Andrew is a scientist, author, and graphic design consultant who lives with this wife and daughter on the outskirts of Melbourne, Australia.

Information about his other publications, his bio, and how to contact him can be found on his website: www.andrewtompkins.com

      Dennis Grubb didn't see her as he entered the store.  He walked straight past, wiping aside strands of rain-wet hair which stuck to his forehead.  The shop keeper, an older man with a grim demeanor, eyed Dennis suspiciously - as he did with all his customers - watching to make sure he didn't pocket something as he moved between the shelves.
      She watched him as well, her gaze fixed, eyes unblinking, as Dennis moved through aisles of bric-a-brac and second-hand books - along with anything else the shop keeper could pick up for next to nothing at a yard sale - right alongside everything you'd normally expect from a general store.
      Dennis didn't feel her gaze, but he was aware of the shop keeper's.  He knew he was under suspicion, and it made his skin crawl.  Dennis felt guilty despite himself; always did, in this store and every other shop he entered.  He couldn't help it.  He tried hard to act like he wasn't a shop lifter, to give the impression of indifference, as if there was no way in the world he would even think about stealing something.  But he just knew that the harder he tried to act normal, the more suspicious he seemed to the guy behind the counter.  He could go crazy if he let it get to him but somehow he summoned enough courage to suppress the fears building up within him and go on.  He busied himself searching for the cough syrup. 
      Now, he thought, it couldn't be just any cough syrup.  It had to be a non-drowsy sort.  You don't want to fall asleep now do you? he could hear her shriek.  It had to be the least expensive non-drowsy sort.  Don't waste money on high faluting brand names because that's all you're paying for you know - the name.  But it couldn't be any of that ‘no name' rubbish.  You never know what you'll end up with do you?  Well?  And it wouldn't do at all to buy a small bottle when a larger bottle would of course be more economical.  It's cheaper in the long run, stupid.  Don't you have a brain?
      He picked up what seemed like the most appropriate bottle.  He read the fine print to make sure it wasn't going to send him off.  He checked its price and volume against the other bottles nearby and, after about half a minute, decided with relief that this bottle was by far the best selection.
      He wandered over to the cluttered counter, taking no notice of the advertised specials on potato chips and dips, or the second-hand penny dreadfuls lined up on the left at a buck each.  He scanned the label one last time before handing the bottle to the shop keeper.  He was pretty sure it was okay.
      "Anything else?" the shop keeper inquired, not looking at him any more.  Behind him, against the wall, a large, ominous - and always familiar - clock ticked loudly.
      "No, that's all," Dennis replied.
      "Do you want a bag?"  Tick, tick...
      "No."
      He began searching for the correct change.  He had to select the notes and coins of the lowest denominations so that it left him with the fewest notes and coins possible at the end of the purchase.  Somehow, she could remember every single note or coin in his possession at any time and, when she got her hands on the receipt for the cough medicine, she would undoubtedly want to inspect the money he had left. 
      "That'll be four dollars eighty."
      He'd already prepared the exact change and he handed it to the shop keeper.
      "Do you want a receipt?" the shop keeper asked him.
      "Yes," he responded a little too quickly, trying to hide the internal horror at the suggestion that it was possible for him to leave the shop without one.
      Before the shop keeper had a chance to get the receipt, the clock made a loud and vaguely familiar noise, and the shop keeper absently gave it a whack.  The clock began chiming like it was supposed to do, which inexplicably gave Dennis the chills.
      The shop keeper handed Dennis his receipt.  Dennis placed it carefully in his cracked brown leather wallet, and tucked the bottle into the right hand pocket of his overcoat, then turned towards the door. 
      It was then that he saw her for the first time. 
      Dennis stared at her for what seemed the longest time, and all the while she stared back at him.  They were both transfixed, locked in an eternal embrace of sorts as they gazed into each other's eyes, and all he could think was that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.  Her hair was like a flowing river of auburn, her eyes like deep and knowing forest pools.  The complexion of her skin was pale and without flaw, and yet her face exuded so much character; as if she knew all there was to know about every single thing.  As if she knew exactly who he was inside.  As if she knew who he was.  He tried to find the words to say, to break this moment so they could move onto the next.  But whilst his mind fumbled desperately for the right words, the shop keeper knew exactly what to say.
      "You can have it for ten bucks."

#

      He clutched the top of the plastic bag firmly to protect the painting from the sheets of rain cutting against his hands and face as he hurried along Blackburn Road.
      He turned left into Cypress Avenue and made his way towards the house.  He coughed in fits as he forced his way through the rain.  The huge trees which ran along each side of the street shook violently in the wind, moving in unison with each gust, a giant and menacing arboreal ballet.  A branch flicked out suddenly as Dennis passed, catching his sleeve.  He yanked it free and sent the bottle of cough medicine flying out of his pocket.  He watched with horror as it headed for the ground.  It just missed the concrete, landing on the grass just at the edge of the nature strip.  He snatched it up, placing it back in his pocket, not wanting to consider how he could ever have explained it to her if it had smashed.
      The house was a typical three bedroom red brick single story; the same as every other house in the suburban street, more or less.  He knew she might be watching from the window but had decided to risk her seeing the bag he carried.  If she did see him carrying something, he'd have to tell her he couldn't say what it was because it was meant to be a surprise for her.  Of course, if it came to that, he'd have to go out again and try to smuggle an actual surprise into the house, but that was a worry for another day.  Right now, the most important thing was to get the painting home and to hide it where she wouldn't find it.
      At the side of the house was a small wooden door.  A single bolt holding it shut.  The brick room within was actually underneath the main section of the house and was full of old and musty clothes, a couple of electric heaters that no longer worked, a small color television which Dennis had carried down there after smoke started pouring out the back of it one night, and stacks of old magazines and books, some of them damaged by the dank surroundings.  The room doubled as a tool shed with a modest collection of gardening equipment - rakes, spades, a wheel barrow, and so on - and, of course, a lawn mower that only worked sometimes; usually in the winter when the grass didn't really need it.
      A padlock secured the bolt on the wooden door but he had his own key.  She also had a copy of the key but he couldn't remember the last time she'd used it.  He rushed in and shut the door behind him, making sure not to let it bang against the frame in the wind.  There was a wooden latch inside to hold the door shut and he fastened it quickly, letting go of the door carefully and pausing to make sure that the wind wasn't going to rattle the door noisily on the latch.  The door held tight. 
      He looked around the room which had become progressively more cramped over the years and found a suitable spot to hide the painting.  There was a fairly dry pile of newspapers stacked on a bench against the far wall.  He lifted up some papers in the center of the pile and slipped the painting still in its bag into the gap.  He carefully arranged the newspapers, pulling them forward so they completely hid the bag from sight.  He looked up suddenly as he heard her moving around in the living room above him - click clack, click clack.  Until now his heart had been racing and he'd unwittingly held his breath with apprehension, almost expecting the door of the little room to be flung open and to see her standing there, fierce anger in her eyes.  But she was still safely upstairs.  Beginning to breathe again, he felt a bit light headed as the blood suddenly rushed to his head.  Taking one last look over his shoulder to make sure everything appeared normal, he exited the little room and carefully replaced the padlock.  He took a moment to calm himself, to slow his breathing and, in his mind, he rehearsed what he would say in case she'd seen him coming home with the bag.
      "It was a present for you, Mummy," he said in response to her question as she shuffled along the hallway towards him.  She had seen him carrying something.  He wasn't sure if she'd seen where he went with it.  He'd have to try to move it somewhere safer later on.
      "Dear me, that sounds nice," she said, smiling.  He hated it when she smiled.  "But it's not my birthday."
      "I know that," he said.  "I'll give it to you when it is your birthday.  And I can't tell you what it is so don't ask."
      He rushed past her, placed the bottle of cough medicine on the kitchen table along with its receipt and headed straight for his room before she could ask him any questions about how much change he had left.  If she'd known what he'd spent on the painting ... well, he didn't want to think about it.
      He listened to her shuffling around the kitchen.  From the sounds he could imagine her looking at the bottle and, after a moment, looking at the receipt.
      "Was this the best medicine, dear?" she called out to him.
      "Yes, Mummy," he called back. 
      "Come and have some before your cough gets any worse.  I want to see you drinking this."
      "All right.  In a minute." He couldn't stand cough medicine but she insisted he take it.  There was really no point; he had never been any better for it.
      He held his breath for a moment and listened.  He listened to her place the bottle back on the table and then - click clack, click clack - he could hear her move across the kitchen, her walking frame echoing on the lino - click clack.  She began making herself a pot of tea and he began to breathe again; the painting was safe, for the moment.
      The next day, whilst his mother napped in front of the television, he considered going down to see her again but decided he couldn't risk it; not just yet.  All night he had been thinking of those eyes; the deep forest pools which were so entirely perfect.  And as he slept, he dreamed of the woman in the painting, his mind taking him to strange places with her, to imaginary lands, along flowing streams in the sunshine, and they held hands and laughed together.  Her eyes sparkled as she laughed and made everything okay.
      He allowed a few days to pass before venturing down to the little room under the house.  He'd decided it was unlikely she'd go down there anyway - she'd have a fair amount of difficulty negotiating the back steps for one thing - and even if she did, he didn't think she'd find the painting; the stack of papers was pretty heavy and he'd hidden the bag well.  So, instead of moving the painting, he'd waited, allowing enough time for her to stop watching every move he made. 
      She'd been watching him like a hawk, asking about where he was going whenever he opened the front or the back door.  This was not unusual; she always watched him.  But he knew she was curious as to the nature of her present.  She'd asked him about it again of course.  She wanted to know more.  He knew she would and he'd prepared for it.  He'd told her it was for her birthday.  He'd seen it and couldn't walk past it in the shop and she shouldn't ask him about it any longer or she would spoil the surprise.  And so, after a few days, life was normal again, her scrutiny dissipated, and he felt he might actually be able to look at the painting again; see the lines, the colors, those eyes.
      He'd been dreaming about the woman in the painting.  That first night, when he lay there looking up into the blackness, he could see her face.  She looked back at him with love.  He had imagined holding her, feeling the warmth of her body against his as he held her close, resting his chin on the top of her head.  He smiled.  But the following night, he found it difficult to remember exactly what she looked like.  The image teased him, floated in and out of view in his mind's eye, and he decided that the next morning he just had to see her again.  There was nothing else for it.
      So, the next morning as he stood in the little room under the house, he pulled the painting out of its bag and held it up before him.  And there she was again in full color.  The memories came flooding back and he took it all in in an instant; her smile, her smooth smooth skin, and, of course, her beautiful eyes.  She gazed at him with the love he'd imagined in his dreams.  It seems she had also missed him and was glad to be with him again.  As he stood holding the painting, looking into those eyes, he actually began to feel sad; sad that he would never know the woman he truly loved.  Because it wasn't appreciation or infatuation or even adoration.  No, he loved her.  It was no more complicated than that and the simplicity of the notion was beginning to bring order to his mind.
      Later, he sat on his bed, wondering if there was any way to smuggle her into the house.  He couldn't keep her locked away down there.  And Mother would be suspicious of him going outside all the time.  There had to be some way to get her into his room and then to conceal her.  There just had to be.
      The following day, with Mother asleep once more in front of the television, he stole downstairs, retrieved the painting from its hidey hole, and brought it to the back door.  With one hand on the door knob and the other holding the plastic bag, he put his head close to the wooden door, the flaking white paint scratching against his left ear, and he listened.  The television was on, of course.  That was enough to keep the heart racing.  But he decided to chance it; she should still be asleep after all.  He opened the door and, seeing that she wasn't in the hallway, he crossed the kitchen and went along the short hall to his room, shutting the door behind him.
      "Dennis?" she called out almost at once.
      "What?" he called back from his bedroom, his senses alert. 
      "What are you doing?"
      "Nothing," he said.  He moved quickly across his room and slid the painting behind his wardrobe.  That was the best he could do for now.  He went out into the living room.
      "What were you doing in there?" she asked as he entered the living room.  She tried to get up out of her chair.  She put one hand out to him and planted the other firmly on the rubber handle of her frame.  He helped her up and she stood there staring at him.
      "Nothing, Mummy," he said.  "I was just looking for something.  That's all."
      She continued to stare at him for a moment before saying "Put the kettle on." She headed down the hall towards the toilet - click clack, click clack.
      He looked up at the large photo of his mother which hung on the wall in pride of place above the mantel.  It seemed that he couldn't escape her scrutiny even when she wasn't in the room.  So he went to the kitchen to do as she said.
      That night, after he'd tucked her safely into her bed, he returned to his room, brought the painting out from behind the wardrobe and removed it from its bag. 
      There she was.  Every time he laid eyes on the image his heart jumped and he felt pure joy; the sort of joy which blocked out everything else.  His whole world was her smiling face.  He lay in bed that night with the painting propped up against the wall next to his pillow so that he could imagine her lying next to him. 
      As he lay there, watching her in the dim light, taking in every stroke of the brush, he began to imagine what life would be like without Mother.  Could he actually leave her alone in this house and go off and make a life for himself?  It had never been possible in the past.  Any girlfriend he'd ever brought home was subject to his mother's merciless criticisms.  She criticized the way they spoke, or the way they dressed, or whatever morsel of their personality she could extract from them in conversation, and she often made these comments right in front of them.  Consequently, none of his attempts at a relationship had lasted very long and when the women moved on his mother felt very pleased with herself; she'd protected her little boy from the ‘hussy' or the ‘little tabby' as she called them, and he was safe again. "We don't need them do we," she would say, giving him a big hug to console him. 
      He had given up on leaving.  He had resigned himself to the fact that he would have to look after her until she died.  And, as his hatred of her grew, he'd even considered ways of bringing her end on a little more swiftly than nature intended. But his fear of her was greater than his hatred and so he had remained her ‘little boy.'
      But, lying there with the painting of the woman he loved propped beside him in bed, he began to wonder if perhaps he did have the courage to leave.  Her beauty, her knowing eyes, had inspired him, brought order to his mind, given him courage. Smuggling her up to his bedroom was proof of that at least.  He continued to stare at the form of her face, and into her eyes as he drifted further and further away.  And he dreamed.
      But his dreaming was not the same as it had been on previous nights.  The dream began pleasantly enough, strolling hand in hand with the woman in the painting along quiet streets in the moonlight, but it wasn't long before his mind sensed a change.  It was subtle - he couldn't put his finger on it - but as with all dreams, you just know when something isn't right, and he knew that something was not right; not right at all.
      His love had moved out of view and as he searched for her through the dimly lit streets, streets which seemed faintly familiar, he could hear, somewhere far away in the distance, a faint ticking sound.  His heart began to beat wildly as panic set in; he knew that sound.  The wind picked up and sent dust and leaves in every direction.  The trees which lined the street waved violently, reaching out for him as he began to run.  They held him back, scratching and tearing at his arms and face.  He yelled out and tried to push the branches aside as blood poured down his face, but they would just whip back at him, slashing him with greater violence.  He knew his love was trapped.  He knew she was in danger and crying out for him.  He couldn't hear her though; in fact, even in his dreams he had never heard her voice.  But he knew she was calling his name - somewhere.
      The dream scene shifted and all at once he was back in the house of his childhood, a big old creaking Victorian house, and the air was cold.  He was four years old again and standing in his father's studio.  Wallpaper patterned with thick brown and cream stripes covered the walls which, to small eyes, seemed to stretch up forever to a ceiling somewhere near the sky.  Flecks of old paint covered almost everything; all the furniture in the room as well as the heavy white drop sheets on the floorboards.  His father sat with his back to him in the center of the room in front of an easel which supported a blank canvas.
      "Denny," he called out, scratching his forehead.  "Come over here."  His father didn't look around but Dennis complied.  He stood next to his father, looking from the blank canvas to his father's face and back again.  In his father's hand, instead of a paint brush, he held a Heineken.  Dennis watched his father take a swig of beer and wipe his chin with the back of the hand holding the bottle.  The bottle reminded Dennis of the cough medicine bottle; medicine his mother forced him to drink whenever he was sick.
      His father looked down at him and said "A picture's worth a thousand words, Denny."
      "I know Daddy," he heard himself say.  His father's gaze returned to the blank canvas before him.
      "So, tell me a thousand words, Denny," he said finally.  "Tell me a goddamn thousand words."  He poured some more beer down his throat.
      "I did a picture Daddy," Dennis heard himself say, holding out a small sheet of paper covered with black paint.  His father's eyes darted to where he held out his picture, his beer paused just in front of his lips.  He snatched the picture from his son and looked it over.  It was a finger painting which vaguely resembled a face.  In the dream, Dennis knew it was meant to be the face of his father; the father he loved and admired.  His father also knew.
      He took another swig of beer, and then stood up and threw the stubbie at the wall where it exploded.  Denny screamed and stepped back.
      "Shut up!"
      His father lurched forward with an open hand to hit the boy but Dennis pulled back just out of reach and his father fell on his face.  Dennis turned and ran out into the hallway.  His father was close behind him though, still holding Dennis's finger painting in his left hand and grabbed Dennis's hair with his right, pulling him back sharply.  Dennis's legs gave out and he fell backwards, smacking his head hard on the floor boards.  His father stooped over him.  He watched as his father's face came down close to his own upside down.
      "I'll teach you to fuck up my life you no good piece of shit."
      He dragged the boy by his hair into the entry hall. 
      "No, no, Daddy," Dennis cried.  "Not the clock.  I'm sorry Daddy.  I'm sorry for the picture.  Please not the clock!"
      There was the grandfather clock - huge, dark, menacing - which stood as a lone sentinel in the entry hall.  His father strode up to it and pulled open the door of the small cupboard in its base.  He started pulling spare gears and clock weights out of it, stuff that hadn't been used in years, throwing them all on the floor before shoving Denny inside and forcing the door shut against the intensity of the little boy's struggling.  The latch clicked into place. 
      "There," he said, laughing madly, "that shut you up."
      Dennis was terrified.  His heart pounded.  He couldn't move, his knees pressed hard against his chest and he could hardly breathe.  He struggled, his muscles straining, trying to force the cupboard door open.  But his father sat on the floor with his back against it.  The clock impassively kept track of the time - tick tock, tick tock - it boomed inside its box slowly and deliberately, deriding the boy's rising panic.
      His father sat there, ignoring the muted cries and tapping coming from inside the clock, and held up Dennis's painting before him in both hands.
      "Just you remember boy, it's all your fault.  The good painting stopped when you arrived." His father began to sob now, Denny could feel it against the door.  "Your fucking mother got herself pregnant.  We got married."  More sobbing.  "I had to get a job, you little fuck.  Are you listening to me?"  He banged on the clock cabinet.  "You think you're smart because you can paint, huh?  You think you're pretty smart?"
      Dennis cried and yelled "no, no" but his father didn't hear the muffled response. 
      "Hey, I've just had a smart idea," he said.  "The smartest one in a long time.  Oh boy, your mother's gonna love this.  Yes she is."
      He got up and hurried back down the hall.  Denny heard the footsteps pounding away.
      Tick tock, tick tock.
      By this time Dennis was going mad and pushed with his legs and hands with all his strength.  The door of the cupboard cracked a little.  He pushed again as hard as he could until he felt as if he would burst and then the door gave way completely; spilled him out onto the cold floor.  He sobbed, big deep terrified sobs.  And the huge and impassive clock face looked down on him - tick tock, tick tock, tick BANG.
      Dennis ran down the hall to the studio.  The first thing he saw as he pushed the door open were his father's legs; his blue jeans, paint flecked and worn through on the left knee. 
      The gun was next.  The rifle lay on the floor next to his father's jeans. 
      As he pushed the door open a little more and stepped inside the room he saw his father's body, lying, still, his face gone.  He still clutched Dennis's painting in his left hand.  And on the canvas behind the body was the splattered blood and flesh and bone of his father's head.  The blood ran down the canvas in long dark streaks and dripped onto the floor. 
      Painted at the top of the canvas in black paint, the same black paint Dennis had used for his portrait of his father, were words which, at the age of four, Dennis could not understand but which, in his dream, were all too plain: SELF PORTRAIT.
      Everything was silent now except for the ticking of the clock which, as he stood there in the doorway, staring, trembling, disbelieving, seemed to be getting louder and louder and louder - tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, click clack, CLICK CLACK - his mother threw the door of his bedroom open and Dennis awoke with a start.
      "What's all the screaming about," she said with a frown, rubbing her eyes.  "Are you having another nightmare?"  As the light streamed in from the hallway she looked at him and then at the painting which lay beside him.  He followed her stare and looked at the painting himself.
      "Where did you get that painting?" his mother asked, her voice shrill.
      "I bought it," he said.  "It's ... it's your present."
      "No, no, no," she said.  "I don't ever want to see that painting.  Give it to me!" She lunged across the bedroom, reaching out for it.  "I want to tear it up, tear it up into little pieces."
      He sat up, struggling to hold it away from her.
      "No, Mummy, no."
      "You don't understand, Dennis.  It was the first painting your father ever painted of me.  I hate it, I hate it."
      He looked into his mother's sixty year old face and then at the painting of the woman he loved.  Those eyes.  He looked back to his mother's face, wrinkled and hard, but the eyes were the same.  He was drawn to the painting in the store because it was in some way familiar to him and, as he realized - with horror - that the woman he hated most was the woman he loved more than any other, he screamed.
      He pushed his mother away, stood up, marched out of his bedroom and into the living room where he pulled down the photo of his mother high above the mantel and placed the painting on the wall in its place.  He stood back admiring his handiwork with a grimace.  The painting looked grotesque to him now and he wondered how he could ever have been taken with it.  He dropped the photo frame onto the hearth, smashing it, just as his mother entered the room.  She shrieked.  He marched past her, back into his bedroom, got dressed, and began to pack a bag.
      "I can't live with that thing in my house," she cried as she came back to his bedroom.  "Take it down!  Take it down right now!"
      Denny ignored her.  For the first time in his life, he ignored her.  He zipped his bag and then stormed out the front door, his mother trailing closely behind, still shrieking at him.
      "Come back here!  Denny!" she screamed. "Now!  Now Denny!  Where do you think you are you going?"
      "Out," he yelled over his shoulder, and was gone.

© 2003 Andrew Tompkins