“Thank you,” he says, stepping around me and into the living room. “I am glad that you approve.”
“Of course,” I reply. “I suppose I just wish that less went on without me knowing.”
“Oh?” asks Mr Roeg. “But these are your wishes… aren’t they?”
“Who told you that?”
“Mr Brannagh,” says Mr Roeg. “You tell him what to do next and he facilitates it. Yes?”
I again lower to speak with him, “I mentioned that I am here to determine who is sincere. To make sure that I can trust those around me.”
“Yes,” nods Mr Roeg.
“Can I trust you?”
“Of course,” he replies, “I’m your artist, sir. I am the decorator and I do so with passion.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe in you.”
“But why are you tattooing these young women? To what end?”
“Because they are offerings to the winged ones. They demonstrate our conviction and desire for their return.”
“And Mr Brannagh told you that this is what I want? That these are my instructions?”
“Yes, sir. That is clearly what he said. He passes on your wishes.”
“You say you believe in me?” I ask.
“Yes,” nods Mr Roeg, emphatically. “You are the Messiah.”
“You believe that I have the power to return the dead to the realm of the living?”
“Yes,” he nods. “Yes.”
“Then, Mr Roeg, are you prepared to die and be returned?”
Mr Roeg pauses before answering, staring at me blankly with his beady eyes. “I beg your pardon, Messiah?”
“Are you prepared to die and be returned?”
Mr Roeg continues to stare. “I… are you asking me to die?”
“It’s very simple, Mr Roeg. You believe in me and my power. You believe that I can return the dead to the living. If this is so, then you are prepared to die and be reborn.”
Mr Roeg is blank faced. Almost catatonic. The weight of my proposition clearly an uncomfortable burden. But this is what I demand. It’s a response I require to determine the sincerity of Mr Roeg and his convictions. Is he a blind follower or a conniving manipulator?
“Yes,” he says, finally. “I do believe. I am prepared to die and be reborn.”
“Good,” I say. “Follow me.”
We return up the hallway, back to the bathtub in which Britney lies, washing in preparation to be defaced. Unwittingly tied to unseen strings. Threads that I, regrettably, have played a part in dangling.
We step into the bathroom. Britney continues to lie submerged in the steaming water and she smiles at me with such admiration when I reappear.
“Care to join me?” she asks.
My eyes are unable to avoid a brief inspection of her body. I walk over to a rack and remove a white, fluffy towel. I hold it up and smile. “We need to use this bathtub for a few minutes, Britney. Do you mind vacating for just a moment?”
Mr Roeg stands by the bathroom door. While his unusually small facial features are at times hard to decipher, there is no questioning his fear. Britney stands from the water, a coquettish smile forming as I hand her the towel. She wraps it around her body.
“If you could leave the bathroom for a few minutes, that would be greatly appreciated,” I say. “I assure you that you’ll be able to return very soon.”
“That’s ok,” she smiles. “I’m already very clean.”
Her eyes linger on me as she vacates the room. I close the door behind her. The water in the bathtub is deep enough for me to submerge Mr Roeg and hold him under. And I have the strength to.
“Should I get undressed?” asks Mr Roeg.
“No need,” I say, removing my jacket and tossing it in the corner.
I lift him up under his arms, his miniature body like that of a toddler. He doesn’t fight. I then lower him into the hot water, shoes first, and he gasps as he slowly slides in. He utters nothing as he leans back and goes beneath the surface, allowing me to end his life. Mr Roeg knows that I have the strength to hold him under if he changes his mind. In the water up to my elbows, I keep him pinned to the bottom of the bathtub. He keeps his eyes shut, as if asleep. He is still and serene. A few small bubbles of oxygen escape his nose and I wonder how long he will take to die.
I find myself locked in the moment. Staring not at a blind and vulnerable little man, but at the darkness. I wonder how wide the void in Mr Roeg’s soul must have been to require a calling such as this. He must have been so empty and lonely to buy into this deception. To become embroiled in Brannagh’s manipulation. To stencil innocent, pretty things with the violence in his head. To illustrate the evil of these scriptures, these fictional amalgamations of folklore. Directing anger at Mr Roeg is pointless. He requires my deep, sincere pity. He needs it quickly too.
I wrench him upward by his lapels and he takes a heavy breath as his face breaks the surface of the water. I rise to my feet and walk over to the hand towel rack next to the basin. I dry my arms.
“Have I died?” he asks, spluttering, wiping water from his eyes. “Has it happened?”
“No, Mr Roeg,” I say, quietly. “It hasn’t happened. But you have proved your loyalty.”
“Oh,” he gasps. “Oh.”
“Mr Roeg,” I say, returning to the edge of the bathtub, kneeling down. “Listen to my words very carefully.”
“Yes?” he says, still sitting in the water up to his collarbone.
“I don’t want you to take orders from Mr Brannagh anymore. I don’t want you to do anything unless I tell you myself.”
“Really?”
“Mr Roeg… Mr Brannagh is… a false prophet.”
Mr Roeg stares, shocked.
“C’mon,” I say, offering him my towel. “Get out and dry yourself.”
Mr Roeg stands and climbs from the bathtub. He looks ridiculous, his clothes completely drenched.
“I was ready to die,” he says, quietly. “Jack. I hope you can see that.”
“I know,” I say. “Now listen to me. No more inking people. No more drawing on girls. Understand?”
“Okay,” he replies, sullenly. “I’m just… very confused right now.”
“You and me both.”
“So should I still start my work on the pillows tonight?” asks Mr Roeg, removing his small jacket and wringing it out over the bath. “I was due to start tonight. I have a lot of fine ideas.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “What pillows?”
“The pillows,” says Mr Roeg. “The grand offering. I haven’t started any of the artwork yet. Mr Brannagh said we need to start as soon as possible, because keeping them asleep is quite a task.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But it was your instructions. You explained how the offering must be put together.”
“Mr Brannagh told you that. Explain to me this offering.”
Mr Roeg looks alarmed. “When your father and his people return, they expect a grand offering. We’ve been putting it together for many months now. Your wishes.”
“But what is the offering?”
“The offering… it’s what you asked for.”
“Mr Roeg, if you make me ask again, I will drown you and you will not be reborn. I’ll have you stuffed and mounted.”
“The offering is two hundred souls. Living flesh.”
“Why do you call them pillows?”
Mr Roeg shakes his head. “Forgive me, but I am very confused. These have been your wishes.”
There’s a knock at the bathroom door. A quick, frantic knock. “Jack?” calls Britney.
“Yes?” I reply. “We’re still busy.”
“It’s Delilah,” says Britney, through the door. “I don’t think she’s breathing.”
“I might have given her too much sedative,” says Mr Roeg, concern crossing his face.
I pull open the door, rushing out to the living room where Delilah, whose na
me I had forgotten, is lying cold and still on the mattress.
“When did she stop breathing?” I ask.
“Just then,” says Britney, becoming upset. “I was sitting next to her. She became very still.”
I lean over Delilah, who I now remember was a marketing girl that worked at a venue Big Bang Theory performed at in our early days, and check that her tongue isn’t blocking her airway. When I see that it isn’t, I quickly begin resuscitation. I have no idea what drug has knocked her out. But I can only hope that this works.
I continue compressions on her chest followed by breaths into her mouth and then alternate. With every attempt to revive her I lose confidence. My compressions become agitated. I push down on her with more force. I can feel Mr Roeg and Britney standing behind me, watching, and expecting a miracle. I breathe deeply into her mouth and she coughs. I pull my head away and watch Delilah take a long inhalation.
“It is truly the work of the Messiah and the divine power of his heritage,” says Mr Roeg.
“Amazing…” says Britney. “I can’t believe I’ve finally seen it with my own eyes.”
Delilah continues to cough and I roll her on to her side, in case she vomits.
“Mr Roeg, you clearly fucked up your dosage,” I say.
“But she was never in danger,” he replies. “We have you here to save us. You and your father are protecting us.”
Britney kneels down beside me as I tend to Delilah. “Jack,” whispers Britney. “Please make love to me.”
“Now is probably not an appropriate time.”
Britney and I dress Delilah in a silk gown and I carry her up to my floor. Mr Roeg and Britney follow. At the door of my apartment I prop Delilah against me while I reach for my keys. Behind me an apartment door opens. I glance over my shoulder and see Laurie. She’s leaning in her doorway, wearing jeans and a white singlet top. Her arms are folded and she doesn’t look impressed.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” she says. “Are you ignoring me?”
“Laurie, hi,” I say, turning back to my apartment door to push the keys into the lock. “I’ve been meaning to call you. I’ve been very busy.”
“It looks like it,” says Laurie.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know this must look a little strange…” I push the door open and scoop Delilah into my arms, stepping inside.
“Strange?” calls Laurie. “No, this isn’t strange, Jack. Why would I be surprised to see you walking into your apartment with an unconscious girl, a blonde trashbag in a towel and a wet, creepy dwarf? I wouldn’t expect anything less!”
“I am not creepy!” exclaims Mr Roeg. “You’re a disgusting little princess, whose parents have spoiled her rotten,” he hisses.
“Laurie,” I say, balancing Delilah as I usher Britney and Mr Roeg into my apartment. “I’ll call you. I promise.”
“You should,” says Laurie.
“I will,” I reply.
“Because I’m pregnant,” says Laurie.
Britney slams my apartment door and Laurie disappears from view.
“What a rude little bitch,” says Britney.
I barely have time for Laurie’s revelation to register. I carry Delilah down my hallway and lay her on my bed next to Stephanie, who is still asleep. I check that they are both breathing and have a pulse.
When I return to my living room, Britney is sitting on my couch, still wearing her towel and flipping through a magazine. Mr Roeg is in my kitchen, shivering.
“I’d give you fresh clothes, Mr Roeg. But I’m a size larger than you.”
“That is very humourous, my lord,” he says, bowing.
“Cut that out,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Stop worshiping me,” I reply. “I’m not in the mood.”
“But, you have now performed two miracles. You are truly the Messiah.”
“Enough!” I yell. I find a glass and pour myself a spirit. I take a long sip of the golden liquid, feeling it burn my throat. Savouring it. I recall Natalie telling me that, as far as she is aware, there are no listening devices on my balcony. It might be a safe place to talk. I then walk over to Mr Roeg and say very quietly, “Come outside and tell me about these pillows.”
I pour myself a fifth spirit from the bottle and then place it back on the coffee table. Mr Roeg is sitting on the balcony, the cool night wind drying his clothing. Britney, Delilah and Stephanie are all asleep in my bed, each in various states of narcotic debilitation. I’ve been in to check on them a few times. They’re all breathing. Alive and, in the short term, content.
Mr Roeg has agreed to take me to the pillow people, which I don’t think I will believe until I see them with my own eyes. But I can’t leave the three girls here in this building. This so-called Disciplinary. I send a text message to Natalie on the number she gave me. “Three girls in my apartment that need help, protection. I have to leave. Babysit?”
Her text message response is swift. “Don’t leave your apartment. Need you to stay there. Do the girls need a doctor?”
I type back, “Leaving my apartment. Driving to Godiva. You can follow. Send someone to watch girls.”
Natalie’s next response isn’t as quick. I finish my spirit and pour another before she replies. “Sending two of my people. ‘Friends’ you met on tour. They’ll be armed.”
“Nice. Arms will help. Names?”
“Lou and Gaz.”
Five minutes later my apartment phone rings. It’s one of the doormen in the building’s foyer. “Sir, I have two gentleman here that say they are guests of yours.”
“Lou and Gaz?” I ask, jovially. “Send them up!”
There’s a knock at my door and I open it. Two strapping, yet casually dressed, gentleman stand before me. While they’re not wearing government issue uniforms and earpieces, they have wide necks and look a lot like special agents.
“Nice to see you again, boys. Come on in,” I say.
“Thanks, Jack,” says one of them with a clean white smile.
They follow me into my kitchen. I find a piece of paper and a pen and write, “Three girls in bedroom. Stephanie and Delilah have taken large doses of sedatives and are stable. Sleeping it off. Britney is just drunk. Seems like she’s on drugs, but isn’t.”
One of the agents reads the letter and gives me a reassuring nod. Then he says, “So how have you been? It’s good to see you again, friend.”
“I’m good, I’m good,” I reply. “Still recovering from the tour, man. You know how it is. It takes a lot out of you. Puts a lot into you too.”
“Nice,” says the other guard. “Well you look good.”
“You’re too kind,” I smile, before adding, “well, as I said, I’ve got to sneak out of here for a little while to visit someone. But make yourselves at home. There’s more alcohol than you can drink. I think one of the big games is on television tonight.”
“Yeah, I think the ultimate final is on in the national league,” says one of the guards, either Lou or Gaz.
The agents, I assume as protocol, scope out my apartment for a while, checking every room. They examine wardrobes, cupboards, shelving, under furniture and in the fan outlet in the bathroom. In the hallway I see one of them, either Lou or Gaz, hold up the five fingers of his right hand. This possibly means he has found five listening devices.
I walk out to the balcony. “Ready to roll, Mr Roeg?”
The little man is sitting sullenly in one my outdoor chairs, gazing out at the blinking lights of the city’s midnight hour. “Yes,” he says. Then, turning to look up at me, he adds, “Has Mr Brannagh really been lying to us?”
“I’ll explain later,” I say.
With Mr Roeg strapped in the front passenger seat, I roll my sports car out of the garage and into the side alley of my apartment building. As I weave through the traffic on the way out of town towards Godiva, it’s hard to tell if I’m being followed. But as we hit the outskirts and I take the main turn-off out to the rural areas, it’s appa
rent that there are at least five vehicles heading in the same direction as me.
“So they’re beneath the labbia pen?” I ask Mr Roeg.
“Yes, there are underground dwellings beneath where the pen was erected. Old servants’ quarters. Lots of space down there. There’s a warren of corridors and rooms.”
“Will there be anyone down there?” I ask.
“There are a few people, medical students, I believe, who are tending to the pillows.”
“Okay, well they shouldn’t be much trouble.”
When we arrive at the long stretch of road that passes Godiva, there are at least three cars still following us. I slow down to find the obscured turn-off that winds to the front gate and then turn off and park. The three cars cruise past behind us on the main road. I’m confident they will pull over somewhere out of sight. Godiva’s grand metal gates appear in the headlights, as does the intercom on its thin stand. I lower my window as it aligns with the small box.
“State your name,” says Godiva’s sultry voice.
“Hello, sweetheart,” I say. “It’s Jack. I’ve come to visit you.”
“Jack, you do not have a scheduled visit,” she replies, in an apologetic tone.
“It’s a surprise visit,” I say. “Humans frequently surprise each other. Now I am surprising you.”
“Jack, you do not have clearance at this present time. However, I can contact Mr Brannagh and I’m sure he will clear you.”
“Wait,” I say. “Don’t do that.” I turn to Mr Roeg. “You must have clearance.”
“I believe I do,” he replies.
“Well get out of your seat and ask her to let us in,” I hiss.
Mr Roeg hurriedly unbuckles his seat belt and stands up, leaning across me. “Godiva, this is Mr Roeg. Jack is a guest of mine. I am here to begin work on the major project. We will need complete clearance all the way to the bunker.”
After a brief pause, Godiva replies, “Of course, Mr Roeg. Access is granted.”
The wide gates creak to life.
I park my car on a section of driveway that wraps around the side of the grand home. The white lights around Godiva’s gardens are on, providing a small glow. But the mansion itself is drenched in darkness. No lights shine through any windows. The rear yard and the path down to the labbia pen are close, only fifty metres in front of us.
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