56.

■ Worn but not devoured, and longing for the sea, I arrived among the bungalows of Milltimber, having finished my third bottle of beer. Lanes angled between hedges and I tried to remember the way to Anna Lunken’s house, not so easy since everything looked the same and the houses were hidden by trees. I slowed down, barely making any speed, careful not to disturb the insipid strain of suburban silence, the headlights shining on the hedges and gates that I passed. I had already made the plans for the rest of my life. A trip to the ferry, there to sail to Shetland and try once again where I had so badly failed before.

I parked the green Mercedes at the top of the road, next to the church and up against a hedge. In the heart of Anna Lunken’s cul de sac, common age was visible. From the trees, pencils of moonlight shone on the driveways. I caught my breath and panted. To destroy any of Liska’s paintings was an undertaking full of risk these days — but I’d worked myself into a fit and there was no going back.

cf. Jules Pascin (1885-1930) American painter, draftsman and printmaker. Hanged himself in his Paris studio, upset by the reviews of his current show.

I glanced over the road and what did I see? A jeep on the gravel, and a row of perfect raised beds. This tidy Aberdeen suburb was relinquished to the most terrible silence where the houses looked out from behind the trees. I wondered what the residents might have done to deserve this locale, to be locked in those unbreathing, unsexual homes. The sign read Glengarse and I recognised the name as being the home of Anna Lunken. Gratefully I had arrived at the correct level of paradise. Anna Lunken’s jeep was parked there, its pretty curves murdering the neighbour’s hedge — but other than the cracks of light from behind the odd curtain, there was no sign of life, and I stopped to admire the house in its stultifyingly quaint setting.

Home, I thought, is the warm feeling of peace that comes from being right. Once I’ve destroyed Anna Lunken’s Liska pictures then I’ll be right and she’ll be wrong again, I thought. The police will differ and her friends will differ — but I’ll be out of her hair by then.

I walked into the shadow of Anna Lunken’s back garden, and as I passed a waste pipe hissed with a flush of water from above. The wooden furniture in the back garden was so brand new, it still had the factory stickers across it. Liska had run across this garden once, with contracts under her arm.

I looked up to the top window where there was a closed curtain and I paused, stalled beside the house with a gloomy patience, as if there were a few more decisions to be made. I must have appeared crestfallen, staring at that back garden, remembering the way Liska had jumped the hedge and run down the steely bank of the lane, brimful of confidence in herself.

The back door was not locked and so I opened it and entered the kitchen, where I saw Anna Lunken’s weirdo kettle. Everything was white and clean inside and I chose my weapon from the knife rack, a blade as sharp as ocean salt. A kitchen knife to cut still life, I thought — and it brought to mind all of the art that had been made and burned already — and a trumpet blew.

{YES!} Art is a waste of time. It is not good. The people who buy it are using it to decorate their walls. Art school may be satisfying but those kids could be making biscuits in there. The worst of it is that artists see themselves as doing something good! {YES!} The trumpet blew. {YES!} Liska had been right to deny the world her art — to keep it from the galleries and the following that danced around it. Mr Sharma and Paul Raytheon had been correct to follow Liska — to recognise what she was trying to do by holding the opinions that she did.

Because {YES!} that’s what art does. It supersedes itself. And no generation knows precisely how to make art art, because art happens by itself. Art’s generosity to the darkness of modern life is legendary. There is no reason for art to be overvalued and asked to wallow on our walls.

cf. Mark Rothko : Light Red Over Black (1957) Oil on canvas. ‘Millionaire friendly wall-paper.’ (Simon Schama)

In Anna Lunken’s living room art was represented fully. In the semi-circular canals of her wallet, there was always room for more art. What Anna Lunken owned was only good for destruction, and I recognised most of it. If it wasn’t something I knew directly, I could certainly tell the style. Maybe you could call it the Originality School, in which everyone was original. When you’re young you believe that a painting has to be good or bad — one or the other — but the truth is that art is an event — and as Liska knew, it didn’t need to be good or bad for that.

Event. Yes. I raised the knife as I heard footsteps upstairs. The feet crossed the floor and I cut through the nearest painting — a crimson abstract of Liska’s. The smell of the cut abstract reminded me of art shows — it reminded me of going to many different art shows and how I used to wonder at the inevitable pretence of using art as a way of making a living.

And what did I see at these shows?

Artists — either nervous or arrogant about how and why their work was bought and sold.

I cut through the picture properly, to make sure that there could be no hope for its reparation. I could make a career of this, I thought — or at least I could try. This kitchen knife was good and it sliced through Liska’s picture so well that I didn’t want to stop. The motion was gentle and bright, and I saw myself redeeming whole nations with my blade (I was clearly mad) — but Anna Lunken’s knife was useful. The knife cut everything that it sliced. In the world of paper, stone, scissors, art was beaten by the knife, every time.

The last of Liska’s painting lay on the floor in shreds and I felt better than ever. It was the one quality that art had always given me. Nothing could ever provide for that feeling — the externalising of your feelings into action — that’s what gives artists such a base. It was blissful to simultaneously realise this and reclaim art from its kidnappers.

Once more the thump of footsteps, and I paused. Upstairs there was more art attached to the walls — Liska’s work and that of others — nothing at all that couldn’t be destroyed on the grounds of compassion alone.

I started up the stairs with the knife pointing forward and after several steps I heard voices. When I arrived on the top step I had a further choice of rooms. The door of one of the rooms, from where the voices came, was ajar enough to suggest something romantic from within — something friendly — people in bed.

Across the landing was more art and I waited, dimly aware of Liska. Liska was working her way out of a pool and along a branch of seaweed that grew up from a pipe. She whispered quiet commands and in the sight-hole in her skull was the glow of positive intention.

A laugh from along the corridor — Anna Lunken’s laugh — and I pointed the knife towards the bedroom door. Liska trailed up the branches of weed. Her face softened, it was recognisable as her, but only by the hair. I walked to the end and stood beside the door.

These moments are great tests. If you put yourself in these situations often enough, you begin to realise that nothing can control the outcome. Instead of indecision you have the satisfaction of being able to act without fear.

Of course, to be in somebody’s house and approaching their bedroom with a kitchen knife was further than most people get. If this level of madness has already kicked in then it’s likely you’re going to go all the way. Crime inspires this response. Car theft leads to entering houses and entering houses leads to damage of property. If things get in the way of damage of property, then people can be hurt.

The sounds of love came from within, but I wasn’t quite ready for who or what. Even in Anna Lunken’s bedroom there was a slight surprise in store.

It was young Alex Lash — he and Anna Lunken in the bed. That kid — he must have been 20 years old — and I walked in with my knife. They recognised me at once, and made no effort to move.

“Guy,” said Anna Lunken and pulled the sheets towards her neck.

Lash couldn’t hide his fear. He glanced towards the window and began gibbering, but I hissed for them both to shut up.

“I want that picture,” I said, displacing my vexation to the very tip of Anna Lunken’s kitchen knife.

“Liska’s picture?” asked Anna Lunken, her knuckles gripping the covers.

Even in the direst circumstances humanity feigns a strange wriggling motion in its attempt to live another day — it’s like a mental reflex. Anna Lunken must have known by this time that Liska’s pictures were going to be destroyed but she still had it in her mind to stall the process. The difficulty was that there was a portrait of Liska right above Anna Lunken’s bed — Liska’s face, threatening to imprint itself further on me. Liska looked upon the lovers and then at myself and I couldn’t think of any way of avoiding her dying once again.

“Liska’s pictures,” I said. “That’s what I’m here for. Including that one.”

Above Anna Lunken’s bed, above Anna Lunken’s head, the only self-portrait Liska ever painted. Liska’s eyes were iced, her lips were closed, her chin slightly raised as if in challenge.

The Lunken face didn’t change — she’d known the first moment that she’d seen me what I wanted. The Lash kid was motionless but at any moment he might try the hero — and I waved my knife, determined to be frightening. I’d never wanted to see Anna Lunken again when Liska and I took the boat to Shetland, and I knew I was always going to be judged as being in the wrong for everything that had happened — but I had an aim — the eradication of my lover’s work.

Lash was chancing glances around the room — for weapons I guessed. He looked at his shoes and wished that he was wearing them. He even looked at the bedside lamp that I may be decked with it. Anna Lunken tried that dreamy hypnotic stare that she used on works of art she wanted, trying to succour me with pity.

Seconds were all I had. Lash’s shoulders emerged from the covers. He was delightfully all bones, and he said something, it sounded like a cat’s meow. They both grabbed what they could and slid to the side, allowing me to step on to the mattress and gently put the knife into Liska’s face. I let fall the reins and the canvas tore and for a moment I withdrew to see Liska’s face one last time. Anna Lunken said nothing while I cut.

It was the very last part of Liska’s life and I realised that I was about to shred it. There was a frame and a canvas there, but no art — that had gone forever. I had the knife and was ready to carry out Liska’s final mischievous notion, by destroying a self-portrait that she’d done, that she never wished for anyone else see, far less buy or sell.

I pulled the picture away to allow myself a better grip — and I offer you now, those that remain neutral to this, the chance to look away.

We’ve seen a lot destroyed so far, and there is still some more to go. We’ve burned and slashed many a painting and killed a few ducks to boot. So much has been done now that if you like, you can be spared the final cut. It was a tough moment but maybe that’s because finishing is the hardest thing. To get to the end of your work and proclaim it done — it really is a difficult thing to do.

Look away now!