"Fear a Painted Devil"
Chapter 3
Which V? Movie V. Action V.
Rated PG
Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB
V uses his down time to heal.
V pulled his silk robe around him, retied the sash. Evey had found this Japanese kimono in the back of his closet. He tried to remember where he acquired it. Too tired to think. It felt good, comfortable; the black brocade was smooth and cool and completely covered him. He shifted his weight on the sofa and reached for the remote. She had put it on the table for him with the soup. She had also brought out a fresh mask, a new wig. His piano gloves. Where is she now? He tried to look behind him, but his shoulder was too stiff. He rubbed the sore spot with his other hand, flipped on the telly.
He had spent the first two days after Abernathy's death locked in the surveillance room. It was the only way he was sure to get some sleep and be certain she would not be poking around his mask or his body. But he had let her wash and bind his bullet wound. It turned out to be a clean shot through his upper chest, just missing the shoulder blade and his spine. Lucky. She had become upset when he told her there were no antibiotics in the Gallery. He didn't feel like explaining to her that he could never suffer from an infection again. Ever. Didn't want to talk about it. She is still worrying. Let her wonder why I never developed a fever. I'm going to heal twice as fast as you expect, too. Surprise, Evey.
So, those first two days he spent mostly sleeping on the old sofa in there, listening to the police scanner. That first night Evey had banged on the door, yelling for him to switch to BTN. Sure enough, the poppets were broadcasting lies: "Desmond Abernathy, the latest victim of the unrest in London. Shot by a rebel subversive in his office." The rest of the news story encouraged people to turn in their neighbors if they noticed any sign of "subversive" behavior.
V pulled out the suicide note. He read it again. In this case he approved of the lie. Being a murder victim instead of a suicide allowed Mary Abernathy and the children to collect Desmond's life insurance. V put the note down, stared up at the ceiling. There may be enough in one of my Swiss accounts…anonymous, of course. Fifty thousand pounds would be right. Put the kids through college. He made a mental note to write a cheque in the morning. The note confirmed what he had suspected before his visit to the curator's office. The thefts from the Museum were sanctioned by Norsefire. Creedy was placing orders for clients and his men were looting the museum to fill them. Everyone received a kickback. Everyone but Abernathy. Everyone but the real owners of the art objects and the artifacts. The people of Britain. The citizens of the world. But the note didn't say that. No, not directly. That would have been too dangerous for Mary, but V could read between the lines, knew what kind of information it would have taken to destroy Abernathy. The lines that pained him read: "Today I discovered what had been going on right under my nose. For thirty five years the people of Britain have relied upon me to keep their heritage as well as the heritage of countless cultures safe, protected and accessible. I cannot live with the knowledge that I have failed them so miserably and so ignobly."
He heard something behind him. Evey. He tried to turn his head. Too stiff. She knows I can't turn around, yet she is standing there. Behind him. He switched off the telly, cocked his head.
"Yes, Evey?"
"V. We need to talk."
"What a very feminine thing to say, Eve."
"V. Please. I'm serious. I want to call a truce. Please."
"Come here where I can see you."
"Oh, no. If I can't see you, then you can't see me. Fair is fair."
He thought about that. Didn't like being at a disadvantage, but he was amused by the situation. Two people talking, but not seeing each other. Like on mobiles, but in the same room. "Very well, Evey. What is on your mind tonight?"
"I want to talk about what happened last week."
V did not. He tried to come up with an excuse. Ah. I am tired. So tired. Wounded even. I need to sleep. I need rest. No disturbances. Bad for my health.
"V?"
He sighed. "Yes." It was no use. Get it over with. "We had some trouble last week. It's over. Don't worry about it any more. Just read your books. Watch your telly. The Fifth will be here in some months and then you'll be rid of me and this place."
"No, no, no. That's not what I want."
"What do you want?" He knew this was a dangerous question, but he wanted her to get to the point.
There was a long pause. So long, in fact, he made an attempt to look behind him, to make sure she was still there. He pushed himself up with his arms and twisted his body painfully until she came into view.
She saw him turn, "No fair. You are cheating," she cried, swiftly turning her back on him. He could see she was weeping, rubbing her eyes, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "I want to do it over again, do it right this time. I know I can't, but that's what I want. I want you to give me another chance," she said. "I want to help you. I can't lie around the Gallery, reading and watching the telly when good men like Mr. Abernathy are bullied into killing themselves."
He thought of a few tart retorts, she was so naïve: every day there are dozens of Mr. Abernathys. Where have you been? But that would be too wicked. I will not thrash her with words. Her role in this passion play was to be a placid prisoner, here for a year, waiting out her sentence, in this gilded prison…gilded prison…prison…. He felt faint. It's my wound, he lied to himself.
"V? Did you hear me?" She turned around. She let him see her turned-down mouth, tear-streaked face, and her swollen eyes. He let her see his wicked grin, his cold complexion, and his fathomless eyes. She's right. It's not fair. I'm cheating.
"Come here, Eve. Come sit next to me." He patted the sofa beside him. She came over, her little body barely making a dent in the leather cushion. He took her hand in his, felt the fragile bones under her skin through his piano gloves. They were fragile, but strong. He remembered how they felt on his body, how she held him up, walked him where he needed to go, pressed on his shoulder to stop the bleeding. The strength was there. The fragility merely made her strength seem a work of art. She was looking at him now, puzzled. I wasn't always strong, myself. I've made mistakes. My fragility, she will never know. But knowing hers...
She looked up at him. "You are going to do something about the Museum, aren't you? You aren't going to let Creedy get away with looting it? You won't allow Mr. Abernathy's death to be in vain? He is a martyr, V. You can't let his convictions die with him."
"No. I can't let them die with him. I know that Creedy is planning to have some of the artifacts removed from the Egyptian collection next week. Monday night, in fact. His men will not find an empty Museum. I will be there."
"I want to be there with you. I want to be whispering in your ear."
"What will you say to me?" he asked.
She put her lips to his ear, whispered, "I'm sorry." Then he felt her squeeze his hand. Hard.