McCullum

McCullum knows the smell of wretchedness the moment he enters a room. 

Three mothers: one has a baby tethered to breast. One has a squalling toddler grabbing at ankle, knee, skirt. One is squat down on a carpet with two diaper-wearing infants. For a split second he thinks of Mowgli. He knows this is wrong. He knows THIS is wrong. 

He tells himself he is here because everyone needs to know; that his work can lead to change. But in the forty years since his first published click, nothing says to him that his has been a worthwhile existence. War is war, whether the battlefield is outside or inside. He admonishes himself for even comparing his plight with theirs. 

The mothers are too young to be mothers. On the floor are grimy mattresses. Rucked-up sheets and blankets. Babies’ paraphernalia lies where it landed. There’s a small, shuttered window. A sink. Rusty electric hob. A choking cupboard with one door ajar. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling casting beguiling shadows.

McCullum should not be in here. If he were found, it would result in a savage beating at the very least. He knows this. Knew this before he was snuck in through a back door. 

He unshoulders his camera.  It is much used and old. Shows it to them. He is adept at speaking without words. The mothers smile at him; lips painted poppy-red. They run fingers over the curved body; nails candy-coloured and natty. He feels an unwanted deference. He waves it away, ushers them to sit together. The composition already set in his mind. The mothers assemble on one mattress. They adjust their robes and lean in, closer together. McCullum gets down on one knee and clicks. The world needs to know, he tells himself. He’s here because it needs to know.