The Genesis Flaw

by L. A. Larkin

  ‘To show you we aren’t that different.’

  The small office was only lit by a desk lamp, the head of which hung low, like a wilting tulip. The resulting semi-darkness and the close walls made Serena feel as if she were in a cell.

  ‘Al, our lives are completely different.’ Serena was partly in character and partly affronted at the idea she was like this ruthless man.

  ‘I mean, my family is everything to me—my daughter, mom, dad, grandpop, my sis and brother. They drive me to do what I do. I want to make them proud, and they are proud; real proud. I want Jen to have a good life, a life even better than mine. It’s a great tradition of ours in the States.’

  Serena clocked why he was saying this. ‘Yes, I see. I want a family of my own and you’re saying that your family drives your ambition.’

  He moved closer.

  ‘So that’s why I come down hard on anyone who gets in my way.’ Bukowski said it with the smile of a man offering lollies but the words hit home. ‘I will protect my own.’

  Unsure if the remark were a veiled threat or an attempt to identify common ground, she betrayed none of the fear welling inside her. ‘Of course you do,’ she smiled back at him. ‘Al, I really appreciate your candour and I’ve had a wonderful night, but I’m completely exhausted, so I think I’ll make for home now.’

  He dropped his chin forward. ‘Ah, I’ve come on too strong and embarrassed you. I apologise.’

  Before she could say anything, he left the room. This was too good to be true. She hesitated and glanced at the monitor. The Gene-Asis logo hovered on the screen: an indigo blue image of the planet, as if seen from space, with a tiny green seedling sprouting from the top of it. Behind the seedling shone an orange sunrise. She tapped the Enter key to see if Bukowski was logged in. He was. She couldn’t believe he had been so careless. She touched the mouse and the cursor responded to her touch: it wasn’t a biometric mouse. A sharp intake of breath betrayed her excitement. Her only obstacle was the ten-digit code on Bukowski’s watch fob. Somehow, she needed to get him to touch the watch face. She’d then have two minutes to access the Highly Protected files. She would have to stay at the party a little longer.

  The door bust open and Gordana swept in.

  ‘Darling, what are you doing in here? Not work, I hope? Come join me.’ Gordana took her hand and led her back to the lounge room, her long fingernails momentarily scratching Serena’s palm. Serena felt as though her heart had almost burst through her chest.

  ‘I just don’t really know anybody here. Al left me alone to get some space.’

  ‘My darling, you know me.’ Gordana giggled, then nodded almost imperceptively at Bukowski.

  Candles burned low. The view outside the penthouse had changed since her arrival, as the top floors slowly revolved clockwise. Darko emerged from the flickering darkness surrounding the group, holding a large joint. He lit it with a candle, sucking on it, inhaling deeply; then, head back, he released the smoke from his lungs.

  He passed it to Gordana, who dragged on it slowly and seductively. She held it out to Serena, her lipstick leaving a red mark like a wax seal. Serena paused, wanting to refuse. Despite working in advertising agencies most of her working life, she’d only once succumbed to their drug culture, when she’d smoked a marijuana joint to help her relax after a particularly harrowing pitch. But relaxed was not how she wanted to be right now. She needed to keep her wits about her and remember her role as Amber Crosby, the PA. At the same time, she needed to hang around at the party for a little longer and blend in. If the group got off their faces, it would be easy for her to slip away and use Bukowski’s system.

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine with the wine,’ Serena said.

  ‘Go on, try it,’ said Gordana.

  ‘I, er, won’t, thanks.’

  Gordana shrugged her shoulders and handed it to Craig, who dragged on it deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs for a long time before he exhaled. He smiled cheekily at Serena and offered the joint to her again, Gordana’s lipstick print now a pale smudge. But Bukowski took it from Craig and walked over to her. He didn’t smoke it, but kneeled next to her and spoke quietly.

  ‘Try it. You’re perfectly safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.’

  He peered up at her, the joint in his hand releasing a spiralling plume of smoke.

  Everyone in the room was watching her, willing her to take it. Bukowski didn’t move his outstretched arm. Serena didn’t want to take it but knew that if she intended to stay, she’d have to go with the flow. This was too good an opportunity to find the professor’s report. Serena knew that one puff wouldn’t have much effect on her: she would still be in control of what she said and did. She placed her lips on the joint’s dry paper and inhaled gingerly. Warmth tickled her throat, and she sucked a little harder, the hot smoke swirling into her lungs. It tasted bad, nothing like she remembered. She coughed as Bukowski took the joint and gently patted her back.

  ‘Been a long time, has it?’ he asked.

  ‘A while. But I’ve never tasted anything like that before. What kind of grass is it?’ she said taking a gulp of wine to get rid of the taste.

  ‘An atom bomb,’ said Darko, leaning back into the sofa.

  ‘What’s an atom bomb?’

  ‘Oh, a special mix. It’s very good.’

  Sasha and Gordana gave each other knowing looks.

  ‘I’m going to get some water,’ said Serena, standing.

  ‘I’ll get it for you,’ replied Bukowski, passing the joint to Sasha. It hadn’t touched his lips.

  ‘Ah, a well-brought-up young lady!’ said Craig.

  ‘Not too well brought up, I hope,’ murmured Darko, his eyes closed, and fingers moving to the music as if conducting an orchestra.

  Serena registered his odd comment. But she flopped back into the armchair, trying to deal with the sensation that she was one step removed from the room and the people in it.

  ‘Well, believe it or not,’ Sasha said, exhaling, ‘I didn’t have my first joint till I moved to Sydney. I come from a strict Adelaide Catholic family.’

  ‘Ah, nothing beats a good Catholic girl. They go off like a frog in a sock!’ said Craig, patting Sasha’s knee.

  Serena continued to feel very strange. She had been slightly giggly from a joint before, but never like this. She needed water, and left the room to search for the kitchen. She felt along the hallway wall for the light switch but couldn’t find one. She could see a subdued light coming from the room ahead, which she guessed might be the kitchen. But she couldn’t be sure, as the door was almost closed. Serena heard Bukowski’s voice, drowned out by a running tap. She couldn’t hear his words clearly.

  ‘No, not this time. I’m going to …’ Bukowski said.

  What did he say? ‘No, I’m going to …’ what? What was that?

  ‘… enjoy this,’ he said.

  The tap stopped running and there he was in the hallway, clutching her glass of water.

  Who were you talking to? she wondered. Is there someone in the kitchen?

  ‘Here you are, Amber,’ Bukowski said, handing her the water glass. She took a couple of big gulps.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He took her arm and steered her back to the lounge room, past the office. She glanced at the door, trying to remain focused on her mission. Gordana was dancing alone. Bukowski took her place on the sofa next to Darko, who was dragging on the joint again. The conversation continued. It seemed they were still discussing Catholic girls.

  ‘It has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with the woman,’ said Darko.

  ‘Last time I was in a Catholic church, I nearly did a runner. Should have, too! It would have saved me a bloody fortune. We divorced a year later,’ laughed Craig.

  ‘Religion is about control of the masses,’ continued Darko, head leaning back, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Don’t you read the Bible a fair bit, Al?’ asked Sasha. ‘I mean, you’re rel
igious, right?’

  ‘A fair bit! He’s a fucking saint! Every bloody morning he’s reading a verse from his e-Bible. But that’s all about control, isn’t it, Al?’ Craig said, winking at him.

  Before Serena had registered that he was moving, Bukowski had stood up. He leaned over Craig and grabbed his face, squeezing the sides of his mouth together. Craig stared in shock, his face distorted, gawping like a startled fish trying to breathe. Bukowski was livid.

  ‘Enough,’ was all he said.

  Not a word was spoken, the genial atmosphere chainsawed.

  Then Sasha began to laugh, tentatively at first, as if seeking permission. Gordana joined her; a forced laughter, which didn’t sound like her. Bukowski let go of Craig’s face, his tight lips relaxing into a grin, then he, too, burst out laughing at Craig’s shocked expression. Craig nodded with a nervous smile. Serena couldn’t stop herself joining in, finding the comedy of the moment irresistibly funny. But she knew it wasn’t funny. She had never seen such rage or such fear as she had seen on Craig’s face. But everyone else’s laugher was infectious. Tears streamed down her face. As the candles burned low, Serena watched the wax drip onto the glass tabletop. The room smelled of hot wax and the marijuana-mix.

  Bukowski handed Serena the joint again, still laughing. She took it dreamily.

  Chapter 42

  Hands refill her glass and the room bubbles with conversation. Time passes. Serena feels totally at ease. Gordana is taking her hand, giggling, her pupils pinpricks. She is gently leading Serena away from the group.

  ‘Let’s dance,’ she says, swaying to the beat.

  Serena is moving dreamily to the music. She is watching Gordana, whose hands are following the contours of her silk dress, moving over her breasts, which swell as she presses them. A cloud of cigarette smoke snakes across the room as Darko watches, his sunken eyes gloating from afar. Gordana’s arms are around Serena’s waist and, moving in sync, they laugh like children in a playground as they swing each other around.

  Serena is having fun. Stopping their circular motion, she sees herself over Gordana’s shoulder, a large white candle highlighting the scene in a mirror on the wall. The candle is flickering, helplessly, nearly engulfed in its own melted wax. The fragile flame will not last the night.

  Serena’s hair is being drawn to one side and the mirror shows Bukowski’s lips on her pale neck, eyes down, like a vampire sucking the life out of her. His body moulds into Serena’s back as Gordana releases her hands. His body is warm and strong, and his scent intoxicating. She no longer fears him. She is light-headed, disconnected from the people around her. The candles in the room duck and flicker, as if a wind has blown over them. She feels his hands on her shoulders and, in the mirror, sees him slowly pulling her dress straps down. She pulls away, mouthing the word ‘No’, frowning. She is surprised that she is not more shocked by his presumption. She believes she is in control of the situation.

  His face is half in shadow; his eyes, black as the starless sky, observing his prey.

  Serena throws herself into a comfy sofa and sinks into the cushions, giggling. Darko languidly offers her another joint; a lit cigarette still in his other hand.

  ‘No more,’ she says, feeling a little nauseous.

  ‘He likes you. Why don’t you just go with it,’ he whispers, his cigarette breath on her face.

  She is feeling very sick suddenly and is not really listening.

  ‘Where’s the bathroom? I don’t feel too good,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, smack can do that when it’s your first time,’ replies Darko, gesturing loosely in the general direction of the hallway.

  She is getting up and, not really feeling her feet, finds her way to the bathroom. Smack? The joint has heroin in it? No wonder she is feeling so weird. Serena is frightened: she doesn’t know what heroin will do to her.

  The vanity light is on and its comparative brightness is blinding. She registers an enormous sunken bath, big enough to fit everyone at the party. She only just makes it to the toilet before she vomits. Feeling better, she is standing up and washing her mouth out with water, her meticulously applied lipstick washed away. Serena is staring at her eyes: all she can see is the hazel and toffee colour of her irises, her pupils having shrunk to little black dots. Her self-preservation instinct is telling her to leave. Immediately. But she doesn’t feel like rushing: it’s too tiring. She’s given up on the idea of accessing the file. Tomorrow will do. Dreamily rubbing her teeth with toothpaste, she again washes her mouth out, thinking how surreal everything is tonight.

  Serena is making her way along the hallway towards the suite’s main door, intending to slip away unseen, when Bukowski steps out into her path, blacker than the darkness around them.

  Chapter 43

  She feels Bukowski’s body heat too close to hers and takes a step back, trying to escape his enveloping presence.

  ‘Al, I must go. I’m not feeling well,’ she blurts.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he says and, placing his arm around her waist, he leads her to another room, which, from the blinking of the electrical appliances, she recognises as the kitchen. The ceiling lights are off. A row of tea light candles on the workbench gives barely enough light to find the sink. He runs the tap. With a sweeping motion, he moves the tiny candles aside where they remain cowering in a corner. He is lifting her up to the level of the kitchen bench, placing her on it, her feet dangling over the edge.

  ‘Al, I really must go,’ she says.

  He is ignoring her, filling a glass of water and dropping something in it. Was it a little white pill? He is handing it to her. She is taking it. Her mouth is dry—she needs to drink.

  ‘What’s in it?’ she is asking as she watches whatever it is dissolve at the bottom of the glass, producing tiny bubbles.

  ‘It will soothe your stomach.’

  She is hesitating. He is raising the glass to her mouth.

  ‘Drink this and I’ll call you a cab.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she says, unable to fight the drug already in her body.

  He tips the glass at her lips and the water runs cold down her throat; when she has drunk half, she stops. The water is tasteless: there seems to be nothing medicinal in it.

  ‘I’ll call you a cab,’ he is saying. She hears him give the cab company the address and hang up, but the call is not connected and Bukowski is not talking to anyone. She is trying to get down from the bench but he is standing in front of her, his hands on her waist, holding her there.

  ‘Let’s wait here,’ he says and his hand is on her cheek, tracing her mouth with his thumb. Its surface is rough and something catches her lip. ‘You are very beautiful.’

  ‘Please, Al, I want to get down.’

  ‘Drink a little bit more; it will help.’

  She is too tired to argue so, picking up the glass, she finds herself drinking, spilling water down her chin. How is she missing her mouth like that? She is staring at the empty glass, trying to think clearly. Opening and shutting her eyes firmly, taking deep breaths, she is feeling sleepy. A hand is taking the glass from her and Bukowski is pressing his body close to hers, parting her legs.

  ‘No, Al,’ she is saying but her words are slurred. She places her hands on his chest to push him away but she has no strength. She is suddenly feeling very drunk, very weak, which tempers her agitation. His dark eyes are too close to her face and she cannot focus on them. He breathes the question ‘Why?’

  Serena is staring at him blankly, her head feeling very heavy. She slouches back into the wall kitchen cabinets, her spine weak. The walls are moving. Everything seems to be fluid.

  Bukowski’s mouth is at her ear and he is saying, ‘Why are you spying on me?’

  He is moving his head away and he is holding her chin in his hands, forcing it up so that she is looking straight at him. She hears the question, but is wondering if she is mistaken.

  Serena tries to shake her head but its weight makes this impossible.

  ‘I’m not,
’ she is saying, her tongue thick and awkward. Even opening her jaw is difficult.

  Still holding her chin, he is shaking his head.

  ‘Serena, Serena, do you take me for a fool?’

  Fear, cold fear, spreads through her veins; her mind is racing. She hears him call her ‘Serena’, not Amber. Serena. He knows who she really is.

  ‘How do you … ?’

  She stares at him, trying to work out an escape. He knows she has been spying. And she realises now that he has drugged her, with heroin and then with … what? She hears his slow breathing, sees his dark, angry eyes, and knows she has to get out of there. She is trying to push him away but her arms are too heavy. Her wrists flop to her side. She is terrified he’s used a date-rape drug.

  He ignores her question. ‘Who told you about Mutenda?’

  Serena is thinking hard about the evening and what she has been saying. She is fairly certain she hasn’t betrayed Tracey, or the professor, so how does Bukowski know about her interest in Mutenda?

  ‘Don’t make this hard. What is Tracey Pollack doing there?’

  Bukowski has a knife in his hand and is running the flat side of the blade over her inner thigh. A whimper escapes her.

  Serena sees a bony hand touch Bukowski’s, pushing the blade away from her flesh.

  ‘This isn’t a good idea, Al. Let him deal with her,’ says Darko.

  She can barely lift her head but hears Bukowski’s reply.

  ‘Oh no. This is personal. Nobody makes a fool of Al R. Bukowski. Nobody.’

  Darko’s hand recedes, and Bukowski turns the blade and digs the tip into her flesh. She winces as a bulbous drop of blood trickles down her leg. And then another drop.

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘Food aid, something … food aid. She writes … the er … Post,’ she hears herself saying, her words slurred and clumsy.

  ‘Why Mutenda?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did Dr McPherson talk to you?’

  She feels her eyes closing, her lids are heavy, her mouth dry as sand. He seems to know everything but she mustn’t tell him anything. He will hurt them.