 
From the author of For the Love of Picasso and the Solar Eclipse

My Favourite Muse

Atabo Mohammed

Copyright 2012 Atabo Mohammed

Smashwords Edition

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PROLOGUE

One of the greatest gifts in disguise God has given men, I think, is keeping unknown the knowledge of the future. A terrible thing that could be, especially if the future is foreseen to be ugly.

I mean, only a handful of people survive beyond the time after a doctor's prediction of their deaths. Convicts sentenced to death show little bravery especially at the time they are masked ten seconds before they hit the gallows, or get electrocuted, or injected. And if people would be allowed to choose the way they die, I bet most would love to die in their sleep.

I used to believe death is man's most hateful predicament and should come after at least two hundred years after birth― a time when he is completely useless.

It's said that pain can make someone beg for the mercy of death. I didn't believe that, not in my entire life. But I was proven wrong!

One person proved me wrong and I accepted defeat without question. She died with a smile on her face, clasping my hand; and worse, I found myself saying 'go in peace; be free' after she died

I didn't shed a tear for her until I finished painting her smiling dead face.

CHAPTER ONE

I am a landscape artist: that means I fall in love with most of the scenes I see while walking on the streets of Cardiff.

I think I see things differently unlike how others do. And my eyes were artistically engineered to detect a virtual beauty in things most people find displeasing. I sketch down scenes on the go without minding people's pokey glances at my sketches to tell me whether or not I got them right. I love what I do and I've been doing it for a while now.

My room smells of oil paint and turpentine. Mom keeps her distance because the combination of those two media makes her drowsy; she hates the smell and I don't see why she shouldn't. I mean, the pungency annoys me too, sometimes.

"Linseed is friendlier; smells a little pleasant. You should be using it instead of this suffocating thing." She once told me. "One day you'll find me dead on that floor." And she walked away in her usual fast footsteps. Whenever she says that, I usually don't retort. It's better not to in order not to risk an argument which usually doesn't end up good.

Whenever mother turns bitter, I leave. I walk long distances without even thinking how far I am away from home; and from her. But in the actual sense, I'm not running away from mother; I'm merely giving her some space to 'nurse' the temperament usually caused by occasional fiascos revolving between her employer, the job and herself. Ever since my disappearance became a routine, I found out that the farther I walk, the longer I stay away and the best the silence calms her down. And whenever I come back, she'll be there waiting for me with a worried face. But again, those walks weren't just premises to give mother some space; I benefitted more from them. My walks gave birth to the magnanimous interest of becoming a scene artist. As I walk, I make stops at places to put down sketches.

I draw almost everything: from people walking on the streets, to kids playing at the park, to street lights, women jogging along with their dogs, canoes by the Lake, pigeons, statues, homeless and destitute, cars, trees, malls, night clubs, and the list goes on. I painted those things I sketched when I get home. Even my mom's favourite apron has a painting on it―one she'd always say was the 'best, meaningful' picture I ever created.

I don't get confused by the zillions of things on the streets I find worthy of sketching. Matter of fact, it gives me pleasure to think my art life would never be boring because there are many things to put down on canvas.

Night time isn't an exception. Certain objects are best painted in a night scene; I specifically love how the night's aura gently fades colours out of objects in the late evenings, and cast shadows in the moonlight. A painting I once made of three drunken women leaving the 4II club was one of my favourites; it had long shadows and the craze and the wildness of drunkenness and the neon lights. It's been my first love for months when I finished it; an excellent brilliant piece of art to look at all times.

It was during one of such walks that I made a discovery about another side of life different from the one I'm used to in my world. That world is of reality and fact, whose event swept by in the cruel whims of speedy time, defying every miracle man and technology tried to create just to stop the event from happening. It was the time I met Pam.

It was a beautiful afternoon; cold but beautiful. The clear skies and still air made all colours appeared soft, still and vivid. I waited patiently for mother to come back from work; and thank God she did just when I was about to start grumbling. She walked into the house a little cheerful, so I don't have to be forced to take a long walk to give her some space.

"A beautiful day isn't it, Bradley?" She smiled, working on the strips of her grey apron. "Though I'm getting less used to the cold."

"It's September; we are not into winter yet." I stuffed the pack of my pencil colour into my bag.

"I know, son. I guess I'm getting older. Up for a walk, I hope?" Her hands were now tying her hair.

"Yes." I said. "And Molly called; she said you were..."

"Supposed to meet at Tyler's for lunch; I know. Don't worry I'll give her a call. Now up you go."

There's something in her eyes when she said that. It hung in her voice too. She was curt in her words, sounding unusually dismissive. I suspected she has something up her sleeve. I had wanted asking her but dropped it. I wouldn't want a prolong conversation for I need the moment of the day to capture some scenes. So I walked to the door.

"Don't stay late, Bradley."

"Brad." I reminded her. She gave a little smile; a cynical gesture that tells me I'm wasting my breath especially that my 5"7 frame doesn't faze her a bit; to her, I was a few hours old last night and fifteen years old just this morning.

I walked out a normal person on a normal day; dozens of places to pick flipping through my mind; but at the same time, putting considerations on the weather and the objects whose colours would be more vivid and appealing to my vision and spirit.

The people on the streets look happy, which overruled the fact that I was the only one that thought same about the day. Happiness was something I would like to reflect in today's sketches, but not from people's faces. I wished that to come from scenes I would to capture.

In landscape painting, the skies are contributing factors to the 'mood' of the environment. The brighter the skies, the gayer the scene would look. Yellow sun changes a lot of things ranging from colours to 'activity' of the objects in the scene. Generally, it's like the role lights play in a movie shot; adding gay and glamour that scenes devoid of lights would lack.

So I walked, thinking. The Bay would have been better but it's too far from where I was. The weather was unpredictable, could change before I get there and that would be devastating. Such kind of work could be worthless when the precise moment elapses. Roath Park came to mind.

I chose Roath Park because of some reasons. One, I love it; It's my favourite place in Cardiff and everything about it is beautiful. I have quite a good number of paintings I made from the park; and to me, the scenes to capture in there are inexhaustible. It has everything I need as a landscape artist; parks, lawns, Victorian houses, lake views, wildlife, you name it.

Today, I could use the Lake; water adds brightness when it reflects off light from the skies. The boats and the Rose garden would look perfect at this time. So I walked to the park; it took me twenty minutes.

It was the Rose garden I first went to and I found nothing exciting there. Though I thought of getting an angle to capture a part with a few people in it, but dropped the idea. So I proceeded through, looking for spots and scenes to see if I could get something better. I ended up at the Lake.

I stood by the cafe, looked around but still couldn't get something appealing. As a matter of fact, I had a quite number of sketches I made from around that area especially the boats stand, the Scott Memorial Lighthouse, the gardens and many more. But just when I was about to change my destination, I saw her!

She sat in one of the boats feeding swans with a big smile on her face. She seemed to be about my age; slim, pale and blonde; and what's more attractive about her was the attire. She was wearing a white leather jacket over a white turtleneck sweater and sky-blue jean pants. The swans, the clothes and hair all combined to make the picture kind of ecclesiastic; pretty.

She fed the birds gently; throwing the feeds into the water and grinning when the birds pick them up with their beaks and raised their little heads up as they swallow. She was alone and obviously happy with the swans or with what she's doing, or both.

I watched. And for a moment, forgot what I came to the park to do. It was a breath taking picture temporary created by nature itself without the subjects involved having any idea how pretty they look.

Sometimes, I look at women through a mental eye which then paints either an angelic or a devilish picture out of them. And I kind of find it useful, especially when I'm trying to create an abstraction using facial moods as centre of interest. But that moment when I stood watching the girl, I know I don't have to employ the use of a mental eye to analyse her. Instinctively, I knew the picture was perfect; magical.

I had it in mind not to make sketches of people with happy faces when I left home, but I forgot about that completely. So I dropped my bag, fished out my sketch book and set to work.

There are challenges associated with scene sketching especially if there are moving objects in the scene that have to be captured. It's much easier in photography where a 'set-and-click' technique works perfectly. That's not so in sketching. To get it right, speed is paramount; the faster you can draw; the better for you.

I have no problem with speed, neither do I have problem with figure drawing; and luckily for me, the movements weren't that much. The girl sat still in the small boat, throwing the chips gently into the water. The most movements came from the birds as they rumbled over the floating feeds. That meant I had to deal with her little movements as she feeds the birds and the swift movements of the swans as they wrestle to grab bites. I managed; and in a short time, I was able to put down sketches of what my eyes saw.

But something happened: I had my eyes on my sketchbook one second, and the next second when I raised my head up to look at the girl, I saw something different; someone different.

She was still; had stopped feeding the birds and the big smiling face had turned into a stout, grim expression. I don't know how to explain the expression precisely, but it looked as if a sudden emotional pain, so big, had crashed on her little heart. The light that was on her face in a moment, had been sucked away by grimness; she looked darker. I watched with my mouth opened.

The birds floated on water with their heads up at her, waiting for a catch. But she stared back unpleasantly at them. It seemed everything had gone still for a moment; I kept watching as she remained in that state. Then it looked as if she sensed she's been watched, she jolted her head up and starred at my direction, then at me.

Ok, I have a flaw when it comes to girls; shyness was it, which I think, sometimes culminates to fear. Many times I tried keeping my distance from them because of my inability to stand them, except perhaps my mother. She is the only one I can stand, I think; and that's because I live with her all my life. I had no idea what was going to happen the next few minutes when she caught me starring at her; but the way she looked at me with that face, I just settled for the worse. And the worse did happen.

She stood up; got out of the boat, walked out to the bank and advanced towards my direction (she accomplished all that in a few seconds).

The swans scattered away on her violent movement. I watched her, my mouth still opened as she walked briskly round. Just ten steps before reaching me, I noticed her fist rolled up into a clench and I thought an upper-cut would be her way of saying hi.

"Who are you; why are you looking at me." She demanded when she got to me; her clenched fists now propped on her slim waist. I didn't answer. "Are you deaf?"

"I wasn't looking at you."

"Liar!" She was right on that one. Her eyes went to my sketch book, and then to my eyes. "What's that?"

Before I knew it, she snatched the book from me. "Hey, what are you..." I scrambled up to my feet. "You don't have the right to do that. That's mine."

"You were drawing me." She said, "Did I give you a permission to do that?"

"I don't need your permission to make sketches." I retorted.

"What! Oh; what an idiot."

"Did you just call me an idiot?"

"You heard me, idiot!" She looked at the sketch again. "It doesn't even look like me. You are such an amateur artist; your drawings make a mess of people's faces. Look at this." She scoffed, distorting her face like she had a piece of damp garbage in her hand.

Then the unexpected came; she tore off the page.

"What the hell are you doing? Hey, stop; that's my sketch." I almost screamed.

"It's mine now. I'm going home to burn it. I won't let this ugly drawing go an inch away from here. I'm pretty and would like to remain so even in some piece of art. I wouldn't want an amateur, idiot artist to paint an ugly picture of me and sell it to some dumb art collectors." She squeezed the paper and stuffed it in her jacket pocket.

"You can't do that."

"Well, I just did." She flicked her tongue at me.

I watched her walked briskly away. I felt something burning in my chest; I burnt with it. A little distance away, she turned, did the tongue thing again and walked on.

The only fair judgement she must face was to be brutally murdered, by me! That's my thought.

I got home, angry and embarrassed, all caused by my inability to stand up to a crazy demon and to accomplish what I went out to do.

Mother saw the change of mood in me. She was sitting with Molly on the dining table. They stopped talking and observed me when I got in. I bet I looked like someone that fell into a stinking mud in public on a Christmas morning.

"Are you alright?" Molly asked.

"Fine! I'm just fine." I waved them off, took the stairs to my room, threw the backpack on the floor and sat on the bed. Bloody hell!

I rubbed my face to shake off the embarrassment streaming through my system, then stood up and started pacing. Anger rising in me as pictures of her annoying face flashed on my mind. The way she tore off the page from the sketchbook was killing. Those unpleasant thoughts provoked a violent reaction: I kicked at my reading desk so hard that it toppled sideways to the left, sending all the books, the red can of pencils and the lamp on it off to the floor. It also hit my wooden easel, bringing it and the stretched canvas on it all down. A rattling sound followed.

"Bradley! You better keep that down." I heard mother's voice screaming from downstairs. I didn't answer. I know she knew something was wrong with me; someone or something had made me angry; and she also knew how violent my reaction can be. That's why she made no effort to come up and see what object fell victim.

I sat on the bed again; calmed myself; looked down at the damage I've done and felt like I didn't care. The sprawled books, pencils, broken lamp, toppled easel and canvas were all collateral damages― a natural phenomenon in most violent situations.

A little calmed, I took up my bag from the floor and brought out the sketch book. If not for the carelessly torn page, it looks ok. The page before still had tracing marks from the sketch torn off. I observed the mark tracing carefully, anger began to flow back again and I threw the book, it fell on the canvas.

I'm going home to burn it.... I wouldn't want an amateur, idiot artist to paint an ugly picture of me and sell it to some dumb art collectors.

Those words screamed unpleasantly loud in my head. The insult was too much to endure. I shook my head, looked at the sketch book again for a moment and an idea began to fall in view.

"I'm not an idiot. And I'm not amateur. And my collectors are not dumb."

I stood up, put the easel and the canvas back in place, fished for a piece of charcoal from the sprawled pencils on the floor and began sketching.

"Your picture is going to be really ugly." I muttered through gritted teeth

Artistic visions of objects come with different kinds of emotions. The concept of picture making is generous enough to be submissive to the artist's wishes and he expresses it in that manner. This is true about almost all paintings; and that's the reassuring thought that cooled me off when I began making the sketch on canvas.

Somewhere in town, I thought, the girl would be standing before a roaring fireplace in some Victorian home with my sketch in her hand, ready to burn it. She can do that, but she cannot burn me nor my talent; thank God.

This painting will be exhibited to thousands in Cardiff and the world; and it's going to be ugly.

CHAPTER TWO

I laid awake that night, thinking about my burnt sketch. I thought my move for vengeance conceived through bringing to reality what the girl would hate to see of her picture would efface my anger, but it didn't. It's a disgrace, and I've never been that disgraced in my life. Matter of fact, it was more than just a disgrace; it was a grave insult. I shook my head, sprang to my feet and started to pace up and down within the space between my door and my easel. I had no idea how many rounds I made all together, but I ended up standing before the easel looking at the sketch on the canvas, thinking.

The sketch I made on the canvas was of the strange girl feeding swans from a small boat. Her face was down and grim. I intended painting her in sober colours without actually bringing out her facial contours thereby making her look sober, exactly how she looked when she stopped smiling. I had the picture in my brain, and sadly, I just though the picture is still going to look pretty with the canoe, the swans and the water. I wouldn't want it that way. This means I have to make some changes. I have to think again; I have to re-sketch. That was distressing.

I sat heavily down on my chair and sighed. Bloody hell! I felt more like she's winning; and I'm losing. How can I allow that to happen?

Then there was a knock on my door, and it swung gently opened before I give the permission.

"I heard some little noises so I figured you'd be awake." Mother said as she walked to me, a slight smile on her face; wearing the usual sky blue PJs and sleeping shades fastened on her forehead. "So what's the problem, Bradley?"

"There's no problem." I said.

"Liar. Don't expect me to believe you after you barged into the house like a mad man. Not to mention the 'reaction' we overheard shortly when you got into your room." Her face was now two inches away from mine. She looked at the sketch I made, then back at me. "Is it a girl?"

"I said it's nothing." My pupils went to the right. I turned my face off hers.

"Oh my God; it's a girl." She giggled. "Tell me about it."

"I'd rather not."

"Then it'll take you a while to figure it out and get yourself out of the mess. I must admit, it won't be pleasant for you if you choose to do this alone without taking some words of advice from a fellow woman which I'm offering to you now, if you'd let me."

"Mother, I'm fine. I can handle this. It's nothing."

She was quiet for a moment. I didn't look at her face but I could feel her disappointment as well as my inept unfairness to let her help me.

"Alright then." She sighed and stood up. "Sometimes I forget you are not a kid anymore. So I guess I'll leave you to it." She turned away from me to my sketch on the easel, took a moment looking at it, sighed and turned sharply back to me. "Bradley, you are bound to remain angry forever if you'll always get upset by women or what they do to you. We are kind of complex. And you will never understand us if you are not the patient type." Here we go again, I thought.

"Your... father was a patient man." There was a three-second pause, another sigh followed. "You can attest to that by the little memory you have of him. Not only was he a patient man, but a gentleman all together. I know you understood the qualities of an English gentleman; right now, I urge you to one of them: manners. You must adopt a flawless manner, that won't let anger make you do awful things. I'm telling you this because I know."

She turned to my sketch and looked at it. "This looks good; I can't wait to see how it'd look like when it's done." She went to the door, opened it and stood there. "You can free yourself of that anger this minute, you know. You are too good to stay angry for a long time."

I was once again steeped in my dilemma and solitude the moment mother shut the door. That wasn't actually the longest conversation we had about girls, but the deepest. And by the way she paused and sighed severally in the middle of it, I understood the difficulty she had trying to make her points clear to me. I need no second thoughts to know she's afraid of the crazy lifestyles of teenagers especially when it comes to drugs, sex, violence and recklessness. It seemed she had all that in mind for long and was waiting for the right moment to spit it all out on me. Well, she had her moment; it was a little impacting, undeniably.

I starred at my closed door having a mental picture of mother after all; laying on her bed, faced up, thinking about me and drugs, and girls, and sex, and violence; and finally papa. Then my physical sight settled on the British flag pinned on my door from the inside. British gentleman; well, with all those qualities a perfect one possesses, he's still human and could get angry whenever necessary.

CHAPTER THREE

The flag on my door, I love it. Even though we have different flags in the UK, I particularly like those of the United Kingdom and the Union. The history of the making of those flags is intriguing that I often wished I was there when it all happened. I once created a mental vision of St. George of England and St Andrews of Scotland gently placing their respective red and white crosses together to form once the most powerful flag on earth: Great Britain's. It's a move to reconcile the confusion that arose between Scottish and English Navy. Almost two centuries later, the white and red crosses were placed on the Satire of St Patrick of Ireland, giving birth to the flag of the United Kingdom otherwise called the Union Flag.

The flag had been a citadel for both peace and terror to nations and colonies, being mounted in every continent as a sign that Great Britain had a piece of each. They say the sun never sets in the British Empire in reference to the greatness of Britain cutting across Europe, Asia, the Americas, Africa and Australia. Very historic, without the history, the flag would just be a piece of cloth with red, blue and white lines crossed in one way or the other.

I heard burning flags is invitation to war between the conflicting countries. And when citizens burn their own county's flag, they are seeking world attention to witness the brutal opposition to the government's policies or the governance as a whole.

Coming back to my little world, I consider burning my sketch an invitation to war, being a gesture that showed strong opposition to what I love—painting.

"Picasso burnt some of his paintings to keep warm."

"What?" I exclaimed; Mr Glasgow shrugged without saying anything than leaning back in his seat. "Just to keep warm, he burnt his paintings."

Mr Frederick Glasgow was my art teacher at school. A chubby man, bald headed and short, whose agility has a sharp divergence with his speech. He's soft spoken and a good listener. Like the Chameleon eating up letters in Mavis Beacon's Typing Test Graphics, you press the button; he swallows it fast, but unlike the chameleon, spits it out gently. Some say he used to be a rugby player, but his affinity to football could prove that wrong.

"You see;" he adjusted his reading glasses "When he came to France in the 1900 to make a living, he lived poor, in a less cosy apartment with a roommate. Some say feeding was difficult for them and as a necessity; he sometimes had to sacrifice a painting to fuel fire for warmth. He hardly made sales at that time."

'Bloody hell' was all I could say "I would never burn my painting; never!"

"See, a certain necessity could present the happening of such situation."

"I'm not even thinking that far."

He smiled, sighed and leaned forward. "So this girl, did you look for her?"

"No I didn't. No need; I mean I hate her, but even if I see her someday, there's nothing much to do. The sketch is long being burnt so confrontation is useless." I said dismissively.

"That's good. She burnt only the sketch, not your talent. But should in case you happened to bump into her someday, won't you be curious to ask?"

"Well, I was really upset when that happened. But later on I realized that when it comes to girls and women generally, one is bound to remain angry forever if he'll always get upset by what they do to him. They are a kind of complex; you will never understand if you are not the patient type." I said casually, my mother's words. I saw his left eyebrow moved up a bit; a sign I think, of fascination at my statement.

"That's well said, Brad. I wish my son could hear that." He laughed. "He always has trouble with girls. But I'll remember to tell him." I smiled. "I have something for you." He moved his chair back, drew out one of the drawers and brought out an old book. "A little dusty though, but not a problem, it's older than you after all." He placed it before me on the desk.

The book cover has no picture or any graphic on it; rusty brown in colour, about 5 by 8 inches in size. The name reads; "Mood and Colour: a Background for Expressionism in Art." The author was Fredrick Glasgow.

"This is your own book." I picking it up.

"Yes; I wrote it seventeen years ago. It's just what I feel about creating moods on a picture. I only hope you'd believe me after reading it. A lot of people didn't."

"Why didn't they?"

"Read the book, Brad. Maybe you'll find out why."

"Thank you."

I was on my feet three minutes later heading to the door when he called back. I turned and my curious face asked him what it was.

"Next time you see the girl; have the courage to ask whether or not she burnt the sketch." I asked him why and he said "You said you would never burn your painting. So why should someone burn your sketch."

There was a straightness on his face that I couldn't at once pick what he meant or wanted me to think in regards. The only thing I felt was; he was kind of pained about it, like me; and that I shouldn't let it go just like that.

"Yes sir, I will do that." He nodded once, like a US Marine, still maintaining the face.

Cathay's High came to view the moment I stepped into the open. It was a beautiful sight, though normal to me. It was time for home and students walked haphazardly all over the place. I stood and watched for a moment, lingering with a little hope inside me to seeing the strange blonde girl in the crowd. I saw one, then another, then another and many more. None of them had her looks; or so I thought. I sighed, smiled at my own folly of deceiving myself before walking to the bus stop.

"Ah, there you are, we missed the bus, thanks to you." That's Phillip, my best friend. I told him I would be seeing Mr Glasgow shortly after school.

Phillip is a trouble maker, simply put. His favourite game is football and his favourite video game is car racing, with specialty in wrecking the cars. He was the first pupil to speak to me on my first day at school. And even though he gets me out of trouble with peers, he gets me into some, many times.

"I never thought I would be that long."

"Yes, you also never thought we'll be missing the bus. What were you talking about for that long?"

"My sketch."

"Which one; the one you're about to paint?"

"No, the burnt one."

"Oh, right. The new topic on the block. God Brad! Must everyone in Cathay's high know about this?"

"He's my art teacher. What's the big deal is he knows? You were the first to know this; my mom still doesn't know."

"What did he say?"

"Confrontation."

"Arri! That's what I'm talking about." He said excitedly. "Now let's go Enemy of the State."

"Slow down racer; let's not make this a priority. I have a painting to finish first. Then we'll look for her, and then we'll confront her."

"No, I will find her and finish the job. You go ahead with the painting."

"But where would you begin your search, it's not easy to find a biwt in Cardiff."

"I'll begin from where you saw her; Roath park right? Good, I'll start from there; by the lake, it could be her favourite spot. You said she was happy feeding swans. "I sighed, shook my head and walked forth. I'm sure he was surprised at my behaviour. "Hey, why are you snitching, I thought you hated her?"

"Let's go get a ride home." I said.

"Can I at least get an Amen on my intended move?"

I said amen and he did his 'arri' thing again, excited on the approval.

We waited another hour for the next bus and finally it came. The few of us waiting all boarded it and headed for home.

"So Mr Glasgow wrote the book, why is he hiding it? I mean, he's a scholar here and people are supposed to learn from him." Philip flipped through the pages of the book.

"I don't know Phil. And I agree he shouldn't hide it. But maybe it's because of the criticisms he had that probably made him withdrew it."

"He got criticisms on the book? Then it could be whack."

"His thoughts are not whack; I don't think the book would be. I think he could be too subjective, disregarding agreed theories of art to create his own that people would consider not convenient." I scratched my nose, "we are traditionists; most art scholars are."

"Sure thing; sometimes people find it difficult to leave tradition for new things especially if those things have to do with intellect."

I nodded. "I just hope I find a lot of his theories believable. I respect him and won't want anything bad to touch that."

Philip spoke of the weather, and of a car racing game he lost to his brother.

When Phil dove into another topic, a blue Toyota SUV came alongside our bus, about to overtake. Phil was next to the window, engrossed in his gist facing me. But just as the car began to overtake, I got the most unbelievable sight; sitting at the back of the SUV, was the girl that took my sketch.

"Bloody Hell, Phil. It's her."

"Her, who?"

"It's the girl that stole my sketch." I exclaimed.

"What?" He turned to his left and there she was, sitting on the backseat with black headphones on her ears playing video game on the small computer screen at the back of the front seat. "Shit!" He said.

"I swear to God it's her."

"Hey!" He screamed through the window; no one in their car heard or noticed. He screamed 'hey' several times but to no avail. The car sped away.

"Well, at least we now know which school she is." He smiled at me.

"Yes." I said. "Cathay's high."

When we got back to our senses, we were greeted by over a dozen pairs of furious looking pairs of eyes pinned menacingly at us. We must have angered them with our little commotion. We smiled at them. They didn't smile back.

CHAPTER FOUR

Back home, I stood before my art, working. Mother had softened me a bit with her preaching, and the ill work I intended to do on the painting was curbed. Mr Glasgow's final words got me very much electrified though, that even as I went ahead to do a good work on the painting; my mind was intent on getting the strange wild girl.

There are six swans in the water; the girl sits in the gray boat feeding them. Trees took most of the background; that means I'll use more of white, grey and green. But I like the fact that the picture was sketched in the open and therefore, will have an even distribution of light all through. So I first made a grisaille by applying shades of grey to bring out the lines and tones.

I prefer a one sided illumination of an object, when the lights are more intense and sharp on one side leaving the other side darker. That kind of concept always casts my mind to the works of one of my favourite genre artists: Johannes Vermeer of Delft.

Vermeer was renown by his scrupulous and delicate treatment of light in his paintings. Most of his decorative masterpieces portrayed faces smeared with gentle natural illuminations mostly coming from a window. He had a clever method of painting that gave his works the splendour and solidity they now bear.

Dead colouring worked good for him, he worked delicately, at first, using either shades of gray and or browns to make out the tones, and then glaze with other lighter colours so that objects appear kind of transparent.

The positions of his compositions were so precise it has created contention amongst art historians on whether or not he used some special positioning instruments such as a camera obscura to project images of his objects onto the canvas with their colours preserved. But no such devices were found in his belongings after his death. Most of his paintings were portraits of people standing or sitting close to a window; the illumination from the window makes vivid the warm interior colours. He probably worked from a darker corner while the objects were displayed on a brighter perspective.

I have two counterfeits of Vermeer's exquisite works on my wall; they are my favourites and I always look at them for inspirations. The first is 'The Girl with a Pearl Earring, 1665.' The painting is universally considered as his masterpiece, like Leonardo's Mona Lisa. Next to it is 'The Geographer, 1669'; a painting of a young man in the study peering out the window. There's an air of elegance and strong spirit in those two paintings that I find moving. The colours are warm; Vermeer loved brown and yellow ochre which are indoor colours; and he seemed to have had an exceptional love for ultramarine as it appears very often in his works. Most importantly, both paintings have that peculiar style of the artist: the masterly use of light.

Unfortunately for me, I couldn't use such style at the moment.

So I worked, maintaining the picture of the girl I had in my head. The position of her face being casted down to the swans made my job easier, that I don't have to stay glued to resemblance. The concept is good for unanimity. But then, I still had to do something about her face; I made it paler and grim. And since the hat and her hair have shielded a greater part of her face especially from the forehead and by the sides, little work is needed to construct her face. I did that; and two hours later, I was done with the girl.

Just when I put down the brush, mother busted into my room; already wearing her apron. She must have entered the house while I was working and couldn't hear the door because of the headphones on my ear. I took them off at once when she came in.

"Whoa! That was cute. I like this."

"Thanks mother. I had no idea you were back."

"How could you. You had these huge speakers blasting music into your ears." She walked to the painting. "This is nice. Who is she?"

I know where she's getting at. "I don't know her name. Just saw her at the Park."

"She'll love this painting if she sees it. I promise."

"I don't think so."

"Why do you think that?"

"I don't think that mother, I know that."

She took off her eyes from the painting and dropped them on me. I wasn't looking at her actually, but I felt the eyes.

"Is it something you want to talk about?"

"No, there's nothing to talk about."

She was silent for some seconds, and then she said "Ok." She returned to the painting. I know she knew my reaction the previous night could have some connection with the painting.

"So what's your inspiration here? Her face looks unpleasant." I sighed. Her questions are becoming difficult to answer. "Never mind". She said dismissively. There was a little smile on her face. "Dinner." She said and walked out. The smile lingered on.

We ate, talking about mother's job. She spoke carefully, trying not to wade into the part I didn't want to talk about. Even with that I knew curiosity was eating her up inside that it glowed in her eyes every time she looks at me. I thought she wanted me to feel guilty; so guilty that I would someday, beg her to hear me out. And when that day comes (which it usually does), she would either fold her arms or put her hands on her waist and give me the usual 'Look-at-your-self' look.

The phone rang and she got it; poke a few words and came back to the table a little worried.

"Is everything alright?"

"It's the hospital." She sighed. "Bradley, I would like you to accompany me to the hospital in the evening tomorrow. The doctor called."

"But it's going to be Saturday."

"I know you do go out sketching, but won't you do that in the morning? Sweetheart, I really need you there for emotional support. It's scary this; the doctor's tone doesn't sound like something is wrong; still it's unpredictable."

Mother had a breast lump excision last year. She recovered well; her Doctor recommended a yearly mammography and she had this year's just two days ago.

"I think you shouldn't worry. Everything would be fine." I said. "I mean, you had no major pain again since after recovery right?"

"No, I didn't." She said. "It's still unpredictable and I have a bad feeling about this." She sighed.

I reached for her hand and squeezed it; the phone rang at the same moment. "I'll get it." I said.

"Hello."

"Now listen, you won't believe this butty but I got some info about our girl. Don't ask me how, just listen." Phil's excitement was melded in his voice.

"How did you..."

"I said don't ask me."

"Hold on one second." Mother was looking at me; I wouldn't want her to know what's up, so I excuse myself and walked out of the room with the receiver. Her gaze followed me; I disappeared up the stairs.

"Ok, what did you get about her?" I shut my door

"Her name is Pamela Graham. Sixteen years old and..."

"Sixteen? She's older than me."

"Surprising right? Well she's older than me too."

"Bloody Hell. Address?." I asked.

"That's another interesting part, she lives just fifteen minutes walk away from you. That probably could be the reason she's at the park, it's closer to her. Much closer than your house is. She's also...."

"This also means there's a high probability of seeing her there more often, great."

"I say yes to that. Anyway, her father Jeremy Graham is Metro Pol, a superintendent or something, so he's big shot in the force."

"So if we do anything bad, we might end up behind bars for centuries."

"Yeah right. And please don't interrupt me again in the middle of a point; else I'll stop telling you what I've found."

"Sorry."

"She plays the piano well, very well; and she's taking lessons in ballet and acting and kick boxing. She came to Cathay's just last year from a school in London and wishes to become an actress someday. That's all. Now you talk."

"Kick boxing eh?" I remembered her clenched fist when she advanced towards me. "Wicked! That's why she appeared fearless. And she was fast too, snatching up my sketchbook with a speed of light."

"Ow man; you were worse than a girl. Anyway, let's rendezvous at the park in err... one hour?"

"No, not today man. I got works to do."

"Looking for Pam is work too. And we are set to do it aren't we?"

"Listen Phil, we'll look for her, in park, school, wherever, but not today, not tomorrow. Maybe Sunday."

"I can't wait till Sunday buddy; let's make time for it tomorrow if not today. It's a mare confrontation, not a fight."

"Phil I can't. I had to work in the morning and take mother the hospital in the afternoon. Besides, I have Mr Glasgow's book to read. So it must be Sunday."

"Ok man, whatever you say. I don't have anything to do so I guess I'll walk to the park and take a look."

"What? You will not do that."

"I will Brad, and don't worry about how she looks like; I've gotten a pic already. Will call you tomorrow. Bye now."

"Phil you cannot...." I stopped when I discovered how useless my statement would be. Phil had left me with a dialling tone to listen to. "Shit!"

I slumped on my bed and faced up, thinking how pathetic my situation was. When Phil says he'd do something, I always consider it done in time and space.

From then on, billows of awful possibilities enshrouded my mind with regards to the future outcome of Phil's possible meeting with Pam. And from what I could make of those thoughts, I settled for the worse. I turned my head towards the painting, and for the first time, pitied Pamela Graham.

The next morning was Saturday. The previous night wasn't too pleasant being disturbed by non-coordinated dreams filled with violence and hostility. I woke up twice in the middle of the night, not with sweat or scream though, but disturbed. I'm sure I made many verbal utterances while I was sleeping because I felt somehow I did.

I woke up early that morning, which was very unlike me on most Saturdays; I usually had extra sleep.

"Hey sleeping beauty. You are early today." Mother was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of orange juice before her. "Juice?"

She poured me a glass, but I stood where I was for a moment looking at her. The last two days were hard for me, I must confess. When you are living in a house with a curious and observant mother as the only parent, it'd be useless to hide some things from her. You can only do that, if she's not the type that doesn't make you feel guilty by her simple rhetorical actions that are difficult to bear. Sadly my mother is one such person; so I have two options; continue to bear the agony of guilt or open up and be free.

"Come on, don't keep standing there. Come and sit."

I walked to the table and sat; my eyes on hers. She said nothing; just handed me the glass of juice and I took it from her before placing it back on the table. For the moment I thought, I should relieve myself of the burden.

"I had a fight with a strange girl at the Park the other day. And since then, I've not been myself." I stopped there, expecting to hear a winning giggle from her but surprisingly, it didn't come; neither did the look-at-yourself pose. Instead, her eyes narrowed with worry and concern. She didn't say a word, neither did I.

A moment of silence and of rare emotion befell us all. I have no idea what effected that emotion on mother, but I know it shelved away my ego about self defence and reliance. And when mother reached out her hand and smoother my hair and shoulder, I felt as weak as a child

Two things made me go to the park that day; the first was to read Mr Glasgow's book. This idea was strengthened by the second reason: which was to see Pam and possibly prevent the eminent catastrophe that could happen if Phil sees her first.

So when I set out, I had a 'rushy' feeling in me that involuntarily quickened my steps. I walked as if I was on the first date of my life and would never want to miss it. I got there in sixteen minutes and a few seconds; that was a record. The fasted I once made was nineteen.

I came to the park through the Wild Gardens; a little walk forth would bring me to the lake where I saw Pam in the canoe. But I wasn't sure she'd be there, that's if at all she's in the park. And besides, I wasn't inclined to wonder through the whole of the thirty acre property looking for a blond to settle a score. So I concluded to go to the lake, find a place to sit and read. Reassuringly, Phil would also have to work harder on his own cause.

I sat by the lake side outside the bars. The iron bars encircling it stood before me; I can only see what's beyond through the spacing between the bars. Somewhere in the middle of the lake stood Captain Scott's Lighthouse; I looked at it and thoughts of little Mary Steel's poem came to mind, especially the last line: 'Oh England, Land of the brave.' I smiled at my predicament. I am English, I must be brave.

"Pam is just a girl, Bradley; be brave." That was what my mother said (among other things) when I told her the rest of my story much later on. I know I don't look like a dumb boy because I'm not one; and my inability to stand women isn't fear at all. But I understand losing my grip on that emotion makes it culminates to fear. This has to stop.

I felt the intensity of my silent vows on my face. My facial lines creased a bit to reveal the deepness of my thoughts on my future actions and reactions when dealing with girls. I even felt a little anger rising, as well as a new urge to exhibit the new me to Pam. Then something hit me on the back and my state of mind reacted accordingly by turning violently towards what had hit me.

"Oops! Sorry." A kid stood there looking at me with a mischievous face. He obviously was playing football and somehow kicked the ball towards me. I immediately calmed, told him it's ok and to be careful. He ran off with his ball. That little display had deflated what I inflated myself with: anger. I felt myself taking deep breaths. So I adjusted myself on the grass, closed my eyes for ten seconds, opened them and the book. Somehow, I felt thankful to the kid for bringing me back. Well, at least for the moment.

Everything changed again three minutes later when I heard the familiar voice barking unexpectedly at me.

"Must you always be here?"

I tuned sharply and saw Pamela Graham with a war face looking down at me. I must admit here; my heart pounded for seconds and I became tongue-tied for a minute.

"Don't you have something better to do, like playing soccer or watching it? It's better than mooching around every day at the park like a girl and sketching pictures of people illegally. Oh you're reading a book now? Well, that's better; at least no one would notice you."

Surprisingly, the little moment of silence I had while listening to her blabber sort of calmed me down. I turned my head from her, looked at the Captain's Lighthouse and heard little Meryl Steel's voice screaming the last line of her poem in my head, like a war cry. Then I heard mother reminding me Pam is just a girl. Strength and guts got stimulated in me; I didn't know how but I just discovered my words instantly got organized and already thought out.

"Well, in the first place, I don't want to be noticed. Even if I do, it's none of your business. Besides, I don't walk around the place looking for trouble; tearing off people's sketches, calling them idiots, armature or unpleasant things. "

"I made it my business because you were sketching me without my permission."

"You still complained now, even after you've already torn it off and burnt it? Oh God! What kind of a person are you?" I shook my head.

"The sketch deserved to be burnt that's why I burnt it. And I'm happy I did."

"Well, congratulations then. You've just proven yourself as a hater of artworks. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a book to read."

With that, I got back to my book.

"I'm not done with you yet." She took a step closer. "It seems like you have not been raised well, that's why you talk to me like that. I'm not bringing myself from the roof to your level on the floor just to argue on a stupid sketch with you. But know this; I burnt your sketch with pleasure. I enjoyed every part of the act and wished it never ended. It's a job self-accomplished and there's nothing you can do about it, sucker!"

Now that hurts; a whole lt!

I didn't say a word for a moment. I stood up and began to walk away from her in order not to provoke a violent reaction (the type I did with my table.)

"Come back here if you have to balls."

I stopped, turned and walked back towards her, teeth gritted; fingers moulded into a feast, brows joint and face dark. I bet the change in my reaction fazed her by the way she froze a little.

"Let me ask you something." I said, "Has it occurred to you your unreasonable bitterness and sarcasm will make your life miserable and endangered? Do you think I can't harm you if I wish to or make your bitchy life more miserable from what it is right now? You are lucky, Pam, because you are a girl. But hear me this; you may not be so lucky next time."

She froze again when she heard her name from my lips.

"Surprised I know you name right? Well, you shouldn't be; especially that we started on the wrong footing; you angered me and that already put you in harm's way― my way. You should be careful."

With that, I walked away. Pam kept standing there like a statue. I didn't turn back, I had no idea whether or not she kept standing there or had walked away; I didn't care.

As for me, the deed was done and I'm happy; mission accomplished (even though I ended up sweating about fifty metres away from the spot). When I approached the Wild Gardens, I was smiling and thankful for Captain Scott's place in history, Steel's poem and mother's tip. I thought about Phil, though preventing a possible fiasco between him and Pam was one of my earlier motives for going to the park, I felt I didn't care anymore. Let them scream at each other and jump into the Lake afterwards.

"A woman was created to support the man, you know why? Because the man is weak. This means a woman is like a walking stick to a crippled; a woman is the gentle soul that touches a man's heart and quenches all troubles in him. A woman is an angel, a support, a partner and a friend; a dear friend for all."

That was Reverend Terry Goodman's words; Pastor of the Christ Family Church of Wales.

A few years ago, I attended the funeral service of Mrs Jane Gibson, one of the oldest members of our church at that time. She was seventy eight when she died and had served with the church more than five decades. I heard her mother was German and father from Wales.

It was really a sad day for the Gibson's. Mr Cunningham Gibson, her husband sat hunched in a wheelchair while his sons and grandsons sat behind him as they listened to the Reverend.

I observed mother nodding her head affirmatively to the Reverend's words. I looked around the funeral ground and observed most of the ones crying were women; I then wondered who is weaker between women and men. To my right, was Mr Write Thomas, cuddling Mrs Thomas as she shook in her cries. To my left was Mrs Anderson leaning her head on a bearded man I've not seen before in our neighbourhood. The grip Mother had on my hand became tighter by the second, which I knew, was an effort to curb the tears threatening to come out of her already misty eyes. So I looked back at the Reverend and felt tempted to ask him to define 'weakness'.

Coming back to the reason for my reflection, I still wonder what was the basis for the comparison. I sat next to mother in one of the waiting rooms of the Heath hospital, waiting for her doctor. She dissipated nervousness as she spoke to me about things not related to what we came for. It was just a futile effort to relieve her nervousness; to think that everything is going to be fine; and that in case of bad news, be able to manage the shock fairly.

As she spoke, I waded into my own thoughts while looking at her troubled face. At that time, mother looked helpless; I saw the age instantly coming out from her; and coupled with her current state of mind, looked strange.

"Oh, there you are." Molly walked briskly in and sat down by her side. "Sorry I was working. How are you?" She asked mother

"Fine; I guess." Mother replied, looking at Molly with a kind of face that would make someone knows she was lying.

"Ok, good. Don't worry; it's going to be fine, Mary. And how are you Brad?"

"I'm ok, thank you. Wow, I almost forgot my mother has a name." I said with a chuckle, looking at Molly.

"That's because you've been calling her mother since when you were a toddler." She laughed. Mother laughed too, hers was curt though.

Molly is a nurse at Heath and has been working there for years. Mother once worked there as a secretary before moving to take the same kind job for a private physician. But they've been very good friends. I like their friendship, except of course, for their annoying ritual of laughter whenever they are having tea in our house when Molly come visiting.

My funny comment with regards to mother's name kind of set stage for the unpleasant attitude again, they talked and they laughed. I found it unpleasant even though I know mother could use some mirth. But I was thankful to the heavens when the doctor rushed and rendered his sincere apologies for keeping mother waiting. The reason for coming late to attend to her sort of added salt to injury for I saw mother flinched. He said he did an emergency lump excision on a woman. He shouldn't have said that, because three seconds after, the colour drained out of my mother's face.

"Please come in." He said to mother. "Hey Molly, how are you doing today."

"Fine doctor." She replied.

He nodded at me before disappearing into his office with mother. "Here we go." I said.

"Don't worry Brad, she's going to be just fine. I gotta go now, but I'll be b..." She stopped on the sound of ambulance sirens. "Oh uh, I gotta go now." She stood up.

I watched her ran out and for the first time, thought different of her agility. In spite of her age and grey hair, she ran beautifully like that's what she does for a living. I smiled on the thought. Then I looked at the doctors' door where mother was in and envisioned the growth of nervousness as the doctor lashed her with some scary medical blabber before telling her she probably has a lump.

I stood up and walked out towards the door which Molly had followed. I should wonder a little, I thought. I won't like mother to come out crying on me, if she doesn't see me, I know she'll hold herself until she sees me and we'll be out before she breaks down again. Though I hope the situation won't be that grave.

So I wondered through the corridors of the hospital, hands in my pockets. There was a sound of a helicopter somewhere, probably another emergency. I once heard Molly said on the average, they attend to over seven hundred emergency cases every weekend at Heath. So I made a little calculation at that moment and came to a conclusion that from Friday to Sunday, about 230 plus patients get through the door of the A&E Unit of the hospital. To see for my eye and satisfy my curiosity, I walked to the Unit and leaned on a wall about five metres to the doors.

It was horrible. One after the other, people are been rushed in and out on gurneys, some smeared with blood, unconscious. Others were even dead when they brought them. It was a moment I saw raw blood and images of mortality. I didn't know what made me stayed glued to the place, and the horror.

Just when I was about to go away, a girl was rushed in on a gurney, something looked familiar about her even though the medics where all over her that I couldn't get to see her face. But my suspicion was confirmed five seconds before she was taking through those doors. One of the Medics said the girl's name was Pamela Graham and she was found unconscious at Roath Park close to the Lake.

Everything stood still for me. So was my heart.

CHAPTER FIVE

The drive home was miserable, at least for me. I became the opposite of mother temperamentally. In her case, the outcome of the medicals wasn't as mind wrecking as she earlier wined. Mother had no tumour or lump, but she must continue a monthly self-breast examination in order to detect any unusual thing that could develop to a lump as she has a physiology that could favour fast growth of lumps. So even though the few hours she spent in object worry have drained her down, she was relieved and happy. But in my case, hell was let loose.

The bloody, unconscious people I saw been trouped into the A&E Unit were all forgotten but one: Pamela Graham. And worse of all, she was brought to the hospital from Roath Park, a place I was with her just a few hours ago.

"Are you ok, son?" I remembered mother asking me that question, I couldn't recall the answer I gave her exactly, but I know whatever response I gave at that moment wasn't satisfactory.

My mind was torn apart into pieces that I it became hard to put together. What happened to Pam was a question that instantly surfaced a lot of theories which displayed some unreliable assumptions before me. And whatever might have happened to her definitely wasn't a small thing.

I caught mother turning to stare at me several times, but I didn't stare back. I just faced my front; and at the horrible images of Pam's limp body being pushed on a gurney.

Phil; it must be Phil. Well, I don't have proof; and besides, even though he's a hero in trouble making, he never physically hurt girls- at least I never heard of such a case attributed to him. But the way he spoke to me on the phone was questionable. He sounded threatening, hard and wicked with regards to his intention to go searching for her at the Park. And knowing the fact that Phil is not as patient as I am, a slight provocation could easily lead him to violence.

I was burning when we got home and completely burnt when I impatiently listened to the dull ringing of Phil's phone through the earpiece.

"Yes?"

"What did you do?" I barked.

"What did I do what?"

"Answer me Phil, what did you do to her, to Pam."

"Pam? What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about. Pam is in the hospital, unconscious Phil, and you..."

"Unconscious? What happened to her?"

"You tell me."

"What..." There was a brief pause. "So you think I did it right? Oh God, you are so unbelievable."

"Did you do it?"

"No I didn't, but right now Brad, I wish I did." I felt anger growing in his voice. "This mad girl insulted you, tore and burnt your sketch all for no reason and you sit your nerdy ass doing nothing to get even. Now, she probably has done it again to someone smarter than you who couldn't take it, so he took it right back at her. And what did you do? Put it on me. You are really unbelievable." I heard a short angry exhale followed by a click.

"Phil... Hello... Phil!" Ok, that went well.

I turned and almost jumped when I saw mother standing there, looking at me with a straight face.

"Bloody hell, you scared me."

"What is going on Bradley?" She demanded. I wanted to tell her it's nothing serious but she gave me the hand. "You listen to me; I spent a sleepless night dreaming of Mastectomy or some horrible surgical procedure on my breast; I spent the day tormented by thoughts of the worse possible outcome of my medicals that could possibly make those nightmares come through. And just when I get the little piece of relief, you started behaving strange again; Bradley you are about to get me steeped once again into that situation and I won't let that happen." She paused. "I am your mother, and I deserve to know your worries at least so we could work some of them out."

Well, that was not the first time ever did mother addressed me with such a commanding tone, but it's the first in a long time. However, my state of mind didn't see that. It didn't see the sense in what she's trying to point, neither did it calm to feel any sympathy for the state she'll be immersed into if I don't do what she demanded.

"I can't." I shook my head and walked to the door. "I just can't." I ran out of the room and out of the house. Mother called my name but I paid no heed. I just wanted out. I ran off.

Outside was cold but I was sweating. It was a moment when my thinking faculty kind of froze, both technically and otherwise. I stood in the middle of the street panting in frustration. I felt the earth spinning; maybe I was the one spinning not the earth. At one point of the spin, I saw blood smeared faces, limp bodies, heard stealthy sounds of helicopters, ambulance sirens, people screaming and still, the spinning continued. I felt dizzy, I felt light, breathless and felt like throwing off.

I leaned on a street light pole for support and closed my eyes, still panting. My stomach churned badly and within seconds, I felt the churn coming up into my chest, stimulating my salivary glands. I knew it was over now. I staggered to a lawn just by the sidewalk and threw off. Then I waited, for a while.

"Are you alright?"

I looked up and saw two little girls looking at me; their faces contorted with disgust.

"Yes I'm fine." I said "I'm fine."

"You need to go to the hospital. You are not well." Said the bigger one

"No, I don't need a hospital. I'm fine. Thank you."

The other girl, a blond didn't say a thing. She just stared at me while the older one talked.

"Julia; what are you girls doing there?" A middle aged woman popped out of a nearby house. She saw the girls standing by me and hurried to get them. "Julia, what did I always say about talking to strangers?"

"Mom, he is not well; he's vomiting."

The lady grabbed their hands and told them to get inside, before asking if I was ok. I told her I was. She said okay and followed the girls.

I straightened, held the pole for support again and looked at the lady leading her kids home. And just before she got them in, the blond kid turned and looked at me. I looked back and for a moment, though she looked familiar. The other girl turned to take one final look at me, she waived. I waived back, but my attention was on the blond one. And suddenly, like a revelation, I heard the girl's little voice telling me to go to the hospital. The blond waved again. I thought of Pam in the hospital, and I think, that was the moment I started thinking clearly. "I must go now," I said aloud. "To the hospital."

My head was still heavy when I stepped out of the taxi. I felt better though; a lot better than when I got in. The cab driver noticed how emaciated I was when I sat on the passenger's seat and told him our destination. He asked if I were ok. I told him I was fine. When he dropped me, he wished me well and drove off again.

I went in. It's been about an hour and a half since I was there. I had a good feeling that Pam won't still be in the Accident and Emergency Unit. My suspicion was confirmed when I got there and asked.

A gray haired matron told me the girl I was asking about, a Pamela Graham, has been moved. She looked at a chart and told me where to go. I thanked her and left.

In the elevator, I waited impatiently for the slow counting numbers to take a pause at the floor number I was going and allow the metal doors to slide open. I wasn't alone in the lift but I guessed no one cared for my anxiety or predicament; everyone has his or her own problem. And being the last place all healthy individuals would want to be, made it all easy for me not to stress myself thinking about any empathy. I stood there, among strangers, looking up at the numbers changing progressively, but slowly. Immediately the numbers paused, I remembered pushing through to the door before it opened.

Excuse me, sorry, sorry, excuse me, thanks.

I was given weird glances but I didn't mind.

I was the only person that got out on that floor. I stepped into another hall where people walked up and down like it was some kind of train station, but quieter. A grim-faced doctor walked past me, followed by a swarm of doctors tailing behind him. They were interns, obviously. I stood looking at them as they passed, my mind static, because it was at that moment that it downed on me I had not thought out what I would do if I walk into Pam's room.

Would she be glad to see me, or mad? What would I tell her if she lays there looking at me; the stranger she loved to hate and still had a grudge with?

Bloody hell. I never felt that stupid before.

While I stood there suffering in my predicament, I heard the elevator bell rang behind me. I had no idea I was standing directly before the doors as I haven't moved from there when I stepped out of it.

"Excuse me." Said a voice behind me.

"Sorry." I said. I turned around and there was a tall man there. He nodded and walked hurriedly to the left. Nothing looked unusual until when he got to a counter three metres ahead and spoke to the lady standing.

"I'm Jeremy Graham, my daughter has been brought here about an hour ago." I heard him say. At that moment, I thought, my situation just got a lot worse. I didn't hear exactly what the lady told him, but he nodded, went forth and in smooth long strides, disappeared through a left turning.

I followed him, but immediately I took the turning, he was nowhere to be found. He must have entered one of the rooms. But which one?

I walked slowly, looking from left to right at doors and windows to see if I would be lucky. Fear crawling inside me.

Somewhere along the corridor, Mr Graham bolted out followed by a lady, I stopped. They moved away from the door and began arguing. The lady, who by now I suppose was Mrs Graham, was telling him he loves his job more than the family; his daughter was hospitalized but it took him more than an hour to be there. He defended himself with some reasons which obviously weren't enough for Mrs Graham.

Mrs Graham, I observed, forgot to shut the door when she came out. Having seen that, I did the boldest thing I've ever done in my life: I walked to the door and got in.

Well, I must admit that, at that moment, fear had left my chest but hovered thick in my throat. I could feel my neck pulsating hard that I had to open my mouth to gulp some air.

I stood looking at Pam, lying on the bed. She weakly turned her head towards me. Though she was obviously very weak, I noticed the shock on her face; I knew she would think of me as the last person to be by her hospital bed. She raised her hand gently, about to speak to me and I hurried to the bed, held the hand and gently put it back to her side.

"No Pam, don't move." She moved again in protest. "I said don't move, please. You are weak, you need to relax. Please." I was looking at her eyes at that moment, holding her hand at the same time. To my relief, she calmed but still wearing a distrustful stare.

"Good. Thank you." I said, panting. "How are you feeling?" She said nothing. "You don't have to speak. Just relax, you'll be alright. You'll be f..."

I stopped when the Grahams stepped into the room and stood there looking unbelievably at me holding their daughter's arm.

"And who are you." Asked Mrs Graham.

"Brad." Still holding Pam's arm.

"Brad who." Demanded Mr Graham.

"What are you doing here?" Mrs Graham added.

"Look, Pam is a.."

"Pam is not well; and she's not ready for visitation yet." Mrs Graham said the words carelessly. "I want you to leave. Release my daughter's arm on your way out."

I was dumb founded. I looked at Pam and she looked back indifferently. I didn't want to look at her parent's faces again as they were all looking unpleasant. I walked out gently, drenched in embarrassment. I got back to the elevator, waited for it to open, got in and hit the ground floor button.

CHAPTER SIX

Death, in its nature has a gripping effect. It stirs uncomfortable feelings in the hearts of people especially if one is somehow, in some kind of danger. Death threats in movies are less frightening than in real life, and it's worse if some kind of incurable diseases become the sole factor to it. Pam's situation was just one of these.

"She has Leukaemia." Molly sipped her tea as she told us about Pamela's condition. "It's not the first time she's brought to the hospital, unconscious. She's dying."

And so we sat around; the three of us, in silence as if one of us was actually the one dying. Our silence, I think, laid a latent premise for varying degrees of thoughts.

Mother was looking at me with a pitiful face and I knew what she was thinking. She knew I had developed some kind of sudden affection towards the girl I had hated earlier. I think she's right, judging by my late brave behaviours of storming the hospital and into Pam's room.

Well, I can't really explain what my mind-set was focused on at that time; only that I had to see her.

Molly was indifferent, for over twenty years, she had seen situation like mine (even worse) and flinched only on a few. So she sat there, drinking her tea without saying anything. As far as she's concerned, her silence was either to play along or give us a moment to marinate on her revelation, or both. I went for both.

I stood and took the stairs again. No one said anything to me, only my mother's eyes were pinned at me as I left; I felt them like a sticky web. So I took the stairs fast enough to yank away.

Propping the back of my head with my palms, I watched the wooden ceiling without actually seeing what's up there but what my mind displayed before me: the life of Pamela Graham.

At such a young age, she's dying. Yet, she seems not to care how her life turned out to be. She goes around making trouble with people as if they were responsible for her condition. It made me wonder what her mind tells her every day. I felt the bigger picture was, she was dying and that enough is killing; but then what? Why would she live the last few years of her life as a trouble maker?

I looked at the unfinished painting at the far end of my room. The dead colouring had given it a sober look that not only matched the awkward tension I was in, but had also emanated a lifeless image of an unhappy concept. For a moment, I thought of leaving it that way without further colouring.

The sudden realization of Pam's condition had obviously changed everything: now my mind has nothing to ponder upon, but Pamela Graham.

Next morning was Sunday. In church, I sat between mother and Molly listening to the priest preaching the usual motivation through the words of God and the struggle experiences of the Prophets. Then the praise songs followed, which soon got wild, streaming spiritual frenzies through the congregation and transforming the place into a theatre. But I didn't feel that energy or the motivation. My mind was preoccupied with what I slept and woke up with; death!

My dreams the night before, were hell; the most haggard I've ever had. All of it dwelt on horrible scenes of death, exhaustion and terror. There was one where I saw Pam lying dead on the bed, all pale and stiff. Her dead face wore a stern look and with her blond hair, looked like a jinn. Then she was talking to me in a strange tone like she was possessed. Then there was this one where I saw her drowning in the lake and she wasn't fighting it. She just let the water engulf her; she was looking at me. Then came the dream with crusaders on horses. There were a lot of fighting and burning and death; and then it was over and the burial of the dead knights by the sea came. I stood among others, as coins were placed over the closed eyes of each knight before he's buried. Pam was one of them; the guy placing the coins on her was Phil. I guess that was the moment I woke up.

Now sitting between two old women, skidding to and fro between my dreams and the frenzy in the church, my life at that moment, was in hell of a disturbance. I started developing a headache; and when the priest asked the congregation to pray, I prayed to God to bring the service to an end. I guess He didn't answer my prayer; we left the church hours later.

Mother had been observing me for a while. Her concern grew from the moment I went up to my room when Molly told us about Pam's health condition. But mother didn't speak to me about it yet, but I know she will.

I had a shower, changed and came down stairs with Mr Glasgow's book. Mother was in the kitchen.

"I'm heading out." I said.

"Where you off to?" I waved the book; she wanted to say something but hesitated. She knew where I was going to: the Park, the same place the whole trouble began. "Alright. Have fun."

"I hope so. Later."

I walked to the door. But just when I was about to go out, she called on me again. Her face wearing the same disturbed look she had the previous day. She came and hugged me. Even without saying a word, I felt all the emotions she had for me with regards to the whole thing. I guess she wanted to show me, though not in words, how concerned about me she was. I felt it too; honestly, I had no idea what I am going to do since letting it go was something that proved very difficult. That was what informed my decision to start reading Mr Glasgow's book.

"You'll be alright son. You'll be alright." She patted my back.

"I hope so."

Ten seconds later, I was on the road to Roath Park. I walked fast, trying to get my mind focused on the book I was about to read.

The air was light; dim patches of the sun hovered deep in the clouds in the middle of the half-clear skies. People seem to be mostly indoors that day as the streets were less paraded by them. I should be indoors too. But I needed focus; and I thought I can't get it at home, with my mother, the painting and all. I'm also not too sure my resort to go to the park would change anything, but it's away from home, worth the try. So when I finally sat alone under a tree that was tagged Gingko biloba in the Botanical Gardens. I looked around me to make sure I was really in a strange part of the park where hopefully, I won't be disturbed by anyone or be hit with by surprises. Satisfied with what I saw, I opened the book.

The preface throws light on the title with emphasis on the psychological effect of colours alone without form. Mr Glasgow believes abstraction is more of play of colours than form; imaginations are translated to objects or colours or both. Harmony in artistic style either representational or abstract is achieved through the colours used, and the more exciting the colour, the more attractive the composition.

Mood in this context tends to come from two things: the artist's thinking and the colour; a little 'touch' on a colour could lead to a change in mood of the whole picture as well as perception on the path of the onlooker. The reality of illusion in painting is achieved only through colour, therefore abstract artistic pieces are judged first, by colour harmony of the composition, then the form. Form is not always the case here as most abstractions are devoid of it. He believes people gets attracted to paintings because they appeal to them in many ways, but in the actual sense, the most appealing is colour.

Personally, I like what I've been reading so far and it made me wonder what the contentious issue Mr Glasgow had raised that provoked criticisms from art scholars. I believe colour imputes the 'soul' into art depending on what colour is used, how it is applied and in what intensity.

On this point, I paused from reading to enjoy a mental reflection on my art at home. The sudden realisation of Pam's condition, I thought, requires a certain artistic presentation that will stir a certain mood different from just a girl sitting in a canoe feeding swans on a pretty day. Its soul shouldn't be latent, but should show more than the mare picture.

"Well, well; look who we have here, the new park ranger."

I heard the voice from somewhere to the left, it was Phil. He came with his brother Simon and their family dog Marley, interrupting my thoughts.

"Hi Brad." Simon waved. I said hi to him.

"So what's up Brad; how did it go with the girl."

"What girl?" Simon asked, looking at his brother.

"The girl he accused me of harming."

"What! What are you talking about?" Simon was confused.

"Will you stop asking me and let the boy answer the question?" Phil barked at his brother.

"She's fine." I said "She's fine. And by the way I didn't accuse you of harming her."

"You did, Brad. You called to interrogate me over that little bitches' misfortune and you were so angry about it, remember?"

"I did ask you, not accused you. Asking and accusing are two different things."

"Yes, they are different." Simon said.

"Shut up Simon." Then Phil turned to me again. "I don't care if you asked or accused, what I'm angry at is how you put it all on me. God; what makes you think I could do such a thing; harm a girl? I could have a reason to harm this one but not physically, Brad." He paused and sighed. "I thought you know me well, I was wrong. You are such a big fuck!"

"Phil." Simon uttered his surprise; Phil raised a stay-out-of-this finger at his brother.

"It seems like you have fallen for the enemy that's why you sounded harsh on the phone. Well, good luck Brad, you can go through it and any other fiasco without me. I'm glad. Goodbye Brad."

"Phil." Simon said again, looking perturbed at his brother.

"Let's go." Phil said and briskly walked away from us. I, Simon and Marley followed him with our puzzled gazes.

"Look Brad, I know he'll come around later. He's just upset now. We can..."

"It's ok, man. Just go; I'll take care of it. Just run with your brother."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, now go; and thanks man."

Simon shook his head, dragged Marley and went off after Phil. I watched them leave. Simon turned once and looked at me, Phil didn't; obviously, his anger was on edge and that culminated to the end of our friendship. I can't believe he just did that. I can't believe him saying all that and I just can't believe all that happened to me in the past four days; losing my sketch, loosing Pam and now my best friend. At that moment, I felt steeped in total lividness.

I looked at the book in my hand for a moment and realized I would be wasting my time if I should continue reading it at my current state of mind. I wanted throwing it away but couldn't because of the deep respect I have for the author. So I stood up and began walking, having no idea where I was going but very certain that I needed to take a long walk away to nurse my anger. I walked briskly, heading out of the Botanical Gardens.

School was boring since Monday. I felt I was in a trial moment; a moment when everything turns upside down. My gentle soul felt as if it's chained in a steel cocoon with no escape route. I felt lost with all that happened during the weekend especially with Phil whom I had an unsettled feud with. All the things we used to do were dashed because we were not talking.

I approached Phil during break time on Tuesday and he snubbed me. I didn't want to do it again to prevent embarrassing myself. Phil was angry and could create a scene out of the little misunderstanding and let the whole school know how such a jerk I was.

There's no way I could see Pam now as she'd probably still be in the hospital. I had no intention to see Mr Glasgow that day; I was still reading his book and will be better if I visit him when I'm done. So I sat alone in the cafeteria reading the book; but just when I was through with a page, I heard the most unbelievable voice from nowhere:

"What did you think you were doing, sneaking up into my room at the hospital?"

I looked up; Pam was standing before me with a straight face.

To be honest, my mind went blank and I didn't know exactly why. Something heavy hit me on the heart which much later on, I defined it as an awkward mixture of surprise and fear. I didn't say anything at first as my sixth sense seemed to be calibrating on the right reaction and words.

"You are still an idiot, you know that?" She said with a surprisingly soft tone. "You seemed not to have any idea what you were putting yourself into."

"I guess you are right, my mom said that to me." I said.

"She's right. You should be careful on things like that; you could get hurt."

"How you feeling?"

"Just be careful." She said and walked off. My gaze followed her to the door.

"What just happened?" I asked myself. My gaze returned to my book; I looked at the page I was reading and couldn't remember what I read. I closed it; and when I raised up my head and looked around, I saw Phil standing at a corner staring at me. Our eyes locked for some seconds, then he walked out of too.

I don't know exactly what that look was all about; but I knew there were tons of messages in those eyes; messages replete of bad contents.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"So, she just told you to be careful and walked away; nothing more?"

"Yes."

"Mhm; that's interesting." Mother took a sip from her herbal tea, her face registered a calm expression even though her curt 'mhm' left me wanting to hear more of what she meant or thought about my five seconds chat with Pam.

"I wonder what she's up to." I added. "I mean, I've never seen someone so ungrateful in my life."

"Ungrateful? Bradley the last time I checked you were about to paint an ugly picture of her to show it to the world because you hated her."

"Yes, mother but things have changed."

"What changed them? You or her?" At that point, I opened my mouth to talk but didn't know what to say. "You sneaked up at her in the hospital a few hours after you argued with her at the park; now you sit here telling me she's ungrateful."

"She should've said something nice." I said.

"I wouldn't say anything nice to you if I were the one."

"Why."

"Because you were an idiot."

"Mother!"

"Bradley, I have to be honest with you. I'm still not happy about you going to the hospital. Not that it's a bad thing, but it's dangerous."

"I wanted to be sure it wasn't Phil."

"As the first visitor, you'd be a prime suspect of what could have happened to her had she been attacked." I was mute. She sighed and continued. "Look, if you like this girl, fine; but you have to understand one thing: she's not ordinary. What I mean is she has a special problem that probably made her how she is and you can't change that."

"How did you know that; you don't know her."

"Yes, I don't know her, but I've been there once. This whole cancer stuff had pushed me to the edge that I became mad with everyone. You know the hell I made you go through."

She's right about that. We both went through a lot when she was diagnosed of breast lump. We passed through the different stages of grief; the denial and anger stages been the worse time of our lives.

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying you will go through hell to cope with her. She's a ticking clock and that's what makes it worse. She needs a friend but only if she could let someone in. It's your choice." She sipped her tea again. "Talking about friends, what are you and Phil up to; still not talking to each other?"

I had an instant recollection of the look in his eyes when he saw me with Pam. "He's still angry, but he'll come around."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes mother. He's no big deal, I can handle him."

"You do that fast; if you're going for a girl like Pam, you definitely could use a friend like Phil, at least for emotional support."

"Now you sound wicked." I said. She laughed.

The next day at school; I resolved to confront Phil; I saw him outside class with two of our friends so I walked towards them. I was harbouring a little bit of anger in me when I got there.

"Phil, I want to talk to you." I asked

"About what?"

"About this madness; angry at the little misunderstanding you are finding hard to let go."

"Madness you say; the last time I saw a mad man was in a mental home." He chuckled, the others laughed.

"You think this is funny right?"

"Damn right it is; madness is a word that hardly qualifies someone like me. I mean, I'm not the one that fell for a mad girl I happened to hate a little while ago. I'm not the one that goes about accusing my best friend of unimaginable things and I'm not the one that..."

"You told me you were going to the park to search for her even when I tried stopping you."

"I didn't go to the park, Brad."

"What the hell do you want me to think after all you said?"

"You should've thought rationally but you didn't. You should've given me the benefit of the doubt, that I couldn't do such a thing. "

"I did."

"Liar." His voice was rising. "I was the one you first thought of when you saw the girl in the hospital, that's why you picked the phone and called me. You didn't give me the benefit of the doubt."

"Did you just call me a liar?" I asked, coming closer.

"You heard me; liar."

I pushed him on the chest and he pushed back. The others grabbed us just when we were about to start throwing punches.

"You can fuck off to hell Brad." He yelled.

I hurled myself at him and punched him in the face. He punched back and before you know it, we've created a scene: struggling to get free from the grip of the boys; yelling and cursing at each other.

After much effort, I was dragged off to one side and him to the other side. I had a bleeding mouth; he had a bleeding cut just above his left eye. A lot of students have gathered at that time, looking at us, but my anger made me not to care. I walked away from the place angrier than before we started the fight.

My mouth tasted salty having a mixture of blood and spit. My anger swallowed the pain in my mouth.

The restroom was empty; good for my state of mind. I splashed water on my face, rinsed my bloody mouth, starred at myself in the mirror and observed that, except for the squeezed jacket and rumpled hair, I didn't look that messy.

"Are you alright, mate?" It was Henry Gordon, a classmate. I sighed.

"Yeah, I guess." I said, looking at myself in the mirror

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing. Just nothing." I said and walked out.

My desk was abreast Phil's in class, but I hardly noticed his existence there, for I already had a resolution just when I stepped out of the restroom: to hell with Phil.

I went to my room when I got home, that's after a brief stop at the kitchen fridge to scoop some ice for my mouth and waited for mother to come home. I didn't tell mother about the fight. Though I sensed she had observed the little oddity on my face but I'm sure she couldn't tell exactly what it was.

I painted wild. My state of mind was gingered; I succumb to its blind force and painted carelessly. It happens to me sometimes, especially when I'm in a bad mood. I deliberately didn't consider thinking about the mood I had wanted the work to have, I just applied the oil and scrubbed the brush to blend it. Mother peeped into my room once, said the painting is taking real shape and went out.

I never thought rolling solo, minding one's business could be fascinating. My resolution over Phil had gotten me free extra time to do other things on my own. Phil made us go through time consuming, silly adventures most of which I ended up not deriving any satisfaction whatsoever from them. But now that all those were shelved, I saw me with useful extra time to read, browse, see some teachers of mine on personal art advices and go home to paint.

At home, I helped out with the dishes, the garbage, went to the grocery store, did the laundry and even went to the club a couple of times at night to catch glimpses of drunken women. I seemed to love how things turned out for me without Phil, at least for a couple of days, I think, not only did I became a little more serious but also more organized.

This new self-discovery had initiated a series of remorseful flashbacks of my old self; never had I known how pathetic dependency could be. When you are deep into it, you become blind of your own possibilities to greatness. Not only did the flashbacks made me feel like some years from my age have been wasted for nothing, they also made me feel stupid as well. But then, I know I shouldn't be thinking about that now, it's a stupid mistake and it's gone; lesson learnt.

I won't let it happen again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I sat in the library on a Thursday afternoon reading the last two chapters of Mr Glasgow's book. Over the last few days, I had found many hotspots in the book that might have brought about the criticisms he told me about.

I found quite a few points I had attached little credence to, especially the one he made emphasis on Fashion and Style in painting.

My concentration was deep at first, engaged into the book that I didn't even notice who the person sitting opposite me on the same table was. I heard my book tapped with a pencil. I flicked my eyeballs up and saw the familiar straight face starring back at me; it was Pam.

I didn't speak, I just starred. Her eyes fell to a piece of paper on the table which I had no idea where it came from. Initially I assumed she called my attention to it; maybe it slipped out from the book I was holding, but when I saw my name on it, I knew it wasn't. She pushed the paper with the bud of her pencil towards me and I took it. The note said;

Brad,

The Green house, Roath Park. Meet me there in Five hours.

Pam.

I looked at her and she looked back with the same expression. Then she took her books and left me looking from the note to her rare view as she headed for the exit.

Well, that was something, I thought, even though I didn't know what the meeting was all about.

I looked at my watch and marvelled at the timing; we had two and a half hours to closing time; and an extra time of the same duration to get ready. I looked the note again one last time; I had no idea it'll be the beginning a brief magical moment packed with little happiness and prolong sadness.

The last hour of class turned out all twisted for me. In fact, my day turned psychologically bizarre the moment Pam left me sitting by the table in the library. The book seized to be exciting as my whole concentration was squashed by the unshelvable thoughts of the meeting.

The first question I asked myself was what would she tell me or what does she wants. Then I went hyper with the thoughts, gliding from one assumption to the other that I ran out of answers to supply the 'whys' and the 'whats' and the 'hows'.

The last period in class took longer than usual. Mr Mathews, the Maths teacher had never been so boring; he spoke for close to an hour while I grabbed what he said in the first six minutes. What he said for the rest of the time, I have no idea. In the bus ride home, I kept my gaze out at the window and saw Cardiff's pretty homes turned into trees close to a Green House; and Pam was standing there waiting for me.

I took a shower right when I got home, a treat I don't usually do for myself whenever I come back from school. I changed, ate, went back to my room and lay on the bed, thinking; no, not thinking; composing.

For the first time, since my senses had been carried away by her, I had a reasonable analysis on my issue: even though Pam was predictable, she could be surprising and I have to prepare for possible surprises. Considering how we started and had been, anything that could happen on that day won't be something unusual and so, I kept my hopes low.

By the time I stood on my feet and faced my door, I felt some strength surging inside me. I sighed, closed my eyes and said to myself, aloud. "Pam is just a girl." I said it again and again. "Here we go." I walked out.

The Green House had never been so conspicuous to me; I mean, I hardly gave it a look whenever I come to the park as it's not my usual spot. I found the glass enclosure a little stuffy the last time I was in there and naturally, I prefer the open spaces of the park more. When I approached it, I noticed that it's bigger than usual and the plants in the glass enclosure looked thicker.

I slowed my steps, looking from one direction to the other for Pam. But she was nowhere. I looked again and again but still couldn't find her. What the hell! I muttered. A plump guy walked out of the greenhouse and looked at me, smiled and nodded. His friendly gesture encouraged me to ask him if he saw a Blondie around, or inside the greenhouse.

"No. Sorry."

I thanked him and turned away from him, looking around.

"First date?" I heard his voice say. I turned back and he was still staring at me with that same smile on his face.

"Yes; No." I stammered. "Well, I can't actually call it a date. It's more like an appointment."

"That's how it starts, man; from appointments to dates, and then to having your first kiss. After that, you have a girlfriend."

"I don't think that's going to happen."

"It will happen if you want it to. Just play nice, give her nice time, keep the conversation on the low; don't go digging too deep, be funny and you'll have her playing by your game."

"You don't..." I stopped, sighed and thanked him.

"You're welcome. My name is Bob. I can give you a free tour in the glasshouse if you want; you know, to help spice up the 'appointment'." He winked.

"Sure, I'd like that, Bob, thanks."

"You are welcome, Mr..." I apologised and told him my name. "Brad. So you really like her; I knew it." He grinned. "And by the way, is the girl you are waiting for a slim pretty Blondie with a white hat? Cuz the one approaching from behind you matches that description." I made a gesture to turn but he said between his teeth. "Don't turn; play cool. Let her come closer before you turn. Be at ease man. To be in control of this, you better control the excitement."

So he kept talking; my mind wasn't listening to what he was saying. My concentration was on Pam's aura behind me. I had no idea how far she was from where we were standing but my heart seemed to beat with her steps. I thought she was closer, but it seemed my heart beat like two hundred times until the aura felt as if it was about to hit and knock me off.

"Brad?" She said; I turned with a smile and met her straight face.

"Pamela." I said, and my face straightened as well. She looked from me to Bob; I introduced him to her, he stretched out his hand for a handshake but she didn't take it. She just stood there with her straight face. But Bob never stopped smiling.

"Well, I guess I'll leave you two alone. See ya Brad." He turned and went back into the greenhouse.

I looked at her and smiled. "That wasn't nice." I said.

"I don't shake hands with strangers; and I prefer you call me Pam, by the way. Pamela doesn't sound like my name." She walked ahead. I followed.

"You were late Pam, you said.."

"Ladies are always late Brad, get used to it."

"What happened to 'ladies first'?"

"You only say that when you are with the lady and not before she joins you. Any more questions?"

"Err... No. Not for now."

"Good." She said. "Your lines kind of put me off, seems like you don't know how to talk to girls."

"As a matter of fact, this is the longest conversation I ever had with a strange girl."

She looked at me for a second. "I agree. You have a lot to learn."

"I'm learning alright. I just hope I learn it the easy way." I noticed a little smile on her face that disappeared the next second. "So, where are we going?"

"Just walk with me."

"That's it; walk with you?"

"That's it. Walk with me."

I walked with her, and she led me to a bench in one of the serene parts of the park. Actually, it wasn't a new place I didn't know but I don't usualy go to the place real often.

We sat on the bench; she leaned back on the backrest, let out a long sigh, closed her eyes for a moment and took another sigh. I got tempted to ask how she's feeling, health wise, but didn't. She hates questions. Her face was a little pale and for the first time, I saw how bony it is. Her thin, pale orange lips trembled a little before she parted them and sucked in some air, which she flushed out through them again.

"Are you alright?" I felt compelled to ask.

"What does it look like?" She enquired still closing her eyes. I didn't say anything. "It seems you won't live in peace with yourself without asking questions."

"Forgive my curiosity; but do you blame me? You dropped an appointment note for me five hours ago without stating the reason for fixing it."

"So you want to know why I brought you here."

"Yes."

She didn't speak a word; she was still in her position. It's like her breath seized for a moment and I just sat there looking at her face.

"Brad, just sit back and relax; do as I did. Come on."

I hesitated, but gave up. I adjusted myself and sat back; our heads all propped by the backrest, looking upwards. I gave an uneasy sigh; she smiled and said good.

Truthfully, I didn't know what I was supposed to feel doing that, but when she took my hand and laced her fingers with mine, all my thoughts went static.

I starred at the skies and couldn't see a thing up there, only uncountable masses of gray clouds hovering in disarrayed orientation. My mind wasn't in the skies either; it's concentrated on my held fingers. I had no idea what she wanted me to feel, and due to the fact that I was a bit disoriented by her sudden change of attitude to something I didn't expect, I hovered a little confusion in me.

I turned my head towards her and saw her eyes were still closed.

"You were supposed not to look at me; look up and close your eyes." She said without looking at my direction; and at first, I wondered how she knew I was looking at her.

I turned away, gazing once again the sky; at that moment, a flock of birds flew across my view in a uniform pattern; and I thought that was something to look at. Maybe they were migrating, or maybe they were just flying to somewhere they ought to be before it gets totally dark. It appeared they were in a rush hour or something. Shortly after, another flock followed and were gone. So when I closed my eyes, I decided to follow the birds to wherever they were flying to.

I flew with the birds beyond the fish-eye-view to places that might be called their home. I saw them landing by sea sides, bird islands, caves, trees, rooftops or cages. Probably they have nests there where their hungry little chicks would be waiting with their beaks wide open. Probably the chicks would be missing through the natural food chain and the parents won't bother to look for them, but would endure the natural loss and prepare to make new ones.

Life is like that; no matter how careful we could be, nature must take its course on us; just like the birds. Pam is dying, her parents knew that. They might have started preparing to have another baby either through another child birth or through adoption; Pam is now a wasted generation since she won't live long enough to have her own child that would be her replacement. This is the part where life, in all its splendour and gift, is unfair.

"Brad, you're hurting me."

Somewhere in my thoughts, I heard Pam said that. I opened my eyes and saw her face turned to me. "What?"

"I said you are hurting me." She moved her fingers between mine and I noticed what was happening. I had squeezed her little fingers tighter. I was too engulfed in my own thoughts and it reacted physically on her through my hold. Quickly, I let go of her as if the hand was red hot.

"I'm sorry." I sat up. "I had no idea I was doing that."

"What were you thinking? I was watching you; it seemed like you were sleeping only to feel you crushing my finger bones."

"I wasn't sleeping. I don't sleep that easily." I sighed and rubbed my face. I had no idea my thoughts could be that deep in such a short while.

"You still haven't answered my question. What were you thinking?"

"Nothing. I...just closed my eyes and..."

"Liar."

"What?" I looked at her and she looked back straight. "Birds." I said.

"Birds."

"Well, I saw them flying that way." I pointed up at the direction. She didn't look at where I pointed. "So I just closed my eyes and thought about them; where they were coming from, where they were going; stuff like that."

"What did you see?"

"Nothing special, just trees, islands, caves and mountains."

"Is that art?"

"No, it's nature; although there's a little form of art in it. I make landscape art and these things are also part of the landscape. Painting landscapes without a living thing in it would make the picture look serene; deserted."

Pam crossed her legs and folded her arms to her bosom; seemed relaxed and attentive to what I was saying. But I stopped talking because I didn't know what she wants to hear next.

"Ok, that was boring." I chuckled. "You are obviously not an art lover so I guess all the nature thing wasn't necessary."

"I don't mind. You can say whatever you want to say, as long as you'll keep the questions to minimum."

"Ok." I crossed my fingers. "How are you feeling now?"

She hesitated. "Fine, I guess. I came here when I got out of the hospital."

"Where?" She looked at me and I got it. "You came to the park right after you were discharged? Why here; you should've stayed back at home to fully recover."

"Oh please, stop saying that. You sound like my mother."

"I guess she's right. You should have..."

"Brad, I don't want to talk about that; just talk about something else."

My mouth opened but no word came out. I just looked at her with an opened mouth and at that moment, she was avoiding my eyes.

"Ok, I'm sorry. It's good you're alright now. I... I'm glad you are ok."

She looked back at me without a word, smiled and thanked me; I noticed the touch of shyness when she smiled and that gave me a little edge to continue. She's just a girl

"Hey, let me show you something." I said, standing up. She hesitated, then stood and followed me.

"Where are we going?"

"It seems you can't leave in peace with yourself without asking questions."

"That's not funny Brad."

"I'm not laughing, am I?"

I took us back to the greenhouse; thank God Mr Bob's offer hadn't expired yet. He delightedly took us in and showed us the little pond where the gold and larger Koi Carp fishes swam with grace.

A new feeling descended upon me; it's not only of happiness or love, but of satisfaction and comfort. For the first time in my life, I felt pure confidence which though, blossomed out of fear, radiated in me and my words.

And when I got home that evening, the bunch of butterflies swarming in my tommy didn't let me concentrate on Mr Glasgow's book. I kept smiling at my thoughts, savouring my discovery of a new experience in a new niche of life that's psychologically strange but spiritually exciting. I think I was in a situation I couldn't find a precise definition for, whether in part or in whole and whether simply stated or exaggerated; but the bottom line was, it was a heavenly feeling.

I turned to my right where my unfinished painting sat on the easel and observed it, like I always do; and like it always happen, I felt an urge to add a little bit of soft touch to the painting. It has to be ecclesiastic; it must have a an angelic touch. I came and stood before the picture; rubbed my temple and tilted my head, and then without thinking about it, I took a paintbrush, dipped it in oil colour and continued painting.

Life seemed to be moving fast for me. When I lost my friendship with Phil, I re-organized my life to suit the pattern of a solo rocking guy. I felt like a moving train, pre-organized to move and stop at pre-designated stations; those waiting for it will board when it stops and those that are late would have to either wait for it to come back or board another. I thought Pam's arrival into my world would slow my pace; surprisingly it didn't. I discovered she was as fast I was.

I have finished the painting and had already started another one. It's inspiration came from the birds I saw flying in the sky, during the moment of self-solitude when I closed my eyes to relax, with Pam.

I had made an earlier study of birds flying across a yellow setting sun on the eastern skies, maintaining a uniform flying pattern. I used a cloudy atmosphere; the clouds stroke across the sun, covering almost half of it, making the birds and part of the clouds appear dark on a deep orange horizon coloured by the setting sun. I named it 'Going Home'.

I had already thought about making another one after Going Home to present the moment we were together inside the greenhouse by the little pond looking at Koi Carps and Goldfishes.

"Wow! They are big." I remembered her saying about the fishes. "And look at the way they move in the water; graceful. Reminds me of ballet." I recalled she knows some of the dance. "In ballet, you let yourself go, you know, like you are floating."

"Floating." I said.

"Yes, look at the fishes, they float but under water; maintaining complete control and balance of their bodies and movements even in violent motions."

She said the words gently, looking at the fishes as if she was the force controlling their movement. Bob who was also standing by smiled and shrugged. I got tempted to ask her more about ballet but saved my breath for another time. Then Bob continued to talk about the fishes; their native origin, preferred habitat, food and breeding. I listened to his orative lines as if he was reading from a book. But Pam seemed more interested on their motion, not the food or breeding. And when we were about to leave, she asked to take a last look at the fishes. Which she did.

So in the next painting I would do, I intend to capture that moment, especially when she was all wrapped up in her thoughts looking not at the fishes but at their movements.

At school, I tried keeping my friendship with Pam on a low profile, but turned differently. And just three days after we met at the park, she announced our friendship to the whole school, in both words and actions.

We had a football match at school between my team and Phil's. Though we all belonged to the school football team, but in that match, we were divided into two teams and made to play against each other so that the best would be noted from the better.

My team was Group A, I was the goalkeeper. Phil's belonged to Group B and wore the number 9 jersey. These positions made us enemies in the game and going by our on-going feud, made it worse. Our individual confidence and ready-to-fight psychology have risen high; made us both looked at one another with eagle eyes. He was ready to kill; I was ready to break his wings. The game started well. Attackers attacked and defenders defended. Phil's sole aim wasn't only bent on doing his job alone; he obviously harbours a personal mandate of humiliating me by trying to get a stylish finishing at my detriment.

That mandate got all fuelled up when my team scored on the 33rd minute of play.

And so team B pushed harder, creating and missing chances. We pushed as well, but not as hard as them; they were wounded tigers with high chances of making it even, or even better. Yellow cards flew up on players; no reds. And when the game was almost over Phil got a yellow too, on me.

He came forward, took a pass from Henry and advanced. Two of our defenders, Hugh and Currie blocked his entrance into the box so he passed the ball back to Henry who bulled back and passed the ball to another team mate. Before the ball came back to Phil, he had created a free space with his speedy manoeuvres and before you know it, our defence had been compromised.

But I already saw it coming as my eyes were on him most of the time. So I made my move before he became balanced with the ball. He took a shot at the post but Hugh was there, the ball hit him and deflected high up. Swarms of attackers with their heads up were gunning for a header; I went for a catch so I jumped higher and fortunately, I got the ball but had pushed off Henry who, I knew would've scored if I hadn't done that. An assistant ref saw it from the lines, raised his flag up and then pointed it at me. The ref blew a penalty. Team B cheered at the decision and after the usual deliberation, Phil was to take it.

I saw in his eyes, a certain satisfaction and I think, was for the arrival of the chance; that particular chance to usher in the moment he sought for with his heart and might. I knew we had waited for it, and to be brutally honest, I thought he would win.

I positioned myself in the middle of the goal post, my eyes keen and my heart full of hate. I was looking at his eyes, he was looking into mine. He placed the ball at the mark and drew back. I was ready. He looked at me, then at the ball; and then he went for the kick.

It came up left and I dove against it; the ball hit my hand and then at the bar. It went back into the field, and to the players who were all ready to attack or block. Unfortunately, the ball got to Henry and without hesitation, shot it back with a left; it ended at the back of the net-my net. The rest is history.

The match ended on a draw. And when we got out of the pitch, in cheers of the crowd, Phil and I looked at each other squarely before departing.

In the looks, embedded the unspoken words not of enmity, but of rivalry. I was scored, he might have thought; he didn't score me, I thought, therefore I won. I walked away.

"What a game; you looked like you fought a war." I turned on the voice and saw Pam standing there.

"It was a war." I said. "Just that we fought it without lethal weapons."

She looked at my feet and the gloves I was holding. "Then why all the protection; it should've been fought without boots, jerseys and heavy gloves."

"You were right about that. But the jersey is good though" I said. "How are you?"

"That jersey differentiates you from your opponents; it brings rivalry." She pulled my jearsy and smiled. "No, how are you? You were the one that ran around the field looking for a ball to catch. I was just watching and drinking Pepsi."

"Fair enough; I'm ok; though I got scored, a yellow card, and nearly got injured. Beside those things, I'm fine."

"That's terrible. Don't worry, you'll be alright." She said and hugged me. The friendly affection felt good, but after it, came the terrible thing: all eyes were on us!

The next day, I had become a wonder for the whole school to look at.

"I must confess, I'm impressed with you mate." Henry grinned at me through the mirror of the restroom. I was looking at my wet face, thinking I looked worse than awful.

I slipped into the restroom unintentionally, and for two reasons: to hide from people's gazes and to splash some water on my face. The nervousness that gripped me as a result of the thousand pairs of eyes on me was pressurising and I felt my pulse panting. The water on my face was relieving and able to calm my pulse a bit. Henry buzzed in one minute after I shut the door.

"You are the man. Pamela Graham was the hell no boy wants to touch; but you caress her like a cat. Bravo!"

"Henry please... "

"I mean it mate."

"Yeah right. The whole school are now looking at me like a crazy lad and you think I'm the man."

"They are not thinking you are weird or mad, they are jealous of what you have. Agreed, Pamela Graham is the craziest girl in school, but so what? "

"So everyone looks at me as same."

"Everyone looks at you with jealousy. Pam could be crazy, but she's also crazy beautiful. And no matter how crazy she might be, you have probably touched a soft side of her that made her succumbs to you. Look at the way she hugged you yesterday, I'm sure a lot of people would swear to God that was the first time they ever seen her smile. It happened at your courtesy. So if I were you, I would walk with my head high and throw the middle finger at anyone that player hates." I was silent; looking at him through the mirror. "You have something hundreds of us in this school don't have; something rare and pretty, something crazy; something special. You have Pamela Graham. And whatever magic you used to get her, I think is a good one. Though you need more of that to keep her." With that, he turned and reached the door; just before he opened it, he said to me. "You do look nervous; you'll die of heart attack if you continue like that before the end of the day."

CHAPTER NINE

I love the monumental building of the Cardiff National Museum; the architecture alone controls not only an air of high value, but also the charisma of a national edifice.

Established in 1912, it has undergone a series architectural modification and reconstruction over the years to finally arrive at what it looks today. The museum houses a wealth of historic assemblage from zoology to botany, archaeology, fine and applied arts and geology; but of course my interest resides mostly on the assemblage of the fine and applied art masterpieces.

School is not too far away from it and sometimes after school; I walk to the museum to get some inspiration before going home.

I do feel a sense of belonging when I walked the halls of the gallery sections to look at paintings. It reminds me of the good promises embedded in the job I'm trying to make a career out of. History is best told by the people who commanded the events of past; people that sweat and bled on the paths of the scorching struggle in order to realise their dreams and to make history itself. I see these struggles in those paintings on the wall; they remind me again and again how bumpy the ride is and would be to me.

It also gives me some courage to learn the art well and be the best at whatever piece I may produce. So as we walked through the doors of the museum with Pam that afternoon, I knew I was at my best.

"Why don't I think of this place often?" She asked in her usual sarcastic tone. "I feel strange coming in here; I don't feel it's in Cardiff."

I smiled and said "It's because you have no interest in it in the first place. It's natural though; there were times when I come here every day."

"Every day; for what?"

"That's what I'm here to show you."

"Ok, Mr John Constable, show me."

I looked at her, a little surprised. "You know Constable?"

"Yes, I know Constable; I have his work in my house and a father that worships him. Dad always says he was the father of British landscape art."

"Your dad is wrong."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, Thomas Wilson 1714 to 1782, Welsh born. He's considered the Father of British Landscape art."

"Oh that's great; thank God." She chuckled. "Now I'll take dad out of his misery. I need to know more about him."

I took her to some of his paintings, telling her the little I know about them; and for the first time since we got in, she showed a high level of interest. I have no idea exactly why the sudden interest but it led me to think again of a non-cordial relationship she harbours with her parents. I never touched that part even though our friendship had grown stronger.

"So it was said Thomas Wilson was the first landscape artist ever produced by Welsh and also the first that painted his county in recognition of the aesthetic beauty. He was also the first British artist that concentrated on landscape painting; his works influenced Constable not only in the field of landscape art, but also the style."

"Yes, it's obvious." She said, looking closely at Wilson's Lake Avernus I, 1765. "Constable's paintings seemed to be clearer than this. The one in my home has clearer subjects."

"That's because Wilson has a subjective way of rendering his landscapes which are based mostly on the season. I think he loved to make them hazy. Look at the trees in this painting, the tops were painted softly. Look at that painting over there." I pointed to another painting.

"What's this?" She moved closer to it. "River Scene with Castle."

"Yes, see how hazy it is? He obviously loved indulging to personal influence in the finishing, thereby creating an Ideal style."

"Yeah." She nodded.

"What's the name of the Constable in your home?"

"I don't know; I don't care." The attitude seemed to be coming by again.

"Ok. Let's go to my favourite spot then."

The next minute, we were standing before the two Water Lilly paintings by Cloud Monet; Gallery Sixteen

Visiting that section is a must, every time I visit the museum and my favourites are the Water Lilies and the Rouen Cathedral. The feeling I have on seeing these paintings shows physically. So as we stood before the paintings, my reaction was obviously more wondrous to Pam than the masterpieces; I just looked mutely at them.

"Are we having a moment of silence?"

"What? No; sorry. I was just taken by the mastery that's all. I always do that when I'm here."

"Why do you always do that?"

"Your father worships John Constable, I guess Monet is one of the art gods I worship. But there's this intense natural feeling artists have for the Masters and their works. It's like the way you looked when watching the fishes swimming in the pool at the greenhouse the other day." She smiled and nodded. We proceeded to the Rouen Cathedral.

"I like the painting because of the concept."

"Rouen Cathedral, 1893." She read up. "What's the concept behind it?"

"The Rouen Cathedral are series of paintings by Monet in 1890s of the Cathedral from different viewpoints, time of the day and year. It's said that Monet did about thirty of them."

"Thirty..." She bumped into a man who was standing behind her. She turned and apologized. The gentleman smiled at us, nodded and went on to view another painting. "thirty paintings of the same place?" She said.

"Yes, he captured the subject from different angles, and painted them in different colours. Critics say Monet have deep interest in the study of the impact of light on subjects. They call it visual sensation. Monet believed the effect of light on a subject becomes part of the object itself. This interest, I think, seemed to be his drive on embarking on the cathedral series and he made a huge success from it."

"Visual sensation; I like that." She said. "What is your own inspiration in art? I mean you talked about other artists a lot more than you talk about yourself." Now she's looking squarely at me.

"Well, landscape is my truest love and I love the concept of the lights like other artists do. Vermeer is my icon on that. He used to..."

"Who?"

"Vermeer, Jan Vermeer, a Dutch artist."

"Ok."

"So, I like the concept; I did a panting of nightclubs, setting sun, bright day lights and all." I turned to another Monet and showed her. "This is Dusk in Venice, originally called San Giorgio Maggior at Dusk, 1908. You can observe the brilliant use of yellows and blues. If he had used whites and blues on the original sketch, it would depict a day scene."

"So in other words, you are inspired by lights as well."

"Yeah."

"You are going to be a great artist someday."

"You think?"

"I know that. You know the arts very well, you should work a little harder and you'll be there." She smiled. "I wonder how my picture would look like in different lighting conditions. I should've let you paint that sketch you drew of me at the park." I was silent. She looked at me, but then took off her gaze. "Tell me about this one." She walked to another painting on the wall.

I was momentarily taken back to the first time we met; the gravity of my rage over the feud and my initial plot against her; then followed the empathy on her hospital admission and the sudden news of her condition. But her reaction right after she made the statement notified me of a pint of regret. I think she felt it now that we are friends.

I walked towards her to the painting she was looking at; she couldn't turn to look at me even when I stood alongside her, looking at the painting. She didn't say a word.

"La Parisienne, 1875, Pierre-Auguste Renoir." I said.

She sighed; I did too.

We were out of the museum half an hour later, boarded the bus back to Roath. She was silent for the better part of the drive and I thought it was the issue of the sketch. But I was mistaken.

"Are you alright?" I asked her "You look unwell."

"I'm alright; just a little tired."

"But how was it."

"What?" She shot a glance at me.

"The museum, did you enjoy the little tour?"

"Yes, I did."

She dropped her head on my shoulder and sighed. I adjusted a little for comfort, putting my right arm around her. Her head felt warm; high temperature I presumed; and the feeling I dreaded most crossed my mind: she's getting ill; her death is drawing closer.

Life is unfair; mother used to say that to Molly whenever the latter narrates a sad story to her about some awful experiences emanating from a patient's illness. Molly has many of such stories; I've been hearing her say them since when I could grab and keep long sad stories in my little head. And now she's so used to telling them and mother got so used to having interest on them. In my case, I had had enough of them ever since Molly told us Pam is dying; and the worse part, she said it without flinching.

I walked into the house that evening, worried as hell about Pam, when I met Molly and mother talking in the living room; I didn't know what they were talking about until when I stood by the fridge in the kitchen.

It was another sad story of a woman traumatized for witnessing a brutal murder just a few feet away from her. Since then, sleep never came to her as every time she closes her eyes, she sees the act, the blood and death. Molly found it funny and she laughed as she described how the woman screams. I've never felt so upset before.

"What's funny?" I asked with a can of coke in my hand.

"She was telling me about a..." Mother began but I cut her off.

"I know what it's about; I just want to know what the funny part is."

They exchanged glances. "How do you mean?"

My voice was down and in control. I walked, stood in front of them and looked straight at the women. "You were laughing and making fun of a traumatized woman suffering from witnessing something she had obviously never before seen in her life; this is something a lot worse than a nightmare and it drives her crazy every time it appears in her mind. She could have children, a husband, a friend or at least some one that finds comfort in her; I don't think laughing at her is right; she should have gotten at least some sympathy instead of to be joked at." No answer; I thought so. I turned and went upstairs.

Alone in my room, I felt the sun was about to set on me and never to rise again. It felt like I was the one whose death was fast approaching. A sudden fever began to possess me and my mouth tasted bitter. I felt no regrets over what I told mother and Molly; the anger in me made me think I should have said a lot more to them on that.

I stood up and paced; my room still smelt of oil and turpentine from the freshly finished paintings on my walls. I went close to each one of them and looked, thinking about the muse behind them. All the paintings stared back at me with pretty flat faces. If they were alive, I know they'd be thanking me for creating them and for making excellent work on them. They might not even bother to question how I came about creating them.

I turned away, went to my desk and sat; my mouth still bitter. The sketchbook was on the desk so I opened it and viewed some of the sketches especially the ones inspired by my moments with Pam. The day's outing in the museum was another good moment; the moment I held her in the bus ride home was very memorable, so unique, and so magical. Bloody hell! I grabbed a pencil and began another sketch.

CHAPTER TEN

The cafeteria was full that Thursday; all seats were taken and the place was kind of uncomfortably crowded and noisy. I saw Phil and some friends sitting at the far end of the hall, I think he saw me too.

"So you still not talking?" It was Henry, sitting beside me with a cup of juice.

"Yes, I don't see any reason to." I replied. "He doesn't want us to be friends anymore."

"I see." He said. "Too bad; it is true what they say about women; that sometimes, they turn your friends to your foes."

"He's not my foe. And what do women got to do with it?"

"A woman, Pam, was the reason for all this. Don't shy away from that. She made you foes. I saw the way you two behaved during the game; you treated each other like you were in a fatal battle."

"We were in a battle Henry. It's all about the game."

"It's about you two, not the game." He sipped his juice. "Look mate, I don't know what you intend to do about this, but just ask yourself one question: is it all worth it? You have been friends with Phil for years, you just met Pam. I only hope you are not making a mistake sticking with her alone and letting go of your friendship with Phil." He sipped his juice again. "She's here, I'll see you in class."

I didn't observe when his eyes drifted off mine to notice Pam's entrance, I just turned and she was coming towards our table.

"Hi" She said with a curt smile.

"Hey." I replied.

Maybe it's my eyes or mind, but as she stood there, I still observed how paler she got from our last meeting.

That evening we were sitting on the benches by the Greenhouse at the park. The sky was clear and colours were vivid, she was wearing the white jacket over a purple T-shirt.

"How do you like my beads?" She smile and let her finger cares the large long strips of beads on her neck.

"They are big." I said and she laughed. "They are colourful. Where do you get them from?"

"London. I think they got them shipped from Africa."

"Is that right? They are nice and they look nice on you. But what is it you would love to do or become in your life?" I asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"Why won't I? I showed you a piece of my world, I don't think telling me about yours should be a problem."

"It's not a problem, but it took you so long to ask the question. You think I don't want to talk about it the way you talked about yours with so much enthusiasm?"

"Was I sounding so enthusiastic?"

"Yes you were; every bit of it."

I smiled. "Oh; I never felt I did. Sorry."

"You don't need to apologise, it's nothing to be ashamed of. It's ok."

"So, are you going to tell me about what I asked?"

She sighed, paused for a moment before talking. "I want to be an actress."

"Whoa! That's big." We laughed. "It's good."

"It is?" She asked and I nodded "Actually, I would like to be the next Catherine Zeta Jones."

"And that's bigger." We laughed again. "It's cool."

"So, I got a lot of things going on; I took acting, ballet and fighting classes."

"Fighting?"

"Kick boxing."

"Oh, should I be afraid?"

"May be you shouldn't be comfortable from now on." We laughed again.

Something happened just when we stopped laughing. It was as if she was about to say something difficult; something hard. It was the way she looked when I was making the sketch of her and the swans. She sighed.

"But it's only a dream." She said; almost in a whisper. "It's only a dream."

"I don't understand." I said.

"It's complicated. I'm not going to live up to it."

I knew exactly what she meant by that. I know she was referring to her illness as the cause for the demise of her dream.

"What are you talking about, Pam?" I demanded.

She sighed and looked squarely at me. "I'm sick, Brad. I have a fatal illness, I won't live that long to be what I want to be." My mouth was opened. "You came to the hospital when I got sick but you never asked me what's wrong with me even after we became friends. I know you thought it was just an illness right? That I'd get better and move on. Well, it's a lot more complicated than that, I'll never get better." She paused, looked away from my face.

I watched her, my mouth still opened. Though I've known her medical condition before now, but hearing it from her own mouth happened to be a different experience. I've never heard a statement so devoid of hope, so dry and bitter like that. She said it with a fallen spirit that doesn't seem to make an effort to rise again.

My eyes were already misty; I tried not to speak in order not to risk the tears coming out of the eyes.

"Say something, damn it!" She demanded. "Don't allow me keep saying things I hate to say."

I still couldn't say a word for the next couple of seconds; my mouth moved but no word came out of it. I guess I was in a shock as if I was hearing it for the first time. Her eyes were on me and I got a little confused.

"Don't say anything, please." I said without thinking whether or not it's the right thing to say at the moment. "Just don't speak."

She kept looking at me, and in a moment, her eyes formed tears. I moved close and embraced her. "Don't say a word." I whispered.

As she cried on me, I felt overwhelmed by intense love and pity; I cried with her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I was tempted to speak to Phil. It was a time I needed a plan; a quick workable plan that would set my ball rolling, I couldn't deny the fact that Phil was the guy that can make that happen. But I dropped the idea when our eyes met in class. I looked at him with an indifferent face; he looked back with a cold one that assured me our beef was still on; so I took him out of the picture.

I turned to Henry "Hey mate, I'd like us to talk after class, you won't mind would you?"

"If it has something to do with the match next week, yes I would mind. I like scoring you."

"No, it's not about the match, it's about something bigger."

"Bigger; like Pam Graham?"

"Yep."

"Yeah, that's big. Count me in."

"Great."

I think Phil overheard our conversation, I heard him chuckle. I looked at him and he looked back; I was tempted to ask what the hell he was chuckling at when the teacher came in. I was surprised at how anger brimmed within three second in me over that little chuckle from him but I restrained myself not to react.

"Catherine Zeta Jones?" Henry said when I told him about my new mission.

"No; it's not; you once told me you would like to be President Clinton." I said.

"Yeah mate, at least we have the same hair colour, Catherine and Pam don't. And besides, Catherine is forty three going on forty four, Pam is sixteen that could never be seventeen."

"Don't say that." I said, seriously

"Sorry, I'm kidding. So what exactly do you have in mind?"

"Ok, Pam is into a lot of things, you know kick boxing, singing, ballet and acting, all in preparation to reach her main goal..."

"Catherine."

"Yeah; so I am thinking of helping her get at least two of those."

"Let me guess; ballet and acting."

"Aha! so how can we make that happen?"

Henry scratched his head, like he has no idea about ballet and acting. He then looked at me and said. "Sorry mate, I don't have any idea about ballet and acting."

That's when I remembered once hating my instincts. No kidding

"Look Brad; seriously, first, you have to get her have some hope; that will get the interest back. You need to get the passion sparking in her again so she gets to agree to fight."

"Well, how can I do that? Pam is just as difficult as an IQ test."

"IQ test is not difficult when you put your head to it; so also is brain surgery. All you have to do is believe you can. You have all the chance with Pam; use that to help her. She won't be difficult to you because she's not an IQ test; she's someone that likes you cuz of some extra ordinary stuff she saw in you. Don't mess it up." I sighed; and the next sigh stopped half way when he made the next statement: "Kiss her."

"You're kidding me right?"

"No, I'm not."

"Henry that's crazy man; believe me, that's not going to solve the problem at hand."

"Yes, it will." He said, looking very serious on a statement that sounded so absurd to me. I chuckled again and he maintained a straight face.

"Great." I said.

The next day, I got a call from Pam; she was hospitalized again. "Please come quick." She cried.

I was painting before the call. I had my hands and apron stained with colours and was kind of happy with the work as I had gotten it just the way I wanted it to be. Mother was at work and I wasn't expecting her back until after an hour or more.

I put down the brushes, ripped off the apron, and just walked out of my room. I can't even recall how I got downstairs and out of the house without calling mother or at least leaving her a note.

My heart was banging since I got the call, and even when I hopped into a taxi to Heath, I still felt the dull thudding in my chest. The last time I felt that way was when I fought with Phil; that one was due to anger; but this one was fear. Awful thoughts streamed into my mind; pictures of Pam in the hospital, funeral home and grave yard competed violently for attention. My throat was dry; and when Heath hospital was on sight, I opened the door before the car stopped.

When I located her room, I saw her sitting up on her bed, looking weak and pale. Again, no one was with her. My heart went to her instantly, I embraced her, when I wanted to let go, she held me to her.

"Brad, please get me out of here." She sobbed.

I didn't know what overcame me. I just heard myself saying okay. She got dressed and in minutes, we were out of the hospital.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Take me to your house."

She said it with a firm voice that I didn't object. I told the driver our destination and he drove off, heading back to my house. I didn't even think of what mother would say; as a matter of fact, I didn't care, especially that I know she won't use a short gun on me.

She nearly dropped dead with shock though; her mouth hung open when I helped Pam into the living room.

"Pam, this is my mother; mother, this is..."

"Pam; I know." Mother cut me off. "Are you alright, child?"

Pam looked at mother, then at me and back at mother again.

"No mother, she's not." I said. "She's not alright."

Mother and I have this awkward ritual whenever there's a stranger in the house; we behave. Of course that's normal, the abnormality comes when I have erred and a stranger walks in just before she scolds me. In that situation, both of us will keep the silence and behave like everything is ok, but there's always that look in her eyes I find so uncomfortable. Now, the awkward part is, she smiles at me with the stranger, then scold me hard when we get into the kitchen to bring food. She smiles again when we are at the table; then continues the scolding right from where she stopped just before we got out of the kitchen.

And when the stranger leaves, hell will let loose on me.

She was surprisingly sweet with Pam just after she knew of her condition. She asked me to come to the kitchen and bring the poor girl some tea.

"You are mad, Bradley. You are very mad." She said in a low rage tone and gritted teeth. She poured the hot brew. "She called you, you went, she asked you to get her out of the hospital, you did and instead of taking her home, you brought her here?"

"I'm sorry mother, she didn't want to go home and I didn't know what to do."

"Can't your dumb head think she's where she would be best taken care of; the hospital? Bradley, she needs medication, some serious medication and nursing. She was in the hospital because she must be, that's why she was taken there. Now what can we do for her to get better? Tell me!"

"Let's give her the tea first."

"Shut up you....." She waved and shook her head. "Just get out of here before I kill you."

I left with the tea before she kills me. Pam was sitting on the sofa, hugging herself. "Here, take this, it's a little too hot." I said. "You have to relax, feel at home."

She nodded, took a sip, then another. "Look, Brad, if I'm going to be a problem here, I can leave."

"No you are not a problem." That was mother. We had no idea she was watching us. She came and sat on the sofa, so that Pam is between us. "Pam, do you carry some medicine with you, I mean for your medication?"

"Yeah I do." She dipped her hand in her jacket pocket and brought out two little plastic cans with minute tablets in each. Mother took and examined each. "What's the dose and dosage?" Pam told her. "Ok, you need to take them in about twenty minutes. Bradley, get her some pie, she can't take medicine on an empty stomach." Mother's eyes cut through to mine, a silently noticed that there's more scolding to come.

"Ok." I said, to the errand and the notice.

Twenty five minutes later, I led Pam into my room. She stood in the middle of the room as she was greeted by my paintings displayed on the walls. Her mouth hung open; she looked from wall to wall at the canvases of which most of them had her picture painted on them in one form or the other. I noticed some alertness smeared over her weak face so I gave her a moment to look.

"I'm sorry for the smell, mother hates it too. I'm used to it; though I hate it sometimes."

She didn't say a word. Her gaze was locked on to the painting of a girl in a boat feeding swans. She walked closer to it; I couldn't see the expression on her face as she looked on because I was standing behind her. But the way she stood still looking at it for what seemed like eternity, I guess she wasn't only looking at the picture alone, but more. The more part, I had no idea.

"It's beautiful." She said in a whisper. And when she turned back to me, her cheeks were all wet with tears.

"Pam!" I said, walked closer to her. "Why are you...?"

She turned back to the painting again and shook her head. "So you still did it after all." She said.

"Yes." I said.

"Why?"

"I guess it's because I still want to do it."

"After all the trouble."

"Yes, after all the trouble." I sighed. "Pam, you shouldn't be standing here crying like this; you need to rest."

She didn't say anything but walked to the next painting; the birds. "I remember this one; you were thinking about the birds when we closed our eyes that day at the park." She moved on to the next. "This was in the bus from the museum right? It's felt so familiar like I did all these myself." She said surprisingly excitedly.

"Yes, because everything here is about you. You have your name written in all these. You are my muse, Pam. My inspiration."

"The inspiration part doesn't make sense to me. We fought at the park, I took your sketch and you still went ahead with the painting, where's the inspiration there?"

"Yes, the yelling and the sketch were not, your mood was."

"Mood?"

"Yes, I noticed a change in mood from a happy one to a sad one. It happened just before you noticed me making sketches. Art tells more of what's on the inside, not outside and I think that's where that particular inspiration came from."

She walked to the unfinished painting on the easel. "What's this?" She touched it.

"Careful, it's still wet." She was looking at the little dark stain of paint on her index finger. "That's an abstraction. I was on it when you called a few hours ago."

"What's it about?"

"Hope!" She looked blankly at me. "You know; like the light at the end of the tunnel when situations get tough; if you believe in yourself and work hard on it you can achieve it. That's what it is."

Pam looked at the painting for a second and took off her gaze. "What about this one?" She pointed to another. I didn't know what she felt about my motive behind creating it but my mind told me my last words sounded like bullshit to her.

There and then, I thought of Henry and our conversation about re-igniting Pam's passion about her dreams; but this sudden reaction had made it clear to me that my efforts would suffer a painful futility.

"I still don't understand; why did you make all these paintings? Why must you make me your subject?" She sat on the bed and gave a long tiring sigh. "Maybe I'm too weak to fully comprehend what your motives are but I still want to get answers otherwise this curiosity you put on me will finish me off right now."

I was quiet. She looked at me sternly; her eyes sparkled in the light due to her tears. "What am I to you? Am I just some sort of...image you find pleasure in putting on canvass? Because what I'm seeing here is exactly that; every bit of me is on every painting. You painted our conversations, our thoughts, the places we went, the things we did, how I felt and I know pretty soon, you're going to paint me naked." Her voice grew louder, and the pitch got shaky as she broke into tears while talking. "I don't think I want this. I don't need all these, I am dying and I don't need to be remembered at all. I'm living an unfulfilled life brad. I'm on the final stage of my sickness and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it."

"What! What do you mean?"

"I'm saying all this..." She pointed to the paintings. "It's useless. I'm no inspiration; I don't want to be. I don't want to be. I don't...." She broke into a deep cry.

I reached for her by impulse. "Stop saying that! Pam, listen to me." She was shaking in tears. "Pam!" I called, rather sternly. She looked at me with disbelief. "Stop this madness. You got to stop this madness." She pushed me away. "What is wrong with you?"

"Just don't touch me; leave me alone. Get out; Get out now!" She yelled.

"Pam!"

"Get out!"

Her eyes were completely red due to an awkward mixture of tears and frustration. It seemed like new waves of fresh energy and madness had surged and possessed her. I was appalled, at the same time, angry. And at that particular situation, I didn't think of anything rational to do to calm her down. I turned and walked out of the room, leaving her to nurse her frustration.

Downstairs was dark. Mother had hit the lights out and was probably in her room sleeping or about to sleep. I slumped on the couch, sighed, and held the back of my head as I leaned back on the seat.

I felt like hitting something, hard. I yanked one of the small pillows by my side and hauled it off at the book cabined and didn't care to look at the outcome, knowing fully it won't make any damage. I sighed again and sat up, streaming my fingers into my hair. The lights came on and mother was standing by the switch.

I didn't say anything at first; she walked up to the cabinet, took the pillow and came and sat with me on the couch.

"Are you alright?" She asked in a surprisingly soft tone, quiet not what I expected at least from someone that was mad at me for bringing a sick girl home.

"No!" I said.

"I thought as much. I mean, after what just happened up there, only a weird person will feel alright." I looked at her; was she listening to our conversations? "Oh come on Bradley, you don't expect me not to listen more when I heard her screaming at you to get out of your own room." She said. "Look, you need to give her a little moment alone. I'm sure she's not thinking right now with all the stress and frustration of her illness. But I'm sure she'll be cool in the morning."

"So what I'm I supposed to do now, mother? Sit and wait here till she cools off in the morning?"

"Yes, you don't seem to have a choice, son. I'll get you a blanket." She stood up. "And don't throw my pillows again; I love my pillows and everything in this house."

I lay awake for a few hours, thinking. My thoughts dwelt mostly on wishes and fantasies and how I can make them come true; how I can make it up with Pam, to like my work, to believe there's hope, to live up her dreams, to be a good girl, to be heald completely from cancer and be a normal girl; my girl.

I heard that Indians close their eyes and whisper their wishes whenever they see a comet in the sky. I once saw a movie where one can gulp love potions and wish for anything and sees that wish come true (at least for a few moments). But they are all sayings and movies and wishful thoughts.

I turned to the window and wished the curtains had not been drawn yet, maybe I could catch a glimpse of a comet. As for the magic potion, I wished it could be made out of tea bags. However, one thing was very clear to me: Pam is a dead-end; period!

CHAPTER TWELVE

I woke up late in the morning with an annoying headache tormenting the left side of my head. I knew that would happen; the night before happened to be the shortest in my entire life. Aside from the pain, the next thing that ascended on my mind was Pam.

I looked at the clock on the wall and sprang up to my feet and went upstairs, mother appeared from nowhere.

"Good morning. Breakfast is ready."

"Where is Pam?"

"Oh, she's gone about an hour ago. Come have breakfast."

"No mother, I'm late for school."

"I called Miss George and Mr Glasgow; told them you're not well and won't be coming to school today."

"You did; why?"

"Because you are not well; you have a bad headache and emotional issues we have to sort out right now."

"I'm fine moth..."

"No you are not. So go upstairs, clean up and get down here for breakfast, now!"

I obeyed the order without question; I dragged myself upstairs holding my head to support the hammering going on inside.

I hesitated for a moment outside my room to think of what it would look like after Pam's departure. The first thing that came to my mind was my paintings. Were they safe? Last time I checked, she didn't like them so the thought of some havoc done on them was rational.

I crossed my finger and gently pushed the door open, then stood by it, my heart racing and so was the hammering in my head. I walked in.

The paintings on the walls were still there except however, the one on the easel; Hope.

The stretcher was there but the canvas had been removed. There were stains of wet colours on the floor. I stood there looking at the easel and the stretcher; my head banged more. I knew what she would do with it; that unfinished artwork will surely going to be burnt. Just like my sketch.

"Bloody Hell!"

"Yes; I saw her with it!" Mother told me when I asked her. "She had it rolled up."

"Why did you let her leave with it? She's going to burn it, you know."

"So what if she burns it? She burnt your sketch the first time, now you are lovers, so what would you care if she burns this one."

"Mother! We are not lovers and you shouldn't have let her take it. I'm going straight to her house and get my artwork back; this minute."

"Bradley; I think it's too late now."

"What?" I was mad at that time; I started fuming. "She shouldn't even try it; and if she does; she'll pay for it." I walked back to my room.

"Your breakfast is getting cold, you better hurry up." She called after me. I didn't say anything.

What surprised me was, mother didn't even flinch at my anger or even showed concern about my plight. I wondered why she behaved that way; it made me angrier.

I bathed, changed and went back downstairs for breakfast. My mind was intent on storming Pam's home to get back my painting or to raise hell. So I ate fast.

"Slow down son; why are you rushing." I didn't reply. "I'm talking to you."

"Mother I want my painting back and I am going to get it. I don't care what she wants to do with it; I just want it back."

"Listen to me and listen well;" she retorted with an authoritative tone. "You brought it up on yourself. You brought her here against my will and didn't even tell me you were bringing a girl, a very sick girl, to come and stay the night at our house. Now she took something from you and you have the audacity to complain? You have no right to raise any hell either here, at Pam's house or anywhere else; and you will not. What do you think will happen if something worse had happened to her in our house? What if she dies here? Do you think we stand a chance of not getting sued and jailed? She was in a hospital Bradley; you brought her here instead of leaving her where she would've been taken care of."

"But she wants me to get her out of the hospital."

"You shouldn't have taken her out of there; I expected you to use a good sense of judgement to say no; but it turned out you have no such quality." She sighed. "I'm disappointed in you right now; I'm disappointed in you for not taking a little moment to think rationally before dragging her here." She sighed. "We should be expecting a knock on our door for either the police or her furious parents." I looked at her, shocked. "Oh don't look at me with that stupid face. You don't expect a sixteen year old sick girl that disappeared mysteriously from a sick bed in a hospital to be left alone on the loose, and not to be looked for." She stood up and went into the kitchen. "Take some aspirin and have some sleep; but be ready to be awakened any moment." She went to the kitchen. "God! You are so pathetic."

Sleep didn't come, my headache remained. My mind was divided between the fate of my relationship with Pam, an expected knock on our door by either Pam's parents or the police or both; and maybe a possible fine or jail term. It was actually the first time in a long time that my art works became so boring to look at; I guess my mind was preoccupied with something bigger.

I remembered Pam's parents the day I sneaked into Pam's room at the hospital. The questions they hit me with and the embarrassing dismissal they gave me were all fresh in my memory. And one thing for sure is, it's not going to be good when they come knocking at our door.

I waited impatiently for whatever that was coming that day.

I tried to get something to do just to take my mind away from my problems but it proved difficult. I took Mr Glasgow's book to read only to discover I was deceiving myself. I stood up and looked at my artworks but the move still didn't help. So I took a walk out.

"I'm taking a walk, mother." I said. I didn't wait for her answer; I walked out the door. I had no idea what she did or how she felt when I closed the door. But she didn't open up the door to call me back. That was what I wanted. I just needed to be alone.

My street was not too busy as most people were at work, kids were in school. The day was bright but cold. I had both hands stuck in my jacket pockets, conscious of the few eyes that trailed me while I walk past them. My mind wasn't thinking of anything at that moment as it had not fully settled on what to do. Yet, I believed Pam would be somewhere in Cardiff; hospital, home, school, the park, anywhere that necessity would pushed her to. As for me, I just walked with no destination.

I came to the poll I held when I threw up the first time I went to the hospital to see Pam. I stopped there, placed my hand where I believed I grabbed it to hold myself that day. I looked at the spot the two girls stood while telling me to go to the hospital and a few feet from the place, was the house their mother popped out from. That was the spot the idea of going to the hospital came to me. At that time, I never thought about the consequences of my actions or the ramification of getting involved with her. Then I remembered mother's words about taking a second to think before doing something. I shook my head slowly.

"Can I help you?" I heard a female voice behind me. I turned. "Are you lost?" It was the same woman that called the girls in the other day. She looked at me with the same cynical face she wore that day.

"No Ma'am, I'm not lost. Sorry." I said and walked on. A few minutes later, I got to the bus stop without knowing I was there.

There were people sitting there, perhaps waiting for the bus or just sitting on their own. Some were chatting while others were just sitting there with folded arms and straight faces. There was an old man in a grey coat and a hat, clamping a brown walking stick between his knees. The dark shades he wore made me think he was blind, but when he moved his left sleeve up a little to check out the time, I saw he's not.

A young lady smiled at the young man sitting next to her. I looked around me and saw nothing special there; the place has been like that ever since I got old enough to remember things.

There were two men talking, both smoking cigarettes. One of them was so restless and took desperate draws from his cigarette, speaking with a worried face. The other one was rather calm, keenly listening to the troubled guy.

"You shouldn't have said that to her." Said the calm guy right after he dropped down the remnant of his stick and stepped on it. "I expected you not to talk to her especially after you had plenty of booze. Where's is she now?"

"I don't know. Mermaid Quay was the last place I saw her. She didn't come home last night. And when I got back from my morning jog, her things were gone. Shit man!" He took another drag.

"Did you check with her mother's?"

"I called her mama; she said she's not there."

"Bloody hell!"

"Bloody hell."

Bloody hell! I thought. If I do cigarettes, I would have had my lungs warmed up by a hundred sticks by now. That guy really looked bad; and I guess it's simply because he lost his woman.

My situation felt worse, I'm in love with a hopeless dying woman who obviously doesn't want to be with me anymore. I walked away; taking a last glance at the bereaved guy smoking like his life critically depended on it.

Minutes later, I was in the bus heading to the Cardiff Bay.

I spent the better part of my half hour trip starring outside the window, at Cardiff. Cars, buildings, people, gardens and trees sped past me as our bus moved in the opposite direction. I wasn't looking up, but down at the roadside. If I were out sketching, I would have drawn continuous strips of colourful lines of white, grey, green and blue on the page to express the facets of my vision as the car sped.

When speed takes its full effect across a path, objects on the sides blend with one another, forming lines of colours. It's true of a colour wheel where secondary colours emerge from the primary as it blends. I think all my thoughts blended at that moment and created an opaque colour that totally blacked-out my thinking faculty. I swear I can't remember what I was thinking or what I thought. I just went with the motion. That's all.

I thought I'd feel better when I got back to my senses. A little bit of mental blackout was supposed to help with some composure, but I felt no excitement, no happiness nor indifference, only a static lump of pain in the hollows of my chest.

No one sits next to me in the bus, the only person nearer to me was like two seats away, so I had the assurance that no one was too close to measure the level of my emotional instability, unlike the guy at the bus stop.

I alighted at the Lloyd George Avenue and walked down past some iconic buildings to Mermaid Quay. My hands in my jacket pocket. My mouth bitter and my mind filled with images of Pam. I saw a slim blonde and thought it was her. I saw a redhead with heavy mascara, a little dragon tattoo on her left arm and a ring on her nose. She could be the girl the guy at the bus stop was looking for. A guy hit me on the shoulder and I turned. Hey! I said. He half turned, gave me the finger and walked on. I thought he looked like Phil.

The Quay was busy. I love shopping, dining and mingling with the crowd and the Quay was the perfect place for it.

I tried to blend in even though I wasn't in a happy mood. So I walked around looking at shops, cafes restaurants and people; and then to the waterfront to look at the yachts.

There were a lot of people there; a lot of excitement and good views. The brightness of the day had thrown colourful life on the scene and the people, creating excitement and vigour to the whole place. I counted three small yachts and few boats floating on the still waters. Everything was pretty much like a still picture. The scene reminded me of Canaletto's paintings of Venice, so scrupulous, so precise.

If Cardiff were Venice, I wouldn't have gone to a Roath Park and met a Pam. Even if I did, she wouldn't have reached me fast enough when she saw me sketching; she would have to swim. I smiled at the silly thought. And then I realized I was actually smiling for the first time that day. My outing was great. So I kept on watching the waterfront view and all that I can see.

The little vibration in my pocked got my attention. I hadn't realized my phone had been ringing for quite a few times; I saw two missed calls when I checked. It was mother.

"Where are you?" Her stern voice questioned. "You come back home now!" She added without letting me answer.

"What is it?" I said to a dead line. She had dropped the call. I'm not coming home; I murmured. "I don't want to come home."

For the first time, I began to hate how mother treats me. I began to feel really bad at her encroachment on my space, my life, my freedom.

I felt like been trapped in a huge cocoon or some kind of prison where I had to do whatever someone or something wants me to. I realized I was in hell!

I looked at the people around me; good, happy and cheerful people, smiling at each other and at whatever made them to smile. They all seemed to be having fun. I saw a family of four, holding each other happily as they watch across the waterfront. There was this old man talking to some young swimmers in merriment. Why can't I be happy, like them? What mistake did I make that forbade me from been happy for the past few days? Was meeting Pam a mistake? Was bringing her home a mistake? Why is mother so hard on me on this? Does mother even like Pam? I didn't think so. What would mother gain by not liking Pam? Was it because she's sick or dying? Or was it because she's afraid she's loosing me to Pam? Or was it because she's...Pam's parents!

"Oh shit!" They could have stormed our home now to attack mother.

We should be expecting a knock on our door for either the police or her furious parents... You don't expect a sixteen year old sick girl that disappeared mysteriously from a sick bed in a hospital to be left alone on the loose not to be looked for.

"Bloody Hell!" I turned back, pushed my way out of the crowd and into the streets.

I checked out the time at the bus station; twenty minutes before I can get the next bus; that's too much time. Harm could be done to my mother or any other person within twenty seconds. I can't wait. I waved a taxi and hopped in. I got out of the car twenty three minutes later and hurried into the house.

The house was empty; that was the moment my heart almost stopped beating. Mother must have been taken.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Acceptance is hard; very hard, especially when it comes to emotional defeat. And what makes it even worse is, it's a fact! I mean, in all the various stages of grief, acceptance is brilliantly dropped at the end because it's a psych thing; one cannot run away from the feeling even if he doesn't want to express it verbally.

I sat on the couch in the living room with my palms propped at the back of my head. I really didn't see any use denying the fact that I was behind everything. My thoughts kept going back and forth on how it all started and all that happened between me, mother and Pam over the past few months that led to the present situation. My name is boldly written on it.

Before I sat down, I checked everywhere in the house for mother but found no trace, no note and no sign of anything unusual that may suggest she's taken out by force. I called her cell phone but no answer; I called her office, she wasn't there. Molly's phone rang with no answer. I didn't call the police station; I wanted it to be my last resort.

I sat for thirty seconds and then stood up again. Pressure rising; restlessness and impatience all competing fiercely to invade me. I started pacing, it didn't help. I went upstairs to mother's room, sat on her bed and waited. I looked around and felt the strange unfamiliarity of the vicinity.

I used to find solace in that room when I was a kid. Many times, I used to come running to jump on the bed at her and father. But that was a long time ago; now, I sometimes forget how the decor in the room even looked like.

I starred at the pictures on the bed side. One of them had a picture of the three of us; me, father and mother. I couldn't remember when it was taken.

"You were eight months old." She once told me. "Your father had just finished his master's degree and we were about to come back to Wales." I still don't remember.

The next one was of my parents, looking young and cheerful, and obviously so in love. The picture depicts mother's happy mode characterised by narrowing her eyes and the appearance of little twitchy marks on either side of her mouth. Dad's smile was half hidden under his thick moustache. He had a somewhat stout face that couldn't be read easily. Sometime I wonder if that sort of look is inclusive among the qualities of being a British Gentleman. I kept looking at his face to see if I could get something more telling about him; none. I left the room.

Next stop was my room. There's nothing uninteresting there; just bad memories. The paintings were pretty but ceased to be appealing to me. They were not what's important at the moment. Because each one I looked at, triggered a memory of how Pam looked at them just the night before. I remembered her surprise when she saw them at first; then her tears and the questions she asked about each. The questions; all were cool except one: the one that provoked the argument and her subsequent disappearance.

My anger threatened to come back. I turned away from them and faced my door.

The flag was there; it reminded me of my sketch Pam had burnt. I walked out of the room, downstairs; and just when I opened the door to head out of the house. I saw mother standing there with a bag of groceries.

The house was quiet. Not that it's empty; it's because the only two occupants in it were not talking.

Mother wasn't talking to me. Earlier on, I asked her where she had been and her answer was sarcastic, so I maintained my silence. We were both sitting in the living room, she was reading a book and I was playing video game of car racing.

"Bradley, that noise is messing up my reading." She said for the first time in a long while, without looking at me.

I muted the sound and continued playing my game. I wouldn't want to lose concentration; mother was all in my head, her aura alone had provoked a terrible guilty conscience in me compromising my composure. The game was a welcome distraction from the terrible feeling.

The silence remained; and with both of us engrossed into things that need concentration, it wasn't a bad moment.

The phone rang rudely. Mother didn't take her head off the book. I looked at her, she didn't look back. She actually looked really strange. Her face revealed lines, strong and solid like those of a human sculpture. And the way she paid no heed to the phone meant there's more trouble yet to come.

I paused the game and picked the call. It was Pam. Again, the damsel is in distress.

Her voice was calm. She spoke with a surprising air of composure and control. And there was no any form of weakness in the voice that could suggest illness or sorrow. She spoke slow and straight to the point. She wanted me to meet her at the phone booth, close to the bus stop. That means she was just five minutes walk away from my home. She hung up before I asked what the problem was.

"Wait a minute... hello... hello... Pam." I was talking to the dialling tone.

I held on to the receiver in my hand for ten seconds before putting it down. Then I looked at mother, she was on her book. I walked back to the TV, to my game and continued playing.

Our current situation with mother made me not to even think about going out, let alone going out at that hour.

I was beaten on the game and so unable to move to the next level. I replayed and was beaten again. And just when I was about to play the last life on that level, mother spoke.

"And where is she this time?" I told her.

She didn't speak again. I went back to the game but couldn't play anymore. I realised I was beaten because I lost concentration and composure after hearing Pam's voice. Just that little voice made me forget all that happened between us the previous night and left me longing for her. She was all over my head again. My intention to confront her over her behaviour was smashed and replaced by longing, pity and love. I wanted to see her again, to hug her, to know whether or not she's alright.

So I remained in that state for a moment, thinking of what to do. I was staring at the bat, fumbling with the joystick with my thumbs, thinking. Surprisingly, the last person I ever expect came to my rescue.

"So?" I heard mother say. I looked at her and didn't answer. I didn't understand at first. "Aren't you going? You can't just keep a sick girl waiting at the bust stop in the cold."

Even though she said it with a Tony Tod kind of straight, serious face, I must admit that was the sweetest thing she had ever said to me. I threw down the bat and rushed to the door.

"Bradley; your coat, its cold out there." She got my coat from the hang and put it around me; I put my hands into the sleeves. And as she buttoned me up, a wave of emotion ascended on my heart.

Never had I felt so loved and understood like that moment. I know I put her through a lot these few days, yet she showered me with love and understanding.

I never felt so stupid before. I thanked, hugged and kissed her before leaving.

"Don't stay too late."

"I won't."

Pam was sitting on the bench at the bus stop with folded arms. She looked healthy; her face and lips shone in the lights. I couldn't recognise her at first until I got closer; and for the first time in the little life of our friendship, I saw Pamela Graham with makeup.

I felt something in my heart when I saw her. I took a few seconds to look at her. "Makeup?" I said. She smiled; I felt that thing in my heart again.

"Is it bad?" She asked in a weak voice, getting on to her feet.

"No." I said before she finished the three-word sentence. "It's the first time I'm seeing you in it. At first, I wasn't sure it was you."

"So what do you think?"

"I think you look beautiful."

"I've been beautiful all my life."

"Yes you have." Then there was a brief moment of speechlessness and tongue-tightness on both of us. We just looked and smiled.

And then; "Brad," in a whisper.

"Yes Pam," I said without any better clarity in my voice. And that was when it happened: she kissed me; at the bus stop.

That was the very first time I had a real kiss.

When I was much younger, I used to wonder why people close their eyes when kissing. I saw that a lot of times; even had some stolen kissing with my eyes closed but I couldn't feel any difference. But that moment changed my thinking.

During the brief moment of our kiss, I had an entirely different kind of feeling; magical, like little pink and blue butterflies fluttering their fluffy wings somewhere in my tummy, or my chest.

I couldn't feel the existence of anything, not the cars, not the light cold breeze, not even the three guys next to us. Only the two of us existed in that warm planet of bright stars, pink and blue winged butterflies and soft, sweet fragrances.

I actually felt like crying. I never thought I could get that emotional. I mean, that moment had again not only stimulated the deep love I have for her, but also, the awful thoughts of her fatal condition. It was a wicked thought and it lingered up to where I most dreaded: that our love is terminal, just like her. It really was an awful feeling; because when she spoke again, I found it hard to look into her eyes.

"Hi" she said. I smiled; shy like a little orphan girl.

So we walked into the night. Pam was holding my hand.

"What are you going to do with your paintings? I mean, won't people get bored looking at paintings produced from a single muse?"

"No, I don't think they'll get bored. Some collectors could find the story behind the muse sort of inspiring. Remember the Rouen Cathedral, by Monet?"

"Yes, thirty paintings of the same building reflecting different times of seasons of the year."

"Excellent; I told you the project was very successful that he sold most of them in a single exhibition. Also Picasso made paintings that now sell for millions of Pounds using a single muse; his favourite muse."

"And who was that?"

"A woman."

"A woman;" she chucked "I wonder what sort of inexhaustible inspirations are there in women that every artist, dead or living sees to capture."

"Not every artist, that's by the way."

"Ok, I stand corrected on that one." She laughed.

"Well, women happened to be the best and most frequently used muses. There's a story behind every woman's beauty that lots of people would love to hear those stories. Besides, beauty in itself is attractive and women are elements of beauty. Personally, I think artists respect those elements very much and they express it in many forms, from the face, the body, nude or clothed."

"I'm sure they do. I saw that in The Titanic." She giggled again. "So now I'm your muse."

"Yes you are my muse; My favourite muse."

She looked at me with such tender eyes that twinkled in the dim street lights, smiled shyly and said "You'll get another kiss for that."And I got it; A little deeper one this time.

I saw Pam in a happy mood once, and that was at the museum. She smiled a little lot and got a little more enthusiastic about things. Though she did said things carelessly and a little sarcastic, that being her nature, but that night was different; her happiness blossomed and brimmed that she became restless.

As we walked, she moved fast ahead of me, turned and talked while walking backwards. She held streetlight poles and swung round in circles while I pleaded with her to be careful. She laughed and giggled and smiled and kept going in circles round the poles.

"Don't you feel dizzy or light headed doing that?"

"Dizzy? You forgot I know ballet." She said with some sunshine on her face.

"Oh yeah? Honey, you are not well."

She stopped, looked at me surprised. "You called me honey."

"Well, I..."

"Shut up and don't spoil it." She smiled, ran and gave me a peck on the lips. "I love that. And I love you too."

Then it was my turn to stop, surprised, shocked, and dumb founded; and I think, with little birds flying gently in circles around my head.

"Oh don't look at me like that, I know you love me; you've loved me for a while; and now that I took you out of your misery, I think I deserve a kiss." I smiled, a little embarrassed; and when I kissed her, I felt the butterfly thing again; more this time.

"Say it." She said on my lips. "Say the words."

"I love you." I whispered; I heard me self spoke in such a different voice. "I love you Pamela Graham."

She looked into my eyes. "That's my name." She kissed me again, giggled, disengaged herself from me and ran ahead to the next street light pole.

"You know, I hated ballet at first. My first lesson was to learn the first five basic positions which I thought were intended to break my legs." Pam said, a little louder as she circled gently round the pole. I was walking gently towards her. "Know how the first position's like? Let me show you." She stood still, put her feet together, and then separated them so that both heels touched. "This is it."

"That's it? Easy, I can do that."

She smiled. "The second positions is this;" she moved her right foot outward gently and then the left, positioning them apart.

"That's easy too." I said.

"Oh yeah; how about this?" She gently raised her left leg up, it went so high that it nearly touched her face. She then put it down with the same slow pace as she raised it. Then she raised the working left leg again and shot it behind while the right leg stood on the tiptoe. Her hands were stretched up and wide apart. Then she landed the working leg on the ground, raised it up again turned in three sixty degrees, once, twice, then stood in the second position. I watched my mouth opened.

I've never seen such elegance and grace before. In just a few seconds, Pam had flown with the wind that gravity itself kind of seized to exist. I've seen such movements only in Owls: fluffy, gracious and easy. She was embraced by the night itself that even without the lights of day or a stage, she looked ecclesiastic and strange. I've never seen her that agile before.

"Was that the third position?" I asked after swallowing the spittle that emanated out of their glands when I left my mouth open.

"No. It's not." And she walked forth.

"Whoa! Pam, that was amazing." I said when I caught up with her. She smiled. "What was that?"

She sighed. "It's a little complicated so I don't know if you'd understand. I did a combination of moves, three moves to be precise. The slow one was Adagio, then I did the Attitude; the turning thing was A la Seconde."

"I understood only one of them: The Attitude," I smiled. "That was some attitude."

"Yeah. Though I was referring to a different one. But I must confess one needs attitude a lot in ballet. Staying focused is attitude, dancing is attitude, becoming a good dancer is also attitude."

"So what's the difference?"

"Attitude in ballet is a dance step; the one I did was the Attitude de pointe, I stood on the tip of my right toe and shot back the left leg."

"Yeah I saw that."

"The other attitude you know is habitual, not a dance step. That's the difference." She smiled and grabs my hand. "Take me home; hurry, it's late now."

And so we walked, Pam's little giggles and silly remarks were surprisingly entertaining. She looked so happy, agile, and alive.

I was happy too, so happy that my lips kept a smiling pose for the rest of the moment I was with her. A particular moment came when I just kept starring at the girl I was walking with as if I was seeing her for the first time; actually, I was trying to grab the reality of my being next to her. It looked like a dream where moments don't last. Sometimes you try grabbing moments in a dream but end up talking or struggling into wakefulness. But like a dream it was.

Half an hour later, I was lying face up on my bed wondering how what happened between us actually happened. It was the sweetest moment of my life. I didn't even want to sleep that night; I didn't want the night to end. For as long as the night gets older, the good feeling of her touches and kisses on my body and lips would fade with it.

I looked at the first painting I made of Pam and smiled. Attitude; she had it, I thought. And that was another inspiration. I sat up, grabbed my sketch book and pulled my table closer. The night was not that young, or that old for just another sketch. I sighed and smiled again.

Attitude; that was some inspiration.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"I heard you're dating a girl; a weird girl." Mr Glasgow's hairy arms rested on his desk; his large eyeballs bore straight into mine.

I got a note from him, that he wanted to talk to me about something important. I felt the air stilled the moment I stepped into his office that afternoon.

"I..." He rose up a finger; I shut up.

"I have no problems with that as long as you two are not into something indecent. What interests me however, is that you broke up with your best friend because of her."

I opened my mouth to talk again but no word came out; the reaction gave me away and he shook his head, sat back in his creaky seat and sighed.

"Bradley; why? You may have your reasons but believe me; I don't think that's wise." a pause. "It's not a good idea at all." Another pause, "It's not."

I tried to explain what actually happened but he said he didn't want to know. He kept talking about how unwise, unkind, not clever, unthoughtful and uncompromising I was; he wanted me to rethink, reconsider and correct it.

In the end, he said to me, "If you want to keep your girl, fine; but you should know there are times when love fails; and when that happens, you will find yourself in the solace of friendship." a pause. "Love fails easily, my boy; friendship doesn't;" pause, "you know why? Because friendship thrives better than love." then a long pause. "Think about it."

I spent a while thinking about it. My thoughts dwelt on how Mr Glasgow came to know about my feud with Phil, my relationship with Pam as well as the connection between the two.

Was it so obvious that everyone in school knows? This is crazy; it made me walked around looking at people's faces to see if they would look at me weird. A few did, but I guess they thought I was a freak; I knew I gave them a freaky look too.

"What have you been doing with your life yesterday? I heard you were not well; though that goes contrary to how you are now looking." Henry was looking at me with a straight face.

We were at the cafeteria having chips and juice. "You know mate, I saw her yesterday looking all disturbed." He nodded to the left. Pam was sitting alone writing something on a green book. She looked up at our direction, smiled at me and waved. I waved back. "If she were not in school, I would've thought you were both in some hospital." He said

"The important thing is I'm well now and back; screw what happened yesterday." I said. "I'm very well now." My gaze went back to Pam's direction again.

Henry looked at me, then at Pam, then at me again. "I get it mate, you've been having sex."

"What? No."

"You've been kissing then."

"Yes, no, yes; hey look, it's none of your business."

"I told you to kiss her, so it is my business." He paused. "So did you?"

He was right about that; I gave up and told him what happened the previous day. And when I'm done talking, he said; "I got to get me a girlfriend. I'm jealous." I laughed.

I came back home after school and got on with painting the last sketch. I never felt this obsessive over a sketch before; it was all over my head that day in school, in the class and in the bus ride home. I was happy throughout that day; well, except maybe after my meeting with Mr Glasgow.

I intended to make the painting bigger than the others: sort of a museum size. I also intended to capture the scene exactly as it was. I wanted it to be captivating and alive, with a soul. It must have a moving effect on the onlooker. Whoever looks at it should feel the inaudible 'whooshing' of ballet's attitude. I want the subject to have an extra-ordinary air, colour and life.

So I painted wild. Heavy brushstrokes created with large paintbrushes made the images come alive in no time. I loved the dull sounds made from the brushes as I rubbed vigorously on the canvas. I loved the mixed smell of heavy oil and linseed. My palate, filled with dead colours, felt a little heavier under my fingers than usual. My eyes were keen and my mind alert.

Pam's movements played fast in my head. The energy, straight face and shadows casted by the night on her all made the picture solid. I didn't want to miss anything. Missing something means missing a part or whole of the soul. Exactness; yes, everything should be exactly as I imagined it.

I didn't want to take a break from that painting; I had wanted to finish it all before I take a break, but the light of the day faded to give way to the night, and it took away all the colours with it.

I watched my dead colouring got darker; the lightings in my room couldn't bring out the precise colours out of the work. So in order not to spoil it, I gave up. But I must admit, anxiety was eating through my guts.

I had once read it somewhere why Van Gogh hated the evenings. It was said the he fell in love with sunlight when he went to Arles and he started painting it in his works. And whenever the evenings arrived, he becomes a sad man. Because as the sun goes down, it takes all the natural colours with it. I felt the same that day; and coupled with a tormenting anxiety, I felt worse.

An hour later, I was sitting before the painting with a mug of tea in my hand, looking at the painting. I had calmed down, refreshed by a shower, a bowl of chips; and a mug of warm milk.

The painting's coming up fine, I noticed. A temptation to continue working itched on my butt.

Calm brother; I told myself. Too much cook spoils the broth. I smiled.

"Wow!" Mother strode casually into my room; seemingly impressed by the huge painting in black and white. "That's big." She added.

"Museum size," I said. "I love big paintings."

"Is this her?"

"Yes."

She walked closer; I felt her presence towering behind me, barring the space between me and the door.

"It's nice." She moved to the other paintings with the same gait she strode in with, and looked at them. "What do you intend to do with all these paintings? I mean, Pam obviously doesn't like them, but you keep on painting her. How many do you have now? Let's see." She counted, "Twenty three; you're on the twenty fourth."

It's true what she said; for the first time in a while, I came to the weird realization that I never thought about what exactly I was to do with the paintings. But then, "That's a lot of hard work; a lot of commitment." She said, an annoying pint of cynicism hung in her voice. I looked at her suspiciously.

"What do you mean?"

"Well; your life in the past few months had dwelt in the frenzy experiment on the weirdness of a strange girl who you initially hated but eventually ended up to be your lover. And of course, your interest on it seems to be at its peak at the moment, obviously. You don't think about yourself much these days."

"Mother please don't start..." I stood up and paced, avoiding her face.

"When was the last time you studied at home or did your homework? And did you check your grades lately?" I was silent "Answer the question, Bradley."

"There's nothing wrong with my grades."

"Miss George thinks otherwise. I do too, especially that I have proof." She fished out a folded paper from her pocked, unfolded it and handed it over to me. "Explain this." I stared from the paper to her face and back at the paper again. "Take a look!" She almost yelled.

Reluctantly, I took the paper from her and was shocked to see what's in it. My grades in further mathematics, English and geography had fallen considerably.

"This is... impossible!"

"If it is, then your paintings impossible too."

I was dumb for the next few seconds, looking at my grades.

"Explain!" She demanded in that harsh tone I hated so much. "Explain why this is happening." I didn't say a word. "You go to school every day so I expect a logical explanation why your grades are falling."

"I didn't go to school yesterday."

"Yesterday was just a day out of ninety days of the term. You did no test or exam yesterday." Her voice was rising. "Bradley this is not a joke so don't play with me." I said nothing. "The only logical explanation why your grades are falling; is Pamela."

"Mother please." I walked to another side of the room. "It's not that I've failed. The grades are still passes."

"Don't you walk away from me!" She went after me, grabbed my shoulder and spun me round to face her. "Look at this!" She pointed at the paintings on the walls. "If you were as obsessive about your studies as you are on Pam and the paintings, we won't be having this conversation at all. But you are not! You are not, Bradley." She paused. Her chest heaving with anger; she struggled for a moment to stabilise herself. "I work every day to put food on our table, some descent clothes on our bodies and a good education in you. You met a girl and suddenly you are giving me the impression that all my efforts are worthless."

"Mother I..."

"Shut up!" A pause, a sigh and then the bombshell, "I'm going to make it this simple for you and as easy as possible. From now on, no more painting until you sort out your academic issues."

"Mother!"

She said nothing more. My horrible look fazed her not. Instead, she took few steps away, looking at the paintings. "I used to think these works were beautiful; but considering what they've done to your studies, I don't see the beauty anymore. I see an obsessive demon, killing your real future."

Now, that hurts, greatly!

"They are just, demons." And she walked out of my room.

That was the sort of moments when I get motivated to take long walks away from home. From her!

"Demons." Henry repeated for the third time. We were sitting on a bench outside, facing each other. "Demons."

"Will you stop repeating that? I hate it."

"I'm trying to get the connections between paintings and demons; and between you, Pam, the paintings and. the demons."

"There are no connections whatsoever, so just shut it." I said.

"If there's a demon, it'd be Pam."

"What?"

"Face it Brad; you were good; perhaps a little too good; but that was before Pam came. You maintain high grades at the same time did well on your paintings. Now you do well on only your paintings and not on the grades. Although your mother was wrong about calling your paintings demons, but she's right about the grades."

"Again, must you say that?"

"You usually get A plus, now you are back to Cs. You should be sad for yourself mate, not your mom to be sad for you."

"Mother had been angry with me for the past few days, and when this grade stuff surfaced, she got haywire."

"You're lucky you're not grounded. It'd a very simple and welcome thing for my dad. He grounded my big sis last year, Tara. Now she waits tables and helps out in a nursing home to get through university. It's horrible mate. Very horrible."

"I get it Henry." I snapped to stop him from complicating my problem with his horrible story. "May be mother is right. I was too obsessive of Pam."

"Your obsession wasn't only on Pam, but also on the paintings you produced from her story. She's your muse; her story you find interesting. She burnt your sketch; that single action provoked the chain of the other happenings that followed." He paused. "Phil is the first, then your mom's dissatisfaction with some of your actions; then the grades, and now, you are banned from doing what you love doing until further notice." He chuckled and shook his head. "Pam is the cause of everything. Everything!" He paused and studied me for three seconds then said. "Your mom, she's kind to you. If I were you, I would do everything I can to fix it."

I didn't speak. What can I say? I hate it whenever I searching for a shoulder to cry on only for the shoulder to show me how wrong I am, especially if I'm wrong. I mean, it's not about the guilt; it's about the severity of the guilt. In such moments, guilt turns to anger which in turn provokes some physical reaction.

I looked away from his face to the surrounding vicinity, took a long sigh and then looked back at him again. He didn't move his face away so I met the same expression: serious. I looked away again into the crowd; and my eyes fell on Phil, thirty yards away.

"You can fix this, mate. You know." I heard Henry say. "It's not hard. All you have to do is make amends."

My eyes were then fully focused on Phil. Henry said something again which I didn't hear. My mind started speaking to me; whispering things in different voices. I heard my mothers' voice, Mr Glasgow's, Henrys', mine and Henry's again. I heard things like demons... unwise... fix it... Pam is the cause... best friend... friendship... thrive...

I felt an overwhelming urge to do something; whatsoever; just something! I stood up and began walking way from Henry, and into the school compound where students were all over the place.

"Where are you up to? Brad! Brad!!" Henry called. "What did I say wrong?"

But I kept going; like someone possessed by a demon. The voices kept whispering. Louder this time. I kept moving with steady and agile paces towards Phil.

Phil saw me coming, obviousely startled by the way I advanced towards him; the grim expression on my face probably gave him a wrong signal. I saw him preparing a step, parting his legs; ready for action.

"Are you enjoying this, Phil?" Our faces were just an inch apart when I asked him that. "Do you want us to continue this way?" He didn't answer. "Yeah, I can see you want that. But let me tell you this; I don't! I hate it when someone tells me I killed my friendship with you because of a girl."

"It's your fault, Brad." He retorted. "You chose Pam over me; over our friendship."

"You left me with no choice."

"Choice; does it have to be a matter of choice for you? Had what happened back then worse enough to make you contemplate over who to choose between me and Pam?"

"Yes; you know why? Because you didn't listen to me when I tried to talk to you. You made me a laughing stock instead; you embarrassed me before your friends. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't start a fight?"

"I don't have your time, Brad. I don't..."

"You will never have my time, but you have the time to crawl to my teachers and tell them what a pig I am for breaking up my friendship with you because of Pam."

"What are you talking about?" He asked, his face portrayed an unfamiliar shock. "Are you accusing me of bitching behind your back?"

"You tell me."

He shook his head in anger. "Now I know what this is all about." He licked his lips. "Listen Brad, I'm going to say this once: I did not do what you accused me of; but for the record, I wish I did; just to see what the hell you can do about it." He paused, shook his head again, "I think you should go find your scapegoat somewhere else. Remember, Brad; I'm a trouble maker. And the next time you stop me for another episode of your madness, you won't be this lucky to go without a fight."

"I'll find out Phil. I'll find out real soon; and if it turns out your name is on it, I'll bring the fight to you. I don't back down easily, you remember that too."

"I'll be waiting, Brad. I'll be waiting."

Sixty seconds later, I was with Henry again. He asked what was that all about. "Fixing things." I said.

"Okay?" He asked "How did the fixing go?"

"Still in progress."

"Okay." A pause. "Hey, let me ask you something; why do you call your mum 'mother', why not 'mum' or 'mommy'?"

"She prefers that." I said. "I used to call her mum, but she thinks it's too..." I wasn't sure if I could say the next word. But hell; "light."

"Light."

"Yeah, 'mother' has more 'weight' than just 'mum'"

"That's old fashioned. You're making that up." He said.

Yes it is.

"Have you seen Pam today?"

"No, I haven't."

"Ok."

Whenever I'm under sanction at home, I take to using the kitchen or the balcony for temporary, personal space. I need a 'new' environment to concentrate on either some work or some thoughts in order to catch up with what I missed or make up for what I did wrong. And it works; I now see the reason why people go away for a while to write, paint or set their issues right. It's about having some time alone, in a strange place and probably with strange faces; nobody wants to know you. Nobody cares.

Mine was different though. I can't go away from home; the only issue I was to resolve was purely academic. I had no issues with my girlfriend. I just need a little concentration on the subjects that needed upgrading.

Alone in the house, I studied. Tea and biscuits kept me warm and energetic. Mother got home later, found me in the kitchen, asked how my day was and took over the kitchen to make supper. I sat in the living room to finish up for the day.

"How's Phil?" She had asked me during supper.

"I don't know." I replied point-blankly.

"You still are not talking." She shot a disapproving glance at me.

"He doesn't want to be friends anymore. I can't beg him."

"I'm not saying you should beg to be friends with him. But understand you have been friends for a while now; you shouldn't let a ten minutes feud bring to an end many years of friendship."

"That depends on the magnitude of the feud and how hurt someone is." I said without looking at her.

"Is it that big a feud?"

"No, our problem is smaller than you think, mother. Just let me handle it, okay?"

"I don't want you to handle it. I want you to fix it."

"Well, how am I supposed to do that especially that the guy I'm dealing with happens to be Phil?" I had begun to lose appetite. "Mother, please let me handle this my way."

"These days, I attach little credence to this 'your way' formula."

"Why?"

"It got your grades low. Pass the salt."

The night felt unpleasant. The little face-off with Phil, mother's careless sarcasm and banishment from painting all converged to put a curb to my sleep.

I had earlier called Pam, but her line was switched off. I didn't see her at school that day. I left messages and expected her to call back or reply my messages; but got none. I needed to hear her voice and to know if she's ok and well.

I turned to the painting I was working on. It could have been continued if not for mother's new rule for the moment. The dead colouring looked a masterpiece. I could actually leave it the way it is and still get credit. I recalled the moment the picture had captured; I remembered her face, the elegance and grace.

"Damn it." I muttered under gritted teeth. I must talk to her.

I called her phone again. Still the same. I threw away the phone, hit the lights out and remained like that until sleep took me away.

I woke up in the morning with a slight headache. I had nightmares that brought me back to wakefulness many times that I prayed for morning to come. We'll it did. But it turned out to be the worst day of my life.

I wished that morning had never come.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I remember that fateful day. I remember it better than many other eventful days with Pam. Considering how I woke up in the morning with a one-sided headache instigated by unpleasant nightmares which eventually caused sleeplessness, that day didn't start well for me. It wasn't a good day. That was just the beginning of a much bigger sadness to come.

I never thought of these nightmares as signs of something tragic to happen. I never believed in superstition, or in dreams or their interpretations. I always thought those who believe in dreams are old fashioned and uncivilised. But what happened that day changed all that; it made me delirious on what to believe.

A stranger walked into my class that morning and whispered something to my teacher. The last time that sort of incident happened was with Titus, a former classmate who was involved in a rape incident a night before that day. The victim died; the cops swung into heated investigations and somewhere, Titus name came out. How? The girl did a confession before she died. We haven't seen Titus or heard of him ever since.

I heard my name called. I raised my head up and saw both of them looking at me. Actually, everyone in the class was looking at me. I'm sure Titus's situation came to everyone's mind.

"What's the problem?" I asked.

"There's no problem." The stranger said, looking at me with the same serious face I had on him. "Please come with me."

I looked at him, then at my teacher (which at that time, was fumbling with her knuckles). I followed him outside. Even though my eyes were on him, I felt everybody's eyes pelting on me on the back of my head.

It was hard for my mind to think of what's going on or what's about to happen, and when the stranger took me to a waiting police vehicle; I felt the school would never hear of me again.

"I'm Sergeant Simon Cavanaugh." The man introduced himself just before I boarded the car. "I believe you are friends with Miss Pamela Graham."

"Yes, I am." I said.

"Then please get into the car, we may not have enough time." He said, as he ushered me into the car.

"I don't understand, sir; time for what?"

"Ms Graham, she's critically ill and wants to see you."

"What! Pam is ill? When did that happened."

"At night, two days ago." He helped me with my seat belt. "I understand you are her only close friend; one of the few that know her condition. Is that correct?" I nodded. Without saying a word, he walked to the driver's seat, got in, shut the door and fastened his seat belt.

"So?" I asked him; curiosity eating up my guts.

"So nothing; I just wanted to make sure you were the right guy." He pressed the ignition and stepped on the accelerator.

"Is she alright?"

"If she is, we wouldn't be taking you out of class this morning. Just be patient son."

"Who's 'we'?" I asked.

"Patience."

That was how he shut me up.

There's nothing unusual in the hospital. The sound of helicopter blades rattled somewhere up the building. Sergeant Cavanaugh led me to the elevators and we went up to the fourth floor.

My mind was on Pam the whole time since I stopped talking in the car. But to reassure myself, I thought it'd be like the usual times: she gets sick, gets into the hospital, sneak out and get better outside and life would continue. But when I got in to the room and saw her on that bed, I got really scared!

Pam was lying on the bed with an oxygen mask strapped onto her mouth. I've never seen someone paler; and if not for the oxygen, one would think she's already dead.

I stopped a few inches away from the bed, scared as hell. My heart beating louder; it almost stopped when I took the first few steps forward.

"Hello, Mr Bradley, we meet again." I turned to the left and Mr Graham was staring at me with the same old grim expression. Mrs Graham was in a chair beside him with a tearful face.

I didn't take notice of the people in the room when I came in, until I heard Mr Graham's voice.

"How... How is she?" I asked.

They looked at each other and Mrs Graham burst into tears again. Pam moved a little when she heard my voice. I walked to her. Surprisingly, she had more strength in her than I imagined. She took the mask off her mouth.

"Hi." She managed to say, laboriously.

"Hi" I said and held her hand. "How are you feeling?"

She smiled. "Hopeful".

"Good." I said. "Look ahm... I'm sorry; I just came to know about this. I was in..."

"I... I h...have something, to tell you." She took a long sigh. Pam looked at her parents and sighed again. "Can we be excused, please?" It took her a moment to say that.

They exchanged glances, hesitated; Mr Graham nodded to his wife who was reluctant to leave. "Mom... Please." Pam repeated again. Mr Graham led her to the door.

"That was some relief." She chucked when we were alone. "How are you?"

"How are YOU?" I said. "I'm ok, me."

"I have something to tell you." She said again. Coughed twice, tightened her hold on my hand and pointed to a glass of water by the bed side. I gave her and she sipped.

"Sorry. Can't this wait till you get a little better?"

"No... No, I want to say it. I'm not going to get any better." She said that with a straight face and with a high amount of certainty. "I'm not going to get any better."

"Don't say that." I said and caressed her hair. "You will get better soon."

"You... You don't understand. I'm dying Brad. I want to die."

"That's what you said two months ago; but you're still breathing"

She sighed, panting; she sighed again and then looked at me. "I love you." She said. "I love you; and if there's anyone I'd miss if I die, it'd be you; only you." She swallowed. My mouth was opened; I was stunned at the seriousness in her voice.

"Pam..."

"I want you to tell my parents that."

"What?" What did she just said?

"Yea; I want you to tell my parents what I just told you."

"Pam, I can't." I said, avoiding her eyes. "That would break their hearts."

"They broke mine. They cared about themselves and jobs more than they cared about me." She sighed, swallowed. "You were a complete stranger to me, I hated you right from the first time I saw you. But you cared for me even though I hated you. You came to the hospital to see me, and then stood up against your best friend for me."

I was lost for a moment on the last line; it showed on my curious face.

"When you had the fight with Phil at school, I was there. I heard every word you both said before and after the fight. You fought for me. No one ever stood for me; not even my parents. I stood up for myself against everyone." She was silent for a moment. We both were.

"And then you sneaked me out of here to your house, showed me the paintings and I kicked you out of your own room. The truth is, I was scared because I was unprepared for that huge surprise. I was in every painting you created; I never thought someone could find me that interesting. I was just a girl; a bitter girl with bitter childhood and parents. I had wanted to remain that way at least for the rest of my short life. But you came and tried to change that, and you sort of did in some way. You gave me love; you tried to give me some hope..." She was silent for a while; "I just want to say thank you."

"That painting; 'Hope' is it?" I nodded. "It's really..." She coughed. "Water." I gave her some and a big hug.

"I'm sorry Brad, but I want to die." She cried. "I want to be free of this life, this disease; this hell I go through every time I fall ill. Only I see it, only I feel and suffer from it. Forgive me, but I want to die, now."

I was only fifteen; naïve and kind of shallow in thinking. I guess I owe my mother a lot for pushing me to the right direction and making me think right. Even so, I guess she achieved that through subjecting me to rigorous adherence to some of her words; and penalizing me for not doing the right thing.

I always marvelled at how the Old Masters of art did achieve greatness not only through their masterpieces, but also through their own philosophies about life and art. Which ever way, they did managed achieve that greatness.

I thought Pam was a great mind; my moment with her in the hospital proved that.

I mean, she was only sixteen but she spoke like a forty year-old. When I declined to her plea to deliver that unpleasant message to her parents, she gave me many reasons why she thought I can do it. Her reasons were flawless that I thought she was watching my every move. That was psyching.

"So, what were you talking about?" Mr Cavanaugh asked on the way back to school.

"Nothing." I replied, looking out the window.

"Her parents were damn worried; you spent a century alone in there, talking about God-knows-what. That can't be nothing, son."

I felt a tinge of anger as he kept talking. I looked at him and thought his face was too annoying for my liking. I decided to put a stop to the annoying questions. "Nothing; Mr Cavanaugh. And that 'nothing' is not your business. And I'm not your son."

He was stunned. So was my classmate when I walked into the class.

"What happened?" Henry asked. Phil was standing beside him; they both looked at me with concerned faces.

"Nothing." I said.

Mother was dead worried before I got home. She had received a phone call from Ms George about my sudden departure with a Mr Cavanaugh. She was in tears when I walked in. I told her everything instantly. She cried tears of relief.

"I don't think it's wise to tell her parents that." Mother said, blowing her nose in a hanky. "You're not going to do that, are you?"

"She wants me to promise; I can't do it."

"I suggest you try to talk her out of it."

"She could be quiet firm on some things." I sighed. "I don't know, she's very ill now and I don't want to add to her discomfort by pushing her to lose a hold on something she has a firm grip on. But I'll try. I'm going back in half an hour."

Mother's face portrayed disapproval, but she kept the words in. I had expected that, but earlier on, I told her Pam wants me to be there and her parents had agreed.

"Phil called; asked after you shortly before you came in." She said.

"What did he say?"

"How were you coping?"

I got to the hospital with thoughts of Phil I'm my head. So he called. We had a face off only yesterday and yet, he was worried about me when I left with Mr Cavanaugh. Maybe he was scared for me, or maybe not. Anyway, that wasn't important at that moment. Pam was.

I came to the elevators, pressed the up button and waited. I had to pull the pressure in me caused by my impatience and converged them to my fist. I pressed hard, my knuckles cracked. I sighed.

Then I heard a wail close by. It was a woman, held firmly by a man as he tried to lead her out. There were blood stains on her pink dress by the chest. It's not her blood obviously, it was someone's.

"My baby." She cried. That explained it. The elevator doors slid open. I went in.

I felt something 'unusual' around me when I took the lift up to Pam's room. I can't quite explain it, but it was like a mix of anxiety and some kind of light headedness. Maybe it was the lift, maybe not. Or maybe it was the blood stains I just saw, maybe not. But for what's worth I never had that sort of momentary awkward feeling before.

I got out of the lift and walked to the room, knocked gently, but before I opened, the door was yanked opened and Mrs Graham came running out, crying. She ran through the corridor and out of sight.

Whoa!

That particular action made me hesitate before going in. At that moment of hesitation, Mr Graham appeared, obviously after his wife.

"She went that way." I said, pointing to the left.

"Stay with Pam." He barked the order.

I got in; Pam was on the bed, shivering violently. I've never seen anything like that before. I nearly dropped dead.

I rushed to her, held her steady, but she's still shaking.

"Bra..." She tried to call my name. "Brad... Don't le...me... Don't leave me."

"I'm not leaving you."

She held my hand firmly while she shook. "I'm cold"

"You'll be okay. Just stay with me."

I didn't know what to do. I didn't understand why her parents will both ran off. I became so confused and out of ideas and I wished they never left.

"I'm cold." She said again, almost inaudibly.

I pulled the sheets on her with one hand while she still held hard on my other hand; then I sat on the bed and held her by the shoulders. She brought my hand to her bosom and applied the other hand on it. Still, she shivered. Her skin looked as if every drop of blood in them had been drained. God!

I kept looking at the door every second, hoping to see someone walk in. No one did.

"You're here, just like you promised." She smiled. "I'm glad."

"Pam, I'll always be here for you. But please stop talking. You are too weak."

There was a little smile on her face. She moved her lips gently; like she wanted to say something but the words didn't come out. Then she stilled. Her eyes looking into mine, smiling.

Relief came to me. The shaking had stopped and I thought the blanket had worked. I hadn't the slightest idea that life had surged out of her.

"Get off the bed, now." Mrs Graham yelled. Her husband and herself came in with some doctors who had swung into action before I got off the bed.

One of the doctors moved our clasped hands off Pam's chest and put his stethoscope there. Another was yelling at the Grahams to stand back.

But I had noticed a mild shock on the one with the stethoscope. He checked her again and again; then he relaxed and took off the device from his ear.

A small box by the bed side had been making a long continuous sound. He looked at it for a second or two and then rubbed his face with his palm. He sighed.

"What is it?" Mr Graham asked, dead fear written boldly on his face. "What's happening?"

"I'm sorry." The doc said. "She's gone."

WHAT!!! That was from all three of us.

"I'm sorry Mr Graham." The doc said again.

Mrs Graham slumped to the floor. The doctors rushed over her. One of them said Mrs Graham was not breathing.

Mr Graham and I just watched Pam's smiley face; lifeless, clasping my hand and felt cold. Mr Graham moved closer, put his hand on her forehead like he's getting the feel of her temperature. Then, he drew back and slumped as well.

"We have another one" said the doctor again.

Even with all that, my eyes never left Pam's face. I could hear the doctors wrestling to revive the Grahams; even screamed for some help. But I just kept looking at that smiling dead face.

It's unbelievable; those gentle eyes, alive and looking at me just a few seconds ago were all still and lifeless. That smile she made was of happiness for seeing me and appreciating the fact that I kept my promise on coming to see her.

She told me only this morning that she wants to die; to be free of this disease and suffering. She's gone now; she's gone.

"Go in peace. Be free, my love." I said, smoothing her clasped hand with my thumb.

I didn't know how or when someone gently pulled my hand from Pam's hold, drew up the sheets to cover her face and led me out. But I was still looking.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I heard unfamiliar footsteps ascending the stairs of our home that morning, shortly before we left for Pam's funeral. I was working on my tie.

"Hi Brad." Mr Glasgow was standing by my door.

"Welcome sir;" I walked towards him. "I didn't expect to see you here but at the funeral."

"I know. I know." He shook my hand. "I just dropped by to see how you're holding up." He looked around, at the paintings on the wall. "I understand how you feel, son. Please accept my condolences, in person." He sighed nervously. His speech had quickened a bit and that was quiet unusual; it gave me the notion that he's not used to giving condolences.

"Thank you sir." He nodded, still holding my hand. My eyes left his face to the handshake and then back to his face again. He got the message and released my hand.

"A beautiful little gallery you're having in here; and a very interesting muse." Pause. I didn't say a word. "Good muse, with an excellent inspirational story." He stepped closer and touched one of them "perfect finishing." Pause "these works surpassed my expectations by far." He looked closer "optimally professional."

Then we heard someone clearing her throat; it was mother. She was standing by the door and we didn't take notice of her. "It's time." She said. "Are you ready?"

"Yes" I said.

"I just wanted to say here, that whatever effort you put in all this, is worth it." Mr Glasgow concluded, finally.

"Thank you sir." I said. "But I'm afraid that effort is now useless." I walked out.

Church was full; it was a Saturday morning. The congregation comprised parents, teachers and students of Cathay's High; officers and men of the police, neighbours and friends. We were sitting on the front row. Mother sat by my left, Phil by my right next to the Grahams. Pam's coffin was opened for viewing and I had my eyes pinned on it.

I still had problem believing it was my Pam lying in it.

I was just thinking about her; about everything. I thought about the time we spent alone together; her words, that she's dying; that she wanted to die and doesn't want to be remembered.

I remembered the nightmares I had about her death; the one she was drowning and that of crusaders placing coins on the eyes of the dead before burying them. I knew they could be signs but I never took them seriously. I guess I was too bent on the feelings I had for her, the futile analysis of her latent pain and the unsuccessful task of giving her some hope that could make her live a little longer. How stupid of me; how dumb.

Mr Graham held his wife who was rocking herself forth and back. She couldn't look inside the coffin at her daughter; and surprisingly, she didn't cry. They reminded me of the Gibson's funeral when Mr Gibson sat in his wheelchair looking at his deceased wife's body, crying like a child. But unlike Mr Gibson, Mr Graham didn't cry. He just held his wife.

Shortly after the intros, sermons and the short speeches, I was on the podium to say a few words about Pam, being her closest friend. A sea of sad eyes starred at me followed by the reign of dead silence. I took a few seconds to compose myself. I had it at the back of my mind that everyone would want to hear what I was going to say.

The news of Pam's death could've gone unheard of by many in Cardiff, but the part that said she died holding my hand; and my words of 'Go in peace, be free' seemed to be legendary- thanks to the little gossip by the nurse that led me out of the room. That ordeal made me became some sort of a love hero. To say our brief love affair was worthy of Comparison with that of Romeo and Juliet is brutally insane, but to many, our story is enough for a Romeo and Juliet. I began, my testimony:

"I met Pam on a bright Saturday morning; it wasn't actually a romantic experience but it was fascinating nonetheless. It started in Roath Park, by the Lake. I saw her sitting in a canoe feeding swans."

I poured out my heart about my experience with Pam. I told them about the paintings she inspired me to make; what she told me on her sick bed and how she died. Though I left out the message she wants me to tell her parents.

"So if I must define Pamela Graham in words," I said in the end, "I'd say these three simple words: courageous, inspiring and loving. She was the first and best love I ever had." I stepped down and walked to my seat; mother was all tears. Mrs Graham nodded at me, I return the gesture.

Shortly afterwards, we were at the cemetery for interment; and so we all stood watching together as Pam's coffin was lowered into the grave. The undertakers shoved sand on it after the Grahams pelted it with handfuls.

The tombstone was cute. It had a statue of a baby angel and a little picture of Pam when she was fourteen.

"She loved that picture." Said Mrs Graham "she used to say would like to look like that until she gets old."

I think I like the pic too; Pam had had a big grin; it was the type she had the night she danced ballet for me.

"Children; let's pray." The priest commanded. We all bowed our heads and closed our eyes.

The only prayer I heard was the one I said in my heart. I don't know if I could call that a prayer though, but I know I spoke to Pam and asked the Lord to listen.

It was cold and sorrowful that morning; people seemed eager to leave the cemetery for the warmth of their homes. I didn't want to leave. I thought Pam's grave seemed too early to be left alone. No it shouldn't. I concluded about coming to the site every day for the next few years.

"She's in a better place now. So I guess we should go home."

That was mother. I remained silent, looking at the picture on the tombstone.

"I don't like the font style of the engravings." I said. "I would've preferred more of gothic for this sort of thing."

"The writing is fine Bradley." I didn't answer. "Gothic is fine for tombstones. But remember, your father's grave has the same font style on the stone."

"How was it like, when father died?" I asked. "How did you feel shortly after the burial?"

I heard her sighed. Then she sat with me and also stared at the grave.

"It was like a story," pause. "Something that isn't believable. For many years I denied that fact that your father is really dead. I used to think someday he'd walk into the house and tell me 'Honey, I'm home' like he used to. But it never happened. That day didn't come" Another pause. "But I have you, and you've always been my solace since he's no more."

"It's easier when you have someone then." I said.

"Yes, it is."

"Who's for me?" I looked at the picture on the stone. "Who'd I have as a solace for this loss?"

"God will heal you; he'll heal us both." She rubbed my shoulder. "And I'll always be your solace, like I always have." She sighed. "Look, I understand you are in the middle of grief now, we all are, but you are too young to be thinking it's the end of the road for you. And believe me, you have a lot ahead of you so you must prepare for them. You must not let Pam's death weaken you. You must be strong for her and yourself."

"Mother, Pam is dead."

"And I bet she'd tell you to be strong if she could speak to you right now. And like I said, she's in a better place now; if you stay like this, unmotivated by her death, sadness and worry, your life would remain in an earthly hell. I won't let that happen!"

That evening, I laid alone in my room, looking from one painting to another, thinking about Pam and the mystery of death; what's the philosophy, why must it befall men? Why can't there be a cure for cancer and why must young people, like Pam, suffer from it? Mother used to say life is unfair, now I know the in-depth meaning of that. For Pam, life wasn't only unfair for her, but brutal as well. She was just sixteen for Gods' sake!

Now, she's no more; and the cruel life continues without looking back. Someday, she'd be forgotten, forever; we'll all be, except for some handful of men.

Great men like Picasso and Vermeer were fortunate to leave legacies through art. Vermeer was even the luckiest; he was never known after his death, even with his exquisite masterpieces until about a hundred years later. Thanks to his re-discoverer, Thoré-Bürger and his paintings. As for Picasso, he had made fame even before his death and has remained so till today.

For me, well, I didn't even think that far; I will go to the university, study and glorify art and maybe teach someday. A family of my own is something I don't even think about for now; but to die, I shall think of it often. I guess nothing comes after that. And...

"Hey, may I come in?" Mother's head peeked into the room. "There's someone here to see you."

"Someone?"

Mother opened the door and ushered the person standing next to her. It was Mrs Graham.

"May I come in?" She asked.

"Yes please." I sat up, pulled a chair for her while I sat on the bed. "Have a seat."

She thanked me and sat. Mother excused herself out and closed the door.

For the records, I know Mrs Graham doesn't like me; and that's from the beginning. I tried as much as possible to stay off her way even at the hospital in order not to cause a scene. Now we are alone, she was looking at me with a straight face that portrayed both sorrow and anger which made me felt like she had come to take on the pain of her daughter's death on me. I braced myself.

"I don't have much time so I'll go straight to the point." She brought out a small brown package from her bag. It looked like a Galaxy chocolate packet by size, though a little bulkier, like a book case. "We... Pam's dad and I want you to have this." She held it up to me. I hesitated, my pupils danced between her eyes and the package. "Go ahead, it's alright." I took it.

"What's in it?" I asked. She nodded I should open it. I did, and inside, was a little orange book with a wire spiral binding on it's side. I looked at her, demanding answers.

"It's Pam's note book. She wrote almost everything in it, every time. The last entry she was the morning before she..." A curt pause followed to control the emotion the last word could possibly instigate. "So we decided to give it to you."

"I don't understand, why give it to me? It's her book."

"Because you were her best friend." She said. "Well, I know you would expect something more, but we figured this would be the best."

"Expect more?" I looked at her with curious eyes, "Please, explain that."

"Bradley, I'm not in the mood to explain anything, nor am I in the mood to beg you to take this." She stated in a surprising harsh tone. "I lost a daughter who never listened or trusted me but you. You took her out of the hospital without our consent, brought her into this..." she rolled her eyes around my room "...place. And for what? You thought you loved her more than her parents?"

I stood up and walked four steps away from her, alighting before the big painting of Pam dancing ballet. "You should leave." I said. "Take the book with you. I don't need it."

"Oh yes you do. From the way you held it and the curiosity in your eyes, I know you do."

"I've got all I needed from Pam."

"And what's that?"

That was the moment I turned and faced Mrs Graham. I had already gotten enraged so I took a few steps closer and looked down at her. "Look around you." I said. "I've gotten a better note; a better diary than the one you brought."

"Oh com'on, paintings? You should get something better. Besides, you did all these not Pam. She wrote what's in the book and what I'm offering you."

"You don't understand, do you?" I shook my head. "Well, yes I did all those. But these works represent her happiness, her pain, her trials; they are her story." My voice was rising. She wasn't moved a bit. I pointed at Pam's painting where she fed the swans "This was what she does when she's at the Park home; away from home" I pointed at the birds painting "Here, she thought of peace and beauty whenever she closed her eyes. And this; this is what she dreamt to be. She danced ballet before me just four days before her death; four days." I raised four fingers up.

"I can't believe you came all the way here just to tell me this nonsense. But thank you all the same. Now take your little orange book and leave. I don't need anything from you and I've heard enough."

She still didn't seem moved by what I told her. She stood up, her eyes on mine. "I'm leaving alright. But I must tell you this before I leave." She stepped closer. "All these things you said has no meaning to me, you know why, those happiness, pain and stories will never bring back my daughter to me. They'll never bring her back to you as well. So there's no use, all this."

"Well, Mr Graham worships John Constable; at least we have something in common. Do you ever ask him why he loves that artist and his art? Do you."

"My husband's obsessions are no concern of yours."

"Yes; I agree." I said, walked to the door and opened it. "You have over stayed you welcome."

She starred at me for a moment, took her bag and walked towards me. "Pam is my daughter; I showed her the love every mother would to her own child. There's nothing you can do or say that'd make anyone believe you loved her more than I do." She was a step through the door now. "Take care of the book. You'll thank me later." She walked out. I banged my door shut. I hate that woman.

"What was that all about? Mrs Graham just got out of the house without saying goodbye."

Mother and Phil came into my door a minute after Mrs Graham had left. I guessed she showed them a little bit of attitude too.

"Good. At least she'll be out of our lives now." I can see the puzzled look on mother's face.

"What's this?" Phil picked up the orange notebook from the table.

"Pam's little book of secrets. Mrs Graham brought it for me."

"It's cute." He said. "So what's the problem? The lady almost slams the door on my face."

"She thinks I'll be expecting something from them. She's just a wretched hearted fool."

"Mind your tongue, Bradley." Mother warned.

"I don't understand, what would you be expecting?" Phil asked; I told them what transpired between us. "Damn it! She's really a wretched hearted full."

"Phil!" Mother warned him. "Now look; I want you boys downstairs for super, now! We'll talk about Mrs Graham later. We still have our heads to clear at the moment." We nodded. "No more foul, nasty words; am I clear." We nodded again "Good. Super." and she walked out

"Wretched hearted fool; that was a nice one."

"Phil!" Mother yelled from the stairs.

"I'm sorry." He yelled back.

"Walk with me, after supper." I asked Phil. "Let's pay someone a visit."

"Mrs Graham?"

"No, Mr Glasgow. I need to warm up this face-off."

"Arri! That's my boy." He grinned.

I love Mr Glasgow's house; though not Victorian, but it has a taste of one. The living room was spacious enough with large windows adorned with thick, long curtains and with royal kind of treatments. There were vintage brass chandeliers, about three of them in the living room for subtle lighting. The flower vases bear some subtle landscape paintings typical of ancient Chinese art, exquisite. I bent to take a closer look at the painting on one of them.

"That's 'Strolling About in Spring'; Zan Ziqian, an artist of the Sui Dynasty, 581-618 After Death of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ." I turned; Mr Glasgow was ascending the stairs as he spoke. "gifts from Taiwan."

"Evening sir. I was just checking it; I love Chinese art." I said. "It's beautiful."

"Of course it's beautiful." He looked at Phil who was sitting on the couch reading a magazine. "Hello Phil. I can see you made yourself comfortable."

"Good evening sir, yes I am. Thanks for seeing us."

"You are welcome. So shall we get down to business? I like going to bed early. Bradley, please take a seat." I sat down. "What's so important that couldn't wait till tomorrow?"

"My paintings sir;" I said. "I thought about what you said about the efforts. I guess I was... shattered, emotionally not to see meaning in what you said." I paused, looked at Phil and back at Mr Glasgow. "I want to exhibit them. I need to share that story with the world; the story of the young girl with dreams and aspirations who never realize them because of a rare disease. I intend to use part of the proceeds to be realised and help people like her."

"And what do you want from me?" He asked.

"Incentives." Phil said. "This is going to be the first time he's exhibiting his art to the public. The collection has a very interesting story and muse. We think it's going to be big; as such, we need a proper master plan to do that."

"Sir, you have enormous experience on this. Well, I know a lot of it in theory but not in practice. You are my art teacher, you know best and I need you on this."

Then we kept quiet and watched him, I didn't know of Phil, but my heart was beating a little faster while awaiting his response.

For a minute, he joined us to maintain the silence, obviously calculating our idea while allowing the tension to kill us.

"Ok, I'll do it." He said finally. "But only on one condition."

"Ok?" I shifted in my seat.

"You leave everything to me, read your books because I don't want to be part of the reasons why your grades are dropping. You do something only when I ask you to and at the time I asked you to. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes sir, we are."

"Good. Anything else?"

"No." I said.

"Yes," said Phil.

"I'm listening Mr Phil"

"Is there anything you would like us to do before your first instruction?"

"Yes." He looked at me. "Finish the dancing girl, make another or two about the funeral. It's a story with a beginning, and so it must have an ending."

"Yes sir."

"Ok, gentlemen. You have a nice night. I'll send for you when I'm ready."

We left Mr Glasgow still sitting on the sofa. He asked us to close the door on our way out.

"So?" Phil asked.

"So what?"

"So what are you going to do now? Are you going to just sit and wait for him to finish making arrangements for the exhibition?"

"No. Of course not. I have work to do; I must finish the paintings first."

"I meant before you finish the paintings."

"What do you have in mind Phil?"

"I'm going to start the buzz. We should do that; it's important. We attack all the social networks with the info about the forth coming exhibition. People should be expecting it."

"Phil, he warned us not to do anything..."

"We are just telling people about it, not doing the exhibition."

"Alright; ok. You go ahead and do it. Let me read what you're going to put there before you put it."

"Ok. And I'd need pictures."

"I will send you some; just get yourself home now. It's getting late."

And that night before I slept, I took pictures of the paintings and sent them to Phil. He called thirty minutes later and told me to log on to Facebook. He had created a page for me with my picture on the profile. He had uploaded a few pictures of the paintings and wrote about my exhibition. In the post, he promised to create an invitation when the date of the exhibition is fixed.

"It's excellent. Thank you." I told him. And before the end of the next day, my page had over two hundred likes and comments. That was the beginning of a sudden fame that's a lot bigger than what I expected; it started just a few hours after that single post; it's what had compelled me to write this memoir.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I stood before my canvas and just starred at the sketch I was about to paint. I had unusual feelings about both the idea and outcome of what I was about to do. Personally, I knew right from the onset of the sketch, that it's going to be difficult for me. A mare look at it could provoke sorrowful emotions.

I was about to make a painting of Pam's face just after life had eased out of her. It's meant to be the final piece of the collection.

The choice for that subject was conceived in order to create an 'ending' to Pam's story. I couldn't come up with a better presentation and I didn't ask for anyone's advice. I closed my eyes and analyse the images flashing through my mind, and the only one that appeared more vivid was that particular scene when she died, clutching my hand.

The pallet on my left hand began to feel heavy, for I stood for a while holding it. I kept it on the table and sat down, closed my eyes and took a breather for a minute. Still, I saw Pam's face staring at me. I opened my eyes. I didn't know exactly what came over me that moment. I felt as if possessed by some spirit that constantly puts fear in me over what I was about to do.

It was just a painting for God's sake! I yelled inside. I closed my eyes again, I wanted to see her; I must look at that face for as long as it would appear on my mind. I needed to confront it; to face it and drive away the fear it puts in me. And she was there; moving, holding my hand as she struggled and then stilled with opened eyes, looking at me. Then the whole picture cleared off.

I opened my eyes, a little composed I must admit. Then looked at the paintings on the wall, one after the other until my eyes settled on one of the Vermeer prints: The Girl with the Pearl Earring. I love the concept of that painting: the delicate treatment of light. And at that moment that I was about to paint Pam's dead face, I figured the concept would be excellent for it. I took up the pallet and the brush, and a deep breath. I got to work.

The feeling wasn't pleasant. There I was, painting a picture only my mind saw and felt. I think I just painted vigorously without stopping. That scene was like a course lying in the crannies of my mind that every time I thought about it, I experience a momentary emotional trauma. I heard soldiers that saw combats get tormented by the blood and dead bodies and destruction they saw long after those things happened. That's their curse. Mine was the last seconds I spent with Pam.

So I painted. Tones after tones; colour after colour; blending hues to bring the picture to a harmonious whole, with a soul and a captivating feeling. I didn't want to stop. Even when I did, I couldn't stop envisaging the end point. I finished it in four days and named it Mortality

It was a Friday. I walked towards the assembly hall with anxiety eating me up inside. Earlier on, I got a note from Mr Glasgow asking me to come to the assembly hall and view the setting for my exhibition before the place is opened for viewing.

The day before was kind of busy. I spent half of it with Mr Glasgow feeding me what he was able to put together over the week in preparation for the exhibition. He had used his personal money to fix a few things and needed nothing in return.

The school had granted our request to stage the exhibition in the assembly hall. And been the first exhibition of art works from a single student, there were high expectations as well as excitement among the students; everyone in school already knew what the subject was all about. Phil did an excellent job on the buzz; he made posters and buzzed it online. My page then had more than three thousand likes.

Many students stopped me in school asking me what to expect. I told them the best.

The door was closed so I knocked.

"Who is it?" A voice asked from inside.

"Bradley." I said.

The door opened instantly. I got in; and three steps through, I stopped, captivated by the display of colour and beauty. Twenty six exquisite artworks, created by my own hands displayed before me. I couldn't believe my eyes; for a moment, they all looked strange to me as if I wasn't the one that made them.

"So?" Mr Glasgow appeared from somewhere and stood behind me. I didn't turn to look at him.

"Breath taking." I said.

My eyes swept the entirety of the place and settled on the last piece of the collection; Mortality. I moved towards it and stood before it. I never thought it would look that real. I reached and touched her face and someone told me not to touch but I didn't listen; I still did. Waves of emotion heaved up in my chest. My eyes got blurred with tears. I cried.

It was the first time I cried ever since Pam died. Several times, I tried hard to cry but the tears just couldn't come. But at that moment, they came without me knowing it. In the midst of it, someone held me by the shoulder. I cried more.

"It's alright, son. It's ok." Mr Glasgow's voice consoled. Still, I cried.

A few hours later, the hall was filled with teachers and students viewing the artworks. I had already named each painting and Mr Glasgow edited the short descriptions I made on each, which we printed and pinned by the side so that students could know more about them.

"This is the future for you mate, this is it."

Phil, Henry and I were at the backstage watching the viewer's go from one painting to another, admiring them.

"This is the beginning of the future, Henry." Phil replied Henry. "The future is yet to come."

"Phil, are you seeing what I'm seeing? If not, I urge you to take a good look at the people in here. Everyone is excited about his works. What more can an artist wish for?"

"The last time I checked, that artist is still fifteen. He's not into university yet. Got it? What do you think he'd be after that?"

"Guys please stop." I chipped in. "I'm right here, so I need concentration from both of you for what's going on right now; not the future's beginning or ending; ok?" I looked back at the crowd "I'll be going down there in a few minutes to meet people who would possibly ask me billions of questions I might not yet have answers to, so I need your back up."

"We're backing you up mate, we got you."

"You look nervous." Phil grinned. "You should relax. This is your day. You'll be cool."

"I hope so Phil, I hope so."

"May I have your attention please?" Mr Glasgow took the stage and the hall turned into a peaceful silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this beautiful exhibition: The Favourite Muse." A roar of applause broke out.

"Favourite Muse is a story of a young girl, with dreams and ambitions like each and every one of you in this room, only to be confronted by an unfortunate mishap that took her life. This is the story of Ms Pamela Graham." Another applause.

"I don't have any idea about how the story all started between the artist and the muse that eventually led to the creation of these masterpieces. Though, I'd love to know all about it, maybe I could learn a thing or two." There was a short mirth from the audience. "I don't believe I'm too old for a love affair that could eventually lead to this sort of effort, but..." There was a roar of laughter "I believe this whole effort is worth it. And for that, I'm proud to present the artist himself to come and share a thing or two with us. Ladies and gentlemen, I proudly present to you my good student, Mr Bradley Johnson"

The sharp roar of applause from the audience nearly made me jump out of my skin when I was introduced. As I walked out of the curtains, I thought I was dreaming. The clapping continued until I stood before them. And just before I opened my mouth, I caught a short glimpse of Pam, at the far corner of the hall behind the crowd, smiling at me. It was a kind of delusional imagination, but I liked it. That was a big blessing. I smiled back, again with tears in my eyes.

After a brief speech which dwelt on special thanks and appreciation to people that supported me- my mother, my friends, teachers and strangers that grieved with me- I got into the crowed to talk, answer questions, sign autographs and took phone numbers from girls that would like to replace Pam.

The local news crew came; I answered their tricky questions for three minutes, which dwelt on Pam rather than me. I told them she wanted to be Catherin Zeta Jones.

"Hey, Bradley, I want you to meet someone." Mr Glasgow tapped me on the shoulder. "Come with me." I followed him to a less crowded part of the hall where two strange men were waiting.

"Hello Mr Johnson, it's good to see you again." The older of the two said as he stretched out his hand for a shake.

"Good afternoon sir;" I said. "Forgive me but, I...."

"Ah; never mind that. I saw you but you didn't see me. I was there at the museum when you took Ms Graham for a tour of the Galleries. Remember that day? You got my attention by the way you talked about those paintings and artists." He smiled. "The way you told her about Van Gough was so fascinating that I thought you work in my building."

"Your building?" I asked.

"This is Mr Robert Stevenson" Mr Glasgow introduced. "He's the curator of the National Museum of Wales."

Bloody Hell! "You are most welcome sir, I'm so delighted to have you here."

"The delight is mine." He smiled. "Mr Glasgow here is a good old friend; a friendship that goes back in time." He said with a mirth gesture. "Way back in time."

"He's my favourite critic." Mr Glasgow said.

"Critic?" I looked from Mr Glasgow to Mr Stevenson "Of what?"

"Of art." Said Stevenson. "I find his views rather untraditional."

"Traditional; I find the word vaguely absurd in the world of arts." Mr Glasgow retorted. "I wonder what kind of world you come from."

"Mr Bradley, your teacher here wrote a book I find highly controversial. I assume you must have read it too; if you did, what do you have a say about his idea."

I looked at Mr Glasgow and at the curator; the trio looked back with eagerness on their faces. "Well, I think it's really kind of untraditional."

"That's exactly what I..."

"But I believe the dynamism of art in itself has reached an extent where people's psychology towards colour has changed tremendously."

"Explain." Mr Stevenson folded his arms and gave me an eagle look.

"A plain colour, say blue, could be enough to make people happy and comfortable. As such, artists play with such colour on a canvas in different pattern without any form. The patterns alone could be pleasing to the eye. I think that's what you meant by untraditional."

"In which case, Mr Bradley, the painting won't have a soul." Mr Stevenson buttressed.

"You are right; it won't" I said, "but to some, it could have. That, I think, depends on individual perception. If someone loves a colour, I don't think he would mind having it in a harmonised pattern on a canvas. Because what's important to that person in space and time is the colour, not the form."

The trio had their eyes on me for a moment without; none said anything.

"I can't remember writing that in my book, but you just said exactly how I felt." Said Mr Glasgow.

"What do you feed this gentleman with?" Mr Stevenson looked at Mr Glasgow. "I thought you'd be all alone on this."

"Well, welcome to the contemporary." Mr Glasgow smiled at him.

"Mr Bradley, walk with me." Stevenson said to me with a smile.

We walked amidst the students. "I admire these; they are excellent. And the best part of it is that it's traditional. People will relate to it easily and feel your message."

"Isn't that what art is about, feeling?"

"You are right Mr Bradley. You are right."

"Sir, please call me Brad."

"Ok, Brad. That's easier."

Three girls were standing by the Attitude, they winked at me when we passed by. He saw the gesture and said "When you do the right things that please people, you'll attract their attention in the most inappropriate way. See, the girls like you." I smiled at his words. "More of this is coming your way, I must warn you. If you continue like this, the sky is the beginning. I'm saying this because I know."

Another group of younger girls came for autographs, I signed. He looked with a straight face. "Sorry about that." I said.

"It's ok." He said; alighting at the 'Mortality'. He looked at the painting for a moment. "Tell me Mr Bradley, were you expecting something like this three months ago?"

"No, I wasn't. I guess I was so engrossed in the relationship with the subject that I didn't think of that." I looked at the painting. "I knew she'd die sooner or later; I just never thought it'd be that soon. I remember telling Mr Glasgow all these were worthless."

"Then what really inspired you to do this?"

"Her mother."

"That's right. If I was her mother, I won't let all these rot in your basement."

"No sir, but she would've preferred that."

He looked at me and the straight look he got from me explained it better. "Oh; okay." He looked at the painting again. "How about hosting the exhibition at the museum? We would be delighted to have your works exhibited there."

"Excuse me?" I didn't get him right, at least for the first few seconds.

"Was that a yes?" He asked.

"Yes sir, that's a yes sir!" I was lost of breath. "Oh thank you sir, thank you."

"Don't thank me, thank your teacher." He nodded towards Mr Glasgow who was standing with some students by the 'Going home.' "That man would make a hell of an agent." He smiled.

In the middle of my excitement, I saw mother standing with Mr Graham. She waved at me. I excused myself from Mr Stevenson and hurried to where they were standing. I gave her a hug while I cried. She cried with me, wishing father was alive to witness what his boy had achieved at such a young age. She cried more when I told her the good news.

Before the end of the exhibition, Mr Glasgow announced the venue of my next exhibition, the National Museum; Gallery 13. I received a thunder of applause and tons upon tons of congratulations.

I sat alone in the hall, my paintings still hanging on the walls and easels. It was a great day for me. I never thought it would be that great. I was nervous in the beginning, now I was exhilarated.

I took a long sigh and closed my eyes. I didn't want to feel or think anything; just a moment of solitude would calm me. I needed to blackout. I don't know why I thought about it but it's more like I was trying to get back to the old me (even though I never wanted the day to end).

I heard someone clearing his throat. I opened my eyes and turned. It was Phil, Henry was with him.

"Are you alright mate?" Henry asked.

"Yes; I'm alright." I sighed. "I'm alright. What's up?"

"Man, you look like you were consulting with Pam's spirit."

"I wish I were." I smiled. "I won't mind that at all. She brought me fame in a day."

"No, you brought yourself fame. She just inspired you. You did the hard work. Painting these masterpieces isn't easy."

"He's right." Henry said.

"I'm right." Phil supported him. "And talking about fame, check this out." He handed me his I-pad.

"What's this..." I was tongue tied when I saw it. "The Favourite Muse Goes National." I read out. "Images of Zeta Jones wanna be..."

It was the website of the local news, talking about my exhibition. "They wrote a lot of things I didn't say." I said.

"Mate, I was there when you mentioned Catherine."

"I did?"

"Yes you did." Phil said. "And that's not all. Give me that." He took the I-pad and tapped it twice. "Prepare for Immortality!" He said and handed it back to me.

"Immortality? What's tha..." I stopped short at what I saw. My Facebook page, it had over ten thousand likes. "Holy Jesus; is this real?"

"Yep, and just so you know, we have invitation messages to exhibit The Favourite Muse from London, Bristol, Paris, Ukraine and New York City. It means we'll soon be international." He took the ipad again. "Brad, all that will be arranged later. For now, we are starving and I know you are too. Let's grab a burger."

"Wait." I said. "Guys, I was alone here composing myself with thoughts of Pam and the paintings; you came in and got me excited again with something that's beyond my imaginations; now you asked me to go with you and grab a burger?"

They both looked at me, a little confused. "What's wrong with that mate?" Henry asked.

"Everything is wrong with that; everything. I'm just fifteen. I need to slow down and I need you to slow down too." I sighed. "Guys, this is going way too fast for my liking. Way too fast."

They looked at each other again, then back at me; then they sat back down.

"Ok, let's slow down." Phil said, he sighed. "Would a little quite help?"

"Yes, a lot. Thank you."

Henry was mute, but there's a funny look on his face, like he wanted to laugh. So we all sat in silence. Where we sat, the 'Attitude' was propped before us so we were all facing at it.

"I love her." Henry started. "I never realized I do, until now."

"Henry!"

"What; I was just saying something."

"Just keep it to yourself; let's have some peace."

"Ok." He sighed.

Wait a second; a sudden realization befell me. "who do you love, exactly?" I asked.

"Catherin. Catherin Zeta Jones." He said.

We looked at each other and laughed our hearts out.

EPILOGUE

It was warm in Gallery 13 of the museum where my arts were on display. It was the first day and viewing was yet to begin. Mother sat with me looking at the email list we had earlier sent to invite people to come.

"If half of these people could walk in here today, there won't be a breathing space." She said. "If ten people would at least buy a piece, you would sell out in ten minutes."

"I don't want to sell out, what would I be left with if I do; memories?" I chuckled. "Oh please."

"Son, you need to reap the reward of your hard work. That's an indisputable law of natural progress."

"I know, but..."

"It's ok Bradley, you don't have to sweat it. Besides, you didn't put a price tag on the ones you won't be selling so there's no cause for worry."

I looked around at the three paintings she was referring to; Mortality, Attitude and By the Lake. They were pam's beginning, middle and the ending. "I'm not worried. I'm good."

"And I'm proud of you, Brad." She looked around. "Where are your friends?"

"Somewhere in the building." I said. "Did you just called me Brad?"

"I did?" She asked jokingly.

"Yes, you did." I smiled. "It sounds kind of...funny coming from you?"

"Kid, I'm old."

"Yes you are." I laughed. She did too. "I like it. So should I call you mom?"

"Must you call me that?"

"I want to." I said. "I always wanted to call you that."

"Alright, you can. So we've officially changed our names now?"

"Yes; it's only fair."

A strange woman suddenly strode into the hall and walked towards us. Her dark hair hung loose on her shoulders, matching the colour of her dress. She wore a straight face; kind of appeared dangerous judging by the dark clothes, the red lipsticks on her thin lips and the mascara on her eyes.

I could barely hear mother saying something about changing names and civilization, but my concentration was more on the woman. She looked striking; and strangely familiar.

She stopped and started looking at the paintings on the walls. It's like she wasn't actually looking at them but at a specific one. Then she went and stood by the Attitude, looking at it. A few moments later, she went directly to Mortality. There, she spent more time looking at it. I was watching.

Then she turned and walked to us; and then dropped the bombshell.

"Hi, I want to buy those two." She pointed at the paintings. You haven't tagged them, I saw. So how about I write you a cheque of ten thousand Pounds, a piece."

Bloody hell! "What?" Bloody hell!

Mother looked up at the woman and then at me. I looked at mother, and then we both turned our gazes back to the lady.

"What did you just say?" Mother asked.

"Sweet Jesus mom, it's her." I almost yelled.

"Her who?"

"Zeta Jones; it's Catherine Zeta Jones."

■■■■■■■

Hi there;

Thank you for reading my book. I hope you've enjoyed it.

I would like to use this opportunity to introduce you to my first novel; For the Love of Picasso and The Solar Eclipse

I love the Grand Masters of art. Their stories are not only fascinating but inspiring as well and that's the motivation behind this particular novel.

Pablo Picasso is one I love dearly. He's unique, prolific and philosophical; and. I find his life to be as artistic as his works.

But this story isn't actually about him.

It's about someone that knew, loved and cherished Picasso's art as much as she cherished her life.

It all started sixty years after she found a real Picasso painting in the ruins of St Raphael during the German invasion of southern France in World War II.

Here's a taste of the thrill...

■■■■■■■

From the Author of My Favourite Muse

For the Love of Picasso

And the Solar Eclipse

A novel by

Atabo Mohammed

Copyright 2011 by Atabo Mohammed

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

■■■■■■■

PROLOGUE

With over ten years of experience in ground-breaking heart surgery, Dr Nicole Ingermanson had never been so unsure.

She watched the patient through the glass window with galvanic anxiety. The last time she checked on her was about forty minutes earlier; and even though she had scribbled 'condition stable' on the patient's chart, she remained unsure whether or not the patient will pull through.

As for the patient, her condition was stable. Or so it seemed.

The EKG by her bed beeped steadily and the green line sprang up and down in an orderly fashion. Her breath was shallow and coarse; a breathing tube was stuck into her mouth to keep her alive and breathing.

Sounds from the beeping monitor, her coarse breath and of the lazy dull, choppy ticks from a small clock on the wall gave the room an awkward atmosphere. A spiritless aura seemed to whirl around walls the room, sucking up its liveliness.

No one was with her; no one should, especially at the moment when she's battling with death.

"Dr Nicole Ingermanson, please report to room 214. STAT!" A soft female voice blared out from speakers on the hospital walls.

Nicole wasn't listening. Her heart was on the patient.

"Dr Nicole Ingermanson, please report to room 214, STAT!"

Damn it! That was me.

And just when she was about to walk away from the window, she observed a little movement from the patient. She stopped, looked a little closer and there it was: for the first time since the surgery, the patient moved.

Nicole ignored the call to 214, and rushed into the room.

"Welcome back Maggie." Her heart was soaring.

The patient didn't seem to be listening; neither did she seem to care for the welcome. She rather seemed struggling with something. Her eyes were opened and on seeing Nicole, turned curious.

"Relax Maggie. I'm here." She smiled, fished out a small flash light from her breast pocket and flashed it into Maggie's eyes. But she observed something; an oddity in Maggie's movements. Her instincts told her Maggie needs something but too weak to speak. And by the way the old woman struggled, whatever that 'thing' is, needs to be done or said urgently.

What is it?

She carefully took off the breathing tube from Maggie's mouth. The old woman inhaled a couple of times through her mouth, and then murmured something amidst heavy breaths.

"I can't hear you; what are you saying; what do you need?." She asked gently, leaning closer. She leaned so close that her ear almost touched Maggie's lips. The old woman whispered something; and right after that, the heart monitor began to beep faster.

Shit!

"Stay with me Maggie; stay with me."

But Maggie was drifting away with the beeps; her eyes were closing and the blue pupils began moving up into her brain.

No!

In a flash, Nicole zoomed to the other side of the bed, hit the button and a warning sound blared outside the room—CODE BLUE.

The room was filled with a swarm of Code nurses screaming revival procedures just two seconds after Nicole had pressed the button. She gave the orders. Everything seemed to be moving in a slow motion.

Charge to 150... CLEAR! Charge to 200.... CLEAR!

The shocks streamed into Maggie's chest over and over. The beeps ran faster.

"Come on Maggie. Don't give up on me now. Don't give up, damn it!"

"We're losing her." A nurse yelled.

"Charge again." Nicole said.

"Her heart is too weak; it would not take another..."

"Charge again!" Nicole screamed.

Charge to 250... CLEAR!

Nothing; and to Nicole's horror, the EKG fell to a flat line.

No... no... no... no.

The battle to save Maggie was over and death has won. The nurses watched a confused Nicole in futile effort to revive the dead woman through resuscitation.

"Let go, Doctor Nicole." one of the nurses said gently, holding her shoulders. But she was panicking; and if not for the nurse that held her hands together and took them off Maggie's chest, she could have lost her own breath too.

"NO!" She said in a shaky voice.

"You have to let go. She's gone."

Nicole stopped; breathing hard to stabilize herself. It was all over for Maggie but she wasn't ready to believe it. She can't believe it. No, she can't! She won't.

A little calmed, the nurse spoke again."It's your call." He said.

All eyes were on her. She looked at everyone's face and they looked back with sympathy and little fear. Obviously, no one seemed ready to take the job of saying the Time Of Death which is possible for her to assign someone to. She sniffed, looked at Maggie's lifeless face, and then shot a cold stare at the clock on the wall.

"Time of Death; 08:36 AM." She said and briskly stormed out of the room.

Alone on the stair case, Nicole cried and cried until she nearly lost her breath. Margaret Fletcher was the grandmother she never had. Her death was a heart wrecking loss and a professional failure. She cried more.

She barely succeeded in holding herself together when she remembered one important thing: Maggie's final word. So she quickly fished out a pen and a small pad from her pocket, flipped through to a blank page and for two seconds, hesitated to be sure of what she was about to write. Then she scribbled in bold:

P A B L O

That was Maggie's last word― a name she had never heard a mention of it from the old woman's lips in the few years they were together.

It's a quest, which for a moment will change the course of her life. Forever!

CHAPTER ONE

It was all wet that evening. Light drizzles had been falling for hours with some heavy showers at intervals. Rain coats, boots, umbrellas and gloves always come in handy during this time of the year that one's instinct for safety tingles whenever he or she goes out without at least any. That's how it is in Seattle.

Kimberly Otis sat alone in the car trying hard to put a curb at the strange feeling she's been having all day. Her lethargic psyche couldn't find a clue why the feeling grew stronger and longer; and worse, she always hits a dead-end whenever she tries to connect the bad feeling with something awkward she might have done or about to do; it was really infuriating. It felt as if she's been immersed into those agonizing moments experienced on the early stages of soberness from alcohol and cigarette.

Kimberly was in hell!

The car door yanked open; a young black man got in, sat on the driver's seat and held up a bottle excitedly to her face. "I got it boo! Sean Don; girl I love Puffy."

"Nice." She replied carelessly, taking out a cigarette out of a pack, grabbed it with her lips and lit it. His momentary excitement suddenly died down by her cold reaction; he watched her puffed off a cloud of smoke into air.

"That thing will kill you."

"Shut up and drive Jason, we're going to be late."

"Can you please tell me what's wrong with you?"

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm fine?" She shot back. "I'm fine, thanks for asking and don't ask again."

"I don't care if you'll say that a thousand times more because I won't believe you. Kim, this is the third time on my record you've been so meanly sarcastic to me today. And every time I asked, you claim you are fine. You know you're lying."

"Why the hell are you bugging me; why is it hard for you to just drop it?" He stared at her for two seconds. "Are we going or what?" She demanded.

Jason punched the ignition and they were off.

Kim rarely have this sort of weird moment that she couldn't give a logical explanation why she's having it; if not for a friend's dinner invitation, she would have loved to be alone; because she's feeling sick in her guts.

"You know," Jason broke silence. "I read something about cigarettes and smoking a week ago and it goes like this;" He cleared his throat. "Nicotine, the main chemical compound in cigarettes, contains over two thousand different chemicals known to cause bleeding in the lungs, shallow breath and also the chemical addiction chronic smokers can't do without; all these happen when smoking gets chronic. You know what that means?" She didn't answer. "Cancer! Smokers can die young if they don't quit early." She didn't respond still. "I just thought you should know."

"I heard you professor know-all. Well, there's something you should know too: It's none of your damn business."

"Oh I'm making it my damn business cuz I wouldn't like my best friend to end up with over two thousand shitty chemicals streaming through her system a few years from now. Cancer Kim! Right now, you are already a walking corpse."

"What?"

"I'm telling you this cuz I care about you. I know you don't like it but I can't help it. It's called tough love; that's what this is all about; Love. I would've quit right now if I were you before it's too late; it's your choice though."

She shot him a scornful stare then looked away. Jason hates that. She uses that stare to send a thousand messages; the loudest being 'whatever' and the runner-up translate to 'sue me'.

"You're tripping Kim."

"What the hell is your problem?" She snapped.

"That stare is my problem. You are my problem. You've been acting and looking like shit all day. You refuse to tell me what's wrong with you and every time I asked, you sneer at me as if it's my fault. It's freaking annoying."

Kim took another drag and sent off a thicker cloud. Jason grunted and pressed a button to lower the windscreen of his side door. "Kim, this got to stop" She ignored him. That's freaking annoying! "You know what? You can smoke a thousand cigarettes a day if you want, but from this moment on, not in my car. So throw that thing out now!"

"You are kidding me right?"

Jason gave her a hard stare to confirm how dead serious he is.

"Don't be a jerk."

Instantly, he hit the brakes and screeched to a halt, sending both of them to jerk forward before slamming back on the seats. He maintained his stare.

"Jason!"

"Do it now!"

"Ok! Whatever." She threw the half burnt stick out of the window. "holy shit; Jason! Cigarettes won't kill me, you will!"

"Yeah right." He stepped on it and they zoomed off again.

Kim ran her hands over her red hair, wondering what the hell just happened. She shot a couple of angry glances at him but he didn't look back. She turned her gaze back on the road, burning inside.

At twenty one, Kim had been a bitter woman. Her mother died of cancer two years earlier; and ever since she dropped the red rose on her mother's tombstone, she left the cemetery and hitch-hiked to Seattle. She never again went back to their little home in Los Angeles where she was raised. But she's lucky to have finished high school though. College was something she had refused to consider. Her only living family happened to be a nagging grandmother whom she preferred to forever stay away from. The few months she stayed with the old woman happened to be the worst months of her life.

Her life in Seattle had been a struggle. She had worked in lots of places for the past two years ranging from grocery stores, shopping malls, housekeeping, fashion stores, table waiting and hair dressing. Then she met Jason Curtis. Jason was a college student who graduated from Kim's high school in L.A. a year before her, but they never met in school though. Jason was working at the mall when Kim was hired and they became close friends; watching out for each other ever since. Until now!

"Stop the car." She barked.

"What, you want to pee?"

"Stop the damn car!"

"I won't!"

His retort got her enflamed by a strong wave of anger she had never felt before; it was so provocative that it made her do the unthinkable: she grabbed the wheel and turned it, forcing the car to swerve sharply off the road.

"Kim, what the hell are you doing?" He screamed. But she didn't let go. She held the wheel with all her strength. "KIM!" But it was too late. Kim had made the Grand Cherokee swept a ninety degree turn skidding on to the opposite lane of coming vehicles where a truck was coming at full speed. It was a nightmare. Jason looked to his left and was blinded by the bright lights of the coming truck. Then an instant glitch of what seemed like a déjà vu from a movie scene flashed on his mind.

A nightmare it was! The coming truck had hit the brakes some yards to impact, letting out a terrible screeching sound as the tires jammed. But to their disadvantage, the rains have made the road slippery that even with the reduced speed, the impact was made. That was the last thing Jason Curtis would ever remember.

Seconds later, Jason was leaning limply against Kim's seat. His eyes and mouth were all wide opened. He had no pulse. Fresh blood smeared all over his face dripped down to his shirt. Kim was also unconscious, leaning against the car door on her side. And just when the sirens began wailing from a distance, Kim's cell phone buzzed beneath her legs. It was a strange number.

CHAPTER TWO

Nicole angrily flipped shut the cell phone just when the recorded message was about to replay. That was the fifth time she called that number without getting a response except that from the answering machine; it was frustrating, really. She actually felt like screaming at that moment, so she stood up and paced, gripping the phone tightly in her hand as if her life depended on it. She needs to talk to that person immediately. It's driving her crazy; everything is; restlessness, anxiety, pressure and sorrow all had a piece of her better part. Suddenly the cell phone vibrated in her hand and she jolted; felt a little bit of relief. Maybe it's her. It must be her. She flipped it open, placed it to her ear, said hello but heard a male voice. She spoke one word and hung up.

"Damn it!" She tossed the phone ont her desk. "Damn it!"

Her emotional baggage was so full that she didn't know which amongst the awful nightmares in it was more important to tackle first. Maggie's death had caused too much of emotional damage on her that she feared becoming unfocused in her job. She's probably going to remain that way for a long while; that's the scary part.

"Are you Ok?"

She looked up and saw a colleague coming in "No Joe; I'm not ok. I called Maggie's next-of-kin a thousand times without a response. It's infuriating." She said, rubbing her face in frustration."I've never met her, but the little I heard about her told me she's one hell of a bad news."

"Bad news?"

"Maggie said she has a major attitude and anger problems. She was last seen at her mother's funeral before leaving to God-knows-where right from the cemetery. She never visited Maggie, or called or wrote; what kind of person is that?" She sighed and smoothed her hair. "I have to find her."

"Yeah; well how? What are you going to do now that you couldn't get her on the phone?"

"I don't know."

"Look; maybe she doesn't want to be found. She could be out of the country or up in some strip club in Vegas. Nicole, I think you should go home and rest cuz you actually look like some bad news too."

"What?"

He walked closer to her. "Your eyes are red, if you don't get some sleep you won't need your car headlights to drive home tonight. They'll glow."

"I don't need that right now." She waved off his joke.

"Nicole, I understand Maggie meant a lot to you; you've done your best but it's her time to go and there's nothing you or anybody can do about it. The surgery went well and she was at the point of recovery when she gave up. So pull yourself together. Go home and get some sleep." A wave of fresh emotion swelled in her heart; she gently leaned on his shoulder and cried. "It's alright sweetheart. It's alright. Just go home." He whispered.

Alone in her apartment cuddling a pillow, Nicole had the phone to her ear listening to the answering machine again.

Her voice sounded rude, she thought. Again she left a message.

She sighed, adjusted herself on the couch and tightened her cuddle on the pillow. The night was cold. She was wearing a brown hand-made sweater Maggie had given her the first day she spent the night at Maggie's. She remembered their conversation vividly; it was Friday night.

"So why did you chose to go to med school?" Maggie had asked her after swallowing a mouthful of coffee.

"My dad was a doctor; a medic with the US Marines."

"Your father was a Marine?"

"Yes. Captain James Ingermanson, my hero. He taught me lots of cool stuff doctors do. I've known many medical terms when I was just five." Maggie smiled on that. "Mom died when I was in Junior high; I was there. I saw how the doctors struggled to save her life when she was having the multiple seizures from a brain tumour. Dad was on the plane from McGuire but couldn't make it on time."

"Oh."

"Every time he's leaving home, he used to make me promise that I'll take care of mom. But then she died; and when I saw him coming through those hospital doors, I felt like, I kind of let him down. So I promised I'll never again fail to take care of anything or anyone he wants me to look after."

"So you became a doctor."

"Yes."

"And your father?"

"He died three years ago in Bagdad; it was a suicide bomber."

Maggie's blue eyes narrowed with pity and her lips drawn to a thin line. "I'm sorry," she said.

"I'm fine; but thanks anyway. I remember them always because they gave me a childhood filled with love and encouragement. So the best I can do for them is to live up to their expectations. Mom wanted me to be a doctor and I'm one. For dad, he'd never wished for more."

"I admire your courage Nicole. Taking that sort of responsibility at that age was something a lot of people won't dare. It made you who you are today." Maggie paused and took another sip and her wrinkled throat moved awkwardly as she swallowed. "I had a daughter in LA. She was... she was the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Had?"

"She died three months ago."

"I'm sorry." Nicole felt a lump in her mind.

"Oh please don't be; like I said, she was the best thing that ever happened to me." Nicole remembered smiling at the statement. "But she has a daughter that's completely alien from her. Oh that little brat got bad temper and attitude that I wonder where the hell she got them from at such a young age. I went through hell when her mother sent her over for the spring break. But I love her dearly. I used to sneak into her room to watch her while she sleeps. She's such an angel when asleep but a little devil when awake." Nicole giggled. Maggie laughed too.

"I wonder if my only granddaughter will change. I wonder if she can cool off and be able to make a life changing decision, you know, like you did."

"Don't worry. I think she will. Teenagers have this incredible attitude problem; but it changes with time. Though some do seek help from experts to manage it."

"Well; Kim will definitely need help. I wish you two have met; I'm sure you can help her, like you helped me."

"I don't think I can, that's not my expertise. I'm a surgeon not a psychiatrist. And besides I don't think Kim is that bad to need help."

"You never know my granddaughter. She's one hell of an issue." Maggie sighed and looked tenderly at Nicole "You are such an amazing person to talk to. I wish you two were friends; I'm sure she will learn a lot from you and it'll give me great joy if..."

"Maggie, please..." Nicole gently placed her hand on Maggie's. "Kim will be fine. She'll come around some day, I promise."

Nicole cried more. The TV played on; Nicole didn't know what the show was all about. Her tears blurred her vision and her throat ached.

Some say no one knows the value of what he has until he loses it. Nicole knew how valuable Maggie was to her, that's why her death was so devastating and unbearable.

She kept on crying; and when she found out she couldn't stop, she grabbed the phone and dialled Joe's number.

■■■■

Kim was lost.

She was barely conscious when she was brought out of the car and placed on a gurney. Her lips trembled as she tried to say her name when one of the medics asked her. The sounds and shakes of the impact resonated in her guts.

Kim didn't know how many shots of morphine she had. Her mind settled on few, not just one. As she's been attended to, she turned her head to the left and saw some of the medics over Jason. She didn't know what they were saying or doing to him. But then, her heart raced to her mouth when a man joined the others with a body bag.

No!

She watched in horror as Jason's body was zipped in the black plastic and taken away to another ambulance.

"No! No!" She screamed quietly because she was too weak to say the words.

"Jason! No!"

And she passed out again.

She woke up in a city of light. No one was on site. She saw like a thousand empty alleys running through every corner of the streets. It was cold; harsh, sharp cold cut through her flesh. She stood at the spot where she found herself, turning round and round to see if someone was there. It was the strangest place she had ever been. Suddenly she heard something; a movement, like someone walking. "Who's there?" She called weakly. The footsteps continued. "Who's there?" Her voice trembling as she spoke. The unpleasant combinations of fear and searing cold have knocked off every joint in her body. She walked a little bent forward, couldn't stand straight.

A blurred figure appeared from the corner of her eye, to the left. She turned towards it. It was a man.

Pain and fear are terrible things especially if the dose of each is high in the combination. Although, high dose in one could reduce the intensity of the other, it didn't work for Kim. Her heart almost stopped beating when she saw the man.

He stopped just when she turned to his direction, waited for a moment, and then kept on walking.

"Hello." She called in a trembling voice. He didn't answer; he didn't stop.

"Hey; stop please." No word, he just kept walking.

She dragged herself after him. Her feet were bare and numbed by both cold and fear. Her whole body felt as if it were not part of her, but she managed to walk faster. The stranger kept on walking until he reached a dead end, turned right and continued walking. She followed until she caught up with him.

"Stop please."

He stopped, didn't turn around. She stood a few yards away, panting from cold and weakness. Her heart thudded against the walls of her chest. Who or what is this man? She thought. She never knew what was coming!

"Kimberly"

A strange voice startled her to the bone. It came from nowhere and it sort of echoed across the empty alleys. But... That voice; I know that voice.

But of course she knew the voice; she hadn't heard it for two years.

"Mom!" She called.

Kim didn't know what just happened or what was happening or how it happened, but she saw herself facing her mother. The woman, tired and weak, stood at the far end of the alley, in a white robe, bare feet and a horrible face.

"Mom, what is this place?"

"You don't belong here. This place is not for you. Not yet."

"Then why am I here?"

"Just so you understand there's a thin line between in here and out there; goodness and evil; life and death"

Kimberly absorbed the strange statement; only that it didn't come from her mother, but from someone else. She almost dropped dead when she turned.

"Grandma!"

The old woman looked fresh and strong as if half a century had been slashed off her age. Her face was pale but grim, revealing strong lines of unwrinkled skin.

"Grandma what's going on here?"

"You tell me." The old woman chuckled.

"I'm scared."

"You, scared, Kim? I thought you were ready to die that's why you caused the accident. I thought this is where you want to be? You are now here. Congratulations."

"No. I don't want to be here, please, I want to go home."

"This is home now." The old woman stated, turned to where Kim's mother was standing. "This is our home now; and in this world here," The old woman continued "goodness begets goodness and so is evil. But people feel proud to gain the world and lose their souls. This is eternity; it's a journey you wouldn't wish to embark as a lost soul." Maggie's eyes swept the entirety of the alley before settling back on Kim. "The question is; where do you want to belong; righteousness or evil? You have more time ahead of you. Will you spend it doing the good; or doing things like that?" She tipped her head at the man Kim had followed.

He had his back at them, but he slowly turned around and Kim saw the most horrible image of her life.

"Jason!"

His face was horrible; fresh blood cascading from his head down his face to stain his shirt. He raised his head slowly and opened his eyes. Kim screamed. The lights got brighter and sharper, closing in on her; she slumped to the floor.

"Miss Kimberly... Miss Kimberly... Please be still." A loud voice echoed in her head.

She jolt her eyes opened and found herself lying in a small hollow closure with bright lights above her face. She was inside a CT machine.

"Miss Kimberly, can you hear me?" repeated the voice from a speaker above her head.

"Please get me out of here." she cried.

It was 2:57am. The hospital was relatively quieter as most patients were asleep. Kim heard footsteps passing by her door, speaking in low tones. Her room felt comfortable; the lights were out, it's warm, there were soft pillows and clean sheets on her bed. But as far as she's concerned, comfort was far from her reach. She was wide awake, lying on her back with her eyes on the ceiling, crying them out.

Raw pain surged through her heart over and over. It was the pain not from injuries, but from a burning combination of loss and regret. The thought of causing the death of her best friend was killing.

Yes; she gets wild, mad and carefree a lot of times but she never took it to such extremes. Her most frequent lamentations when she's drunk used to dwell on her mother's painful death, her grandmother's naggings and on some of her obnoxious customers; never had she thought of killing someone.

The accident would forever be her worst nightmare; one she's never going to wake up from.

CHAPTER THREE

The morning light hit Nicole's sleepy face. The emotional trauma she went through the previous day made her forget to draw the drapes of her bedroom window. So she ignored the faint illumination even though it's penetrating her eyes. She was weak but calm and refreshed. Thanks to Joe.

The phone broke into an annoying shrill and her eyes jolted open. She sighed, cursed stretched a hand to reach for the receiver. She's comfortably nestled in Joe's arms, reluctant to move.

"Dr Ingermanson." she said in a sleepy voice.

"Good morning; Owen Craig here. Sorry to wake you, I got your message about Maggie's death."

"Oh; morning Owen; sorry, I couldn't get through to her granddaughter and didn't know who else to call."

"I understand. It's sad and I'm deeply sorry for the loss, I know you two were close." a pause. "If there's anything you'd need me to do, beside my legal obligations, please let me know."

"Alright, I will. Thanks."

"So what time should I drop by the hospital to see you?"

"Seven."

"Alright then, I'll be there. Please accept my condolence once again. See you later."

"See you." She held on to the receiver until she heard the click, then the dialling tone.

"Who was it?" Joe asked.

"Owen Craig. Maggie's attorney." she said, putting down the receiver.

"Oh" he sighed. "What time is it?"

Nicole had no idea. The alarm clock was still quite; it's not yet seven thirty. She checked the time from the black digital clock beside the bed, hesitated, watched the green figures on the screen counting down; ten seconds later, the alarm set off.

"Seven Thirty." she said; grabbed a robe and got out of bed.

Joe walked into the kitchen and saw Nicole sitting at the table looking out the window with a glass of juice before her. She sat still; her mind obviousely farther than the sea of Carson City sky scrapers in her view. He knew she still harboured hangovers of grief and sorrow from Maggie's death. He thought her blond hair, though a little rumpled, looked golden in the illumination coming from the window.

"Morning sweaty." and what the hell are you thinking about. "Can I bring you back from the land of far far away?" She turned, smiled weakly. "Morning."

"How are you feeling?"

"Good. I'm glad you came over."

"I had to; you couldn't stop crying." He pointed at her eyes "Your eyes are still sore."

"Yeah, I know. They'll clear off in a short while. It happens whenever I cry."

There was a little pad on the table just beside her glass of juice. Joe saw what she had scribbled on it.

"PABLO. Who's that?" he asked; sitting opposite her. She followed his gaze to the pad.

"I'm looking for clues"

"Clues?"

"It's Maggie's last word and I'm trying to figure out whose name it is- that's if it's a person. What does it mean if it's an abbreviation?"

"So what did you get?"

"Nothing; I mean, she never mentioned it to me. So I don't know where to start. It could be anything; a security code, a password, a nick name, a grandfather's name, a lover's name..."

"A husband's name?" he added

"I doubt that. Her husband's name was Fletcher. Edward Fletcher."

"So if it's an abbreviation, what would it be? Let's see... I got it! Party At Bobby's Later On"

"Get out of here; that's ridiculous." She smiled.

"No it's not; I'm serious." he joked. "Well, my best guess settles on a security code."

"That's what I thought too. It's a possibility because she never mentioned it. People don't speak of their security codes the way they speak about their matrimonial fiascos"

"So what do you think the code would be securing; that's if it's a security code?"

"I have no idea, Joe. The way Maggie struggled to say it a few seconds before her death is puzzling. She used to tell me almost everything whenever we are together, but this..." She sighed and rubbed her face. "I don't know. I knew someone of her age must have lots of skeletons she's hiding or protecting in her closet. That's why I need to know what that name is all about."

"How are you going to do this; are you going to start by ripping her house apart?"

She shot a glance at him; his statement hit on her. The house, she thought.

Yes, the house!

She stood up and hurried out of the kitchen.

"What; what are you doing? Nicole!" Joe called.

"Going for a ride?" She yelled in a serious tone.

Here we go again; he thought. Joe sat there and waited; murmured 'wow, this is great' under his breath while he toyed with the pad.

Sometimes Nicole's obsessions worry him, a lot. By definition, she stands out a diehard go-getter who stops at nothing to quench an obsession. Of course there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. But everything is wrong if it leads her to trouble. And sometimes, she never sees it coming until when it happened, then she looks for a solace and that's where Joe comes in. The thought is killing him.

He loves her, but it seems she doesn't see that; he thinks she 'pretends' not to. But they hug, kiss, make love and cry in each other's arms in turn whenever situations get complicated for either of them. What sort of life and living is that? And worse; she's got a new obsession now, this means trouble has already began tapping him on the shoulder.

Nicole appeared shortly, dressed up in blue jeans and a thick coat over a black T-shirt. Without a word, she headed for the door, whisked her car keys from the key stool.

"Wait; are you supposed to be doing that?" He asked, stepping into the living room just when she was working on the locks.

"Yes, because that's what Jesus would do."

The drive to Maggie's usually takes fifteen minutes; it took her just ten that morning. She didn't take the time to enjoy the peculiar happy feeling she used to have whenever she's on the way to Maggie's. That feeling was replaced by a burning desire to decipher a new obsession. Her heart raced on it and she stepped on the accelerator with equal eagerness.

But who's that actually; this Pablo? She needed not to ponder on how important the guy was to Maggie since his name happened to be her last word, but what did he do to warrant such importance? What role did he play in Maggie's life?

As a medical doctor, wading into research happened to be one of the most interesting things she does. She loves it; makes brilliant predictions during pre-op analysis on whatever project she's wants to embark on, of which most ended with great breakthroughs. But this here is a different ball game. She's going into something she had no idea about; something that's highly unpredictable. What if the end results to something not good or something that can put her own life in danger? Oh well, danger is only a part in everything one wants to do. So when she pulled to a stop at the curb in front of the house, a feeling just downed on her that this isn't going to be good.

Nicole waited for a minute to pull herself together before getting out of the car. Before now, Maggie used to peep out from the kitchen window on the slightest noise to see who was there. And whenever she sees Nicole, she goes to the door and opens it even before Nicole reaches the front porch. It was a treat Nicole once commented on.

"I can't help it, what do u expect from an old woman living all alone?" Maggie would say.

Or she could catch the old lady doing her garden; trimming the lawn or planting new flowers or watering or just sitting there. "I love the smell of grass and flowers especially in the evenings. It reminds me of my childhood."

A lump began to swell in Nicole's chest. She quickly got out of the car and walked briskly to the door. A minute more is enough to make her cry again.

The spare key was where it used to be, under the black flower pot by the side walk. She took it, unlocked the door and went in.

For the first time in years, Nicole experienced the strangest feeling in Maggie's house. The decor hasn't been altered in any way, but the place felt psychologically unfamiliar. Solid tension hung over every piece of item in the living room, like Maggie's soul was there, watching, guarding it. It looked as if death itself was there. That silent tension got hold of Nicole and her heart started pounding; she began taking deep breaths to stabilize. Hell; she felt like an armature thief on a first job.

Get hold of yourself...Yes...Ok; now, where do I begin?

Her eyes swept the entirety of the neat living room and instantly observed the first two places to begin her search. She dropped her bag on the couch and walked to the first spot: the books shelve.

Nicole had marvelled over the old woman's book collections the first day she stepped into the house. It spanned from the ancient literal giants to the contemporaries―Plato, Sun Tzu, Machiavelli, Old Testament, Shakespeare, Hemingway, Chase, Robert Greene, Sheldon, Dan Brown, Grisham and more. There were also piles of magazines and newspapers. She's sure Maggie had read them all; yes, she can bet on that, because the old woman was something else when it came to in-depth knowledge and philosophy; her ideas and concepts seemed out of this world. As Nicole got set to explore Maggie's personal world to find something hidden, she prayed her quest to be easier.

So, she set to work. First all, she traced the author names of each book with her index finger to see if she could get a match. She got none. Then she attacked the voluminous books, the manuscripts and magazines. She even took time and went through some notes she found in the pile.

One and a half hours later, Nicole couldn't find a thing.

Nicole moved on to the next spot; the computer. After hitting the switch, she went to the kitchen to get a drink. Damn thirsty she was.

The kitchen was dusty. Three days gone by since Maggie was rushed to the hospital on the heart attack that killed her and no one came over to keep the house. An empty house could give certain privileges to crawling creatures hiding deep in dark nooks of the house. Nicole was greeted by a half dozen family of cockroaches casually going up and down.

"Jesus"

She drew back, pressing her back on the wall and looked away. A moment passed and she looked back again, slowly. They've scattered, she saw; her intrusion seemed to be a peace breaker. She sighed, walked gently to the drawers and opened one, found a bottle of wine inside. Maggie and wines; she chuckled.

She poured herself a shot just when she heard a beep from the computer in the living room. She hurried back and sat before it. She noticed it wasn't coded; thank God for that. The home screen had Maggie's smiling face as screen saver. Nicole looked at it for some seconds, smiled and got to work. She clicked Documents icon and an array of folders appeared. One after the other, Nicole opened them; all the files had no information relevant to her purpose. The last of them was coded and that was the moment she put Maggie's last word to the test. She never felt so hopeful. With a pounding heart; she typed PABLO into the text field and hit Enter. To her dismay, nothing happened; it was a wrong code. She buried her face in her palms; disappointed.

It felt like hitting a dead-end where everything stops and no way to advance further. She looked at the screen again and couldn't think of what next to do. She gave out a long sigh, poured more wine and gulped it in a swig.

She took a breather; poured more wine. Frustration was beginning to reveal itself by the way she poured the liquor; she felt terrible already. The job is becoming harder than it seemed.

Now what?

She observed another search point to attack; the drawers. There were two brown mahogany pieces of furniture standing on either side of the book shelf with four chests of drawers on each. Nicole started with the one by the left. The first three drawers each had piles of different stuff, mostly papers, which include mortgage files, bank files, bills, picture albums, more notes, more magazines and more papers. The last drawer however, had a piece of cloth neatly folded in it.

Nicole took it out and unfolded it. It's a light blue hand-made cardigan, one hundred percent wool with big black buttons. It was the type Maggie had given her only that hers was turtleneck.

Cute.

She folded it; but just when she was about to put it back, she noticed something: a number by the left shoulder, intricately woven by deep blue wool.

Oh great. I got a jersey.

Wait a minute...

On a closer look, she realized she was looking at it wrongly; and when she turned it the other way round, the number turned to a letter: P!

"You are good old woman; real good"

She stood up, the cloth in her hand looking again at the letter. It had downed on her now that she has found something that could be another clue. PABLO starts with a letter P which could be short for the name.

She placed it back into the drawer, at the same time, making a new decision: she must search every item in the house for a P. This is a task she didn't think could be done in a week; but she'll try.

The next item that caught her eyes was a white Italian flower vase at the top of the drawer. She checked it thoroughly and there was no letter P. She checked the other vases, then the pictures, the paintings on the walls, the drapes, the CD rack, chandeliers and posters; still couldn't find anything. She drank more wine placed the cup on the computer monitor and went upstairs.

Nicole was greeted by darkness and a thick chocking air when she opened Maggie's bedroom. The room had not been opened for days and the peculiar smell of an unventilated enclosure hovered in it. The long, thick drapes on the windows were all drawn, keeping the room warm but chocking. Nicole hit the switch, pulled aside the curtains and opened the windows.

There's nothing unusual for an old lady's bedroom. The door was by the right; there was a brown piece of furniture with three chests of drawers a few inches away from the door and the bed was by the left. She attacked the drawers first.

The first one had some clothes in it; underwear mostly. She dug her hand into the clothes and fumbled, but found nothing. The second and third drawers also had nothing suspicious in them. Next were the smaller drawers by either side of the bed of which a chandelier was placed on each. Each had two small drawers; Nicole started with the one by the left. Both drawers had nothing in them so she went on to those on the right side.

There were some pictures in the first drawer; she had seen them before; they were pictures of Edward and Margaret, their daughter and her husband and the granddaughter. The date each picture was taken was scribbled on the back. Nicole put them back and pushed in the drawer.

She yawned and swore under her breath. It's getting boring, she thought. She pulled out the next drawer. There was something in it: a thick black diary. She looked at the object for a few seconds before bringing it out. She turned the book in her hand. It is quiet heavy; and knowing the kind of person Maggie was, gave her a strong feeling the diary must be heavier in words than in weight.

And if it is what she thinks it is, then she believes it may not only contain records of events for more than five decades, but could have memoirs replete with intriguing secrets.

Nicole had learnt to respect privacy since when she was just five and she grew up with it. When she was in med school, her carefree roommate, Barbara, used to give Nicole the password to her e-mail to help her retrieve some messages. But every time she's logging in, she'd asked Barbara to tell her the password again because she had forgotten it.

"How come you keep on forgetting it?" Barbara once asked her.

"I deliberately programmed my psyche not to memories it because it's someone's secret. It shouldn't be known." Nicole would say.

"Weird." Barbara would say.

Weird really, because Nicole is about to do something she hates to do especially now that she has no right to do it. She braced herself.

Just when she was about to open the book, the phone rang rudely; she got startled and dropped the book on the floor.

"Holy shit!"

The phone ring sounded like a shot from a short gun. She glared at the telephone as it kept on ringing, wondering who the hell it is.

She decided not to pick, but considering the fact that Maggie is dead, she decided to take it. She swallowed.

"Hello"

"This is Dr Jeffry Scholes from Seattle Metro Hospital; I'm calling for Margaret Fletcher please."

"She's.... Ahm... She's not available right now. Is there a problem; I can take a message."

"Ok. Her Granddaughter, Ms. Kimberly Otis had an accident yesterday; she's in our hospital right now."

"Oh my God!"

"Don't panic, she's alright. But she's kind of shattered, emotionally. She's been crying for hours. She needs someone close to her; like a family or something, for emotional support. She gave us Mrs. Fletcher's number."

"Oh, thank God."

"So please tell Mrs. Fletcher that, and ask her to call me back."

"Right; I will. Thank you doctor." she dropped the receiver; gave a long sigh of relief and sat on the bed.

Kim has been found; she's alright. I gotta go get her.

She stood up, about to walk out of the room but stopped. The diary was still on the floor where she dropped it. She got back, picked it up and started thinking of what to do with it. A better part of her was softy telling her to put it back but the devil in her yelled in her mind to take go with it.

She thought about Maggie's last word and of Kim in Seattle.

What the hell!

She placed it back into the drawer and pushed it back; then rushed back downstairs, fished out her cell phone from her bag and dialled a number.

"Owen; I've found her."

CHAPTER FOUR

Owen Craig dropped the phone, rubbed his forehead and sighed.

"So?" Nicole asked.

"She's still crying, but ok. Her CT scans are clean, No dislocations, no broken bones, just a sprain and a few minor stitches."

"Thank God."

"I told the doctor not to say a word to her about her grandmother's death. I don't think it's wise considering her state of mind"

"I agree; he shouldn't. But what's making her cry that much?" Nicole asked.

"Well he said she wasn't alone in the car, they were two and the other— a young college student— died on the spot; he could be her boyfriend or something. I'll be going to Seattle first thing in the morning to see her and possibly bring her home."

"Ok; but I doubt if she'll come with you." Nicole said.

"Why?"

"Nothing; it's just a thought."

"Nicole, if there's something I should know about the only heir to my deceased client, and you know it, then you must tell me."

"Ok." She faced him, "Kimberly has some attitude problems and she doesn't seem to like Maggie much. The last time Maggie saw her was at her mother's funeral and since she left the cemetery, no one —not even Maggie— knew where she was until now. So as you go to Seattle, you should know that Kimberly Otis isn't that easy going. She's something else."

"Have you seen or spoken to her before? Have you..."

"No!"

"So how did you know all that?"

"Maggie told me. She told me a lot about her; I'm telling you a part of it."

Owen walked towards Nicole as if advancing to cross examines a witness in a courtroom. "When did her mother died?"

"Two years ago." She replied. "Why?"

"Two years; mhm..." He shook his head."I think two years should be enough time for repentance. Have you ever considered the possibility that Kim could change?"

"People don't change, Owen. Changing attitudes is not as easy as changing shoes or underwear. People work hard on it"

"What if Kim had worked hard to change hers? She gave Dr. Scholes Maggie's number, why do you think she did that, if she still doesn't like her or needs a family at all? She could just walk out of the hospital and straight to her apartment when everything is over and no one would ever know."

Lawyers! She rolled her eyes.

"We are talking about someone we both don't know but have to deal with anyway." Owen buttressed "she probably needs our help now and I don't think it's fair not to give her a chance. It's the least you can do for Maggie."

"What; what do you mean?"

He shrugged. He knew she got the message so he didn't answer. Nicole just realized Kim could soon be her responsibility; and if that happens, then she's going to be nuts for a while.

"You said you have something to tell me; what is it?" Owen asked.

"No! Don't change the subject. You want me to baby sit Kim; how could u think of something like that?"

"Because you're Maggie's best friend and her doctor; doctors take care of people, isn't that what you do?"

"I'm a surgeon Owen, not some psychiatrist; and besides, I'm a busy woman. I won't have time to baby sit. Look, this is crazy, I can't do it. I really can't."

"You can. You'll do just fine, I promise. All you have to do is put her through the few things she'd need to know that's all."

She eyed him unconvincingly. "And what if she doesn't need my help?"

"Cool. She's old enough to take care of herself anyway."

"Ok. But it's for Maggie's sake"

Owen shrugged. His lips curved into a half smile.

She frowned, "Just before Maggie died, she whispered something to me; it's a name." Nicole fished out the pad on which she wrote the name and handed it to Owen.

"Pablo" He said; looking a bit confused.

"Yeah; she never had the chance to explain further. So I thought maybe you would know something about it."

"I don't know anything about it. She never mentioned it to me and I don't remember a name like that in her will."

"She never mentioned it to me either."

She wanted telling him about her little search in Maggie's house but declined. She thought Owen probably won't be cool with that.

"Pablo... Pablo! Who the hell is this guy?" He said, still holding the pad. He sighed. "I'll find out. But in the meanwhile, I'll prepare for Seattle to get Kim. And you stay put."

"Ok, now you sound like a cop."

"Really; I try. The life of a lawyer in a world of crime could sometimes be chaotic and psycho-driven"

"You forgot the 'enriching' part."

"Yeah? Clients can sometimes be over demanding and put lawyers through absurdities. I had a client that once asked me to pick her daughter up from school and make a stop at McDonalds for ice cream. Kind of made me feel like a nanny"

"Yeah that's absurd" Nicole laughed

Her pager gave an unexpected buzz and while she was checking it, the soft female voice from a loud speaker called out her name.

"That's me. I got to rush. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see ya." Owen watched her disappear through the double doors to the Recovery Ward. He brought out his cell phone, dialled a number, spoke a few words and headed for the exit.

Dr Joe Fleming lowered the magazine from his face and watched the lawyer walking away. He had been watching the man and Nicole talking for a while before she ran off.

He observed Owen for a moment; thought the guy could be Maggie's attorney who called earlier that morning.

Nice suit. He thought. He followed Nicole inside. An intern told him Nicole was in room 214 and he got there.

Three interns were with her when he got there, so he waited a few paces away. She saw him but went on talking to the interns. Joe knew their little face-off in the morning would turn to something else because Nicole has been avoiding him since when they started their shifts.

"Can I have a word?" He said. He had observed that Nicole seemed to enjoy ignoring him.

"Can't it wait? I'm busy" she fired back without looking at him.

"We are all busy here. We don't have all the time in the world, do we?"

Joe has a gift of persuasion. There were many occasions where Nicole had asked for his help to persuade parents or some members of a family to agree to some surgical procedures considered best for their kids or wards even when they disagreed to it in the first place. And just like all other good doctors, Joe never gives up on his patients until they stop breathing and pronounced dead- a habit he also holds on to in real life. He never gives up on Nicole.

Those qualities reminded Nicole that he won't give up until he has his words heard. He won't back down.

She scribbled on the chart, handed it to the interns and dismissed them.

"What is it?"

"You can't keep doing this." Joe moved closer to her and lowered his voice.

"Doing what?" Her face was straight.

"Avoiding me; treating me like dirt every time you're up to something I'm not cool with it; it's not fair."

"Look, if it's about Maggie's stuff, then I don't have time."

"You'll never have the time to listen to me, but you had the time to go and search Maggie's house for clues right?"

"Call the cops to take me in and see if I care."

"See, there you go again. I'm not calling the cops on you. I'm saying what you are doing, trying to dig out some secrets which you have no right to do is not cool at all. And as your... friend, I think you are crossing the line. You got to stop. I need you focused and..."

"I don't need your approval on this." She said in gritted teeth. "You know what, Joe? This is none of your business, stay out of it." Her voice rose and had attracted some attention. "Stay the hell out of this" She stormed out of the ward, very much pissed off.

True; it's been a while since he saw that kind of reaction especially from her. Her cheeks had reddened instantly and her eyes darkened.

"Dude; that's not good" Joe looked to the left; a colleague of his was standing with a mocking face. "If I were you, I'll dig this concrete; get in the ground and bury myself."

"Screw you, Malcolm" Joe snapped and walked away.

Malcolm grinned.

The resident's locker room was empty; perfect for Nicole's state of mind. She needed some space and silence to nurse her anger. Thanks to Joe's insensitivity.

Damn him! I needed him; how couldn't he see that?

She took a deep breath to lower the pressure mounting inside her. She had her plate full with some unpleasant stuff moving fast― Maggie's death, code PABLO still not cracked, Kim's possibility of coming home to make her life hell, and now, Joe's insensitivity.

Oh great! Welcome to he...

The door yanked open and two male doctors walked in excitedly, talking about something. They opened their lockers carelessly, banging the doors hard on the metal walls. Nicole felt the bang in her head.

"Man that was the most beautiful body I've ever seen. Did you see those boobs?"

"Hell yeah man. That chick was a beauty. Too bad she had to die. Did you see that tattoo?"

"You know, I always think having sex with dead women is the most absurd of all absurdities, but seeing how that tattoo was drawn from her belly button down inside, I felt myself getting hard. Man that was sexy!"

"I pray the guy in the autopsy won't sneak back in the middle of the night and hit it."

"Men, you are disgusting!" They laughed out loud.

Men are pigs!

Tattoos; she scoffed. Her dad used to have one on his right arm; it was a little sketch of an eagle's head above a ruddy heart within which Nicole and Martha were written.

"It symbol" Her father told her when she asked him about it. "It means I'll always have my eyes and my heart on you and your mother. You know, like an eagle that sees a fish under water from high above the sky."

"Can I have one?" She remembered asking him.

"Someday sweetheart; someday"

Nicole had once made a little sketch of what her own would look like but she still couldn't get herself to go through with it. She has learnt from her father that tattoos are expressions of people's feelings and messages. It's a form of art that conveys some inner realities about people's lives and anyone can have it if he or she wishes. It can also be tatted anywhere. Her dad had his on his arm. Some have theirs on the shoulder; some on the...

Wait a minute; could Maggie have one?

She walked out hurriedly; headed for the mortuary.

Nicole is not a fan of mortuaries. It's not that she hasn't seen dead bodies before or afraid of one, but the situation in the icy rooms is different than in the wards.

Whenever her patients die in her hands, she curses, pronounces the Time of Death, walk out to break the bad news to the family and get over with it. But it's different in the mortuary; she feels the presence of death itself guarding the bodies. Psychologically, she feels the sound of death in the silence.

She stood before Maggie's stiff body; a little bit ashamed to stare at the old lady's nakedness.

I'm sorry old lady.

She walked round the body, searching keenly for marks or something like that. Her stiffness made it easier for Nicole to turn her over.

"... Are you supposed to be doing that?" Joe's words echoed in her head. She didn't know why but just now that she's there doing what she's doing, it occurred to her she's going too far. Her heart felt so heavy and her eyes glistened with tears. But she kept looking. And just when she had almost given up, she found something: on the right; there's a tiny pinkish inscription that had nearly faded completely with age. It's a letter P.

The cold room suddenly turned warm; Nicole stared at the tattoo for while. She touched it with her index finger; and then took her eyes off the tat to the old woman's dead face as if expecting a reaction. Maggie's body looked peaceful and younger; and strange.

What secrets have you been keeping, old woman? What do you want me to do?

Her pager beeped again. She checked it; it was an emergency.

Shit! Nicole took one more look at the tattoo, shook her head and then pushed Maggie back.

"What do we have?" Nicole joined two nurses pushing a black unconscious male on a gurney.

"Mr. Omar James, 32, shot in the chest twenty minutes ago, found unconscious." The nurse held up the drip above her head while her other arm pushed the gurney.

"Take him to OR three; we got to remove the bullets in his lungs before it's too late. GO!" Nicole put two fingers on the patient's neck to check his pulse strength.

"OR three. NOW!" The nurse hit the button of the emergency elevator while the other nurse drags the gurney into position. And five minutes afterwards, Nicole was scrubbing her hands preparatory to the surgery. She scrubbed harder than usual; trying to focus on what she's about to do, but thoughts of Maggie's tattoo threatened to dominate her mind. If her father's words about tattoo were true, then Maggie's must have a meaning bigger than just a letter. PABLO isn't just a name; there must be more behind it.

"We're ready for you, doctor." A nurse appeared from the rare end of the room with a blue robe. Nicole nodded; and the nurse helped her into the robe to dress her up.

"May I scrub in?" Joe suddenly peeked into the room with a grin. Nicole thought the grin was annoying.

"No." She said curtly. Her anger on him threatened to surface again; she strapped her mouth and walked into the theatre room.

"Well; no offence taken. Have fun sweetheart." The grin got wider.

Whatever

The last surgery she performed was Maggie's. It was in the same room, with the same tools and scrubs. Her emotions were surprisingly close even as she operated on the new patient. She's about to save another life, just like she tried to save the old woman's. A little slip could be fatal so she must focus.

"Ok people. Let's save a life. Scalpel!"

Whenever they are in surgery, they get sometimes down to chit-chats. Joe loves talking about high school dates, Malcolm loves jokes and she loves listening to them. The good thing about the chit-chats is it eases tension and they do their things smoothly without been too serious. And besides, it's kind of fun.

Nicole felt an urge to talk. She wished she had allowed Joe scrubbed in. Sometimes his mere presence is reassuring and his jokes were really calming. Even the scrub nurses like him.

Screw him! Stay focused Nicole.

"The bullet seems to be lying bellow the thoracic cavity," Nicole looked a little closer. "A low thoracotomy will do the magic. This guy is lucky; an inch more could've blasted his heart."

"Nice tat; huge though." A scrub nurse, Abby, commented.

Nicole looked at Abby for a second and then back at the man's shoulders. She had noticed the tattoo earlier but in order to stay focused, she tried to look more at the incisions she made on his chest. She remained silent for a moment as tons of questions began descended her mind again; the biggest and loudest question was; who the hell was PABLO?

"This guy is lucky." She said again; shelving off the distraction her thoughts were likely to cause. "The bullet hit low; made little damage, that's the price of living a rough life."

"Dangerous life, if I may say" Abby giggled.

"Abby, are you ok? Your eyes look like you had a bad sex lately" Nicole gave Abby another look.

"I'm fine Dr. But before now, It's more like a bad sex and a nasty hangover"

"Wow; looks like someone is also living a rough life." Nicole said. The rest of them laughed.

Nicole was alone in the locker room again; all dressed up for home. The surgery took less than an hour but went well. The fact that she had counted another success had uplifted her spirit a bit. And even though she's refreshed, her mind never let go of Maggie's tattoo.

She wasn't certain whether or not what she's doing is the right thing. For once, she had never searched a dead body for clues before; neither did she ever felt such an urge to do that. But she believes it's a sacrifice she has to make to fulfil Maggie's last wish. The task ahead seemed difficult but she believes there's a way, somehow or somewhere, to crack it.

She walked casually out of the locker room for the exit; waved good night to some colleagues and grabbed a can of diet Coke in the corridor.

The waiting was full with people. There were patients pushed up and down on wheelchairs by relatives and nurses; some kids ran up and down carelessly while others just sat there with gloomy faces, bracing themselves by hugging their jackets.

'Oh; my little baby... My poor little baby' a lady cried in her husband's arms at the far end of the waiting room.

Nicole was very much familiar with those feelings. She was once like those people bracing themselves and wearing gloomy faces. It was a long time now. She had since csme to understand that hospitals are places where life is most treasured. It's a place where life and death battle for supremacy.

Doctors strap up and battle with brains, skills and technology to win death at all cost, so that life shall once again be protected and preserved. Nicole feels proud to be one of those gifted with the skill to battle death; and she fights it with all her heart and might till she wins. Whenever she loses, she promises herself never to lose the next one.

But some battles linger on even after life is saved or lost. Like Maggie's; she left behind an obscure mark that's proving hard to decipher. Nicole sees it as another battle that shouldn't be lost at all. She's never going to let that happen. Never!

"You know; the last time you were at Bobby's was like six weeks ago. You looked all stressed up; A.K.A you badly need to be at Bobby's." Joe stood just outside the main entrance of the hospital, also with a can of diet Coke in his hand.

Nicole stopped; turned around and saw him. Even though it's dark, he looked fresh as if he just got to work. She just stared at him.

"I know you probably hate me right now; but you should know that's the last thing I want. So I'm going to make it up to you right now by holding your hand and taking you to Bobby's for a drink."

Nicole shook her head and smiled; then stretched out her right hand to him. Joe grabbed it and they walked towards the parking lot.

"How was the day?" Joe asked. "Mine was..."

"Don't spoil it or I'll change my mind." She gave him the hand.

Bobby Mark is a 34-year old guy from Michigan who owns a bar not far from the hospital. The bar had been in business for almost ten years but Bobby bought it four years back from the owner who at that time was facing a terrible bankruptcy.

Bobby had a rough ride getting the bar back on track. He had to deal with the complete overhauling process of the place at a price that cost him a fortune, plus a very low patronage which he overcome by hosting singers, dancers, magicians and free drinks. But all the efforts have paid off. Now, it's party everyday at Bobby's; and wild partying at Bobby's on weekends. Thanks to the banks, loyal customers and good management.

Bobby is everybody's friend. It was a full house at Bobby's that night. The entertainment was good and people were glued to the young R and B singer doing what she knows best; it went on for a while. Joe, Nicole, Bobby Mark and Bobby's girlfriend, Jenny were sitting together at the VIP corner. Jenny was telling them about a funny event during her vocation in Nairobi.

"So, at the camp, some rich kids drove through in a convertible and said they were going on safari in it. Can you believe that?" Jenny giggles. "One of the tour guides said to them 'all of you; are you mad? We use pickup trucks and buses for safaris, not Ferraris." Nicole and the rest laughed on the African accent Jenny used.

"That was a nice one." Bobby crushed his cigarette on the ash tray.

"The guys spoke something in Kiswahili and the guide pointed to a big tree that was toppled from the roots and said 'You see that big tree? A baby elephant was having a bad day and she took it down at a go. What will you do if you meet a flock of six hundred elephants advancing at you? A leopard could dive at your bushy heads for a quick meal. So you either get out of that toy and enter to the truck or you take your car back to papa.'"

"That was so unbelievably awesome." Joe laughed. "I can imagine an elephant having a bad day at Bobby's. That'd be the end this place."

"I bet my shot gun would help." Bobby took a sip from his drink.

"Jenny, is it true that park rangers in Nairobi keep leopards as pets and hawks for errands?" Joe poured another shot for himself.

"I doubt that, but it could happen. I mean, most of them are very well familiar with the animals and their behaviours. Animals could be loyal if trained well and not abused. They can be friendly." Jenny took a drag from her cigarette. "I love animals."

"Yeah, she does. She went to Africa every year to see them." Bobby looked at Jenny. "You should open a pet shop around here, and maybe someday you could ship in a live King Kong."

"I agree totally." Joe said. "And we'll pray he never gets a bad day."

"I'll be sure to keep Bazooka close. Short guns would be useless on something that big." Bobby grinned.

"Ok; you guys obviousely hate animals." Nicole said, finally.

Bobby and Jenny took a hike, leaving Joe and Nicole sitting alone. Usually, they sit directly next to the bar tender but since they have the host for company and some making up to do, they kept the tables.

"So, how was the surgery?" Joe asked

"The bullet didn't hit the heart. I really needed you in that surgery today."

"I asked if I may scrub in, you said no"

"I said no because you were a jerk twelve hours before the surgery; and you know that, so don't sweat it"

"I'm not sweating anything. I'm just... worried about you, that's all. I really don't want anything to happen to you and this whole PABLO thing scares the shit out of me."

Nicole looked at him for a second and said. "You know what; this whole thing scares me too. And like you said, maybe I'm going too far with it. But whenever I remember how Maggie struggled to get that name out of her chest, I feel as if she had given me something to do, something to save, or protect; you know, like a last wish. It's a burden I didn't want to carry." She sipped her drink. "The scary part is; what if I couldn't find anything; what if I fail to fulfil that wish?"

Joe reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeezed; didn't say a word.

"I know you tried to stop me just because you think she has an heiress; well, that's true. But what if Kim still isn't responsible enough to take care of it and fulfil her grandmother's wish? Maggie is too precious to me that I can't let this go without battling it to the end."

Joe gave the gentle squeeze a little more pressure that she felt his mind in her hand; he understood her obsession clearly now.

"We found Kim." she said.

"What? Whoa; that's great news; where?"

"In a hospital in Seattle; had an accident last night and it's said the other guy she's with died"

"That's awful. Did she know her granny just died too?"

"No she didn't. Owen will be going there in the morning. And since she's ok, he might probably bring her home"

"Home?"

"Here; he's bringing her here. And she could be under my watch for a little while" Joe just stared at Nicole. "I know what you're thinking. But I promise you, it's not going to be as bad as you think. She's not a teenager anymore and she'll need little of me. Maggie's house is hers now but she might need a little help getting some answers. That's where I come in." Joe was still mute. "Look Joe; I need you in this. I need your backup, buddy. I can't do this alone without a hand. Please stay with me."

"Hey, you don't have to beg. I'm in"

"Oww; Thank you"

"Speaking of Owen, I saw you guys talking. He's expensive" Joe sipped his drink and squirmed.

"Get out of here; what do you know." Nicole laughed.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dr Scholes strode into Kim's room with her chart in his hand. Kim thinks he's English, though his accent doesn't say that much, but his name does. But she never know the hidden fact that Dr Scholes had just finished speaking with Mr Owen Craig who pleaded with him to hold Kim for an extra hour before discharging her so that he can catch up with her at the hospital. Dr Scholes hoped the lawyer could make it on time because he had earlier on signed her discharge papers.

Kim was sitting up on her bed looking quiet traumatized. Her hair was all rumpled up, it made her looked like she's in an asylum, or there about.

"How're you feeling today, Miss Otis?" Dr Scholes adjusted his glasses and focused at the chart.

"Ok; I guess." Kim didn't look at him.

"I have some good news for you. Your CT scans are good, no internal injuries; your bones are all intact except for that sprain on your ankle which will heal soon. So you are ok and good to go." Kim didn't say a word. "Well, that's it. So I'll go and have your discharge papers ready."

"Any word from my grandmother yet? I gave you the number right?"

"Yeah you did. I left a message." He walked out.

Kim knew she's never going to get a prompt response from Grandma Maggie. It's been two years since she last saw the old woman; she never called her even though she had the number all that long. Maybe Maggie still holds a grudge for the hell Kim had put her through when her mother sent her to Maggie in Carson City for the spring break.

Loneliness had never been a problem for Kim since she left LA. But she met Jason and he changed that; he made her understood that everyone, at some point in life, needs some solace; someone to look after him even if that person mustn't necessary tell him what to do. That was the moment she realized she needed him. But now Jason is dead, and worse of all, she's responsible for it!

She shook her head vigorously, trying to shake off the prickly feeling that befalls her nerves every time she thinks of that. She hated herself and will be glad if someone could show her some hate too. She could use some; she wants to be punished for what she has done. Earlier, she contemplated suicide but thought that's not enough. She deserves the kind of death that's slow and painful; she needs to feel the pain Jason went through before he died. And she'll do it. But before then she'll continue to remain in bitterness.

So she cried and cried until her head ached. She slept for a moment, woke up and kept on crying.

"What in Lord's name is wrong with you poor beautiful child?"

Kim glanced at the door and saw an elderly black woman standing there in a blue dress and black skirt. The eyes blinked behind large framed glasses. Kim didn't say a word, she just kept on crying. The woman looked around the room and back to Kim.

"Why are you crying like that? Baby you've been crying far too much. I saw you like that yesterday when I passed by, and you're still crying. Do you think crying will solve your problems?" She walked up to Kim and sat on the bed. Kim turned her head away from the woman.

"Listen child; I don't know what happened to you and what drama you're in, but whatever it is, it ain't no good. The devil has got hold of your heart, he's nagging in it tell you, you're in deep shit. He wants to break you down and make you do some nasty things to destroy yourself, your dreams and all those beautiful things you've built. No honey, the devil is a damn liar. You got to stop crying and stand up!"

Kim cried more the lady looked around the room and back at Kim. "I can see that you're all alone in this. It's sad. Someone's got to be here witchu. But that ain't no problem either, coz what you need now is not someone; what you need now is Jesus. You need to be free of that devil in your heart. You need to bring in Jesus to whoop the devil right on the butt and free you from his evil hold. All you got to do is call onto Him and you shall be free."

The lady reached for Kim's face and brought it five inches to hers. Kim resisted but the woman maintained a strong hold on it that Kim had no option but to look right into the lady's eyes.

"What's your name?"

"Kim." She said in tears.

"Praise the Lord. Kim, you are free. Call on to His name, now! Say 'Jesus save me'; say it in whatever language, he'll hear you and will act on it. Say it!"

".. Jesus..."

"I can't hear you; com'on, your mama never takes you to church before?"

"Jesus!"

"Oh praise the lord." She pulled Kim and hugged her tightly. Kim clings to the lady's plumpness and sobbed.

"Oh praise Jesus." The lady waved in air with the right hand. "Oh Lord; hear your child and bless her. Take away her pain and sorrow and replace it with happiness. Show her the light in your path and let her see the way. Be with her now and forever more. Amen."

"Now that's a good prayer ma'am."

Both ladies froze at the voice. They turned and saw a man in a black suit, dark hair and a bushy moustache. The lady looked at him suspiciously.

"Pardon me ladies. I'm detective Jerry Parker. I came to talk to Miss Kimberly Otis about the accident."

"I knew you're a cop" The lady shook her head, releasing her hold on Kim. "Damn; you smell like one." She looked at Kim "Don't worry sweetheart, you already have the divine intervention you need. You'll be just fine." The lady left, tipping a weird glance at the cop on the way out.

"I'm Kimberly. What do you want to know?"

The detective strode closer, fished a small note pad out of his breast pocket and cleared his throat.

"Miss Kimberly I'm deeply sorry for your loss, but I need to clear a few things. Can you recall what happened in the truck before the accident?"

Like hell I can. I caused it.

"We... we lost control."

"You lost control; how? Your truck was moving on a straight road, but you suddenly took a sharp swerve at ninety degrees and crossed to the opposite lane?"

Yeah, I was the one that grabbed the wheel and force the car off the lane.

"I don't know. Everything happened in a split second."

Kim had never had problems with the police before, but she's familiar with the kind of look detectives wear when something sounds like bullshit. Parker wore that kind of look.

"Miss Kimberly, we are dealing with a serious matter that involves death and destruction of property. Lying will make this a lot worse so I implore you to tell the truth."

"I'm telling you the truth." she flashed him a daring stare.

"Were you drinking in the car?"

"No"

The detective gave her another unconvincing stare. "A bottle of Sean Don was found in the wreckage by Mr. Jason Curtis's seat and you told me you were not drinking."

Shit!

"We were going for a dinner at a friend's house. Jason bought the bottle as a present."

"Miss Kimberly, you know we can do this down town if you want."

"There won't be need for that!"

It's another voice. They both turned to the door and saw a strange fellow walking in.

"Who the hell are you?" Jerry Parker looked at the stranger from head to toe. Kim wanted to ask the same question but saw no need; Jerry has done that

"Owen Craig, Kimberly Otis's attorney."

Kim didn't understand what's going on. It looks like some joke.

"Attorney?" Jerry was faster than Kim for the question.

Kim has never been confused in her life. Her mouth hung open on the puzzle. She got a priest two minutes before, then a snoopy cop and now, someone just surfaced out of the blues claiming to be her lawyer.

So much for Divine intervention!

■■■■

Nicole was at Maggie's again. The night before was not that smooth for her as she spent a better part of it thinking about 'Pablo' and the 'Ps'. She didn't tell Joe about the letter marks on Maggie's cardigan and tattoo. He looked and sounded scared so telling him could make him bolt off.

When she came to the house, she went straight to the bedroom and stood before the drawer in which she found the black diary. She took a deep breath, opened it gently and brought the diary out. Then she sat on the bed and opened it.

The diary was indeed old fashioned, she observed. It has no dates, days, weeks, months or year pre-printed on the pages. Each page was originally blank and Maggie had entered the dates of each entry manually with a pen. She had also numbered each page for easy reference. The first three pages were all blank. The fourth page however had a two versed poem written at the centre of the page. She read aloud;

Oh! Those songs of the night,

So sweet; so bitter; so dark

Life; what happiness, what plight,

What living has no pain, nor lark?

"Great."

Nicole has not been a fan of poetry. Since kindergarten, she had found most nursery rhymes a bit silly. But she loves music and that's all; nothing more. Never had she sought to look for the lyrics of any song and she never wrote one. But that's not the point at the moment. The point is, what the hell does that supposed to mean.

Having not been able to understand what the poem meant, she flipped on to the next page which was blank; then she went on to the next page and that's where it all began. It started in 1944, September 15th; and to Nicole's dismay, the event was also written poetically.

Confused to the bone, she flipped through the pages hoping to find a plain entry; but there's none. She closed the book and flung it on the bed.

This has gotten worse!

Her frustration gauge was red and that's for hitting another deadlock. First, it was the password; now this?

Anger began to crawl inside her. She stormed out the room, leaving the book on the bed. She needed a drink.

She stood on the balcony. There's nothing much of the view that she haven't seen before. The houses were all there, so were the sidewalks, curbs, lawns, mailboxes, the roofs and the little garden at the far end of the street. But the air was good though; cold and refreshing.

She closed her eyes and sniffed; in the actual sense, she needed to relieve herself off her anger. She needed the drink, but on second thought, she chose the air instead.

She needs to be focused and get her thoughts together to be able to come out with the next line of action. But the more she thinks, the angrier she gets.

Anger is an emotional feeling instigated when pressure builds up within the mind. It's usually experienced when things didn't go according to one's mind. The pressure builds up naturally and could continue to an extent that a reaction —violent or otherwise— may be exhibited by the individual. Anger clouds the mind and makes someone lose focus. She read that in med school. The last thing she wants now is to lose focus.

I can beat you. I will beat you. I will win.

That's herself motivational words. Her father taught her to say it over and over whenever she had difficulty with her math.

"Math could be your enemy if it proves difficult to you. So you must battle it; you must go hard on it, it's only then that you can beat it. You will beat it and you will win" He used to say and she learnt to say the words ever since. She took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to deflate the pressure bloating inside her. She shifted her concentration to the view before her. She had once read a journal on a Japanese Sumo Psyche drill where the mind can be psychologically separated completely from the body; that even if the body is been tortured, one feels no pain. She could do that with her anger; taking it far away from her mind.

Just when the 'therapy' began to take effect, a woman opened the back door of the house adjacent to Maggie's. The lady was holding a plastic bag; a kid followed her with a smaller bag and she dumped hers in the trash and did the same with the kid's.

"Good job honey. You did great; it's time you take a break."

"I'm not tired."

"Michael, the cellar is dark and clumsy and I won't let you in there. It's dangerous."

"But mom I'm not tired." He whined

"I know pumpkin. Now don't stand there in the cold; come on inside; Chop chop!" The kid got in; mom patted his butt.

Nicole watched as the woman shot the door. Some silence returned again and she couldn't help but smile at the familiar tender show-down between mother and child. Kind of reminded her of her mother and how she always warned her not to get into dangerous places like the coop and the cellar...

The cellar! She hurried back into the house.

For once, Nicole didn't know where the cellar was, so she had to look for it down stairs. The garage was the first place she went to. It was small; and what made it more beautiful was Maggie's black Honda Accord sitting calmly in it. Maggie loved the car; she didn't drive in it much; she liked taking care of it more. There was a brown, rusty iron door adjacent to the garage from the inside. It has a round knob with a keyhole in the middle.

This looks more like it.

She opened it and stood in the door way for a second; the peculiar smell of damp dust hit her nose; she felt like sneezing. It was dark; she stepped inside and looked for the switch which she found with some difficulty and at the oddest place— a little above the ground, to the left. The light was dim but enough to illuminate the darkness.

With the lights on, she saw before her, a steep stair case that goes down in a curve; she couldn't see its end. She must admit, that's the weirdest kind of cellar she had seen. The walls were painted in dark colours, like brown or something like that. There were some odd looking paintings on the wall by the right.

Naturally, she'd have walked down without stopping to observe the paintings; but she realized there's something strange about them. They were three of in number, about 24 by 36 inches in size, framed and placed horizontally on the wall abreast one other. All were abstractions.

The first one portrayed distorted figures of a man and a woman. The woman seemed to be looking at the man, who was looking at something high up; it had brilliant colours— mostly white, purple, red, blue and black. The second painting had no human figures in it but just shapes— cubes, squares, spheres— arranged in disarray but coloured lightly and harmoniously with blue colours dominant. The third painting portrayed a distorted image of a woman looking out the window; the background was dark except for the illumination coming from the window, brightening a part her face.

Nicole observed the paintings closely for a minute. Even though it's difficult to tell what they meant, they seemed connected in some way; maybe through the colours, she thought. It felt like they were telling a story.

What the hell.

She took the few steps down; at the end of the curve, she saw another door, metallic and locked. She turned the knob and pushed hard but it didn't open. She looked around and saw a key pad on the wall by right; that's when it downed on her that she needs a combination code.

Damn it!

She sighed and held her forehead in frustration. Her hand smelt dusty but she didn't seem to give a damn. Nothing was more irritating; and the thought of not having the key combination was not only frustrating, but demoralizing as well. Again it's another deadlock; three in a row.

Anger began to flow back again. In a moment, Nicole felt like screaming. She also became a little angry with Maggie for the all difficulties she put her through. Nicole wondered how on earth could she fulfil Maggie's last wish if she keeps on hitting dead ends every time she has a clue?

Damn!

You can beat this; you will beat this; you will win.

This time, Nicole tried forcing the quiet voice out of her head; it had come to one of the few moments where the motivation didn't seem to make any impact. Leaning on the dusty wall, her eyes fell on the security key pad. She tried to think of something but nothing came to her mind.

You can beat it, you'll beat it; you will win... Slowly, something began to surface.

The numbers on the keypad are similar to those on a cell phone except that the former has letters in addition. She could try converting the letters in PABLO to numbers, maybe she could get something.

Let's see; P A B L O; that's 7 2 2 5 6, great. She never felt so hopeful.

Just when she's about to take the two steps forward to enter the numbers, she heard the most unbelievable noise from the top: someone had opened the first door!

The dim lighting of the stair case brightened more when the door was opened. To Nicole's horror, heavy footsteps began to descend the stairs; then a by a huge male shadow came to view. Her heart nearly stopped.

There's no hiding place. The caller is designed in such a way that the only way to entrance and exit is only through the first door above the stairs where the man is coming from. The only place she could hide was inside the room behind the metal door, which to her disadvantage, she doesn't have the combination to open it. Nicole never felt fear in such enormity before; and the worse part of it is she had reached the point of acceptance that whatever is going to happen, will happen; no matter what.

She watched in horror as the shadow approached; the footsteps sounding louder and the shadow closing in. And when the figure was just about to come into view, it stopped.

Nicole's palms were on her mouth— a reflex action partly due to the grip of fear and partly to block the scream that's threatening to come out of it. Life itself stood still; her breath, the shadow and even the dust-smelling air seemed to be stilled by the horror of the moment. Coupled with the fact that there's no way to escape made the whole thing dead scary.

The figure moved a little. She tightened her hold on the mouth. It moved again, this time retreating back up the stairs.

What's going on?

She watched as the shadow slowly disappeared and she hoped he'd opened the door and be out. But instead, she heard a little click of the switch; the lights went off. She started to pray.

Then the lights came back on. A short squeal escaped from Nicole's mouth and she tightened her hold on the mouth. She felt as if the person had heard her because a chilly silence reigned between them for a moment.

Oh God; who are this? What does he want?

Nicole felt the silence took ages and she thought she has to do something; if not, whoever is up there may kill or harm her. The problem is, she had no idea what exactly she'd do considering the implication of doing a wrong thing. She's not armed and there's nothing around that she could use as a weapon. She wished she could get hold of that pitchfork she and Maggie once used in the garden.

First all, Nicole summoned all the courage she could gather, swallowed hard and did the only thing she could think of:

"Who's there?" Her voice trembled a little. She could feel the man froze instantly. She waited for the worse. Her heart was inside her mouth; and her body trembled like a wet chicken.

"Who's there?" her voice a bit clearer this time

He didn't move a muscle; like he wasn't there at all. Nicole closed her eyes and swallowed again, and then she slowly began to ascend the stairs. She took the first step then the second and just when she's about to take the third, she heard the little click of the switch and the light went off again. She let out a little scream of fear.

Nicole heard some movements, like footsteps ascending the stairs instead of descending them. Then she heard the door opened sending bright rays of natural illumination into the dark corridor. She kept on ascending the stairs until she reached the door. There's no one was on sight.

The door hung wide open. Cold air wafted through and hit her face. Nicole reached and stepped out of it without moving further. The person in the house was nowhere on sight but she could feel his presence somewhere in the house; somewhere close. She's sure of it.

Maggie's car stood breathlessly while it's black colour shone in the lights; but she wasn't too sure whether or not it's empty. So she walked slowly around it; her heart beating fast with fear and anxiety. But nothing; it's still empty. She became more confused and scared. Where could he be?

Just when she was about to check around the car again, strong hands gripped her from behind. She screamed and began struggling to get free, but the strength of the grip had made freedom seemed far from attainment.

She tried to scream again but this time, no voice came out. She kept on struggling. The grip was very strong and firm that she felt her shoulders and chest were about get crush by the squeeze. The man dragged her back into the cellar and down the steps.

His right palm was strapped over her mouth while his left hand held firm against her chest. The cellar was dark; a perfect scene for a quiet murder. She felt what he was thinking: he intends to silence her forever.

For the first time in her 34-year lifetime, Nicole saw death starring at her in the face, flexing its knuckles just about to get to work on her. She'd swear she caught glimpses of her parents and Maggie standing there; watching. His hold on her mouth was so strong that she began to suffocate. It was then that the real struggle began. She kicked and kicked but he maintained his grip and the dragging down the stairs.

Her lucky moment came before he finished descending the steps. Nicole got her two feet on the edge of a step and pushed back with all her energy. She just did that without actually knowing what's going to happen. Something did happen: he missed a step; and that was a disaster.

Nicole's push was hard enough to send them both falling back. To his disadvantage, he fell first on the hard concrete floor just before the door. A groan of pain escaped from his mouth as they fell; and his hands lost the grip on her.

She struggled up to her feet and climbed up the stairs, but she felt a kick on her butt, making her fell face down on the stairs. She screamed in pain as her knee hit the edge of one of the steps. Yet, she struggled up again and dragged herself to ascend the stairs. When she was half way, he grabbed her left foot; she gave another scream; it was the leg with the bad knee. Nicole turned round with her foot still in his grip and kicked him with the right foot.

It was at that moment that she saw her captor; a huge man in black t-shirt and a mask. He's also tall. She sat on a step and kicked him again on the face with the other foot. He seemed not to be feeling her baby kicks but she kept on kicking until he let go of her foot. She scrambled to the door.

Even though she had a killer on her, it felt relieving to be free in the open. She ran out of the cellar with a limp. She needn't her sixth sense to tell her the guy was right behind her; and her momentary freedom was still far from celebration. The first place she had to get to was the kitchen, then the living room and finally the door; and with her bad knee, it's a very long way.

She got to the kitchen alright; but he grabbed her before she reached the living room.

"Somebody help me!" she screamed and hoped someone could hear. "Heeelp..."

"Shut up bitch." he said and hit her on the face. She went sprawling on the floor; crying and screaming. She tried to scramble to her feet again; he seized her by the hair and pushed her to the wall.

"You are dead bitch! You are dead."

"No please. Please let me go."

"Too late for that" he said and brought out a knife.

Before he strikes, Nicole pushed at the wall and both of them staggered backwards. She turned in a flash and kicked him on the groin; he gave a short deep groan, holding his balls. She ran out of the kitchen into the living room, he followed her but it was too late for him as she had already opened the front door, screaming for help.

"Shit!" He cursed.

He knew the battle was over and there's no way he can follow her outside.

"Fuck!!"

Nicole fell down when she got to the street; people have already started rushing to her rescue.

"Are you alright?" A young man asked her as he helped her to her feet.

"He's in there. A thief; he tried to kill me" she said, crying.

"Somebody call 911, please. I'll go check it out." said another man.

Another man had already dialled the number and was speaking on the phone.

"Call the ambulance too. This woman needs a doctor" A woman yelled.

Nicole was still crying. It was that moment that she felt the pain proper. Her head was bleeding and her knee was stabbing like hell. A small crowd had gathered around. Some looked at her with pitiful faces while others stared with hard faces; angry at whoever put her into this situation.

"He got away. There's no one in the house." The young man said as he jogged back to the rest.

That was the last thing Nicole heard before she passed out.

CHAPTER SIX

Kim had never been so confused. She must confess though, that the moment was the most bizarre she had ever experienced.

She woke up with a headache earlier before the doctor came to tell her the good news about her condition. Then the plump black lady came; gave her some motivation and a hug; and then the cop; then the attorney. Now she waits for what next to come.

The two men were outside talking. Although she knew what the little chat was about, but she didn't know what's going to happen. Would she be going to jail? Cops are not stupid; she knew that. The detective must've known the accident was caused by something other than what she had told him; that's why he seemed unsatisfied by her answers.

Only God knows what could've happened to her had the lawyer guy didn't show up. He made a perfect timing.

I should say the truth. I must be punished for what I've done.

Owen strode back into the room, alone. She moved to speak "It's ok Kimberly, there's nothing to worry about."

"Are you sure? Cuz that guy obviously doesn't seem to like me much."

"Yeah, he doesn't. But I took care of it. He still wants a statement though."

"Isn't what I told him enough for a statement?"

"You know cops, they are too official?" He walked closer to her "How are you feeling?"

"What does it look like? I had a car crash that took my best friend's life; I got cops on me and a guy I've never seen before just showed up here acting as my lawyer."

"I'm sorry about all that. It must've been hard for you."

"Hard hun;" she chuckled and looked at him. "What did you say was your name again?"

"Owen Craig"

"You know, Mr Craig; I know some lawyers that patrol hospitals looking for desperate clients that want to be compensated for slipping over wet floors and twisting their ankles; some sort of bitchy way to make quick cash. I'm not one of those clients. So I guess you should look elsewhere if you..."

"I'm Margaret Fletcher's attorney Kim; I'm not what you were thinking."

The mention of that name silenced Kim instantly. She looked at him with curious eyes.

"Surprised? You don't expect an eighty two year old woman to fly all the way from Carson City to Seattle on such a short notice, do you?" She was mute."Or maybe you thought she doesn't care about you anymore and won't get back to you when your doctor called. You are mistaken Kim. There's a lot about that old woman that you don't know."

"Oh yeah; Like what? Calling her granddaughter 'little devil' about a thousand times or that she didn't seem to belong to their roots?"

"Like spending her last days trying to find you; trying to know if you were still alive and well. You never called or wrote." She didn't get the nerve to retort on that. "You are the only family she had; forgiven the old lady if she pushed you hard some years back."

She looked at him for a moment "Excuse me, did you say 'had'? What are you talking about?" a lump formed in her chest "Where is my grandmother?"

"Well, that's another reason why I'm here."

Owen broke the news and it hit Kim hard. It was as if she's having a bad dream; only that it's not a dream. She kept starring at Owen until her vision got blurred by tears. She felt weakened by an aching heart. Kim couldn't believe what's happening to her.

Owen kept on talking but she didn't seem to be listening. It's now confirmed that she's all alone on planet earth. Been alone didn't use to bother her, but been all alone with no family felt really scary right now.

Owen stopped talking; he had reached the stage where he understood she needed a moment to exhibit the appropriate natural reaction. He watched her cry out her eyes; and her heart.

An hour later, Owen helped Kim into her apartment. Her ankle was sore so he took her home.

The apartment was on the sixth floor of a building on Liberty Street. The building housed apartments for low income earners. Kim's apartment was modest and neat. Owen hit the lights on and led her to the bedroom. She climbed up the bed and he put the sheets over her.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, thanks." She bit her lips on the sharp pain that surged through her sprain.

"Would you like some coffee?"

"Coffee would be fine."

He motioned to walk out of the bedroom but hesitated, then looked back at her.

"Kitchen is to the left." She said.

Owen stood in the kitchen, looked around for a few seconds and sighed. Making coffee is perhaps, one of the things he's perfect at making; but for a moment, looking for what to brew in Kim's kitchen was a little more difficult than making the brew itself. Unlike the living room, it was untidy in the kitchen and things were kept everywhere. After close to sixty seconds searching, he found what he was looking for, put it in the coffee maker and hit on the switch.

"That's more like it, I think." He murmured.

He walked around the kitchen as if looking for something. Well, the place was dusty, evident from the dirt on his fingers as he worked on the coffee maker. There were small framed pictures on the wall, about three of them. None has pictures of Maggie or Kim's mom, but candles, a baker and cake; and of a beach.

He remembered PABLO. Could Kim know something about it? She could; after all, she's a Fletcher.

Just when the coffee's aroma began to fill the air, his cell phone rang. He fished it out from his jacket pocket and pegged it to his ear with the left shoulder while he took out a mug.

"Hello." He listened then he froze. In a few seconds, his whole reaction changed. His jaw muscle tightened; his face turned dark and lined. It was as if he was stricken by a thunderbolt.

Gently, he lowered the phone from his ear and closed his eyes. He clenched his feast and hit it on the kitchen table so hard that Kim heard the sound.

"Owen; is everything ok?" she yelled

"Yeah; I'll be out in a minute." he said, trying hard to maintain some composure. Shit!

The phone rang again; he picked it without looking at the caller ID.

He got into Kim's bedroom a few minutes later with two mugs of coffee.

"Thanks." She took a sip. "It's everything alright? I heard a..."

"Fine, I dropped the mug" he replied.

But there seemed to be something about him that's different. She noticed how grim he looked.

"You're sure you ok?" she asked again."You look somehow...emotional."

He looked up and sighed. "Well; I'm afraid I have more bad news."

"I've seen and heard bad enough; so shoot."

"Your grandmother's doctor was attacked by a thief in the house an hour ago. I don't know exactly how it happened, but it seems as if the guy got into the house unaware she was inside."

"Is he alright?" Kim didn't flinch.

"I guess so. She's in the hospital right now; she's the one that called"

"She?"

"Yeah, her name is Dr Nicole Ingermanson. She operated on Maggie."

"Oh." A pause "But what was she doing in the house? I thought grandma lived alone."

"Nicole was her only friend. She took care of her and Maggie cherished their friendship. She used to spend the night with your grandma when she was ill."

Kim cupped the mug between her two palms and stared at the black content for a moment; then she looked up at Owen. "You know, I never took the time to know my grandmother; maybe it's because I was young and crazy; and hurt. I'm still hurt because I never thought of giving it a trial knowing she's the only family I've got left. Ever since mom died, I found it hard to let someone in; now I guess it's too late."

"Life could be unfair sometimes, but I think it's not just life, but the people. Hell; we make mistakes a lot of times; but not learning from those mistakes could make the worse news out of our lives" he smiled.

"Do you honestly believe people can change?"

He sipped at his coffee "I used to think people can't change because they are what or who they are naturally. But then I've seen people trying hard to change up, you know; paying for therapies, voluntarily checking into rehabs to quit bad habits like smoking, drinking, drug and sex abuses just to be better people. And they do end up becoming better people. So I guess the answered is yes; people can change but only if they really want to."

"What if what they naturally were keep coming back?"

"Then it depends on their ability not to let it reposes them again."

She lowered her eyes to the coffee again. "I wish I could change for Maggie, if only she was alive. It sounds crazy right?" Kim couldn't raise her head up.

Owen observed her for a second; he stood up, went to the living room and came back with his briefcase. Kim watched him. He fished out some documents and passed them to her. She hesitated to take them.

"Go ahead, it's ok" he said. She took the papers and looked at them. They are Maggie's legacy; the Will.

"I need to be on my way back to Carson City later today to fix some things. I'd like to take you home but considering your ankle, I know it's not going to happen. Maggie had included Dr Nicole in the will but you are the main beneficiary. So whenever you come home, I..."

"This is my home" she said sternly.

"Is that right?" he sighed. "Kim, aside been your grandmother's lawyer, I've also being her friend. And there were times she spoke to me about you. Maggie would give anything to find you, to know whether you're alive or not. And from the look on her face, I had a strong feeling she had a lot to say to you. She had wanted to tell you things she needed to get off her chest. Kim, the only person on earth that deserves to be told that, is you." He looked at the papers in her hands; "You want to change; this is your chance."

"My grandmother is dead. What difference will it make?"

"A lot; you don't think a person that lived for eighty two years had a perfect life, do you? We're humans Kim; we have dreams that die with us. Some of those dreams are fulfilled by the loved ones we leave behind— a son, a daughter, wife, father, friend— who take it a point of duty to fulfil those dreams when we're gone. And they fulfil those wishes, one way or another. I bet if Jason could speak to you right now, he must have something to ask of you to do for him." She looked away from his face when he mentioned Jason. "Think about it"

She was silent. The thought of Jason speaking to her from the land of the dead was scary. She bet, whatever he'd say could blow off her ear drums.

"Here; I need you to sign the first two papers." he gave her a pen. She signed and passed it back.

"Thank you" he stuff back the papers into the briefcase.

"Well; that's it. I guess you'd be ok by yourself?"

"I'll be fine. Thanks."

"Well then, I have to go, you take care; and I'm sorry for your losses" Kim nodded. "This could be a new beginning for you if you want it to be. You have a lot now; how you chose to use it, is up to you."

"Owen;" Kim called just when he was about to exit the room.

"Yes"

"What do you think Grandma Maggie would like me to do for her? That's if she could speak to me now."

"I can't say exactly. But I'm sure you'll figure it out." And he left the room.

Kim looked at the papers in her hands, and then shifted her gaze back to the door. The last gift she got from her mother was a black pocketbook. That was the only item she took with her out of their little home to the cemetery on the day of her mom's burial. She had abandoned everything her mother had back at the house. Now, she has gotten much more. But she felt it's a legacy she doesn't deserve.

When she heard the front door drew shut, she felt a fresh, heavy and dull aura of loneliness engulfed her heart. Kim recalled the dream about her mother, Maggie, the bleeding Jason, and the empty alleys, the cold and the horror of it all. She wished what Owen said regarding Jason could actually happen.

She would tell Jason she was sorry.

She would tell her mother she has failed.

She would tell Maggie she was sorry for being a bitch.

And what would she tell herself?

■■■■

For the first time in Nicole's life, she became a patient in her own hospital; not only was that embarrassing, it was also infuriating!

She had spent years conducting rounds with interns, some of whom are now residents. Today she's been examined by them. The news of her attack spread like wild fire in Australia; and trooping into her room every second, are doctors, nurses, interns, patients, the handy men, the guys from the cafeteria and those she'd never spoken to before.

And when they came, they take pictures; bring flowers, cakes, chocolates, pies, cards, wine and other goodies. That's the embarrassing part.

Nicole was irritated. She finds it kind of offensive whenever they posed to take pictures with her; and they said 'Cheese'.

Her room looked like a flower shop on a Christmas morning. Joe spoke less all through the day. He kept on doing what he had to do as her close friend and colleague. Since he saw Nicole in that condition, he felt more of anger than empathy for her and the whole 'PABLO' stuff.

Nicole observed, Joe had been avoiding eye contact with her. She knew what he was thinking but couldn't talk to him about it because of the crowd in the room. Joe observed how the crowd was making Nicole more uncomfortable, so he did the only thing rational;

"Ok people, visiting time over; time to get back to work. Thank you!

"Awww... "

"Can't we just stay a little longer..."

"Com'on man, I just got here... "

"Can I at least take one last shot..."

"Don't sweat it Joe, I just got off!"

"Sorry guys. Later; thank you"

The room was cleared of people and that was a huge relief for Nicole.

"That's one hell of an embarrassment. Phew!" she sighed

Joe didn't answer; he closed the door, came back and took some flower bouquets off the bed. Nicole looked at him.

"So you're not talking to me now?"

"It looks like we had a funeral in here." He said

That hurts.

"Cake; these people love you" Joe took a slice and munched it "The last time I tasted a cake this good was at my nephew's birthday. I like the icing and the vanilla taste."

That's enough!

"Look at me Joe." Nicole said. Joe shunned her; he licked his fingers and went for another slice.

"Look at me!" She yelled. Her voice took hold of the room; Joe doubted if those outside didn't hear her barking out the words. He stopped, shocked. There was something more than rage on her face. He saw fire.

"Ok, you have my attention; now what?"

But she was already angry. She stared at him, too angry to speak.

"GET OUT!"

He stared back for a moment. The harsh look on her face confirmed to him how dead serious she was. And by the way her eyes twitched, he knew it had come to the point where she'll never change her mind even if he apologises.

The door opened gently and both of them turned their gazes to the person coming in.

"May I come in?" The familiar deep voice asked. It was the Chief of Surgery.

"Yes sir. Dr. Fleming was just leaving." Nicole said, her eyes back at Joe.

"Oh; hey Joe, how is she?" The Chief asked.

"Well, thank God she's still breathing Chief. She's lucky; it's luck and it doesn't come every time. I was just leaving." Joe said; his eyes on her.

The chief made way for Joe as he walked out.

"Now what the hell was that about?" Chief closed the door.

"It's nothing."

"Looks like something to me. You look like Incredible Hulk just about to transform."

The Chief of Surgery was a Texan with few but eloquent words. He had been the Head of the Surgical Unit for over a decade and have known all his surgeons too well like he fathered them himself.

In particular, his affection for Nicole was more than just been her boss. He was her father's friend. They went through internship together at John Hopkins before Nicole's father joined the marines. He's Nicole's godfather.

"So how're you feeling?" he asked, sitting by her bedside.

"Alive." she replied curtly.

"Hey; I don't know what happened between you and Joe, but you got to lose the attitude right now" Chief wore the usual strong face as he spoke; she observed.

"I'm sorry; I'm ok."

"Good" He glanced at her knee; it's been wrapped with a Goode Wrap "This looks good on you, you know that?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"No I'm not. It looks good for a patient that escaped death; but not good for the hospital."

Yeah, I should've seen that coming.

"You know damn well what it'll cost me to lose someone like you in my department. That's beside the fact that you are the only daughter I never had."

"I'm sorry it happened. I have no..."

"No one is blaming you, but you need to be more careful. I know about Margaret Fletcher and how close you were; but you nearly lost another patient in 214 the day she died. I know you heard the call, but you ignored it"

"Maggie was in a Code situation"

"So was the patient in 214. You were standing by Maggie's window when you were called but you made Maggie a priority, that's wrong. You prioritized a patient over another; that's not what you're supposed to do. Then you got attacked in her house two days after she died. What are you doing to yourself?"

Nicole was mute

"You are losing focus."

"I'm not losing focus."

"Oh yes you are; it's not good for your skills; it's not good for me and it's not good for the hospital. Now; it broke my heart when they brought you down here unconscious; I thought I had lost you. But I won't let that happen again. Right now get well first." He stood up from the bed and walked to the door.

"I'm keeping you under my radar from now on. And like Joe said; you are really lucky to be alive and luck doesn't happen all the time. Get well." He walked out

Nicole thought the Chief's visit would be much relieving; but she felt worse. And coupled with Joe's attitude, she felt like screaming. She didn't scream though, but she cried.

Nicole looked again at the wrap on her knee. She felt like her present condition had stalled her life completely. She knows she'll be out of work for weeks and that would be killing. She couldn't stand spending weeks without holding a scalpel. She sobbed

She sighed and closed her eyes. She felt tired and sleepy. Her head and knee hurt a little due to cumulative stress, most of which was due to Maggie's death and Pablo.

She remembered a rape victim brought to the hospital about a month ago. It was a Monday night. The victim had four fractures on two fingers, left leg and a rib. Nicole took a while asking herself what was the rapist thinking that had made him brutalize the lady like that? Why couldn't he just get a call girl? He needn't not to waste that much energy breaking a woman's bones for sex. Then she thought of herself and her attacker.

He obviously wasn't after sex; he was after her life.

You are dead bitch; you are dead... It's too late for that bitch!

How did he got into the house? It wasn't long that she left upstairs and went into the cellar.

And the cellar; what was he looking for in it? She remembered the way he casually opened the door and went down the stairs, then went back and turned off the switch as if he had left it turned off earlier.

Could he have been there earlier?

Could it be he's after the cellar or something in it?

Oh no!

Nicole opened her eyes and pulled herself up. She prayed what she was thinking isn't true. She has to be sure; and to do that, she must act fast. The thief might go back to the house.

She picked up her cell phone and dialled Owen's number. She got his answering machine. She cursed.

The banging in her head worsened and her knee breathed with pain, but it's not the moment of whining any more. It's the moment to make a move.

I got to get back to Maggie's. Now!

CHAPTER SEVEN

The room was dark.

Thick aroma of cigarette smoke filled the room. A TV twitched at a corner as it displayed movie scenes from The Good the Bad and the Ugly. There's a glass with some drink and ice in it sitting on a stool next to the sofa arm. The ash tray next to the drink was already filled with cigarette ash and butt. A sheet of paper lies next to the ash tray, half soaked with liquor.

Tension and desperation reigned in the room. The individual sitting before the tv looked calm but wore a grim face. He suffers from an unpleasant sense of failure and set back with a possibility of losing a job he's good at.

So good was he on the job that some of his clients call him 'the ghost'. He was flawless and accurate. Hell, he got the heart and body for it and he used them to the fullest advantage. But for the first time, he had failed.

Fucking bitch! The phone rang one time and he picked it up.

"X" he said.

"You failed me," said a deep voice from the phone. "I thought you were good."

"Situation got a little complicated, boss."

"Is that right? A harmless woman got it complicated for you; someone you could've silenced in a second"

The X was quiet. He knew he can take her down with a single strike; hell, he couldn't explain what happened back there.

"It is unacceptable X; I can't trust you with this anymore."

"It's a slip! I slipped and I can take care of the job." X replied.

"Well; how?"

"It'll be easier this time. I put the bitch in the hospital; no one is in the house right now. I'll just get in there and get it."

"What if someone is there? The cops were there earlier."

"Then anyone in there will be as good as dead."

The deep voice paused for a second. "You have twenty four hours."

And the phone went dead.

The X put down the receiver. That's all he wanted. Now he just got another chance to make it right. He will make it right this time.

He stood up and walked to the drawer at a corner of the room. He drew it out and brought out a .45. He needn't to check to see if it's loaded; it is, always. X cocked the gun and slipped it into the back of his pants. He strode back to the sofa, took the glass on the stool and emptied it in a single gulp.

He glanced at the soaked sheet of paper on the table. Though wet, what's written on it is still there. X has it in his head so he didn't waste much time on it.

The same poorly handwritten numbers read 7 2 2 5 6.

As he walked out of the door, he prayed silently for a chance— any chance— to find that woman in the house again. He got a score to settle.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nicole had never been in a more difficult situation.

One of the most difficult times in her life was during her internship when the attending doctor she's been assigned to pushed her so hard that she thought of switching to a less difficult specialty. But back then, she had a strong will and determination to fight it. And she fought it hard; so hard that it earned her a solo surgery.

But it's different now. The trauma of narrowly escaping death, plus the bad shape of her knee has complicated everything. She wasn't even thinking of her condition but of how to get to Maggie's house in fifteen minutes. She needs help; but who would she call.

She thought of Joe and cursed the thought. She needs someone that knows nothing about what's going on; someone that won't raise any suspicion if seen together with her.

"Who can I call?"

She thought for a minute; and the one person that came to her mind was no other than scrub nurse Abby. Nicole almost smiled.

Abby is been observed by her colleagues as smart and unpredictable. She's good and pretty that a lot of male doctors have their tails wagging whenever she passes by. Nicole had the feeling that Abby would be glad to help; she once told Nicole she loves mad adventures.

"This is a pretty mad adventure" Nicole murmured to herself as she took out her pager to get Abby.

"Girlfriend, that was totally cool!"

"I know; that's why I did it. I think it'll be sexy to have my role model tattooed right there"

Abby was in the locker room showing off her new tattoo to her friend Keisha. It was her second tattoo; the first been a bloody heart stabbed with a knife. It's drawn just above her left breast. The second is a picture of Marilyn Monroe tatted on her right thigh.

"Oh my gosh; Girl you are some kind of nasty. With a tat like that, the boys are going to be dreaming of those hot thighs. You are so way to go"

"They are dreaming alright. I had such dreams before; now it's their turn. I'm so gone" They laughed.

"But why do you love Monroe specifically?" Keisha asked

"Her lipstick; it's red and sexy. And besides, she crazy beautiful"

"Are you serious?"

Abby smiled. "I'm kidding Keish. Her life reminds me of mine. The foster home, the modelling stuff; the singing and acting, the..."

"... the dating stuff, the heart breaks; the fame and the money. Then the self destructive instincts; oh I can go on and on." Keisha cut in.

"Maybe all that, but certainly not the self destructive stuff; I love myself." Abby looked at the tattoo. "She was really beautiful"

"You're damn right girl; even my grand momma loves Marilyn; she said she's the most beautiful white girl ever created. Can you believe that?"

"Yep, your grand momma is right. She is the most beautiful white girl ever created. She was a goddess of beauty. Too bad she had to kill herself." Abby locked her locker.

"So much for a goddess of beauty; self destruction seemed to be a heroic way to die these days." Keisha put away the magazine she was holding in to her locker. "There are suicide bombers on the loose, marines sacrificing their lives to give their comrades a lead in some complicated situations; shit happens all the time. But what honour would Marilyn seek in taking her own life?"

"That's a question I don't want to answer. I just love her and I'd prefer if we leave it at that."

"Girl you better think again. You can learn something from that cuz I know there's a lot of shit all tangled up in it. A lot of people think she's murdered." Keisha was brushing her hair.

"Yeah I know. But let's leave it for now. How was the surgery last night, I heard you scrubbed in for a Bowel Obstruction with Dr Malcolm." Abbey changed the subject.

"Yeah; It's a kid with an intussusceptions; got his bowels swelled up big; he's lucky to have the surgery otherwise it could be too late." Keisha locked up her locker.

"Poor child; sometimes I ask why kids have to go through some conditions adult were suppose to have, you know; kids dying early while adults live longer and do some nasty shit to other people."

"Nasty indeed; Dr Ingermanson was almost killed today by a rapist." Keisha lowered her voice.

"A rapist?"

"What! It got to be. Don't you see that ass? That Dr is as hot as summertime in Nevada but she's hiding it beneath her coat. Girl, a lot of men would love to hit it. Now she ended up here; lucky for her."

"Keish!" Abby's pager buzzed; Keisha sighed.

"Duty calls" Keisha smiled.

"Yeah; only that it's someone who's not supposed to be in the OR right now. It's her" Abby looked at Keisha.

"Who?" Keisha looked back, and then widened her eyes "No!"

The two friends raced out of the locker room. Both nurses happen to be Nicole's fans and they found it interesting to be summoned by her. As they walked, Keisha spoke all the way; bombarding Abby with instructions;

"When you get in there, I need you to find out what actually happened. Also try to find out how she escaped him; is the rapist wounded? Did she give him a scar with her nails or some weapon? And try to find out if he's black or white; and if she can remember how he smells, it...."

"Keisha, stop!" Abby cut her short. "Is that all necessary?"

"Like hell it is. We can recognize him easily on the street if she had given him some scars. And we could use her moves to escape those sons of bitches because pepper sprays don't work these days. There's need for a tighter move, like the one she probably used. I want to know everything, girlfriend."

They got to Nicole's door and Abby had already developed a headache from Keisha's demands. She looked at Keisha. "Keish, please slow down a minute." She sighed over the momentary period of frustration. "Have you for a second, thought about the reason why she paged me?"

"No, I'll know why when you come out of that door. But in the meanwhile, I'll need those answers. Now go get her girl." Keisha had a big grin.

Abby shook her head, opened the door and closed it on Keisha's face.

"Thank God you're here. Abby, I need a big favour."

Abbey strode to Nicole's bed and smiled at her. "I'm all yours, doctor Ingermanson."

Dr Joe Fleming was watching when the two nurses stopped at Nicole's door, arguing. He didn't know what they were talking about and he didn't care. But when one of them went inside and left the other standing outside, he became curious.

Nicole is a smart woman; he knows that. He also knows how radical she could be with her obsessions and could use any means to get what she wants. And now that they had a fight, it will be unwise to meddle; she could hate him for that. But then, trying to find out what's up won't do any harm especially if Nicole wouldn't know about it. He walked to Keisha.

"Hi" Joe said, sounding so professional.

"Morning Dr. Fleming." Keisha replied.

"Is someone in there?" He pointed to Nicole's door.

"Yes sir; Miss Abby Greene"

"God! What's wrong with you people? I thought I said visiting time was over? I just sent all the hospital's employees out of that room ten minutes ago."

"Actually Dr Fleming, Dr Ingermanson herself paged her; that's why she's here." Keisha said curtly.

"Oh; I didn't realize. Is everything Ok?"

"I don't know. She just paged; she didn't say."

"Alright then; I guess I'll leave them alone. See ya!" He walked away.

Yeah, whatever; Joe. Keisha stood there like a guard, waiting for her friend to come out. She wondered what they could be talking about. As a matter of fact, she's least concerned. All she'd be delighted to know are the 'behind the scenes' of Nicole's attack. Obviously, whatever it is will be interesting. She smiled on that thought.

Three minutes later, her beeper buzzed. It's O.R three.

What the hell!

She sighed in disappointment. Even though she loves the job, she hates the call to duty sometimes (especially this kind of moments). But what can she do? The hospital owns them. Just when she was about to walk away from the door, it drew open.

"Right on time, girl fr..." she stopped short. Coming out of the door, Abby was pushing Nicole on a wheelchair.

"Keisha; I know you'll be here." Nicole smiled "I've never been on a tour round this hospital on a wheelchair before and I think it'd rather be fun. See ya later"

Keisha half smiled at her and looked at her friend who was pushing the chair. Abbey looked back and shrugged.

"Don't you have anything to do?" Nicole asked her.

"Yes doctor Ingermanson, I do; OR Three, STAT."

"See you later then."

"Sure; later"

Keisha gave Abby the 'I'll kill you later' kind of look before hurrying down the hall.

"What a friend you've got there" Nicole said after Keisha had disappeared. She sighed and looked up at Abby. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Let's go"

Abby pushed Nicole down the hall. People saw them; some of them waved and some wanted to stop and talk. But Abby put on a straight face and kept moving without stopping. That was the order. Nicole had to put up with all the faking; she smiled, joked, waved and even yelled at some interns that wanted to take pictures.

Joe was attending to a nurse when he heard the celebrity noise. He had expected to see Angelina Jolie, but to his surprise, saw Nicole on a wheel chair.

What the hell is she doing?

He watched in bewilderment as they walked passed him. Nicole saw him too; and when their eyes met, he couldn't believe what's in hers. The unspoken words sounded shocking; she looked at him so intently that he's sure she wants him to know what she's up to.

No! He yelled inside.

Screw you, Joe.

By the time she looked away, he's positive she was up to what he thinks she's up to.

Oh damn! Don't leave, please.

Abby didn't look or smile at anyone which is not something odd about her normal behaviour. She just pushed Nicole out to the parking lot where her car was waiting.

"Whoa! Now I can breathe. Abby, you did great back there." Nicole said as the car sped onto the road.

"Anytime doctor Ingermanson. It's nothing; really. I can do better than that. But I'm glad I can help"

"I'm glad you helped. You won't believe what pressure I'm in right now. I've been through a lot already and I don't know what's going to happen next. I'm afraid of what's likely going to happen next" Nicole stared uneasily out of the window.

"And what's that?" Abby asked

Nicole turned back at Abby. "I don't know Abby; I really don't." Then she looked on the windshield, fixed her eyes on the road as if she's trying to get a clearer vision. Her heart kept telling her what's coming is bigger than what happened.

"You know if you need more help on this, you can talk to me." Abby said noticing that Nicole was far into her thoughts.

"Thanks; but I think I can handle it."

"I don't think that's true. I mean, considering your knee problem and how you've been traumatized lately, going solo on whatever it is you're trying to do isn't wise."

"I said I can handle it." Nicole snapped.

"Alright Dr, I'm sorry"

About a mile to Maggie's house, a black Ford Focus raced through with the X in it. He had turned off the radio as his mind focuses on two things: the cellar and the bitch.

Being armed erases fear; the feeling of the gun tucked in his pants not only gave him some confidence, it firmly stabilized his ill will: he must get what he wants at all cost. That was a firm decision; it's also a good feeling. And in a few minutes; it'll be show time.

"What the hell is going on over there?" Nicole stuck her head out of the window and looked at the sea of cars in front of them.

"I don't know. It seems there's been some kind of accident on the way. This road isn't supposed to be that chocked up. It's usually free off traffic." Abby replied as she hit on the horn.

"Oh shit! I can't believe this is happening. How long do you think this will take?"

"Half an hour tops; maybe" Abby sighed.

"I don't have that time; I got to be at Maggie's in about ten"

"Well how? I really would love it if this car could transform to a year 3000 mini flying machine."

"What are we going to do then? I got to get to the house first, before..." she stopped.

Abby looked curiously at her but said nothing. Though Abby expected to hear more of what Nicole wanted to say. Nicole sighed and looked back at Abby.

Shit!

Nicole felt a tinge of shame. Screw it! "Alright listen;" She shifted in her seat and faced Abby. "The man that attacked me this morning was looking for something in that house which could be hidden in the cellar. I don't know what the hell it is but I think it's something valuable Maggie had been keeping. I have the feeling, that guy might get to the house again and steal it. That's why I need to get to the house as fast as possible before he does." Nicole said the words as if she was running a Code Unit in the hospital

Abby just starred at her. It's not that she didn't get what Nicole had said, but she's shocked by the fact that she's been used.

"You lied to me! You told me you were sick of people looking pitifully at you and must getaway before you go crazy. You used me."

"Abby; I..."

"Save it. Gosh! How can I be so stupid" Abby ran her fingers through her short hair.

"Look; I'm sorry you know this just now but I needed help and I don't know what to do. I called you because I think you are the only one that can help me out on this."

"No! You called me because you think I'm the most stupid person in the whole hospital that could be fooled easily. Oh! I can't believe this!" Abby blurted angrily; and to Nicole's surprise, she pushed the car door open and stepped out.

"What are you doing? Abby; where are you going? Get back into the car; Abby!" Nicole yelled but Abby paid no attention. She just walked away.

"ABBY!" she screamed

It was all hopeless. Nicole watched Abby disappeared into the sea of pedestrians. And the tears came again. She leaned back in her seat and thought how hopeless life could be. She would never going to get to Maggie's and the thought of the thief getting into the house before her was tormenting.

The traffic was getting worse than before and Abby's disappearance did little harm as the vehicles were still not moving. The worst part of it was, Nicole doesn't have a plan B because she doesn't expect things to get that complicated.

Five minutes gone, Abby didn't show up. Nicole was stuck in the car and couldn't get out because of her knee. She couldn't use a cab as dozens were also stuck in the traffic as well. If not for her knee, she thought, she could've gotten out of the car and jogged the remaining distance to Maggie's. But now, her incapability is eating the shit out of her.

I should call the cops. Yes, I should call the cops.

She had wanted to get her cell phone out but remembered she had left the whole bag at Maggie's when she ran out of the house for her life. She buried her face in her palms and sobbed.

Suddenly, a black bike zoomed to a halt on the curb abreast Abby's car. Nicole hardly noticed it. The biker wore familiar clothing except for the helmet and the boots. The biker pressed the horn several times; Nicole looked up angrily to see who the hell was about blowing up her eardrums. Then the biker took off the helmet; Nicole froze at who she saw: Abby.

"How long can you hold on with your knee on a bike?"

Nicole looked amazed; comforting waves of relief and guilt filled her soul.

"Not too long but I can manage."

"So what are you waiting for? Hop up before I change my mind."

Nicole almost forgot she had a bad knee; she opened the door and limped between cars to reach the bike. It was painful though, but she did manage.

"Hold on tight" Abby said.

Nicole squeezed Abby tighter when they took off. The speed at which Abby was going was frightening and she gritted her teeth to hold on to Abby and the pain that struck in her knee.

"Where did you get the bike?" Nicole asked

"Borrowed it; gave the guy fifty bucks" Abbey replied.

"And your car?"

"It'll be towed; but I'll go get it later. And will you please stop talking? I need to concentrate on this bitch."

"Ok."

Nicole held on, braced herself and said a little prayer. A horrible thought flashed in her mind over an outcome of a possible bike accident. if that happens, she's sure of been ripped off apart from head to the toe nail. God forbid!

"Which one is Maggie's house?"

They have passed the traffic jam into an array of houses on a quiet street. Abby got directions from Nicole and now they were close.

Nicole rose her head up from where she buried it on Abby's back and looked at the neighbourhood.

"Almost there. Take the next turn left."

"Taking the next turn now!" Abby sped through the sharp corner. A black Ford Focus was also coming through.

"Watch out!" Nicole screamed as the car came fast at them; head-on.

"Shit!"

"Oh my God!" Nicole screamed; closed her eyes and waited for death.

Abby swerved away and around the car. There were screeching sounds from both vehicles as they struggled to reduce speed to prevent a collision. The expert manoeuvres by Abby were able to bring back the bike on track. The Black car went on without any hitting them.

People who were standing along the road saw what happened clapped for the biker for the excellent display

"That was so damn close"

"Man, that biker was nasty. Wicked!"

"I know how to do that in X-box, it ain't that hard"

"He's so damn reckless. He nearly got them killed"

They pulled to a stop in front of the house half a minute later.

"That was so damn close." Abbey took off the helmet and smoothed back her hair.

Nicole was almost shivering due to the trillions of tiny-weenie bubbles dancing inside her whole body. She stepped down carefully from the bike and stood with her right leg, enduring the chilly pain in her knee. "That was so damn dangerous. And where did you learn how to ride like that?

"It's a long story. But screw that maniac that sped through the corner without warning." She got down from the bike. "Come on, let me get you inside." Abbey held Nicole's hand and led her to the front porch.

"The key is under the black flower pot." Nicole pointed.

Abbey bent down to raise the pot but stopped half way. She observed something about the door; the worst has happened. She stood up and sighed.

"What?" Nicole asked.

"There's no need for the key. The door is already opened"

"What..." No!

Nicole felt a weakening lump grew in her chest; followed by a sudden fear cutting through her. She limped and pushed the door gently as if afraid of what might be behind it.

No!

Like some healing power had surged into her knee, she walked into the house by herself. Abby just watched Nicole walked slowly into the kitchen; and then to the garage; and then to the cellar door. Then Nicole stopped.

Visions of what's behind the door played through Nicole's head―the switch by the right; the paintings on the wall; the stairs as they curved all the way down to the door and the possible crime committed by whoever got in there. What's more scary was the possibility that the thief could still be inside.

Abby came to the garage and saw Nicole standing before a door. "Are you alright?"

Nicole didn't answer; she just opened it and disappeared down the stairs.

"Nicole." Abby stood before the door and waited. She didn't think it's a good idea to follow Nicole but she had the feeling that the stuff Maggie was keeping could be down there. She looked around the garage; it's clean. The black car sitting inside was catchy and there was a faint smell of gasoline in the air. She walked round the car slowly, afraid something could be hiding low. Nothing was there. But what if the thief is still in the house?

Oh God! Nicole

She hurried to the door, got in and ran down the stairs, calling Nicole's name.

Abby saw Nicole standing motionless in a room looking at the wall by the right. The door was opened and a thick smell of dust hovered in the air that Abby had to put the back of her hand over her nose. She walked inside and stood beside her.

"Doctor Ingermanson; are you alright; is everything ok?"

It took Nicole a few seconds before she could respond; she spoke amidst tears.

"Call 911"

Somewhere down town, the X marched on the breaks by the side of a less busy street. He didn't think much about the idiots on the bike that almost ran into him at the sharp bend minutes ago. Yet, it would have been a bad day for them if they had collided.

He killed the ignition, picked his phone and dialled once. He would like to see his boss's face when he tells him the good news.

"Boss, I got it"

"Good. Meet me at the usual place; one hour."

"Got it"

The X turned and looked at the merchandise lying on the passenger's seat behind him and smiled. If that's really what his boss said it is, then they'd all be rich for life.

CHAPTER NINE

Nicole sat in the living room and watched the cops go up and down like there's been a murder case in the house. It took the cops about fifteen minutes to get to the house. They set to work immediately, taking pictures of the crime scene, dusted almost everywhere for finger prints and all that.

As they worked, Nicole doubted if they could be able to crack the case anytime soon because of the complicated nature of the stolen property.

Nicole recalled the moment she got into the cellar. It was the first time she sets foot in the stuffy room and she observed that nothing seemed untypical about it.

A part of it, to the left, had been turned into a mini library with about two dozens of old book arranged in a small brownish shelf nailed to the wall. A chair and a small table stood bellow the shelf.

But something seemed to be missing by the right hand side of the room; there was a big rectangular, greyish-brown mark on the wall that could pass for space of a 3 by 4 foot picture. The mark seemed to be made due to the accumulation of dust over a long time behind the picture.

Normally she could've ignored it but then she found broken pieces of picture frame on the floor right below the mark. There were also pieces of small pins and nails scattered on the floor. She didn't want to believe it but it seemed the thief had gotten away with a picture; or painting.

But she's not sure yet. She had told the cops she didn't know what was stolen. She had never been into the cellar before to know what's in it in the first place, how then could she know what exactly was stolen?

"Here; have some coffee." Abby handed her a mug.

"Thanks."

"I just got paged from the hospital so I got to be leaving now. Are you going to be alright?"

"Sure. I'll be fine."

"Do you want me to call someone for you; Dr Fleming, perhaps? I don't like the idea of leaving you alone here. If you want, I can..."

"I'll be fine Abby. You should go." Nicole said. Abby hesitated. "Look, the guy has gotten what he wanted and I don't think he'll risk coming back here again. So just go, nothing is going to happen. Go!"

"Ok; I'm sorry cuz this whole breaking and attacking things kind of freaked me out. Please be careful doc. Promise that you'll call me later?"

Nicole nodded. Abby gave her a hug and went to the door.

"You were great with the bike. I'm glad you got it." Nicole said before Abby opened the door. Abby just smiled and walked out.

"Doctor Nicole Ingermanson?"

Nicole turned from the door to the person talking to her. Standing above her was a man in a black suit, a black tie and a boyish face. His hair was brown and long, cascading down to his shoulders. If he was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, she would've sworn he's a rock star.

"Yes." she said.

He raised his jacket a bit to reveal the metallic badge stuck in his pants. "I'm Detective Ruben McNeil; Nevada Police. I need to ask you some questions regarding what happened here. I gathered that you were attacked earlier this morning by a masked man who got away, is that correct?" She nodded. "I think there's some kind of connection between the two, because the stealing was done in the same room where you were attacked. We think the person that attacked you is the same person that came back."

"I thought so too, that's why I had to leave the hospital because I was afraid he might come back. Too bad he did." Nicole said

"Hell of an experience. I see the cellar has a security door and I was wondering how he got the code."

"That's what's puzzling again, because I don't know the code myself. Margaret Fletcher died two days ago and I think she died with it. So the question is how he got it?"

"Best guess; he used a code breaker"

"A code breaker?"

"It's a device that's attached to the keypad wiring; it reads the code and breaks it"

Nicole had seen it in the movies. Criminals or agents use the nifty technology to break into safes or security doors, even briefcases just to have access to whatever is inside.

The detective scratched his nose and walked closer. "Did Margaret Fletcher ever tell you anything about a painting she had?"

"No she didn't. But I know she was a lover of the arts; you can see that yourself if you look around"

"Right; do you think she might tell someone— anyone— about it; maybe another family member, a close friend?"

"I don't think so. Her only family is her granddaughter who lives in Seattle; they haven't spoken or seen for like two years now. She had no friends that I know of..."

"So the only family she had is a granddaughter; then who are you?"

"I'm her doctor and close friend."

"How close were you?"

"Close enough."

"Our preliminary investigations have confirmed that the only item stolen in that cellar could be a painting hung on to the wall. The thief must've brought it down, removed it from the frame and the stretcher and took away the canvas; which explains the broken wood, the nails and pins found scattered on the floor. We don't know what kind of painting it is, but we are positive that it's valuable. My men have taken samples of the broken frame and the mark on the wall to the lab for analysis, but before we get the results, I suggest you rest now because I can see you're in a pretty bad shape." His eyes went to her knee.

"I'll get back to you as soon as I get the results." He fished out a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "This is my number; call me anytime you think of something; anything."

"Sure; thank you." She took the card.

He nodded and went back to the garage.

Nicole sighed. A lot of pressure seemed to have been lifted off her as a result of what happened. Her hopes for protecting what Maggie obviously wanted her to protect has been dashed and the valuable item had been stolen. But since the cops have taken over the case, she will now have time to take care of herself.

She looked at the wrap on her knee; it's intact, but the knee was breathing pain again. She needed some pain killers to help relieve it. Maybe she could have some sleep afterwards; she really needs some.

The house was empty an hour later. It was such a huge relief. Nicole could use the solitude to clear her head and relax even though her mind was still disturbed over the stolen painting.

Another thing she's worried about was the information about 'PABLO' she held back on the detective. Though she's not very sure it was the real password but maybe telling him could've helped in some way.

The only two people she told were Joe and Owen Craig. She believed neither of them had the time to go digging in an old woman's house to know what it's all about. She even wondered how the thief came to know about the painting in the first place. It's complicated and she hoped the cops will crack it fast enough. She's not good at been patient or waiting.

Nicole took a warm shower and got back into her clothes. Her knee still hurt a little so she went to the little closet where Maggie usually keeps her drugs to see if she could get some painkiller. She opened it and her eyes fell on one.

Aspirin; good.

She took it; her eyes rummaged through the drugs in the small closet. There were close to two dozen of them, arranged neatly. She remembered most of them because she's the one that prescribed them for the old lady.

Nicole was once told that drugs were the powerful tools to battle diseases. She agreed. But years later, she came to the realization that drugs were meant not to battle diseases but mortality as a whole.

Mortality is more powerful and fearsome than even the most powerful drug created by the most talented scientists. It makes drugs suck sometimes. Mortality and medicine will forever be mortal enemies; she always says.

She closed the cupboard, stared at her reflection in the mirror on the door of the closet. She's a mess. The fact that things have not been going on too well after Maggie's surgery, eats the crap out of her. She noticed faint lines have appeared beneath her eyes which she could tell, were due to tremendous pressure and stress.

She kept looking; deeper. And right there, she saw a fragile Nicole broken by loss and imperfection. Sometimes she felt too independent to seek for a helping hand or some comfort from anyone. But there's weakness in every brave heart; she knew that. She knew the natural existence of a soft spot that neutralizes the strength in a mortal human. Sometimes, her arrogance shut it out that she appeared not to have any form of weakness. But just like everyone else; she has it, and hers is fear― the fear of not getting it right; the fear of the wrath of imperfection and failure; the fear of mortality.

Nicole's cell phone wailed from the living room and she jolted.

"Dr Nicole In.... Ok."

She took the remote and pressed the power button. And to her greatest surprise, she discovered she was in the news! That fact nearly stopped her heart.

How she got in there she didn't know. But the bald-headed news reporter, a Greg Jackson, stared directly at her and spoke with the left side of his mouth:

"We have confirmation that a valuable painting was stolen from the house behind me late this afternoon."

Nicole's mouth hung open as the camera displayed Maggie's front porch.

"What the hell is this?"

"The owner of the house and the painting died two days ago following a heart attack. Her Doctor and close friend, Dr Nicole Ingermanson, was attacked and wounded in the same house by an unknown suspect earlier this morning. While she was taken to the hospital, the suspect was believed to have sneaked back into the house again and stole the painting. As at the time this report was..."

Nicole turned off the TV and buried her face in her palms. The worst has happened; now she'll await her crucifixion by the press; and the public again

Who the hell called the press? There's only one answer to that; the detective!

Enraged, she took her cell phone and began looking for his card.

"I never knew detectives could be such jack asses." Where the hell is it?

And just when she saw the card, her cell phone rang again.

"Hello"

"Is this Dr Nicole Ingermanson?"

"Yeah"

"Right; this is Terry Nicholson from Chanel 7 news. Miss Ingermanson is it true that..." She flipped the phone shut and sighed in frustration.

Nicole flipped it open again to dial the detective's number and another call came in. She rejected the call and dialled again until it went through finally. But to her utmost dismay, she got the answering machine. She grunted; about to explode with rage.

Nicole's hatred for the press started a year ago when she had a patient who happened to be a rap artiste. The guy got caught up in a shootout with an enemy gang that left him with a bullet in his chest.

Right after Nicole got out of the OR, she stumbled over a dozen journalists, each demanding to know if he's dead or alive; or if he's going to die or live and to what extent were his wounds.

"He'll be alright. The surgery was successful and he'll recover soon" she told them and went away. She thought she had escaped them; little did she know that it was just the beginning.

Nicole saw no rest since then; every journalist wanted to know the rapper's health progress report every second, and they kept burning her phone, stalking and stopping her on the road, at the mall and any other place they caught a glimpse of her.

"Dr Ingermanson, I was just curious; was he brought to the hospital with all his 'Bling' intact?" Someone once asked her that question. She felt so embarrassed that day; and she never answered any call or spoken to any one of them again.

Nicole loves the easy life. Her dad and mom lived it and they were all happy. But considering how things got sour in just a few days, her life will be far from easy. Now she'll continue to be on the news for like, forever.

■■■■

Detective McNeil was having a bad day.

His kind of job needs patience and critical thinking. He's got the abilities, but at the moment, his patience was wearing out fast, he sat idle in his little cubicle, waiting.

His mind wasn't thinking about the news on TV with regards to the stolen painting. Neither was it on the pre-analysis of the case he had with his partner. His mind was on the fax machine sitting breathlessly in his office.

Ruben was waiting for the lab results of the exhibits taken from where the painting was stolen. He had called the lab earlier and they told him they'll get back to him shortly. Now, he had no idea what 'shortly' means in lab language; to him, it means 'forever'.

"Working late again?"

He raised his head and saw a colleague standing before him.

"Yeah." he said. "All set to go?"

She ignored the question

"You look like a female version of 007 with that hair and that face. I saw you on the news and you were hot." She smiled mockingly.

"Oh please; Tara, don't start. I'm not in the mood." He said rubbing his face.

"But that's what you want, isn't it? A tough cop on a big case showing the world how good he is and how he's going to handle things. You spoke to the cameras as if you've got superman powers."

"Tara; Don't!" He said sternly.

"It's the truth, look at you now; working late on a case that just began as if there's no tomorrow. Go home Ruben. Go watch hockey or get laid, or go to the bar and have beer friends. Don't sweat it on the first day. Live it, it's just a theft."

"It's a valuable theft." He retorted.

"See; that's exactly what I'm talking about; you worry too much on something small. Look; you are a very good cop, good at what you do. But you are too obsessed with it that you make foes out of your friends every time you have a big case. It's not right." she sighed. "Anyway, I got to go babysit a nephew. Go home Ruben; you live only once." She turned and walked to the door.

"You're right about how good I am; but you're wrong about making the foes out of my friends."

"Yes you do. You could've given me that ring a year ago if not for that stupid case of stolen money. I still hold a grudge.' She said and left. Ruben couldn't say a word.

Tara Adams is a homicide detective. Formally a marine; she joined the Nevada Police some years back and met Ruben while working on a case of robbery and homicide. They've spent almost two years dating and the night Ruben was supposed to propose to her, he got a call about a new case of stolen government money. He left and never speaks of it again. Hell of a situation.

Suddenly, a beep from the fax machine brought him back to his senses. He waited until the machine had finished printing the documents before he brought them out and looked. They were what he's been waiting for; but it seemed that they are not what he had hoped to see. What's in the papers just made his job more complicated.

The first two papers were results from the picture frame and the debris on the wall. It's been confirmed the frame was about ten years old and the debris was a bit less. That was encouraging for starters; he thought. Such kinds of paintings could be valuable because the older the painting the more valuable it is. Art collectors usually buy paintings and keep them for a while, and when they exhibit them in special auctions, they could make big sales.

The next paper was on fingerprints; there's none. The thief must have used gloves all through the operation; and coupled with the sucking fact that there are no surveillance cameras in the house, getting a meaningful identification would be difficult.

So technically; Ruben has nothing. His day just got a lot worse.

There's nothing so heart breaking on the job than to keep having dead ends on every lead. He sat alone in his desk rummaging through the papers; thinking hard.

He knew the difficulty associated with this type of case; whenever there's a dead end on a lead, one has to go back to the first clue to see if it could be possible to pick up another lead. That's exactly what he's going to do. Now that the press is already tagging along, the world would have their eyes on him.

As he put on his jacket, Tara's words rang in his mind; she was right about the way he worries too much. She got him on the bar stuff too; the getting laid part is not a bad idea. He smiled. It's kind of funny; no one knows him better than Tara. There were times when he used to get lost without her. Hell of a situation. He murmured.

CHAPTER TEN

Life is bizarre.

There used to be moments in Kim's life when she experienced the purest kind of living. She was always smiled at, loved and cared for. It was a time when she was the most important human on earth to her family. It was a moment when the world and everything in it was beautiful. She was five at that time.

Kim's father was around and obviously in love with her mother. He used to carry Kim in his arms and tango with her until she sleeps while her mother watches them with warm eyes. Kim could bet it was one of her mother's best moments too; they were a family.

Sometimes, they all sit on the floor and eat pizza or play cards or hide-and-seek. Her parents used to read her bed time stories every night before she sleeps. And though she didn't like school that much, they tried to make learning easier and fun for her at home.

Kim wished such moments could come back for one minute.

There she was, alone in her apartment, sick and broken. The way things changed overnight after a single bad deed will affect her for the rest of her life. She feared what the nearest future would bring; in fact, as far as she's concerned, there's no future.

Kim glanced at the papers containing her new possessions on the bed and wondered what use will it be to have the world but without happiness; only terrible thoughts of causing death to a kind-hearted man. The feeling was torturing! She felt like falling asleep and never to wake up again.

After Owen Craig had left her apartment that afternoon, she thought about what he had said with regards to change and second chances. It gave her a little bit of hope actually; but when she slept off and was awaken by horrible nightmares about Jason and her mother again, she regarded his words as false hope.

People are what they are at the end of the day. Even with the reassurance of hope, conscience will never let her have inner peace. Even if Jason would forgive her; hell won't.

Kim yawned and stretched her arms wide. She felt both physically and emotionally exhausted. Yet, she couldn't sleep. And worse of all, something had assured her a good sleep will be beyond her reach for some time. Those nightmares will always be entangled with her inner vision that she'll see all the horror any time she closes her eyes. And if that happens, then life will be miserable for the rest of her days. She just realises; she's in the grip of her own hell!

Thoughts of suicide and self destruction pre-occupied Kim's mind. Death it is! She believes she should get the kind of death that would make her suffer a great deal before dying. To be free is to embrace her hell!

Kim limped to the kitchen, got a bottle of Tequila, limped back to the living room and sat on the rug. She has to drink off her misery: she must.

She recalled the black woman's preaching back at the hospital that morning. She couldn't feel the presence of God by her side at the moment. What she feels right now are more of the whispers of the devil. Even God won't be happy with what she did or with the kind of person she is; or both. Therefore, the thought of God being with her is kind of funny and absurd.

Right after she took the first shot, the door bell rang softly. She ignored it at first, but it kept on ringing. It's obvious that whoever it is at the door won't stop until she opens up.

Who the hell could that be?

Her first guess was Owen; maybe he forgot something or had a change of plans so he might decide to come back. And besides, only Owen should knew she's inside. She limped to the door and opened it. The person standing right there almost gave her a heart attack!

Standing before her was the six-foot former high school female basketball point guard, Michelle Curtis; Jason's mother.

"Hello Kim."

Kim never heard a colder voice.

"Mrs. Curtis"

Kim had met Mrs. Curtis a few times earlier. Jason first introduced them when Mrs. Curtis once came to the store where they used to work; the three of them had lunch together after. Kim had found Mrs. Curtis kind of entertaining. And after she left, Kim told Jason he had a very warm mother.

"You don't know my mom, she is something else." That was Jason's reply.

She understood what he meant from the kind of look he wore when he made the statement. Kim confirmed it when they visited her a week later.

Mrs. Curtis is a high school basketball female team coach. Kim and Jason had visited her in the school where she coaches and when she saw them together, she wore a disapproving look. Somewhere along the line, Mrs. Curtis made comments that Kim had found a bit racially inclined. When it was time to go, there were no goodbyes. They just left after an argument between mother and son.

"Your mum is really something else." Kim said to Jason, much later when they got home.

Kim stood speechlessly before a human inferno starring menacingly at her, about to engulf her completely.

She had no idea what's going to happen in the next minute but her mind settled for the worst. This could be the beginning of her hell.

She was right; the worst did happened.

Michelle strode slowly into the living room; an intimidating whiff of air whirled around her like a cape. Her black jacket was a little wet by the rain; and she walked tall with the usual strong facial lines. Her eyes were sore and red. Kim closed the door and turned back to face her.

"Mrs. Curtis I..."

"I was at the stadium last night, watching my girls about to win a game in the State High School Tournament when I got the call. It always excites me to see them jumping up and down; savouring their victory. It makes me so proud; reminds me of the great job I had put them." she paused to hold back the emotion swelling up in her chest. "I've done a great job on my son just like I did on the girls. But all is worthless now. Everything I worked for, all my life, is now gone. My husband is gone, and now Jason."

"Mrs Curtis I..."

"The first time I saw you, I thought you were a good friend to my son. I thought you would do all it takes to look out for each other, and behave. But obviously, I was wrong."

Kim saw that coming.

"You were such a bad influence. I knew it from the start, that nothing good would come out of this friendship, and you proved that point: you are up to no good"

"No..."

"Shut the hell up!" Michelle's voice was high. "You have nothing to say to me; nothing you'd say that will convince me you are not partly responsible for what happened to my son. So you better shut the hell up before I'm moved to kill you. Just shut up... Shut up!" and she broke into tears.

Kim watched the woman. Never had she been so gripped by such fear; never had she seen such raw pain and sorrow from a mother that lost an only child. Never had she felt so bitter and broken for being responsible for an ill action.

Kim went down on her knees and broke into tears. Her sprain breathed pain and she couldn't stand on one foot for long. But there's too much pain to bear; too much burden to take and too much loss to grieve. She raised her head up to look at Michelle but froze at what she saw: Michelle had a .38 pointed to her head!

"No!" She screamed; her ankle didn't hurt anymore

"Shut up!" Michelle screamed back.

"Mrs. Curtis, please..." Kim's hands were on her mouth.

"I've been dying to do this to you ever since I got the call that my son is killed in a car crash while drinking and driving with a white bitch. He died because of you; you let him drove around while drunk. Give me one reason why I shouldn't blow your fucking head off"

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."

"I say shut the fuck up" She yelled and burst into tears again, still wielding the gun at Kim.

Kim stopped talking; her eyes danced between Michelle's face and the barrel. Michelle calmed herself; her tears have already over flown and she sniffed a dozen times. Kim was still on her knees.

Michelle lowered the gun, slowly. "You are nothing to me. As far as I'm concerned, killing you will do me a lot of good. But I just figured that you're not worth it. I'll let you live so that the guilt of the evil you did will keep haunting you that you'd wish I had killed you now." She put back the gun in her bag and walked to the door, she turned while her hand was on the knob. "I'm going home to bury my son. And I swear to God, if you show up at the funeral, I will use the gun on you." She banged the door.

Kim remained on her knees for a moment, crying. That was the first time ever she experienced the feeling of being so close to a gun barrel. It was like the angel of death was the guy standing right there, starring at her in the eye. It was some nasty experience.

She staggered to her feet, limped to where the liquor bottle was and attacked it with the whole of her might. She figured she needs lots of the liquor, some cigarettes and a bullet in her head.

Kim drank the whole bottle and wanted more, but couldn't find any more in the house. She couldn't believe she was out of liquor; she sat in the living room, half drunk and pretended to be sober.

You are a heartless bitch, Kim...

You killed your own friend...

Your grandmother is dead; now you are all alone...

You are really a nasty bitch...

Now you are a loner and worse of all, you are sharing your inheritance with someone you've never met before...

Nicole Ingermanson... A doc.

Nicole must be a bitch too. She must be a lousy bitch; just like me...

And what the hell did Michelle mean by saying she'd use the gun on me if I set foot at the funeral?

This was my best friend for fuck's sake! We were supposed to have died together...

I deserve to be at the funeral to at least throw a flower before he's buried forever. Just like I did to my mum...

And how come Michelle has a gun and I don't?

If she can have one, I see no reason why I shouldn't...

Besides, packing heat in Seattle is a necessity, at least for protection against people like Michelle...

Fuck it!

I should get a gun...

And I will go to the funeral. Nothing and no one is going to stop me.

Kim stood behind a tombstone and watched the funeral procession from a distance. It was raining as usual. She had no umbrella; only a thick raincoat with a big hood over her head. Rain drops fell on the leather hood with loud thudding. She could see splashes of raindrops as they hit dozens of black umbrellas towering above the people's heads.

Most of them were black folks, with few white folks— possibly Jason's friends from college. The reverend was standing before the crowd. Though Kim couldn't hear what he was saying, she knew it'd be the usual burial sermon.

She wished she was with them. She wished she could touch her best friend casket and shed her tears on it. She wished she could talk to Michelle or give her a hug. Hell! She wished all this had never happened at all.

The thought of Michelle's vow to shoot her on sight sounded absurd, but a part of her was still afraid. And besides, even if she wasn't afraid of Michelle's gun, she couldn't stand a possible humiliation from her in public.

Kim turned away from the procession and adjusted her position behind the tombstone. She drew up the hood forward. The rain got a little heavier but her view was clear. A sea of tombstones looked back at her; and today, her best friend's would be one of them. It's unbelievable.

Her eyes fell on a first tombstone right before her. It had a small faded picture of a smiling woman on it; the woman's name was engraved below the picture.

Mary Tanner

1985-2004

A good wife and a sweet mother

There was a rose flower placed on the concrete platter. Nicole walked to the grave, squatted and picked it. It's fresh. It seemed like someone dropped it there like a minute ago. She looked loosely at it. It's pink, the type she dropped on her mother's grave.

The rose brought back memories of her mother's funeral. It was a rainy Saturday.

The reverend kept on talking but she couldn't recall what he had said. She was just starring at her mother's casket; her eyes dry; she wasn't crying. Maggie was crying. One of her mother's friends, Mandy Stevens, held the old woman by the shoulder for comfort. After the funeral processions, the casket was then lowered into the grave; Kim walked over and looked at the ditch; which looked deeper than just six feet.

She remembered the moment when people began dropping flowers on the casket after it sat in the ditch. She dropped hers; and before her grandmother dropped hers, she walked away. She could hear Maggie and Amanda calling her. She didn't look back. She didn't look back for more than two years now. And she had no idea what was written on her mother's tombstone. It could probably be just her name.

Kim wondered what would be engraved on her own tombstone when she dies:

Kimberly Otis

1987-2006

A Loner and the Killer of Jason Curtis

She dropped the flower and backed off from the grave.

Kim peeped from where she was hiding and found out the funeral was over and people had began to leave. Some were squeezing Michelle's hand and shaking hands with one another.

After every one had left, Michelle stood before her son's grave with another woman behind her, obviously saying the final goodbye or at least, having a moment. Kim wondered if Maggie did the same when Rebecca died.

When Michelle was gone, Kim walked to the grave and stood. A gravedigger was working on another grave close by; he paid no attention to her.

Her mind stood still for a moment. Nothing came out of it. It was like she had passed out in a second, woke up seconds later and asked what happened.

The last time she saw Jason's body was when the medics were about putting him in the body bag. Now the body is laying bellow where she's standing. She pictured him dressed in a tux, with a white rose tucked on the collar.

Kim got down and scooped a handful of the fresh muddy sand from the grave and squeezed it; hard. She didn't know why she did that but it made her cry. The rain got heavier but she didn't seem to mind. Her mind was still blank, she just went on crying until the pressure in her chest reduced.

She reached inside her coat, brought out a red rose flower and placed it on the grave. She saw the engravings on the tombstone:

Jason Curtis Jnr.

1986-2006

A Loving Son

Kim kissed the stone and placed her head on it; then her mind became fully active, whispering something like a prayer and a vow. It's something good rather than ill. She prayed for herself, for her life works out. Then she kissed the stone again.

"I love you Jason Curtis; and I'm sorry."

She glanced at the grave digger nearby. He didn't seem to bother about her sorrow; to him, it was just the same thing, a different day. She stood up slowly; took another look at the grave and walked away.

She kept on walking without looking back, for what's ahead of her was a battle that must be fought even though she didn't know how to fight it; neither did she know the weapon to use or the tactic to employ. But she will fight it by all means.

Her life had been a failure since she left home, but she's going to change that. It's a vow she pronounced right after she stepped out of the rusty cemetery gates.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was the same place. The car was there; the door to the cellar was closed. The lights were out.

Nicole had heard her name called from downstairs so she walked down from the bedroom to the direction of the voice. It led her to the garage.

The voice sounded like a whisper at first; then it got lauder as she went closer to the door. She had been called three times; and counting.

Who is it? She had questioned herself when she stood before the door in the garage. Then she opened it.

The lights flickered on and off continuously. She could barely see the stairs. She took the first step, then the second, and then she stopped. She heard some movements, like those of shadows lurking on the walls.

The paintings!

She couldn't turn to look at them; it felt like the figures in the three paintings on were alive; looking down at her; coming for her; whispering something in a strange language she couldn't pick. She swallowed hard and turned slowly. And nothing! The paintings were ok and the shadows seemed to have disappeared.

Then she felt the movements again, this time, further down the stairs.

"Hello!" Her voice trembled. Then the movements stopped. She stilled as well. The strange and quiet aura that hovered in the air was harshly terrifying. There seemed to be some invisible solidity in the silence. Suddenly, Nicole heard the grating sound of the iron door at the end of the stairs; the cellar has been opened.

"Hello..." her voice trembled."Who's there?" Her voice echoed, repeating the words a couple of times at receding tempos until it finally died down. She listened for some seconds; the only reply she got was the sound from the door.

Nicole was very afraid. She didn't know what came over her; pushing her to take the stairs down. Whatever force it was, she didn't like its effect on her; the last thing she needs is something to take control of her will, especially at that moment when she already had two bad experiences in that place.

She swallowed again; her heart beats with raw fear as she found herself descending the stairs. Her feet were bare and she had only some pink shorts and a sweater on. Half way down the stairs, her name was called again and for the first time, the voice sounded familiar.

The door was half opened by the time she descended the last step. She stopped. Her whole body trembled with fear and her mouth was dry because she's been using it to breath for a while.

She didn't know what's behind the door, but the strange aura around it made her think whoever is lurking in there has a bad intention. She braced herself and pushed the door gently.

Her mind screamed at her to turn back and get the hell out of there, but her body didn't react to it. When she got in, she almost dropped dead at who she saw.

"Maggie!"

The old woman was looking at the empty space on the wall to the right. She didn't move even when Nicole called out her name.

"Maggie, is that you?"

The old woman turned slowly and looked at Nicole. Her face was normal but grim and her blue eyes shone in the semi-darkness of the room.

"You have to find what's stolen. Find it NOW!"

"But what exactly is it?" Nicole pleaded

"FIND IT NOW!"

"Maggie!"

Nicole sprang up from the bed. She sighed and slumped back again. What a nightmare!

It's already morning. Nicole got out of bed to the bathroom. Her knee doesn't hurt much but she thought she needs another dressing. The wrap she's wearing felt a little loose due to the hassles of the previous day.

The phones got busy again. The evening news about the stolen painting got her all bent out of shape and she had refused to answer her calls or the doorbells. She needed a break; she needed a fresh start that morning so that maybe, she could be able to work out some angle.

Refreshed by a hot bath and clothes, Nicole got downstairs and into the kitchen to get something to eat. She was starving and could eat a horse. Actually, she had forgotten the last time she ate something meaningful. The last food she had were biscuits covered with sausage gravy, iced tea and water. Nicole needed something a little heavier this time around. Fortunately for her, the fridge was stuffed. She settled to make scramble eggs, toasted bread with honey and some coffee.

And as she prepared her breakfast, the door bell rang; she grunted. Then it kept on ringing again and again until it got her all pissed off. Like a teased lioness, she stormed the door, enraged to the brim. She yanked it open.

"What the hell do you w..." she stopped

"Morning, Ms Ingermanson."

He stood there with the serious, boyish face. Nicole's rage brewed more and she stared menacingly at him, all red hot. "Well, well. Look who's here; the new big mouth on the block."

"Excuse me?" Ruben was stunned

"You heard me. I'm sure you've seen the news lately; I never knew running to the press is part of a cop's job description."

"Miss Ingermanson I am sorry for that. But I..."

"Oh Save it; you've already blown my cover. I couldn't answer my calls because I don't want to to hear the voice of a nosey journalist asking me what the painting is worth. I'm scared to go to Firkin and Fox for lunch because a wild lady with her camera guy could be standing by my front porch waiting for me to pop up; thanks to you."

"I did not talk to the press!" He retorted in such a commanding tone that startled her. "I never talk to the press over this. We had over seven cops working in the house at that time and anyone or them could do that; but certainly, not me. Now if you have time, we have to talk." Ruben was looking into Nicole's eyes. She nearly got intimidated. "We have to talk; now."

"Just so you know, I hate that goose; whoever it was." She moved away from the door way.

"Yeah I'm cool with that. But I have to do my job anyway. Ruben strode in. He stood in the middle of the living room and squeezed his face. "Is something burning in here."

"Shoot! That would be my breakfast." Nicole rushed to the kitchen.

"Take your time. I have all day."

While Nicole was in the kitchen, Ruben looked around the living room and observed the paintings on the wall. The collection was a mixed bag and he recognized only one; a Canaletto, which he knew must be a print. The other three were made by an artist he couldn't pick. He moved on to the paintings on the stair wall.

There were three miniatures he recognized; the first painting was by Claude Monet; the second was a Van Gogh; all were prints, but have finishing that made them look real. The third one however, was an original. It was a landscape of a dry countryside with a shallow stream. Two boys were overlooking the stream. Ruben looked closer to observe the signature.

"Mhm; that's interesting."

Ruben instantly appreciated the old lady's artistic sense even though he doesn't know her. Her collection spanned from the Impressionists down to the Contemporary. It also confirmed his thoughts that the stolen item could be a painting; one of high value.

"Going upstairs?"

Ruben turned and saw Nicole holding a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and toasted bread.

"No; I was looking at the paintings. The old lady really had some taste."

"Tell me about it." Nicole gave him a 'You-nosey-cop' look.

Ruben is used to that kind of look. Sometimes he finds it offensive and it provokes him to give a piece of what he's made of. He sighed and pointed to the first painting with the index finger. Nicole followed his finger

"This masterpiece is called Boulevard des Capucines; Claude Monet, 1840−1926. It was inspired by the artist's fascination on the rebuilding of Paris in 1873. It's a remarkable period in the growth and beautification of the city on its journey to the twentieth century." He moved to the second one "This one is a piece by Vincent Van Gogh; he called it 'The Bridge at Trinquetaille'. It's painted in June 1888. Van Gogh went to Arles and fell in love with sunlight which he expressed it in his art with brilliant yellow and deep blue colours in bold brushstrokes."

Nicole was amazed at how he flawlessly described the paintings and she wondered how he did it. Ruben moved to the last one and he looked down at Nicole.

"I'm hoping you'd tell me about this one."

"You tell me." She said.

"You don't know? Well, that's a shame; because the old lady did it herself. Here, come take a look."

Nicole stood there looking at him. His eyes were penetrating and she could feel them scanning her brain. She placed the food on a table beside the staircase and ascended the steps. She had never taken a closer look at the paintings before. She looked at the signature down on the right side of the painting.

M. Fletcher

"I'm surprised you didn't know your close friend was an artist." He descended the stairs.

Nicole didn't move; she kept starring at it. It's yet another secret covered by Maggie that's just been uncovered by a detective; that was incredible.

"Miss Ingermanson, your breakfast is getting cold."

"Nicole; call me Nicole" her eyes still on the painting. Then she walked down and got back into the kitchen.

Ruben watched her. He knew she's been through a lot lately and she could go down in the dumps on any unusual discovery about Maggie. He gave her a moment.

He went back to the other three strange paintings in the living room to take a closer look. All were Maggie's; he found out.

"Why are you here?"

He took his eyes off the paintings and looked at Nicole who was poised behind and looking squarely at him. Her eyes were a little red from fresh tears.

"The results from the labs didn't give us much. We know that Maggie had a painting whose frame was about ten years old; but that didn't help much since there are canvasses of over three hundred years old that could still be reframed. We also couldn't find any finger prints; most of the prints we found were yours. So technically we have nothing"

"You have nothing."

"Sadly, yes. But we're working on..."

"Wait a second; you're telling me that with all the trouble with the press and that of bringing the cops in here got to nothing? I almost got killed for God's sakes."

"I'm sorry for that. But we need to go back to the drawing board and see if we can pick up better clues. That's why I'm here. I need you to please chill out and listen to me."

Nicole stood there with a hand on her forehead, fuming over what Ruben told her. She couldn't believe her ears; she's all burnt out already.

"Nicole, I need you to understand that I'm chosen for this case because I'm the best at it. I can only resolve it if only you give me your full cooperation. Please sit down."

She shot a stare at him for a moment before taking a seat. Somehow she believes what he said; the way he described the paintings was a hell of a proof.

Ruben walked to the table where she had kept her breakfast and brought it to her. "I think you're going to need this."

"I lost my appetite." She maintained the stare.

"Too bad," He took a little bite at the toast "This is delicious. I love toasted bread."

"Are you trying to put the moves on me?"

He smiled "No; I'm only trying to make you comfortable." He handed her the coffee and she took it.

"So tell me; how well do you know Mrs. Fletcher?"

"As far as the matter at hand is concerned, I'm not sure anymore. I never knew she was an artist. I only know her as a warm and loving woman. Born in the US, grew up in France, came back to the States like twenty years ago. She was knowledgeable and wise; comforting, loved cooking, gardening and the list go on"

"It sounds like she was an awesome woman."

"Yes, she was." Nicole took a bite of the toast. "She was the grandmother I never had."

"I can see that. What was your favourite moment with her?"

"I loved the times we used to sit and just talk." She sipped her coffee. "She was very eloquent; her voice sounded fifty years younger than her age. She was good with words; very good. She knew a lot of those old sayings and proverbs that sometimes made me think she was just making them up." Nicole gave a curt chuckle. "But they were good; really good and encouraging stuff. I relate to them whenever I have a downer."

"Can you remember any of those words?"

Nicole sipped her coffee and sighed. She prays she won't cry considering how emotional she is especially when it comes to reminiscing.

"There was this day; we were talking about her amazing book collection and I told her I'd love to write a book of my own; but I can't. She asked why and I said because I don't have the talent. So she said 'Nicole you are a smart woman and you can do whatever you want to do if only you can put your heart to it.

"And then she said to me: 'He can who thinks he can, and he can't who thinks he can't. This is an inexorable, indisputable law.' I found the statement a little silly but kind of motivational. It's one of her statements I tell others most often." She paused. "Well, I do get weird glances and rolling eyes sometimes, but at least it works for me."

"I agree with you. It works on me too." He said.

"Excuse me?"

"That statement was made by Pablo Picasso; the greatest artist of our time. I'm sure you heard of the man"

Like hell I did; Pablo was Maggie's last word.

Ruben smiled at the look on her face. "Surprised I guess. He was some art god. Tell me another one."

"Go and do the things you can't. That is how you get to do them." Nicole said. "She told me that the first day I helped her out in the garden when I thought I couldn't cut off the tips of the herbs properly."

"She was right on that; and that was another quote from Picasso; another one?"

"Com'on; what is this, Picasso Quotes contest?"

He shook his head and smiled. Nicole thought for a moment and then said; "People want to find a meaning in everything and everyone; that's the..."

"...disease of our age..." Ruben completed the sentence.

"Ok; you're making me suck."

Ruben stood up and began pacing around the living room as if he was looking for something on the floor. But in the actual truth, he was deep into his own thoughts. It's unbelievable what's happening right now.

"What?" Nicole sensed something strange in him.

"Picasso was born in Spain but migrated to France in 1900 to pursue his art career; he lived in France until he died in 73. He had produced between twenty to fifty thousand masterpieces in his 70-year old career and collectors of his works are now wealthy. He initiated the controversial transition from traditional art to modern art." He paused; "Nicole that man was worshipped by fans and other artists worldwide; it could be possible that Maggie was one of them."

"She is; she called his name just before she died." Nicole said casually.

Ruben looked puzzled "Is that right?"

Nicole told him how it all happened. She also told him about her little search in the house and on Maggie's body in the Mortuary.

"I thought it could be some password or security code but I found out I was mistaken."

Ruben looked calm; but as a matter of fact, he was all psyched about the whole PABLO stuff.

"How did you find that out?" He asked

"I used it on her computer to see if I can get access to some files; it didn't work. The first time I went to the cellar and saw the security door, it occurred to me that maybe if I could change those letters to numbers, it could work." Then she kept quiet, the rest was something she didn't want to say.

"And the thief came and attacked you." Ruben helped her out. "For what's worth, I wished all that never happen to you. But I need you focused now. If we can get some clues, maybe we'll get to know what exactly is stolen and probably get the guy that did it."

"I don't know, Ruben; but I think there's a lot to find out here about Maggie; we're just scratching the surface."

"Then let's start digging."

Ruben looked around at the various paintings on the walls, he pointed to the Canaletto. "See that painting, it's called Piazza San Marco with the Basilica; painted in 1730 by Antonio Canal, popularly Known as Canaletto. He lived from 1697 to 1768. No one in the history of fine arts had studied and loved scene painting as he did at that time. He did it with such scrupulousness that the viewer can see the intricate patterns of objects in his paintings.

"Scene painting was the love of his life. All the stories he told were embedded in his works. Picasso also said that 'Painting is just another way of keeping a diary' and it's true; Canaletto probably captured h... "

"Wait a second; what did you say?" She interrupted him.

"I said Canaletto probably captured..."

"Not that; you said something about diary."

"Yes; painting is just another way of keeping a diary."

The statement reminded Nicole of two things; Maggie's dairy and the three paintings on the wall of the cellar.

"I need to show you something."

Ruben and Nicole stood before the three paintings on the stair wall of the cellar. None said a word. They just stared at them like they were some strange magic mirrors.

Nicole marvelled at Ruben's crisp composure as he looked; she wondered what he was thinking because his action seemed way out of proportion.

"So?" Her impatience was eating her so she spoke to at least remind him that he's not alone.

"This is brilliant." He said.

"Of course it is; you look as if you're looking at a Holy Grail."

"These are also Maggie's paintings, but she used a different style from the ones in the living room."

"What kind of style did she use?" She leaned closer to observe the signatures.

"Picasso's; when he resorted to real abstraction, he started creating distorted human figures, like these. One of his paintings; 'Ladies from Avignon, 1912, was seen by critics as his starting point of real abstraction because it showed vivid figure distortion. He did say; there was no abstract art; and one must always start with something. Afterwards he can remove all traces of reality out of it. That's just what Maggie did in these paintings; she removed lots of traces of reality from the figures."

Nicole observed the man's figure in the first painting closely; the orientation of his eyes was kind of gross; one was above the other. So was his mouth which was drawn on the left cheek. The woman also had wild strips of hair, like a witch. Nicole's eyes shifted to the next painting.

"What about the middle one?"

"I think it's an expression; something deep; you know, like a deep feeling, She might use the shapes and colours to represent abstracts ideas such as conflict, ecstasy, anger, happiness, etcetera. And if you observe, there's more of blue colour there. Picasso used more blue especially if he doesn't have red. That's what she did." Ruben pause; his gaze never left the paintings. His pupils moved from painting to painting in an attempt to try to connect the trio to see if something more meaningful could surface.

"I think it's a story. You know; it could be a true story she didn't want to forget so that she'd have a vivid recollection of the moment every time she looks at them."

"Yeah right; painting is just another way of keeping a diary." Nicole added.

"Exactly. Oh this is brilliant."

Just then, Ruben's cell phone gave a buzz. He brought the device out of his pocket and checked the caller ID. Seeing who it was, he excused himself and went out, leaving Nicole still staring at the paintings.

Nicole remembered the dream she had; how the pictures seemed to be moving and coming for her; what Maggie said to her.

"FIND IT NOW!"

Maggie's voice barked in her mind. She took her gaze off the paintings and closed her eyes; and then she looked down the stairs and recalled the scene in the dream where she saw Maggie. Then she went back to the paintings and sighed.

What should we search for? What clue is locked up in here?

She tried hard to focus but couldn't see the relevance of observing the paintings. They need to 'find' something; not observe.

"Nicole there's been a development. Traffic cameras have captured the image of a car we believe could be our guy's. So I got to go to the station now and see what we actually have."

"How can I help?" she asked

Ruben shifted his gaze from her face to her knee and back.

"I'll keep you posted. You take care." He turned and walked out of the door.

"Ruben, wait!" Nicole followed him out into the garage."There's another thing; Maggie had a strange dairy."

"Strange dairy?"

"It's a normal dairy only that everything in it is written in poems. I read some of it but got all put off because I don't know what it means. I don't know what the actual events are and I can't work out anything from it; really pissed me off."

Ruben observed her for a moment, scratched his nose and, "Can I take a look?"

"It's in the bedroom upstairs."

"Let's get it."

Nicole led the way to the bedroom. Ruben had his eyes on the walls, observing the paintings on them. Never had he seen a house, though not so full of paintings, but so full of the love for it. He stopped to observe another miniature by one of his favourite artists: John Constable.

"The Wivenhoe Park, 1816; Super awesome." he whispered to himself.

"Ruben; bedroom is this way." Nicole called.

Ruben looked at her and noticed he had walked past the bedroom door because he was carried away by the Constable.

"Com'on, you don't have all day."

He took another look at the painting before walking into the bedroom. Nicole was waiting for him with a black dairy in her hand. He took and opened it. Then he read the poem on the first page aloud.

"Mhm, that's interesting." He said.

"What does it say? Can you change it to a plain language?" She asked.

"Not exactly but we can try. Poetry is an expressive art where language is used for its beauty. Sometimes, literal devices are used to hide the actual meaning of what's written and therefore opens it to numerous interpretations"

"Ok?"

"In this one here;" He read.

Oh! Those songs of the night,

So sweet; so bitter; so dark

Life; what happiness, what plight,

What living has no pain, nor lark?

"Songs of the night could be anything. They could be sweet dreams or nightmares, or they could just be her usual thoughts, you know; the things she saw when she closed her eyes at night; that could feel sweet, bitter or looked so dark. The last two lines are self explanatory."

"Life is full of ups and downs." She added.

"Right; you aced that one." He covered the diary and handed it back to her. "I need you to read through carefully and try to make a meaning of each event."

"What? No; that's your job. You said you're best at what you do just twenty minutes ago."

"Nicole my hands are all full now and I'm going to need some help. As a matter of fact, I'm going to need more help than that. I need you to continue with the search; books, clothes, pictures, safes, anything. I know there's more attached to the stolen painting than we know"

"What would I be looking for this time? Because I did it before and got nothing but 'Ps'."

"We need more than that now; I know you regarded Maggie not just an ordinary woman, but more. Today's findings were preliminary confirmation. I know you'd like to know more and in order to get not just that but also her stolen property, we must put all hands on deck; together. That's what I meant by going back to the drawing board. We must travel back in time and look for Maggie."

She didn't say a word. His words and keen eyes had penetrated the depth of her reasoning chamber; she was moved.

"I'll call you later." He went out of the room and she followed him.

"What about the press? I love my privacy"

"I'll tell them the case is closed if you want. It's a lie I can contend with."

"Good idea. I'd like that." She smiled as she hurried after him down the stairs.

"Do you feel safe here, all alone? I mean, your knee isn't healed yet; and despite all that happened you still stick to the house."

"I feel less moody today; thanks to you; even though you nearly drove me crazy with this whole art stuff."

"Yeah; I know I'm boring."

"Right, especially for a Doctor like me."

CHAPTER TWELVE

The floor was empty.

The Smooth walls of the long polished corridor were painted pale-green in rich creaminess. The lights gave the perfect illumination and the red carpet on the floor appeared so vivid. Crimson doors of the rooms stood in opposites along the long corridor. Some have tags carrying warning signs dangling from their knobs.

The walls were also decorated with floral paintings in brown-woody frames, giving the whole floor some homey warmth. It was all quite; so quite that the atmosphere felt kind of ghostly.

The elevator bell rang through the floor as the lift alighted. The doors slid open and three well dressed men stepped out of it. No one spoke. Only their dull footsteps thud on the rugged floor as they walked. They stopped at the last door; numbered 1002.

There was a little bit of eagerness in each of them; and as they waited for the door to be opened, one of the men looked around the empty floor just to make sure it was really empty. Satisfied it was, he nodded at the other two.

Sitting calmly before a small monitor inside the room, X sipped his drink. He then stood up from the chair when he got visual of the men standing outside.

"They are here" he said

"Perfect. It's about time." The Boss rubbed his hands, an air of optimism and confidence whirling around him. Dressed in deep blue suit and a red tie, he twiddled in his chair with a straight face. It's been a while since he felt such excitement in him. He had waited a long time for this; and now that the moment it here, he'll take his time to make the greatest presentation of his business life. Maybe this meeting could cut him a multimillion dollar deal; the thought was exhilarating.

"Bring them in. I hope they're ready to get blown away." The Boss chucked

X opened the door and the three men strode in; he closed it and led them in to the suit where his boss was on his feet, waiting.

"Gentlemen; Welcome to Nevada."

"Thank you very much. I hope what we came for is ready." The oldest guy amongst the visitors shook hands with the Boss. He was about five feet eight; with a bald head and a moustache that almost covered his mouth.

"Of course, Mr. Brandon, it is. To my office, please."

The Boss nodded at X; and he led the way to the office.

The men walked silently behind X who all this while said nothing. His inclination to the whole thing rested not on the arrival of the men, but on the outcome of the meeting.

X knew the risk at stake. He knew the tallest guy with the visitors was a bodyguard even before the fellow pressed the door bell. The fact that he's armed was no question. This is black market; X knew the drill. Trust and level headedness are always big problems in this sort of business. Packing heat is a prerequisite for safety. So the feeling of the gun tucked to X's pants was reassuring; kind of feels good. And as they walked into the office, X and the body guard exchanged hard stares. They both got the message. At least, the guy wouldn't try anything funny now that he knew he's got a match in the room.

"Gentlemen; please be seated."

The two men sat down, while the bodyguard remained standing; and so was X. Both had the front buttons of their jackets loosen. The Boss cleared his throat and spoke gently but with radiant enthusiasm.

"Greatest artists in human history had amazing powers of expression and deep thinking. The products of their thoughts make us marvel over the might of their creative geniuses for centuries. Every masterpiece created by their hands came with that power attached to it. Every canvas, every piece of sculpture, every page written and every signature scribbled is seen as if it's alive and breathing in those paintings, statues and books; and even in the lips of those who worship their greatness and live by it, day by day.

"Rembrandt, Bunnoroti, Da Vinci, Raphael, Van Gogh, Pablo Picasso and other masters of art lived lives of strife and imperfection at some point of their lifetime; yet, their masteries grew from strength to strength; and their stories were told to us today, not only by the art historians, but by their works as well. Original masterpieces from these masters are now belongings of just a few wealthy individuals in the world. Most of them have found sanctuaries in museums and few art galleries around the globe; but of course we all know that. However, few of them are not where we think they are." The seated men shifted in their seats on the last statement. The Boss was just about to hit the needed pitch point.

"Pablo Ruiz Picasso made about fifty thousand artworks during his wealthy and populous lifetime. Some of his artworks purchased by some individuals are never auctioned, nor exhibited anywhere in the world; Gentlemen; I'm pleased to tell you that one of those very rare masterpieces of this prolific master, is in this room."

They shifted again; agitated by the furiously rising adrenalin. The Boss walked to a corner of the room where long, red drapes covered what seemed like a window; their eyes followed him; every step of the little walk.

He pulled a blue rope and the drapes pulled gently apart to reveal what was behind them. "Gentlemen, I present to you; a rare Picasso; the Beauty in Sleep 1935."

Mr. Brandon's eyes almost popped out. His mouth opened wide at what appeared before them. It was a beauty; something he has never seen before.

Right there before them, was a masterpiece of solid magnificence, radiance, colour and perfection all combined in a breathtaking peppy image. And what made it all seemed so divine was the style; it's a real canvass painted by the grandmaster of abstraction himself.

The Boss watched the men exhibit an uncontrollable frenzy; it gave him a great pleasure that he was able to blow them away.

I got you; sons of bitches

Mr. Brandon stood up from his chair and walked like a zombie towards the painting and with an unbelievable look on his face. He kept moving until he reached the painting, then he touched it with his fingers.

"Is this real?" He asked himself.

"You tell me Mr. Brandon." The Boss replied; beaming.

"She's just... Perfect. Oh this is so perfect."

The Boss exchanged glances with X; he smiled, X didn't.

"That was an awesome presentation" Enthused Mr. Brandon. "I'm impressed; really. I've been collecting paintings for years and I must admit, what you presented looks the real deal. However; the outbreak of fake Picassos in the art market is of great concern to me. We still need certainty, that the piece had undergone all authentication procedure."

"Of course; New York to Nevada is a long way Mr. Brandon. Inviting you all the way here to look at a fake Picasso would be the greatest professional sin a man like me would never commit. I knew you'd ask about that despite the authentication documents I mailed you. I already made preparations for that. If you will please..."

"I also have." Mr. Brandon cut in. He turned to his companion and nodded. "This is Mr. Abraham, my authentication expert; I brought him along for this. Hope you don't mind."

"Of course not." The Boss smiled. "Do what you have to do. We'll give you a moment of privacy?"

"Yes; thank you."

The Boss and X left the room. Mr. Brandon turned to Abraham. "Take a closer look and tell me what you think."

Abraham stood before the painting for a moment; then scratched his cheek "Brandon; there are signs of originality here. The piece seemed to belong to the Later Works category way after cubism. It might have been done around the thirties because the autograph seems to be from around that time." He paused for a moment, looked closely, caressed the canvass with his fingers."The lines and the images have some degree of spontaneity in their sketches and the canvas texture has thickened a little bit due to embedded dust. I need to check the watermark." He opened his briefcase and set to work.

The Boss paced up and down, fuming. It had been ten minutes sine they had excused themselves out of the room to let Mr. Brandon and his partner do what they need to do. "What the hell is going on in there?"

"Patience boss; you asked to give them a moment; let them take their time."

"I'm not a patient man and they're taking long. I hate waiting X. I hate waiting."

X stood calmly with folded arms watching his boss prowling about.

"With all the authentication documents we gave them, what more do they need?"

"It's the black market Boss; trust is always an issue; you said that yourself. I think you should chill out and sit. You're sweating already."

The Boss sighed uneasily and touched his forehead to feel the sweat. "Am I?" X nodded. So he sat on the couch and loosen his tie "Ok; let's be patient; let's wait. Get me a drink; and pour one for yourself too. Let's start celebrating before they are done wasting their time. Too bad people can't just get along in business without having doubts on someone's honesty."

And just when X walked to the tray for the drinks, Mr. Brandon's body guard opened the door.

"Mr. Brandon is done, you may come in now."

"Well well; it's about time." The Boss said. X kept the drinks and followed him.

Mr. Brandon and Abraham were still standing before the painting when the Boss strode in.

"Mr. Brandon; I hope what you found out wasn't disappointing?"

"Well; Mr. Abraham will speak to us all."

The Boss's heart skipped a beat on that statement. He prayed it won't be bad news

"The painting is ninety per cent real" Said Abraham.

"You're French." The Boss said on hearing Abraham's accent.

"The final authentication analysis would be in our laboratory. We want to be certain about the age of the painting because we have little doubt on the age detail you gave us."

"What? I don't understand, are you saying I lied?" The Boss snapped.

"We're saying the age isn't accurate." Mr. Brandon Interrupted.

"The watermark on the canvas gave me a pre-indication the painting is older than you thought" Abraham continued "Now, we must know the accurate age of the painting before we finally conclude on its value. But the good news is; we think the painting is real."

The Boss silently screamed a 'thank you' praise to the heavens on that statement.

"Congratulations." Mr. Brandon smiled and stretched out his hand to the Boss.

"Thank You Mr. Brandon. Shall we now talk about the price?"

"Oh yes; please"

