Shutterspeed Read Online Free Page A

Even after twelve years of coming here he’s never got used toit. The reek of developing fluid reaches out to every corner, filling his lungs, clinging to his skin. Sometimes he lingers under the shower at night, waiting for the lab’s smells to wash away.
    The store’s empty of customers. No-one loiters here; this isn’t an in-between place. Stands are covered with old frames in various sizes. Orange-and-green film canisters line the shelves.
    Leaning against the counter are sample photos to demonstrate the different dimensions of enlargements. There are seven copies of the same image — a woman with permed hair, shoulder pads and pink lipstick. She hangs from the ceiling too, sometimes in matt, sometimes glossed. Tall people like Dustin bump their heads on her. These prints — like the rest of his father’s equipment — are so out of date they irritate Dustin every time he comes in. It’s as though the lab were a time capsule, incapable of evolving with the outside world.
    On hearing the bell above the door, his father emerges from the stock cupboard, anticipating a customer. He seems disappointed. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
    â€˜I left my maths here last night. I won’t be long.’
    â€˜I didn’t see it.’ Ken sighs. The in-tray is bulging and there’s little chance of him closing the shop on time. Hecould use some extra help but won’t ask for it. ‘Take your time,’ he says, and returns to the stockroom while the old processor continues its whir. A pedestrian walks past the shop’s glass windows but doesn’t come in. Dustin’s on his own and there’s nothing to lose. He slides the top drawer open. Inside, cardboard dividers separate letters A to Z, each section fat with packs of photos waiting to be collected. There’s nothing stopping him but time.
    He doesn’t know her first name, let alone her last, so his only strategy is to start from the beginning. She’s not in A or B. He opens packets in a rush, finding a repetition of themes — babies, pets, cars, holidays — but he doesn’t find her. The urge to find her is greater than the trepidation he thought he’d feel.
    From inside the stock cupboard, his father’s pen taps as he counts. She’s not in C or D. Where is she? Where is this woman with the dark eyes and the Ducati?
    â€˜Dustin, can you get that?’
    She’s in front of him, standing across the counter. She’s the length of a ruler from him.
    â€˜Dustin?’ Ken repeats.
    â€˜Hi. I’ve got some photos to pick up.’
    She’s speaking to him. She’s not wearing a leather Kevlar jacket, but a white shirt. He senses her dark eyes but can’tbring himself to look at them. She’s so close he can smell her perfume.
    â€˜Dustin, you got that?’ His father emerges from the stock cupboard. ‘Oh hi, Terri. Dustin will sort you out. Dustin …’ Ken’s unaware of the adrenalin rushing through his son’s body.
    Dustin’s skin prickles him, like pins and needles all over. Each second drags on.
    â€˜â€¦ he’ll sort you out …’
    Dustin fumbles through the remainder of the photos in the deep drawer. He’s the only one who can see his hands shaking. He needs to ask for her last name but he doesn’t know how to look at her, let alone speak.
    â€˜Under P for Pavish.’
    He flicks to P and works his fingers through the bunches of packets. Terri Pavish. Terri Pavish is standing across the bench. His head is down, focusing on the bundles of photos, but he can feel the weight of her eyes upon him. There’s no Pavish.
    â€˜Or F for
Fremantle Herald
. Sometimes it goes under F,’ Ken calls from the stock cupboard.’
    â€˜Yeah, this one’s for work. Most of it anyway.’
    And so Terri Pavish speaks — casually, easily, as though her world goes on as normal. He tries to pull