The carriage rattled along cobbled roads.
I spread my legs to brace myself, inadvertently bumping the brute's foot sitting across from me. ‘Apologies,’ I offered in his general direction.
‘Hm,’ he grunted.
‘Are you certain my camera equipment will be safe on the carriage floor? I'd hate for it to get damaged in transit.’
Silence, broken only by the vibrations of the locomotive. The driver wasn't wasting any time, although our destination remained unknown to me.
The way I was picked up by my escorts would have frightened most men away if they were not so desperate for the commission. And it was a substantial commission indeed. There was little money in the macabre practice of photographing the deceased. Still, this would be the last chance, the only chance, for those less financially fortunate to have a photograph to remember their relative. I was doing some good in this miserable place, or so I told myself to get through each day.
The correspondence I received from the employer instructed me to wait outside my small studio for an escort, who, upon arrival, would accompany me to an undisclosed location. I assumed the location was undisclosed because I'd be taken deep into the city, to the very core where the darkness is dense and travelling alone is not advised. Few dared venture from the busier parts of the city to the housing estates built next to the factories - down narrow alleyways and dirty paths among the lower classes, shaded by the big bleak buildings blowing out thick smoke.
I was commissioned to take a series of photographs for a portfolio. It did strike me as odd that a photographer wanted another photographer to take photos for their portfolio. However, if my studio were to remain open another month, I needed the money.
A young boy approached me as I locked the studio door. I immediately angled my body so that the side where I kept my wallet was furthest away from his thieving fingers. My studio is alongside many other businesses with plenty of footfall, fertile ground for a pickpocket. Criminals are always on the lookout for a way to exploit the honest patron. There are even stories from Violshire of happenings far more fanciful than mere crime.
The boy produced a rag. ‘From the nice men who'll be escorting you,’ he squeaked.
‘Whatever do you want me to do with that?’ I asked.
‘You're to put it over your eyes. They won't collect you until you do.’
They didn't want me to see anything. Undisclosed really meant undisclosed. If they weren't paying me so handsomely, I'd have refused on the spot. No self respecting man would make such a concession. No self respecting man would photograph the dead for a living either, but needs must, so I did not refuse the request. ‘Very well,’ I said, taking the rag. I waited until the boy was out of sight before covering my eyes with the rag and tying it around my head.
A sack was slipped over my head with undue force. I hadn't heard anyone coming - no footsteps, no rustling clothes, no breath. But a pair of large, heavy hands held my shoulders, pinning me to the spot. Whoever it was must have been concealed in the doorway of a neighbouring shop.
Then I did hear something coming, the unmistakable sound of hooves, ceasing directly in front of me. The driver jumped down, opened the carriage door, and slid in my photography equipment.
‘Get in,’ the low, deep voice behind me said, accompanied by a shove forward.
At that point, I began to wonder if I was being escorted to the job I was hired for or taken prisoner. I groped the space in front of me until I found the doorway and hauled myself inside. If the carriage had windows, I imagine the curtains would have been drawn. With the blindfold and sack over my head, I could see nothing more than cracks of dim light on either side of my nose.
The carriage tilted under the weight of the man who climbed in after me. He took his seat opposite me and slammed the door. Two raps on the ceiling told the driver we were ready.
A jolt as we clattered over the uneven surface made me wince at the thought of my camera's condition if we kept this up. Would I even be able to perform my task? My cheeks reddened when I thought the brute had seen my moment of weakness, then I relaxed, remembering that he couldn't see my face.
I bobbed around as the carriage carried us through the city. Our pace rarely deviated. We had taken numerous turns, and I fought not to be thrown from side to side. We had been in motion for around fifteen minutes when we came to a stop. I was disoriented and could not be sure which direction I’d been taken. We’d travelled long enough to be near the expensive townhouses. Maybe I was hired by someone well-known who didn't want to reveal their address to me. We could even up in the hills in one of the grand houses on a tree-lined road.
The door opened and I couldn't help but wonder what would happen on the way out of the carriage. If the way in was anything to go by, it would be most unpleasant.
I was led into a building and up some stairs. We went across a landing into a suite of rooms where I was encouraged to sit by my forceful escort. I heard footsteps on the wooden floor and hushed voices at the far end. I was not alone in the room. Someone shifted their weight on a chair. Someone swallowed. All the while, my eyes remained covered.
‘… no use sitting him with the bloody talent, is it? said a new voice, more articulate than the other.
‘Err, no, Sir, I’ll bring him through,’ the brute’s grumbling carried through the rooms.
Seconds later, and not for the first time, I was handled by the brutish man. He escorted me across the room to where the voices emanated. I stumbled over a chair leg, or it could have been a table. I could not be certain as neither the sack nor rag had been removed.
‘In you go,’ his voice rumbled as he partially guided me through the doorway, my shoulder thudding into the doorframe.
‘Ah! Our photographer. Do keep him in one piece, please. And relieve him of his blindfold.’
I blinked the room into focus. A drab room with little of the day’s remaining light managing to seep in. Dull green wallpaper made the room feel small, its corners clawing into the room. The first thing I could smell since the sack was removed from my nose was the musty atmosphere. A cheap location for the photoshoot.
Before me stood a man who towered over my slight frame - the brute, undoubtedly. His gap-toothed grin was as insincere as moans in a whorehouse and his breath was the second smell to enter my nostrils. Beside him was a man with a weathered face and an overcoat, a man used to being exposed to the elements at length. This must have been the driver. He was concentrating on stuffing his pipe with tobacco. His job was done, and mine had not even begun.
‘What kind of hosts must you think we are?’ the articulate man said, drawing my attention to him.
I knew who this was. His description and illustration were in all the papers. Never his photograph, no. He was far too careful for that. All of a sudden, things started to make sense. "You're-"
‘Conrad Campbell. In the flesh. You must accept my apology for the way you've been treated. My business requires the utmost discretion, you see. If I take any chances, if I were to make an oversight, however slight, well, that would draw unnecessary attention. Unnecessary attention is bad for business, you see.’
He stood no more than an arm's length away now, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, white shirt, and red neckerchief, his hair slicked back and shining despite the minimal light.
‘There are a number of different subjects waiting in the other room. I need you to take a series of photographs of them. They will perform the role of grieving families, unrelated, of course. The photographs will be used by myself for anything I deem them fit to be used for, you see. Perhaps I'll be given money for my photography services based on the portfolio you are about to produce.’ He turned away, sneering.
The driver struck a match and puffed on his pipe.
This type of photograph is not the kind of thing that can be faked. Long exposures separate those who have left this life from those who have life left yet. ‘Excuse me, if I may.’
Conrad Campbell half-turned back to me. 'Go on.'
‘I consider myself fairly competent in my chosen profession. With that said, I cannot use camera trickery to make the living appear to be anything other than alive. They will be slightly blurred because they are unable to remain perfectly still. The way these photographs are typically taken makes it very clear who is deceased because, well, they aren’t moving.’
‘I appreciate your forthrightness. We have given consideration to this already. I've had models made to combat that very obstacle. I've hired artists to fill in their features. They will be your props, taking the role of the deceased. They will be posed with the live models.’ As he spoke, he made his way across the room to a strangely shaped pile covered with a white sheet. ‘Behold.’ He swept the sheet aside in one motion, revealing dummies of men, women, and children, old and young. Their static features were more unnerving than the real thing.
‘You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?’
‘Naturally. So, who would you like in your first shot?’ asked Campbell.
‘Sorry?’ I said, still trying to make sense of everything.
‘The first photograph you'll take. Who will it be? We have a man and a woman who can be a couple grieving over the death of their infant child,’ he said, rummaging through the pile of props and producing a baby doll. He fixed me with a stare, one eyebrow raised.
A question or an instruction, I knew not. Either way, I dared not decline, for I did not know the lengths this man and his group were willing to go to. Unfortunately, I would find out soon enough.
I unlatched my camera case, took out the device and loaded a plate. I was in a haze for the next few hours as I took the photographs. Subjects sat and posed. The camera flashed, they left the room and I didn’t see them again. Through the motions I went, over and over, until at last it was over.
I love the very first line. It had me hooked. I'm glad you're publishing your Victorian fiction on Substack!