Hi all! Last week we went to the zoo, this week we’re off to the museum for our flash fiction journey. Enjoy!
“Late sixteenth century. Maybe early seventeenth.”
I kept my head down and continued brushing. It was weird. The plaster was old, but the mould was new. I’d seen it before: an old treasure stored in poor conditions. Stolen. The saint, his finger on the open Bible, his gaze towards the heavens, life-size, gave me the creeps. Almost as much as Steve.
I knew him from College. He’d done well, financially. He never had many friends, which is probably why he contacted me for this restoration job. Working his way through his contacts. I’d change my number as soon as I’d finished. Steve was just off. It didn’t surprise me at all that he’d “found” this statue. I was doing internet research in the evenings. If I could find out where it was stolen from I was going to call the police. It didn’t make sense to pretend I didn’t know what was going on. Once it came out it would make me look as corrupt or as clueless as Steve.
I felt his eyes on me. “How are you coming along, Penny?” He always stood too close. “What do you think? Isn’t she a beauty?”
“Surprisingly complete,” I said.
“Right.” He walked around the statue. “I nearly got Richard for this job, you know? Good man.”
“How is he?”
“Oh, he’s good, I suppose. He couldn’t make it, said to give you a call. But what I’m saying is: it’s easy enough to restore these old things. Finding them is the tricky part.”
“Where did you…?”
“That’d be telling! I told Richard….” He leaned in, his breath oniony. “So I had to kill him!” He laughed.
I couldn’t find anything about the statue. So that left one option. Steve had knocked out a forgery, aged it, then stuck it in damp storage to make it hard to tell “real” mould from fake mould. I came in early next morning to take photos and a scrape from the pedestal.
“You’re keen.” Steve was behind me.
“Steve! Hey…I’m just documenting the progress. Thought I might put it on my blog. You know: drum up trade.”
“You don’t have a blog.”
“I wanted to start one, this is just what I…”
“Don’t think so,” said Steve. He came closer. Onion breath. I backed away, bumped into the statue. It rocked, which meant it was definitely fake. An original life-size would be too heavy. Sketchy Steve had skimped on the filling, too.
“Wait, Steve!” He was big. And between me and the door. He lunged. I pushed the statue. I just wanted to put him off, make him dive at the statue instead of me. It toppled over and crashed. We both stared at the mess. Plaster had shattered across the museum’s floor.
And still half encased in it: Richard.
“Oh dear,” said Steve. “Looks like you’re going to have to fill in for Richard again!”
“Yeah,” said Steve. “I had to let her go. Caught her trying to move the statue. Cracked it and all. I had to take it away. Give it a full integrity test. You never know, these old statues can fall right apart.” He was interviewing restorers. “Yeah, it’s pretty old. Late sixteenth, early seventeenth century. I’ll be bringing it back next week.”
The other voice asked a question.
“Ha! That’d be telling. I told the last lady. Then I had to kill her!”
Have YOU ever been sealed in concrete? Or are YOU a restorer? Is YOUR name Steve?
Then get in touch, I just found something. Needs a bit of work but I’m sure it must be valuable…
