The Full Legacy (8 page)

I didn’t though. I had a client to make amends to.

Now that I’d made the phone call, I did it admirably.

‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

The relieved Mrs Shaw had gone. Even Michelle looked exhausted now. She massaged her temples.

‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘I’m just a bit on edge. I met someone at the weekend and I’m not sure how it’s going to work out.’

Michelle stared at me. ‘Glory hallelujah... Is it a boy or a girl?’

‘A girl, of course!’ Well, a woman actually, but there was no way I was ever going to get Michelle using politically correct language....

‘No “of course” about it chuck. I mean, just look at Tom Robinson... Anyway, I bet she was supposed to be phoning you this afternoon, wasn’t she?’

‘Kind of, I thought she’d be in touch, one way or another. It was a misunderstanding.’

‘And now you’ve rung her and it’s all sorted?’

‘I don’t know. I hope so. She’s going to ring me tomorrow.’

‘What’s she like?’

Good question. I hesitated... ‘I don’t know actually. She’s a bit mysterious.’

‘Ri...i..ght?’

‘She’s dark, nice looking. Probably about thirty-ish.’

‘
And?’
Michelle made winding up motions. ‘For goodness sake Gill, it’s like trying to get blood out of a stone getting you to talk in sentences.’

‘She’s married.’

‘Gill – you’re a fuck head!’

‘I know.’

‘Well, don’t come running to me when she decides to stay with her husband.’

I could see her point. After everything I’d been through with Corinne why on earth would I get myself involved in this?

She wasn’t about to get all moral about it though, which was a relief. She was looking at her watch instead and already thinking about her own family. ‘God, I hope David’s fed the kids,’ she yawned. ‘I’m knackered.’

Secretly, and much as I loved them and my role as their honorary auntie, I thought Michelle mollycoddled her children. By the time I was nine, the same age as Kirstie, her youngest, I was perfectly capable of opening a tin and sticking a bit of bread in the toaster. I knew better than to say it though.

‘You get off,’ I said glumly. ‘I’ll finish clearing up here.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks love,’ she smiled through her exhaustion. ‘Look... you know I’m only looking out for you don’t you?’

‘Yes... I know.’

‘If you must keep seeing her, please be careful. Don’t get in too deep.’

Too late!

‘I’m a big girl,’ I said. ‘I can look after myself.’

Michelle scoffed.
‘Yeah, right!’
she said. ‘I wish I had a tenner for every time I’ve heard
that
one.’

She was right, of course, about Turner. She was going to hurt me and I knew it. I kicked myself all round the studio as I packed up for the night.

I was just setting the burglar alarm when the phone rang. I wondered whether to ignore it, but then I figured it might be important.

‘Gill?’ said the man’s voice on the other end of the line.

‘Vijay?’... Vijay worked at the lab... ‘
You’re
working late tonight, aren’t you?’

He sounded edgy. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Look Gill, you know the job you brought in on Tuesday?... I think you’d better come round and take a look.’

‘Now?’

‘Yeah – I think so.’

There was something wrong, clearly. My stomach did a back flip.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m just shutting up shop. I’ll be with you in about ten minutes.’

He met me at the counter, nervously unbuttoning the cuffs of his cotton check shirt and rolling up the sleeves.

‘You know how busy we’ve been,’ he said. ‘I just got round to doing this batch.’

Some distant radio growled ‘I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt.’ Normally this could have been his theme tune. Not tonight though. Tonight even his Armani Pour Homme was undertoned with sweat. I took a deep breath and waited to hear the bad news.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘You’d better see for yourself.’

He handed me the contact sheets and I held up the first for a closer look as he shuffled from one foot to the other behind the counter, watching me.

‘But these are fine,’ I said. And they were – some of my best probably – Mrs Rigby looking wonderful, luminous, very beautiful.

Vijay edged. ‘Yeah...’

We flicked through the basque shots, red against black. Then the more demure poses with the dressing gown.

‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ I said. ‘She’s going to be delighted with these.’

He handed over the next sheet and I noticed that his hand was shaking.

‘It’s these,’ he said, trying to warn me.

‘Holy shit!’
I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. I stared at row upon row of the tiny pictures in disbelief. ‘But, this is impossible!’

‘I know... It’s like somebody managed to get between the light and your subject. I can’t figure it out. It isn’t the processing, I’m sure of that.’

I could see that he thought my first instinct would be to blame him. But how could I? The image was too familiar. I recognised it from my dreams.

He was still trying to make sense of it.

‘Maybe you caught Michelle on the way back from powdering the lady’s nose or something?’

‘No – it’s not Michelle.’

‘Maybe it’s a fault on the film then.’

There was obviously an unspoken rule here. Never blame the photographer.

‘Yeah – maybe.’

It
could
have been. I didn’t believe it though.

In my head, a voice was whispering – God knows what – I couldn’t make out the words. I caught the answering scream deep in my throat. I was totally freaked out. Could drug induced hallucinations translate themselves onto film? Of course not! Not unless I’d double exposed the film in some way and set myself up to feel like this.

Around me the whispering gained volume and suddenly I felt surrounded by hosts of people I couldn’t see, so close they could have touched me... The air juddered like water rippling over stone.

Then I saw Vijay looking at me anxiously and I struggled to drag myself up through my fear.

‘How many?’  I croaked. ‘How many are affected?’

‘About half the last batch. We might be able to crop it out on some of them.’

I didn’t want to look, but I forced myself to shuffle through the rest of the proofs. He was right, some, maybe could be retrieved.

‘It’s okay,’ I said, more to myself than to Vijay.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

I smiled shakily at him. ‘I’d better get a different batch of film in... Better safe than sorry, eh?’

Vijay smiled the broad smile of a reprieved man as he handed me a box from the shelf. ‘That’s on the house,’ he said. ‘Just in case it’s anything remotely to do with us.... Which, of course, I don’t think it is.... But anyway, I think you’ll be able to get enough together to make a reasonable presentation. The ones that aren’t shadowed are very good.’

‘Thank you!’ I felt bad accepting his kindness, but it felt like the right thing to do. I gathered up the sheets.

Silence had fallen around me now, but it was a waiting silence. There was no reassurance in it.

‘Well, have a good weekend.’ He was eager to get home now his confession was out of the way.

‘Yeah, thanks... you too.’

I felt horribly unsettled still, but I didn’t want him to see it. I wiped my clammy hands on my T-shirt and managed a smile as I turned to go.

Then I spoilt it all by almost tripping over myself as I bolted out of the shop.

Luke

The ‘Mainline Drugs Project’ was located in the basement of a dilapidated Regency house at the end of a street not far from Kings Cross Station.

I think I’d pissed off the young woman on reception by coming crashing in just five minutes before the end of their teatime drop-in session. She was a skinny little waif with a Motorhead T-shirt and a look of Chrissie Hynde. She straightened a stack of leaflets about heroin with grim determination and studiously avoided looking at me.

‘We’re just about to close,’ she said, flatly.

‘Well, actually...’ It’s hard talking to someone who won’t look at you.

‘It’s okay Jac. She’s a friend.’

Thank goodness for that! I turned gratefully at the sound of Luke’s voice. He’d emerged from a warren of offices to my left and stood now, with his head on one side and a concerned look on his face that made me wonder if I looked as bad as I felt.

‘You look like shit!’ he said, confirming that one. ‘Come through to my office. I’ll get the kettle on....’ He touched my arm briefly to guide me ahead of him, then called back over his shoulder to his colleague.... ‘You might as well get off Jac. No point hanging around now. Everybody else has gone. Just put the latch on. See you in the morning....’

‘Jeez!’ he muttered as soon as we were safely in his room. ‘That girl has got
such
an attitude problem.’ He rubbed his hand impatiently through his thick gingery blonde hair. ‘She knows half the junkies in London though. This place wouldn’t function without her.... Anyway, enough of
my
woes. Let me get you a drink. I’ve got tea, coffee, some herbal weirdness called Barley Cup that Jon swears by. Or do you fancy something stronger? I’ve got a bottle of half decent Malt in the filing cabinet for when it all gets too much.’

Alcohol was tempting, but I didn’t think my stomach would take it.

‘I’ll have a cup of tea,’ I said. ‘Thank you. And thanks for being here. I needed to see a friendly face today.’

I sat down in a stained blue bucket chair and looked around me as Luke filled the kettle at a sink in the corner. I’d never actually been here before. It was a fairly large room with a cheap veneer desk, a couple of filing cabinets and shelves stacked with box files. There were a couple of framed Mapplethorpe prints on the wall - Patti Smith - white shirt, black tie, looking really cute and knowing it; and one of the less risqué self portraits of the photographer with open necked shirt and slicked back, slightly thinning hair. The grimy window sill had a dying Busy Lizzie looking yearningly out onto the wall of the stairwell at the back of the building. The beige cord carpet was scuffed charcoal grey where clients had trekked dirt in from the pavement outside. And the room reeked of cigarette smoke, unwashed clothes and a very faint, but unmistakeable hint of vomit. I wondered how Luke worked there.

‘I know,’ he said, with a little grimace, reading my mind. He shared a tea bag between two mugs of boiling water and slopped in milk from the tiny fridge under the worktop beside the sink. ‘Not exactly Buckingham Palace, is it? Anyway...’ He handed me my mug and pulled a chair round to sit opposite me, holding me in the intense gaze of his pale blue eyes. ‘What the hell’s going on with
you
?’

It was a relief to talk to someone who knew the problem.

About fifteen years ago, when we were all at college together, someone brought a Ouija board to a Gay Soc Christmas party. My first instinct, after everything that had happened with my father, was to make my excuses and leave. But that wasn’t Corinne’s style, and I wanted her to think I was cool, so I didn’t. Come to think of it, that was pretty much the way of things with me and Corinne. She was an adrenaline junkie and I constantly overrode my better judgment to be with her.  

Anyway, it was a mistake. And it was Luke and his partner Jon who patched me up afterwards. They got me back on my feet without my mother ever finding out, which was a miracle, considering the official psychiatric diagnosis of ‘Delusional Psychosis’.

I didn’t see Corinne for dust during that time. She never spoke about it afterwards either, but I think I freaked her out. She didn’t want to be lumbered with a girlfriend with ‘issues’, and I didn’t want to see her anyway. I didn’t want the shame of her seeing me in that state.

Luke’s eyes were full of concern as he waited for me to say something. He never pushed me or got impatient with me when the words wouldn’t come. Maybe it was his counselling training, or maybe, more likely really, it was just the way he was.

Finally, the words formed themselves into a coherent sentence in my head.

I took a gulp of tea. It had already begun to cool while Luke waited. I noticed he had almost finished his.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod that said ‘That’s it. I can see. Just go for it.’

I nodded back quickly in reply and took a rush at the words.

‘I think it’s starting again,’ I said. And then I began to cry.

All my life I’ve been trying to escape my father’s legacy. In his prime, he was a world renowned medium, author of countless books on the afterlife, leader of his own independent spiritualist church. I imagine that people must have questioned his judgment when he got my mum pregnant. Especially when she was only seventeen and he was in his thirties. But at least he ‘made an honest woman of her’, as they used to say back then, and he was handsome and charismatic and powerful and he had a cold, frightening way of looking at people if they crossed him, so nobody ever really liked to question him much about anything he did.

 I can still remember the day the police came to arrest him. My mother screaming at them not to hurt him as he tried to run and they forced him to the ground and into handcuffs. She believed utterly in his innocence. Her unquestioning love for him shone out for all to see. She feared him too, in that Old Testament kind of way that people feared God. I think that’s why she was never charged as an accessory. Anyone could see that she was just another of his victims.

At the trial she sat in the public gallery with some others of his more gullible women. The local press said that she smiled and called out to him as he was led into the dock, but he never once looked at her. I imagine he couldn’t bear the shame of being brought so low. Then she listened to two days of evidence about all the money he’d conned out of grieving widows and parents desperate to contact their lost children. Ostensibly it was to build a new meeting place for his ‘Church’. In fact, it had all been poured down the black hole of his gambling addiction. Fifty thousand pounds or more, a fortune back then, squandered on the roulette tables where his powers were meaningless.