Yin Yang Tattoo

by Ron McMillan

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alec. You may call me Miss Kim.’

  In English.

  I can’t hide my surprise. She tosses back her head and laughs aloud, and gleaming white teeth, a little uneven, reflect on shiny-black lips.

  Part Two: A police station in central Seoul, fifteen years later.

  I would be in trouble if I had to use these two goons to disprove the cliché that Orientals all look the same. Their hairlines and high cheekbones and square bony jowls are sawn from the same jig, and I can only tell them apart because one of them stands six inches taller. Big Cop exchanges nods with Small Cop. Here we go.

  I back away until my arse runs hard against a table that holds the middle of the room. It doesn’t move, and I glance down. The table and four chairs are bolted to the floor. The room is formed of painted metal and dusty concrete, with one tiny barred window, nearer ceiling than floor, drawing a hard-edged beam of sunshine alive with dust particles. Cobweb-strewn strip lights glare from behind paint-blistered gratings.

  Big Cop moves. I retreat, like a boxer feeling for the ropes, except I am feeling for a rough wall with hands cuffed in the small of my back. Big Cop lurches and I lift one shoulder and duck, but it is too little too late. Meaty hands flash high – and somewhere behind my eyes a bomb goes off. Searing pain sets tears rolling down my cheeks, and I spin and rebound off the wall. Big Cop’s hands remain high, and I understand why my head is full of jet-engine roaring and my balance is in shreds. He does it again. Cupped hands slam over unprotected ears, trapped air fires white-hot pain through eardrums, legs dissolve and I crash to the floor. I don’t bother trying to get up.

  Eager hands clamp onto my wrists to pull them high behind me, and I scramble to my feet, shoulders on the verge of dislocation, head forced forward and so low that, through my legs, I can see Big Cop grin. Wrists flop free, my head pops up, a closed fist hooks deep into the pit of my stomach – and I am back on the floor.

  Face down on the concrete, I make out the scrape of footsteps, and brace myself. Somebody unfastens one cuff and grabs my wrist in a brutally simple martial arts hold. Every muscle and nerve from thumb to shoulder screams in agony, and I join the chorus. The cries still echo around the room when the cuffs are locked again, this time in front of me, through the back of a chair. A rough shove sits me down facing the wrong way, the back legs of the chair between my knees. The door to the corridor clatters open and a uniformed officer arrives carrying thin telephone books under one arm.

  The blows to my ears and solar plexus have me in tears, but I am almost certainly unmarked. The phone books can only mean more of the same.

  I try to stand, but they push me down. From his pocket, Small Cop pulls long strips of double-sided Velcro. I use the stuff to rig heavy lighting equipment. It’s cheap, versatile, and with enough of it, you could stick a Catholic to a Belfast Protestant. In a few seconds, my ankles are pinched painfully against the angle-iron chair legs. Small Cop tries to stand tall next to Big Cop and on cue, each rolls his telephone book in a two-handed tennis grip.

  They take turns at driving them into my kidneys. The first strikes blow the wind from my lungs, cutting short my screams, and they continue with such regularity that re-gaining my breath is impossible, lungs receding in protection of aching organs. Spasms twist my insides and shoot down my legs, opening me up to bouts of head-spinning nausea. Before long the contents of my stomach spew over my arms. The bastards never miss a swing.

  It lasts maybe a few minutes, but feels like hours, and in the end, the signal to cease only comes when my guts let go in a rasping gastric splutter.

  ‘Aigoo,’ says a voice leaden with disgust. ‘Dong neo-seo.’ He’s shit himself.

  Shoe heels clack on concrete, and the door to the corridor slams closed. Pain jags spark through me like short-circuits, and my legs flap uncontrollably against the restraints. Minutes later, the tremors recede enough for me to gingerly open one eye to confirm that I am alone. Vision bubbles and my head spins and my stomach convulses in a fresh onslaught of brain-swelling dry retches.

  I am in a police station, thousands of miles from home. Nobody knows I am here, and the cops are holding nothing back. Bad enough, but it gets worse. They have yet to ask me even one question.

  Chapter One

  Nine days earlier. Islington, London, 2005.

  Thursday morning, and already the day had ‘brass-enamelled bastard’ written all over it. Hardly in the door, I was stirring my first cup of mud when the phone rang. Naz reached for it without looking.

  ‘Alec Brodie Photography. Hi Gerry, Al’s right here. I’ll put you through.’ She hit the hold button and waited for me to open my eyes. ‘Gerry says ‘Don’t even consider dicking me around, Naz, I want to speak to Brodie, and I mean right now.’’ For a Brummie of Pakistani origins, she did a mean Cockney.

  ‘So much for filtering my calls.’

  ‘You’ll have to talk to him sooner or later.’

  ‘I’d sooner it was later.’

  I snatched up the nearest phone, punched the flashing button and spoke quickly.

  ‘Gerry, I’m glad you called, ‘cos I was wanting to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh that’s good. Real good. You were wanting to talk to me. I’m calling you like three, four times a day, Naz is telling me you’re out of the studio, you’re in a meeting, you’re on a big shoot, you’re in a fucking helicopter all day long and, no, your mobile ain’t switched on, and it’s like impossible to reach you right now – and do you call me back? Do you hell. Stop messing me about. You know Johnson doesn’t like me lending money to his clients.’

  ‘It’s just cash-flow, a temporary thing. I’m the little guy here, waiting for bean counters to approve expenses I laid out months ago, and anyway – ’

  ‘Expenses like your lab bill that’s overdue by ten weeks?’

  When Gerry gets like this there’s no placating him, but photographers like me pay for his pension plan, and he knows it. In the new digital age there aren’t many of us still shooting film, and labs like Johnson’s need guys like me.

  ‘Have I ever let you down? Tell Johnson he’ll get his bloody money, and while you’re at it, tell him if he doesn’t need me putting three hundred rolls a month through his machines I’ll go elsewhere.’

  ‘One: you forget I know that even you, you fucking luddite, are moving to digital. Two: we both know the last time you did three hundred rolls in a month, Maggie Thatcher was still winning hearts and minds. And, Three: where are you going to take your business? Angel?’

  Bluff called.

  ‘Gerry – ’

  ‘Cos Archie Angel tells me he cut your credit line a month ago, and that you’re into him for nearly a grand. Which, Alec, on top of the fourteen hundred you owe us, isn’t sounding too fucking smart.’

  A decade as a freelance photographer has taught me one thing: when your back is to the wall all you can do is lie.

  ‘I swear I was reaching for the phone when you rang. I just opened the post, and there’s a serious wedge of a cheque in there’ – Naz rolled her eyes. ‘- You’ve always done the right thing by me, so if I was to settle the account this week, would Archie Angel have to know?’

  Silence. Gerry smelled money getting to him before it got to Archie Angel. I pressed on, holding up my coffee mug, playing to my unimpressed audience of one. ‘So listen, this cheque is from,’ I squinted at the mug, which said ‘Sam’s Pies – Meet the Meat, First Bite’. ‘Some bloody bank in Liechtenstein, so give me a few days for it to clear, and I’ll messenger your cheque right over, this time next week.’

  ‘If you’re shitting me, Johnson’s going to have my nuts, then he’ll have yours. Remember what happened to Conkers Russell.’

  I remembered alright. When Conkers defaulted on his JB account, Johnson made a few calls, and overnight the only way suppliers would touch Russell was Cash On Delivery, a death sentence in our line of work. In a couple of months Conkers went from running one of the busiest fash
ion studios in the West End and driving a Jaguar convertible, to running around the city on a moped, shooting building exteriors for real estate agents.

  I put the phone down and grimaced at my cold coffee. Naz stared at me, her face blank of expression.

  ‘Something’ll come up. People owe us money too, remember.’

  She shook her head in silence as she filled the kettle. Even if every last penny owed to the studio was honoured – fat chance – it would hardly put a dent in my debts.

  Loud banging at the studio door. I held a finger to my lips and pointed to my coffee mug. Naz quietly rinsed it and turned it upside down on the draining board. Not operating the sort of business that generated anything in the way of passing trade, we kept the windowless studio door on the snib. I approached it from the side, well away from the central peephole, and squinted through a second peeper that emerged on the other side amidst a confusion of Kodak and Fuji stickers. Just at that moment, the door rocked to a solid shove, and I pulled back, too late. Stop the day – I want to get off. Not yet ten o’clock, creditors lining up for a kick at me, and now I had a bloody nose. I shuffled back, dabbing at my beak with a tissue that materialised in Naz’s hand. From outside came bellowing noises that were all too familiar. Billy Singh was only a little guy, but when a tenant got behind with the rent, he puffed up like a frog and generated a din that belied his stature. London-born and bred, Billy had a local accent as thick as his beard. I placed my hands on Naz’s shoulders and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

  ‘Talk to him, Naz. Tell him I’m out of town, the cheque’s in the post, whatever.’

  For the thousandth time I resolved to make it up to Naz – just as soon as I got my shit together. I backed quietly through the walk-in pantry door and peeked through the crack in the jamb.

  Naz is a picture. She loves to be photographed, and we’ve spent countless hours in the studio, just the two of us, working on my lighting and her latest portrait notion. I have shot Naz in everything from Laura Ashley floral print to mud-caked rugby jerseys to barbed wire handcuffs and not a lot else.

  Her Dad came to England from Pakistan in the sixties, but the last time she saw her family was ten years ago when she refused to marry a Rawalpindi haulage contractor whom she had never set eyes upon, but who came highly recommended by a Pakistani marriage broker. We had been running the studio together ever since she answered my ad in a newsagent’s window for a part-time assistant, secretarial skills an advantage. That was eight years ago.

  She opened the door and listened to Billy’s pained entreaties, fed him calming lines, multiple soothing apologies and solemn, empty promises. If we moved from this studio, getting another lease would be impossible without a good reference from Billy’s boss. Naz knew that, and skilfully avoided confrontation without giving anything away. When at last he left, still grumbling, Naz locked the door behind him.

  ‘All we need now,’ she said, as I edged from the pantry, ‘is a visit from Cassie.’

  That hurt, but I deserved it. Whatever way you looked at it, this was all linked, one way or another, to Cassie.

  A couple of years ago Naz and I were running a busy little commercial studio, servicing steady custom that I had built up over the years since I came back from Asia. The work was varied enough, and while I never saw my name on posh gallery posters, I did assignments for big-name companies and good magazines in New York, London and Paris, and usually had no trouble meeting the rent.

  When a producer called Cassie plucked my portfolio from a Soho art director’s desk, I found myself with a big-budget shoot for her new High Street client.

  It was the sort of fashion job they threw serious money at, mock-photojournalism in grainy monochrome, ultra-high-contrast prints with bleached whites and fathomless shadows. In the grossly self-important world of couture, this was an advertising look very much in vogue, fashion victims as war refugees in thousand-quid outfits and perfect hair and make-up. The clients were so delighted that they only took four months to pay. Cassie promised more assignments just like it, and she delivered. Soon we were living together in a big new apartment. I was a soft target, an easy sell, in love with the new work and so deeply in lust with Cassie that it was much later before I even began to worry about her taste for smack.

  It was Cassie who pushed for the bigger studio, dismissing Naz’s doubts, arguing that the new work it could handle would easily justify the extra cost which, for a few months at least, it did. Overheads were way up, but so were assignments that paid silly money.

  Not much later, Cassie’s dragon-chasing slipped the leash and overnight she became yesterday’s product. Work slowed to a trickle and the bills mounted, but Cassie still had a habit to feed. She forged my scrawl on cash cheques, maxed out the shared credit card and – this really hurt – offloaded almost my entire kit of beloved Leica range„finders for a fifth of its value. When I finally moved on – alright, she dumped me for a 22-year-old with a huge trust fund and a horse habit to rival her own – I was in a debt pit that I had yet to see the bottom of.

  Naz washed out her own coffee cup and took to filing slides. It was either that or talk to me. I pulled out my address book and name card file and started calling around old commercial clients and advertising and design agencies. ‘Hi, it’s Alec Brodie – Alec Brodie Photography, I did that shoot for you the other month? I would like to pop over and show you some of my latest work.’

  Successful commercial photography has depressingly little to do with talent and a great deal to do with shameless self-promotion. Almost every shooter can do the job, but how well he does it usually matters more to the photographer than it does to the client. With nothing but familiarity separating you from the rest of the competition, the trick is to maintain your name’s prominence in the thoughts of customers, actual and potential.

  Two unproductive hours later I pushed the phone away, leaned back in my chair and tried to think of what to do next, anything that might keep Naz from pointing out where I was going wrong. The phone rang and this time I beat her to it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘May I speak to Mr Alec Brodie please?’ In his accent it came out as ‘Boorow-dee’.

  I didn’t know the voice, but I recognised the accent straight away.

  ‘Alec Brodie speaking, Mr – ?’

  ‘My name is Rhee, Y.S. Rhee. I am sorry for my English, but – ’

  ‘Don’t be sorry Mr Rhee, your English is absolutely fine.’ Naz looked at me, curious.

  ‘Mr Brodie, I am the U.K. Country Manager of the K-N Group. Are you familiar with my company?’

  ‘I am, Mr Rhee. Just last year I photographed your President Mr Chang at the new plant in Wales for Global Trade magazine’s cover story on K-N’s semiconductor operations.’

  ‘The reason I am calling is I received a message from Seoul asking me to contact you about a photography assignment in Korea. President Mr Chang very much appreciated your sincere hard work on the Global Trade Magazine story.’

  When a Korean compliments your sincerity and your work rate, you know you’ve got something he wants. Tucking the phone between ear and shoulder, I gave Naz a big thumbs-up. She squinted cautiously.

  ‘Can I ask what kind of assignment you had in mind?’

  ‘My company is presenting a major stock market issue and we need photography for brochures and prospectuses.’

  I did a silent scream of joy. Commercial photography for companies commands a much higher day-rate than editorial work for magazines. I gave Naz an exaggerated wink, but she somehow avoided falling out of her seat with excitement.

  ‘I see, commercial photography. Do you have an idea how many days of shooting might be required?’

  ‘The fax from my headquarters indicates three weeks of photography, some in Seoul and some in other Korean cities.’

  Naz at last came around to listen in. I scribbled ‘3 WEEKS!’ on the pad next to the phone. She gave me the rolling hand motion for ‘get on with it’.

  ‘Mr
Rhee, are you familiar with my commercial photography rate? I charge two thousand pounds a day.’ This brought a slow-motion forehead slap from Naz. Was I out of my mind? At my end of the market twelve hundred was perfectly acceptable, and I often settled for less. However I also knew that Koreans firmly believed in the link between the price of a service and its quality.

  ‘I see.’

  I see? What did that mean?

  ‘Will you have to ask your head office if that is accept„able?’

  ‘No, I am sorry.’

  I was about to throw the phone down in despair when he spoke again:

  ‘I mean your rate is acceptable. No problem.’

  Naz and I slipped down the fire escape and, taking a chance on one of the credit cards, celebrated with a long beery lunch of ribs and kimchi at the Seoul Palace.

  Chapter Two

  The next couple of days felt like I was juggling chainsaws soapy-handed.

  Still drunk on beer and hot chillies, I got back on the phone to Mr Rhee, who agreed to meet for a meal the next day. Korean food two days running was fine by me. I was in training.

  I asked an Anglo-Korean waitress with a face full of piercings to watch out for Rhee, and she showed him to my table. He was a heavy set guy with greying hair and a handshake that was like having a bus parked on my knuckles.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Brodie.’

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Rhee.’ He sat across from me and we talked about everything but the assignment until first the drinks and then the side dishes began to arrive. I picked my moment.

  ‘May I ask if you managed to discuss my request with Seoul?’

  ‘Request?’

  ‘For an expenses advance. On an assignment like this, my costs are very heavy.’

  ‘In my company such a request is a little difficult.’