MYSTERIOUS GRAFFITI - CHAPTER FOUR

The windows of my top floor apartment face north, so even though it's still warm outside, the air that greets my face when I open the door feels chilly and smells musty and damp. It's permanently dark inside as well as the adjacent building cuts off my view to the outside world, plus the thick drapes at my main window restrict what little natural light can seep into the room, even when it's still bright outside. I know I'll have to find a way to pin the drapes back somehow as my living room/bedroom is in a permanent state of gloom, which will probably drive me insane after a while.

When I was trawling the internet from my lovely, spacious, shared house in Scotland, this one room, kitchen and bathroom studio was all I could afford. I still consider myself lucky though to have found somewhere so close to my place of work, with the added luxury of being able to live on my own for a change. I was tempted to get a shared house or apartment again as I love company, but having some solitude and privacy when I get home from work will gradually become more important to me in the months to come, which is depressing I know.

I toss my jacket on the unmade bed and dump my shopping bags on the tiny piece of counter in my galley-size kitchen. The sink is full of yesterday's and this morning's plates and mugs as I was too depressed last night at the thought of starting work at SPU to wash-up after eating. I couldn't bring myself to do them this morning either, so I know I'll have to clean-up the kitchen sometime tonight. Luckily I don't know anyone in Seattle, so the chance of having any visitors is miniscule, which means I can live like a slob if I want to. I therefore dismiss thinking about domestic chores with a clear conscience as I've a much more important duty to perform.

After washing my hands and tipping my shopping out onto the counter, I remove the plastic cover from the pizza I've just bought and with a sigh of pleasure I slide it into my tiny oven to heat up. As I pull the last clean dish from the overhead rack, I try to convince myself that I should be saving at least a quarter of the pizza to take to work tomorrow for my lunch, but I know damn well I'll end up eating the whole thing tonight because I'm a disgusting hog when it comes to any sort of cheesy food, especially pizza.

I tip half a bag of baby-leaf salad into a bowl and sprinkle some dressing over the top then open my one and only bottle of wine, which is nicely chilled and thankfully has a screw-top as I haven't got round to buying a corkscrew yet. I pour a decent amount into a coffee mug and take a long drink of Italian Pinot which hits the spot immediately. I very rarely drink alone, but considering the day I've had, especially after what just happened inside and outside the store, alcohol is definitely what I need right now.

I debate whether to call Charlie while the pizza is cooking or wait until after I've eaten. I've got plenty to talk to him about tonight and I know he'll be relieved to hear I've got access to a car. Recalling the moment when Jim handed me the keys gives me a lovely warm feeling, over and above what wine on an empty stomach is doing to me. Then I think of all the other unexpectedly good things that happened today, like Kirsty's friendly welcome, Jay's support at the staff meeting and finding out I don't have to power-dress for work, which will save me bashing my credit card this month. But most of all coming across the beautiful mural on the waterfront, coupled with the mystery surrounding how it got there so fast, and the equally mysterious man with the piercing eyes who I guess is responsible for painting it and is now my very-own personal stalker.

I decide to leave calling Charlie until after I've eaten and I've had at least two glasses, I mean mugs, to unwind. I want to relax first and think about what just happened while it's still fresh in mind and then decide what to do about it. I put the rest of the shopping away; get changed into my PJ's and take another long swig of Pinot as I wander over to the sofa. I'm just about to launch myself onto it when there's a gentle knock on the door.

I'm automatically wary as I'm not expecting visitors. This, plus the fact that I don't have any friends in Seattle, makes me wonder for a moment whether my stalker has found out where I live. I can feel my face bursting into flames as I realise with shame that I cannot possibly open the door to this guy wearing pajamas, and scruffy pajamas at that, so I creep over to the door and take a peek through the spyhole to see whether it's him or not.

I can tell instantly it's not him and let out a sigh of relief, but to be honest I'm slightly disappointed as well. I can only see the top of my visitor's head, so whoever it is must be quite short. This observation gives me the confidence to open the door without getting ready to defend myself, however I still gingerly crack it open only about two inches so I'm prepared to slam it shut again if my instincts are wrong. A girl who I guess is about my age is standing on my doormat. She has shoulder-length, medium-brown hair which looks as though she's just fluffed it out after being tied back. She's dressed in pretty bohemian-type clothing of harem pants and a floaty top and has a broad, pearly-white smile on her face.

"Hi! I'm Jessica," she practically sings before I even have a chance to acknowledge her. "I live across the hall. I just wanted to say hello and invite you over for a cup or glass of something; if you're not doing anything this evening?" she adds as a question.

I'm slightly taken aback for a second as I'm used to living in places where you never meet or speak to your neighbors unless you happen to bump into them on the stairs. I relax and open the door fully as I feel pretty confident she hasn't got a posse of thieves behind her ready to burst into the apartment and steal what little I've got. I make this assumption based on the fact that she's got bare feet and lots of toe-rings, which is not conducive to making a quick getaway.

"Oh hi," I mumble eloquently. "Ummmmm… I'm Bella."

I would normally jump at the chance of company but I've got too much going on in my head at the moment for polite conversation and my pizza takes precedence over everything else, but I don't want to appear rude or offhand. I rapidly think up a plausible excuse.

"Look, I'm really grateful for the invitation, Jessica, but I've had a long day and I've only just got in. I've got a storming headache as well so I've just taken two Tylenol which means I won't be much company when they kick in. Could I take a rain check to tomorrow night?"

I give her a cheery smile which I hope doesn't make me look like an imbecile or that it's forced (which it definitely isn't).

"Sure," Jessica gushes. "Just come over when you're ready. I get home from college just after five. Any time after that would be cool."

"Thanks," I say and I'm genuinely pleased to meet her. She seems nice and she's wearing the same type of clothes I did when I was a student. I wonder then what course she's doing but would guess from her clothes and general demeanour it would be something creative and arty."

"Okay, see you tomorrow, Bella. Hope your head gets better. If you need anything just knock," she trills and disappears down the hall.

I close the door still contemplating how friendly everyone seems to be in Seattle when my timer 'pings', indicating my pizza is ready. I pick up my almost-empty wine-mug and re-fill it before pulling the pizza out the oven. It's slightly black at the edges meaning the temperature regulator isn't entirely trustworthy, but the pizza is totally edible to someone who still has a student's mentality regarding food, meaning if it's not burned to a crisp it's cooked perfectly.

While I'm eating I turn on the TV. Luckily there's cable included in the rent as I'm addicted to random programs from around the world, so I skip through the millions of channels until I find a program about Tuscany, which is my favourite Italian region bar none. It also compliments the pizza I'm eating, and the Italian wine I'm drinking. All I need now is an Italian boyfriend to feed me ice cold gelato with a long-handled spoon and life would be perfect.

After the hour-long program is over, I call the house phone at home and Charlie picks up on the second ring. I said I would call tonight to tell him how I got on at work so he's obviously been sitting next to it.

"Hi Bells," he says cheerily. "How'd it go?"

"Yeah, it was good, dad," I reply honestly. "Loads better than anticipated."

"Are you being truthful," he asks and I can hear the note of suspicion in his voice. He knows I'd say it was fine, even if it wasn't.

"Yes, I genuinely enjoyed myself," I insist. "The people are nice, the work is interesting and best of all I've been allocated a car which I'm allowed to use at weekends, so no ferries and buses for me on Friday night."

"That's great, Bella," he says and I can hear the relief in his voice. "That's a load off my mind to be honest. I didn't like the thought of you travelling after a long day at work. I was going to suggest you come home on Saturday morning instead. What sort of car is it?"

"Only a Fiesta, but guess what? It's an automatic!"

Dad pauses for a moment to let that sink in and then starts to chuckle when he realises by my comment that I've never driven one before."

"You'll be fine; it's like driving a bumper car."

"Yeah, yeah," I reply. "That's what Jay said. He's my right-hand man in the office. Anyway, I've driven it around Seattle today so I'm sure I'll be competent enough to drive it to Forks on Friday night."

"That's good news, Bells. I'm really looking forward to seeing you again. I'll admit I'm missing you already and you were only home for a week. It was great having you in the house, even though it clashed with me going through a bad few days getting used to these new drugs, and you were sleeping off your jet lag most of the time."

"I know dad; it was great being back in my old room and I was really grateful for the rest. You know that I wish I could be closer to you so I could get home every night, but it's impractical. You're okay and managing for the moment, aren't you?"

"Sure, I'm fine. Billy's taking me to the hospital on Thursday for my next appointment, even though I still feel okay to drive the patrol car. The doctor says no though because my meds are too strong now. I should be dizzy and hallucinating according to her but I'm not, apart from first thing in the morning. Sue's offered to do my shopping from now on and some of the lads off the reservation said they'll do jobs around the house if I need anything fixing."

"That's nice," I interrupt, but dad hadn't finished.

"Jacob and Paul drove past on their bikes on Sunday afternoon and asked after you. I was out on the front porch soaking up the sun when they turned up, but I didn't let on you'd been home, even though I'm sure Jacob was fishing for information. He kept looking up at the windows; especially your window. I hadn't seen him in months, which makes me wonder whether word had got out that you were back because he generally avoids coming this way."

"How was he?" I ask, (even though I'm not the slightest bit interested). Jacob is very much an ex-boyfriend. We dated for about six months when I was in my last year of high school and broke up on the day I took my final exam. When I say 'broke up', what I really mean is I actually snuck out of Forks without saying goodbye. Charlie picked me up from school and drove me to SeaTac where I caught the evening flight to Florida to stay with mom for a week before I flew to Rome to join a month-long Art History tour of Europe. My plane had landed in Jacksonville before Jake realised I was gone, and from what dad told me after, he really kicked off when he found out, taking most of his vengeance out on my truck. The sole reason I chose the course in New York was to get away from him so there was no way I was planning to resurrect the relationship now I was back on the west coast.

"He's even more of an over-sized, hot-headed, irresponsible, juvenile bully than he was three years ago and he's always in trouble with either the cops or the elders on the reservation. He's on probation at the moment for fighting again," Charlie added. "Sam told me he's still pining after you though so be warned."

"Thanks," I sigh. "You know I'm not interested, dad."

"Yep! You made that quite clear three years ago. Don't worry, Bells, I won't encourage him. He's always been respectful to me, even when I arrested him at gun-point once, but that's probably because he's hoping to get back with you. He's not a nice person to be around though, especially when he's had a drink, and he still drives his bike like a maniac; even more so now I'm not out there in my patrol car."

"No change then, dad."

"Nope. Anyway, I won't keep you. You must be tired after your first day. You can tell me all about your job at the weekend, okay?"

"Okay, dad, I'll call you again before Friday."

"You don't have to, Bella."

"I know, but I want to. Goodnight, dad. Love you."

"Love you too, goodnight."

I hit the button to disconnect before he could hear the emotion building up in my voice. Just saying goodnight brought tears to my eyes and the lump back to my throat. It was there when we parted on Saturday when the cab came to take me to the bus station, and this morning when I read his message on my cell. Now the lump seemed to be getting larger and more permanent. I know in my heart I should've put my foot down when he told me he was ill and been more insistent that I wanted to stay with him 24/7, but he said quite forcefully that he didn't want any fuss. Just me being within driving distance was all he wanted, and financially I know it's the right thing to do, but that will more than likely change as the months go by.

I haul myself off the sofa and sling my dish in the sink with all the others then wander over to the bed and tip the contents of my purse onto the quilt. My camera's low battery light is flashing orange so I connect the charging cable and look around for a nearby electrical point, but before plugging it in I turn the camera on and start flicking through the pictures I took today. I quickly skip through the first fifty or so of the worthless graffiti, until the first picture of the beautiful mural appears.

The display screen on my camera is very small so it's difficult for me to examine the intricate parts of the painting closely, but I can still remember each segment clearly in my mind's eye. The shimmering shells of the turtles glinting in the sunlight, the gently wafting fins of the translucent angel fish, the razor-sharp edges of the multi-colored corals and the strength and movement of the thrashing shark and its human attacker are still blowing me away. I slowly flick through each image, still awestruck how this incredible work was achieved in such a short period of time and totally anonymously. It makes me wonder why he'd taken the chance of being caught and prosecuted for defacing a famous building when there were other buildings and walls nearby he could've painted on. Admittedly the Aquarium is the perfect place for this image, but he had definitely taken a massive risk.

And then I think about him again; the mysterious guy who was watching me so intently from the shadows. Then I wonder why I instantly classified him as 'mysterious'. He was just a tall, lanky guy, in admittedly 'unsuitable-for-the-weather' gym clothing, standing in the shade, watching what was going on. So why did I single him out from all the other folk who were congregating around the building? What made me focus on him? I suppose it was because everyone else in the crowd was staring at the mural but he was staring at me, possibly wanting to see my reaction to his work. Was this because of vanity, or curiosity? When our eyes locked, he trapped me in that intense laser-beam gaze for a few seconds before I broke away. Maybe he or I blinked? Maybe he allowed me to release? Maybe he was satisfied he'd caught my attention and was playing with me? Whatever, I'm determined now to find out who he is and discover the reason why he was there.

Then I recall his voice when he opened the door for me in the store and there was definitely something unusual about the way he spoke those few words. He had a faint trace of an accent; in other words I could tell he wasn't from this part of the world but I couldn't place where he came from either. I was sure he wasn't American or Canadian, but he didn't sound English or Scottish either. Maybe English was his second language and his first was a European or Latino one? His voice was clear and strong but somehow soft and gentle too, as if he was trying to control how he spoke.

I try to recall exactly what happened, or more appropriately what didn't happen in the store. I didn't see him follow me in. I didn't see him in any of the aisles. He definitely wasn't at the checkout, but he must have somehow seen me struggling with my bags at the door although I didn't hear him come up behind me. After he spoke the words offering his help, his hand appeared in front of my face and I recall watching his long, slim and very clean fingers wrapping themselves around the handle before he tugged the door open. And then what? I know I heard something like a sigh or a gasp coming from behind me, but I couldn't swear whether it was from him or not. A few seconds later I was out on the sidewalk and he'd slid past without touching me.

I remember watching him escaping down the hill, if that's what he was doing. His long, loping strides were effortless, like he was only in second gear even though he was travelling at quite a speed. Then his hood slipped off and I saw his hair, which was a rich medium to dark brown and probably quite long; shoulder-length maybe. He covered himself quickly again even though it was still warm and quite sunny; almost like he was a fugitive escaping from a crime scene. I wondered then why he was dressed like that. Did he have an aversion to the sun, because he must've been boiling in those clothes?

But why did he follow me home in the first place if he didn't want to talk to me? That was what was bugging me the most. If he didn't want to make contact with me, why risk letting me see him in the store, and then, even more strangely, come up close behind me then speak to me as he opened the door and then run off? He had a golden opportunity there to break the ice and talk to me without Jay being present, if that's what was bothering him, but he didn't take it. I just cannot understand the logic behind why he's doing everything possible to let me know of his existence, and for me to know that he's effectively stalking me, but he's not prepared to engage with me.

I stare at the pictures for a while longer until the battery light flashes red. As the last image of the mural fades away I try to recall the other examples of his work Jay showed me this afternoon. A few spring to mind like a girl in a hammock, a night-scene of Seattle and the football one near CenturyLink Field which looked awesome, but there were at least six or seven more which I'm confident are his. I'm really looking forward to seeing the football one close-up though as it looked like a photograph at first glance which proves he has an incredible level of skill. So before I do anything else tomorrow, I'll go through Jay's stored files and print off copies of all the ones I think are his, then examine them in more detail to see whether I can tap into his thoughts and find out something about his soul through his pictures. Somehow I'm not entirely confident whether I'll be able to do that easily as there's something about him that doesn't ring true, but I can't put my finger on what.

I switch the camera off and connect the cable to the wall so it'll be fully charged for tomorrow then wander around the apartment trying to find something to do to justify my negative attitude towards washing the dishes, but there's nothing. So I sigh, roll up my pajama sleeves and head for the sink. It only takes me about fifteen minutes to clean up despite having to practically chisel off a few uneaten flakes of cereal from the bowl I used this morning and then I really am left with nothing to do again. I didn't have any room in the bags I was carrying on Saturday for any books from home so my options are either TV or bed, so I choose bed, even though it's only just coming up to ten.

The Tylenol cosh is definitely kicking in as I'm feeling extremely weary, so I don't need to convince myself that an early night would be a good thing. I have a quick wash in my cramped but adequate bathroom then wander over to the window to close the drapes. The view from my living room is basically a deep gray colored brick wall with no windows, but if I angle my head sideways I can just see a few yards of sidewalk and an ornate lamp post which illuminates the narrow alleyway running between my building and the next. The sun sets at about eight thirty this time of year, but the sky is clear tonight and the moon is very bright so the small amount of sidewalk I can see is well lit.

I drag the first drape over to the centre of the pole then have a quick peek out the window so I can say a grateful goodnight to the city for what has been a surprisingly good, interesting and eventful day. Before yanking the second drape across to meet the first, I glance at the sidewalk again, just as a tall figure strides across my restricted view of the street. He glances up at my window, hesitates, then instantly disappears from sight.

My knees go from underneath me and I hang onto the drapes to stop me collapsing from shock as my brain absorbs what I've just seen. It was him … I know it for certain. I could tell by his hunched posture, his faded clothes and his piercing eyes. But it's the thrill, almost like electricity that's shooting through my body, which absolutely convinces me it was definitely Hoodie Guy out there on the sidewalk in front of my apartment.

I let go of the drape before the pole comes away from the wall and stagger over to the bed, where I collapse onto the bouncy mattress and put my head in my hands.

I honestly don't know what to do.

Should I call the police, or phone my dad, or run over to Jessica's and hide in her apartment until the morning, or should I just get dressed, go down to the sidewalk and wait for him to appear again so I can confront him and ask him what his game is?

A shiver runs down my back but it's not from fear. I know I should be concerned. I know I should be at least a teensy-weensy bit frightened that this guy is stalking me, but I don't feel anxious or alarmed at all and I wonder why this is. If it had been anybody else but Hoodie Guy I would be dialling 911, reporting I'm a single female living alone and being stalked by a tall dark stranger. But for some reason I know in my gut I'm in no danger from him.

Is it because Hoodie Guy's an artist, and as someone who has studied artists for years, I cannot perceive that anyone who is able to paint like he does and can put his heart and soul onto a 'canvas' in that way, could possibly have anything nefarious or evil on his mind? It must be, because… because… because … I just can't explain why.

I lie on the bed and stare up at the cracked and stained ceiling as if I'm in the Sistine Chapel again, gazing up at Michelangelo's interpretation of heaven. I'm trying to get some perspective on the situation but I can't. This man is obviously wanting to communicate with me but why the subterfuge? Why the mystery? If he knows where I live and wants to talk to me, why the hell doesn't he just knock on my door?

I shuffle under the quilt and close my eyes. Different scenarios flit through my confused mind where I'm imagining talking to him about his work and his undoubted skill. I want to know who taught him and who or what influences his paintings. I'd like to know how old he is, whether he's travelled, who his favorite artists are. I'm desperate to be able to see his whole face and look into those dark brown or black eyes and read what's behind them. I want to discover the parts of his soul that I can't figure out by examining his work with my skilled but still youthful and relatively inexperienced eyes.

I curl up in a ball and hug myself while I think about Hoodie Guy and what has happened to me today. Slightly more than thirteen hours ago I was standing on 5th Avenue, anticipating walking into a job I'd imagined would bore the hell out of me. Now, I'm beginning to accept I've never been more excited about anything in my whole life, because I know, I truly, truly know, without a shadow of a doubt, that one day I'll find out everything I need to know about this guy, this man, this artist, and what I discover about him will somehow have an influence on my life and the paths I decide to take in the future.

I close my eyes but sleep doesn't come for a while. I haven't felt this excited since I was a kid, lying awake on Christmas Eve waiting for Santa to come. Tonight though, the guy who's outside my window isn't Santa; instead he's a mysterious stalker with a black hoodie and dark, piercing eyes.

So is he really stalking her? If he is, he must have a pretty good reason over and above checking up who is looking at his art. I think Bella's being very brave (or naive) not reporting him.

So Charlie is ill; a lot of you guessed this was the reason Bella has had to come home. You'll find out very soon what's wrong with him. Also Jacob has appeared. Sorry Jacob fans; he's not a nice guy in this story but he's an important part of it. (I'm not always horrible to him though - honestly!)

Next chapter Bella goes off on her own around the city and ends up having the shock of her life; well two shocks actually.

Joan x