by Ann
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘It doesn’t matter what it is, you can’t have it here.’
‘I can’t leave it at home.’
‘Why not?’
She turned away from him, busying herself with her stacks of paper. ‘I can’t leave it alone. It might get hurt. It might escape.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
She shot him a look, and he was certain she knew he wasn’t talking about her pet. He said, ‘What does your boyfriend think about it?’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’ She sounded angry but then, abruptly, the anger dissipated, and she smirked. ‘I don’t have to have one, do I?’
‘You can’t have that animal here. Whatever it is. You’ll have to take it home.’
She raised her fuzzy eyebrows. ‘Right now?’
He was tempted to say yes, but thought of the manuscripts that wouldn’t be sent out, the letters that wouldn’t be typed, the delays and confusions, and he sighed. ‘Just don’t bring it back again. All right?’
‘Yowza.’
He felt very tired. He could tell her what to do but she would no more obey than would his wife. She would bring it back the next day and keep bringing it back, maybe keeping it hidden, maybe not, until he either gave in or was forced into firing her. He went into his office, closed the door, and put his head down on his desk.
That evening he walked in on his wife feeding the creature with her blood.
It was immediately obvious that it was that way round. The creature might be a vampire – it obviously was – but his wife was no helpless victim. She was wide awake and in control, holding the creature firmly, letting it feed from a vein in her arm.
She flinched as if anticipating a shout, but he couldn’t speak. He watched what was happening without attempting to interfere and gradually she relaxed again, as if he wasn’t there.
When the creature, sated, fell off, she kept it cradled on her lap and reached with her other hand for the surgical spirit and cotton wool on the table, moistened a piece of cotton wool and tamped it to the tiny wound. Then, finally, she met her husband’s eyes.
‘He has to eat,’ she said reasonably. ‘He can’t chew. He needs blood. Not very much, but…’
‘And he needs it from you? You can’t…?’
‘I can’t hold down some poor scared rabbit or dog for him, no.’ She made a shuddering face. ‘Well, really, think about it. You know how squeamish I am. This is so much easier. It doesn’t hurt.’
It hurts me, he thought, but couldn’t say it. ‘Jenny . . .’
‘Oh, don’t start,’ she said crossly. ‘I’m not going to get any disease from it, and he doesn’t take enough to make any difference. Actually, I like it. We both do.’
‘Jenny, please don’t. Please. For me. Give it up.’
‘No.’ She held the scraggy, ugly thing close and gazed at Stuart like a dispassionate executioner. ‘I’m sorry, Stuart, I really am, but this is nonnegotiable. If you can’t accept that you’d better leave.’
This was the showdown he had been avoiding, the end of it all. He tried to rally his arguments and then he realized he had none. She had said it. She had made her choice, and it was nonnegotiable. And he realized, looking at her now, that, although she reminded him of the woman he loved, he didn’t want to live with what she had become.
He could have refused to leave. After all, he had done nothing wrong. Why should he give up his home, this flat which was half his? But he could not force Jenny out onto the streets with nowhere to go; he still felt responsible for her.
‘I’ll pack a bag, and make a few phone calls,’ he said quietly. He knew someone from work who was looking for a lodger, and if all else failed, his brother had a spare room. Already, in his thoughts, he had left.
He ended up, once they’d sorted out their finances and formally separated, in a flat just off the Holloway Road, near Archway. It was not too far to walk if Jenny cared to visit, which she never did. Sometimes he called on her, but it was painful to feel himself an unwelcome visitor in the home they once had shared.
He never had to fire Frankie; she handed in her notice a week later, telling him she’d been offered an editorial job at The Women’s Press. He wondered if pets in the office were part of the contract over there.
He never learned if the creatures had names. He never knew where they had come from, or how many there were. Had they fallen only in Islington? (Frankie had a flat somewhere off Upper Street.) He never saw anything on the news about them, or read any official confirmation of their existence, but he was aware of occasional oblique references to them in other contexts, occasional glimpses.
One evening, coming home on the tube, he found himself looking at the woman sitting opposite. She was about his own age, probably in her early thirties, with strawberry-blond hair, greenish eyes, and an almost translucent complexion. She was strikingly dressed in high, soft-leather boots, a long black woolen skirt, and an enveloping cashmere cloak of cranberry red. High on the cloak, below and to the right of the fastening at the neck, was a simple, gold circle brooch. Attached to it he noticed a very fine golden chain which vanished inside the cloak, like the end of a watch fob.
He looked at it idly, certain he had seen something like it before, on other women, knowing it reminded him of something. The train arrived at Archway, and as he rose to leave the train, so did the attractive woman. Her stride matched his. They might well leave the station together. He tried to think of something to say to her, some pretext for striking up a conversation. He was, after all, a single man again now, and she might be a single woman. He had forgotten how single people in London contrived to meet.
He looked at her again, sidelong, hoping she would turn her head and look at him. With one slender hand she toyed with her gold chain. Her cloak fell open slightly as she walked, and he caught a glimpse of the creature she carried beneath it, close to her body, attached by a slender golden chain.
He stopped walking and let her get away from him. He had to rest for a little while before he felt able to climb the stairs to the street.
By then he was wondering if he had really seen what he thought he had seen. The glimpse had been so brief. But he had been deeply shaken by what he saw or imagined, and he turned the wrong way outside the station. When he finally realized, he was at the corner of Jenny’s road, which had once also been his. Rather than retrace his steps, he decided to take the turning and walk past her house.
Lights were on in the front room, the curtains drawn against the early winter dark. His footsteps slowed as he drew nearer. He felt such a longing to be inside, back home, belonging. He wondered if she would be pleased at all to see him. He wondered if she ever felt lonely, as he did.
Then he saw the tiny, dark figure between the curtains and the window. It was spread-eagled against the glass, scrabbling uselessly; inside, longing to be out.
As he stared, feeling its pain as his own, the curtains swayed and opened slightly as a human figure moved between them. He saw the woman reach out and pull the creature away from the glass, back into the warm, lighted room with her, and the curtains fell again, shutting him out.
The Diane Arbus Suicide Portfolio
Marc Laidlaw
Marc Laidlaw (1960–) is an eclectic American writer of science fiction and horror whose long career has included a stint in the cyberpunk movement and significant contributions to the popular Half-Life video game series. Laidlaw first started publishing idiosyncratic, hard-to-define short fiction in the late 1970s, but is perhaps best known for writing Dad’s Nuke (1985) and The 37th Mandala (1996), which won the International Horror Guild Award. ‘The Diane Arbus Suicide Portfolio’ (1993) is one of a series of stories by Laidlaw with photographic themes. Laidlaw had ‘always loved Arbus’s photography’ and was inspired by her sad but gripping biography. The story uses the weird as an entrypoint to appreciating Arbus’s work.
‘You’ll like this,’ said Schaeffer as he let Brovnik
into the apartment. ‘She was a photographer.’
Brovnik chuckled unhappily till the smell hit him; it fit right in with the buzzing of flies. The other cops’ hard shoes clapped on the uncarpeted boards of the hall; their voices echoed in the cluttered flat. Brovnik walked slowly, as if in a sweltering museum. Dozens of unmounted photographs were thumbtacked to the walls, curled by the July humidity. Schaeffer went into the bathroom with everyone else. Brovnik wasn’t in any hurry to learn the cause of the splashing he heard. He bent close to a picture of a white girl standing against a canvas tent, her head thrown back, arms spread wide, the hilt of a sword and part of the blade poking out of her gullet. The other pictures were just as freakish. He liked them.
‘Come on, Bravo!’
He walked into the small tiled bathroom. Too many cops in it, and a humid jungle reek, tainted with carrion. Water dripped from the mirror.
‘Give him some room, guys.’
The body slumped in the tub, mostly submerged, short-cropped thick brown hair matted on the surface like seagrass exposed at low tide. She was fully dressed. One arm floated, propped on a knee, the hand looking swollen and peeled. The water was murky pink. Streamers of red, like those little crepe-paper flowers you get in Chinatown; drop a clamshell in water so it slowly opens and a tissue flower unfurls. The room was too small and muggy. He clutched his camera gratefully to his face, confining vision to one small window on a distorted tunnel with suicide at the far end. Her other arm hung over one side of the tub, skin sucked in between the tendons. He nearly stepped in blood as he walked around to get a better angle. It was tacky, two days old, kept from hardening by humidity.
When he finished, the others came back in. He stood in the living room, smoking, agitated. Why? Because she was a photographer? He looked over more of the woman’s prints. Dwarfs, giants, freaks, a man covered with tattoos. Wonder what kind of mind she’d had, to take pictures like this.
A few photos lay spread out on the couch, as if she’d been looking them over while the water was running. He didn’t want to disturb them, but the one on top disturbed him. The last thing she’d seen? A picture of Death standing in a freshly mown field; Death as a woman in a Halloween skull, clutching a white sheet around her. Hell, she’d gone rattling around with a head full of death, hunting it with her camera. He couldn’t understand a mind like that. With his job, it was different. He was a cop first, a photographer second, though these days he didn’t do much of anything but photography and lab administration.
Schaeffer came up next to him, pointing at a picture of a shirtless Latin midget in a hat sitting on a bed with a bottle on the nightstand next to him. Schaeffer nudged him.
‘What do you think, she slept with that dwarf to get his picture?’
‘You’re sick,’ Brovnik said.
‘Me? She’s the one in the bath.’
‘Bravo, hey,’ came a call from the bathroom. ‘You drop something in here?’
He walked back toward the bathroom, trying to see no more of the interior than he had to. Morrissey came out with a crumpled yellow foil film packet.
‘Messy, messy,’ he said.
‘Fuck you, Morrissey. I’m shooting 35 – that’s a 120 wrapper.’
‘Where’d you pick that up from?’ Schaeffer said.
Morrissey suddenly looked pale and stupid. ‘It was under the tub. I – I remember right where.’
‘You fucking idiot.’ Schaeffer raised a hand as if to strike him. ‘She was a photographer, too.’
Morrissey scurried backward into the bathroom, Schaeffer right behind him. Brovnik looked around the room at all the prints; most were square, two-and-a-quarter format, would have been shot on 120 roll film. Nice big negatives, real sharp. He had this little Pentax, light and quick, good enough for police work though it always felt too small in his hands.
He looked around the room for her camera while Schaeffer bawled out Morrissey, and finally found it in an open case behind the couch. He shivered when he saw she had a Pentax too.
How did rumors get started? How did they leak? Brovnik could never figure those things out. On the strength of a foil wrapper, the tabloids were claiming that the lady had somehow managed to photograph her own suicide. The press had called all day asking if the police planned to release the photographs. Denying their existence didn’t help. If the department said it didn’t have the photographs, the reporters asked who did. Who’d been in her apartment to take the shots? Did they have any leads?
Leads on a suicide? He had to laugh.
Brovnik was surprised that there had been any interest at all in the woman’s death. He’d never thought of photography as ‘art.’ But apparently she was ‘known,’ and all this was just making her knowner. He wondered if she’d ever have guessed that sliding into a warm bath and opening her wrists would prove to be such a canny career move. Whatever her reasons, she hadn’t wanted to flub the attempt; what was left of her blood had been rich in barbiturates.
Reading the papers, he learned a few things himself. Her name was – had been – Diane Arbus. She’d had a few shows, some critical success, though mainly she’d made her living as a fashion photographer. Hard to imagine how a mind like hers would portray glamorous models…wrap them in funeral shrouds, black veils?
In the lab, he looked over his own photographs with a more critical eye. The glaring flash had burned out the water in most of the shots, hiding the lines of her sunken body; hard to avoid that. He remembered how harsh the flash effects had been in her photographs. Deliberate? It must have been. She’d worked to get an effect like the one he came up with accidentally. That made him feel better about his pictures. She might’ve liked police work. Her interest in freaks and death and all that crap…reality. It would’ve been more than just a job to her. And how happy he’d be photographing gorgeous models all day instead of bloodbaths, car crashes, double homicides. God, give him an opportunity like that and he wouldn’t waste it on dwarves.
Seeing things afresh, he felt inspired to go through some of his backfiles. Torso murders, decapitations, stabbings, mob killings. Not half bad, most of them. He kind of liked the grainy effects, the harsh lighting that sent deep shadows sprawling like duplicate corpses. Weegee had gotten famous with pictures like these. Not too surprising, really. People fed on this stuff. Consider the popularity of public executions.
A secretary opened the door and told him there was a call for him. No name. She put it through to the lab phone.
‘Good evening, Inspector Brovnik. I understand you took some photographs of Diane Arbus in her bath.’ A woman’s voice, small, raspy and hoarse. ‘I wonder if you’d be interested in a trade.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘Whose friend?’
‘I took the other set.’
Brovnik didn’t speak for a moment.
‘Are you still there, Inspector? Or getting this call traced?’
‘That was your 120 wrapper?’
‘I photographed Diane’s suicide. Twelve frames. The whole thing. Everything except the aftermath, really, and you took those. I’d like good copies if I can get them, to make my set complete.’
‘And what about your set? Do I get a look at those?’
‘As I said, we could arrange a trade.’
‘You know, the investigation on a suicide is fairly straightforward. You telling me that someone else was involved, suddenly things start to look more complicated. You’re asking for trouble.’
‘She killed herself, Inspector Brovnik. She didn’t have an accomplice.’
‘What about you? You stood back and snapped off a dozen shots while your so-called friend bled to death?’
‘Understand, she didn’t want her death to be for nothing. She wanted those pictures taken.’
‘And what’d she think she would do with them?’
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘Look, I can’t make this kind of deal, Miss–’
‘You don’t n
eed my name. And if you involve anyone else, then you won’t hear from me again. I got in touch with you because you’re a photographer. I thought there might be some understanding between us.’ ‘Understanding?’
‘Consider that I’m Diane’s agent in this matter, Inspector. There has to be an element of trust. As an artist, you should be able to make the necessary intuitive leap.’
‘Who said I was an artist?’
‘You photographed Diane in death. Your eye has been changed…touched. I’m very interested in seeing your work.’
‘This is crazy.’
‘All right, so you need to think about it. I’ll get back to you soon. I don’t care who knows about the pictures once we’ve made our trade, but until then, you must act alone or it’s all off. I’m eager for those pictures but I won’t risk exposure. Diane wouldn’t want that.’
‘How can you be so sure what she’d want? I mean, look what she wanted for herself.’
‘She was very hard on herself. Goodbye, Inspector.’
‘Wait–’
But she didn’t wait. After that, he had to live with his impatience for another week.
He didn’t mention the call to anyone, contrary to his plans. He printed a duplicate set of the suicide photos, taking more care in the darkroom than ever before. He managed to burn some detail into the glare of flash on the bath water, enough so that he could see one of her hands with the fingers gently splayed beneath the surface, as if bathed in mercury. He worked long past his regular hours. Her curled prints were always tacked up in his memory, examples of an ideal he’d never known to strive for until now. He found himself working to extract subtle qualities of mood and tone from the negatives, fluttering his fingers beneath the enlarger lens, controlling contrast with split-bath developers – things he’d never bothered with before, except when making bad negatives into acceptable prints. Gradually he found the glossy bright snaps of death becoming utterly strange to him, unlike his other photographs which became more commonplace as he worked them over. These were beautiful, like paintings done in silver; morbid but alive in the way only photographs are alive. Finally he stood back from his handiwork and shook his head in disbelief, because he had made her poor drowned corpse immortal.
