Page 29 of Sinful Crimes for the Artistically Inclined
He turned into another small lane and saw the church atthe end of the street. A small, ugly, modern, brown-brick church, surrounded by a large, empty parking lot. It was early Tuesday morning, and he knew the building would be closed and empty. The perfect place to lull a criminal gang into a detrimental sense of confidence.
Percy checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to go. He stepped back into a doorway to smoke what was perhaps his final cigarette.
For a split second, Percy wished he’d never taken up with his brother’s circle, which included Joe, but then the remembrance of how good it had been to hold his brother safe in his arms flooded back to him.
Then a remembrance of beating him almost to death.
Then a second later, Joe’s lips, Joe’s arms. Joe…
It wasn’t just his brother’s death, and Percy’s resultant nightmares, that had pushed Percy to the state he found himself in that morning, though they were a factor. And it wasn’t any sort of crushing need to wipe himself from the face of the earth to escape his unhappiness. The idea had simply occurred to Percy, quite innocuously at first, how much easier things would be if he just didn’t exist.
Had he done it sooner, Eve wouldn’t have died. Anna wouldn’t have gone through everything she went through, and Joe… He would, as far as Percy understood, be safe at home, happy with his church and his flock, and not feeling the guilt and regret Percy was sure he must start to feel any day now, as soon as the novelty of his first romance wore off.
All his favourite people would have been happier if he hadn’t been there. So why not step out before anything else went wrong?
When the painting had turned up, when he realised the likelihood that he would die obtaining it, something had clicked into place. Something peaceful. It wasn’t as though he was going to notice any difference once he’d blown himself toa million pieces, and no one, if they could even identify what was left, would have known it was deliberate. As a bonus, he could take these Nazi pricks out with him, and in doing so, do one last good deed.
The thought of that sparked an energising urge for extreme violence, and a large part of him hoped these people would be difficult to persuade, because even if he decided not to kill himself that morning, like any other decent human being, the feeling of crushing Nazi bones beneath his boot was something Percy would relish.
He extinguished the butt of his cigarette against the stone wall, then made his way up the street. He walked faster now. Briskly. He had ten minutes before they would arrive, but assuming they weren’t as stupid as he assumed they were, they would probably be early.
He walked around to the back of the church and pulled out the key he’d copied from one he’d secretly stolen and returned months prior. He entered quickly and quietly and made his way to the front of the building. He unlocked the doors, but he left them closed. He dumped the bags of money behind the altar, then turned and pushed the lid of the sarcophagus, using all his strength. Slowly, noisily, with shaking arms and a grunt that echoed throughout the church, it slid across far enough. He hoped. He knew what size the painting had once been. Would it be in a larger frame than when it was last seen?
The art historian in him began to trouble over the possibility of damp and mould, whether the painting might have been cut from the original frame and lost a portion of the portrait, whether some philistine might have tried to ‘restore’ it, or whether it would even be the real thing…
No, he couldn’t think about any of that right now.
Percy leaned back against the altar and waited, a shaft of sunlight illuminating every beautiful speck of dust between him and the high ceiling. It wasn’t a nice church, but the associatedimagery of thousands of paintings did make him wish, just for one moment, that he could have believed in God. Any god. He had seen too much for that to ever be a possibility, but he thought it would be a nice thing to be able to believe in, as close to death as he may be.
He checked his watch. One minute to go. Perhaps they would even be late. Why not?
Because they wanted money.
Percy told himself for the thousandth time they would come because it was a lot of money that he wasn’t going to give them. And that would definitely piss them off.
His heart beat hard and his foot began to tap. One more final cigarette. A little smoke to add to the general atmosphere of the place. Plus, it would help him look relaxed. It was important he should look relaxed.
As he dropped the lighter back into his pocket, he winced at the bright daylight that streamed through the open door. In they came, each uglier and more stupid-looking than the last. The large, angry-looking one at the front he had met before. It would be important to kill him first. He looked like he enjoyed the violence. It was probably the main reason they kept him around.
Two more followed, who Percy slightly worried at the thought of killing, because they were probably too lacking in intelligence to realise the full import of their evil actions. Had life been different for them, perhaps they would have been better people. But then, Percy had no time for the weak-minded and told himself, needs-must.
Next came the leader, who he would be careful not to underestimate, and finally, the leader’s right-hand man, who he would be even more careful not to underestimate. The five of them fanned out, two of them carrying bags which may have been big enough to house the canvas, had they been impudent enough to roll the thing.
As Percy looked them over he assigned each a number, the order in which they would die, and he hardened himself, because just as he knew that what they would do to him was far worse than what he would do to them, he must show no mercy at the end if he wanted to get away cleanly.
Percy took a long drag on his cigarette and puffed the smoke out into the golden church light. He tapped the ash to the floor with elegant fingers and said calmly, “Which one of you degenerates has my Caravaggio?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FOR THE LOVE OF ART
“What did you just say?” said the especially ugly one.
There are always two choices, Percy thought to himself. Accordingly, he stood tall, straightened his suit and said, “Which one of you has my picture?”
“Money first,” said the leader, his face as cold as his heart undoubtedly was.
Percy smiled lightly to himself, and stepped one well-heeled foot after the other down the stone stairs, slowly and languidly down the long aisle, and right up to the man. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Percy Ashdown.” He held out his hand, which was taken slowly, almost mockingly, by the leader.
