D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

He may or may not be a Welshman, though he called himself such. He could have been born in England, Ireland, Scotland, or even Moldavia for that matter. He was found stuffed into a toilet cubicle in Cardiff railway station, the only connection to his real mother being half an old silver coin crudely punched with a hole and threaded onto a cheap silver-plated chain. This had been wrapped in a piece of paper and stuffed into the blanket that covered him. The paper, once unfolded, appeared to be an old map of some constellation or other, crudely ripped from a book; on the flipside a biography of Beethoven. He used to look hard and long at it as a kid, trying to make sense of it, but realised it was meaningless, just an ordinary piece of paper cocooning some kind of useless costume jewellery. He could not work out anything of her from that. He was fooling himself for trying to read something into it all when in reality it was so much crap. He wanted to bin it, but he found he couldn’t bring himself to do it. So he tossed it to the back of a drawer and forgot about it.

What kind of a mother could do that, he often wondered? Did he blight her life so much she had to dump him as soon as she could? Like rubbish? Not only could he never forgive his adoptive parents, he could never find it in him to forgive his real mother, whoever and wherever she was.

He had no name, so he was given the provisional Christian name Edward, after the stationmaster, his adoptive parents supplied the surname and the Christian name, poor Edward being shunted to the middle. Gareth Edward Davies in full. They desperately wanted him to be fervently proud of his country, of his Welsh heritage, as indeed they were fiercely proud; a heritage and passion he shared until the day they told him of his origins, at which point all attachments were shattered like china on cold Welsh slate. How could he be proud of a lie? And therein, he supposed, lay the source of his feelings of social isolation. No man is an island, as they say, but he‘d put in place an impressively wide exclusion zone all the same.

Had he really turned into such a cold, heartless man? He had plenty of time to mull this over, but in the end he gave up trying to figure it all out and simply got on with his new life at Deller’s End.

He was not in desperate need of a companion. True, he admitted he missed female company, but only physically. He did not hanker after a soul mate. He was not on the immediate lookout for a Mrs Tree Hugger. He was happy being alone and he could not see any reason that this would change for a long time to come. Burned fingers, and all that.

But he felt happier that he’d ended 2010 in a better place than he began it. So much had changed in the last twelve months. Here at least he felt safe, out of the way; almost, he thought, as if he could hide away from fate, that thing he never once believed in.

But, he thought, he’d be the first to admit you can’t stop things happening to you if they want to happen. Things could find you even if you had your head down…

To be truthful, he hadn’t expected it to be as successful as it appeared to be turning out. The gallery was full and there was quite a buzz to the place. A few pieces had already been sold, exchanged for not insignificant sums, and there was keen interest in others. He did what he was good at, floating around the room, plying more drinks on people, pausing to give a grand exposition on one of the pictures to an interested party, remembering and calling out first names, shaking hands, complimenting taste, laughing at banal humour, and selling like mad.

Clive Foster, of Foster Specialist Art Galleries, Pimlico Road, Chelsea, loved the thrill of the chase, and the more challenging the quarry the greater the enjoyment. Gareth Davies was as yet relatively unknown as a photographer, but he was obviously proving very promising, he thought. His signed limited edition prints — largely landscape with occasional portraiture — were extremely accomplished and actually selling. When he said to Davies he’d include his work as a small part of an exhibition by an altogether more famous photographer, his expectations had been low. He did it because Davies, in his previous role, had managed to swing a rather good deal on the purchase of a central London gallery, and it was his way of returning a favour to an ex-realtor and struggling artist.

But in spite of the success Gareth Davies was in short supply. He’d gone missing again. He made his excuses to a group of potential buyers and, with wine glass poised in hand, he threaded through the crowd of people to search out the missing photographer. He found him sitting quietly on the bottom of the stairs which led to the first-floor gallery space. He was staring into a half-downed glass.

‘Gareth,’ said Clive, ‘what on earth are you doing sitting here? I need you back there. Sell, sell, sell!’

He smiled uncomfortably. ‘You know I hate crowds, Clive.’

‘But this isn’t a bad crowd, Gareth; this is a good crowd — they have money!’ And, a rare thing these days, they’re actually spending some! I must say I find myself pleasantly surprised. I know you’ve been shifting a few recently, but I hadn’t realised…’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘So are you intent on hiding yourself away the entire night?’

‘Most of it. You appear to be doing a good job on my behalf.’

Clive sat on the step beside him. ‘Ever since you went all rural on us and deserted dear old London for that Godforsaken Deliverance country…’

‘Wales, Clive.’

‘Same thing — ever since you went all Country Mouse on us you’ve become scared of your own shadow. I hope you’re not peeing into milk bottles and storing them; that’s always a bad sign for a recluse.’

Gareth offered a friendly sneer. ‘That’s so amusing, Clive.’

‘It’s partly your exhibition, Gareth, but you’re largely conspicuous by your absence. It would do your cause — and mine, of course, let’s not forget that — a lot of good if you got your arse back in there and lay on some of that silken sales pitch of yours.’

Gareth drank the remainder of his wine and grimaced. ‘I don’t do that sort of thing anymore,’ he said. ‘The things will have to sell without me. Though I do appreciate it, you know that, Clive.’

‘Sold quite a few pieces,’ he said. ‘It’s been a rather satisfying night. A particularly young and beautiful woman took a keen interest and snapped up a couple of prints. She asked if I could point you out as she couldn’t see you. Tell you what, Gareth, you’d be in with a chance there if you get back into the driving seat.’

Gareth smiled warmly. ‘Thank you, Clive. I will be in shortly. Give me a few more minutes.’

Clive rose, plonked his empty glass on a table and looked around for a waiter with a wine tray. ‘Please get over your panic attack soon; your reluctance goes right to the heart of my commission,’ he said, grinning.

He was soon lost to the milling crowd, clearly in his element, thought Gareth. Once upon a time that would have been him, but things were very different now. He hated the fuss, albeit very necessary; hated being at the centre of attention. Even the drink failed to nullify his escalating anxiety. And as for the crowds of people, whilst financial manna to Clive, Gareth found them disturbing these days. All he could think about was Deller’s End and closing the door on the world.

You’re getting to be a sad, lonely bastard, he told himself, rising from the stairs and wading into the choppy sea of humanity.

The woman watched him keenly, from a distance, tucked away at the back of the room, a glass to her face primarily to help mask it. He looked so handsome, she thought, quite the ladies’ man. A little nervous, unsure of himself, but that was no bad thing in a person. And so talented. What wonderful photographs.