by Gary Kemble
‘Okay.’
Harry felt sick. Sweaty and nauseous.
‘So . . . what’s the story?’ Phil said.
The world spun around him. Harry crouched, worried he was going to fall over. He sucked in a breath to steady himself.
‘Harry, you okay?’
‘Yeah . . . just not feeling too great. The cuts. I’m pretty sure she’s doing the cuts . . .’
‘Oh yeah, why’s that?’
Because she did them to me. ‘There’s another guy . . . seeing her . . . a union official . . .’
‘You sure you’re okay, Harry?’
‘No, not really. But this . . . this is important . . .’
Shut the fuck up. Her voice was in his head. Not just him imagining her – actually in his head. Shut the fuck up or I’ll flay you. And then he saw it: her playroom floor covered in blood and him hanging there like a piece of meat.
‘Harry, are you in danger? Has this woman threatened you?’
YES! ‘N-no . . . nothing like that.’
A pause at the other end of the line. ‘Do you have any evidence?’
Shut the fuck up, Harry.
Harry tried to blink the vision away, but it wouldn’t go. Eyes open, eyes closed, it made no difference. Mistress Hel dropped the scalpel to the base of Harry’s cock. And now I end you . . .
Harry cried out.
‘Harry?’
‘Yeah, I’m here,’ he said. He knew what he had to do. And it wasn’t blab to Phil. He lay on the floor, taking deep breaths.
Mistress Hel stared into his eyes. She smiled and took a step back. Harry opened his eyes and he was back in his lounge room, staring at the ceiling.
‘Do you have any evidence?’ Phil said. ‘Anything at all? If the boys have reasonable suspicion a crime has been committed, they can get a search warrant.’
Harry took another deep breath. A crime? He recalled questioning Mistress Hel about the scalpel, while he was strung up, and then giving her permission to use it on him. Shit, he begged her to use it on him. If there was any evidence of someone else being at the crime scenes, other than the cryptic scrawls he’d found outside Zak Godwin’s place, Phil hadn’t mentioned it.
‘No . . . I . . . sorry . . .’ Harry said. ‘That’s okay, mate. Why don’t you call me back when you’re feeling a bit better?’
‘Yeah, yeah, maybe that’s for the best.’
Harry hung up and then crawled into his bedroom and into bed. He fell asleep almost straight away, the stench of blood in his nostrils.
* * *
Harry waited for Bec outside her office building. There was no trace of the optimism he’d felt that morning. In fact, it was the opposite. Any attempt to try to remember what had actually happened was like trying to look through a thick layer of fog. He knew in his head it was something significant, he could replay the moment in his mind, but he was divorced from any feeling associated with it, as though he was watching a TV show but he’d come in halfway through.
His hand probed his shoulder. The cuts weren’t bleeding anymore, but he could feel them through his shirt, rough under the fabric.
He had a few moments to watch Bec before she saw him. Then their eyes locked and she smiled, and all he could think of was how he’d told Mistress Hel she was his top priority.
Don’t ever waste my time again, Harry.
He forced a smile as Bec walked towards the revolving door. She came out and, if possible, her smile grew even wider. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him. It was like a jolt of electricity.
Bec let go of him slightly. ‘You okay?’
Harry smiled. ‘Yeah.’
‘No, you’re not.’
Harry felt tears welling inside him. ‘No. No, I’m not. But can we talk about this at your place?’
‘Of course.’
They walked back through the city together, holding hands. Skin on skin. He felt a thread of hope among all the confusion. He could do this. As long as she never let him go, he could get through this. He couldn’t speak. It was hard enough just putting one foot in front of the other. His fingers tingled. He felt disconnected from himself. In his peripheral vision, he could see Bec glancing at him from time to time, worry lining her face.
She guided him into her building, into the lift, through the door to her apartment, then to the couch, where he could watch dusk settling over the city.
‘You stay there. I think we need tea for this,’ she said.
‘Whisky,’ Harry mumbled, through numb lips.
‘Tea first. Then whisky.’
The sounds of her rummaging around in the kitchen, those lovely, everyday sounds, kept him calm. He zoned out, and came back to himself when Bec handed him the tea.
‘I put sugar in it. I don’t know if you still take sugar, but you look like you could use some,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
She sat next to him, set her cup on the table. ‘Look, if this is about the London thing, I don’t even know if I’ll go and even if . . .’
‘It’s not about London.’
‘Okay. Then spill it. The words, not the tea.’
Harry concentrated on the warmth going into his hands, and on the surface of the tea. ‘I didn’t tell you everything about what happened last year,’ he said.
Bec nodded.
‘Because it sounds crazy,’ Harry said. ‘But after last year, I get the feeling that crazy is going to be a part of my life. And if you’re going to be a part of my life, then . . .’
She put a hand on his leg.
‘I had a bit of help getting that big story last year,’ he said. ‘In fact, without the help, I wouldn’t have got the story at all. No one would have.’
He laid it all out for her. The tattoos, the nightmares, how they connected. Rob and his girlfriend. Andrew Cardinal and his sick little hobby.
When he’d finished the story, his tea was gone. Bec hadn’t touched hers. For a long time, she said nothing. There was just silence, punctuated by the wind whistling around the building.
‘Harry, that sounds . . .’
‘Crazy. I know. Look.’
He showed her the tattoo on the back of his neck. She must have seen it before. She must have assumed it was something he’d done post break-up. A drunken mistake.
‘This is still with me. And sometimes I think Rob is still with me. Did you know I’m going to compete in a martial arts tournament next week?’
‘You mentioned something about it.’
‘I’ve been doing karate for nine months. I’ll be competing against people who’ve been doing it for years. That’s Rob. I still have some of Rob’s abilities.’
‘Harry . . .’
He stared at her. In the semi-darkness it was hard to read her expression, but she still looked worried. Harry sighed. He unbuttoned his shirt. Turned his back to her to show her the cuts. She gasped.
‘Harry! Harry, who did this to you?’ She sounded scared.
He put his head in his hands and cried. He didn’t want to tell her. But now he had no choice. He’d gone too far.
‘Mistress Hel.’
Silence. Somewhere in the city a siren went off.
‘The dominatrix?’
Harry nodded. Bec took her hand off his leg.
‘Harry, what the hell is going on?’
Harry tried to get it straight in his own head. Why had he booked the session with Mistress Hel? He saw the photos of the marked backs. All dead. He closed his eyes, saw strange symbols floating through the darkness. Made fists with his hands and saw the triangle, burning through the darkness.
‘I’m caught in a trap,’ he whispered.
‘You’re not making any sense.’
He sat up, rubbed his face. ‘I’m caught in a trap. Like a spider’s web.’
‘Harry . . . sit down.’
Harry didn’t realise he was standing. He didn’t sit. Instead he walked to the window and stared out at the city. Bec didn’t follow him.
‘We can
figure this out, Harry. I can help you. Just sit.’
He shook his head.
‘Tell me what happened.’
Harry sighed. ‘I didn’t just interview Lily Sweeney. I went there for a . . . a session with Mistress Hel. I don’t know why. I couldn’t get her out of my head. I mean . . . I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I needed to know why those men had . . .’ He walked behind the lounge. Couldn’t bear the feeling of her eyes on him.
She didn’t get up. She didn’t face him.
‘So I went to see her. She tied me up. Cut me. It was . . . it was . . . amazing. Terrible. Horrific. It was pure ecstasy.’
‘Harry . . .’
He waved her away. ‘And now I’m trapped.’
‘Harry, I think you should leave,’ Bec sobbed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and walked out the door.
CHAPTER 30
The ashen six-storey block looked as though it had been airlifted from Soviet Russia. UNION HOUSE was stamped on the side in faded red letters. The portico out the front bore the names of six different unions, the letters time-worn and almost illegible.
Harry pushed through the front door, glad to be out of the chill. His pulse rate lifted, but he was glad. Despite pumping loud music into his brain, despite the tattoos on the backs of his hands, his head was a maelstrom, filled mostly by Mistress Hel and the massive orgasm he’d had at her hands. Then the break-up with Bec. He was assuming it was a breakup. He found he cared less than he should, which worried him. But when he worried about it, his brain fogged up. But this, what he was about to do, this was real. Real and highly unethical, not to mention illegal.
The receptionist was on the phone. Harry surveyed the foyer. Grey walls with tacky red tiles and union posters. VALUE ME, one of them screamed. It seemed a bit needy. Harry walked to the counter. The man behind the desk was in his late fifties. His work area was covered in slips of paper and Post-It notes, stacks of printed reports, and overflowing in/out trays. Several lights on his phone were flashing.
The receptionist hung up from a call and peered at Harry.
‘Chad Brunswick,’ Harry said. ‘Here to fix Don Clack’s computer?’ He lifted the briefcase, which was mostly empty. The receptionist looked none the wiser. ‘He’s the Australian United Workers secretary.’
‘Hang on a sec.’ He dialled a number, listened for a while, then cut off the call. ‘Sorry, he’s not in, is he expecting you?’
‘Yeah, it’s okay . . .’
‘I can call up and get someone to let you in?’ His tone suggested he’d rather he didn’t have to.
‘Nah. That’s okay. I’ll just pop up.’
‘Thanks. Have a nice day.’
‘You too,’ Harry said, and headed for the lift.
It was a small workspace, four desks and a tiny office at the back, sectioned off with glass partitions and blinds. Two people were at their desks. The man closest to the door was in his forties, with a paunch and sweat stains under his arms. When he glanced up, Harry smiled.
‘G’day,’ Harry said. He didn’t stop, didn’t ask for directions, just kept walking.
The next occupied desk was closer to Clack’s office. The woman with frizzy brown hair and a matching cardigan didn’t even look up. He pulled out his set of lock picks, slid them into the lock and eased them back and forth. He’d bought the picks on Amazon late one night a few months before, an impulse buy that he didn’t remember until they arrived in the post. He’d decided he might as well try them out and discovered, as with karate, he’d picked up another obscure skill from Rob. That afternoon he’d managed to pick every lock in the house.
‘You okay there?’ the woman in the brown jumper said.
‘Yeah,’ Harry said. ‘The lock’s just a bit stuck.’
And then it popped. He left the door open, put the picks into his pocket, went to the computer and switched it on. He peered through the blinds. The guy was staring at his computer. The woman watched Harry, but then returned to her work when he met her gaze and smiled. He let the computer boot up.
He turned to the battered green filing cabinet behind Clack’s desk. This lock was even easier to pick. He pulled out the drawers and rifled through the files.
There was a tap at the door. Harry looked up, smiled at the woman standing there. She’d put glasses on.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ she said.
‘Nah, I’m okay,’ Harry said. ‘I’m trying to find the registration code for Clack’s antivirus software, which is horrendously out of date, by the way.’ He returned to the screen and made a show of tapping some keys. ‘This old thing is riddled with viruses. Wonder what he’s been looking at.’ Harry tipped her a wink and she smiled back at him, then retreated to her desk.
He returned to the files, slid the drawer closed and moved to the next one down. There it was: EKKA FUNDRAISER, in bright red letters. Harry lifted the file out and opened it. He flicked through the mass of documents. A quote from a catering company: red and white wine, beer, canapés; staff to serve. Another quote from a hire company for tables, chairs, linen and potted plants. Harry noted the date – just over two weeks away. He took photos of the two documents. He shuffled through the rest of the documents, looking for anything mentioning this mysterious Lilith Foundation. Harry froze when he saw the Queensland Police letterhead.
Dear Mr Clack,
I hope this finds you well. Apologies for the formal nature of this letter but I wanted to reach out to you in a more traditional way before moving to email.
As you know, the Queensland Police Union and Australian United Workers have a long history of solidarity. I’m contacting you for help setting up a charity fundraiser.
Forgive me for being candid, but I know you’ve had some issues with the press in recent years. I think this could be a good opportunity to show you’re a good bloke, as well as raise some money for the kids and get the boys together for a few beers.
If you’re interested, please give me a call on the number below and I can organise a meeting to take things further.
Best Wishes,
Constable Brad Brooks
Queensland Police
‘Holy shit,’ Harry whispered.
‘Everything okay?’
Harry closed the folder and looked up, forcing a smile. The woman was back, this time holding a cup of tea.
‘Yeah, just, y’know – I didn’t realise they actually had antivirus software this long ago,’ Harry said, gesturing at the computer.
‘I thought you might like a cup of tea,’ she said. She set it on the desk for him.
‘Thanks,’ Harry said.
‘No worries,’ she said, and backed out of the room.
Harry sipped his tea. Checked the time. He reached for the back of his neck, where the tattoo burned on his skin. His back throbbed. He opened the folder again. There were a lot of printouts of emails. Didn’t Don Clack know one of the advantages of email was that it saved on paper? To-ing and fro-ing between various public servants in the Department of Police and union representatives. Marketing and social media strategies. Documents from Brisbane City Council regarding use of public facilities and public liability insurance. Jesus, the bureaucracy. It would have been cheaper and raised more money if everyone involved had just chipped in five bucks each.
Harry was about to close the folder when another name caught his eye: Zak Godwin. An involuntary shudder passed through Harry as he recalled the bathtub black with blood. It was a passing reference to use of facilities at the RNA Showgrounds, stating that Zak Godwin, who sat on the RNA board, was supportive of the project and would smooth out any problems with access and insurance. Harry took a photo of the email, closed the folder and returned it to the filing cabinet.
He sculled the rest of the tea, then shut down Clack’s computer. He looked around the office, checking to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, then switched the light off on the way out, and locked up the office.
The woman looked up. He set the
cup on her desk.
‘All done?’ she said.
‘Yep. I’ve sent him an email to explain what was wrong. I’ve taken all the viruses off, so provided he stops looking at porn, he should be okay for a while.’
The woman laughed. ‘You must be a real whiz – I should get you to take a look at mine while you’re here.’
Harry pulled out his phone. ‘Sorry, I would but I’ve got to get over the other side of the city by midday.’
‘Do you have a card?’
Harry made a show of patting down his pockets. ‘No, sorry. If you give me your email address, I’ll follow up.’
She wrote down her details on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
‘Thanks. See ya.’
CHAPTER 31
Harry knelt naked in front of Mistress Hel’s throne, eyes staring at the floor. The edges of his vision were blurry, his head felt muddled, and he couldn’t quite recall how he found himself in this position.
He could remember pulling up outside, his body once again wracked by a desire that he wouldn’t have thought possible. On the drive here he’d still believed it likely he would tell her it was over. But when he turned the ignition off it was like a switch had been flicked. His brain had flooded with visions of Mistress Hel dressed in fishnet stockings and corset.
‘How was your week, Harry?’ she purred. She smiled at him, idly tapping her riding crop against her leg. Her legs were crossed, the pointed toe of one patent leather boot bobbing up and down.
‘Good, thank you, Mistress.’
Whack! Harry’s head snapped to one side. His cheek was on fire.
She laughed. ‘Don’t lie to me, Harry. How was your week?’
‘Terrible. Because I wasn’t with you. Mistress.’
She chuckled. ‘That’s better. Look at me, Harry.’
He looked up but not into her eyes.
‘It’s okay. I give you permission.’
He stared into her beautiful green eyes. ‘Thank you, Mistress.’
‘You are suffering because you’re fighting it, Harry. Give in, and your life will be pure bliss. All you need to worry about is serving me. Your relationship, your work – all of these things, they’re standing in the way of your peace. Give them up.’