by JD Nixon
Just open the damn email, woman, I ordered myself.
He’d forwarded on an email from Mrs Burwood. In turn she’d forwarded on an email addressed to her. She’d not added any subject heading, adding to her email one simple word, Devastated. I opened the attachment, my eyebrows shooting up. A topless torso shot of a very self-satisfied Francine gazed back at me, smiling and wearing nothing except the stolen necklace. She’d written an email to accompany her photo.
Mrs B. Thanks for all your hard work introducing me to this gorgeous little set of baubles. It was love at first sight for me, and now this beauty will fund the rest of my (soon-to-be extravagant) life, allowing me to be the person I’ve always wanted to be.
Your faith in me was touching, though rather misplaced. While you were openly excited by the loan of the collection, I was quietly excited, having plenty of time to thoroughly research every aspect of the display cabinets and security cameras and to make connections with some rather dodgy people who’d sell you your own grandmother for the right price. Thanks for being so informative, sharing so many details about the collection’s safety with me. I really appreciate it! Made my life easier, though you should probably learn to be more guarded about security matters in the future. Trusted staff sometimes aren’t what they seem ;-)
You can share this email with the cops if you want. I’m long gone. It might just convince them that soft-hearted fool, Jaegar, was my patsy. Everything he said was true – it was all my plan and I set him up. Everything I said about him wasn’t true – apart from the great sex part. He has a heart like a marshmallow, but a cock that won’t stop! I’ll honestly miss that, but otherwise the poor sap had no idea what was going on. He was never part of my plan, so it was no surprise the cops didn’t find the necklace at his place! And it was me who encouraged him to make a run for it when he was so worried about his past being discovered. You have no idea how nervous a man becomes if he thinks his nice new life is threatened by his past misdeeds. A stupid thing for him to do, but you must have realised by now he isn’t the sharpest knife in the block.
Anyway, it’s been fun (not). I can now look forward to a life much more exciting than being your dogsbody!
Francine (though not for much longer!) :-)
Arrogant bitch, I thought, reaching for my phone after reading the email a second time. He answered after the third ring.
“Farrell, I just read that email you sent me.”
“Interesting, wasn’t it?”
“That’s the understatement of the year! Will they ever catch her?”
“Who knows? She’s definitely skipped the country. There are some places on this planet where you can enjoy a wonderful life unbothered by petty nuisances like the police.”
“That necklace. How could she do that? She loved jewellery and now nobody will ever be able to see it again.”
“Chalmers, I guess that people love jewellery in different ways. You like to look at it, appreciating its beauty. She likes to own it or use it to her advantage.”
I remembered my brief moment of covetousness when I first set eyes on the necklace, so what he said made sense to me.
“Everything seems really depressing at the moment. Bad people getting away with major crimes.” Good people lying unconscious in hospital, forsaken by their own organs.
“She’ll get her just desserts eventually. Nobody wins forever.”
Nobody lives forever.
I said a quiet goodnight and hung up.
Chapter 21
I was excited and nervous about Agatha’s audition the next day. But when I arrived at the hotel, that young lady remained remarkably calm, even as her mother fussed and flapped around her, adjusting her cutsie-pie dress and over-styled hair. Agatha flatly refused to wear any makeup. Her mother disagreed, directing a few heated words her way until Agatha gave in, her face bravely stoic as her mother applied face powder, lipstick and mascara. It seemed wrong to witness the transformation of a lovely, young girl into a show pony.
I was really starting to dislike Mrs Namoy. Not that that woman had any interest in my opinion of her, or my opinion about anything. In fact, she couldn’t even remember my name and hadn’t once asked for my phone number. I found it astonishing that a mother, who cared so much about one aspect of her daughter’s life, could be so offhand about knowing more about the person charged with her care.
We caught a taxi to the audition studio, located on the other side of the city. Mrs Namoy spent the entire trip fretting about the traffic, a regrettable downside to living in this city.
Her agitation was contagious. Agatha began to fidget too, picking at the lacy hem of her pretty dress until her mother sharply reprimanded her, yanking her hand away from it. Even I, with no dog in this race, tensed uncomfortably. What if Agatha froze or forgot her music? What if our guilty little excursions had disrupted her practice, and she played with less accomplishment than normal? I’d wanted to introduce some fun into her life, not ruin it forever.
At the studio, Mrs Namoy practically threw the fare at the understandably aggrieved taxi driver. We joined the buzzing throng of talented and hopeful youngsters, most accompanied by their parents, many who wore the same pinched, suspicious expression that Mrs Namoy did. Other children were surrounded by large numbers of loving, relaxed relatives, providing support and encouragement.
The children were summoned into the auditorium, a huge acoustically-balanced space with a stage at one end, empty except for a grand piano and stool. A sound booth sat off to one side, where three judges, two men and a woman, sat wearing earphones, microphones in front of them. An AV technician sat at the back, surrounded by a panel of instruments, recording and filming the performances.
“Settle down please, children,” requested one of the men in the booth, speaking into the microphone with a soft accent.
He went on to explain that the children would perform in an order determined by a random draw of names, ensuring equity in the process. He further announced there would be a number of breaks during the day, allowing all children time to rest, so that those whose names weren’t drawn until closer to the end of the day weren’t disadvantaged by becoming tired. He also reminded everyone that only five children would be chosen, a large intake for any one country to the exclusive academy, made possible by a sponsorship program partially funded by the federal government. Unless there was major disagreement amongst the judges, the successful auditionees would be chosen at the end of the day.
The children were advised they were required to play two long pieces, one a difficult set piece that all the children would play; the other a personal choice of a piece that reflected the spirit of spring.
I glanced around, roughly calculating there were about one hundred eager young auditionees. It would be a tough battle to gain one of the five places if every kid was as talented as Agatha.
She wasn’t called up in the first batch of twenty children, so we sat patiently, listening to other children playing. I’d be the first to admit that what I knew about piano music (or any music, for that matter), would barely fill a tweet, but it was soon obvious even to me that there was a marked difference in the playing abilities of individual children. Wrong notes were signalled not just by the cringing faces of the children, but sometimes by exclamations of frustration from their families in the audience. The judges, however, remained stony-faced, unmoved by good or bad performances. I think they would have looked the same had I serenaded them with my version of ‘Chopsticks’.
The audience broke only to grab a coffee, tea, juice or water at the refreshment table set up to one side of the foyer, or to use the ladies’ bathroom, glad to move our sleeping butts. The children were very focussed when they performed, able to block out the normal noises of a restless audience – phones ringing (even though we’d been warned to turn them off), babies crying, small children running around and squealing, the low constant hum of conversation, and people scraping their chairs as they stood seeking out beverage or bathroom relief.
Not to mention the pressure of proud parents, filming every second of their darling’s audition from as close as they could get to the stage.
Agatha wasn’t called up in the next twenty children either. I needed a break from hearing the same piece of music played over and over. I asked Mrs Namoy if I could take Agatha for a walk to stretch her legs and clear her head. To my surprise, she agreed without a fuss, letting us go.
When she joined us outside, my first thought was that she was keeping an eye on me. But no, she pulled out her phone, turning her back on us to speak into it. Agatha and I strolled around the studio, not finding much to admire in its stunted, under watered, utilitarian garden. But at least it was good to be out in the fresh air, de-numbing our butts and escaping the relentless pounding of the grand piano, though it was still audible from out here.
“Are you nervous?” I asked her as we passed a weed-infested patch of neglected, overgrown grevilleas.
“No,” she answered, matter-of-fact. “I don’t get nervous during auditions or tests. I only get nervous when Mother is watching me.”
“Oh.” I had no idea how to respond to that, so I changed the subject. “Agatha, your mother hired me because she was concerned about competitors. But I haven’t seen any sign of competitiveness or nastiness. We’ve barely even spoken to any of the other children.”
She dawdled near a raggedy shrub, plucking off some leaves. “Mother enjoys drama,” she said flatly. Those weren’t the words of a child, but an adult. Was it something her father had said to her? Or a grandparent?
We walked for a few more metres, reaching the depressing small back gardens. They didn’t appear to have received any loving attention for quite a long time.
“Daddy rang me this morning to wish me luck today,” she said, a hint of wistfulness in her voice.
“That’s lovely of him. It’s a real shame he couldn’t be here to see you himself. He would be so proud of you.”
“He promised to bring me back a really nice present when he comes home.”
That was no substitute for a father’s attention, I thought, keeping that to myself, desperately trying not to dwell on my father.
Agatha seemed content with her own thoughts, so I let mine turn to Samuel again. Two assignments involving children – one with every apparent advantage in life and an incredible talent, yet bullied into the limelight and yet neglected by her parents; and one who wasn’t given the chance to shine, a shameful secret to his mother, yet whose family loved and nurtured him for decades beyond his death.
Families – each one as complicated and different as the next.
By the time we returned to the front door of the auditorium, Mrs Namoy walked across the road, carrying two paper bags, a coffee and a juice. “Here you are, Agatha. Some lunch for you.”
When the little girl sat on a low concrete wall to eat, her mother scolded her for getting her dress dirty. She tucked three napkins into Agatha’s bodice, ignoring her daughter’s embarrassed face. They opened their paper bags and tucked into chicken and salad sandwiches.
Thanks for thinking of me, I thought sourly, excusing myself. I crossed the road to the sandwich bar, which was doing a thriving trade today, and ordered an egg and salad wrap and a diet soft drink. I ate mine in the cafe, keeping an eye on the couple as I did. I figured as Mrs Namoy was in charge at the moment, I was entitled to a lunch break, no matter how rushed it was.
After slurping the last of my drink and patting my mouth clean with my napkin, I rejoined my clients. They finished the last of their lunches, throwing their waste into the bin. We rejoined the crowd inside. The last child of that batch climbed the stairs to the stage with confidence. He arranged himself at the piano, his mother positioning herself to turn his sheet music pages, though as far as I could tell, he didn’t even peer at the music once. As soon as we heard him play, the audience hushed to listen.
“He’s going to win a place,” Agatha predicted with confident quietness. “He’s very good.”
“You’re better.” Mrs Namoy’s lips pursed together unhappily as she noticed the judges sharing meaningful glances, busy scribbling notes, one with his eyes closed, lost in the music. When the boy finished, his family applauded and whistled loudly, the rest of the audience clapping with an enthusiasm it hadn’t shown any previous competitor.
Agatha was called up in the middle of the third batch of auditionees. Mrs Namoy hyperventilated for a while, leaving the auditorium to find some fresh air for ten minutes. Agatha stayed in her seat peacefully, her eyes closed, fingers running across imaginary keys, as her lips moved silently and head swayed in time to the music in her head. Even away from the piano, I was mesmerised by the swift, skilled movements of her flexible fingers practising the complicated music.
When it came to her turn to mount the stage, Agatha settled herself at the piano with a calmness epitomising her style. A little flustered, Mrs Namoy almost dropped the sheath of sheet music and took a while to set it up, making the judges wait a couple of minutes.
When Agatha began to play, it was as if she was swallowed by the music, forgetting her mother, forgetting the judges, forgetting she was performing in front of an audience. In my humble opinion, she gave the most competent and confident performance of all the competitors who’d previously played by far. Her playing of the difficult first piece was masterful and her choice of spring-inspired music was a delicate piece redolent of flowers, sunshine and the earth warming up and regenerating again. I wished I knew enough about classical music (or anything about classical music for that matter), so I could buy the piece to listen to again, it was so beautiful.
The audience sat spellbound as Agatha worked her magic on the keys, her absorption in the music at odds with her mother’s stiff page turning. Mrs Namoy was an unnecessary accessory today though, Agatha never referring once to the music. I felt half-proud, half-relieved that us playing hooky hadn’t affected her ability to shine in her audition.
When she finished, the applause she received from the audience was genuinely warm. She bowed politely to the judges and to the audience, before stepping down and making way for the poor, intimidated competitor following her. The judges talked together for a while after her performance, microphones off.
I couldn’t contain myself, jumping up to hug her. The three of us sneaked outside before the next child started. Mrs Namoy praised her daughter effusively, something she either took in her stride or ignored, not showing any change in expression. Agatha seemed more interested in the park across the road than anything her mother said. With Mrs Namoy’s permission, I took her there, where she played on the swings, careful not to soil her pretty dress. Mrs Namoy whipped out her phone the second we left.
When Agatha had her fill of the park, we returned for a drink, taking our seats again. The remainder of the day dragged out interminably, despite the frequent breaks. Compelled to stay to find out the results, as you’d expect, many of the children became restless and bored, a sharp contrast to the children yet to play, who sat on the edge of their chairs in nervous anticipation.
Of the remainder of the hundred, only a handful stood out for the quality of their piano skills and interpretation of music. I thought Agatha was a shoe-in to gain a place. She didn’t seem particularly excited or dismayed by the thought, but I’d cottoned on to the fact she’d become good at hiding her feelings, a sad skill for an eleven-year-old.
Once all the children had performed, the judges spent the next forty-five minutes in deep discussion, occasionally appearing to listen to a recital again or watch the recording of it.
The audience hummed with excitement, but not everyone joined in. Some of the children were downcast, a few even crying, comforted by their resigned parents and other family members. They’d all practiced so hard for that one performance, and for them to realise they hadn’t dazzled the judges before they were even told that, must have been heart-breaking for them and their families.
Towards the early evening, the judges finally announced th
ey were ready to name their five successful applicants, with formal offers being couriered to the families in the next few days. They patiently waited for the audience to resume their seats, not showing any sign they’d noticed the thinned crowd.
In a toneless voice, the head judge revealed the five children lucky enough to win a place at the academy. Mrs Namoy couldn’t hold back an undignified squeal of delight when Agatha was named as one of them, almost tripping over her own heels following her daughter up on stage to receive the judges’ personal congratulations. After a polite smatter of applause from the audience, some of them dispersed, others approaching Agatha to commend her and her mother in a show of admirable good sportsmanship. And once again, I wondered at Mrs Namoy’s level of paranoia about the competiveness of the families of other auditionees. Perhaps she was projecting her own intense desire to win at the cost of anything on others, or perhaps she merely wanted a glorified babysitter for Agatha for a few days while she gadded about. Whatever. As long as she paid Heller, it wasn’t up to me to question the way she spent her money. I only wish she spent more of it on entertaining her child.
During the taxi ride back to the hotel, I dared to suggest to her that as Agatha had been so successful today, making her mother proud, then maybe she might allow me to take her daughter to the zoo the next day. Agatha’s eyes lit up and, in a buoyant mood, Mrs Namoy indulgently agreed to allow her a totally free day.
My excitement about that died as soon as I joined Brian, Gayle and Mum at the hospital that evening. Mum was peakier and thinner. I sat next to her, my arm around her. She seemed distracted, often not responding to questions, all her concentration on Dad. It was a long visit, Gayle visibly exhausted in the late stage of her pregnancy and Brian not one for idle chatting. For a long while the only sound in the room came from the regular beeping of the various machines to which Dad was hooked up.