The Cutting Room (28 page)

faint, peppery smell fanned from the pages, finest rag paper, white as an egg after two and a half centuries.

Two hundred and sixty years ago an artist had laid a sheet of copper on his desk. He had lifted a pot of melted wax from a burner and painted the surface of the copper thinly with it. He waited until the wax set, then traced the outline of his subject onto the metal. Next he took a small pointed tool, his burin, poised the handle in the palm of his hand and guided it carefully, ploughing furrows. The copper plate was finally dipped in acid which ate away at the exposed cuts, leaving the rest of the

surface intact, creating the template from which the engraving was printed. Etching is a difficult art. One cannot draw freehand with a burin. The final image is an accumulation of rows, dashes, flicks and dots, which grow from a simple outline into the final picture.

Rembrandt was good at it. So was this guy.

A dozen plates revealed the landscape of Merryland to be

a woman’s body. The quantity of plates suggested this was a

first edition, but it was hard to concentrate on imprint. The engraver had not confined himself to the exterior of the

country: a thorough conquistador, he had explored the new

land entirely, stripping away the woman’s skin, delving

deeper as the book progressed, exposing her like an

anatomical Venus or a cadaver left to the mercy of anatomy

students. The series climaxed in a detailed rendering of her reproductive organs. A man not satisfied with looking up

women’s skirts, he wanted to get closer, ever closer, until

he took the object of his desire apart, breaking it in an effort to discover how it worked.

I turned to the other books. Death reached out from their

pages. Death was a woman, and women were dead. She hid

her skull face behind a dainty mask, danced jigs with skirts raised high and wormy thighs exposed. She leant over the old, the young, embracing them like a mother. Mother Death.

Dead Mother. Death stalked with a dissecting-bisecting knife, cutting woman from sternum to pubis, unfolding her skin,

raising it reverently like the most fragile of altar cloths, revealing organs glazed with blood, exquisitely curled intestines, ovaries branching heroically from uterus cradled over

bladder, a miracle of engineering revealed. Death splayed

across the pages in white-faced charades. Death etched,

stippled, blocked, stamped, impressed itself. It tinted,

printed, scraped and scrawled. Death criss-crossed the page, engraved the grave. Death whispered in monochrome,

screamed in Technicolor.

I wondered how long it was since the old man had been

able to climb the stairs. How many evenings had he sat below thinking of these images, teasingly out of reach, reassembling centuries of cruelty from memory?

John said I would know the man through his books.

AnneMarie said folk have strange fancies.

The pornographer said there are many people with dubious

morals, but few psychopaths.

The books told me McKindless’s fantasies, nothing more.

It was time for the boxes. I sat for a minute looking at

them. Eight. I had examined three on the previous visit and

found one envelope of photographs. That left five. What were the odds that there was something else? The envelope I had

found might have been a moment of carelessness. A forgotten

image lost because it meant nothing. A photographic mirror of the etching. But then there was AnneMarie’s experience.

No watcher would mistake my movements as careless this

time. I searched with care unmatched, unfolding every page,

reading letters that yielded nothing.

When I saw the case, I knew, even before I opened it, that

this was what I had been looking for. What it held originally I wasn’t sure. Something feminine, I guessed, from the silvered shapes that decorated its surface. It was made of thick cardboard, compacted for strength, in a process rendered obsolete

after the seventies. The design, though abstract, owed more to Braque’s cubist complexities than to pop art or acid trips. I raised it beyond eye level. Stamped on the bottom, Judy Plum Wigs, Mitchell Lane. The lettering confirmed the other signs.

Virtuosa II, atypescript issued by Hermann Zapf in 1953. The case felt light but there was something inside. I set it on the desk, took a seat, flexed my fingers like a pianist and lifted the lid. Three small tissue-paper-wrapped packages nestled

among more crumpled tissue paper. I lifted them, one by

one, placed them on the desk, then carefully slit the fastenings on the largest package with my penknife.

It was a powder compact. Not expensive, but pretty all the

same. The edge of its lid decorated by a green and white

Celtic design. Barely legible, entwined in the Celtic border was the word Eire. In the lid’s centre, in case you hadn’t got the message, was an Irish harp. A present from Ireland to a

sweetheart? A holiday souvenir? I clicked it open. China white face powder trembled in the air, then drifted across the desk, gentle as snow in a globe. How many years since it had been

opened? I looked inside. Almost full, and there was my own

face, unsmiling and distant, reflected in the mirror.

I slit open the second parcel, a Bakelite hair clasp with a

brass clip. A plain geometric design, the height of fashion

round about the same time that Bakelite plastic was as

expensive as tortoiseshell. A single long red hair was trapped in its hinge.

The objects, like the case they were stored in, were both

feminine. The clasp expensive and in fashionable good taste.

The compact a pretty souvenir. None of them looked special

enough to warrant such careful storage.

I took my knife and cut carefully into the final package.

This was the smallest of the four, twisted and taped in a way that made me suspect it might be all paper and nothing else. A prank. Except nothing so far had suggested this man liked a

jest. I pierced the wrapping and shook out a delicate silver bracelet. Tiny charm like medals shivered on its chain. The

ten commandments. Top of the list, before murder, Thou shalt not take the name of f thy Lord God in vain.

`Jesus Christ,’ I whispered.

I took the photograph of the girl from my pocket and

scrutinised it through my magnifying glass. It told me what I already knew. There was no doubt. It was the bracelet that

hung from her bound wrist.

I was parked outside the house, seat pushed all the way

back, dark glasses blocking out the light, feet on the wheel, when Derek rapped against the window. I saw him vivid,

sharp against the haze of the day. It wasn’t exactly sunny,

but there was an earlymorning freshness to the damp and a

glare in the grey sky that might count as good weather.

Derek’s hair was slightly wet, as if not long out of the

shower. I’d warned him to wear clothes he didn’t mind getting dirty and he’d taken me at my word. An old denim jacket, frayed at the seams, black T-shirt bearing the legend CRIMINAL, worn Levi’s and Doc Martens boots. He looked like a handsome actor masquerading as a workman for the

sake of an advert. Whatever he was selling, he had a

customer. I peered at him over the top of my shades. He mouthed, `Hello,’ through the glass and my heart did a flip that tugged my balls.

I untangled my legs and slid out of the van. `Howie you

doing??

‘Good, man, good. So what’s the story? Is this the place

you were telling me about?

,This is it.I

‘Some size.’ `Aye, not bad.’

`So this is where the bodies are buried? I gave him a look.

He grinned back at me. `Sorry, bad taste.’

His smile would slay me every time.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

I unlocked the front door and we went into the house

together, me explaining what I wanted him to do.

`Just grunt `work, I’m afraid.’

Him being charming: `Well that’s what I’m good at.’

I led him up the staircase, towards the bedroom and the

attic beyond, aware of the irony of the situation. Circum stance mocked me. I had thought the task might bond us. That

a session getting hot and sweaty as we moved the boxes might result in a hot, sweaty session between us. Now I just wanted to move the stuff, lock the door tothe house behind me and

never come back. The bracelet was the Rosetta Stone of the

quest, a definite link between McKindless and the girl in the photographs.

Derek broke into my thoughts. `You know, this is probably

the biggest house I’ve ever been in.’

`Yes??

‘What did he do, the man who owned it??

‘That’s a good question. I should have asked it before I

accepted the job.’

`My dad used to say, “A rich man is either a thief, or the

son of a thief.” ‘

I took a seat on the top step. `Sounds like a wise guy, your dad.’

`Still worried about the photos?

I countered his question with one of my own. `AnneMarie

said you wanted to speak to me.’

Derek’s smile died and I realised that beneath the cheerful

facade was an anxious boy. He settled himself beside me and

gazed down the staircase as if fascinated by the swoop of its curve.

`I’ve got a bit of a problem. It doesn’t tie in with your

pictures - at least I don’t think it does - but I’d like to run it by you, if you don’t mind.’

`Go ahead.’

The conversation took on the rhythm of a catechism.

`Have you ever done something you regret??

‘Of course. Everybody’s done something they wish they

hadn’t.’

`I mean really regret. Something you’re ashamed of?’

`I’d say the same answer holds true.’

`Do you believe there are bad people and good people?? ‘I believe there are some bad individuals, but most people do their best to be good and everybody slips up sometimes.’

`Will you tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done, the

action you most regret?’

`No.’

He smiled with dour satisfaction. `Fair enough. Well, I’m

going to tell you the worst thing I’ve ever done.’

I wanted to ask him to stop, to say I knew enough of men’s

wickedness. Instead I braced myself, ready to eat his sins

whole. `Go on.’

He drew a finger through the recent dust on the step, then

rubbed it clean against his jeans. Stillness closed over us. Me and the boy in the empty house, his voice wavering now and

then, as he related his confession.

`When I first started to work in the shop it was exciting. It gave me a real feeling of power, you know what I mean,

probably a bit like you with the auction.’ I nodded to show I understood. `I was part of another world. A secret world

most people are too squeamish for. I mean, I was just selling dirty magazines in a basement record shop, but it gave me a

buzz. I think my enthusiasm amused Trapp. Sometimes he

was away for days and I’d be left to get on by myself. But

when he was around we talked. I bought everything he told

me. How we were freedom fighters in a war against regulation.

Democracy isn’t about the majority, it’s about the

minority, too, and as long as you hurt no one it’s nobody’s

business what you do.’

`It all sounds very plausible.’

`Would you have believed it?’

`Perhaps ‘ at your age. The most convincing lies have an

element of the truth in them.’

`I fell for it big time. I worked there for a few months,

taking phone calls from his other operations, speaking to

people abroad. I mean, all I was doing was screening his calls,

“Yes, Mr Trapp is in. No, I’m sorry he’s unavailable at the moment,” but you’d have thought I was James Bond or

something the way I carried on.’

`So what happened??

‘I got promoted. I wouldn’t say we were friends, him and

me. He’s not the kind of guy you make friends with, but I

looked up to him.’ Derek gave a tight laugh. `I considered him a mentor. He’d gone for it, made lots of money and remained

a rebel. On the wrong side of the law in defence of freedom.

What a joke. He asked me all about myself and I was happy to tell him, my ambitions, my short films.’

Suddenly I could see what was coming. `Oh no.’

`Oh yes.’

`He asked if you’d be interested in making a film for him?’

`It’s so obvious I didn’t even see it coming. He probably

thought I’d been hinting for weeks.’

`And you said yes.’

`I guess it wouldn’t be much of a confession if I’d walked

away.

`What happened??

‘I suppose it was simple. Trapp explained he didn’t want

anything too slick. He said amateurish was good. More

convincing. I was a bit offended at that.’ He shook his head.

`As if it mattered. We drove to a flat on the south side. Trapp was in a really good mood, a holiday mood. I think me being

there gave him a kick. Like a dad taking a son out for his first pint or something.’

`And you??

‘I was shitting it. If I could have thought of a way of

escaping without losing face I would’ve. We were the first to arrive. The flat was more or less empty, as if someone was

halfway through moving out. Trapp showed me a bedroom. I

set up my lights and stuff then we sat waiting and smoking.

The only thing in the room was a big double bed so we sat on that, side by side. Trapp made a joke about it. The longer we waited, the sicker I felt. I kept making up sentences in my