The Vatican Rip

'Yes.'

'Oh. Well. Where's your overcoat?'

'Still at my tailor's.'

She flushed then and developed the injured look of a woman wanting some man to take up this particularly cumbersome crucifix. I didn't help by spinning out my dressing process. She stood her ground, though.

'One thing, love.' I stood and stamped my cardboard inners flat. 'Swap that painting to the other wall.'

'I beg your pardon?'

I stepped across and lifted the watercolour down. 'Never over a radiator. Never in a centrally heated hallway if you can help it. Never facing what sun we get. And never where people smoke.'

The little watercolour sketch was a Thomas Robins, the sort of thing he did before doing the proper Dutch fishing-boat scene. He liked storms in harbours. I'm not all that old, but I can remember the time four years ago when his best paintings could be got for an average monthly wage.

'Take your hands off our property—'

She came at me so I cuffed her and yelled, 'You could have made me drop it, you silly bitch! Look.' I dragged her near to the modern photorepro of 'The Stag at Bay' which I'd just taken down. 'That,' I explained into her stunned eyes, 'will stand anything. This original water-colour is vulnerable.' I spelled the word to give her cortex time to adjust to the learning process. 'So we put your repro picture anywhere, see? It'll not warp, change or fade in the sun. On the other hand, love, original paintings by Thomas Sewell Robins need care.' I spelled that too, mounted the watercolour, then walked to the door.

'You hit me.' She was still preoccupied with being annoyed.

'I'll come back next week, love, to check you've not swapped the pictures back. And I'll accept no crappy excuses about your painting being school property.' I wagged a finger to emphasize the threat. 'A genuine antique is everybody's, no matter who owns it.

Remember, now.'

She suddenly said, 'You're Lovejoy.'

'True,' I said, opening the door to the kinder world of winter. 'And goodbye.'

She suddenly became a supplicant. The abrupt transformation was really weird. 'Please.

Don't go.' She even tried a winning smile. I'd never see a quicker—or more desperate—

conversion. 'I'm—I'm your special instruction counsellor assignment.'

'You're my what?' Nowadays everything sounds like the UN.

She gave in and used language. 'Teacher. Please come back in.'

I hesitated between the blizzard and the deep blue sea. Normally I'd have stormed out in a temper, though I'm usually very mild. The reason I didn't was the sheer desperation in her eyes. Somehow I'd annoyed her at first, but now there she was full of frantic appeasement. I could have sworn she was afraid. Maybe she needed the money or lived in terror of mighty Miss McKim.

'Can I dry my shoes on your radiator?'

'If you wish.'

'And socks?' I added shrewdly.

'Of course.' She moved past me and pushed the door to.

'And I'm not in trouble for, erm, telling you about the pictures?'

'You mean hitting me,' she said evenly. 'No.'

It seemed there was no way out. Time for a truce. 'All right.'

'Thank you,' she said, and meant it, which was odder still. She extended a hand. 'I'm Maria Peck.'

We went all Regency. 'Pleased to make your acquaintance. Lovejoy.'

She didn't look local, not with those lustrous Italianate features and that complexion, but Peck is unshakably East Anglian and I commented on it while we shook.

'So I'm told,' she said, and added sweetly, 'Nothing like as unusual as Lovejoy, is it?'

Smarting, I thought, okay. Truce, not submission.

'This way, please.'

I followed her lissom form. Whatever lissom means, it's the right word.

Most women have an inherent grace, don't they, with awareness sort of built in. Well, the ultimate was Maria. I swear I was demented for her by the time we reached the classroom, though her attitude seemed to be one of instant aloofness once she'd got me to stay.

But why the terror when I was making my sullen exit? Last time I'd been at school they were glad to get rid of me. Fool that I was, I shelved the little mystery and forgot it.

* * *

Late Friday of that week it happened. I was in my cottage frying some pieces of apple.

It's supposed to be a countryman's delicacy, but was proving a failure. For a start you need oil for the pan, and I'd got none. Then you need a good stove, and the bastards had cut my electricity off in the midweek. The methylated spirit lamp, which I use for wax modelling, was going full blast—an erg an hour— and the sliced apples were barely warm.

The knock on the door surprised me. My cottage is fairly remote, on the outskirts of a small village. The lane leading to it is narrow and long and goes hardly anywhere else.

The daylight had faded an hour since. I cheered up as I went into the little hallway. My first week's wages were due for having attended that punk language school. Apart from having the opportunity to gape at the delectable Maria it had been a real drag, so I deserved every penny.

It was Arcellano and his two nerks all right, but not with my wages. The three of them were crammed into the tiny vestibule, blocking out the vague haze of snow light.

'Mr Arcellanol' I yelped with false delight, thinking of money, and hot pasties and beer at the White Hart. Hunger makes crawlers of us all. 'Good of you to call! Come in!'

Nobody moved.

'Where's the lights?'

'Erm, well, I've had the electricity cut off,' I said smoothly. 'Temporary repairs, you understand. This wretched weather brought down a cable—'

'What's the stink?'

'Stink?' I swallowed my irritation. The bastard was speaking of my staple diet. 'Ah.

Delicious country recipe. Fried apple. Actually takes hours to make. I haven't done the flaky pastry yet, or I'd offer you supper—'

A flashlight blinded me. With the beam flickering into every corner the two goons bore me backwards and slammed me down in a chair. Heavy hands pressed on my shoulders when I tried to rise. It's horrible to discover you are suddenly out of breath for no known cause. In that instant all I could think of was that quick glimpse of terror on Maria's face when I had started to cut out from the school.

'Is this how you live, Lovejoy?'

'Only temporarily,' I answered, narked. 'I'm having an extension built—'

'Hold him.'

A flashlight was beamed at my face so I could see nothing. With my eyes screwed up against the beam I sat and listened while somebody, probably Arcellano himself, shook out drawers and emptied cupboards and slammed doors and tore things in the darkness beyond the light. I knew better than to hope for neighbours or the police to arrive. The former wisely leave me alone, and the latter are only more trouble and I'd enough to be going on with.

Quite ten minutes later I heard Arcellano return. He sounded slightly winded from all his exertions. I felt the same and I'd done nothing but sit.

A lighter flared, showing his face full of unpleasant shadows. The light snapped off and a cigarette glowed.

'Why do you live here like a pig, Lovejoy?' He sounded surprised but honestly interested.

I tried to shrug but his burkes were still pressing me down. 'I'm a bit short. I've done a few good deals, though—'

'You've not, Lovejoy.' Even when smoke came into my eyes making me cough and blink I knew the sod was smiling. 'You are penniless.'

'Only temporarily,' I shot back. 'If I hadn't wasted the week on your frigging school I'd have—'

'How was school?'

That gentle query pulled me up. 'Oh. Horrible as ever.' I tried a chuckle. It sounded like a trapped wasp.

'Make much progress, Lovejoy?'

I swallowed. This didn't make sense. He sounded too gentle for somebody who had come in like Attila the Hun and wrecked the place.

'Quite a lot,' I lied cheerfully. My mouth was dry.