that.
A nineteen-fifties pin-up, naughty, but wholesome. With every change in pose the men raised their identical Polaroids and
clicked. The room was suffocatingly warm, silent save for the clicking of shutters and hiss of pictures.
A man turned away from the model and gave me a furtive
glance. He was colourless, tired-eyed and balding. His
neighbour shifted his feet and lowered his gaze. I was spoiling the ambience. Upsetting the balance, watching the watchers.
The model changed position and I lifted my camera, caught
the girl in the square of the viewfinder and held her close. I felt like an assassin. The eye behind the lens. My mouth tasted of ashes. I swallowed, pressed the button and the flash
exploded.
The picture slipped out with a mechanical whirl. I watched
the black surface transform, the white bikini bleaching into view, the blood-red polka dots seeping through, the girl’s
face, pale and smiling, her eyes two crimson dots.
She slipped behind a screen and reappeared, as I’d guessed she would, no longer wearing the bikini top. The cameras flashed an agitato strobe, but each man kept his place, an almost regulation three inches from the others. The heat and white light were
beginning to take their toll. The room smelt of frustrated
testosterone and sweat. I sneaked a glance at my neighbour. He had removed his jacket. Damp rings circled his armpits. I took my pictures with the rest, letting the shifting images drop, one by one, to the floor. The girl disappeared behind the screen. A shuffle of reloading film, then stillness. We stood in silence for what seemed like an age. Each man looking ahead, wishing the others away, imagining himself the only photographer in the
room. Seven gentlemen callers, awaiting the return of the same sweetheart. Then, just when I thought the show was over, the girl re-emerged, naked. I’d been afraid of what might happen next, but she moved gracefully through a routine of artistic poses, indifferent to the crescendo of flashing light, bowed to the audience and stepped, once more, behind the screen.
The door opened and Chris appeared, He shook each man’s
hand and retrieved the cameras from them. They left with
quiet thank yous, carefully stowing photographs in their
pockets as they went.
I’d expected AnneMarie to be wearing an embroidered silk
kimono, but she’d slipped on a tracksuit similar to Chris’s.
We sat round a table in the kitchen, drinking tea from
cheerful yellow mugs. Derek and Chris were eating their
way through a plate of gingerbread. I wasn’t hungry.
Derek had introduced me and I’d handed AnneMarie the
Polaroids I’d taken. She’d looked at me suspiciously.
`Do you not want them??
‘They’re not my thing.’
`You mean you didn’t come here to take dirty pictures, but
he charged you then pushed you through the door anyway.’
She laughed. `You’re a bugger, Christian.’
He shrugged. No one offered a refund.
`Did you enjoy the show anyway??
‘You pose very well.’
`Well, that’s a diplomatic answer if ever I heard one.’
She laughed again. She had a pleasant laugh. It was an effort not to join in. Derek sensed my irritation and gave me a
conciliatory look. I’d been angry, but it didn’t take more than a look for me to like him again. More than like.
`Rilke here is an auctioneer. He came across some horrible
pictures, snuff photographs they look like, in some dead guy’s attic. Thing is, he also came across your card and he wondered if you might be able to tell him something about the man.’
`Snuff photographs? You mean, like, pictures of a dead
person??
‘Yes.’
`Like, you see them not dead, then dead??
‘It looks like the girl has had her throat cut.’
AnneMarie put her hand to her own throat. `Ugh.’
Chris reluctantly surrendered his piece of gingerbread.
`Shouldn’t you be going to the police with this? I mean, cheers
for letting us know he had AnneMarie’s card, but why
A nineteen-fifties pin-up, naughty, but wholesome. With every change in pose the men raised their identical Polaroids and
clicked. The room was suffocatingly warm, silent save for the clicking of shutters and hiss of pictures.
A man turned away from the model and gave me a furtive
glance. He was colourless, tired-eyed and balding. His
neighbour shifted his feet and lowered his gaze. I was spoiling the ambience. Upsetting the balance, watching the watchers.
The model changed position and I lifted my camera, caught
the girl in the square of the viewfinder and held her close. I felt like an assassin. The eye behind the lens. My mouth tasted of ashes. I swallowed, pressed the button and the flash
exploded.
The picture slipped out with a mechanical whirl. I watched
the black surface transform, the white bikini bleaching into view, the blood-red polka dots seeping through, the girl’s
face, pale and smiling, her eyes two crimson dots.
She slipped behind a screen and reappeared, as I’d guessed she would, no longer wearing the bikini top. The cameras flashed an agitato strobe, but each man kept his place, an almost regulation three inches from the others. The heat and white light were
beginning to take their toll. The room smelt of frustrated
testosterone and sweat. I sneaked a glance at my neighbour. He had removed his jacket. Damp rings circled his armpits. I took my pictures with the rest, letting the shifting images drop, one by one, to the floor. The girl disappeared behind the screen. A shuffle of reloading film, then stillness. We stood in silence for what seemed like an age. Each man looking ahead, wishing the others away, imagining himself the only photographer in the
room. Seven gentlemen callers, awaiting the return of the same sweetheart. Then, just when I thought the show was over, the girl re-emerged, naked. I’d been afraid of what might happen next, but she moved gracefully through a routine of artistic poses, indifferent to the crescendo of flashing light, bowed to the audience and stepped, once more, behind the screen.
The door opened and Chris appeared, He shook each man’s
hand and retrieved the cameras from them. They left with
quiet thank yous, carefully stowing photographs in their
pockets as they went.
I’d expected AnneMarie to be wearing an embroidered silk
kimono, but she’d slipped on a tracksuit similar to Chris’s.
We sat round a table in the kitchen, drinking tea from
cheerful yellow mugs. Derek and Chris were eating their
way through a plate of gingerbread. I wasn’t hungry.
Derek had introduced me and I’d handed AnneMarie the
Polaroids I’d taken. She’d looked at me suspiciously.
`Do you not want them??
‘They’re not my thing.’
`You mean you didn’t come here to take dirty pictures, but
he charged you then pushed you through the door anyway.’
She laughed. `You’re a bugger, Christian.’
He shrugged. No one offered a refund.
`Did you enjoy the show anyway??
‘You pose very well.’
`Well, that’s a diplomatic answer if ever I heard one.’
She laughed again. She had a pleasant laugh. It was an effort not to join in. Derek sensed my irritation and gave me a
conciliatory look. I’d been angry, but it didn’t take more than a look for me to like him again. More than like.
`Rilke here is an auctioneer. He came across some horrible
pictures, snuff photographs they look like, in some dead guy’s attic. Thing is, he also came across your card and he wondered if you might be able to tell him something about the man.’
`Snuff photographs? You mean, like, pictures of a dead
person??
‘Yes.’
`Like, you see them not dead, then dead??
‘It looks like the girl has had her throat cut.’
AnneMarie put her hand to her own throat. `Ugh.’
Chris reluctantly surrendered his piece of gingerbread.
`Shouldn’t you be going to the police with this? I mean, cheers
for letting us know he had AnneMarie’s card, but why
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