across to me.
‘How’re you? You don’t seem so tightly wound as last time I saw you,’ she said, her voice low enough not to be overheard.
That had been in the restaurant where I thought I’d smelled Grace Strachan’s perfume. It seemed like weeks ago, although it was only a few days. But a lot had happened since then.
‘No, I don’t suppose I am.’ I smiled. ‘I’m feeling pretty good, to be honest.’
She studied me for a moment or two. ‘Yes, you look it.’ Giving my arm a squeeze, she turned back to the main conversation.
After the meal, Mary and Sam disappeared into the kitchen to make coffee, rejecting our offers of help. ‘You know as well as I do that you want to talk shop, and Sam and I have better things to discuss.’
‘Anyone want to lay odds on it being babies?’ Tom said after they’d gone out. He rubbed his hands. ‘Well, I for one am going to have a bourbon. Care to join me? I have a bottle of Blanton’s I need an excuse to open.’
‘Just a small one,’ Paul said.
‘David? Or there’s Scotch if you’d rather?’
‘Bourbon’s fine, thanks.’
Tom busied himself at a cabinet, taking out glasses and a distinctive bottle with a miniature horse and jockey perched on top. ‘There’s ice, but if I go into the kitchen Mary’s going to read the riot act to me for drinking. And I’ll take your disapproval as read, David.’
I hadn’t been going to say anything. Sometimes abstinence can do more harm than good. Tom handed us each a glass, then raised his own.
‘Your health, gentlemen.’
The bourbon was smooth with an aftertaste of burnt caramel. We sipped it, savouring it in silence. Tom cleared his throat.
‘While you’re both here there’s something I wanted to tell you. It doesn’t really concern you, David, but you might as well hear it as well.’
Paul and I glanced at each other. Tom stared pensively into his bourbon. ‘You both know I was planning to bring my retirement forward to the end of summer. Well, I’ve decided not to wait that long.’
Paul set down his glass. ‘You’re joking.’
‘It’s time,’ Tom said simply. ‘I’m sorry to spring it on you like this, but… Well, it’s no secret my health hasn’t been good lately. And I have to think of what’s fair to Mary. I thought the end of next month would be a good time. That’s only a few weeks early, and it isn’t as if the center will grind to a halt without me. I’ve got a feeling the next director should be a good one.’
That was aimed at Paul, but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Have you told anyone else?’
‘Only Mary. There’s a faculty meeting next week. I thought I’d announce it then. But I wanted you to know first.’
Paul still looked stunned. ‘Jesus, Tom. I don’t know what to say.’
‘How about “Happy retirement”?’ Tom gave a smile. ‘It isn’t the end of the world. I’ll still do some consultancy work, I dare say. Hell, I might even take up golf. So come on, no long faces. Let’s have another toast.’
He reached for the bottle of Blanton’s and topped up our drinks. There was a lump in my throat but I knew Tom didn’t want us to be maudlin. I raised my glass.
‘To fresh starts.’
He chinked his glass against mine. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
His announcement gave a bittersweet flavour to the rest of the evening. Mary beamed when she and Sam returned, but her eyes glittered with tears. Sam didn’t try to hide hers, hugging Tom so hard he had to stoop over her pregnant stomach.
‘Good for you,’ she’d declared, wiping her eyes.
Tom himself had smiled broadly, and talked out his and Mary’s plans, squeezing his wife’s hand as he did so. But underlying it all was a sadness that no amount of celebration could disguise. This wasn’t just a job Tom was retiring from.
It was the end of an era.
I was more glad than ever that I’d taken up his offer to help him on the investigation. He’d said it would be our last chance to work together, but I’d had no idea it was going to be the last time for him as well. I wondered if even he had, then.
As I drove back to my hotel just after midnight, I berated myself for not appreciating the opportunity I’d been given. Resolving to put any remaining doubts behind me, I told myself to make the most of working with Tom while it lasted. Another day or two and it would be all over.
At least, that’s what I thought. I should have known better.
The next day they found another body.
The images form slowly, emerging like ghosts on the blank sheet of paper. The lamp casts a blood-red glow in the small chamber as you wait for the right moment, then lift the contact sheet from the tray of developing fluid and dip it into the stop bath before placing it in the fixer.
There. Perfect. Although you’re not really aware of it, you whistle softly to yourself, a breathy, almost silent exhalation that holds no particular tune. Cramped as it is, you love being in the darkroom. It puts you in mind of a monk’s cell: peaceful and meditative, a self-contained world in itself. Bathed in the room’s transforming, carmine light, you feel cut off from everything, able to focus on coaxing to life the images implanted into the glossy photographic sheets.
Which is as it should be. The game you’re playing, making the TBI and their so-called experts chase their own tails, might be a welcome relief and flattering to your ego. God knows, you deserve to indulge yourself after all the sacrifices you’ve made. But you shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that it’s only a diversion. The main thing, the real work, takes place in this small room.
There’s nothing more important than this.
Getting to this stage has taken years, learning through trial and error. Your first camera was from a pawn shop, an old Kodak Instamatic that you’d been too inexperienced to know was poorly suited for your needs. It could capture the instant, but not in anything like enough detail. Too slow, too blurred, too unreliable. Not nearly enough precision, enough control, for what you wanted.
You’ve tried others since then. For a while you got excited about digital cameras, but for all their convenience the images lack—and here you smile to yourself—they lack the soul of film. Pixels don’t have the depth, the resonance you’re looking for. No matter how high the resolution, how true the colours, they’re still only an impressionist approximation of their subject. Whereas film captures something of its essence, a transferral that goes beyond the chemical process. A real photograph is created by light, pure and simple: a paintbrush of photons that leaves its mark on the canvas of the film. There’s a physical link between photographer and subject that calls for fine judgement, for skill. Too long in the chemical mix and the image is a dark ruin. Not long enough and it’s a pallid might-have-been, culled before its time. Yes, film is undoubtedly more trouble, more demanding.
But nobody said a quest was supposed to be easy.
And that’s what this is, a quest. Your own Holy Grail, except that you know for sure what you’re searching for exists. You’ve seen it. And what you’ve seen once, you can see again.
You feel the usual nervousness as you lift the dripping contact sheet from the tray of fixer—carefully, having splashed fluid in your eyes once before—and rinse it in cold water. This is the moment of truth. The man had been primed and ready by the time you got back, the fear and waiting bringing him to a hair-trigger alertness, as it always did. Though you try not to build up your hopes too much, you feel the inevitable anticipation as you scan the glossy sheet to see what you’ve got. But your excitement withers as you examine each of the miniature images, dismissing them one by one.
Blurred. No. No.
Useless!
In a sudden frenzy you rip the contact sheet in half and fling it aside. Lashing out at the developing trays, you knock them to the floor in a splash of chemicals. You raise your hand to swipe at the shelves full of bottles before you catch yourself. Fists knotted, you stand in the centre of the darkroom, chest heaving with the effort of
