The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Sixth Annual Collection

GLORY Nicholas Royle

The photographs are supposed to be ready within the hour, but when I go to get them the man says there was a fault with the machine and I should come back at five.

As I leave work and walk towards the booth in the tube station I think about what happened at the wedding and what the photos will show. Will they show “a” or “b”? Quickening my step I worry that if I choose “a,” “b” might happen. I can't be sure, though. Nor can I be confident that “a” will happen if I choose “b.” It's just as well that on this occasion I don’t have to choose.

I wait in the bottleneck at the entrance to Green Park tube, part of a large crowd of commuters and tourists. If I could be one of them I wouldn't have to worry about the photos, nor about what I saw at the wedding. Or thought I saw. Thinking about it now twenty-four hours later it seems fantastic. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that third pint certainly not with me having to drive back. The photos will prove I was just seeing things.

But the screams seemed so real.

Bob and Sonja have asked me to take photographs at their wedding, just informal shots while the professionals take care of the line-ups and groups. I don’t mind because it’ll give me something to do. Usually I just stand around feeling awkward and avoiding eye contact. I always try to dress smartly yet comfortably but suspect they may be incompatible in my case.

A telephoto lens is perfect for these occasions. You can hang around at the back ii6 and pick people out of groups without them being aware of it. I often say the best photographs are unposed. So I lay my small telephoto in the canvas bag alongside the camera and collect the films from the fridge, where they have been stored.

I never really look forward to weddings. I can never relax at them. I’ve been looking forward to Bob and Sonja’s even less because I know Thacker will be there. At school he was the sort of bastard who used to grass to the teachers (“I think you ought to have a look in Morris’s locker, sir, he’s got a whole stack of them. Disgusting, they are.”) and sneak behind the bike sheds or into the back room of the chippy for a cigarette. No one dared grass on him, though, partly because he had a protector in the form of Fry, a huge, psychotic boy with a disagreeable habit of cracking his knuckles as he looked at you, and partly because his father was head of geography.

At first I thought it might be interesting to see how much Thacker had changed in seven years. Then I remembered the acidic taste of humiliation and the burning sensation in the corners of my eyes when he caught sight of me reading from a crib in the German mock A-level exam. I suppose I should have put all that behind me, but I can feel it as clearly now as I did then in that oak-paneled exam room. I never knew if he told anyone about it, but the thought that we shared a secret was more upsetting than him grassing on me. I’m as scared of him now as I always was.

I only agreed to go because I knew how upset Bob and Sonja would be if I wasn’t there. And being on photo duty will give me something to take my mind off Thacker.

The old Escort starts first time. The canvas bag is on the back seat. I check the clock and see that it’s only ten minutes later than I intended to set off. I don’t know how busy it will be on the motorway, so I’m leaving with plenty of time to spare.

The motorway isn’t too bad and I cruise below 70. Not out of respect for the law but because if I take the old thing any higher, parts start to vibrate and appear more independent of each other than allows me to be comfortable. As I edge farther north I seem to be leaving the bright weather behind. I hope it won’t rain, mainly for Bob and Sonja’s sakes. Before leaving the motorway I pull off into a service area and sit in the car for ten minutes in the middle of the carpark. I tell myself that this is the freedom I enjoy as a single man—the freedom to sit in a carpark for ten minutes without having to explain it to anyone—and it feels like the emptiest, most futile gesture I’ve ever made to try and convince myself I’m content on my own.

I get out of the car and stroll over to use the toilet. I inspect the video games and walk around the shop without making any purchases. Back at the car I check the camera equipment to see that I have got everything. I appear to have.

On my way out of the services I pass a hitchhiker. I used to have to do that, I remind myself, but I'm already accelerating to rejoin the motorway by the time I draw level. I make a hand signal to him through the windscreen intended to convey my apologies. But his features snarl up as if he’s misinterpreted my action. I immediately feel foolish and guilty.

I have to keep stopping once I’ve left the motorway and the A-roads to consult the map hand-drawn by Sonja’s mother that came with my invite.

Negotiating an incongruous one-way system in the village, I spot a church spire rising above the trees and start to look for a parking space. The first opportunity presents itself outside a pub a few hundred yards away. I park and sit in the car for a moment contemplating the wedding. And Thacker. There is a knot of tension in my stomach.

I straighten my tie and climb out of the car, reaching for the canvas bag. I walk round to the church and take up a position at the top of the path near the main doors. I'm half an hour early.

The first people to arrive are dressed in jeans and white trainers so that I know they are not guests but bellringers. I keep my camera lowered. The vicar is identifiable by his white collar. I don’t photograph him either. There is a quiet spell, then a young woman appears suddenly before me on the path. “Hello,” I say, determined to seize the moment and fulfil my duty. “Would you mind if I get a picture of you? I’m supposed to take informal shots of people as they arrive. Do you mind?” She starts to protest but with a flicker of a smile so I guess it’s all right to proceed. I focus quickly, tell her to smile again and press the shutter. “Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” the young woman says in a Black Country accent. “But what I was trying to tell you is I’m not attending this wedding. I’m taking a shortcut to another one.” She giggles and walks off with a rolling gait, leaving me feeling sheepish. I believe I’m blushing but as there is no one to see, it doesn’t matter. I think of the rock that falls in the desert: if there’s no one there to see it, does it still fall?

Before long, genuine guests begin arriving. Owing to their average age and the fact that I recognize none of them, I realize they must be Bob’s or Sonja’s relatives. With my long lens I can get them as they climb out of their cars and come up the path. One or two see what I am doing and smile diffidently. One lady wearing a hat like a fruit bowl shields her face with her hand and mutters to her companion.

I don’t want to upset anyone but I’m doing what I’ve been asked to do.

I recognize Bob s friends Dave and Kathy. Dave is carrying their little girl, Glory. Unable to have children of their own they adopted Glory. So I heard from Bob; this is the first time I have seen the little girl. She is a beauty, loose blond curls, shining blue eyes and healthy pink cheeks. There is something else in her face that I can t isolate, something that appears beyond her years and knowledge; maybe it is just intelligence. Anyway, I’ve got a job to do. Glory is the only one who knows what I’m doing and looks in my direction, but as I raise the camera and press the shutter an elderly relative passes between me and my subject.

I take the camera away from my face to look at her but she has turned away and Dave and Kathy are crossing the threshold into the church.

There are lots of people coming up the path. Obviously more relatives or family friends, and behind them is a group of Bob’s football mates: blokes he knew on his course at college and still goes to matches with at the weekend. I’ve never met them but I recognize them from the way Bob has described them to me. Three of them stride forward together and a little way behind follows a fourth, whom I recognise as Jonesy, with his girlfriend. He looks as if he would rather not have to hang back.

Then my stomach goes as cold as ice because behind that couple are Thacker and a woman. He looks the same except for his center parting, which has become a victim of hairline recession but doesn’t make him any less threatening. He looks as uncomfortable in a suit as he always did in school uniform. The woman with him looks pinched and pained in a blue dress she s worn to a dozen weddings.

Camera raised, I click off picture after picture of them. He hasn’t seen me. The camera is a good mask.

I wait until the last minute then slip inside and sit down on the pew nearest to the door. The service is bearable. No more. I am glad it doesn’t go on any longer than it does. I’m outside and in position behind a privet bush seconds after the bride and groom have made their exit. They stand in front of the main doors for a photo opportunity and I snap those taking pictures of the happy couple. I see Thacker and the woman with him come out and I crouch a little lower. It occurs to me that if I continue being careful I might manage to avoid them altogether.

I take pictures until Bob and Sonja have climbed into their hired vintage Rolls and are driven away. Then I hang back until Thacker has disappeared.

Bob and I were never really friends at school—we got to know each other properly at college—which goes some way towards explaining how Thacker and I both got invited to the wedding. They got on all right at school and I think there’s some vague family connection which meant he had to be asked. I don’t really want to go into it too deeply in case Bob reveals that they have become great mates.

The drive from the church to the hotel takes about twenty minutes. All the way I’m holding back tears. Holding them back because I’m frightened that if I give way to them, they might never stop.

I turn off the main road into a lane which the sign says will bend this way and that for two miles.

I am sorely tempted to bunk off and explain later to Bob and Sonja that I couldn’t bear to be around Thacker because he unsettled me too much. But my foot stays on the accelerator and I know I’m almost there.

He caught me out once in the West Basement toilets. I thought I was alone down there and I was considering a theory which had occurred to me. All the locks in West Basement were broken and I was trying to decide whether or not to push open a cubicle door which was ajar. If it was ajar there was no way of knowing if there was someone in there or not, except by trying the door. I was thinking that if I left the door there would be no one inside, but if I tried to open it there would be someone. It seemed as if I could affect whether there was someone there or not by choosing whether to open or leave the door.

I can remember very clearly the sounds of West Basement: water dripping from old taps and shower heads, hissing cisterns and the quiet rumble of boys’ feet as they ran along the corridor above my head. While I was dithering in front of the door, actually touching it with my fingers and wondering if that touch was the moment of creation, a foreign sound intruded. It sounded like the turning of pages, the closing of a cover, then more rustling and a terribly sudden chain flush. Before I had a chance to do more than look guilty, a cubicle several doors down opened and Thacker came out. He was holding an A4 folder in his hand, which seemed like a strange thing to take into the toilet. He wasn’t the sort to be so keen to get his homework done. What else would he conceal in an A4 folder?

“What are you doing, Morris?” he asked me slyly. My hand was still stretched out towards the cubicle door.

“I’m just going to the bog,” I said with a degree of defiance. Unwisely sarcastic, I added, “Is that all right?”

He retorted, “Going for a wank, are you, you little twat?”

It was familiar language but down in West Basement alone with Thacker it made my stomach contort. I pushed hurriedly at the door and got a shock when it hit against something inside and an unknown voice snapped, “Fuck off! I’m in here.”

As I fled Thacker’s taunts echoed off the cold stone walls: “What are you, Morris, a puff? Gay boy, gay boy!” He thought I had known there was someone in there and was trying to see in or go in and join whoever it was. Thacker wasn t the kind of boy you could explain the truth to so I never bothered to try.

The hotel is one of those big old places you find on the outskirts of Midlands villages that could look quite impressive if it wasn’t for the British theme park mentality, which seems to affect hoteliers as severely as it afflicts the Department of the Environment. There are imitation tapestries depicting battle scenes and hunts, flock wallpaper and velvet lampshades. I accept a glass of sherry and brandish my camera with my other hand. Determined not to mingle, in case some social osmosis brings me into contact with Thacker, I cross the room and go outside through the French windows. A number of guests are already standing about on the lawns and occupying the white plastic tables, no doubt the very same tables on which King Charles II rested his weary head after fleeing the Battle of Worcester and before nipping into the Heritage Bar for a swift half.

At the other end of the lawn I can see Thacker has introduced himself to Jonesy. Their two partners stand sideways on to each other looking at the grass. I focus and snap the four of them.

The professional photographer arrives and sets up his stall, then his assistant shepherds everyone into the right groups. There seem to be endless permutations of Bob’s family and Sonja’s family, Bob’s close family, Sonja’s friends and distant family, and so on. I get a few good pictures of people watching other people, mainly profiles. Bob’s footballing mates are standing together in a group and from their expressions and gestures I can tell they are discussing a game. They’re good for a couple of shots, then I have to change the film.

Dave and Kathy stand close to the French windows and Dave watches Glory closely as she runs round in circles on the lawn. When a little boy approaches her she eyes him suspiciously. She puts one finger in her mouth and sways from side to side and that sees him off. With a little jump and flap of her skirt she raises a delighted smile on Dave’s worried face.

There’s an awkward moment when I have to pose in the same group as Thacker. I’m now a couple of inches taller than he is so I’m standing in the back row while he’s just three along in front of me. I pray he won’t turn round and when he does I bury my face in my handkerchief. I don’t even know if he knows I’m at the wedding. It’s quite possible he wouldn’t remember me, so I don’t know why I’m getting in such a state about him.

In the hotel’s Boscobel Banquet Suite I find myself next to Dave and Kathy, and Glory.

“It’s a lovely name,” I say rather unimaginatively.

Kathy beams at me and Dave tousles Glory’s hair. She shifts about on her chair and demands to be fed. Dave cuts up her food and feeds it to her. When she picks up a knife Dave’s hand shoots out quick as a flash to retrieve it from her, concern creasing his brows. It moves me to see how much he cares. His obvious love for her awakes strong paternal feelings in me. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t have such feelings, even though I’m unlikely ever to realize them. Dave and Kathy are nice people and fairly easy to talk to, but I'm glad when the meal is over. I always get into a tangle with too much cutlery and often when the dessert comes I find I ve already used my dessert spoon and I have to wield a huge fish fork against a harmless bowl of trifle.

Back in the Heritage Bar the serious drinking now begins. I hang back while at the front of the queue Thacker gets himself a pint of lager and a half in a straight glass for his partner. They move outside. When it’s my turn I get a half and take a few sips before putting it down on a table and stepping out through the French windows. Most people are on the lawn again but they’re making considerably more noise than before the meal. I pop back inside to finish my drink and get another. It’ll be at least a couple of hours before I have to drive, so I get a pint.

As I’m walking away I notice Thacker stepping up to the bar. Still he appears not to have seen me. Outside, groups of friends and relatives are taking more pictures of each other. By now I’m quite getting into it. Avoiding Thacker seems like a game at which I’m excelling. I sink half my pint and stand the glass on one of the historic plastic tables. Dave and Kathy are standing on the lawn a few yards away. Glory is running around apparently not in the slightest bit tired. A woman in a turquoise dress and black hat calls to Kathy. She wants them to get into a picture with a number of other friends. I drink another mouthful of beer and kneel down to take my own picture of the group. Dave is still trying to catch Glory and get her to stand still. Her curls bounce up and down as she dodges his grasp and she bubbles with laughter.

A curious and unsettling impression strikes me as I raise the camera to my eye and look through the viewfinder. Glory seems to vanish out of frame and her laughter reaches such a pitch it almost becomes a scream. Immediately I drop the camera from my eye and she pops out from behind Dave’s legs giggling.

Maybe I’m drinking too fast.

At last Dave grabs her and holds her in front of him at the edge of the group. The woman in the turquoise dress is pointing her camera at the group and stepping backwards, obviously striving not to cut off their feet. I raise mine again and hear another sound like a scream as I click the shutter release. It must be a bird. Also, Glory must have managed to slip out of Dave’s hands and between someone’s legs because I’m sure she wasn’t in the shot. But now she's back again. What a handful she must be for Dave and Kathy, but what a joy. I feel a pang for her which must be my paternal instinct again.

The turquoise-dress woman is joining the group and a young man with a ponytail is trotting out to take a picture for himself. I’m going to take another as well. I focus again and shoot. As soon as I've done so I realize that once again Glory disappeared while I was taking the picture. And I thought I noticed something else: a white shape against the lawn behind the group. But when I look now there’s nothing there. The ponytail man is taking another, so I raise my own apparatus once more.

Glory is not standing between Dave’s legs as she was just a second ago.

I distinctly hear a scream.

And there’s a white shape in the picture behind the group.

I press the shutter and lower the camera.

Glory has reappeared.

I’m drinking too fast. I need to clear my head. When I had wine at dinner I didn’t think that I might want a beer later. I shouldn’t be mixing them. I stand up and my head swims. As it clears I see Thacker standing near the French windows and looking straight at me. His partner stands a few feet behind him, looking bored. I feel the blood drain from my face. Why on earth did he bring her, whoever she is? I can’t stare him out; he makes me too uneasy. I pick up my beer glass in mock bravado and drain it, then turn and walk away from the hotel towards the far end of the lawn.

I saw Thacker in West Basement a second time. I’d been changing after playing five-a-side at lunchtime, and was just leaving West Basement when I heard a series of unusual sounds coming from one of the cubicles: scuffling noises and panting and my first thought was that someone was being beaten up. By nature I’m a coward but I can’t pass by if I think someone’s being hurt.

My second thought, however, was quite different.

Either way, there were two boys in one cubicle and that wasn’t right. If I opened the door I would find one alternative. If I walked away it would be the other. By choosing to open the door or walk away I determined what actually was taking place, and what had been taking place even before I became aware of it. I was affecting reality backwards in time.

Such was my conviction.

If I walked away, it would have been a fight. And if I pushed open the door it would be the other thing. I couldn’t walk away because I couldn’t carry the guilt of leaving someone to get hurt. So I had to open the door.

Inside the cubicle were Thacker and a boy I vaguely knew from the lower sixth called Benns. Thacker was sitting down on the toilet seat fully dressed. Benns was standing with his trousers round his ankles. He stared at me in shock. Thacker had obviously been brought up to believe it was rude to talk with your mouth full: he gave me a long silent look that struck me as conspiratorial.

He knew I wouldn’t tell anyone.

He knew that I couldn’t.

In many ways it would be like grassing on myself.

It is precisely because of the secrets we share that I fear Thacker so much. However intensely I may dislike him, he is an inseparable part of me.

The way he looked at me following Glory’s apparently mischievous disappearing act made me feel sick to my stomach. He knows better than I what is going on, but he makes me a party to it. When I look back he is drinking. The group is still assembled and Glory is running in and out of people’s legs. I look through the viewfinder. The telephoto lens draws the group closer to me but I can’t see Glory. A bird screams overhead. Above Dave’s right shoulder against a grassy bank in front of the hotel is the white shape, an irregular oblong. It must be a piece of fluff caught inside the lens and magnified. But there’s something about it that disturbs me. As soon as I take the picture and lower the camera Glory reappears. Dave scoops her up in his arms and throws a concerned, almost accusatory look in my direction.

Unwilling to accept what seems to be happening I try again with the camera.

No Glory.

White oblong in the background.

A scream.

That's me finished. No more photographs.

I sit in the Heritage Bar for half an hour and down another pint. At the far end of the bar Thacker is doing the same. I notice Dave and Kathy making for the exit, Dave holding Glory s little hand, then I see Bob coming towards me. I realize I’ve hardly spoken to him and Sonja.

“How are you? Where’ve you been?” Bob asks me.

“Taking pictures,” I say. “How does it feel then?”

Bob shrugged and grinned. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Thacker leaving, followed by the woman he came with.

“What’s the time, Bob?” I ask, looking at his watch. “I must go. It’ll be dark.”

Are you all right to drive?” Bob asks, clearly worried I may have had too much to drink.

“I’m fine. Give us a ring.”

As I’m crossing the carpark towards my Escort I see Thacker just leaning into his Sierra. When he winks at me I stop in my tracks, instantly sobered up. I run to my car, past Kathy who is searching for her car keys while Dave calls out to Glory to stop dawdling because it’s time to go home. She strays a couple of yards and Dave reaches for her, but I’m into second gear and out of the carpark before Thacker has coordinated his actions well enough to engage first and loose the clutch. I don’t want to be around when his drunken wheelspin goes out of control.

I’ve got the photos now. I didn’t open them on the tube. I didn't dare in case I overreacted to what I feared they might show. I waited till I got home. Then I looked at them.

Glory doesn’t appear in a single one. You can’t even see the hem of her skirt disappearing behind someone's trouser leg. She’s not even in the one I took of Dave and Kathy and her on their way into the church. It was one of Sonja’s uncles who stepped in front of Dave just as I clicked the shutter.

Looking at the photographs I can hear the screams again. They’re as lifelike now as they were then. With trembling hands I pour a drink to try and calm my nerves.

It’s the white oblong shape that’s reduced me to this state, more than the fact of Glory’s vanishing. In the background of every shot that should have featured Glory I have found the white shape. Its definition is clearer on the glossy prints than it was through my lens. The white shape is a child’s coffin.

Now the phone is ringing and I feel sick with remorse.