Free Double Exposure by Brian Caswell

each image, flip them and join them again, so that the left half of the original is matched with its mirror image and the right half with its mirror image, you’ll end up with two perfectly symmetrical faces – but they won’t look like they belong to the same person.’ His eyes are staring at a point in the air somewhere away to her right, as if he is looking at something. Or recalling. ‘The girl in the Armstrong picture, though … Her features were almost perfectly matched – even to the tiny gaps in her eyelashes.’
    â€˜And the point of all this is ?’
    â€˜I’m not exactly sure. All I know is … When I developed your pictures the first time, I felt like I feel when I stand in front of the Armstrong.’
    For the first time she sees the mask slip, tastes his insecurity. He sips his drink again, as if he is gathering courage from the liquid. The words, when they come, are whispered.
    â€˜I’d like you to model for me.’
    Finally it comes out. Always an angle …
    She sighs, pushes her chair back and rises, shaking her head.
    â€˜Thanks for the coffee. I think your ten minutes are up.’
    He reaches out and takes hold of her hand, but for the second time her stare makes him release his grip.
    â€˜Please,’ he begins, ‘it’s not like that. I just –’
    â€˜You know, you hear just about every possible line from the johns, every pathetic excuse, but at least most of them are honest about what they want.’ She turns to go, then looks back down at him. ‘You’re good. I’ll give you that much. You had me going for a while there.’
    Something in her voice – the slight break, the nasal quality, the fact that she finishes by biting her bottom lip like a disappointed child – robs the speech of its intended effect.
    She turns again towards the door, but he slams another twenty down on the table.
    â€˜Cash up front. That buys me another ten minutes.’
    She turns and reaches for the money.
    â€˜Five. The price just went up.’
    She sits down facing him and he grabs the chair, turning it around and leaning forward with his arms folded on the back rail.
    â€˜Maybe we’d better start again. My name’s Chris.’
    She looks down at his outstretched hand for two or three seconds, before reaching out her own.
    â€˜Abby. You have four and a half minutes left …’

Twelve
Normal behaviour
    Cain’s story
    I don’t know when I first got hooked on movies.
    The truth is, I don’t even remember the first movie I saw. I couldn’t tell you what it was about or who was in it, or even how old I was. All I remember is the sensation, sitting there in the dark, watching the giant figures on the screen, hearing the music building and feeling the emotions surge to match the size of the image.
    It’s so totally different from television.
    At home with the TV on you can read a book, have a conversation, even eat a meal, while the lives of the characters unravel in the corner, out of focus, diminished by the limits of the screen and the medium, smaller than life, glancing off the angles of your own existence like a background commentary. A flickering soundtrack to the everyday chaos.
    In the cinema, when the film starts it’s like the darkness isolates you – or rather, like it owns you – and there’s nothing but the story until the final credits roll. At least, that’s how it is for me.
    In a way, I suppose it’s the same as Chris’s reaction to Art. I’ve watched him in a gallery, standing motionless in front of a painting or a sculpture. For that moment the world disappears for him and there is nothing but the creation.
    I’m betting there must be a genetic component to obsessiveness.
    Of course, there’s one big difference between Chris’s obsession and mine. Chris lives his art. He’s creator as well as consumer. I never made that