The Other Side Of Midnight

Chapter 1

Autumn

It’s just struck midnight, but I’ve no thoughts yet of leaving the backroom in the art shop where I double as Larry’s shop assistant and cleaner, and going home. I sneaked back in here after dinner to work on my little painting, but I’ve become so totally engrossed in it, I could be here for hours more.

I know most artists prefer working in daylight. Not me. I love creating things long after everyone else is tucked up in their beds and the air is shimmering with all their dreams.

I load my brush with the precious oil paints that take up a great proportion of my wages and let it glide effortlessly across the canvass. Almost as if it has a will of its own. I’m still a student with much to learn, but I have to admit my painting is starting to look good. Exceptionally good. Maybe because this painting is special… important.

Well, at least to me, it is.

I take a few steps back to gaze critically at my canvas. It’s a strange scene. An old, crumbling, ivy covered castle built into the side of a snow-capped mountain. A road, so narrow only a horse driven carriage could fit, leads up to the fortress. I’m tempted to add a carriage and snorting black horses onto the road, but I’m afraid I’ll spoil the painting.

It’s important I don’t ruin it since I’ve attempted to paint this scene countless times, but always had to give up after a few strokes. I knew instinctively I can’t capture the vivid image in my mind, and something deep inside me demanded I replicate it exactly as it lived in my mind. I can’t understand why I had to, I just knew I did.

I start moving forward to add more color to the castle, when I freeze. The skin at the back of my neck is prickling and goose pimples are rising up on my arms. The silence is undisturbed, but the air is different.

My heart slams into my rib cage as I swing my head around and look through the half-open door into the small showroom beyond. All the lamps are turned off, but from the light of the streetlamps I can see right through to the rusty little bells attached to the door. I’ve been so lost in my work I’ve not heard them ring, but I know.

Someone has entered the shop!

It can’t be a customer at this time of the night, and I know it is not Larry. He would have called out. It is either one of the wild kids in town up to no good, or a robber. Dad sent me for karate classes when I was in high school and I know some good moves. I can definitely handle any kid, and probably even a robber, if he isn’t carrying a gun.

But I have an even better idea.

I reach for a stained rag on the wooden trolley next to me and hurriedly wipe off as much paint from my hands so it won’t be slippery and tip toe over to the cupboard. I throw the cloth on the floor and pick up the baseball bat next to the cupboard. Gripping the smooth solid wood tightly with both hands, I start to move stealthily towards the door. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be cowed by any intruder.

My heart is beating so fast, my blood roars in my ears. I’m ready to swing the bat hard at the slightest provocation… until I trip on the temporary plastic covering Larry placed over some wires he ran across the room just until the electrician came on Monday.

I’ve bumped my foot against the plastic a few times, but always managed to regain my balance. Not this time. This time the damn thing finally gets me. I feel myself pitch forward. My hands instinctively let go of the bat and fling out to try and grab on to anything that would break my fall, but I only connect with the trolley full of paint tubes and a jar of turpentine filled brushes.

Grasping for the trolley is a big mistake. Not only does it not stop my fall, it accelerates it. The trolley shoots a few feet forward, until it collides with an immovable object, then both the trolley and I crash to the concrete floor in an almighty racket.

The breath is knocked out of me as my back slams onto the floor and paint tubes bounce off me and the jar hits my chest and spills out its contents. I can feel the pungent turpentine seeping into my clothes and reaching my skin.

“Shit,” I curse, as I lie there a winded, bruised, stained mess.

Then, I become aware there is someone else in the room with me. I turn my head and see a pair of highly polished black shoes a few feet away from me. My shocked eyes travel upwards and my brain notes how immaculate the creases in his black trousers are. The material is smooth, expensive. He is wearing a long black coat that looks luxuriously soft, the way good cashmere does.