Thief of Hearts
Page 15

“He offered me a ride and it would’ve been rude to say no. That’s all there is to it.”
“He could be grooming you.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Grooming me for what?”
“I don’t know. For something illegal. Maybe he wants you to be his drugs mule, or to put your name down as guarantor for a mortgage he’s going to skip out on.”
I barked a laugh at that. Honestly, where did he come up with this stuff?
“It’s not funny,” he huffed.
“I know it’s not. I’m just tired. Can we eat dinner and leave the worrying out of it for one night?”
Alfie pursed his lips, glanced at the floor, then nodded his head. At least he was aware of how trying his personality could be at times. And yeah, maybe I would be more worried about Stu’s interest in me if I wasn’t already drowning in financial woes. The money I owed tended to take up the majority of my head space, leaving no room for anything else.
I pulled the band from my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders as I opened the fridge to search for food. “I take it that you’ve finished your painting, since this is the first I’ve seen of you in days.”
Alfie let out a breath and went to sit down at the table. “Yes. My bedroom door’s open if you want to go see.” I slid a glance his way and noted the frenetic energy about him. He always got like this when he finished a new piece. For some reason he was never satisfied that it was actually good until I told him so. I was like his very own live-in art critic.
I nodded to him, poured myself a glass of Merlot and headed for his room. There were paints, paintbrushes and bits of stained cloth covering almost every available surface. The air was so thick with the smell of resin I was surprised Alfie hadn’t gotten high off the fumes. Although, that could explain his high energy . . .
First I cracked open the window, then I turned to study the piece and my breath caught in my lungs. The canvas showed the wreckage left after a bomb, piles of concrete and rubble stacked high. The eerie stillness after a disaster.
The entire piece consisted of varying shades of grey, except for a single beacon of light. A red ribbon lay vibrant but lifeless on a shattered brick, its owner nowhere to be found. It was the same red ribbon that had been in his last painting, the one of the little girl with the kite.
There was something about the stark meaning that had me sitting down on the bed for a moment to let it sink in. Alfie could be one of the most difficult people in my life, but it was moments like this that made it all worthwhile. Emotion clutched at my throat as I realised that Alfie painted pictures that were like books, sad books like Jude the Obscure. They told a story, made you feel things.
I glanced back at the painting, suddenly seeing something else and my heart pounded. The picture wasn’t all that it seemed at first glance. It required taking a step back, just a little more distance, to see what it really was. It didn’t depict just one thing, but two. Up close you saw the wreckage, but take a few steps back and you saw the face of the girl from the other painting. Pure genius.
Movement caught my eye. My cousin hovered in the doorway, awaiting my feedback. I ran my fingers beneath my eyes and rose from the bed. Grabbing him around the shoulders, I pulled him into a hug, no words forthcoming. But none were needed. He’d seen my reaction. He knew it was good.
“I took inspiration from the Sistine Chapel,” said Alfie once I let him go. “A lot of people believe that Michelangelo concealed images of the human anatomy within the painting as a sort of subversion to the Catholic church. If you look at the fresco of The Creation of Adam, it’s actually shaped exactly like the human brain.”
“Really? I’ve never heard of that.”
“It’s true. He might’ve been a painter and a sculptor, but he was also an anatomist. I wanted to achieve that sort of juxtaposition in my own piece.”
“Well, I think you’ve outdone yourself. You’re going to have a lot of people interested in buying this painting, Alfie. I just know it,” I said and looked over his shoulder at the stack of old replicas still hadn’t been moved. “Are you keeping those?”
Alfie glanced to where the paintings sat, looking torn. “I don’t want to give them away.”
I walked over and picked up the one at the top. It was a copy of The Abduction of Europa by Rembrandt. Turning it over, I noticed the wood used to stretch out the canvas looked very old. There were even cracks in the paint, as though Alfie had been trying not only to replicate the piece, but also make it appear like the original.
“Where did you get this wood?” I asked, running my fingers along its knots and dents.
Alfie’s expression turned guarded and he appeared uncomfortable with the question. “I got it from a chest of drawers I bought at an antique fair years ago.”
I glanced at him. “And you chopped it up to use for your paintings. Why?”
“Does it matter?”
I shook my head. “Not really. I was just wondering why you’d go to the trouble.”
He scratched his neck. “You know me. I get weird ideas sometimes.”
“Well, you’re right there. Anyway, can I keep this? I’ve been thinking I need something new to hang on my walls.”
Alfie hesitated a moment then shrugged. “Sure. Have it.”
I smiled and came forward to kiss his cheek. “Thank you. It’s really beautiful.”
***
The following morning I arrived to class early, having compiled the requested orientation folder for Stu. I also brought along a non-fiction book to see if he’d be interested, The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins. I’d decided to try a new tack by offering to help him read it, rather than going straight for the jugular and suggesting extra tutoring sessions to bring his reading up to standard. I suspected he’d only turn me down and get defensive like before.
I was also trying to gauge where his interests lay. Politics, art, economics, literature. I’d find his sweet spot eventually. If he enjoyed this book, I’d recommend more science-based works, and if not, I’d try a different subject.
That was the nice thing about teaching a class of only fifteen students. It gave you the time to discover each person’s strength, and encourage him or her in that direction.
A few people started to arrive, Kian among them. He came straight up to my desk, his eyes alight beneath the thick black eyeliner he wore.