by T M Heron
Harry Ray is my father. Multi-millionaire, philanthropist and living, breathing corporate legend. Founder, owner and managing director of the high-profile Ray Investments Limited. One of the country’s most successful private buyout funds.
“My father and I aren’t on speaking terms.”
I’ve never dared to tell anyone at Bakers this. I’m successful in my own right. But the fact I’m estranged from my revered father isn’t at the top of the facts about myself I’d most like to broadcast.
“We know,” says Anthony.
“I’m sorry?”
“We know. But seriously, how bad can it be? We want him on board.”
How bad? The last words my father said to me were, “You’ll never make partner while I’m alive.” That’s how bad.
Anthony closes the door behind him, his words left hanging there.
They know I’m disowned. And now I realize they’ve always known. Of course they have. And normally this would send me off into an absolute funk.
But it’s hard to think fluently about this ridiculous condition they’ve imposed on me, and the insoluble rift between my father and me that will prevent me meeting it, when my latest exploits are just about to make headlines. And for the first time ever someone knows exactly who I am.
5
Tonight is way too early to visit Savannah. I don’t know her that well yet. But my head is a mess, my gut is a knot and my chest is numb. In the wake of that girl from the car park any therapeutic benefits I gained from being with Michelia last night are rapidly fading. It already seems like something that happened months ago. No, I shouldn’t yet be spending time with Savannah. But when I’m this wound up the next chosen girl is my only true salvation.
I found Savannah in my normal way. There was a photo of her on her school website. A classic overachiever, she was both form captain and on the academic honors list.
So, school is where I start. Preferably a private school. Preferably religious.
I never pick Head Girls anymore, but usually someone around that echelon. Someone worthy of me. Someone born with everything at their fingertips. Someone who needs to learn a lesson.
Those school websites are like catalogues for me. There has been debate in the media lately as to whether schools should be culling photos from their websites to protect students from us. So far none of them have. So arrogant. So deluded. They think I’ll be stopped.
Sometimes I mix it up and leaf through yearbooks.
Then it’s on to Facebook where these girls have their lives splayed out like a multi-page advertisement. There is a notable lack of mention of the Park Rape Team on any of their pages. I try not to take it personally.
Sometimes on looking through Facebook I might get distracted by another girl. A friend, or a sister. Then it’s back to the drawing board to research her. Make sure she fits the mold.
It’s not hard to find out where these girls live. Thanks again, Internet. And then I start visiting them. Which is where I am now with Savannah.
Savannah is the only stepdaughter of a wealthy Wellington businessman. They live in Karori. The bench seat in the pool house happens to have a perfect view through her window and into her bedroom. She has her own en suite which, even better, has a window facing the pool house. The house is large and new, and I doubt the architect ever anticipated what a great set-up it would be for someone like me.
Teenaged girls getting undressed in real life look nothing like they do on the movies or in their selfies. This doesn’t overly bother me. I want the real girl, not a projection of what some American producer thinks teenaged girls undressing should be like. Savannah doesn’t wear matching cute lingerie. Once the uniform comes off, she’s in bright blue knickers and a white sports bra. These are casually thrown on the floor with no hint of theatrical flourish.
Some girls, the way they are naturally, you’d swear they knew they were being watched. It’s not always a turn-on. It can seem contrived.
Savannah adjusts the central heating and I see her naked for the first time. The only person who can look as good as a teenage girl naked is another teenage girl. I smile and sigh simultaneously. After only fifteen minutes in her company I’m already starting to feel better about the sudden influx of problems in my life.
She turns back towards the bed and I’m relieved to see she is conscientious in her grooming. She saunters around her room with limber, casual familiarity. Her bed is in the middle of the room and she flops down onto her stomach and lies studying her fingernails. Languid, supple, unpretentious, I sense Savannah is special. I feel soothed in her company.
As with any intimate relationship I certainly don’t develop identical feelings for each of my girls. This being said, once I’ve committed to someone I never back out. Not with so much time and effort invested. If I don’t particularly enjoy time in her company, Dukie and I will simply have our finale with her sooner rather than later.
The bourbon in my hipflask is melting my troubles away. I’d prefer to be drinking wine but at some stage in the future forensic experts will be turning over every outside inch of this property with a fine-tooth comb. It’s too easy to drop a wine bottle or glass. And I’d never drink wine out of a plastic glass. So, the hipflask is a graceful solution.
What am I going to do about the girl from the car park? What am I going to do about my father?
Over in the warmth of her room Savannah sits up, looks in my general direction and smiles. Her smile is serene, and vaguely secretive. Suddenly I know what I have to do about my father.
◆◆◆
It’s late to turn up unannounced at Chang’s, but I don’t pay him an annual $30,000 retainer for nothing. Chang owns an internationally successful plant-based pharmaceutical business. He is textbook vertical integration. Throughout his various acquisitions he has total control of the seed harvesting, to the land the plants are grown on, to the cultivation, extraction and laboratories. His companies have won every ecological award known to mankind and then some. In his industry Chang is almost as celebrated an innovator and business leader as my father.
Chang can also lay his hands on any prescription-only drug or illegal substance you could wish to procure. His prices are extortionate, and the irony of having him on retainer for the privilege of being financially reamed by him every time I make a purchase is not lost on me.
But Chang’s recreational drugs are superior to anything else I’ve tried. There is simply no point in bothering with another supplier.
Chang’s property is heavily gated. If you were hoping for the residence of a drug baron, it wouldn’t disappoint. I get myself in by swiping my left wrist in front of a scanner at a fully covered-in side gate. Embedded under the skin of my left wrist, wait for it, is a microchip. I’m sure it really hurt when Chang’s nephew injected it into my arm with something that looked a lot like a nail gun, but I don’t remember as I was exceptionally high.
Once inside Chang’s property I have access to the guest entrance by swiping my wrist in front of another scanner. If for any reason it should happen that my arrival would jeopardise Chang, or me, the chip simply won’t work, and I’ll continue down the street. It’s never been alluded to but I’m sure Chang has Triad ties.
Chang wears a lime Adidas tracksuit, the whole outfit new and matching. Like all Asians he has no taste. He pours us green tea. Chang walks the talk of his company and won’t imbibe anything that doesn’t offer health benefits. Unlike your stereotypical sophisticated, courteous, top-tier drug dealer, he never asks me what I’d like. I’m just expected to have whatever he’s having.
My stomach used to roil at the flagrant inequities of our relationship. But then I got pragmatic. I could not conduct my lifestyle without the rare and invaluable services Chang offers. I’m the needy party. It would be counterproductive to develop an ulcer over it.
Chang looks at me dubiously as if I might be contagious. “What’s wrong with your head?”
“I bumped it playing tennis. I need someth
ing to kill my father.”
Chang raises an eyebrow. Fortunately, he doesn’t have his own children, only nephews. He is safe from experiencing by proxy the sting of betrayal a biological parent might.
“Kevin has a thirty percent assignment,” says Chang, who unlike normal Asians doesn’t omit auxiliaries from his sentences. “Employment law.”
Kevin, Chang’s second nephew is a law student. To the best of my knowledge he completed year one under his own steam. But every assignment of any importance from Kevin’s second year onwards Chang has delegated to me. I’m not even sure the kid attends lectures.
I don’t do the assignments, of course. I simply hand them to the nearest solicitor who will be too scared to probe. But it’s just another example of how Chang exploits our relationship.
Warren, his eldest nephew, is a pharmacist. I can only assume his qualification is legitimate as he works in the family business. And Carl, the youngest, according to Chang, is good for nothing. Carl, I’ve been led to believe, gets loaned out for bits and pieces.
Because I’m not doing the assignments it’s pointless telling Chang that I don’t specialise in employment law. Like every other idiot without a proper education he assumes you’ll be an expert in every field of whatever profession you’re practicing. If he ever needs representation in court, he probably anticipates I can do that as well.
Chang places Kevin’s assignment on the coffee table beside my green tea. The furniture in the guest room is all cheap reproductions, right down to the framed poster of Van Gough’s Starry Night. I guess that’s better than carved dragons and samurai swords and all the other shit that probably fills his personal living quarters, but on the other hand a little cultural authenticity wouldn’t go amiss. I’m sure the Triads would appreciate it. But maybe they get invited into the actual house.
“We’re not speaking,” I say.
“Of course you are,” says Chang with conviction. “I’ll make Kevin speak to you.”
“My father,” I say, silently thanking Savannah for having calmed me so effectively earlier in the evening. “Not Kevin. I’m not on speaking terms with my father. And I need him gone as soon as possible.”
Chang picks up his tea and presses one of several buttons built into the arm of his chair. From previous experience I know this will summon someone else from the house. As with Pavlov’s dog the button has an immediate physical effect on me. I start to sweat. I have no idea or control over who will be walking into the room. So far, I’ve met Warren, the pharmacist nephew, and Kevin, the law student, and I’ve no wish for anyone further to know me or my identity.
Minutes pass and I swallow two thirds of the fetid green tea I’ve been served and hope it does something for secondary hypertension. Then Warren walks into the room.
“Hey.” Warren’s English lacks even the slightest Asian influence. And here’s the kicker: he’s not Chinese. He’s white. Just like his brother Kevin. They’re both big, burly white boys. I often wonder if they were kidnapped and their photographs are still on milk cartons somewhere in another country. If I had to guess, I’d bet Carl, the useless one, is white as well.
“He needs to kill his father,” says Chang.
Warren shakes his head. He’s not shocked, just freshly out of bed. “Given it’s me you’ve woken I’m assuming you don’t just want him shot, or run over?” He addresses this directly to his uncle.
“I don’t want to spend that kind of money,” I say. “Plus, it needs to look like an accident. Or health-related even. You know, something natural.”
“Food poisoning?” muses Chang.
“Can you die from food poisoning?”
“Yeah, we’ve developed some quite good stuff,” says Warren, properly awake now and warming to the subject. “Do you have access to his food?”
“No. We’re completely estranged. He did something really bad.”
We all look at one another disapprovingly for a moment.
“What about sending him an anonymous food-related gift?” says Warren. “Muffins are too simple to be believed. Or a gift basket? Chocolates, not as easy. That’ll cost more. But it’s a nice touch.”
A nice touch? It’s times like this I question Warren’s sexuality preferences.
“My mother eats both of those things,” I say. “I don’t want to accidentally kill my mother!”
“What does your father do?” says Chang.
I get an enormous kick out of this question. He’d have to be one of the few people I’ve encountered who doesn’t know of the illustrious Harry Ray. “He’s a businessman.”
Chang and Warren exchange a look.
“What would a business associate be likely to gift him?” says Warren.
“Cigars, I guess.”
Warren beams. “I’ve been working on a formula that lends itself to cigarettes.”
“I couldn’t guarantee he actually inhales,” I say, desperately searching through my memory for a sign.
“It doesn’t matter. The active ingredient is applied around the tip.”
“How quickly does it work? I’d hate for someone to find him and call the paramedics.”
“He’ll feel terrible for a few hours,” says Warren. He sits down, pours himself a green tea, and to my mind proceeds to drink it in a gay manner. I wonder if Chang has suspicions.
“He’ll mistake it for indigestion initially. Then mild photophobia and some loss of coordination occurs. But by this time he’ll probably be lying down in a dark room, so he won’t realise this is happening. Worst-case scenario, they take him to A & E, but those guys won’t recognise the chemicals they identify in his system, so they won’t be able to help him. He’ll last five hours tops.”
“I’m liking the sound of this,” I say.
Chang coughs. “You need to get the cigar for us. We’ll doctor it. Then you see to the rest.” He stands up. “Don’t forget Kevin’s assignment.”
6
The next day, after very few hours’ sleep, I am back bright and early, still borrowing my associate’s hideous office. My own office is being treated today by a company that specializes in the removal of dried paint from industrial carpet.
The hours of sleep I’d had remaining from the previous night were swallowed up contemplating how I’m going to find the girl from the car park.
Physically I’m not faring well. The bump on my forehead has slightly receded but the skin is broken, much as I anticipated. The cut on my arm hurts savagely. My twisted ankle has swollen to twice its normal size.
But it’s the hole left by the screwdriver in my thigh that worries me most. The skin has partly closed over, almost giving the impression of slightly healing. But it aches. And when I touch it, I can feel hardening underneath. The whole area is hot so I’m thinking it’s infected. Visions of the skin sealing over, leaving the infection to rage uncontrollably, spreading throughout my entire leg, aren’t helping my state of mind. I’ve made a doctor’s appointment under a fake name for later today.
The woman who normally occupies this office has a half-eaten box of chocolates in her top drawer. Maybe she had cravings. The chocolates are cheap ones and have a shameful look about them. Maybe she just gives them to her kids when they come in to see her? The husband probably looks after them during the day. I don’t see a man like that being particularly successful in any given career. I don’t usually eat this sort of crap but today I’m helping myself.
I know I’m going to get another visit from Anthony Hartman. But he doesn’t come. It turns out he took the red-eye to Adelaide this morning. Instead he leaves a brief message on my cell phone saying the cops haven’t contacted Bakers. As far as Bakers are concerned it’s over. Just like that.
Only it’s not over. There is no way that girl is going to let things be. I have two ruined suits and a body full of injuries that say otherwise. And given what she may have told them, and who knows what she knows, I don’t understand why the cops don’t at least wish to speak to me. It suddenly occurs they may n
ow be watching me. And I’m sure the girl is still around somewhere as well. Which is a good thing, as I really need to talk to her.
I need to talk to her as soon as possible. But I’m not sure how to find her. I don’t want to wait again until she finds me. I help myself to another insipid, waxy, chocolate and wonder how this girl is connected to one of my girls.
I also need to get hold of the security footage from our first meeting in the car park and destroy it. The last thing I need is someone in the firm, or the cops, looking back over it one day and raising more questions. Everyone in the firm knows about the paint episode. No one knows it’s a carry-on from earlier in the day. Apart from that red-haired woman. A strange feeling ripples over my skin when I think of her. As though I’ve just inhaled nitrous.
I delicately touch the screwdriver wound on my thigh and wonder how I’m going to get hold of Car Park Girl. My mind is in a dark place. What if she isn’t stopped? I can’t bring myself to think of the consequences.
◆◆◆
I limp the two flights of internal stairs to the twenty-eighth floor, which houses my office. It looks like it’s been taken over by a Vietnamese family. The team of carpet specialists. One woman, about the height of a twelve-year-old, is berating the rest of them in choppy, guttural tones. I tell her there was a girl’s jacket left here from the previous day and I need it. She informs me my secretary gave it to Security (whenever the hell they finally turned up).
Fat Jo. She just keeps giving me more reasons to hate her. Leaving my office, which I’m appreciating more with every minute I spend in that hole downstairs, I brace myself to go and talk nicely with her, but she isn’t at her desk. The private-school photo of her daughter simpers up at me.
Eliza Barnes from IT is there, however. Working away at some problem on Jo’s computer. She looks up at me with a mixture of respect and admiration, exactly the way admin staff should regard professional staff. I tell her I want the jacket, and could she have Jo see to this, reward her with a charming smile, and thank her in advance for her efforts.