Photo Finish

Old films are like old songs, precious to the heart. At least, they were to old Raymond. The fast witty dialogue, the clothes and cars of his youth always made him smile. He had no time for new-fangled things other than the video player he used to view his precious films. He had no time for digital cameras for instance. They were of no use to him; absolutely no use at all, for he had a unique talent. It demanded a camera hold a roll of film. To manifest itself, his gift needed a chemical reaction with light. Yet that light was not entirely from the present for he could photograph the past.

This he did not advertise. Those who came to him did so by word-of-mouth. They heard from those who were grateful for his services. Those who disseminated his existence only to those they could trust and knew were worthy.

Raymond Gibson led a modest life. He never asked much from those he helped. To him his gift was a duty owed. They came to him: the grieving, the reminiscing; those, who had lost a precious photo though some mishap; or those, who, with no thought for tomorrow, when tomorrow came, had nothing to remind them of their past.

They would lead him to the place where some lost moment had taken place: where two lovers first met, where a child first walked, where a father smiled or a grandmother stood by proud. They would touch Raymond, as they remembered, and he would snap the spot.

He would develop the negative in his little flat. The empty scene where he pointed his camera would show sharp images of the desired moment. Gratefully, and with moist eyes, his customers would clasp the print as they pushed some notes into his hand, wishing they had more to give.

He would smile in his sad little way, and say, "Your joy is payment enough. This covers my costs and more besides." That said he would push them gently to his front door, and wish them goodbye.


The day came when George Black arrived. His knock came demanding on Raymond's front door at two in the afternoon. His sleepy Sunday disturbed, Raymond shuffled in his worn carpet slippers down his long, narrow hall; managing to finally answer by the sixth blow.

Black's impatience persisted in his voice. "You that Gibson chap, takes the photos?"

"Yes, I'm a photographer of sorts, I guess." Raymond held onto the door. Raymond’s heart fluttered in his throat under the menace of Black's regard.

"Well I've got a job for you, see." Black moved forward forcing Raymond to step aside. He presented an irresistible force to old Raymond, who could only follow him down his own hall, as if he were the visitor and Black the occupant. Raymond left the front door ajar hoping his neighbours might hear. Black’s voice must surely echo down the tenement stair.

Black's presence dominated the living room. Raymond slunk by him to cower in his armchair.

Black remained standing, and spoke gruffly. "I want a picture taken in the Eastern Park, near some bushes close to the entrance. I've got my car. I'll drive you there now."

Raymond sighed as he went to collect his equipment from the bedroom, while Black shouted. "You develop your own negatives, right? Do your own printing as well, right?"

"Yes, yes," Raymond shouted back. "It's all done here. I've got all my own stuff." He came back into the living room. "I've a large cupboard in the hall. It does as a dark room. Well, I'm ready."

"Okay," said Black. "Let's go!" His large hand was place around the frail nape of Raymond’s elderly neck forcing him by constant pressure to head where Black desired.



The sun warmed Raymond's chilled body when he alighted from Black’s sweat-smelling car. The park was bright. A shower of shouting dwarves ran by; children intent on a chasing game. The world seemed full of laughter. Some of the menace hanging over Raymond drifted away.

What is there to fear on such a lovely summer's day? He thought, attempting to allay the terror crawling around his heart.

Black's neck-crushing hand and whispering voice drove all the warmth from the scene. "It's over here. Point your camera between those there two bushes."

Once there Black released his grip.  Raymond shuddered. "You'll have to touch me when I shoot, otherwise..."

"I know that!" replied Black, as he grasped Raymond again; this time roughly by the shoulder.

Raymond knew Black's strength from that powerful grip. Had he placed it around Raymond’s neck, it would have cracked like a sucked egg. He obeyed without question, and snapped.

"That does it," stated Raymond. "Do you need the negative and prints today?"

"Of course! That's not a problem, is it?" His grip tightened as he led Raymond back to the car. 
 
As it sped to his flat, Raymond took in the passing scenery, as if seeing it all for the last time: the roads he had walked all his life, buildings that were as old friends, buses he rode, shops he entered, all these everyday things that made up his life. He wished them all farewell.

The time had come, he knew, when evil came to demand his services. What that photo revealed would seal his death. He was in the hands of murderer; a murderer, who wished to have a photo of his crime, a photo of his victim at the moment of her death. It was not often that Raymond gained some sense of what he photographed, but this time he had.

The confinement of his dark room closed in around him like never before. It was as if the shadow of death had cast a deeper black upon it as it drew near. He toiled away mindlessly, following a procedure done so many times before. He was like a touch typist not needing to see the keys; working as a blind person might.

Black stood in the hall blocking the front door. There was no escape. When he finished, Raymond had no desire to gaze upon the fruits of his work. He merely opened the cupboard door, being resigned to what must follow, and handed the negative with its print to Black then closed his eyes.

Waiting for Black's mighty hands to clamp around his throat, he heard him scream instead. He heard him running desperately down the hall, and the front door crash back against the wall. He was gone!

Raymond walked unsteadily to the front door. He locked it with chain and catch. Thus secured, he decided to call the police. Then he saw the print laying on the floor. He picked it up painfully with a trembling hand.

Gazing at it, Raymond saw what he always thought Hell should look like. In the foreground, was Satan beckoning with a big red hand. He was staring with eyes that would follow Black for the rest of his life, no matter where he ran or hid; staring until their final meeting when Satan would gather up his soul.