Now let’s recount a sailor’s tale,
A strange tale about obsession - mystery and intrigue. Photo by Patrik Nygren
Paul Gallagher encapsulates the quiet horror behind the facade of an English family garden
Painting on copper plate was tricky, thought Peter, though, as promised, produced a smouldering, luminous under glow, imbuing subtle, shimmering warmth to the face in his portrait. In this case, the fragile, contented face of Donna, his wife. Jake, an artist friend, a former fellow student who had stayed on to teach a course or two at the Portland School of Art after graduation, had procured a stack of etching plates slated for recycling. These had been used by students and subsequently discarded after unsatisfactory forays into that exacting art form. Knowing how hard up the Abbeys were, he’d given half to Peter, who had kept them in abeyance, patiently waiting to be visited by just the right idea for a series of miniatures heralding a noteworthy departure in his work.
It was bound to happen, you don’t do what I do and expect that Karma won’t catch up with you one day. It’s just did it really have to happen here and right now? I’ve called the police – they said they’d be round as soon as possible, although I doubt on a Saturday night I’m a high priority. They’ve told me not to touch anything, although of course, I’ve hidden anything that could incriminate me. So now I’m sat here amongst the detritus of my life, all the things they considered not worth stealing, waiting.
Rush hour and the station was crowded. Hundreds of people watched the departure board intently for their platform number. Nothing showed. Suddenly, there was a surge forward as everyone attempted to get through the same ticket gates, jostling with suppressed annoyance.
Today I am choosing to end a life.