The Cutting Room (35 page)

madman who has paid ten Louis for this seance is then

introduced. He will find a prie-dieu on which to kneel. A

harmonium, placed in the neighbouring closet, will play

the Dies irae or the De profundis. Then, to the strains of this funeral music, the vampire will precipitate himself upon

the girl simulating the deceased.” Taxil, in common with a

lot of moralists, goes into lurid detail.’

I smiled politely. I liked Sweetman. Not so long ago his

account would have made me laugh. It wasn’t his fault that

now it made me feel wretched.

`I’m interested in the period after the war. Probably in the activities in the torture chamber.’

`Yes,’ he sighed. `Rose said as much. How is she, by the

way??

‘Fine. You know Rose, she bounces back.’

`Good, glad to hear it. In the period after the war the

specialisation of Soleil et Desole began to become more

… he hesitated, `specific. It takes a war to release certain emotions, don’t you think? Certain impulses to cruelty,

kindness, too, perhaps, but anger, rage, injustice, they’re all

grist to sadism. Displacement, bereavement, survivor guilt

contribute towards providing the victims. And underneath it

all a knowledge of death that makes life more precious to

some and more disposable to others. Soled et Desole: a

rough translation would be “Sunshine and Tears”. Sunshine,

good times, music, girls, drink and tears …well,

Soled et Desole is referred to in several memoirs. Mainly

from the fin de siecle, when a trip to the brothel would have been as common as a walk in the park to some gents.’

I searched his face for hidden meaning. He carried on,

seemingly unaware.

`Of course, memoirs tend to be fragmentary and unreliable.

There’s a tendency to self-aggrandisement and sexual

boasting which can make it difficult to distinguish truth from fiction. Bearing all this in mind, accounts seem to suggest that after the Second World War Soleil et Desole catered increasingly for a clientele interested in sadism. Indeed, one

contemporary chronicler described it as having “the prettiest torture chamber in Paris”, though what exactly he meant by

“pretty” is unrecorded.’

Outside, through the open lattice window, the university

clock struck the hour. Somewhere, a million miles away, a

blackbird was singing.

`Rose explained to you about the photograph?’

`Yes. After we talked on the telephone I did a search of

anything relating to Soleil et Desole in the post-war period.

There was nothing about torture unto death. It was a real

place. It existed at the time your photograph was taken and

was associated with sexual cruelty at a time when all over

Europe people were disappearing. It isn’t beyond possibility that your young woman was one of those who disappeared.’

`But we will never be sure.’

`Are the police any help?’

`No, they’re having difficulty tracing people trafficked by

McKindless and the pornographer in the last couple of years. I gave them the original photographs and the trophies. Officially the file stays open, but unofficially, no, there’s no

chance.’

`Then you’re right. You will never be sure. Perhaps that’s

best. If you’re not sure, then there is a chance.’

And there, in his last statement, he revealed what he

believed.

Professor Sweetman was due at a meeting on the other side

of campus. We walked together through darkened corridors,

the sound of our boots resonating in the Easter holiday

stillness, then out into the sunshine of Professor Square,

where tubs of hyacinths scented the air. As we passed the

chapel a wedding party emerged. The groom a dashing young

Lochinvar. The bride a sacrifice in white. Confetti caught on the breeze and drifted across the lawn, landing on our

shoulders, catching in Professor Sweetman’s dark hair. We

had walked on, through cloisters where students stood in

anxious huddles around lists of freshly posted exam grades.

He gestured towards them. `A new generation.’

`Yes, life goes on.’

We entered the West Quadrangle and paused, our long

shadows facing each other at the parting of the ways. I

prepared to shake his hand.`I

wonder’ - he gave an unprofessorial blush - `if you

would like to meet up for a drink one evening.’

I’d looked at his shy, clever face and not had the heart to

turn him down outright.

`Perhaps when I get back from Paris.’

It was as if Rose was tuning into my thoughts.

`Why don’t you give Raymond Sweetman a phone when

we get back?’

`I might.’

`You should. He’s a nice man.’

I harumphed.

`What’s wrong? Too nice for you? You might have to make

a go of it?’

I didn’t reply. We walked in silence for a while, past

pavement cafes where cheerful continentals sipped civilised

cappuccinos. Rose halted in front of a row of pavement artists’

tourist traps. She gestured towards a Degas ballerina.

`That’s rather good.’

`Too saccharine. Seven out of ten.’

`Ach, you’re a miserable old sod. How are Derek and

AnneMarie getting on?’

`Love’s young dream.’

My true feelings must have shown on my face because Rose

laughed and said, `Oh, come on! He was far too young for

you. At least with Raymond you’d have things to talk about.’

`I could talk to Derek.’

My gaze shifted to another painting. Marat’s Last Breath. The revolutionary, head thrown back, flesh blanched against the

oxblood backdrop, wrist trailing, dead in his bath, stabbed in the head and chest, draped in the wet towels David had used

to slow the decay of the corpse-model. We walked on, away

from the main drag, down cobbled streets where the cafes

were shabbier, more appealing.

`Sorry about you and James.’

`So am I. I guess it was doomed from the beginning. Can

you really see me living with the law?’

`Perhaps.’

`Well there’s no chance now. Jim left our attempt at

big crime out of his report but that was the end of it. I

can’t believe I let slip we were going to cream off the

money. Christ, we’d barely started seeing each other and I

compromised him. I’ve a flawed personality.’

That makes two of us.’

`We’ll come to a bad end.’

`Let’s hope we enjoy it.’

I realised we had reached our destination and stopped

laughing.

From the outside the house had changed little except for the neon CAFE -BAR sign above the door. The waiter moved

briskly across the floor, skirting a table of expectant diners, to attend Rose. She gave him her movie-star smile and

ordered two glasses of red wine.

`What do you think?’

She gestured to the room. It was the opposite of what I had

expected, blond wood and clean, modern lines, not a sign of

crimson velvet drapes or languorous courtesans.

`I don’t know. I don’t feel any mystical tingling down the

spine if that’s what you mean.’

`What are you going to do?’

`Wait here. I’ll be back.’

The basement was graveyard damp, a storeroom for beer

barrels and racks of wine. I took the photocopied images

from my pocket and walked towards the bare brick wall,

my heart pounding in my ears.

I tried to think of an excuse, a reason I could give for my

presence if detected. I could think of nothing but the truth. I was hoping for a miracle. That if torture and murder had

taken place here there would be a memory of it. A scream

trapped in the atmosphere. An echo of the past, locked in the walls, like a medieval cathedral prayer.

I could tell nothing. The photograph revealed too little.

This might be the place but I felt no truth. No new

connection. I sat on a barrel, bowed my head and let the

tears come.

`I cared,’ I whispered. `I cared enough to try. I’m sorry I

never knew your name.’

And I found I wasn’t crying for the girl in the

photograph. I was crying for other victims, present and

future. I looked once more at the images, then took out

my lighter, touched flame to paper, dropped it on the

earth floor, watched it curl into ash, then stamped on the

embers. I sat for a moment longer, wishing there was

someone to pray to, then wiped my face and went back to

the bar.

The waiter was talking to Rose, asking if she would like to try the specialite de la maison. I noticed she had got a little of her colour back. Rose inclined her head saucily, telling him she would think about it. She had finished her wine. Mine sat

before her, half a glass lower then when I had left. She looked up as I crossed the floor and the waiter stepped smartly away.

`You okay??

‘Yes, I feel better.’

`You look worse.’

I smiled. Deep down I love Rose.

`Despite all appearances to the contrary, I’m in the pink.’

We left the bar and walked slowly along the cobbled

streets with the aimlessness of tourists. It started to rain.

`I don’t know,’ said Rose, putting out her hand palm up,

catching the raindrops. `All this way from Glasgow and it

rains.’

But it was a different kind of rain. Warmer, softer, with a

promise of watered plants and freshly washed pavements.

Rose put an arm round me and gave me a hug.

`Come on, then,’ she said. `We’re in Paris. Let’s find

somewhere swish and have a good drink.’