Here is a new story for you all, called 'The Dark Room', first performed on July 28th 2011 at 'Tall Tales' at 'The Good Ship' in 'Kilburn'. I wrote this one whilst on holiday. I went to France and it rained for two weeks which made us cross, but I don't think you can tell in the story.
The Dark Room
Augustus Pike woke up covered in sweat and shuddering with shame and regret. He was remembering a slightly stupid remark he had made at a party in 2005 to some people who he didn’t really know. They gave him a sideways look, and he was desperate for the ground to swallow him up. The remark was something about Rob Schneider being in ‘Jaws’. One of the others in the group corrected him - saying that Roy Scheider was the actor in ‘Jaws’. Rob Schneider is the actor in the film ‘Deuce Bigelow Male Gigolo’, and ‘Deuce Bigelow - European Gigolo’. And now the embarrassment was flooding back over him at eight thirty three in the morning.
This was not uncommon for Augustus, who frequently encountered crippling bouts of latent embarrassment - for things that had happened up to two and a half decades ago. The fact that he was in unfamiliar surroundings was possibly not helping. But he had more important business on this fine Thursday at the end of an unexpectedly damp July. When some people were returning from holidays in the south of France where it had just rained the whole time and they might as well have stayed at home.
Augustus was conducting research for a book entitled ‘Unexplained Pictures’, which was going to largely be about unexplained pictures. It was also going to be largely awful, but he was contractually obliged to his publisher to write a book this year, and so that was what he was going to do.
There was only one unexplained picture he was interested in anyway. One he had bought from an auction several years ago. It was a Mezzotint of three men. One of the men seemed to be in 18th century clothing, and one in 19th century clothing and the other man had his back to us, so it was hard to work out what he was wearing. The only distinguishing feature on the third man was a square symbol with three letters clearly visible. H T D. The picture, though badly drawn and unspectacular, had intrigued him because he couldn’t work out who on earth could be bothered to do it. And what on earth was the symbol? It was an unexplained picture, and fell neatly into the brief of his book which, in case I hadn’t mentioned it was called ‘Unexplained Pictures’. It will be in bookshops in November. It won’t really. This is all fiction. All of it. I’m not even real.
Anyway.
The research period fell into the exact same period in which Augustus was moving house. He had sold his property but hadn’t got round to buying a new one, and so decided to rent a place for a few months in the village of Specksham, which was known locally as the home of taxidermy. The place he had rented had last belonged to a photographer who specialised in taking awful photographs as far as Augustus could tell when he searched through the boxes of snaps left in the backroom. There were also a number of amateurish charcoal drawings - nearly all landscapes, apart from one which was part landscape, part scratchy drawing of a moustachioed man looking surprised. Imagine what Tom Selleck would look like if you dropped a Cornetto in his lap. That’s what he looked like. The photographer himself had apparently done a runner, leaving the landlord with lots of unpaid rent, but the place itself was perfect. Augustus moved in with a load of boxes, a laptop, and several crates of excellent wine.
He woke up with with shuddering embarrassment at the time he had jumped into a friend swimming pool with white shorts on in an attempt to appear spontaneous to a pretty lady. When getting out of the pool it became clear that his shorts also became clear when in put contact with water and everyone could see his balls. Not to mention his penis. This memory made Augustus curl up a little in his unfamiliar bed, then uncurl, get out of it and get the old photographer’s studio feeling a bit more like a home.
A few days later, and everything was going swimmingly. He hadn’t unpacked his boxes and cases, but he had lined them neatly up against the walls and decided that they were basically chests of drawers like that anyway. All of the wine he had painstakingly unpacked, and put in the tiny cupboard-like room that the photographer had clearly used as a darkroom. The room was surprisingly cool and smelt faintly of the chemicals used in developing photographs. He was sorting through hundreds of unexplained photos a day for his book entitled ‘Unexplained Pictures’, and conducting hours of research into the pictures which supposedly contained images of ghosts and ufos. Well - hours of research if by research you mean ‘making shit up about them’. Augustus was surprised by the fact that he was enjoying himself. The book was fun to write - the images in turn spooky, then laughable, but never not interesting. He worked tirelessly through the whole day - if your definition of ‘tireless’ is ‘with only two or three naps’, which luckily Augustus’ was, and on into the evening, the ‘research becoming more and more exciting, with the more red wine Augustus drank.
His mood was so good that he didn’t even shout at the elderly man on the high street who asked him for money, whilst shaking a collection box.
“What For?” asked Augustus.
“To Help The Donkeys.” said the old man.
“Help them do what?” said Augustus, not unfairly.
“Um. Be Happier Donkeys?” Said the old man.
“Fair enough” acquiesced Augustus, and thrust a pound coin into the pot.
“Here’s your sticker.” said the old man.
“I don’t like stickers” said Augustus, taking one, and immediately tried to wrestle it from his fingers. “I’m not putting it on me.”.
“I made those stickers myself” said the old man, who really did like donkeys.
Augustus was long gone however, and was stocking up on biros and Post-Its at the newsagents, because that definitely counts as work.
That night, Augustus put aside the peculiar Mezzotint and drained his glass. He picked up a shoebox of his own private photographs and wondered if this was an untapped seam of mystery. It wasn’t. The box contained hundreds of uncategorised, un-albumed pictures that spanned at least four decades. With pictures that were actually square and over exposed cause they were taken in the seventies, and pictures taken a few months ago that had used expensive equipment to make them look like that. He leafed through them and discovered that with every image came another burst of latent embarrassment. Mispronouncing things in French Restaurants, producing unflushable items in other people’s lavatories whilst attending dinner parties, trying to get off with women who were trying to pity him. He needed another drink, and half staggered towards the Dark Room clutching a school photograph. As he made his way towards what was now his wine cellar, he pondered his eleven year old face in the middle row of the class photo in the scratchy school uniform. And he remembered the day. And he remembered the fart that he thought would slip out un-noticed. And he remembered the actuality of the fart in question, the implausibly ripe and noisy that made him the laughing stock of Mr Hayes’ class, and ensured that no one ever wanted to play kiss chase with him again. He shuddered at the memory, and opened the door to the dark room.
He was surprised to find himself standing in the middle row of Mr Haye’s class photo wearing a scratchy uniform. He looked down at his eleven year old body, and felt a desperate urge to break wind. He looked around at his classmates of so long ago, and would have felt more able to asses the extraordinary situation he found himself in had the rumbling in his little belly not felt so urgent. Perhaps he could let it...slip out. But he remembered. He remembered the familiar shudder he had felt only moments ago, and held it in. He clenched and wriggled and smiled as the photographer who seemed so old, but was clearly about 24 took the photo, and Mr Hayes smiled. And a flood of nostalgia swept over him as the scent of the school hall, and the feel of the little blazer crash his senses. And then.... It’s gone. He was standing outside the Dark Room door. He no longer held the photograph in his hand. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The wine store was there as usual. He grabbed a bottle, and went back to his desk, thoroughly discombobulated.
After another half a bottle, he decided to give the Dark Room another try. He picked up another photo. This one backstage at an amateur production of ‘Charlie’s Aunt’. He was 23, and trying to smoke a cigarette to impressed the short haired girl who put the things on the props table. He had missed a cue, and failed to appear on stage at the correct time. The ridicule he could take... It was the disappointment that really shook him and made his inside twist with chagrin.
He stood outside the door to the Dark Room, and held the photo in his hand. He couldn’t work out whether he wanted it to work again, or not. Or would he rather the school photo incident was a hallucination brought about by too much wine and not enough food. But he couldn’t not know. Holding the backstage photograph, of his 23 year old self dressed as a footman inexpertly smoking a Marlboro Light, he stepped into the Dark Room.
And coughed. And blinked in the darkness. And looked around at the hushed hubbub of the amateur cast and crew. A few paces ahead of him, the short haired girl arranged the props on the trestle table marked out with masking tape. In his white gloved hand, the cigarette rested, smoke twirling into the darkness. He could hear the play going on somewhere in the distance.
He crushed the cigarette out, and went straight to the wings. And it all came flooding back. The set, the lines, he knew the cue. He stepped out onto the stage and took a breath.
He didn’t know his line.
He exhaled at the door of the Dark Room. His hands empty.
The door creaked open in front of him, and he could see the racks of wine bottle shining in the darkness.
He allowed his mind to wander. And there was no shudder.
The enormity of the situation crashed over him like a wave in a storm, and he ran back to his desk.
Then he ran back to the Dark Room and grabbed another bottle of wine, and then he ran back to the table, and flung all the photos for the book to the floor and concentrates solely on his own back catalogue. The back catalogue of shame.
And so Augustus began the night of his life, time-travelling within his own lifetime, leaping from photo to photo, putting things right that once went wrong. You know, a bit like Quantum Leap.
It was incredible. Somehow, somehow he had been given this chance to cast away the hundreds of tiny embarrassment demons that shook him daily. He revisited parties, and holidays and public events and family Christmases for tiny fractions of times, seconds sometimes, and with each visit he removed another gremlin from his subconscious.
By four thirty three in the morning, he was exhausted. He had revisited over a hundred periods of his life, and it had taken it out of him.
He piled his photographs back in their shoebox, and drained another bottle. As he did so, he spilled a few drops on the Mezzotint of the three men. Annoyed at his clumsiness, he wiped the paper, and thrust it in his jacket pocket, out of harm’s way and set off for another bottle. The Dark Room still served two purposes.
Pushing the door to the Dark Room open, he stepped inside, expecting to grab a bottle from the cheap rack near the door.
What happened was that everything stopped.
Three weeks later, the landlord came by. No rent had been paid, and he wanted to know why. The place was empty. Not a soul inside. Just like the photographer - the guy who looked like Magnum who did the terrible charcoal landscapes. Now this one had disappeared.
On the floor of the darkroom was a curled and stained Mezzotint of three men. One of the men seemed to be in 18th century clothing, and one in 19th century clothing and the other man had his back to us, so it was hard to work out what he was wearing. The only distinguishing feature on the third man was a square symbol with three letters clearly visible. H T D.
When showing the drawing in the pub that night, an elderly man took an interest. He tapped the symbol on the back of the third man. ‘H T D. He said. Help The Donkeys’. I designed that myself.
At least one of Augustus’ unexplained pictures got explained. Home made stickers really are very sticky.
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