The Dark Photographer

A Story by KJBlackwood

He takes your photo and your life...

This is one of seven stories I've written which I've just uploaded to Amazon for kindle. The collection is called "Seven Endings" by KJ Blackwood. Feel free to take a look! Also I'd like to thank everyone that's given me feedback.

The Dark Photographer

Sophie was in the children’s playground sending George, her adorable three-year old son, down the slide again and again. She thought he’d never tire of it and her arms were beginning to ache from picking him up repeatedly, but it was worth it to hear his shrieks of laughter each time he launched himself down the silver chute. She didn’t notice the handsome, dark haired, olive-skinned man sitting on a bench just beyond the metal fence, watching her carefully, his eyes never leaving her, the hint of a smile on his face. Sophie didn’t see him stand up and take a picture of her on his very large, professional-looking camera. She didn’t hear the deep clicking sound it made as he pressed the silver button on the top. She did, however, suddenly feel rather faint, as if she’d stood up too quickly. She made a mental note to make an appointment to have her blood pressure checked out.

Twenty minutes later Sophie was pushing George home in his buggy, chatting brightly to him as she thought about what to make for his tea. She had no idea that anything had just happened.

He let himself into his flat which was situated on a quiet, leafy, residential street just off the Finchley Road. It wasn’t anything special, just a small two-bedroomed conversion in a large Victorian block, the same as pretty much every other building on the road. He used his spare room as a studio. Really it was like a photographer’s dark room of old. You don’t need an actual dark room any more these days, not with digital cameras, because you simply print straight to photographic paper. However unlike with normal digital photography his photos always took a long time to develop, sometimes as much as a week, and he’d learned over the years that they developed faster and better if the room the photographic paper was in was kept dark, with the curtains drawn at all times. He’d previously experimented with different amounts of light and been left with half-developed images of people, nothing like as vibrant and lively as when the room was kept dark and gloomy.

He was very pleased with his morning’s work. The woman at the playground was so pretty, she’d had a wonderful smile that lit not just her face but everything around her whenever she saw her son laugh. He hoped that he’d managed to capture her joy with his camera, but he’d find that out soon enough. He took the camera out of its case and carefully slid the back off to reach the memory card inside. This he removed and pushed into a slot in the side of his laptop. The machine quickly detected the card and opened its contents. He double-clicked on the solitary file and the picture of the woman filled the screen.

She was dressed for Autumn, in a timeless outfit in varying shades of brown and beige. Her blonde hair was caught in the breeze and flickering around her face, the highlights caught in a beam of sunlight so it appeared that flames of light were licking at her pretty face, a face which was full of pure delight, looking up into the distance. Of course, he knew she was looking at her son, but the viewer wouldn’t know, that was part of the charm of the picture, the viewer would wonder what had made this goddess smile so happily. He was very pleased with the picture, very pleased indeed. It looked good on the computer screen, but he knew already that once it was printed and started to develop, it would become more than good. It would become a living portrait, one of his best. He checked that his professional A1 colour printer was switched on and had paper in it, such an expensive piece of equipment but worth every penny. He chose “print preview” to check that he was happy with the picture before committing it to paper, paused for a few seconds, then clicked “print”. That was it. The beginning of a new picture. The printer whirred into life and slowly, line by line, committed the woman’s image to the paper. He enjoyed listening to the sound the printer made as it screeched along the blank, glossy sheet. Actually quieter than you would expect if you knew what it was doing. Gradually the paper was expelled by the machine. He very carefully picked it up with his fingertips and looked at it " the sheet appeared to still be blank. He smiled as he lay it on an antique oak desk that he had placed against the wall furthest from the window. The woman had looked so full of life that he thought this one might only take a day or two to develop. He backed out of the room all the while looking at the photographic paper " he knew nothing would happen as he watched it, but all the same, he couldn’t help himself, just in case for the first time it would start to develop before his eyes. Nothing. He left the room, closed the door and went to make himself a light supper " he was too excited to eat much. He would do his best despite his excitement to go to sleep and check on the picture in the morning.

Sophie had put George to bed and was preparing dinner for herself and her husband David. It was 6pm and he was due back from the office in the next hour or so. She wasn’t feeling too good. Ever since getting back from the playground she’d continued to feel light-headed and in the last half hour had been hit by waves of nausea too. She wondered if she might be pregnant again, but no, she’d only just had her period so it couldn’t be that. She put a couple of potatoes in the oven to bake, opened a bag of salad and a tub of cottage cheese. Poor David. Not much of a meal to come home to, but she didn’t have the energy to make anything else.

At five minutes past seven Sophie was woken from the nap she had fallen into on the sofa by the sound of the front door slamming shut.

“Darling, I’m home!” called her husband from the hallway as he set his briefcase on the hall table and wandered into the living room to see his beloved wife, a wide smile on his handsome face.

“Oh David, I’m so glad you’re back! I think I’m coming down with something and I could do with a bit of love and pampering!” she smiled weakly up at him.

“My poor little pumpkin, what’s wrong? You do look rather pale " have you just woken up?”

“Yes, I fell asleep here after I put the dinner on. Just baked potatoes I’m afraid, but I don’t think I can eat anything at all so you may as well have mine. I’ve been feeling light-headed and a bit nauseous all afternoon.”

“Baked potato will be more than enough for me, but more importantly we need to get you to bed at once, so you can try and sleep off whatever it is. Here, I’ll carry you upstairs. You can pretend it’s our wedding night, that should cheer you up.” He very flamboyantly gathered her up in his arms and pretended to huff and puff as if she weighed a tonne. He bent to kiss her on the head and she laughed and swatted his face away with her hand.

“Oh David don’t kiss me, you might catch whatever it is I’ve got and the last thing we want is for the pair of us to be sick. It’s a blessing that that the nanny’s here tomorrow because if I don’t feel any better by morning I’ll be absolutely useless. Hopefully a good night’s sleep will sort me out.”

“Don’t worry Sophie, I’ll put you to bed, bring you some nice hot water with lemon and honey and you can go straight to sleep. I’ll get George up in the morning for Emma so you don’t need to worry about that. I can go into work a little late. You just concentrate on getting better my darling.” They had reached the marital bedroom and David lay her down on the bed and pushed the covers up around her as she settled in. He ignored her protestations and kissed her on the forehead, tenderly brushing away the tendrils of hair that strayed onto her face, then left the room to make her a hot drink. It made her so happy to know how much she was clearly loved. If anyone could lay claim to having a perfect life it was her.

When David came back upstairs Sophie was fast asleep, so he left the drink on the bedside table in case she woke up, then went back down to eat his dinner alone.

The photographer woke with a start and looked at the clock on his bedside table. 8.16am. Much later than his usual waking time. He suddenly remembered the picture in the next room and practically squealed with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning remembering the presents under the tree. He leapt out of bed and skipped to the next room. Opening the door he slowly approached the oak table with the picture on it, his anticipation palpable in his steps. As soon as he saw it he could see that it was already taking shape. The faint outline of the woman was there, mostly in varying shades of grey, but he could just make out the tiniest splash of yellow in the hair, so he suspected that the hair would be the most impressive part of the picture, he could already imagine just how vibrant it was going to be! He knew that the more he looked at it, the longer it would take to develop, so he allowed his gaze to linger on it just a few seconds more then went to make his breakfast.

“Sophie, Sophie, wake up...” David was gently speaking into her ear, one hand on her shoulder.

“Ugh. Morning. God. I feel terrible,” her eyes were closed and she still felt weak and sick, but now there was also a terrible pounding behind her eyes. She’d never had a migraine before but imagined this must be what people meant. It was agony. She opened her eyes and looked at David. He gasped audibly.

“Sophie! Your eyes!”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re bright red. I’ve never seen them so bloodshot. I’m calling the doctor.”

“Don’t be silly darling, let’s not be overdramatic. Fetch me a mirror so I can have a look.”

David walked over to her dressing table and picked up a hand mirror which he brought back to the bed. As he sat down next to her he said “there’s something wrong with your hair too. It’s gone really pale, not grey exactly, just sort of washed out, like your dye has all run out.”

“Don’t be silly that’s impossible” she replied as she took the mirror from him. She attempted to appear confident as she lifted the mirror and looked directly into it. She tried not to flinch and failed. Her eyes were almost totally red. She took a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed at her left eye. The tissue came away slightly pink, as if she was haemorrhaging blood slowly. Lifting the mirror slightly she looked at her hair. David was right. Her normally vibrant blonde hair was looking much paler than normal, with a translucent quality a bit like the quill of a feather, but not so white. What was happening to her? She was suddenly very afraid indeed. She thought of the diseases that you read about in the news like the Ebola virus. Was that even curable?

“David, I think maybe we should go to the hospital. What time is it?”

“It’s 7.30. Emma will be here in half an hour.”

“Good. When she gets here we can go. Can you pack a few things just in case they don’t want me to come home immediately?” It was going through her mind that if it was something along the lines of Ebola she wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. She looked up at David and he was looking back at her with an expression of love and worry.

“Yes, I think we should get you there asap, but I’m sure it’s really nothing to worry about.” His eyes didn’t seem to agree with the words coming from his mouth. “How are you feeling otherwise? Any better than last night?”

She decided it would be better to tell a little untruth rather than worry him even more.

“I’m not so light-headed and I don’t feel sick anymore, so I think I’m a bit better, perhaps the bloodshot eyes are a sign that I’m getting better. And I didn’t go to my normal hairdresser last time so that might explain my hair.” She smiled weakly. She wasn’t convincing herself, let alone David.

“That’ll be it then,” David responded, “I’ll just check on George and then pack a few things for you.”

He took her hand and squeezed it, before leaving the room, glancing back at her with a worried look in his eye as he did so.

It was evening and the photographer had spent most of the day planning the exhibition he was putting on at a small gallery in Battersea in just a couple of weeks. It was an exhibition of photographs that he’d taken over the last year of normal people going about their everyday lives. He knew he was talented, it had been commented upon before, so he knew it would be a success. He had a way of imbuing his photographs with real vitality, so that the viewer felt they could almost reach in and touch the subject. His pictures had such incredible vibrancy that some people questioned whether his claim of never photoshopping them was completely true. He could honestly say that no computer wizardry was required to make his pictures so good...

He let himself into the flat and went straight to the studio, his body was tingling with excitement as he anticipated what he might find. Even from the doorway he could see that the picture was already coming together. He could see that it contained colours now, not just shades of grey with a hint of yellow. He walked up to the desk and looked closely at the glossy sheet of paper. Excellent. She was coming through very well, you could clearly make out her clothes " brown jeans, winter boots, smart fur-trimmed coat " and her face was starting to really develop too, details a bit faint, but the eyes were already stunning. Bright blue and piercing, they carried her euphoric smile. At this point the picture looked quite odd, because the facial features were faint apart from the bright blue eyes and the now intensely blonde hair. At a glance you might think the hair was actually moving in the breeze, it was so lifelike. This might be his best picture yet. He didn’t want to interrupt the process any more than necessary so had one last long look then quietly left the room to spend the rest of the evening watching television before going to bed.

Sophie lay in her hospital bed, dazed by the strong painkillers she’d been given, unable to comprehend what was happening to her. One of the last things that she saw before she lost her sight was that her once-beautiful blonde hair was now white, every last atom of colour drained from it. The doctors had no clue what was wrong with her, they’d never come across symptoms like hers, at least not in a combination like she had them. She knew she was dying, she could actually sense the life draining from her. It almost felt like it was being “sucked” from her.

“David, are you there?” she asked weakly

“Yes Darling, I’m right here, next to you” he replied. She could hear the pain in his voice, which was quiet and brittle. He knew she was dying too.

“You’ll have to ask Emma if she can work a few more hours, maybe see if she can live-in, or look into an au pair, that would be cheaper, but he loves Emma and the less upheaval for him the better.” She paused, the weight of what she was saying sinking in. “Oh David, what’s happening to me? I don’t want to leave you. It’s not fair, this isn’t my time! How can they not know what’s wrong? I can feel my body giving up!” Sophie’s voice was high pitched and desperate as panic rose in her.

“Don’t talk nonsense Sophie, you’re going to be ok. It’s just taking them a little time to work out what to do, that’s all. They have so many different medicines and so much equipment it’s just a question of finding out which ones will work, you’ll see,” his voice broke at this point, because he was lying to her and he knew that she knew it. It was obvious to anyone that something was seriously wrong with her. Not only was she now blind and white-haired, but during the course of the day she appeared to have lost half her body weight and her skin was as wrinkled as that of a ninety-year old woman. He was no medic but even he knew that no amount of vomiting could cause such a huge amount of weight loss in one day and he knew of nothing that would age skin so quickly. He’d heard of a condition called Progeria which made people age fast, but the doctors had informed him that was something that people were born with, you couldn’t catch it, and besides, it didn’t age the body as fast as was happening to Sophie. They told him that at this rate she would be dead by morning.

At the small gallery in Battersea the opening night of the exhibition was going swimmingly well. The A1-sized photographic portraits were nearly all sold and practically every single person there had remarked on just how lifelike and vibrant the pictures were, almost 3D with their realism. The most-talked about picture was the one titled “Woman at Play”, of an ethereally beautiful young blonde woman laughing and smiling on an Autumn day. She looked so happy it made the viewer smile with her, but if you looked closely at her eyes there was also a sadness in them. It was amazing how a photograph could contain different emotions at once.

The man approached the photographer and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, you’re the artist aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s right,” replied the photographer, “I hope you’re enjoying my work.”

“It’s incredible! I’ve never seen such wonderful pictures, what you do is amazing, I’m not really into art but I can totally see why you have such a reputation.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind,”

“I wondered if I might ask you something,” the man continued, “do you take commissions? It’s my wife’s thirty-fifth birthday soon and I’d love to have a portrait taken of her, is that something you do? That’s her over there in the red dress,” he pointed to a stunning woman standing looking at “Woman at Play”. The photographer looked at her and took in her beauty, the glossy black hair, full bosom, voluptuous body, caramel skin.

“Yes, I do, let me give you my card and we can arrange something...” he replied.