Reflections on the Great Works of Linthorpe

You probably haven’t heard of Norman Linthorpe. It would be something of a surprise if you had as his brief spell of fame at the turn of the century disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. He was the child of a well connected Doctor and the daughter of a minor member of the nobility. He was well educated, had read Chemistry at Bath University and taken a well paid job at a well established company in Manchester working on cynanides as a bi-product of the tar refining industry. His family had gifted him a very pleasant townhouse in the developing city of Salford And. He was able to employ a kindly housekeeper who he began to see as a surrogate grandmother. He was very popular unsuccessful in his career and was endlessly harassed by his mother to find himself a good wife. He wasn’t completely opposed to this idea but was opposed to the endless dinner engagements. He was expected to join when he returned to the family home where he would be introduced to numerous very pleasant young women none of whom he hit it off with.

The great joy of Norman Lynn Thorpe life was his artwork. He had created a studio in what should have been the drawing room of his home and spent any spare moment working on his paintings of local views. At weekends he would travel up into the Moors to sketch the fantastic scenes around before returning home to turn them into very impressive but unoriginal landscapes in oil. They were beautiful and showed his undoubted talent but lacked significantly the unique qualities that would make him stand out as anything more than a very good artist. His occasional house guests would all express their admiration for his abilities and would gratefully accept the paintings he gave away as gifts but Norman knew there was something missing. He just could not see what.

After weeks of consideration Norman decided he needed to speak to other artists to discuss his work and perhaps his style. He spent time inquiring about the best place to do this and eventually he was directed to the Manchester Athenaeum and in particular its Coffee Room. If anywhere, he was informed, here was the place he would find someone who might be able to help him find what he was looking for.

He excused himself from his work early claiming he had an important lecture to attend on the newest application of a particular valve configuration which increased yield. This was not entirely untrue, but he was well aware that he had excused himself far too early for the lecture and was planning on this two hour shortfall to visit the Athenaeum Coffee house. He did not know what to expect but was not disappointed on what he found. When he arrived in the grand room which itself was in the evening grander building he saw clusters of serious faced artists deep in discussion with each other. He ordered his drink and looked around wondering where he should position himself when he noticed in a quiet corner an older gentleman sitting alone looking toward him.

Norman collected his cup and walked over to the man who was now gesturing for him to join him and sit down.

“Hello, my name is Norman Linthorpe, may I join you?” He said extending his hand Which was grasped and shaken vigorously by the older gentleman.

“Yes, please do, sit, sit. I could do with some normal company here. There’s too much over complicated, self important artist waffle in here. Are you an artist Mr Linthorpe?”

Norman paused for a moment and considered his answer carefully.

“I paint a little in my spare time, but I suppose to be an artist you have to create art.”

There was a moment of silence as the old man looked at Norman and took a deep breath.

“But Mr Linthorpe, what is art? Why aren’t your paintings art?”

“Well they look like the things they are supposed to, but that’s it really. They show

Proficiency but lack something.”

“They lack you Mr Linthorpe, you must pour yourself into your work, it needs to be uniquely yours.” He replied with a glint in his eyes which showed years of appreciation of the arts.

“Where does it come from? How do I do it?” Norman said with just the slightest hint of desperation to his voice.

The old man paused again and thought deeply to himself as if he was dredging far into his memory.

“I will admit, this is the hardest part of being a creative soul. Every artist will eventually find their own way. You will find yours, it may be through longing, or love, or loss. You look through your scene and pull that back through to the front of your creation. What do you paint?”

“Landscapes, scenes, that sort of thing.”

A smile crept over the older man’s face.

“Marvellous. It will be far easier for you to make a story from a landscape. That’s what you need to do to build the essence of your art. Oh and to help,” he thrust his hand into his inside breast pocket And brought out a bundle of paintbrushes and pencils. He studied them carefully before he selected one of the brushes and held it out towards Norman.

“Here, this will help. Every time you paint a picture use this brush and remember this conversation.”

Norman held out his hand and looked down at the simple paintbrush that had been placed in it.

“Right Mr Linthorpe. I’ll be off,” he said with a smile as he replaced the brushes in his pocket and climbed to his feet. Norman stood too and held his hand out, the two men shook and stood in admiration of each other for a moment before Linthorpe returned to his seat and his coffee and the older gentleman made his way out of the coffee house.

The following weekend Norman owned the door to the room he embarrassedly referred to as his studio and flicked through some of his sketches. Which one spoke to him, which one told a tale. He selected one and placed it alongside the canvas he had prepared especially. He lined his brushes up, opened his box of paints and took out a pencil to start shaping his new work.

The early stages were slow going, he couldn’t quite see the story to pull through. He sketched and resketched most of the morning and as the golden lines of the sun began to scatter across the floor Norman put down his pencil and picked up his brushes. He scrutinised each one until he decided on one, the one his new friend had given him. He stepped back, surveyed his canvas and then with a wild flurry attacked it with great vigour.

Norman was filled with a passionate fury of inspiration and energy. He barely paused as the light left the room. The housekeeper illuminated the room and brought supper which he was uncharacteristically dismissive about so engrossed was he in the work he was doing. By 11 he was exhausted and he retired to his bed, not even taking the time to change or wash. He was up again working from 6am that Sunday morning. By midday the promise of a beef dinner tempted him downstairs but he was preoccupied throughout and worked on till sunset by which point he stepped back and collapsed in a heap on an armchair on the opposite side of the room. It was complete.

Mrs Simpson came into the room soon after with a pot of tea and a slice of a freshly made cake which she carefully set out on a side table next to Norman.

“How are you getting on Mr Linthorpe? Do you want me to do the lights for you?”

Norman offered a tired smile.

“No thank you Mrs Simpson, I’m going to head downstairs in just a moment. I’m having a brief rest, it’s been quite the process.”

“Are you finished sir?”

“Yes, indeed Mrs Simpson, please have a look.”

The kindly housekeeper turned with her tray still in hand and looked at the painting in front of her. It was a landscape, much like the ones she had seen him paint before. The weather in this one was possibly a little more stormy than most he had painted and the colours less light and vibrant but she could see the similarities. The one thing that stood out to her as different was in this painting unlike the others was that here, Norman had included a figure. It wasn’t in the foreground but was not far enough in the background to be ignored. Its face couldn’t really be made out but its body shape implied some sort of distress or anguish.

“Go on Mrs Simpson, what do you think, and I implore you be honest I do value your opinion.”

The housekeeper did not speak but allowed her eyes to plot the wide expanse of the moors on the canvas in front of her. When she finally broke her silence she was measured and considered in her response.

“It’s an absolutely wonderful painting sir, it really is. I can imagine it in one of the grandest houses in the country it is that good sir. But it’s not for me.”

Norman smiled, he enjoyed the praise but was more than a little intrigued by her candour.

“Thank you, might I ask what it is that you dislike?”

“Well sir, it’s so sad. It’s dark and gloomy and that poor fellow there well he looks in all sorts of trouble and he knows it. It just seems a very sad story Mr Linthorpe. But as I say, it’s jolly good.”

Norman smiled, clapped his hands and leaped from his seat. He rushed over to his startled housekeeper and wrapped her in an excitable embrace.

“Thank you Mrs Simpson, that is a symphony to my very tired soul. You have just seen everything in my painting I wanted you to see. It is a sad story. I had intended you to see that.”

Then he stopped for a moment as if he had only just processed what had been said properly. He turned and looked at his painting. He stepped towards it and took a closer look.

“My word. I was so engrossed in my painting I didn’t even realise I had included a figure. But there it is. How odd.”

“Do you want me to take the cake and tea to the sitting room sir?”

“No thank you Mrs Simpson. I’ll have it here and be down with you shortly.”

The housekeeper left the room and shut the door behind her as Linthorpe stood back and looked at his painting. This must have been what the old artist in the coffee house had meant. In his creative fervour he had poured a story out without meaning to show so much. In doing so he had somehow lost his deliberate control and handed over to his creative subconscious. The result was so much more meaningful even if he was slightly unnerved by his lack of memory.

He finished the tea and cake and made his way downstairs to his warm and comfortable sitting room. Within a few minutes he was fast asleep. He stayed there until Mrs Simpson came in to tidy the room. She was surprised to find him still there. She woke him Gently and he groggily made his way up the stairs to his bedroom.

For the first time since he had started his career Norman became impatient at work, desperate for the weekend to come around so he could work on his next painting. When Saturday came around he was itching to get to work However he had promised to work the first half of Saturday. The tar works opened on a Saturday morning and generally Norman was not expected to be there but there was a delegation coming from Germany the following week and he had agreed to ensure things were ready for them. He went through the motions to midday and then flew out of the building before striding purposefully home.

As he made his way through the busy narrow streets of the industrial northern city he stopped. This was it. This was his new painting. He took his pocket book out and began sketching. He stood for nearly half an hour as the residents of the surrounding streets bustled past him. When he was happy with his plans Norman slipped the book and pencil into his inside breast pocket and continued his way home. Mrs Simpson was waiting with a hearty lunch which he enjoyed before heading up to his canvas.

Once he had sketched out his initial plan Norman wasted no time in choosing his brushes. Again he opted for the brush he had been gifted in the hopes it could continue his inspiration. Like before once he began the momentum was remarkable. The scene built quickly. The view was from the top of a long straight terraced road that sloped slowly down a hill. As the cobbled road fell away the grey belching chimneys of the city behind rose and behind that in the distance the open freedom of the green hills stretched across the back of the scene.

Norman worked all of the rest of the day and all of Sunday only stopping briefly to take the food and drinks he had asked Mrs Simpson to bring up for him. Again he managed to complete his work as the sun began to fall on the end of Sunday and he stepped back to observe his efforts. It was superb. By far the best thing he had produced to date. There was an incredible sense that of a murky claustrophobia in the foreground as the terraced houses closed over like the tees along a country road at night. The road Moved through what appeared to be a rainstorm and the cobbles had been expertly crafted to look wet. The overall atmosphere was dark, like a wet winter’s day and the glimpses of light that came from the windows of the gloomy houses hurried away down the hill leapfrogging from stone to stone. It was a more technically competent piece than any before and as he surveyed his efforts he drank in the beauty of his craft. He was about to call up Mrs Simpson to try and get her attention when he stopped and looked hard at the painting.

What was it?

He hadn’t remembered putting a figure in his painting but there was one. Walking up the street towards the houses at the front. It looked similar to the one in his last painting but now he could see a little more. The features weren’t quite clear but he could tell it was a man, the man had a shaved head and appeared to be wearing some kind of overalls. Norman looked at the painting. Yes he could not remember painting the figure but somehow he must have as it was this figure that the whole story of the scene seemed to rest on. He lingered looking deeply into his greatest creation before heading out of the room to ready himself for bed.

Over the next few weeks the pattern remained the same, Norman would spend the weekend toiling over a new masterpiece, he would finish and then realise he had included a figure he did not remember painting but that figure was the core to the soul of the image. It was always the same figure, just out of clear view but enough to evoke some feeling of melancholy that created a strong sense of story to each picture. It was after a month of his disappearance from his small social circle that one of his more persistent acquaintances chose to call at his house.

Arthur Galvin was a young doctor who Norman had met at university and they had both found themselves moving to the industrial north to find their fortunes. One Saturday afternoon he decided that he would encourage his absent friend to join him for supper. When he arrived at Norman’s house Mrs Simpson let him in and took him up to see the busy artist.

“Norman, goodness I knew you enjoyed your painting but I hadn’t realised you took it so seriously. You’re a regular bloody Turner. Look at you covered in paint.”

Surprised to hear a voice in his room Norman span on his heel and looked in shock at his friend who by this point was no longer looking at Norman but was staring at the large collection of completed paintings scattered around the room.

“Norman, are these all yours? They are incredible. Honestly man, I can see why we’ve not seen you. Gracious old boy your a genius.”

Norman seemed to snap out of his focus and returned to the room.

“Arthur, what a surprise, thank you, yes, but genius. No old man. Just a hobbyist really.”

Arthur didn’t reply, he was too busy walking around the room looking at each painting, he was utterly engrossed in them. Once he had looked at them all he turned and looked at his friend.

“I’m telling you Norman, I’m not just flattering you here, these are outstanding paintings. They need to be seen. Let me speak to Angus, his uncle owns a gallery in town he would fall over himself to show these. What do you think?”

Norman hadn’t really registered what had been said and clumsily replied in the affirmative without thinking much about what this meant. However he was out of his artistic flow and headed downstairs with his friend for afternoon tea and conversation. Supper was arranged for the following evening and Arthur left and Norman returned to his work.

His latest painting completed Norman happily made his way to the club to join Arthur for the planned meal and for an hour he was delighted to enjoy the company of his friend. As they relaxed over a brandy and cigarette Arthur jumped up from his seat.

“What unbelievable good fortune. Norman look who it is.”

Arthur strode across the room towards the door where two impeccably dressed gentlemen were standing. He spoke briefly to them and all three looked over at Norman before they began to make their way over to him. Norman stood as they approached and found his hand quickly taken by the elder of the men.

“Good Evening to you Mr Linthorpe. You seem to have created something of a stir with young Arthur here. He has been telling everyone he knows about your paintings and I have to be honest I am really rather intrigued. I have a small gallery and I was wondering if I could come and have a look at your work?”

Norman was taken aback by this but after more conversation and more brandy Norman was disarmed enough to agree that they could all retire for one final drink to his house where they could all view his paintings. Within seconds of entering The studio the room became a tornado of excitement and enthusiasm. The gallery owner could barely contain his joy at making such an unexpected discovery.

“Mr Linthorpe I absolutely must exhibit your work. Please I will make all the arrangements. I can have my men here tomorrow to collect them and oh good god when can I get the thing done. Two weeks. I’ll have you exhibited in two weeks.”

Norman couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing and swept away by the energy in the room he agreed and had his hand shaken vigorously before a final drink was taken and the three men left him in his home and disappeared onto the night.

Norman had little to do with the preparations for the exhibition but he could not fail to see the buzz that had been created by Mr Loughton the Gallery owner. He had made some really quite embarrassing comparisons which made Norman reasonably uncomfortable and while flattered he excused himself from the opening of the exhibition wishing to make his own way around it as anonymously as possible.

The exhibition had opened on the Friday evening and it wasn’t until the following Saturday that Norman slipped into the gallery. He quietly around the room, shocked at how his paintings looked in these beautiful surroundings. He was making to leave when he heard a familiar voice behind him, it was the gallery owner beaming at him.

“Norman, so delighted to see you, what an exhibition, your work is magnificent.”

“Thank you.” Norman replied unsure of how he should react.

“We have had offers for your work.”

“Offers, for which one?”

Mr Loughton chuckled.

“All of them, multiple offers for each and every one. Oh and there are dozens of letters of commission here too. You are a star in the making Mr Linthorpe. They are publishing a review in the Manchester Guardian at some point this week.”

Norman was stunned, it had all happened so fast, he had dreamed of being a better artist but this was so far beyond anything he could have imagined. He thanked Mr Loughton and staggered back towards his home.

The week continued much as any other, however the Thursday edition of the Manchester Guardian newspaper arrived on his work desk under the steam of his employer. He very quickly offered a healthy commission but insisted he got one of his “little chaps” in the picture. Norman smiled, laughed and promised he would get onto it. The recurrence of comments about the characters in his paintings was beginning to become somewhat frustrating, particularly as he never quite remembered having painted them. To compound this, it was always the same person and it was someone who just didn’t seem familiar to him. They were bald and though lacking in detail they were clearly not a happy figure. Their disquiet seemed to offer emotional depth to the scenes they would otherwise blandly describe.

Norman sat with a cup of tea for his mid afternoon break and opened the newspaper. His curiosity had gotten the better of him and he flicked straight to the review. He read ravenously and savoured every overwhelmingly praise filled line. He gorged on treats like “a potential new master” and “unique storytelling” but one section caught in his throat and nearly choked him. “The monstrous linking figure that lurks in each picture is the true star and soon no collection will be worth owning without him.” The person, it was as important to his new found success and he had no idea how he had been including it. Norman felt a hint of resentment towards this mysterious character who was sharing his limelight. It was at this point he resolved to paint something new and this time not include the figure.

That weekend he began his new project. He had saved a sketch for over a year. He had never felt quite ready to use it but with his morale high he thought it was time. During a trip to see his parents he had joined them on a trip to see Glastonbury Tor. He had sketched it from the guest house window at nightfall and the vivid colours of the disappearing sunset and the blue black night had stuck with him. He would create it now.

He rose early on Saturday morning and began work, by lunchtime much of the structure and setting was done. He knew it was heading towards being another great effort and happily left it to get the meal Mrs Simpson had set out for him. When he returned he worked solidly for another couple of hours building the colours carefully to try and capture that dramatic moment where day was becoming night and the tower on the top of the hill appeared to pierce the sky through it. It was gradually becoming the picture he had imagined.

At three o clock Mrs Simpson came in with a pot of tea and some sandwiches and placed them on the table. Norman turned and greeted her.

“Thank you Mrs Simpson. What do you think about this one?”

She looked at it and thought for a moment.

“It’s very good, and I know I’m not an expert on these things, but I preferred your paintings before you started putting the man in. I think he’s a bit scary if I’m honest.”

“That’s why he’s not in this one Mrs Simpson.” Norman replied.

“Yes he is sir, there down at the front beside the tree just behind the gate.”

Norman’s head flicked round and his body followed as he dashed back over to his painting. Sure enough there it was. The figure was standing exactly where Mrs Simpson had described its blurred but clearly haunted face staring out at him. He was horrified. He knew he hadn’t painted it, he would have remembered and he was so determined not to do it. He took a deep breath and turned to his housekeeper.

“I think you’re right. I’ll get rid of him.”

Once he was alone again in the room Norman prowled around in front of the painting. How had he painted it without realising, what was going on with him when he got into a creative flow. He pondered for a while before grabbing his brushes and beginning the process of painting it out.

By the time he felt ready to head to bed Norman stepped back and admired his work. It was almost exactly as he had imagined it would be. There was work to do the following day but he was happy with his excellent progress, and of course the lack of the figure now. He turned of the light and shut the door before heading to the sitting room for one last cup of tea.

Norman rose early on Sunday morning, his ambitions to complete his painting too much for him to linger in bed. He was up before Mrs Simpson and in order to not wake his kindly housekeeper do she would not feel compelled to get up to start making breakfast he crept to the studio. Inside the sun was filling the room with a warm orange glow and the colours of the painting warmed more in the golden light. Norman only took one step into the room when he saw it. It was back. He knew he had not painted it, but there it was aimlessly looking back. The hideous creature.

Quickly he picked up his brushes and painted it away. Once he had done it he walked away but no sooner than he turned his back his efforts to remove it had proved fruitless as the figure with its crudely shaven head and mournful eyes looked back out at him. The battle persisted for the entire day, Norman painting the picture clear of the beast and it returning in exactly the same place by the time he was struggling to see through the dim gaslight in the room, exhausted he hurled the painting across the floor in a frustrated rage before storming out into the street. He looked at the darkening sky and released his anger with a bestial roar. It momentarily calmed him and he returned to his house where Mrs Simpson had a light supper prepared. She said nothing about the outburst, or the noises she had heard throughout the day and continued with her tasks while Norman silently took his tea and supper staring mindlessly into the air.

Norman spent the rest of the next week trying hard to focus while at work but then coming home and painting picture after picture. He created rural landscapes, urban scenes, even still life pictures working long into the night. Every time he was finished he would walk away hoping that what he had painted would have remained untouched but every time he revisited the picture had the stranger back in the scene somewhere. He began spending more and more time in the studio and after a few weeks the evenings turned into nights and then days. The first day he missed work Mrs Simpson, who had been quietly watching her employer’s descent without comment decided she should act and excused herself under the pretence of a trip to the grocers to find Dr Galvin. She informed the young Doctor of his friend’s situation and was relieved to hear him say he would drop in under the guise of inviting him for supper.

By the time Arthur had arrived at Norman’s front door the studio had seen another painting completed then discarded into the hallway. He climbed up the stairs walking past pictures leaning up against the wall all the way up the stairway and along the hallway. He stopped and looked at them all, they were magnificent each better than the last. He knocked on the studio door to which he got no reply bit he could hear noise from within. He knocked a second time and on getting no reply he decided he would go in. Arthur carefully pushed the door open to find his friend frantically pacing around the room. His usual smart appearance replaced by a chaotic, dishevelled look. He continued and stepped into the room Norman oblivious to his presence.

“Norman. Norman. How are you old chap?”

Norman stopped as if being rudely awoken from a beautiful dream but he stood not looking at his friend.

“Hello, yes. Hello. I’m. Yes.”

“Norman are you well? I came to invite you to supper tomorrow evening.”

“Err supper. Tomorrow. I’m not sure. Let me. Umm.” Norman’s rapid distracted manner becoming more noticeable.

“Norman. Are you quite well. You don’t seem your usual self old man.”

“Yes well. I’m struggling with my art. It’s. It’s. Hmmm. It’s always there you see Arthur. Always there.”

“What is?”

“That. Him. It. Always there.”

“Your paintings are all over. They are brilliant.”

“But I can’t paint without him. He is always there.”

It was at this point he turned and faced the doctor and the full extent of his wildness was clear. His wide eyes were red, his hair ragged and his unshaven face caked in paint.

“Can I help you old boy. What can I do?”

“Get rid of those paintings. Burn them. Just get them out of my sight.”

“But Norman dear fellow they are wonderful.”

At this point Norman stepped right up to his friend and for the first time he saw genuine fear in his friend’s eyes. Norman put his face as close as he could to Arthur and whispered.

“But he’s in them all and he won’t go away.”

Alarmed by what he was seeing Arthur resolved to leave his friend for now but return the following day to check up on him. He bid Norman farewell and collected as many of the paintings around the studio as he could and placed them outside at the top of the hallway. As he picked them up he noticed how good each one was but also he could see the figure in them all.

As he left he instructed Mrs Simpson to collect all of the paintings and have them ready to be collected the following day and that he would visit again. She promised it would all be done and Arthur left thanking the housekeeper for her diligence and kindness.

As planned the pictures were collected from Norman’s house during the day and Arthur visited the following evening. He found his friend again in an agitated state and more paintings strewn around the studio.

“Norman my good man. You must eat, Mrs Simpson says you haven’t left here, you’ve not been to work. Heavens man you must look after yourself.”

Norman span around from the picture he was working on and while looking intensely at Arthur began stabbing back at the painting manically.

“But he’s is there and I can’t rid myself of him.”

Arthur looked at the painting. It was more abstract than his other work but the detail was in the character. He stared out his haunted eyes red and fearful, the hands grasping at the ears as if there were some awful noise and the scars on the badly shave head now more noticeable. The creature’s thin almost skeletal frame stripped to the waist leant out of the picture towards the viewer but still did not distract from the beauty of the painting.

“Come. Take supper with me. If not out I am sure Mrs Simpson can rustle something up.”

Norman snapped back into his normal self for a moment and thanked his friend but declined and asked that he be left alone but requested that the paintings were removed.

Arthur agreed and made his way out.

The next week continued in the same vein. Pictures being collected up and taken away but a Norman never leaving his room Arthur checked on him every couple of days and trying to get some sense into his increasingly frail looking friend. After a week there was a change to this pattern as along with the paintings leaving the house, the cheques began arriving. Norman Linthorpe Paintings were the most popular amongst those in the know and with every batch that left the house there were buyers ready and waiting to pick them up. It mattered little to Norman as he had no concept of anything that was happening beyond his canvas. He was unaware of his having lost his job, or that he had little need of it now he had the riches his paintings had generated. Norman didn’t care about anything any more, he had locked himself in his studio and not even Arthur got in to see him.

After a month the doctor decided that enough was enough. He contacted a colleague he knew from university who was an expert in disorders of the mind and asked him to join him. After discussion the decision was made that Dr Upham would come along with two of his orderlies and should there be a need they would take Norman to his hospital for further examination. When the four men arrived they were gratefully welcomed by a concerned looking Mrs Simpson.

“Oh Doctor I’m so pleased you’ve come. He’s gone all quiet. I’ve not heard anything from that room for two days now.”

Arthur consoled the housekeeper and dashed up the stairs. He thumped on the door vigorously.

“Norman. Norman. Are you there Norman?”

There was no reply. He put his ear to the door and strained to hear but there was nothing. He looked back at his colleague and shook his head. Without needing to say any more he stood up and stepped back to allow one of the large orderlies to barge through the door using his shoulder. In one attempted the lock was smashed and the door flew open to a shocking scene. The studio was a wreck. The room had been pulled apart with furniture and paintings strewn around. In the centre was the great artist kneeling on the ground. Stripped to the waist and half-starved he was clawing at his ears and rocking backwards and forwards mumbling to himself. Most shockingly was his head. His hair was gone, cut away crudely leaving no hair but large scars where the inappropriate scissors had been used to remove his hair.

When the orderlies moved over to lift him up he did not resist. He simply allowed his weak frame to be transported out of the room. He did not look up as he was carried away and down the stairs. As he reached the doorway he walked past a sobbing Mrs Simpson who he didn’t have the energy to even smile at.

As he was led to the waiting carriage his head bowed he looked at the rain soaked path then into a puddle. Suddenly he screamed as he looked into the puddle and in the reflection he saw the shaven head and the haunted red eyes of the creature from his paintings.