Siren

by Tara Moss

  ‘I know you said you don’t ever want to marry. But I wanted to show you my commitment,’ the boy said. He was earnest in both words and appearance, attired in smart trousers and a pressed shirt. He looked serious, and gripped a small package.

  ‘Oui?’ Bijou responded, turning from the mirrored vanity where she had been powdering herself.

  ‘Oui,’ Adam repeated, his pronunciation appalling, Arslan thought. ‘Bijou, um, amour. Je t’aime.’ He handed her the box, which was beautifully wrapped in vibrant red. ‘Happy birthday.’

  Arslan’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘What is this?’ Bijou asked coyly, her eyes sparkling with delight. She was now perched on the edge of her vanity stool, her silk dress falling open to reveal her shapely legs. Arslan could see her back reflected sensually in the mirror behind her. Her dress had a deep ‘V’ that exposed her spine to the waist. He vividly remembered having effortlessly liberated her from it on numerous occasions, when he had been her preferred companion.

  ‘You deserve the most beautiful things in life,’ Adam said earnestly.

  Arslan shifted a few millimetres in his box. He had given Bijou a spectacular bouquet of roses this year for her birthday. He could see them in the corner of the room, standing proudly, and colourfully. What would this gauche boy buy her? And two days late? Some horrible perfume?

  He watched as she untied the bow, and slid the ribbon off the box.

  ‘You are so kind,’ she told the boy, and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. She peeled the paper back to reveal a red jewellery coffret.

  The boy clasped his hands together tightly. ‘I love you, Bijou,’ he said as she opened the little box, her delicate mouth opening in surprise. ‘I wanted to give you this on your birthday, but—’

  And now, to Arslan’s horror, Bijou was smiling, delighted. ‘Oh, my dear Adam! It is magnifique!’ she exclaimed.

  Arslan could not see! He tried to shift position, only to discover, naturally, there was no room to manoeuvre. He could not see what was in the box, but her eyes were wide with wonder at whatever it held. She was overjoyed. What had this fool given her?

  ‘Magnifique!’ she repeated.

  Arslan felt himself panic. He wanted to leap out of the box and snatch the thing away. What was it? What had he given her? A ring? Was he proposing?

  Bijou reached into the box and lifted something from it. It glittered in her hands, and he could make it out now—a beautiful piece of jewellery. A ring. It was small but undeniably elegant. Arslan could make out the store name on the jewellery box.

  Cartier.

  ‘I love you,’ the fool told her. ‘I love you.’ He was on his knees now, embracing her legs and resting his head against her soft thighs. ‘I had it engraved. It says Amor Vincit Omnia, and your name. Love conquers all.’

  Bijou was speechless. The boy took the ring and gently placed it on her hand. It took him a couple of tries before he found the right finger. Clumsy boy. Now he sat back on the bed and admired the gift he had chosen, while Arslan strained to get a better view of Bijou’s reaction.

  She reached for an ornate hand mirror from the vanity table to better admire herself, to admire her slender fingers, now complemented by this shining piece of jewellery.

  ‘You are the only woman I have ever loved,’ he told her, back on his knees.

  ‘Je t’aime, aussi,’ she replied, admiring the way the gold sat against her skin. She leaned towards Adam and kissed him hard on the lips.

  Arslan’s stomach churned. She appeared so passionate. This was different. He could sense it. Could she actually be falling for this boy?

  ‘I will wear our pearls tonight…the pearls you gave me in Sydney.’

  Pearls?

  She removed an antique-looking set of pearls from the drawer of her vanity, and the boy took them from her with care, placing them around her slender throat with a lover’s touch.

  Now more than ever, Arslan wanted to kill this interloper.

  The boy’s fingers trailed maddeningly down her nape, down her exquisite back, and she twisted on her stool to gaze up at him. ‘Run away with me,’ she blurted.

  Arslan blinked. What did she say?

  ‘I’m so tired of this life, these shows, this ungrateful troupe. Let’s go away.’

  ‘But what about your career? You’re a star, Bijou!’

  Bijou turned back to the mirror. Watching her young lover’s reflection, she dabbed rouge on her cheeks and lipgloss on her sensual mouth. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she said firmly, ‘enough of this life.’ She put down her makeup. ‘Always travelling, always working, always looking after those kids.’ She threw her arms in the air. ‘Enough of it! Enough of them. I haven’t been treated properly for years. We’ll do this show together, tonight, you and I. And then, we leave.’

  What was she saying?

  Arslan’s English was far from fluent, but he could not mistake her meaning. Was she being literal, or was this some tale she wished to make the boy believe?

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll have enough money to live on for years.’

  Arslan’s face darkened. She meant it. Bijou was going to leave him, and the rest of them, to be with this foolish boy she had taken up with. She was going to take all their money, his money, his twin sister, Yelena’s, money. She was never going to give them, or the rest of the troupe, their proper share. She wasn’t hanging onto it for them, doing what was best for them. She wasn’t looking out for their interests. She was going to rob them and abandon them.

  After decades, Bijou was leaving again.

  Non! Maman, non…

  Inside his small box, Arslan felt the sting of hot tears. He saw himself leap from his secret place like a jack-in-the-box to strangle his mother with those pearls, but he did not move or make a sound. His torment remained contained, just as he was, in the little box. He stayed folded in the tiny box just as he had been taught as a child. Like the others, he and Yelena were the spawn of Bijou’s affairs over years of travelling in vaudeville. His biological father was a Russian-born contortionist, a defector. Arslan had no memory of the man, no photograph. He and Yelena were not allowed to speak his name. And from the earliest age, they were not allowed to call her ‘maman’, either. Bijou had them, but they never had her. She had come and gone from their lives as it suited her, and denied them normal motherly love. Her sexual love for Arslan had also come and gone.

  Maman…

  After a decade of travelling as a troupe, finally giving them all a place to belong together, Bijou was going to leave them again.

  Arslan could not let her do that.

  Bijou and her lover left her apartment for the theatre, and as soon as the door clicked shut, Arslan opened the top hatch of his old stage box. He crawled out limb by limb, and gracefully touched his feet on the hardwood floor as a spider would. Inwardly, he shook with grief.

  He was quick to make his way to the quarters he shared with Yelena, to change and grab his things for the performance, aware that he would need to race to the venue—only a few blocks from the corner of Montmartre where all the troupe lived in close proximity—to arrive on time. But before he left, he stood by the doorway with his eyes shut tight, struggling with a decision.

  Maman…

  Back in his own apartment, he walked quickly, determinedly, to his single bed and lifted the mattress. His hand hovered near a vial of liquid he had hidden there. His body froze momentarily while inner turmoil raged. Finally he picked up the vial and pocketed it.

  CHAPTER 40

  It was past nine o’clock on Sunday evening, Paris time, when Makedde entered the Cité Chaptal, a little cul-de-sac in the sleazy red-light district of Pigalle. She had rushed from Charles de Gaulle airport to drop her bags at her Montmartre hotel, and literally run the few blocks to the theatre. Slightly out of breath, she stopped on the cobblestones and frowned, lifting her furry collar to her chin.

  This is it?

  She looked at the address she’d scribbled down for
the venue the troupe would be performing at—the site of the original Grand Guignol theatre, from which they took their inspiration—and looked back at the street sign. Yes, this is the place. She’d read up on the history of the troupe and its Parisian base and was disappointed to find that the infamous alley now appeared to be much like any other Parisian laneway. It was nothing but a plain cobblestone street leading to a small theatre with an uninspiring façade.

  The original Théâtre du Grand-Guignol?

  The venue had first acquired a reputation in 1897, when the French playwright Oscar Méténier bought the little building, a former church, to present his naturalist plays. Méténier was a police employee who spent the final moments with prisoners who’d been sentenced to death. His controversial plays reflected his experiences, and were known for their violence and horror. Mak had previously been aware of the place only through the celebrated diaries of Anaïs Nin, one of her favourite writers, who frequented the Grand Guignol with her lover, Henry Miller, in the early 1930s. What a place. What a history. Yet in the cold Parisian evening, the geographical heart of this unique genre of horror was deceptively banal. The original theatre had been closed in the 1960s, and was at present being used as an acting school called Theatre 347. Various plays were performed at the venue from time to time, with Le Théâtre des Horreurs evidently the only troupe trying to revive the Grand Guignol genre.

  Mak’s flurry of research on the troupe had resulted in numerous contradictions and mysteries—stories of fainting audience members and outrageous publicity stunts—but she was certain of one thing: five years earlier, right in the alley where she stood, a young man named Jean-Baptiste Trevillie had been attacked with acid after watching the Théâtre des Horreurs’ adaptation of The Final Kiss. It was evidently a brutal copycat crime. The quiet cobblestone alley had been witness to both history and horror.

  Mak felt a vibration in her pocket. Distractedly, she raised her phone to her ear and listened to a voicemail message. Familiar, comforting tones reached her from across the world. ‘Hi, Mak. It’s Bogey. I’m back in Melbourne. I hope everything’s going well in Paris, and that it isn’t too cold for you. Look, I wanted to say there’s a big design fair on in London this week. I was going to fly over for it, and I thought, perhaps, if you’re still in Paris…’

  Mak smiled, temporarily forgetting her case.

  ‘…I could come over and see you for a few days before you have to head home? If that would be something you’d be into…or…’

  ‘Oui!’ she blurted aloud, as if he could hear her, and hung up, giddy.

  Bogey? In Paris? That was a wonderful thought.

  She would call him later. In the meantime, she hoped to catch the second half of the show Le Théâtre des Horreurs were performing. Hopefully, Adam Hart would not be far away.

  Was he already nearby?

  Makedde paid her money and took her seat alone in the little theatre in the Cité Chaptal during the brief interval.

  The theatre was intimate, almost claustrophobic, with a small stage masked by a heavy red curtain. Above her, two enormous angels hovered eerily, a patina of dust and the wear and tear of age showing on their stern faces and billowing robes. Makedde could faintly smell traces of mildew and smoke beneath the stronger scent of overly perfumed patrons. The room was filled to about half capacity. Mak heard a mix of languages and accents as mid-week theatre-goers, tourists, Grand Guignol fans and lovers of the bizarre clustered in the former chapel. A metal spring showed through the fabric of the seat to her right, and she could not help but feel that the tattiness of the venue somehow lent further charm to the atmosphere. This space—so much more interesting than the bland exterior—had really seen things.

  The lights were dimming, the evening’s performance about to continue.

  Out of the darkness, a warm red glow seeped through the curtains and spread across the crowd. The old theatrical curtains were pulled back to reveal a band dressed in old-fashioned tuxedos, bringing to mind another era. The drummer, a woman with close-cropped hair, wore an amusing 1920s-style moustache. Her drum kit declared: LE THÉTRE DES HORREURS.

  Mak was terribly curious about the content of the show, but this was much more than a night of bizarre theatre for her. The real action, she hoped, would be backstage or in the audience itself. Where would Adam Hart be? In the dressing rooms? In the audience? Or would she need to follow one of the performers after the show to find him? Her first order of business was to get herself backstage. Neither the vaudeville troupe nor the venue appeared particularly high-budget or security-conscious. Mak felt her skills would be more than up to the task. As two eerily similar-looking burlesque artists slinked onto the stage holding signs that declared LE THEATRE DES HORREURS and THE THEATRE OF HORRORS respectively, Mak stood up and began to make her way to the back of the theatre.

  ‘Madame?’

  It was an usher, wearing a cross look, evidently displeased by her impolitely timed exit.

  Mak held her stomach, as if in agony. ‘Où est la toilette?’ she asked with an urgency that implied food poisoning.

  With a sneer, he pointed her in the right direction, and she followed the signs towards the washrooms. At the end of a dark corridor were the facilities—unisex in the oldfashioned French style. And on the other side, a door marked ACCÉS INTERDIT.

  Prohibited access.

  Mak grinned slightly, and pushed the door open…

  CHAPTER 41

  Time for the hard decisions, Jack.

  Jack Cavanagh sat across from The American, who waited patiently for instructions. Jack took his time, staring out his hard-earned office window, reflecting.

  His career had already been an accomplished one by any standard, but he feared slowing down. Slowing would necessarily involve handing over the reins to someone else. He had long hoped control of the business would stay in the family. But it was clear that handing the Cavanagh empire on to his 31-year-old son, Damien, would be extremely problematic, despite his Wharton education and all his grooming for the position. Damien was his only child. What could Jack do? The shareholders would jump ship before Damien even got the chance to drive the whole thing into the ground himself.

  Cobwebs and tar.

  Jack Cavanagh had built his influential empire from the ground up, and had imagined that by retirement age he’d be able to enjoy a certain satisfaction at what he had built. He knew what it was to work hard. He was the son of a janitor, not a mogul. He had watched his father toil excruciatingly long hours to save for his education. His father had been a smart man, but a man without opportunities. Jack had wanted to make his father proud.

  Somewhere along the way, the dream went wrong.

  Cobwebs…

  ‘Jack…?’ The American prompted.

  He looked at The American with his mouth turned down, his guts uneasy. ‘I need you to…’ His voice quavered. He tried again. ‘Yes. We need Mr Hand. We need Ms Vanderwall gone.’

  She was a problem. She had followed his son, and was agitating her police friends. And now, finally, she was out of the country. She had to stay gone.

  Mr White, The American, nodded in response. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  Across the globe, in Algiers, Madame Q sat before a bank of computers ranged across an antique French oak table. An assortment of flowers arranged with expert aesthetic skill filled the crystal vase next to her. The Mediterranean Sea spread out before her, hot African sun beating on the white-painted windowsill.

  It was from this tranquil North African location that she conducted her business through a careful web of contacts on a digital network fuelled by need, greed, power and secrecy. Madame Q was an agent of death for cash. For the right price she was able to facilitate hits for wealthy corporations and individuals. She was not interested in politics. She did not deal with governments. Ideals did not concern her. Ideals were best left out of it.

  A message came in, from one of her Australian clients, Mr White.

  REQUEST. SIN
GLE. LOCATION PARIS. HAND AVAILABLE?

  Before she had a chance to reply that her agent Luther Hand would be available for the usual fee, another message arrived with an electronic beep. It was from the colleague who called himself Rob.

  INTERPOL, was all it said.

  Madame Q frowned. She knew what this meant. For some weeks she’d been receiving warnings that an Interpol net might be closing around her operation. So it seemed it was true?

  She returned to Mr White’s request, and responded quickly. CONFIRM. SECURE FUNDS BY THIS AFTERNOON.

  She would have to get the funds as fast as possible in case she got another update from Rob and needed to vacate her office in Algiers in short order.

  Madame Q would set Luther up for the job, and hold as much of the money as possible. If the Interpol threat was real, Luther would be left to his own devices.

  VANDERWALL.

  Mr White’s reply was a name, not a code. Madame Q paused. She swallowed, her mouth feeling dry. This was a reference to a previous job, an assignment that had become complicated.

  HALF RATE was her offer. Tense, she waited for a response. Half rate was still substantial; the client was wealthy and she hoped she could retain them after the dust had settled.

  CONFIRMED. FUNDS DELIVERED ONE HOUR.

  CHAPTER 42

  Mak pushed the door open and found herself in an unlit area backstage at the little theatre in Cité Chaptal.