The Devil's Photographer

by Amy Cross

  I stare at him.

  "I'm sure I seem quite mad to you," he continues, "don't I?"

  "Let me guess," I reply, passing the drill back to him, "you think this trepanation thing actually works."

  "The learning process is long and complex," he replies with a smile, as he places the drill back into the cabinet, "and my work is far from complete. Still, I believe I'm making some significant advances, and I'm emboldened by successful cases such as... well, such as yourself. You're not the first to benefit from my work, and I very much hope that you won't be the last. For now, though, I think we should focus on your case. Tell me how you're feeling."

  "I'm feeling... good," I reply cautiously.

  "Define that word for me," he says with a frown. "What does good feel like?"

  "I'm sore," I tell him, "but the pain in my torso, and in my side... It's gone. For now, anyway."

  "How are your energy levels?"

  "Not bad," I reply, which is something of an understatement. The truth is, right now I feel as if I could do anything, although I'm still convinced that it's only the adrenalin that's keeping me going.

  "You're making excellent progress," he says, walking over to his desk and picking up a clipboard, the contents of which he studies for a moment. "The leeches really seem to have worked wonders. I thought they'd do a good job. They're from a new strain I imported from South America and I must admit, their use in this kind of situation is still a little experimental, but I'm glad I tried them on you. Your blood toxicity levels have been brought back into order. Things are definitely headed in the right direction."

  "You think the leeches made me feel better?" I ask, trying to work out whether this guy is completely insane or just a little crazy.

  "No," he replies, still studying his notes, "I think removing the cancer made you feel better. The leeches just helped a little." He looks at me. "Leeches are used in your modern hospitals too, you know. It's fairly rare, but leeches are a part of twenty-first century medicine. It's one of the few areas where we agree."

  "What about my cancer?" I ask.

  "Gone."

  "It can't be."

  "I assure you," he replies, setting the clipboard back down, "the cancer is completely gone from your system. This is where modern medicine and I have something of a disagreement. Their methods for fighting cancer are brutal and primitive. They blast your entire body with radiation, or they pump you full of poison, and then they sit back and hope that the cancer will die before the rest of you becomes too badly damaged. It's utterly barbaric, and yet they dress up in nice white coats, they use expensive equipment, and they put on a kind of pantomime that makes everyone think they know what they're doing. At the same time, they miss several far more effective ways of treating cancer."

  "Such as?" I ask.

  "Instinct," he replies. "The cancer in your body was deeply rooted. It had spread, as I'm sure you were aware. Nevertheless, thanks to my instinct and experience, I was able to track it through every muscle and organ, picking it out while leaving the rest of your body intact. Imagine a man hunting a single thread within the weave of a huge tapestry. Few would have the skill, fewer still would have the patience. I don't mean to sound egotistical, but this is one area where I believe I have a great advantage over my so-called contemporaries. The proof, meanwhile, is plain for us both to see."

  "It is?"

  "You're standing here now," he says with a smile. "You're alive, Kate, and barring unfortunate accidents you'll still be alive in a week, and a month, and a year and ten years..." He pauses. "I know that nothing I say can entirely convince you, so I must simply wait for you to realize on your own terms. Believe me, I know the cruelty of false hope, and there's no way I'd ever say these things to you if I wasn't absolutely certain. You're free to go back to your previous Doctor in the city and get him to check on you, although for obvious reasons I'd rather that you didn't mention anything about me. I prefer to keep a low profile."

  I stare at him, still not quite daring to believe that he could be telling the truth. After a moment, there's a rumbling sound from my belly.

  "I believe the chef has been instructed to prepare a meal for you," Dr. Mammone continues. "It should be ready very soon."

  "This can't be real," I reply. "My cancer -"

  "You'll see," he replies with a faint, self-satisfied smile. "Of course, there are still some other matters to consider, such as the demon that plagues you."

  "Demon?" I reply, raising an eyebrow. I guess the guy is nuts after all.

  "You've attracted the attention of some very unfortunate creatures," he continues. "This is really Dagwood's area of expertise rather than my own, but I think there might be some ways in which I can help. Tell me, Kate, apart from the barbaric treatment you received in that New York hospital, have you been suffering headaches for any particular length of time?"

  "Not really."

  "But you have been experiencing the sensation of a certain presence, have you not?"

  "On and off."

  He pauses. "We need to perform some more tests. We need to work out what, exactly, is happening to you. Either these things are all in your mind, which I suppose could still be possible, or you've attracted some very unwelcome attention. I understand that you've spent many years taking photographs of churches, looking for something."

  "You've been talking to Dagwood," I reply.

  "Looking for what?"

  "A figure," I tell him. "A man's face. Maybe. I don't even know if it was there or not."

  "And what came first?" he asks. "Did you start taking the photographs and then see this face, or did you see the face and then start looking for him?"

  "I'm not sure I even remember."

  "Try."

  "I can't."

  "Well then that, in itself, is significant." He pauses again. "I want you to stay here with us, Kate. At least for a few more days. Will you do that?"

  "I don't even know where here is," I reply.

  "Everything will be explained to you," he continues. "We're really not into secrets, although obviously we go to great lengths in order to avoid attracting too much attention to ourselves. I'd really like to help you, though. I've already been able to get rid of your cancer, and I'd like to help with your other problem too, if you'll let me."

  I pause for a moment. "Sure," I mutter, even though I know it's probably a crazy idea. "I can stay another day, but after that, I have to go back to the city. And nothing happens without my consent. No more slapping leeches on me or -" Before I can finish, I have a flash of memory: I'm on the operating table, being ripped open by this man. The pain is indescribable, but at the same time I feel I can forgive him because, right now, it's as if he's helped me so much. Besides, the pain feels like a bad dream now, and there's a part of me that worries that all the agony and cancer will come rushing back once I return to New York.

  "We'll see what we can do in a single day," he replies. "For now, I think I can smell your steak, so perhaps you should go through to the cafeteria. I need to do some research into your case, and we can talk later."

  Heading over to the door, I still find it hard to believe that I can be feeling so good. I swear to God, I haven't felt this healthy and alive for many, many years. The change is so remarkable, it's hard not to worry that it might be some kind of trick. I desperately want to believe that it's all true, but the voice of reason and common sense is urging me to remain skeptical. I can't bring myself to believe in miracles, and I don't dare to hope for the best. Sooner or later, this all has to fall apart.

  "Why me?" I ask, turning back to face him. "Even if all of this is true, why's it happening to me instead of someone else? I'm not special or unusual, I've never done anything to attract this kind of attention, so... I don't get it. Why me?"

  "I don't know," he replies calmly. "I was hoping that maybe you would be able to explain."

  "It's like someone just targeted me randomly," I tell him.

  "I think we can be fairly certain
that's not the case," he says. "Still, have a little time. There's a reason for everything, Ms. Logan. We just have to determine what that reason might be."

  Twenty-five years ago

  "So have you thought about college?" my father asks as he sits at the computer, checking some information that's come down the phone line. He turns to me. "You're smart. You should go to college."

  "What's the point?" I ask. "I'll just get sick and drop out."

  "With that attitude," he replies, "why even bother getting out of bed in the morning?"

  "My point exactly," I mutter.

  "Are you still interested in math?" he asks.

  "I was never interested in math," I tell him.

  "You used to enjoy solving problems."

  "That doesn't mean I want to do it full-time," I reply. "It was just something to do when I was bored. I'd rather just get a job at the mall so I can buy stuff for my camera."

  I look back down at the photography book I'm trying to read, but after a moment I realize that my father is staring at me. Although I try to ignore him, eventually I have to look over.

  "What?" I ask.

  "Why don't you study photographer?" he replies.

  "Where?"

  "At college, dumb-ass." He waits for me to say something. "If it's what you want to do, go for it."

  "It'd cost too much," I tell him, keen to cut the conversation off before I get my hopes up. "We can't afford it."

  "But if we could find a way -"

  "We can't," I say firmly, looking back down at my book. I know he's still looking at me, but there's no way I'm going to acknowledge him this time. Going to college would be great if I didn't know that the cancer was going to come back, and if I wasn't sure that I'd be bankrupting my parents in the process. Besides, everything I need to know, I can learn from books and practice. College is for other people.

  Today

  Standing in the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  I look good.

  Not in a vain way, but in a healthy way. I look like someone who's never been sick. When I was dying of cancer, I caught occasional glimpses of my reflection; not enough to really peer closely, but enough to get a general idea of the fact that I was wasting away. And now, just a few days after coming to this place, I look healthier than anyone I've ever seen before. I just hope it's not one final, cruel trick.

  I keep telling myself not to believe that this can be true, and I keep waiting for the pain to come back. The truth, though, is that the seed of hope in my heart has begun to grow, and I'm starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, the cancer has somehow been beaten back. All the pain of the operation, which keeps coming back to me in waves and flashes, seems somehow worthwhile if it really means I've got my life back.

  Finally, tears of relief fill my eyes and I can no longer hold back the sense of hope. I'm not going to die. I'm really, truly not going to die. Not of cancer, at least. Somehow, for some reason and in some way that I don't even understand, these people have cured me. Sobbing, I look down at my hands and realize that they're trembling. I've spent so long in the shadow of death, I don't think I even remember how to live with hope anymore.

  Twenty-five years ago

  "There's no way you can afford this," I say, staring at the brochures.

  "Let us worry about that," my mother says with a smile. "We've gone through our finances, and it's all okay. We can afford to put you through college, including living expenses and some money for equipment. We wouldn't be offering if there was any chance it'd put us into any real hardship."

  Flicking through one of the brochures, I see pages about different photography units. Despite my initial reservations, I'm now fascinated by the idea of spending three full years immersed in the subject, learning everything I could ever need to know. The only problem is, when I look at photos of the campus, I can't imagine myself fitting in with all the happy, smiling students. I'd be a social outcast.

  "Will you at least think about it?" my father asks.

  I stare at the brochure for a moment longer, before looking over at him.

  "We've been saving," he continues, a little unconvincingly. "Come on, let us do this for you."

  I want to make him tell me the truth. I'm convinced that this sudden ability to pay for my education has to be linked to the same people who miraculously paid for my medical treatment. At the same time, the thought of studying photography at college is extremely tempting, and I don't want to do anything to jeopardize my prospects. Whoever Dimone Halifax Industries are and whatever they want from me, I figure I might as well take their money.

  "Okay," I say eventually, feeling a tightening sensation in my chest as I realize that I might actually end up at college. "How do I apply?"

  Today

  "See?" Dagwood says. "I'm sorry, but it's ruined."

  We're standing in a small room at the facility, and my wrecked camera is on the table. It's so weird to see the damn thing in such a state of disrepair; for most of my life, this camera has been my closest friend, and I don't mind admitting that I hurts to see that it has been so badly damaged.

  "I might be getting ahead of myself," he continues, "but to me, this doesn't look like an accident. I've dropped cameras before, and sure, you can mess them up, but this looks like someone took a goddamn baseball bat to it or something."

  "Why would anyone do that?" I ask. "And if they did, why would they leave the film intact?"

  "They wouldn't," he replies, "not if they knew how it worked, anyway. We might, though, be dealing with more primitive forces."

  Picking up the smashes lens, I turn it over in my hands. For a moment, I can't help but think back to the day, so many years ago, when my parents gave me this camera. It's the only thing I have left from that period of my life, and although I'm by no means a nostalgic person, I'm suddenly struck by the feeling that a connection has been broken. My parents couldn't even afford to run a car, and yet they saved the money to get this thing for me. I should never have let it out of my sight.

  "So here's the film," Dagwood says, opening a small container and showing me the roll of film inside. "I've inspected it, and as far as I can tell it seems to be completely undamaged, which is something of a miracle. By the time the camera was smashed, the roll must have wound back to the start." He pauses. "It's a good job you stuck with a traditional camera rather than digital, or this kind of recovery probably wouldn't have been possible."

  "What do you think is on here?" I ask, reaching into the container and picking up the roll.

  "What do you remember from that night?" he asks.

  "I was taking a lot of photos," I tell him. "It was dark, and I was using the flash. I saw -"

  He waits for me to finish.

  "I saw Amin Bell," I continue. "I remember it clearly. He was there."

  "Then he should be in some of the images," he replies.

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "If I develop this film," he continues, "it'll just be a load of images of the church's interior. But if you develop it, the real images should become clear. That's why I waited so long."

  "It still sounds kinda crazy," I point out.

  "It is crazy," he replies, "but I've been pursuing Amin Bell for a long time, and I'm convinced that your images are the best way to find him, and that he'll only appear if you're the one who handles the film."

  I turn the little plastic cartridge over in my hand.

  "We could just destroy it," I say eventually, feeling as if maybe, after everything that has happened recently, it's time to move on. "What does it matter if this guy keeps appearing? Apart from curiosity, there's -"

  "It matters," he says firmly. "Amin Bell isn't just any man, Kate. He wants something, and I need to know what. Besides, it's no coincidence that he's been appearing to you. Even if you try to ignore the whole thing, he'll still be near you. He thinks you can help him."

  "But why?" I ask. "Why me? There's -" I pause for a moment as a brief flash of pain flickers in
the back of my head.

  "What's wrong?" Dagwood asks.

  "Nothing," I reply. "Just a bit of a headache."

  "I'll get Dr. Mammone -"

  "It's just a headache," I say, grabbing his arm as he turns to leave. "After everything you did to me, can't I just have a goddamn headache?"

  "He needs to know."

  "Then we'll tell him when we're done," I insist, setting the film on the counter and grabbing the various bottles that we're going to need once we get started. "You've waited long enough for me to develop these images. Let's just see what we've got here, and then we can focus on trying to -" Before I can finish, the pain flares in my head again, and I take a moment to regather my thoughts. This isn't the same kind of pain that I used to experience with the cancer; this is something else entirely, lurking somewhere in my mind.

  "Kate -"

  "What?" I ask, turning as I feel him touch my shoulder.

  "I'm going to get Dr. Mammone," he says, heading for the door.

  "Did you touch me?" I ask, my heart racing as I start to realize that something feels very wrong.

  He turns to me. "Just now? No. Why?"

  "I felt it again," I tell him. "The same thing I felt in the church."

  He looks across the room. "There's no-one else here."

  "I felt it," I say, hurrying over to him. "I don't want to be here by myself."

  "This way," he replies, grabbing my hand and leading me along the corridor. "It's okay," he continues, even though his voice sounds tense, "we anticipated that this might happen at some point. Mammone knows what to do. You trust us, don't you?"