Captivating Chaos

One careless afternoon, Sam had accidentally agreed to attend the ‘Captivating Chaos’ exhibition as suggested by his secretary, and now, despite himself, he was making his way to an unfamiliar part of the city. After leaving his apartment, he’d navigated the bustling city centre where the Saturday shoppers were now transmuting into evening drinkers, flooding the wine bars and bistros. The begrudging light of a grey November day had gone, and the heavy darkness of late autumn settled in the shadows and doorways, too thick for the city’s lights to penetrate.

A Saturday evening out was once a permanent fixture with his ex-wife, who was also now Sam’s deceased ex-wife. The divorce had been benign, amicable even, empty of drama or disagreement and he’d accepted the count of unreasonable behaviour, ending the marriage, leaving Sam with ample means to start again, while his ex-wife kept the house, albeit an empty shell of a home.

Sam wasn’t the type to visit galleries, but his secretary had sent the acceptance before he’d taken any real notice of the invitation. The evening would be hosted by a Mr Simon Tapwell, a name that Sam recognised, though from where, he hadn’t been able to immediately recollect. ‘At least there might be some networking opportunities,’ he thought as he checked his reflection in a darkened shop window, his sports jacket over a crisp white shirt, dark jeans and polished brogues. ‘Not too shabby for thirty-five,’ he smiled to himself, and satisfied that he looked the part, Sam headed for the more ‘bohemian’ district, to the east of the city centre where the streets narrowed and shop fronts became much darker and eclectic. Lurking doorways presented themselves as shady vestibules to other dimensions, their contents indecipherable in the darkness. The air hung heavily with the strong scent of garlic in various forms, and behind barely lit windows, hunched and contemplative shapes stirred slightly, the sound of dub-bass vibrating through the footpaths from an unseen subterranean source.

Sam continued to make his way through the closely lit streets in what he hoped was the right direction. He’d checked the online maps before setting out and the gallery ‘The Timeless Tempera’ should soon be coming up on the left, just after an old baptist church which, according to the internet, was now a book shop and cafe, but Sam didn’t want to consult his phone for fear of it being snatched. As he approached a fried chicken shop, Sam noticed a taxi idling outside, the driver’s arm nonchalantly resting on the wound down window as he smoked a pungent smelling cigarette. Sam approached. “I’m looking for the Timeless Tempera gallery,” he said, suddenly feeling conscious at his lack of knowledge of his surroundings, “do you know where it is?”

The driver lifted his head in what seemed a painful effort to look up, his heavy lids barely open enough to allow Sam to see the dark eyes floating beneath. He blew a heavy cloud of smoke, causing Sam to cough slightly and take a step away from the taxi window. 'Somewhere up there mate,’ the driver gestured his hand in a nondescript direction. None the wiser, Sam nodded, and moved away from the taxi, distracted by a group of teenagers who were emerging from the fried chicken shop. A girl in a long black leather coat and thick soled boots glanced at him, a greasy chicken leg hanging from her red painted mouth, she grinned and then threw her arm around a boy in army combats before they and the rest of their darkly clothed group disappeared down a side street.

Three weeks after the decree absolute, Sam’s ex-wife had been found hanging from the light fitting in the empty bedroom they had once shared. There was an absence of a note, nothing to explain her final act in the empty house, for her, all that remained of her vacuous marriage. Sam hadn’t allowed himself to be affected, disinterested in what had happened. Their relationship had left no impression on him, as if it had never existed at all, and for Sam, work, business and contracts, the constants of his life were still there, just as they’d always been. The marriage had been one from a box, a marriage of numbers, filling in the right colours in the correct places, creating an image but with no depth or substance, nothing in it of their own design, they simply filled in the shapes and the motions until the picture was complete, when all that could be done was to frame it and hang it where no one would see it.

Sam could make out the looming black building of what he calculated must be the old church, a monolith, manifesting itself between the streets of single fronted shops and dwellings. All around the building was dark, no light fell from the tall windows and the great double doors which had once welcomed devout and god fearing worshippers, were firmly closed. A woman in a faded raincoat accompanied by a small brown dog sat on a bench by the doors, she murmured something to the dog and looked up and down the street as if expecting something untoward.

“Hello,” Sam approached tentatively, for fear of unsettling the dog or its owner, “do you know where the bookshop and the art gallery are?”

The woman regarded him for a moment, her head moving slightly from side to side as she fiddled with the end of the dog lead. “Back door I think,” she said, her eyes angled to the starless sky, then refocusing on Sam. “Yeah, round the back,” and she turned her attention to the dog and continued her murmuring.

Sam muttered a quiet thank you and took the narrow paved path, strewn with damp mulch and sodden brown leaves, beneath which a film of green algae glistened dangerously, threatening to overturn the most carefully placed steps. The path wound along the side of the building, the imposing granite of the church on one side and a high stone wall on the other. A dim, dull orange light seeped from somewhere near the end of the alley, barely enough to illuminate his surroundings and Sam moved gingerly, placing one foot tentatively in front of the other as his leather-soled brogues slid along the greasy stones. The distant hum of the street faded into the distance, swallowed by the shadows as Sam fingers brushed the cold wall beside him for balance. He couldn’t help but feel as though the wall of the church and the wall opposite, were slowly converging with each step he took, the damp alleyway becoming tighter around him and the closeness of the sky overhead like a heavy sagging ceiling, so Sam felt as though he were in some kind of funnel, guiding him towards his destination.

The dim orange light began to grow brighter, and Sam could hear an ethereal sound of music that filled the alleyway, sensing a presence behind him, he turned around, but all he could see was the far away light from the street and the passing cars, as if viewing them through a tiny rectangular lens. Unease edged its way into his senses, circling around him, and Sam increased his pace, moving quickly toward the source of the music and the light.

Before heading out, Sam had searched the familiar name of Simon Tapwell, the curator of the evening, and had been mildly surprised when the name came back as belonging to the scrawny and perpetually ill Simon Tapwell from Sam’s high school days. Sam had initially doubted the search result but after a few minutes flicking through social media and art pages, he’d confirmed to himself that it was indeed the same person, the boy who’d always been picked last for sports teams and was off poorly just as much as he was ever in school.

Emerging from the end of the narrow alleyway, Sam could see the front of what he assumed was the book shop, its open door tucked into a small lighted recess towards the rear of the church building. Hovering nearby was the group of teens from earlier, the girl in the long coat and boots glanced at him and then turned back towards her camouflaged companion. “Hi,” Sam approached the girl, “do you know how to get into the gallery - the Captivating Chaos exhibition?”

The girl sniggered and looked Sam up and down with flickering eyes. “Through the bookshop, the gallery doors are shut,” she gestured towards the small door.

‘This is all very strange’ Sam pondered wondering why hold an event but keep the gallery doors closed, and with a sense that staying at home may have been a better option, he made his way through the door from which the light and music drifted.

Immediately inside the door, the music faded, then vanished altogether, and as he descended a slight incline into the bookshop’s dimly lit interior, Sam found that he could barely hear anything at all and began to suspect that the teenagers were having a joke at his expense. All he could see were shelves crammed with books, there was the distinct smell of old libraries, and in a corner was a small cafe area where a glass fronted refrigerator emitted a pale blue light, humming softly to itself. The place was deserted. Then, from behind him, came the click of a door closing. Sam turned sharply. The door he’d just entered through was now firmly shut. Sam stepped a few paces back the way he’d come, compelled to check that the door could still be opened, but then heard a voice.

“Sam! Good evening, how wonderful that you could make it.” Turning back towards the darkened shelves of books, Sam could make out a tall slim figure, it stood motionless between two large bookcases.

“Hello?” Sam felt an odd sense of relief, that this wasn’t some sort of joke initiated by the group outside and he moved towards the figure, straining to see in the dim light that seemed to be shifting from one area of the room to another.

“You made it. Well, better late than never I suppose!” The tone was jovial, though there was a starchy backdrop, a hint of sarcasm.

As Sam came closer, the shifting light ceased its movement and hung in the air above the tall, suited figure. “Simon, I’d never have recognised you.” Here stood the man who had once been the sickly boy in Sam’s school year. Now, the ghastly pot-marked face was gone; a longer, leaner visage, thick dark hair, small round spectacles, a navy double breasted suit, a heady aroma of expensive cologne. “I was convinced I’d got the wrong place.” Sam, remembering himself, extended his right hand towards Simon, who took it in his long slender hand and offered a handshake that was strong and firm, but chilled to the touch.

“Welcome,” Simon turned on the spot, his arms gesturing flamboyantly towards their surroundings, “please, do follow me this way,” and he eased his way, like a moonlit cat, into the forest of books, their dust-jackets almost reaching out to touch him as he passed between them.

Up until this point, Sam had accepted that his Saturday evening was irretrievable; he would have to endure the exhibition but he might get back home at a reasonable hour, put on a movie and catch up on some paperwork. Now he was pulled in two directions, to head back towards the closed door or to follow Simon Tapwell to whatever was beyond the bookshop. Honour and pride pushed him forward, as former captain of the school football team, it was unthinkable for him to run from the boy who’d often been at the receiving end of classroom taunts. Sam followed through the multiplying shelves, a few short paces behind Simon. Beneath his feet, Sam could feel soft carpet, which as they commenced through the narrow volume filled passageway, softened his slightly descending footsteps, and except for his breathing, the place was devoid of sound. Trying to reconcile this with his expectations, confusion began to seep into Sam’s consciousness, ‘where was everyone, why wasn’t anyone else here?’

As if reading his thoughts, Simon stopped and turned to him. He appeared much taller than he’d been just moments before and his long pale face permeated the blanket of darkness, almost spectre-like. “The door to the gallery is just back here, this shop is so much bigger than you’d realise, such a large church in its day. Just a little further now.”

“Great,” came Sam’s limited response. His neck was beginning to ache and he felt suddenly cold, as though a sharp frost had crept across him, he rubbed his arms, startled at how icy the fabric of his sports jacket felt beneath his fingers. The bookcases were thinning out now, and behind the silhouette of Simon, Sam could see a plain white painted wall, featureless except for a white door. Simon grabbed the handle purposefully and inserted a metal key, he shot a smile back at Sam.

“Here we are. I’m so glad you could make it. Please, after you,” and Simon stood back, his dark suit bold against the white of the wall, and Sam walked through the door.

Under his feet, Sam could feel hard concrete, his eyes, partly closed and covered by his hands, creased at a dazzling bright light that appeared to be coming from every direction. The place beyond the door was quiet except for a slight murmuring that Sam could not decipher nor place its source. “Your eyes will adjust momentarily,” Simon spoke plainly, “please come this way,” and he locked the white door behind them, returning the small metal key to his trouser pocket.

Sam’s mind was fraying slightly at the edges and he began to question the reality in which he found himself. ‘So I don’t do art,’ he thought, ‘but I do know artists do some crazy stuff. This must be one of those immersive type things I’ve heard about, might have known Simon would be involved in something this weird.’

Sam caught up to Simon’s side. “Captivating Chaos… how did you get involved in all this?” he asked, as blinking against the light, he looked up at the other man, ‘blimey, he’s tall’ he muttered to himself.

“Oh, you know how it is, we just fall into some things don’t we. Little turns on life’s path can lead us into many…” he paused, “opportunities I suppose you could say.”

Sam, his eyes now adjusted to the brilliance of the light, could see that they were in a vast windowless room, the walls were white and featureless and placed around the room were wooden easels, perhaps fifty of them, each mounted with a canvas, and around each canvas, soft white shapes gathered, the source of the murmuring sound, they shifted amongst each other, merging and separating, flowing between the easels, filling the room with their presence. In the centre of the room was a small circular stage, white like an oversized wedding cake protruding from the pale concrete floor, a little set of steps at its side.

Sam moved towards the scene laid out before him, intrigued as to what the canvases contained. At the first easel he came to, the white figures surrounding it parted a little, swimming around him, almost carrying him, light on his feet, to the canvas. Sam tilted his head to take in the artwork on the tall pale easel, a vast flat white canvas, not a mark on it, he stepped closer, perhaps he was missing something, the figures around him hummed and softly whistled, there was nothing there. Confused, Sam turned to the figure at his right. “What…?” but the figure had slipped away leaving an empty space. Sam turned to his left, the shapeless forms hovered towards him and then twisted into nothing before his eyes. Sam, searching for Simon and some answers, sensed an energy flowing towards the room’s centre, he moved effortlessly towards it, noticing other empty canvases as he drifted through the white, the coldness of the place touching his skin, his hands and face, a whispering chill about his ears.

 The mass of quivering pale shapes circled the empty stage, together they motioned in and out, twisting and turning, shapelessly swirling, they swathed around Sam filling him with a vast sense of terrifying nothingness. Breathlessly he tried to shout out, but nothing emerged from his mouth except a cloud of air that vanished into nowhere. Sam could see nothing, hear nothing. He fell towards the little stage, landing on its harsh cold steps. Around him, the sea of easels shifted slightly, as though something had swayed throughout the vast white room, and the empty canvases tumbled silently to the floor, quietly evaporating into the concrete until just one remained. To its side, Sam could see the dark elongated shape of Simon Tapwell, who held one hand aloft and then moved behind the canvas and was gone.

Sam attempted his voice again, but no sound emerged. A thick white haze settled around him and the faint crackle of an old television set caught at the edge of his hearing, then faded away, leaving him unsure if he’d ever heard it at all. The little circular stage gradually receded, shrinking into the mist, so nothing remained but a white plastic stool, its surface icy to Sam’s touch.

Sam lost all sense of time in the blindingly white days that followed, his phone and watch both dead. Sam would sit at the vast white solitary canvas and begin to paint. Sometimes the colours were vivid, lurid hues, other times, more muted and pale. But regardless of their tone and place on the spectrum, they would always silently fade away to nothing and Sam would begin again, trapped as an artist of his own design, with an eternally empty canvas.