‘Saw you on the road.’
‘Yeah? Should’ve stopped me. Shit. Wish to Christ—’
‘Get on with it, man.’
‘Sorry. When we got there we stopped around the back—’
‘At the double gates?’
‘No, no—there’s a single gate further around, near the stables. It’s more inconspicuous, and there’s good cover between it and the house. I dropped him there and he tells me to be back in an hour. He’s carrying an overnight bag. I watched him slip inside, then went to the drive-through liquor store in Lancefield and bought myself a bottle of Tequila. Stopped on a back road, sluggin’ it down. I was shittin’ blood, bad. By the time I got back to the house I was half-tanked, but, man, I needed to be. Stan jumps into the car, throws his bag on the back seat and says, “Drive! Go!” Shit. So now I’m Steve McQueen in The Getaway, except I’ve got this big, ugly bastard next to me instead of Ali McGraw. When we were moving I looked across at him. I knew he’d done something terrible. He was heaving, there was blood smeared on his right hand, there was this . . . fine red mist on his face, hair and clothes—everywhere—as if he’d been spray-painted. He was staring through the windshield, absolutely rigid. He wouldn’t say shit, but I pushed and shoved and slapped him, and then he . . . he turns and gives me this maniac stare. I’ll never forget his words:“I did it. I killed my parents. Mate. You’ve got to help me. I’ve knocked ’em both!” “Bullshit!” I says, but I know it’s got to be true. It’s all over him.’
Stiles sat down and covered his face. Shaun had one cigarette left. He didn’t want Stiles going to the corner store in case the thread was broken, so he lit it and gave it to him.
‘By the time we hit town I was full bottle,’ he said. ‘Only by then, I didn’t wanna be. The way Stan told it, he and Steph cooked it up together—apart from Simmonds and Turner. They didn’t have a clue it was even on the menu. It was a private arrangement: Stan’d have his revenge for the death of his mother and brother, and Steph . . . Steph scored a quick, clean divorce. And afterwards . . . they’d have each other.’
‘That fits.’ Shaun was reminded of Turner’s words: No-one was supposed to die. What a fucking disaster: the ‘classic inside-out job’ had more inside dimensions than even the chief architects realised . . .
‘Go on.’
‘Plan was: Steph would go out riding as usual, except she’d have a float problem. Stan fixed it so the axle would run dry. So, Steph unhooks the car and heads home. See, being the widow, she would naturally be a suspect in her old man’s murder, so they arranged it so she would arrive back at the house while all this shit was going on, someone robbing and killing her husband. She’d put on an act, and Stan’d give her a proper biffing. Cops would then believe she had blundered innocently into this, uh, violent scenario. That was her cover.’ He sucked hard on the cigarette.
‘He gave her a bit more than that, didn’t he?’ Shaun said.
‘Like I said before, Stan might be clinically insane, but he’s cunning with it. He realised that with George gone, Steph would inherit everything, the whole box and dice. Given the father-son relationship, this was a fair assumption. He wouldn’t get a cracker. On top of which he must’ve seen that he was no catch, that Steph, beautiful nympho that she was, would drop him for the first pretty boy that came along. Shit, he must’ve seen she was probably only using him to get what she wanted. But Stan loved her. She was his squeeze. It’s the old, old story, seen it in a bunch of movies: if he couldn’t have her, well, no-one could. So he decided to dump her before she dumped him. He waited upstairs while you guys robbed George and gave him shit and, at the prearranged time, in strolls Steph. She, of course, is expecting to see Stan, not three hooded bastards playing merry hell. She panics. Stan waits, maybe hoping you’ll fix the problem for him, but when you’re gone he rushes downstairs and sees George and Steph both trussed up, eyes and lips sealed with packing tape. First he fills his overnighter with the dope, then removes the tape from his father’s eyes so George can see who is on the other end of the shotgun that is in his face. Imagine how much he must’ve hated him. George apparently says one word:“You.” Then Stan takes off his head at the stem. Steph’s wriggling like crazy, she must’ve sensed it was all wrong. Stan doesn’t help her, or even give her a biffing. He does a lot more than that.’ He dragged on the dwindling cigarette, holding it inside his hand as if it were a roach. ‘At least she didn’t see it coming. He spared her that.’
Stiles threw down the last butt. Shaun was remembering Stephanie’s entrance. It was a funny thing, but even at the time, with everything that was going on, he instinctively thought there was something odd about the way she performed. She seemed puzzled, or confused, more than genuinely shocked. Now he knew why: there were three intruders, not one. And none of them was Stan—she would’ve known him even in a ski mask. She must’ve seen then that somehow she’d been fucked over. It was a scene from a melodramatic movie, and Stephanie played it like the third-rate actress she was. That was, until she found out Stan had a different ending in store for her.
Poor Steph.
Poor, stupid Steph, for trusting in Stan. On countless occasions—in real life, not just in movies—women had exploited their magnetic power over men in exactly the way Steph had done, but few of them ever got anything except pain for their trouble. Every case was different, and yet they were all the same. Shaun was reminded of an episode some years earlier, in which the town cop was on with a farmer’s wife. She prevailed upon him to bump off the farmer, so they could be together. The chemistry of sex and murder was a potent, irresistible mix: the cop shot the farmer, then attended the scene in his official capacity. An itinerant intruder was blamed, and they got away with it. They were home free. But then she discovered he was having it off with someone else on the side, so she gave him up, fully aware that she’d go down too. Revenge for his sexual betrayal was far more important to her than twenty years in the slammer.
He became aware that Stiles had picked up where he’d left off.
‘. . . while we drove back. We delivered the dope to Salisbury’s place, then zapped over to Stan’s apartment in Carlton. He had a shower and put his clothes in a plastic bag, which we tossed in a factory dumpster on the way to my place. I’d worked out what to do by then. I was pissed enough to go with it. Anyhow I had no choice by that time: I was already an accessory. The alibi was that we were watching videos all afternoon. I got the idea from 12 Angry Men—ever seen it?’
‘Uh—doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Top show. Classic, in the true sense. Son is accused of murdering his father. Nice ironic touch. Everyone on the jury except Henry Fonda assumes he did it, open and shut. It’s a sweltering day, there’s no air conditioning and they just want to find him guilty and get the hell out. The boy’s alibi is that he had been to the movies, but when questioned by police he can’t remember what he had seen, or who was in it.
‘At that time I was in my Paul Newman period. I had three of his early ones at home: Somebody Up There Likes Me, The Left-Handed Gun and The Hustler. We stopped at my place to pick them up, but couldn’t stay there to use the alibi because people may have seen me leave earlier, my car wasn’t in the drive, so I couldn’t have been home watching movies, could I? Instead we went to my girlfriend’s place.’
‘Linda Powell.’
‘Yeah, Linda. She was a Pommie, and a schoolteacher, but she was all right, Linda. Loved a root and a cool drink. We bought a case of Victor Bravo and some more Tequila and dropped in unannounced. She lived in East Preston, in a neighbourhood where cops are the natural enemy. So we got stuck into the piss and watched vintage Newman. When she’d had a few I said to Linda that if anyone inquired, we’d been with her all afternoon. That was all. She was cool. I had to coach ’em both on the storylines to avoid the 12 Angry Men problem, the boy not knowing what he should’ve known. Turned out to be a good day: I even jumped in the cot with her while Stan got smashed on the Mexican and VB chasers, wat
ching Fast Eddie towelling up Minnesota Fats, potting ball after ball and saying, “How can I possibly lose?” God, I love that movie.’
Shaun looked at Stiles. He wasn’t trying to be witty. The guy was nuts. Crazy in his own harmless way, but dead-set crazy all the same.
‘Have you made your statement to the cops yet? About the drive-by.’
Stiles came out of his reverie.‘Uh, no, not yet. When I rang they said . . . they’d send someone around. Hasn’t happened so far. Typical. Where’s a cop when you need one?’
‘You want to watch out for Stan. He might come back, especially if he finds out you’re gonna blow the whistle on him. Word travels in the wind.’
‘Yeah, I know. Still, what can you do? Shit, I might have to go into witness protection. Either that or go on the run. Otherwise I could finish up fish bait.’
After a silent spell, Shaun said, ‘Why’d he do it?’
Stiles looked at him. ‘What?’
‘The drive-by.’
‘Oh. Well, as a matter of fact, he plans to bump you off. Wanted me to assist, reprise my old driver’s role. Must think I’m Ryan O’Neal. Anyway, I refused. Stan doesn’t appreciate being refused. Not the Godfather. The Godfather. Christ.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
‘Put you off? It’s a strange thing . . . He actually blames you for the death of his parents. By that I guess he means George and Steph. Somehow, in the bizarre depths of what’s left of his conscious mind, the part that hasn’t been eaten away, he has managed to exonerate himself completely. He’s now the bereaved son, out for revenge. He actually believes he didn’t do it. Not only that, he’s also managed to morph Iris and Steph into one and the same. It’s his twisted way of dealing with the guilt, right? His conscience has simply collapsed under its own weight. So, put it on someone else. Get rid of it. And you’re the obvious candidate, my friend.’
‘I see that. But if he can’t find me, you’ll serve. Because you’re there.’
‘Yeah. And refusing to help him, refusing to play along with his bullshit, that’s a slap in the face. It says: come on, you did it, Stan. Face facts, man. And he can’t. Can’t cop it. He’s a fuckin’ psychiatrist’s dream, no doubt. There’s a thesis in that guy.’ He pushed a hand through his unwashed hair,sighed and said,‘I don’t hang with Stan as often as I used to,which means I can appreciate how far he has deteriorated whenever I do see him. He’s livin’ with the pixies. Maybe he hears little voices. Maybe he’s schizo. Guess it’s in the genes—George was pretty damn warped. Then again, he’s cunning . . . could be playing mind games. If so, he’s a fuckin’ good actor—better than Brando ever was.’
‘What are his plans for me?’ Shaun said.
‘Drive-by. What else?’
Oh, wonderful. Does he know where I live?
If not, he can find out. Driven psychopaths like Stan always do. Then he remembered: shit, it was in the fucking paper.
Silence descended on the tiny playground. Shaun felt he was on information overload. He was also starting to feel a little unsettled. Different thoughts flashed through his mind— some connected, others not. With all the pieces apparently in place, it was now clear that everyone involved had a bit of it, but no single person, not even Stan, had the whole picture.
Stiles snapped him out of it.‘You know what?’ he said.‘Stan used to babble on about the Menendez brothers, Lyle and Erik. Dudes that shot their wealthy parents over in LA, remember?’
‘Yeah. Of course.’ The names in that sensational case were almost as well known as O.J. Simpson’s. There were obvious parallels with Stan. Amazingly, the name Menendez had jumped unbidden into his mind one second before Stiles had said it.
‘They were his fuckin’ heroes, man. His inspiration. Can you grasp that? I remember . . . he used to say they almost pulled off the perfect crime, except that they started throwing money around straight after the murders, when they should’ve been in mourning, and then the younger one went to water. Stan said he wouldn’t spend up—he learned his lesson in that restaurant robbery, when he was busted for doing the same thing. You’d probably be familiar with that.’
Shaun nodded. Their major problem, as he saw it then, was that there were two of them sharing this terrible secret. The younger, weaker one—Erik—cracked early on and spilled his guts to his shrink. Then they started arguing with each other, after which it was only a matter of time before the whole scam came apart. Stan didn’t have the problem of a weak accomplice, but that only meant he had to tear himself apart—along with whoever else was in range.
23
Suzen Christopher was inspecting herself. Swaying slightly in front of the full-length mirror that covered the wardrobe in Stan’s bedroom, she put her face so close to the glass it misted up. Even through the mist, and in her stoned condition, she was impressed with what she saw. Jet-black, dead straight hair fell over her forehead like a raven’s wing. Under the fluorescent light there was a slight metallic sheen to it. Her eyes were a Gothic marvel: black, pencil-thin brows, long, curling black lashes, kohl (imbued with specks of silver glitter) painted on the lids, and a heavy dose of mascara underneath. Suzen wore ice-blue contacts, which gave her that living dead, vampiric quality. Her naturally pallid skin—which saw little daylight, let alone any sunshine—was a ghostly white in contrast. She had applied a compact powder of the palest pink, partly to emphasise the ghostliness but also to conceal her acne scars and the chronic rash on her forehead and chin. Her lipstick was of the purest matt black, applied with great care so that the lips appeared thinner than they were.
The overall effect, combined with her full array of silver facial adornments, was stunning. She thrust out her overlong tongue, displaying the three silver studs.
‘You are the living dead,’ she whispered at the misted-up glass. She peered at herself with the vacuous, chemical eyes that were completely encircled with black: eyes that stared out of an open grave.
Suzen had given herself a complete makeover.
She spread her hands, admiring the nail job. In place of her real nails, which she was prone to biting, she had long, perfectly shaped silk wraps, polished to a high black gloss. They were too, too brilliant: long, tapering talons that looked as if she’d dipped her fingers in a vat of black blood.
Her toenails were also black.
Black, black, black: the new black.
‘Wicked,’ she whispered to her reflection.
The new dress she had on was a black velvet, body-hugging sheath with velvet buttons down the front, and long sleeves with lace ruffles at the cuffs.
The entire makeover had cost her a bomb, but she didn’t care. The hairstyling and nail job set her back two hundred and twenty, and the dress was a hundred and fifty. The contacts . . . well, the whole deal had nearly cleaned her out, but it was worth it.
She lifted the dress and pushed down the fishnet pantyhose: she’d trimmed her beaver to a small, perfect triangle, immediately below her PROPERTY OF WILEY tattoo. Through the even mat of hair her two labia rings glinted.
‘Sexy beast,’ she breathed, swaying giddily.
She went out into the lounge room. There was Stan, sleeping on his side on the couch in his tracksuit pants, the black and white satin ones with the press-studs down the seams. His mouth was open. Snores rippled the air. A bottle of Smirnoff was on the floor next to him, along with an empty glass. He’d been watching ‘Saturday Night Live’ on TV and dozed off. It was 1.30 am.
‘Hey, Wolfman,’ she said. ‘Whyncha go to bed?’
No response.
Earlier in the evening they’d been watching a dirty video. Stan had suddenly come on to her like a man possessed, but couldn’t raise it. Suzen threw everything she could at him, but to no avail. It was friggin’ hopeless. In the end she gave him a hand job, and even though he never had a halfway decent boner from go to whoa, he wanted it bad, so bad he wouldn’t let her stop, even for a spell. God, her wrist ached. So, half an hour later . . . but then, even w
hen she finally got him off, all he could manage was this sad little dribble.
The spirit was willing, but the flesh wouldn’t do squat.
The Wolfman was losing his bite. But right now he was snoring.
Stan the Man. One more ‘a’ and Stan became Satan. The words coalesced nicely in her stoked brain.
Suzen wandered into the spare room which, as well as serving as a storeroom, accommodated Stan’s iMac computer. It was the same outdated model as Suzen’s. Her fingertips trailed lightly over it, giving her a nice buzz: that hard plastic was so friggin’ tactile. As far as she was aware he only used it to surf the Net, especially the porno and underground sites. She’d been with him a couple of times when he’d browsed some bondage sites, looking to push the boundaries. There were also bookshelves containing some books, CDs, ’zines (‘The War Against Terrorism’, ‘Guns and Ammo’—ugh!), newspapers, his precious photo albums and a pile of school exercise books with red binding that were full of old clippings. She bumped against the computer: Whoops. Stan/Satan didn’t like her going near his stuff, even being in the room, but Suzen was cool and brave about it—as long as she could hear him snoring. She was so trippy and ultra-sensitised: earlier, before the dirty movie, they had smoked some dope. It was excellent shit, lovely green ganja with no stems or stalks in it at all. It was also laced with heroin, and that was a real bonus. Man, it packed a punch. It was the first time Suzen had ‘chased the dragon’, but it wouldn’t be the last. Stan told her he got it from his hairdresser in Carlton. Some hairdresser! Get me some!
On top of that she’d consumed more than her share of wine, beer and whatnot.
Being a seasoned substance user, Suzen had no fear of ‘addiction’: she was instinctively receptive, able to trip the light fantastic and push it to the max without tipping over into the abyss—same way a committed alcoholic can somehow function right through a total bender without ever lapsing into unconsciousness. Every so often something weird flashed across her vision—vivid snapshots she only glimpsed for a split second. What that was all about, she had no friggin’ idea. Just go with it. Embrace it. Love your drug and it will love you back. This particular boost was having an unusual and very interesting hallucinatory side effect, as if she’d tripped on acid or mushrooms and was experiencing momentary ‘insights’ and ‘revelations’. And her visual perspective was way distorted, as if she were trapped inside a goldfish bowl. There it was again: some tiny creature scurrying from the corner of her eye. Whoa.
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