Free Suspended In Dusk by Ramsey Campbell, John Everson, Wendy Hammer Page B

Henry Woollenby’s workshop, waiting for an invitation to sit. No invite was forthcoming, nor did I feel it would be in the immediate future, so I hung my hat and coat on a stand by the door.
    “So this is what you called me to see? What is it?”
    I walked across the room to view the vast canvas that dominated the narrow end of the wedge-shaped workshop. The painting depicted a misty scene on the banks of the Thames, and globules of fog clung to the lampposts in the distance. The black waters of the river lapped at the edge of the beach, low tide having deposited the body of a young woman on the dirty sand. Blackfriars Bridge loomed to the west. Henry darted about in front of the painting, dabbing a spot of paint here, or a streak of oil there. I wrinkled my nose.
    “Henry, why must you persist in painting such morbid subjects?”
    “I believe it to be reality. I seek only to paint the truth.” Henry did not look up from his work, but I considered myself fortunate to have received a reply at all.
    “The truth? What is true about what you’ve produced?”
    “Isn’t it obvious?” Henry paused, and turned away from the painting. I should have been repulsed, but I could not avert my eyes from the pale, outstretched arm of the fallen woman, her fingers curled as if to beckon me closer. I wanted to know her plight, what sorry state of affairs could have drawn her to such an ignominious end.
    “No.”
    “This is a regular occurrence, my friend. These women do not fall from grace, they are pushed! What happy ending can they possibly hope for in such a world? Their only salvation lies in the Thames.”
    “I could not agree more, but do you have to paint pictures of it?”
    “Is that not the duty of art? To ‘make glorious’ that which the greater public would rather ignore?”
    “The duty of art is to bring beauty into the world. It is simple decoration, and nothing more—you cannot pretend that art’s function should be that of moral instruction. No, you should leave such lofty ambitions to writers and orators,” I said.
    “Writers like yourself, I suppose?”
    “Indeed, writers like myself! We may use language to communicate, and narrative should be our preserve, not yours.”
    Henry snorted and returned to his work. I peered over his shoulder, examining the background as his brush flickered in and out of my field of vision. A dark stain within the shadow of the bridge caught my eye, some sort of hooded figure with its head bowed, facing toward the dead prostitute. A shiver ran down my spine.
    “Who is that?”
    Henry stopped and followed my pointing finger. He frowned as he bent closer.
    “I have no idea.”
    “Did you not paint it?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t exactly remember. Perhaps I did so late one evening as my senses departed for the night. Yes, that must be it. That may be the personification of guilt, or shame, felt by the women themselves.”
    Henry nodded and, apparently satisfied by his own explanation, resumed painting once more. I raised an eyebrow, my gaze fixed upon the hooded figure.
    “Did you actually see such a thing when you were there?”
    “When I was where?”
    “Down by the river. At low tide?”
    Henry’s ears flushed red, and he refused to turn around. He bowed his head, his brush sagging in his hand.
    “You didn’t go down to the river, did you?”
    Henry shook his head. I raised my eyebrow.
    “And this is not a scene you painted as you found it, is it?”
    Henry shook his head again. The red flush crept down the back of his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his paint-stained shirt. He’d protested so often about the veracity of art. It simply confirmed my assertions that truth is the preserve of the writer.
    “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve never even spoken to an unfortunate. They terrify me. I’d heard the stories, and seen what the other chaps were painting, so I had the daughter of my charwoman pose for the woman.”
    I snorted. “It hardly makes