Shutterspeed Read Online Free Page B

himselftogether, to use reason to regain control of his body. She is just a stranger after all, just another one of his father’s boring customers. She’s not drop-dead gorgeous, so why is he so nervous? Why can’t he stop his stupid hands from shaking?
    He finds F and there are three packs of photos for
Fremantle Herald
.
    â€˜You got it, Dustin?’ his father calls again.
    And still he feels reckless. He knows he only has seconds to do this. In the privacy of the top drawer, his fingers rush through the contents of one of the packs: black-and-white shots of people, athletes, cars. There’s nothing he wants. The second pack is more of the same.
    â€˜Dustin? Did you hear me? Try F.’
    But from the third pack he separates two photos and slides them away. There are others of her in there, seen in a blur. He doubts two will be missed.
    His father swoops behind him and scoops the three packets up in his hands.
    â€˜Sorry Terri, we’ve got a stack of orders at the moment. Three, was it? You must be getting a lot of work. At this rate they’ll make you go digital.’
    â€˜Ah, not a chance Ken, some things shouldn’t be changed. Your processor is mint. I’ve got another film to drop off too, but put this one under my name.’
    â€˜Dustin, get the tab out. Write it down, will you?’
    He feels his face burn as his father speaks to him like a child. He can’t bear to make eye contact with either of them so he reaches across to the paperwork beside the till. He can smell her. Without looking up, he senses how close she is, and feels the pull of an invisible force — a rubber band wrapped around the both of them, holding them in place. He can’t remember his heart ever racing like this.
    And he can’t explain it. It’s irrational, he knows. He wants to understand, but he’s got nothing to compare it with. He senses her leave; hears the bell tinkle as the door slides open, then shut. He still can’t take his eyes from the book on the counter. He doesn’t know what to write.
    â€˜Leave it to me, I’ll do it,’ his father says, sliding the notebook towards himself. ‘Did you find what you came here for?’
    That’s when Dustin looks up at his father. ‘Did I find what?’
    â€˜Your maths homework.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ he lies, relieved. ‘Yeah, I did.’
    He lifts his backpack off the floor and rests it in the drawer while he transfers Terri Pavish’s photos furtively into the front panel of the bag. He slides his helmet off the bench.
    â€˜I’ll be a couple of hours,’ says Ken, ‘maybe more.’
    Dustin cycles home with the sun setting to his left, orange spilling across the horizon. Kids eat chips beside Cottesloe Surf Club. Surfers look like seals in the water. He feels nothing.
    At home, he stands at the kitchen cupboard filling his mouth with handfuls of dry cereal. The house is quiet and claustrophobic; the air stuffy. He’s so thirsty he drinks three glasses of water, but his mouth still feels dry.
    The photographs. He takes his backpack into his bedroom and locks the door behind him.
    These photos are different to the one from yesterday. Her hair looks shorter, and there’s no Ducati. But her eyes — they’re still the same.
    The first one is a do-it-yourself photograph, the kind of shot where you place the camera on a pedestal and set up the timer. It was taken down by the lighthouse near Freo Harbour. She’s sitting on the pier edge, and behind her a man is fishing. He’s got grey tattoos spiralling all the way up his arms. The lighthouse with the old green door is in the right edge of the photo. She’s half-smiling with her lips closed. Is she holding something back? What
is
it about her?
    The second one was taken by someone else. She’s by a roadside somewhere with five people in the background.Two of them are bending over gardening, and the other