Vivid.

1

"Ivan Giddings? My name is Jennifer Browne and I have an appointment to talk with you about your upcoming art exhibition?" came the voice from the earnest-looking young woman stood in front of him. He nodded and gestured at her to sit in one of the plush armchairs that were littered around the studio. He watched her critical eyes examine his ruddy face, balding grey hair and overlarge messy painting overalls with displeasure.

To his relief, the questions were short and mostly concerning only his art, and he answered them easily without talking too much about his personal life – the least people knew about him, the better. However, the final question gave him a shock; it was a nasty surprise to hear how much she knew about his works. "I just love the red colours you use in your paintings. They're so... vivid! I understand you make them yourself?" the girl asked, peering at his latest work with a fascinated expression on her face.

"Yes, I do. I didn't realise that fans knew about that aspect of my art." He replied tersely. Then an idea dawned in his mind. He was running rather low on red paint, after all. "I can show you how, if you like. Come this way." He said and, leading her into a white tiled room off the side of the studio, he began to smile.

2

He was flicking through the television channels listlessly, pausing only to listen to the evening news, his interest mixed with horror as he listened to the story the news reporter was gravely announcing.

"Police are investigating the death of a young journalist named Jennifer Browne, who was found dead on the bank of a stream near Bletchley after she was reported missing by her father two nights ago." he held his breath as he listened on, afraid of what the reporter would say next in that solemn voice. "Jennifer Browne was a twenty-three-year-old journalist for the Bletchley local paper and her body was discovered by an early dog walker on Thursday the second of February. The police have said that she was killed by just one stab wound through the stomach and appeared to have died through blood loss. Although police have been working hard to determine who caused her tragic death, no suspects have currently been identified. Here's an interview with Jennifer's father, Tim Browne." He let out a long breath and switched off the television, and instead crossed the garden to his studio, where he took up a fresh canvas and a fresh, full bottle of red paint.

"Sit down there, and I'll show you. By the way, what blood type are you?" he asked, his hands busy rummaging around in a cupboard, eventually emerging with a large carton and a misleadingly dull-looking knife.

"B-, I think. Why?"

"No reason." He reassured her, walking towards her and gathering also a bottle of gum of Arabic and a funnel.

The next part was his favourite part. But rather messy. Humming as he worked, he held the funnel to the wound and watched first one carton fill with blood and then a second, seemingly oblivious to the shrieks, then moans coming from Jennifer Browne as her lifeblood seeped out of the gash in her stomach. Add a little gum of Arabic and his red paint would be good to go...

At midnight he returned from a walk along the stream, shook off his painting overalls and thick gardening gloves and climbed into bed. His next-door neighbour's lights were still on and no doubt they had seen him return at this unearthly hour, but it wasn't something he hadn't done before, and artists were supposed to rather eccentric, weren't they?

3

The art exhibition was going excellently, if he could say so himself. Nearly one hundred people had turned up to view his huge abstract oil paintings, he had sold several of his smaller works and he had even sold one or two of his larger canvases. He wandered amongst his patrons, listening to their (mostly admiring) comments about his artwork. One particular conversation brought back memories of his brief encounter with a certain Miss Jennifer Browne:

"I just love the red colours in this one. They're so... vivid!" a woman said approvingly to her husband. She was looking at the painting he had finished only last week, the same one Jennifer Browne had admired too.

His train of thought was broken suddenly as he heard a loud commanding voice shout,

"Mr Ivan Giddings? I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder." The policeman reciting his Miranda rights and the rest of the room disappeared as he shut his eyes tightly and thought desperately 'Damnit, damnit, damnit!' and as he was being led away he uttered not a word, his mind furiously thinking, hatching a plan.

4

"Well-known artist Ivan Giddings has been arrested for the murder of journalist Jennifer Browne and others. Here is what our chief Police Officer has to say about these murders:" these were the last words he heard as he walked away from the small television screen in the communal 'Entertainment Room' in the prison ward. He stormed angrily back into his lonely cell and sat down on the bed.

Nine hours later, he was lying on his back in the middle of the floor, his face twisted both with pain and a curiously sly smile. On the stark wall behind him was a mural depicting a line drawing of a balding man smiling out of the painting – in vivid, bright, red.

"Wait a second – There's no way that Giddings could have painted this after slitting the wrist of his right hand - his dominant hand. I don't know what the hell we're dealing with here, but it isn't suicide." One of the police officers crowded into the cell said, a look of confusion and disbelief on his face.

On the other side of the county, Ivan Giddings was putting washing his paint brushes in his studio, watching the water run red, then pink, then finally clear down the plug and he grinned to himself as he thought 'You know, having an identical twin brother can be a good thing, sometimes. Especially one who owes you his life.'