by Gary Kemble
Harry felt a wave of excitement wash over him. No. The tattoo on the back of his neck burned.
‘I’ll be okay.’
‘Go on, then. Go and meet your maybe sex worker.’
‘Thank you.’ He kissed the top of her head and was gone.
CHAPTER 17
Harry stopped outside her house, getting out of his car and heading straight for the intercom. He thumbed the button.
‘Hello? It’s Harry Hendrick.’
There was no reply, but the electronic gate buzzed, and the lock released. As he walked up the path he heard her heels clicking on the tiles, saw her silhouette briefly as she walked down the hallway. She opened the door as he stepped onto the porch. She had on a pair of tight jeans, a red t-shirt and green hoodie. Her long black hair hung over her shoulders. She was still beautiful, but looked like she was heading out to the movies, not about to wallop some (lucky) guy into submission.
Lucky? Harry caught the thought, surprised at it. He was here to do a job. He tried to remember the anger he’d felt at being interrupted during dinner.
‘Mr Hendrick.’ She held out her hand. Her grip was firm, her skin warm. ‘Lily Sweeney. Sometimes known as Mistress Hel. With one L.’ She stood to one side.
He walked into the small hallway, and she directed him through to a lounge room at the front of the house. Harry recognised the décor from his first visit, although the white leather lounge and the glass coffee table didn’t look as tacky from up close.
‘Drink?’ she said.
No, Harry thought. ‘Yeah. Whisky.’
‘Ice?’
He shook his head.
‘A man after my own heart. Take a seat.’
He sat on the couch. He could smell her perfume, and found himself watching her make the drinks. She was still sexy, even dressed like this. She returned to the couch, with the drinks, and sat next to him.
‘Bottoms up,’ she said.
Harry picked up his drink and she clinked glasses with him. He took a sip. It was good. Malt whisky. At least fifteen years old. Its warmth spread through him; he felt as though he was sinking into the couch.
‘I hope your girlfriend wasn’t too upset,’ she said.
The comment raised a spark of anger. ‘I’m not here to socialise, Ms Sweeney.’
She smiled at him. ‘I like it when you call me Miz.’
She sipped her drink. Also a whisky, although she’d added some shards of ice. Harry flashed back to Zak Godwin and the shards of mirror they found in his stomach.
‘Okay then, let’s get down to business. Thanks to you, Mr Hendrick, I’ve been banned from that lovely gentlemen’s club. They seem to think that I’m implicated in some wrongdoing. I have done nothing wrong.’
‘Why troll a strip club then?’
‘Have you ever been to those places? Exploiting women, treating them as pieces of meat to touch and ogle. It’s revolting . . .’
‘Then why . . .’
‘Because I find that sometimes men can be made better, they can be made to respect women . . . with a little training.’
Harry felt his body respond to the comment, even though he didn’t want it to. He wanted to ask what kind of training, but he bit down on it. Covered his reaction by taking another sip of whisky. Interesting. Something . . . something slightly bitter at the finish.
‘They said that Don Clack thought he needed to be the one doing the lap dance,’ Harry said.
‘Like I said – training. See how they like it.’
‘You know he’s using union money for this “training”?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘How he pays is none of my business.’
‘You expect me to believe that he started stripping off because you told him to?’
Lily Sweeney crossed her legs. For a moment Harry remembered how they looked in stockings. He turned away, embarrassed. She leant in closer. The smell of her perfume was intoxicating. He was sweating. The drink was going straight to his head.
‘Men are so easy to control, Mr Hendrick. I got you here, away from your lady friend, just by asking.’
‘What about Zak Godwin, what did you get him to do? What about Anthony Gillespie, what did you get him to do?’
The smile faded.
‘I read about it online. Very sad. But nothing to do with me.’
‘And the marks, on their backs?’
‘Again, nothing to do with me.’
Harry felt the bulge of his phone in his pocket. He hadn’t thought to record any of this.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said.
‘Ask them then. Well, the ones who are still alive. Harry, there are some men who like to be cut – it turns them on. But I don’t do that. That’s one of my limits. No golden showers, no brown showers, no kids, no blood.’
Harry stared at her.
‘If you don’t believe me, I can show you the playroom,’ she said, eyes twinkling.
For a moment Harry saw himself naked, arms tied above his head. He couldn’t see Mistress Hel but he could hear her heels clacking against a burnished concrete floor. And he wasn’t scared, just excited.
He put his glass down, surprised to find it empty.
‘Another?’ she said.
‘No, I . . . I’ve got to drive.’
Lily Sweeney smiled. ‘You could stay here the night. I’m sure I could find somewhere safe to keep you.’
Harry struggled to focus. He was looking at her on the lounge, but seeing her standing in the doorway in her lingerie as he hid in Don Clack’s car. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Opened the images. Swiped through to the one of the piece of paper he’d found in the cherry picker truck.
‘What’s this?’ He handed her the phone.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Looks like some kid’s drawing. Doodles.’
She started swiping through the photos. Harry reached for the phone but she blocked him.
‘Interesting collection you’ve got here. Are you really meant to have these on your phone?’
He knew she was looking at the crime scene photos from the cherry picker. He reached again for his phone. She pushed out her arm and held him back. He was surprised at how strong she was.
‘You don’t really play by the rules, do you, Harry?’ she said.
‘Can I have my phone back?’
‘That’s okay. Neither do I.’
Lily Sweeney kept swiping through the photos. ‘She’s nice, Harry. You’ve done well.’
He batted her hand away and snatched his phone back, glimpsing the photo of him and Bec drunk. The one that had ended up on Facebook. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, suddenly full of remorse. I’m such an idiot.
‘Are you actually going to tell me anything useful?’
She pouted. ‘I already have, Harry.’
‘And what about Don Clack?’
‘I’m not going to talk about business arrangements with clients. There’s that whole confidentiality thing. You might be familiar with it – or maybe not.’
Harry got to his feet, a little unsteadily.
‘You sure you’re okay to drive?’
‘Yeah. I’m sure.’
She stood, put her hands behind her back. A smile played at the corners of her lips. ‘Sure you don’t want to come and inspect the playroom?’
Harry didn’t answer; didn’t trust himself to answer.
‘Oh, well. Maybe next time.’
Harry headed for the door. He didn’t bother looking to see if Lily Sweeney followed. He tried the handle – locked.
He waited. Turned.
Her grin broadened. ‘Women like me have to be careful.’
She took her time unlocking the door, then stepped in front of Harry as he tried to make his exit.
‘Oh, just one more thing, Mr Hendrick,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘I have cameras all around my house. Like I said, girls like me need to have some . . . protection.’
Harry felt the hairs on the bac
k of his neck stand on end. Lily Sweeney smiled. She took a couple of steps up to him, so they were almost touching.
‘Don’t fuck with me. Or I can promise you, I will fuck with you. Good night, Mr Hendrick.’
He backed out of the doorway, almost tripping over the doorsill.
‘You can get out the same way you did last time,’ she said, and closed the door in his face.
Harry stood on the front doorstep, cursing, until he remembered what she’d said about the cameras. The front gate was locked. He climbed over it and jumped down the other side, looking up and down the street to make sure he hadn’t been observed. Well, observed by anyone other than her.
He sat in his car, fuming, looking at the front door. Why had he rushed out here? What had he expected her to do? Own up to it all? Give him an exclusive? He stared into the darkness. A possum walked along the powerline, stopped and sniffed the air.
‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit.’
He’d wanted to see her, that was the bottom line. No matter how much he tried to rationalise it, that was why he’d come out here. He felt as though Lily Sweeney had sucked all the emotion out of him, and how he was filling up with guilt.
Harry pulled out his phone and dialled Bec. He wasn’t surprised when it went to messagebank.
‘Hey, it’s me. I’m so, so sorry. I’m . . . I’m finished here. Call me when you get this.’
He drove. He didn’t want to go home. He drove into the city. Revellers roamed the streets: guys with their shirts out, women in tiny dresses, despite the winter wind rushing down Elizabeth St. He drove past the restaurant. It was closed. He hadn’t really expected it to still be open and, even if it was, he certainly hadn’t expected Bec to be there waiting for him. His mood darkened as he left the city.
He ended up on a lonely road on the edge of the Brisbane State Forest. He pulled into the car park. In a few hours this place would be packed with cars – mountain bikers, bushwalkers, families. But now it was deserted. The wind in the trees sounded like static pulsing from a radio. The stars shone like pinpricks of light.
You could stay here the night. I’m sure I could find somewhere safe to keep you.
Harry found himself considering the offer. He thought again of her long legs, clad in fishnet stockings. Suspender belt cutting a black line across her milky thighs. The riding crop. His head buzzed. He was hard.
He looked up and down the road but there was no-one about. In a daze, he unzipped his fly. Harry started rubbing himself, eyes closed, imagining Mistress Hel working him over. He felt her gloved hand against his bare chest, her breath in his ear. Intoxicating perfume. He gasped for breath, imagining himself in her playroom, strung up like a piece of meat, completely at her mercy.
I know you’ve already visited me . . . you naughty man.
The sting of the crop against his chest, his arse, his legs.
You fuck with me, and I promise you, I’ll fuck with you.
Harry came. As soon as he did, he woke from his stupor, looking down with a mixture of bewilderment and disgust.
‘Shit.’
He searched in the centre console, found a wad of old McDonald’s napkins, cleaned himself up. He felt cold, empty, but intensely relieved. He felt calm for the first time that week. But also ashamed.
He zipped himself and drove home.
CHAPTER 18
Harry bowed, jumped into the ready stance. His heart rate quickened as he saw Jim getting ready to hand him his arse on a plate. The referee, a fourth dan black belt Harry had only met tonight, stood between them, hand held out, eyeing Harry and then Jim.
‘Fight!’
Jim leapt at Harry. For a small man he had a long reach, his legs launching him over Harry’s head. Harry blocked the kick but this wasn’t like fighting a red belt: Jim was stronger, faster.
Harry staggered backwards, the padding soft under his feet. Jim followed up with a series of punches and strikes, Harry only just getting his arms between them and his body and head.
But he couldn’t maintain any control over the situation. Jim was smothering him. Toying with him. If I could only get some space. Harry made his move, leaping backwards with the intent of launching a spinning kick as Jim moved in to finish him off.
But no sooner had Harry pivoted slightly than Jim was on him, launching into the air and bringing down a scissor kick. Harry stumbled off the mat as the referee came between them again. Jim pulled the kick at the last minute.
‘Break!’
They returned to the centre of the mat. Harry was only vaguely aware of the other students – all black belts – sitting in rows. On the other side of the mats, the club’s Australian founder stood, arms folded. He probably wasn’t seeing the potential in Harry that Jim had.
‘You’ve got to focus, Harry,’ Jim said.
Harry nodded. But he hadn’t been able to focus since Saturday, the night of his disastrous date with Bec and encounter with Lily Sweeney. He’d spoken to Bec on the phone and she’d seemed distant, possibly still pissed off at him. He considered visiting her, but worried it might come across as desperate, as though he was still hiding something from her. When he wasn’t thinking about Bec, it was Lily Sweeney. Mistress Hel. He kept wondering about what she’d said, about showing him the playroom. He kept wondering what might have happened if he’d stayed the night.
‘Fight!’
Jim leapt in again, this time with a roundhouse kick. Harry pivoted, just avoiding the blow. Regardless of the pads they wore, if that kick had connected he would have been on the floor waiting for an ambulance.
But then a rare opportunity. Putting all his effort into the kick, Jim had let his arms drift open a bit, revealing the red circle in the middle of his chest padding. Harry pummelled him with three quick punches – bambambam! – and despite Jim’s fitness and the padding, he heard the instructor grunt under the force of the barrage.
Jim darted back and Harry was on him, trying to sweep his legs, then driving his heel through Jim’s hasty block, delivering another solid blow. Jim ducked to the side and stepped in with a front kick. Harry parried, turning his instructor, and drove his fist into Jim’s kidney. Jim wheezed and spun, but Harry went the other way, wrong-footing him.
Harry saw it in his eye, his moment to finish this. Jim had been forced off-balance; all his weight was on his front foot, away from Harry. He was totally exposed. Harry saw himself drop, spin and sweep Jim’s legs out from under him. In the moment before he struck, everything was perfect. All he had to do was . . .
I know you’ve already visited me . . . you naughty man.
Long legs. Stockings. Black, black hair cascading over bare shoulders. Sparkling eyes.
Harry saw the kick just before it connected. A fiendish step side kick, delivered from a position of weakness but at perfect range. The side of Jim’s foot slammed into Harry’s stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. Harry hit the deck and slid all the way off the mat, onto the hardwood floor.
‘Break!’ the referee yelled. Quite unnecessarily.
At first Harry didn’t think he’d be able to breathe again, then managed to heave in a breath that made his chest feel like it was going to explode.
Jim waited for him in the ‘rest’ position, fists in front of his belt. Harry struggled to his feet, then hobbled to the centre of the mat. Jim wore a barely suppressed grin.
‘Bow,’ the referee said. They bowed. Jim gestured to the side of the mat. On the way off, he slapped Harry on the shoulder.
* * *
Harry and Jim walked back to their cars. The wind howled around them, but Harry didn’t feel cold.
‘What happened in there?’ Jim said. ‘I saw your eyes go. One minute you were there, the next . . .’
Harry looked away.
‘Weren’t feeling sorry for your old instructor, were you?’
‘Ha! No, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.’
Jim paused, waiting for Harry to fill the silence. But Harry couldn’t talk about this with Jim.
‘Okay. You did well.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But at the bout you’re going to need to keep your wits about you. We go easy on each other here . . .’
‘That was going easy on me?’
‘You know what I mean. At the tournament, you lapse like that, you’ll probably end up in emergency.’
Harry rubbed his ribs. Nodded. ‘It’s okay, boss. This . . . this thing. It will be sorted out by then.’
CHAPTER 19
Harry pushed through the front door, still panting from his run. He was planning to get straight in the shower but on the way to the bathroom decided to check his email. When he saw one from Phil, he sat. The shower could wait. He opened the email and downloaded the attachment. Harry’s heart thumped in his chest.
The case files. Fuck. This was so wrong. Harry had told Lily Sweeney he was a journalist, not an investigator, but he could feel himself drifting further and further from one to the other. He flicked through the file.
Zak Godwin. Public servant turned mirror eater.
Constable Brad Brooks. Blew his brains out with his service pistol.
Christopher Lawrence. Jumped in front of a train.
John Moncrieff. Gassed himself in his garage.
Phil had also included Anthony Gillespie, and the guy he’d fried, Jeffrey Stafford.
As Phil had said, Godwin had seemed like a regular guy. Police hadn’t been able to dig up anything weird about him. His wife said she didn’t know anyone who would want to harm him. Like Phil, he was a civil servant for the Police Department, but much higher up the food chain. He’d been working on a project to support the families of police officers killed in the line of duty. Very noble. As Phil mentioned, he was on a couple of boards: Queensland Writers Centre and the RNA, home of the Ekka.
Brad Brooks had been a young, promising constable. Then, shortly before he suicided, he began acting strangely. Harry didn’t know what exactly he’d been doing – large sections of the report Phil had sent him had been redacted – but it was enough to get him suspended. Two days later, he was dead.
Harry made a mental note to ask Phil about it. They may not want to give it to him in an official document, but maybe Harry could weasel it out of Phil over the phone or in person.