Ta Voix

Sharp, staccato taps – a pair of impatient fingers rapped repeatedly against the windowpane. The rhythmic clacking quickened as the clamour in the background grew in volume. ‘Q_IET Z_NE’ suggested a sequence of tarnished letters fastened above the glass. The message was fruitless, for the noise persisted. Perhaps the absent vowels were to blame. The

tumult continued for several seconds before subsiding into silence. Giving her head a solemn shake, the woman with the noise- dampening fingers reclined into the resumed hush of the

scudding carriage and let out a resigned breath.

After causing this disturbance, the boy hunched over the ragged carpet. His palms fervently scraped at the floor, limbs attempting to regather his belongings that were currently strewn across the aisle. His howl had stopped now. Admittedly, he had only allowed a singular pained yelp to escape, but the force and velocity with which it had erupted from his chest made it seem endless to the surrounding passengers, as if a perpetual caterwauling were to occupy their earholes for the remainder of the passage. The 11:57 Southeastern Service from London Victoria to Margate was already unpleasant enough as it was without that added irritant.

He was ungainly in both gait and posture: lanky despite being slightly vertically challenged. He was clunky and uncoordinated in almost all of his movements, with the

laxity of his limbs making him appear likely to collapse at any given moment. His extremities were susceptible to tremors, and vibrated violently as he fumbled around on the floor. Darting to and fro, he jittered around the train car, stooped in a stupor. His clothing swallowed him. layers of threadbare textiles kept him captive — hand-me-down garments weighing on his wings, preventing a flighty escape. Within the lumbering heap of dirty laundry were a set of overalls, off-white and heavily stained, hanging slackly so that the frayed ends raked the floor;

weather-beaten trainers, one of them hole-ridden and with a freshly semi-detached sole; several pieces of tawdry jewellery; a strip of ivory gauze fastened firmly around the upper forearm, reddened in the centre; and — most crucially — a Tesco bag containing a claggy egg-and-cress sandwich. His features were boyish: a puerile profile hidden under an unruly mop of flaxen hair. Stray strands obscured his vision, causing him to constantly run his fingers through the tangled mess to adjust its composition. Eager eyes peered out from beneath it and darted furtively around the train, in search of a missing artefact that he had yet to recover from the shabby overlay. Swivelling in their sockets, quizzical lenses aimed to find their focus, evidently, to no avail. Upon forsaking the search, his eyelids fluttered before closing completely in resignation. He had recovered his palette knives, foldable easel, mini canvases, and fountain pens. He had also gathered various brushes, sponges, and even a National Lottery scratchcard promising an all-expenses-paid trip to Magaluf. What else could he possibly need?

A small cylindrical pot trundled through the gangway, passing between his splayed legs. Noticing in his periphery that it was gradually edging away from him, he dived towards it with arms outstretched, skidding across the coarse flooring. Ignoring the protests of the passengers around him, he clasped the tiny container firmly with both hands and secured its flimsy lid, before pocketing it in one swift motion. The unease in his eyes evaporated, and was replaced with a contented placidity. Soon he could alight. His two-minute-and-twenty-seven second ordeal had come to a conclusion.

Splosh! Water seeped into his shoes, dampening the fabric that secluded his toes from serrated shingle and salted spray. It turned his cardboard bulletin into a briny pulp, the

chaotically etched words bleeding steadily into one another. This illegible notice — along with its designer — would have usually been located on the sandier sections of the seafront. Today, he had braved harsher terrain, hoarsely roaring his pitch into the spit of the surf:

‘Come get ya portrait painted! Only twenty quid — proper cheap, that is! Take one home and show the missus how nice I can make ya look! Yeah, even your ugly mug!’

For the most part, passers-by paid him no heed. It didn’t help that his little sign was now practically liquid. Everyday pedestrians weren’t to know of his artistic aptitude if they were either hard of hearing or simply not listening to his unrelenting yowling.

A pair of impatient digits rapped repeatedly against a phone screen. The owner of these racketing forefingers paced threateningly towards the boy before coming to an abrupt halt. Shaking her head solemnly, the woman perched upon the rickety stool, scanning the painter with a probing gaze. She scoffed before placing her device deftly on her lap, giving it a couple of concluding clacks, and bridging her arms loosely over the tops of her thighs. She reclined further into the backless seat, giving the boy a firm nod, as she slipped a crumpled note into waiting hands. This assertive action spurred him into frenzied activity. His limbs flapped frantically as he arranged his wares. Brushes were bandied about. Pencils propelled, sponges slung, and chalk chucked. It was only when it came to handling his small cylindrical pot, that this unhinged groping stopped. Delicacy dressed his digits as he clutched the container, rolling it gingerly between his palms. He traced its peeling label, stroking the faded imprints that had once been ornately gilded lettering. Then, clasping the glass pot tenderly in both hands, he gave it a vigorous shake. A pensive look permeated his face as the

vessel’s contents sloshed against its walls. The cap was unscrewed, and the liquid decanted into a flimsy plastic mixing tray. Thick, viscous fluid filled the shallow dish, quivering faintly as it settled. It gleamed liverishly: a sickly sheen spread itself across the substance’s skin. It spumed and sputtered.

The woman cocked her head, eyes widening at the strange ichor. She pursed her lips critically before returning to her recumbent state.

He picked up his brush. He clenched it robustly in his fist. He slashed and gashed belligerently at the canvas, layers of sweeping lacerations lay on top of one another. He violently hacked away with reckless abandon. He paused intermittently

to replenish his painter’s tool with bitty globules of pallid paste — these were the rare moments of calm amidst the havoc of his heavy-handed daubing. He expelled the odd groan as he painted, an air of intense concentration prevailing across his profile as he toiled over the piece. The woman, with a roguish glint in both irises, watched him labour.

The portrait took shape at an uncomfortably rapid pace. In spite of the brash and slapdash brandishing of the brush, individual strokes were not discernible. Tints blended into each other seamlessly, without harsh margins: the likeness of the work was abnormally accurate. There was something off-putting in its hyperrealism, the uncanny seeping through its verisimilitude. What was most peculiar, however, was how the pigment, a deep crimson before its application, took on all manner of hues and tones once administered to the canvas.

SHATTER! A misplaced elbow sent shards of glass ricocheting off the crags. The boy let out a searing scream that punctuated the gentle ringing of the fallen fragments. Gawking at the scarlet smatterings of fluid that now adorned the ground, he fell to all fours and vainly attempted to snatch up the fluid with cupped hands.

The woman watched the painter topple the cylinder with undivided attention, smirking at the blunder.

The fumbling stopped as abruptly as it had started. Knees and palms pressed firm against the red-emulsion spattered seafront. The boy glared at the ground, then directed the gaze towards his wrists. Wincing, he ripped off the crimsoned gauze around his forearm. Before the woman could register the action, he plunged a palette knife deep into the exposed flesh. Blood spurted from the puncture and dribbled into the empty bowl waiting below.