Bigot Hall

THE PICTURE OF UNCLE SNAP

Adrienne had painted a portrait of Uncle Snap sitting bolt upright next to a gremlin in a strange, drab room. Though small, the picture was incredibly compelling. Its high resolution had so much hold on the hallway we found ourselves gathering in front of it to fight. After a couple of years it became a centre of gravity for every punch-up we had. More than once I was caught trying to peer past the frame to see more of the room inside. Adrienne wouldn’t say how she’d done it and Snapper himself pretended not to care.

Strangest of all was the slow transformation which Snapper’s painted image seemed to be undergoing. The facial expression appeared progressively more relaxed and lighthearted while in actual life he grew increasingly angry. One morning we found the painted Snapper beaming like a cherub, its eyes filled with love — Father visited the treehouse and interrupted him frantically wedging the disconnector from a semiautomatic. ‘Full auto, brother!’ shrieked Snap. ‘Think of the damage I could do with that!’ And he barrelled headfirst across the room, missing Father by a mere three yards and flying through the open door. Breaking his right arm in the fall, he became increasingly enraged. Yet over the next few weeks there was no change in the picture, and this set me thinking.

Climbing into the treehouse, I engaged him in light conversation and hunted for signs of creativity. All I found was a brass rubbing of his ego. ‘Listen Snap,’ I shouted, ‘I know only a freak in a hurry could mistake you for an innovator but don’t you think it’s strange that your stupid expression changes all the time in that bloody portrait?’

Snapper stood and charged headfirst in the wrong direction, flying through the open door.

When Snap was recovered I began a nightly vigil of the picture. The changes always occurred at night and I was determined to see them happen. There was alot of nodding off and rushing over to see if I’d missed anything. Nothing changed. Until one night I was checking out the picture in the light of a torch.

The little gremlin which sat in its own chair next to Snapper, its face full of mischief. The bare board floor coated in grey ash. Dim, pastiche wallpaper and ill darkness. Creepy, indistinct corners.

I realised I was inside looking out at the dark hallway. The seat and everything was attached to me and nothing but my eyes could move. Straining to see through the visor of my face, I located the figure seated next to me. It was all front, like a piece of stage scenery. I was in a sterile, airless, annihilative space. It was starkly scary — my spine was an electric eel, stinging itself and wanting out. The whole setup was familiar. The moment I thought to scream the Snap figure said ‘I increasingly think action is the only way.’ Its voice was like ice and vinegar.

‘I didn’t burn the nerve farm,’ I said, uncertain. ‘It was Snapper. Doesn’t like people pushing the envelope.’

‘Pretends he doesn’t,’ answered Mister Hieronymus. ‘On the quiet he drags out a vein and uses it as a skipping rope. Eyes front, laughing boy, if you want the facts.’

I looked into the hallway — Snapper walked up in his pyjamas, brandishing a fine art brush. He reached up and carefully retouched the Snap figure’s face, drawing up the mouth into an inane smile, smoothing out the brow. His eyes strange and glassy, he turned and plodded off.

‘Sleepwalking,’ said Mister Hieronymus. ‘Subconscious urges he’d never admit to.’

‘Why did you stand for that?’ I asked, looking askance at the wet face of the Snapper effigy.

‘I’ve taken the opportunity to inhabit this nightmare,’ it replied, ‘so as I can talk to you — it seems nobody else will. You’ll be left alone here, laughing boy. Your life’ll fly off its hinges.’

‘And I wanted everything to be so perfect.’

‘Now’s not the hour for snide abstraction, boy — don’t imagine I thrive upon perching like something preserved in a museum. Everyone’s reading more into this than you are. As sure as you’re sitting there, a garden beetle’s backflaps will lift to reveal a hotrod engine.’

‘I’m not convinced I’m sitting here.’

‘Please yourself. You’re a Machiavellian bird I’ll say that for you.’

‘Wasn’t he that bastard who said authority was the spice?’

‘And more. That by making an example or two a ruler will prove more compassionate than those who allow riot and disorder.’

‘If such examples are proof of compassion then surely disorders will prove the more compassionate as they harm the whole community, while executions only affect individuals.’

‘Can’t change a circle to a square without reducing its surface area, laughing boy.’

‘What about a cube.’

‘You mar my argument by no more clever means than an increase in dimensions.’

‘To no greater number than that in which normal people move and have their being, Sideshow — it’s not my fault your crap argument hasn’t the stamina to exist in the real world. This is terrible. Get me out of here.’

I was instantly back in the hallway, gasping for air. My body was aching like inept architecture. In the picture Snap beamed and the little creature beside him was looking, its head now turned aside.

Late the next day I started feeling stupid for bailing out — it was clear Hieronymus had information to impart. I went to the hallway but the picture was gone — Snapper had burnt it. ‘The gremlin,’ Snapper said, fronting off defensively. ‘Suddenly didn’t like it. All day wherever I went — felt the little shit was watching me.’