Rather than lie low afterwards or flee the city as so many others did, he decided to make paintings of the downfall of London. Like Dr Oystein, he thinks he has been hand-picked by God, except in his case the Almighty only wants him to record images of the mayhem, not put a stop to it. Once Timothy has stowed his equipment, he leads me upstairs, through a room of mostly blank canvases, to one crowded with finished works. It’s even more jam-packed than it was the last time I was here. There’s barely space to move. ‘You’ve been busy,’ I note. ‘Yes,’ he says with passion. ‘I feel like I’ve really hit my stride these last few weeks. I’m getting faster, without having to compromise my style. Here, look at this.’ He shows me a large painting of a mound of bodies stacked in a heap, St Paul’s Cathedral rising behind them in the distance. Many of the faces are vague blobs and splashes of paint, but he’s paid close attention to detail on a few of them, and also to the cathedral.
