Alex Gray: Never Somewhere Else

Martin grinned suddenly. Why not?

The gallery was part of a university building that had been thoroughly renovated in recent years. Glasgow’s profile as a city of culture had spawned many similar establishments, usually small and well-lit with Renaissance music playing discreetly in the background. Here the music was drowned out by the babble of voices and laughter. The opening had attracted other photographers and artists and, Martin was pleased to note, a fair sprinkling of art critics from papers other than their own.

‘Diane.’

Jayne Morganti breezed up to them, her red chiffon scarf trailing like two streamers in her wake. She was a diminutive yet striking woman of around sixty, whose black hair and animated elfin face made her seem much younger.

‘And Martin.’

She kissed the air beside his chin, standing on patent-leather tiptoe to reach even that height.

‘Do come and have some bubbly.’

They allowed themselves to be towed off by Jayne, giving a wave or smile to others in the Press fraternity.

‘Here darlings.’ Jayne handed them both long glasses of sparkling wine. ‘You will just love Davey’s piccies. I can’t wait to tell the world about this little show.’

Diane laughed. Jayne’s over-the-top style often included the phrase ‘tell the world’, her approach to art criticism having the zeal of a white-hot evangelist.

Martin strolled over to a glass table and picked up a couple of catalogues. He passed one to Diane and quietly took himself off to see Davey Baird’s collection of pictures.

They were, as she had told him, mostly of children. There were faces that grinned out at him with more than childish mischief. Davey had succeeded in capturing their air of adult insouciance. Martin stopped before number nineteen. The picture showed two boys here in a back court, both street urchins in bomber jackets and garishly illustrated t-shirts. One was looking straight at the camera chin up, teeth showing in his grin. His cropped hair glistened in the sunlight. Behind him, the other had turned slightly from the camera’s gaze. His smile had drooped a little and his eyes were cold and unfathomable. Martin’s eyes followed the boy’s to see what he saw, but it was out of the photographer’s range, whatever it was, somewhere beyond the old-fashioned ‘midden’ where dustbins were shoved in out of the rain. Martin nodded his approval. Davey certainly had a composition that told a story with characters and setting. The plot was entirely up to the spectator, of course. There were several red dots in the corner, indicating that prints had been sold. Giving in to a moment of impulse, Martin decided that he would add one for himself.

There was only one other purchaser at the desk where a young girl sat taking orders from the catalogue. Martin had half-turned around to see where Diane was when the words, ‘Number nineteen’ made him swing back. Curious to see who else had fancied his print, he stared at the man in front of him. He looked like an art student with his tawny hair pulled back into a rubber band and his black leather jacket slung over one shoulder, but when Martin caught sight of his face, he wasn’t so sure. The guy must be his age, at least, he thought, watching as he wrote a cheque, noting the signature’s artistic flourish.

‘Thanks, Chris. You can collect your copy at the end of this week. It’ll take a few days to have them all framed. Everybody seems to like that one,’ the girl gushed.

Martin caught her eye and smiled.

‘Me too. Number nineteen, I mean,’ he said, turning towards the man she’d called Chris.

The guy looked at him for a moment as if Martin was daft then his expression cleared.

‘Oh. Right,’ he answered. ‘The print. Aye, that’s another one to add to my collection. I’ve got quite a few of his,’ he nodded back in the direction of the main gallery where the photographer was still surrounded by a clutch of admirers. The man smiled briefly at Martin then headed for the main door calling back to the girl. ‘See you, Daisy.’

Martin rolled some notes out of his pocket and paid for his copy of the picture, giving the girl his name and address then strolled back to examine the rest of the exhibition. From number twenty onwards the pictures were mostly taken in sunshine, the quality of light contrasting vividly with the bleak tenement surroundings. One showed puddles gleaming in the foreground, dazzling the eye against the rows of grey houses and uneven chimney pots on the skyline. Another, taken in a rural setting, was a study of a hare on the skyline of a field, its head upwards as if gazing at the moon.

‘Real talent, eh?’ Diane said as she rejoined him.

‘Mm. He’s really hit it off this time.’

‘You never know, maybe he’ll do this sort of thing full-time.’

‘I hope not. His shots usually tell a better story than I do.’

Martin’s voice betrayed a certain jealousy.

Diane laughed and shook her head.

‘Oho! Fishing for compliments, are we?’

Martin gave a lop-sided smile. He’d been short-listed for one award himself and was desperate for the sort of recognition that Davey Baird enjoyed.

‘Who’s giving out compliments?’ a voice asked.

They swung round to see the photographer himself standing behind them.

‘We were just saying how you could do this as a full-time job,’ Diane told him.

Davey ran a hand over his fine blond hair and gave a hoot of laughter. ‘That’ll be shining bright. This is just a sideline. I still need all the work the Gazette can give me.’ He patted Martin’s shoulder adding, ‘Catch up with you later. There’s a guy over there I want to see.’

They watched him weave his way through the crowd, stopping now and then to shake a hand and exchange a word with someone. Martin gazed after him, imagining how it must feel to be the centre of such attention. A movement by his side made him look down.

Diane’s wine was finished. She swirled the stem of her glass between her fingers thoughtfully. She’s wondering if I’ll fetch her another, thought Martin, who was only too aware of Diane’s signals. Half of him wanted to capitulate, but his own weariness had been shrugged off by discussing the case and now he wanted to be home, doing some more research, deciding on his next line of enquiry. He had to keep the story hot for the paper, and, as he had told Diane, there was very little new information to be had. He drained his own glass and gave her a grin.

‘Right, lass, I’m off!’

The exaggerated Glasgow accent was designed to make a pretence of being oblivious to Diane’s come-on approach. Martin hoped he’d be allowed to succumb to it another time. As he stood up, he rumpled her dark hair just for luck.

‘Oh, you … leave off!’ she laughed, a little ruefully, he thought. Martin bent his hand twice in a mock farewell wave then slouched out of the gallery into the street.

For weeks the Gazette had been following the story of the St Mungo’s Murders with Martin reaping the benefits. His stories had been good: just the right mixture of sensationalism and fact, not too grisly, but enough to hook his readers. These murders could really make his name as a reporter. It had taken an effort to concentrate on the outrage, the victims’ friends and family and, above all, the menace which had to be wiped off the streets, but wasn’t he using the printed word as another weapon in combating this evil hidden somewhere in the city?

As he drove to his quiet bachelor flat, Martin turned on the radio for news. There was an item about a politician and his mistress. More kiss-and-tell. It was becoming old hat. The latest royal visit overseas had created a stir. Employment figures were up. Another factory had closed down.