TRIANGLE

Art for art’s sake?

The white cube’s sterile tranquillity gave no clue of the impending violence. Lucien took the programme for this Sloane Square gallery to orient himself. The white rooms serially displayed cutting edge art. Very different from the place he’d visited the last time he’d received private tickets. That had been a rather grim gallery the size and appearance of a newsagent’s, somewhere out west — Graffiti art, decomposing artefacts on the floor and rats running free as part of the installation. 

Not this time. It was clean pictures on clean walls in a gallery which Lucien had pretty much to himself. He looked towards the white space between the hanging pictures.

Pristine. 

Then he noticed it from the corner of his eye. A fragile red line was arcing across the wall. A second line appeared as he looked at it. Then he felt it. The knife had done serious damage.  

Then he felt nothing.

Outside, November graphite skies, gentle rain. A quiet, smartly dressed woman slowly left the gallery, flicked her umbrella up and walked across to a modern metallic BMW. The driver clicked the locks, she climbed into the back seat, and the vehicle slipped into the heavy traffic. 

Hours later, across town, Jake Lambers was walking to the pub. He’d had a tough day. The boss had torn him off a strip about the expenses from his recent trip to Liverpool. He’d been trying to get “an exclusive” with a singer who was supposed to be “seeing” a footballer. It would have made an excellent insider piece, but the trip was doomed because he’d received incorrect information. Instead, he’d made the best of a lousy job in a lively city with a great nightlife. The expenses had only just arrived and, upon reflection, seemed excessive, mainly because there was no story. So now he was going to meet Bigsy and Clare to drown his sorrows.   

The pub in Westminster was buzzing. There were no tables and pretty much a mob standing by the bar. It was early evening, and the local offices had tipped out into the neighbourhood, and the inevitable ‘one before the train’ ritual was in full flood.  

“Jake, Jake – here!” called Bigsy – whose real name was Dave Barlow but had adopted Bigsy on account of his size and didn’t mind this affectionate but somewhat politically incorrect nickname. 

Bigsy had commandeered a prime corner spot at the bar and standing with him was Clare. They were well into their second drinks of the early evening. Bigsy had spotted Jake the moment he’d entered the bar in customary journalist semi-smart clothing, dark jacket and an open-necked white shirt. 

“Can dress it up or dress it down”, Jake had once explained. Bigsy was pleased to see Jake; he, Clare and Jake were the nuclei of a gang of friends who often met and attended many social functions together.  

“Let’s go to the Crown,” said Bigsy, “this place is heaving!” As he spoke, Jake’s phone rang – he knew it rang because it vibrated – you couldn’t hear the phone above the pub noise.  

“Just a minute,” called Jake as he reversed out of the side door of the pub, back onto the busy street near Westminster tube. Only then did he notice the number – Mark, one of his other drinking buddies.

“Jake, it’s Mark. Have you heard already? We’ve just been called about Lucien. He’s been killed, at an art gallery.”

Heavy traffic was passing, mainly a stream of buses and taxis. Jake couldn’t take in this conversation. Was he hearing it badly because of the traffic or was it a wind up?  

“Mark – are you pissed? This doesn’t make sense!”