A slight misunderstanding

I was feeling smug. I had sold a painting at a vastly inflated price to someone with too much money and very little understanding or appreciation of art. I had finally passed the painting onto the couriers and that was the reason I was sitting at this open-air wine bar with a glass of nicely chilled bubbles in my hand.

I was vaguely aware of a silver Mercedes cruising up the street in my direction, but this was Mercedes territory, so I thought nothing of it.

The car stopped right beside me. Doors were flung open and two burly men in grey suits leapt out and were on top of me before I could draw breath. My glass shattered as it hit the road. My hands were whipped behind my back and handcuffed.

“Come with us,” shouted one of the men as I was half lifted, half dragged towards the car.

“You know what you did,” the other one screamed in my ear.

In less than a minute I had gone from the high of self-indulgence to the despair and anguish of total confusion.

“B … b… but I don’t,”

“Shut it, we ain’t here to listen feller, just to take you in.” To emphasise his point, the man who had spoken first gave me a dig in the ribs. It made me wince.

By now I was seated in the rear of the car with the men sitting either side of me. The car roared off and the driver executed a hand-break turn at the end of the road.

I tried to see where we were heading but the man on my left grabbed my head while his partner pulled a foul-smelling bag over it.

Corners were obvious as my body was being hefted against my captors. I was starting to feel nauseous.

What is this all about? Surely the man to whom I had sold the painting had not discovered its true value and was out to get me. That was highly improbable. And I had not killed anyone, robbed anyone or had an affair with another man’s wife. I was not dealing drugs or doing anything remotely illegal. No! There was nothing at all that I could think of that would merit this treatment.

The car slowed and stopped. I could hear a whirring sound and the car moved off again at a much slower pace. The engine sound seemed to echo. I guessed we were in an underground car park. The car stopped and I felt a hand take a firm hold of my right arm.

I struggled to get my feet onto the ground as I was pulled from the seat, but I fell onto my knees. I was pulled upright. “Move” shouted the man holding my arm. I could hear a door opening and my shoulder brushed against something solid. The door closed behind me.

Our footsteps echoed as we passed along what I assumed was a corridor and after about fifty or so steps I heard another door open.

I could smell fresh paint. After being forced to turn round I was pressed down onto a hard chair. My feet were then bound to it and then my captors left. The last I heard of them was a key being turned in a lock.

How do you gauge time when you are immobile and blindfolded? I had no idea how long I had been in this room, but my bladder was beginning to protest.

Just as I was about to soil myself, I heard the key turning in the lock.

I sighed. This must be someone in authority who will realise that a huge mistake has been made and I will be released.

I felt a slight draft as the door opened. “Help me, I’m in desperate need of the toilet.”

The blow that struck the side of my head toppled me and the chair onto my side. Pain like I had never experienced before radiated out from my shoulder and from the side of my head. I screamed in agony. Then I was kicked in the small of my back.

Firm hands hoisted me upright again. I could feel blood trickling down the side of my head.

“Now you can talk,” It was a different voice, a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. “Tell me where it is.”

I was almost crying. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Please don’t hit me again. You have got the wrong man.”

“That doesn’t sound like Oscar,” said the new voice. “Let me see him.”

My sudden exposure to bright light after prolonged blackness was overpowering. I had to close my eyes immediately giving those around me an advantage.

The familiar voice shouted. “You imbeciles, that’s not bloody Oscar. Christ, that’s Charles Ryland, the owner of the gallery who sold me the painting in the first place. Get him untied at once.”

I opened my eyes to see the gentleman to whom I had sold the paining leaning down and looking at me intently.

“What can I say, Mr Ryland? I am profoundly sorry for this sad state of affairs. You see, the courier company I hired to transport the painting to my apartment turned out to be bogus and are holding that magnificent piece of artwork hostage and are now trying to extort money from me for its safe return. Apparently, if I do not comply, they will destroy the picture. However, I happened to have access to a clip of CCTV footage and was able to identify one of the perpetrators. These clots got the wrong end of the stick and picked you up instead. I am so very sorry. Let me offer you ten, no twenty thousand by way of compensation for which I trust you will not feel inclined to involve the police.”

I nodded.

“Now,” said the man to his hired thugs, “get this poor man’s wounds dressed then take him to my tailor for a suit to replace the one you have damaged and then transport him to his home. When you’ve finished I want you to find Oscar. Is that clear?”

The couple muttered, “Yes boss,” before I was helped to my feet and, at last, led to a toilet.

And now, well, I rarely go out any more and when I do I sit inside the premises out of sight of passing vehicles.