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By Eve Isherwood

Helen Powers was a scenes of crimes officer for the West Midlands Police. It-s 4 years because the case, regarding the loss of life of a tender teenage woman, shattered her profession. In an try and rebuild her existence, she now works as a portrait photographer. however the previous isn't so simply left at the back of- After a sequence of inexplicable and cruel assaults on her, Helen fears that somebody is out to take revenge. For Helen, besides the fact that, it is only the beginning of whatever extra own and sinister. eager to confront her demons and redeem herself within the face of an impressive adversary, Helen speedily unearths that neither time nor the weather are on her side...

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The darkroom was pretty much redundant in the modern professional setting. Nearly all studios, including Ray’s, used specialist photographic labs for the development of prints. Helen found it rather sad. There was something deeply satisfying about messing about in the dark, developing your own work, even if it was laborious. Stretching up to a shelf, she retrieved a polychrome eyepiece and took it back to the kitchen. Placing the eyepiece over the first of the proofs, she bent over and put her left eye to the lens, squinting her right eye shut.

Ed was the only man she knew who regularly wore moisturiser. She’d even borrowed some once. “Great after a heavy night out,” Ed enthused. ” This was better, she thought. She was beginning to feel more sane. Ed smiled and took a sip of his drink. He was leaning against the granite-topped work-surface. ” “S’pose I’d better,” she said, wondering how and where to begin. They went through to the sitting room, a den of dark colours with Gallic overtones. The lighting was tastefully subdued, carpet so thick you could sleep on it.

Most of the time, he pretended not to notice, glossed over it, made excuses. Not this evening. “Popped in to see Gran on Boxing Day,” Helen said, trying to make conversation. “Don’ know why you bother,” her mother said thickly, pushing food around her plate with no interest. Her bottom lip and teeth were black, stained from wine. “Makes her happy,” Helen said simply. Her mother rolled her eyes. “Doesn’ know you from Adam, dear. ” Helen looked down at her plate. She wasn’t Gran any more, she wanted to say, but she was still a person.

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