Steven Bruce

The Second-Hand Painting

‘Not much gothic rock, is there?’ Ophelia said, placing a CD on the counter.

‘We only stock what people donate, dear,’ the old woman replied. ‘I could check the stockroom?’

‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.’ She watched the cashier hobble away.

Ophelia swept her nail-bitten fingers over the mood rings and slid one onto her wedding ring finger. It shifted from blue to amber under the shop’s dreary light.

From above the counter, painted green eyes watched her. She gazed at the portrait of a rugged gentleman dressed in a black frock coat. He stood tall beside an ornate chair, and his scarlet lips twisted into the grin of someone who knew her darkest secrets. Fucking eerie, she thought. I must have you.

‘I’m sorry, dear,’ the cashier said. ‘No more CDs.’

‘Never mind.’ Ophelia pointed. ‘How much is that painting?’

The cashier turned and removed it from the hook. ‘There’s no price on it, dear. I don’t think it’s for sale.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘It’s all for sale.’

‘There’s always a price,’ the cashier said, scratching her chin.

Ophelia snatched the painting by its ornate, gold frame and inspected it. ‘Did the tag fall onto the floor?’

The cashier wheezed as she bent over to search for the price tag.

Ophelia scribbled a number on the back with her eyebrow pencil. ‘Oh, here it is,’ she said. ‘Two pounds.’

‘A bargain,’ the cashier said.

Ophelia returned to her shabby apartment building. In the hallway, Albert stopped her.

‘Doing a bit of Christmas shopping?’ he said. His blubbery lips curled into a smile that revealed his nicotine-stained teeth. ‘I hope you didn’t spend too much on me?’

‘Albert, you got the rent?’

‘Yes, I got it,’ he said. ‘But you’re looking too skinny, so I brought you some homemade lasagne.’

Ophelia unlocked the door, and he followed her inside.

He set the plastic container on the coffee table. ‘Need me to hang that painting?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly. That’s a man’s job,’ he said. ‘You want it in the bedroom?’

She propped the painting against the small couch. ‘No, it’s going in the hallway.’

‘Well, it’s decided,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch my hammer.’

The night came with relentless, drumming rain. Ophelia settled into her dinner routine with a horror film.

‘I have a special treat for you, Mister Nosferatu,’ she said, and forked sardines from a tin into her cat’s bowl. Her black Siamese devoured the pungent fish as Ophelia dug into the lasagne.

In the television’s flickering light, she plucked a curly dark hair from a mouthful of bland béchamel sauce. She examined it and gagged. That’s the last time I accept anything from that frog-faced fucker.

The alarm clock showed three in the morning. Ophelia writhed in her damp bedsheets. In her dream, the painted gentleman lingered at her bedside. He leaned in, his soft lips brushing her earlobe. ‘I must have you,’ he whispered. His fingertips trailed through her thick pubic hair. She inhaled a sharp breath as his fingers slipped inside her and massaged her vaginal wall with a gentle rhythm. Red patches bloomed across her pale stomach. He climbed onto the bed, and her pelvis arched to meet his erection. It filled her up and sent her heart rate into overdrive.

It was almost ten-thirty when Ophelia woke to the persistent buzz of her doorbell. She dressed in yesterday’s clothes and answered the door. ‘Yes, Albert?’

‘Filia, I must apologise,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have commented on your weight.’ He handed her a bottle of white wine. ‘Here, I brought this for you.’

She spotted the one ninety-nine sticker price. ‘Thanks?’

‘Are you okay?’ Albert said. ‘You’re quite sweaty. I didn’t interrupt you polishing the pearl, did I?’

‘No. The apartment is too hot,’ she said. ‘It’s the radiators.’

‘Well, get the kettle on, and I’ll check the valves.’

As Albert tinkered with the radiator, Ophelia spied on him through the cracked bedroom door. He held her worn briefs to his bulbous nose and slid his fat tongue along the stained gusset. She covered her mouth with her trembling hand and rushed to the kitchenette. ‘Is it fixed yet?’ she called.

‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to call a plumber.’

At night, Mister Nosferatu pawed at the snowflakes swirling past the front window. Ophelia drained her glass of Albert’s vinegary wine and stood before the painting.

‘Visit me tonight,’ she whispered, and wandered to the bedroom. The room spun, her vision fizzed with vibrant colours, and she fainted.

An hour later, her eyes snapped open to footsteps thudding in the dark. She pulled herself off the floor and noticed a silhouette crouched in the hallway.

In a raspy voice, it said, ‘You’re such a disappointment, girl.’

‘As I told you on your deathbed, Mildred, go to hell.’

The silhouette dragged itself upright and stumbled backwards towards Ophelia. Its hand scuffed the wall and created an agonal gasp.

‘You can’t hurt me anymore. It’s all a dream.’

The shadow inched near. ‘I’ll see you soon, child.’

Ophelia scrunched her nose at the shadowy, bloated face of her mother. She flicked on the light. The hallway was empty. She expected to wake up at any moment.

When she realised she was awake, dreaded thoughts carouseled her hazy head. A hallucination. It’s Albert. The food. The wine. He’s spiking me. It all makes sense. I need to call the police. But where will I go?

A faint cry drew her to the painting, now a black canvas. ‘What in the world?’ she said. As her hand slid over its furry surface, bestial teeth emerged and savaged her wrist. She collapsed, wracked by electric pain shooting up her arm.

In the morning, Albert found Ophelia slumped on the bedroom floor. He shook her until her eyes sprang open.

‘Filia, wake up.’

‘Albert, what are you doing?’

‘I came with the plumber. You didn’t answer, so I let myself in,’ he said. ‘You’re cut. What happened?’

Ophelia glanced at the gash on her wrist. ‘The wine glass,’ she said. ‘I fainted and must have fallen on it.’

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s clean you up.’

When Albert left, stars glimmered in the evening’s lilac sky. Mister Nosferatu pounced onto the bed and snuggled against Ophelia. She stroked his chin. ‘My favourite sweetheart,’ she said.

As time passed, the room grew black. Sweat dewed her forehead. She swallowed the painkillers Albert left her, and her eyelids grew heavy. Such a disappointment, she thought, as tears slipped from her sleeping eyes.

A finger trailed her damp armpit hair and disturbed her slumber. ‘You’re back,’ she whispered, half asleep. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I must have you,’ he said, and pushed his fat, vinegary finger into her mouth.

She spat it out and turned on the lamp. Albert stood naked near her bed. His plump hand lifted his greasy, gelatinous gut, and he tugged at his acorn-sized erection. He snorted as ropes of hot sperm shot against her lips.

Ophelia snapped awake, hyperventilating, as she surveyed the dark bedroom. I need to get out of here. Calm down. It was a dream. It was a dream.

A meaty hand smothered her mouth and forced her head deep into the pillow. Her fearful eyes studied the silhouette bearing down on her.

Its face shifted from Albert’s pathetic snarl to the painted man’s devilish grin, then to her mother’s scabby lips. She kicked and fought, desperate for air, until an unbearable weight crushed her trachea.

Two weeks later, the rotten smell seeped under her door and alarmed the neighbours. The news reported on her murder, revealing that her cat had survived by feeding on her corpse, defleshing her face to the bone.

‘The last girl who lived here loved the apartment,’ Albert said.

The girl glanced around. ‘Why did she leave?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, and rubbed his fat earlobe. ‘I came back from my holiday in Thailand, and she’d gone. Guy troubles, I reckon. You have a boyfriend?’

‘Not at the moment. I’m focused on my career.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a hair technician.’

He ran his hand over his bald head. ‘Can you do anything for me?’

The girl smiled. ‘It’s a fantastic space for the price, Mister Brown.’

‘Call me Albert.’

‘Okay, Albert. I’ll take it,’ she said.

‘Excellent.’ He gave her a thumbs-up. ‘I’ll start the rent on Monday, so you’ll have three days to move in and settle.

‘Thank you. That’s so kind of you.’

‘Not a problem,’ he said. ‘I live on the same floor, but you won’t see much of me.’ He handed her the keys and made his way to the door.

‘Albert,’ she called. ‘What’s the deal with that?’

He turned to her. ‘Deal with what?’

She pointed to the hall’s end. ‘That creepy painting of the man sat in the chair.’