Midnight in the Gallery 2

Following the miraculous events described in my previous story Midnight in the Gallery (which you can read on my Reedsy page under the prompt about somebody being locked in a museum overnight) I continued to volunteer at the gallery. To be completely honest, it was quite dull but dullness was something that I wanted at that stage in my life. I didn’t want too much excitement. I wanted a level of stability that wasn’t too stressful or difficult. I wanted calm and security.

We approached the one year anniversary of the weird events of that magical night when I visited a seemingly ordinary painting called The Village Cricket Match situated in a quiet corner of the South-East Gallery and discovered that not only could I hear the characters in the painting but they could hear me. I actually helped them. It was a crucial point in their cricket match and I had helped them reach a good decision about a possible run-out.

As the anniversary approached I had a strange feeling in my stomach and I knew that I had to mark the anniversary in some way. Would anything happen? Perhaps not. Had the whole bizarre sequence of events been some kind of strange dream or the beginnings of a mental breakdown? I had to try again. I had to re-create the circumstances and the conditions and hope that lightning would strike twice.

So on the night in question I went down to the toilets in the basement and fell asleep on the same toilet. My phone alarm woke me at midnight and I re-traced my steps up towards the painting in the South-East Gallery. Everything was quiet. As I walked through the quiet dark rooms of the building all was still and silent.

I reached the painting and looked at it carefully. It really was a beautiful painting with all the local village characters taking part in the big match. I touched the painting. Even though I knew that was against the rules of the gallery I didn’t think it would do any harm.

Suddenly I heard a voice.

“Who is there?” shouted the young wicketkeeper, looking round in confusion.

”It is me. I am here again.”

”We need your help. Please help us.” The burly skipper was looking directly at me. It was almost as if he could see me even though I was standing outside the painting.

”How can I help?”

”One of our players is injured and we need someone to be a substitute fielder.”

”Don’t you have a twelfth man?”

”He can’t play,” replied the skipper. “He has sprained his ankle bowling in the nets. The stupid sod!”

”I’m not sure that I can help you. I’m not your official twelfth man. I’m sure there is a rule about who can act as a substitute fielder. You should probably ring up Lords and check with the MCC.”

”Bollocks! The umpires agree. The opposing captain agrees. We need you to be our substitute fielder.”

With my objections overruled I stepped into the painting and found myself dressed in white cricket clothing and fielding on the boundary.

“Come in three paces,” shouted the captain. I moved closer in. I did my very best to field as energetically as I could but sadly we still lost the game by a margin of four wickets.

After the game we all went to the pub. I didn’t have any money with me but fortunately I didn’t need to buy any drinks. They were all bought for me. The atmosphere in the pub was fantastic. Everybody was slapping me on the back and thanking me for helping them out. It was an amazing evening. As it got closer to midnight I knew that it was time to make my excuses and leave. Only one problem remained. I decided to ask the captain as he seemed to be the only person who knew what was going on.

”How do I get home?”

”Home? Have you forgotten where you live?”

”No. How do I get back to the gallery?”

”Gallery? What gallery?”

”Well, the gallery where this painting is hanging. This painting is called The Village Cricket Match and it is in the South-East Gallery of The Streatham Art Gallery in South London.”

”Ah, I see now. You are from London. Well there are no trains to London at this time of night.”

”No. This is a painting. I am from the real world. I stepped into this painting to help you as your substitute fielder.”

He was speechless and looked at me as if I was a complete idiot. I decided to try again.

“You have got to help me. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life trapped inside a painting. I have a life in the real world. I have to find the way to get back to the real world. There must be a way.”

He still said nothing and so I grabbed hold of him and started to shake him by the throat.

”This is your fault. You made me come here. And now I am trapped. I cannot stay here, stuck in this stupid painting with a bunch of village idiots who cannot even win a cricket match against another bunch of village idiots.”

He punched me in the face and I lost consciousness.

****************************************************

I woke up. I was lying in the gallery. It was dark. I was confused and disoriented. But at least I was home. I wasn’t sure how. I was just relieved to be back in the real world. I almost cried with happiness. It felt great to look round and see all the familiar paintings on the walls. Perhaps my life wasn’t so bad after all.

But I decided that I would resign from the gallery and find volunteering work somewhere else. Finally I took one last look at the painting and I noticed that the fielder on the boundary, a fielder I had never noticed before, looked exactly like me.

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