Stephen Dedman - Never Seen By Waking Eyes.pdf - Stephen Dedman - widez2

Never Seen by Waking Eyes

by Stephen Dedman

_They say that we Photographers are a blind race at best; that we

learn to look at even the prettiest faces as so much light and

shade; that we seldom admire, and never love.

Lewis Carroll, A Photographer's Day Out_

The Reverend Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, the logician and photographer and

lesser-known mirror image of Lewis Carroll, first met Alice Liddell when she

was three. John Ruskin, a fellow lecturer at Oxford, was also smitten with

young Alice, and later became obsessed with twelve year old Rose La Touche.

Edgar Allan Poe married his thirteen year old cousin Virginia. Dante fell in

love with Beatrice when she was eight and a half.

If you expect me to add my name to this list, you're out of your mind.

* * *

"He was terrified of the night," she said, softly. "Terrified of dreaming, I

think. Even beds frightened him."

I nodded. I don't remember any night-time scenes at all in either of the

_Alice_ books, or _Snark,_ or even _Sylvie and Bruno,_ and the only mention of

a bed to come to mind was 'summon to unwelcome bed/A melancholy maiden!/We are

but elder children, dear,/Who fret to find our bedtime near.' The hunters of

the Snark 'hunted til darkness came on', with not a word of what happened

afterwards, and _Sylvie and Bruno Concluded_ ends (and not a moment too soon)

with the stars appearing in a bright blue sky. True, 'The Walrus and the

Carpenter' is set at midnight, and features an oyster-bed, but the sun stays

up the whole time.

"How did you meet?"

Alice smiled prettily, without showing the tips of her teeth. "In London,

outside a theatre -- the Lyceum, I think. I'd seen him before, but I had no

idea who he was. When I told him my name, he said, 'So you are another Alice.

I'm very fond of Alices.'"

"When was this?"

"Winter. I don't remember the year, but he was about thirty, and he hadn't

written _Wonderland_ yet, and I think Prince Albert was still alive. 1860,

maybe." I nodded. Dodgson was a compulsive diarist, but many of his diaries

disappeared after his death, like his letters to Alice Liddell, and all of his

photographs and sketches of naked little girls.

* * *

I suppose it started in the darkroom, at home: developing old, half-forgotten

rolls of film is the safest form of time travel; you don't need a license, or

even a seat belt. This roll had been in the Nikon for at least a year, and

when I finally sat down with the proof sheet and a glass of Glenfiddich, I was

ready to see anything. Forty minutes and two glasses later, I was still

wondering why the Hell I'd taken five shots of Folly Bridge. Granted that it's

where the famous rowing expedition and the story of Wonderland started, and

that I don't get up to Oxford as often as I'd like, it's been photographed

more often than Capa shot 'Death in the Afternoon'.

There was nothing mysterious about any of the other shots, at least to me. On

the proof sheet, they all look harmless enough -- a busy street in Bangkok,

far enough from Patpong to be safe; a beach near Townsville; a park in Tokyo;

the Poe Cottage in Philadelphia; a slum in Brasilia or Rio. An extremely

observant eye (such as Poe's) would notice a particularly beautiful little

girl in almost every shot -- never in the centre, but always perfectly in

focus. She isn't the same girl. She's always the same girl. She always has

dark hair, black or almost black; pale skin; large eyes. Small, slight, almost

elfin. The girl in Townsville is probably no older than ten; the girl in

Bangkok may be twelve or twenty or anywhere in between. She isn't the same

girl. She's always the same girl. And her name is

I stared at the photographs of Folly Bridge; five shots, from slightly

different perspectives, but all from the St Aldates side. Long shadows --

evening, probably just before sunset. And no girl. Where the Hell did she go?

I slept badly, that night, but without disturbing anyone. My dreams were

obscene; you don't need the details, except that the girl from Folly Bridge

was . . . there.

She was smaller than the ideal, with the creamy pallor of the Londoner who

can't afford to buy a tan. Her hair was short, but extremely untidy. Her eyes

were too dark, impossibly dark, and her smile remained long after the dream

had ended. It was not the smile of a little girl. It was the smile of

something older, and wiser, and very hungry.

I woke shivering, expecting to find the sheets drenched with sweat or worse.

Instead, they were completely dry, and cold, as though no-one had slept there

at all.

* * *

Barbara is far and away the best secretary I've ever had. She's a law school

drop-out, efficient, intelligent, computer literate, multilingual, empathic,

diplomatic, moderately ambitious, extremely attractive, and devoutly gay;

we've been having breakfast together for four years now, without ever

misunderstanding each other (well, not seriously). Two of the juniors, both

avid prosecutors, were sitting at a table near the door discussing the latest

batch of ripper murders that were splattered across all the papers. A pot of

coffee and a cherry danish were waiting for me in my booth, and so was

Barbara.

"Rough night?" she murmured, as I sat down.

I nodded. "What have I got today?"

"Partners' meeting at eight, Druitt arriving at ten and the _Mirror's_ lawyers

at eleven, political lunch," she grimaced slightly, "at the Savoy at two --"

"Oh, God, is that today?"

"I've left the afternoon free."

"Good. What about tomorrow morning? Am I in court?

"No, not until Friday. You have two --"

"Postpone them."

She keyed something into her notebook without even blinking. "Where are you

going?"

"Oxford."

* * *

Sullivan (okay, so that isn't his real name) was a numbers man for the Tories,

known to his colleagues as the Lord High Executioner. If he ever invites you

to lunch, hire a taster. I was still sitting down when he muttered, "I hear

the _Mirror_ settled."

He obviously had excellent hearing for a man his age; we'd signed the papers

less than twenty minutes before. I merely grunted. "I hope it was expensive?"

he probed.

"My client's reputation is worth a lot of money."

"So is yours, by now." He smiled. Like most of the people who run most of the

world, Sullivan had managed to avoid the burden of a reputation; you probably

still don't know who I'm talking about. A waiter appeared, and I ordered

carpetbag steak and a good burgundy. Sullivan waited until he was gone, then

asked, "Are you planning to stay in London long?"

"I go where the firm sends me," I replied, "but I think I'll be here for a few

years yet. I'd certainly prefer to; it beats the Hell out of New York."

He smiled. "Good. I won't waste your time, or mine. Have you ever considered a

career in politics?" I shrugged. "All right. What if I said there was going

to be a safe seat vacant before the next election?"

"I'm not interested." I replied, without any hesitation.

"Think about it. This isn't America; you wouldn't have to quit your practice.

I know what you're worth -- believe me, I do -- and all right, MPs' salaries

are pitifully low: even the travel allowance isn't much of a compensation.

But you wouldn't have to give any of it up. _I_ haven't; you know that." I

nodded; he'd been a client of ours for many years. "Hell, you already give

away more money than most rock stars, more than most people can even dream

about. All those kids you sponsor, all those donations to UNICEF and refuges

-- oh, don't look so bloody surprised. You really thought nobody knew?

Welcome to the twentieth century, or what's left of it."

I said nothing. "I'm not going to bullshit you," he lied. "I don't know _why_

you do it, what you get out of it, but I don't care, either, if it's what you

want to do. But if you _really_ want to help the street kids or starving Thais

or whoever, you'll consider my offer very carefully."

"Why me?"

"Because I know you can win. You always do. You're the best libel lawyer in

the business, you haven't lost a case in years; I've seen you convince juries

that black is white and queer is straight. You're a born politician." He

paused, leaning back in his chair. "And I'll be honest. I know the other

parties haven't approached you yet, and I know they will, and I know we can

double whatever they offer."

"You can relax," I assured him. "I'll tell them the same thing I told you. I'm

not interested."

"Why not?"

"For one thing, I don't believe it'll be as easy as you make out. I'm single,

and I've lived most of my life in the States. Secondly, it's not what I want

to do. Thirdly, I've never intended to become a public figure; I prefer to

keep my private life private."

Sullivan snorted. "Like I said, this isn't America; _we_ don't expect

politicians to be moral paragons. We've had too many kings, and far too many

princes; nobody gives a damn if an MP's not married, or if he bonks his

secretary occasionally. Besides, you were born here, your father was some sort

of war hero, you grew up in Boston so you speak better English than half the

BBC, and you're a Rhodes scholar to boot. As for your private life, all

right, I know you can't give a lecture without bonking one of the students,

but what does that matter? They're all _girls,_ aren't they?"

I looked at him, and said nothing. He was probably right about English

politicians' private lives; nobody's ever given _him_ any shit about the

curious resemblance between his twenty-seven year old second wife and his

fifteen year old daughter. The wife's not brilliant, but I'm sure she's

guessed which of them he really wants to fuck. "Yes, they're all girls."

"And all over sixteen." He waved his fat fingers dismissively, then shut up

as the waiter returned with our lunch. "All right. At least consider it. I

don't need an answer for another week."

* * *

I parked near the corner of Thames and St Aldates, and stared at Folly Bridge,

wondering if it had ever deserved its name so thoroughly before. The urge to

turn the Jag around and return to London was almost palpable. Instead, I took

a deep breath, unbuckled my seat belt, opened the door, and stepped out into

the thin October sunshine. Having come this far, the least I could do was

visit some of the booksellers. Besides, it was a week before Michelmas term,

and I could wander around the colleges again without hordes of undergraduates

making me feel like a fossil.

It was past six and almost dark when I headed back to the carpark, footsore

from the cobbles, with fresh catalogues from Waterfield's and Thorntons in my

briefcase. There was a girl standing outside Alice's Shop, staring into the

window, though the shop had been closed for over an hour. She turned when she

heard me, and we stared at each other across the road.

I _knew,_ even before I saw her face, that it was the little girl from my

nightmare. She was small, maybe nine or ten years old, wearing ripped jeans,

sneakers, and a very baggy sweatshirt; her shoulder-length dark hair might

have been loosely curled or merely tangled. She leaned back against the

window, her right hand cupped before her, in what must have a deliberate

imitation of Dodgson's photograph of Alice Liddell as a beggar-girl.

I stood there frozen for a moment, and then a tourist bus passed between us,

blocking my view. Hastily, I turned and resumed walking south; when I looked

back, over my shoulder, she was gone. I hurried along, not even wanting to

wonder why.

She was five or six metres behind me when I reached the carpark, and she

followed me all the way to the Jag. I fumbled for the remote and unlocked the

door, almost expecting her to rush ahead of me and climb in. Instead, she

disappeared while my back was turned, and I slid into the seat and locked

myself in. I sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, then turned the

headlights on. She was standing in front of the car, close enough that the

lights illuminated the Oxford crest on her dirty sweatshirt but not her face.

After a moment's hesitation, I reached across and unlocked the passenger side

door, and waited. I heard the door close again, and she was on me; I felt her

bite, and saw nothing.

* * *

The contents of my wallet were spread across the passenger seat when I opened

my eyes again, but nothing seemed to be missing except the girl. I examined

myself in the mirror; I looked bleary-eyed and slightly dishevelled, and maybe

a little pale, but not injured. I peered at my watch; 7.56. If I hurried, I

could be back in London by nine.

* * *

I decided to work late on Thursday, finishing a paper for the _Harvard Law

Review,_ but sent Barbara home in time for her karate class as a reward for

not asking any embarrassing questions. The words I needed, exactly the _right

words,_ seemed to appear on the monitor as soon as I knew what I wanted to

say; normally, when I write, there seems to be a block between my head and my

hands, and everything I try to say clunks and screeches, and I spend hours

facing the window rather than stare at the screen. This night, I became so

absorbed in my work that it was well after midnight when I looked at my watch

and realised why my coffee was so cold and the chambers had become so quiet;

everyone else (even the Hatter, who still lives on Eastern Standard Time) had

departed, leaving me utterly alone. I looked out the window again, and

shivered, and reached for my overcoat and umbrella.

It was cold, and the rain had slowed to a drizzle, almost a mist. The whole

city felt sombre and slimy and strange. The streets were deserted, and the

only noise was the faint growl of the Jag and the occasional short hiss as

something or someone appeared out of the gloom and I had to brake. The statue

of Eros looked more like a vampire, and I thought I saw some shadows move

beneath it as I passed, a huddle of junkies or a bag lady with a shopping

trolley. Driving through London protected by tinted glass and electronic locks

always feels _wrong,_ somehow, even in filthy weather; on good days, I feel as

though I'm cruising (or catacombing, as my Texan cousins call it); bad nights,

I just feel like a voyeur.

As soon as I arrived home, I closed all the curtains and turned on all the

lights, then chose a CD at random and turned the stereo up full blast. It

wasn't enough to make the place feel like home (it's a company flat; even the

paintings are investments), but at least it felt warm and relatively secure.

Most of the partners decorate their rooms with the inevitable _Spy_

caricatures of judges; I prefer to leave the judges outside when I can, and my

taste in art runs more to Brian Frouds and Patrick Woodroffes. My private

library clashes with the rest of the leatherbound decor, but what the Hell. I

collapsed on the couch, and reached for my much-thumbed copy of _Faeries._

The little girls scattered among the horrors and grotesquerie looked so clean,

so innocent, so ethereal. A pretty elf looked back at me with almond-shaped

night-shaded eyes, for all the world like

I dropped the book, which fell open to the sketch of Leanan-Sidhe. 'On the

isle of Man,' the text read, 'she is a blood-sucking vampire and in Ireland

the muse of poets. Those inspired by her live brilliant, though short, lives.'

There was a knock on the door.

Stephen Dedman - Never Seen By Waking Eyes.pdf

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