9.2

 

The sky turned a pale, washed-out grey as the sun became occluded by scurrying clouds, turning the streets from the scintillating jewels of wet pavement to a dull litter-strewn gleam beneath the unshine, and casting the kind that made the buildings look flattened, as though they were part of a stage set rather than a real place. The breeze had a thin, metallic edge to it, and Roisin pulled her collar up against her neck to keep it out. She could only vaguely remember Cleveland Street. There had been a council office there when she was a student. She’d claimed housing benefit once, before the rules changed to count a student loan as extra income even when the student was on a summer break.

She consulted the live map on her phone and traced where she needed t go. To the end of Queen Street, then south along Market Street until she reached what used to be the library and then right into Cleveland. She didn’t know where this gallery was, but she could walk the whole length until she found it. It was good practice to get re-acquainted with the town again and by the time she reached the library, scaffolded and sheeted like an old sailing ship, the turn felt natural, almost inevitable, as though her body had made the decision before her mind caught up.

The street was familiar. The outdoor market on her left, boarded and shuttered against view from the road, and lined with small shops on her right. She recalled that when the council had shuttered the market, when she was still a student, they claimed it was to ‘invoke a village atmosphere’ withing, whereas any of the residents knew that theft and pickpocketing had become so prevalent among the stalls that the police needed a way to control the exits and catch perpetrators more easily. There was a varied array of smaller shops —some open, some shuttered and some with windows so dusty it was difficult to tell whether they were still in business. A bakery exhaled a faint smell of yeast and sugar, which she knew, from a boy at college who’d worked there in the mornings, was a chemical scent they pumped through the air conditioning as a sales tactic. A charity shop displayed a shelf full of dusty goods that were probably unsold since she was last here. Three adjacent hair salons were sandwiched at either end by Vape shops and a coffee bar was bracketed by two barbers, neither of which had any customers. Further down, opposite the entrance to the Indoor Wulfrun shopping centre, Summer Row promised the adult entertainment of a Topless bar and a casino, while the rest of whet used to be a street full of record and book shops had been torn down for an open car park.

And then she saw it: a small art gallery inside what used to be an industrial building on the right-hand side, though she couldn’t for the life of her remember what had been made there. It sat between a locksmith and a shop that sold handmade soaps, its façade painted a deep, matte green that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. The door was propped open with a stone shaped vaguely like a vulva. A handwritten sign hung in the window: Exhibition — Local Artists — Free Entry.

Roisin stood outside and looked through the window display. A series of amateur but competent watercolours and acrylics on paper and a couple of oil paintings of local landmarks: the bandstand at West Park and the mock-Elizabethan façade of Wightwick Manor, which was a National Trust property she had visited twice thanks for their original collection of Pre-Raphaelite art and crafts pieces. She hadn’t planned to go in. She hadn’t even known the gallery existed until half an hour ago, but something tugged at her—a faint pull behind the ribs, the same sensation she’d felt earlier when the woman fell down the steps. A sense of being summoned.

She stepped inside.

The gallery was darker than she expected, the air tinged with the smell of varnish, uncured paint, and something faintly floral. The space was small, almost cramped, with paintings hung so close together it felt as though they were whispering to one another. The cheap vinyl flooring squeaked under her feet.

A young shop assistant sat behind a counter near the entrance, absorbed in her phone. She looked up briefly, offered a polite smile, then returned to whatever she was scrolling through.

Roisin wandered deeper into the gallery, letting her eyes adjust to the soft, amber lighting. The first few works were harmless enough—landscapes of the moors, still lifes of fruit and stalwart older men, a portrait of someone’s beloved dog with staring at an empty bowl. She moved past them quickly, her attention drifting.

Then she turned a corner and stopped.