Guns in the Gallery by Simon Brett Read Free Book Online Page B

were watercolours that had been done on ordinary copy paper which had curled a bit as they dried. But though the medium was a subtle one, there was little restraint in the images depicted. The predominant colours were dark, deep bruise blues, slate greys interrupted by splashes of arterial blood red. So violent were the brush strokes that at first Jude thought she was looking at abstracts. But closer scrutiny revealed that the paintings were representational.
    Each picture showed the body of a woman, young, shapely, but twisted with pain. Their features were contorted as they struggled against restraints of chain and leather, the red gashes of their mouths screamed in silent agony. But a defiance in their posture and expressions diluted their bleakness. There was suffering there, but also a sense of indomitability. Tormented as they were, Fennel Whittaker’s women would not give up anything without a fight.
    â€˜And these are recent works?’
    â€˜Yes. All done since our last session.’
    A week then. ‘You’ve been busy.’
    A shrug from the massage couch. ‘When I’ve got ideas I work quickly.’ But the way she spoke was at odds with her words. She sounded apathetic, drained, only a husk of her personality remaining after the threshing storm of creativity that had swept through her body.
    â€˜Well, they’re very good,’ said Jude. ‘A lot of pain there.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Fennel agreed listlessly.
    â€˜Don’t you get a charge from knowing that you’re doing good work?’
    â€˜I do while I’m actually painting. I look at it and it feels right. Every brush stroke is exactly where it should be. I feel in control. Then I look at it a couple of days later and . . .’ She ran out of words.
    â€˜And what?’
    â€˜And I think it’s derivative crap. I can see the style I’m imitating and I’m just deeply aware of all the other artists who have done it better over the centuries, and all the artists who’re even doing it better now.’
    â€˜Have you always had that kind of reaction against your work?’
    â€˜Usually.’
    â€˜And does it ever change?’
    â€˜How do you mean?’
    â€˜Do you ever come round to thinking what you’ve done’s rather good again? Do you recapture the feeling you had while you were actually painting it?’
    Fennel Whittaker sighed. ‘Has happened. There’s some stuff I did during my first year at art college . . . before I . . . you know . . . I felt pleased with it . . . and one of my tutors, Ingrid, who I really rated, she thought it was great. Yes, some of that’s bloody good.’
    â€˜Doesn’t knowing that cheer you up?’
    â€˜No. It makes me feel worse, if anything.’
    â€˜Why?
    â€˜Because I look back and I think: God, the girl who did that had a lot of talent! Unlike the girl who’s looking back at the stuff. Whatever it was I may once have had, I think I’ve lost it.’
    â€˜You do know that a lot of creative artists suffer from bipolar tendencies?’
    â€˜Yes. It doesn’t help much to know that, though. Doesn’t stop me thinking that my work’s crap . . . along with everything else in my life.’
    Jude was silent for a moment, trying to decide what therapies she should use for the rest of the session. For the time being, though, she reckoned talking was doing Fennel as much good as anything else would.
    â€˜Is there anything specific that’s made you feel down at the moment?’
    â€˜There’s never anything specific. It’s just . . . everything.’
    â€˜Are you sure about that?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜I know I’ve asked you this before, but are you sure there wasn’t something in your past, something that happened that triggered the depression?’
    â€˜And as I’ve answered