The Cutting Room (27 page)

fingers.

‘We finished looking through the album. I arranged the

room the way he wanted. The couch draped with throws, the

screen behind it as a backdrop. Then it was show time. He

asked me to get undressed. I went behind the screen and

stripped. I don’t like them seeing me taking my clothes off,

that’s private.’ She looked away from me, towards the

window, out into the night sky. `It was warm in the room

but, as soon as I took off my clothes, I felt cold, really cold.

Goose bumps rose on my arms and across the back of my

neck. He asked me to lie on the couch, then described the

positions he wanted. I’m good at taking direction, but I guess I already knew the kind of pose he wanted from his album. He

arranged the lilies around me like some kind of funeral

decoration. Sap leaked from their stems onto my skin. When

he’d first brought them I thought they smelt lovely, but now it was as if they’d been standing in dirty water for too long. A rank scent, like a dead pond when there’s been no rain.’ She shivered and squeezed my hand tightly. `I’d expected the

session to be awkward, but I felt’ - she took a sip of her drink - `I felt strange. Charged. As if I was hyper-sensitive. The colours in the room seemed brighter. The ticking of the clock, the click of the camera shutter, sounded like slamming doors. But the worst was my skin. I could feel everything, the cool of the air, the pile of the fabric beneath me. The old man moved and a breeze brushed my body like a caress. He said nothing, but his gaze pierced me. His eyes bored through the lens, deep into me. And I began to feel … she hesitated again,

`aroused. For a second I felt that if he touched me, old as

he was, much as he disgusted me, I wouldn’t resist. Christ.’

She groaned and downed the last of her drink. `I didn’t mean to tell you that.’ A tear rolled gently down her cheek. She had beautiful skin. `Now I’ve disgusted you.’

`No, not at all.’

I hesitated, unsure of what to do, how best to reassure her.

A sob shuddered her body, breath whooped as she tried, and

failed, to stop it escaping. I put an arm tentatively round her shoulders and she leaned into me. The strangeness of holding a

woman, delicate, fragile, a hollow-boned bird. I stroked her hair; it smelt of vanilla.

`Tell me.’

`I’d put the clock where I could see it. As soon as his time was up I jumped off the couch and threw on my robe.’ She

stopped.

`Was that the end of it??

‘Not quite, no.’ She drew a hand across her face and

sighed. `I was the one who was flustered now, embarrassed. I felt he knew. He started to pack away his equipment, then

said, “How much to cut you?” I asked him, “Pardon?” even

though I’d heard him the first time and he repeated it. “How much to cut you?” I was tempted.’ She started to cry again.

`It was almost as if he had hypnotised me. I was disgusted with myself. I get like that sometimes. The posing, the way it

makes me feel. It was almost as if I wanted some kind of

punishment. A physical hurt to take away the hurt inside. I got a tingling feeling at the top of my arms where I felt he might begin. I remember every word. “A small cut, hardly a scar.

Let the pain that cuts away the pain diffuse your senses.

`But you didn’t let him?

`God no, but I wanted to, for an instant I wanted to.’

AnneMarie was crying in earnest now, her shoulders

shaking beneath my arm. I gave her a reassuring squeeze

and she turned her face into my chest. She continued talking, her voice muffled, broken by sobs.

`I told him I was expecting someone. He paid me my

money and left. Christ, it’s a sin, but I was never so happy as when you told me he was dead.’

I squeezed her shoulders again. `You’ve nothing to feel

guilty about.’

She raised her face. There was a damp patch on my shirt

where her tears had soaked into the cotton. She touched it and laughed bravely. Her face was close, very close. She raised her lips to mine and then we were kissing. Tongue touching

tongue, tenderly, tip to tip. I opened my eyes and saw that

hers were closed. I ran a finger down her spine. She moved

closer, small breasts pressing into my chest. I kissed along her cheekbones, tasting the salt of her tears. Her hands strayed anxiously towards my belt.

I stayed them. `No.’

She sat up, breath heavy. `Am I going mad?’

I kissed her again, this time on the cheek. `No more than

anyone else.’

We sat quietly, holding each other for a while, me stroking

her hair, then it was time to go.

AnneMarie came with me to the door. `Will you tell me

what you find out??

‘You’ll be the first to know.’

We kissed a platonic goodbye, then, as I turned to leave,

she said, `Oh, I almost forgot. Derek’s been desperate to talk to you. Wait a second.’

She ran back up the hallway to the kitchen and returned

with a telephone number scrawled on a scrap of paper.

`Why don’t you give him a call?

I kissed her again and went out into the darkness.

Trophies

THE ENTRYPHONE BUZZED in the middle of the night. I

awoke with a jolt, my body twisted in the sheets. Two drunks stumbled up the stairs, their voices indistinct and booming.

On the floor above a door opened and an argument began.

The illuminated numbers on my alarm clock read 04:05.

Upstairs a dog lent cadence to the shouting. A door slammed, the drunks fumbled with keys and complaints, another slam

and then silence. The dawn chorus began as if also awoken by the row. My hands reached out in the dark, found tobacco and Rizlas and started rolling. In the apartment above someone

said something and the Rottweiler harumphed, settling back

into slumber. All hope of sleep seemed lost. Then it was 7

a.m., there was ash on the sheets and a half-burnt cigarette dead between my fingers.

I rolled another smoke, got up, washed, dressed, made

myself porridge that looked like paste, forced it down, lifted

the telephone and brought it to the table with another smoke and a mug of coffee. My fingers hesitated, then started to dial.

HOSPITAL : ‘Your aunt is stable, but I’m afraid there’s been no improvement.’

ANDERSON: `Inspector Anderson is unavailable. If you tell

me the nature of your inquiry, I’ll see if another officer can be of assistance.’

JOHN: ‘You know me, Rilke, I’d buy from the De’il

himself if there was a profit in it, but I’m no so sure about you. What exactly happened between you and my brother the

other day?’

ROSE: `Your presence is required, here, today. You’ve

been on an extended skive since the start of this job. Perhaps you’ve forgotten how important it is? This sale could make or break us. That reminds me, how’s the old lady doing?

LESLIE : ‘What the fuck kind of a time is this? You’ve burnt your bridges this time, big man. I’d just about forgotten you.

Now piss off before I remember too much and get annoyed.’

D E x s x : Good to hear from you, man. You timed it well,

I’m free today.’

I asked Derek if he wanted to earn some pin money helping

move the boxes from the attic. He sounded pleased to hear

from me but didn’t say what he had wanted to talk about. We

agreed to meet later in the day outside the McKindless house.

My motives were dishonourable and varied. I wasn’t sure

what I was going to do with the books, but I was certain,

whatever I had promised, I wasn’t going to burn them. I

needed help from someone unconnected with the auction, and

who better than this boy? A boy I wanted to spend time alone with, a link, however faint, with McKindless. I wished I had asked AnneMarie more about Derek but, after what had

passed between us the night before, it hadn’t seemed possible.

I thought about the complexities of desire. How many years

since I had been with a woman? I tried to conjure up AnneMarie’s image and to my relief saw her as she had been the

night before, cosy and barefoot, in her tracksuit.

The remains of my hangover made everything an edge out,

a second beyond anticipation. But it only hurt a little bit and the pain was a pleasant distraction from the rest of my

problems. I forced my concentration on space, distance

and driving: especially driving. Accompanying my despondency was an excitement, a recklessness probably not unconnected

with the alcohol still in my bloodstream. Who

cared if your friends deserted you and your employer alternately wanted to land you in jail or sack you, when the pressure on your temples made the whole world surreal?

Inside the house things looked as I remembered, the empty

hallway, the stained glass reflecting a pool of coloured light onto the parquet floor. The smell was different, though, a

slight dampness which hinted already at abandonment and

dereliction. It was still early in the morning. Shadows lurked in the turn of the landing, in the half-open doorways. For

some reason I shouted, `Hellol’ into the emptiness and paused for a second. It struck me I would rather be anywhere than

here. And, though I don’t believe in ghosts, I sang to keep my courage up as I climbed towards the darkened guest bedroom

at the top of the house.

`I went down to St. James Infirmary,

Saw my baby there;

Stretched out on a long, white table,

So sweet, so cold, so fair.

`Let her go, let her go, God bless her,

Wherever she may be,

She can search this wide world over,

But she’ll never f nd another sweet man like me.’

The words didn’t make sense. How could his baby search the

world for another sweet man if she was dead?

I hooked down the ladder to the attic, unlocked the

trapdoor and heaved myself in, noting that the height no

longer bothered me. The room was in darkness. I felt for the light switch, clicked it on and looked around. I don’t know

what I had expected, but the unchanged quietness of the room was an anticlimax. Everything was as before: the rows of

boxes, the bookshelves neatly stacked with volumes, the desk and chair, the almost empty bottle of malt tumbled on the

floor. I lifted the bottle, measured its contents, two good

swallows, then placed it upright on the desk, resisting a pull for good luck.

I had promised twice to destroy the contents of the attic,

but promises are easily broken. John had said McKindless

would be revealed through his library, but John was a

bookseller; he formed his opinion of everyone through their

books.

I ran a finger along the spines, wondering why I hadn’t

returned before. What was there to fear? Discovery? It was

true I didn’t want to share my knowledge or my fee. But I

had managed deceptions in the past. That the sale would be

cancelled? It would make a difference. Bowery Auctions was

trembling on the edge of ruin and this sale could be our

salvation, our future if Rose was to be believed. But we had looked into that abyss before and survived. Was I sentimental about the printed word, paralysed by the sanctity of

books? No. I have tipped shoals of books, pitched encyclopaedias, out-of-date bestsellers, book-club-choice-ofthemonth

and Reader’s Digest Condensed into the council

dump, sent novelists’ dreams of immortality somersaulting

into the refuse without a qualm. Anyway, I had no intention

of destroying these books. They were rare volumes, immoral,

but some so scarce I had only glimpsed references to

them in dated catalogues. There was no way I would consign

them to the flames. They were coming home with me,

legitimate pochle.

What I had been avoiding was the truth. Like a child

hesitating before a keyhole, I wanted to discover hidden

secrets, but was frightened that the knowledge, once gained, wouldn’t be to my liking and could never be lost. Accentuating the fear was a delicious anticipation, the thrill of terror, before the plunge. It was the thrill that scared me most.

I rubbed my hands on a clean handkerchief, making sure

they were dry, then set to work, examining the titles I knew first, easing myself gently into the task, leaving the unknown till last, checking each book methodically, holding it loosely in the palm of my hand, fanning softly through the pages,

searching for ephemera or esoterica hidden between the

leaves. There was nothing. McKindless had been a true

collector. No acid leeching paper, no bookmarks, revues

or folded obituaries interrupted the progress of the pages. I grew absorbed, stopping occasionally to read a phrase or

confirm an edition, packing them into the small cartons I had brought with me. An hour and a half later I was sweating,

dusty and thinking of the whisky. But it was time for the

unknown volumes and I was determined to face them sober.

The calm induced by the routine sorting left me. Once more

it felt eerie to be all alone searching through a dead man’s

secrets, and I wished I had brought a radio to drown out the sounds an empty house makes.

I eased a leather-bound quarto volume from the shelf and

stroked my fingers lightly across its thirsty boards. The rifle page announced, A Description of Merryland, by Roger Pheuquewell (1720), A Topographical, Geographical and Natural History of That Country. I closed the covers, then opened

them again, letting the leaves settle where they willed. A