Fires of London (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) Read Free Page B

for now came the report that the Jerries were strafing the beaches and ships. I was only distracted from visions of flames and blood when I noticed Nan touching the knobs on the stove. Would she attempt the burner and threaten the whole block? “Light the stove for me, dear boy,” she said. One crisis averted; she knows her limitations, at least for today.
    And do I know mine? A good question that may soon be answered, because I’ve now seen “the cop” several times since I spotted him the night I learned Damien had been murdered. He’s just around, nothing aggressive—he lives in Chelsea for all I know—but he’s become someone I notice leaving the newsstand, perhaps, or waiting for a bus or sitting well back in a pub. Though it’s quite irrational, I think that’s why the unlucky Damien sticks in my mind’s eye, lying naked in the high grass of the park, disfigured and dead. Modern distortion, if you like. I’ve made three “Damien” paintings since but sliced them all up. Damien alone is too simple. David, remember, painted the dead Marat. And Goya—you can hardly speak of Goya without corpses and atrocities. I’m still looking for the right image for Damien and for my scream, too.
    Although there, given our catastrophic historical moment, the daily press has been an inspiration. I’ve been cutting out pictures of Hitler and Mussolini, who wear interesting hats and want to devour the earth. I can use them. I’ve begun painting Hitler’s limousine with its gleaming sides and little swastikas, and I want to put Damien in there too, another screamer. I’m not sure how I’m going to do that, as I have some difficulties with indicating space. I’ll maybe have to get rid of the big car and turn the shape into Damien on his knees in the park, pleading for his life. You can do that with oil paints, scrape and paint over and turn one thing into another—and leave traces of the original underneath, too, if there’s some relationship. If. An oil painting carries traces of its own history, a record that some days I like—and other days I destroy.
    What I don’t like is the cop—as yet unnamed. It may be just paranoia, but I’ve finally admitted to myself that some copper’s got his eye on me. I’d better find out who he is and what he’s up to, especially if he’s drinking in the private clubs. Not the Europa, thank God; Maribelle wouldn’t allow, so I’m set there. And lately I’ve made a point of walking about with Arnold—he’s an alderman and safe as houses. Naturally, in another way, danger itself is tempting, but I must remember Oscar Wilde and jail. With my habits, I’m indictable almost any night of the week.
    What do I know about my own private cop? Higher rank, I think. Too old to be a constable and no trace of a uniform. Now, there’s a hope: maybe he finds guardsmen too flashy and has a yen for my ARP uniform. This I find fanciful. I’d better face it: he’s on to something. Our gambling evenings are the obvious possibility, although Arnold says everyone’s happy, and I’ve seen myself that Jack and Billy and the others watch the street like rats with cheese. Recently we got the wind up and canceled a session. After that, I didn’t see my copper for a week, and I thought, Right, I’m home free. Then the other night, an unsettling incident.
    I was doing my rounds: “Light showing, Mrs. Brown. Top left window”; “Light through the transom, Mr. Green”; “Blackout not adequate at all, Mrs. Simmons.” Followed up with the usual excuses. Mrs. Simmons is poor, genuinely, so I said she should use her back room tonight and I’d bring ’round some of my canvas fragments and some stretchers to seal off the front windows tomorrow. She gave me a couple fingers of gin before I put my tin hat back on. Technically, I’d just been bribed to avoid a fine; practically, I’d helped a neighbor. Point of view is everything in such matters.
    Anyway, I was walking along with my hooded