The strip of photos drops into the metal slot as I pass.
I pause, distracted by the flickering movement, the soft click as
they land. I don't reach for them. They're not mine, after all. And
they might be wet. They always used to be wet. In the days before
selfies you had to wait, first for the machine to digest your
features, then for the glistening results to slide out like a tongue.
Photo booths were a confessional to vanity. You'd crowd inside with
your mates on a dreary Saturday, giggling. Or persuade your secret
boyfriend to enshrine forever some mournfully precious day, snogging
while that all-seeing eye blinked, flashed, and dismissed you.
No one's inside this booth. No one's claiming these pictures.
There's a crumpled KitKat wrapper on the floor. The thick pleated
curtain has been pushed open. It's still knocking faintly against the
metallic frame.
Someone barged past me just now, over by the flower stall. . I was
probably in the way, standing there weighted with worry. The mingled
scents wafting off the display were overpowering and somehow mocking,
especially the lilies. The nausea passed weeks ago but I still detest
their sickly, funereal smell.
I heard a voice. I turned towards the street doors, towards the
shops, every which way as mothers do. But I couldn't see her. Someone
just called out 'Mum!'
It's strangely quiet in here this morning. Normally Whiteleys is a
sea of buffeting strangers, workers rushing through their lunch hour,
tourists ambling in from the neighbouring hotels, locals stocking up,
humanity flowing up and down the sliding escalators. Everyone in a
hurry.
But not today. My friend Maisie has left. She dashed out through the
glass doors, out onto the cruel bright air of Queensway, away from
all this pulsating panic.
She must have given me these tulips. She left me by the flower stall
and told me to wait for the others, and that's when a stranger
knocked past me. I wasn't about to remonstrate. He, or she, could
have been violent, or carrying a knife.
I waited with my flowers but I couldn't keep still. I ignored
Maisie's orders and was nearly at the escalator to go up to the next
level, passing this booth, desperate to go on with the search, when
the photos caught my eye.
A pale oval in the centre of each of the four images.
Sapphire eyes trapped behind that little metal bar.
I pluck the photo strip from the slot.
It's her. Of course it's her. I'd know her if I was blindfolded. But
what's happened to her? Where's her beautiful blonde hair? It's a
sludgy brown, hanging down on either side of her face. My golden girl
looks like a goth. She looks like me for the first time in her life,
but it's wrong. It's all wrong.
There's a cut on her chin, still raw. Will it make a scar? Purple
shadows under her eyes. Or are those bruises? That hideous false
hair, matted and dirty like a doll that's been left out in the rain.
And her lips. Smeared with something dark.
Oh my God. Raphy. Raphy. What's going on? Raphy!
I spin round, waving the pictures. I drop the tulips. I show
the trickle of shoppers my screen saver of the real Raphy in her
ridiculous blue beanie hat with the appliqué
pink and green Magic Roundabout flowers. That's how she looked
a month ago.
'Have you seen this girl?' I shout, darting back towards the flower
stall, waving the photos, thrusting my phone at people as they enter
the echoing shopping centre. 'She's my height. Taller. She's 16. She
was just in that photo booth. Did you see her? On the street? Have
you seen her?'
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