The Place

He bit his lip. He tensed his scalp. He stood rigid as a board. Freaked out of his mind.

He was normally so cool.

He was normally composed.

But now he found himself in a state he hadn’t felt since he was a boy, back before time began.

He could almost see the cigarette fluttering in his delicate trembling fingers—

but of course he had given up smoking a decade ago,

and his lungs had thanked him for it every day since.

But his brain rattled for it.

It was screaming for it.

It needed something to wrap around it like a scarf or a corset to stop everything falling out.

With his other hand, he swept his brow, catching the moisture that had been building up

and threatened to trickle down his nose,

seeping under the bridge of his glasses,

overwhelming them like a dam fit to burst.

He sucked his teeth and mussed his hair a little.

There was hardly a breeze that evening, which didn’t help.

He shook his head very slightly and his neat eyes tried to focus.

His vision straightened at last, and a tiny vestige of reason finally dawned on him.

He puffed, letting out a lungful of air, and let himself sink back, letting the brick wall catch him.

His eyes flicked up and down the backstreet—no one there.

No witnesses to him wigging out.

Thank Christ, he thought.

He straightened himself, free from the wall, and brushed the seat of his trousers.

Adjusting his tie and remembering he left his jacket inside,

he turned and opened the fire escape he had several minutes earlier escaped through.

⸻

The studio space was hot. The air didn’t seem to move

and the smell of paint and glue and print was everywhere.

A cloying space.

Not a bad name for an art gallery.

In a sort of sardonic way.

What other way would Bill name a gallery?

It would have to have a sardonic twist.

The Place was as sardonic as he could manage,

and so The Place was the name.

⸻

On the walls were numerous hideous daubs.

Some looked like student work, others barely looked even that.

All hideously expensive too—

which made Bill purr a little as he oozed past them with an elegant lope.

His stride slowed as he approached the chair with his jacket slung over the back—

and the young woman sat opposite, with a tablet idling on her lap.

“Sorry about that,” he said with a gentle cough, his hand running over the fabric of his jacket.

He hid the little tremble in his hand very well.

“You alright?” replied Sandy with concern.

“Tickerty boo,” said Bill, gracefully slouching into the chair.

“It just gets a little… you know—” he gestured with a thin hand.

“The air con’s rubbish.”

Sandy smiled and nodded.

“Is the work ok, though?” she asked earnestly.

Bill didn’t catch that. His brow twitched slightly.

“The paintings—” clarified Sandy.

“Oh!” said Bill.

“Oh don’t worry about those—actually—” he leant in confidentially.

“This is—you know—off the record—but I think a lot of these could do with some heat to liven them up a bit.”

He laughed dryly, then slouched back into his seat.

“I’d happily take a blowtorch to some of them.” he muttered.

That tremble again—he crossed his legs and slotted his hand between them.

Sandy picked up her tablet and brought it back to life.

She returned to asking her questions.

“Ok—so, this is more—you know—‘pull quote’ stuff. What does the title ‘Ever Present Past’ mean?”

Bill got easy in his chair and reeled off his spiel.

He adjusted his glasses like an actor.

“Well, the show is about our artists showing that they’re present—in the present. You know what I mean?”

“So it’s about modernity?” asked Sandy.

“Well maybe. Present now is not present then.”

Sandy wasn’t impressed.

“There’s a ‘pull quote’,” said Bill with satisfaction.

Maybe he was alright, he thought.

Sandy’s smile was polite.

And Bill could see it.

“But they’re all up-and-coming, which I know everybody loves now,” said Bill with a hint of a curl to his lip.

Sandy made a little note.

Bill felt the tremble in his hand again.

Maybe he wasn’t alright.

⸻

He heard something shuffle in the corner of the gallery space.

It had sent him rushing for the fire escape.

But he wasn’t going to run this time.

“How long did it take to gather the work?” asked Sandy.

Bill didn’t hear at first—his attention had drifted.

But then Sandy’s words filtered through him.

He snapped back.

“Oh—um…” he frowned in thought.

“About three months in the round. Maybe a bit more.”

“And they’re all London-based artists?”

“Oh yeah—yeah London-based…”

Sandy noticed that Bill’s eyes were now furtively not looking at her,

but rather the space behind her.

But she didn’t react. She pressed on.

“And—being a Londoner, this was important to you?”

Bill didn’t answer at first, and then muttered something—but she couldn’t make it out.

It seemed to be an answer, but she couldn’t be sure.

Then Bill was suddenly on his feet, looking off to the other end of the gallery.

Sandy looked up at him, and then traced his line of vision to where he was looking.

An empty corner of the gallery.

And then she heard it.

A scratching—so small and irritating that it felt like someone digging in her ear.

And yet it felt distant too.

Bill stepped forward, his expensive shoes clapping on the floor.

Sandy rose from her chair and walked with him.

The little sound unchanged.

Which was weird.

Ticking away, like a needle stuck on a record.

“You know what I think?” asked Bill suddenly, breaking the tension.

Sandy jumped slightly.

“I think you’ve got what you need, yeah?”

Bill turned on his heels and started bundling Sandy to the door.

“Wait—hold on—wait!” protested Sandy furiously.

“What?!”

“It was lovely to meet you, Shirley. I look forward to reading it,” pushed Bill.

“Wait!” shouted Sandy just short of the door to the street.

“What’s going on? What’s the noise?”

Bill could see how determined she was, and he fought for a moment, but then knew what to do.

“Thanks again!” he said and pushed Sandy clear into the street,

slamming the glass door behind her.

Flipping the Open sign to Closed.

Sandy shouted and gestured furiously through the glass.

Bill pulled down the blind.

He could still hear her muffled shouts,

but they weren’t strong enough to overpower the other noise

that persisted in ticking and scraping away.

He walked determinedly back to the corner of the gallery and flicked his eyes up and down the wall.

“Listen, you follow me alright? You don’t bring anyone else into this? Right? What if she had seen you?” hissed Bill.

The corner ticked and clicked.

And it grew louder—and louder—but stayed the same—

and the artwork on the walls began to tremble.

An easel tumbled and the canvas it held slammed to the floor.

Bill staggered back.

He threw off his glasses to let his hands press even tighter against his ears,

but the scratching picked on.

He threw his head back and let out an unabashed scream of pain…

And then silence.

And then Bill fell to the floor.

Lifeless and at peace.

⸻

“That’s so weird,” said Jessica.

“Right?” said Sandy with a shake of her head.

“Why did he do that though?” asked Jessica.

“I have no idea,” replied Sandy, topping up her drink.

“He just… ran out to get some air like he’d seen a ghost and—I dunno.”

She flopped back on the sofa.

“But did you finish the interview?” asked Jessica.

“Pffft. No. He had me out of there before I could get into it.”

Sighed Sandy with exasperation.

“But I mean,” continued Sandy,

“It was just weird. I started with the—you know—

my usual intro shit and plugging the exhibition and all that,

and he just sort of—glazed—like he wasn’t there anymore

and he thought—I couldn’t see that he’d stopped listening

but I could see that he was—you know—that he was somewhere else

but I carried on, you know?

Like a professional.

And he just sat there getting all fidgety

like there was a Tiger in the room

and then he ran out outside—”

Sandy took a sip from her glass.

“And then I have no idea what was going on at the end.

He was clearly wigging out.”

Jessica hadn’t heard a word of what her girlfriend had just said.

She had been drawn

elsewhere.

Something in the corner of the room had taken her attention.

Just beyond Sandy’s shoulder.

She hid it well.

Years living with Sandy made Jessica good at pretending she was listening.

But her hand began to tremble.

And as she sat there,

she began to hear a ticking in her ear.