Brian had been in the gallery for around ten minutes. A series of white cube rooms displaying art. Very different from the place he’d visited the last time he’d been given private tickets. That had been a rather grim gallery the size of a news-agents, somewhere out west. Graffiti art, decomposing artifacts on the floor and literally rats running free as part of the installation.
Not this time. It was clean pictures on clean walls in a gallery he had pretty much to himself. He looked towards the white space between the hanging pictures. Pristine. Then he noticed it from the corner of his eye. A very thin red line arcing across the wall. A new line appearing as he looked at it. Then he felt it. The knife had done deep damage. Then he felt nothing.
Outside, November graphite skies, gentle rain. A quiet, dark-suited man slowly left the gallery, flicked his umbrella up and walked across to a modern metallic BMW. The driver clicked the locks, he climbed into the back seat and slipped into the busy traffic.
Tag: nanowrimo, novel, writing
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