Beautiful Weird Humans

The escape artist

"Did you call me, Mrs. Dietrichson?"

"Sullivan. Close the door."

O'Sullivan, Thomas thought. He closed the door with reluctance. Anna was puffing away through her third cigarette of the morning. That was not a good sign for a Friday morning. As he sat down, Anna blew a large cloud of smoke out of the corner of her mouth. The stench reached his nostrils like a kick to the head. At least there was a silver lining to skipping breakfast.

"This is your to do list for the weekend. Dry cleaning at my place, Sunday evening. Do not forget that again."

"Yes ma'am. Also, the Bhatts are confirmed for dinner tonight," Thomas said, crossing the item off the list. "Excuse me, what is this note about Ethel Swan and the 'Last Boat to Heaven'?"

"Ah, yes." Anna smirked. Her dark rimmed glasses reflected the morning sunlight as she shifted in her leather chair. "There is an important thing you need to do. A valuable book is being held at Beaumont Museum. It's part of an exhibition starting next weekend. I would like to take a look at it. Ethel is not taking my calls, so you need to go and... persuade her."

"Got it. Get Ethel to borrow the book," Thomas scribbled on his notes.

"Borrow, take, steal, I don't care if you snatch it off her wrinkly little hands. You come back here with that book, or you don't come back here at all."

Thomas gulped. Another one of those assignments. He dreaded them. His phone chirped.

"I'm so sorry Anna," exclaimed Thomas, fumbling into his pocket to mute his phone. Anna hated interruptions. He was not contributing to her already frail mood. "It's just the boys," he joked, trying to brighten the atmosphere, "off to a couple drinks tonight."

"Off to drinking tonight again? What a waste of time," she said, putting out her cigarette as she puffed one last time. "If you truly want to get anywhere in life, like me," she said, leaning so close he could smell her nicotine breath, "you should read more. Educate yourself. Travel. Bars are vicious places, and getting wasted every weekend is for idiots."

She had then made one of her pauses. Why was it so hard to meet her gaze, think of something to fill the empty space? He had done nothing wrong, yet he could feel a sense of guilt climbing up the back of his neck. After an eternity, she had broken the silence with a "Well, is your report writing itself? Why are you still here?"

******

Thomas went to Beaumont Museum the following morning, taking with him a pair of thick sunglasses, a paramount hangover, and half a dozen questions. He had enough reasons to have a bad feeling about the day ahead. How was he going to convince this Ethel lady to lend him a book just like that? The thought of yesterday evening was also bothering him. He had scurried out of that bar after vomiting all over that stranger's shoes. He hadn't even stopped to apologize; his embarrassment had been too great. And why, oh why, had that woman looked so much like Anna?

Mrs. Dietrichson lived alone and had never mentioned any family. Did she have a sister? A cousin, perhaps? Put it off your mind O'Sullivan, it was just a random encounter. You'll laugh about this in a week. Everything's fine.

He entered through the main doors and spotted the information booth. While he waited his turn, Thomas looked around. Yep, big and old. You see one museum, you see them all. He did not think less of paintings and sculptures; what bothered him was that he was not allowed to touch anything. How he wished he could dismantle that suit of armor, just for the sake of trying to piece it back together. Or scratch the bulky paint stroke from that canvas. He laughed to himself, that would be funny. A small part of him was looking forward to the assignment. He very much desired to touch that important, old book.

He inadvertently eavesdropped on the conversation at the booth. "Excuse me, do you know where I can find Mrs. Ethel Swan? I believe she is assembling the Emilio Mello exposition. She's expecting me."

His heart froze. That voice. That horrible karaoke voice.

He turned his eyes to the short, skinny figure in front of him. The bushy hair. "Go left on the hallway and take the elevator to the fourth floor," The booth attendant said.

Thomas did not wait a second longer. He spun on the spot and dashed towards the hallway. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Turning left, he ran towards the elevator and clicked the button on the wall. His brain was throbbing, adrenaline rocketing inside him. The doors opened. He jumped inside and pushed number four. "Come on, come on" he muttered under his breath. The doors weren't closing. He pushed button number four again. Nothing happened. Hitting it frantically, he looked outside. Anna Dietrichson's double was making her way to the elevator.

They locked eyes. A sudden realization dawned upon her face.

"You!" She shouted. She charged towards him, but it was a second too late. The doors shut. The elevator started moving upwards. Shit, shit, shit. What on earth is she doing here? And why is she looking for Ethel?

"I hate this shit job," he muttered to himself.

Thomas sprung out the elevator the second the doors opened. In front of him stood a glass door that read: Emilio Mello – A lifetime of writing. A girl with straight, jet black hair blocked the entrance. She was talking to an old, fashionable-looking lady.

"Are you Claire? Claire Hall? I'm Ethel. You're thirty minutes late."

Bingo. Found her. Now to the other problem. Looking around, he spotted a staircase that led downwards. He peeked below. A figure with bushy hair and dark rimmed glasses was coming up the stairs, panting. Gasping for air, she raised her head. They locked eyes again.

"You! Wait!" She yelled.

Thomas panicked. He had only a few seconds left to act. The elevator was gone. Ethel was nowhere in sight. The girl was still blocking the door – why was she standing there so awkwardly? His eyes spotted a washroom door. And next to the entrance was a fire alarm.

It was on moments like these, which were not uncommon to him, that Thomas felt a pungent need to ditch everything and run. Except that he wouldn't. He would not run. Why? He didn't know. At least not until next weekend.

Thomas faced the alarm. He pulled the alarm in a swift motion and slipped inside the washroom.

This is not a drill. Please remain calm. Please proceed to your nearest exit. This is not a drill...

He locked himself inside a stall. Sitting down, he raised his feet out of sight and onto the toilet seat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "It's all good. I'll just wait here, come out in a few minutes, and try my luck with that book."

Half an hour later he was inside a police car.