The Cutting Room (11 page)

He paused, then laid a photograph slowly on the table, as if it was the losing card in a high-stakes poker game. McKindless’s panting face looked up at us.

`This was taken a long time ago, but it’s him right enough.

The dirty wee bastard.’

I freshened our drinks. The after-work crowd started to drift home, the bar grew quieter and we moved to a small table.

`How do you know him??

‘Have a guess.’

`A valued customer??

‘Spot on. Well, to be honest I don’t really know. It’s a bit like you today. He comes in and I’m banished to the front

shop while they get on with business in the back. Suits me

fine.’

`Do you think it’s healthier not to know??

‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’

`What’s with the computers??

‘What do you think? A web site, databasing his stock.

Nothing exciting. As far as I’m concerned, it’s dead boring.

To be honest, I’ve been thinking of moving on, getting a job in a proper video shop.’ He made a face. `I’ve been there too

long.’

`So you don’t think I’m going to get anywhere looking at

these pictures.’

`No. Not on their own. That’s the thing about pictures,

they hint at more than they show. You might see a shadowy

figure lurking round a corner, but you can never go round that corner and discover who it is. Isn’t there anything else you could look at? He lowered his voice conspiratorially `Clues?

I shook my head, then remembered the Camera Club card.

I slipped it from my wallet and handed it to him. `Just this.’

`AnneMarie.’ He started to laugh.

`You know her??

‘Know her? Man, she rose from the tomb for me.’

THE TAXI’S DIESEL ENGINE began to whine as we climbed the

sheer face of Garnethill. The driver shifted down gear and we crept on, slowly. I leant back against the seat, trying to forget the dizzying drop down to Sauchiehall Street behind us. Derek turned towards me,

`You okay??

‘Aye, fine, fine, just not that good at heights. Why don’t

you take my mind off it by explaining where we’re going??

‘I told you I made videos.’

`Yes.’

`Well, they’re ten-minute shorts for the most part. Video

cameras, the technology’s brilliant, we can do things that

professionals could only dream of twenty years ago, but it’s still expensive, right??

‘I guess so.’

`Anyway, by the time you’ve rented the equipment,

there’s no money left to pay actors and that’s how I met

AnneMarie.’

`She’s an actress??

‘Aye. Well, in the same way that I’m a director. She’s

good, but she hasn’t had a break yet, so she works for no fee with the likes of me: arty, off the wall, independent, broke. I met her when she came into the shop to put an advert up. We

got talking and one thing led to another. She played lead

female vamp in my last short. She was good, really good.’

The massive hulk of the art school appeared on our left,

illuminated now. Too close for us to see anything more than a glimpse of detail in the monumental structure. The driver

dropped gear again and the taxi grumbled on at a slow walking pace.

`So what is it with the Camera Club?

He smiled. `Wait and see.’

Derek had given the address as somewhere in Buccleuch

Street. He started to sing as we got out of the cab.

`Oh there’s not much to do, in Buccleuch. Now that, as you will see, is a lie.’ He looked at his watch. `Twenty past seven,

we’ll be in time.’ Then paused. `I hope AnneMarie doesn’t

mind us turning up like this.’

The close door was unlocked, no entry phone. Derek

pushed it open and led me into a hallway which smelt of

ammonia and homeward assignations. Rubbish littered the

stairwell. A bike was tethered to the ground-floor banister by two hefty chains. There was something painted in small pink

letters, way down low on a padlock near the ground. I eased

myself down, gently and peered at the inscription. F U C K o F F.

`That’s AnneMarie’s wee joke.’

`Very droll.’

We met no one on the stairs. But there were signs of life:

lists of names on handwritten cards, cooking smells, a bass beat pounding, a raised voice, discarded cigarette packets,

burnt tinfoil shavings. Black rubbish bags sheltered in doorways. A dog barked and a shadow passed across the spy hole.

Always anticipate the menace of strangers. At last we reached the top floor. Here the landing was swept. Pots of plants,

scattered with seashells and pebbles, rested against the wall.

Derek rapped three times on a door and it opened from

within. Standing in the hallway was a large man dressed in

expensive-looking trainers, black jogging bottoms with a red dragon motif on the right leg and a black T-shirt with Gorbals Taste Kwon Do Club printed across the chest.

`Derek, mate, how’s it going?’

`Very fine, Chris. Yourself ?’

`Brand new.’

`And AnneMarie??

‘Down to the swimwear. She’ll be finished soon.’

Niceties over, he turned towards me, making it clear that

the time had come for introductions.

`This is a friend of mine, Mr Rilke.’

`So you want to join the Camera Club, Mr Rilke??

‘I’m not sure.’

`Ri]ke was hoping to ask AnneMarie about some photos

he’s got.’.

Chris smiled.

`Well, you know the rules. On Tuesday nights all callers are a member of the Camera Club. That’ll be thirty pounds, please, Mr Rilke.’

Derek avoided my look. I fished three notes from my

wallet and handed them to him.

`And ten pounds for the hire of a camera.’

No one likes to be a mark. Not the guy walking away from

the halo of autoteller surveillance cameras with a white cross chalked on his back. Not the loser in a shell game. I didn’t like it, but the big man’s tone invited no discussion.

I handed him another note and he passed me a Polaroid

One Step. An instant camera, devised in the 1970s, so party

goers could reassure themselves that they really were having fun. Soon adopted by that overlapping category of criminals, kidnappers and antique dealers.

`And another ten spot for film.’

I swapped my last ten for a slim, foil-wrapped packet.

`Why don’t you go through, now that you’ve paid your

money.’ It wasn’t a question. `Just down the hallway, third

door on the right.’

The door to the room was made of dimpled glass. It held a

thousand distorted reflections repeated in honeycomb, an

impression of people and white light, pink faces and dark

suits, a crush of bodies all leaning towards … I pushed open the door and stepped through. Six men were arranged in front of a makeshift platform. Before them stood a young girl, in a red and white polka-dot bikini, striking a pose. She was a pretty girl, sparkling eyes and an open smile. A pretty primary

schoolteacher, an air hostess, a weather girl. She opened a

parasol and peeked cheekily out from behind. Next she placed a large sun hat on her head, angling it, perkily, this way and that.

A nineteen-fifties pin-up, naughty, but wholesome. With every change in pose the men raised their identical Polaroids and

clicked. The room was suffocatingly warm, silent save for the clicking of shutters and hiss of pictures.

A man turned away from the model and gave me a furtive

glance. He was colourless, tired-eyed and balding. His

neighbour shifted his feet and lowered his gaze. I was spoiling the ambience. Upsetting the balance, watching the watchers.

The model changed position and I lifted my camera, caught

the girl in the square of the viewfinder and held her close. I felt like an assassin. The eye behind the lens. My mouth tasted of ashes. I swallowed, pressed the button and the flash

exploded.

The picture slipped out with a mechanical whirl. I watched

the black surface transform, the white bikini bleaching into view, the blood-red polka dots seeping through, the girl’s

face, pale and smiling, her eyes two crimson dots.

She slipped behind a screen and reappeared, as I’d guessed she would, no longer wearing the bikini top. The cameras flashed an agitato strobe, but each man kept his place, an almost regulation three inches from the others. The heat and white light were

beginning to take their toll. The room smelt of frustrated

testosterone and sweat. I sneaked a glance at my neighbour. He had removed his jacket. Damp rings circled his armpits. I took my pictures with the rest, letting the shifting images drop, one by one, to the floor. The girl disappeared behind the screen. A shuffle of reloading film, then stillness. We stood in silence for what seemed like an age. Each man looking ahead, wishing the others away, imagining himself the only photographer in the

room. Seven gentlemen callers, awaiting the return of the same sweetheart. Then, just when I thought the show was over, the girl re-emerged, naked. I’d been afraid of what might happen next, but she moved gracefully through a routine of artistic poses, indifferent to the crescendo of flashing light, bowed to the audience and stepped, once more, behind the screen.

The door opened and Chris appeared, He shook each man’s

hand and retrieved the cameras from them. They left with

quiet thank yous, carefully stowing photographs in their

pockets as they went.

I’d expected AnneMarie to be wearing an embroidered silk

kimono, but she’d slipped on a tracksuit similar to Chris’s.

We sat round a table in the kitchen, drinking tea from

cheerful yellow mugs. Derek and Chris were eating their

way through a plate of gingerbread. I wasn’t hungry.

Derek had introduced me and I’d handed AnneMarie the

Polaroids I’d taken. She’d looked at me suspiciously.

`Do you not want them??

‘They’re not my thing.’

`You mean you didn’t come here to take dirty pictures, but

he charged you then pushed you through the door anyway.’

She laughed. `You’re a bugger, Christian.’

He shrugged. No one offered a refund.

`Did you enjoy the show anyway??

‘You pose very well.’

`Well, that’s a diplomatic answer if ever I heard one.’

She laughed again. She had a pleasant laugh. It was an effort not to join in. Derek sensed my irritation and gave me a

conciliatory look. I’d been angry, but it didn’t take more than a look for me to like him again. More than like.

`Rilke here is an auctioneer. He came across some horrible

pictures, snuff photographs they look like, in some dead guy’s attic. Thing is, he also came across your card and he wondered if you might be able to tell him something about the man.’

`Snuff photographs? You mean, like, pictures of a dead

person??

‘Yes.’

`Like, you see them not dead, then dead??

‘It looks like the girl has had her throat cut.’

AnneMarie put her hand to her own throat. `Ugh.’

Chris reluctantly surrendered his piece of gingerbread.

`Shouldn’t you be going to the police with this? I mean, cheers

for letting us know he had AnneMarie’s card, but why are

you here??

‘From the look of the pictures it happened a long time ago.

Mid-nineteen-forties or thereabouts.’

`Aye, but even so, murder’s murder. There’s maybe

someone still alive wonders what happened to their sister,

their mother. There’s records for that kind of thing; missing persons.

Derek broke in. `Rilke’s got a photo of the guy. I thought

you might recognise him.’

`Even if I did, what could I tell you?’ AnneMarie poured herself some more tea from the large, brown pot on the table.

`I never talk to the clients. I’m the muse, untouchable and

silent. I’d lose my power over them if I spoke. I’m a fantasy object. The minute they realise I’m a real girl I’ve blown it.’

`Have you never spoken to any of them?’

She made a pained face. `Once or twice, but not if I can

help it.’ `

Chris spoke through a mouthful of cake. `That’s what I’m

here for. Make sure everyone behaves themselves.’ He wagged

his finger in mock admonition. `No touching the muse. No

shouting or whistling.’

AnneMarie smiled. `I think they prefer it like that anyway. Most of them are frightened wee mice. That’s why they’re here and not at the lap dancing or some legit camera club.

They take their photographs, then go home and get their

rocks off in private.’

Derek looked disgruntled. I wondered if he was unhappy

about letting me down. It was a pleasing thought. AnneMarie reached over and patted his hand.

`Sorry to disappoint you, Deke.’

Will you have a look at his photographs anyway?’

`Derek’ - he was pushing her too hard - `maybe I should

head off. I’ve to be somewhere later this evening, anyway.

Thanks a lot, AnneMarie, for the tea and cake.’

`No, wait a moment, unless you’re in a heury?’

I shook my head.

`It wouldn’t do me any harm to look at a picture of the

man, I suppose. He’s not standing next to a dead body, is

he?’

`No.’

`Well that’s all right, then. I’m a bit squeamish.’

I warned AnneMarie of the nature of the McKindless

portraits before passing them to her. She studied them briefly, twisting her face in disgust, then passed them to Chris with a significant look.

`Oh yes.’ Chris nodded. He didn’t seem to notice that

AnneMarie’s face had gone the colour of cold porridge. `I