Rembrandt in the 21st Century

16 February 2000 is the date within the fiction.

"Starting tape recorder. Interview commencing at 10.30 am Feb 16th 2000, Rembrandt Harmanez Van Ryn, being questioned by myself PC Johnson and WPC Brown about an attempted burglary."

PC Johnson took his finger off the tape recorder and went and sat behind the table.

"Ok then…Rembrandt," he said smiling whilst nudging his accomplice with his elbow.

The man nervously shouted, "I am truly sorry for everything I have ever done wrong!"

More afraid than a small child who thought he was going to get a severe beating and be sent to his room forever.

"OK, lets calm down a minute. Lets take it from the start shall we?" he said looking a little confused by the outbreak, taking a quick look at his colleague to see her reaction, who also seemed a bit concerned.

"Lets start by you telling us your real name shall we?"

Rembrandt (if his name was Rembrandt) now was the one starting to look confused.

"What do you mean, my real name?"

"Come on you don’t really expect us to believe that that is your real name do you? That’s the name of a famous Dutch artist isn't it?" He tried to smile.

Rembrandt or whoever he was stared at one and then the other, then again, back and forth in suspicious amazement.

" But I am a Dutch artist." He sighed.

"O.K. Speak Dutch then."

"I am speaking Dutch!"

"No you're not you're speaking English."

"I don't know how to speak English!" He gave them a suspecting look and then gave an expression as though he had just realised something really obvious yet important. "Wait a minute, you are not God are you? What do you want?"

The police officers understandably were completely thrown by this accusation and gave each other an uncomfortable frown, not quite knowing what to do next. WPC Brown opted for the sympathetic approach.

"Well no I suppose we are not God. We are just trying to do our job that’s all." She thought perhaps she would get more information if she used her sensitive method of questioning. "I know who Rembrandt is."

"Do you?"

"Yes I do, I can understand why you are trying to imitate him. I've seen his paintings in the National Gallery."

"What National Gallery? I've never heard of it. I have trouble selling anything I paint nowadays never mind some National Gallery. You are just making things up now aren't you? You are talking about a fictional character." He whimpered.

"No that’s what you are doing!" Back fired PC Johnson. "I've about had enough of this, stop wasting our time and we will stop wasting yours!" The interrogation was not going the way they wanted it.

"Mr Van Ryn, we have two statements from witnesses, about how you ran across the road screaming last night, roaring at passers by and according to one source everything you saw including cars and lamp posts. You broke in and entered a resident's property attempting a burglary, until you were stopped in your tracks by the owners cricket bat. What do you have to say for yourself?" Rembrandt (that is, if his name was Rembrandt) was on the verge of tears. He was afraid and did not seem to understand what was happening to him. He was obviously what you could call a mature person, easily into his sixties, he had already lived a long life and anyone could look at his face and realise that he had no doubt to some extent become resigned to any of the horrors destiny may throw at him during the course of a life time, and was reluctant to put up any kind of a fight. But it did little to soften the fact that this really did seem like the straw that broke the camel's back. Perhaps it was an accumulation of things that had gone wrong over the past few years that had caused the most incomprehensible shift in reality to call on him for his involuntary contribution over the last two days. What ever it was it had left him bewildered, petrified in the chair at the table sitting opposite two unhappy police officers unable to fully understand what they were asking him.

"Ok, Mr. Van Ryn, take it easy." said WPC Brown, "Try not to worry too much, were trying to make this as easy for you as possible…Now why don't you take your time and tell us in your own words what happened to you last night." He lifted his head and looked her in the eyes with a little more hope now.

"Well…well…I was just crossing the road minding my own business…. then all of a sudden the whole world seemed to change into a completely different place. An unearthly groaning noise came charging towards me as if from nowhere. I turned to my left, a huge dark beast with blinding white eyes was running towards me twice the speed of the fastest horse and with the smoothness of movement greater than a hungry rat." His face was animated with fear. "I just thought to myself, 'I'm going to survive this no matter what', and I'm still unsure whether I did or not. Anyway this hard shelled animal thing, it was kind of a giant cockroach- had moved from a great distance to a short distance away in a few seconds, I thought it was the Angel of Death, maybe it was."

"So you're scared of cars then?" Mocked Johnson.

"I was terrified, at first my whole body froze like a rigid piece of meat, and then suddenly lost control of myself and was no longer in charge of my actions, I started screaming 'NNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOO!' from the very bottom of my lungs, the monster made a deafening moan not entirely unlike that of a cow as it shot passed me into the distance. I ran away as fast as I could screaming for help, I ran straight to the house across the Road, it looked very strange but I didn't care as long as I got away from the beast. I started banging on the windows and doors frantically but no one answered, no one came to help me, I was still really panicking. It had large pieces of glass in the windows and I knocked one so hard I smashed it accidentally and managed to get into the house for safety. I don't remember anything after that. Rembrandt or whatever he was looked at the two people at the other side of the table. They didn’t really know what to make of him. Maybe he really was some mad man and really couldn’t see how he had done anything wrong, thinking he did what he did to avoid an evil monster. Even if he wasn’t, the mentality of someone willing to go to this much effort to make them think he was is also questionable, being a good actor would just be the tip of the ice berg if that’s what he was being.

The police were trained to be wary of people. In cases like this they would try not to underestimate the complex calculating mind of a criminal willing to do any thing to get his charges reduced, but even they could see that that he was in some way very responsive to their questions, and seemed to answer them as best he could in his own strange way.

The guy who claimed to be Rembrandt didn’t really know what to make of them either.

Over the last few days his whole world seemed to come crashing down. He didn’t seem to understand the world or the people anymore, they were very different to the people he was used to, he was petrified of them, but strangely enough in the past he knew he had met people who had the underlying human touch of WPC Brown and the overriding condescending attitude of PC Johnson.

“OK I’m stopping the tape.” He pressed the wobbly plastic button; “Can I have a word with you outside for a moment?”

They both left the room. Johnson, nearly a foot taller looked down at Brown. “He’s a complete nut. I reckon he could be headed for the loony, probably be let out after a few months into one of those pathetic “lets give everyone a chance” community initiatives. Unless we start to get some sense out of him, we’ll spend ages getting locked away for what he’s done only to find a couple of months later he’s been let out and the health service is paying for his treatment. If we’re not careful he’ll probably end up in one of those cosy mobile homes they’ve set up near the ring road.”…

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