Aren’t they meant to be the best?

Carry the most romantic concept of a lost talent, bringing more value and appreciation to the remaining works?

*

Ever received an email alert.

This interrupted his reflection on Monday and Friday being Mr Lorken’s only days at the gallery. That information had been imparted with ease, accessed without effort.

The email was from Dr Aran, telling him the initial blood tests were clear of any viral infection. But he would need another after a six-week period from the date of intercourse.

Thanks: his flippancy towards the information reflected the fact that he couldn’t have cared less, either way.

He couldn’t speak in the car, he was drained: an empty sink but full of residue.

It was as if he had just witnessed the death of his father all over again.

He was bleeding for his father; for what this son had done to him. When emotion turned in on itself: it was directed at the easiest target, after all, and it was always a bullseye.

Chapter Thirty-two

They arrived back at Oakhurst Drive.

In what had seemed a much quicker time than their trip had taken to the gallery. The usual procedure took place and Lomita even asked, in an almost exact replica of his very first time there, if they could please have some tea. Ever took her arm and Manita took the car.

Lomita could only think of showing him something that was as shocking to her as she felt the truth of his father’s work or the burial of his father’s work was to him. When they got inside she asked Ever to follow her to the screening room.

She laced up the projector, pulled the blinds down and waited for the tea to arrive. This would not shock or upset Lomita anymore, but she was interested in what it would do to Ever.

The tea arrived in silence and the exquisite movement followed, with her pouring. After they had had a couple of sips she quite calmly asked,

‘Are you ready now, my sweet?’

For what, he had no idea.

‘Yes.’

He stuttered anyway.

The lights were dimmed and the whirr of the projector began to throw its flicker on the screen. The one thing Lomita could not bear was the sound, so that was down. The images started to appear on the screen and the discomfort was instant; not from the content initially, but from the bad quality of the acting. The preambling set-up. The 8 mm celluloid spooling its way through the light of the projector added a vulgarity of colour to the image. It gave it an instant feeling of authenticity, of stark reality, of it happening now, the handheld inexactitude giving it the sense of capturing a real event. Unrehearsed and captured as a once-only. A do or die: now or never.