Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  ‘So you did it for me . . .’

  She shrugs.

  ‘Another wasted effort. All the “Exposures” were wasted on you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ If I keep the conversation going, perhaps she’ll wake up from this psychotic trance. Perhaps I’ll wake up.

  ‘I put a mirror to your life, exposed your biggest triumphs and failures, and you still didn’t see it. This is how blind you are. Even your cat is more self-aware.’

  ‘You broke into my computer.’

  She rolls her eyes.

  ‘You’ve been spying on me.’

  ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on you.’

  ‘That studio above Patrick Ewer’s flat . . .’

  ‘I like Patrick. He insisted I take over the space and he wouldn’t accept any money for it. Sweet man. And his new chamber piece . . . it’s sublime.’

  Violin-Land.

  ‘Violin-Land,’ she says, as if on cue. ‘I suggested the title to him. Very apt, don’t you think?’

  I say nothing, shaken to the core by the revelations that keep coming at me, thick and fast. Everywhere I turn, I see Erin in my life.

  ‘Do you remember it?’

  Of course I do.

  It was during the heyday of Cubic Zirconia, the crazy, intense period of our collaboration when we used to work, eat, sleep and dream together. Sex was a release, a relaxation, it cleared our heads and gave us a boost of much-needed dopamine. Neither of us made a big deal out of it, it just felt right at the time. Whenever we had a break in our schedule, a moment to ourselves, we’d sneak out to Violin-Land. It was our code word, taken from my favourite book, something no one else would understand. Our perfect little fling.

  ‘Violin-Land.’

  She sits down on the bed next to me and leans forward. Up close her eyes are like a cat’s, ocean green around the pupil and sandy yellow near the edges of the iris. Her pupils dilate as she looks at me. She smells of gin and Patchouli Absolut. Something stirs inside me, a flicker of the old attraction. For a moment it looks as if she’s going to kiss me, but then she puts her hand on my chest, pushes me hard against the headboard and gets up.

  She must be feeling what I’ve just felt. This is my chance, maybe she’ll change her mind.

  ‘Erin, let me go.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  She’s fiddling with the camera again, but I sense her hesitation.

  ‘We could start all over. We could relaunch Cubic Zirconia . . .’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Untie me, please.’

  ‘I need you.’

  ‘I won’t go anywhere, I promise.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I need you for the “Final Exposure”.’

  36

  She’s gone. She checked the camera and left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

  How long is she going to hold me here? Until I slowly wilt and die? Well, people do take time-lapse photos of dying flowers, why not of a human? It would certainly be ground-breaking.

  All the things she’s said keep coming back at me, despite my efforts to block them. I try to be logical, cold, keep panic at bay. But I can’t stop thinking about it. If what she said was true . . .

  If what she said was true, she is a dangerous psychopath. She’s been stalking me for months, if not years, she broke into my computer, pillaged my private files, insinuated herself into my life . . . She might have killed Anton.

  No, I can’t believe it. I used to know her so well, she was my friend, my kindred spirit. Is it possible she’s changed that much? What has happened to her?

  What is the ‘Final Exposure’?

  A shiver runs through me. What is she plotting in her sick mind?

  I’m shivering because I’m scared and cold. I’m thirsty and my bladder is full. In fact, ‘full’ is an understatement. It’s absolutely bursting and if I don’t go to the loo soon . . .

  ‘Erin! I need to pee!’

  There is silence beyond the closed door. Where is she? Has she gone out and left me? It’s still dark outside, but the quality of light coming through the camera obscura aperture has changed. The inky gloom of midnight has given way to oyster twilight. It must be early morning, probably around five. Where the hell is she?

  ‘Erin! Erin! I need the loo!’

  Maybe someone will hear me if I keep shouting.

  ‘Erin, let me go!’

  Maybe an irate neighbour will complain about the noise.

  ‘Erin!’

  Maybe they’ll call the police.

  ‘Help!’

  My voice bounces off the thick walls like a ping-pong ball. This is a solid brick Victorian warehouse, not some plasterboard shack. No one’s going to hear me.

  I lean back on the pillows, stifling a sob.

  Has she left me to die? She’ll be back for her camera. But when? How long will she keep me here, tied to the bed?

  The pain in my bladder is excruciating. I try to shift on the mattress in order to relieve the pressure, but no matter how I position myself it hurts. I cross and uncross my legs, raise my hips, take deep breaths. I hum to myself, try to count clicks of the shutter, but nothing helps. I think I’ll have to wet the bed. This is such a cliché, the ultimate indignity of a prisoner. Maybe she’ll come back. She has to come back. I must hold out for a bit longer. But I can’t.

  The warm wetness spreads under my buttocks and the relief is immediate. I moan with pleasure, luxuriating in the sudden absence of pain. It feels great for a few minutes. But as the warmth evaporates all that is left is a patch of uncomfortable wetness. As I wonder how long it’ll take before it starts to smell, I detect an unpleasant odour lingering in the air. But it’s not the wet mattress, not yet anyway. It’s me. Every time I move a strong, almost animal-like stench of sweat wafts from under the red sheet.

  I stink of fear.

  If there was ever a hope of getting out of here by seducing Erin, I can forget it. She wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole now.

  I must’ve fallen asleep because when I open my eyes again the room is full of movement and light. The wall behind me, the bed and myself in it, are bathed in patches of colour, green, blue, white. I sit up and turn my head to get a better look. It’s the view from ‘Exposure 5’.

  As light from the outside goes through the camera obscura aperture, it flips the image upside down, just like the lens of a camera or a human eye. A brown and beige row of houses perched on their roofs is projected across the bed’s headboard, the pillows and my body. The sky is below, on the floor, and the Thames runs above me. I lean back and look at the ceiling. The river is quite busy already. A squat barge filled with yellow containers crawls slowly from left to right, towed by a small tug boat. It’s being chased by a red-and-white City Cruiser, its tinted windows reflecting the sun. Mesmerized by the upside-down spectacle, I momentarily forget where I am.

  My brief reverie is interrupted by the sound of the door being opened. Erin’s back. She drags a large Manfrotto tripod in and stops abruptly, blowing the air out with a frown. It must stink in here.

  Without a word she sets the tripod at the foot of the bed, then leaves again to return with a camera. Yep, it’s a Hasselblad H5D-60 medium format digital camera that would set you back more than a brand new Audi A5. And that’s before you fork out on a lens. I feel a ridiculous stab of envy. I watch Erin as she sets up the camera, quick, efficient, focused. She looks so professional, so . . . normal. But as I observe her closely I begin to notice a slight tremor in her fingers, a few beads of sweat on her forehead, the jerkiness of her movements.

  ‘Erin?’

  She hushes me with a raised hand, totally absorbed in what she’s doing.

  ‘Erin, we need to talk.’

  ‘Not now, Ryder.’

  ‘Erin, you have to let me go.’

  She ignores me. Fear tugs at my empty stomach.

  ‘Erin, what the hell are you doing?’

  She carefully makes the final adjustment, then looks up.
>
  ‘I am creating a masterpiece.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re holding a hostage in a room that stinks of piss.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ She stares at me with her scary, empty eyes, tapping her foot impatiently. ‘This,’ she points at the bed and the wall above me, ‘is going to be one of the most famous images of the twenty-first century.’

  God, she is mad.

  ‘It’ll push the boundaries of art. Instead of being a reproduction of reality, it’ll be reality.’

  ‘You don’t need me for this . . .’

  ‘Oh, I do. We used to work together, remember? This is going to be our final piece. The ultimate triumph for Cubic Zirconia.’

  ‘But you already have “Exposure 5”. It’s good, by the way, very good. I actually thought it was me in the picture. Down to the tattoo.’

  She slides her sleeve up to reveal the tattoo on the inside of her forearm, just above the wrist. It matches mine exactly.

  ‘Fire. Remember when we got them?’

  ‘I’ll never forget it. It hurt like hell.’

  She actually smiles. Maybe if I keep chatting with her, she’ll abandon whatever she’s planning to do and let me go.

  ‘Listen, I’ve pissed myself. And now I’m sitting on a soggy mattress smelling like granny’s knickers. Let me go to the bathroom, clean myself. You don’t want to work with me like this . . .’

  ‘That’s precisely what I want.’

  The smile is gone. It’s as if her human side shuts off, leaving the psycho shell.

  She leaves the room. This isn’t going well. I look around in desperation. I wish there was something I could use to cut these bloody restraints. She is not going to let me go, so I need to find a way of getting out of here, by hook or by crook.

  If I could slide down on the bed as far as I can, maybe I could reach the tripod with my foot. And if I kick it . . . Knocking a forty-thousand-dollar camera to the floor may not be the cleverest idea, but it’s all I can think of. It’ll provoke her, elicit some kind of unplanned reaction, force her to change her plan. She won’t be able to shoot the ‘Final Exposure’, whatever it is, on her Hasselblad, so maybe she’ll abandon the project altogether. She’s always been a perfectionist . . .

  Propping myself on an elbow, I shift my buttocks off the wet patch. I can do it. I put my arms above my head so the restraints don’t stop my slow progress and keep moving towards the foot of the bed. I’m nearly there when the door opens again.

  She’s back, twitchy and keyed up. She puts a small metal tray on the floor, then approaches the bed and pulls on my restraints. They cut into the skin on my wrists.

  ‘Ouch. It hurts.’

  ‘Move back.’

  ‘It’s wet there. I was trying to find a dry patch.’

  ‘Move back.’

  There is something in her voice that makes me do what she says without another word. Satisfied with my position, she goes back to the tray. As she picks it up I notice its contents. A syringe and a small glass vial with a green top.

  ‘Erin, what the fuck . . .’ My heart is pounding.

  ‘Shhh . . .’ She shakes the vial.

  ‘Erin, what are you doing? What is it?’

  ‘Ketamine. I could’ve chosen something much more painful.’

  Ketamine. The same drug they found in Anton’s blood after his death.

  ‘No! You can’t!’ I’m yanking on the restraints, trying to move as far from her as I can.

  ‘You’ll be gone in thirty seconds.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to . . .’ I’m thrashing around in panic.

  ‘I’m afraid what you want or don’t want is no longer relevant . . . Actually, let me tell you what I want.’ She puts the tray down. ‘It’s going to be a triptych. Three camera obscura images linked together by their common object, you. And their common subject, death. Think of it as a twenty-first-century altarpiece. Left panel – waiting for death. I’ll have to be snappy with this one. Death in a Ketamine overdose is apparently quite quick. Central panel – death. The moment your heart stops beating. Right panel – after death. Victorians called it “memorial portraiture”. I’ll have to wait for this one until the light outside is right. Very à propos, don’t you think? Considering it was you who had the brilliant idea of making us do post-mortem photography for a living . . .’

  I stare at her, speechless. In her twisted mind she’s confusing killing me with art. This can’t be happening . . .

  She picks up the Ketamine tray again.

  ‘Erin, wait. You can’t do it. It’s murder. You won’t get away with it. You’ll go to prison and no one will buy your art. They’ll ban it . . .’

  ‘You’re wrong. Notoriety sells.’

  ‘But you won’t be able to enjoy it.’

  ‘I’m enjoying it now. In fact, I’m loving it.’

  She pierces the vial’s top and pulls on the plunger.

  ‘Fuck! No!’

  I kick, aiming at her hand with the syringe. My foot misses it by inches.

  ‘Bad girl.’

  ‘Don’t come near me! I won’t fucking let you come near me!’

  ‘Then I’ll have to tase you again.’ She puts the syringe back on the tray. ‘I was hoping we’d avoid it. It might spoil the composition. You’re being so difficult!’

  ‘Erin, please!’ My last-ditch fury from a moment ago has been replaced by despair. ‘You’re my friend. You can’t do this to me . . .’

  She’s not listening. She places the Ketamine tray on the floor away from the bed and leaves the room. She is going to kill me and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, I can do to stop her. I’m choking on my tears.

  An unexpected noise penetrates my anguish and I hold my breath, trying to suppress the sobbing.

  Someone’s knocking on the front door.

  I’m imagining it. No, there it is again. Oh God, please let it be true.

  ‘Help!’ I try to shout, but I barely manage a whimper.

  Someone is banging on the door. I can hear muffled, raised voices.

  I’ve been saved. I’m not going to die.

  There’s more noise outside and suddenly Erin is back in the room. She kicks the door shut behind her and turns towards me. She is shaking and her face is a pale mask twisted in anger. She points a black and yellow object at me.

  A gun. No, a taser.

  ‘Erin, wait . . .’

  I hear the familiar clicking. I want to say it’s too late, I want to tell her all will be forgiven if—

  Pain. And then nothing.

  37

  My body is heavy. My head is throbbing. My eyelids refuse to move. I can feel the restraints on my wrists.

  Damn. I’m still on the fucking bed. Nothing has changed. But I’m alive.

  It takes effort to open my eyes. I close them immediately, blinded by the brightness in the room. Where is Erin’s camera obscura? Where is she? I must’ve passed out, but what happened before that? I can’t remember.

  ‘Kristin?’

  The voice sounds familiar. Erin has never called me Kristin. I crack my eyes open again. Short grey hair, bushy dark eyebrows, big brown eyes magnified by stark glasses in a black frame.

  ‘Vero? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for you to wake up.’

  ‘But how . . .’

  I look around the room. I’m not at Professor Stein’s apartment. What I thought was a restraint on my wrist is a catheter attached to a drip.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘The Royal London.’

  That place again. Marcus’s hospital.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘You’ve had a bit of a shock. Literally.’ Vero smiles. ‘Erin tased you for a bit longer than necessary.’

  ‘Erin . . . where is she?’

  ‘It’s OK, Lily Liver.’ Vero pats my hand gently. ‘Don’t you worry about her now.’

  ‘Can we go home?’

  ‘As soon as the doctor says yes.’

  It t
urns out the drip in my hand is there to treat dehydration, but the good news is my fluid volume is almost back to normal. A young doctor with bloodshot eyes and heavy five o’clock shadow talks loudly about ‘possible scarring’ after the removal of taser darts and how lucky I was to avoid ‘ventricular fibrillation’. Satisfied with ‘my responses’, he signs a discharge note. I’m free to go.

  ‘This is the best cup of tea I’ve ever had.’

  It’s strong, milky and very sweet, and I’m drinking it at the kitchen table in my loft.

  Vero and Fly have evidently made themselves at home here and it’s fine. It’s actually great to have them around, especially as we still have a lot of catching up to do.

  ‘How did you know I was at Professor Stein’s flat?’

  Fly shoots Vero a worried look. She clears her throat.

  ‘Well . . . I was a bit naughty. You’d actually got me worried with all your stalker stories and I asked Fly to find a way of keeping an eye on you . . .’

  ‘You spied on me?’

  They both look rather sheepish.

  ‘Well, no . . . yes . . . it wasn’t like that . . . Fly, you explain it . . .’

  He sneezes and blows his nose noisily.

  ‘Sorry, it’s the cat . . .’

  ‘Come on, Fly.’ Vero glares at him. ‘I saw you take your antihistamine this morning.’

  ‘OK.’ He sighs. ‘We planted a Tile in your bag.’

  ‘I was walking around with a tile in my bag?’

  ‘It’s not a “tile” tile. It’s a Bluetooth lost-item tracking device.’

  ‘You’ve lost me already.’

  ‘OK. It helps you find misplaced things using a smartphone. The Tile I put in the side pocket of your bag was linked to my iPhone.’

  ‘Thank heavens I had my bag with me.’

  He smiles. ‘Yes, that was lucky. Especially as you’d left your mobile phone on the bus, so we couldn’t use it to locate you.’

  ‘How do you know I left it on the bus?’

  ‘It was found by an honest person. She looked up recently dialled numbers on your phone and got through to Vero. She dropped it off here this morning.’ Fly points at my phone sitting on the table, then puts a small square object next to it. ‘This is your Tile.’