"She signed the Anglo-Irish Agreement Reagan was pushing for the very next day." Carlos straightens, smacks his lips and looks out at the attendees. "And that's how I brought an end to the Troubles in Ireland."
I laugh. I can't help it. The nervous energy I've had simmering all day jumps at the chance of a small release. "You are a credit to our country, Carlos."
"Thank you, dear boy. You know, I've still got the scar from where they removed the microchip from my brain." He leans towards me and pulls his hair away from his temple. "Right there." Carlos taps at his forehead. "See?"
There is a small scar. The chances of it being from microchip removal are about as likely as Elly actually securing nearly a quadrillion dollars for her bathroom suite.
"I do see."
Carlos gives a single nod and reenters the throng.
I return to watching the figures tick healthily upwards on Elly's auction. As soon as it closes on a, frankly, ridiculous amount of money for any kind of bathroom suite, let alone a glitter one, a young woman steps up to the gallery counter and holds her hand out for me to shake, which immediately raises my suspicions, but the fact she's clutching a notebook in the other is a pretty big clue she’s a journalist.
"Elodie Titchmarsh fromThe Reporter." She holds up her notebook and says with a laugh, "I've had to go analogue. It's too noisy in here for digital devices."
I do my best to smile back, but all my energy's been commandeered into filling the fabric under my armpits with sweat.
"You are?"
"The tech guy. Well. Online auction caretaker really."
"No, I mean, can I have your name?"
Hell no, she can't. I tell her as such but without the underworld allusion. If things go pear shaped, I don't want my name in print until such time as I'm arrested.
She raises her eyebrows. "Okay tech guy. Can you tell me what the extraordinary success of a locally-run gallery in small-town Devon is having on the artists?"
"Ah, no? Ask one of the artists."
With a brief, closed-lipped smile, she says, "Alright. What about the decision to leverage the success of a string of social media videos and create a massively profitable piece of art? What was the reason behind that?"
I check the auction software. There's only a few minutes to go onA Lettered Man'sauction and bids are still streaming in. "You're really talking to the wrong person."
"I've asked several of the artists and all of them have evaded the answer. What's the reason for the secrecy?"
The fabric under my arms has reached capacity and sweat is now wicking down the material across my ribs.
I point at the computer screen. "I really need to be paying attention to this, I'm sorry."
It doesn't discourage her. "It could reach two million pounds. It's an extraordinary amount and an extraordinary success story. Has the original owner of the letters come forward to claim their share of the money yet and have you considered the legal repercussions should they dispute current ownership?"
The clock on the auction site ticks down to five minutes to go andGodam I not equipped to deal with this kind of pressure.
I look up to find someone, hopefully Carlos, to rescue me by talking a whole lot of well-articulated nonsense to the journalist, and a very tall, elderly white woman pushes her way through the people circulating around the gallery's entrance.
She doesn't look dressed for the occasion and has a look of concern on her face like she has lost her child amongst the throng.
She cranes her head left and right, then focuses onA Lettered Man.
It is not in any way the reprieve I was seeking. All the hairs on the back of my neck ripple to standing.
With an "Excuse me" to the journalist, I gather up the laptop from the gallery counter and move to intercept her, desperately hoping Elodie Titchmarsh doesn't follow.
"Can I help you?"
"That," she says, pointing across the room at the soldier. "I need to talk to the artist."
My ribcage cinches tight and I can't breathe. My awareness is reduced to the marginally asynchronous beating of my heart and pulsing of blood in my ears.
