Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  ‘You’re fascinated by him, aren’t you?’ he said suddenly.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘This man—this killer—Adam Buchanan. You kept repeating his name.’

  She shrugged, feeling embarrassed. What would Barry think if he knew she even had the guy’s photo taped to her wall?

  ‘Justine?’

  She shrugged again. ‘Well, this guy is the star performer in the whole sad story, you will agree.’

  ‘Maybe.’ His gaze was puzzled.

  She looked away. ‘All of which still doesn’t explain this.’ She gestured at the pictures in front of them.

  ‘No.’ He sighed. ‘It doesn’t, does it?’ He suddenly frowned. ‘Except…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I remember reading something about ghost photography once.’

  ‘Ghost photography.’

  He nodded, his eyes alert. ‘As far as I can remember, the article was about this woman who had taken a picture of her garden, I think it was. There was no one in the garden, but when she made the print, she discovered the outline of a male figure standing underneath one of the trees. She developed the same negative again, and this time the figure was standing next to the garden gate. When she repeated the process for the third time, the figure had moved yet again, and was approaching the front door. She was never able to explain it and when the newspaper asked her to replicate the whole thing, she was unsuccessful.’

  ‘Do you remember where you read this? Do you still have the article, by any chance?’

  He shook his head regretfully. ‘Sorry. It was some time ago. And, quite frankly, I didn’t set much store by the whole story. It simply sounded too weird to be true. What I do remember is that it turned out badly for her in the end, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, she died shortly after. In a climbing accident. The reporter had played up that part of it, of course. You know, death coming to her door to claim her and so on.’

  Justine shivered. ‘Pretty spooky.’

  ‘So is this.’ He nodded at the photographs.

  She smiled wryly. ‘Well, I have a soft spot for wolves, you know.’ She tapped her shoulder. ‘I even carry one permanently around with me.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps I could go to the library and look up anything they have on ghost photography. That would be a start.’

  ‘Or you could forget about all of this and come home.’

  ‘Barry…’

  ‘Please, Justine.’ He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Forget about your flat. You still have things here. I’ve kept your room as it was, haven’t touched it. You can simply move in. And I promise you, I’ll give you the space you need.’

  She looked into his kind, trusting face and tears pricked her eyes. ‘It’s not the right time.’

  ‘It never is,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Maybe some day…’

  He didn’t answer. She shuffled the photographs together and placed them in the camera bag. In silence he helped her with her jacket and adjusted the strap of her bag so that it fit more easily onto her shoulder.

  But as they walked down the passage toward the front door, he suddenly said, ‘I forgot to tell you, that feature article about you—the one for Polkadot—it was finally published.’

  ‘I thought they’d decided against it.’

  ‘So did I. But apparently they reconsidered. Wait. I’ll get you a copy.’ He turned around and disappeared into his workroom.

  Polkadot was a fairly new and quite prestigious publication aimed at amateur and professional photographers alike. Every edition was devoted to the work of only one photographer. To have your pictures showcased in its pages was excellent exposure. The magazine had interviewed her for the article months ago, and when nothing happened afterwards she assumed they had cooled to the idea of profiling her work.

  ‘Here,’ he said as he returned. ‘Page thirty-seven.’

  She took the magazine from him. On the cover was an arresting picture: the inside of the domed library of a beautiful house in the Kashmir region of India, which she had visited years ago during a trip to this strife-torn province. Suspended from the library’s elaborately honeycombed ceiling were hundred-year-old handmade brass spheres representing the heavenly bodies: Venus, Jupiter, Saturn with its lovely rings. This particular picture was one of her favourites. She had used Kodalith paper and the result was everything she could have wished for. The colours were mink and parchment, and the slight graininess gave the image texture and depth. Below the picture were printed the words: ‘The Universe of Justine Callaway’.

  ‘They did a good job,’ Barry said. ‘But they also focused quite heavily on your personal life. There’s even some stuff in there about Jonathan’s death, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘Probably the reason why they decided to run the article after all. Nothing like a little tragedy to add some spice.’ She flipped open the flap of her camera bag and pushed the magazine inside. ‘When did this come out?’

  ‘Last month. Your mum was the one who first noticed it.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to her?’

  ‘She calls me regularly, you know. She’s lonely.’ His voice was slightly reproving. ‘Are you going to stop by and visit her today?’

  ‘I think not, thank you.’

  ‘She talked about some mail waiting for you—some letters. You should go and pick them up.’

  ‘It’ll keep.’

  He sighed but didn’t insist. As he opened the door for her, he said, ‘Call me. Don’t disappear on me again, OK?’

  ‘You’re a lovely man, Barry. I don’t know why you put up with me.’

  ‘Just promise to keep in touch. Say you will.’

  She touched her lips to his cheek. ‘I promise.’

  • • •

  SHE LEFT HER CAR in the parking bay outside Barry’s apartment—the resident’s parking permit on her windscreen was still valid—and took the Tube from South Kensington station to the British Library in St Pancras.

  There were surprisingly few people in the Reading Room. Slipping behind a terminal, she scoured the database and found two books which looked promising. She gave the information to the librarian and returned to her seat to wait for him to call her.

  It was quiet. The only sound was the tapping of keys and the barely audible hum of the computers. While waiting, she took out the folder with the photographs once more. She had studied these pictures so many times, she knew every detail, every shadow. But, as always, she was gripped by that same feeling of excited, if fearful, anticipation.

  She stared at the images, as though by concentrating hard enough she could transport herself into their depths and find herself walking down those shallow stairs, one hand resting on the balustrade, the other intertwined in the animal’s thick coat. The fur scratching her fingers, the pelt rough, not soft. The skin underneath her fingertips exuding warmth. And now she was kneeling down, and its breath was on her face. She placed her hand on its deep chest, felt a ripple of muscle. The musky animal smell. The sandpaper tongue as it touched her wrist. The eyes stared at her unblinkingly—yellow eyes ringed with black—and she was unable to look away…

  The light above her desk was flashing. She snapped out of her reverie and looked across to the checkout counter where the librarian was watching her with exasperation. As their eyes met, he made urgent gestures to the effect that she should collect her books.

  She slammed the folder with the photographs shut, aware of her heart beating in her throat. So real. The image of the wolf had been so real. Oh, hell. So now she needn’t even wait for night-time; her dreams were catching up with her even during the day. Way to go, Justine. You’ve finally lost it. Stupid, stupid, and oh shit.

  When she returned to her desk with the two books, she did not open them immediately. She was afraid of what she might discover.

  But there was nothing the slightest bit unsettling within the pages of the first book. The author was writing from a sceptic’s po
int of view and his style of writing was deliberately dry. The book was little more than a history of photographic deception, starting in 1862 with the ‘spirit photographs’ of a certain William H. Mumler. Using double exposure, the author explained disapprovingly, the intrepid Mr Mumler succeeded in creating eerie images of misty figures hovering ghostlike in the background. A host of imitators followed and the sale of ‘ghost’ pictures to grief-stricken relatives became a profitable sideline for many unscrupulous photographers. After discussing some of the more well-known hoaxes—fairy pictures and the like—the book ended with a chapter on photographic retouching and images illustrating the digital magic of the computer.

  This was not what she was looking for. Disappointed, she pushed the book to one side and picked up the second volume. Thoughtography was the title and, as the book fell open in her hand, she could feel her skin starting to prickle.

  The page showed three black-and-white photographs of the same woman—the same picture, in fact—but increasingly distorted. The first picture was unremarkable: a head and shoulder shot of a sad-eyed, middle-aged blonde, hair pulled back from her face to reveal a jaw line that was no longer smooth. In the second picture the colour quality of the photograph had deteriorated to assume a sepia hue and the face seemed to be overlaid with the outlines of another face, a face very similar in shape to the original. Even though the impression was slight, the effect was startling; the personality of the sitter had been subtly altered. The eyes seemed more alive, the expression less placid. In the third and final picture the outlines of the second face had hardened and now the effect was rather horrible; it was as though some malevolent being had gleefully taken up residence within the sitter, pulling up the corners of her mouth in a knowing smile. The impression of vicious amusement was unnerving.

  The text at the bottom of the page intensified her sense of disquiet. ‘The above pictures are of Mrs Beth Edmunston of Columbus, Ohio. She was strangled by her husband three weeks after he had taken these pictures. They were developed after his arrest by police technicians and had not been retouched in any way.’

  On the next page, another picture—a Polaroid this time—of a rain-smeared landscape superimposed by the ghostly figure of a young man. The young face was eerily dispassionate. It seemed the young man—the photographer’s younger brother—was killed by a car a few days later as he stood in the exact same pose as the figure in the picture.

  The remaining images contained within the book were also deeply haunting. A baby with what looked like a rose growing from its cheek. A stone angel with animated eyes. A girl, her face blank and moodless, her garments on fire. But unlike digitally manipulated images, these pictures were messy, flawed. In the world of digital manipulation, detail is king and images invariably sharp with clean edges. The pictures beneath her hand seemed somewhat blurred, almost amateurish. And there was something about them, something indefinable, that chilled her mind.

  Most photographs which claim to belong to the realm of the unexplained will not stand up to vigorous scrutiny and are the products of trickery. Still, there are those rare pictures which do indeed defy understanding.

  Also known as ‘ghost’ or ‘spirit’ photography, we have termed these pictures ‘thoughtographs’, as it appears that the photographer is the key. It seems to be the photographer’s ability to affect unexposed film—consciously or unconsciously—which creates these startling visual images.

  The most well-known thoughtographer was Ted Serios who worked as a Chicago bellhop in the 1960s. Mr Serios, who was able to project mental images on to photographic film, often did so with the lens cap of the camera still in place or by using a camera without a lens. The images created by him were often of recognisable buildings such as the Chicago Hilton, but the images were distorted as if they were the product of faulty memory or imagination. Mr Serios’s talent was researched by several investigators without their ever being able to furnish an explanation for the pictures created by his mind.

  Thoughtographs can be premonitions and often either the photographer, or the person photographed, will face traumatic events shortly after.

  Her mind tried to come to terms with the words on the page. Her photographs had always been of real people engaged in real conflict. Her architectural photographs were of buildings that have weathered time and the elements. If she truly had—unconsciously—created a thoughtograph, then what did the wolf represent?

  Thoughtographs appear to be projections of the photographer’s desires and fantasies—unedited, at times disturbing. Maybe these pictures are indeed instances where the camera does not lie. They are visual reflections of a dark longing.

  A dark longing. Justine stared at the words for a long time. When she looked up again, she saw the light outside the window had failed. The sky was black.

  • • •

  SHE EMERGED from the South Ken Tube station to find the streets wet and the rain sifting down. As she opened the door of her car, she glanced up at Barry’s apartment.

  The curtains were open and there was light in the window. She could see the gleam of the mirror above the mantelpiece and the shadow of a potted palm against the cream wall. For a moment, as she stood there in the darkness, the raindrops furring her jacket with silver, she experienced a fierce desire for the calm and comfort of the world glimpsed behind the tall window. Maybe she should spend the night. It would be good to go up to the flat, flop down in the easy chair next to the gas fireplace and put her feet up on the ratty old ottoman. Barry would pour her a drink and there would be something beautiful playing on the old-fashioned stereo.

  The picture was so appealing that she hesitated. But then, in her mind came the image of Paradine Park; the sandstone walls silvered by moonlight, the glittering windows staring out at the deserted, immaculate gardens. An unhappy house, but a house she could not bring herself to leave. Deep within her was the growing conviction that, at this moment in her life, she was exactly where she should be. She should not spend even one night away from its echoing passages and empty rooms.

  She turned her back on the brightly lit window. Sliding behind the wheel, she pushed the key into the ignition.

  • • •

  TRAFFIC OUT of London was heavy and it was another two hours before she spotted the Ainstey church spire. The main street was deserted and so too the dirt road stretching past dark paddocks and fields and leading to the wrought-iron gates of Paradine Park.

  The gates were open.

  Her brain registered this fact almost as soon as she noticed the motorcycle parked off the road, next to the weathered stone wall. She frowned. She had closed the gates herself this morning. But now the gates were open—not wide open, but definitely ajar, as though someone had pushed them apart just far enough in order to step through. And the motorcycle had not been there this morning, either.

  She brought the car to a standstill. Keeping the engine running, she got out and pushed the gates all the way back so that she could drive through. The gates made a thin, screeching sound, which set her teeth on edge.

  For a moment she looked up the long avenue with its tall trees. The headlights of the car played against the tree trunks, blotting out the shadows close to where she stood, but fading away further on where the avenue stretched ahead into deeper darkness.

  She shivered. Drawing her jacket close to her body, she got back into the car and started driving toward the house, which sat in ink-black silhouette against the sky. She drove slowly, keeping the growl of the MG’s engine low. As she reached the driveway she switched off the headlights and stopped the car with only a whisper of gravel.

  For a while she sat without moving, giving her eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Apart from the wind in the trees, there was no movement. The front door was shut. The windows of the house were black but, then, she hadn’t switched on any lights before setting out this morning. Stupid of her, really. She should have left the porch light on.

  She got out of the MG and closed the car door gently
. There was no one at the front of the house, but that did not mean that someone might not be lurking somewhere else on the estate. She thought of the black motorbike parked at the wall. The bike must have an owner. Perhaps she should go inside and call the police, tell them she suspected there was an intruder on the premises. She hesitated, feeling apprehensive and foolish at the same time.

  The scream that suddenly pierced the air was completely unexpected. Her blood went cold. She started running toward the back of the house, her feet slipping on the heavy gravel. She turned the corner and her hand scrambled against the wall for the outside light switch.

  The blackness gave way to blinding light. Mason and his grandson had replaced every single outside bulb with high-voltage spotlights and the courtyard flooded with light as bright as day.

  A few yards away two figures were staring at her. They were not moving, as if the light had somehow frozen them to the spot. The man had his hand uplifted in a menacing gesture, and the girl in front of him had her hand clutched to her cheek. Then the girl gave a kind of sob and took a step backward. The man slowly lowered his arm.

  He turned to face Justine fully. He was young; he couldn’t have been more than eighteen. His face was pasty-looking and there were pimples on his forehead. The wrists sticking out from his leather jacket were thin and his fingernails were painted black. His chin was soft-looking, but there was a glint in his eyes that made her watch him warily. That, and the red mark on the girl’s face.

  But they couldn’t just go on staring at each other. She used her most authoritative voice. ‘What’s going on here? Who are you?’

  He sneered at her. His body was as taut as an unsprung trap. She could sense the aggression and violence lurking just beneath the surface.

  The girl was watching her with wide frightened eyes. And now Justine recognised her—the streaked hair, the pancake makeup, the silver chain with the looped script: Angelface. The girl from the corner shop. And her Prince Charming—the black-clad knight on his iron horse. The one with the mother who followed murder cases as a hobby. Everything suddenly made sense. The pink knickers, the six-pack of beer, the dirty mattress—she now knew whom they belonged to. Obviously these two had hoped to continue using their shabby love-nest, only to find their plans thwarted by a shiny new lock on the door.