12.6

 

“Hell?” Roisin stared at her, incredulous. Yes, she’d wondered if the paintings were supernatural in some way, but to jump to a Religious Certainty was a step further than she wanted to take. Not that she didn’t believe in God, just not one that would approve of Religion as a method of controlling a credulous population. “Why would you think that?”

“There’s a really good reason that you’ll see if The Artist turns up. Also, your theory about them being dead bodies makes sense if the paintings are of souls in Hell.”

“Souls?”

The assistant shrugged. “What else would you call them of not souls in torment. I mean, I can see when the paintings have changed but I can’t actually see them changing moment to moment. It’s a saccadic chronostasis effect, where the brain fills in missing information to stop the eyes registering movement as a blur.”

Roisin must have looked mystified, because the assistant laughed. “Like when you look at a clock and the second hand seems to freeze as you look at it, then jump to a new position? Or when time seems to slow down as a car hits you and the moment of impact takes forever? That’s because your brain is recording it in some sort of high resolution, like watching a high-speed film slowed down to twenty-frames a second.” She shook her head, smiling. “If you see a hundred faces flashing past on a screen, and ninety-nine of them are men, the one woman in the reel will seem to stay on the screen longer than the others do. That’s a saccadic chronostatis effect, too.”

“I just thought it was because I’m a lesbian.”

“That too, but my explanation still stands.” She studied Roisin’s face under the dim lighting. “You realise I’m not, don’t you? I mean, if that’s why you wanted to stay here alone with me.”

“Oh, God, no. I didn’t even occur to me to wonder either way. I’m not looking to date anyone just yet, anyway.”

“That’s okay, then. I just wanted to be clear about that.”

“That’s cool.” Roisin groaned inwardly. That was probably the least cool thing she could possibly have said.

The assistant smiled, her gaze returning to the far wall. “Everyone’s different.”

“Right.” Silence descended on the gallery, but for the humming of the emergency lights and the distant gurgle of water through pipes. Now the gallery had darkened sufficiently, she could see the flickering prisms of the paintings, but only barely.

The assistant reached out and took Roisin’s hand — a small, instinctive gesture, as though grounding herself. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly. “Not tonight.”

Roisin shook her head. “I need to understand.”

The assistant looked at her with something like pity. “Understanding isn’t the same as being safe.”

Roisin didn’t respond.

The assistant’s gaze drifted back to the paintings. “He always comes after they change. As if he can feel it. As if they call him.”

“Who? The artist?” Roisin felt her breath catch. “Do you really think they call him?”

The assistant hesitated. “I think… I think he listens to things the rest of us can’t hear.”

Roisin’s skin prickled. “And what about the paintings? Do they listen too?”

The assistant didn’t answer, just clutched Roisin’s hand harder. She didn’t need to answer; the gallery answered for her.

A faint sound — like a breath drawn in — rippled through the room. The emergency lights flickered. The shadows shifted, not with movement, but with intention.

Roisin’s hand tightened around the assistant’s.

The assistant whispered, “He’s close.”

Roisin swallowed. “How do you know?”

The assistant’s eyes were fixed on the third painting. “Because they’re waking up.”

Roisin followed her gaze.

The wings in the painting seemed to tremble — not visibly, not in any way she could point to, but in the way a held breath trembles inside a chest.

The assistant leaned closer, voice barely audible. “When he arrives, don’t speak unless he speaks to you.”

“Why?”

“Because you won’t survive his fury at being disturbed.”

Roisin didn’t understand. “What do you mean? Is he violent?” She felt the hairs rise on her arms. She didn’t like violent men. Not since she was little.

The assistant didn’t answer, just put the forefinger of her free hand over her lips.

Roisin didn’t ask again. The temperature in the gallery dropped by several degrees until she could feel her breath condensing on her upper lip. The lights dimmed. The air thickened.

And somewhere in the dark corridor at the back of the building, a soft footstep echoed — slow, deliberate, unmistakable.

The assistant whispered, “He’s here.”