Ian Rankin - Doors Open

Cretins.

Another time, he’d told Alice about a screen academy that was setting up in the city – she could do it part-time, learning all about film-making. Her excitement had lasted until a trawl of the internet had revealed the potential financial outlay.

‘Mummy and Daddy will be happy to pay,’ Westie had suggested, and she’d blown up at him, accusing him of accusing her of being a leech, of bleeding her poor parents dry. Another stamp of the foot and she’d bounded out of the room, slamming the door after her and causing one of his drying canvases to fall from its easel on to the floor. He’d managed to calm her down eventually with tea and a cuddle in the flat’s cramped kitchen.

‘I only need to work for another ten years and I’ll have savings enough,’ she had sniffled.

‘Maybe I can bump up my prices at the degree show,’ Westie had offered. But they both knew this wasn’t exactly feasible – he was probably going to sell next to nothing. No matter how good his draughtsmanship, in terms of actual artistry he was still that same ‘narrow pass’, at least in the eyes of the people whose marks counted most. The head of department – old Prof Gissing – had never been a fan. Westie had looked up Gissing himself once and had found that the grumpy old sod had pretty well stopped painting in the 1970s, meaning all he’d done these past thirty years was write articles and give boring lectures. Yet people like him, they were the ones who’d give the thumbs-up or thumbs-down to Westie’s whole future as an artist. Westie, the son of a postman and a shop assistant, sometimes felt that there was a conspiracy afoot to stop the lower orders being recognised as any sort of creative force.

Having finished the joint, Westie, arms folded, took a stroll around the room. Alice didn’t come in here very much any more. She stuck to the kitchen and bedroom. The mess irritated her, yet she was reluctant to tidy up in case it interfered with his creativity. She’d explained about a poet she’d been friendly with at college whose flatmates had done this big spring-clean of his bedroom one time and surprised him with it. He’d tried to be grateful but hadn’t been able to write poetry in there for weeks afterwards. Westie had considered this, then had asked just exactly how ‘friendly’ the two had been.

Cue another lovers’ tiff.

When the doorbell sounded, he realised he’d been practically asleep, staring out of the window at the passing traffic for at least a few minutes. Bed was one answer, but Alice would be expecting him to have achieved something with the day. The doorbell rang again and he considered who it might be. Did he owe money? Would Alice’s parents want a quiet word, maybe slip him a few quid to clear out? Someone rattling a tin for charity or needing to know his political leanings? Last thing he needed in his life were these constant interruptions. He was meant to be working… putting the finishing touches… surfing the junkyards and bric-a-brac merchants for cheap gilt frames into which to place his Stubbs, his Constable, his Raeburn…

Instead of which, he found himself opening the door to one of those people whose marks counted most: Professor Robert Gissing, in the flesh, and apologising for the intrusion.

‘Looked for you in the studios, and then in your allocated exhibition space…’

‘I keep most of my paintings here, tend to work on them at night.’

‘Hence the bleary expression, eh?’ Gissing was smiling. ‘Would it be all right with you, Mr Westwater, if we were to come inside for a moment? Rest assured, it won’t take long.’

‘We’ because there were two other men with him. Gissing introduced them as ‘two friends’, but didn’t mention names, and Westie didn’t recognise their faces. Dealers, perhaps, or maybe collectors, here to make pre-emptive bids on the contents of his degree show? He didn’t think so, but he led the way into the living room. Gissing had taken charge and was gesturing for them all to be seated. One of the ‘friends’ made to remove the covering sheet from the sofa.

‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ Westie warned him. ‘Got it from a skip… a few interesting stains.’

‘And the aroma of turps,’ the visitor decided.

‘To cover the more interesting smells.’

Gissing was sniffing the air. ‘It’s not turpentine I’m detecting, Mr Westwater, it’s something much more akin to our old friend Cannabis sativa.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ Westie said. ‘Helps my brain to get moving.’

The three visitors nodded slowly, and silence descended. Westie interrupted with a cough. ‘I’d offer tea or something,’ he apologised, ‘but we’re all out of milk.’

Gissing waved this aside, then rubbed his hands together, making eye contact with the classier-looking of the two strangers. It was this man who eventually spoke.

‘What we’d like to do,’ he said, ‘is help you buy yourself a new sofa – and maybe a few other bits and pieces besides.’ He hadn’t sat down, and was inspecting some of Westie’s work instead. The accent was local and hadn’t travelled too far from the tenements.

‘You’re in the market for a painting?’ Westie shifted a little. ‘I didn’t think the professor was my biggest fan.’

‘I can see you have a talent,’ Gissing objected with a thin smile. ‘And I’m enough of a “fan” to ensure that you pass the course with distinction. You know what that would mean – a real chance of being accepted for something in the postgraduate line.’

‘Is this some sort of… what do you call it…?’

‘Faustian pact?’ Gissing offered. ‘Not a bit of it.’

‘Though there would be that cash incentive,’ the stranger reminded him.

‘As head of the College of Art,’ Gissing added, ‘I’ve taken a look at your file, Westie. Each year you’ve applied for every bursary and hardship grant going.’

‘And been turned down for all of them,’ the student reminded him.

‘So what’s your debt up to now? Five figures, I’m guessing… Fresh start, clean slate – that’s what’s on offer here.’

‘Well, I’d be happy to show you some of my work…’

‘I’m looking at your work, Mr Westwater,’ the talkative stranger said.

‘Everyone calls me Westie.’

The man nodded. ‘I’m pretty impressed.’ He had picked up the Stubbs horse. Its coat shone like a freshly peeled chestnut. ‘You’ve an eye for colour. Besides which, we already have it on the professor’s authority that you know what you’re doing when it comes to copies. But we wouldn’t be buying off the peg, Westie…’

‘A commission?’ Westie was almost bouncing on the spot, even though he still didn’t feel comfortable. Why didn’t the other stranger say anything? He just kept checking his phone for text messages.

‘A secret commission,’ Gissing was correcting him. ‘No questions asked.’

But now the talkative stranger was looking at the professor. ‘Thing is, Robert, I can see that Westie here’s not stupid – he’s suspicious, and rightly so. We can hardly keep the project a secret from him, can we? He’ll find out eventually.’ He was homing in on Westie now, still holding the Stubbs in one hand as he walked to within a foot of the student. But when he spoke, Gissing still seemed his target. ‘We need Westie to be part of it, and that means trusting him.’ He smiled for the young man’s benefit. ‘The professor tells me you have an anarchic streak – you like to poke fun at the art establishment. Is that right?’

Westie didn’t know which answer would serve him best, so he just shrugged instead. The man who had yet to talk made a show of clearing his throat. He had finished with his phone and was holding up a used stencil, which had been teased out from below the sofa.