The Devil's Photographer Page 15

  Twenty-five years ago

  When I open my eyes, I find that the whole room is dark.

  I blink a couple of times, before reaching over to my watch and checking the time. It's 3am, which means I've still got a couple of hours before I'll be woken up for the operation. Shifting uncomfortably onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling and try to get back to sleep. Unfortunately, I feel as if I'm wide awake, and finally I let out a sigh as I realize that I might be stuck like this until someone comes to -

  Suddenly I hear a noise nearby, in the room.

  Turning, I look over at the window, but at first I don't see anything. After a moment, however, I see something moving in the far corner; I turn to look, and slowly I become aware of a figure in the gloom, watching me. I can't make out its features at all, but I'm damn certain there's someone here in the room with me. Trying to stay calm, I reach out for the emergency button so I can call a nurse, but I find the light-switch instead. As the neon tube above my bed flickers into life, I stare at the corner.

  For a fraction of a second, I see the figure of a man standing there, bathed in the on-off flickering light. Finally, the light comes on properly, and the figure seems to disappear altogether. I stare at the space where he used to be, and slowly a moment of horrified realization sweeps through me.

  It was him. It was the man from my photos.

  Today

  "What the hell are you doing?" I shout, sitting up suddenly and realizing that I'm on the back seat of a car.

  "Relax," Dagwood says from the driver's seat. "You're okay. At least, I think you are. We'll find out for sure soon enough."

  Turning, I see that we're heading out of the city. Manhattan is slowly disappearing beyond the gray, cold horizon, and we're driving fast along the highway that leads north. I swallow hard, my mind racing as I try to work out exactly what the hell is going on here. My mind still feels as if it's full of dust, and although I can just about bring back specific memories, I can't arrange them properly in a narrative.

  "You collapsed in the church," Dagwood continues, watching me in his rear-view mirror. "Do you remember that? It's partly my fault. I should never have left you in there, but I thought you'd be okay for a few minutes. When I came back inside to find you, you were on the floor by the altar. You've got a nasty bruise on your face, but apart from that, you don't seem to be too badly damaged."

  "Someone attacked me," I tell him, sitting up properly.

  "No kidding," he replies. "Whatever it was, at least it seems to have left you alone eventually. Maybe I disturbed it when I came back. I wouldn't be surprised. There are certain things around that are quite easy to scare away. They stay in the shadows and rarely come out into the light. When they do, they don't like to linger."

  "Did you see anyone?" I ask, my heart racing as I lean forward and examine my face in the mirror. Sure enough, there's a bruise on my left cheekbone. I feel a shiver pass through my body as I realize that I look absolutely terrible. Not just sick or weak, but truly, irredeemably awful, and it's impossible to miss the hint of death in my eyes. I've been avoiding my reflection for so long, and now I see that I was right to do so. I look like I'm dying.

  "The place seemed to be empty," Dagwood says after a moment.

  "There must have been someone there," I say, still transfixed by my reflection. "It wasn't a gust of wind that knocked me over."

  "There was no-one," he replies. "Not that I could see, anyway. I suppose it's possible that some street-kid was hiding out and took advantage, but..." He pauses. "Kate, I need to ask you something. Have you noticed anything strange lately? Anything... nearby? Like you're being watched or followed?"

  I sit back and take stock for a moment. "Sometimes..." I start to say, before realizing that I'm going to sound like a complete fool if I tell him the truth. Then again, I guess the time for worrying about that kind of thing is long over. "Sometimes it's as if someone's standing right behind me," I continue. "I feel someone touch my shoulder, or brush against me. Sometimes I even think I hear someone breathing, but when I turn there's no-one around."

  "How long have you been feeling like that?"

  "Almost every day lately," I tell him. "And before that... It's happened occasionally before."

  "Going back how far?"

  I pause. "All my life, I guess. Even when I was a teenager."

  "And it happened to you again today?" he asks. "In the church?"

  "Yeah, except this time it seemed more persistent. More determined. Before, it was like it was nudging against me by accident. This time, it really wanted me to know it was there."

  "Has it ever struck you before?"

  "No."

  "And you've only ever experienced this while you're in or near the church?"

  "No," I say again. "I told you, it was at the hospital too. And before that, as far back as my childhood."

  "Are you sure?"

  "It's been happening on and off for years," I tell him, "but definitely more often this year. What does it mean?"

  "It means you've attracted the wrong kind of attention," he replies as he switches us into another lane. "Still, I'm surprised it followed you into the hospital. These things are usually a lot more cautious. They prefer to wait until there's no chance of anyone else seeing them. For all their power, they're pretty cowardly. They move in the shadows, but obviously something spurred this one to be a little bolder."

  "These things?" I ask, shocked by the way he seems to know what's happening to me. "What are they?"

  "If I told you now," he replies, "you'd tell me I'm crazy and demand to get out of the car."

  "I'm almost at that point already."

  "You'll understand when we get there," he continues. "I know this must all seem kind of strange, but I promise, it'll make sense soon. I thought I'd have time to explain it to you properly, but your condition is worse that I'd realized."

  "Where are you taking me?" I ask, looking out the back window and seeing the city in the distance. I can't remember the last time I left New York; it almost feels as if I'm leaving the whole damn planet. "I thought we were going to your apartment?"

  "Change of plan," he replies. "You need help, Kate. Urgent help. I thought this part could wait until tomorrow, but apparently I was wrong. Fortunately, I know some people who can give you what you need, but you're going to have to trust me for a little while longer."

  "I never said I trusted you at all," I point out.

  "I got you out of the church, didn't I?" he replies. "Twice, in fact. I got you out of the hospital, too. I seem to be making a habit of getting you out of places."

  "And I'm grateful," I tell him, "but that doesn't mean..." I pause as a wave of nausea hits me.

  "You okay?"

  "Of course I'm not okay," I mutter.

  "It'll take about two hours to get there," he continues. "You might as well try to sleep for now. I'll wake you up when we arrive."

  "I've spent the past six months asleep," I tell him firmly. "I need a nap like I need a hole in the head."

  "Now there's an idea," he replies.

  I open my mouth to argue with him, but at the last moment another powerful wave of nausea hits me, this time forcing me to sit back and hold my breath. If I was at the hospital right now, I'd be getting a shot of morphine that'd knock me out for the next twenty-four hours; there was something nice about being able to slip away when the pain became too great, and I'm tempted to ask Dagwood to turn the car around and take me back to Dr. Martindale. The only question is: if I asked Dagwood to turn this car around, would he do it? Something tells me that if I push too far, he might push back.

  Feeling something warm and wet on my face, I reach up and realize that I've got a nosebleed. I check in the mirror and see that a steady trickle of thick, syrupy blood is leaking from my left nostril. This happened once before, at the hospital, and I'm pretty sure it's a reaction to the fact that I suddenly stopped taking all my drugs.

  "I'm not -" I start to say, before dizziness tak
es hold. It's as if the car is spinning all around me, and although I try to sit completely still, I end up grabbing the back of the seat in an attempt to right myself. I'm aware of Dagwood saying something, but somehow I can't break down the sound into words that make sense. I try to reply, but my head feels heavy and I slip down face-first onto the seat.

  Dagwood is shouting at me, but I can't hear what he's saying. I don't even care. All I know is that my nosebleed is getting worse, and although my head feels heavy, my body feels light. I close my eyes and listen to the gentle thump of the speeding car, until finally I pass out again.

  Twenty-five years ago

  When I wake up, the whole world is filled with pain.

  "Kate," says a voice nearby, "can you hear me?"

  I try to reply, but I can barely move my lips.

  "Okay," the voice continues. "This is Dr. Willis. You're out of the operating theater, and everything went very well. We're going to keep you sedated for the rest of the day, but we'll bring you out of it in the evening, okay? There's no need to worry, though. We're certain we got all the cancerous tissue. It's just about getting better now."

  Although I want to talk to him, I can barely even pull two words together. After a moment, I feel some kind of liquid being pumped into my arm, and finally I slip back into darkness.

  Today

  "Bring her straight though," says a male voice. "We'll sort out the rest later."

  "She lost about half a liter in the car," says another voice, which I vaguely recognize. "Maybe a little more."

  "It's okay," the first voice says. "Do you know her type?"

  "No idea."

  "Don't worry. We'll -"

  Before he can finish, I open my eyes and try to sit up, only to find that I'm strapped to some kind of trolley, being wheeled along a corridor. There are people all around me, running alongside the trolley, and for a fraction of a second I'm convinced that I must be back in the hospital; after a moment, however, I realize that the walls of this place seem to be made of stone, and the ceiling is high and curved. It's less like a hospital and more like some kind of church or castle.

  "Where am I?" I ask, immediately realizing that my mouth is completely dry. I try to wet my lips with my tongue, but it's no use. My whole body seems to be completely dehydrated.

  "There's no need to panic," Dagwood says, reaching out and putting a hand on my shoulder. "You passed out in the car and lost some blood, but we're going to fix you up, okay? You're in good hands. The people here are professionals and they won't let anything happen to you."

  "Where am I?" I ask again, turning to see the other people who are helping to push the trolley. Despite the haze in my mind, I'm starting to panic.

  "Hello, Kate," says an older man, wearing some kind of surgical gown, his face partially obscured by a mask over his nose and mouth. "I'm the doctor here. I'm going to be dealing with your problem today, and I can assure you, there's no need to worry. I've seen patients with the same complications before, and I know how to help you. It's a condition that many doctors don't understand, but we know about it here. We have different methods, better methods, and we're going to help you."

  "Help me?" I try again to sit up, but the leather straps are holding me down tight against the trolley. "Who are you? What are you doing to me?"

  "They're going to save your life," Dagwood says. "Just stay calm."

  "This isn't a hospital," I reply, turning to him. "You said you were taking me to a hospital!"

  "No," he replies, "I didn't say that at all. But this is a hospital, of sorts. It's just a little different to the place you've been recently. The good news, though, is that these people are much better equipped to help you. The doctors who've been treating you so far are barbarians compared to this kind of thing. You'll see soon enough, I promise."

  "Help!" I scream, realizing that I've been kidnapped. "Someone help me!"

  "We need to hold her down," the doctor says.

  "No!" I shout, struggling with every last ounce of strength to get loose. "Let me out of here!"

  "Wheel her straight in," the doctor continues, as they push my trolley through a set of double doors and into some kind of large, well-lit chamber. "There's no time to lose," he continues, "so we're going to dispense with the pleasantries and get straight on with the job at hand. We don't know the exact locations of the tumors, so there'll be an element of diagnostic work as we go along. I need everyone to be on their top game today."

  "It's going to be okay," Dagwood says, leaning closer to me as the trolley finally comes to a halt in the middle of the room. "Trust me, I would never have brought you here if I wasn't absolutely certain that they can help you."

  "Who the hell are they?" I ask, fighting back tears as I turn and watch half a dozen men gathering equipment from a nearby trolley. I turn back to Dagwood. "What is this place? Where the hell have you brought me?"

  "It's a kind of hospital," he replies. "The people here are dedicated to helping people, but their methods are a little far off the beaten path. They're not exactly orthodox healers, but they know what they're doing and their work is steeped in tradition and experience. They use methods and knowledge that other people have forgotten over the years. Please, try to stay calm, and I promise I'll explain everything to you once this procedure is over. There's so much to tell you, and I should have started sooner. It's just..." He pauses as the other men gather around the trolley.

  "Please don't hurt me," I say, turning to look at the doctor. "Please, I don't want any more pain."

  "We're going to help you," the doctor says. "There will be some pain and discomfort, but I can assure you, it's entirely necessary. We have extensive experience with this kind of procedure, and although I know it can be scary at first, the results are going to astound you. We can do things that your normal doctors simply can't dream of."

  Turning and looking over at the nearby trolley, I see a range of blades, saws and scalpels.

  "Oh God, no..." I whimper.

  "The first stage," the doctor continues, "is to get to the source, or in this case sources, of your cancer. We're going to literally cut them out, Kate. I know that might sound primitive, but it's a technique that works very well. Once we've passed that stage, we'll need to move on to some other steps, but this is the first and most important part of our work. It might seem a little old-fashioned, but you'll overcome that misconception in time."

  "Why are you doing this to me?" I shout, turning back to Dagwood.

  "To save your life," he says firmly.

  "You can't save me!" I shout, with tears in my eyes. "You're torturing me! Please, just kill me! I do not give you permission to do this!"

  "The procedure works," he replies. "You'll see soon enough, Kate. It works, but there's just one problem. I wish it wasn't the case, but..."

  I wait for him to continue.

  "What?" I ask eventually, seeing the look of fear and concern in his eyes. "What are you going to do to me?"

  "The operation will be a complete success," he continues. "I promise you that, but the techniques we use here... There are certain things that can't be done. You have to be awake. I'm sorry, Kate, but it's just how it had to be. You can't be sedated in any way. No drugs at all."

  Turning, I see that the doctor is approaching with a set of scalpels.

  "No," I whisper, filled with shock. "No way. No..."

  "The pain will be temporary," the doctor says, setting down all but one of the scalpels. "It's also highly unlikely that you'll remember the entire experience once it's over. Unfortunately, anesthetics have a negative impact upon the body and mind's reactions to this kind of procedure, but that's one of the many, many things that modern doctors simply don't understand. They numb their patients' senses, and at the same time, they make it much more difficult for the procedures to succeed. This is one of the most important aspects of the work we undertake here."

  "No!" I shout, struggling desperately to get loose as one of the other figures starts to cut my shir
t open. "Please," I cry, with tears streaming down my face, "don't do this!"

  "You'd rather die?" the doctor asks.

  "Get me out of here!" I shout as my shirt is pulled away to reveal my bare, scarred chest, with the leather strap affording little modesty. Looking over at Dagwood, I can see through the tears that he has turned away, as if he can't look at me. As hard as I try to struggle, however, I can already feel the leather belts being pulled more tightly across my body until they start digging into my flesh.

  "Help!" I scream.

  "Look what they've done to you already," the doctor continues, running a finger along my chest. "They hacked away at you like animals."

  "Help me!" I shout.

  "The pain will be a sign that this is working," the doctor says, holding the scalpel inches from my belly as one of his colleagues tears my trousers away and cuts my underwear, pulling the last threads away until finally I'm completely naked. "It's your body's way of seeking to cleanse itself, and it's a sign that the cancer is moving away from the blade, seeking escape. Believe it or not, pain is one of the healthiest things in the world, at least in this context. Pain is as natural as breathing."

  "Somebody help me!" I scream, barely able to form words as I start sobbing. "Someone..." I whimper. "Please..."

  "You'll thank me later," the doctor says, rubbing some kind of gel onto my belly before stretching the skin as tight as possible. "You will live, Ms. Logan."

  "Help!" I shout, as I feel the tip of the blade press against my skin with increasing pressure until, finally, it slices through and dips down into my body. I let out an anguished scream as the blade cuts slowly up the right side of my torso, making a kind of tearing sound as the skin is split, and I can already feel warm blood dripping down the side of my waist and onto the trolley.