Mortaumal - 21. Stefan, Lydia, Procuring, & Sweet Revenge

Stefan’s hair had mostly fallen out. His weight had stabilised at fifty-nine kilograms, ten below what used to be normal. His cheeks were gaunt, and deep furrows across his brow indicated debilitating pain. As the days passed his condition continued to deteriorate and despite the best efforts of visiting nurses it was becoming clear he would soon have to be moved to a nursing home for twenty-four hour care. He was not keen on the idea.

Lydia decided she’d had enough of running a Plant Nursery and as it was doing rather well, thanks to Mort, and was looking better than it had for some time, decided to sell. The sale would enable her to buy a luxury apartment in a tower block overlooking the Brisbane River, and the remainder would offset much of the expense generated by Stefan’s care. She watched television in the evenings on her own because she had the sound louder than either of the men could bear, due to unacknowledged hearing difficulties. Unacknowledged wax in the ears, Mort reckoned.

He and Stefan had previously played drafts together, talked and read, but as Stefan’s condition deteriorated, lassitude and nausea conspired to prevent him from doing anything except sitting or lying and talking softly, so Mort had started reading to him. Stefan had introduced him to the short stories by Saki (H H Munro), and despite his illness the exquisite prose and satirical lampooning of the Edwardian English upper class and politics always raised contented grunts of appreciation.

After Mort’s reading of Shredni Vashtar, Stefan asked him if he thought Conradin’s aunt had deserved her end.

‘How can you doubt it? She deserved every bit. Our so-called civilized society has made wimps of everyone by insisting the state take over retribution from affected individuals. Conradin’s plight would never have been addressed, and the aunt’s crimes never punished without the assistance of Shredni Vashtar. Natural Justice is what’s lacking in our society, along with an individual’s right to demand satisfaction for wrongs done to him.’

‘You’d like individuals to have greater say over their lives then?’

‘Yes... I am. Although I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

‘Would you like to be me?’

‘No way! I’d hate to be sick like you. I can’t imagine how you put up with it.’

‘According to the law I have no choice but to put up with it. And neither would you.’

‘Well I wouldn’t, I’d do what Grandad did.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He was on the way to being sick like you. He saw it coming and didn’t want to live if he had to have operations and drugs and go to a nursing home just to stay alive. He loved his market garden and working and all that. He reckoned that if he wasn’t able to live the way he wanted, life would be pointless. So he killed himself.’

‘How?’

‘I’ve no idea. No one told me. Weedkiller perhaps?’ Mort shook his head. ‘I was only nine. I suppose I should have asked. But it doesn’t matter; done is done.’

‘You said your grandfather thought life would have no point, does that mean he thought there is a point—a purpose in life external to ourselves?’

Mort laughed softly. ‘No way. He was adamant about that. He never tired of telling me that Life has no over-arching meaning or purpose. We’re a chance occurrence of no more consequence to the rest of the living world than the tiniest bacterium. Our brains demand a purpose, but that doesn’t mean there is one. However the lack of a cosmic plan shouldn’t prevent us from living as best we can, practising what the Greeks called eudaemonism. But that that can only happen if everyone has the same right to live as best they can. But as everyone has a different idea about what makes the ‘good life’ you’re unlikely to be left to live your life as you see fit. Everyone tries to influence you. That’s why he only had one or two friends. He reckoned other people always make life more difficult if you let them get close.’

‘A wise man, your grandfather.’

‘Yes. And a loving one. I think about him every day.’

‘You don’t blame him for killing himself?’

‘You’re joking! I’d think he’d have been crazy not to, considering his future prospects!’

‘So... you think I’m crazy?’

‘Not yet. But don’t expect me to hang around when you’re drugged to the eyeballs in a hospital bed, pissing and shitting into plastic bags, scrawny with bedsores. I like you as you were when I first met you, and I still like being with you because your brain is worth communicating with, but when that goes because of the pain and boredom and drugs and all the rest, so do I.’

‘Mort, your honesty is one of the many wonderful things about you. Thanks.’

‘No thanks. I’m just being me. So, what’re you going to do?’

‘I don’t think I could bear another round of chemotherapy, and analgesics are not stopping the pain. But the doctor refused to increase opiate doses because I might become an addict. He didn’t seem aware of the absurdity of worrying that a terminally ill man might become addicted.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. The selection process for doctors more or less ensures they’re good at passing exams but not very bright. So, what’s your plan?’

‘I was brought up as a Roman Catholic, and they reckon God gave us life therefore only God can take it away.’

‘I didn’t realise you believed in a god.’

‘I’ve tried not to, and for years managed to ignore my brainwashing, but now I’m weak it comes back and even thinking about topping myself sends stabs of guilt and fear of spending eternity in limbo.’

‘Limbo?’

‘A place of dread emptiness for people not good enough for heaven, not bad enough for hell.’

Mort stared at Stefan in astonishment. ‘Stefan, they dig up old graves all the time and occasionally find dead bodies in forests. Those people haven’t gone anywhere; they’re all in the process of becoming compost to feed other life. Surely you don’t think you’re different.’

‘In limbo, as in heaven and hell, it is the soul that suffers.’

‘I’m trying not to become irritated because you are physically weak. I hadn’t realised your brain was also becoming weak. Your soul, Stefan, is your moral or emotional nature, or sense of identity. Without a body it doesn’t exist. It’s like all other mental activity—electric charges that dissipate as soon as the energy source dies.’

‘I know. I know. I... would you help me to... do it?’

‘I’ll help you to be able to do it yourself. Because the final act must be yours and yours alone. I can’t believe you’ve put up with this horror for so long. So, tell me how I can help.’

‘There’s an organisation that gives information on how to exit this life peacefully. I was given a number to ring by a friend of a friend... it’s all very secret. I never dared contact them because of this debilitating inner guilt. But I’ve kept the contact details.’

‘Right. It’s too late to do anything tonight and you’re just about asleep, so first thing tomorrow you can give me the number and I’ll get started.’ He leaned over and kissed his friend lightly on the brow. ‘Sleep easily, Stefan, I won’t let you down.’

For the first time in weeks Stefan’s fearful muscles relaxed. The end of his suffering was nigh. He had told someone his guilty secret and hadn’t been criticised. He now had something other than endless pain and nausea to look forward to. With a soft sigh he let go and slipped into slumber.

As it was only eight o’clock and Mort wasn’t sleepy, he went for a jog around the block to refresh his muscles. The television was blaring inane laughter on his return so he went straight to the bathroom, dumped his clothes in the laundry chute and enjoyed a relaxing shower. After turning off the taps he jumped up and down to dislodge the drops, then flung back the curtain to reveal Lydia sitting on his towel on the stool in front of the window.

‘Lydia, what a pleasant surprise.’

‘Is it?’

‘Is it what?’

‘A pleasant surprise?’

Mort shrugged and smiled.

‘Mrs. Pryer from my bridge club told me you performed at her friend’s fiftieth birthday party. Is that so?’

‘Probably. I never learn my client’s surnames.’

‘In front of her friends and their husbands, you removed all your clothes while cavorting erotically, danced with all the women while stark naked, invited them to rub oil on your buttocks and other... bits, recited a poem, then carried her out of the room in your arms.’

‘Ah Yes...that would have been Sybil. She’s no lightweight I can tell you. But it was doggerel, not a poem. It went like this:

Sybil’s turning fifty,

She’s really rather nifty,

At emptying the fridge,

And playing lots of bridge,

She’s really good at sex,

With willing husband Lex,

And as she’s such a ripper,

He bought for her a stripper.

Not bad eh? I made it up myself. Lex told me she was a bit of a glutton and a bridge player when he booked me, and asked if I could write something.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did you... perform like that? Weren’t you ashamed?’

‘Rather proud, actually. The men also thought I was pretty good; one of them gave me an extra fifty bucks on top of the hundred agreed to, and asked me to perform for his wife’s next birthday. Said he was pleasantly surprised because he thought it would be rude, but it was fun and sexy and not rude at all.’

‘Hrumpff.’ Lydia had been prepared to castigate a repentant reprobate, but had no idea how to deal with a young man who was proud of his perversion.

‘If you’ve satisfied your curiosity, Lydia, may I have my towel?’

Lydia stood and advanced on her prey. ‘The bible tells us nudity is a sin.’

‘No, it tells us that Noah’s sons were embarrassed to see their father lying naked in a drunken stupor, so covered him so no one else would see how ridiculous he looked. Don’t you find it odd that god’s chosen survivor should be a drunken sot? What's your real objection? You’re not covering your eyes at the sight of my penis and testicles, or crossing yourself to guard against the devil, instead you’re approaching to get a better look.’

Lydia, now only centimetres from him, gazed mournfully into his eyes; her own were leaking noticeably.

‘Hey, Lydia. What’s the problem? Come here…’ Mort wrapped his arms round the distraught woman’s shoulders and let her rest her head on his chest while sobbing as if her heart would break. After a minute she stopped and sniffed.

‘Come on now,’ Mort’s voice was gentle. ‘Tell me what’s upsetting you.’

‘When you speak I can feel your chest vibrate,’ she said sadly to avoid answering. ‘Your skin is so firm and silky. May I stroke you?’

‘If you like.’

Lydia’s hands ran softly up and down his back, then slid over his buttocks where they remained, gently caressing. ‘I feel safe when you hold me like this... no, not safe... it’s hard to explain... it feels right. I know that’s ridiculous. I’m fifty-seven being hugged by a naked sixteen year-old, and it feels right... but I must stop.’ She eased herself away and looked at her feet. Several deep breaths later, she swallowed and looked Mort in the eye. ‘I know I’m a selfish woman. I’m not sympathetic to poor Stefan. I seem cold and unappreciative of all the work you do for us for very little reward. And if I think about it I hate myself. But I can’t change. Yet just now... with your arms around me, I felt as if I’m not such a horrible person.’

‘You’re just being true to yourself, Lydia. Both Stefan and I accept that. Let’s have a cup of cocoa and talk a little more.’

‘Yes.’ She swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Good, I’ll just go and put on some clothes.’

‘You don’t have to. I rather like looking at you like that.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’

Five minutes later they were sitting in the lounge room with the lights off. A soft glow spilling from the kitchen revealed Lydia in silhouette, hunched over her drink like a Grimm Brothers’ witch. A shaft of light revealed Mortaumal, coiled like a wary faun in a large wicker armchair.

‘You are the first living naked man I’ve seen since Stefan and I moved to separate rooms twenty-three years ago. I thought I was doing the right thing. I can’t have children, you see—or he can’t, we never got tested, thought it would be discourteous to God to question his decision to make us childless.’

‘What makes you think it was your god’s decision, and not just a genetic accident?’

‘There are no accidents. God has ordained everything.’

‘He must be busy. How do you know this?’

‘It’s in the bible.’

‘I see.’

‘And as it is a sin to indulge in sex when you aren’t trying for a baby, I hoped I would become a better person—strong in faith, yielding not to temptation. Instead I grew cold and hard and began to hate Stefan. I’ve never told him this. And now I know I was stupid and made Stefan suffer. He never went to other women, just worked harder and kept trying to make me happy—an impossible task. And tonight I hugged and stroked a naked man. I feel terrible!’

‘Would you like to make Stefan happy?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then tell him it’s OK for him to end his life, so he doesn’t have to suffer any more.’

‘Oh! Oh no! I couldn’t! Suicide is a sin.’

‘Why?’

‘Because... because…’

‘Because god gave us life so only he can take it away. He doesn't take it away himself though, does he? He gets servants like bacteria and viruses to spread illness, or soldiers to bomb and kill anyone he doesn’t like. One of our drones killed seventy-five primary school children in Kurdistan last week; God must hate those kids.’

‘They don’t count... they’re not Christians.’

‘You don’t know that! But it’s certainly an honour that he lets our soldiers do his killing, don’t you think?’

‘I think you are twisting things.’

‘Have you considered that perhaps he is now telling Stefan to do his work for him?’

Lydia stood. “No. No… that’s not how it works, Mort. I couldn’t. I’m sorry. You are a nice boy and I know you mean well, but I would be dooming both Stefan and me to an eternity of torment after death. Please put out the lights and check the doors and windows are locked.’ She turned abruptly and hastened to her room.

*****

The following morning Stefan gave instructions on where to find the phone number, and Mort telephoned, making an appointment to meet directly after lunch. He was given clear directions to a park, told to bring sufficient money in cash, a sturdy back pack, to wear one sleeve rolled completely up and the other half way, and where to wait. The contact would make sure he was alone and looked reliable before making himself known.

Mort prepared sandwiches for his lunch, emptied his backpack, asked Stefan for the cash, and set off, taking the train to one of the northern suburbs and arriving with half an hour to spare. He sat on a park bench near where the meeting was to take place, ate his sandwiches and pondered the secrecy that had been demanded.

A minute before the appointed time he stood, put his paper in the bin and walked to the meeting place. Seconds later a spry, elderly man wearing a small backpack approached and, with a flick of his head, indicated that Mort should follow. They walked a hundred metres to another bench and sat.

‘Smile and act as if we’re old friends... I’m your uncle or something.’

Mort smiled and the old man patted him affectionately on the shoulder. They relaxed and sat back as if they often came here for a chat.

‘Tell me what you want and why,’ the man said, not looking at Mort.

Mort explained everything.

‘Are you aware of the penalties for assisting someone to suicide?’

‘But I won’t be, he’ll do it himself.’

‘You will have assisted him to procure the means, and that is akin to murder, according to the law, so you will almost certainly go to prison. And if it is discovered that I sold you the equipment, I will suffer the same fate.’

‘But he wants to do it.’

‘According to the law, anyone who wants to kill themselves for whatever purpose, is insane. That means they are not responsible for their actions. As you are not insane, that means you are the responsible one, a murderer, deliberately talking him into killing himself so his wife can benefit from his death. You can be certain someone will suggest that you and the wife are having an affair, and that you have conspired together to share the money. But being a woman she will get off with a warning because you must have talked her into it. Our courts and judges ignore the well-published fact that wives kill husbands much more frequently than the media suggest. You will be sentenced to prison where you will be raped, tortured, made ugly and be an old man by the time you are released.’

‘But... the law is insane! Why?’

‘Because we are ruled by religion and religion feeds on fear, suffering, pain and misery, because then people are vulnerable to lies about god and salvation and all the rest of the garbage that lets people avoid facing the truth about themselves and their lives. Most members of parliament are devoutly religious, so they impose their dogma on everyone through laws. Religious corporations pay no tax so they’re immensely wealthy, yet still receive vast amounts of public money to waste on their so-called charitable works which frequently do more harm than good. Naturally, they oppose laws that would lift people out of poverty of purse and spirit, otherwise they’d lose their subsidies and converts.’

‘But surely they can’t influence the government?’

‘They threaten to tell their adherents not to vote for a political party if politicians don’t do as they’re told, which works because the sole aim of a politician is to get re-elected to office. Note I said in office, not power; they don’t actually have any of that.’

Mort frowned. ‘I was thinking something similar recently. If it’s true it means there's no way to change things.’

‘I’m counting on climate change and rising seas to perform miracles. Do you still want to go ahead with this?’

‘Can it be done so they don’t know it was suicide?’

‘There’s one sure way. Does his wife agree?’

‘Not yet, but I think she’ll come round.’

‘If she eventually agrees, do you trust her not to change her mind?’

‘Yes... No. No I don’t think she can be relied on.’

The man sighed. ‘I’m going to get what you’ll need. Give me your pack and wait here. It’ll take me half an hour. Think carefully and have your answer ready when I return. If you decide not to go ahead with it, I fully understand and will not mind in the least taking the stuff home again.’ With that he put Mort’s pack into his own, stood and walked briskly away, soon lost among the trees so Mort had no idea which direction he finally took.

Mort sat and thought. If this method leaves no trace, is undetectable, then with proper planning it should be safe enough. Stefan was already very ill, so a sudden death would seem probable. But whatever the risk, Mort had promised to assist and assist he would. He’d find some way to ensure Lydia made no problems even if she didn’t agree. Having sorted his thoughts he relaxed and contemplated his future. What did he want to do next now the Nursery was being sold? How could he prepare personally for an impending climatic calamity? All he knew was gardening. He wouldn’t mind making quality furniture, but the market for the sort of stuff he liked would be minuscule. He’d probably have another twenty years stripping for hen parties and birthdays if he was careful with his body, but he’d already been what the manager called overexposed at the three gay clubs, and would have to wait a few months before they wanted him again. Salacia’s business was unreliable. And if stripping became his sole means of feeling useful it’d soon become drudgery instead of fun. Because, he realised, it wasn’t the money – he had plenty, he had to feel as if he was useful in some way.

His reverie was interrupted by the return of Charon, as he had come to think of the old man. He carefully took Mort’s now heavy pack from his shoulders, placed it on the seat between them, removed his own empty pack from inside, and sat gazing out across the empty park to recover his breath.

‘In your knapsack is a cylinder of nitrogen with a regulator attached. The instructions are on a sheet of paper. An autopsy will declare death caused by his existing illness, but only if you do what?’

‘Remove the evidence.’

‘Yes! And yourself from the scene. If it can be shown that anyone was anywhere near the man at the time, they will be accused of causing death by failure to act. Someone should have called the ambulance as soon as he began to show symptoms of distress, otherwise it will seem as if they wanted it. So twenty minutes or so after he has gone, and while you are disposing of the evidence as far from the scene as possible, his wife must come in, discover the body and immediately dial 000 and call an ambulance. Got it?’

Mort shook his head in despair at the cloak and dagger insanity. ‘Got it.’ Shielding his actions from the view of anyone who might be passing, he took out his wallet, counted the money, passed it across, hoisted the heavier than expected pack onto his shoulder, and turned to the man. ‘I admire you more than you can imagine. Thanks, and be assured your secret is safe with me, whatever happens.’

The man smiled. ‘I know.’

Mort looked down to adjust the straps and when he looked up he was alone.

The knapsack with its contents was placed inside a locked suitcase under Mort’s bed while they waited to see whether Lydia would overcome her religious indoctrination and see the humanity of what was happening.

The following day Mort had been invited to lunch with Steward, and Stefan decided to take a wander round the gardens and have his liquid lunch on the verandah with Lydia. Everything seemed so precious to him—the sun, the view over his nursery, and the fact that he now had a way to end the misery. The sense of relief was like a powerful opiate. He felt light. An insupportable burden had been lifted because he was no longer trapped by his illness. He wasn’t at the mercy of doctors and nurses. He could stop it all in a minute. The knowledge wiped a year’s accretion of frowns and wrinkles from his brow. His skin lost its unhealthy pallor. He smiled, and Lydia noticed.

‘The medicines must be working, you look much better.’

‘I haven't taken any today. I don’t want to take them any more. They make me feel rotten, heavy, sluggish. I’m having a good day because I can now end my suffering when I choose.’

Lydia looked alarmed. ‘Stefan, surely you…’

‘I’m not suicidal, Lydia. Don’t think that. I don’t want to die. All I want is a reasonable quality of life. I’m not stupid. I know my present remission is temporary and if I don’t take matters into my own hands I’ll soon be forced to resume the drugs, have operations, radiation and chemo, then go to a nursing home from where there is no escape until medical science has tried every possible trick to keep me alive, granting me the modern medical miracle of years of sub-zero quality life.’

‘Say what you want to say, Stefan.’

‘Is it OK with you if I top myself?’

‘Mort mentioned it to me last night and I lay awake thinking about it. At first I thought, No! Stefan mustn’t! What would all my friends think? That I was unable to take care of you? That you were such a wimp you couldn’t take a bit of pain? Thousands of men have cancer but remain brave and a model for us all. And then I thought of your suffering. And then I thought about Jesus telling us it is noble to suffer. And then I realised he meant suffering in defence of him, not suffering for nothing, like you. And then I thought about me. I’ll miss you if you’re dead, but then I’ll miss you anyway if you’re in hospital, in pain, drugged and unhappy. And then I’ll be tied to visiting you as often as possible, otherwise I’ll feel guilty, and that would be exhausting. So do it if you must. But I can’t help you! You must leave me out of it.’

‘Do you want to know how?’

‘No!’ The word came out as a shriek of fear. ‘No! I don’t want to know anything. Anything at all!’

‘Thanks, Lydia.’

Awkwardly, they manoeuvred the conversation back to the usual subjects of seeds, potting mixes, orders, the weather, what was flowering… For that afternoon at least, life felt as if it had returned to normal.

*****

The self-confidant young doctor took one look at Stefan, sniffed, said, ‘It won’t last. Get back on the drugs,’ and walked out.

Remission lasted two weeks and three days, during which Stefan felt he gained more pleasure, enjoyment and awareness of the wonder of life than in all his previous fifty-eight years. Lydia, too, managed to relax and was occasionally seen to smile.

Mort had decided he wouldn’t stay long in the house once Stefan had gone, so began organising his affairs and wondering what to do next. So far he had done nothing with the name he found in Perdita’s notebook, but one evening he searched the internet and discovered a likely candidate—Archibald Lintel; an architect of the right age, from the right area, now living in Far North Queensland. Mort had to become a member of the Internet site to see more, but he wasn’t ready for that. Simply knowing there was a possibility this man was his father was enough for the present, in the same way as knowing he could end his suffering was enough to enable Stefan to face his future with serenity.

As the nursery was up for sale there was little for Mort to do apart from keeping it looking spick and span, giving him plenty of time to complete the five performances he had booked with Salacia. Four were the usual fun, but one was more fun than expected.

On arrival at the house he introduced himself as usual, was shown to an unused bedroom, Handed the hostess the CD, reminded her about turning the lights down, accepted, counted and pocketed the money, changed into his persona as a cute young mechanic, and waited just outside the door of the lounge until the music started.

Invisible in the darkness he peered through the slightly open doorway. The women were all in their twenties and thirties; a Hens’ Night for the bride-to-be, who was seated on a chair in the centre of a circle, the butt of some game they were playing with lots of shrieks and giggles. The women were all tipsy, drinking liberally from plastic tumblers shaped like male genitals. Every time someone sucked on the erect penis they would squeal in delight.

Then he saw her—tits overflowing an insufficient lacy bra. Miss Bussty with girlish giggles was placing a paper crown on the bride-to-be. She returned on unstable feet to her seat as the music started... a deep throbbing beat, and all the lights were turned off apart from a table lamp, setting off further shrieks of excitement.

Mort’s outer costume was faked greasy overalls over T-shirt, topped by a cap. With a grin of anticipation he tucked his hair up inside and pulled the peak well down. Lights were always dim during his shows because bright lights made the women self-conscious and too shy to let their hair down and have fun. With his face in shadow it was unlikely the teacher would recognise him, as we tend to only recognise people we expect to see.

He wasn’t wrong. One by one the fourteen women were danced with and offered a piece of clothing to remove. In between, gasps of delight at his flexibility and wildly erotic dancing. He was down to the last pouch, offering the string to each in turn, and then withdrawing it at the last second to squeals of delight.

Then he advanced on Miss Bussty, miming that she could remove it… but only with her teeth. On all fours she crawled around attempting to grasp the cord in her teeth, but each time she was almost there, Mort moved slightly. Finally, he held her head in both hands and pressed her face against the pouch, allowing her to remove it, only to expose a tiny semitransparent bag that contained his manhood. Leaving her on the floor he zipped away, twisting and turning to the guest of honour who was allowed to remove the flimsy scrap of fabric while squawking with excitement. Tossing the insubstantial thing away, he hoisted the bride to be to her feet and they danced around the room.

After a quick dance with everyone else he took a flask of non-staining scented oil, placed a few drops on each woman’s hand and to cheers and lewd encouragement each was allowed to apply it wherever they wished. Most of them gently massaged his buttocks, belly or chest, but Bussty, who felt she’d been ridiculed by having to crawl around the floor, grabbed hold of his penis. Screams of delight.

Mort stood stock still staring at Bussty, then winked and whispered, ‘Hang on to it, gorgeous,’ as he slowly backed away, drawing a mesmerised Bussty with him. When they reached the centre of the room, he whispered, ‘Suck me, sweetheart.’

She sank to her knees and opened her mouth to receive his still flaccid penis, but was pulled roughly to her feet and held in what looked like a passionate embrace while Mort whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t you recognise me, Miss Bussty? I’m Mortaumal, the boy you had expelled from school. When the video of this performance goes viral on the Internet you’ll be famous.’ Shock deadened her face. She uttered a strangled whimper then raced from the room. Mort completed a couple of pirouettes, bowed and exited to ecstatic applause.

*****

Steward had finished the painting and hung it in the centre of the wall immediately opposite the door to his flat. He said nothing while Mort inspected it carefully, waiting until he had taken a couple of steps back to ask with surprising diffidence what he thought of it.

Mort was impressed with the technique, the colours, the representation of the two figures and the physical likeness, and said so enthusiastically. Privately, he thought it was no longer a depiction of his inner state. Everything had changed so much since the relatively inexperienced lad first visited the artist. No longer a divided character, he felt like a whole, and he hoped wholesome, individual who knew who he was and where he was heading.

Steward was inordinately proud and very grateful for his subject’s effusive compliments. ‘I’d like to exhibit it, Mort, will that be OK? It won’t be for a few months, a friend and I are exhibiting together in a gallery in the Valley. He’s putting in several drawings of you as well as paintings of other subjects.’

‘Will they be for sale?’

‘Yes. But I can say yours is already sold.’

‘Do you know, Steward, I’d be really thrilled to know that a painting of me by you was hanging in someone's house because they liked it. I’m moving on soon and have nowhere to store it, so…’ he shrugged engagingly.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Completely.’

‘Mort, you’re a brick.’

‘And you, Steward, saved my sanity when I first arrived, so I reckon we’re quits. In a few years I’ll come back and commission another, if that’s OK?’

‘Very OK! Don’t lose touch, Mort. I don’t care what happens to most people, but with you I’ve found a treasure. An email now and again so I know that you’re OK?’

‘Of course.’