She Sleeps by Russell R. B

Author:Russell, R. B. [Russell, R. B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: P S Publishing Ltd
Published: 2017-10-20T21:00:00+00:00

I spent the whole of the next day waiting for the evening to come around, so, of course, the hour hand dragged its way wearily around the dial of the various clocks that I looked at far too often. In the morning I went to see our landlord who allowed me in to his overly-ostentatious house in Fulwood with some suspicion. In the past he had not been happy with how we treated his house, but he agreed to write a letter confirming my rent. I was then able to submit it, along with my application for housing benefit, but I still had to endure another grim hour in the unpleasant Housing Office. In contrast it took just a moment to hand in the paperwork for unemployment benefit.

In the afternoon I walked up to Broomhill and went into Mr Plummer’s shop on Glossop Road. His establishment was a wonderful anachronism, with little boxes of every conceivable type of photographic film hidden away in dark pigeonholes behind his old-fashioned mahogany counter. Every surface was busy with cameras and photo frames and albums, all of which looked as though they had been on display for decades. The whole shop was cluttered and tired, but smelt clinically clean. When I asked if my camera had been repaired the old man shook his head sadly:

‘Fixing it will cost you more than it’s worth. It’ll be cheaper to buy a new one.’

I must have looked crestfallen because Mr Plummer said:

‘I spent a while on it, but I won’t charge you for my time.’

‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’

As he returned the useless piece of equipment he said, ‘There was one photo on the film. Light spoiled the leading edge, but I developed it for you anyway.’

From under the counter he pulled out an 8x10 print of Richie lounging in the office chair at the Magic Carpet club. He also handed me the negative.

‘It’s a great photo,’ he said. ‘I won’t charge you for it. Are you seriously into photography?’

‘No, it was a lucky composition,’ I replied. ‘It helps that the subject is photogenic.’

‘That’s the singer who is in the news?’

‘Richie Young, yes.’

‘I thought so. Do you know him?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘not really,’ and thanked the man. A few yards away from the shop I dropped the camera into a dustbin and nearly did the same with the photograph. I stopped myself because Mr Plummer was right; it was a good photo. I felt a little like St Peter, though, denying knowing the singer. If anyone was in line for crucifixion, though, I decided it was not Richie. But then Morine’s mocking face appeared before me, and I pictured a toy donkey nailed to a cross. I knew I ought to be able to laugh at the idea…

I continued on up to the main road and again saw Xanthe and Simon through the window of the record shop, but now they looked strangely different. She was wearing a tailored black suit that I hadn’t seen before, and Simon’s hair was still large, but it was formed into a quiff, not unlike Richie’s.

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