4. Betty
Night-time in London – or rather the electric dusk that passes for night in the city, where the sky develops a perpetual orange glow that conceals all but the brightest stars, and a thin haze softens everything into indistinctness.
Patches of light from the street lamps intensify the areas of shadow under the long landbridge supporting the railway line, and cast doorways and corners into obscurity. Beneath the overhang arches curve along the pavement. The shops and offices are shuttered against the night, rendered uniform by the dark outlines of graffiti etched into them. The street is littered with the debris of daytime and has that peculiar sense of isolation of the shuttered outdoor market.
Save for the dim glimmer of reflection thrown from his lens, the Photographer is near invisible in his hiding place, black coat melting into the dark stone, dark eyes dim hollows in his pale face, camouflaged in stillness, checking for cameras.
His quarry, an old drunk entering the final stages of dipsomania, is about half-way down the street bedded down for the night in the entrance to the station. Like the market and the shops it’s closed now, quiet and deserted, and she
is only just visible through the metal cage that forms the stairwell. A near shapeless bundle in the darkness, even the filth and the stink of piss and stale cider have not been enough to dissuade her from the shelter that the stairwell affords in coldest hour before dawn. Shelter, the Photographer reflects, that will provide his activities with some cover too.
Everywhere these days there are cameras watching; cameras, hidden by them, tricks and feints. Even the concealed ones might be dummies, double bluffs, no escape. Watching me? He marks her and bides his time; there’s no need to rush. Does anybody really see such people? Maybe not, but the camera catches everything.
The Photographer pictures a grand controller, seated in front of a giant switchboard, wired into a chamber studded with monitors in obscene symbiosis: a monstrous eye. Images flash on the screens, zoom shots, wide pans – from the grainy black and white of CCTV to the lurid polychrome of cheap porn.
Suddenly everything vanishes, every screen switches to a single shot, a magnified view of the very street, the very doorway where he is hiding, camera lens glinting in the streetlight, sight and senses straining. But what would
they see? Nothing. For how can they see what they’re not looking for? Blind. Blind leading the blind. Eyes closed to the patterns in the noise, fragments of the lost language. He’s been watching this one for some time now, saving her up like a banquet, waiting for the moment of significance, the confluence of signs.
Even in the dark he can form a perfect mental picture of every contour of her person – from the filthy and crusted layers of petticoats, and blouses, and skirts, and coats, and cardigans, to the bloated feet wrapped in layers of plastic; conjunctival eyes squinting from the lined and bloodshot face. He is impervious to the decay, for this face still
holds a promise of beauty for him, hints given in the high cheekbones, weathered cheeks, sockets spaced wide and eyes of an extraordinary colour.
He’s observed her in all weathers: panhandling for change or drinking Tennent’s Super on a bench by the library with
the other regulars; shouting and spitting at the pigeons, at the government, at the rain, and at the great confusing conspiracy of it all; sleeping it off on the pavement, as oblivious to the passers-by as they are to her.
How many times has he asked himself: does anybody see such people? Really see them or just register their presence
as they pass in the morning as an annoyance or obstacle or object of sudden pity, quickly forgotten? How many hundreds of pairs of eyes glance at this woman on a daily basis without ever seeing her at all? And if challenged to describe even
one small aspect of her appearance, what would they recall? Naturally this last is an important consideration.
It’s different for him, for them; he’s intimate with her, close as no other. Who else could describe, as the Photographer can describe, the colour of her eyes, the moles on her face, the deep lines carved down to the mouth? Who knows the precise number of her teeth, and which are crowns? Who traces the lines on her hands, the varicose veins marbling the back of her calves, measures the tone and tenor of her voice, when she wakes, when she sleeps, where she goes?
Who had last touched her emaciated body – as he would – filled with a kind of awe before the microcosm of humanity; the machinery of natural language latent in her cells, like some complex DNA strand waiting to unfold? She will be more than the sum of her parts, society’s discard, nameless and invisible. She exists for this, fragment of an equation
that embodies that primary relationship between the identity of the individual, and the millions of dim reflections of the original form that people the universe, the fragments of Babel that she carries within her.
And all this contingent on the cameras, the CCTV, his present concealment and his long observation of her habits: Will anybody miss her? Will anyone register her absence, and having registered it, ask questions, instigate a trace, compile footage of her haunts to establish just when and where and how she disappeared? Will they delve into the black economy of the nameless and unrecorded to discover her true identity, that long-forgotten National Insurance number, the place on the Electoral roll surely lapsed?
So much easier to suppose that she has moved on, succumbed quietly to the maw of the streets, been rescued to rot her days away in institutionalised peace....
All potential truths, all possibilities, all made concrete to confuse the pursuer – a paper trail laid for those who might be looking.
“Black and white. Clear-cut. No, there is nothing preventing this: she is nothing. Camera never lies. People do. I must remember as life is art, she is symbolism. Nearly time now: woo her with the camera; always works, black and white: Camera never lies. Fool the eye. Time. Now.”
When he was younger he relished these opportunities. Anticipation and the quick strike, snap, run. But this is only the first step in the process. Each element is deliberate, each a part of the ritual.
Above all there must be no haste in his actions.
As with each of his victims there’s an element of the lover’s nervousness in this first contact. Despite all his observation, even having seen inside them with the eye of his lens, clear
as the cross-section of a cell on a microscope, even then first contact is a shock, recognising in each of them a fragment
of the true language. Whilst others dismiss their drunken ravings, he rejoices in their deafness to the language of Babel, the speakers of tongues – Have they no ears to hear? Here, in
this dark and filthy street, shuttered for the night and watched by the blind lens of a score of CCTV cameras, here, would he hear the voice of God? Her cries could be the only remedy for the lost symmetry of his soul.
Not all of his subjects have been women: although there
have certainly been a few. Outwardly they differ from each other, but linked by a common theme; the shibboleth latent in their musculature, in the juxtaposition of cheekbone and eye socket, the grammar of the sacred language encoded in each like a cipher. Each of these individuals could be prepared and reduced to their essence, the barest equation. Each would become an elegant notation in the vast and complex calculation, the answer to which is the original word, the knowledge the first humans stole from the Garden of Eden, which was lost in the destruction of the Tower of Babel.
It was time now, painfully, to reconstruct that language
to unpick the myths and conspiracy theories of society’s remnants, living on the borders of its conscience, and rework them into his own private mythology.
Time. Strike. Thrill of fear or is it anticipation? He feels himself becoming hard, the street silent enough to hear her gently snoring in the stairwell, his measured tread as he approaches.
Softly he speaks her name, all reassurance – Betty come now dear, come with me, calming her with his mild voice and gentle hands, talking to her all the time as he gathers her up from her den. Somehow it’s easier than expected to convince her that he poses no threat. She comes quietly, holding his hand in hers, grasping his fingers like a child, despite the illusion of bulk created by her many layers. She is so light and frail she seems barely anchored to the ground.
Her hand: cracked and slightly crusted – is it exposure, or some skin complaint worsened by dirt and lack of washing? The contact is uncomfortable but necessary to reassure her; the last thing he needs is a scene in front of the cameras. He glances at her profile in the darkness, walking head-down, one foot in front of the other, and the next gets you where you’re going; how many years of the same round? Deliverer.
The rented car is around the corner, but it feels like miles, like they’re crawling, open targets on the battlefield. Finally they reach it. He opens the passenger door.
“It’s all right Betty, I’m going to help you, can’t have you sleeping on the cold street at night. Got a nice warm bed and a few ciders for you at home, come along now, in you get.”
Slow, slow talking in a gentle monotone, reassuring smile, no sudden movements; in his pocket, the solution – just in case.
Once she’s in he closes the passenger door gently and walks slowly around to the other side of the car, settling his large frame into the seat. Turns the ignition and starts the car; turns to look at Betty, already dozing, head on her chest in the comfortable seat. Good. They can drive for a while.
After half an hour or so, sure that she is deep in slumber, he slowly brings the car to a halt in a residential street beneath a large tree. What infinite patience it requires to wait for a couple more minutes. The street is quiet and dark, and she has not stirred at all. Time. Now.

Chapter 4: Betty

Chapter 11 of the spoken word version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando
http://www.caposcripti.com

11. Fever

April 09–
Today I saw a striking bird & had a strange sensation of deja vue. Although it seemed new & strange, being of a genus I have not encountered before, & at same time it was strangely familiar, as though I had already seen it somewhere. & thus I am combing my Journal for a reference to it, & yes – just days ago I had sketched it & have already forgotten both that & what else?

My senses are much disordered; & I am much plagued by stomach cramps, vomiting, diarrhoea, sweats, & all the other consequences of my experiments in the edible. Each episode a painful lesson in the vocabulary of sustenance, a language I must learn soon if I am not to perish from want of food. Twould be an irony to starve in the midst of such natural plenty.

April 11–
A nasty shock today – I think my reactions slowing. Nearly stepped on a fer-de-lance – a snake of a highly poisonous variety (although I hear that the Indians make an antidote of the plant of the same name, which mashed and applied as a poultice, produces a speedy cure) This threw me off balance, the hand I threw out to catch myself landing almost dead square in a column of biting ants.

My diet is still very poor, though I have found breadfruits to eat. The mosquitoes are very plaguesome. I must keep myself covered from head-to-toe to avoid their bites. That & the bloodsucking of leaches & ticks have left me prey to recurrent fevers, which take me out of myself for days, wavering between unconsciousness & vivid hallucinations, so that I no longer know where, or who, I am. Either of those small mistakes could be fatal to me out here, & who knows if anyone will ever discover my rotted bones, the rusted remains of
a beltbuckle, the gold of my pocket watch perhaps all that remains after all else has decayed?

April 14–
I could not swear that is the correct date I see visions, and hear unexplained sounds. Flashes of coppery faces, strangely ornamented and tattooed, alternated with a speech seemingly composed of clicks and vowels, singing and whistling, the smell of smoke and headgear made of feathers. I feel another fever coming on.

Hard to tell what is dream and what reality; hallucinating caused by fever or hunger? Someone (or something?) is watching me. I feel eyes always upon my back. I hope to God they are friendly eyes, as I have become weak as a kitten.

http://www.caposcripti.com

Chapter 11: Fever

An excerpt from the spoken word version of Caposcripti. Print and digital copies of this novel are available from http://www.caposcripti.com


19. Gerard

It was a greyly humid day – smog low on the pavements and the West End traffic snarling its contorted loops through Soho. The streets teemed with young and beautiful affluence, coy glances darting round the pavement cafés.
The Photographer noted careless caresses, faces and bodies strewn about with metal, fashionable clothes and coked-out eyes. He observed men in business suits, expensive cars, exclusive restaurants. He watched with interest the derelicts, the homeless and the uncared-for populating doorways and lingering on street corners.

“Got any spare change mate?”

The dull voice instantly commanded his attention. From the pavement, frayed cuffs wrapped around grimy knees, a hopeful face looked up at him. His eyes are pleading but also aloof: he’s probably asked that question a hundred times today, and his faith in human nature survived a bare week of the West End treatment.

The Photographer decides to become involved – up until this point he could have walked away, and risked nothing. But he feels a need for human contact, for games; for gambling. It has become too easy, too safe, the temptation to break some of the rules he has made for himself too strong. Or maybe it’s just that he no longer needs them. He feels attuned to them all, the lost people that he saves, the heads he steals from corpses in the morgue, from the scenes of accidents when he can get away with it. There is a poetry to events that he thinks he has the measure of – the grand controller, the
prestidigitator of reality, shaping lives like a clever illusion for motivations both obscure and subtle.

Rules are made to be broken.

“I’m sorry, I never carry change – but I’ll buy you a coffee if you want – how about it?”

“Milky, three sugars please – nice one mate”

“Oh it’s all right – come and drink it with me – there’s a very good place just around the corner.”

“I’d rather stay here if you don’t mind... I... I’m waiting for a friend; he’ll lose it if I’m not here when he gets back.”

“How long is he likely to be? Surely you’ve time for a coffee? I’m a Photographer – I’m doing research for a book on street life. I’d like to talk with you.”

“Where’s your camera then?”

The Photographer reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a pen and a small notebook.

“Let’s just say I’m taking verbal snapshots at the moment – now, how about that coffee?”

The young man is still suspicious, his manner aggressive. “Do you take pictures for magazines and stuff then? Any I might have heard of ?”

Deciding at this point not to reveal that magazines in fact ran features on his work (anonymity being crucial to his plan), the Photographer just smiled, nodded, and replied, “You might say that... I’m freelance – what’s your name anyway?”

“Gerard”

“OK Gerard – so – are you going to help me out with my research? Talking to people, first hand, best material... only it’s hard to write standing up in the street!”

Gerard considered this for a moment, whilst several things warred in his mind. Abandoning such a lucrative pitch was risky – but the guy might pay him; a hot coffee in a dry cafe was an enticing prospect... the guy was a bit creepy... could even be plainclothes, or on the cruise... Soho a natural stamping ground for nonces.... Still – couldn’t do any harm if he kept his wits about him and his eye open for any possibilities.

“All right then.” Gerard stood up, shook out his blanket and rolling it up, shoved it in his bag, pocketing the few coins that he kept there to give passers-by the right idea. He shrugged his shoulders, smoothed down his pants and said, “Where’s this café then?”

“Oh, not very far.” replied the Photographer “it’s this way”

The Photographer led the way, walking rapidly and with purpose, his arms swinging, and his black coat billowing around him. Gerard shuffled his feet and followed him with a loose stride, shoulders slightly hunched and hands in pockets. The Photographer turned his head to ensure that Gerard was in fact following him and slowed down a little, continuing his questioning as they walked.

“Where are you from Gerard? You’re not from London?”

“No – I’m from Bristol, originally. I’ve been down here a few months. My mate said he’d get me a sound engineer gig – I’ve had some training. You know, tape op and that. But he blew his contact with the studio. Some of the kit went missing
– so that’s out. Still I thought I’d stick around. See what’s happening.”

“You don’t like Bristol then?”

“No man, I’ve done that you know? There’s too much hardcore drugs down there, too many angry people. Anyway – the West Country isn’t going anywhere. There’s opportunities down here for someone like me – someone with a bit of smarts, knows the score – mind?”

“But what about your family, your friends – you must miss them?”

Gerard pulled up and looked at him so sharply that for a moment the Photographer thought he had blown it – that Gerard had seen through his gently probing questions, designed to elicit the maximum amount of information whilst giving away nothing about himself. He felt his stomach churn and a tight feeling in his chest, where a fist seemed to clutch and roil. But, unwittingly, he had hit upon a nerve. The fact that Gerard had not even asked the Photographer’s name suggested that he was too self-absorbed to notice the slightly clinical manner in which the Photographer was stripping him of information about his home, his background. That was fine with the Photographer. He wasn’t intending on giving much away anyway.

“I don’t have any family man. Me mam died when I were small – I grew up in a home. I never knew who me da was – not sure me mam did either. I got by. Are we nearly there yet? You said it wern far. I have to get back soon. I’ve got shit to sort out, mind.”

Gerard’s jerky voice gave away a tinge of nervousness, and suggested just the hint of a habit. Nothing too serious, but some dependency was conveyed by the way that he spoke.

“No – it isn’t – in fact here we are. Don’t worry – you’ll be recompensed for your time.” The Photographer kept his voice steady and smooth, giving no hint of the turbulent anticipation beneath. The important thing now was to gain the young man’s trust.

They had arrived at a typical Soho café – the tables in the front facing the street for maximum posing value, those at the back tucked away, to allow intimate little téte a téte’s, secretive assignations. The Photographer had been concerned that the staff might not allow Gerard – whose hands and
face were grimy, whose shoes were crusted with dirt, and who smelled none too clean – inside, but either they didn’t notice or didn’t care. At any rate no one tried to stop them. The Photographer chose a table at the back that couldn’t be seen from the street, and which was slightly cut off from the rest of the café. He seated himself with his back to the other customers, whilst Gerard took a seat against the wall, facing outwards. He told Gerard to order anything he liked. Maybe he was hungry?

Almost immediately an insouciant waiter came to take their order: an espresso for the Photographer; a hot chocolate, a large Coke, several sandwiches and a cake for Gerard, who was bent on taking full advantage of this free lunch ticket. As the waiter walked away with the order, Gerard asked sharply: “Got any fags?” The Photographer didn’t smoke – had not anticipated this eventuality. Spotting a cigarette-vending machine at the far side of the café, he dug some pound coins out of his pocket and handed them to Gerard, telling him to buy himself some cigarettes. Gerard manoeuvred himself out from around the table – nearly colliding with the waiter who had returned with their order. As he fumbled the coins into the machine and squinted at the various brands on offer, the Photographer watched him and thought about the ritual to come – not a ritual in this case, but a departure – for Gerard
was different from the others, more aware, sharper. A change from the drifting human wrecks for whom, the Photographer believed, death was a release, and the means to free the potential in their souls. Gerard had something in common with them – living as he did on the borders of society; and as such might not be missed for a while if he were to disappear, nor looked for too long. His youth made the Photographer a little uneasy, but he seemed to suspect nothing.

As Gerard came back to the table, the Photographer carefully rearranged his features so nothing of his thoughts would show. Gerard sat down and laid into his sandwiches with the gusto of someone who hasn’t eaten properly for several weeks, washing it all down with huge slugs of Coke alternating with hot chocolate. The Photographer let him eat in peace for a few minutes and then carefully, casually asked him:

“Gerard, you’ve got good bones, you could be quite photogenic. I’d like to take some pictures of you, for the series that I mentioned, on street people. I’d like you to come over to my studio. Naturally I’ll pay you for your time – what do you think?”

Gerard looked at him for a moment, considering, hand grasping the chocolate glass, his jaws still working on the sandwich. Their eyes met. The Photographer saw nothing but an interminable boredom there.

“Sure man, just say the word.”


An excerpt from the spoken word version of Caposcripti. Print and digital copies of this novel are available from http://www.caposcripti.com

Chapter 19: Gerard

An excerpt from the free audio version of Caposcripti: http://www.caposcripti.com

29. Watching the Photographer: 3

She is watching him, concealed as always, and alert for any sign that would indicate he is aware of her surveillance. It has become a habit, this constant anticipation of another’s movements, or a game that they are playing. Sometimes she thinks that perhaps he has known all along of her interest in him, and is leading her a merry dance, as though to test her dedication, his every act a challenge to her intelligence and determination.

Watching the Photographer has become an escape from herself – she has become nothing more than an eye, a conduit for this clandestine and silent relationship. She has no doubt that the relationship exists, that they share something. Why else would he pretend not to notice her constant presence when it must be obvious to him? His very silence is an affirmation of their connection. Even now in the busy street he carries an air of isolation about him, an inwardness that suggests deep motives.

Nina can’t help comparing him to all these people in the street, unconscious, unreflective as sheep, going about in their herds, always following each other around. Cannon fodder. When she has let them in, tried to share some of what goes through her head, her thoughts and fantasies, they shy away, unable to take her measure. She’s seen it many times – the slightly scared look in their eyes that rapidly becomes resentment. If she met some people more on her level... but that didn’t happen, even at college. She was too far out-there for the cosy art students with their received ideas; all those protests about things that were so
fucking meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Clever but empty executions that gave rise to the kind of circular conversations that made them sound intelligent, serious – then going out and getting coked out of their heads, feeling down and dirty on speed, hanging out in trendy bars, all the right hair cuts, combats and second-hand nighties, clothes worn for their irony factor, so cool they didn’t need to care, thinking that they made a difference, ignorant gobshites. Course most of them could afford it with their Home Counties parents, the overseas students slumming it for a while in ‘gritty’ London. Thinking about it gave her a bitter taste in her mouth.

Wait – now where has he gone? Squinting (she ought to wear glasses) she spots him. He’s wandering off. She hurries, on the other side of the street, keeping up whilst pretending to check out the window displays, concealing herself behind the milling pedestrians.

Still thinking about her life, worrying at it like a sore tooth. She’d like to think she comes across as enigmatic and interesting. If she’s honest with herself she probably just appears morose or patronising. At least, where she is now, the lowest level, the lowest ebb, surrounded by the dregs of society, there isn’t much to challenge her. It’s easy to be anonymous and keep her interests to herself. To float – and occasionally to provoke – safe in the knowledge that her victims won’t remember her or will be in too much of a drug haze to be freaked by her questioning. Because there must be more. There must be more. There fucking has to be – doesn’t there? There’s a lot more to the Photographer than meets the casual glance, the average observer. She’s worked this out from watching him closely, even now beginning to gain some idea of what that is... something... repulsive – but interesting? Whatever it was it would force her into a choice. Complicity or rejection.

He’s crossing the road now – coming in her direction. With a flutter of adrenaline in the pit of her stomach she ducks into a bookshop. Was she ill? Could she stop? She told herself she could quit at any time - this strange habit, which had begun as casual observation in the library. Or was that true any more?
When she was not watching him, she devoted her energies to finding out more about his background. Every and any bit of information, no matter how trivial, was grist to her mill, once she had finally dredged his name from the rat-trap of her memory. The web supplied her with the name of his agent and finally his address.
His movements tended to the predictable. She had already remarked his clockwork visits to the library – now she discovered that the same almost fanatical punctuality extended to other areas in his life. Service washes every week at exactly the same time, for example. But no deliveries to his flat. He seemed to discourage people from going there – “a very private person” said his agent. Yet he sometimes brought people back, furtively. She didn’t see them come
out – but then it was often late at night, and she didn’t hang around that long once it looked like he had retired for the evening – not much to watch except heavily draped windows with hardly a chink of light showing. Draped in the daytime too – which was odd, but not (given the kind of people she lived with) that unusual. Probably didn’t want his neighbours knowing about his... lovers? She wasn’t sure. It didn’t quite add up.
His agent had said there were no new exhibitions in the pipeline, when she’d phoned up posing as a journalist from one of the Sunday papers – and no chance of an interview. He didn’t give them – and “what paper did you say you were calling from?”

No luck there – yet he was certainly researching... something.
This afternoon he had visited the British Museum. She had followed him from gallery to gallery, almost losing him in the maze of artefacts, as he had lingered particularly fondly over the South American collection and gone straight from there to the Egyptians, giving only the most cursory glance to what lay in between.
Dodging him in and out of the sarcophagi felt like some strange courting ritual, glimpses of him bisected by the open caskets, their occupants laid out like some anatomical display, thousand-year sleep disturbed by the rude eyes of tourists and schoolchildren. Perhaps this was the revenge of those uncounted slaves who had died constructing
the monuments that would keep the Pharaoh’s remains inviolate, hidden from mortal sight. Was it a fascination with death that sent him to study the mummified remains of these ancient Egyptians, to scrutinise the Alexandrine stones? As if satisfied that he had found what he was looking for he turned on his heel and had begun to make his way out of the museum.
He was gone now – hurrying, she caught a glimpse of his coat, heading down the back streets towards St Martin-in- the-Fields. She saw him vanishing into the Crypt, waited a few minutes: five, ten...
It had been surprisingly easy to find out where he lived. She had (briefly) worked at a photo developer’s, for the money and the free materials, and therefore knew that he must be registered with the Photographer’s Guild, and that they would need an address for the registration. She had looked him up on the register, and there he was. The ease with which she’d done it, the practised and methodical way in which she’d uncovered this and other details of his existence was slightly intimidating. It was as if she were discovering another personality – a woman who could patiently watch, and follow, and uncover and worry away at the truth until she has discovered everything there is to know about her quarry, wrung them dry. But where would it end? Everything must have a beginning, middle and an end – that’s what you’re always taught. But what happens at the end?

He must have found a seat by now. A large dark espresso and his ubiquitous notebook on the table before him. She could run the risk, now, of finding some nearby alcove where she could watch him unobserved. She walked down the steps, opened the door and stepped into a whitewashed underground café, a big self-service counter, cash desks, tables tucked away in alcoves and in between arches.

All around black and white photos, playbills and posters advertising classical concerts. A quick coffee before the opera darling?

She saw him and turned away, the movement instinctive now, his position plotted. She queued, ordered, paid, grabbed a plastic tray and found a table where she could pretend to bury her head in a magazine, watch him from an angle,
half glimpsing his notebooks over his left shoulder. She had noticed that he often sat with his back to a room – automatically denying the possibility of human contact.

Nina knew that there would come a point when they would no longer be strangers, and the following, the watching – the stalking if she was honest – would have its natural conclusion. They would have to meet, if only to confirm the complicity that already existed between them. Is complicity always unspoken? She knew that inevitably she would create some pretext, in due time things would be so arranged – by
she or the other self that was beginning to seem almost autonomous, so as to bring them face to face. How then would he represent her, a Dali with his Gala, a side of meat and a telephone?


Chapter 29: Watching the Photographer - 3

30. Headshrinking: 2
The Photographer’s kitchen was one of the smallest rooms in the apartment, more reminiscent of a laboratory or a surgery than a place for the preparation of food. It was inhumanly clean and glittering, with surfaces and cupboards sheathed in antiseptic stainless steel. Along one wall he had installed
a giant Aga some years before, modified according to his own specifications. Along the other was an unusually long drainer with deep round sinks set flush in the metal.

Hidden away behind the immaculate surface, in a myriad of drawers and cupboards, was the accumulation of several years of research, minutely organised and tucked away, catalogued and sorted, so that if you opened one of the cupboards you would find racks of glass tubes and jars filled with mysterious substances, rather than the expected ketchup, tinned soup and tea. This drawer contained
rare substances procured from his South American and Caribbean agents, this a selection of knives and scalpels, forceps and catgut; that one notes; and in yet another hanks of hair, desiccated skin layered like tissue paper with sheaves of intricately drawn designs for tattoos.

The refrigerator would not, at first glance, give you any clues as to the purpose to which he sometimes put it – its usual contents a bottle of wine, a pint of milk, a few camera films, and the inevitable gentleman’s relish, relic of some ancient hamper. The sole clue, perhaps, is the lack of a central shelf, leaving enough room to store a polythene-wrapped head in each of its stages of preparation.

The Photographer was half-way through the process that
would reduce the head to the size of an orange, and provide him with another fine piece to add to his collection. Naked of hair and minutely inscribed with characters, it rested on the stainless steel worktop in readiness for the next stage. On the Aga was a large pot that had been filled with water, and simmered for hours with roots and dried plants until it had reduced to a watery paste.

The latest subject had proved problematic, and provided little for the Photographer to work from. He had starved himself rather than eat the food prepared by the Photographer – food that had been mixed with drugs designed to intensify the effect of the dark padded chamber, of 24-hour-a-day silence and isolation, of timeless incarceration.

He had proved resistant to all these methods: the relationship stillborn, holding his secrets inside. Perhaps it had been a mistake to take him – but it was too late to go back now. There had never been any question of his release. For 28 days they had carried on an invisible battle, and finally the Photographer had won, had heard on his tapes the pleas for release gradually giving way to an endless mumbling, a litany of life whose vocabulary had become diffused until nothing but a long susurration had issued from the spinning reels. When he had opened the room he had found only Gerard’s emaciated corpse, his feather-light form, the smell of fear and faeces. In some essential way he had escaped, had stolen away, and left the Photographer no closer to the solution.

Still, they all went in the end – and perhaps even Gerard who had clung so hard to the lie had something to add to the pattern. The Photographer smiled with grim satisfaction at the thought that if nothing else he would contribute his energy to the apartment, flesh to kilowatts, body becoming a shape in ashes in the hot coals of the Aga. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes – dirt we are and to dirt will we return. The body is nothing – the mind is the temple of the self. His head will hold all that there is of him, all there already, his life
his knowledge – just waiting for the needles to bring it out. Done now.

He’s fed enough now to the hungry Aga to keep the temperature constant for a few hours under the giant cauldron that had once been used for boiling puddings. A visit to one of the catering shops in the Edgware road, armed with a set of precise instructions, had furnished his cooker with the necessary modifications, the Aga equipped with a large deep hotplate which he uses to heat black sand whilst the head is simmering on the other ring. Flesh falling from the bone. Tender as a well-broiled ham.

The Photographer lays Sabbatier knives, medical scalpels and long pins ready on the sideboard. Rolls of absorbent cotton and lint are lined precisely in front of him, behind a tripod that has been modified so that he can use it to support a head. All is ready now. Right tools for the job. Ritual observed but modernised. And why not? Is this not after all the twenty-first century? He had a feeling the old man would have approved – well, possibly.

Deftly he lifts the head out of the pot with a set of long shining tongs, and stands it on the tripod. His critical eye notes that it has survived the first stage of the process remarkably well.

Surgeon’s gloves and surgeon’s grace – the neat incision from crown to nape, the scalp rolls back easy as the skin on a Sunday joint. He lays it out on the pile of sand, which moulds to the shape of the face and supports it whilst he deftly trims the fat, razors the attachments to the bones. Gently now for the bridge of the nose, fingers trace eye
sockets, and the sharp blade follows them almost lovingly, teasing, pinching, rolling, rubbing the recalcitrant flesh. Quickly now before it cools too much. The skull comes away clean and blanched. Stack it on the shelf with the others – he’ll deal with that later.
Trim the neck, remove the flesh inside with a sharp scraper, preferably with rounded edges. Remove the fatty excess, the slight jowls. Smooth and cauterise slightly with a hot stone. He imagines describing this process. What had the old man felt the first time he watched it? The black sand packs in smoothly, hot and dry, moulding to every hollow.

Sutures prepared, butterfly stitches hold the flaps together, quick tacking ready for the neat seam. Lovely bit of needlework there. Practice makes perfect.
Standing back he admires his handiwork – but only for a moment. Turning and smoothing the hot skin, flat stones heated on the back shelf of the Aga. From here on he’s entirely faithful to the ritual – even if the stones are from the beach at Brighton rather than some Amazonian riverbed, they’re suitably smooth and rounded. Soft pads of cotton absorb the sebum leaking from the shrinking pores. Lips sewn shut. Fine needles hold eyes and brows and nose in shape; redundant acupuncture. There’s a symbolism to where they’re placed. He’s done some research on Chakras. Always struck by the parallels between these ancient cultures.

The first batch of sand has already cooled, compacted and cemented slightly with the fatty juices that it has absorbed. Gently he scoops it from the shell, delicate and flexible as a deflated balloon. The head has already become somewhat smaller, but retains its shape. It’s going well so far. He gathers up more hot sand and pours it through the neck hole.

The rhythmic motion of hot stones smoothing the planes of the face, sculpting the death mask, the shibboleth. The tattoos become a black tracery of etching on the dark skin, taking a shine like mahogany, upon which rich beads of grease appear as the head desiccates, and are wiped away.

The Photographer has great faith in processes, carrying
out the most intricate plans, step by step, performing each necessary element with care, and attention – the pleasure of watching as all the elements come together to form the perfect pattern. Ideally he would like to control everything, pinpoint everything in existence with omniscient accuracy, fix it in its place in the divine order. From this perspective every situation becomes a weighing of the odds, a balancing of all parameters – a Euclidean curve of potential and possibility.

In the journals, in the Explorer’s meticulous recording of the Caposcripti’s practices and beliefs, he can sense a kindred spirit. What are the Caposcriptan tattoos if not graphs mapping the individuals’ journey from birth to death; forking lines suggesting avenues of possibility to be explored? Playing with life, and playing with patterns. Language, Logos, the word, creates and destroys. Say something and make it so. The grand author. The architect. What was there for God to fear in the tower of Babel?

And so he measures and marks, describes and makes so, weighs the odds and continues his grim business – each addition to his gallery a strategic pruning of the messy tree of life.

Within the Photographer’s plans there is no room for deviation. Because if the word is fact, is a making, it is also logic; the hard truth of the percentage. And how can it be that the Caposcripti, with their thorns and berry juice, drugged visions and wandering descriptions of the moon, the stars whose children gallop across the sky – can have grasped so complex a pattern?

Chapter 30: Headshrinking - 2

An excerpt from the audio version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando - Print and Digital versions available at http://www.caposcripti.com

41. A Journey for Taypi

Taypi set off before dawn on the first leg of the journey that would take him to Iquitos, and the men in the iron ships that would transport the journals back to England along with their cargoes of sarsaparilla, rubber and guano. No one was awake to see him off except the Speaker, who gave him blessings and charms to ward off evil spirits, and furnished him with the Explorer’s machete. The Speaker’s face was impassive as he reminded Taypi of the instructions of the Explorer, and added some of his own. Taypi was to follow the river (which the Explorer had told him was called the Pongo) downstream until it fed into another huge river, called the Amazon. The Explorer had told Taypi how to construct a raft, and suggested that this would be the fastest and safest way to travel downriver. With the last of his strength he had begun to teach Taypi a few words of Spanish, to add to the English that they had practised together, so that he would be able to communicate with any Mestizo, or settlers, that he met along the way. He was mindful that this might be risky, as many of them had good reason to fear the warlike tribes such as the Jivaros, who regularly carried off and killed settlers on their lands. He told Taypi that he should be sure to make plenty of noise when approaching a settlement, and wave the piece of white fabric that he had given him. War parties always approached silently.
To this the Speaker added admonishments to avoid any other tribes that he might find along the way, and return to the lands of the Caposcripti as soon as he had discharged his promise to the Explorer.
Taypi travelled light: his only luggage was an oilcloth parcel containing the journals and letters of introduction that the Explorer had given him, a string hammock that doubled as a bag, and a pouch containing roots and herbs in whose use the Speaker had instructed him. His step was springy as he travelled through familiar lands, going over his instructions again and again until he could have recited them in his sleep.
It was the first time that Taypi had left his people since the journey that had led him to discover the Explorer. Then Taypi had been a boy, full of the desire to prove himself a man. This time he felt the heavy burden of adulthood and his promise to the Explorer weighing on him, and he was full of misgivings. Nevertheless there was enough of the child still there for him to feel that he was setting out on a great adventure, and he was confident in his ability to deal with anything that the jungle might throw at him. His fears were more concerned with loneliness, which could drive a man to lose his judgement, and about the spirits that might try to entice him from his path, for they were jealous of life.
He rubbed anato and uruku into his skin to repel the mosquitoes and sand flies that swarmed everywhere, and doggedly followed the stream in its long journey to the great water, as the Explorer had instructed him to. He subsisted on guavas and on the many different types of nuts and fungi that he had learn to forage from a young age, and occasionally speared a fish or discovered a cache of turtle’s eggs on the sandy beaches of the river. He was healthy and strong, and fell victim neither to hunger nor illness, but after a while the solitude began to prey on him.
On the edges of his vision he could see the jewelled dances of hummingbirds and butterflies, and began to discern patterns in their flight that spoke to him of the Caposcripti language. He wished that the Speaker was there so that he could ask him the meaning of these things, or the Explorer, who had his own theories to explain their dances, all bound up with the way that species changed over time. He had explained many new ideas to Taypi, and told him of the naturalists who had travelled the great continents of the Americas and written down their observations. Maybe Taypi would meet one of these naturalists on his journey, and he could give him the package that the Explorer had entrusted to him. For although he was fired with the enthusiasm and the curiosity of the young he did not think that he would want to live for long amongst the Explorer’s tribe – even after this short time his people’s absence was like a pain in his spirit.
Although the Explorer’s head had been reduced according to the Caposcripti rituals, Taypi feared that his unquiet spirit would seek him out from the afterworld if he did not carry out the promise that he had made. The Explorer’s lips had been sewn shut with the sacred chords, but Taypi still saw them struggling to shape those final words in his dreams. No, no matter how long the journey, or dangerous the way, he could not fail in the task that had been set him, or he would be like the Wandering Jew that the Explorer had told him of when he was well, doomed to walk the world forever.
After a time the river became too deep and swift to wade in, and Taypi decided that it was time to make a raft. The Explorer’s machete made this task much easier, as it was far sharper than the palm knives of his people. Although he had never constructed a raft before (the Caposcripti rarely used them) he had been told how it was done, and knew which creepers were good for binding, and how to weave palm fibres to make a rope. He bound the trunks of balsa trees together and cut himself a long pole to steer the craft. This whole operation took two days, and at the end of it Taypi was exhausted. He crawled into the fork of a tree, made himself a bed of moss and leaves, and fell into a dreamless sleep, punctuated by the din of cicadas and tree frogs.
The next day he gathered bunches of aguavas, nuts and other fruits and made neat bundles out of the wide flat leaves of the plantain tree. He lashed these to the raft along with the journals and letters, which the Explorer had wrapped in oilcloth, and stood back critically to view his handiwork. The raft was ready. It was just big enough for him to stand or lie on, and floated low in the water with the ballast of supplies he had loaded on it. He made an offering of papayas to the river spirits and poled himself away from the bank.
As it turned out, making the raft had been much easier than controlling it. Constant vigilance was necessary to avoid sandbanks and whirlpools, and the logs and other detritus that swirled in the brown water so that you could hardly see it until you were right on top of it.
The raft took many knocks, so that Taypi was sometimes forced to lay himself flat and grasp the bindings whilst it bucked and shuddered. He was constantly soaked by the water splashing over the side, and by the sudden rainstorms that came down so hard that the surface of the river turned into a boiling cloud of mist and made breathing difficult. Earth temporarily became a place of water, filling his eyes and lungs so that he was chilled to the bone and thought he would grow gills like a fish. After these showers the river became swollen and angry, and his raft was rushed pell-mell with the current, but he made steady progress downriver. The showers rarely lasted for long, and provided him with fresh water to drink, which he collected in cannonball gourds. The sun soon returned with fiery heat and dried both himself and the surface of the raft as if the rain, and the thunder and lightning had never been.
Just as he had begun to feel confident in his control of the raft Taypi nearly came to grief. The river had widened, with red mud cliffs along one side where the land had fallen away in the floods. The current here was very rapid, and Taypi kept the raft as close to the bank as he dared, to avoid being swept away. But as he turned a bend the raft was suddenly and swiftly taken by the current and flung into the centre of the river. Taypi nearly lost his balance, but clung to the fibres that held the raft together and managed to stay on. The pole fell into the water and was swept out of sight.
Taypi was carried along pell-mell until the raft hit a large obstruction. A temporary island had been created twenty feet or so from the bank by an earlier landslide, where a large chunk of riverbank, including a tree that had happened to be growing there, had detached itself during the rains. The island had grown in size as brush collected on the upstream shore, and formed a dense floating mat. It was this that had snagged the raft.
Taypi shifted his position slightly, but the raft held solid. He rocked back and forth as much as he dared, but there was no movement. It seemed to be fairly firmly wedged, and he cursed the moment of inattention that had led to the loss of the pole. Not only was he now stuck on this island, unable to push the raft away, but he wouldn’t be able to navigate towards the bank with any safety. He sat up and considered his options. He could try and swim to the nearest bank. It was mid-morning, and not a particularly dangerous time for swimming (the piranhas and other carnivorous fish tended to swarm at dawn and dusk) but the river here was strange to him, and the unpredictable currents made it risky. He would have to try and cut a new pole from the brush and flotsam that had built up to form the island.
Taypi unrolled a coil of palm rope from around his waist and lashed the raft to a sturdy trunk as best he could. Then with infinite care, and keeping his centre of balance as low as possible, he crept off the raft and onto the floating mass of junk that the river had deposited there. In amongst the tree branches, vines and other vegetable matter were the skeletons of animals that had been swept along the river and drowned. Small plants had taken root and begun to carpet the temporary island so that footing was treacherous, and Taypi had to take great care not to cut his bare feet, toughened though they were by a lifetime without shoes.
All of a sudden he heard a shrill song of alarm, coming from somewhere by his feet. When he looked down he saw a tiny monkey, no larger than his hand, curled in a crevice between two branches. It looked shrunken, as though it were dead, and certainly not capable of making the shrill noise that appeared to be coming from it. As Taypi looked closer he realized that an even tinier monkey clung to its neck, frantically trying to rouse its dead mother. Taypi reached down and felt the warm body. The creature was shrieking in terror, and he felt its heartbeat thudding against his fingers. He’d seen these monkeys in the jungle – his people called them the ‘little lion sagui’ – but they were so small and so shy that he’d only ever caught the most fleeting glimpse of one before. Taypi drew his hand back slowly. He didn’t want to frighten the little creature to death.
“You and I are both trapped here, Sagui. Perhaps if I find a pole for the raft I’ll take you with me, eh? You certainly won’t survive here on your own. There’s not much for a little monkey like you to eat. And not much for me either.”
Taypi stood up and continued looking through the brush, Eventually he found a branch that would do and dragged it back to the raft, where he set to work cutting it down to size. The sun was blazing overhead by now, and he was hot and thirsty. He cut open a stick of raw cane and took a long slug of the sweet and refreshing juice inside. Then he remembered the tiny monkey. He scrambled back over the brush to where he had left it, guided by the shrill song that started up again as the monkey heard him approaching. Taypi reached down and carefully plucked the little creature from its dead mother’s neck. He cupped it between his hands and made his way back to the raft, feeling it gradually calming in the warm dark space, although it still trembled uncontrollably.
When he had got back to the raft again he tried to put the sagui down, but it squealed and clung to his fingers so that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Then he had an idea. He lifted the little monkey up to the long queue of hair that grew at his crown. It seemed to get the idea immediately and transferred its grip from his fingers to the hair, hanging on quite happily and settling itself in with a birdlike chirrup. It was so light that Taypi had to put his hand up to check it was still there, and it seemed to fall asleep immediately.
Taypi stood up and, grasping the makeshift pole, positioned it against the brush and pushed with all his might. The raft moved fractionally and then settled back in, but he was heartened. He pushed again, throwing the full weight of his body behind the pole. The raft bucked but stayed solid. He realised that the rope still bound it to the brush and felt very foolish. He quickly untied the knots he’d made, coiled the rope up again, tied it down and shoved the raft off into the current. He steered around the island using the pole, and did his best to direct the raft towards the bank. After a while he found himself in a slower current and was able to relax a bit. He steered the raft along the bank until he found a tree growing low over the water that he could moor the raft to, and set about making himself a meal of fruit and fish that he tickled out of the water. The little monkey woke up and scampered down his arm at the smell of the fruit. Taypi gave him some and smiled at how enormous the morsel of papaya looked in its tiny paws.
Now that he had a travelling companion Taypi felt less lonely. He found himself talking to the little creature more and more, and spilling out his concerns about the enormous task he’d been given. The Explorer had told him that it would take less time for him to find the settlement on the river
than it had taken the Explorer to travel to the lands of the Caposcripti, as the river coming down from the mountains would take him there. All Taypi had to do was follow the river downstream for twenty days, and he would find Iquitos: a settlement of some three hundred and fifty people, along with a bustling port where ocean-going steamships called to pick up sarsaparilla, tobacco and salt fish, before returning down the Amazon to Brazil, and the sea – an unimaginable distance away, at the other side of the continent.
At night he saw the red eyes of caiman glinting on the banks in the light of the moon and the stars, and heard the splashes as they slid into the water around him. The surface of the water was like glass, broken only by the rings made by fish as they leapt for flies. One dusk a dozen small silver fish leapt onto the raft, and he moored so that he could cook them over hot stones. He shared them with the little monkey, along with giant grubs that he dug out of the rotten boles of fallen palm trees.
In some places trees formed a canopy over the water, where quiet anacondas waited to snag unwary prey. His pole did double duty, both for steering and for repelling the attacks of the giant reptiles, and after a while he learnt to sleep
in snatches, with one eye always watching for danger. In this semi-awake state he felt as though he were travelling through a dream world, where anything were possible. It seemed as though he were living constantly in the spirit world, which he had previously visited only briefly with the aid of the Speaker’s drugs and concoctions. He began to experiment with the possibilities of this, discovering that he could communicate with the Speaker, who was able to send his spirit out in the form of a toucan. He listened for the cough of the jaguar at sunset, and for the sound of the great tree trunks, which his people beat with sticks to send, coded messages to each other.
But just as he was beginning to get the hang of distant communication, his raft moved out of range of the sound – and knew that he had left the tribal lands for good, and that henceforth the jungle would get stranger and stranger to him. It was soon after this that he began to see the first signs of settlements along the riverbank. Temporary jetties had been built at the water’s edge for women to wash clothes, and dugout canoes were moored to sticks that had been sunk into the riverbed. Taypi was wary of these settlements, and kept the raft as far as possible to the other side of the river. The river was very wide now, so he felt himself fairly unobserved as he was swept past the settlements on his raft. Small children playing around the canoes moored to the banks looked up as he passed, but he was gone almost as soon as they spotted him.
In this way Taypi travelled on for several more days and nights, mooring each evening as the sun fell, to find a place to sleep, with the tiny monkey clinging to his hair.


Chapter 41: A Journey for Taypi

44. Finding the Journals

Although Nina was dying to know what was in the locker in Paddington she decided to head back to the squat in Elephant first to change her clothes. The bloodstains didn’t show up much on the black outfit she was wearing, but the skirt was still damp from where she’d tried to rinse it out. She’d taken a scarf from the Photographer’s wardrobe and tied it around her head to hide the shaven scalp and slowly healing tattoos, but it was at best a temporary solution. And she couldn’t afford to look too unusual – she didn’t want anyone remembering her.

Back in the relative safety of her room, with the door firmly locked against any unwanted intrusion Nina unwrapped the head scarf and took a good long look at herself for the first time since that fateful moment – Was it really only thirty
six hours ago? – when she had decided to board the Oxford train at Paddington. The face that looked back at her seemed unfamiliar, altered. She followed the lines of mysterious characters that seemed to mark out different areas of her scalp. That the Photographer had only had time to sketch the vaguest outlines was clear from the heads that Nina had found in his apartment. Some had been almost totally covered with the mysterious tattoos.

Nina ran a hand over the soft and slightly prickly fuzz that covered her scalp. The hair would probably grow back in a few weeks. Until then she’d have to resign herself to wearing hats all the time. Luckily hats were one thing she had plenty of. They’d come in very useful for spying on people at the library. The tattoos also seemed to be healing fine, although the skin around them was still very tender. Nina had never had a tattoo before, but had an idea that you were supposed to put Vaseline on them to keep them supple. She found a pot of it amongst a mess of make-up and empty glasses at the foot of the mirror, and started rubbing it on her scalp. Then she hunted around until she found a velvet cap and a change of clothes, and quickly stripped off the ones she was wearing, throwing the wallet, key, wad of notes and the Photographer’s watch onto the old mattress that served her as a bed. Bruises marked her pale skin in a few places, but apart from that she felt in surprisingly good shape.

Nina dressed again quickly, and sat cross-legged on the bed to count the money. It was definitely more cash than she’d ever handled before: one hundred crisp fifties. Five thousand pounds. The wallet yielded a couple of platinum credit cards, and another two hundred quid in cash. A few business cards and his British Library reader’s card completed the haul. Nina kept a twenty, slipped the watch on over her wrist, and put the rest carefully underneath the mattress. She took one last look at her reflection in the mirror, squaring her shoulders and adjusting the angle of her hat slightly. Then she left the room, locking the door securely behind her.

Nina took the Bakerloo line to Paddington. On the tube she studied the faces of the other passengers and wondered what their stories were. It was mid afternoon, according to the Photographer’s watch, and the carriage was almost empty. The few passengers stared vacantly into space, avoiding one another’s eyes, or buried themselves in newspapers. No one seemed to take much notice of her, but then why should they? Baker Street came and went, and the train began to fill up. A woman next to Nina unwrapped a sandwich and Nina realised that it was at least thirty-six hours since she’d last eaten. Well, that could wait.

The train burst out of the tunnel and Paddington arrived. Taking the escalator up to the station concourse, Nina followed the signs to the left luggage at Platform 12. It was tucked around a corner and there seemed to be no one about, but she knew that CCTV would be filming her every move. Still, she was pretty sure that only two people knew the significance of the brown paper parcel, and one of those was dead. She took the key out of her pocket and looked for 5606. There it was, near the end, and the key turned smoothly in the lock. Nina peered into the deep narrow space that was revealed as the door opened. Right at the back was a package wrapped in brown paper. It looked just about the right size to contain a couple of notebooks. Nina felt a sense of elation as she reached inside and slipped it into her jacket. She hurried back down into the tube, and retraced her steps to the Elephant and Castle.

Chapter 44: Finding the Journals

An excerpt from the audio version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando - Print and Digital versions available at http://www.caposcripti.com


45. At the Mission, Padre De Vero

Sam snored loudly. Taypi had one of the Caposcripti’s string hammocks, woven with fibres from the heart of a palm, but didn’t string it up yet. He sat and watched the fire’s dying embers, and thought about the journey he had just completed, the strange man he had met, and Iquitos, which he would experience tomorrow. He did some meditation and tried spirit-calling as the Speaker had taught him. But amidst Sam’s snores, the sounds of tree frogs and birds and cicadas, the rustle of small creatures and the occasional crash of large ones; the distant cough of a jaguar and the muffled screech of a monkey, the Caposcripti voices were silent. There would be no more guidance from that quarter. Only when the fire was quite dark did Taypi string his hammock: working by feel and the glint of starlight. Then he tumbled into it and felt himself gradually drifting towards sleep.

The next morning Taypi woke to the usual chorus. He lay there for a moment and then remembered Sam Clements and their conversation the night before. Realising that he was awake, the little monkey Sagui ran down out of his perch on Taypi’s queue and began loudly demanding its breakfast.
“Bossy little critter, ain’t he?”
Taypi sprung up and looked across to Sam’s hammock. He was sitting up, fully dressed with his boots on. It looked as though he had been up for a while, and had been patiently waiting for Taypi to awake. Taypi absently stroked Sagui’s head whilst he sorted out Sam’s strange dialect.
“Yes – he wants some platano I think. He is big enough to find it himself now, but he likes to stay with me.”
“Well, whenever you’re ready, the day ain’t getting any younger. These official types like to get all their work done in the morning – they can’t take the heat, so they spend the afternoons lounging around. If we’re going to deliver your documents, then we’d better get going, boy.”
Taypi blushed as he realised that the sun was already in the sky; he had slept deeply and long. He quickly rolled up his hammock and fell into step behind Sam, who surprised him by being very much more comfortable in the jungle than
the Explorer had been. He held his machete in a business- like manner and used it efficiently, removing barriers to his passage, instead of slashing wildly like the Explorer. His practised movements told Taypi more than words. This
man had spent years in jungle, and for all his affable exterior and friendly smile, was more than capable of looking after himself. Taypi had learnt about lying from the Explorer. Although his instinct was to believe in Sam Clements, Taypi knew that he was naïve in the ways of these people. It would not do to be too trusting.
Shortly they came upon a hut, which Sam said was on the outskirts of Iquitos. After that they began to encounter more huts, most of which did not seem any more elaborate than those in the settlements Taypi had passed on his journey. Then they caught sight of a much larger building. The Jesuit mission at Iquitos was not elaborate, but had survived a hundred years of aboriginal incursions. Built of wood, and unusual in being shingled with wood and rubber instead of the usual palm thatching, it boasted a tower atop which was a cross.
“This is where we will find the Padre. He doesn’t speak English – only Spanish and a few native dialects – so I’ll do the talking. Got the documents ready?”

Taypi nodded, his eyes wide, and patted the oilskin package that he wore strapped to his side at all times. At the front of the mission he could see a long covered porch, with a couple of rude chairs and benches all along under the eves. He could see that one of the chairs was occupied by a man in black, who gazed out from under the eves, but seemed not to see anything that was around him. Taypi wondered if this was the Padre, and as if reading his thought Sam rumbled from behind him.
“Ah; it looks like the old Padre’s out taking the air. Well, here we go then. I’m not promising he’ll be happy to see me, but at least I’ll be able to give you the introduction you need.”
Sam strode up to the porch, and made an ironic bow to the man seated in the wicker chair.
“Buenos dias Padre? I trust you’re well?”
The Padre blinked and lost his faraway gaze. His eyes narrowed as they took in Sam and widened again as he saw Taypi standing behind him.
“Sam Clements. I see you have returned. Not for long, I hope! Who is this beautiful boy with you, old ruffian?”
“He says his name is Taypi. We met on the way here and got to talking about how he was looking for you. Would you believe it he’s got some documents to deliver to you. Said they belonged to an explorer that his people found stumbling around their territory. He’s dead now. Taypi tells me his last request was that this package be delivered back to Iquitos so it could be forwarded to his family.”
“I remember that explorer. Inglesa? I told him he would not find anything out there. Hmm. Maybe I was wrong. He found you didn’t he?”

Ignatius looked Taypi up and down. Taypi shifted uncomfortably, but apart from the odd word he couldn’t understand what the old man in black was saying. Sam smoothly continued over the momentarily charged silence.
“He doesn’t speak any Spanish. Just English – and I’ve a suspicion you don’t know that lingo?”
“No I don’t.”
Ignatius examined the tattoos that wound around Taypi’s features. He’d never seen such designs before. They seemed abstract, yet more representational than those of the local tribespeople; symbols he almost felt he should recognise, ghosts of Aramaic, ancient Persian.
Taypi was becoming nervous at the scrutiny of the Padre. Although he couldn’t understand what they were talking about, he could tell that the reception was a positive one. He looked questioningly at Sam Clements, but the Padre took the initiative and addressed him directly, trusting Sam Clements to translate for him.
“Taypi, I am sorry for staring, it is most rude of me, but
I confess that I have never seen anyone quite like you.
Of course I will take care of these documents for you. I remember the Explorer coming through here a few months ago; to be honest I am surprised that he lasted that long. I had a feeling I had seen the last of him.”
He paused a moment, to let Sam catch up. “Have you got the documents here?”
He held a hand out, and Taypi handed over the oilcloth parcel that he had carried so carefully. And that was that. He felt a couple of misgivings, but this was after all the person that he had been told to entrust it to, so in fact his task was done, and he could begin the long journey home.
The Padre untied the bindings and found the letter addressed to him that had been placed at the top of the package. The handwriting was so shaky that he had trouble making out the words, and the Spanish was terrible, but he was just able to make out the Explorer’s meaning.

To Padre Ignatius de Vero
Unfortunately if you are reading this then I am no more, and Taypi has carried out my last request, which was to bring these journals here so that they can be returned to my family. Padre, you were right, the jungle has eaten me up; but I hope that some small part of me will make it back to my homeland, if only so that my family should have news of my passing, and something to remember me by. I enclose letters of introduction, and some small gratuity to ease their passage.
I ask also that you look after Taypi, and render him all assistance to return speedily to his people.
I remain your servant and in your debt, Yours Sincerely
W__________ S__________

“Well Taypi, all seems to be in order here. These are indeed the documents of the Explorer, and he has charged me
with ensuring that they are sent on to his people. Soon an American naval officer will be arriving in Iquitos, on his way to Rio, and he will be able to take them on to Brazil for us, and ensure that they receive safe passage to England.”


“You have made a long and dangerous journey to reach us. It was kind of Sam to bring you here to me.”
Here he raised a rather ironic eyebrow, as they both knew Sam Clements would never do anything for free, and Sam grinned rakishly.
“The Explorer has included some funds which should cover Sam’s help. The mission is not large, but you are welcome to rest here for a couple of days before you start your journey home.”
The Padre had another motive for his apparent kindness. As Taypi was to discover this fascinating and peripatetic man was an amateur daguerreotypist, and had recently received a shipment of the crucial chemicals required to make daguerreotypes. He was itching for a subject to practice on.
Light might be an issue for the dark countries to the north – but Ignatius had created the perfect solution by enlarging the tower above the mission. Now it had become a small room containing a chair, to which he had affixed a head-clamp, and a high shelf, where he could climb up to release the shutter on his carefully crafted camera obscura.
It had taken several years of letters, waiting and disappointments to assemble the kit needed to create the delicate daguerreotypes in a place as remote as Iquitos;
but once captured and treated they would never fade. And Ignatius had time aplenty in the jungle. It was the one thing he was not short of.
Only a man of astonishing patience could have prepared the copper plates by hand; each was polished to mirror smoothness, coated with silver and polished again. Iodine and bromide had made the uncertain journey by boat down the river from Leticia, along with the levelling stand, peculiar dish, plate holders and mercury cabinet which were essential tools of the daguerreotypist’s trade. Ignatius was not troubled that he was the only practitioner of the art this side of Bolivia, that almost all pictures were flawed, and that to achieve a perfect exposure was the result almost more
of magic than science. Apart from the odd raid and the infrequent arrival of boats from downriver, little happened in Iquitos.
Now that all was assembled, however, his patience was no more. As he thought of Taypi he began to get excited about the possibilities. The beauty of the daguerreotype is in the detail, which never fades. Ignatius had never managed to create a perfect blemish-free image, but somehow looking at this young man he knew that he had found the ideal subject.
Hard as it was, he made himself wait just a little longer. He would let the boy rest a couple of days, chat and build up a little rapport with him, and then ask him if he could make an image of him. Sam Clements would have to stay too,
to translate. How strange that the boy should only speak English.

Chapter 45: At the Mission; Padre de Vero

An excerpt from the audio version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando - Print and Digital versions available at http://www.caposcripti.com


46. South London to South America



Nina went back to her room, hunkered down, and didn’t leave for seventy-two hours straight. She read the journals from cover to cover, and gradually began to find a framework for the strange reasoning of the Photographer; his obsession with language, with representation. When she came across diagrams of the Caposcripti symbols, she began to understand the significance of the tattoos. But the scene in the apartment was still too fresh in her mind for her to accept any connection between these writings and the macabre activities of the Photographer.

“South America is where it all began. Maybe that’s where it’s supposed to finish? There’s no doubt I can’t stay in London any longer... my DNA must be all over that apartment, and the police are going to start asking questions sometime. Yep, South America seems as good a place as any to disappear to for a while.” With the descriptions of the Explorer still fresh in her mind, and those occasional lapses into poetry still ringing in her ears.

Up west to the Trailfinders on Regent Street. Booking a ticket for Bogota. For Tomorrow. Single, return or tour ticket?

Nina doesn’t know; has never done the Traveller routes; she buys a return ticket to be on the safe side, and because that five grand is burning a hole in her pocket. Regent Street also furnishes a couple of travel guidesm and a moleskin notebook, complete with elastic, a waterproof jacket and a teeny-tiny mosquito net. The Explorer’s descriptions of the army of small biting creatures, both land and air-borne were too fresh in her mind. Finally, an unobstrusive bag to carry them and whatever disposable clothes she picks up as she goes.

She’s booked to Bogota, an overnight stay, and then on by smaller plane to Leticia/Tabbatinga – a small river port straddling the border between Brazil, Columbia and Peru. The flight is uneventful; Nina spends much of it sleeping – the rest of the time too occupied by the minutiae of passports and tickets and Customs and the whole mechanics of moving a human being from London to Bogota that she doesn’t have time to think. She’s going to South America. That’s where it all began; and maybe it will somehow make sense when she gets there.

It’s only when wandering around the streets of Bogota that it really hits her; the years in London a chapter now closed, and a new one beginning. Bogota is a city of contrasts – favelas set back from the street spill flowers onto broken gutters, jostle slums. The city feels like a giant building site and gives the impression it’s been like that for decades. All kinds of vehicles are everywhere, and the ringed mountains nestling close around give the city an intense feel; a literal melting pot.

Everyone is very young, or very old. Signs of Catholicism strike her from unexpected quarters; street poets accost her in the artisanas district and she finds tiny origami dinosaurs and giant elaborate graf pieces decorating unlikely spots. Bogota draws her in, in a way that London hasn’t for a long time; and she’d like to stay longer, but the Amazon’s pull is stronger, and by the next morning she is on her way to the small domestic airport to catch her connecting flight.

The flight: down through the mountains to the endless vistas of dark green jungle, giant silvery rivers snaking through, with here and there the almost visceral shock of vast chunks literally eaten out of the landscape.

The arrival: passport check through a tiny little airport where the air is thick with cigarette smoke. Wandering around Leticia she is struck by how laid-back it feels; from the billares halls to the working girls drinking rum out front of the Voces de Mis Recuerdos. Cars are rare but scooters and mopeds are ubiquitous. Everyone on the streets seems young and people stare openly, frankly, invitation in their gazes. It had not been like that in Bogota. There she felt much more like a tourist. Here on the border of three countries, where the only way out was by air or water, she could disappear... if she chose. But something drove Nina on. South London to South America. And here is where it all starts.

An excerpt from the audio version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando - Print and Digital versions available at http://www.caposcripti.com


Chapter 46: South London to South America

An excerpt from the audio version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando - Print and Digital versions available at http://www.caposcripti.com



Chapter 54: Meeting Fernando; Journey to the Pueblo

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