Eight Rooms

by Various

  “It’s our family home. It’s where we all come.”

  “Oh love,” Ian had said. “I wish I had the money to buy it for you.”

  “If it was a toss up between this and the cottage, where would you rather be?”

  Strange how things turn out. I look at your photograph and the other additional family photographs on the shelves below it. Three new lives since yours ended. They won’t get the chance to know you, but we will be sure to tell them stories of you. They will all have a scrapbook of photographs.

  Steven said that he couldn’t possibly live here, too many memories of marriage break-ups and other things, he said. My memories here are good ones. I see my two girls as babies playing on the carpet and running on the lawn with you when they were younger. I see you taking out orange juice and cakes. I see you meeting me from the taxis, laughing. A happy warm place.

  It only took us a few weeks to sell our cottage to a couple that fell in love with it, as we once had. We paid off all our debts and paid Steven half of what the property was worth. He moved into his own small bungalow but sold it, losing money along the way though at present he is with his new partner some miles from here. We phone often and meet when we can. He is happy now. I can see it in his face and eyes. He still misses you terribly, we all do, but we want you to rest in peace. I am happy too. I have so much better health since the move here. Life moves on. I am the eldest of our family now.

  We walk on the beach on most days when Ian is home with Sandie. We talk to you there. I talk to your photograph. You will always be within our hearts. You will always have pride of place here on the top shelf, with the additional family on the shelves beneath. I find such peace here. We are the stable couple that the rest of the family turn to. Family often come here to stay. Yes. They remember their roots. They all come home.

  4

  Mark Kotting

  Time.

  I’ve got an hour to make up my mind, less.

  Who does time wait for?

  I’ve got two piles of photos, they’re growing, the good the bad. He’ll be around in an hour, husband with his new glowing wife, to look at the happy, white, wedding shots. He’s already rung.

  Hope they’re in focus. Was the first funny thing he said, ended it with, Does my wife look like an angel?

  Heard her by his side. He didn’t give me time to answer, the receiver went giggling and gurgling dead.

  Angel, I haven’t seen any of them in a while.

  Decisions, decisions, look at the time, the clock.

  When I take a photo, I get in close; hear the lot, the braggers the boasters, the ones walking the aisle because they’ve put their prick in a pretty frock, when maybe they should have left it resting in the dark.

  I’m a photographer because of mum, simple as that. She carries a picture of her son, my brother, from room to room, even travels on buses with it, buried deep inside her coat. He died when he was young, I can’t remember him and she can’t forget him. That’s what a picture can do. I thought carrying a photo from room to room was a normal thing to do, like carrying a cup of tea. It isn’t. Photos hold power, cast a spell.

  I capture the day’s worth of dreams of the cloned ones, bleating bah, bah sheep, with my dream catcher’s net. People of no conversation, they’d never acquired the knack; they hang themselves up by hangers brought from the latest hip-hop, uber uber, design shop.

  Uber, Uber. How many times could a man hear that in a night?

  Another word making its clichéd way up onto the bleating sheep’s tongue. There’s a list of them, they come, they go, last one to get stuck was gob-smacked.

  A room of dusted, puffed up blind, look at me fools. All they want from life is perfect teeth and to be strung with Chelsea pearls. Their problem? They all want to be someone else.

  I’ve got their photos by my feet, by my side, stared at them in the moonless night. Spilt wine on some. I ain’t doing this anymore. I pick up a photo, rip it with anger. Something inside has changed.

  I’ve taken the money my entire professional, clicking life. Given up weekends. Perfected, a perfect fake wedding smile to go with the cutting of the cake.

  Stood alone, unnoticed, taking that rainbow-winning wedding shot and its bollocks.

  Followed one couple from wedding to grave, they liked my photos that much. The marriage didn’t last that, he died of some cancer, I don’t know which. It didn’t matter. Dead’s, dead. The wife wanted a parting shot; I took it, the box being lowered into the ground. She didn’t seem bothered and nor was I. A farewell shot. Could have been cans being dragged behind the newlyweds car. It don’t matter to me.

  I’m chosen because I’m different, I take a candid shot. I’m unnoticeable, I don’t talk, I get on with the job in hand. Catch the moments of the day; nothing goes past my lens and me.

  Not anymore, how long can a man hold a fake smile? There’s a time when things end. I’m close. My hands are shaking, I grip the table and wait, it will pass, it usually does. But my dreams aren’t sweet no more. Revenge.

  Do I show them the photos they want to see? I’ve got them. Smiles, the flowing angel’s dress the champagne popping corks.

  Or the ones of an unloved son?

  How many times does a six-year-old boy need to cry in a day? When does the wailing stop?

  The first thing he said looking up at me and my lens was, How old do you think I am?

  Sixteen, I replied.

  No, stupid, six. I’ve lost a tooth, see?

  He pointed, I looked, he had.

  But the tooth fairy didn’t come.

  Oh, why not? As I said I don’t usually As I said I don’t usually like to get involved.

  Sheryl knocked it out.

  Knocked it out?

  Sheryl was going to be the boy’s new mother. Time was ticking down on this boy.

  It’s still under my pillow, the fairy wouldn’t take it either.

  I’m sorry to hear that. I said. He looked at me, said nothing for a while then said. Want to play football?

  No, I replied. He smiled, bent, picked up a stone, threw it, walked away.

  A wedding’s not just for the bride and groom. They’re all in there fighting, elbowing, might as well have it stapled on backs, look at me. There’s jostling going on, pigs at the trough. Push and shove.

  I’ve had a bride walk out crying in disgrace. There’d been a lull at the table, silence where noise should have been. She ended her sentence with that’s how I accidentally took crack. She’d just married into old money. What had started as a marriage at two was, by all counts over by five, it happens. I know I was there. Taking the shots. There wasn’t dancing that night. Me, standing in front of disco lights and a DJ wondering whether he was going to be paid.

  The guests, galloped away into the night. The unhappy couple left in separate cars. And I found it hard to get my money from an embarrassed parent. I saw her two weeks later, in her Pimlico retreat.

  Do you think I want the tarts photos? She said as she handed over the money.

  No, quite agree. I replied. One’s got to be polite.

  I’m a dream catcher, says so on my card. Page 922 if you’re interested, I come at a reasonable rate.

  I capture the dream, the caramel skies, God’s rays on a golden bride. Handle the envelope of dreams. I check my watch.

  A picture for a wall or a mantle piece, I don’t give a damn, which, I send the magical day back, remit done. Click, click.

  I’m the photographer who makes modern man and wife believe they’re stars for the day.

  Do witches exist?

  I’m strangling the latest bride and groom in my hand. Mr and Mrs Bates. Smiles, happy white teeth.

  Weddings can be happy, cruel or kind. But who wants the cruel, not so nice wedding shots? Where do those go? I’ve got them in a box, that’s where mine go.

  The second thing, Sammy said, that was his name, was, can you pick me up so I can fly? I picked him up, flew for as long as I could hold him up there
. I like you, he said as his feet touched down. Can I be your friend?

  I pick up a print, Sammy crying on a haystack. He was alone in the sun as it shined on him, that’s why I went there, caught my photographer’s eye. Thought it would make a wedding day shot. The sun with its rays, that sort of thing, the son on the happy day. I can get poetic. But really I’m at the bottom of the artist heap.

  I took shots as I walked down, I didn’t realise Sam was crying and if I had, would I have taken the shot? You bet I would. He rubbed his eyes when I got up close, forced a smile, life had already taught him well.

  I’m looking at the haystack shot now, him with his red, young, suffering eyes.

  Sheryl doesn’t like me.

  I’ll say again, I don’t get involved with the guests, unprofessional. But here was a six-year-old crying on a haystack with not another adult around.

  No? I said. Course she does.

  But she doesn’t I’ve the proof.

  No she doesn’t, she thinks I’m an awkward child. What does awkward mean?

  I left him crying on a haystack as the sun shone down, that’s what me, the coward done.

  Sammy’s father, what did he say to me? Just make sure you don’t get in the guests way. I don’t like things in my way. Said it like he’d won some Victorian Cross going over some bayoneted wall. But we weren’t fighting. I was get instructions at Victoria, platform nine. He was late he didn’t apologise.

  Click. I got him, his back, his bald head, a clock showing his late time.

  See I’m sorting Mr and Mrs Bate’s pictures, the nice, the not so nice, with a decision to make. They’ll be here within the hour; I look at my watch, yeah, within an hour.

  There are two sides to everything, good and bad. In my case take the money or do what’s right. I walk over to the other side of the room, give the bird some food. Place two chairs by a wall, put a roll of gaffer tape on top.

  Another minute gone.

  His new bride brushes up well, her flowing grace, out of white lace. Yes, give the crowd a wave; turn smile, show a bit of shoulder, not too much mind. Dreams, in her eyes, in her Cinderella shoes, her wedding cake dress. I’ll capture you, you little fucking butterfly.

  I’ve been capturing butterflies for years. I hadn’t seen her evil bile yet.

  Oh yes, give us another wave, and another, a picture as she comes down the glass stairs in grace. Attention, on her. Hadn’t been like this since she’d slid from the womb, into her tender mother’s hands. Yeah and this the angel shot. She sparkles like a diamond, moves like a dove. It’s the witch’s day.

  As I took the angel shots, her new husband came up to me and said Make sure you get it, you are getting it, right? He hadn’t needed to worry. His new wife showed more honey, showed me all the tricks she’d got, she wasn’t a one trick pony, she’d been practising for this day all her life.

  I look at another. I’ve got ideas, now what am I going to do? Dark thoughts that are slowly growing.

  What do women want out of men? What do men want out of women? And why do men and woman have child?

  I stare at the ceiling. What have I got left on the clock? Forty-two minutes, with the little hand running around and around, ticking.

  The bride’s father’s behind her in this one, couldn’t smile for her, sure as hell wasn’t going to smile for me. He hadn’t smiled in years. He’d lost the knack. Catholic, I’d heard. Wasn’t happy his baby was marrying a man with a child. A child out of wedlock at that.

  Disgusting. Was a word I heard, hail a thousand Mary’s to that. It was the old man’s Catholics words that shocked me most, it’s a good job you’re marrying money because Tim’s a spineless cunt. His daughter was up against a wall her throat was in her daddy’s hands.

  She couldn’t protest or protect her new husband to be. I moved out of the room, I got my shots though, her and her dad with their fangs hanging out. Eyes turned up, taking counsel with the devil or the Lord or whomever else they might talk to.

  And her father in this one, him with his sizzling anger in his Catholic eyes. He didn’t want to be there. He was oozing that. Couldn’t contain that in his over priced suit. He had his mind well and truly made up.

  That’s my trouble I don’t have faith.

  Is there any love left in this world? Or is it lost in the lace of the new dress, with a hand waiting to get underneath and poke and pull.

  The wedding lasted two days, they’re getting longer, and some go for weeks. Guests piped in, like dishes for a banquet.

  Digital, makes it easy, click, erase or keep. Adobe’s, where I play. Any idiot can do it. And if I give it up? What have I got? Nothing, I’ve always known that, all I’ve got is a clicking eye.

  When I take a picture, you don’t even realise you’ve been had. I’ve robbed you, mugged you, had you.

  And look here, the mother, turning and swaying, chucked up later in a sink. I got it, me and my camera, her, her puke and the sink. Too much for the catholic mother was it? And when she wiped her mouth, I got a shot of that as well. Didn’t see me my Nikon staring back. Tripped and fell, came down close to my polished wedding shoe, got some glare when I took that. I didn’t ask her if she was all right? I didn’t care. They came running to see the brides’ mother splayed on the floor. Before she’d passed out she’d been spurting how well how daughter had done, she’s bringing money into the family, shame about the chid. She said to one fat 55inch arsed lady, eating ice cream so as to keep it that way. I thought that. The woman replied, terrible, ill mannered little brat. She said as the ice cream went down.

  Who do I hate most? Mr. or Mrs. Bates?

  And in this picture, her whispering, sucking his ear.

  And in this her out in the cut corn field, holding her new man’s hand. The boy running wild behind. The first shot looked so good I took another and another. A new family, a tender loving hand. I carried on clicking, saw the gesture of the new bride’s hand. It was behind her husbands’ back I’m looking at it now, and it’s still doing the same thing, shooeing the child away. As you would a dog. Sammy stopped, the couple walked, the gap in the cornfield grow bigger.

  I kept clicking, they kept walking, the boy, he dropped to the ground.

  It was a wedding for Man, Child and Beast, said so on the invitation, all were invited, child and dog, the card was the quality type, thick, bold, felt good in the hand. I took a picture of it as a reminder of the day. I haven’t a real emotion left, lost them at wedding days. I’ve seen best men fighting, taking chunks out of each other, brides taking bites out of maids. I keep the nasty shots, in a cupboard in a box under lock and key.

  And this lot of happy dancers, strutting showing arses, bulges from the zipped already married pants. I photo high, photo low, doesn’t matter which, crutch or box. I’m on the look out, the prowl. Anything that gets my, oh, so, artistic eye. The parent’s, the children, the bride, the groom. Or, the diamante dog with its eye hanging out, I don’t care. Click. Click. I shout to the room, the room that I call home.

  I’m sure it’s killing me off, clinically I might already be dead. That’s what I’ve got to do, make my stand. Plant my fucking flag, the flag of goodness and hope. Something, to hold onto in later life.

  I lean back in my chair.

  Sammy is in my hand playing with other children. Well I thought he was, but when I got over, they were giving him the loser sign. They make an L shape by their temples, makes them look like Spanish Bulls. They were all laughing, Sammy was crying.

  Tell them to stop it, make them go away. He yelled. And what did I do? What did I do? Not a goddamn thing. I clicked away.

  Am I a bad man? Would a jury have my hanging by a rope? I’m splattered with man, woman and filth.

  I rip another up.

  The clock, the clock, not so many minutes to go now.

  Kids will always give you some shot, moments turning up, sure as night or day.

  I didn’t have to follow these kids around, I’d been given the same table to eat
off, in the kitchen. Even the groom’s son was in there. The little curly haired six year old hadn’t made it to the big table, wasn’t going to be sitting by his father’s side.

  Odd, son not next to dad. On the biggest night of his life. Says something about a man, who’d do that. Wouldn’t want his son to join him on a night like that.

  Sam’s new mother had been talking to a bridesmaid. I was taking the bride and bridesmaids shots, there’s an order a protocol. The ones where friendship is displayed.

  He’s just not a very pleasant, the new wife said. And I do try.

  I know you do, everyone can see that. She burped then went on. I didn’t think he was a nice child. Her best friend replied. Then added. Thought it the minute I saw him. He didn’t even make an effort to dress up.

  Exactly. He wanted to ruin my biggest day. The bride added.

  He’s six I wanted to shout. He’s only six. I was awakening.

  And in this one, Sam, with an imprint of a hand on his face. Red stripes across his cheeks, put there an hour before the lunch by his new mother. I’ve got the shot.

  I came around a quiet corner, there they were. A new mother, new son, no one else around.