why my watch doesn’t work; it isn’t electrical gremlins doing their bit to be annoying as I first thought. My watch is frozen at 10.45am and my mobile simply doesn’t work; I guess they don’t have the Internet in the spirit world. There’s something else as well; I have just discovered I can go anywhere by just thinking about it. No, sorry, that isn’t quite true; I must qualify it. It seems I can go anywhere providing it’s within the airport. I tried thinking about Sonny my lovely dog who will be missing me like crazy wondering why I have deserted him. And I also thought about Evie and Pam, but nothing happened. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was still stubbornly in Terminal Three.
Evie is no doubt thinking I am out on a bender somewhere doing disgusting things with a man I met in a pub when we were out the other night surrounded by admirers all determined to pour expensive booze down our throats and that I will re-appear at some point, all bleary-eyed, my face wreathed in guilt. If only . . .
So, for some reason I am stuck here. I am also aware of being strangely drawn to the top floor of the Terminal Three car park. I have no idea why. I think myself there and, not surprisingly I am greeted by cars awaiting the return of their owners who will no doubt be replete with Spanish sun tans and chronic indigestion after expensive airport booze and airline plastic food.
As I gaze over the apron with all its aircraft, more cars arrive disgorging excited people who are blissfully unaware of the nightmare that awaits them. I smile grimly. Soon, they will join the queue for the Promised Land and if they are really, really, lucky, they might even make their flight.
I have a strong feeling that something happened here in this car park and on this floor, but I have no idea what that might have been. There are no clues to help me either. Am I having to serve some sort of penance for something? Is that why I am here? If so, it would be really helpful if it could be spelled out so at least I would know why I’m being punished.
I stand there for a while surrounded by a sardonic silence. If I am expecting the thought to be rewarded by some sort of response, I am disappointed. There is no gent with a long white beard emerging from the heavens telling me in a stern voice what an evil bitch I have been. That, I could understand. That I could even agree with up to a point. That would at least have given me a reason for this shadow world I have been consigned to.
The other place I am drawn to is Gate 132 in Terminal Three. I have a strong feeling I was supposed to be meeting someone there, but I have no idea who that might have been. Yes, yes, I realise he or she will be long gone by now when I didn’t show up. I am just hoping it might somehow spark a memory and give me a reason for being here.
I get there instantly to see crowds milling around like an army of ants, some stopping to stare hopefully at one of the destination boards; others sitting resignedly in seats waiting, waiting, waiting.
And that is what airports are all about these days. Queues and waiting. I remember my dad telling me once how in the early 60s he turned up at Liverpool Airport to fly to Amsterdam. He arrived at the check-in desk, was allocated a seat, and given a boarding pass in minutes, was through to the gate and climbing aboard the plane, all in less than half an hour. The good old days when flying was civilised!
Gate 132 has a queue, of course, but at least these people have made the Promised Land and know they will be sitting in a plane in the not-too-distance future. Disappointingly, it all rings no bells for me. I still have no idea who I was supposed to meet.
I can imagine you may have a fairly low opinion of me from what you have read so far. You could be excused for thinking I have the morals of an alley cat, but it really wasn’t like that. Until about a year ago I led a fairly ordered life, busy working for TV and little time for liaisons. I only went out with Evie now and then and did not get involved in her wild ways as a player. I was content with my life. I had my own house left to me by my gran. I had my beloved dog Sonny who I took for long walks in the surrounding countryside. My sister Pam came round occasionally, and we would spend the evening chatting over a bottle of wine and a meal. I suppose you could call it middle-class mediocrity if you wanted to be scathing but frankly, I would not have cared.
Pam – or Pam Loughton to give her married name – is my younger sister by three years. She is married and has a couple of kids, both girls, who I adore. They are eight and nine and listen to my stories about life as a TV researcher and the stories I tell about the famous people I meet with wide-eyed fascination. I’m sure they tell all their friends about the exploits of their ‘Aunty Nicola.’
She was always our mother’s favourite whereas I spent many hours with my long-suffering dad who as an astronomer at Jodrell Bank, had the universe in his head! I would listen spellbound when he would explain about the planets and the great mysteries of galaxies, black holes, pulsars and all the wonders of the heavens. I was heartbroken when he died not so long ago. I know I will be meeting him again very soon.
All that changed when I met Alex Thompson at a party. He was amusing, witty, good-looking, and appeared to be a regular good guy. It did not take long for me to begin thinking that he might be THE ONE! Pam was not so sure, and Evie simply dismissed him as a witless tosser.
I actually began thinking I was falling in love with him and about a year ago he moved in with me. Sonny was not so sure about him at first and would eye him up suspiciously. In fact, I don’t really think they ever became buddies. As things turned out Sonny was right!
It did not take long for Alex to begin complaining whenever anyone came round. He would make visitors feel unwelcome, especially family like my mother and Pam. He hated Evie and there were rows every time I wanted to go out. He even attempted to persuade me to move jobs. He loathed me mixing with other people but outwardly he would tell people how much he adored me.
I knew it was controlling behaviour but thought if I ignored it, he would simply accept that I was not about to change just to please him. But it got worse which is when I began going out with Evie as a kind of rebellion.
That was the start of our ‘sessions’ which for all I know may be why I have ended up here at Terminal Three. At the moment though, I am no nearer to finding out.
I never really believed in ghosts when I was alive which is deeply ironic since I seem to have joined the legions of the dead and therefore should qualify for ghostly status. Or do I? Hmmm. Thinking about it, I wonder if you have to haunt somewhere to be a real ghost. In other words, just being dead doesn’t hack it. You have to hang out somewhere as well, which probably implies that you must have a reason to hang out in your chosen location.
I suppose that could apply to me. After all, I’m in Manchester Airport and I am definitely dead, but what is against it is that nobody can see me; or is even aware of me. I feel a bit thwarted about that. If I’m not a ghost, what am I doing here? I remember one Christmas when Evie and I and one or two admirers were huddled around a fire busily emptying a bottle of Champagne when somebody decided to ‘do’ the creepy ghost thing. We had switched all the main lights off and lit a few candles which threw flickering orange shadows around the walls. All very atmospheric, especially when you are full of booze with the prospect of sex a little later.
Anyway, the point I want to make is that somebody started talking about Ann Boleyn who reputedly haunts the Tower of London. Thinking about it now, that means she is still hanging out there after over 480 years!! That is an utterly horrifying prospect. Does that mean I am destined to spend hundreds of years in Terminal Three? A few hours are more than enough for most people.
Ghost or not, I think it all comes back to the reason I am here. I have no idea why Ann Boleyn is still wandering around the Tower after all this time, but I think I am beginning to understand something I had not appreciated at first. I feel drawn to this place. It is difficult to explain but I don’t think I will be able to leave until . . .what? And that is the clincher because I just don’t know.
The other thing I am also beginning to appreciate is that time is somehow different when you’re in spirit mode. That would explain why my watch doesn’t work; it isn’t electrical gremlins doing their bit to be annoying as I first thought. My watch is frozen at 10.45am and my mobile simply doesn’t work; I guess they don’t have the Internet in the spirit world. There’s something else as well; I have just discovered I can go anywhere by just thinking about it. No, sorry, that isn’t quite true; I must qualify it. It seems I can go anywhere providing it’s within the airport. I tried thinking about Sonny my lovely dog who will be missing me like crazy wondering why I have deserted him. And I also thought about Evie and Pam, but nothing happened. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was still stubbornly in Terminal Three.
Evie is no doubt thinking I am out on a bender somewhere doing disgusting things with a man I met in a pub when we were out the other night surrounded by admirers all determined to pour expensive booze down our throats and that I will re-appear at some point, all bleary-eyed, my face wreathed in guilt. If only . . .
So, for some reason I am stuck here. I am also aware of being strangely drawn to the top floor of the Terminal Three car park. I have no idea why. I think myself there and, not surprisingly I am greeted by cars awaiting the return of their owners who will no doubt be replete with Spanish sun tans and chronic indigestion after expensive airport booze and airline plastic food.
As I gaze over the apron with all its aircraft, more cars arrive disgorging excited people who are blissfully unaware of the nightmare that awaits them. I smile grimly. Soon, they will join the queue for the Promised Land and if they are really, really, lucky, they might even make their flight.
I have a strong feeling that something happened here in this car park and on this floor, but I have no idea what that might have been. There are no clues to help me either. Am I having to serve some sort of penance for something? Is that why I am here? If so, it would be really helpful if it could be spelled out so at least I would know why I’m being punished.
I stand there for a while surrounded by a sardonic silence. If I am expecting the thought to be rewarded by some sort of response, I am disappointed. There is no gent with a long white beard emerging from the heavens telling me in a stern voice what an evil bitch I have been. That, I could understand. That I could even agree with up to a point. That would at least have given me a reason for this shadow world I have been consigned to.
The other place I am drawn to is Gate 132 in Terminal Three. I have a strong feeling I was supposed to be meeting someone there, but I have no idea who that might have been. Yes, yes, I realise he or she will be long gone by now when I didn’t show up. I am just hoping it might somehow spark a memory and give me a reason for being here.
I get there instantly to see crowds milling around like an army of ants, some stopping to stare hopefully at one of the destination boards; others sitting resignedly in seats waiting, waiting, waiting.
And that is what airports are all about these days. Queues and waiting. I remember my dad telling me once how in the early 60s he turned up at Liverpool Airport to fly to Amsterdam. He arrived at the check-in desk, was allocated a seat, and given a boarding pass in minutes, was through to the gate and climbing aboard the plane, all in less than half an hour. The good old days when flying was civilised!
Gate 132 has a queue, of course, but at least these people have made the Promised Land and know they will be sitting in a plane in the not-too-distance future. Disappointingly, it all rings no bells for me. I still have no idea who I was supposed to meet.
I can imagine you may have a fairly low opinion of me from what you have read so far. You could be excused for thinking I have the morals of an alley cat, but it really wasn’t like that. Until about a year ago I led a fairly ordered life, busy working for TV and little time for liaisons. I only went out with Evie now and then and did not get involved in her wild ways as a player. I was content with my life. I had my own house left to me by my gran. I had my beloved dog Sonny who I took for long walks in the surrounding countryside. My sister Pam came round occasionally, and we would spend the evening chatting over a bottle of wine and a meal. I suppose you could call it middle-class mediocrity if you wanted to be scathing but frankly, I would not have cared.
Pam – or Pam Loughton to give her married name – is my younger sister by three years. She is married and has a couple of kids, both girls, who I adore. They are eight and nine and listen to my stories about life as a TV researcher and the stories I tell about the famous people I meet with wide-eyed fascination. I’m sure they tell all their friends about the exploits of their ‘Aunty Nicola.’
She was always our mother’s favourite whereas I spent many hours with my long-suffering dad who as an astronomer at Jodrell Bank, had the universe in his head! I would listen spellbound when he would explain about the planets and the great mysteries of galaxies, black holes, pulsars and all the wonders of the heavens. I was heartbroken when he died not so long ago. I know I will be meeting him again very soon.
All that changed when I met Alex Thompson at a party. He was amusing, witty, good-looking, and appeared to be a regular good guy. It did not take long for me to begin thinking that he might be THE ONE! Pam was not so sure, and Evie simply dismissed him as a witless tosser.
I actually began thinking I was falling in love with him and about a year ago he moved in with me. Sonny was not so sure about him at first and would eye him up suspiciously. In fact, I don’t really think they ever became buddies. As things turned out Sonny was right!
It did not take long for Alex to begin complaining whenever anyone came round. He would make visitors feel unwelcome, especially family like my mother and Pam. He hated Evie and there were rows every time I wanted to go out. He even attempted to persuade me to move jobs. He loathed me mixing with other people but outwardly he would tell people how much he adored me.
I knew it was controlling behaviour but thought if I ignored it, he would simply accept that I was not about to change just to please him. But it got worse which is when I began going out with Evie as a kind of rebellion.
That was the start of our ‘sessions’ which for all I know may be why I have ended up here at Terminal Three. At the moment though, I am no nearer to finding out.
This is the second artwork to go on sale at Ebay. It was the second of a series of paintings that were used to produce a Christmas card over eight years. This one is from 2016. The series created a new art langauge of shape, form and colour. The bird is painted in a non-objective way in which the subject remains recognizable although the form is highly stylised called collectively ‘Birds orf Freedom’ and were all painted painted in acrylics on 350 gsm acid free board. The finish painting is mounted and framed under perspex (more durable than glass) and is A3 in size.
All eight formed an exhibition at the historic All Hallows church in Liverpool. UK, last Christmas. Only six remain unsold.
This will be one of two centrepieces at my forthcoming exhibition in the week after Easter when I will be mounting a themed show called ‘The Dance’. There will be around a dozen pictures exploring images of dancers, some partly abstract, some more figurative.
The exhibition will be at the historic All Hallows church in Allerton, south Liverpool
‘British Airways announce their flight BA 1387 to London Heathrow. Would all passengers go immediately to Gate 132 which will shortly be closing.’
It may have been the announcement that has woken me. I open my eyes and I am standing in what I assume is an airport terminal. Airport? What am I doing in an airport? Have I been sleep-walking? How did I get here? I think it’s Manchester Airport judging by all the signs all around me. I try to remember what I was doing that could have resulted in me blacking out. Was it booze? It must have been. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve woken up on somebody’s sofa, but waking up in an airport terminal is just ridiculous. And standing up too. That really is a first. I don’t get it. How can I suddenly be awake standing like an idiot with people rushing past me, laden with luggage and looks of grim determination. Only people on what is laughingly called a holiday can look like that. I suppose that might explain why nobody is taking the slightest notice of a strange women looking vaguely lost near the British Airways check-in desks.
It is then I realise I don’t have a hangover too. Now that really is weird. I experimentally turn my head to the left and then to the right and just for once it does not feel as though my brain is being dislodged.
At times like this I can usually blame my best friend Evie and her liking of a ‘session’ which invariably involves a bottle of Vodka and other sundry concoctions. ‘Sessions’ invariably take place in her flat during which she entertains me with tales of the various boyfriends she enthusiastically treats with total contempt.
I have known Evie for what feels like centuries. We were at primary school together and she followed me through secondary school and then the same university. I like her because she is totally off the wall and doesn’t give a monkeys what anybody thinks. She dyes her hair a tasteful blue and dresses like a grown-up punk complete with a scrapyard adorning her face.
Like me, she is in her early thirties but unlike me she is glamorous in an unintended and almost accidental way. She could dress in rags and still be desirable. I have to work at it and put on the warpaint, but I manage to turn the odd head now and then. Evie – Evie Gardner to give you her full name – works for a local newspaper as a feature writer.
Have I told you who I am? Probably not but I suppose I might as well. My name is Nicola Westbury and I work as a researcher for Granada TV in Manchester. I live in a tasteful semi in Tarporley left to me by my gran with my wonderdog Sonny, a Golden Retriever.
I also have a live-in boyfriend called Alex Thompson who I thought I was in love with a few months ago but he is becoming increasingly possessive and annoying which is why I escape now and then for a ‘session’ with Evie. It goes without saying that he hates that as much as he hates her. It is entirely mutual, you will be delighted to hear, and she frequently refers to him as ‘that boring slob you live with.’
Anyway, that’s enough about Evie for the time being. I must try and concentrate and figure out how I got here and, more to the point, how I am going to get home. I realise I do not have my bag which has my purse, which has my money, which has my plastic. I sigh. I really am a stupid bitch sometimes. How could I go walkabout without my bag. That really is the height of boneheadedness.
I do, however, have my phone which is my trouser pocket. I’m wearing a Paisley belted blazer with green trousers. No, I don’t bloody care if it’s in bad taste. It’s what came out of the wardrobe first yesterday, or was it the day before? No, it can’t be the day before for God’s sake. I can’t have been comatose for that long surely.
I decide to ring Evie, or if she isn’t around, my sister Pam who will moan like hell if she has to come and get me but will anyway and make me suffer every humiliating mile back to my place. So, I drag out my mobile and press the on switch, but nothing happens. The screen stays frustratingly blank. I give it an encouraging shake, but it stares back at me in that mocking way electric things do when they don’t work. Why doesn’t the bloody thing work?
This really isn’t my morning. Having said that, I’m not sure it is morning. I look at my watch. That appears to have stopped as well. What is going on?
I haven’t been taking too much notice of my surroundings while in deep muse mode but now I appear to be in a lengthy queue all pointing in one direction (as queues normally do!). How have I managed to join a queue? I hate queues. I would rather have my toenails torn out by a duck billed platypus than line up. . . for anything.
Everyone around me is moaning; to each other, to the people around them, and to anyone in a uniform within spitting distance. All we need is a baby to start crying, and sure enough one nearby obliges and is almost immediately joined by another obviously keen to add to the air of dismal frustration.
I smile grimly. This is fun and it’s likely to be fun for quite a long time judging by the length of the queue and the speed of the shuffle as it heads towards the promised land which appears to be the entrance to the security hall I can just about spot in the far distance.
It is evidently the start to the British season of holiday hell when everyone is grimly determined to enjoy themselves despite everyone else having the same idea, which is to lie on a beach for a fortnight and demand bacon, egg, and chips irrespective of the country they have inflicted themselves on. What happened to the ‘good old days’ when you just took your bucket and spade to spend a week in Rhyl? OK, so it was usually cold and invariably rained but at least there weren’t any queues.
I slip out of the queue and spot a pair of payphones in the distance and head for them. Time to give the bad news to Evie, or good news, depending on your point of view I suppose.
Since I don’t have any money, I will have to make a reverse charge call to Evie. I’m sure she won’t be too put out. After all, I would do the same for her if she was in trouble, which she frequently is. I have lost count of the number of times I have had to ‘rescue’ her from the clutches of an unwanted barfly, as we have come to call those irritating men who lean up against a bar all day and who think that any passing woman is an easy target.
Anyway, I arrive at a pay phone and reach for the receiver but then something really weird happens. I don’t seem able to get hold of it. At first, I think there must be something wrong with my eyes and I that my hand is going to the wrong place. But it isn’t. I slowly reach for it again and it goes right through the receiver as though it isn’t solid. I stare at it. I want to scream in exasperation, but I can’t because I have no breath. In fact, I am not breathing at all.
We just take breathing for granted, don’t we? It’s not something we are really conscious of doing which may be why I hadn’t noticed before. So, if I’m not breathing does that mean I am dead? The thought fills me with horror. How can I be dead? Dead people know they are dead and not only that, they must also know why they died and where they died as well. And I just don’t. I don’t remember anything before I ‘woke-up’ here in Manchester Airport.
I stare at my hands. They look real enough and feel real enough, just like they did when I was alive. Well, OK so I’m dead. What am I supposed to do? There must be a reason I am here. At a guess it must have something to do with the way I died. Perhaps it will be shown to me in time. Not having been dead before I have no idea what is supposed to happen when you die. Like most people I have vague ideas about heaven and hell and why we are destined to go to one or the other. I wonder which category Manchester Airport is in! I daresay people in the queues would have a set view about that.
I realise with a jolt that I am a ghost, a spirit, an apparition and that I must be here for a reason. My mission must be to find out what that is.
This work is perhaps the most challenging of my relief work. It is called ‘The Matrix’ and is a study of how shapes can represent space. It is inspired by the reliefs of English artist Ben Nicholson who experimented with shapes. He was influenced by Post-IMpressionism and Cubism and produced his first geometric and abstract reliefs in 1933.
In this worek the areas of different depths define actual space. Colour was reduced to just white or black with the occasipnal red line to achieve a sense of purity. Depth and plain colour make the play of light and shadow an intrinsic part of the work.
Strangely, it is the most viewed work whenever it is included in exhibitions. I am toying with the idea of entering for the JOhn Moores painting prize this year
There was a famous artist from Kiev in Ukraine called Kazimir Malevich who was fascinated by the relationships between shapes and who in many ways one of figures who masterminded the Avant Garde in the early 20th Century. He also created an art movement called Suprematism which spead westwards from the Ukraine. He is most famous for his ‘Black Square’ creation in much the same way as Mark Rothko and his red colour fields in the American Expressionism movement.
This canvas, called Composition No 9 is one of my larger canvasses measuring 122cm x 96cm and is very much inspired by Malevich.
It is a few years ago that I decided to extend my art into three dimensions. This was one of the first called Stratis Spatii, intended to take my two-dimenional abstract work in a new dimension. One of two of them have been exhibited publicly when the Liverpool School of contemporary artists (of which I was a founder member) put on two shows at the vast Liverpool Anglican cathedral.
Altogether, I created four sculptures, all in wood. I would have liked to have created them in metal like Anthony Caro, but sadly I simply did not have studio space or the equipment to emulate him.
I guess you either like and admire work like this or you hate it. There doesn’t appear to be any grey area. Hopefully, you will like it.
Fiction for tomorrow 