by Tara Moss
He stood.
Amazing…
Despite fitting in the box, this was no small man. He was exceedingly lean and sinewy, but well muscled, and looked at least 180 centimetres tall. He wore his slick hair parted to one side, and sported a 1920s-inspired thin moustache, curled up at the edges, a look which added enormously to the sense he had been transported from an earlier era, the ornate box his time capsule. His skin was the colour of milk chocolate, his bright green eyes rimmed with kohl. In ballooning white boxers and black socks pulled taut with old-fashioned sock suspenders, he posed, chest out, like a silent-era movie star caught in a particularly risqué moment. The creature on the stage grinned, and raised an eyebrow lasciviously, as if performing for the intimate pleasure of a lover. He curved one leg around the other, looping it once, twice, three times, locking it around his thigh, shin and ankle, seeming to will his bones to rubber.
Amoureux tordu. Twisted lover.
The young man in the back row folded his arms and smiled, delighted by the riveting spectacle. Watching this act for the fifth time, he was still amazed by Arslan the Contortionist’s impressive flexibility and theatrical flair.
As the act came to an end he applauded along with the crowd, and felt the soft wings of butterflies building up in his stomach.
The next act was a crowd favourite. It featured the classic French beauty pictured in the program—Bijou, ‘the most assassinated woman since Paula Maxa’, starring in a famous play of the Grand Guignol.
It was a gruesome tale of love and revenge.
Le Baiser dans la Nuit.
The Final Kiss.
CHAPTER 11
Mak pulled up to Loulou’s apartment block with a sense of lightness. She was into the work. Her mind had a task to focus on, a puzzle. She was in Sydney. It was the beginning of a new beginning. For the first time in months, her failures did not seem to be clinging quite so closely.
She stepped out of the rental car, and stared at something on the road behind her.
No.
Andy’s car.
Her stomach fell. The timing was terrible.
Andy’s red Honda was parked on the street outside the building, and the sight of him waiting there for her pulled everything out of focus. Mak felt panicked in an instant. How could he know where I’m staying? Mak could make out his dark silhouette behind the wheel. Her heart lurched at the sight.
Andy. Not now.
After his earlier call, bad reception and all, she’d realised he wanted to see her, but at the apartment? Unannounced? Like this?
She had not expected to feel so thrown by his proximity. It was too soon to see him. Makedde strode across the footpath, up the stairs and to the front door of the apartment block, briefcase in hand, barely breathing. She tried to keep her thoughts sober, and listened intently. As she fished her keys out there was the sound of a car door closing and footsteps behind her. She felt, as much as heard, Andy’s approach.
‘Mak…We need to talk.’
‘I agree,’ she replied, looking resolutely at the keys in her hand. She didn’t want to look at him. Yet. She stuck the key in the street door and opened it.
‘You weren’t answering your phone.’
Mak had switched her phone off, hoping the problem would go away for a while. Yet here he was. Her jaw felt tight, her stomach uneasy.
Get this over with.
They stepped inside the echoing hallway of the apartment complex and made their way to her temporary abode like a couple attending a wake. The stark corridor seemed to Mak to stretch for miles, the white concrete and harsh lighting oppressively institutional. They reached the door of Apartment 101, and in a tense silence she let him in. Only once she closed the door behind him did she allow herself to acknowledge the man she had spent much of the past five years with. She turned to faced him.
Andy.
Just as she had feared, she found the sight of him pleasing. He wore faded jeans, and had rolled up the sleeves on a collared shirt wrinkled from the long drive. If he’d been working, he would have worn a suit, she knew. He had driven to Sydney for her, she was now certain. Her eyes ran over his features, and took in the familiar face with its strong jawline and handsome but imperfect features: the slightly crooked nose, the generous mouth, the scar on his chin. His face was shaded with stubble, circles under his intense green eyes. His dark hair was full, and only slightly greying at the temples. Andy’s naturally strong build was impossibly appealing to her. He had always possessed an indefinable masculinity that she found compelling. And then there was the height—with Mak being so tall herself, it was not every man she was forced to look up to, as she was now. Even in such unpleasant conditions, she found him magnetic. Frustratingly, that had always been the case.
There was love there. There had always been love there. But it was flawed love, deeply flawed. He’s just familiar. That’s all. We are like a bad habit for each other.
‘I see you wasted no time finding me,’ she challenged him, looking up to meet his eyes. ‘Does the whole police department keep a file on me these days, or did you just send someone to follow me yourself?’
He said nothing.
How arrogant, Mak thought, her anger temporarily pulling her out of her vulnerability.
Neither spoke for a few minutes. They looked at each other at brief intervals. Andy’s gaze drifted over the floor, around the room. Mak experienced uncomfortable flashes of their years together, like an unwanted sensory slide show—places shared, words spoken, touches, lovemaking. He took a step closer and she didn’t back away. Images of him naked lingered in her mind, and she felt herself becoming slightly—inappropriately—aroused. It had been a while since they had been in each other’s presence, and this growing concupiscence surely stemmed only from the appealing familiarity of his presence, the knowledge of sexual compatibility. Their sexual chemistry had always been strong. Had pheromones driven their doomed attraction to each other? Was simple, pathetic biology to blame? Surely it wasn’t love. Love was not supposed to be so hard.
Her eyes drifted to Andy’s muscular forearms, then his hands, held tightly at his sides, and then up to his face. Once her eyes met his she couldn’t break his gaze.
Okay, I want to scream.
Am I still in love with this man? Fuck!
Fine. Let’s get on with it, she thought, and broke the moment of tension. She dragged a stool away from the counter and sat on it backwards, her legs open like a man’s and her arms resting on the low seat back. Andy took a seat next to her. Makedde took a breath and looked ahead, searching for words to begin the conversation they needed to have. She wished she did not feel so conflicted. It was not a good moment to feel conflicted.
‘It’s a pretty small place,’ he remarked.
‘Yes, it is. But it’s just fine,’ she replied defiantly, looking at him with something more like anger. If she hadn’t gone to Canberra to be with him she would not now being staying at a friend’s place and living out of what she could fit in a couple of panniers.
‘You have to stay away from them,’ Andy stated flatly.
Mak sat up straight, unsure of his meaning. ‘Them?’
‘The Cavanaghs.’
‘I’ll do what I want, Andy,’ she replied crossly. This was not exactly the way back to her heart. They had fought often over the issue of the Cavanaghs, and it had possibly been the straw that broke the back of their relationship.
‘Mak, listen to me. Stay away from the Cavanaghs.’
‘I am,’ she responded.
‘No, you’re not,’ he admonished her. ‘You were seen sitting outside their Darling Point home on your motorcycle.’
Mak’s mouth hung open for a moment. What? That had been after five in the morning. She was seen? Had she been followed?
‘That is ridiculous. I just drove past the place. I may have slowed down for a moment or two. I didn’t do anything.’
‘Mak, stay away. Please.’
Anger coursed through her like a r
ed mist. He was talking to her like her father, the ex-Detective Inspector, might. She was not a child. There was no crime in riding along Darling Point Road and looking at houses. This was outrageous.
‘Just trust me. You need to stay away from them.’
She sat stiffly, arms folded. ‘Are you quite finished?’
‘What happened with us?’ he asked suddenly.
What happened with us? Mak felt unreasonably crushed by the question. She could feel his eyes on her as she struggled for a reply. ‘I shouldn’t have to explain it to you. You were there,’ she managed to say with something that sounded like decisiveness. ‘We fought like cat and dog, and you always found a reason to be overseas and not call. We’d both had enough.’
Their final phone call had left her weeping alone through a sleepless night, a pathetic display she did not intend to repeat for anyone or anything. Ever. It had seemed in those dark moments that she had never before felt such a deep stab of pain. She had long believed she could never go through anything more heart-wrenching than the death of her mother, so how could the breakdown of a romantic relationship compare? She had felt angry at herself for considering the comparison, and yet the pain was so fresh and confronting now, she wondered if she had underestimated the depth of her feelings for Andy. Mak had watched helplessly as her mother slipped away. But in this, she was less helpless. Yes, the relationship was flawed, but she had taken the responsibility of pulling the plug herself. It was the weight of that responsibility that made it all the more agonising, especially now they were face to face again. She could feel the logic for ending the relationship beginning to slip under the weight of emotion.
Don’t push me.
‘What are you going to do here?’ Andy pressed. ‘Work at that investigation agency again?’ This wasn’t a friendly question, but an accusation, a challenge, rousing her anger instead of her grief.
Just because Andy, like her father, was a decorated police officer, didn’t mean that Mak wanted to join their ranks. She was perfectly happy with her career choices. This was another issue they had fought over many times. A lot of police didn’t like private investigators, and arguably the only people Andy liked less were defence lawyers.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m working for Marian and I’m fucking good at it.’
Pull yourself in. You are angry and emotional. You’ll regret this later.
Their reunion would have been better in a public place, somewhere she would have to keep it together, and was less likely to be overwhelmed with the unexpectedly powerful emotions that were welling up in her. She could feel herself being caught up in the drama. Months of anger and disappointment and hurt were bubbling to the surface. Years.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Andy told her. ‘Honestly. You can work where you want. Look, Mak…’ He held out his hand. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Mak replied. She did not accept his gesture.
‘It’s true. Look at me, Mak. Look at me.’
She did. Their eyes locked, and despite herself, her heart cracked open an inch.
‘I love you.’
Oh, God, he loves me. Or something. Get me out of here.
He had always had such trouble saying those three words, I love you. And now he could say them? Now? There was an intensity about him that seemed new to her. Where was this passion before he left? Where was this look in his eyes when she was in Canberra, wanting so desperately for things to work? Where was this passion when he was over in Quantico again, not even bothering to call after their fight, and she was packing her things to leave him?
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he went on. ‘I…’
His eyes seemed to burn intensely as he spoke. They were bloodshot, vulnerable, huge. Her eyes passed over his lips as they trembled slightly. At this display of vulnerability, she felt some part of her let go.
Dammit, Mak, don’t fall for it.
She needed him to leave. She needed to keep him at a distance for a while.
In an instant he had Makedde in an embrace, her head resting in the hollow of his neck, lips just millimetres from his warm skin. His scent was intoxicating.
Fuck.
‘Andy, it’s over.’ She said this softly, her eyes shut.
Her heart was not cold to him at all in that moment, not as she wished it to be. There was an ache building in her, a physical ache that soon became unbearable, and she moved closer to him, an automaton. Watch out. Running her fingertips over the top of his hand seemed to relieve the ache, but only momentarily. She began to stroke his hair, her mind still caught in a confused attempt to remain safely distant while their bodies moved ever closer together. He leaned into her, head down, his face at her shoulder, dangerously close to the swell of her breast. Perhaps if she just pulled his head into her chest, let him rest there, it would all pass. They could hold each other for a while, reconcile their failure, prepare to move on. Just because it was over between them didn’t mean they couldn’t love each other still.
‘Andy,’ she said, mustering some strength. ‘I want you to go. Now.’
CHAPTER 12
Adam Hart’s heart jackhammered in his chest with an uneasy mix of excitement and fear.
It will all be okay…
He was in a back alley outside a down-at-heel motel in a inner suburb of Sydney that was not familiar to him, approaching a parked caravan with his nerves high. It was Bijou’s temporary home, currently detached from the tour bus that carried the Théâtre des Horreurs performers from venue to venue, city to city. Her little oasis was a hired vintage Airstream, sitting strangely like a chrome toaster in the dark alley, reflecting streetlights and shadows. Somewhere close, he heard a generator power up with a soft hum. One of the streetlamps was out, glass on the ground crunching under his feet. It had not surprised him to discover that she would not travel in the back of the bus with the band, contortionists, illusionist and dancers. She was a star, and she would not bunk in cheap motels, either. She had her own realm. That only seemed fair. And when he was permitted to be within it, cocooned in his lover’s world, it was like no pleasure he had ever experienced.
He was moments away from that world now.
Please let her like this…
In his pocket, Adam had a pearl necklace. It would look beautiful on her, and she would surely love it. They were real pearls, he knew. He held in his hand a bottle of wine he hoped his lover would approve of. He had gone to a pub with a bottle shop a couple of blocks away, and the man behind the counter had recommended it. At a sheltered nineteen—nearly twenty as he liked to remind himself—Adam was not yet sophisticated about such things, but he wanted to learn, needed to learn. He had paid nearly $40 for the wine, double what he had hoped to spend. But when he worried about such things he wondered if those were his father’s thoughts he heard, not his own.
He would make his own decisions now.
Adam passed the bus that the troupe travelled in. It appeared unoccupied. The final Sydney performance had been a success, and they would be moving on tomorrow to the next venue. He would go with them.
It will be okay. It will all work out…
Adam checked his wrist for cologne with one anxious sniff. The scent was pleasant, spicy. It seemed a grown-up thing to wear. He had scraped some money together to buy the small, expensive bottle, hoping to impress Bijou. Despite his best efforts, he was quickly running out of cash, but he did not want his lover to know that. She was used to the finer things—jewels and silks and sparkling bottles from the Champagne district of France. The least Adam could do was arrive at her door with a bottle of decent wine, even if it broke the bank. Besides, he had other ways to get money if he really needed to. He hoped he wouldn’t have to stoop to that level, but right now, his world being what it was, he was not ruling anything out.
‘Okay,’ he murmured under his breath in a muttered mantra of determination. ‘Okay…’
The truth was Adam had never wanted something so badly. He’d never want
ed someone like this. The thought of having time alone with the woman he had fallen so deeply—and quickly—in love with had thrilled him all day, and he felt a certain fear at the mere fact of his intense longing. Would he scare her off? Would he disappoint her?
What had she seen in him during that first show he attended? He had been in the second row, alone, mesmerised, and when the lights came up and the crowd began to disperse, he was tapped on the shoulder and invited backstage. He had not known what to expect. Certainly he could not have expected to be invited into this divine woman’s dressing room.
‘Jean-Baptiste…’ came a whisper from the shadows, stopping Adam in his tracks.
He whirled in the direction of the voice. What? ‘Who’s there?’
A man leaned in the shadows between the Airstream and the bus, cloaked in darkness, only the tip of his slim, straight nose illuminated in the streetlight. It was a member of the troupe, Adam figured. Perhaps it was the illusionist, Lucien? His conjuring was amazing. Adam had watched his act five times already, and looked forward to seeing it at closer range.
‘Oh, hi. I’m Adam!’ he said, stepping forward with an eager smile. ‘We haven’t really been introduced,’ he offered, and bravely extended his free hand into the darkness. After a few seconds he realised his handshake was not going to be accepted. Feeling awkward and intimidated, he retracted his hand and put it in his jeans pocket. His eyes adjusted to the light slowly, and soon he could make out the shadowed eyes of the man standing before him. ‘Lucien?’ he ventured, pronouncing the name badly, sounding younger and more Australian than he had intended.
‘It’s amazing what you do. You’re world class. I’m a bit of a magician myself, actually—’
But before Adam could finish speaking, the strange man squinted balefully at him and walked away. Perhaps he didn’t speak English as well as Bijou, Adam thought.