Holding up the length of negatives with the exposures on it, I can barely make out the images in the dull light. I turn the light on for a better look and find the picture of the girl on the end of the strip, confirming it was the last picture taken. That’s when I notice the numbers on the film’s edge.
I’m momentarily confused when I see this one is frame six. Looking back along the edge of the strip I realise the numbers start at two. A quick look at the other blanks confirms I only have negatives for twenty-six of the twenty-seven frames. Number one and its corresponding print are missing. I can only draw one conclusion. Simon kept it back. The realisation sends me into a rage and without a further thought I grab the phone.
‘What do you want?’
‘You know what I want, you snivelling little shit.’ I’m livid and failing hopelessly to keep my cool.
‘Oh yeah, I forgot to say. There was a problem with the first frame. It must have got stuck in the mechanism. I had to cut the film to get it out. You’re lucky all the others came out in one piece. How old was that thing anyway?’
I have to think quickly. He sounds very calm and believable and he certainly has a point about the age of the camera. No, I’m not buying it. It’s too much of a coincidence. I have to believe there’s more to the fishing trip Herb sent me on than a bunch of kids celebrating Y2K. There must be something else on the missing photo and Simon has to have seen it to think that I’m the sicko. I’m guessing he decided to keep it to exploit some further financial opportunity.
‘Simon, listen very carefully,’ I say as menacingly as I can. ‘If that negative and print are in my hands within twenty-four hours, firstly you get to keep the money. More importantly, you get to keep the use of all of your fingers. I’m sure you’re going to need them if you’re serious about a career in photography. So, before you give me any more bullshit, take your time and think it through. Whatever Grace has told you about this little assignment of ours, you should know this. The people we’re dealing with here would have no hesitation in making sure you couldn’t take a piss without someone having to hold it for you. Do you understand?’
The line’s gone very quiet so I continue to press home my advantage.
‘So, unless you want to be removing lens covers with your teeth for the rest of your life, here’s what I’d like you to do. I’m guessing you probably left negative number one and the print you’ve already made somewhere safe, because you were concerned with what you saw. Am I right?’
‘I left it in my locker,’ he says, his voice now soft and vulnerable, bolstering my confidence.
‘Okay, that’s better. So it’s still at uni… Great. So tomorrow, you’ll go back and get it and you’ll go to the dark room when no one else is there and you’ll print me a second copy. What’s the largest format you can easily print?’
‘Ten by eight,’ he says.
‘Okay, ten by eight is good,’ I say, hoping that will be big enough if I have to look for any small clues. ‘Then you and I are going to have another little coffee together at six o’clock tomorrow evening, same place as today. Bring the negative and both prints and don’t do anything foolish like keeping another copy. Understood?’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ he says, his indifference far from convincing. I feel sure I’ve succeeded in freaking him out, and remind myself of Grace’s description of him. He’s a geek who probably got bullied at school and I’m satisfied he won’t be prepared to push his luck with the big boys.
‘Thank you Simon. I suppose you would prefer we continue to keep this just between...’ The line goes dead before I can finish.
I put the phone down and glance back at the odd photograph. Something keeps drawing me back to the girl’s profile but I can’t see why. With the light on, the other photos have taken on a more vibrant quality and I try to imagine the mood back on that last evening in December ’99. Inevitably, my mind wanders back to my own Millennium Eve celebrations with Sam. I dwell on the scene momentarily and then, without mercy, drown the memory at birth with the remains of the second glass of whisky.
About to stack the photos and put them back into the envelope, I can’t resist one final look. That’s when I see it, as clear as day. The girl in the unsuspecting shot is also in one of the staged photos. In that one she’s looking right into the camera and, like the two friends either side of her, she’s got a big smile on her face. The young features are unmistakable. Smiling up at me is Grace.
Totally Blank
I sit here wide-eyed, mind racing. What the hell is going on? My first thought is whether Simon is stupid enough to give me a set of photos of his teenage sister – or whatever relationship she is to him, instead of what was on the camera, as some kind of joke. That seems too bizarre to consider. And although I am starting to feel like I’m being conned yet again, I sense that Simon did exactly what was asked of him. His only deception was to remove one of the shots – and of course to take me for 200 quid. Otherwise, why would he bother holding back one picture if the whole set is fake?
If these really are the photos from the camera, wouldn’t he have recognised Grace in them? I’m still convinced the real action revolves around frame one and Simon’s seen something on it worth holding onto. I suppose it’s possible, knowing he had the real money shot, that he didn’t take a lot of notice of the other pictures; a group of kids in a pub. But something’s nagging away at the back of my mind, what he said when he first arrived in the cafe: ‘So if you’ve only just met her, what were you doing with that camera?’ It threw me at the time. I was feeling under pressure and didn’t challenge him on it. Now it makes me think he did know it was her. Could he have been trying to protect her, despite the apparent animosity between them? I don’t know, maybe I misheard him. Either way, it doesn’t make sense and I dismiss the idea of ringing him again and verbally beating him up some more. Not only would I have to come on pretty strong to get him to confess if everything he’s given me is fake, I’d also risk taking the pressure off him after our last conversation. I resign myself to the thought that everything hinges on how he acts and what he gives me tomorrow. I have no choice other than to let this run its course.
Just then the phone rings. It’s Grace and she starts apologising and telling me what Simon told her earlier. The camera was very old, probably ten years or more, and the film had lost its integrity. There wasn’t a single frame that could be developed. She says she has the camera and the blank film and can bring them over later.
Her words echo around in my head. I have to bite my tongue because I really want to challenge her on how Simon knew it was mine and, more to the point, got hold of my name and number.
‘Mickey, I know how disappointing this must be. You must be stunned,’ she says. She’s right but for all the wrong reasons. I don’t know what to say.
‘Mickey? Are you okay? Should I come over?’
‘Uh… yeah, that would be good.’
When she arrives, she gives me a big hug on the doorstep and once we’re in the hall she hands back the envelope she’d taken last night. I’m able to hide my continuing sense of consternation behind a mask of disappointment. Grace seems just as upset that there are no photographs to look at. I don’t even bother to look inside the package and drop it on the table in the lounge. I’m guessing there’s a roll of exposed film in there that Simon returned with the empty camera to complete the con.
‘Doesn’t get you any closer to finding out what your friend’s up to,’ she says.
‘No. I wish he would get in touch so I can tell him it’s all been a waste of time.’
‘Yeah, you seem to be stuck in the middle of a farce.’
‘You’re right there,’ I say. The words: ‘you and me both’ remain unspoken in my head.
Cuckoo’s Nest
It’s later and we’re in bed. I’m feeling slightly uneasy making love to her. It isn’t a repeat of yesterday’s rampant discovery sex. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining; it just doesn’t feel right. Afterwards,
she’s resting her head on my chest and I try to ease my conscience by asking about her family.
‘We’re not particularly close, as you’ve probably gathered,’ she says.
‘Well, I can see you and Simon don’t exactly hit it off,’ I say, resisting the urge to challenge the nature of their sibling connection. ‘What about your parents?’
Grace seems to hesitate as if she’s choosing her words carefully.
‘I suppose I would have to say they tried to give me a stable home.’
‘Not exactly a ringing endorsement.’ I can’t resist a playful jibe, even though I can hardly brag about having the perfect nuclear family.
‘No, it’s probably been difficult for them too. I mean I don’t suppose I’ve made it any easier for them.’ She’s talking in a whisper and I sense it’s coming from deep inside. It’s the first time she’s let me see beyond her tough shell of confidence. I want her to elaborate but don’t want to push, so I wait until she fills the silence.
‘Simon is their little boy,’ she says. ‘Always was and always will be. I knew I could never challenge that and I never really wanted to. But there were times I needed more from them than they were able to give. Something I lost a long time ago. I realise now I’m older that they could never have replaced it.’
‘What happened?’ I ask hesitantly.
‘They’re not my real parents.’
‘Ah, Simon isn’t really your brother.’ It goes without saying, but voicing it helps to close out the question I’d been desperate to ask.
‘It’s just easier to say he is. It doesn’t stop him being a brat.’ She looks at me with a dry smile and I nod back in agreement.
‘How old were you?’ I ask.
‘They adopted me when I was twelve. Not a great age for a girl to try and fit in. I think I was as unprepared to cope with them as they were with me. It was all very nice to begin with… I soon came to realise happy families is just a card game.’
‘And before that?’ I’m starting to feel a bit intrusive, but she seems happy enough to talk.
‘Foster homes, social services, Barnardo’s. You name it, I did it – the whole Orphan Annie merry-go-round for twelve years. Except it wasn’t very merry,’ she adds with sigh.
‘God,’ I say, failing miserably to find the right words. ‘It must have been awful.’
‘Well, looking back, maybe it was. At the time, I don’t know. When you’re a kid you just get on with growing up, don’t you? When you’re little, you think your own life is normal. You haven’t got much to compare it with.’
‘What’s normal anyway?’ I say, and then wish I hadn’t.
‘Well, for me it felt like being part of a big family. Now I realise everyone was at arm’s length and there wasn’t enough love to go around.’ I stroke the soft skin at the top of her arm and she looks up at me, smiling through heavy eyes. ‘Maybe I didn’t know any different,’ she continues and looks away again. ‘But deep inside I think I yearned for more affection. In the end, you start settling for any attention as a substitute, I suppose. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s good or bad… as long as someone notices you. And when you’re young you don’t understand attention comes in different forms and affection isn’t always unconditional.’
I’m not sure if she’s trying to tell me she was abused. I remember all the terrible stuff in the news back in the late eighties, happening in care homes. I thought it was all overblown at the time. Now I shudder at the thought that Grace would have been a cute little girl, all curls and dimples, growing up right in the middle of that. Believe me, I want to sympathise, I do want her to talk about it if it helps; I just don’t know the right things to say and, more than that, I think I’m afraid of what she might tell me. I realise it’s a cop-out but I decide nothing I could say can change the past. All I can do is to hold her closer.
She seems to sense my discomfort and lightens up a little. ‘It’s not all bad,’ she says. ‘As you get older, you start to realise you can use it to manipulate situations.’
‘You’ve got me there,’ I say, hoping she sees the funny side. She doesn’t respond so I venture one last question. ‘Have you ever met your real parents?’
‘I was told my mum died when I was born.’ Her voice starts to crack. ‘And my dad couldn’t cope…’ At that she reaches out of bed and takes my shirt from the chair and drapes it over her shoulders, grabs her clothes and goes into the bathroom. She comes back fully dressed and says she needs to head home as she has work in a few hours.
‘Grace? I’m sorry if I upset you,’ I say.
‘No honey, it’s not you. It’s me. I wasn’t expecting...’ She pauses. ‘I’m just not ready... yet.’ She leans across and kisses me, silencing any further questions.
‘I’ll ring you tomorrow evening,’ I say as she leaves.
It’s two in the morning and I’m in shock from her story. I’m also feeling guilty. Primarily because of the photographs of her as a teenager, hidden in the other room. Whichever way you look at it, I’m now deceiving her. And then, when she left, I couldn’t even offer to drive her home. Although she had her car here, the least I could have done was to drive her back in it and get a bus home. But, as usual, I’d had too much to drink. I did suggest going with her as her passenger to see her home safely and she just laughed at me. She doesn’t seem to share my aversion to drink-driving. Apart from that, I’m starting to feel very protective towards her.
I can’t believe she called me honey. God, I hope I can be completely honest with her tomorrow.
***
Night Visio n
Another suburban street, middle class, respectable. Townhouse style. No rooms downstairs. Easy to go unseen.
Watching her leave, he notes the time. No kiss at the doorstep; they’ve had two hours for that. Front lights had gone off at midnight; main bedroom’s along the hall. He knows the layout, windows to the side and rear, but no other lights had come on. Maybe they hadn’t made it past the kitchen. Imagining them naked across the slab of granite worktop, he’d breath-fogged the windscreen, remembering the rack of cold Sabatiers on the counter. Heavy, finely balanced, razor sharp.
She gets in the Mazda. Blood-red. Had to be hers. Hairdresser’s car. He already wrote down the number. She’s so small – so little flesh on the bone. Others would call her pretty, but that’s only skin deep. His interest lies deeper than that.
He slides down in the seat, barely controlling the urge to touch himself as she drives past without a glance. His car was here when she arrived, blending in. It’s what he does. For a big man, he prides himself on going unnoticed. People only see him when he wants them to. By then it’s usually too late.
After a mile of lefts and rights she pulls up outside a featureless cubic block and goes through entrance doors that illuminate a communal hall. He waits until lights through second-storey windows go off in relays from room to room, like a shadow moving across the building. He waits until the entrance hall lantern automatically extinguishes, until the welcome camouflage of darkness returns.
As he reaches to kill the engine, someone walks past – a scrawny youth, with greasy hair, who turns and stares at him through the windscreen. Too late... Usually, instinct would draw him back into the darkness to hide his face. Not this time. Something makes him choose to be seen. Too late… for the boy. He stares back, forcing the lad to turn away and retreat towards the same entrance and be welcomed home by its automated light.
Too late… the kid’s features were unmistakeable. Recognisable as the son, but he could have almost been the father… back then. That bent bastard pig. Justice is overdue. For the boss. And for that sweet lass he never knew. A ma who would have loved her wean.
It’s a welcome change of plan and he pulls away with a promise to return.
8.
Monday, 21st
Simon didn’t show up. The little runt.
I had a feeling he wouldn’t fall for my Vinnie Jones routine. I’ve tried calling his number and Mi
ss Vodafone circa 1999 keeps telling me, with that annoying smugness, his phone may be switched off. Yeah, I know, I agreed to go along with his story that the film was ruined, but he can go to hell. Now I’m desperate to talk to Grace and show her the photos to see if she can shed any light on how they could have turned up years later on a camera in that house. I’ve given up trying to guess what connects five pictures of her and her friends as teenagers with something sinister that surely has to be revealed on the missing shot; something that supposedly had Herb so worried about blackmail.
Talking of the devil, another day has passed without any contact from him. My earlier concern for his wellbeing has been replaced with anger and suspicion. Without any way of knowing what he’s up to, once again Herb’s got me stumbling around in the dark. Getting hold of that last photo is the only way forward and, in Herb’s continuing absence, Grace is the one person I suspect can help make sense of all this. And after last night, I’m keen to come clean with her, if for no other reason than to reassure her she can still trust me. At least that’s the plan before I call her this evening.
Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad... Page 13