The Devil's Photographer

by Amy Cross

  "Report back to me after the date," she says. "I want to know how it goes. But don't call me before tomorrow afternoon, okay? Remember, I'm busy tonight too. I'm going to be fucking the Devil himself".

  Twenty-five years ago

  Through the camera's viewfinder, I watch the old trestles for a moment, waiting for the perfect moment to take a picture. After a morning of indecision, I finally decided to come out here and see if the man appears again. After all, given the stress I've been under, I guess it's possible that somehow I've been imagining the whole thing.

  I press the button and take a photo, before moving through the undergrowth and taking up another position.

  So far, there's been no sign of anyone else out here. I'm already convinced that there was no-one yesterday, but now I'm absolutely certain that I'm alone. I take a couple more photos, before lowering the camera and staring straight ahead. It's hard to believe that there could be someone here, someone I can't see, and yet I have to at least consider the possibility. I've never believed in ghosts before, but now I'm starting to wonder.

  "Hello?" I call out.

  Silence.

  Smiling at my own naivety, I raise the camera and take a couple more photos. Hopefully, by the end of today I'll have managed to prove that the first set of images was just some kind of freaky situation. I'm still learning to use the new camera, so I guess there are a bunch of reasons why something so strange could have happened. Just because I don't know the explanation, I can't go assuming that it was some kind of ghost.

  Deep in my gut, the pain continues to throb.

  Today

  "You look..." Standing outside the restaurant, John Dagwood stares at me for a moment. "You look great," he says eventually, clearly taken aback by the fact that I've turned up wearing jeans and an old shirt, with my hair held up by clips and my heavy, bulky camera bag over my shoulder. I even remembered to wear an old pair of sneakers rather than my usual boots. Frankly, I look as if I just happened to be wandering past, which is exactly the impression I was looking to create. Judging by his neat, well-fitted suit, it appears he was taking the evening a little more seriously.

  Kate one, John Dagwood nil.

  "Thanks," I say, already a little embarrassed. "Is this the place?" I ask, glancing up at the sign over the restaurant's door. We're just a few hundred meters from the burned remains of St. Abraham's, and frankly I'm more interested in the church than the 'date' with Dagwood. I've got my camera with me, tucked into my shoulder bag, and I've already got a plan all worked out. I'm going to have dinner, and then excuse myself before sneaking into the church and getting some photos of the interior. As a back-up, I have my phone's alarm set to go off in two hours' time, so that I can pretend I'm getting a call that's dragging me away.

  "Please," Dagwood says, opening the door. "After you".

  Once we're inside and at our table, I start to realize just how spectacularly Dagwood has misjudged the nature of the evening. Bella was right: he was planning on this being a date. The restaurant is one of those low-lit, classy places with soft music playing in the background and couples dotted around at the tables, laughing at one another's bad jokes as they enjoy a candle-lit dinner. Honestly, I knew I'd look out of place, but I'm starting to wonder if I'll even be allowed to stay; if this place has a dress-code, I'm screwed. Fortunately, although the waiter is clearly a little taken aback by my clothes, he smiles politely as he leads us to a table by the window. To be honest, as other diners glance over at us, I'm actually starting to feel a little sorry for Dagwood. He must be feeling pretty embarrassed right now.

  "I hope you don't mind that I dressed down," I say, as I shove the bulky shoulder bag under my chair. "It's just that I'm thinking of going to do some field-work as soon as we're finished here, so I thought I'd better be suitably dressed".

  "Field-work?" he asks, looking surprised. The waiter brings us the menus and lights a candle on the table between us.

  "Photography," I reply once the waiter has gone. "That's my thing. I take photos of everything I see, and then I go through them at home in my dark room".

  "You've got a dark room at home?"

  "Yeah. It's basically my bedroom too. I figured, dark rooms need to be dark and bedrooms need to be dark, so why not combine the two?" After a moment, I look down at the menu and see that this is a pretty pricey place. Damn it, I think Dagwood was hoping to impress me tonight. I don't know whether to cringe with embarrassment for him, or smile at the fact that I've proven my point. Either way, it's been a few years since I was out at a proper restaurant, and I feel completely out of place. Hell, I could have worn the most amazing dress in the whole world, and I could have had my hair and nails done, and I could be wearing fresh underwear, and I still wouldn't belong here. This is just so far outside my comfort zone, I feel completely lost.

  "So have you always been into photography?" he asks. I can see from the look in his eyes that he's just making small-talk. Have I crushed his spirit already?

  "Not really. I took it up a couple of years ago, when I was recovering from some stuff that happened. At first, it was just something to keep myself busy, you know? Photos of flowers and animals. You know what it's like when you need a hobby, right? But over time, I got more and more into it, until it became kind of all-consuming. I barely have time for anything else these days. I think I spend more time looking at the world through a lens than not. It's not a hobby now. It's... me".

  "And you can make it pay?"

  I pause for a moment, trying to think of a way to dance delicately around some of the more difficult parts of my life story. "I balance my budget," I say eventually, figuring that I'd rather not go into the details of the accident and my compensation payout. "I'm very lucky. I can afford to indulge my passion and kind of just do what I want. Every day, I choose where I want to go, and I take the photos I want to take, and I don't have anyone nagging at me or asking me to go do something else. In the evening, I develop the images and look through them. Some people might think it seems like a boring life, but to me it's absolute perfection. Doing the same thing every day is kind of fun". I pause for a moment, before delivering what I consider to be the killer punch. "I kind of like being alone. I really wouldn't have it any other way".

  "Huh," he replies, looking down at his menu. "I guess I know what you mean. In a way. I spend my days going through books and papers, and occasionally popping out of my office just long enough to teach a class or two. My friends are always asking me to go out with them, but they don't understand that I'm really happy just doing my own thing". He flips to another page in the menu, and then he looks at me and smiles. "I don't know about you, Kate, but personally I'm never happier than when I'm working on a project. I like to really get deep into something and lose myself completely. Frankly, it can be a little scary at times. It's almost like the real 'me' disappears for days on end while I focus exclusively on whatever's caught my attention".

  "And what's caught your attention at the moment?" I ask, before realizing that it might seem as if I'm flirting. "I mean, what are you working on?" I add, correcting myself.

  "The same thing as you," he replies.

  "And what's that?"

  He smiles. "Churches".

  Smiling politely, I glance out the window and see the remains of St. Abraham's in the distance. I feel as if I'm being a little rude, but in all honesty I'd much rather be down there right now, exploring the church and getting some more images. John Dagwood seems perfectly nice, and I even get the feeling that we might understand one another a little better than I'd anticipated, but I'm definitely not in the market for anything that he might be offering. The thought of getting into any kind of relationship is kind of terrifying; right now, the only relationship of any type that I can handle is my friendship with Bella, and even that can be kind of tricky at times.

  "So tell me about your project," he says once we've ordered. As Bella predicted, he's had a bottle of wine brought to the table, and he pours me a glass without e
ven asking first. "What are you working on that could possibly lead you to the work of Amin Bell?"

  "I'm just trying to contextualize some of my images," I reply, sipping from my glass. I'm not sure how much I should let slip to Dagwood. On the one hand, I'd rather just keep everything to myself; on the other, I've got this nagging feeling that our mutual interest in Bell's work might mean that Dagwood can help me. If I'm not going to let a little information slip, and try to get some information from him, then why did I even bother to show up tonight? "Specifically, I'm undertaking a photographic examination of holy sites across the city that might have been home to certain Satanic rituals and practices". I pause for a moment, surprised at how official and grown-up I'm sounding. "I'm interested in the way these spaces have been used for purposes that might seem to be the complete opposite to the way they were conceived". Damn it, I sound like a real academic: everything I'm saying is technically correct, but it's coming out through a filter of bullshit. Maybe Holly's right; maybe I should go back to college after all. "Um... yeah," I say finally, unable to hide an embarrassed smile. "That kind of thing".

  "That's interesting," Dagwood replies, sitting back. "New York has a very strong history of Satanic worship, and you're right when you suggest that much of this has taken place in spaces that might otherwise seem to be reserved for Christian groups. One of Bell's biggest discoveries was that in many cases, Satanic groups were using churches for their activities. The metaphor he used was a hermit crab, appropriating the shell of another crab during the night. Tell me, how have you found Bell's book so far?"

  "To be honest, it's a little dry". I take another sip. "He's very good at collecting names and dates, but I haven't found much evidence that he was particularly adept at interpreting facts. He seems to miss a number of obvious conclusions, while going down tangents that are in no way justified".

  "That was definitely one of his problems," Dagwood continues. "The man's brain was brilliant, but he was totally undisciplined. From a purely academic point of view, he just kind of vomited up information and hoped some of it would make sense, which of course only ever happened by accident". He pauses for a moment. "I met him once, you know".

  "You did?" I lean forward; for the first time this evening, I find myself genuinely interested in what Dagwood has to say. "What was he like?"

  "How you'd imagine, really. He drank a lot, and he had this infuriating habit of switching from English to Polish mid-way through a sentence, and then back again, often several times, apparently without realizing. Most of his colleagues and assistants had to learn both languages in the end, just so they could keep up. In truth, though, he was much more lucid and interesting in person than he ever was in his books. If he had a drink in his glass and a cigar in his hand, he could keep an entire room entertained forever. He's certainly been about, and he had a lot of stories to tell. Some of them were clearly just fantasy, but occasionally he'd drift onto a subject with a little more meat".

  "You keep referring to him in the past tense," I say. "I've never been able to find much biographical information about him, but would I be right in thinking that he's dead?"

  "Unfortunately," Dagwood replies. "He died about five years ago in a fire. His whole apartment just went up in flames one night. The guy was a chain-smoker, and he suffered from diabetes, so it was widely assumed at the time that he fell into a coma while he had a cigar in his mouth. His body was found in bed, but the fire destroyed most of his papers. Obviously, the circumstances set off a great deal of debate, and there were a few conspiracy theories being bandied about. In general, though, the guy seemed to be living on borrowed time when I met him. He was falling apart. It might seem like a bad thing to say, but in all honesty I wasn't that surprised when I heard he'd been killed. Sad, yes, and disappointed, but not surprised".

  "Did he ever talk about St. Abraham's?" I ask.

  "You seem particularly interested in that church".

  "It just keeps popping up in my work".

  "He talked about everything. Every church, every street, every person. That was kind of the problem. He'd ramble so fast, it was impossible to keep up with everything he was saying. From speaking to others, though, I definitely got the impression that St. Abraham's was of particular interest to his work. He spent quite some time attempting to get into the crypt, but he was always denied access. The people in charge of that place were always very reluctant to let anyone inside. He'd writer letter after letter, begging to be allowed to take a look for various reasons, and they rebuffed him every single time".

  "They did?" I reply, thinking back to the way the priest seemed to go out of his way to invite me into the building yesterday.

  Turning, Dagwood looks out the window. "I guess the fire means the mystery of that place is going to remain hidden forever. It there was a mystery to begin with. From what I heard, the interior's been completely destroyed. The fire started in the crypt and now the whole place is ruined".

  "Convenient," I say quietly.

  He smiles as he turns back to me. "You know, I still don't quite understand your interest in this whole thing. Don't take this the wrong way, but you still haven't come up with a convincing explanation for why you'd go to so much trouble to obtain Amin Bell's book".

  "What can I say?" I reply, taking another sip from my wine. "When I want something, I don't stop until I get it".

  "I guess. But the Bell book is incredibly rare. I made an attempt to get hold of a copy a few years ago, but I had to give up in the end".

  "Well, maybe that was your mistake," I tell him. "You gave up. I spent six months nagging people until I got hold of a copy. I've only got it for a week, but still... A week's better than nothing, right?"

  Once our food comes, the topic of conversation drifts a little. Dagwood explains how he ended up working at the university, and why he teaches English Literature when his primary interest is in the occult. To be honest, I kind of zone out while he's talking, although I remember to punctuate the conversation with a few nods and smiles. When it's my turn to talk about the past, I remain fairly vague, preferring to avoid mentioning anything that might really engage his interest. I want to sound as boring as possible, so that he'll hopefully have no interest in seeing me again. It might seem like an arrogant way to approach things, but I figure I can get everything I need in this one encounter, so any more 'dates' would be completely unnecessary.

  "Getting back to Amin Bell," I say, as the waiter takes our empty plates. "What's your opinion of his work? Overall, I mean. Was he onto something, or was he just another excitable idiot who grabbed a few random ideas and tried to mash them together?"

  Dagwood laughs.

  "What?" I ask.

  "Nothing," he continues. "You just seem a little quick to judge him". He pauses for a moment. "Amin Bell was a fascinating man. I've always felt that if someone could take his work and rearrange it piece by piece, there might be some fascinating details that he missed".

  "But the fundamental premise of his work was wrong, wasn't it?" I take a deep breath. "Bell believed that some of the things in his books were real, didn't he?"

  Dagwood nods. "He claimed to have seen things. He claimed that dark forces were at work in the city, whatever the hell that means. I'm sure it made sense in his head, but I'm afraid his written work never offered much evidence. If someone went through his remaining papers, perhaps they'd find something of interest".

  "Sounds like a job for someone like you," I point out, checking my watch and seeing that it's almost 10pm. I'm itching to get out of here and to head to St. Abraham's, although I can't admit the truth to Dagwood. I guess I'll just tell him that I'm tired and I need to go home. Hopefully he wasn't planning to drag this encounter out too much longer.

  "There's too much work for one person," he replies. "Although a lot of Bell's documents were destroyed in the fire that killed him, he left a significant archive in storage. Thousands and thousands of files and folders, filled with notes on every conceivable subject. His ha
nd-writing alone would probably need to be cracked by a cryptographer. To be honest, I don't know if it would be possible to remain objective while becoming submerged in such a huge body of work. I feel like anyone who waded through it all would end up almost becoming Amin Bell for a while". He pauses for a moment. "You've checked your watch five times in the past five minutes. I'm guessing that means you're going to be heading home soon".

  I smile, feeling a little embarrassed. "I have to be up early," I start to say, "and -"

  "It's fine," he replies. "I've kept you long enough. I can tell you're a very busy person".

  "It's been interesting," I say as I take my wallet out of my coat pocket. "Really, it has. But when I'm working on a project, it's hard to take my mind of things, even for a few hours".

  "You must let me pay," he says.

  "I'm paying my half," I reply firmly, determined to avoid any awkwardness. "Please. Let's not even begin to have one of those awkward conversations about who pays what".

  Once we've settled the bill, we head out onto the sidewalk and start walking toward the subway station. To my irritation, I see that there are still workmen at St. Abraham's, which means I'll have to kill a few more hours before I can get inside. There are light rigs around what's left of the main door, with plastic sheets covering the various holes that have been left open following the collapse of the stonework. Nearby, a small tent seems to be housing some kind of base-camp for the work. I can only hope that the workmen aren't going to pull an all-nighter, otherwise I'll be completely screwed. I need to see what's going on in that place.

  "I've got to admit," Dagwood says, as we walk slowly along the sidewalk, "I wasn't sure what to expect tonight. I'm still not, in a way. I've asked you three times now, Kate, and you still haven't quite explained what you're doing with Amin Bell's book".