The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Nine

When we reach the oversized magazine rack he turns to me and catches me smiling at his walk. Unsurprisingly he looks confused, and so I make my face serious and gesture with my eyes towards the thing he's now standing next to.

"So, um, these are some of the photos that never made the show. As well as some prints of other stuff I have at home." He begins flicking through them. "Just have a look through and see if you like anything. If anything about any of them touches something. Similarly, let me know if there's anything you don't like." He steps out of the way, grazing past me as he does.

As his body touches mine, a wave of his calming male scent hits my nose and the heat of his body warms me for a moment from the inside out. All too quickly, he steps past me and out of my body space, sliding up the sleeves on his blue linen shirt and running a hand through his hair. He nods at the photos and shifts on his feet, looking a little nervous maybe.

I step in closer to the large trestle containing Aidan's photos. There are lots, fifty or so, or maybe more, all large and all covered in clear thin cellophane. Most of them are in stark black and white, but the occasional pop of colour leaps out as I sort through them. Normally one bold colour pulling out a particular object from the muted greys and whites of the rest of the photo.

As I flick through them I'm conscious of his stare, conscious of appearing to look bored or unimpressed, yet scared that anything else will look like faked interest. By the second photo, my worry fades because they are extraordinary. The subjects vary, architecture, nature-scapes, human subjects. The first that catches my eye is an urban concrete bridge under a grey ominous sky — the clouds seeming to move as I stare at them, an old bike is half-submerged in the river below and it's this which Aidan has highlighted in bright yellow.

The next is a shot of a slabbed concrete pavement and a metal fence through which the shadow of the sun passes. Next, an image of the seaside with another cloudy sky — the sun peeking through a split in the centre of the clouds. After a few more architectural shots, buildings, alleyways, photos of London and another city I presume to be the Irish one he grew up in (why don't I know which one that is?), we move onto human subjects. All of these are in black and white. An older woman in a flowing skirt and long hair standing in a garden captured through a kitchen window, an old basin style sink visible. Another of a younger woman, pregnant, lying flat on her back and staring up at the ceiling, the curves of her body visible under loose clothes. It pulls at something inside me, something chest level, then lower, churning and twisting.

My entire body starts to fill up with something sad and heavy. As this is happening I focus on the woman — who is she? Is he married? A girlfriend? Is he a father?

When I turn to look at him, I find him staring at me, hard, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans, his head leaning slightly to the left. I turn back to the photos and flick to the next one to see the same woman lying flat on her back, this time with the baby by her side and her stomach flat now. Her face is filled with happiness and love and joy. 

The uneasiness in my stomach starts to fester and grow so I flick again. The baby is about four now, it's a boy, with soft curls and large eyes like Aidan's, the mother — blonde and pretty — holds his chubby little hand as she points up at the sky at something. I look at this for as long as possible and then flick the page again and my breath catches entirely. It's a little boy on his own this time. Not the same little boy from the previous photo but they have some of the same features. Eyes and Curls. In fact, the more I stare at it I realise that it's the same little boy from the video installation.

This photo looks different from the others though I'm not certain why. It's older maybe, but the paper isn't aged so I'm not sure. The little boy is sitting on a patterned eighties-looking sofa staring at the camera with large eyes round with sadness. He has a little black suit on, shorts and white socks, and his hands are clasped tightly in his lap. He looks terrified. He looks sad and alone and terrified.