Title: It’s Clever, But Is It Art?

Author: Alan Hitchen

E-Mail: akh@bushinternet.com

Feedback: Would be nice

Disclaimer: BTVS and Angel are the property of Joss Whedon and others

Rating: PG-13

Information: Sequel to I See a Dark Stranger

Summary: Doyle finds more than culture at an art gallery

…

"Twenty bucks apiece! I didn’t realise culture came so expensive."

"Oh really Doyle, it’s not as if we can’t afford it, and it’s about time you learnt to appreciate the finer things in life."

Doyle looked at his wife and smiled.

"Okay Willow, we’re here now, so I suppose I ought to make the most of it."

"That’s more like it!" she said, and dragged him off to the first display.

The Atrocity Exhibition, was the biggest, most controversial, event to hit LA in years. The creme of young artistic talent had contributed their most ‘difficult’ pieces for an event that aimed to court publicity by shock tactics.

"I can’t understand this," said Doyle, looking at a human head, sculpted from the artist’s own frozen blood. "It’s clever, but is it art?"

"So tell me, what sort of art do you like?"

"Well, I like the work of Sam Jones," he said enthusiastically.

"Sam Jones? Oh, Samantha Jones, the sculptress who makes those steel mobiles. What do you like most about her work? The fact that she’s drop dead gorgeous, or the fact that she has a penchant for wearing black rubber dresses?"

Doyle, realising he was on dangerous ground here, changed tack.

"I like Richard Serra too," he insisted.

"I see," said Willow, with a suspicious glint in her verdant eyes. "So you’re telling me you like large steel sculptures in general."

"Oh yes, if it’s big and made of steel I love it."

"Liar!"

He quickly kissed her to stifle any further argument.

"And I love you when you’re angry."

Willow’s expression still indicated disbelief. So in an effort to distract her, Doyle guided Willow into a side gallery, which contained a display of Polaroid photographs entitled: The Face of Fear. The room was lined with images of people caught in extremis, at the very edge of recognisability.

"This is awful," said Willow, who had now completely forgotten the argument. "I’m going to find some thing nicer."

"Okay honey, I’ll be with you in a minute."

Doyle looked closer at some of the snaps. Hideously distorted as the images were, Doyle thought he could recognise several of them.

As Kate Lockley, his unofficial LAPD liaison officer, had done him many favours in the past he felt honour bound to help her when she needed it. She was currently engaged in trying to locate a growing number of missing persons who had disappeared in the last six months. He had been keeping his eyes open for them, and now he seemed to have found some of those missing people.

He looked closely at the biography of the artist, Mark Lewis. He was locally based. Doyle decided to pay him a visit as soon as possible.

…

The address turned out to be a former supermarket in a dilapidated area of the city. He rang the bell. An unexpectedly old man opened the door.

"Mark Lewis?"

"Yes, let’s go, I haven’t got all day."

"Go where?"

"The TV studio of course," he snapped. "You are the driver aren’t you?"

"No, I’m a reporter for the LA Times arts supplement, can I have a word with you?"

He considered this for a moment then said: "All right, but just until the car comes, I’m appearing on ‘It’s the Arts’ tonight."

"Congratulations," Doyle said, as he entered the building. It was all but empty and his voice echoed about in the void.

"Thank you, it’s about time someone recognised my genius. Now what can I do for you young man?"

"I’m interested in your work being shown at the Atrocity Exhibition."

"I thought you might, what about it?"

"The models you use, who are they?"

"No-one in particular, I use anyone I find interesting that will pose for me. They pull a face, I manipulate the image to produce just the right effect, and there you have it. Why do you ask?"

"It’s just that some of the people you’ve photographed have gone missing."

"Oh really, and what is your interest in missing persons, I thought you were an arts journalist? Let me see your credentials."

Doyle made a show of searching his pockets for the non-existent item.

"I seem to have left it at home," he said, suddenly changing his focus to the rear of the building. "I see the freezer is still in situ, and still working," he noted from the low hum it gave out. "Isn’t it a bit expensive to run just to keep a pint of milk fresh?"

"Who are you? What are you up to? Come back here!"

Doyle ignored Mr. Lewis as he made for the freezer. He could see that it was padlocked. He was about to turn and ask Mr. Lewis why this was so, when he felt a tremendous blow to the head. Just then the doorbell rang.

"All right; I’m coming, I’m coming!" Mr. Lewis called out, as he unlocked the freezer door and bundled the unconscious Doyle inside.

As his body temperature fell, Doyle fell ever more deeply unconscious. After some hours he sat up and looked around. It was pitch black; he could see nothing. He felt about; he could feel nothing. He didn’t feel cold either. He leant back against the door, and fell through it!

He found himself outside the freezer and realised what had happened. His body was still inside, more dead than alive now, but his spirit was free. He had heard of astral projection, but had never experienced it up till now. He now realised unless he got help soon this would be a permanent condition.

He thought of Willow and concentrated. With a whoosh! He found himself in his wife’s office. She was reading her e-mail.

"Willow, am I pleased to see you," he said.

She ignored him. In growing alarm he cried out.

"Willow! Willow!! Willow!!!"

He soon realised she could not see or hear him, nor could he touch her or pick anything up. How was he going to tell her what had happened?

By accident he put his hand through the monitor and the screen flickered. He did it again, and this time concentrated on what he wanted to say to Willow. As if by magic, a message appeared on screen as if it were another e-mail.

She read the message, looked about the office as if searching for Doyle, grabbed her coat and ran out of the office. He concentrated and zapped himself back to the supermarket to await her arrival.

He didn’t have long to wait. He heard the rattle of his skeleton keys in the door and Willow burst in. She tackled the lock on the freezer door the same way and pulled the doors open.

She gave out a scream as she did so, for the freezer was full of corpses, stacked up like cordwood, and at the front was the body of her husband.

She dragged Doyle out towards a large space heater and turned it on full blast. She returned to the freezer and shut the door against the horrifying sight of its contents.

"I’ll do a little spell to warm you up now," she said to Doyle’s body, hoping that she was in time.

Doyle watched with interest as Willow urgently worked her magic over him. Then suddenly he was back in his body again, shivering like an aspen leaf. He opened his eyes and was rewarded by the biggest smile he had ever seen.

"Are you okay?" Willow asked anxiously.

"All the better for seeing you," he replied through chattering teeth.

"What happened? Who did this to you?"

"Mark Lewis. I was asking him about missing people when he slugged me."

"Those would be the bodies in the freezer I assume."

"That’s my guess."

"What is he up to?"

"Youth and immortality!"

Willow span around to find Mark Lewis had entered the building without her knowledge and was now covering them with a Colt .45 automatic pistol.

"Isn’t that an awfully big gun for such a little man?" Willow said, slipping into babble mode, hoping to keep him talking for as long as possible before the shooting started.

"Don’t mind her, she’s had a bit of a shock," said Doyle, trying to raise himself from the floor. "What were you saying about youth and immortality?"

"I’m glad you asked," said Mr. Lewis. "I’ve been dying to tell someone," he chuckled at his choice of words. "You see I am dying, it’s a rare condition that causes premature ageing and death. You wouldn’t think I was twenty-five would you?"

Willow shook her head.

"I came across an artefact quite by accident. A harmless looking crystal, together with a manuscript that documented its use. It collects life essences, and when I have enough I will drain the crystal and it will give me back my youth, and as a side effect I shall be immortal!"

"That’s very nice for you, but what about the victims?" Doyle asked.

"I’ve given them immortality too! When they died I took their pictures. Life is short but Art is longer! Now who said that?"

Mr. Lewis scratched his head with his free hand.

"Never mind, I’m sure I’ll remember later. The problem now is what to do with you, did you tell anyone you were coming here?"

"Yes," said Doyle and Willow at the same time.

"Good. That means you didn’t," he smirked. "Now, do you want to see the crystal, find out how it works? I’m sure you do."

He waved the gun at Willow, motioning her to move toward the work area.

"Where are my manners," he said. "I need a chair for the lady."

He dusted off a chair for her to sit on, then used plastic zip ties to bind her hands and feet to it. He glanced back at Doyle who was still too weak to move.

"Don’t worry, your turn next."

"I can’t wait," said Doyle, in a cheery tone he hoped would reassure his wife.

Mr. Lewis put the gun down and began to prepare his camera and flash equipment. Willow struggled with the ties, but soon realised it was hopeless.

"So, how long have you been an artist then?" Willow asked conversationally.

"Are you trying to distract me until the police can arrive, because they’re not coming, are they?"

"No. I mean. Yes. Oh, I don’t know what I mean," Willow said dejectedly.

"Just sit tight, and I’ll get the crystal. Don’t go away now," he quipped.

As he did so, Willow shot an enquiring look at Doyle. He shook his head; he still couldn’t move. So it was up to her to save the day, but how?

She looked at Mr. Lewis scrabbling about in the bottom of a cabinet. Above his head there was a large heavy looking box. If she could dislodge it, perhaps it would knock him out cold. She concentrated on the box, said the appropriate spell under her breath, and willed it to move.

"Got it!" Mr. Lewis announced, as he finally unearthed his well-hidden treasure, just before the box hit him square on his head.

"Well done!" Doyle shouted.

"Can you move yet?"

"No."

"Then we’re still stuck here, and when he comes round…"

"I know," said Doyle. "It’s a pity I didn’t think to send Kate a message when I had the chance."

"Or I could have phoned her. Oh well," said Willow, suddenly noticing a small craft knife on a nearby bench, "I’ll just have to improvise."

Once again summoning her telekinetic powers she grabbed the knife and brought it to her hands, which wasn’t easy, as she couldn’t see behind her and didn’t want to cut herself. Once free she could phone for Kate and an ambulance, but first she decided to have a look at the crystal.

It was a quite remarkable lump of cerulean quartz that glowed and sparkled brightly with the energy of the many souls trapped within it. She studied the manuscript closely and soon discovered the process could be reversed.

"Are you going to spend all day reading?" Doyle enquired, in some annoyance. "This floor isn’t getting any warmer you know."

"Okay honey, be with you in a minute," she said distractedly. "I’m just going to raise the dead."

"What?!"

"I can bring the victims back to life. I’d better phone the hospital, we’re going to need a lot of ambulances."

"Don’t forget to tell Kate where she can pick up her kidnapper."

"Sure thing, darling, everything helps when you’re bucking for promotion."

"Now Willow, you know she’s not like that."

"No, but what are you going to get out of this?"

"Satisfaction of a job well done?"

"Maybe, but does that pay the bills?"

"I thought you did that anyway?"

"Really Doyle, why did I ever marry you?"

"My good looks and charm?"

"I knew there was a reason," she said, and hunkered down beside him. "Well, if you’re not going to get paid, then I’ll have to give you something, won’t I?"

She smiled and kissed him, suddenly he was no longer cold and all was right with the world.

"Just one thing," said Doyle. "No more art exhibitions, please!"

"Okay, we have enough atrocity in our life as it is."

They both laughed.