The Cutting Room (9 page)

themselves with an echoing boom against the metal grilles of shut doorways, young Dodgers intent on intoxicating debauch.

`A fucking three-hundred-pound gold chain!’ The

homebound herd hesitated, for an instant, city radar thrown, then moved on.

A bruised boy with the face of a prophet, stood whispering,

`Any change, please? Any change?’ As each one turned from

him, he offered his empty polystyrene cup, like a gift, to the next. I tipped him a pound.

`You’ll only encourage him,’ grumbled a beefy man,

sweating in his grey pinstripe, trundling by, without pause

for debate.

At West Nile Street I counted down the door numbers

until I came to the one the voice had given me. A basement

record shop. The front was painted pale blue, a gold on navy sign above the door read SIRENS, flanked on either side by the mirror image of a bigbusted mermaid strumming a guitar.

I loped down concrete steps bevelled with years of use how many footsteps? - into a tiny courtyard choked with litter. The window reminded me of a joke we used to play as

kids: `Excuse me, Mister, how much are your dead flies?? ‘I

don’t sell dead flies.’ `So how come you’ve got six in your

window?’ A long time ago someone had stretched nicotinecoloured cellophane across the glass to stop the records

warping in the occasional sunlight. It hadn’t worked. Albums flopped halfheartedly among the dust, the distorted vinyl

bowing their cardboard sleeves. It was almost as if whoever

ran the shop didn’t want any customers. I had come to the

right place.

I pushed open the door, a bell announced my presence, and

I was out of the city and into the gloom. A cool, black-painted

cave, walls lined by racks half filled with lolling albums. The counter was far forward, maximum storage minimum display,

no room for browsers. An arch behind the counter was

screened by a fringed, plastic red, white and blue curtain, the kind common to butcher’s shops; beyond it the glow of a

computer screen. Pornography’s new frontier. A sign by the

counter read, We have thousands of items in stock not on display. If you don’t see what you’re looking for - ask. Above the records, shelves of videos. I slid one out …featuring real girls from Glasgow. Why not Real Girls from Rio? Taut, tanned buttocks

losing out to the Pilsbury Dough cellulite of the girl next

door. It cheered me to think that given a choice the average Scottish pervert wanted to wank to the robust Scottish girl in the street. Then I wondered if all straight men liked these bigbusted, well-fed young women, or if it was just the perverts.

The thought depressed me again.

The curtain parted. A young boy in a khaki shirt stood

regarding The from the archway, the fringes draped round his shoulders like a patriotic veil. Youth wrapped in the flag of the Empire. He was handsome. Dark like the black Irish,

saturnine. Shoulder-length hair, sensitive mouth, pale-blue

eyes, translucent and impossible.

I was too old to call it love at first sight, but I had all the symptoms. People have died for love, they have lied and cheated and parted from those who loved them in turn. Love has

slammed doors on fortunes, made bad men from heroes and

heroes from libertines. Love has corrupted, cured, depraved

and perverted. It is the remedy, the melody, the poison and the pain. The appetite, the antidote, the fever and the flavour. L

Kills. Love Cures. Love is a bloody menace. Oh, but;, while it lasts. The world faltered on its axis, then re customary gyration, a place of improved possibi’

`Can I be of some assistance?’ His tone didn’t fit the look or the venue.

I smiled, wondering if my face was changing, taking on a lupine stretch. Beware the wolfinan. `My name’s Rilke. I have an

appointment.)

‘My name’s Derek. Who’s your appointment with?

He made eye contact, raising his eyebrows slightly. Was he

flirting with me? I felt the old stirring in the groin but all that showed was I wanted him.

The straights think that we have some kind of radar, that

there are signals we give off, a mode of dress, style of

conversation. `Dear boy’ said Francis, fingering his green carnation and smoothing the lapels of his bespoke suit, `tell me, do you have many Judy Garland CDs?’ Well, of course there is a place for that, but it’s never been part of my technique. I prefer a more straightforward approach. What hinders me is the old question: is he queer? I saw this boy and wanted to take him by the

hand, lead him out into the street to my room, any room, and strip him naked.

`Is your appointment with anyone in particular??

‘Just ask around in the back, son. There’ll be someone

there who wants to speak to me.’

I glanced through the stock while I waited. It’s a common

emotion, a distaste for sex that doesn’t turn you on. It was too much for me, the lushness of the images. Bigbusted, largebottomed women bent forward grasping their bosoms, legs

stiff, rears raised like stretching cats’, glossed lips slightly parted, as if this was the most erotic moment of their lives.

For all I knew, it was.

I wondered if there was anyone I knew featured in Real Girls from Glasgow. I left the videos and picked up a magazine. The

same girls-next-door, this time legs splayed in alarming

Technicolor. I was peering through my magnifying glass,

trying to discern whether the images had been tinted, when I heard the voice from the telephone.

`You have to be careful where you put the staples in some

of these.’

He came forward to greet me, hand outstretched. A

thin man in his fifties, about five eight, white hair cut

short and natty, tortoiseshell spectacles I suspected might

be non-prescription. He was dressed in a dark suit and

black roll-neck. Everything expensive, everything anonymous. A man you would forget. A man it might be safer not to remember.

`Mr Rilke.’

`just Rilke.’

`Rilke. A friend of Leslie’s.’

`A mutual fiiend.’

`Yes,quite so. My name is Trapp. Why don’t you come

through to the back, and we can have our conversation in

private. Derek will deal with any shop business. Bring the

magazine if you like.’ He indicated my magnifying glass.

`Close scrutiny, eh? Just when I thought there was nothing left to reveal.’ He drew back the curtain and ushered me through, nodding to Derek, busy tap-tapping at the computer. The boy

left the room without a word. I followed him with my eyes.

The man traced my gaze. `A nice boy.’

`Seems to be.’

I still couldn’t place the accent, a touch of the US masking a European clippedness.

`So, Leslie didn’t explain why you wanted to see me, but I

owe him and I gather he owes you, so here we are to pay our

debts. Tell me what I can do for you.’

I took the envelope containing the photographs out of my

pocket and laid it on the desk.

`I came across these. I’d like to know more about them.

What’s going on? Specifically, are they authentic?

I slipped the pictures of the tortured girl from the pile and slid them across the table.

He looked at each in turn without a change of expression.

`Do you know the girl??

‘No.’

`May I look at the rest?

I pushed the others towards him. He leafed through them

slowly, frowning with concentration.

`Are you familiar with anyone in the shots? I nodded.

`Could you indicate them for me please.’

I took a picture where Mr McKindless’s face was prominent

and pointed to him. `This is the owner of the prints.’

`Ah yes, yes.’ He worked his way through the photographs,

then sat silently, eyes shut, fingers steepled beneath

his brow. `Excuse me for a moment.’

He left the room and there was a sound of running water.

I looked about me: half office, half warehouse, everything

neatly arranged. On the computer monitor a galaxy raced

towards me. I nudged the mouse gently and it cleared,

revealing nothing. Derek had saved and filed whatever he

was working on before he left. My new acquaintance returned, affecting not to notice the clear screen though I felt

sure he had marked it.

`Yes. Our Leslie is a naughty boy, isn’t he? What made him

think I could help, I wonder? There was a menace in his tone that belied the gentleness of his words.

`I badgered him into it, and you know Leslie, he’s more

enthusiastic than accurate at times.’

`Yes, a man prey to strange enthusiasms. I will tell you

what I can, but first tell me something. What do you know

about the origin of these photographs?’

`Nothing, or next to nothing . I know the man who owned

them was wealthy, the source of the wealth I don’t know. As

well as these photographs, he has a large collection of erotic fiction assembled, I would say, over many years. He lived in Hyndland with his sister.’

`Lived?? ‘I suppose that’s the other thing I know about him. He’s dead. I came across the photographs in his effects.’

`You’re a lawyer??

‘No, an auctioneer.’

He laughed. `An auctioneer. Are you planning on putting

these under the hammer? He emphasised the phrase as if it

amused him.

`I’ve no plans at all right now.’

`One=more question. Why?’

`Why what?

`Why take the trouble?

`No reason. I’m interested.’

`A lot of effort to go to for no reason.’

`Nevertheless, here I am.’

`Yes, here you are. Okay. This man’ - he pointed at

McKindless - `you say he collected erotic fiction, dirty

books.’

`Yes.’

‘Anything else?’

`Not so far. Well, I found a netsuke, a carved ivory

Japanese ornament. It was pornographic in nature.’

`Sadistic??

‘Yes.’

`Okay, there’s a consistency there. This man has the

mentality of a collector. He appears himself in some of these photographs, which suggests his passion isn’t for photography.

These here’ - he indicated the scenes of torture - `are original photographs, but we don’t know how he came about them. Is

there anything to suggest he didn’t simply go into a shop and buy them? Under-the-counter trade. It happens sometimes,

I’m told.’ He smiled.

`I’ve a feeling about them. The way they were stored

together, the similarity in the style’ - I was surprising myself now - `the length of the shot, the general arrangement.

Remember, I spend my life classifying, determining provenance, authorship. No, I take your point and I could be

wrong, but I’m certain these came from the same origin.

There’s something I can’t quite put my finger on, but what it amounts to is a consistency of composition and the decision to store them together. There’s a connection.’

`Okay. You feel sure somehow that this man is involved in

the creation of these pictures. Personally I think there is not enough evidence, but we’ll work under that assumption for

the meanwhile. What you really want to know is was a young

girl murdered for sexual gratification and her corpse photographed?’

`Yes.’

`I would say almost certainly not.’ My face must have

registered surprise at his quick response, he laughed. `You’re disappointed! I have spoilt your mystery. Okay, how can I be so sure? For the reason you are sure they were taken by the

same person. Professional experience. Many people fantasise

about sex and death. Eros and Thanatos. The association is as old as time. Repeated over and over, in art, literature,

cinema, mythology even. The official line in my profession

is that no snuff movie has ever been made. Such a thing could never happen. This is self-protection. We all know, of course, that it has. I have never seen one, I know of no titles, but I know somewhere, there is a film of one person killing another at the point of climax. How do I know? Because reason tells

me. Experience tells me. If someone has thought of doing a

thing, then someone somewhere has done it. The world is an

old and wicked place, Rilke, the dreadful has already happened.’

`So

why …?’

`Why do I think these are staged? Because very few people

ever carry out these fantasies. The mess, the logistics, the jail sentence. No, I said that somewhere someone has done it. I

stand by that, but most people can distinguish between fantasy and reality. We meet many people with dubious morals, but

we meet very few psychopaths. I do not think these photographs are authentic.’

`But you can’t be sure.’

`Who can ever be sure? Let me show you something.’ He

went over to a filing cabinet and returned with a document

wallet. `Look at these.’

He removed a sheaf of prints and passed them to me. A

familiar image repeated, different locations, different personnel, but the same formula over and over, a body wrapped

tightly in bandages, some with faces revealed, others with

heads so tightly swathed I wondered how they hoped to

breathe.

`Look familiar? He laid my picture of the mummified girl

beside them. The resemblance was irrefutable.

`What are they doing??

‘They call it “the Egyptian”, for obvious reasons. I would

describe it as a form of bondage, a letting go, an abdication of

responsibility. In everyday life we fight for power; sometimes, in our fantasies, we relinquish it. Here’s an interesting one.’

He handed me a cutting from a magazine. A woman, prone