Siren

by Tara Moss

  ‘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 wanted 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.

  He was left standing alone outside the Airstream, holding the bottle of wine, flustered and embarrassed. More than any other moment of the past week, he felt the urge to find the nearest phone and call home. His mum would be so worried about him. He sometimes imagined her torment, and it was almost enough for him to ring her up. But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want that life. He couldn’t go back now.

  And what would his lover do if he phoned home? She would reject him; she would think he wasn’t even a man. She would think he was a scared little boy. He had only been with one other woman, and she was certainly nothing like Bijou. Her approval meant the world to him. What would she do if he said he had to go home? What if the disapproval he sensed from the other members of the troupe rubbed off on her, and she decided she didn’t like him any more? The thought stabbed at him with unbearable insecurity.

  Oh, Bijou.

  The young man paced for a few minutes, stomach churning. He did his best to gather himself be
fore returning to Bijou’s door. He knocked, his heart still beating far too fast for the calm he wished he possessed. As he waited, he exhaled into his palm, checking his breath, and ran a hand over his blond hair, patting it down. His palms, he noted, were sweaty. His body was out of control. A horrible feeling. Uncool.

  Just a little longer…and then when you call home you’ll have news to be proud of. You will have proved yourself. It will all work out.

  There was a faint rustle and the door opened.

  Bijou—La Femme Assassinée—stood in the doorway, wrapped in a long, elegant silk robe.

  At the sight of her, Adam fought for a moment to breathe.

  Bijou had lit candles inside the Airstream, the space behind her glowing with warm haloes of light. A gentle waft of her scent curled into his nostrils and settled somewhere in his groin. The mere sight of her aroused him. He was both excited and embarrassed by this visceral, physical effect. He felt helpless before it.

  ‘I…I got you a necklace,’ he said, awkwardly pulling the string of luminous pearls from his pocket.

  ‘Mon amour,’ Bijou murmured in a sweet-smelling whisper. She leaned forward and pressed her warm painted lips to his mouth, leaving her mark on him, possessing him. She took him by the hand and led him inside, closing the door behind him.

  Adam Hart’s anxieties left him at once.

  In the darkness, the man watched his former lover with this new boy, this child of a man, and his eyes narrowed to slits. In the pit of his stomach something hateful and pitiful squirmed. He had felt it before. He knew what it was.

  Jealousy.

  He would do what he had to do to destroy it.

  CHAPTER 13

  With shaky hands, Mak sat up and untangled the sheets that had wrapped themselves tightly around her body.

  On the windowsill Loulou’s alarm clock glowed: 2:35 a.m. Mak was alone, edgy and now viciously awake. She had convinced Andy to leave. She had pushed him out the door and locked it, then cried herself to sleep. The last time. That is the last time you will ever cry yourself to sleep over him, or any other man.

  But she was restless now. And awake. As her disorientation faded, she realised that something had woken her.

  The front door.

  There was a footstep. The front door creaked and clicked shut. Someone was definitely there, in the apartment. It was not her imagination. Shit. Mak made out the sound of one set of footsteps, not two. It could not be the lovebirds Loulou and Drayson back ahead of schedule…

  This is bad…

  Immediately, Mak snapped into her well-honed survival mode. With silent stealth, she rolled out of Loulou’s bed, arriving in a crouch on the floor and picturing in sharp relief every dimension and object in the dark room. Set of keys to hold in my fist like a weapon. Alarm clock wire. Knives in a rack in the kitchen—too far. Sliding window one foot away. Garden courtyard beyond.

  There was a noise like something hitting a wall, a rustle of metal, then footsteps approached. No time. In seconds Mak had rolled under the bed with the apartment keys in her right fist and one of Drayson’s pointy black shoes in the other.

  The bedroom light came on.

  Mak squinted.

  She had only a sliver of vision. The intruder was a man of slim build, with dark hair, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. He was alone. He had his back to her. Strangely, he was leaning casually against the closet door and kicking off his cowboy boots. The leather jacket landed on the floor.

  What the…?

  With his boots off, he turned towards the bed and began undoing the snaps of his black collared shirt. Mak blinked, still gripping her makeshift weapons, though less tightly. The man’s shirt came off to reveal one tattoo after another, illustrating an attractive, toned torso. A large belt buckle, in rockabilly style, cinched his jeans and he unbuckled it with one hand as he tossed his shirt with the other. A face emerged from beneath the crown of rocker hair, a face framed by a familiar quiff and a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

  I don’t believe this. I don’t bloody believe this…

  ‘Bogey…?’

  The sound of her voice startled him. He jumped back a metre, then fell into something like a ninja stance, eyes darting in all directions.

  ‘Bogey, it’s Mak,’ she explained from the safety of her hiding place.

  ‘What…? Where are you?’

  ‘Don’t laugh…I’m under the bed. I thought you were an intruder.’

  He bent to look for her, but she stopped him. ‘Don’t look! I’m not wearing any clothes.’ Her words hung in the air, surreal, and she began to laugh. ‘This is so ridiculous! Sometimes I hate Loulou, I really do.’

  ‘Mak? Are you okay? They didn’t tell me you were going to be staying.’

  ‘Loulou didn’t tell me you were here!’

  There was either a massive miscommunication somewhere, or Loulou really was a scatterbrain. Or playing Cupid.

  ‘I think this is yours,’ Mak said, and held the pointy black shoe out from under the bed as a kind of peace offering.

  ‘Oh, Mak. I’ll get you something to put on. I’m so sorry.’ She watched the lower half of his body rush off and appear a few moments later accompanied by a fluffy pink robe. He placed it next to the bed, careful not to look at her.

  ‘I’m not sure if this is my colour,’ Mak said, still under the bed—relief, bewilderment and a certain excitement coursing through her.

  CHAPTER 14

  Tuesday morning the summer sun beat down on Lara as she traversed the alley with an armful of boxes and a heavy satchel thrown over her shoulder.

  She had already packed her drum kit and personal belongings on the tour bus, and now she halted before the steps of the star performer’s gleaming Airstream, hoping to have a chat. She needed to discuss a problem with the glamorous Bijou, presently leaning languidly against her trailer door, shaded from the sun in a silk slip and robe, a cigarette balanced elegantly between the fingers of her right hand.

  La Femme Assassinée.

  Bijou was fully made up and bejewelled, even though it was morning, as if she thought she might be living in a black-and-white film and had to forever be ready for her close-up. While the rest of the troupe had been eating at a nearby café and packing their things, she would have been powdering, scenting and painting herself. Bijou was never seen without makeup, and she never ate before midday. Breakfast was vulgar, she was often heard to say.

  ‘Tell me you’re not going to,’ Lara said.

  Bijou took a drag of her cigarette, and smiled slightly.

  The two women were a study in contrasts. Lara had been born and raised in America and divided her time between Venice Beach, California, and Paris when the troupe was not on the road. Bijou, however, was born in Paris and was proudly, demonstratively French—if arguably from another era. Lara had none of Bijou’s affectations. She wore her hair cropped short, and preferred to dress in baggy jeans and T-shirts when not performing in her mannish stage tuxedo. Bijou, on the other hand, would never be seen in anything less than the attire of a star. The concept of casual dressing was anathema to her. Thankfully, she had long ago given up complaining about Lara’s lack of feminine glamour. It helped that Lara did not like men, and there was no competition between Bijou and this much younger woman. Bijou reserved her scorn instead for the troupe’s other two female members, Gia and Yelena, who it seemed were never thin enough or pretty enough to live up to her demands.

  Lara and Bijou shared an unusual relationship that defied conventional labels. In fact, most of the troupe could be described in such terms. Few on the outside would understand their dynamic. But one thing was clear: Bijou was the star, the senior and founding member of the troupe, and had the final say in all of the big decisions. And she held the purse. Her absolute authority was rarely questioned. Lara was the only member of the troupe who would even dare to delicately enquire about Bijou’s decisions, or choice of company…which she was questioning now.

  The packing up was being
finalised before the drive to the final show of their Australian tour, and while Bijou was wasting time with her cigarette—and Lara was waiting for a response—the rest of the troupe was doing the heavy work. Lara was becoming impatient.

  ‘Don’t do this again,’ she pressed, the satchel weighing heavily on her shoulder. The petite performer only flashed her beautifully painted eyes at the younger woman in response, then turned her gaze to observe the well-built young man walking towards them, the subject of Lara’s comments. The boy had the moronic beauty of youth in abundance, Lara had to concede. His hair was blond and thick, his body lean, fit, and precisely formed. He had been in the company of the theatrical troupe for a full week. For Lara, this was seven days too many, but the star performer clearly thought otherwise, and no doubt would have her way. Bijou was no dummy. She spoke fluent English and Russian, in addition to her native French, and yet when it suited her she would feign misunderstanding. ‘Comment? Je ne comprends pas.’ Or, as with this conversation, she would simply choose not to respond. Bijou had no peer in the art of getting her way.

  ‘Brisbane? For one show? Why bother?’ Lara complained, before he was in earshot.

  And certainly not Paris…

  At that moment the young man approached bearing a styrofoam cup of coffee.

  Bijou had sent him to fetch a café au lait, her morning beverage of choice. It would be pretty hard to find coffee she liked once they hit the road again. Adam must have sensed he was being watched. He looked up with an eager smile, his eyes directed towards the object of his flagrant crush, who for her part returned his gaze with an encouraging nod and a flick of the tassel of her robe.

  Merde.

  Lara shook her head, not finding the words to express the frustrated thoughts cycling through her brain.

  The young man waved in their direction with the enthusiasm of a child, and sped up his pace. Bijou, having remained silent all this time, only smiled mischievously. ‘Pourquoi pas?’ she said.