Billy fidgeted, looking from the glittering jewellery to Twitch’s two black eyes and squint nose. Dillon’s instructions had been very clear. ‘He said we have to get the painting: if we don’t he’s going to break our legs.’
‘But-’
‘You want him to give you another spanking?’
Twitch sighed, then closed the wooden box. ‘Maybe not.’
Billy squared his wide shoulders. ‘Let’s do it. . .’
They inched down to the ground floor.
The massive Christmas tree dominated the front lobby. Gifts were piled round the base: all multicoloured and shiny with bows and ribbons, like something out of Harry Fucking Potter. Be lucky if Billy’s mum stretched to a selection box and a pair of socks this year, and these sods had all this? How was that fair? Rich bastard deserved to get his painting stolen. Serve him right.
Billy made Twitch hide behind the tree and keep an eye on the lounge, while he checked out the rooms on the ground floor: kitchen, cloakroom, drawing room, sun lounge, conservatory. . .
The painting was in the dining room. A large teak table sat in the middle, surrounded by a dozen fancy-looking chairs and a sideboard covered with silverware. A glass cabinet opposite the door was full of objets d’art: porcelain terriers, glass swans, ceramic clowns – that kinda thing. Some of which Billy’s mum was going to find under their crappy plastic tree on Christmas day. Grinning, he helped himself, slipping the choicer looking pieces in his hoodie’s pockets. And then it was painting time.
Dillon had given them a big holdall to put it in and Billy unrolled the thing and spread it out on the dining table. Then he turned the torch on the painting. And everything stopped.
A pear tree stood in the middle of a canvas as big as a widescreen telly – the leaves a mixture of delicate greens and dark blue, tinged with purple; the sky a riot of vermillion, ultramarine and gold as the sun set. And in the branches a single pear glistened. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.
He was still standing there, mouth hanging open like a total mong, when Twitch shuffled into the room. ‘What the flying fuck on a bike’s taking you so long, Fatwad? And are those candlesticks gold, ’cause I’m having them if they are!’
Slowly Billy came back to earth. The mood was ruined, but the painting still called to him like it was wired right into his bloodstream: like the first joint of the day, or an armful of smack. . . No wonder Dillon was willing to write off their debt. According to the little brass plaque on the ornate gilded frame, this was ‘THE PEAR TREE BY CLAUDE OSCAR MONET – 1907’. Thirteen grand? This had to be worth millions.
Billy reached out and lifted the painting off its hook, not even daring to breathe as he lowered it into the unfurled holdall. It almost hurt to zip it up.
There was a clink from the sideboard. ‘Now that’s more like it!’ Twitch stood up, clutching four bottles: Bombay Sapphire, Smirnoff, Talisker, and Courvoisier, wiggling his hips. ‘We’re on the bevy tonight.’ He gyrated to a halt. ‘What? You look like someone’s crapped in your porridge.’
‘Nothin’.’ Billy picked up the holdall, clenched his jaw, ground his teeth. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ It wasn’t fair – why should Dillon get the painting? What the hell did he know about art? Nothing, that’s what. Sweet bugger all. Dillon wouldn’t have a clue how to appreciate something that beautiful. Dillon was a wanker with a line in drugs and violence. Billy had a GCSE in art – got a ‘B’ too – by rights the painting should be his.
He followed Twitch out into the hallway. Yeah: should be his. . .
Suppose he just kept it? Suppose Dillon didn’t get the real painting, suppose Dillon got a fake instead? Billy’s sister Susan fancied herself as a bit of an artist, she was always doing those ‘paint by numbers’ things.
Nah, it was a shite plan. That picture she did of some penguins looked more like vultures in dinner jackets. She’d just screw it up. Susan was stupid.
The television was still blaring away as they passed the huge Christmas tree – Twitch helped himself to a couple of the presents underneath it, slipping them into his backpack.
Maybe. . . Maybe Dillon could have an accident? A smile split across Billy’s face. Yeah, Dillon has an ‘accident’, their thirteen grand debt suddenly disappears, and Billy gets to keep Monet’s The Pear Tree. Put it up on his bedroom wall, smoke some weed and look at the colours. Sweet.
He followed Twitch up the stairs. What kind of accident should Dillon have: car crash? Down the stairs? Back of the head caved in with a claw hammer? Claw hammer was probably best, that way Billy could just nip around to Dillon’s flat, pretend to hand over the picture . . . and BANG! Soon as his back’s turned. Maybe there’d even be some stuff lying about? Big bag of weed and a wad of-
A plummy, public-school voice bellowed out from the foot of the stairs. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Twitch Froze. ‘Fuck!’ Then they legged it, hammering up the stairs two at a time.
The old bastard ran after them. He was one of those smoking jacket and silvery hair types, but he could move. ‘Come back here!’
Billy nearly lost it on the last flight of stairs, but somehow managed to scrabble upright, bashing into the faded wallpaper, puffing and wheezing. Twitch screeched round the corner into the room with the stuffed black bear and the African masks.
A hand wrapped itself round Billy’s arm and he squealed, span round and flailed out a fist. Pain sparked across his knuckles and the old guy grunted. Falling back. Giving Billy just enough time to scarper through the door to the room they’d broken into, with all its boxes of junk. Billy shoved the stuffed bear, sending it clattering against the door. He leapt a cardboard box full of creepy china dolls and jumped for the window.
Bang!
He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wondering why everything hurt.
Bloody idiot: the painting’s frame was too big to go through the gap straight on.
The door rattled. Billy struggled with the large, painting-filled holdall, working it round onto the diagonal, easing it through the open window. ‘Andy!’
Twitch froze, halfway down the oak tree outside, glower-ing up at him, black eyes glittering in the Christmas lights. ‘Don’t use my real name!’
‘Catch!’ Billy swung the painting out and let go. It got halfway. There was a loud ripping sound as the holdall caught on a branch. A huge triangle of fabric tore free. The holdall dropped four feet, snagged on something, and hung there, swinging. The pear tree glowed through the jagged-edged hole, thirty foot over the frosty ground.
A loud thump from the hallway and the black bear lurched. BANG: it lurched again. One more time and the door crashed open. The old guy charged across the room. ‘Bring back my bloody laptop!’
Billy crawled out onto the ledge and jumped for the nearest branch, just as a hand grabbed his ankle. Caught half over the gap, Billy twisted, didn’t quite make it, banged his chin on the branch. He bit a big chunk out of his bottom lip; blood filled his mouth.
He scrabbled for purchase on the rough wood, but it was too late: he was falling, tangled up in the Christmas lights. The cold, thick, plastic wire wrapped around his throat. ‘Ullk!’
Billy’s fall came to a sudden halt, two storeys off the ground, legs kicking, jerking on the end of the electrical cable. Twisting. Spinning.
His chubby fingers clawed at the folds of fat on his neck. Can’t breathe. . . Get the wire off. . . Oh God, oh God, oh God. . . CAN’T BREATHE.