Vanessa finally managed to wrench the long conversation with the man in the brown fleece to a conclusion, and before he thought of another stupid question to ask, said: “Fine! Great! Have a nice time!” and turned away as if very busy. She was discomfited to encounter the eyes of a plump, fiftyish balding man who had clearly been staring very hard at her bum. “Can I help you?” she asked quickly.
The man pretended to consider this offer and fingered his loud pink and blue tie. Then in some kind of a Midland accent, he replied: “Er, yes, actually you can, very much so. You see that case behind you…”
“Damn,” Vanessa thought, I walked into that and now I have to turn round and let him ogle my bum again.”
“That new piece by Dame Yvonne Hurt, the dead sheep – I don’t mean Dame Yvonne Hurt is a dead sheep, of course, I mean the thing in that liquid…”
“Yes?” There was the distinct and infuriating sound of a camera clicking. The little prat had just snapped her bottom.
“What’s it about?”
Vanessa had been overjoyed when, in her gap year before going up to Oxford to read Fine Arts, she had been offered a post in the Tatt Gallery. Of course, she always knew it would involve being some kind of a dogsbody (not the sort Yvonne Hurt had put in formaldehyde, of course, but a general lowly helper) but that was fine because it would give her a breadth of experience and mean she met lots of interesting people. Unfortunately the man in the fleece and the Midlands pervert were not among them. One had to take the rough with the smooth – a phrase she had been very fond of until that awful fat chav Kelly Haines, who was in the fifth when she was in the lower sixth, had giggled at it and whispered rather loud to that sniggery little kid Birch. Anyway, she had met the distinguished, grey-haired, rather precious Director, Selwyn Higgs himself and his youngish, ambitious Texan assistant Grant Weiss; she had signed the contract of employment; she had been set to work; and she had learnt to keep her bottom whenever possible out of reach of the Head of Victoriana, Andrea Worsfold.
Vanessa was a classic example of that old Public School ideal, “Mens sana in corpore sano” (A clean mind and a body to drive you mad). She had a long, sensitive, ethereal face; big hazel eyes; long, luxuriant, Pre-Raphaelite chestnut hair; small, tight breasts like the Greek goddess Diana’s; long, lithe legs; and a round, ripe, drum-taut rump. When she walked watchers could almost hear the rat-tat-tat of a military band. If she was demure and modest, her arse was proud and assertive. Some compromise was necessary, and Vanessa, who often liked to wear rather old-fashioned long skirts, took to wearing to work close-fitting but flexible cream-coloured trousers with the Tatt t-shirt and a newish and decent but non-designer and therefore uncool pair of blue and white trainers. She soon learnt the useful life-skill of having eyes in her bottom (one of those physical advantages women commonly have over men), but that did not save her from occasional embarrassment as had happened today. Why, only yesterday she had been picking up a dropped leaflet for a foreign wheelchair user when her bottom had been lustfully, lingeringly pinched. She had sprung up ready to slap some wretched dirty old man’s face, only to be confronted by a line of angelic uniformed schoolboys who were obviously from some very exalted school. It was a pity she had to cope with such sexist annoyances, she thought, but to be employed in the famous gallery was so wonderful, art was so important, and she was full of hope in a beautiful world.
She had of necessity become aware of the effect she could have on many men and some women, but the idea of exploiting it had not occurred to her. She fully believed she had got this job through her excellent exam results, her evident enthusiasm about art and the good impression she made at interview. When Mr Gruber the German master in her last two years at school had told her, shortly before her A levels, that she needed one-to-one tuition, she had assumed this was to ensure she got an A in the exam. In fact it was to deflower her, and Mr Gruber had indeed advanced her education, for without him she would have gone into the great wide world a virgin.
Tonight she was going to be used for yet another different duty. Weiss had called her over and, in his usual businesslike style, explained the situation. The gallery was protected in and out of hours by a private security firm, but there was a firm rule that at least one gallery employee had to be present at all times. This had been instituted after the Courthaut had decided, after a number of failings, to dismiss their security firm and hire another, the new firm had turned out to be fake and had lifted several works of unbelievable value and fame. Of course, Weiss commented, the Tatt’s firm was well-established and entirely reliable, but rules were rules until changed. Three people were down with flu (or two with flu and one with a friend’s marriage), other people had commitments, and he hoped Vanessa took it as a compliment that they were asking her to do the duty overnight. Of course she could refuse. Of course she did not. Weiss thanked her warmly but briefly and showed her how to use the alarm that connected directly to the nearest 24-hour police station.
She was still running over the prospect of this unusual but rather exciting duty in her mind, when Selwyn Higgs himself appeared at her elbow, or rather at her left buttock.
“How did you get on with Philip Snygra?” he asked. She recognised the name immediately: Snygra was an eminent art critic and newspaper columnist.
“I’m sorry, Selwyn,” – for the rule of the Gallery was first names for everyone except the cleaners – “was he here? I must have missed him.” Selwyn tutted fussily.
“No, no, he was in conversation with your lovely self just a few minutes ago.” She had been talking with Philip Snygra and she hadn’t recognised him! Being an honest girl, she admitted this and asked Selwyn to describe the man whose appearance she knew only from the mugshots alongside his articles.
“Hmm, let me see… middle-aged, of course, a little well-padded around the middle, that beautiful hair he used to have much receded, and… oh, he was wearing a rather nice pink and blue tie.” The Midland pervert was the great Philip Snygra! Instantly she reassessed his question about the Hurt piece, which she had thought particularly stupid, and found it daringly revisionist. He was actually asking what a work of art was about! Wow! Selwyn Higgs patted her indulgently, paternally, on the bottom and moved off to chat with a horsy lady with a loud laugh.
The gallery was beginning to empty and Vanessa found herself drawn to the Hurt. She had to admit she did not like it, and if Philip Snygra disliked it too, then she must be right. Grant Weiss had enthused about the thing, about its social realism married with baroque fantasy, but she preferred Whistler or Reilly. She could not get over the fact that the thing was a real dead sheep in a tank, its rear half shaven as if just sheared and a thick iron ring and chain fixed round its neck. The title was “Enslaved”, and some critics had seen it as a powerful commentary on factory farming, or perhaps it was human slavery, but then Dame Yvonne was always putting dead animals on display with various excuses. The new thing about this work, compared to Hurt’s other dead animals, was that it was supposed to be interactive. The public were encouraged to lift the lid of the tank, put their hands in and feel the animal’s body. Apparently the liquid was not formaldehyde but some harmless preservative which Vanessa herself had topped up from a large container.
“You could spend a year in that stuff and it wouldn’t harm you, maybe just a tad damp and crinkly but no wuss,” Weiss had explained.
Vanessa was pleased she had happened to take her sketch pad and pencils in with her. The security duty would no doubt be very boring if she had nothing else to do, but fortunately she could do some sketches of exhibits. She was uncomfortably aware that while she had a good understanding of artistic theory and criticism, her own work lacked a crucial something. She had produced oils that were Turneresque, but by the same measure derivative and certainly not as good as JMW’s; and her abstracts were reminiscent of Kandinsky – too reminiscent. She was hopeful that if she persisted, a distinctive and remarkable Vanessa French style would appear, and she was prepared to wait and prepare.
Three hours later the Tatt had closed, Selwyn and Grant had gone home after a brief business meeting, and Vanessa was alone with two uniformed security guards. She had wondered if the guards would be suitable subjects for sketching, but she had been disappointed. The fiftyish, grey-faced man had looked utterly bored when meeting her, and although she was too nice a girl to admit it easily, he seemed utterly boring. The younger Black man would have made a good subject, and did not look bored when meeting her, but instead he had addressed her in rather intimate terms and had suggested “Old Ted” could soon be sent off somewhere to leave them alone. Vanessa had squashed his hopes and then he had sulked and avoided her. If she raised the subject of sketching him now, he would think she was interested after all. No – best to steer clear of him.
Vanessa wandered slowly round the gallery, making rough sketches she could work up later. The two guards settled down – Ted taking the first turn on watching the security cameras while Cyril (as the young man was called) strolled round checking the exits before slumping on a chair with a copy of a lad mag and a sly grin for Vanessa which she pretended not to see. She had better retire to Grant Weiss’s office, hers for the night. There she rested on the sofa (what did he need a sofa for in his office?), working on the sketches until she felt sleepy.
She woke with momentary incomprehension (what was this strange place?) and then a feeling of guilt. How long had she been asleep for? Around thirty or forty minutes, it seemed. Anyway, no alarms had gone off or they would have woken her. She got up, combed her hair and set off for another check around the building. She could see Ted still at the screens, and thought that surely Cyril should have relieved him by now, the lazy so-and-so. She strode off to find the young man and ask him when his shift at the screens was supposed to start.
All of ten minutes later she found him. There was a glass case in the “Iconography of Pop Art” section which had contained a figure of Madonna which had been removed for alterations and repairs. The figure had been replaced before time. Cyril the security guard, stark naked (and impressively armed, Vanessa could not help noticing) now occupied the locked case, his arms, mouth and legs secured by tape. For a horrible moment, Vanessa, used to seeing stuffed animals in glass cases, thought… but no, Cyril was conscious and looking at her. He was trying to say something but no sound escaped. Looking more closely (and avoiding looking at his boy’s thing) she saw that a corner of the top of the case had been blocked open with cardboard, allowing a little air to circulate. She ran, faster than she had ever done except perhaps that inter-school race she won when she was fifteen. Whoever had done this to Cyril had not yet touched Ted. She must warn him and he would give the alarm.
She was a little surprised that Ted did not turn round as she rushed up quite noisily, but he was quite old and older people were often a bit deaf. But when she was close enough to touch him the true reason became horribly clear. Ted was tied to his chair. He too was conscious and apparently unharmed, but unable to speak.
Sh*t! She’d left her mobile phone in Grant’s office. There were six points where staff could activate the alarm, though, and one was just in front of poor Ted. The control was protected from accident and mischief by a plastic lid. She pulled at it but it would not budge. Someone had superglued it shut. The phone, then. The gallery was a complex place, but Vanessa did not panic, frightened though she was. She picked the quickest route back to Weiss’s office and ran like the wind.
The route led her through the Myths of Science Fiction section and through the middle of the Star Trek exhibit. Scotty, Uhuru, Kirk and Spock stared woodenly at her as she ran among them. For a moment, to her overheated mind, a Klingon warrior seemed to move and she flinched away from him, brushing the arm of the Spock figure as she swerved. Then the nightmare happened. Strong arms seized her by neck and waist, pulling her back into a live human figure bigger and stronger than herself. She managed to jerk round just enough to see that she was held by Mr Spock – or rather by a man wearing a Spock mask. She bucked and writhed, but the attacker had managed, whether by luck or by skill, to position her tight, round trousered buttocks on either side of his manhood, which grew and pressed in with every twist and turn of her attempts to escape. Then darkness descended. It was only moderate darkness, for the man had dropped some kind of black bag over her head. There were many loose, soft objects inside the bag, items of clothing maybe, and they bore a distinctive acrid male smell. The bastard was smothering her with his dirty washing! Then he pulled the drawstrings on the bag tight and released her. As she stumbled into the Klingon warrior, Mr Spock neatly seized her wrists and taped them together before hoisting her on his shoulder, arse-high, legs kicking. He had not spoken a word. Now he was carrying her somewhere – up some steps, through a door – before he laid her carefully and almost gently on a soft surface and, satisfied that she was securely trussed up, left her.
For Vanessa that was almost a bigger indignity than to have been seized; and she hated being helpless, hated not knowing what was happening. Not far away she heard sounds difficult to interpret – some squeaking, some grating, a couple of soft thuds – and then a sound she understood only too well, the sound of returning feet. The feet stopped. Hands released her head from the bag of dirty clothes.
“I’m terribly sorry to have inconvenienced you like this,” Mr Spock said in a cultured, slightly high voice with a hint of an undefineable foreign accent. “Unfortunately, there wasn’t really an alternative. May I ask your name?”
“Vanessa. Vanessa French. Are you robbing the gallery?” The man did not laugh.
“Yes, I’m afraid I am, but not in the conventional sense. You might say I’m rearranging it. I’m an artist too.” Vanessa had worked out that the slight accent was Central European of some kind. That would help the Police later. The man continued:
“I’m terribly sorry – I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Bansky.”
Bansky! Instantly everything made sense to her. The Tatt Gallery was just the sort of prestigious artistic venue the world-famous trickster targeted – in fact, he had hit it once before, when he was not yet famous. She had been wondering if the man was really alone, as there had been no sign of any accomplice, though overcoming three members of staff seemed extraordinary for a lone operator – but Bansky always worked alone and had almost superhuman powers. Another thing that had puzzled her was now less puzzling, though still a mystery. No alarms had gone off – but Bansky was remarkably skilful in dealing with alarms, so much so that many people had theorised that he must be a security expert or an electrician.
For several years now the mysterious art thief had been plaguing galleries, museums and private collections in the U.K., with occasional expeditions to the U.S., France, Spain and Sweden. Perhaps his most famous intervention had been the theft of the Mona Lisa from the Louvre and the substitution of a skilled painting of a curvy, olive-brown female bottom. That was characteristic of him: whatever he took, he always replaced with something else. He had stolen a pillow from that famous unmade bed of Debbie Eminem’s and replaced it with another, under which was an opened condom. Police forensic examination had unfortunately provided no clues as the condom had not been used.
Once this had been an unrelieved disaster for the galleries (unrelieved except for the insurance), but now Bansky’s own works were highly valued, sometimes even beyond the works he had removed. The Earl of Feock’s famous collection of Dalis had been guarded by a fierce pedigree Doberman. Bansky had ignored the works of Dali except to add a moustache to a fish, but he had stolen the guard-dog and left in its place a large hardboard panel with the word “WOOF” painted on it. Last year the Earl had sold this work for £143,000 to the Sultan of Brunei. The bottom in the Louvre was now under strict guard and received as many visitors as the enigmatic Lisa had done. A noted French art critic had even referred to its “mysterious smile”.
There were many theories about who Bansky was. There seemed to be an English connection, but it did not follow he was English, or even that he was a he. Several newspapers and authors had published supposed revelations about his identity, all of which had been undermined to some extent by alibis and internal inconsistencies. One much trailed theory identified the real Bansky as a Czech art teacher who had done his national service in the Engineers. Another had provided a brief moment of fame for a gay Welsh magician with artistic interests. Some commentators were convinced there was clear evidence of a public school background, and others that the man had surely worked in a circus or for intelligence services. Bansky was an Al Quaida operative, a famous artist under another name, a German female gymnastics trainer, even Lord Lucan. One maverick commentator had even tracked down a Nebraska farmer called Hud Bansky and trumpeted his claims.
“Well, that’s all gone well so far,” said Bansky conversationally. “I’ve taken the work I wanted – it wasn’t as hard to pack as I expected – and all that remains is to leave a work of my own of at least equal value.” Vanessa was horrified that a theft was happening on her watch, but also fascinated at this unique opportunity to learn something of the methods of a famous artist.
“What are you taking?” she asked.
“The Dame Yvonne Hurt.” Somehow that disappointed her. Did Bansky lack taste, or had she missed something subtle in the dead sheep? Was this even a pointer to the correctness of the Welsh theory about Bansky’s identity? The Welsh guy was gay, though. But maybe the sheep was a ram and some bits had been removed.
“Can I watch you create its replacement?” she asked. Bansky paused.
“Er, I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he replied at last. Vanessa was offended.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Er, well, it’s anatomically impossible, unless you really do have eyes in your posterior.”
“What?”
“All will be revealed in a moment,” the man replied. He was strong and a quick mover: before she realised what was going on, Vanessa’s wrists had been linked by a rather neat little set of shackles, silver-plated if not pure silver. She tried to struggle to her feet but Bansky straddled her as she raised herself on all fours. Using what was evidently a very sharp pair of scissors, he cut her t-shirt down the back and the arms so it wafted gently from her body to the ground. One neat little snip, plus the slightest of tugs, did for her frilly pink-and-white bra. Bansky got off her now, but only to lift up one leg and remove her trainer; then the other leg was treated in the same way. Then he sat on her, back to front now, and started snipping away at her nice new trousers till she felt cold air where it should not be.
Vanessa was not the screaming sort, but this was getting rather much.
“What are you doing?” she wailed.
“Preparing the canvas,” the great man replied levelly. “I do like your choice of knickers. What would you call that – Cambridge blue? Powder blue?” He waited politely for her to reply, and only when he was sure she was not replying did he resume. “Anyway, they’ll look very nice in my magnum opus next to the set from those six Japanese students and the rather charming pink frilly ones off that German policewoman.” He hooked a finger in each side of the elastic and drew them, gently but firmly, down to her ankles where they stayed while he removed her trainers, but no longer. Then she felt shackles close on her ankles too.
The last time Vanessa had been naked, helpless and under observation, it had been when she had offended that awful Evil Girls Gang at school. That had been an unreservedly unpleasant experience (for her – it had given the Evil Girls considerable pleasure) and before that, there was only the usual experiences of a small baby. It was odd that she was not finding her current plight entirely unpleasant. Bansky was a leading artist and a witty Robin Hood sort of maverick – that helped – and his gentlemanly conversation helped too. But he had assaulted her, overpowered her, bound her, stripped her, and was all too likely about to rape her. So why wasn’t she shaking with fear or even anger? Such thoughts were interrupted by Bansky picking her up and carrying her in that classic position so loved of male and female young readers of comics and internet cartoons, with her head hanging down towards his backside and her bottom raised high on his shoulder. Trying diligently to pick up as much information useful to the police as she could, she noted that the great man had a small, firm, neat bum.
Having her secret face pointing the way Bansky was taking her, and the one with eyes pointing at the floor he had just walked over, she could not see what was coming. It was the cold liquid on her feet that first warned her. Moments later, she felt the horror that had been escaping her. He had stuffed her inside the tank which had held Dame Yvonne’s dead sheep. The sheep was gone, but the preserving fluid was still there and it covered almost all of her. The lid had been removed too, so nothing stopped her holding her head up and keeping her nose and mouth above the surface, but the rest of her was immersed. With her ankles and wrists shackled, she had no way of getting out.
“What are you doing?” she wailed.
“All will be revealed,” said Bansky unhelpfully. “I think we need to lower the liquid level a bit. This nice Tatt Gallery mug from the gift shop will do the job, together with this bucket from a cupboard. By the way, I hope someone told you this stuff is totally harmless?”
“Yes, they did,” Vanessa replied.
“Good,” said Bansky as he scooped out liquid into the bucket. “No idea whether it really is harmless, but it’s nice that you believe it is. Excellent – that will do.” Vanessa could feel that the liquid level was now just below her bottom, and only the ends of her tits were in preserving fluid. She was rather uncomfortably aware that all her private parts were very wet. She was even more unhappy when the ring and chain that had been fixed round the sheep’s neck were fixed round hers.
“Just thought you’d like to see this,” said Bansky, standing in front of her. “I brought something of my own, but then I found this beautiful little thing in Gainsborough World on the floor above here.” He held up for her to see a small, almost insignificant whip, the sort of thing horsy teenagers took for outings from riding centres. “This will do nicely,” he added.
“Good,” said Vanessa, not understanding. A moment later the whip cut into her right bottom cheek like a knife into sweet butter. Vanessa shrieked and thrashed about, with the result that she got a mouthful of preserving fluid. It tasted like sugary water with a hint of vinegar. She stilled herself just in time to receive the second cut just opposite the first. Ten minutes later Bansky had decorated her young arse with neat parallel red lines in both halves and Vanessa was on fire.
“So much better with a wet target, as I found with that German last year,” Bansky commented. “Well, I think that will do nicely. Now as I’ll have to leave you partially immersed, and you may be just a bit concerned about any ill effects of that liquid, would you like me to share the danger in a very personal way?”
“Yes, please,” said Vanessa, grateful without understanding what he had in mind. Very soon she understood, as the famous Bansky became the second man to enter her private gallery, his body contorting remarkably as his weapon entered her below the water line.
“The things I do for the sake of art,” Bansky commented much, much later as he pulled out, patting her reassuringly on the bottom. “Just one more thing to do – the signature.” Producing what must be one of those indelible pens which can be used below water, he signed “Bansky” with a flourish across her right bottom cheek. “Well, my dear, nice to have known you. I’m afraid I must be off,” he said – and he was gone, frugally switching off the lights as he went.
It was a long, cold, lonely night for Vanessa. Once she dropped off to sleep, but the impact of the cold, cloying liquid on her face woke her immediately. She had no idea of the time. When finally the lights came on again and voices spoke, she could hardly take it in.
“Wow, I’ve never seen that before. Is it an exhibit, or is she real?” a female voice asked.
“Come off it, Tracey, of course it’s not real,” a male voice replied. “Look!” A hairy hand felt between Vanessa’s legs and she screamed.
“It is real, I think,” said the female voice. Vanessa could now see a fat policewoman, and, a moment later, a tall policeman. Having satisfied themselves that Vanessa was real, they busied themselves with tape, making off the crime scene. Vanessa had assumed that once the Police or Gallery staff arrived, she’d be freed and cosseted, so it took her a while to realise this was not going to be so.
“Here, what about me?” she complained to the fat woman, who looked at her with casual contempt.
“Look, darling, we’ve got important things to do – securing the crime scene, checking the offender isn’t still in the building, checking alarms, looking for the security guards. You do realise, don’t you, that one of them might have been hurt?”
“I was hurt!” Vanessa protested, only to get the reply from the male officer,
“Well, you look all right to me. In fact (he chuckled) you look very all right!” With that he strode off to look for the guards while his colleague, after fussing around with tape for a few moments, devoted herself to checking Vanessa for any hidden weapons. At least, that was what she told Vanessa was going on. Within five minutes, Cyril and Ted had been freed and were sitting goggling at Vanessa, who again asked to be released, but was told that any interference with the crime scene was out of the question. Within half an hour Selwyn Higgs, Andrea Worsfold and Grant Weiss had arrived; but it was only when a couple of white-coated men had checked for fingerprints, investigated Vanessa and put various objects in plastic bags, that she was finally helped out of the tank, rubbed down rather enthusiastically by the fat policewoman with a huge towel, given a small rug to cover her nakedness, and sat down on a plain chair. She asked for the shackles and ring to be removed, but Weiss explained that the keys were missing and it would take some time to get hold of the right equipment to free her.
Ted, who seemed completely unharmed, brought her a cup of tea and Selwyn Higgs produced some fine French brandy, so she soon felt a little better and able to give a statement. She missed nothing out she remembered. She would really rather have left out the bit about being rogered by Bansky, but she reasoned that this at least disproved some of the theories about the thief’s identity: he was not a woman and he was not the gay Welshman. The policewoman wrote it all down with a bored expression as if she had to waste time with stuff like this every day – though once or twice she looked up and fixed Vanessa’s eyes with a look of tired disbelief. She read out Vanessa’s statement in a dull, level voice. Soon after that the officers left, looking at their watches, explaining that a fingerprint technician would come later and Vanessa should go down to the station for tests.
“Well, now,” said Higgs, “let’s take stock. We’ve lost our latest Dame Yvonne Hurt, but we’ll get insurance for that, and we’ve gained a Bansky. Not bad, really.”
“Gained a Bansky?” Vanessa queried.
“You, of course,” said the Director. “You must be rather proud.” In an odd way, that was right, but Vanessa could not understand how they could display the “work of art” Bansky had bequeathed.
A minute later, fitted neatly back inside the tank, she understood.
“You can’t do this to me!” she wailed; but Grant Weiss, competent and focussed as ever, had an answer.
“Surely you remember that part of your contract of employment, ‘may be reallocated to whatever duties the Director thinks fit’? Selwyn’s right – you should be proud. Your name will be famous in the art world, and not just your name. Of course, we’ll make sure you get out from time to time for all the usual comforts, and I think we could see our way to awarding a bonus. That’s just until your contract ends and you go to university.”
“And the best thing, the really beautiful thing, is that just like the sheep, you’re part of an interactive display,” Andrea Worsfold added. “You’ll be the biggest draw in the Gallery!”
It was four days into Vanessa’s new role and newfound fame that she remembered something rather odd. When Bansky had freed her from the bag of washing, a black sock had fallen on the ground without him noticing. He had picked it up later and she had forgotten it until now, when by one of those strange tricks of the mind, it came back to her in full detail. The sock had been monogrammed in ornate letters – SH.
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15.11.10