The Devil's Photographer Page 16

  "Try not to struggle," a female voice whispers into my ear. "It'll all be over soon."

  As the doctor makes another incision, I try to twist free, but the pain is so intense, I can barely even think. I can feel his fingers pressing into my meat, parting the skin in the process. It's as if this goddamn butcher is looking for something, but as tears run down my face, all I want is for the pain to end. If that means dying, then I don't mind dying, but I have to get away from these maniacs.

  "Please," I whimper, turning to look over at Dagwood and finding that he's still turned the other way. "Please, let me -" Before I can finish, a burst of pain rips through my chest, and seconds later I hear an electric saw being started. I look down and see the doctor holding the spinning blade, bringing it closer to my exposed ribs.

  "Hold her steady," he says. "I can't have any sudden movements."

  "No!" I scream, tilting my head back as I feel the saw starting to cut through bone with a loud grinding sound.

  "Hold her steady!" the doctor says again, more firmly this time.

  Seconds later, I feel the straps being pulled tighter than ever. The vibrations from the saw are juddering all the way through my skeleton, all the way to my head, and my teeth are chattering as I tense my body, trying to resist the pain. The sound of the saw seems to be getting closer and closer, and I can feel it grinding further up my body, as if my entire chest is being opened up. I keep waiting to pass out, hoping desperately that my mind will finally give up and refuse to process any more of this horror. As I wait, however, I can feel and hear the saw moving further and further through my chest, grinding through my breast-bone as it comes closer to my neck.

  Finally, it's the sound of the saw, rather than the pain, that seems to wash through my mind and overwhelm me completely.

  And all I can do is scream.

  Part Four

  The Letting

  Today

  I'm not dead. I know I'm not dead because somewhere, in the dark, I can feel a searing ache in my body. Sometimes, it's as if pain is the only feeling I have left, and it's pain that brings me floating back to the world from a deep, deep sleep.

  Opening my eyes, I find myself staring up at a stone ceiling, its uneven surface picked out by a nearby candle that casts constantly-changing shadows. The room is warm, and as I shift my weight slightly, I hear the bed start to creak.

  "Don't strain yourself," says a female voice nearby. "You might rupture your stitches."

  Turning, I see that a woman is sitting on the other side of the room, just by the door. Setting a magazine down on a small table, she gets to her feet and comes over to me with a kind smile on her face.

  "It's Kate, right?" she says with a faint Irish accent, placing the back of her hand on my forehead. "No fever. That's good. How do you feel inside? You'll have some pain and discomfort, that's for sure, but apart from that... Do you feel nauseous or confused in any way?"

  "I..." I start to say, before wincing as I think back to the sound of the saw grinding through my body. I try to sit up, but my chest immediately tightens with such force that I have to rest my head back down on the pillow.

  "You really need to stay on your back for a few hours," the woman continues. "It's for your own good. You might still be a little drowsy, but don't worry. Everything'll become clearer over time." She pauses. "My name's Winifred, by the way. I'm a nurse here. If there's anything you want, anything at all, you only have to ask."

  "Winifred..." I whisper, still trying to work out exactly what's happening. "How long was I out for?" I ask eventually.

  "Approximately five hours," she replies calmly. "You lost some blood, and eventually the pain caused you to black out. Don't worry, though. Dr. Mammone will be along very soon to talk to you and answer any questions you might have about your condition. As I understand it, the operation was a complete success, and it's just a matter now of waiting for you to get back on your feet so that the next phase can begin."

  "Next phase?" I whisper.

  "With Dr. Mammone," she continues, "I'm afraid there's always a next phase. The man knows what he's doing, but his treatment programs tend to be necessarily very long. Still, his success rate is close to perfect, so it's probably best not to argue too much, eh? Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Juice?"

  "What did he do to me?" I ask, trying but failing to move my arms.

  "He located your cancer and cut it out. It's all gone now, or at least it should be."

  I shake my head.

  "I know it's difficult to believe," she continues, "but you'll just have to wait and see for yourself. He's so very good at finding these things. He has a kind of sixth sense."

  "He does, huh?" I reply skeptically. Once again, I try to sit up; once again, the pain is too strong and I'm forced to rest back down on the bed. "What's wrong with me?" I grunt. "I want to see what that fucking butcher did to me!"

  "He cured you."

  "I want to see!"

  "Here," she replies, taking a small mirror from the bedside table and holding it up so that I can see my face. "If you don't mind me saying so," she continues, "you already look healthier. Fuller in the cheeks and less hollow around the eyes." She tilts the mirror to show my bare, flat chest, which now has a thick red groove running down the center, held together by what appear to be metal staples. "There'll be scarring," she adds, her voice calm and authoritative, "but you already had some scarring from your mastectomy, so I imagine the psychological trauma will be minimized on this occasion."

  "You imagine, do you?" I whisper, staring at the reflection of my wrecked body.

  "I believe you lost a rib," she continues, tilting the mirror down to where the groove comes to an end just above my crotch. "The doctor removed several, but although he tried to put them all back, one proved to be rather troublesome. Rather than force the issue, he -"

  "What the hell did he do to me?" I ask, feeling as if I've been opened right down the middle.

  "As I said," she replies, "he cured you."

  "That's not possible," I whisper.

  "Of course it is."

  I shake my head.

  "Why do you think that?" she continues.

  "The cancer was everywhere," I reply. "Dr. Martindale, my doctor back in New York, told me that it had spread to my lymph nodes and liver, and he thought it was still reaching through my body. It was a part of me!"

  "That's right," Winifred says with a faint smile. "Dr. Mammone performed a great service for you. The man is a miracle-worker when it comes to chasing down the very last vestiges of this horrible disease."

  Closing my eyes, I try to order my thoughts.

  "Would you like to rest?" Winifred asks.

  "This is some kind of pagan bullshit," I reply, keeping my eyes closed. "Isn't it? It's some kind of voodoo or something. You think you can cure me by cutting me open and performing some kind of witchcraft garbage." I open my eyes and see that there's a pained look on her face. "Do you know how long it took me to come to terms with the fact that I'm going to die?" I ask. "Do you really think it's right to start opening up those thoughts again? False hope is a real bitch."

  "There's nothing false about this," she replies with a smile. "Dr. Mammone's the best one to explain it to you, although he does tend to hold things back a little. He'll be along to see you soon, but for now you need to rest. If all goes well, you should be up on your feet in a few days' time, once there's no danger of the stitches being ruptured. For now, try to sleep -"

  "It hurts," I say through clenched teeth.

  "Of course," she replies, putting the mirror down and heading over to the door. "I'm afraid I can't give you anything for it, though. The pain has a role to play in your recovery."

  "I want a phone!" I shout after her. "I want to call someone!"

  "I was under the impression that you had no-one to call."

  "Who told you that?" I ask. "John Dagwood?"

  "Yes," she replies. "He said you're all alone in the world, with no friends or family.
"

  "John Dagwood doesn't know me very well," I say firmly, even though deep down I know that he's right.

  "I'm afraid you can't have a telephone right now," she replies. "Perhaps once you're up and about, but I'll have to ask Dr. Mammone first. You're by no means being kept prisoner here, but at the same time, we need to ensure that your recovery isn't interrupted. If modern doctors got hold of you now, they'd undo all of Dr. Mammone's good work."

  "Good work?" I ask. "What good work?"

  Without saying anything else, she turns and leaves the room.

  "Get back here!" I shout, before realizing that I'm feeling a little breathless. Wincing as the pain throbs in my chest, I finally manage to move my hands enough to grip the sides of the bed. Closing my eyes, I tell myself that this has to be a dream. There's no way any of this is real, no way someone could be kidnapped and treated like this. The whole thing is ludicrous. And yet, when I finally open my eyes again, I find myself still staring up at that stone ceiling, still tied down and naked, and still in pain.

  This is no dream.

  Twenty-five years ago

  "Absolutely perfect," the doctor says with a smile. "Frankly, it's been a textbook case and we couldn't have wished for a faster or more complete resolution."

  "Thank you so much," my mother replies, before turning to me. "Thank the doctor, Kate."

  I force a smile.

  "Kate," she continues, "you need to -"

  "It'll come back," I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the doctor. "You know that, right?"

  "The recurrence rate for this type of cancer is an issue," he replies, "but -"

  "It always comes back," I continue, unwilling to take any more bullshit from anyone. "You haven't gotten rid of it. All you've done is push it out of sight. It's hiding somewhere in my body, waiting until you're not looking, and then it'll try again."

  The doctor pauses. "Kate -"

  "I know what it wants," I say firmly. "It wants to kill me, but it wants to do it in the most painful way possible. It's sadistic."

  "Do you feel as if your cancer has a personality?" he asks.

  "No," my mother interjects.

  "Absolutely," I reply. "It's a cunt."

  "Kate!" my mother says, obviously horrified that I used such a strong word. Nevertheless, I chose it carefully and I meant it; I knew she'd freak out, and that's exactly what I wanted. "You're stressed," she continues, before turning to the doctor. "She doesn't usually say things like that," she continues. "She was raised very well -"

  "It's going to come back," I continue. "A few curse words aren't going to make any difference."

  "We'll bring you in for regular check-ups and scans," the doctor replies. "If it -"

  "There's no point," I say, interrupting him. "It's just dragging out the inevitable, and I don't know if I have the strength to keep fighting. Next time it comes for me, I think I might just let it do what it wants." I turn to my mother. "You can tell Dimone Halifax Industries that, whoever they are, they don't need to keep paying to keep me alive."

  "You're upset," she replies, clearly struggling to stay calm.

  "Fine," I continue. "I'll make you a deal. You tell me who these people are and why they're footing the bill for all my treatment, and I'll consider more treatment when my cancer comes back."

  She stares at me for a moment.

  "We'll talk about it later," she says eventually, before turning to the doctor. "Thank you so much for your time today. We appreciate it so very much."

  Sighing, I realize that there's no way she's ever going to tell me the truth. Something's going on in the background and, for some reason, no-one wants to tell me the truth. At least it's something to live for; I'm going to get to the bottom of this bullshit if it's the last thing I do.

  Today

  "You'll be up and about soon," Dagwood says, sitting next to my bed a few hours later. "It's a lot better than it looks, you know. Metal staples always seem rather melodramatic, but really, they're extremely secure." He pauses, before smiling. "Don't worry, Kate. You won't split open."

  "I want to get out of here," I say firmly, barely able to see him as I tilt my head.

  "You will get out of here," he replies. "Of course you will. No-one's trying to hold you here against your will. You were dying back in the church, that's all. I had to bring you here in order to save your life, and once Mammone had begun the treatment, there was no way to stop it. One wrong move right now and you could suffer terrible complications. You're not out of the woods yet, Kate. Not by any means."

  "What is this place?" I ask. "Who was that butcher who cut me open?"

  "This place is an old church," he replies. "That's what it used to be, anyway. It was abandoned long ago, and then eventually our founder moved in. I think he enjoyed the irony of establishing his group on consecrated ground. Not that he believed in any of that garbage, of course. Not back then, anyway." He pauses. "We're a group of people who believe in using the traditional methods," he continues eventually. "Life, science, society... medicine. We look back at past generations, past centuries, and try to find things that others have lost. We don't allow the rush toward modernity to cloud our judgment."

  "So that's why you hack people up?" I ask bitterly.

  "They hack people up in hospitals too."

  "Not while they're still awake."

  "No," he replies, "that's true. They anesthetize them. They knock them out and numb them, and then they wake them up and tell them that, no, the operation didn't work. That's not how things happen here. Dr. Mammone is one of our leading medical researchers. He's identified techniques and ideas from as far back as the fifteenth century, techniques that have been lost to modern science. Of course, a lot of the old ideas are thrown away for good reason. They don't work. But just occasionally, something useful gets lost."

  "What exactly did he do to me when he cut me open?" I ask, battling against the pain in my chest.

  "He found the cancer," Dagwood replies. "He found every one of its hiding places, and he removed it with expert precision. The remaining cancerous cells will die away now that the main problem has been removed, but there are still some issues to deal with. You've suffered a great deal of pain and distress, Kate, and -"

  "I want to leave," I say firmly.

  "As soon as you're able to do so."

  "Now!"

  "You can't walk," he points out.

  "Then wheel me to an ambulance and take me back to the hospital."

  "Do you really want to go back to the butchers who filled you with drugs and almost killed you?"

  "I want -" I start to say, before realizing that I have no idea what I really want at all. "I want to be left alone," I say finally.

  "To die?"

  "I guess so."

  "You're not dying now," he continues. "Dr. Mammone has saved your life, Kate -"

  "That's impossible," I reply firmly, angered by his apparent willingness to play with my emotions like this. "No-one can cure my cancer. It's a part of me, and you can't just pick it out and leave the rest intact. If you really think that's possible, then you clearly don't have a fucking clue what cancer is or how it works."

  "I know enough to have seen and understood the results of Dr. Mammone's work," he replies, still calm, still refusing to be ruffled. "Do you think I'd have brought you to him if I thought he was just a butcher with a medical coat? I like you, Kate, and I want to help you. That's what I've done. I've brought you to a man who saved you. However..."

  I wait for him to finish.

  "However what?" I ask.

  "There are some supplementary treatments that need to be tried," he continues, picking up a small box that he carried in when he entered the room. Sliding the lid open, he reaches inside and takes something out.

  "What's that?" I ask, aware that whatever's in his hand, it seems to be moving.

  "You have certain toxins in your blood," he continues, holding something small and black out toward me. "Leeches can -"

  "No fu
cking way!" I shout, trying and failing to get up from the bed.

  "You'll develop a fever if we don't do this," he says, as the leech wriggles between his fingers. "They're miraculous little creatures. Some modern hospitals still use them, but we prize them above almost every other treatment. They'll remove the toxins from your bloodstream and help you deal with the damage inside your body." With that, he places the leech on my bare, scarred chest.

  "Get it off me!" I shout as I feel the cold, wet little creature wriggling across my skin before, finally, there's a tiny pinprick and I realize that it must have taken hold. "Stop it!" I scream.

  "Calm down," Dagwood says, taking another leech from the box and placing it a little higher up on my chest. "They're completely harmless. They're clean creatures, Kate. They're going to do so many good things for you, and they only need to be in place for twenty-four hours."

  "I don't want them!" I shout as the second leech attaches itself to me.

  "The treatment has to be completed if it's to be entirely successful," he continues calmly, placing two more leeches on my chest and then one on my neck.

  "No!" I scream, with tears in my eyes as I feel the leeches attaching themselves.

  "It's called hirudotherapy," Dagwood says, adding a couple of leeches to my neck and then a few more to my belly, crotch and legs. "Leeches have been used for more than two and a half thousand years. Every major civilization has recognized their usefulness when it comes to bloodletting. It's only modern medicine, with its squeamish tendencies, that shies away from such things." He places more leeches on my legs. "Traditionally, they're said to balance the humors. That's one way of putting it, certainly. You need them, though. Without the leeches, you might end up with blood poisoning."

  "Get them off me," I whimper, feeling the cold, wet little things all over my naked body.

  "In twenty-four hours," he replies. "Don't worry. They'll stay in place. You'll be less aware of them after a while."