Darkroom

by Graham Masterton

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’ Eleanor asked him.

  ‘Step one: I’m going to find out where Robert H. Vane keeps his daguerrotypes.’

  Brad shuffled into the interview room, wearing bright-orange prison pajamas, and handcuffed. He looked exhausted and unshaven, and he sat down at the table with his head bowed.

  ‘Brad?’ asked Jim. ‘How are you holding up?’

  ‘I saw the bus burning on TV,’ said Brad. ‘That was horrible.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I think that the bus fire may have something to do with the way that Bobby and Sara were killed.’

  Brad lifted his head and stared at him. ‘Huh? How do you figure that?’

  ‘I can’t explain exactly, not yet. But I want you to know that you didn’t kill Bobby and Sara and I believe I can prove it. Well you did, but it wasn’t really you. Not the you that’s sitting here, talking to me now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rook. I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, let me put it this way. Have you been feeling different in the past three weeks? Happier? Friendlier? Much less irritated by your friends and fellow students?’

  Brad shrugged. ‘I guess. I don’t know. It hadn’t really occurred to me.’

  ‘At any time, in the past three weeks, have you had your photograph taken?’

  ‘Yes, I have. After we won the game against Santa Cruz.’

  ‘Who took it?’

  ‘It was just some guy with a van, with a tent rigged up at the side of it.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Right outside the college, on West Grove Drive. He had a sign saying that he took old-style photographs. Some of them were hung up outside and they looked cool – you know, like real old “wanted” posters.’

  ‘Could you describe him? The photographer?’

  ‘Unh-hunh. It was pretty gloomy inside of that tent, and most of the time he kept this black cloth over his head. He asked me to stand in front of this background, and bam, he took this flash picture, and after that all I could see was stars.’

  ‘But who took your money? And your name and address?’

  ‘A woman. I guess she was his assistant or something.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  Brad thought for a while, and then slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t know why, but I can’t remember what she looked like. I get the feeling that she was dark, but that was all.’

  ‘Was she tall? Or short? Do you remember what her voice sounded like?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. It’s like a total blank.’

  ‘Can you remember anything she said? Anything at all?’

  ‘She said … No, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Try, Brad.’

  Brad pressed his fingertips against his forehead, his eyes tight shut. ‘She said … “Have your picture taken, young man, have your worries taken, too.” Something like that.’

  ‘Did you ever get the picture?’

  ‘Sure. About a week later. It’s at home.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to notice where it was mailed from?’

  ‘No. Is that important?’

  ‘It could be. Did anybody else have their picture taken?’

  ‘Just me. Danny Magruder was going to have his done, too, but his girlfriend showed up to give him a ride, and he took a rain check.’

  ‘Thanks, Brad.’

  He stood up to leave. Brad said, ‘Are you going to get me out of here, Mr Rook? I can’t take much more of this place.’

  ‘I’m doing my best, Brad.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Sara, I swear on the Bible. Nor Bobby, neither.’

  ‘I know that, Brad. All I can ask you to do is have faith.’

  Because of the tragedy at Rolling Hills cemetery, Dr Ehrlichman considered closing West Grove Community College until the end of the week. But Nita Kherevensky, the college counselor, strongly advised that he should keep it open. The students needed to talk, and hug, and share their grief together.

  ‘Ve haff to express our painfulness, and to esk itch ozzer vy did zis happen? Vy, vy, vy?’

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Raananah Washington dryly, ‘she’s just vying for attention.’

  When Jim walked into Special Class II, he was surprised to see that everybody had showed up, even Randy, who had been badly bruised when Jim threw him down the stairs of the bus. Others were patched up with plasters, or had their hands bandaged, and Roosevelt was sporting a piratical eye patch.

  As Jim put down his books, the class all rose to their feet, and clapped him. He stood for a moment with his head bowed, and it took all of his self-control not to cry. After a little while he raised his hand for silence, and they sat down.

  ‘Usually,’ he said, ‘when something terrible happens, we can’t make any sense of it. Auto wrecks, accidental drownings, overdoses, house fires – all we can do is grieve, and tell ourselves that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and try to carry on.

  ‘What happened yesterday, however, when we lost Pinky and David, that wasn’t just some random, inexplicable act of God. Your bus didn’t catch fire by accident. There was no lightning, in spite of the fact that many witnesses saw flashes of bright light. There was no ruptured fuel line.’

  The class looked at each other, quizzically, and Shadow mouthed: ‘Wha’? Wha’s he talkin’ about?’

  Jim paused for a moment, but then he carried on. ‘What I’m going to tell you now may sound crazy, and if you choose not to believe me, then that’s your privilege. But I’m telling you because it’s true, no matter how bizarre it may sound. Also, I desperately need your help to stop it from happening again.

  ‘Some of you may have heard that I have the ability to see things which most people can’t see. I almost died when I was a boy, and ever since then I can see dead people as clearly as I can see you. I can also see forces and presences which might be described as demons.

  ‘Yesterday, your bus was attacked by the spirit of Robert H. Vane, the same Robert H. Vane that we have been studying in class.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Roosevelt, slouching back in his chair.

  ‘Is this some kind of a test?’ asked Philip suspiciously.

  ‘Come on, sir,’ Edward protested. ‘Robert H. Vane died over a hundred and fifty years ago!’

  Jim waited until they had quietened down. Then he said, ‘That’s right, Robert H. Vane died in 1857, and his body is buried somewhere in Los Angeles, in an unmarked grave. But the evil side of his spirit lives on. He’s hiding inside a portrait of Robert H. Vane that’s hanging on the wall in my apartment. I think he’s frightened that I can discover a way to destroy him, although I haven’t yet. Because of that he’s determined to destroy me first.’

  He looked around the classroom. ‘Unfortunately that also appears to include anyone I care about, which means you.’

  Most of Special Class II were very superstitious. They believed in the Blair Witch, and zombies, and every urban legend about homicidal hitch-hikers and killer bees in the toilet. All the same, Jim knew that he was stretching their credulity to the limit.

  But they had nearly died yesterday, when their bus was ablaze, and Jim had risked his life to save them, and for that reason alone they sat in respectful silence and listened to what he had to say.

  He told them everything that had happened to him since he had moved into the Benandanti Building, and everything that he had discovered from Raymond Boschetto’s diaries. He even told them about Brad, and the fact that only Brad’s shadow-self was guilty of taking his revenge on Bobby and Sara.

  Roosevelt put up his hand. ‘That shadow-self, that’s still part of Brad, though, right? So, like, part of Brad is guilty of killing them, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. But not the part of him that’s sitting in police headquarters waiting to be arraigned. That part is totally good. And there’s another thing to consider. If Brad hadn’t had his photograph taken, and the evil part of his personality was still inside him, he would still be
the conceited pain in the ass that he always used to be, yes. But it’s highly unlikely that he would have killed Bobby and Sara. His good self would have kept his bad self in check … the same as it does with all of us, all the time. All of us are a balance between good and evil.’

  ‘Kind of like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde,’ Edward suggested.

  ‘Kind of like that, yes. Except that Brad’s evil self can come out whenever it wants to, even when Brad’s in jail – just so long as his daguerrotype stays intact.’

  ‘You said you needed our help,’ said Freddy. ‘I mean, what can we do? We can’t see no dead people. I think I’d dump in my pants if I did.’

  ‘I need four or five you to help me. An A-Team. The next time Robert H. Vane climbs out of that painting, I’m going to follow him. I’m going to find out where he hides his van, and where he stores his daguerrotype plates, and I’m going to destroy them.’

  Special Class II looked at each other uneasily. ‘Isn’t that kind of illegal?’ asked Sue-Marie.

  ‘Robert H. Vane has been dead for a hundred and fifty years. How’s he going to make a complaint?’

  ‘What about his assistant?’ asked George. ‘This woman that Brad paid his money to when he had his picture taken? Like, if Vane has turned into some kind of a mutant, she must be driving his van around for him, and taking care of all his equipment and stuff.’

  Jim said, ‘I don’t know who she is, or why she’s helping him. But she’s an accessory to murder, don’t forget, so I don’t think she’ll be making any complaints, either.’

  There was a long, bewildered silence while the class tried to assimilate what Jim had asked them to believe, and what he was asking them to do. He could see it on their faces. Supposing he’s lost it. Supposing he’s some kind of basket case. I mean, the way that bus caught fire, that had to be lightning, right? Like, what was more believable – lightning, or some spooky invisible creature that was half-man and half-camera?

  Then, very slowly, Shadow stood up, and held up his hand as if he were pledging allegiance to the flag. ‘I just want to say that this is the weirdest shit that I ever heard in my entire life, and if anybody else had told me this shit, I would’ve paid them to take a taxi straight to the nuthouse. But I believe what you say, Mr Rook, because I believe that you don’t tell no lies, and if you want anybody to come along with you and trash this dude’s doo-doo-type collection, I’m with you.’

  Randy raised his hand, too; and then Freddy.

  ‘Anybody else?’ Jim asked them. ‘I’m not going to say it won’t be dangerous, because it might be. But I don’t see any other way of protecting ourselves. Yesterday it was Pinky and David. Tomorrow it could be any one of you.’

  Edward put up his hand, and then – to Jim’s surprise – so did Sue-Marie.

  ‘Sue-Marie, I’m not sure that this is going to be suitable for girls.’

  ‘You’re not going to sexually disallow me, are you, sir?’

  ‘Well …’ said Jim. ‘So long as you don’t expect to be treated any differently from any of the boys.’

  ‘Sir … Pinky was my best friend.’

  Jim looked at her and he could see that she was close to tears. ‘Sure. I know that. Thanks for volunteering.’

  Shadow said, ‘This camera dude killed Pinky and David, man, and we’re going to show him that nobody can mess with Special Class II, no matter how long they been dead. Even if they been dead since dinosaur days.’

  Jim said, ‘OK … I’m going to end this class by reading a poem for Pinky and David. I’d like you all to stand up, if you would, and close your eyes, and think of Pinky and David, and their parents, and their brothers and sisters, and everybody who is grieving over their loss. It’s by Kenneth Bright, and it’s called “Cold Memory.”

  ‘The stars shine sharpest on the bitterest nights

  And voices carry clearest when the hoar-frost bites.

  And that is why, when all these years have passed, and all these years

  In cold midwinter I remember them

  And see them standing all around, my friends and loved ones, such a company

  With all our hurts forgiven, and our pain long past.

  ‘As snow begins to fall between the trees

  I see them gather, quietly, such a company.

  For ghosts appear in snow, and only snow, and in the cold

  To take on snowy mantles, and to breathe like smoke

  And take each other’s hands, all friends and loved ones, such a company

  With all our words forgotten, and our love long past.

  I long for each successive winter, and its darkest day

  To see them all again, now closer still by yet another year, and such a company.’

  He closed the book. Vanilla said, ‘Amen.’

  Fifteen

  Jim felt hungry around eleven o’clock that evening, and microwaved himself a can of chili con carne. He had only just finished eating when the doorbell buzzed. He went to open it, wiping his mouth on a torn-off piece of kitchen paper. Outside in the corridor stood his A-Team: Shadow, Randy, Edward, Freddy and Sue-Marie. They were all wearing dark clothes and woolly hats, and Shadow was wearing a hood, although he was so conspicuously tall.

  ‘This is some building, Mr Rook,’ said Freddy. ‘Doesn’t Scratch Daddy live in this building?’

  ‘If I knew who Scratch Daddy was, I’d probably be able to tell you.’

  ‘Only the coolest mixer in the universe.’

  Sue-Marie wandered into the living room and circled around it with her mouth open. ‘This is really amazing,’ she said. ‘It’s like Castle Dracula.’

  ‘Is that chili you’ve been having for supper, sir?’ asked Randy, sniffing the air. ‘Do you put crumbled corn chips in your chili? I always do. Gives it extra texture, you know? My uncle puts cigarette-ash in his, did you ever hear of that?’

  ‘I … ah – this chili came out of a can. I didn’t have time to cook it from scratch.’

  Shadow walked across to the portrait of Robert H. Vane. ‘So this is where he’s hiding, yeah? That’s one seriously strange picture, that is.’

  They gathered around it. Jim said, ‘I don’t know for sure if he’s going to come out tonight. We may have to wait two or three nights, or even longer – there’s no way of telling. But I get the feeling that he needs to keep on taking new pictures of people, rather like vampires need blood. He’s been trapped for nearly forty years, after all. He may need fresh supplies of evil images to build up his strength.’

  Edward asked, ‘Mr Rook – you said in class that you have this ability to see dead people and demons and such. When Vane comes out of this picture – if he comes out – will we be able to see him, too?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. It’s possible. I’ve never come across anything like this before. The thing that’s hiding in this painting is not a spirit in the usual sense of the word, he’s only one side of Robert H. Vane’s personality. And then, of course, he’s mutated: I never saw anything like it. Legs like a camera tripod, an eye like a giant lens, and a hand like a flashgun.’

  ‘Half-man, half-machine,’ said Randy. ‘That’s like Robocop. Or maybe Seven of Nine, from Star Trek.’

  ‘Randy, hallo?’ said Sue-Marie. ‘Robocop and Seven of Nine are fiction, OK? Robert H. Vane is really real.’

  Jim picked up a tangled length of string, with small Christmas bells attached to it, as well as a can opener and two bunches of keys. ‘I’m going to hang this string right across the painting. If Vane does decide to climb out of it, we should be able to hear him.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We follow him. That’s all we can do.’

  At that moment Tibbles walked into the living room, and stopped, and looked around.

  ‘What happened to your cat, sir?’ asked Sue-Marie, horrified.

  ‘Mr Vane here tried to incinerate her, but he only half-succeeded.’

  Tibbles went around and suspiciously sniffed all the students in turn. She see
med to approve of them, because she climbed up against Shadow’s leg and started to nuzzle his knee.

  Jim massaged her ears. ‘She looks pretty gruesome at the moment but her fur’s growing back. It’s a miracle she wasn’t killed.’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t so much of a miracle,’ put in Edward. ‘She’s a cat, after all, and animals don’t have an evil side to their personality, do they, in the same way that humans do? Like, they can’t tell the difference between right and wrong.’

  Shadow unhooked Tibbles from the leg of his cargo pants. ‘Ow! She may not be evil but she sure knows how to dig her claws in.’

  Jim showed the A-Team around the apartment. Sue-Marie adored the bathroom, and practically invited herself around for a shower. Randy poked around the kitchen, flicking through cookbooks, and helping himself to a large spoonful of Jim’s left-over chili. Shadow looked through his CD collection, and kept sorrowfully shaking his head.

  ‘Man, I gotta come round here and sort out your tunes. I mean, what’s this Fountains of Wayne, man? You need some Choppa and some Kingpin Skinny Pimp and you definitely need some Ying Yang Twins.’

  Edward sat down at the dining-room table and looked through Raymond Boschetto’s books. ‘These are really rare, sir, some of these photographs of early Los Angeles. Look at this one: An Orange Tree that Died Overnight, Simi Valley, 1889. And who are those weird people in hoods, standing around it? They look like Ku Klux Klan.’

  ‘Raymond Boschetto collected hundreds and hundreds of strange photographs,’ said Jim. ‘I think he was looking for any pictures that Robert H. Vane may have taken. Any images of pure evil.’

  ‘God, you have some totally freaky pictures in this apartment,’ said Sue-Marie. She came and stood very close to him, so that her left breast pressed against his arm. ‘I don’t know how you can sleep here, sir. I couldn’t. Not without somebody to hold me.’