The Cutting Room (29 page)

head, exit lines, but nothing fitted. Finally after about half an hour there was a ring at the door and the “actors” arrived.’

`What happened??

‘I went through with it. Fairly straightforward I suppose. A man and a woman had intercourse on the bed and I filmed

them. End of story.’

`Sounds like it could have been worse.’

`Aye, but it was horrible.’ His voice faltered. `I’d begun

filming when I realised the woman didn’t want to be there.

Tears streaked down her face. She was crying without making

a sound. All those lies Trapp told me about freedom and

democracy. I close my eyes and I still see her. She was foreign.

Fuck knows where from. The whole way through she looked

right into the camera, right at me, her eyes staring into mine as I stared back through the viewfinder. You know it made me angry. I wanted to slap her, tell her to look elsewhere, look at the man who was fucking her, he was the rapist not me.’ His

voice dropped to a whisper. `I felt like I was killing her.’

`Didn’t you do anything??

‘No. No, I ‘did nothing.’

`Were you frightened??

‘Fucking terrified. It’s no excuse, but yes. The kind of guys who’d do that, yes it petrified me.’ Derek shook his head.

`Afterwards the couple left and Trapp gave me a lift into

town. He paid me fifty quid. Fifty quid. I went straight to a bar where I knew I’d meet people, and spent it getting

wrecked.’

`Why are you still working there?

`Good question. You’d think I’d shift my arse quick-style

wouldn’t you??

‘Want my advice?’

`I think I can guess: leave. Well it’s out of my hands. The

police came looking for him yesterday. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of days, but that’s nothing unusual, he’s often away.

After he’d gone I tried the filing cabinets. They’re usually locked, but they slid open like a dream. They were empty. I

think he’s done a bunk.’

`What do you think I should do?’

We had moved up to the attic and for the last hour had

been working in shifts, one of us passing the cartons through the trap, the other carrying them down the ladder. We’d

paced ourselves, working in silence, both dwelling on Derek’s story.

`Keep shtoom.’ I steadied a box as Derek balanced it on

one shoulder. Les’s advice came back to me. `These guys are

the real thing. You should have legged it after the video

episode.’

Derek descended the ladder slowly. `I thought about it. I

thought of going to the police, sticking him in, but I was

frightened.’

`You were right to be frightened. If I was you, I’d get

myself an anonymous manila envelope, put on a pair of rubber gloves and post the keys back.’

`What if the police come looking for me?’

`Is there any reason why they should?’

`I don’t know.’

`Then cross that bridge if you come to it.’

I passed him down the final box. The attic was empty, save

for the furniture. That could wait there for the next occupiers,

for all I cared. I clattered down the ladder and joined him beside the stack of books and boxes.

`If they do turn up, tell them as little as you think you can get away with, but be sure what you do tell them is the truth.

And for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t let on about your directorial debut.’

`Do you think I should go to the police anyway?’

I’d been pondering that very point while we shifted the

contents of the attic. I wanted to protect the boy. Was telling him to run the best advice or just a reflex? But experience told me that when the police came looking for someone else it was sheer foolishness to step forward.

`What would you tell them??

‘What I’d seen.’

`Well, that would have the benefit of clearing your

conscience. But it’d get you into a lot of trouble and very

likely tell them nothing they don’t know already. If I were you I’d keep a low profile, buy a daily newspaper and keep your

ear to the ground.’

Derek leant against the pile of boxes, looking more relaxed

than he had since starting his story.

`You know, it’s funny how things work out. When you

came into the shop I thought you were just another punter,

then, when you showed me the photographs, I wasn’t sure. I

thought you might be getting your thrills in another way.

When you showed me AnneMarie’s card I decided, well,

here’s a chance to test out whether you’re a sleaze or not.’

`Don’t you think that was a bit unfair on AnneMarie??

‘I knew nothing would happen with Chris there and you

had her card. It was inevitable you’d look for her. Better you found her when Chris and I were around. Anyway,’ he

laughed, `you were so majorly uncomfortable with the

set-up it was obvious you were genuine. Then when you

passed round the photographs it was clear you really were

bothered. That’s when I first thought you might be able to

give me some advice. You seem to know your way around. I

got the feeling you’d understand, wouldn’t judge me.’

`Why didn’t you ask me sooner?’

`I wanted to think things over, then when the police came

round I knew I had to talk to someone. Thanks.’

`Any time.’

I wanted to prolong the intimacy between us. I lit a cigarette and offered one to Derek. He turned it down and took a pull

from a bottle of Irn Bru he had brought with him.

`You smoke a lot don’t you??

‘Yes.’

I took a drag, hoping he wasn’t going to start lecturing me.

`Ever think of giving up?

He passed me the bottle and I put my lips where his had

been.

`No.’

`You know it suits you, the shape of your face. It looks

good when you inhale, very sculptural.’

I hadn’t blushed in thirty years, but there was an unfamiliar glow creeping across my face. I turned away to check one of

the boxes. The one where what I was beginning to think of as trophies were stored.

`What’s that?’ I

hadn’t meant to tell him, but in the warmth of the

moment and the aftermath of his confession, I found myself

opening the wig case and passing it to him. He lifted the

objects one at a time, examining each in turn, then placing

them back in the tissue. Too late, thoughts of fingerprints

flitted through my mind.

`So, I know nothing about antiques, man. Are these

valuable??

‘Not in themselves, no. But I think they’re connected to

the photographs I showed you.’

`Really?

He looked sceptical and there and then I was taken by a

need to impress him, to show I wasn’t an obsessed eccentric.

When I think on it now, I sting with shame. I took out the

photograph and my magnifying glass and handed them to him.

`Look at what she’s wearing on her wrist.’

Derek raised the glass awkwardly to his eye and squinted at

the picture. `Jesus.’ He lifted the bracelet slowly, examining it against the light of the window, returned to the photograph then raised his eyes to mine. `What’re you gonna do?

`Sit tight until after the sale.’

`I know this sounds weird after what I’ve just told you,

but don’t you think you should do something sooner? Like

nowt

`Possibly, but the man’s dead, he’s not going to be harming

anyone where he is and, quite frankly, we need this sale. His sister’s ill, like to die. We can’t afford a delay.’

He nodded, abstracted, deep in thought.

`I guess they’ve waited a long time, a few days won’t make

so much difference.’ He looked at the photograph again.

`When you think about it, the word “snuff”, it sounds like a gentle way to go. Turn out the light, snuff out the candle.’ He leant against a box. `Here comes the candle to light you to

bed. Here comes the old man to chop off your head.’

Derek laughed nervously and somewhere someone walked

across my grave. I shivered and stood up.

`Let’s get this show on the road.’

Loading took us another hour, then we were sitting in the

van, next to each other, tired and dirty. I wanted to ask him to come out with me, to go for a meal, something to drink.

Instead I handed him thirty pounds and asked where I could

drop him.

He hesitated. `You said you were short of money.’

I was touched. `Everything’s relative. You more than

earned that, and you don’t have a job any more.’

I didn’t start the engine, sensing more was to come, but

unsure of what it was.

`You know, I would have got in touch even if it wasn’t for

the video. D’you mind that I said I’d rather you owed me

one?

I attempted to mask my excitement with a note of caution.

‘Yes?

`There’s something I’d like more than money from you.’

`Yes?

Derek looked straight at me, his Weimaraner eyes clear

and guileless. `God you’ve got the perfect face.’ My lips

tingled. His voice dropped a fraction, growing serious. `I told you that my dream was to make horror movies?’

`Yes??

‘Well, I think it could happen. I think I could make it.

I’ve a bit saved and God knows I’ve got time on my

hands. I’ve made a lot of small films. I’ve even won a

couple of competitions. I’m good at it. I just need a break, the right vehicle, the right actors and I think I’ve found

them.’

I smiled, sceptical, as the old will be of the young, but

infected by his enthusiasm. `Congratulations.’

`Cheers. But this is where you come in, if you’re willing.’

I was expecting him to ask to borrow props, perhaps even

use the auction house as a location. Whatever it was, I decided I would help.

`I’ll do what I can.’

Derek flashed me a grin and asked, `What’s the most

popular horror film ever??

‘Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde??

‘Good guess but no.’ He lowered his voice like a fairground

barker reaching the climax of his spiel. `Nosferatu.’ Then,

seeing my bewilderment, `Dracula. Things went all wrong

with Bela Lugosi. After him it was suavity and Byronic

aristocrats, Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing. Fine for a laugh but nothing like the originals, Nosferatu.’ He drew out the

word splitting it into syllables. `Nos fer-a-tu. F. W. Murnau had Max Schreck, Werner Herzog had Klaus Kinski. I’m

going to make my own version and you would be perfect for

the title role. The ancient vampire, end of his line, left to moulder, alone and friendless. The bemused monster who has

lived too long. What do you say? He put on an American

accent, `C’mon baby, I could make you a star!’

I realised I had leant towards him. Now I pulled back. The

shrill of my phone pierced the silence. I answered it in a daze.

`Hello. Mr McKindless? announced an authoritative voice.

`He’s dead,’ I said in a whisper too low to be heard across the radio waves.

The voice continued. `This is the Royal Infirmary. I’m

sorry to have to tell you that your aunt is in a critical

condition. I think it best that you come here now.’

Downhill from Here

AT THE INFIRMARY I lost my bearings and asked a white coat

for directions. He eyed me hungrily, then related a shortcut, which led me down the gentle gradient of echoing basement

corridors, past porters wheeling trolleys laden with blanketed mounds of the seeming dead. The nose has a way of

remembering what the brain has forgotten. There, in the

scent of Infirmary disinfectant, was every hospital visit I had ever made. My madeleine. A stooped man in a soiled

towelling robe shuffled by without raising his eyes. An

attendant, looking like a prison guard, took him by the crook of the arm and led him round a corner. I walked on. The

traffic of people seemed to be lessening. The walls melted

from piss yellow into eau-de-nil. The overhead pipes of

Victorian plumbing grew denser. I halted at a branch in

the corridor, unsure whether to go left or right. A small man in grey overalls hurried by, carrying a pendulous plastic

rubbish sack in each hand. I started to call out, to ask the way, but he disappeared through a swing door. I caught the door on its return and followed him through.

The small man bent towards the open doors of a furnace.

He had unfastened the bags and was scooping their contents

quickly and efficiently into the flames. A wall of heat leapt towards me. My back and forehead prickled and I caught an

impression of pale, fleshy softness. The hospital scent was

gone. The man and I locked gazes. He made to speak and I let the door swing to, blocking out the sight.

I retraced my footsteps then propped myself against a wall,

resting my face against cold, porcelain tiles, trying to erase the pictures in my head. Later there was a brisk approach of

footsteps. A nurse turned the corner. I straightened myself

and told her I had lost my way.

`Geographically or emotionally?’ There was an Irish lilt to

her voice.

`Both.’ ‘

`Ah,’ she laughed, `I can only help you with the geography.

Some things are beyond cure.’

I twisted my lips into an impersonation of a smile and told her she might be right.