Creed Read Free

Nikon, this one fitted with a zoom lens, and took general crowd stuff, only occasionally homing in on individuals.
    He shook his head in disappointment when the party finally began to break up. There had been a small chance that Lily Neverless’ daughter, her only surviving kin as far as it was known, might have been allowed to attend. That could have brought some poignancy to the proceedings, especially with two white-coated orderlies by her side (all right, maybe they were more discreet nowadays, but that didn’t stop Creed’s imagination dramatizing or picturizing the scenario), but he guessed that whoever was in charge of her welfare nowadays had decided against letting her loose for the occasion. Pity.
    When most of the crowd had drifted away, Creed moved further back into the tomb and lit the cigarette that had dangled cold from his lips throughout the session. The event was covered, he’d done his job; but where was the shot, where was the one that would make the other snappers, the rest of the pack that had been held at bay outside the cemetery gates along with the ghouls, sightseers and devoted fans, sick with envy?
    He allowed himself a weary grin. That was the trouble with the young Turks nowadays – no balls. There were relatively few paparazzi left who took genuine risks or even tried to buck the system; they wanted it handed to them on a plate. True enough they’d kick, elbow and shove each other to get a clear shot, but cunning and chutzpah seemed to be in short supply. Creed, himself, had arrived at the upmarket boneyard just after six that morning – there’s dedication for you – and had driven around the high walls until he’d found a quiet spot in a country lane far away from the main gates. He had parked opposite, beneath some trees, then crossed over and used a small aluminium stepladder (often essential equipment) to reach the top of the wall. His camera bag and tripod had been lowered to the other side by a length of nylon string with a hook at one end; the same had drawn up the ladder after him. Creed had dropped into the cemetery and waited, crouched against the wall, until it was light enough to search for an open grave; if it hadn’t been dug the night before then he would have waited for the diggers to arrive and followed them to the spot. It was easier to find than he thought it would be, for there were virgin areas in the cemetery obviously reserved in advance for those who could afford the deposit (no pun intended). ‘ PLOT 1290 NEVERLESS ’ had been marked on a rough piece of board and planted atop the mound of damp earth beside the oblong pit.
    Creed had almost yelped with delight when he scanned the locale and spied the grey mausoleum set on a low hillock not two hundred yards away. A perfect vantage point, provided some thoughtless bugger hadn’t locked its barred door.
    Again he was in luck for, although rust made the handle difficult to turn, the door wasn’t locked. Why should it be? No one inside was going anywhere.
    The horror-movie groan from the rarely used hinges was a little unsettling, and the unwholesome dank smell of the chamber itself hardly warmed the spirit, but Creed felt pleased with himself. He set up camp and began his vigil.
    Four hours later it was all over, with nothing special to show. Decent enough crowd shots, a few close-ups of the faded and jaded, but nothing to set the juices flowing. Well, you couldn’t win ’em all; in fact, the aces were rare. Always another day, though, another dollar. New opportunities were always around the next corner. Be ready, be there.
    Had Creed been as philosophical as this about his work he wouldn’t have screamed an expletive and kicked the coffin on the lowest tier. Stone and mould scraped off, leaving a scar as white as bone. Rather than apologize for the offence, Creed kicked the coffin again.
    He turned back to the camera and tripod, one big toe no longer numbed by the cold but throbbing from the blow. Taking a