now. Too close for us to see anything more than a glimpse of detail in the monumental structure. The driver
dropped gear again and the taxi grumbled on at a slow walking pace.
`So what is it with the Camera Club?
He smiled. `Wait and see.’
Derek had given the address as somewhere in Buccleuch
Street. He started to sing as we got out of the cab.
`Oh there’s not much to do, in Buccleuch. Now that, as you will see, is a lie.’ He looked at his watch. `Twenty past seven,
we’ll be in time.’ Then paused. `I hope AnneMarie doesn’t
mind us turning up like this.’
The close door was unlocked, no entry phone. Derek
pushed it open and led me into a hallway which smelt of
ammonia and homeward assignations. Rubbish littered the
stairwell. A bike was tethered to the ground-floor banister by two hefty chains. There was something painted in small pink
letters, way down low on a padlock near the ground. I eased
myself down, gently and peered at the inscription. F U C K o F F.
`That’s AnneMarie’s wee joke.’
`Very droll.’
We met no one on the stairs. But there were signs of life:
lists of names on handwritten cards, cooking smells, a bass beat pounding, a raised voice, discarded cigarette packets,
burnt tinfoil shavings. Black rubbish bags sheltered in doorways. A dog barked and a shadow passed across the spy hole.
Always anticipate the menace of strangers. At last we reached the top floor. Here the landing was swept. Pots of plants,
scattered with seashells and pebbles, rested against the wall.
Derek rapped three times on a door and it opened from
within. Standing in the hallway was a large man dressed in
expensive-looking trainers, black jogging bottoms with a red dragon motif on the right leg and a black T-shirt with Gorbals Taste Kwon Do Club printed across the chest.
`Derek, mate, how’s it going?’
`Very fine, Chris. Yourself ?’
`Brand new.’
`And AnneMarie??
‘Down to the swimwear. She’ll be finished soon.’
Niceties over, he turned towards me, making it clear that
the time had come for introductions.
`This is a friend of mine, Mr Rilke.’
`So you want to join the Camera Club, Mr Rilke??
‘I’m not sure.’
`Ri]ke was hoping to ask AnneMarie about some photos
he’s got.’.
Chris smiled.
`Well, you know the rules. On Tuesday nights all callers are a member of the Camera Club. That’ll be thirty pounds, please, Mr Rilke.’
Derek avoided my look. I fished three notes from my
wallet and handed them to him.
`And ten pounds for the hire of a camera.’
No one likes to be a mark. Not the guy walking away from
the halo of autoteller surveillance cameras with a white cross chalked on his back. Not the loser in a shell game. I didn’t like it, but the big man’s tone invited no discussion.
I handed him another note and he passed me a Polaroid
One Step. An instant camera, devised in the 1970s, so party
goers could reassure themselves that they really were having fun. Soon adopted by that overlapping category of criminals, kidnappers and antique dealers.
`And another ten spot for film.’
I swapped my last ten for a slim, foil-wrapped packet.
`Why don’t you go through, now that you’ve paid your
money.’ It wasn’t a question. `Just down the hallway, third
door on the right.’
The door to the room was made of dimpled glass. It held a
thousand distorted reflections repeated in honeycomb, an
impression of people and white light, pink faces and dark
suits, a crush of bodies all leaning towards … I pushed open the door and stepped through. Six men were arranged in front of a makeshift platform. Before them stood a young girl, in a red and white polka-dot bikini, striking a pose. She was a pretty girl, sparkling eyes and an open smile. A pretty primary
schoolteacher, an air hostess, a weather girl. She opened a
parasol and peeked cheekily out from behind. Next she placed a large sun hat on her head, angling it, perkily, this way and
dropped gear again and the taxi grumbled on at a slow walking pace.
`So what is it with the Camera Club?
He smiled. `Wait and see.’
Derek had given the address as somewhere in Buccleuch
Street. He started to sing as we got out of the cab.
`Oh there’s not much to do, in Buccleuch. Now that, as you will see, is a lie.’ He looked at his watch. `Twenty past seven,
we’ll be in time.’ Then paused. `I hope AnneMarie doesn’t
mind us turning up like this.’
The close door was unlocked, no entry phone. Derek
pushed it open and led me into a hallway which smelt of
ammonia and homeward assignations. Rubbish littered the
stairwell. A bike was tethered to the ground-floor banister by two hefty chains. There was something painted in small pink
letters, way down low on a padlock near the ground. I eased
myself down, gently and peered at the inscription. F U C K o F F.
`That’s AnneMarie’s wee joke.’
`Very droll.’
We met no one on the stairs. But there were signs of life:
lists of names on handwritten cards, cooking smells, a bass beat pounding, a raised voice, discarded cigarette packets,
burnt tinfoil shavings. Black rubbish bags sheltered in doorways. A dog barked and a shadow passed across the spy hole.
Always anticipate the menace of strangers. At last we reached the top floor. Here the landing was swept. Pots of plants,
scattered with seashells and pebbles, rested against the wall.
Derek rapped three times on a door and it opened from
within. Standing in the hallway was a large man dressed in
expensive-looking trainers, black jogging bottoms with a red dragon motif on the right leg and a black T-shirt with Gorbals Taste Kwon Do Club printed across the chest.
`Derek, mate, how’s it going?’
`Very fine, Chris. Yourself ?’
`Brand new.’
`And AnneMarie??
‘Down to the swimwear. She’ll be finished soon.’
Niceties over, he turned towards me, making it clear that
the time had come for introductions.
`This is a friend of mine, Mr Rilke.’
`So you want to join the Camera Club, Mr Rilke??
‘I’m not sure.’
`Ri]ke was hoping to ask AnneMarie about some photos
he’s got.’.
Chris smiled.
`Well, you know the rules. On Tuesday nights all callers are a member of the Camera Club. That’ll be thirty pounds, please, Mr Rilke.’
Derek avoided my look. I fished three notes from my
wallet and handed them to him.
`And ten pounds for the hire of a camera.’
No one likes to be a mark. Not the guy walking away from
the halo of autoteller surveillance cameras with a white cross chalked on his back. Not the loser in a shell game. I didn’t like it, but the big man’s tone invited no discussion.
I handed him another note and he passed me a Polaroid
One Step. An instant camera, devised in the 1970s, so party
goers could reassure themselves that they really were having fun. Soon adopted by that overlapping category of criminals, kidnappers and antique dealers.
`And another ten spot for film.’
I swapped my last ten for a slim, foil-wrapped packet.
`Why don’t you go through, now that you’ve paid your
money.’ It wasn’t a question. `Just down the hallway, third
door on the right.’
The door to the room was made of dimpled glass. It held a
thousand distorted reflections repeated in honeycomb, an
impression of people and white light, pink faces and dark
suits, a crush of bodies all leaning towards … I pushed open the door and stepped through. Six men were arranged in front of a makeshift platform. Before them stood a young girl, in a red and white polka-dot bikini, striking a pose. She was a pretty girl, sparkling eyes and an open smile. A pretty primary
schoolteacher, an air hostess, a weather girl. She opened a
parasol and peeked cheekily out from behind. Next she placed a large sun hat on her head, angling it, perkily, this way and
Similar Books
