As Sid Pym passed his door and walked two blocks to look in the shop window, a duck jeered harshly in the park. March frost had begun to bloom on the window, but the streetlamp made the magazine covers shine: the schoolgirl in her twenties awaiting a spanking, the two bronzed men displaying samples of their muscles to each other, the topless woman tonguing a lollipop. Sid was looking away in disgust from two large masked women flourishing whips over a trussed victim when the girl marched past behind him.
Her reflection glided from cover to cover, her feet trod on the back of the trussed man’s head. Despite the jumbling of images, Sid knew her. He recognized her long blonde hair, her slim graceful legs, firm breasts, plump jutting bottom outlined by her ankle-length coat, and as she glanced in his direction, he saw that she recognized him. He had time to glimpse how she wrinkled her nose as her reflection left the shop window.
He almost started after her. She’d reacted as if he was one of the men who needed those magazines, but he was one of the people who created them. He’d only come to the window to see how his work shaped up, and there it was, between a book about Nazi war crimes and an Enid Stone romance. He’d given the picture of Toby Hale and his wife Jilly a warm amber tint to go with the title
The newspapers had to admit he was good, one of the best in town. That was why the
He felt as if she had let him know she’d seen him before pulling the curtains—as if she’d glimpsed his relief at not having to confront her. He bruised his testicles as he groped for his keys, and that enraged him more than ever. A phone which he recognized as his once the front door was open had started ringing, and he dashed up the musty stairs in the dark.
It was Toby Hale on the phone. “Still free tomorrow? They’re willing.”
“A bit different, is it? A bit stronger?”
“What the punters want.”
“I’m all for giving people what they really want,” Sid declared, and took several quick breaths. The blonde girl was in her bathroom now. “I’ll see you at the studio,” he told Toby, and fumbled the receiver into place.
What was she trying to do to him? If she had watched him come home, she must know he was in his room even though he hadn’t had time to switch on the light. Besides, this wasn’t the first time she’d behaved as if the frosted glass of her bathroom window ought to stop him watching her. “Black underwear, is it now?” he said through his teeth, and bent over his bed to reach for a camera.
God, she thought a lot of herself. Each of her movements looked like a pose to Sid as he reeled her toward him with the zoom lens. Despite the way the window fragmented her he could distinguish the curve of her bottom in black knickers and the black swellings of her breasts. Then her breasts turned flesh-colored, and she dropped the bra. She was slipping the knickers down her bare legs when the whir of rewinding announced that he’d finished the role of Tri-X. “Got you,” he whispered, and hugged the camera to himself.
When she passed beyond the frame of the window he coaxed his curtains shut and switched the room light on. He was tempted to develop the roll now, but anticipating it made him feel so powerful in a sleepy generalized way that he decided to wait until the morning, when he would be more awake. He took
He slept late. In the morning he had to leave the Tri-X negatives and hurry to the studio. Fog slid flatly over the pavements before him, vehicles nosed through the gray, grumbling monotonously. It occurred to him as he turned along the cheap side street near the edge of town that people were less likely to notice him in the fog, though why should he care if they did?
Toby opened the street door at Sid’s triple knock and preceded him up the carpetless stairs. Toby had already set up the lights and switched them on, which made the small room with its double bed and mock-leather sofa appear starker than ever. A brawny man was sitting on the sofa with a woman draped facedown across his knees, her short skirt thrown back, her black nylon knickers more or less pulled down.
Apart from the mortar-board jammed onto his head, the man looked like a wrestler or a bouncer. He glanced up as Sid entered, and the hint of a warning crossed his large bland reddish face as Sid appraised the woman. She was too plump for Sid’s taste, her mottled buttocks were too flabby. She looked bored—more so when she glanced at Sid, who disliked her at once.
“This is Sid, our snapshooter,” Toby announced. “Sid, our friends are going to model for both stories.”
“All right there, mate,” the man said, and the woman grunted.
Sid glanced through the viewfinder, then made to adjust the woman’s knickers; but he hadn’t touched them when the man’s hand seized his wrist. “Hands off. I’ll do that. She’s my wife.”
“Come on, the lot of you,” the woman complained. “I’m getting a cold bum.”
It wouldn’t be cold for long, Sid thought, and felt his penis stir unexpectedly. But the man didn’t hit her, he only mimed the positions as if he were enacting a series of film stills, resting his hand on her buttocks to denote slaps. For the pair of color shots Toby could afford the man rubbed rouge on her bottom.
“That was okay, was it, Sid?” Toby said anxiously. “It’d be nice if we could shoot
“Wouldn’t be nice for us,” the woman said, groaning as she stood up. “We’ve got our lives to lead, you know.”
“We could make it a week today,” her husband said.
“They look right for the stories, I reckon,” Hale told Sid when they’d left. “I’m working on some younger models, but those two’ll do for that kind of stuff. The perves who want it don’t care.”
Sid thought it best to agree, but as he walked home he grew angrier: how could that fat bitch have given him a tickle? Working with people like her might be one of Sid’s steps to fame, but she needed him more than he needed her. “I’ll retouch you, but I won’t touch you,” he muttered, grinning. Someone like the blonde girl over the road, now—she would have been Sid’s choice of a model for
That got his penis going. He had to stand still for a few minutes until its tip went back to sleep, and the thought of the negatives waiting in his darkroom didn’t help. He would have her in his hands, he would be able to do what he liked with her. He had to put the idea out of his head before he felt safe to walk.
After the fog, even the dim musty hall of the house seemed like a promise of clarity. In his darkroom he watched the form of the blonde girl rise from the developing fluid, and he felt as if a fog of dissatisfaction with himself and with the session at the studio were leaving him. The photographs came clear, and for a moment he
