Day 150 - Magazine

 MAGAZINE

Prompt - Magazine : randomly flip to a page in a magazine and write using the first few words you see as an opening line.

"I'm very influenced by my travels, particularly in Marrakech, Paris and London.  It's the intermingling of those palettes that helps create the sense of displacement in my work."

This was Geremmy, Shiv's latest boyfriend.  Her latest pretentious prick.  She knew exactly what I'd think of him and couldn't wait to throw the full horror in my face, and laugh at my reaction.  And I played along, because that's what we did.  My sister played to shock, I had to act out the older brother role.  I wondered if that would ever change?

So I let her have her laugh, I talked to her friends, I even let myself be patronised by yet another painter whose 'work' looked like something a five year old could have done, but with more honesty.  

"I'm heading for Berlin next, see if a little of that Brandenburg magic can rub off on me, I can feel a more angular phase coming over me and Germanic is exactly the right vibe for the moment."  I nodded, tried to make polite noises.  And, to my own surprise, found myself asking the overblown daub -monkey a genuine question about the canvases he was flaunting.

"Why is there always a knife blade in your painting?"  It was the one thing I'd noticed, the only part that intrigued.  There was good chance the answer would be a load of bollocks, but I thought I'd give him a chance.

"Aah, well spotted, my little recurring symbol, a link to my internal thought process.  Not a knife though.  A letter opener.  A device to unlock the unknown, both the eagerly awaited love missive and the unwanted tax demand.  An opening into aspects of life that suddenly appear before us on our doormat.  Opportunities and responsibilities, friends and strangers, the casual, the formal, a celebration or a death, news and old memories, openings into future and past.  The mailbox is a window into times to come, the blade the means to unfold those times."

I'd been right.  Total bollocks.

Time to say my goodbyes so I sought out sis, took her to one side.

"You hate him, don't you?"  She wanted me to, it would make her proud.  One nil to the youngster.  

"I can safely say he's the worst yet.  I only hope you know what you're doing.  Try not to let this one hurt you too much Shiv."  She faux-scowled back, then gave me a hug and told me to piss off.  Good, we were still friends.

A couple of months went by.  I'd only seen my sister once since the poncey exhibition, and she'd told me she might go off to Germany for a bit.

"Still Geremmy?"

"Yeah.  So?"  Challenging.  of course.

"Nothing.  Do what you want to do sis, would I ever dare try to stop you?"  She smiled that cutesy lopsided grin of hers, punched me on the arm and said she'd soon be back in Dublin.  I'd not heard anything since.

Reading the Sunday paper, just bored enough, waiting til I could head to the pub and few pints with the lads.  It was only five column inches in the international section, easy to miss, but the word Interpol in the headline drew me in.  I was always a sucker for a bit of cross border criminality.  Berlin police had found the body of a young woman, the fatal wounds from a narrow blade suggesting the killer had been performing a kind of ritual.  Interpol had become involved because of the similarities with unsolved murders in Paris, London, Greece and Morocco.  All of women with long dark hair, all killed in an identical manner, all still unidentified.

The connection wasn't instant.  Even when the thought came into my mind I tried to shove it away as sibling paranoia, overprotectiveness.  But I called Shiv.  No answer.  Texted, Whatsapped, emailed, looking for a response.  Left it overnight.  Slept little.  Still nothing in the morning.  

I went to the Garda, expecting to be told not to be so daft.  I wasn't.  Oh Shiv...