Chapter 2

He stared at the drawing with interest, wondering what the purpose of the sketch was. He examined the date inscribed at the bottom of the drawing and saw it was drawn in 1965, about 10 years before his great granddad died.

A fellow student strolled passed, glancing at each painting in turn.

"Hey Pablo!" He called "Looking at yourself again!"

Pablo sighed; none of them knew that his namesake was also family. They just assumed he was an oddity who always looked for his own name in galleries.

"It's not my fault I like Picassos' work!" he called back, frustrated at the constant taunting, if they only knew...

"Yeh, yeh..." he replied, smirking.

Pablo closed his eyes and clenched his fists, he looked back at his grandfather's work and it instantly calmed his mind.

But as he looked, something grabbed his attention, something anyone else would have missed.

The edges of the flames looked like letters, and the letters made up words. He read right round the circle, a letter at a time, to see what it said.

My great grandson Pablo

Pablo's eyes widened and his mouth dropped. He stood gobsmacked in the museum, passers by glancing at him like he was a rabid animal in a cage. He flicked his eyes to either side of him, to check he wasn't being watched, and stepped in for a closer inspection. He ran his fingers along the paper, and found a slight bump in the material. Quickly realising something was underneath; he slid his hand behind the original frame and searched rapidly for whatever was hidden underneath.

A shout from the other end of the room ripped his attention away from his work.

"Thief!"

Oh dear god no...

Security guards began rushing from all directions towards him. He panicked and slipped over on the well polished floor, and the guards were on him in seconds, dragging him away from the intriguing drawing.

But not before he pulled out a small, folded sheet of parchment tucked discreetly in the frame.

After two hours of intense interrogation, a lecture from his college teacher and continuous torment on the bus ride home, he was finally back in his apartment.

His family lived too far away for him to stay with them for college, so he was forced to rent out his own apartment for the 4 years he would be spending in art college, half of which he paid for with his wages from his weekend job, his parents paying for the other half . This was his final year and then he would be off to university, where the accommodation was free.

He collapsed on his sofa and lay there in peace for several long minutes. His room was decorated with many pieces of art, his own art to be precise. A talent obviously inherited from Picasso.

He had been told of who his great granddad was when he was relatively young, in year seven, and how he had to keep it a secret from everyone.

He didn't understand why then, and he still didn't understand why now, but he hadn't told a soul since that day.

He carefully reached into his pocket and pulled out the old battered parchment. He slowly unfolded it, anxious to what he might find.

All that was there was a precisely drawn circle, carefully crafted in pencil by his great grandfather's hand. Three curved lines sweeped out from the centre, each with three dots down the length of the lines. There were three circles inside the gaps with dots inside them as well.

Looking at it he got a deep sense of mystery and knowledge. He had no idea what it was, but he had a feeling he was going to find out.