The Devil's Photographer Page 14

  Taking a deep breath, I feel as if I'm on the verge of giving up. I could just stop caring and let my body shut down, the same way that Anne apparently managed. At least she's no longer in pain.

  "Kate -" Dr. Martindale starts to say.

  "This is all bullshit," I say firmly.

  He pauses. "I'm sorry you feel that way -"

  "I shouldn't even be here," I continue, sitting up and turning to climb out of bed. I feel extremely dizzy, but as I get to my feet, I grab hold of the railing on the side of the bed and force myself to wait it out. If I stay here, in this bed and this hospital, I'll be dead within a day; I can already feel my body starting to surrender, but I'm not going to let it happen. I refuse to be like Anne. I'm going to keep pushing and make damn sure that I go out fighting.

  "Where are you going?" Dr. Martindale asks.

  "Out of this hellhole," I reply.

  "You're partway through a treatment schedule -"

  "I don't give a damn."

  "It offers a real chance to -"

  "It won't work!" I shout, embracing the pain as I rip the needle out of my hand. "This whole thing is just a trick to make me sit here while you suck money from my insurance. You can't do a damn thing for me and -" As I try to walk around the bed, my knees give way and I almost fall to the floor; I manage to hold onto the side of the bed and stay upright, but it's clear that getting out of here is going to be way more difficult than I'd realized. "Can someone call me a cab?" I ask, slightly out of breath. "I want a cab. Can someone call me a goddamn cab? That's the one thing, the only thing, that anyone here can actually do to help me right now."

  "I can't let you leave," Dr. Martindale says, clearly struggling to stay calm.

  "You can't stop me," I reply, turning to him. "Can you? I'm not a prisoner here. I've listened to you for so long, and all that's happened is that I've been sliding further and further into my bed and getting worse and worse -"

  "We've been trying to help you," he replies. "Please, Kate. Sit down with me and we can talk about this."

  "I'm not talking about anything," I say, limping over to the closet in the corner of the room and pulling the door open. Inside, I find all the clothes I was wearing on my first day here all those months ago, along with the overnight bag I packed; I still remember that day, back when I believed I was just coming to the hospital for a short period of treatment. It's hard to believe that I allowed myself to get sucked into staying here for so long, but I have to get the hell out of here before I die. Even if I've only got a day left, I want to be outside.

  I want to die outside.

  "As your doctor -"

  "You're not my doctor anymore," I say firmly, shoving my clothes into the bag. "Consider yourself officially fired." Turning to him, I see the helpless look in his eyes and I realize more than ever that I'm making the right decision. "You tried," I continue, "and you failed, and I'm not gonna spend the last few months of my life sitting around in this room -"

  "If you leave," he says, interrupting me, "you'll have far less than a few months left. I can assure you that -"

  "I'd rather have three weeks out in the real world than three months in this bed," I tell him, limping over to the door and pushing past him, heading out into the bustling corridor. There's a part of me that wants to turn around and go back to my bed, to do the safe thing and just let myself wither away and die; at the same time, I'm starting to feel as if my old self is coming back to life.

  "Kate!" Dr. Martindale shouts, hurrying after me. "What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?"

  "I've got work to do," I tell him, my eyes fixed firmly on the elevator up ahead.

  "You're in no fit state to undertake any -"

  "Then I guess I'll drop dead pretty soon," I reply, reaching the elevator and hitting the Call button before turning to him. "I don't care," I add. "It's not about eking out every last second of existence. It's about having moments that matter. I used to care about things, and I want..." As the elevator doors slide open, I try to find the right words. "When I die," I continue, "I want to be me, not some random, weak woman in a hospital bed who let all her passion fade away long before her body gave up. I'd like to think you might understand, but if you don't, then it's not really my problem. It's yours."

  "I don't understand," he replies. "You're throwing your life away."

  "Better than letting you throw it away for me," I say, stepping into the elevator and hitting the button for the ground floor.

  "Fighting talk won't help," he continues. "You're making a -"

  "Goodbye," I tell him, glancing over at him as the doors slide shut.

  Once the chamber starts to descend, I lean back against the wall and stare up at my reflection in the ceiling. I look like crap, and I'm still wearing my goddamn hospital gown; I also feel, for the first time, as if I'm lacking something important. Reaching up, I run my fingers against my collarbone and think back to the time when I used to always have a camera around my neck. Frankly, it was something of an obsession, and it was borderline unhealthy. I learned to view the world through a lens, instead of using my own eyes. Still, it's too late to change now. I should just get on with living the best way I know how.

  First, I need to get a camera. And then, I guess I need to develop that film.

  Twenty-five years ago

  "This'll help you sleep," the doctor says, placing a couple of pills on the bedside table, next to my camera. "It's important that you get a good night, Kate. We need you in top shape tomorrow."

  "Or what?" I ask, taking the pills.

  "I don't follow," he replies.

  I swallow the pills and wash them down with a cup of water.

  "If it all goes wrong," I continue, "and I die, what does it matter? I mean, it matters to me and to my family, but it doesn't matter to anyone else, does it?" I wait for him to reply, but he seems a little concerned, as if he's not sure what he's allowed to say. "It doesn't matter to Dimone Halifax Industries, for example," I add. "Or does it?"

  "Get some rest," he replies after a moment, before turning and heading to the door. " Good luck tomorrow, Kate. We'll all be rooting for you!"

  Today

  "Stop here!" I shout, banging my fist on the back of the driver's seat. "Right here!"

  "Still a few more blocks to -"

  "No, it's fine," I continue, as the driver brings the cab to a halt. Sorting through my pockets for some cash, I hand him a few notes before grabbing my bag and pushing the door open. A chill wind blows along the sidewalk and threatens to almost topple me over; still in something of a daze, I stumble a few steps before managing to regain my balance.

  Still, I feel as if I could drop dead at any moment.

  Turning, I find myself face to face with St. Abraham's once again. After six months, it's like seeing an old friend again, or at least an old acquaintance. There's clearly been a great deal of restoration work, but the place looks pretty good considering the inferno that engulfed it earlier in the year. As I step closer, I instinctively reach up to my chest for my camera, which of course is nowhere to be found. I feel naked without it, but I guess I'll just have to use my eyes for once.

  "You alright?" asks a passing woman, stopping next to me. "Honey, you don't look so hot."

  "I'm fine," I mutter with a faint smile. "Really."

  "You sure you don't wanna -"

  "I'm fine!" I say again, more firmly this time. "Please! Just leave me alone!"

  "Jesus!" she replies, taking a step back. "I was only trying to help, bitch!"

  As she turns and walks away, I can't help but note that in all the years I've lived in New York, this was the first time anyone has ever asked me if I'm okay. I can't even begin to imagine how bad I must look right now. I avoided mirrors while I was in the hospital, and although I've caught my reflection in one or two windows now and again, it's been a very long time since I really took a proper look at myself. Hopefully, I can keep that run going.

  When I reach the bottom of the steps, I
realize that I didn't have much of a plan when I got out of the taxi. I was going to go straight to Dagwood's apartment, but when I saw the church, I had to stop. With no particular aim in mind, I start walking up the steps, with my backpack over my shoulder. It feels good to be here, as if in some perverse way I'm coming home and getting back to work. It's hard to believe that I spent so long away, tucked in my hospital bed, and I almost feel guilty, as if I betrayed my old self.

  "Sorry," I whisper to myself, before using my tongue to wet my dry lips.

  As I get to the top of the steps, I reach out and put a hand on one of the huge stone columns, as if I can barely believe that I'm really here. I'm feeling weak, but at the same time I'm determined to push ahead. There are still a few dark patches on the stonework, presumably left over from the fire, but overall, the building looks to be in pretty great shape. It's as if it has been waiting for me all this time, knowing full well that I'd come back eventually.

  ***

  My footsteps echo in the vast interior. The place seems to be completely deserted, its vaulted ceiling looking like a series of yawning mouths, all waiting to be closed. Candles burn on a nearby table, lit no doubt by visitors who desperately sought divine intervention for one ill or another. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a few coins and take them over to the table, where I drop them into a collection jar before lighting a candle and putting it in position. I'm not religious, of course, so I feel like a total liar, but in some strange way the ritual makes me feel good. Hell, the way things are going, that faint, flickering flame might even outlast me.

  "They say it helps to say the prayer out loud," says a familiar voice from nearby, "because that way, God knows you're not ashamed of asking for help."

  Turning, I see Dagwood standing a few feet away.

  "I thought God was everywhere," I reply cautiously.

  "Everywhere or nowhere," he says with a faint smile, before walking over and joining me in contemplation of the candles. "Every one of these represents hope, but how many do you think were lit by true believers, and how many were lit by people who think God's a load of hooey but they figured it was worth a try? How many were just being ironic?"

  "If he takes away the pain and lets me live longer," I reply, "I'll come to church every Sunday for the rest of my life and kneel down to say any goddamn prayer he likes just so that he -"

  Before I can finish, I feel something brush against my shoulder. Turning, I find that there's no-one behind me.

  "You okay?" Dagwood asks.

  "Yeah," I mutter, figuring I should keep the sensation to myself, in case he thinks I'm losing my mind. "I guess I've just been in hospital for too long. It's kind of weird being out and about. I don't really remember what it's like to be in a room that isn't air-conditioned to hell."

  "I knew you'd come down here," he replies.

  "I didn't know I'd come down here," I tell him.

  "So why did you?"

  "Loyalty."

  "To what?"

  I pause. "To how I used to be. To the things I used to care about."

  "The place was extensively rebuilt after the fire," he says, leading me over toward the altar. "No expense spared, as you can see. Traditional stone-masons were brought in to work twenty-four-seven, using the original techniques. No laser-cutting for these people. It was a mammoth job, and it was all completed in just a few months, working day and night. The cost must have been astronomical." He stops next to a rope that cordons off the altar itself. "Who do you think paid for all that work?"

  "Someone with a pile of cash," I reply, limping to a halt next to him. "Someone who didn't mind throwing a few million dollars at some crumby old church that no-one really cares about."

  "But who?"

  "I don't know," I mutter. "The Pope?"

  "Wrong denomination."

  "See?" I reply with a shrug. "I don't even know that. I couldn't tell the difference between a Catholic and a Protestant if -"

  "Still wrong," he says, interrupting me. "Whoever's behind this church, I don't think they're part of the traditional orthodoxy of any religion, although they certainly like to make it seem that way. The place is decked out nicely. I doubt anyone who wanders in from the street is too suspicious, but then again, they should try watching St. Abraham's at night. That's when the really interesting things start to happen around here."

  "Are you still on about dark figures slipping in under cover of darkness?" I ask.

  "Not all of us have spent the past six months in a hospital bed," he replies with a faint smile. "I've been moving forward with my ideas, gathering some more information, and most of all I've been watching this place like a hawk. Actually, I took a few notes from your playbook. Got myself a camera, loitered on street corners... I don't even know what I was looking for. I felt as if I'd hit a brick wall, and I needed some kind of hint as to which direction to go next. I must have taken close to a thousand photos over six months, feverishly developing them when I got home, looking for something, anything, that might help."

  "Did you find anything interesting?" I reply, fighting the feeling of nausea in my belly. It's as if the cancer is clawing at the lining of my gut. Damn it, can't I just get a moment's relief? Can't I feel normal, even for a second?

  "Define interesting," he says with a sigh. "I've got plenty of reference photos for anyone who wants to study the architecture of this place. I've got pictures of builders coming in and out. I've got evidence of safety inspections." He pauses. "But if you're referring to ghostly images, maybe figures appearing in the shadows, then I came up with nothing."

  "I guess there's nothing here, then."

  "Or they only appear to certain people."

  "Lucky me," I say with a forced smile.

  "I mean it," he continues. "There's still that roll of film from the last time you were here."

  "And you really weren't tempted to develop it?"

  "Oh, I was tempted," he replies, "but I'm very good at being patient. I knew you'd come back one day. In fact, I have a dark-room at home, and the film is waiting for its owner to come and finish the job." He pauses. "I meant what I said earlier, Kate. If anyone else in the world develops that film, I can guarantee there'll be nothing of interest in any of the images. But if you do the job, I think he'll allow himself to appear."

  "Who?"

  "Who do you think?"

  "Amin Bell?"

  He pauses. "That's just a name," he says eventually. "Sometimes a name isn't enough to describe a man. I need you to develop that film, Kate."

  "Huh," I reply. "I don't remember you being quite so crazy the last time we met."

  "Please," he continues. "It won't take long."

  "You want me to go and do it now?" I ask, surprised by his tenacity.

  "What would you rather be doing?" he replies. "Taking a nap? Getting drunk? Wandering the streets?"

  Turning and staring back across the room, I can't help but watch the shadows, in case I see a ghostly figure.

  "It's a five-minute drive," he continues. "I don't know if I mentioned it last time we met, but I also happen to be something of an amateur chef. I could knock something up, a real feast. I doubt you've exactly been well fed while you were in hospital, so why don't I make you a meal to remember?"

  "The last supper?" I reply with a smile.

  "Not the last," he says firmly. "But maybe the best."

  "Fine," I say, realizing that I've got nothing else to do. It's not as if I've got any friends or family to go and see, and my apartment - cold and untouched for so long - isn't exactly appealing. Besides, even though I'm convinced he's wrong about the film, I figure I might as well play along. "Let's go and develop those photos."

  "My car's parked a few blocks away," he replies. "I'll go and bring it around. Meet me out front in about five minutes, okay?"

  "I'll come out now," I tell him.

  "No," he says, putting a hand on my arm. "It's a cold day. You should stay in here, where it's warmer. In fact -" Taking off his jacket
, he places it over my shoulders, and although I want to decline, I can't deny that the warmth feels good. "Okay?" he continues, taking his car keys from the pocket. "Kate, are you going to be waiting outside when I get back?"

  "Sure," I reply weakly.

  "Five minutes," he adds. "Out front."

  I nod.

  "You're not gonna run out on me, are you?"

  "No," I say wearily. "Where the hell else am I gonna go?"

  "That's the spirit," he replies with a smile.

  As he hurries away, I turn back to look at the altar for a moment. I'm still feeling a little hazy and disorientated from all the drugs I was given in hospital, and I'm pretty sure that from a purely physical standpoint, I shouldn't be up and about. Then again, I left that damn place because I wanted to get back to work, and Dagwood seems very persistent. Besides, while it was corny as hell, a guy has never given me his jacket before, and it feels good. I guess -

  Feeling something brush against my shoulder, I turn and find that there's no-one nearby.

  "Stop that," I whisper, taking a step forward.

  Silence.

  Seconds later, something nudges my other shoulder.

  "Stop!" I say, turning back the other way.

  I stand in silence for a moment. I guess I might be losing my mind right now, but at the same time, this has been going on for a while.

  Listening to the silence, I wait for it to make its next move. I can't quite explain the sensation, but somehow I know that there's something here with me. It's almost as if I can feel it watching my every move.

  "Amin Bell?" I ask eventually.

  Silence.

  "Whatever you are -"

  There's a bump against my left shoulder.

  "If you're -" I start to say as I turn.

  Before I can finish, however, something slams into the side of my face, knocking me backward until I trip over the cordon and tumble to the floor, landing hard against the edge of the altar. Feeling a sharp pain in my side, I try to pull myself up, but after a moment I become aware of a dark figure standing over me. Just as I turn to look directly at the figure's face, it leans down and hits me again, this time knocking me out cold.