"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 thewhoomphof ignition incredibly satisfying.
Within thirty seconds, the soldier is nothing but a metal frame.
Chapter forty
Bess
It'sover.
I can’t bring myself to explain why I did something as unhinged as burningA Lettered Manto my followers when they inevitably find out. After the journey I’ve shared with them, I will owe them that and they will want it. But I can’t. It will expose too much of me.
And it will definitely expose me as, at the very least, a misleader. At worst, a liar.
So, before the first newspaper can publish whatever sensational version ofArtist Destroys Two-million Pound Artwork as Auction Closesthat will hook the most readers, and any speculation as to why circles the social media ether, I cancel myself.
My TikTok channelRomance is Deadis, well, dead.
Chapter forty-one
Ed
Istandatthefrontwindow of the library peering across the road. "The gallery's not open."
