The White of the Canvas
by Richie Billing
part 1
The clop of heels and wooden-soled shoes echoed off the looming buildings of Basnett Street. An autumnal wind sighed over the din of voices, bringing a chill that cut to the marrow. Some of the hunched forms looked my way. Never for long.
Silence, at last. I stood, slabs of ice where my feet should be. The shadows of the alley offered sanctuary. Deep into the gloom, I found the basement window, boxes shielding it unmoved. After a last glance over my shoulder, I shoved them out the way and slipped inside.
Mist billowed from my mouth more so than outside. The smell of rot seemed worse than usual. Dark as Williamson Tunnels, I fumbled about for the palm-sized torch I’d found outside the grand office of a law firm on Old Hall Street. It emitted a dim, flickering glow. Even without the torch, I knew my way. Three weeks I’d been here. It still made me smile, living in the George Henry Lees building. The place I used to come shopping with Mum when I was a kid.
It had all happened by chance. One night as I passed the boarded-up building, I noticed workers loading a van at the top of the alley beside it. I’d slipped through a side door and hidden when they weren’t looking. A warm, dry night was all I was after, but nobody had returned. I had it all to myself: an empty palace.
I left the basement, made my way up what had once been the staff staircase. I glanced at the door leading to the ground level shop floor... and froze. Light. I clicked off the torch. Held my breath. Rushed to the wall closest the door and ducked down behind it.
One of the first things I’d tried when I moved in was the light switches. None had worked, including this one. Could someone else be in here?
A look through the tiny windows of the doors revealed nothing. I pushed them open, winced as the creak shattered the silence of the room. Moving at a crouch, I reached the nearest shelving unit and, after a deep breath, peered into the open space beyond. Empty as my stomach. I held position, my breath too, and watched and waited to see if anyone revealed themselves by sight or sound. Satisfied I was alone, I sighed, stood and regarded the lights. What had made them come back on?
On my way to the room that had become my own — a back office on the top floor — I tried other switches. Some worked, some didn’t. The power, it seemed, had been switched on. This ought to be good news; no longer did I have to sit in darkness, living by the light of torches. Instead, unease churned in my stomach. It meant something, and I wasn’t sure what.
* * *
The thud of a hammer woke me. It was at the edge of my hearing, travelling up from downstairs. I checked the windows. The ledge was too broad to see the alley below. Hide or investigate? Curiosity won.
I went barefoot, boots too clunky. The hammering grew in volume as I neared the shop floor, and when it faded, another more distant strike filled the silence. Had the workmen returned? Panic consumed me. I didn’t want to give up this place. Here I had some level of comfort, a comfort I’d sought for a long time. They would take it away. Maybe do worse. I’d heard stories of people paid to make squatters disappear. Few people ever asked questions about the forgotten.
I inched open the door to the shop floor. In the heart of the room was an opening that stretched all the way to the basement. A staircase joined each storey. I peered over the edge and immediately pulled back. A group of people were gathered in the basement. Five in all. Men and women, mid-twenties, early thirties, around my own age. They were darting about like frenzied ants, pointing at things I could not see. They laughed and joked, slapped each other’s backs. They seemed happy. I wanted to know why.
I descended another floor. The hammering reached its loudest, seemingly coming from the floor below, but off in another room, toward the main entrance, perhaps. I peered down at the group, now in a huddle. What were they up to, these unwitting invaders of my domain? They seemed to be planning something, but what?
I could hear the murmurs of their voices, punctuated by the bangs. I edged along the railing, hoping to catch a few words. My foot struck an old metal fitting. Before I realised, it had skidded off the edge. Time slowed. The metal twisted and turned in the air. The thought of it hitting one of those below stopped my heart. I dived away from the railing.
Cries sounded. Hammering ceased.
“What was that?!” I heard a woman say.
“Came from up there,” a deep-voiced man said.
“Who’s up there?” another man asked with a well-spoken accent.
The pause after the question was longer than I’d have liked.
“No one. The place is just falling down,” said another girl. They laughed.
I didn’t find it funny. What were they going to do to my palace?
“Everyone all right?” a voice shouted in a thick Scouse accent, louder than the others; he was on the floor below me. One of the workmen. Those in the basement shouted up what had happened.
“Want me to check?” the workman asked, his words like a cold knife through my heart. I scampered away, back to my room. The rest of the afternoon I spent with my ear to the door, looking through the keyhole, waiting for the workman to find me.
At some point, I fell asleep. A crescent moon was shining through the window when I awoke. I checked my Casio: 00:32. The sight brought me fully awake. I couldn’t recall what time I’d fallen asleep but cursed myself for doing so. I’d missed my opportunity. Tesco chucked out the good stuff at midnight. It would all be gone by now. My stomach grumbled.
Pins and needles rushed up my numbed legs when I tried to stand. It took me a few painful minutes and pathetic attempts to get back to my feet. I clambered onto the window ledge, back against the wall, and stared out at the night sky.
The stars brought back a memory of the Christmas I’d asked Mum for a telescope. Instead, she bought me binoculars. I’d thrown a tantrum, tossed the binoculars at the wall. When later I went to apologise, I found Mum with head in hands, crying.
Guilt racked my chest. Am I a bad person? Do I deserve this? I wish I could see her. Wish I could say sorry.
* * *
The raucous cry of a seagull blurted down my ear. I fell off the window ledge, landed in a heap of aches and pains. The seagull stood over me on the other side of the pane, wings spread. It threw back its head and unleashed another string of choking cries, so like mocking laughter. I didn’t mind the gulls. They knew how to survive and, as a fellow survivor, I admired them. I checked my watch: 07:37.
I brushed my teeth. Morning ritual. Mum had pestered me so much about it growing up that it felt wrong not to do it. After packing my bag for the day ahead I left the safety of my room for the basement, hoping to make it out before the workmen and young people returned, if they did at all. I hoped not. I took the steps two at a time. A clang of metal drifted up from below. I darted to the closest window. In the alley, a red van with ladders stacked upon it was parked up, a couple of men unloading things from the back. My heart sank. Trapped again.
The hours passed slowly in my little room. Hunger grew with each one. So, too, resentment of the invaders. Rain fell in angled sheets outside, spraying the windows like a car wash. At least I was dry, unlike the gulls bunched together on the ledge outside. I pitied them, but not enough to let them inside.
At 5:00 pm, after battling with hesitancy, I left the room to see if they were still there. When I could not hear anything below, hope grew in my chest like fire catching kindling. The lights were still on, though. I peered over the railing. Pulled back right away. In the basement, pairs of men and women carried square packages with great care. Others stripped the cardboard once they set them down. Inside were paintings and pictures. I heard the whirr of a drill. One by one they hung them up.
A frown had taken up residence on my face. Of all the things to invade my palace and potentially force me out: art. I slunk away to my room, returning every half hour to see if they had left. At 11:30 pm, they were still there. I resolved to curl up beside the shop floor railing, pressing my knees into my stomach to subdue the pain. I couldn’t stop biting my bottom lip, checking my watch.
They left at 12:45. Nothing remained when I arrived at Tesco. In the rain, I trudged to London Road, checked behind the pizza gaffs; sometimes they tossed away undelivered pizzas. I found a pineapple and mushroom. Untouched, lukewarm still. The smell set my mouth watering. I picked off the toppings, my least favourite of all; I could see why no-one wanted to eat it and almost swallowed each slice whole. I would have finished it, but decided to save some. I may get stuck again tomorrow.
With food in my stomach, I slept better, even dozed the next morning to the din of people in the street below. A noise cut through it. One I recognised: the creak of the stairwell door at the end of the corridor. I darted to my own door, pressed my ear against it.
“Bit creepy up here, isn’t it?” a man said.
“Post-apocalyptic,” a woman replied. “And it smells like arse.”
“Did they say we could use all these offices?”
“Would you want to?”
They opened doors, closed them, approaching my own. Footsteps neared, a gentle pat on the aged blue carpet. I looked around for anything to help sure up the door. Scraps of paper were all I could see. I grabbed the closest, folded it into a tight square, wedged it underneath, then leant against it with both hands, holding my breath in case they heard me. The handle turned. I pushed, felt force against me. The door didn’t move.
“This one’s locked,” the woman said.
“Wonder what’s inside. We’ll have to ask them for the key.”
“Do you really think they’ll have a key?” the woman said sarcastically. “Kick it in.”
“In these jeans? Some doors are best left closed.”
“Using philosophy to get out of work...” The voices trailed off, ended with the creak of the door. I sank to the ground and sighed.
* * *
I managed to get out before midnight. The haul was a good one, enough to last a couple of days: sandwiches, fruit, bread, sausage rolls, pies, crisps, even a few jam doughnuts. All unopened. It was incredible the amount of good things they threw away. As I trudged up the stairs from the basement, I began to wonder. What exactly were these artists doing?
I left my bag by the door to the ground level shop floor and stepped inside. The light of street lamps spilt in through windows high up, abating the murk. The main entrance was to my right, shutters down. The space had been completely cleared of shop furniture, the walls stripped to the plastic brackets once used for hanging rails. Upon the walls, I could see dark shapes, rectangular and square. I took out my torch, light dimmer than ever, and looked at the one closest.
Two pictures were hung beside each other. On the left, a black and white image of a priest delivering mass to a crowded room. On the right, a colour image of three Bibles stacked upon a table. I recognised the contemporary furniture: Salvation Army, I read below. The artist Tony Mallon.
I came to another two pictures. The black and white one showed a living room, armchairs bunched around a fireplace, bright sunlight pouring in through grand windows. A painting hanging on the wall. Flowers in a vase on the window sill. It looked homely, loving. Beside it, a colour picture of the corner of a room, red blinds pulled over the windows, blocking out brilliant sunshine. A TV hung on the wall and, above it, a turret-shaped security camera.
I’d stayed at Salvation Army hostels, the one in Tuebrook mostly. Not for a while now. I didn’t like them. I drank more when staying there. Maybe it was being around people who drank too. Living so close to other people didn’t make for a comfortable existence, either. I was just not used to it. Alone, life was easier.
I found it astounding to see the difference between the two images. Homeliness to surveillance. Love to mistrust. What had happened to people’s attitudes? How did they become so cynical? When my eyes left one picture, they moved to another, or back to one I’d previously gazed at.
Copyright © 2019 by Richie Billing
