The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

  After a couple of clicks, a man’s voice came on the line.

  “Hello Charles, this is Makedde Vanderwall…” She explained her situation as politely but firmly as she could manage.

  “ We have an extra key for the Bondi flat here if you want to come in,” he replied.

  “I’m standing out here with two very heavy suitcases. Could you have someone put it in a taxi and send it over?”

  Twenty-eight minutes later a taxi pulled up and Makedde let herself in with the extra key. The accommodation was modest—typical for travelling models—a studio flat with twin beds and a tiny kichen and bathroom. Although the bed looked short enough for her feet to hang off the edge, she savoured the thought of getting horizontal on it. Catherine had only been living in the furnished flat for a month, but Mak noticed that she had already added her special touch to the place. The sparse decor had been livened up with an assortment of chic fashion magazine cut-outs—ads for Gucci, Chanel, Calvin Klein and Aussie designers Morrissey and Lisa Ho coated the walls in a collage of dizzying couture. She could just imagine the landlord’s expression at seeing the miles of sticky tape holding the pictures in place.

  Followed by one hundred mascara-enhanced vacant stares, Makedde took in the small flat—the cramped bathroom, the half kitchen with its minibar-sized fridge, and the large window which opened onto a stunning view of southern Bondi Beach. Across from the window, the two single beds were made with mismatched covers, each with its own uncomfortably thin looking pillow. A pint-sized, seventies-style chest of drawers separated the beds, and Makedde saw a notepad resting on it, beside the phone. She picked it up and read the hastily scrawled message.

  JT Terrigal

  Beach res

  16

  14

  Makedde couldn’t make much of the note. She had been expecting some hurried excuse for Catherine’s absence, but the message did not appear addressed to her, or anyone else for that matter. Catherine mentioned that she might have a date for the weekend, but she refused to say with whom. Was the note related to that? The writing looked rushed. Perhaps Catherine had to leave at the last minute?

  Puzzled and disappointed, Makedde embarked on a more thorough inspection of the flat. The fridge door, which would have been a natural choice, was littered with takeaway food menus, but no notes. The answering machine was flashing its red “messages” light. Makedde pressed the play button. The first two messages were dial tones, then, “Catherine, it’s Skye from Book. Call me.” There were a few clicks and pauses, but the next message was her own voice, “Hey, Cat, I just got in. I’m about to jump in a taxi…”

  She suspected that sometime during the day she would receive an excited and apologetic phone call from Cat, describing how her secret Romeo had swept her off her feet and whisked her away for a scandalous sojourn.

  So much for the welcome wagon.

  Makedde decided to make herself at home, and the first thing on her list was that long awaited hot shower. Unfortunately, the bathroom proved to be even more cramped than it looked. It was either an ill-conceived design in minimal space, or an illegal conversion from a closet; something she had seen before in other models’ flats. She had to stand on the toilet seat to get to the shower/bathtub, because the sink hung over the seat, and there was no space to move in between. After kneeling on the toilet seat to brush her teeth, she shuffled across and climbed into the tub.

  Mak showered under a refreshing stream of hot water, gratefully soaping away the stickiness of travel. She towelled off and, still warm, crawled into bed wearing a T-shirt and pair of boxers which had retained her affections long after their original owner. She had not slept well in many months, and hadn’t managed to sleep at all on the flight. She was too tired to even think about staying awake to adjust her circadian rhythms. Instead, she set the alarm for 5.30 in the afternoon so she could call Book agency for the following day’s photo session details, and check for any messages Catherine might have left. Sleep came swiftly, but her rest was haunted by disturbing dreams.

  Catherine is reaching out…

  Catherine is stretching through layers of dreamscape, terror shattering her beautiful features. She is pulled further and further into a cryptic, black expanse. Her face, ghostly and pale, is stretched into a silent scream. Her eyes are growing larger and larger, rounder and more frightened as she is pulled further. A thick, lifeless mass of dark swallows her slowly. She is begging, pleading, as she is swallowed.

  Nothing will bring her back.

  The phone rang.

  Makedde sat bolt upright, beads of sweat covering her face. The clock said 5.22 p.m.

  “Hello?”

  It was Charles Swinton, her booker, confirming the details for the following day’s photo shoot at La Perouse. The job was scheduled for an early start and it would be a long day. In spite of the recent rain they didn’t require an early morning weather check; they were confident it would clear up.

  “Uh, Charles…has there been any word from Catherine?”

  “No. I suspect she’s run off early for the weekend. By the way, you’re up for the Becky Ross fashion launch too. We should have it confirmed tomorrow.”

  “Becky Ross?”

  “The soapie star. She’s big at the moment. She’s promoting her own line of clothes. Should be excellent exposure for you.”

  “Great. Let me know.” Makedde thanked him for the key to the flat and said goodbye. She lay in bed, waiting for the phone to ring and hoping Charles was right. Catherine could get carried away, in love with love itself, and convinced that her latest man was none other than Prince Charming in a Porsche. It had happened before.

  It was only 5.30 p.m., but it was past midnight in Canada. She struggled to stay awake but by 10 p.m. her energy quietly packed up and abandoned her, and her eyelids locked shut. She drifted off with a dog-eared copy of Mindhunter in her hand.

  CHAPTER 2

  The following morning was mercilessly cold, with a biting southerly that whipped along the coastline, causing the caravan to shudder and groan like a feverish old man. Makedde stood inside its open door, savouring her last moments of warmth.

  It was odd that Catherine had not called or left any messages. Even if she was taking advantage of a couple of extra days off to enjoy a romantic weekend away, she could have at least phoned. Who was this guy, anyway? Mak hoped it wasn’t the same unnamed man Cat had been seeing for nearly a year, but in all likelihood it was. Cat had dropped a few hints—he was very rich, plenty powerful and he lived in Australia. No doubt he was what made her choose the Southern Hemisphere to continue her career. Makedde strongly suspected he was married, but when she pressed the issue Cat just grinned guiltily. Apparently this man made her swear, under “penalty of death” as she put it, to complete secrecy over his name and the details of their affair.

  Makedde never could get the guy’s real name out of her friend, so she came up with her own. Whenever Cat had showed up with a new piece of flashy gold jewellery, Makedde had simply asked, “So how’s Dick?” She might have been brash enough to ask, “So, how’s your Dick?”, except that any man wanting to keep a stunner like Catherine a secret was obviously not “hers” in any sense.

  Makedde shivered, watching the photographer and his entourage, rugged up in parkas and long pants, make their way down to the water’s edge. Her thoughts drifted away as the assistant waved. It was her turn to join them.

  The moment she stepped from the warm caravan her skin broke out in indignant goose flesh. Harsh wind whipped through the red-chequered picnic blanket she had wrapped around her. She could see the crew setting up on the sand below, and from their strained postures it was obvious there would be no shelter.

  “I’m too old for this,” Makedde mumbled to no one in particular. I’m twenty-five. Shouldn’t I be finishing my psychology degree? Shouldn’t I be having babies like my sister? She dismissed her thoughts as quickly as they came, pushing down the pain that had risen quickly within her. Adjusting the hot-wate
r bottle strategically shoved down the back of her suit, Mak hurried down to the shoot.

  Minutes later she was posing elegantly, with the wintry ocean lapping at her feet and her blonde hair flying back from her face. For a moment her mind focused completely on her body—aware of how her size-ten feet were positioned to minimise their length; the turn of her hips; the angle of her shoulders and the graceful placement of her hands—all in relation to the camera lens. Once she was satisfied that her pose was right, she allowed her thoughts to wander.

  Makedde was grateful for her lack of appetite the night before, because her stomach seemed a little flatter than usual. Some girls were known to swear off liquid for several days before a “body shoot” as it was called, but Mak rarely went to those lengths. She heard rumours of laxative abuse, too, but what was the point? Self-induced diarrhoea? She was generally chosen for her healthy look, with the bonus of some curves, so she tended to worry more about all-night chocolate binges than mere sips of water. Besides, she told herself, if they had wanted a waif, they would have chosen one of the many teenage models subsisting on coffee and cigarettes.

  As the photographic team silently examined her appearance, Makedde stretched up and tightened her stomach, assuming a well-practised pose that made the best of her feminine physique and presented the aqua-blue bikini at its most “saleable”. The two representatives of the swimwear brand, who scrutinised every inch of her, seemed happy with the fit of their tiny garment.

  Once the Polaroid was snapped Mak leapt for the blanket, now lying a couple of feet away, and wrapped it around her shivering body, jumping up and down in her battle against the cold. The others took no notice.

  Tony Thomas, the photographer, was unhappy with the quality of the light. He barked orders at his assistant, his instructions flying past Makedde’s ears in muffled gusts of wind. She looked on with restrained amusement as the assistant brought out a large, gold reflector board and gamely struggled to keep control of it. The client and the art director watched the clumsy spectacle with stony frowns.

  “It’s got to look summery,” one of them insisted. “Can’t you do something with her hair, Joseph?”

  Joseph was a delicate looking man who applied make-up to a face the way many artists tend to their cherished canvases; adding a touch, stepping back, squinting, and then adding another. Today though, his own face was pinched in frozen displeasure. He stepped towards her, careful not to disturb the sand where the shot would be taken, and tried pinning her mane of hair back. The wind promptly rebelled, sending a couple of pins flying into the water and others dangling from the very ends of her hair.

  She had known it would be winter in this corner of the globe, but had temporarily forgotten that this was irrelevant as far as the clients were concerned. Summer designs were always shot the winter before their release; including swimwear. When no one was paying much attention, she held the hot-water bottle against her chest. Perfect for minimising nipple-itis.

  The chilly day dragged on. Lunch consisted of some rather sad, wilted salad greens that the photographer’s assistant was sent away to fetch. Makedde could have sworn she saw the photographer scoff down a cheesy focaccia and a beer when no one else was looking. By five o’clock she was relieved at the prospect of shooting the last outfit. It was a daringly high cut, bright yellow zipper front swimsuit that was an ode to a decade when “Christy” referred to Brinkley, not Turlington. As usual, things became rushed as the client pushed to end the shoot before twenty minutes past the hour. That was the magic minute when models had to be paid for the extra hour’s work. It was amazing how many photo shoots ended at nineteen minutes past.

  As time was at a premium, Makedde was forced to change on the beach with a towel held in front of her by the embarrassed photographer’s assistant who did his best to look the other way. A decade of modelling had cured Makedde of any romantic views of modesty, and she stripped fast and changed like a pro. She wrapped herself in the thick blanket again, holding her trusty hot-water bottle tightly against her, while the others searched for an appealing backdrop for the final shot. Sensing the tension over time, she had held off since the lunch break, but her full bladder could no longer be denied.

  “I’ll just be a sec’!” she called out to them, pinching her knees together and hopping in the international signal for “I have to pee”. Joseph was the only one to laugh.

  She turned and started up into the tall, yellow grass, relieved at the prospect of relief. Dry blades scratched her shins as she moved farther away from the group, looking around for a patch of high grass that might offer some semblance of privacy. She noticed a curious smell, then something half hidden in the tall grass caught her attention.

  A shoe?

  She checked to see that the others were still searching for the next spot to shoot and, satisfied, she pushed further into the grass. As she drew closer, her eyes widened at the sight before her. Involuntarily her mouth stretched into what must have been a scream, although her ears could not hear it.

  A rush of blood swelled inside her head, pounding mercilessly. She was barely aware of shouting, and the sound of feet running up from the beach. Images spun in front of her eyes—bold slashes of dark stain on pale skin; dark hair matted with gore; disturbing shapes of flesh—body parts missing. Long red wounds gaped open along a naked torso, revealing organs and flesh, and worse, the dark hair, matted with blood, partially covered a face that seemed far too familiar.

  There were arms around her now, dragging her through the grass, dragging her away from that horrible mess, away from the smell that lingered like a sickness. She tried to speak. At first nothing came. There was confusion all around her. Finally she heard with horror the words that came from her own lips.

  “Oh God, Catherine. Oh God…”

  Mak was dimly aware of a young woman perched beside her with a steaming cup in her hand. On the far horizon the last glimpse of a violent, red sunset lit up the skies like hellfire. All around them was activity, voices and the static and garbled sounds of police radios. Her uniformed companion silently observed her. They were removed from the action, several feet away from an area cordoned off with police tape. Artificial light flooded the grassy dune, transforming the faces huddled around it into pale, fixated masks. Latex-gloved hands scribbled in small police-issue notebooks, and Makedde was reminded of her father’s notebook, with its official looking cover. She wondered what vicious brutality it had witnessed, and what sickening incidents had been recorded in it.

  The strong breeze was bitterly cold on her face, and she was shivering, even though she had been wrapped warmly in several plain, heavy blankets. Looking around, she saw flashlight beams piercing the descending darkness like fireflies. She recognised the make-up artist, Joseph, disappearing towards the parking lot with a uniformed officer, and further down the beach she saw Tony Thomas having a heated discussion with a tall man in a suit. The man was standing calmly with what looked like Tony’s camera in his hands, his stance speaking clearly of authority while Tony, looking even shorter than his five-foot-five, was gesturing angrily at him.

  Tony’s camera? What would they want with that?

  When the discussion appeared to die down, Mak watched Tony being led past her, head down, towards the vehicles in the bustling parking area. Police surgeon, pathologist, crime-scene officers, detectives; they were all there, recording and measuring, calculating in their attention to detail. She could see the police photographer sending out sudden bursts of light in the growing darkness. Each of them went about their job with a familiar single-mindedness.

  Different faces, same morbid business.

  She remembered her father’s colleagues. Their jobs took on a new meaning under these new, horrible circumstances. Beat cops, detectives, medical officers; they had seemed like part of the family for as long as she could remember. Some had even visited the hospital where her mother had been staying when she was sick. Her dad had refused to leave the hospital room. Three months, and he staye
d there every night in an uncomfortable cot beside her.

  “How are you feeling now?” A soft voice broke into her thoughts. “I’m Constable Karen Mahoney. Are you warm now? Would you like to see a doctor?” The voice was calm and reassuring, the round face sympathetic. Makedde thought of how this woman would, day after day, see unspeakable pain and remain calm and detached.

  “No, I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor, I guess I…” Mak’s voice trailed off. “Have you seen her? The girl?”

  “Yes. Here, why don’t you have some coffee?” She handed Makedde the steaming cup. “You may know the victim? Is that correct?”

  Catherine.

  A chill ran up her spine. A body; bloodied and mangled, so very dead. Could it be her?

  “I…I think I might know her. I’m not sure. I thought it was her—Catherine Gerber. I’m staying with her, but she’s not there…” The words came out as a senseless ramble.

  “It’s OK. I understand this must be difficult. You were the first to find the body, is that right?”

  Makedde nodded slowly.

  “We’ll need to ask you a few questions and we may have to get you to identify the victim at a later time. Is that all right with you?”

  Makedde nodded again slowly. Nothing had prepared her for this. Sometimes she had a sixth sense about things, a kind of intuition that forewarned her. But not this time.

  Perhaps I was mistaken? Maybe it was just the dream…

  The dream.

  Now awake, the details were lost, the nightmare fragmented; just pieces of terror floating free, interchangeable and meaningless. There was a sense of horror and loss over Catherine, but it was all too abstract to comprehend. The line between nightmare and reality had grown incredibly thin.

  Mak concluded with desperate optimism that she’d been mistaken. She just thought it was Cat because of the bad dream. And the dark hair. Lots of people have dark hair. Cat would call. She looked up to see a tall man in a suit towering over her. It was the man she had seen with Tony Thomas. With the crime-scene lights behind him he was an impressive, faceless silhouette.