As I pass the Narrow Boat pub I remember Rupert and Daniel. I mustn’t forget to feed Matilda. Once I’ve sorted out what’s left of my life . . .
I go through the tunnel under New North Road and emerge onto street level, stopping briefly to get some milk at the Co-op in the Gainsborough Studios. I remember coming here with Aunt Stella and Vero to see Ralph Fiennes in the Almeida Theatre production of Richard II. I must’ve been seventeen or eighteen, not long after I moved in with them. Now I can buy milk at the same spot.
As I cross Shoreditch Park my anxiety dissipates enough for me to become aware of the life around me. Young mothers with their babies, a gaggle of rowdy teenagers, a couple of weathered guys in denim, a hipster nursing his non-Starbucks flat white, a hippy dog walker with three Chihuahuas and two Pomeranians attached to her belt. The dog walker has probably lived here all her life, but the Chihuahuas and Pomeranians are a recent addition, as are their owners. As the new Shoreditch tries to cosy up to the old, the locals fight off private equity and are being ‘means tested’. Perhaps this is where I should be with my camera, documenting the dance between altruism and greed, capturing the moment that will soon be gone? Could I pull something like this off? Or is it just another of my pipe dreams? Let’s face it, I’m a washout and I’ll never be able to come even close to what Erin and I once had. The Cubic Zirconia days are over.
I turn left towards Hoxton Square and stop abruptly, staring at the building in front of me. It’s one of the lovingly cultivated stretches of murals on a brick wall, with a monochrome paste-up of a child by Swoon and Stik’s sleeping stick person. Next to the familiar images there is a new piece of graffiti. It’s nothing spectacular, in fact it’s rather naive and kitschy, but I’m rooted to the spot, unable to take my eyes off it. It’s a big silver heart outlined in black, with a simple caption inside. RIP Savage, it says.
I approach the wall and touch its smooth surface. I’m not quite sure if I should feel moved or alarmed. Whoever made it must’ve known Anton lived round the corner. But there’s nothing menacing or boasting about it. It’s just a sweet, simple gesture. A street-art tribute to Anton.
At the very bottom of the heart, right by its cusp, someone has added a small yellow tag in a different font. YOLO it says. YOLO, Anton’s favourite acronym, the one he’d occasionally incorporate into his murals.
You Only Live Once.
Is that what he’s trying to tell me? That I should seize the day and follow my instinct? ‘Be yourself and do what feels right,’ he used to say to me. But I don’t even know who I am any more! Damn it, Anton, I miss you! I cross the street and walk into the shade of my building.
My phone rings just as I’m opening the door to the loft. Vero.
‘You back in Whitstable?’
‘No, actually, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling. There’s a seminar on the legacy of science-fiction cult movies tomorrow lunchtime at the Hackney Picturehouse, and Fly and I thought we might check it out before we head back. But we don’t fancy another sleepless night, so I was wondering if we could crash at yours.’
‘Of course, Vero, you know you can stay here anytime you want. It’s yours and Stella’s loft anyway—’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s your home and we wouldn’t want to intrude.’
‘You won’t be intruding, honestly. I could really do with company. Vero –’ I hesitate, unsure if I should tell her now – ‘I know who my stalker is.’
‘You do?’
‘It’s a long story. He’s out of action, anyway.’
‘Come on, who is it?’
‘I’ll tell you all about it tonight. You have the keys, so just come anytime.’
Vero suggests they bring a takeaway selection from Busaba Eathai, knowing full well I’d never say no to a nice Thai curry. It sounds like a perfect plan for the evening. I put the phone down, overwhelmed by Vero’s restored joie de vivre. If only I could have even one tenth of it . . .
But the prospect of their visit spurs me on to some house cleaning. I tidy up the general mess, mop the floor and attack the bathroom with Flash. I even do the washing-up. I rinse out Pixel’s bowls and put the kettle on. There, I’m ready for the guests.
Exhausted by the cleaning outburst, I sit down at the kitchen table and open the MacBook. It springs to life with its usual agility. I google Bruce Gilden, one of my favourite photographers specializing in ordinary people’s portraits. His images stare at me from the screen, tough, ugly, confrontational. They are all close-ups, extreme both in their proximity to the subjects and the unforgiving in-your-face nature of the shots. This is life at its most brutal and honest, scars, warts, bad teeth and all. Would I have the courage to do what he’s done, put my camera literally in the faces of people who’ve been bruised and crippled by life? Do I have what it takes? Or should I forget it and stick to taking pictures of toys and dildos? What did Professor Stein call it? Easy mediocrity.
A new email pings in my mailbox and my chest tightens with anxiety. I know I have no reason to react like this any more, but the sound still fills me with dread. I click on the mailbox icon and stare at its contents in disbelief.
‘Exposure 5’.
My worst nightmare isn’t over, after all.
I could ignore it, I could delete it, but I know it will appear again. And again. I also know there is no point in trying to trace its sender. The person who has sent it doesn’t want to be found and isn’t interested in my answer.
I take a deep breath and click on the attachment. It’s a photograph this time and it’s mesmerizing. I’ve seen something like this before. It seamlessly blends two images, the one of the view outside and that of the inside of a room. The image of the exterior is projected on the back wall of the room and is upside down. I rotate the picture on my computer screen and take a closer look. It’s a section of an urban riverbank, a uniform row of solid four- and five-storey houses, perched in a neat line above the dark water. The brown and beige brick mass is interrupted by splashes of colour, marking the developer’s frivolous idea of painting some of the tiny balconies white or blue. A modern addition breaks the brick monotony, an incongruous cube of glass and steel crowned with a ‘For Sale’ sign. Below, the river has left its mark on the mixture of rotting wood and concrete with a vibrant green bloom of algae clinging to the man-made walls. My heart begins to pound when I realize the view looks familiar.
I know where the photo was taken.
I rotate the image back and concentrate on the interior. It’s someone’s bedroom, dominated by a large bed. The heavy wooden frame fills the picture, its carved antique headboard clashing with the image of the exterior projected over it. The bed is unmade, a mess of pillows and a duvet entangled with sheets that are dark red, almost crimson. A small bedside table on the left, with an unlit brass lamp on top of it. Some books scattered on the floor, mostly large format, hardcover art albums. I find my eye keeps coming back to one spot in the image, a body on the bed. The woman is partly covered by the crimson sheet, her dark hair spilling over the edge of the mattress. One of her arms is twisted at a weird angle, revealing a small tattoo on the inside of the forearm, just above the wrist. I recognize the image. And I can tell the woman is dead.
I close the attachment and get up from the table, away from the computer. I feel dizzy and faint, my skin clammy, the thin shirt I’m wearing drenched in cold sweat. No, I can’t let panic get the better of me. I have to think and act. I go to the sink and pour myself a glass of water from the tap. I drink it greedily, spilling some on the floor. It helps a little, but the choking sensation in my throat persists as I go back to the Mac and click on the attachment. I force myself to look at the image again. Yes, there is no doubt about it. I am the dead woman in the photograph. And I know who my killer is.
34
I’m going to confront him. I can’t let him go on doing this to me. It has to stop. He is blocking my attempts to challenge him in his cowardly electronic way, so I’m going to do it face to face. I’l
l go to his house and knock on his door. We’ll see who’s the coward then.
I’m relieved it’s not Marcus. I wouldn’t know how to deal with him unconscious in his hospital bed. How do you exact revenge on someone who can’t defend himself, who isn’t even aware what’s going on? No, I feel Marcus has already paid a high price for his misdemeanours. I’m glad I can let go of my vision of him as my stalker. Now I can direct my anger at the real culprit. I welcome the feeling building up inside me. I’m no longer scared of him, I’m furious. How dare he poison my life like this! Him, of all people!
I know where you live. For the first time the common phrase sounds like music to my ears. Because I do know where he lives and I’m going to make good on the implied threat. I’ll ridicule him, demand an apology. It’s time the shoe moved to the other foot.
I drop my phone into my bag, grab my keys and rush out of the loft, propelled by my growing hatred towards him. I storm down the stairs, nearly knocking my neighbour the florist off her feet. She groans from behind a huge bouquet of white lilies.
‘Where’s the fire?’
‘Sorry, Susan, on my way to sort my life out.’
‘Good luck with that!’ I hear her cackle behind me just before the front door slams shut.
I trot, almost breaking into a run, to Shoreditch High Street, then spend ten excruciating minutes at the bus stop. A 78 comes along at last, swallowing the small crowd gathered at the kerb. It’s stifling hot inside. Well, it’s summer in London. I stay on the lower deck to avoid the oven temperature upstairs.
Shouldn’t I be calling the police? Perhaps it would make sense, now that I know who my stalker really is. He is a stalker, isn’t he? I rummage through the inside of my bag for my phone and google ‘stalking’. The Crown Prosecution Service website lists a number of behaviours associated with stalking: contacting, or attempting to contact, a person by any means, yes; publishing any statement or other material relating or purporting to relate to a person, yes; monitoring the use by a person of the internet, email or any other form of electronic communication, yes, yes, yes; watching or spying on a person, YES. My stalker is a bona fide stalker.
I go to the ‘reporting the crime’ section of the CPS website. In an emergency you should phone 999 and ask for the police. Well, it’s not exactly an emergency. In non-emergency situations you should contact your local police station by phone or go to the nearest . . . Try explaining what’s been going on to some bored PC at the front desk. No, it wouldn’t work. The website tells me I could also report it anonymously to Crimestoppers. But I don’t want it to end up as an anonymous complaint. I want to be involved, I want to be able to watch him squirm . . . Forget the police, I have to face him on my own. What is he going to do, kill me?
The bus reaches the Tower of London, then crawls at walking speed across Tower Bridge. The views are stunning along this stretch of the Thames, but I’m not in the mood for sightseeing. It’s my stop. Tower Bridge Road is full of traffic and noise. I breathe in the smell of the river mixed with car fumes and take the stone steps down to Shad Thames. It looks a lot cleaner and posher now, but still feels familiar. I used to come here a lot years ago, running down those steps, eager, inspired, hopeful. Naive.
And there it is, right in front of me. Sprawling, imposing, rich with history. Butler’s Wharf.
I’ve always been fascinated with the place. Originally a Victorian riverside warehouse built to accommodate shipping trade goods: sugar, spices, tea. Closed at the beginning of the 1970s and promptly adopted, and adapted, by craftsmen, performers and artists, Derek Jarman among others. It eventually succumbed to the redevelopment craze of the eighties and was converted into luxury apartments, office spaces and posh eateries. So much for the free, alternative spirit of the place. But, even though it’s all City bankers and tourists now, it still holds some attraction for me. After all, this is where we used to come, an earnest and opinionated bunch of art students, to discuss burning issues. It all felt so important, cutting edge. Our fire stoked by our admired host, the beloved mentor, a legend of a man.
Professor Robert B. Stein.
The smooth cobbles of Shad Thames under my feet, I stop and look up. Even though it’s a sunny day, the narrow street flanked by tall brick warehouses is shaded in semi-darkness. Old industrial winches and cast-iron walkways criss-crossing overhead look almost black against the intensely blue sky. A shiver runs through me. Somewhere up there, on the sixth floor of the monolith of Butler’s Wharf, is Professor Stein’s coveted apartment. It’s probably worth at least a couple of million now, but it was pretty spectacular back then, when we were his guests, gasping at the river view, overwhelmed by his art collection, drunk on ambition and expensive wine. This is where Erin and I hatched up Cubic Zirconia, this is where we used to come to celebrate our first tentative triumphs.
And this is where he must’ve been plotting his bizarre campaign against me. This is where he created ‘Exposure 5’, the amazing collage of reality and fiction. It was the view that gave him away, the urban riverbank of St Katharine Docks on the other side of the Thames, just east of Tower Bridge. The view that has burnt itself into my mind because it’s always been synonymous with art and success for me. With being Professor Stein’s protégée.
What now? Do I go up and confront him? Try to find out why he’s been doing this? I’m suddenly overcome by doubt and apprehension. What if he denies it and laughs in my face? I’d be finished in his eyes and the eyes of his coterie. I realize I still care about what he thinks of me. Not to mention the fact that he is still a powerful man. His inner circle, the in-crowd, continues to rule the London art scene. He says a word and I’m simply wiped off the map. Kristin Ryder? Nah, never heard of her. But if I don’t challenge him now, he’ll just continue harassing me, he’ll keep sending me those ridiculous ‘Exposures’. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
Just as I’m about to turn, the heavy entrance door swings open and a well-groomed man in a suit emerges onto the street, talking loudly on his mobile. I catch the door before it closes and slip inside, unnoticed by the man who seems to be single-handedly taking credit for the Dow Jones being up by 320 points. I’m in and the concierge desk is empty. It must be my lucky day. I cross the lobby and get into the lift conveniently waiting on the ground floor. I press the button for the sixth floor and lean against the cold, metal wall, remembering to breathe. When I visited Professor Stein for the first time I was convinced I could still smell the spices which were originally stored here, vanilla, cinnamon, anise, a touch of clove. I can almost smell them now, but it’s probably just the Dow Jones guy’s aftershave.
‘Sixth floor, door opening,’ announces a warm female voice and the lift’s doors slide open.
I can still turn back and leave.
But I know I won’t, because I have to find out the truth.
As in a horror movie, I watch my own hand rise and knock on his door. Silence. I grit my teeth and knock again. There, I can hear some movement behind the door, the sound of a mortise lock turning. My heart pounding, I watch the door handle move. Hello, Professor, do you remember me? The silly line knocks around inside my head. What on earth am I supposed to say?
The door opens and I stare at the tall figure in front of me, incredulous.
‘Erin?’
‘Welcome to the party!’
She grabs me by the hand and pulls me inside. I hear the door click shut behind me.
‘What party? What’s going on?’
But she has already turned and is walking towards a drinks cabinet by the large windows overlooking the river. A wave of nostalgia mixed with awe washes over me. Everything is as I’ve remembered it. The subdued elegance of the vast space, the sublime artwork on the walls, the amazing view.
‘Drink?’
‘Sure. Anything.’
As she busies herself with bottles and ice, I perch myself on the arm of a black leather sofa, trying to understand what is going on. Is this the professor’s idea of a student
reunion? A shindig for old times’ sake?
And suddenly I know. The Light Vault! That’s what it is! He’s invited his former students he wants to include in his show.
‘It’s the Light Vault party, isn’t it?’
‘Well done, you’ve figured it out at last.’ Erin hands me a large tumbler.
She raises her glass towards me and we both take a sip. The G&T is cold and strong. All is forgiven, Professor Stein, as long as my name appears in the Light Vault catalogue. The sudden release of tension is making me light-headed.
‘Did you get his weird invitation?’ I lower my voice. ‘The “Exposure”?’ I make quotation marks in the air. ‘From the master of convoluted messages . . .’
‘I thought it was quite brilliant.’
‘Well, in a very creepy kind of way. Cheeky of him to ask you as well. I thought the show was for his lesser stars . . .’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything.’
‘So great you could make it. You shooting in the UK at the moment?’
She shrugs with an air of nonchalance. ‘Just finished a royal commission.’
‘What? As in Kate and William? And George and . . .’ I’m searching for the name of the youngest royal offspring.
‘And Charlotte. That’s right. As in the Duke and the Duchess of Cambridge.’
I nearly choke on my G&T.
‘Wow, that’s amazing! The ultimate family portrait!’
‘They wanted to break away from the traditional heavy-lit portraits and do something lighter, more relaxed and intimate. You know, smiles, sunshine, cocker spaniel puppies . . .’
Gobsmacked, I listen to Erin talking about a series of sessions, at Kensington Palace and the gardens of Sandringham House. This is every portraitist’s dream, the pinnacle of a photographer’s career. And to think she had time to come here, to mingle with us, the mediocre lot!
But as Erin goes on describing her shoot, the use of controlled lighting and desaturated colours, something uncomfortable begins to stir at the bottom of my mind. Kensington Palace, bright summer light, a cocker spaniel puppy . . . I’ve seen it before. It was Jason Bell’s famous photograph of the royal couple with their son, framed by an open sash window of the palace. I remember it, because it struck me with its casual air, so different from the usual official portraits. The desaturated colour palette – that was also something Bell introduced in his photographs of the royal family. And as for the frolicking in the gardens at Sandringham – wasn’t that Mario Testino’s shoot?
Exposure Page 26