‘We’d like to talk to you.’
I shrugged. Of course, they would, otherwise, there was no point in them being here. ‘Go ahead,’ I said, gesturing to the sofa. I took one of the chairs, not wanting to sit too close, trying not to let my eyes slip down and away, so I didn’t look shifty or guilty. People sometimes took it the wrong way when I didn’t want to look at them.
‘What were you doing at the opera that night?’ the second one asked, male, slightly older, with more bark than bite, although not even his bark was up to much, based on the stupidity of his question.
I cocked my head and raised my eyebrows. Both their auras had a predominance of orange. Blood orange, with more muddy brown and dead-grass green than I cared for. I deliberately tried not to make anything of it. Their auras were their own business, not mine.
‘Did you go there in order to take photographs?’ he tried again, and this time I heard the sub-question, “Did you go there to take photos of the horror you knew was about to happen”? Another silly, pointless probe. They must have done their homework on me, so they knew what I did for a living. I wondered what they hoped to gain by such ridiculous questions.
‘No. I was there to watch the opera.’ My reply was calm, measured, yet underneath worry poked at me with sharp, pointy fingers.
‘That’s all?’
‘Why else?’
‘You tell us, Miss Parr’
‘Are you accusing me of something?’ I asked, letting indignation slide into my voice and into my face, using it to camouflage the anxiety. Did they honestly think I had something to do with the terrorist attack?
‘Not at all, Miss Parr.’
I hated it when people overused my name. Salesmen had a habit of doing exactly that. ‘Good,’ I said, more confidently than I felt. ‘Because there is no way I’d take shots of the performance. It’s forbidden for one thing, and unethical for another.’
I watched their faces. They’d not been expecting that for an answer.
‘Those photos, they must have made you a lot of money,’ the woman pointed out.
I narrowed my eyes. I’d only just realised they hadn’t actually introduced themselves, nor shown me any ID. ‘What do you call “a lot” of money?’
She looked at her colleague for inspiration. They clearly had no idea how much revenue, if any, the photos had generated. They were fishing and I didn’t intend to bite.
‘Do you recall anything unusual?’ the male detective asked, changing tack.
‘Aside from people being shot left, right, and centre?’ I was beginning to lose my patience with these two.
Unbidden, an image of a man with dark eyes and curling black hair surged into my mind. I pushed it away – now wasn’t the time to think about his lack of an aura; I’d clearly been seeing things (or, not seeing things, to be more precise).
‘Did you see the assailant?’ the female one asked.
‘No, or if I did, it was before he’d started killing people and I had no reason to notice him or remember his face.’ And if I had spotted him, it was unlikely I would have seen anything of him except his feet.
‘What about afterwards?’ she wanted to know.
‘No. I was about to leave, I’d leaned down to pick up my coat and bag, and that’s when the shooting started.’ The noise of balloons popping sounded in my head, and I winced. ‘The next thing I knew, I was being crushed by the man who’d been sitting next to me.’ And the ones who had been sitting next to him. ‘By the time I was pulled out from underneath him, the terrorist had gone.’
‘You should be commended – you had the presence of mind to take photos.’
‘Instinct. My camera is part of me. I take it everywhere.’
‘Are there any more?’ This was from the man, and suddenly I sensed they were getting to the real reason why they were here.
‘No. I emailed everything I had to Thames Valley Police.’
The male detective glanced at his colleague. ‘That explains it. We belong to the National Counter-Terrorism Force. I’m not sure they passed everything on to us. Mind if we take a look?’ He glanced around as if he expected to see the photos pinned to the wall or hanging from lines to dry.
‘If you must,’ I said, and led them upstairs to my office, conscious of their inquisitive scrutiny of my home. I wondered how soon one of them would ask to use the toilet, so they could have a good nose around.
My computer was already up and running, so I selected the correct folder, opened it, then stood up to let one of them sit down. The woman slipped into my seat and clicked on the first image.
I turned away. I’d seen each one too many times, I didn’t think I could handle seeing them again, so I moved to the window, preferring to look at trees rather than the dead and the dying.
‘Well?’ I asked after a few minutes. Surely they didn’t need this long to verify that the twenty or so photos I’d taken had all been shared with the Counter-Terrorism lot?
I studied their reflections in the window. They both had their heads bent towards the monitor. I saw the woman turn to her colleague and shake her head. He nodded. A tension I hadn’t been aware they’d been exuding until now, drained out of the pair of them, only really made noticeable by its abrupt absence.
What had they been expecting to see?
The male officer stood back to allow the woman to stand. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ I asked.
An almost imperceptible frisson passed between them.
‘We can show ourselves out,’ he said, but I followed them down the stairs anyway, and watched as they got into an unmarked car. They drove off a few seconds later, the woman with a mobile phone to her ear.
Not that I’d had a great deal to do with the police, but something about the pair of them had felt a bit off, and I wondered what they’d really been looking for.
I brought the photos up one by one and scrutinised them carefully, but once again I couldn’t detect any sign of the man who didn’t have an aura, just an empty space where I knew he should have been. If I closed my eyes, I could visualise him, but when I checked the photo... nothing.
Leaning back, I steepled my hands under my chin. They say the camera never lies, but of course it does, starting with simple things like angles and lenses, and graduating to outright photo manipulation.
I’d done none of those things. The lens on the camera that night had been a standard one, no zoom, no wide-angle, no filter. Therefore, this particular camera should have told the truth.
So why hadn’t it?
Chapter 13
Olivia
Every second Sunday in the month was a mixture of chore, endurance test, and false hope. The chore was having to spend orchestrated time with my family, the endurance test was me trying to keep my cool, and the false hope was that one day my family might accept me, “gift” and all. Black sheep, outcast, odd-bod – that was me. For as long as I could remember, I’d been a disappointment. Why try to change anything now?
‘Come on, Liv, just this once. It won’t kill you.’ My brother wanted me to attend some party or other. He’d opened his case by trying to convince me it was for my own good. Now he was resorting to guilt-tripping and whining like a fourteen-year-old. He might be in his early thirties, but when it came to family dynamics, apparently we all regressed to being children.
‘I’ll pass,’ I said.
‘Are you still going through that annoying stage of avoiding people?’ our mother asked, at the end of a rather late lunch. What she really meant was, “haven’t you grown out of seeing coloured lights around people’s heads, yet?” The subject always came up in one form or another, so it wasn’t really a question, more of a snide dig.
I ignored her. It was the only way I had of coping with her barbs. Even now, they had the power to hurt.
‘I don’t see why you can’t help your brother out, for once,’ she carried on. ‘It’s not as if he ever asks y
ou for anything, and you can see he’s stuck.’
She was right – he never did ask me for anything. The reason wasn’t because of any filial consideration for my feelings; it was because he was ashamed of me. He was only asking for my help now because, I suspected, he’d no one else to turn to.
‘I don’t do people shots,’ I said, then grimaced at my poor choice of words and pushed the resulting awful images away.
‘I know you don’t, love.’ This was from my father, who was more tolerant of my affliction. Not much more, just a bit. ‘But can’t you see your way to—?’
‘Fine.’ I barked the word out. Anything to keep the peace, and I was in no mood for their protracted insistence. Let’s just get this over with. ‘Where and when?’
‘Er...’ Tim looked sheepish, a rare emotion for him. ‘Tonight, 7 p.m., at the Hollifield Hotel. I need you to be there at six.’
I raised my eyebrows, both at the choice of venue and the time-frame. ‘No can do,’ I said. ‘I’m not dressed for it.’ It was already four-thirty in the afternoon. It would be cutting it fine to drive home, change, and make it to the hotel before Tim’s all-important guests turned up.
‘Nobody’s going to be looking at the photographer,’ Tim said. ‘You’ll do.’
Black jeans faded almost to grey, white T-shirt showing underneath a black sweatshirt, biker-style boots... yeah, I’ll do. As my brother so kindly said, no one would be looking beyond the lens to the person who lived behind the camera.
For a second, I debated using the excuse that I didn’t have the right lenses and filters with me, but I guessed it wouldn’t work. They knew I carried everything with me everywhere, just in case. I always did.
‘Fine,’ I snapped, and my mother gave a sigh.
‘Be there at six sharp. You’ll need to be outside and doing your thing before the guests arrive.’ Tim had a smirk on his face, and I wondered if he’d had a bet with our mother that he’d be able to talk me into it.
I worked backwards. The pair of us would need to leave in an hour or so. Me to suss out the venue, and Tim to get his glad rags on. I guessed it would be a black-tie affair.
‘How much are you paying me?’ I asked, and enjoyed seeing the flash of surprise on my brother’s face. It was swiftly followed by irritation before he masked it with a slick, corporate smile. He obviously hadn’t expected to pay me at all. Tough. I didn’t ask him for free advertising, or whatever it was he did (I wouldn’t get it, anyway), so I didn’t see why I shouldn’t be paid for my time and my expertise.
‘How much do you think you’re worth?’ he retorted.
‘As much as you were going to pay the guy who bailed on you.’
‘Olivia—’ my mother began, and I recognised the start of a lecture. I held up a hand and she subsided, probably worried I’d back out. This event was clearly important to Tim, if the venue was anything to go by, and he wasn’t going to risk me changing my mind. At least, that’s what I was gambling on. If he didn’t put his hand in his pocket, then I wouldn’t go. I’d not be any worse off, but he certainly would be.
Tim stuck his tongue in his cheek, and I knew he was getting ready to fleece me.
‘What was his name, by the way?’ I asked. ‘I probably know him. The world of photography is a small one.’ It wasn’t that small and I didn’t fraternise with any other photographers, but my brother didn’t know that.
I watched the fight go out of him.
‘£2300.’ He didn’t bother with the name.
It was hard work to keep the shock off my face. It looked like my brother was the one being fleeced. ‘Because it’s you, I’ll do it for £2000,’ I offered.
Tim narrowed his eyes. ‘Done.’ He couldn’t work out whether I was being nice, or whether I was taunting him.
Neither could I.
The remainder of the afternoon passed smoothly enough, with just the one dig from my mother (‘Are you seeing anyone? No? Oh, well...’ said in a tone that conveyed her lack of expectation that I would be), and Tim’s usual boasting about his latest acquisition. Her name was Elvie and apparently she was a model. He’d also bought himself a Porsche. I was pretty sure he was more pleased about the car.
‘Call your sister,’ my mother urged, as she saw us out. Her peck on the cheek was less than enthusiastic. Tim was treated to a full-blown hug.
I didn’t bother answering. My sister knew my number. She could always call me if she wanted to talk to me badly enough. We hadn’t spoken since she’d given birth to her daughter. I got the feeling she didn’t want to risk the baby catching my ability to see auras. I’d hoped Melissa would have had more sense, but it seemed the pregnancy hormones had scrambled her brain. I wasn’t going to risk being hurt again.
The whole thing rankled, and as time went on the rankling became more intense. As I drove (Tim had lost my little Fiesta long before we hit the motorway – I’d watched his car zoom throatily off and shrugged) I thought about the last time I’d seen her.
She’d been sitting on the sofa in her four-bed semi, with her new born daughter in her arms, and smiling up at her husband. Our parents had already arrived, and her husband’s parents were on their way. Tim was there with his girlfriend (not the model, the one before her – or was it the one before that one? I tended to lose track) and the room was full of cooing and laughter, and all things pink.
When Melissa’s husband answered the door and led me into the living room, the light drained out of Melissa’s face. She’d stared at me, then had looked down at the sleeping baby cradled in her arms, then back at me, and I’d guessed what my sister had been thinking.
She knew I could see her child’s aura and it made her uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable – she was scared. She’d no reason to be; it wasn’t as if I could tell the baby’s future. And I was pretty certain my condition wasn’t catching – although both my siblings had treated me as though I had a shameful disease. They still did.
Then it had dawned on me.
Melissa was worried that my ability was genetic, even though neither our parents nor our grandparents had shown any inkling of seeing what I saw. Or rather, nothing anyone had ever admitted to, that is.
Melissa had witnessed the effect my little gift had on me when I was growing up – the endless trips to endless professionals, my gradual withdrawing into myself, the teasing and bullying of my peers (children were the cruellest creatures on the planet) as they sensed a difference they could neither name nor identify. It didn’t matter how much I tried to hide it, or how close we kept the secret, the other kids could tell there was something wrong with me and, boy, did they make me suffer for it. In the stillness of the night, their voices haunted me and even now their sneering faces were forever burnt into my memory.
No wonder I’d never made friends. No wonder I’d never allowed anyone to come close enough. If my parents, my brother, and my sister, who were my family and were supposed to love me, could treat me as an outcast, how much easier would it be for strangers to reject me once they knew of my affliction. And how could I not confide my darkest secret to a best friend, a boyfriend, a lover? To keep it to myself was unthinkable. They either had to love all of me, or none of me.
I’d chosen the easier route, the one of least hurt, and I still walked its path.
Melissa was terrified this was the fate awaiting her daughter, and she wanted all reminders of what I was gone from her life.
Without a word, I’d placed the gift and the card I’d purchased for the baby on the nearest table, and left, my heart breaking. I would have loved nothing better than to have held the little bundle, to feel the solid weight of the baby in my arms. A great and pressing sadness had weighed me down ever since...
That was nearly a month ago and we still hadn’t spoken. I wasn’t surprised my sister hadn’t shown up for lunch at my parents’ house – she wouldn’t have come knowing I would be there.
I was still thinking about her and my new niece as I pulled into the car park of the Hollifield Ho
tel and switched off the engine.
The hotel was either an old mansion, or was a new construction built to look like an old one. Either way, it was impressive, with a set of wide, shallow steps leading up to a columned porch and a pair of grand doors which were at least three times as tall as my 5’ 5”. The entrance would make a good backdrop to the guests, if I could get them to pause for long enough to take a photo, and they didn’t all arrive at once.
Knowing Tim, he’d be on hand to meet and greet, therefore ensuring his face would be in most of the shots, clapping shoulders and shaking hands, air-kissing the women, smiling his wide, slick smile. I suppose, as the CEO, he had every right to be.
The first guests didn’t arrive until nearly eight o’clock and I was starting to get a bit twitchy, having been cooling my heels for nearly two hours, but Tim wasn’t bothered. It was fashionable to be late, although he demanded his minions arrive at seven on the dot.
It was fascinating listening to the odd snippet of conversation as the workforce (those who were high enough up the totem pole to be invited to a shindig like this) caught sight of their lord and master, and the rest of the board, holding court at the top of the steps. Tim had been right – no one took any notice of the photographer, only the camera. The person wielding it was immaterial.
Eventually, the flow of arrivals slowed to a trickle, but I didn’t dare take the camera from my face, and I kept shooting random stuff as I followed the last few arrivals inside. Tim wanted me to photograph the speech-makers, the presenters and the presentees, and anything else I could think of. It was tedious but easy work, and my fee would pay my mortgage for the next couple of months.
I squinted and peered, and shot some more images as Tim’s guests gorged on a three-course meal with expensive wine, and I tried to merge into the background and not get in anyone’s way. Not being noticed was a good thing, too. On the rare occasions I took the camera away from my eye, the intensity of colour threatened to overwhelm me.
I wasn’t sure exactly when I became aware of being watched. The sensation felt different to the quick glance and the ensuing slide away to seek out more interesting things to look at, which was what most of Tim’s guests did. Even when posing for a photo, it was the camera they focused on and not me. To all intents and purposes, I was invisible. Just the way I liked it.
The Colour of Death Page 7