The Cutting Room (25 page)

if she was dying. Victorians believed the sick must never sleep in a room with cut flowers, lest they choke the oxygen from

the patient. I pushed the bouquet away, just in case, and

turned to leave. The body in the bed moved.

`Mr Rilke.’ Those blue eyes still had the power to hold me,

but her voice didn’t sound young any more. `You find me at a disadvantage.’

`Miss McKindless, I hope I didn’t wake you. I was just

going to creep away. How are you?’

She smiled weakly, her head remained on the pillow. `You

thought you would see if I was going to kick the bucket.’

The truth brought a flush to my face. `Not at all.’

`Don’t be coy.’

She closed her eyes for a second, then motioned for me to

come closer. Ill as she was, it was an imperious gesture. I sat on the chair and leaned forward. Beneath the smell of

disinfectant was a stale scent of disease. The hairs on the

back of my neck tingled as they rose. I breathed in and smiled like the trooper I was. When my time came I’d shoot myself.

`It is imperative that the sale goes ahead.’

I kept my tone professional. `Is there anyone that you

would like to appoint as your agent, somebody you might like me to act through while you’re in here?’

`Not unless you can get help from the dead. There’s

nobody left except me.’ There was a hint of a laugh behind

her rusty whisper. `Let the sale go ahead. The moneys can go into my account as arranged.’

`I give you my word on that. The auction will take place, as agreed, on Saturday.’

She gave a shallow nod. `You gave me your word on

something else. Has it been done?’

`We finished clearing the house today. I’ll dispose of the

contents of the attic myself tomorrow.’

Miss McKindless shifted a little beneath the covers. For the first time she looked agitated.

`Mr Rilke, we made an agreement. The attic is the main

reason I employed you and not a larger firm.’

I wanted to take out the photographs, lay them on the

bedspread in front of her and ask if these were the reason for

her anxiety, or if worse awaited me. My right hand drifted

towards the pocket where they rested but her condition

stayed me.

`It was impossible to dispose of the material while the rest of the house contents were being removed and catalogued. It

would have taken too much explaining.’

She closed her eyes again. `Yes, I can understand that.

When will it be done??

‘By the end of tomorrow the attic will be cleared and its

contents destroyed.’

`Mr Rilke.’ Her eyes opened. `I am relying on you. For

your own sake I advise you not to let me down.’

`Miss McKindless -‘ I couldn’t stop myself - `there are

some disturbing things in that attic.’

`I don’t doubt it’ - she didn’t blink - `and I want them

destroyed. My brother would have done it himself before he

died if he had been able, but old age creeps up on you, Mr

Rilke, time is a cheat and before you know it there’s no

strength left for climbing ladders or lighting bonfires.’

I couldn’t let it rest. `I’m concerned about what I might

inadvertently destroy. I think your brother may have been

involved with some questionable people.’

`Mr Rilke,’ her voice was mocking, `my brother was

always involved with questionable people. It enabled him to

avoid having to do anything too questionable himself. He died three weeks ago. His life is an episode closed. Whatever he

did, it is in the past. It cannot be altered or redeemed. What is the point now in worrying about what you destroy? I’m an old lady. Allow me some peace.’

`You’re very loyal. My brother, right or wrong.’

She gave a long sigh. `Do you have any brothers or sisters??

‘No, I was always alone.’

`Then perhaps it’s hard for you to understand. When you

have known someone as a child, you can always see the child

they once were. My brother grew up to be . .’ she

hesitated, `an unfortunate adult. But he was a lovely child. A clever, beautiful boy who could have been anything he

wanted. When we were growing up and he was naughty I

tried to protect him from punishment - and it was harsh

punishment. As he grew older his misdemeanours became

more complex, but I continued to do my best to shelter him

from their consequences. Perhaps I shielded him too much.

I’m willing to take my share of the blame. Somewhere

something went wrong. But I could always see the child in

him. Remember, there were just the two of us. He was my

only family. How could I abandon that child?’

`And you’ll protect him after death.’

`After his death. After mine I suspect there will be little I can do.’

The short speech had taken it out of her.

Will you at least look at what I found??

‘Mr Rilke, if you present me with anything from the attic

I’ll call a nurse and have her eject you from the hospital, then I will call your employer and remove the goods from sale.’

`Okay.’ I put my hand gently over hers, mindful of the

bruising. `The contents of the attic will be destroyed by the end of tomorrow.’

She smiled faintly, laid her head back on the pillows and

closed her eyes. Through the window the outline of John

Knox raised his hand in malediction.

Rose was trying to look concerned. `Poor woman. Do you

think it’s serious?’

`She’s over eighty. Sneeze and it’s serious at that age.’

We were sitting in the office. Rose had taken one look at

my ruined suit, shaken her head and poured me a glass of

wine.

`It’s sad. A brother and sister dead so soon after each

other. You hear of it in marriages, don’t you? One can’t

live without the other. Old-fashioned devotion. Does she

have much other family?’

`No, not so far as I could make out. No one, in fact.’

`Poor soul. Still, at least she still wants to go ahead with Saturday.’

`She was insistent.’

I looked up and caught Rose’s expression. She wore her

Mona Lisa smile, cryptic, mischievous.

`Okay, what is it?

She shook her head, lowering her eyes in case I read their

secret intent.

`Tell me.’

`What if we kept the money??

‘Rose, she’s not dead. I just took instructions from her at

the hospital.’

`I know that.’ Rose’s tone was hurt. `That’s why I said it.

Christ, it would be a terrible thing to say if she was dead.

Then you might have taken me seriously.’ She topped up

my glass. `Still, if she was .’

`We would contact her bank and let them do the rest.’

`You, you’re always so moral. We can’t do that, it’s wrong. You arenae always so particular though, are you??

‘Maybe not, but I’ve never fucked a policeman.’

Her mouth opened in feigned outrage. `Neither have I!’

She laughed. `But it’ll not be long now. I’ve been trying

to be gentle with him. Seriously, Rilke, what harm would

it do? If she was dead and didn’t have anybody, the money

would just go to the Crown. What’s the point in that? The

Crown has enough. They’d only waste it. Come on.’ She

sat on the desk and crossed her legs, her shoe dangled off

the tip of her toe. `Wouldn’t it be nice to have a wee bit

more than not-quite-enough, just for once? I’m sick of

worrying constantly about money. It’s all right being poor

when you’re young, you’re strong, the future’s ahead of

you. But recently I’ve been thinking about what it must be

like to be poor and old.’

`Come on, Rose, it’s not as bad as that.’

`Oh no? How’s your pension plan? Non-existent like mine.

What are you going to do when you can’t cut it in the auction trade any more? Shuffle round the salerooms every week,

hoping you’ll find something you can turn a coin on. Still

working when you’re seventy? Eighty? This could be our

chance.’

`Rose, you’re talking about robbing an old woman. We

don’t do that. We’re the good guys. We leave the stealing and coffin-chasing to others.’

`I’m not talking about robbing an old woman. I’m

talking about robbing the Crown. I’m just saying that if

she does die, God forbid’ - she crossed herself, stumbling

over the gesture midway - `why don’t we keep the money

and bugger the Crown? We could spend it better than

them.’

`And what would your friend Inspector Anderson make of

this plan??

‘Jim?’ Her face softened. `Jim wouldn’t know and what he

didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.’

`It might do when he’s in the visiting line at Cornton Vale.’

`Ach.’ She batted my words away.

`It’s the truth, Rose. I’ve managed to get to this age

without ever going to jail. I’d like to see if I can avoid it a while longer.’

She sipped her wine. `You’ll not go to jail. Anyway, she’ll

hopefully make a full recovery. It was just idle speculation.’

She turned and looked me straight in the eyes, always a bad

sign with Rose. `A nest egg doesn’t land in your lap every day, though. Worth thinking about, I would say.’

The telephone started to ring. Rose held my gaze a little

longer, then swivelled round and lifted the receiver.

`Good evening, Bowery Auctions.’ She raised her eyebrows.

`For you, Mr Rilke, a girl.’ She lowered her voice in

mock wonder. `A young girl.’

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.

Wordsworth, `The Tables Turned’

ANNE -MARIE O P E N E U THE door wearing her black tracksuit.

She smiled. I liked her smile.

`Hi, come on through and I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

I followed her into the kitchen, wondering if they ever

drank anything stronger in this house.

`It was good of you to come.’

`No problem.’

I asked about her acting, while we waited for the kettle to

boil, hoping to put her at ease. She related a couple of

anecdotes about working with Derek on his gorefests, as she

called them, but they were polite routines, worn from

retelling. We didn’t discuss why she had invited me there

until we were settled in the lounge.

It was a pleasant room, furnished in a mismatch of periods.

A glass kidney-shaped table circa ‘54, 1930s semi-deco,

brown boucle couch, ’40s standard lamp with tasselledfloral

shade. The lamp illuminated a silver ’60s cocktail bar. I gazed at the bar. It
twinkled
back.

AnneMarie placed the tea things on the table and shifted a

pile of fashion magazines, creating space for us on the settee.

The room was no longer dominated by the harsh lights and

small stage, but traces of the camera club were still there.

They lingered around the walls in framed black-and-white

prints: Man Ray’s desert curves of girls; Louise Brooks’s

backward gaze; the even invite of Brassai’s hoors.

I am used to sipping tea in stranger’s homes, appraising

their belongings. AnneMarie had taste but, for a girl who

regularly took her clothes off in front of strange men, her

fixtures and fittings wouldn’t fetch much. She curled beside me, cradled her mug in both hands and raised it shakily to her lips. I realised she was trembling.

`Are you all right??

‘Fine, yes. It was good of you to come.’

`You’ve said that already.’

`Have I? Sorry.’

She got up and switched on an ancient record player. It

hummed and a green glow illuminated:

Third, Light, London Munich, Moscow, Motola

Hilversum, Paris, Budapest

Long-gone channels. Stations of the dead.

‘Stations of the dead,’ I said and AnneMarie looked up.

‘Pardon?’

I shook my head and she turned away, lifted the arm and let

the needle descend. Janis sang, `Ohhh, I need a man to love

me.

AnneMarie re-joined me on the settee. `Before we begin

I’ve got to swear you to secrecy.’

I promised to keep whatever she told me to myself.

`Is that your solemn bond?’

`I’d offer to swear on the Bible but I’m not a believer. I’ll swear on a bottle of malt if you’ve got one.’

She smiled politely, humouring me. `No, that won’t be

necessary. I’ve wanted to speak to you since you showed us

those photographs. I can’t get them out of my head. You

see’ - she looked away - `I took him up on his offer. I let

that man come back and photograph me.’

By yourself?’

`By myself.’

I walked to the window. Over on the expressway the earlyevening gridlock was beginning to clear. Amber headlights

snaked in slow procession along criss-crossing bridges, beads of light suspended in the night sky. A helicopter hovered over them for a while, then rose high into the air, gusting off centre for a second, then flying beyond the frame of the window. I

turned back towards her and took my seat on the couch.

`What happened?’

`Just what he said, he photographed me.’ She lifted a hand

to her eyes. `Sorry. It wasn’t that bad, I suppose. I mean, he didn’t hurt me or rape me or anything.’ I felt in my pocket for a handkerchief, but I’d given the last one to Steenie. She fished a tissue from up her sleeve, blew her nose, then made an