The Art of Dying Page 9

  “That's a very common attitude,” she replies, clearly a little annoyed by his tone, “among people who don't understand the mission of Beacon Court. We operate a very open, very socially-orientated campus structure that emphasizes the importance of collaboration. No man is an island, and so on.”

  “But all art activities are supervised, aren't they?” Nick asks.

  “Of course, but not constantly. Students touch base with their module leaders at regular intervals, but for the most part they work alone or in groups. We like to encourage total artistic freedom, without the need to be overseen by a tutor at all times.”

  “In other words,” I reply as we enter the main part of the building, “you don't really know what your students are doing.”

  “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

  Before I can reply, I'm somewhat taken aback by the sight of a huge bronze sculpture that takes up most of the space in the reception area. Rising up to the ceiling, a series of jagged metal panels look to have been twisted into a series of awkward swirls, with some of the edges ragged and others smooth, while bronze-tinted barbed wire runs through the center of the structure. It's certainly an arresting sight, although it's maybe a little too abstract for my taste. Even when I tilt my head to one side, I can't quite work out what it's supposed to look like. I think maybe it's supposed to be a giant bird, or maybe a flame, or a fist...

  “Impressive, isn't it?” Livingstone says after a moment.

  “Does it have a title?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “What does it mean?” I add.

  “Mean?”

  I turn to her. “Doesn't it mean something?”

  She smiles. “Everything means something to the person who's looking at it,” she says, with a slightly patronizing tone to her voice, “but your question implies that some innate meaning should have been installed into the sculpture by the artist. Increasingly these days, artists prefer to let the observer negotiate a meaning. This approach is generally considered to be more honest.”

  “Huh,” Nick mutters, clearly not very impressed.

  “The role of the artist is not to answer questions,” Livingstone continues, “but rather to ask them. When one observes a piece of art, one should not expect to be let off the hook. Rather, the act of observation is a challenge that signifies the beginning of a process, rather than simply the viewing of a finished piece. An artist is merely the midwife who helps deliver a question into the world, and contextualizes that question for the benefit of ordinary mortals.”

  “So that's what happens here?” Nick replies. “Kids just bang some crap together and tell other people to decide what it means?” He turns to me. “I could do that, you know. Anyone could.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, which he scrunches into a ball before holding it out toward Livingstone. “Is that art?”

  She smiles, although it's clear that she's not impressed.

  “Is it?” he asks.

  “Why don't you tell me?” she replies.

  “I thought the role of the artist wasn't to answer questions,” he points out. “Are you sure this whole school isn't basically a big doss house for people who don't want to study real subjects?”

  “Not quite,” Livingstone tells him, clearly annoyed by his attitude. “There's a rigorous intellectual and academic component to all our courses. The students have to explain why they made certain choices, they have to contextualize those choices in terms of both art history and modern society, and they have to anticipate certain types of response, including ignorant derision. No-one gets a free ride at Beacon Court.”

  “What about murder?” I ask, turning to her.

  “Murder?”

  “Do you think murder can be art?”

  “Anything can be art.”

  “I like paintings,” Nick interjects. “Dunno why. I just do.”

  “But there are ethical lines that your students would never cross, aren't there?” I continue. “I assume you teach them that there are certain things they shouldn't do.”

  “I'd like to think,” she replies, “that all our students are aware of the difference between right and wrong before they ever set foot through the door.”

  “But you don't know that,” I point out. “For some people, art is about making a statement, and about shocking the viewer. It's possible that someone might go too far in pursuit of those goals.”

  “You're referring to the horrific discovery that was made yesterday,” she replies, clearly feeling uncomfortable. “That patch of land might be owned by the college, but it's never used by anyone here. In fact, we're in the process of selling it to a developer who wants to build flats. Hardly ideal, of course, but in these constrained economic times we're forced to make difficult decisions.”

  “Have any of your students created any work that has murder as a theme?” I ask, interrupting her.

  “Well... I have no idea, off the top of my head.” She pauses. “You can't seriously believe that anyone here had anything to do with the bodies that were dug up. Everyone here was horrified to hear the news, and I won't tolerate any suggestion that there could be any link to the college. Quite clearly, someone merely took advantage of the fact that we have a considerable tract of wasteland close to the building. They probably thought that they could do anything out there, and no-one would find out.”

  “Actually,” I reply, “we're working on the assumption that the killer might have links to the school.”

  “On what basis?”

  “On the basis that all the evidence points straight to this place.”

  “Surely,” she replies, “that merely indicates that someone is trying to misdirect you?”

  “There are certain aspects of the case that lead us to believe otherwise,” I tell her. “We're going to need access to all the files you have regarding your current students, as well as information about students who graduated within the past two years. We're also going to need to speak to the tutors who work here, so we can ascertain whether any students have caused particular concern. Are you aware of any existing problems?”

  “Absolutely not,” she replies, as if she's horrified by the suggestion.

  “It doesn't mean anything, does it?” Nick says suddenly.

  Turning to him, I see that he's still staring up at the bronze sculpture with a dazed, faraway look in his eyes.

  “Well,” he continues, turning to me, “it doesn't. It's just bullshit, isn't it? I mean, it looks nice, but it doesn't have any actual reason for existing apart from the fact that it's supposed to make an impression. There's nothing deep about it. It's just a bunch of rusty old trash that's been stuck together and put on show.”

  “Should all art be deep?” Principal Livingstone asks.

  “Yeah,” he replies, turning to her, and then back to me. “Shouldn't it?”

  “The college will of course cooperate with your investigation fully,” she continues, glancing at me, “but I do hope that you'll keep an open mind and that you'll work discreetly. The third-year students have their final exhibition in just a few days' time, and I won't allow the police to come charging in and disrupt everything. The students are artists, and they need space in which to incubate their ideas and bring forth their creations.”

  Nick sniffs with derision.

  “We'll be discreet,” I tell her, “and we'll do our best to keep from causing any problems, but we have a job to do and there might be times when a little disruption can't be helped. We'd like to start by speaking to the tutors and finding out if any of them have observed anything unusual.”

  “This is a school of creativity,” she replies archly. “We deal in the unusual.”

  “You know what I mean,” I continue, forcing a polite smile.

  “Give me a moment,” she replies, making her way to the reception desk.

  Turning to look up at the huge bronze sculpture, I can't help but stare for a moment at its vast size. It's certainly memorable, and unlike N
ick I don't necessarily feel that a piece of art has to come pre-loaded with an obvious meaning in order to have value. In fact, as I stare at the sculpture, I feel as if it's helping to set my mind at ease for a moment. It's the same kind of calm that I feel when I've pocketed something in a store and managed to reach my car without being stopped. Having for so long hoped that I could find another way to get that feeling, I'm struck by the thought that art might help.

  “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” I ask eventually, turning to Nick.

  “That this place is full of pretentious bullshit?” he replies.

  “That the third-year show might be significant,” I tell him. “All the students have to prepare a final project for the show, something that'll make a splash. What if one of them has decided to use murder as a medium?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ophelia

  “So you're new here, right?”

  Turning, I immediately tense up as I find that a guy has come over to talk to me. I was just sitting here in the corner of the cafeteria, warming my hands over a cup of tea while observing some of the other students, but suddenly my little bubble has been burst by a guy whose clothes are so faded and damaged, he looks like he belongs on the streets. Still, he speaks in the clipped tones of someone who had a good upbringing, and I can't help but notice that his shoes look expensive and new. He's trying to play a certain part, but it's phony as hell. If there's one thing I hate, it's phony people.

  “Miles,” he says, holding a hand out toward me. “Third year, Contemporary and Applied Art. I also double as a student outreach coordinator, helping new people to settle in.”

  “Hi,” I reply, shaking his hand and finding to my surprise that his skin is incredibly smooth. “Ophelia.”

  “Cool name. So are you here for an interview, or are you one of the new part-timers?”

  “Um...” I pause, feeling as if my mind has gone completely blank. This is definitely awkward territory for me. I should be making some kind of joke, but it's as if suddenly my brain isn't connected to my mouth. “Yeah. New. Part-time.” I take a deep breath as I realize that I need to be more 'on' for this encounter. “I just enrolled this morning,” I explain. “Living the dream, and all that.”

  “Mind if I join you?” he asks.

  Before I can answer, he takes a seat next to me. My initial instinct is to get up and make an excuse to leave, but I figure I need to force myself to have a conversation. Damn it, I'm usually so good at bullshitting, but being back in a school environment has brought some bad memories to the fore.

  “I've been working all day on my stuff for the show,” he continues. “It's totally intense. Like, it's the culmination of all the work I've done here over the past three years, and I feel like I really need to make some kind of statement. This time in a few days, I'll have been birthed from the school's calming womb, and I'll have no choice but to allow everyone at the show to view my rawest work. It's intimidating and terrifying, but also very freeing.”

  I smile awkwardly. Damn it, I don't feel like myself at all. This whole place is setting me on edge, and I'm seriously considering changing my mind and quitting. Laura was right when she said this was a dumb idea, and I'll probably just end up getting in the way of her investigation. Checking my watch, I see that it's been exactly an hour since I enrolled, so if I walked out the door right now, I've have beaten my previous art college record by quite a large margin.

  “It's so freeing to expose yourself to the starkness of public exposure,” he continues. “To throw open your soul and let other people judge your creations... It's terrifying, of course, but also so liberating. Plus, you get the chance to challenge preconceptions and change the way people think. Awesome, huh?” He pauses. “I work mainly in mixed media. Collage, video installations, that sort of thing, and the juxtapositions between them. What about you?”

  “Oh, I...” Pausing, I try to think of something. “This and that, really. Painting. Sculpture...”

  “Cool. Old-fashioned, I can dig that.” He stares at me for a moment, as if he's trying to figure me out. “It's alright,” he adds finally. “Everyone feels weirded out on their first day. This place is super-intense, but you're in luck 'cause everyone's also super-friendly.”

  I smile politely, but the truth is, I'm feeling increasingly worried about my reaction to this place. I can usually get through pretty much any social situation, but something about the art college is making me feel... shy. It's like all the defense techniques I've perfected over the past five years have fallen away and I'm right back where I started, which in turn makes my skin crawl since it reminds me of how things used to be. I came barreling into this situation with so much enthusiasm and confidence, I never even stopped to wonder if there was a good reason why I usually stay within my comfort zone.

  “So do you wanna see my stuff?” Miles asks suddenly. “I can show you the third-year project space if you like. Really get you in at the deep end so you can see what you're in for.”

  “No,” I reply, before realizing that this is precisely the kind of opportunity I need. “Sure,” I add, forcing a smile. “Sounds cool.”

  “You're gonna fit in here just fine,” he adds with a broad, genuine grin. “I can tell. You're one of us.”

  I smile, even though I'm dying inside.

  ***

  “Everyone's got their own thing going on,” he explains as we make our way into the large hall that serves as a kind of open-plan studio for all the third-year students. “It's kinda cool, really. We all get on with our own stuff and help out where we can. It's a very creative environment.”

  Nearby, a girl wearing dungarees is applying some kind of wet gauze to a mannequin; a little further on, a tall, painfully-thin girl is attaching fake silver leaves to a tree; over by the window, a guy with a beard is plugging various old televisions together, while the screens show strange, almost hypnotic images of swirling shapes and colors. I feel totally out of my depth, and once again it's as if I'm not even myself. I swear, I haven't thought of a single witty comeback to anything since Miles introduced himself to me.

  Maybe it's a brain tumor. I've always been terrified of developing a brain tumor, but it would explain why I suddenly feel so nervous. Or not. Damn it, I'm scrabbling for excuses. The truth is: deep down, I know why I'm so nervous. My memories of school are pretty traumatic, and this place is bringing them back.

  “So did you hear about those bodies that were found nearby?” I ask, trying to get myself back on track. “I heard there were, like, loads of body parts in bin bags.”

  “Sick, huh?” he replies as we reach a desk in the far corner and he turns to me. “Everyone's talking about it. It's so sick, like something out of a movie. Or doll parts!”

  “Do you think it was someone from the college?” I ask.

  “From here?” He pauses, as if the idea hadn't occurred to him before. “No way. Everyone at Beacon Court is way too relaxed and chilled. I just hope there's not a bunch of cops all over the place, 'cause we really don't need to have the atmosphere messed with right now. As you might have noticed, everyone's kinda tense. The deadline for the final show's coming up, so it's action stations.”

  He grabs a laptop from the desk and starts cuing a video.

  “This is one of my main pieces,” he explains. “It's a meditation on the absurdity of consciousness. I'm trying to show how ridiculous it is for us to each maintain just one personality construct. Fluid types are my thing. God, I hope that doesn't sound too pretentious.”

  I watch as swirling patterns start to flash up onto the screen, accompanied by a repetitive, tribal-sounding drumbeat. It's quite possibly the most lame, bullshit-ridden thing I've seen in my life, but I guess I can't exactly tell him that. If I'm going to fit in around here, I definitely need to learn the lingo.

  “Let me guess,” I say after a moment, “did you make the music yourself?”

  “Totally,” he replies, taking a step back. “I'm thinking of releasing the soundtrack s
eparately as an album. I've had loads of extra space to play in, 'cause the girl who was given the studio spot next to me hasn't needed it.”

  He seems really proud of the video, so I figure I should humor him and pretend to pay attention while it plays. Unfortunately, all I can think about is the fact that my skin is crawling, and I'm starting to remember just how bad I am at fitting into social situations. Sure, I can joke when I'm feeling confident, but right now I just want to crawl into a dark space and hide away from everyone. It's the same feeling I last felt five years ago, just before I started living on the streets.

  “So what do you think?” he asks after a few minutes, once the video is over.

  “It's great,” I lie. “Really... powerful.”

  “I'm glad you dig it,” he continues, closing the lid of the laptop. “That's kinda why I came up to you in the cafeteria. You were sitting there all quiet, but I just got the feeling that you'd be on my wavelength. Sometimes you can tell that about someone, right? Like, I've totally got you down as someone who's pretty quiet and keeps herself to herself. Am I right, or am I right?”

  “You're...” I pause for a moment. “Wow,” I add finally, amazed at how wrong he is. “That's all I can say, really.”

  “I knew it,” he continues. “It's like a goddamn sixth sense.”

  “Crap!” I hiss, suddenly spotting Laura outside the window. I duck down just in time, and I'm pretty certain that she was too busy talking to the guy she was walking with. I hold my breath, desperately hoping that she'll just carry on instead of coming into the studio, but after a moment I realize that Miles is staring at me with a look of surprise.

  “Someone you don't want to see?” he asks.

  “Just a friend.”

  “A friend you don't want to see?”

  “It's complicated,” I reply. “I don't want her to know that I'm here.” I pause for a moment, my heart racing as I hold my breath. “Has she gone?”

  “Totally,” he says with a smile. “Looks like she's heading over to the admin building.”