Chapter 39 - Bess
Chapter thirty-nine
Bess
It can't be. How can this possibly be my real life?
Basil. Fucking. Bastard-face. Fucking. Everett.
The gorgeous man on the other end of that letter was one of the worst human beings to have ever had the privilege of being in my life.
"Oh God," says Ed as the shiny fucking confetti rains down in joyful abandon on this new turd-soaked reality.
"Fuuuuck," shouts Elly above the startled gasps. "Sorry everyone. Projectile dysfunction. It was meant to go off after the last auction closed."
A hand is laid on my arm. "Bess? Bess, look at me."
I do look at him. At Ed. Because I don't know what else to do in this moment.
He mouths the words, "I am so sorry." I know he's said them aloud, but I can't hear him. My senses seem to be shutting down.
I am not going to fucking faint like I'm some fragile and helpless being.
I need to take action.
I push past him and through the crowd to the gallery counter, grab the meths I use for cleaning and the lighter I use for lighting Anne-Marie's demo candles.
Returning, I hand them to Ed, who looks at me in alarm before an expression of understanding settles across his features.
Then I wrap my arms around A Lettered Man and pull with all my strength to detach him from his base.
It takes some wrestling and grunting and when he finally pulls free, I stagger back into the woman who just dropped the biggest bombshell of my life.
She braces herself against me and asks if I'm okay.
I'm not. I am very fucking not okay.
Heading to the stairs at the back of the building, I force people to scatter out of the way of the sculpture.
"Hey!" shouts The Odour from somewhere in the crowd, "What on earth's going on?"
I ignore him.
Ed charges forward and opens the door at the back of the kitchen for me, and then the one to the stairs. He grabs the bottom of the sculpture as I struggle to wield it up the confined space.
Ed’s voice is strained, having taken most of the weight. “I understand why you want to do this, Bess, but I have to check – are you absolutely sure? This is a two-million-pound answer to all your problems.”
My voice cracks as I say, “Basil Everett, Ed,” and it must be all he needs to hear, because he answers with, “Let’s do this, then.”
Footsteps clatter and two heads appear down the stairwell behind Ed.
"Bess?" calls Jeanette, followed by Elly's, "Oi, what's happening?"
When they don’t get an answer, they follow us up.
Moments later the door at the stair’s entrance opens and The Odour stands in its frame, peering up at us. "Bess, for goodness sake!" he shouts, clambering up the first few steps behind Jeanette and Elly. "What are you doing? The auction's about to close."
I ignore him. None of it matters any more except finding an end to this monstrous thing in my arms.
"Elly and Jeanette," Ed hisses. "Stop Theo from coming up the stairs."
"Why?" asks Elly.
"Just stop him!"
"Wait," shouts The Odour as Jeanette and Elly turn to block his passage. "Bess!"
We emerge onto the roof and close the door against the sound of scuffling in the stairwell. The sky is clear and lemony in the last of the sunlight.
I stand the sculpture in the middle of the roof and hold out my hand to Ed. He undoes the lid of the methylated spirits and hands me the bottle.
On the other side of the door, there's the dull sound of scraping shoes and the slap and clatter of footsteps on concrete.
I upend the bottle over the soldier's head.
The door to the roof bursts open to reveal The Odour dragging Elly, who’s clamped to his left leg. "Bess!" His voice emerges high, like a frightened child. "The auction's closing in one minute. It's up to two point one million pounds. What the fuck are you doing?"
"What she needs to," says Ed.
Elly loses her grip and as The Odour attempts to reach me, Ed bars his way. What ensues is a game of side-to-side shuffling and feinting.
Jeanette emerges at the top of the stairs, hand to her heaving chest. “No!” she says breathlessly as I hold up the lighter.
"None of us have a say in this," says Ed. "We've done enough already."
More footsteps sound on the stairs.
"Quick," hisses Ed. "Shut and block the door. There's journalists here."
I turn my back on them.
There's an "Oomph" and when I turn back around, Ed has The Odour in an ungainly tackle on the ground. "Do it," he says through gritted teeth as Theo thrashes under him.
I do.
The flick of the lighter is loud against the background noise of the crowd on the street.
"Stop," squeals The Odour. "I need that money."
The combination of oil-based lacquer, paper and methylated spirits make the whoomph of ignition incredibly satisfying.
Within thirty seconds, the soldier is nothing but a metal frame.