Free The Death Pictures by Simon Hall Page B

it.’
    McCluskey looked expectantly at him and Dan was tempted to ask his next question, but decided to take a risk. He’d learnt early that the greatest art of the interviewer is knowing when to stay silent. It could leave you looking foolish, unsure where to take the discussion, or it could prompt real passion. Dan held the artist’s look, said nothing.
    ‘When I was told I had under a year to live,’ continued McCluskey, his voice hoarse now, ‘I was angry. In fact, I was livid. I raged and shouted and screamed at how unfair, how unjust it was. But then I realised it was an opportunity. How many of us get notice of our departure date? I realised I had a chance to do all the things I wanted to do and leave this earth without regret. Who among us can say that?’
    Dan let the words settle, then asked. ‘And why the raising money for charity with the pictures?’
    ‘The easiest question so far. I have a little talent for doodling. There are many deserving causes. I don’t need the money where I’m going. Why not help them out in their good works? I’m not a believer, but I have been a gambler. If I’m right and there is no God, I won’t lose out. But if there is, I might as well insure myself and do some good works before I get to the Pearly Gates of Heaven. They might just squeak me a ticket in.’
    Dan heard a quiet huff from Nigel. A gentle Christian, he was bringing up his sons in the same way and didn’t like to see religion mocked. But that was a hell of a good answer, and he couldn’t fault the logic.
    ‘Finally, as you know, this interview is for broadcasting after your death.’ Dan paused, let the words echo from the stone walls. Nigel zoomed the shot in again. This was the killer question, the most important of the interview. ‘How would you like to be remembered?’
    McCluskey looked down at the ground for a moment, then gestured to the paintings behind him. ‘Remember me with this. Remember me as a man who had a small talent and did his best with it.’
    Dan stared at him and thought he could see a moistening in the edges of his eyes, just a slight shine but it was there. At last, a question gets through his defences, thought Dan. At last.
    ‘Remember me as a man who didn’t always lead a good life, but tried to do his best in the end. Remember me as someone who liked a little game with his pictures, but only for the best of motives. Remember me as someone who tried to right the wrongs he saw around him before he left the sweet wonder of this beautiful and precious earth.’
    Dan didn’t often feel pressure when he was editing a report, but now the base of his back ached. McCluskey’s teasing, vanity, games and riddles may have been annoying, but he’d been touched by that interview. They weren’t using it in this item, instead saving it for his obituary. This was a story about the unveiling of the last of the Death Pictures, but he still wanted to do his best for the man. So many stories they covered were mundane, fillers, forgotten within minutes, meant nothing. This was one of the rare few that felt different.
    To open the report, Jenny, the picture editor, put down the shot of McCluskey standing by the curtained picture, ready to unveil it. Dan added just a few words of commentary, less is more, the golden rule in television; ‘So this is it, the last of the Death Pictures.’
    The cord was pulled and the picture revealed. Dan said nothing over the shot, just let it run, the noise of the photographer’s flashes and the viewers fascination with the painting meant no commentary was needed. Then they edited in a close up of the artist’s exultant face and some of his words about the answer being in there.
    After that it was shots of the crowd, one with the surf shop in the background. Then came the interviews with the people talking about why they’d come to see the unveiling. The shots in the gallery of all the pictures together were next, using lots of Nigel’s close ups of the