Exposure E-Book

John Edwin Wallace

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 115

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Sick of photographing models for magazines. Stephen takes on a new contract. But this job also takes him away from the glamorous world of fashion, and into a world of murder, depravity and despair. Told through the eyes of several tortured souls, Exposure is a story about some very, very bad choices.

Leseprobe

John Edwin Wallace

Exposure

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG80331 Munich

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

I can't get my eyes off the stained walls. The yellowish color merging with green paint baffles me as I'm sitting in the most expensive cafe in the city. I look down at my latte with equal, if not more disappointment, as I'm convinced it's going to taste like dishwater. I take a sip. It does. You can tell when there isn't enough milk, and this happens to be one of those cases. My eyes go back to the grotesque walls and I think to myself, is poorer richer? It seems to be a trend in first world counties that the more shit you make things look, the more people will pay for it. I am however reading a complimentary newspaper but there it is, the hat-trick of disappointments. It's fucking yesterdays. Like this paper, this cafe will become old news once I decide to storm out. I say storm out, but my neurosis will lead me to do the opposite. I know that but I wish it wasn't the case. It smells good in here although I'm convinced that's the smell of money and it comes in many forms, shapes and sizes. I can't figure out if I walked in here to prove something, but if I did it's only to myself and where is the glory in that? Hmmm. I wish I could say I'm waiting for someone, or even better meeting an important person but I'm not. I don't even blog so no-one will know about this painful experience other than me and my cat. I say my cat, but really, it's a stray that I feed out of sympathy or loneliness or (and probably) both. The chair is comfortable but they must make them that way to keep you here spending money longer. But not me. My name is Stephen Hooper.

All seemed to be going well for me a couple of years back. I had a good job as a freelance photographer, a great studio apartment in a trendy part of the city and a casual girlfriend who just knew the right moment to drop around for a sleepover. I had enough money to spare and I loved my job. The hipsters adored my work. I was forever doing fashion shoots in the grimy parts of town, graffiti, bare brick walls, disused factories, boarded up shop fronts. And a never-ending parade of vacuous, moronic models with empty faces wearing the latest retro dresses and suits with DMs. Sleeve tattoos, Victorian beards and mustaches, Gothic makeup and the steampunk sensibility that seemed so fresh and ironic two years ago. The agencies couldn’t get enough of my work. Grainy, gritty photographs that the fashion magazines fought over. I was so happy. I knew exactly how to capture the mood of the time. I could choose my own jobs and got paid handsomely for my output. I also remember the exact moment it all changed, and I chose the wrong job.

I met him in the cafe I am sitting in now. He called himself Franz Gruber and I thought it was funny that he looked almost exactly like Hans Gruber, the terrorist from Die Hard with the impeccably trimmed beard played with panache by the immortal Alan Rickman. He said he had a special job for me and would pay five times my daily rate. But it had to be done with discretion. No-one else must know. All above board he said. Nothing dodgy. Just a very unique photographic session for a select client who was very generous if the results warranted it. I should’ve said no.

Just as those thoughts were manifesting in my head the fucking guy shows up. Did I say I would meet him here again at this time? Surely not. He doesn’t look me dead in the eyes, but rather with dead eyes. As he pulls his chair out to sit opposite me, it comes across as some kind of big event. The presence of this man is already much greater than the hottest of models I’ve shot thousands of times. Which in itself is ironic as he is not an attractive man. Which in turns goes back to what I was saying earlier. Is poorer richer? In the looks department too? I snap out of this slight passive hypnosis Franz has laid upon me, reminding myself I’m a fucking weapon with a camera and my thoughts are just scrambled because I’m very aware of the paycheck attached to this man and my name is literally on it. He does have an IT factor about him though, and given the chance I’d still shoot the shit out of him. Even for free. Anyway, it’s time to talk business, I guess, and by the looks of him that’s all I’ll be chatting about today. “My boss is very taken by your work and has handpicked you for the shoot because you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.” He extends his hand across the table with me thinking he is going to shake mine. I think to myself, that’s got to be like the briefest catch up in human history. I do hesitate and as I’m about to do the same, I realize he has taken my coffee. “So sorry, Mr. Hooper but I have very little patience for busy coffee shops.” I should be sorry, I think to myself as you’re about to taste one of the worst, warm beverages of your life and I have no intention of stopping you. He takes a sip and his face crumples up like a piece of paper in a fist like a disappointed father who’s just read a giant F on their child’s exam. He places it back down on the table and slides it back to its original position while simultaneously picking up a thick white napkin (which, might I add is probably the nicest thing here) and rejects the contents of his mouth into it, and I cannot blame him. “Fucking awful isn’t it?” I say with a crooked smile as I roll my eyes in confirmation of his actions. “That’s not what matters. My boss is very excited to have you start for us. Oh yes.” He starts to laugh and naturally I become uneasy, nervous and confused because he is coming across like I’m going to take a hit out on someone. Does he realize cameras have no bullets? Sure, I can “shoot” with them, but nothing comes out. Then again this isn’t your normal job and it’s a gentle reminder that I should have said no.

He slams an envelope on the table directly between us like I’m being served papers, which I guess I kind of am and he stands up while giving the cafe a once over in equal disgust as I did. “Mr. Hooper, I suggest you pick better places to enjoy a coffee. This place is a god damn disgrace.” He leans into my ear and whispers “you’re better than that”. Hitching up his trousers, he leaves as obnoxiously as he arrived. I never got a chance to decline the job offer but as I open the envelope, I realize there is not five times my rate but twenty. I lean back and finish my awful coffee. Shit.

I am stilled spooked by the last job he gave me. The money was exceptional and I was a little bored and stale by the modeling jobs I was doing at the time. I had planned to take some time off, but had never got around to it. I accepted the job without really thinking. The extra cash would give me the chance to take a couple of months off to go traveling and to be honest I was a little intrigued by this character. The only question he asked, was I squeamish? I had seen the photographs from Iraq taken by Madeleine, my war photography friend. They didn’t worry me, and they were pretty graphic. You see life through a lens a little differently, I guess. Kind of detached and clinical. The only thing I drew the line at was porn. Leave that to the amateurs. I told him that, and he looked at me with disgust. “My client is not that sort of man” he said with disdain. “He is a connoisseur of art, and he recognizes good pictures when he sees them. I will pick you up from your studio next Wednesday at 11.30 pm. You will work through night. Nothing digital. Bring a camera with film in it. Black and white only. You will give me the undeveloped film at the end of the session. That is all. If we are pleased with the results, you will take another job from us”. It was not a question. Now I was truly curious. Almost nobody worked with real film any more and I was excited to bring out my SLR with its old lenses. I would bring along my lights as well. This was going to be great. Unfortunately, I was already deep in the nightmare and had not yet realized it.

I stare at the cup that tries to pass as coffee, flicking the cheque with my right hand while holding it with my left. My creative brain takes me to some places where this cash could also. Money talks because I am quick to slide it into my wallet like it’s a letter from the queen. Then I get up and throw a handful of coins on the table in a “I don’t give two shits about the coffee here” manner and walk out feeling like I sold my soul and it left a bad taste in my mouth as it should have. As I exit a very attractive lady enters but I don’t hold the door open for her like I normally would, especially for someone as beautiful as this. “Don’t go in there. If the scenery doesn’t kill you the coffee will.” Thinking this is my good deed for the day she says back to me “Thanks, but I own this place, so I might actually come in but like I said. Thanks.” We briefly exchange glances and she holds the door open for me with a look of judgment that I can only compare to my father’s when I came home after midnight stoned and drunk as a wild teenager. As I get my marching orders I walk out on the sidewalk and it starts belting down with rain. I’m without an umbrella and it’s only a short walk to my flat but I wave down a taxi. I guess this is one example of when I DE-masculine myself which happens more often than I wish, but hey I’m no tradesman. The cabbie leans over and opens the passenger door for me with an excited look on his face. I jump in and before I get a chance to buckle my seat belt but and tell him where to go, I want to go to he starts to drive. What the fuck?

The cheque sits heavily in my wallet as I realize that I have accepted the job. Not that I was given a chance to refuse. We are still in the trendy part of town as he drives down by the river through narrow, cobbled streets in the shadows of the vast warehouses that have now been converted into expensive flats for people like… well, people like me. We drive under a low bridge, passing the dark Victorian masonry and iron work and he suddenly pulls into a narrow dead-end lane. If you didn’t know it was there you would miss it. The cabbie doesn’t speak but is still grinning like a lunatic as he gestures for me to get out. No fare. His tyres squeal as he reverses out quickly, then spins away into the gloomy afternoon. I realize that although I know where I am approximately, I am unsure as to my exact location. Then everything goes black. A hood has been thrown over my head and expert arms behind me clamp my wrists together with what feels like cable ties. The arms are not rough but they are clearly strong and not be meddled with. I submit without struggling. Part of me wishes that tonight is the night that I am murdered but it is clear that whoever has bound me, does not want me hurt. I hear another car pull up. The deep purr of an expensive V8 engine. I don’t hear the door open but feel myself firmly pushed down and sideways. I sink into what feels and smells like luxurious leather and the car accelerates away. Before I can gather my thoughts or ask a question. I feel pressure and a pricking against my right forearm, and I black out.