Guns in the Gallery Read Online Free Page B

There was something unusual about the sludginess of the scene, a quality which should have been depressing, but was perversely uplifting. She noticed the painting was signed in the corner with the initials ‘A.W.’
    Carole waited, not quite sure what to do. Had there been a bell on the counter, she would have rung it. Someone more relaxed than Carole Seddon would probably have called out ‘Hello!’ or ‘Anyone there?’ or even ‘Shop!’, but she only aspired to a couple of loud throat-clearings. There was no response.
    The silence wasn’t total, though. Sounds emanated from the closed door at the back of the gallery. Presumably Spider was there, working longer hours than his employer. Really, Carole reasoned, it was him she needed to see rather than Bonita. Spider was the one who was actually framing her photograph, after all, so it’d make sense for her to collect it from him.
    Carole moved forward and tapped on the connecting door. The sounds from the other side abruptly ceased, but there was no answering voice. She tapped again, then boldly pushed the door open and stepped forward into the framing workshop.
    It was a large space, probably twice the size of the gallery in front, full of machinery most of whose functions Carole could only guess at. The one she could identify was a huge guillotine mounted at the end of a large table. Fixed to one wall was a cabinet making a grid of deep pigeon holes, containing lengths of different framings. Against another different grades and sizes of glass were stacked. Like Spider’s overalls, every space was splattered with paint and glue. There was a haze of white dust and a mixture of smells, among which newly cut wood predominated.
    In the centre of the workshop stood the considerable bulk of Spider. The expression on his face suggested he didn’t like having his inner sanctum invaded. He said no word of greeting to the intruder.
    â€˜I’m Carole Seddon. I was in here on Monday with a photograph to be framed. Bonita said it would be ready today.’ He still said nothing. ‘Is it ready?’
    After a silence, he conceded two words to her. ‘It’s ready.’
    â€˜Well, Bonita doesn’t seem to be around, so if I could just pick it up and sort out what I owe you . . .’
    â€˜I don’t deal with the money,’ said Spider slowly. ‘Or the packing. Bonita does that.’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t need the photograph packed. I only live just up the High Street.’
    â€˜Bonita does the packing,’ Spider repeated. ‘I don’t, like, want the responsibility. If something gets broken.’
    â€˜I’m sure the photograph won’t get broken between here and where I live? I wonder, could I see it . . .?’
    Spider gave this proposition a long moment’s thought. Then, apparently unable to see any harm in obeying it, he bent down to a rack of his recent work and extracted the framed photograph.
    He had done a brilliant job. Lily looked wonderful. Carole couldn’t wait to have the picture hanging in pride of place on her sitting room wall.
    â€˜Oh, that’s terrific! Thank you so much. Are you sure I can’t just settle up with you and—’
    â€˜Bonita deals with the money,’ he insisted. His tone was not aggressive, but it couldn’t be argued against. Carole wondered for a moment whether it was just she who prompted this reticence in the framer. But, though normally ready to detect the smallest slight, she quickly decided that it was just Spider’s manner, a form of shyness perhaps, that he would display to whoever he met.
    His body language made it clear that he wanted to be alone, but Carole lingered. Rather than asking her to leave, Spider turned pointedly back to his work. He picked up two pieces of wooden frame whose ends had been cut diagonally and lined up their edges together on one the bench-mounted machines. He