On the opposite wall two large televisions flicker in high colour,
showing horse races or football matches. Beneath them is a
ledge where punters fill in their betting slips with the small blue pens Lester supplies. It is a busy shop. Men nip in, place their bets and are away again. Only the committed stay to
watch race after race.
I spotted Dougie in the far corner, his eyes trained on six
horses making a desperate circuit round the park at Haydock.
There were two other men beside him, concentration focused
on the screen. The commentator reeled out an account of
what was happening before their eyes, in a flat accent cut with practised enthusiasm, his spiel faster than any auctioneer’s. I waited until the race was over and each man had turned away
without a word to the others. None of them made their way
to the payout booth.
Dougie spotted me before we spoke. `Rilke. How’s it
going?’ He patted me on the shoulder.
`Fine, Dougie. Yourself?’
`Been better, been worse.’ He had the sad optimism of the
chronic gambler and I wondered I had never seen it before.
`You in for a wee flutter, eh? Got a hot tip?’
Aye, I almost said, give it up, but instead I shook his hand and said, `No. No, actually I’m in to see you. I wondered if you’d look at a few pictures I’ve come across.’
`My kind of pictures??
‘Very few folk’s kind of pictures. I guess you’d call them a select taste.’
`So why do you want to show them to me??
‘I need to find out about them and you’re the best man in
Glasgow for photographs.’
`Ach, flattery will get you everywhere. Well,’ he laughed,
remembering my proclivities, `you know what I mean. I’ve
got a bet on the next race. Hang on while I see how it goes, then we’ll go through to the back room and I’ll see what I can tell you.’
We waited through three races. Dougie had a three-way
accumulator, the first two, favourites, came in, the third, a ten-to-one sure thing, fared poorly on damp ground and
didn’t even feature. He stood through the show without a
change of expression. When he turned at last from the
screen his face wore the same cheerful look he had greeted
me with.
`Ah well, you win some, you lose some. C’mon, then,
show me these snaps.’
He led the way through to the gents’ at the back of the
shop. There was a smell of piss from the trough, the brown
walls were covered in graffiti and the cubicle was locked.
Dougie didn’t seem to mind: the smile stayed glued to his
face.
`They’re not what you’re used to, Dougie.’ I wanted to
prepare him before I shattered his day. `They’re nasty.’
`Ach, I can take it, Rilke. Me and Charles went to
Amsterdam a couple of years back. There’s things there
would make your hair stand on end.’
`Aye, I guess so.’ I took out the envelope and flicked
through it until I found the pictures I wanted. `What I want to know is are these real? I handed them over to him. `You’ll
see what I mean.’ I waited for him to focus. `I mean, did they kill that girl or is it a set-up? I don’t know if you can tell that kind of thing from a photograph, but I reckoned if anyone could it would be you.’
I watched as Dougie looked through them slowly, silently,
the light fading from his eyes. He squared the bundle, then
took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and examined
them again, closely.
`I’ll tell you what I can, though it’s not much. There’s no
camera trickery here. It’s a simple point and shoot.’ The
friendly tone was gone now, it was all business. `The
technology was there. Georges Melies filmed A Trip to the
Moon in 1902, but this guy’s not going to the moon - well,
not in our sense. You have to ask yourself what would they be faking? If there’s trickery here it’s in the set-up, makeup, false blood, acting. Christ, Rilke. I hope she was acting but look at her. For fuck’s sake, man, that’s an open wound.’
`I know.
showing horse races or football matches. Beneath them is a
ledge where punters fill in their betting slips with the small blue pens Lester supplies. It is a busy shop. Men nip in, place their bets and are away again. Only the committed stay to
watch race after race.
I spotted Dougie in the far corner, his eyes trained on six
horses making a desperate circuit round the park at Haydock.
There were two other men beside him, concentration focused
on the screen. The commentator reeled out an account of
what was happening before their eyes, in a flat accent cut with practised enthusiasm, his spiel faster than any auctioneer’s. I waited until the race was over and each man had turned away
without a word to the others. None of them made their way
to the payout booth.
Dougie spotted me before we spoke. `Rilke. How’s it
going?’ He patted me on the shoulder.
`Fine, Dougie. Yourself?’
`Been better, been worse.’ He had the sad optimism of the
chronic gambler and I wondered I had never seen it before.
`You in for a wee flutter, eh? Got a hot tip?’
Aye, I almost said, give it up, but instead I shook his hand and said, `No. No, actually I’m in to see you. I wondered if you’d look at a few pictures I’ve come across.’
`My kind of pictures??
‘Very few folk’s kind of pictures. I guess you’d call them a select taste.’
`So why do you want to show them to me??
‘I need to find out about them and you’re the best man in
Glasgow for photographs.’
`Ach, flattery will get you everywhere. Well,’ he laughed,
remembering my proclivities, `you know what I mean. I’ve
got a bet on the next race. Hang on while I see how it goes, then we’ll go through to the back room and I’ll see what I can tell you.’
We waited through three races. Dougie had a three-way
accumulator, the first two, favourites, came in, the third, a ten-to-one sure thing, fared poorly on damp ground and
didn’t even feature. He stood through the show without a
change of expression. When he turned at last from the
screen his face wore the same cheerful look he had greeted
me with.
`Ah well, you win some, you lose some. C’mon, then,
show me these snaps.’
He led the way through to the gents’ at the back of the
shop. There was a smell of piss from the trough, the brown
walls were covered in graffiti and the cubicle was locked.
Dougie didn’t seem to mind: the smile stayed glued to his
face.
`They’re not what you’re used to, Dougie.’ I wanted to
prepare him before I shattered his day. `They’re nasty.’
`Ach, I can take it, Rilke. Me and Charles went to
Amsterdam a couple of years back. There’s things there
would make your hair stand on end.’
`Aye, I guess so.’ I took out the envelope and flicked
through it until I found the pictures I wanted. `What I want to know is are these real? I handed them over to him. `You’ll
see what I mean.’ I waited for him to focus. `I mean, did they kill that girl or is it a set-up? I don’t know if you can tell that kind of thing from a photograph, but I reckoned if anyone could it would be you.’
I watched as Dougie looked through them slowly, silently,
the light fading from his eyes. He squared the bundle, then
took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and examined
them again, closely.
`I’ll tell you what I can, though it’s not much. There’s no
camera trickery here. It’s a simple point and shoot.’ The
friendly tone was gone now, it was all business. `The
technology was there. Georges Melies filmed A Trip to the
Moon in 1902, but this guy’s not going to the moon - well,
not in our sense. You have to ask yourself what would they be faking? If there’s trickery here it’s in the set-up, makeup, false blood, acting. Christ, Rilke. I hope she was acting but look at her. For fuck’s sake, man, that’s an open wound.’
`I know.
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