Candid Photos

By Phil Redhead

With clear new eyes ... he saw the same rotten world.

At 24, Nick Haygarth is already embittered by his stultifying life -- he is hopelessly in love with his work colleague, Anna, alienated from his friends and family, and trapped within the confines of his daily rut. A disaffected anger is slowly rising up within him.

However, the unexpected Christmas gift of a camera opens up a brand new world for Nick, and soon he begins a passionate affair with older woman, Mel. But Mel is disillusioned, too -- bitter, jealous and damaged by her man perceived failures -- and the couple fall into a downward spiral of lust and self-hatred, forever doomed to poison everyone and everything they touch.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil Redhead
• Release date: Dec 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311468888

Phil Redhead

Phil Redhead currently lives and works in Surrey, England. He has been employed variously as a delivery boy, a supermarket shelf-stacker, a vault supervisor, a salesman of DVDs, a foreign currency cashier, a factory machinist and a shipping clerk.His Little Streets Noir books are dark sex-and-violence dramas set in dead-end commuter towns. He writes about the lonely and the weak; the losers and the misfits and the ne'er-do-wells - the little people who walk the little streets.

Book preview

Candid Photos

by Phil Redhead

Editor: Sarah Barbour at Aeroplane Media

Photography: Josh Pesavento

Published December 2014 by Little Streets Books

Copyright 2014 Phil Redhead

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

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About the author

1

The queue had nearly made it out the door. It seemed to have formed itself quite amicably down the store’s central aisle, shuffling forward with apparent patience and stepping aside without complaint to allow other shoppers access to displays; but behind the polite veneer, it was restless. The weary customers let their guards down momentarily, rolling eyes to the ceiling, shaking heads with pent-up frustration, or grumbling in an undertone into a nearby ear.

The three staff members serving on the tills issued apologies to each customer as he or she stepped forward. They gave the apologies solely out of a sense of duty. Couldn’t these crazy bastards find a better way to spend Christmas Eve? All three tills were open; what more did they want?

It was only about an hour till they closed. The store was a mess. The racks had been picked clean, DVDs and Blu-rays scattered about and put back in the wrong slots. Big, gaping holes were everywhere, the staff members not quick enough to keep them filled.

Some respite was all Nick needed, just some breath. The two-day holiday was getting closer by the minute. A period of calm. Even if it was only a couple of days, it was better than nothing. Let the madness begin again after Boxing Day, he’d deal with it then.

Two long, slow days of rest and relaxation. One single solitary hour in the future.

And so he turned to the next customer: Sorry for the wait. How can I help?

The man who stepped towards Nick had a creased plastic bag in his hands. He dipped into the bag and brought out a TV series DVD box set, then tossed it onto the counter with affected nonchalance.

I want a refund.

Nick took a breath. Okay, what’s the problem?

I’ve got the receipt. He threw the folded strip of paper on top of the box. I’ve changed my mind.

The box was open, no longer wrapped in protective cellophane. Impact damage was visible on one corner.

Nick looked at the people in the queue—the bored, angry faces willing him to hurry up and give the refund and get on with it. But something happened, something strange; he couldn’t control it. It was as if he stood apart from himself and watched his own mouth move. He didn’t recognize his own voice when he said, No can do. The best you’re gonna get is store credit.

The man straightened his back and grinned a little. "Look—son—don’t be a fucking jobsworth."

"Look—sir—if you’re going to use language like that, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave."

Yeah? You and who else? I’m not going anywhere till you give me back my money.

Nick’s legs trembled, but he stood with shoulders squared. Store policy is printed on the reverse of your receipt.

Fuck store policy.

Sir—

And fuck you!

Shoppers stared from the other side of the store, and the two Christmas temps beside Nick cast sidelong glances while trying to get on with their work.

Nick watched himself, too, with a puzzled kind of awe.

Get me your superior. I refuse to believe that anyone put you in charge. How old are you? You’re just a kid.

I don’t think that’s relevant.

I don’t feel like being lectured to by teenagers.

I’m twenty-four.

The man chuckled a little. Can’t you get a proper job?

I’m team leader.

Oh, I see, some kind of movie nerd, then, are you? I bet you live at home still, don’t you, eh? Never had a girl. Now listen to me, and don’t give me your bullshit. I couldn’t give a damn if you’re the Emperor of Japan. Someone’s above you, yes?

Nick was still calm. There’s a manager.

Well chop-chop, son. I haven’t got time to waste on bottom-feeder lackeys.

He nearly did as he was asked. He felt his legs begin to jerk, but he stayed just where he was. He took a breath.

I’m in charge out here. The manager’s busy. If that’s not good enough, you’d better come in after Christmas.

A smile like a tic showed on the man’s lips—he was enjoying this. He muttered, Jesus Christ, under his breath. He shook his head and breathed in deeply through his nose, then tapped his hand once, decisively, on the counter. If you’re not gonna get him, maybe I will.

He stepped around the counter and headed for the staff door. He got a couple of fingers to it, pushing it ajar, before Nick reached out and tore his hand away. The unoiled hinges squeaked as the door fell back.

Get your hand off me, you little shit. That’s assault, that is. He put his face in Nick’s. What you gonna do, eh? Make your move.

He seemed to puff his body up to twice its natural size. His eyes went up and down Nick in appraisal, smiling at the corners. Nick stared back at him, unable even to blink.

I’m waiting, son.

The sudden squawk of the staff door’s hinges pierced through Nick’s nerves, and his body juddered in a terrible violent spasm.

What’s going on?

It was Chris, Nick’s manager, his lanky, scrawny frame stooping a little under its own awkwardness but nevertheless succeeding in filling the doorway.

Ah, now we’re talking. I’d like to make a complaint against your staff.

Chris’s face was set with a solemn sense of duty, his eyes flickering, trying to work out in a second whose side to take.

Nick, why don’t you step through here?

Nick stayed motionless.

Nick!

He felt a guiding hand on his shoulder but shrugged it off and thrust his chin towards the man. What gives you the right to talk to me like that? His whole body shook. You can’t come in here and call me names.

The man leaned in to him. Oh yeah? I can’t, huh? What you gonna do?

Nick!

The man cast a look over Nick’s shoulder. You’d best listen to your boss, son, don’t you think?

And it was only Chris’s hand on his shoulder that kept Nick back; that kept him from lunging at the man and—

What?

It was like waking up from sleepwalking. He was shaking. Chris was talking in his ear and bundling him through the gawping people. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a snarl, and his head spun with the furious beating of his blood.

Stay, Chris said once he had pushed him through the door. Let me deal with the queue and then we’ll talk. Go have a cigarette.

Then the door was screeching closed again—a long drawn-out cry—and he was alone out back in the office area. He stood quite still. The music pounded through the walls, but even so he felt an unnerving sudden peace.

His senses returned like one’s balance after dizziness. He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets and frowned against the pressure, holding it, then releasing his grip and allowing relief to flood from his eyeballs down his body. He breathed in slowly. His shoulders eased. He leaned his head against the staff door and blinked his eyes.

Then he picked up his cigarettes. He pushed open the back door into the yard and lit up. The cold air hit him—soothing like a balm after the overheated store. He stepped all the way outside and closed the door.

Without thinking the action through, he just kept walking.

A couple of workers leaned out of their shops’ back doors, sucking on cigarettes, shivering despite their jackets. Nick was in his shirtsleeves, but he didn’t feel the cold. The afternoon was grey, and it wouldn’t be long before what little light there was began to fade.

He carried on past the overloaded shop bins filled with enormous flattened cardboard boxes and knotted packing straps, and found himself amid the tumult of the high street.

The rumble of the teeming crowd of shoppers filled his senses. He found a bench, aware of the feet and legs and torsos that walked up and down in front of him. He heard their voices coming from all angles. Their laughter and their chatter merged into a single droning voice, its tone flat, the words indistinguishable.

He sat there lighting cigarette after cigarette. They tasted bitter and he smoked without enjoyment. Around him he heard snatches of Christmas music drifting from the stores. Their window displays were lit by flashing multi-coloured lights.

He wanted to keep going, to keep on walking. Why not turn his back on the shop and everything and just move on?

But he stayed where he was, staring in front of him as the people carried on past. Sometimes he followed one of them with his eyes, singling them out from the crowd and watching them until they disappeared.

He tried to understand them at a glance.

He gave up immediately, shook his head, squeezed his eyes closed, and sucked his cigarette until his chest hurt. He realized he was sitting bolt upright on the bench.

Was this it? Was this the moment? Was this the change that he had imagined? Christ, it had been coming for a while. The timing seemed perfect somehow—the start of a new year.

He opened his eyes again and gazed out at the shoppers.

That was what he resented most of all—the unfair bitterness he felt for all these people in his heart. He wanted to like them. Of course he did. Didn’t everyone? They weren’t so bad, in truth, each one of them.

But dealing with them in the store, day in, day out—you couldn’t help it. It was enough to grind anybody down.

He kept on staring, trying to feel compassion for these people—really feel it—feel it in his heart and in his guts, rather than simply know it in his mind.

Then his head turned and he saw the customer from earlier. Without thinking about it, he stood up from the bench. He started walking, using the slowly shuffling crowd of shoppers as his cover. He tossed his cigarette away, not caring where it landed.

The man was paying for his parking at a terminal just outside the mall’s entrance. Then he walked through a door into the connecting car park. Nick hurried forward, weaving and pushing through the crowd with an awkward urgency.

Even with the many overhead lights, it was gloomy in the car park. His eyes adjusted as he craned his neck left and right. The place was busy, with most of the cars at this time of the afternoon trying to get out.

He saw the man walking away in the distance. Nick was losing him. He skipped across in front of the crawling traffic, and a driver sounded his horn. Nick just glared into the car and carried on.

The man’s head was still just visible. He reached his car, pausing long enough to take his jacket off and throw it on the back seat.

Nick’s glance took in the sight of some loose brickwork—the aftermath of somebody’s careless parking. He stooped to pick the corner chunk of brick up from the ground and without skipping a beat he carried on towards the man.

The feel of the brick was rough and solid in his hands.

But then Nick froze. Again, it was like he was coming to. His hands were shaking. He brought his free hand up and ran it through his hair, keeping his fist clenched in it as he remained standing in an empty parking space.

The man’s engine started up. He crunched his gears. The two white reverse lights came on as he swung out from the spot. As he shifted gears, the man happened to glance at him. His eyes dropped to the chunk of brick in Nick’s hand. His smile grew.

Nick rubbed his temples and squeezed his eyes closed. He heard the man: You have yourself a merry little Christmas, son.

Only once the car had completely disappeared from sight did Nick open his eyes, drop the brick, and turn and walk away.

He had to go back to the shop. He wasn’t going anywhere, and there wouldn’t be any change. He had to tell Chris that he was sorry, that he would never let anything like this happen again. He had to face the customers and the other staff members in the shop. And then he had to drive over to his parents’ place for Christmas and struggle through two days of awkward silence.

Nothing much. Nothing taxing. But he walked back through the crowd with the beginnings of a migraine.

Two days of recuperation, that’s what he needed; everything would be okay. The change would have to come slowly. He couldn’t force it. He’d have to make some plans and do it right. What did he expect? Did he think that massive changes could be made just like that? He almost smiled.

Miracles didn’t happen—not even at Christmas.

2

Or maybe they did.

The present was wrapped in shiny silver paper, with ‘Season’s Greetings!’ written all over it in a fancy white script.

The forced enthusiasm that he had been relying on all morning gave way to genuine curiosity. Doesn’t look like socks.

His parents laughed. They, too, had been relying on false enthusiasm. No, his mother said, it’s a new pair of slippers.

He flashed a look at them behind a cheery grin. His mother’s lips were drawn back from her teeth in anxious agony. At his glance she tried to contort her face into a smile. She half-succeeded.

Can I shake it?

Better not.

Christ, just open it, his brother, Sean, said, shuffling in his seat with impatience.

He tore the paper. Christmas music played on the radio—choral music, high-pitched boys in an echoing chapel. With short, sharp rips and tears the paper fell away, and Nick stared down at the picture on the front of the box.

A camera. It was neither a question nor an exclamation.

His mother stirred. We know you gave us a list, but we thought, no. No more films this year. We wanted to give you something a little different.

He carried on staring at it, reading the technical details on the side of the box, even though none of the words made any sense to him.

His father pitched in: You’ve got enough films as it is.

Hear, hear, Sean said.

He opened the box. Underneath the manual was the black rectangular camera nestled in some smoothly moulded plastic.

God, it’s tiny.

It’s quite a good one, his mother said. We got some help. We went into the camera shop in town and talked to the man. Didn’t we, love?

Uh-huh, his father said.

There’s a companion present, too. You might as well open it.

He put the camera back in the box and took the flat, heavy present from his mother. He ripped it open. It was three hardback books, stacked one on top of the other in a pyramid, and a tiny package with a memory card vacuum-packed on cardboard.

The man in the shop recommended books as a good way to get into it—you know—to take it seriously. There’s a how-to there and a couple of books of famous photos.

He settled them on his lap and flicked some pages.

He knew they were watching him, but he found himself completely lost for words.

You don’t like it?

He tried to snap out of it. No, it’s not that, it’s just—

It was what?

Because if you don’t like it, we could always take it back. We just thought it might be nice for a change. Give you a hobby. Something that would get you out and about. She was treading on eggshells but bravely blustered on. We just thought—you know—it might be fun.

His mind was working. His mother winced, as though in pain. To try and cover his puzzlement he shook his head and gave an exaggerated smile. I think it’s great.

Yes?

I’m shocked, that’s all.

You really like it?

He nodded, unable to look her in the eye.

Attention turned away from him, and he was glad. But he stole glances at his mother’s face from time to time. It had sagged after all the effort of the morning. It had become loose and lifeless, drained of blood. She tried to ignite it still with twitchy smiles, but it always slackened again, and her eyes grew distant.

She thought he was disappointed with the camera. It wasn’t that. He didn’t quite know what it was yet. Something else.

He didn’t know what it was until later in