Where the Devil Can't Go by Anya Lipska Read Free Book Online Page A

about his legs.
    Leytonstone reminded him of how Highbury had looked when he first arrived in London. The greengrocers’ displays bloomed with strange foreign vegetables – the kind he’d only ever seen in a curry – and dark-skinned men wrapped in coats argued over glasses of coffee at pavement tables. He stepped into the road to let a young couple with a baby buggy pass, and they thanked him in broken English, their singsong lilt marking them out as fellow Poles. He found himself scanning the crowded pavements for Weronika’s high cheekbones.
    The photographs on display in the window of Parry’s featured the usual suspects – wedding couples, aspiring models, obese children – but on closer examination, Janusz decided that the shots had a certain flair. Inside, a geeky-looking young man sat behind the counter reading Photographer’s Weekly.
    Janusz had decided his best strategy would be to act the dumb Polak , just off the plane from Lodz, so he did a lot of smiling and nodding for openers, then showed the guy the photo. “You make this picture...?”
    The guy took the bait, and as he studied the photo, a look of professional pride came over his face.
    “Yeah, I remember – she was very beautiful, this girl.”
    Janusz tapped himself on the chest. “My sister,” he said with a modest smile.
    “Right,” said the guy dropping his gaze. He handed the photo back, as though suddenly keen to get shot of it.
    Janusz pretended not to notice. “She came here with her boyfriend,” he said – a guess rewarded with a wary nod. “This man is my good friend,” he explained, his jaw starting to ache from all the grinning. “Today, he has to work, but he asks me to come because he likes to get more photos, to make her folio?”
    “Her modelling portfolio,” the guy said, looking relieved. “Yeah, I did the shots two or three weeks ago.” He started leafing through a tray of folders behind the counter.
    Don’t ask me for a name , prayed Janusz.
    “What’s his name again...?”
    Kurwa.
    “Ah, here it is. Pawel Adamski, yes?” – his pronunciation suggesting he was used to Polish customers. He spread a series of black and white photos across the counter like a pack of cards, and examined them, frowning, before selecting one and turning it round to face Janusz.
    “I think this is the best one,” he said.
    It was a startling image. Shot from above, Weronika lay on her back, eyes half-closed and lips parted, naked beneath a white sheet that reached from her feet to her chest. The lighting had been arranged to capture the subtly different shades of white in the scene - the chalky pallor of her face, the marble-like arms, the ivory sheen of the silk shading into grey where it fell into folds. Her hands lay loosely cupped, one within the other, on her stomach, lacking only a bouquet to complete the portrait of a virgin bride. Or a dead one – thought Janusz.
    He shuffled through the rest of the shots, but couldn’t find anything that might explain the photographer’s earlier discomfiture.
    “They’re good,” he said, then, taking a guess, leaned toward the guy. “But I think he meant the other ones,” he hissed. “How you call it? The ‘Page 3’ stuff?”
    The guy hesitated for a moment, then turned to open a filing cabinet.
    “Your friend directed these ones,” he said, his tone guarded, pushing a folder across the counter with the tips of his fingers. “All I did was set up the lights for him.”
    Inside was a contact sheet of a couple of dozen shots, colour this time.
    Wearing only a black G-string, Weronika struck a variety of unimaginative soft porn poses – sticking her butt out...pushing her smallish breasts together... reclining with legs spread. Not much chiaroscuro in this lot, thought Janusz. No wonder the photographer had panicked when Janusz announced himself as Weronika’s brother – he’d probably thought he was about to get a kicking.
    The images offended and depressed him. The