Chapter Three. A Painting, Not His Own

Despite the warnings of Jerry, Blissful E. Bear ventured home. Where else was he to go? He had no money, he looked and smelled like a vagrant and his brother's face was looking more broken than Mel Gibson's ex-wife. He had to find some clues. The winter morning had given itself to cloud cover and the walk home was a cold pursuit of shelter from the howling winds of mid-July. When he reached his street he felt his nerve leave him, replaced with the cold sweet of a heart racing with fear. He reached again inside his jacket pocket and at the images of his beaten brother, took a deep breath and inched himself like a crab up the side walk towards number 63. Jerry's words don't go home, they know where you live echoed through his head. So as he reached the stoop of his house he saw that the front door had been forcibly opened and marked in felt pen with the words don't be upset. There was no turning back now.

He walked in stealthily, pushing the door open with a his house key, like cops do in hollywoodmovies to avoid disturbing the scene. The place looked like a crack den. Food strewn around from cupboards. Furniture overturned and drawers ripped from their housing of tables and hutches to give flight to hundreds of A4 sized pieces of personal documents. He tip-toed across the lounge and into the bedroom, no one. Into the en suite, again no one. He then checked the laundry and the kitchen and there was no sign of unwanted guests. He opened the pantry cupboard and took out two Asprins and reached inside the refrigerator for something to wash it down with. There was a solitary Dos Equis and some expired milk. Beer it was, nothing like hair of the dog thought Blissful. He downed the two tablets with the crisp liquid and panned his eyes across the walls and floor of the lounge. It was then that he noticed it. A painting, not his own. It was an abstract piece depicting a redheaded man with strange antennae coming from his head attaching themselves to two planets. The redheaded man was also fixed to a wooden base as if someone were mounting it as a game shot on safari. He walked across the rubbish lain floor and took in the frame and the materials of the painting. He could see one of the edges was exposing an under layer, he pulled at the canvas to reveal what was hidden. Just then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

JH