Word count: 2965 words
The murals appeared out of nowhere, on the long retaining wall of the embankment that the Route 1 tram ran along to avoid the steepest section of Darlish Way. Every morning, a new mural would replace the last one, the chemical smell of fresh paint still lingering in the air.
The subject matter was rather varied. A group of people picking mushrooms in a forest. A group of farmworkers in a paddock. A panorama of the Old Pack House. It did not take long before the Instagram influencers and the tourists homed in like moths to a lamp.
At first, Gilles had paid no attention to them, as he went on his daily walk from his loft above the restaurant to the waterfront and back. He'd just dismissed it as another clever artist publicity stunt. They were a dime a dozen in this part of Corviston. It was not until the third day that something about the whole thing began to niggle at his subconscious, and he finally decided to stop and take a closer look at it.
It was clear that the mural before him had been done by a talented artist. The detail was exquisite. Today the subject was Briarleaf, the beating heart of Corviston's nightlife. People were spilling out of clubs and restaurants, streaming along the streets, stars in the night sky above, expensive cars in the streets.
The stars were a bit of overkill, Gilles thought. The light pollution here was rather dire, after all.
He recognised the club where he had arranged the rendezvous with Calvin tomorrow. He looked closer. The drawing was detailed enough to see the people inside the windows.
It was unmistakably him, in the window of the club. In an embrace with Calvin.
He gave a start. How did they know that? He looked around him. Just some tourists taking a selfie.
He automatically thought of Wesley. He was in Wythaven, on business, as usual. The other side of the country. The mural would be replaced by the time he got back, first flight tomorrow. He wouldn't know, wouldn't suspect a thing. He breathed a sigh of relief.
He thought back to the previous murals. That one with the pack house had his restaurant in the frame, right? And he was working at the restaurant today. And the previous one, that had been at a farm, if he remembered correctly. He had been at an organic farm yesterday, near Sewellstown, checking out their permacultural practices. Could it be?
He dismissed the thought. He was going crazy. It was just a fluke.
***
The next day, the mural was gone, replaced by a simple slogan, done in big blocky letters on a white background, in a style vaguely reminiscent of Keith Haring.
I know what you did last summer.
The embankment shook slightly as a tram passed above, winding its way down to Margate Road.
He felt faint. The earth was watching. Monagh knew all. The old stories were true.
***
Gilles was the sole proprietor of Barlew's, a hole in the wall place just a stone's throw from the Old Pack House, in the heart of the old town. Nominally, the menu was a page long; just the standard hipster eatery fare, poke bowls, kale salad, etc, etc, etc. But say the right combination of words, and the server would surreptitiously slip you a little laminated card, and duck into a secret compartment at the back of the kitchen that was strictly off-limits to health and safety inspectors.
The most popular item on this shadow menu by far was the sauteed ebony oak chantrelles, served in a wild garlic sauce. The chanterelles came, invariably, from a number of pack territories, or from corrupt park rangers that Gilles knew personally. The wild garlic came from a small gully on the pack territory of the Shadow Bluff pack that he had discovered by chance on a visit several years ago.
