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  He almost started after her. She’d reacted as if he was one of the men who needed those magazines, but he was one of the people who created them. He’d only come to the window to see how his work shaped up, and there it was, between a book about Nazi war crimes and an Enid Stone romance. He’d given the picture of Toby Hale and his wife Jilly a warm amber tint to go with the title Pretty Hot, and he thought it looked classier than most of its companions. He didn’t think Toby needed to worry so much about the rising costs of production. If Sid had gone in for that sort of thing, he would have bought the magazine on the strength of the cover.

  The newspapers had to admit he was good, one of the best in town. That was why the Weekly News wanted him to cover Enid Stone’s return home, even though some of the editors seemed to dislike accepting pictures from him since word had got round that he was involved in Pretty Hot. Why should anyone disparage him for doing a friend a favor? It wasn’t even as though he posed; he only took the photographs. There ought to be a way to let the blonde girl know that, to make her respect him. He swung away from the shop window and stalked after her, telling himself that if he caught up with her he’d have it out with her. But the street was already deserted, and as he reached his building her window, in the midst of the house opposite his rooms, lit up.

  He felt as if she had let him know she’d seen him before pulling the curtains—as if she’d glimpsed his relief at not having to confront her. He bruised his testicles as he groped for his keys, and that enraged him more than ever. A phone which he recognized as his once the front door was open had started ringing, and he dashed up the musty stairs in the dark.

  It was Toby Hale on the phone. “Still free tomorrow? They’re willing.”

  “A bit different, is it? A bit stronger?”

  “What the punters want.”

  “I’m all for giving people what they really want,” Sid declared, and took several quick breaths. The blonde girl was in her bathroom now. “I’ll see you at the studio,” he told Toby, and fumbled the receiver into place.

  What was she trying to do to him? If she had watched him come home, she must know he was in his room even though he hadn’t had time to switch on the light. Besides, this wasn’t the first time she’d behaved as if the frosted glass of her bathroom window ought to stop him watching her. “Black underwear, is it now?” he said through his teeth, and bent over his bed to reach for a camera.

  God, she thought a lot of herself. Each of her movements looked like a pose to Sid as he reeled her toward him with the zoom lens. Despite the way the window fragmented her he could distinguish the curve of her bottom in black knickers and the black swellings of her breasts. Then her breasts turned flesh-colored, and she dropped the bra. She was slipping the knickers down her bare legs when the whir of rewinding announced that he’d finished the role of Tri-X. “Got you,” he whispered, and hugged the camera to himself.

  When she passed beyond the frame of the window he coaxed his curtains shut and switched the room light on. He was tempted to develop the roll now, but anticipating it made him feel so powerful in a sleepy generalized way that he decided to wait until the morning, when he would be more awake. He took Pretty Hot to bed with him and scanned the article about sex magic, and an idea was raising its head in his when he fell asleep.

  He slept late. In the morning he had to leave the Tri-X negatives and hurry to the studio. Fog slid flatly over the pavements before him, vehicles nosed through the gray, grumbling monotonously. It occurred to him as he turned along the cheap side street near the edge of town that people were less likely to notice him in the fog, though why should he care if they did?

  Toby opened the street door at Sid’s triple knock and preceded him up the carpetless stairs. Toby had already set up the lights and switched them on, which made the small room with its double bed and mock-leather sofa appear starker than ever. A brawny man was sitting on the sofa with a woman draped facedown across his knees, her short skirt thrown back, her black nylon knickers more or less pulled down.

  Apart from the mortar-board jammed onto his head, the man looked like a wrestler or a bouncer. He glanced up as Sid entered, and the hint of a warning crossed his large bland reddish face as Sid appraised the woman. She was too plump for Sid’s taste, her mottled buttocks were too flabby. She looked bored—more so when she glanced at Sid, who disliked her at once.

  “This is Sid, our snapshooter,” Toby announced. “Sid, our friends are going to model for both stories.”

  “All right there, mate,” the man said, and the woman grunted.

  Sid glanced through the viewfinder, then made to adjust the woman’s knickers; but he hadn’t touched them when the man’s hand seized his wrist. “Hands off. I’ll do that. She’s my wife.”

  “Come on, the lot of you,” the woman complained. “I’m getting a cold bum.”

  It wouldn’t be cold for long, Sid thought, and felt his penis stir unexpectedly. But the man didn’t hit her, he only mimed the positions as if he were enacting a series of film stills, resting his hand on her buttocks to denote slaps. For the pair of color shots Toby could afford the man rubbed rouge on her bottom.

  “That was okay, was it, Sid?” Toby said anxiously. “It’d be nice if we could shoot Slave of Love tomorrow.”

  “Wouldn’t be nice for us,” the woman said, groaning as she stood up. “We’ve got our lives to lead, you know.”

  “We could make it a week today,” her husband said.

  “They look right for the stories, I reckon,” Hale told Sid when they’d left. “I’m working on some younger models, but those two’ll do for that kind of stuff. The perves who want it don’t care.”

  Sid thought it best to agree, but as he walked home he grew angrier: how could that fat bitch have given him a tickle? Working with people like her might be one of Sid’s steps to fame, but she needed him more than he needed her. “I’ll retouch you, but I won’t touch you,” he muttered, grinning. Someone like the blonde girl over the road, now—she would have been Sid’s choice of a model for Spanked and Submissive, and it wouldn’t all have been faked, either.

  That got his penis going. He had to stand still for a few minutes until its tip went back to sleep, and the thought of the negatives waiting in his darkroom didn’t help. He would have her in his hands, he would be able to do what he liked with her. He had to put the idea out of his head before he felt safe to walk.

  After the fog, even the dim musty hall of the house seemed like a promise of clarity. In his darkroom he watched the form of the blonde girl rise from the developing fluid, and he felt as if a fog of dissatisfaction with himself and with the session at the studio were leaving him. The photographs came clear, and for a moment he couldn’t understand why the girl’s body was composed of dots like a newspaper photograph enlarged beyond reason. Of course, it was the frosting on her bathroom window.

  Having her in his flat without her knowing excited him, but not enough. Perhaps he needed her to be home so that he could watch her failure to realize he had her. He opened a packet of hamburgers and cooked himself whatever meal it was. The effort annoyed him, and so did the eating: chew, chew, chew. He switched on the television, and the little picture danced for him, oracular heads spoke. He kept glancing at the undeveloped frame of her window.

  By the time she arrived home the fog was spiked with drizzle. As soon as she had switched on the light, she began to remove her clothes, but before shed taken off more than her coat she drew the curtains. Had she seen him? Was she taking pleasure in his frustration at having to imagine her undressing? But he already had her almost naked. He spread the photographs across the table, and then he lurched toward his bed to find the article about sex magic.

  By themselves the photographs were only pieces of card, but what had the article said? Toby Hale had put in all the ideas he could find about images during an afternoon spent in the library. The Catholic church sometimes made an image of a demon and burned it to bring off an exorcism ... Someone in Illi
nois killed a man by letting rain fall on his photograph ... Here it was, the stuff Toby had found in a book about magic by someone with a degree from a university Sid had never heard of. The best spells are the ones you write yourself. Find the words that are truest to your secret soul. Focus your imagination, build up to the discharge of psychic energy. Chant the words that best express your desires. Toby was talking about doing that with your partner, but it had given Sid a better idea. He hurried to the window, his undecided penis hindering him a little, and shut the curtains tight.

  As he returned to the table he felt uneasy: excited, furtive, ridiculous—he wasn’t sure which was uppermost. If only this could work! You never know until you try, he thought, which was the motto on the contents page of Pretty Hot. He pulled the first photograph to him. Her breasts swelled in their lacy bra, her black knickers were taut over her round bottom. He wished he could see her face. He cleared his throat, and muttered almost inaudibly: “I’m going to take your knickers down. I’m going to smack your bare bum.”

  He sounded absurd. The whole situation was absurd. How could he expect it to work if he could barely hear himself? “By the time I’ve finished with you,” he said loudly, “you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”

  Too loud! Nobody could hear him, he told himself. Except that he could, and he sounded like a fool. As he glared at the photograph, he was sure that she was smiling. She had beaten him. He wouldn’t put it past her to have let him take the photographs because they had absolutely no effect on her. All at once he was furious. “You’ve had it now,” he shouted.

  His eyes were burning. The photograph flickered, and appeared to stir. He thought her face turned up to him. If it did, it must be out of fear. His penis pulled eagerly at his fly. “All right, miss,” he shouted hoarsely. “Those knickers are coming down.”

  She seemed to jerk, and he could imagine her bending reluctantly beneath the pressure of a hand on the back of her neck. Her black knickers stretched over her bottom. Then the photograph blurred as tears tried to dampen his eyes, but he could see her more clearly than ever. By God, the tears ought to be hers. “Now then,” he shouted, “you’re going to get what you’ve been asking for.”

  He seized her bare arm. She tried to pulled away, shaking her head mutely, her eyes bright with apprehension. In a moment he’d trapped her legs between his thighs and pushed her across his knee, locking his left arm around her waist. Her long blonde hair trailed to the floor, concealing her face. He took hold of the waistband of her knickers and drew them slowly down, gradually revealing her round creamy buttocks. When she began to wriggle, he trapped her more firmly with his arm and legs. “Let’s see what this feels like,” he said, and slapped her hard.

  He heard it. For a moment he was sure he had. He stared about his empty flat with his hot eyes. He almost went to peer between the curtains at her window, but gazed at the photograph instead. “Oh, no, miss, you won’t get away from me,” he whispered, and saw her move uneasily as he closed his eyes.

  He began systematically to slap her: one on the left buttock, one on the right. After a dozen of these her bottom was turning pink and he was growing hot—his face, his penis, the palm of his hand. He could feel her warm thighs squirming between his. “You like that, do you? Let’s see how much you like.”

  Two laps on the left, two on the right. A dozen pairs of those, then five on the same spot, five on the other. As her bottom grew red she tried to cover it with her hands, but he pinned her wrists together with his left hand and forcing them up to the dimple above her bottom, went to work in earnest: ten on the left buttock, ten on its twin ... She was sobbing beneath her hair, her bottom was wriggling helplessly. His room had gone. There was nothing but Sid and his victim until he came violently and unexpectedly, squealing.

  He didn’t see her the next day. She was gone when he wakened from a satisfied slumber, and she had drawn the curtains before he realized she was home again. She was making it easier for him to see her the way he wanted. Anticipating that during the days which followed made him feel secretly powerful, and so did Toby Hale’s suggestion when Sid rang him to confirm the Slave of Love session. “We’re short of stories for number three,” Toby said. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything good and strong for us?”

  “I might have,” Sid told him.

  He didn’t fully realize how involving it would be until he began to write. He was dominating her not only by writing about her but also by delivering her up to the readers of the magazine. He made her into a new pupil at a boarding school for girls in their late teens. “Your here to lern disiplin. My naime is Mr Sidney and dont you forgett it.” She would wear kneesocks and a gymslip that revealed her uniform knickers whenever she bent down. “Over my nee, yung lady. Im goaing to give you a speling leson.” “Plese plese dont take my nickers down, Ill be a good gurl.” “You didnt cawl me Mr Sidney, thats two dozin extrar with the hare brush ...” He felt as if the words were unlocking a secret aspect of himself, a core of unsuspected truth which gave him access to some kind of power. Was this what they meant by sex magic? It took him almost a week of evenings to savor writing the story, and he didn’t mind not seeing her all that week; it helped him see her as he was writing her. Each night as he drifted off to sleep he imagined her lying in bed sobbing, rubbing her bottom.

  At the end of the story he met her on the bus.

  He was returning from town with a bagful of film. She caught the bus just as he was lowering himself onto one of the front seats downstairs. As she boarded the bus, she saw him and immediately looked away. Even though there were empty seats she stayed on her feet, holding onto the pole by the stairs.

  Sid gazed at the curve of her bottom, defining itself and then growing blurred as her long coat swung with the movements of the bus plowing through the fog. Why wouldn’t she sit down? He leaned forward impulsively, emboldened by the nights he’d spent in secret with her, and touched her arm. “Would you like to sit down, love?”

  She looked down at him, and he recoiled. Her eyes were bright with loathing, and yet she looked trapped. She shook her head once, keeping her lips pressed so tight they grew pale, then she turned her back on him. He’d make her turn her back tonight, he thought, by God he would. He had to sit on his hands for the rest of the journey, but he walked behind her all the way from the bus stop to her house.

  “You’re not tying me up with that,” the woman said. “Cut my wrists off, that would. Pajama cord or nothing, and none of your cheap stuff neither.”

  “Sid, would you mind seeing if you can come up with some cord?” Toby Hale said, taking out his reptilian wallet. “I’ll stay and discuss the scene.”

  There was sweat in his eyebrows. The woman was making him sweat because she was their only female model for the story, since Toby’s wife wouldn’t touch anything kinky. Sid kicked the fog as he hurried to the shops. Just let the fat bitch give him any lip.

  Her husband bound her wrists and ankles to the legs of the bed. He untied her and turned her over and tied her again. He untied her and tied her wrists and ankles together behind her back, and poked his crotch at her face. Sid snapped her and snapped her, wondering how far Toby had asked them to go, and then he had to reload. “Get a bastard move on,” the woman told him. “This is bloody uncomfortable, did you but know.”

  Sid couldn’t restrain himself. “If you don’t like the work, we can always get someone else.”

  “Can you now?” The woman’s face rocked toward him on the bow of herself, and then she toppled sideways on the bed, her breasts flopping on her chest, a few pubic strands springing free of her purple knickers like the legs of a lurking spider. “Bloody get someone, then,” she cried.

  Toby had to calm her and her suffused husband down while Sid muttered apologies. That night he set the frosted photograph in front of him and chanted his story over it until the girl pleaded for mercy. He no longer cared if Toby had his doubts about the story, though Sid was damned if he could see what had made
him frown over it. If only Sid could find someone like the girl to model for the story ... Even when he’d finished with her for the evening, his having been forced to apologize to Toby’s models clung to him. He was glad he would be photographing Enid Stone tomorrow. Maybe it was time for him to think of moving on.

  He was on his way to Enid Stone’s press conference when he saw the girl again. As he emerged from his building she was arriving home from wherever she worked, and she was on his side of the road. The slam of the front door made her flinch and dodge to the opposite pavement, but not before a streetlamp had shown him her face. Her eyes were sunken in dark rings, her mouth was shivering; her long blonde hair looked dulled by the fog. She was moving awkwardly, as if it pained her to walk.

  She must have female trouble, Sid decided, squirming at the notion. On his way to the bookshop his glimpse of her proved as hard to leave behind as the fog was, and he had to keep telling himself that it was nothing to do with him. The bookshop window was full of Enid Stone’s books upheld by wire brackets. Maybe one day he’d see a Sid Pym exhibition in a window.

  He hadn’t expected Enid Stone to be so small. She looked like someone’s shrunken crabby granny, impatiently suffering her hundredth birthday party. She sat in an armchair at the end of a thickly carpeted room above the bookshop, confronting a curve of reporters sitting on straight chairs. “Don’t crowd me,” she was telling them. “A girl’s got to breathe, you know.”

  Sid joined the photographers who were lined up against the wall like miscreants outside a classroom. Once the reporters began to speak, having been set in motion by a man from the publishers, Enid Stone snapped at their questions, her head jerking rapidly, her eyes glittering like a bird’s. “That’ll do,” she said abruptly. “Give a girl a chance to rest her voice. Who’s going to make me beautiful?”