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The yet-to-be-released potential of becoming a successful artist kept Mike fully occupied. Excusing him from all the things he didn't want to do, he'd chanced upon his perfect role. Not that there was much that was perfect about him, or imperfect, or average, or any other single word except perhaps one. Mike was a 'struggling' artist. He was already successful at that.
All the more improbable then that he, or any artist, might turn out to be a superhero. In Mike's case, the suggestion was ridiculous.
Yet, that was what happened.
That a blank canvas, along with artist's block and some unopened tubes of paint, could put him centre stage in the elimination of a vicious gang of art fraudsters - unlikely. Or that stout-hearted clear-headed professionalism might enable him to out-manoeuvre a heist so innovative as to be suggestive of an alternative reality computer game - something Mike knew nothing about - impossible.
Yet, that forms the subject of this account.
Brimming with good intent, cautious of his faults, rarely allowing himself to become idle, bored or sad, Mike just didn't have room for achievement on a grand scale. That at least was how others saw it because any spare moments that did come to hand he'd be sure to squander on projects that were fruitless, ill-advised, or both.
Take, for example, his affair with Polly...
#
"I feel..." Polly hesitated. Not yet dressed, she was sitting on the edge of the bed staring down at the floor as though deep in thought. Quiet for her, Mike guessed she was upset about whatever she'd started to say, and then wished she hadn't.
"...feel what, love?" Mike asked, putting his arm around her. Warm and soft to his touch, her body felt as familiar as always, and comforting - but, maybe cautious too.
"...guilty," said Polly at last, still not raising her head.
"You mean about us, about me? About cheating on Lisbet?" He didn't need to ask. They'd had this out before. There were answers. Well, explanations more like, and he'd much prefer not to go through them again. Besides, there wasn't time. After spending the night in Polly's flat he needed to get back to where he was supposed to be.
"About us, yeah," she said, looking up at him, "about feelin' we're just markin' time, not progressing," she looked away, then added, "bein' shallow," almost in a whisper. Usually the stronger of the two, Polly seemed to be letting herself down, adding to her distress. "Lisbet, the kids, us. I feel we're, like... in a rut, sort of bogged down, stagnant."
"Poo, bit strong that!" Mike replied, hoping for a smile and wondering what he could say to cheer her up. "As it happens," he paused. It probably wasn't the time, but the best he could come up with, "as it happens I have some news, Poll," and it was a change of subject, but one he had a good feeling about, "good news, that is."
"Sorry, me bein' a whinge."
"No, love. I'm the cause of this." Secretly, Mike longed for success. In what, particularly, he didn't know. It was more he sensed he had something to give - like a mission to fulfil. "Lisbet away all the time," he continued, searching for a mutually agreeable conclusion, "and me working at the yard when I'm supposed to be an artist." Sorry for himself or not, Mike knew the problem went far beyond his struggle to make a go of it as an artist. Sheepishly he had to admit it went further, even, than the complexities of his affair with Polly.
"It's OK darlin', you don't need to prove anythin', not to me."
How could he explain to this good, kind, loving woman how confused and excited he felt? Fate, it seemed, was teasing him with an answer - but, to what? Something bigger, for sure, than his own pitiful little problems. Perhaps something he wasn't yet acquainted with. This strange feeling he had of natural caution melting away, of hankering after danger and risk, that anything he might do could be justified in the pursuance of absolute success. But, hold on! What about Polly, Lisbet, the children? What part would they have in his crazy notions?
"Selfish I s'pose, Poll, but I can't imagine losing or hurting either of you." How he wished he could explain how he felt. Or, did she feel it too?
"You're stuck between two women, Mike, an' loyal to us both. I don't see a way out," she offered by way of conclusion and getting back, in Mike's mind, to the matter they were supposed to be discussing.
Of his various dilemmas, the one most easily resolved was stop seeing Polly or go through a divorce from Lisbet. But, even that was more than he could bring himself to face - new bold spirit or not. Hating himself for being weak, Mike returned to his change of subject.
"How about this, then," and in a strange way the muddle in his head might have helped achieve what he was about to announce, "haven't told anyone yet, but I got a commission! A mega one this time. A bloody humongous mega- mega-commission."
"Oh, Mike..." pleased for him as she no doubt was, it was obvious from Polly's expression that she didn't see it helped that much. A let-down for Mike, it seemed he was indeed alone with his fanciful thoughts.
"It's for another Late Arrival," he continued despite her reaction, "number ten," and, though realising it might sound silly put it into words, had a stab at explaining how he felt, "it will help, Polly - with things, with us. I get a feeling deep down. Strange, it is, almost mystical. Like a sort of premonition." He felt the squeeze of her hand.
"I know, love. I know..."
#
It would have been some comfort for Mike to know that his latest patron, the guy who'd placed the mega-commission, would become his most ardent supporter in the troubled times ahead. First though, and before realising any premonition, Mike had to discover that this benefactor and soon-to-become-comrade-in-arms was, in fact, a local gangster.
His name was Klato.
Having completed the predatory phase of his life, Klato had taken a house in the better part of town. His intention was to retire and, such is the quirkiness of chance, the property he chose turned out to be very close to where Mike lived. Mike and Klato, of course, moved in circles so foreign to each other that never in a thousand normal years would they have met. But that normality pre-dated the impending retirement, the all-important commission, and the enlightenment about the heist.
That was before they each had reason to champion the other's interests, a helter-skelter process that started gently with mutual self-benefit and ended, dramatically, with agonising, gut-wrenching, dog-eat-dog survival.
#
Klato woke to the sound of his alarm. It was high summer, seven am, and already warm outside. He'd had a bad night.
He reached for his phone and keyed in a well-used number. His, he knew for certain, wouldn't have been the only bad night.
Eventually the call was answered.
"Well...?" he asked the frightened silence.
"I'll do anything, Klato. It was a mistake," came the grovelling reply from a man fool enough to cross him.
There was no let-up to being a provincial gangster, Klato thought, all go, go, go. Even at his age, never the time to take a break.
"A mistake! Is that what you call it?"
Yes, he'd made the right decision. It was time to retire, move up a class, take the opportunity to savour all that hard-won stash.
"Give us another chance, Klato..." more frightened silence, "haven't we been mates all these years?" more again, "I swear you'll not regret it."
"I'll be the judge of that!"
I'll settle down, Klato thought, get a new image, all clean and respectful-like. And dignified. That too. No point in having money when you're gone. Very nice feeling, a bit of dignity, bit of class. Very comfortable.
"Please Klato...?"
Alone and wearing only pyjama bottoms, Klato stood at his bedroom window examining the world through a gap in the still-closed curtains. With his free hand he toyed with their edges, first letting shafts of sunlight dance across the room, then shutting them out. A loop of overnight bling hung heavily across his clean-scrubbed chest, catching in the tumble of hair or almost clinging to his bare perspiring flesh. Klato had a thing about personal cleanliness, neatness too, and snappy dressing. It went with being tough and special. It made people look up to him. There was nothing girlie about Klato.
He hesitated. Not a man to do compassion, but - better give it a go. It is, after all, what dignified people do. "OK, meet me at the Club. I've got a job for you."
Yep. It felt good being classy.
"Thanks, Klato. You aint going to regret it, I promise," his words sighed with relief, "yeah, thanks Klato..."
Sod it, Klato thought. Sod it - must be going soft.
#
Then, there were the other two, the real bad guys. Had Mike been aware of them at the start or their accomplice in London, a woman, he'd never have got involved. But these things happen so suddenly and so inextricably that, thinking about it afterwards, he likened it to going on a fairground ride after reaching a certain age. Once you've paid the guy, and the thing takes off...
It's a capacious vessel, regret, and unfair that Mike should have been singled out the way he was. More so when, like an innocent, he chose to 'do the right thing' all by himself.
And those two guys? They turned out to be so dreadful that, so far as Mike was concerned, they never even had names. And that bitch in London? She was worse.
#
Several hundred miles to the south-west a little boat awoke with a lurch. Breaking the stillness of the early morning, it sent a fan of ripples spreading to the furthermost corners of the yacht-crammed marina. Silent, like the fish beneath, it rocked at every sleeping vessel, the only sound an occasional spank of hull on water in dissipation of its energy.
The cabin door opened and a man emerged, a big man, too big for the boat. Over his shoulder, strap digging in, he carried a heavily laden canvas bag. With difficulty, he stooped to lock the door. Then, straightening up, paused, bending his head as if in prayer, as if seeking absolution for his thoughts or sanctioning decisions long since made.
There was finality in his movements, the resigned precision of a man who does everything for the last time.
Released from its burden, the boat lurched again as the man stepped onto the gang plank. With measured progress, for in his step there was a limp, he made his way along the pontoon toward the shore. And all that time, all that deserted daybreak time, his eyes sharp with caution scanned the little marina.
Waiting in a car outside the not yet open Reception was a second man. Parked beyond the main gate and barred from entry, he too looked furtively about. Gripping the steering wheel at ten to two his hands, his soft-skinned educated hands, tightened impatiently as the first man limped the hundred yards toward him carrying the heavy bag.
On reaching the gate, the limping man undid the lock and let himself through. Without acknowledgement, he struggled to the boot to stow the bag then, opening the passenger door, sat down heavily beside the driver.
"All there?" asked the man with the educated hands. He spoke in perfect English with a hint of Brum.
There was no reply from limping man, just a nod. In turn, there was no reply to his reply, just the flicker of an eye.
Grim-faced, they focussed on the road ahead. The engine already running, the handbrake was released and the car drove off at speed.
#
The Terrace, more than just a row of four quite nice houses edging a city park, was where Mike lived. He, his wife Lisbet and their two girls had Number 4. Next door, Number 2, was art dealer Edward and his wife. Number 6, on the other side, was divided into two with a gentleman in each half. Beyond that, Number 8 had been empty for a while and up for sale.
It all began at a private view at Edwards's city centre gallery. Mike's work had attracted the interest of one of the guests, their new neighbour - the guy who'd bought Number 8. He'd been invited along as part of his welcome to THe Terrace, for they were a friendly lot. Not much was known about him except that he was flush with cash, flashy, and used to getting his own way. But, pleasant enough otherwise, and maybe quite a break for Mike to get him as a patron.
His name was Klato.
Since it was a lovely evening, Edward suggested the three of them walk back together to Mike's studio...
('Late Arrival #10' Tovell PWA. 95k. October 2008)
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