The Devil's Photographer Read online

  "Sorry," he says quietly, although I can see from the smile on his lips that he's not sorry at all. Damn it, I came here to get laid, not because I wanted to act like someone's mother.

  "And don't sit there watching me," I continue, feeling his eyes gazing at my semi-naked body. "It's disconcerting. It makes me want to hit you".

  Sighing, he opens the drawer of the bedside table and takes out a little red book. "Bible," he says after a moment. "You think I should sit and read this all afternoon? You think I'd learn anything?"

  "Don't you have any other clients?"

  "Not 'til this evening".

  "Well, the room's paid for until six. I guess you can do what you like". Once my bra is in place, I quickly put my shirt over my head before pulling my jeans up and stepping into my shoes. I just want to get out of here as quickly as possible. Every time I finish having sex with Robert, I'm consumed by feelings of guilt. It's been like this ever since Mark; for some reason, sex seems to affect me differently these days. As well as the guilt, there's the fact that my left leg always starts shaking when I'm about to get together with a new partner. That's one of the reasons why I tend to stick with Robert, at least for now. With him, I'm past the shaking phase.

  "You want me the same time next week?" Robert asks, casually flicking through the book.

  "No," I say, tying my hair back. "I'm not a robot. I'll let you know when I want to see you again. As long as you're available at shortish notice, that's good for me".

  "I'm at your beck and call, huh?" he replies. "So, do you think it's a sin for a gigolo to read the Bible naked in front of his client? Is Satan gonna claim my soul now?"

  I turn to him. "Don't joke about things like that," I say, before heading through to the bathroom, where I pause for a moment to check my hair. To be honest, I don't look like a woman who's just been fucked by a gigolo in a downtown hotel room. I doubt anyone would look at me and think that, at the age of thirty-seven, I'm going with guys in their early twenties. They'd probably just see a fairly bland, dull-looking middle-aged woman with dry hair and the beginnings of a few wrinkles, wearing a leather jacket and constantly carrying an old SLR camera around in her shoulder bag.

  "Hey," says Robert, suddenly appearing in the doorway. Still naked, still hard, he stands and stares at me.

  "Hey," I reply, focusing on my reflection. It's clear that he wants something, which means we're probably due for yet another of those tedious conversations in which he tries to persuade me to watch his play with himself.

  "So are you really gonna walk out of here and leave this thing loaded?" he asks eventually, gesturing toward his penis.

  Sighing, I straighten my jacket.

  "I'm horny like the Devil," he continues. "Which of us is the sinner, anyway? You, for paying for sex? Me, for selling it? Or both of us? Maybe we're just this hot, sticky mess of sin and naughtiness. Doesn't that turn you on?"

  I wash my hands, trying to ignore him. The second I'm fixed up, I'm out of here. He can blather on to himself. Frankly, I'm starting to think that maybe I'll try to find someone else for the next session. This is the fourth or fifth time that I've used Robert, and it'd probably be healthy to find a new guy. After all, I don't want Robert to start thinking we have some kind of connection.

  "I don't want you to think that I'm being weird or clingy," he continues, "because I'm not, but I just want you to know that if you ever want to... get to the end of things properly... I'd be up for that. I mean, you don't have to jump up and leave as soon as we're finished every single time. I was just thinking that it might be nicer if you relaxed for a few minutes".

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a chap-stick and quickly moisten my lips. "You want me to cradle you in my arms and tell you I love you?" I ask. "You want me to fall asleep next to you and dream of us being a nice, happy couple some day?" I turn to him. "There are three reasons why I keep coming back to you, Robert. The first is that I know you and I'm used to you. The second is that I have your contact details, so it's not hard to get in touch and arrange a session. And the third is that you can go for more than five seconds without blowing your load everywhere. But please don't start getting attached, okay? Because if you do, I'll drop you like a hot fucking brick and go find someone else. You understand what I'm saying?"

  "Perfectly," he says. "So how much longer are you gonna be in the bathroom? If you don't mind me being a little pushy, I have certain business to conclude".

  "Knock yourself out," I reply, pushing past him and heading back through to the room. I pause by the dresser and reach into my pocket, pulling out some notes and counting out his fee for the hour's work. It's kind of pathetic to see how cheap he is; a hundred and fifty dollars is all it costs to get Robert naked and on top of me. Then again, you get what you paid for. Maybe I need to get someone slightly more expensive who'll at least keep his mouth shut once we're done.

  "Why are you so scared?" he asks.

  "Scared of what?"

  "A little intimacy".

  I stare at him. Is he serious? "There's nothing intimate about any of this," I tell him.

  "But you're still scared".

  I can't help but smile. The problem with younger guys is that in their desperation to find meaning, they often embrace shallow rhetoric and stupidity. "I'm not scared of intimacy," I say, with one hand on the door-handle. "I'm scared of boredom. Frankly, watching you jerk one out would be boring". With that I open the door.

  "By the way," he calls through to me from the bathroom. "Your scars look a lot better this week".

  Without saying anything, I step out into the corridor before pulling the door shut. Once I'm walking toward the elevators, I start to relax. I wish I didn't need these regular sessions with Robert, but I don't know how else to satisfy my needs. Still, Robert has become annoying, so I figure I should start looking for another guy; I want someone who can fuck me properly, the way Robert fucks me, but who won't insist on talking so much when we're done. Pleasuring myself doesn't have the same effect, and in a curious way I think I actually enjoy these brief trysts. I might not like hanging around with people very much, but on a purely physical level I'm not ready to cut myself off from the world entirely; not yet, anyway. As the elevator doors open and I step inside, the lights flicker for a moment. Robert's right about one thing. We are both sinners, at least in the eyes of people who give a damn about such things.

  Twenty-five years ago

  "Fuck," I mutter as I sit on the low stone wall that runs past the trestles.

  The pain is getting worse, radiating from the right side of my gut all the way around to the back of my neck. It's not like the pain I used to feel, but it's still bad and I'm starting to sweat. I keep telling myself that there are a million things it could be, but deep down I'm starting to think that maybe something's wrong. I always knew the cancer could come back one day, but I thought it'd at least stay away for a few years.

  Still, it's too early to panic. It might just be cramp. After all, the doctor said I was cured. He said it to my face. Why would he lie?

  Today

  "Kate?" asks a voice nearby, and I turn to see Dr. Martindale standing at the far end of the corridor. "Hi, Kate," he says as he sees me. "Do you want to come through to my office?"

  As I get up from my seat, I briefly make eye-contact with the woman sitting on the other side of the waiting room. She has this look of absolute dread on her face, almost as if she's struck dumb with fear. I remember when I was like that, the first time; I sat in this very same waiting room, praying that the news would be good. It wasn't. Now, as I walk over to join Dr. Martindale in his office, I feel strangely relaxed. I've been through this before, and I've seen first-hand that even if the news is bad, there are options. The only thing that bothers me is the uncertainty, but as Dr. Martindale smiles and shuts the door behind us, I can already tell that something's wrong. There must have been bad news in the scan results.

  "How are you doing?" he asks as he walks over to his desk. He's not
looking directly at me, which makes me think that he's working out how to deliver the news. It's back. It must be. The cancer's back.

  "I'm good," I say, accepting the need for a little small-talk. "Kind of wondering what's going on," I add.

  "Of course. Sit down, please". He sits behind his desk, while I sit on the nearby sofa. "So how are you doing? Are you still suffering from nausea?"

  I nod.

  "And the pains in your chest? Are you still having those?"

  "Right here," I say, putting a hand on my shirt, just below the ribcage.

  "And would you characterize that pain as a dull ache, or as something more immediate?"

  "I'm not sure," I say. "It's just feels like something's throbbing slightly. Do you know what's causing it?"

  He opens a file and removes a copy of one of the scans from last week. "I've examined the results of your P.E.T. scan," he says, "and unfortunately I've found three small tumors on your liver. The largest is just over half an inch in diameter, and the other two are a little smaller. There's a possibility that there could be few smaller ones in the same area. The P.E.T. scan can't see everything, but for now we're going to work on the basis that we're just dealing with three of them".

  "Okay," I say, feeling surprisingly calm. In a way, I'm glad to know what's happening. Three tumors doesn't sound too bad; it's certainly fewer than last time, so I guess I'll just need some more chemo and another operation. I've been kind of expecting this moment for the past six months; somehow, I could sense something growing inside my body again. I remember when I was given the all clear after the first bout; I knew at the time that it all seemed a little too easy.

  "Obviously, this isn't the news we wanted," he continues, "but it's the reason we've been doing the bi-annual scans, so at least we've caught it nice and early. I was hoping the cancer wouldn't come back, but as I explained previously, it was always a possibility. In fact, with this type of cancer, it was almost a formality. It usually takes two or three rounds before there's a chance of it being beaten back permanently". He pauses for a moment. "These tumors are smaller than the ones you had before, but size isn't a primary indicator of how treatment might progress".

  "Like berries," I say.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Like how sometimes smaller berries are juicier than bigger ones". I pause for a moment, as I realize how dumb that must have sounded.

  "Quite," he says politely. "My point is that there's no reason to panic, Kate. In a way, this is a perfectly normal part of the process, and it's one that we anticipated. We can have a damn good try at beating this".

  I nod politely.

  "So how are you feeling?" he asks. "I can understand that this must have come as quite a shock".

  "I knew there was a chance".

  "Still... to have it confirmed must be rather daunting, especially since you've already got experience of this type of thing".

  I stare at him, trying to work out what to say. What would a normal person say in this kind of situation? Am I supposed to cry? Am I supposed to run screaming from the office? Am I supposed to be cold and business-like? Suddenly I realize that I've spent so long thinking about how I should react, I've inadvertently given the impression of being a little dazed. "I..." I start to say, before pausing again.

  "Don't worry," he replies. "There's no right or wrong way to feel".

  "Okay".

  "I'm very sorry that it's bad news," he continues, "but what we have to do now is make a decision about how to proceed. I must remind you that you're totally in charge of your own treatment, and anything I say to you is really just a guideline. Having said that, I would strongly recommend a course of chemotherapy followed by fairly swift surgical removal of the tumors and of the surrounding liver tissue".

  "A transplant?" I ask, shocked at the prospect of having an entire organ removed.

  "No. Not at this stage. I should think we'll just take thirty, perhaps forty per cent of your liver, which leaves more than enough to regrow. Then we'll monitor the situation and see if any more growths develop. If we're sitting here again in six months' time, then we'll start to think about the transplant options, but I don't want to jump the gun at this stage. Hopefully, we can be lucky and deal with the problem in one fell swoop. A transplant is a very big operation, and it's a risk that I just don't see as being justified at this stage".

  I take a deep breath. It's strange, but I'm feeling totally overcome by this amazing sense of calm. When I got my original diagnosis a few years ago, I turned into a sobbing mess; I was unable to function for a few days, and I barely got through my course of treatment. This time, though, I just feel as if I've been given a huge new job to do. After a moment, I start trying to work out how to fit the cancer into my current schedule.

  "Kate?" he says after a moment. "Did you hear what I said?"

  I nod.

  "And what are your thoughts?"

  I stare at him. "Isn't that what you did last time?" I ask eventually.

  "The procedure is the same, yes".

  "And it didn't work last time".

  "As I said before, it sometimes takes multiple treatment rounds before we can really nail the cancer".

  "Okay".

  "I don't want you to be down," he continues, "or to think that the past few years of treatment have somehow been a failure. The fact is, we've already pushed this thing right back, and now it's staging a small recovery, but we're not done yet. It would have been nothing short of miraculous if it had all been dealt with the first time around. It's like when you push an entire army back, but then you find there are a few snipers still holding on".

  I look over at the large painting on the wall: a scene from a Napoleonic battle. In one corner of the painting, there's an injured man, covered in blood, being treated by a doctor. I guess Dr. Martindale sees himself as the general, commanding the troops into the field, rather than as the doctor tending to the injured man.

  "Although I'm optimistic," he continues after a moment, "I must warn you that this remains a very serious diagnosis, and there's no guarantee that we can treat it successfully. Your chances are good, Kate, but it would be remiss of me to not mention the dangers. Even if we get the cancer and it hasn't spread, any operation is risky, especially with an organ such as the liver which is so prone to bleeding. Cancer is always a serious business, especially when it's in the liver and can spread so easily".

  "But it hasn't spread," I reply, turning back to face him. "Not yet, anyway?"

  "There's no evidence that it's spread," he says. "That's one of the things we're going to keep under close observation, and it's one of the reasons I want to get started as soon as possible. If we wait, it'll certainly move to other parts of your body".

  "So when do I start the chemo?"

  He looks down at his papers. "We have all your insurance details, so we can get you started in a few days. I'm sure you remember what it was like last time, it'll be exactly the same, so you should see if Mark can come and pick you up when each session is over".

  "Actually, I'm not with Mark anymore," I reply, bristling a little at the merest mention of his name. "But I'll be fine".

  "Okay," he says. "Sorry. Anyway, I'll give you a call when I know an exact time for your first session, but I'd have thought Monday or Tuesday would be quite possible. There's no point delaying things, since this type of cancer can be very aggressive and I'm worried it could spread to the lymph nodes quite quickly. I'm very much a fan of getting on with things and dealing with them as soon as possible, as I'm sure you remember from the last time we were in this position".

  "Can we wait a week?" I ask, suddenly realizing that the chemo could interfere with the seven-day window I have at the university to examine Amin Bell's book. After struggling for so long to get access to that book, I can't possibly allow myself to become distracted at the crucial moment.

  "Why would you want to wait?" he asks.

  "It's just that I'm in the middle of some work," I tell him, "and I'd really like to
have a clear head with no distractions. It's something I can't reschedule, so if we could just make sure that the treatment starts a little later, I'd be grateful". I take a deep breath, aware that my request might seem strange but determined to ensure that I don't lose the Bell book. "It's just a few days' difference," I continue after a moment. "This news really couldn't have come at a worse moment in terms of the things I'm doing. If we could just hold back for a week, it'd make all the difference".

  He stares at me, and it's clear that he doesn't approve of my request. "I don't want to over-stress the aggressive nature of this cancer, Kate," he says after a moment, "but any delay could be detrimental to your health. I really can't imagine anything that would be more important that getting on with the -"

  "It's just a few days," I reply, interrupting him. "I remember what it was like before, with all the drugs, and my head was totally messed up for weeks. I need to be able to focus right now; I need to be able to think. This is..." I look down at my hands and see that they're not shaking at all; in fact, they're steady as a rock. I feel calm and rational. "This is just bad timing," I continue after a moment, "and I'd like to take a few extra days in order to make sure that there's less of an overlap. I mean, you said that I'm in charge of my treatment, so can't I make the decision? Can't I just decide to hold things off for a week, just to make sure I can get everything done first?"

  "Kate -"

  "Do you seriously think that a few days' difference will be a matter of life and death?" I ask, determined to make him see my point. "Am I really that close to the edge?"

  He sighs. "Okay," he says, noting something down on one of the files. "I don't agree, but I'll put it back for one week. It probably won't make a huge amount of difference, although I still think it's an unnecessary gamble. I should warn you that the drugs I'm going to give you are a little stronger than the treatment you had last time. Things have moved on and there's some new stuff on the market, so I think we're going to hit this thing harder and faster than was ever possible last time".