Images

By Anthony Van

The idea that a picture is worth a thousand words was both a blessing and a curse to Monica. It initially got her a job with Living Magazine, but her proficiency with the camera was an obstacle to her getting that much sought after position as a journalist. Her stint as an action photographer with an overconfident colleague led to her inheriting his next story.
However, the central premise, that of describing the decline and irrelevance of the church, proved to be far more complex than she originally thought. Monica’s research brought her into the company of a young Christian couple, Martin and Neve, who invited her to join them when they visited middle eastern archaeological sites.
The trip brought Monica face to face with uncomfortable facts about the history of the church, and discomforting relationships between the young couple and Martin’s father in conflict with Mark, an estranged brother. Amidst the tension of the family history and Mark's hatred of religion, Monica became enmeshed in a battle with her own discontent and a series of events that resulted in an international incident.
How and why all these things occurred would eventually be unravelled by Detective Sergeant Adrian Burton.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony Van
• Release date: Jul 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005749972

Anthony Van

What does a retired teacher do? Especially a teacher with a hyperactive imagination and ingrained work habits. Well this one writes. And being a Christian, each novel I have written necessarily is pieced together from a Christian perspective.I have a broad range of interests which include science and technology, mathematics, travel, sports and the interrelationship of people. Much of what intrigues me about people is that some pursue truth with the determination of a bloodhound while others almost ignore existential ideas and while away their short time spent on earth being distracted by people or pleasures or possessions or power.Writing is a hobby. It allows me to research and self educate, and it also permits me to refine my perspectives of concepts existential and theological.

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Images

Published by Anthony Van at Smashwords

Copyright Anthony Van 2018

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Chapter 1

Three images were on the screen. Monica compared each of them. Pathos, raw emotion, the vibrancy of life; none of them had it. She wouldn’t be winning a Walkley photojournalism award with any of these. She had accompanied Jenny to numerous restaurants for the journalist’s article, ‘Australian Eating Habits’, and taken docile shots of middle Australia in restrained and, sometimes, decadent consumption. These were the best three. Technically, they were well lit, creatively positioned and contextual but, in her opinion, lame, bland, insipid.

The problem was that Stanford wanted the food article to feature on the front page. It would be the lead image or, at least, prominent in a collage of main pieces in this month’s glossy issue. Mediocre wasn’t an option. Her photograph had to hit the passer-by, grab their attention and intrigue them enough to buy a copy.

Monica looked at each individually, filling her screen. The article was to convey the diversity of foreign influences on the national palate. She had portrayed the consumption of Indian curries, Spanish paellas and a tame Italian pasta. Of the rejected shots, one was of plates of tortillas and an exaggerated reaction to chillies in the ground beef. Another was an overly mannered female patron eating Greek souvlaki by prising the meat and salad filled pita bread apart with knife and fork. The woman had been chosen because Monica thought she was particularly photogenic.

It stood out like a giant exclamation mark. She knew what was wrong. There was no spontaneity. She had accompanied Jenny as the writer spoke with customers at restaurants and all the shots appeared contrived. No one was natural. She would go out again, by herself. Shots would be surreptitious, candid and capturing the joie de vivre of exotic tastes and dining socially. There would be feasting and gorging, licking fingers and lips; food would be spattered on faces and mouths would masticate openly, and eating images would be seized in their very primal essence.

Monica typed an email to Jenny with a copy forwarded to Arthur, the magazine’s editor. She explained that none of the photos were up to scratch. She would try to produce something worthy of the Living’s high standard by morning. Although Jenny wouldn’t be fussed—her story was the star of the show—Arthur Stanford would ‘yield his inflexible deadlines to his obsequious veneration of the magazine’s vaunted excellence’. She snorted softly to herself. It was a line from Pietro she had memorised. The haughty, second generation English fashion and society photographer, still clinging to aristocratic Italian roots, was always tormenting the editor with his last-minute submissions. The fact that he called Stanford, Arty, didn’t help either.

***

It was a photo binge. Starting early evening, she prowled through the various eateries. There were Chinese restaurants with dim sum, takeaway queues and red and gold everywhere. Monica photographed Thai banquets, Japanese sushi bars, Greek feasts and French cuisine. She sampled some Indian food and gate crashed a family reunion where tandoori chicken, Rogan josh and multiple curries were served. Her camera clicked away capturing grotesque gluttony, indiscreet indulgence and tentative tasting. Frozen in time, chopsticks poised, kebabs chewed and a diverse cast of supplicants in search of new foreign delicacies. Hundreds of tableaus were recorded in digital code. Sometimes she’d hand out cards, and get caption details, informing the subjects of the slight chance they may appear in the upcoming issue of Living.

By midnight, Monica was back at the office. It wasn’t long before she’d found her poignant moment—the shot befitting of an issue cover. The setting was an ornate Chinatown restaurant. A Sudanese mother was offering her daughter titbits of egg roll with trembling chopsticks. The small girl’s eyes were wide as saucers and the two faces were lit up with joy. In some ways she was satisfied. Hard work and perseverance had combined with experience and converged with that inexplicable touch of good fortune to produce what she was after. But within was a restless spirit. She was getting a reputation as an excellent professional photographer and it didn’t give the contentment she expected.

She copied the memory card, sent the recommended image and four others from her more authentic collection and then added the three best from trailing about with Jenny. They often used a range of small frames to break up the article so she would give them a selection of her preferred pics.

***

Monica stumbled into her flat. One of a row of eleven, hers was the closet to the landlord’s semi-detached house. Her status as a trusted tenant got her pride of place, farthest from the road and with a garage. She poured a glass of milk to counter the threatening rebellion of spicy Asian food and sat wearily in an armchair. There was a sense of despair in her sigh. Monica’s life had been predicated on the fairy tale ending—happily ever after. It was all a shamble now. Her love story had been real; it hadn’t been a myth, though its tenderness had been inflated with time. The friendship with Rory, the courtship, his proposal and the prospect of marital bliss; it was now a sad, sad memory.

She shouldn’t brood. That was the promise she had made herself—get on with life, be productive, be useful—and Rory would have frowned on her maudlin wallowing. Why did it happen to him? A hit run driver, an ignored red light; they said it was over in seconds. Rory was so right for her and now he was gone. He had been kind, thoughtful and funny. His career as an architect-engineer was taking off. When he died she considered going back to the farm, up north in the hills, but her dad had said no. On their visit for the funeral, he had said that she could come up in a few months after being back at work, after time when wounds had healed a bit, then it wouldn’t be so difficult to return to work. She had argued. He had too. He asked her what she would do—all her friends were in the city. He had offered a compromise. They would stay awhile if she needed them but, he had maintained that feeling miserable, closeted in a remote farm community, would do her little good.

Monica had resented it at the time. She had almost swayed her mother to relent when Astrid, her best friend, came to stay. Her parents and brother left then, and she was consoled with quiet walks and morning café trips with someone who listened to her endless despondency. That had been far more effective in coping with the heartache and regret than any self-imposed exile. Astrid had seen her through many weepy evenings, bemoaning sessions of ‘why’ and ‘what if’.

Since then, work had become her focus. She had been reminding Stanford that she had trained as a journalist, and had been given the photography job with the incentive that it was a steppingstone to a correspondent’s position. Showing her graphics portfolio was something she had calculated would add to her interview evidence for the reporter position, instead it backfired, and it moved Welsh, the General Manager, to ask her to join the photography team. They had been desperate for quality photographers for some time.

Mulling over the whole situation worsened Monica’s mood. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the camera work, she felt she could combine it with writing. If they gave her a chance, they would see that she was a talented writer, better, she thought, than a number of others at the magazine.

It was after two. Her thoughts became disjointed—she would be a wreck in the morning—going in late was an option because they cut her some slack since Rory died. Her assignments were completed and that’s all that mattered to them.

Waking half an hour later when her empty cup fell on the floor, gave her the impetus to drag herself off to bed. She resolved to ask for a writing assignment. Maybe I’ll hint that I’m looking at some positions at other magazines, she mumbled.

***

Still bleary eyed, getting to work at ten after showering and stoking up on caffeine, Monica wandered into the editorial workspace. A mock-up was being assembled. Stanford looked up. Great work with the new shots, Mon, he effused. You’ve got a good eye for what works. If you weren’t so good with a camera I’d get you onto my editorial staff.

She grimaced. No thanks…I’m still waiting for a writing project.

Everyone wants to be a writer. He almost sang it. It’s the pictures that sell. And your work in ‘Living’…photojournalism… is an honourable profession.

I’ll take my own shots, volunteered Monica.

Stanford held back a retort. A sharp breath moderated his reply. We’ll see.

She wondered how often she’d heard that.

Jack waltzed his way into the editorial space. He oozed self-confidence and a generous helping of ego. He teased female staff as he entered, bantered with Greg and Wayne who were formatting and typesetting using the mock-up, and then swanned over to Stanford. Monica tried to ignore him. She didn’t want him to think she had any interest in him at all.

Arthur, fancy bumping my four-wheel drive piece behind a foody article.

We’re not a car sports periodical. You’re missing our target audience.

You wanted holiday excitement, entertainment and fun.

Yeah, well I guess it’s a matter of opinion…all the technical details, equipment and then cars grubbing through muddy swamps…you’re lucky it’s in at all.

For a moment Jack looked deflated, but he bounced back quickly. Not everyone could visualise the spark that he put into stories. He believed his take on subjects made them essential reading.

Well, I’ve got a great idea for the next issue…I’m calling it Adrenalin Rush.

Go on. Stanford looked doubtful.

I’ll test out as many adventure activities as I can in a week or so. Our youth demographic will lap it up.

You think so?

I might snare some lifestyle advertisers for the issue too.

Oh…well…good.

Only one problem…Sheila has piked out…doesn’t want to do any risky stuff. He turned to Monica. What about you? Are you game?

No thanks…not interested.

You chicken…just like Sheila? Can’t believe it…call yourself a professional.

A surge of defiance welled up within Monica. Maybe self-preservation no longer mattered. She didn’t care. She would flaunt personal safety and get those impossible pictures. I’ll do it, she blurted.

Jack did a double take. Great! His raised eyebrows said eloquently what he was thinking.

We start on Monday…and bring a change of clothes just in case you spew. He had a chuckle at his own wit. This time Monica rolled her eyes. I’m just taking pictures…you’re the one who’ll be risking his neck.

No, no, no, no…you go where the action is…so be prepared. He walked away with a smug look on his face.

Stanford looked at the young photographer. His face crinkled as he considered what he should say. You know you don’t have to work with him…What he did then could be considered bullying. Some of Jack’s schemes are hare-brained.

No …it’s fine…The last job was a bit tame…I need a bit of excitement.

Well…you’ve done a great job on this…Why don’t you help Jenny. She’s revising her article using a range of your new shots…She could do with a bit of context for the captions.

Sure.

Working with Jenny used most of the remaining day. The writer wasn’t too impressed at having to rework some of her piece. It was a relief to Monica when she was told to go home a little early because the article had been polished and completed. The photographer was advised again, by the editor, that she was under no obligation to partner with Jack Crow. She laughed it off and left for home marginally excited by the prospect of a different week ahead. It would be a chance to showcase her best action photography and add to her growing portfolio.

On Saturday, Jack called her. He began by apologising if she felt pressured to be depicting his article. You don’t have to say sorry…I think I need a challenge.

No…I have to apologise. Arthur said so; otherwise I get an interview with HR.

Oh.

Yeah…Listen…I’ve made some more arrangements. Make sure you have a harness for your camera gear…and…I know a place where you can rent an underwater camera—on the mags tab of course.

Underwater? Monica sounded a little bewildered.

He ignored her query. Oh…maybe a GoPro if you can manage it…just for those shots that you’re too busy to take.

What are you planning? Her voice became more assertive.

Yeah…I was getting to that…Er…bring a rucksack with a week’s clothes. We’re doing a bit of…all over Australia. Leave Sunday night for Cairns. I’ll pick you up at five.

Hang on…Is Mr Stanford okay with this?

Yeah…funny about that…he said we have two weeks of story gathering and a week of writing for the next mock-up.

I thought you said only one week?

A week interstate and a week checking out adventure activities here. A short pause ended with an abrupt afterthought. So, bring your bathers and comfy warm weather gear…five pm…don’t be late. I’m organising the tickets.

Suddenly, Monica had a thousand things to do. Shopping for clothes, and maybe a backpack was a priority. The list grew with sneakers, swim suit and toiletries becoming essential items where moments ago they weren’t even on a wish list. She rang her mother telling her she’d be away for a week. Then she spoke to Astrid about the strange turn of events, and called Ellie, her gym partner, to let her know she’d be absent for the regular Wednesday night workout.

Astrid was pesky, fishing for some emotional link between her and Jack. How could she convince her friend that Jack’s love of himself left no room for real emotional attachments? His life was full of flings and a trail of disillusioned girlfriends. She reiterated a number of times that there was nothing about the flamboyant reporter that could entice her into a relationship. Yes, she had replied, he was a good looking man. If she didn’t know him so well she might have been attracted to him.

***

The Queensland weather was warm and humid. This was an assignment which had obvious plusses. Maybe she would really enjoy the break from the humdrum of routine stories. However, Jack had no intention of letting her ease into the task and confronted her with diving lessons first thing Monday morning. Monica was hesitant with the scuba diving. The instructors were patient, working her through each skill, and eventually she was thrilled by the experience that ensued. Pictures of the coral reef and Jack patting a whale shark were exhilarating but the sheer terror she endured in the shark cage shredded her composure. Only when she had established that she wasn’t going to die did she even think about aiming her camera. Back on the boat, Jack commended her on her tenacity, and she responded by punching him on the arm. An invitation to go out to dinner was rejected point blank. She ordered in pizza and collapsed in bed early.

The following day, Jack assured her that the program was more docile. She took several shots of him kite surfing, though the antics of some locals produced more spectacular action images. Surfing followed, with the writer proving to be quite proficient, and then she was coaxed into para sailing. Monica’s engagement in the project was rejuvenated by the poetry of soaring above the coastline. Her spirits were uplifted, metaphorically, as her body was physically.

That evening she relented to his insistence that she join him for a meal. The restaurant and the food were delightful. She was even pleasantly surprised by the company. For once Jack Crow wasn’t the topic of conversation. He spoke of family and asked about hers. They discussed education and travel and career aspirations. Monica rated it a passable evening and learned of a less secure co-worker who was groping for direction in life. His arrogant pretensions were compensating for those underlying insecurities. The knowledge helped her dislike him less and understand his braggadocio a little more.

A six am start conspired to make her a compulsive yawner. Coffee and pancakes at a fast food eatery did little to sweep the cobwebs away. Under instructions from Jack, she had packed a small bag with her swimming costume. By seven they were in a minibus, with twelve other adventurers, driving up into the dividing range of mountains set back from the coast. The driver informed them that the recent rains would make for some awesome rafting. The launching point was high up in the Tully Gorge, one of the wettest places in Australia. They spent an hour going through all the scenarios of what to do when you were tipped out of the raft. In answer to a question, Bob said it wasn’t a question of if, but when you landed in the water.

Life jackets and helmets offered reassurance to some and added to the trepidation of others. It turned out that Bob wasn’t the leader’s real name. He said that it was a pseudonym for what he did when tossed into the river. He introduced the other three guides as Dipper, Dunk and Tippy. They were meant to laugh at the joke but Monica wasn’t amused. She was an average swimmer at best and the racing rapids of the Tully River filled her with dread.

The serene greenery and blue sky mottled with white splotches belied the swirling torrent and crashing water of the river alongside them. Monica and Jack joined the last of twelve rafts dashing against rocks, lurching through rapids and catapulting over standing waves. The churning, gushing currents tossed and buffeted them. Spray saturated the bobbing members of their raft. Twisting down waterfalls and riding the surging narrows, Monica battled to take more than a couple of photos before having to dry the lens or sealing the camera in a waterproof bag. The crew squealed and screamed, gasped at the cascading drops and rollicked with the washing machine like turbulence.

Monica suspected the guide upended their raft intentionally on the last funnelled, gushing rapid. The large pool slowed the flow and the floating dumped passengers drifted to the shore where all the other rafters were cheering ironically. Once on the bank and dry they shared stories and consumed a delicious and satisfying barbeque spread.

The afternoon was spent swimming and surfing down rapids, rock jumping and much more rafting. Most photography was taken from the river’s edge as Monica drove back with one of the adventure staff, stopping off at all the best vantage spots to take action shots. The frothing river cast against the verdant eucalypt forest and the bright, white cloud spattered blue sky, offered a sublime backdrop for the loud yellow and reds of the rafts and safety gear, and the raucous cries of exultant rafters. Capturing the thrills and spills had her chuckling with glee at others’ misfortunes.

A milkshake was all Monica could manage for dinner. She was exhausted. While the indefatigable Jack went out on the town, she crawled into bed tired and sore but surprisingly pleased with herself.

The fourth day was almost unbearable. An early flight had transferred them from Northern Queensland to the Gold Coast. All day was spent enduring the most frightening, the most breath-taking, wild, hair raising rides at theme parks. With her camera strapped in a harness, Monica screamed and clicked and swooned and spun, hurtling along roller coasters down death drops and around centrifuges, feeling woozy more often than she could ever recall. Following the excitement, Jack wound down the day by interviewing families, tourists and locals about the stimulating effects of white-knuckle activities. Monica tried to regain her equilibrium as she took some portrait shots for the article. Her queasiness gradually dissipated as she put her subjects at ease with casual conversation.

Friday brought more madness. A rushed drive in a rental car took them to the Sunshine Coast. Monica was suspended on a rope over a precipice in the Glasshouse Mountains, sixty metres off the ground below. Abseiling was definitely not a pastime of choice. She would not admit to being fearful of heights but hanging so high over nothingness made her feel nauseous. She had already taken angles, close ups and wide views looking down on the climbers and now they were waiting for her to drop below them and take some upward perspectives.

Lean back…lean back. Jack kept coaxing. Your rope will support you…Just walk down the face. His instructions suggested that he found it easy. Monica struggled to trust the rope. Proximity to the cliff offered security, handholds beckoned, and the rock obscured the daunting plunge below.

Gritting her teeth and closing her eyes, she edged her feet up the rock propping her upper body away from the wall. She opened her eyes. With small steps to begin with, she levered the rope forward and slid it through the rappelling device. Step. She belayed the rope again after feeding it through and stepped. Slowly, with increasing rhythm, Monica released the rope and walked backwards. After three metres she even hazarded a look down.

Ignoring what she considered patronising encouragement from her journalist companion, she paused level with him and let her camera do its work. She continued on down with growing confidence, veering to the right to take snaps from below. After locking the rope feed, she took some shots, manoeuvred to the right and took some more. Without warning, Monica dropped suddenly. She screamed. The fall halted just as abruptly a metre further down.

She gripped the roped tenaciously. Tears filled her eyes. Words slowly penetrated. The instructor was repeating that she was safe. The fact that she had a tether up to the top was lost on her. Hesitantly she looked up wondering what calamity had narrowly been averted.

The rope just slid off an outcrop as you swung around, explained Jack. There was merriment in his voice at her freaking out. She closed her eyes and chewed her lip in contemplation of the mileage he’d get from her distress: his coterie of friends in the office, grinning, laughing even, at her expense.

A few more photos, a few more metres and then some more panoramic frames to gain