Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 23

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The clerk donned his hat and shuffled from the stoop. Lowell watched him disappear down the alleyway and then looked up, finding the sky in a crack between two buildings. The blizzard had intensified since morning, leaving the heavens snow-filled and sunless, iron-grey but for a varicose network of dark veins and fractures.

He turned from the doorway. A quick consultation of his watch showed the time to be a quarter to three. He pushed shut the door and returned to the studio to ready it for his next appointment. Less than an hour remained before Arthur Whateley and his young wife, married in November, were due to arrive.

He unrolled the pastoral background on which they had already agreed, arranged two chairs before it, and fell to the task of readying the camera — Patrick’s camera. While the results of the development process had not put his earlier terror to flight, they had at least given him courage, and he resolved to confront his fears. To this end, he positioned Patrick’s camera at the appropriate distance from the canvas and drew a breath before lifting the flaps over his head.

He peered through the viewfinder at the wall of his studio. His palms were slick — his breathing rapid — but no dread apparition materialised to confront him. Instead he saw only the painted trees of the familiar country scene. Their leaves wavered, delicate and still, as though waiting for the first breath of wind, a summer storm sure to come.

Arthur Whateley was one of those rare men upon whom Fortune has never ceased to smile. Wealthy, well groomed, and recently wed, his generosity was matched only by the honeyed warmth of his voice and by the kindness of his demeanour. He was handsome, notably so, but his dusky good looks were more than equalled by the beauty of his wife Gertrude, a noted heiress. She was, like him, dark of hair and eye, but blessed with a delicate complexion, with cheeks that flushed to a subtle rose-colour and would not tolerate the sun.

Whateley himself was in all respects a consummate gentleman. Lowell had met him for the first time two weeks before when the young tycoon first came to the studio to make arrangements for his formal wedding portrait. Lowell had found him as charming and personable as any man he had ever met, well versed in an array of subjects ranging from architecture to the theatre and indeed most topics one could name.

He was also exceedingly punctual. At half-past three, the bell sounded, and Lowell hurried to the door to admit the happy couple. Arthur grinned broadly and offered his hand. Mrs Whateley blushed to meet Lowell’s gaze and wished him a soft “how do.” She wore an unusual amount of face powder and the skin surrounding her eyes was strikingly pale.

“Please come in,” said Lowell. “Everything’s ready.”

“Excellent!” Arthur exclaimed. “But I’m afraid we cannot stay long. My wife and I are expected at the Grand in half-an-hour’s time.”

“I understand perfectly,” said Lowell. “This will not take a minute.”

“Have you been?”

“To — to the Grand?”

“No? Then you must join us there sometime.”

“Why — of course,” said Lowell, taken off guard. “I would be honoured.”

“It’s settled, then. Shall we take the picture?”

“By all means.” Lowell gestured in the direction of the prepared background. “I believe we agreed on a seated portrait?”

“Indeed we did,” said Arthur.

He steered his wife across the room and helped her settle into a chair before taking the seat beside her, one hand thrust into his jacket, the other resting lightly on her knee.

“Ready when you are,” said Arthur.

Lowell approached the tripod. “And you, Mrs Whateley?”

Her husband answered. “Oh, you needn’t worry about Gertie,” he said cheerfully. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

Mrs Whateley nodded but said nothing.

“Shall we proceed?” asked Arthur.

“Of course,” said Lowell, nodding. He had already prepared the collodion mixture and adjusted the lens. All that remained was to open the shutter. Taking up the flash box, he slipped his head under the cover and placed his eye against the viewfinder.

The powder had vanished from Mrs Whateley’s brow. In its place he noted the swelling of an under-skin bruise. As Lowell watched, the colours continued to deepen and spread, leaching through flesh and tissue to collect in a series of purple bruises down her neck, forming the imprint of a man’s hand around her throat.

Lowell’s stomach clenched. The air left his lungs, and he gasped for breath that would not come. She looked up at him then — perhaps only to wonder what was taking so long — and in her eyes he saw a silent suffering, such as he had once glimpsed in the eyes of another, and all at once, he understood everything.

Whateley had come to him seeking concealment. Like many clients, he wanted an image of false happiness, another mask for the violence and cruelty they both strove to hide — he with his airs and false benevolence and she with her daubs and powders. Mrs Whateley gazed back at Lowell through the viewfinder, her eyes bloodied and sightless.

He swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He withdrew from the hood and stepped away from the camera. “But I’m afraid I cannot take the picture. You will have to go elsewhere.”

“You’re sorry ?” erupted Whateley. “What in God’s name are you talking about? Is there some kind of — problem — with the camera?”

Lowell shook his head.

“What, then?”

“I cannot take the picture,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”

“You owe me an explanation.”

Lowell looked from the camera to the seated couple. He exhaled. “Yes,” he conceded. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Well?”

He pointed to the area above his own right eye and nodded toward Mrs Whateley. “It’s her make-up. It’s playing havoc with this light. Could we try one without?”

Whateley’s face turned crimson. He sprang up from the chair and grabbed hold of his wife’s arm. Without a word, he dragged her to her feet and spirited her toward the doorway.

In the entryway, he retrieved his cane and spun on his heel to address Lowell.

“You have wasted my afternoon, sir,” he declared coldly. “And you will not see me again. Nor will you see my friends again, either. I will certainly warn them to stay far away from an amateur such as yourself.”

He stepped through the doorway, pulling his wife after him. She tripped on the stoop and looked back at Lowell, her expression at once pleading and resigned, as though craving a deliverance she no longer expected. Her despair bit deep, instilling in Lowell a terrible, inescapable guilt.

He ran after them into the alleyway. Dusk was descending. A heavy snow filled the air. “You swine!” he shouted after Whateley. “I will tell the world what you are!”

Whateley halted and turned around. He released his grip on his wife’s arm and advanced on Lowell with a menacing sneer, brandishing his cane like a common thug, the weighted end tapping against his open palm.

“Run!” Lowell shouted to Mrs Whateley. “He will kill you — don’t you see that?”

She did not move. She merely looked on without expression, watching as her husband approached her would-be rescuer. Two yards away, Whateley lifted the cane high above his head and brought it down across his chest, a pendulum descending.

Lowell dodged to his right and managed to escape the blow. The cane impacted the frozen ground with a hollow report. Whateley cursed. Lowell saw his opening and took the offensive, dashing toward Whateley with fists raised.

The other man was ready for him.

Whateley stepped to one side and caught Lowell with an outstretched boot, scooping his legs out from under him. The photographer dropped to the ground, his weight landing on his elbow. His arm went numb.