by T M Heron
No sooner do I get back down to my temporary office then Jo calls in a happy voice to tell me Security are keeping the jacket. They won’t release it.
“Tell them I’ve ordered it,” I say tersely.
“I did. It didn’t make any difference.”
I’ll bet you did. I’m sure you tried hard, I think as I slam down the phone. How am I meant to focus on the partnership problem when I’ve still got this mess to sort out?
I take a lift down to Security which is located in the basement. It’s a different world and there is a labyrinth of offices and rooms down here. I have a fleeting thought that maybe Bakers should be housing the word-processing team in the basement along with Security. A lot of this space looks underutilized, and who wants to have to see any of those people in the normal course of a day?
Security at Bakers is a team of five, judging by the number of desks and PCs. But right now there are just two people, an old man and a guy about my age who I think might be a genuine simpleton. They’re both sitting in offices within a much larger room. To my surprise my card won’t let me through, and both just sit watching me through the Perspex. I bang on the door and point my finger at the handle. My intentions could hardly be more obvious. Nor could my status. Why aren’t they jumping up?
Eventually the old guy gets up and nods towards a partly open screen, like you might see at a bank. He expects me to talk to him through this.
I shake my head. “I need to come in.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Have you logged it?”
“Logged what?”
“The problem.”
“No. There’s no problem. But there will be a problem if you don’t open this door and let me in.”
Is this guy functioning in a parallel universe where hierarchy no longer exists? Maybe Jo did try? No, now I’m just being illogical.
“It ain’t personal. It’s just process,” says the old man. He speaks like a fucking cowboy.
My patience deserts me. “Who do you report to?”
“Robert Steele.”
“Well this ‘ain’t personal’ either but Robert Steele probably reports to someone who reports to someone who reports to someone who reports to Evelyn Granger,” I say in a low, clipped voice. “And I’ll be seeing Evelyn in about one minute’s time with a formal complaint unless you open that door now.”
The old man leans back in his seat rubbing his chin. Then a brilliant idea occurs, and he gets up, shuffles over and opens his office door as if I’d just knocked. He’s wearing navy pants and a lighter blue shirt with “Security” stitched across the top right pocket.
He sits back down in his chair and I remain standing because there’s no other chair in the room, which is fine by me because I’m not there for the highbrow conversation. “I’m Jackson Ray,” I say. “I’m a senior associate on the twenty-eighth floor. I had an intruder come into my office yesterday and—”
“Cover ’em up with paint.” He leans back in his chair as if it’s me who works in a crypt in the basement and him who is a high-profile senior associate.
“There was a jacket in my office, and I need it.”
“Cain’t do that.” Who says ‘cain’t’? “It’s evidence.”
“It didn’t belong to the intruder. It belonged to my client and she wants it back.”
He looks at me with distrust, leans over and covers his entire keyboard while he enters his password. Types slowly and methodically for a few minutes then looks back at me. “You’re saying the jacket belonged to Mrs. Archer? Because I was gonna give it to the cops.”
“Well, it’s fortunate you didn’t. It belongs to an earlier client.”
“Her name?”
“What?”
“What was the lady’s name? She’ll need to come in and sign for it.”
“That’s not possible,” I say.
“I want that jacket on my desk by the end of the day,” I say, as if he hasn’t just told me what he’s just told me. And I walk out of the room past the simpleton and the three hundred different keys.
I’m seething. The thought that a security worker is jeopardizing my only chance of tracking down this girl is beyond belief. I kick the corridor wall in fury and pain jars through my injured thigh. It’s the second time in two days I wished I smoked cigarettes. What I could really do with is a line of coke, but God only knows what I might go back and do to that prick in security if I had that.
I’m sitting in my temporary office wondering what to do next when someone knocks on my door and the red-haired woman from the car park is standing there. Looking just as breathtaking as she did yesterday and not even mildly disconcerted to be face to face with me. She’s holding a file.
“I’m sorry,” she says, although she barely looks concerned. “I must have the wrong office.”
A rushing sensation, once again, similar to nitrous floods through my brain. Along with that same urge to violate her, which is stronger than it was yesterday. I wouldn’t have guessed this possible.
At the same time, I know I’ll never violate this woman. She’s not stupid enough to accept a drink or a lift from a stranger, and too beautiful to be disconcerted by a charming passer-by paying her unwarranted attention. I can’t imagine Dukie being able to abduct her, either. Dukie would be terrified of her.
And then I’m visited by a truly unpleasant realization. I wouldn’t want Dukie near her. The notion makes my toes curl. No, this woman would need to be taken by legitimate means, whatever they are. I try to imagine what it would be like to hold her down and all the rest — only somehow, she’s allowing it. She turns to leave.
“It’s not the wrong office,” I say before I can stop myself. “Rosemary’s only just gone on maternity leave. And mine’s being . . . renovated. So . . .”
She keeps walking. I stand up and limp after her, hating myself for being impaired and servile. “I wanted to thank you.”
She stops but looks wary. Surely she doesn’t still think I’m dangerous?
“For your help yesterday,” I say. “We haven’t tracked her down yet. But we’ve contacted the cops.” A lie.
She looks uninterested.
“Who do you work with here?” I ask, not wanting her to go.
“Right now, William Foster.”
Something makes a funny little leap in my chest. William Foster often works under me. The universe suddenly feels as if it is righting itself just a little.
“I won’t keep you any longer,” I say politely. I nod curtly and return to my office. From there I sit and watch until she’s out of sight.
I’m angered she didn’t enquire as to my injuries from yesterday, even out of sheer courtesy. But I know how to get hold of her now. So one way or another we’ll be seeing each another again.
I finish the day by couriering Chang an expensive Cuban cigar to doctor for my father. It’s the only positive thing I’ve done.
7
On Wednesday I am finally back in my office. The carpet is spotless. That Vietnamese family deserves every cent of the minimum wage they’re getting. I still hate the chrome. I still hate the glass. I still hate how modern everything looks. But I’ve developed a new appreciation for the office itself.
There has been no contact from the cops and no further action from Car Park Girl. But I’m not feeling the slightest bit at ease. I need that jacket. I need to delete the footage of the car-park attack. I need to find that girl, find out what she knows.
I’m also feeling apprehensive at the thought of killing my father. The cigar from Chang has already arrived. It came in a special non-permeable pouch with a skull-and-crossbones image stamped on the back.
The thought has presented that what if I was to send him the cigar as an anonymous gift and my mother somehow ended up smoking some of it? I have vague childhood memories of her sitting on the arm of his chair and stealing a puff. Even worse, if it killed her but somehow not him. I don’t want my mother
dead. She’s the only person in this world who loves me unconditionally.
My mind is wandering down a very dark path when Eliza from IT appears at my door. She knocks politely, stands with her hip against the door. I’m sure most men would find this sexy.
“Come in, come in,” I say magnanimously, waving my hand, although I don’t welcome being interrupted mid-thought. “Yes?”
She’s holding a bulky parcel. Something grey looking wrapped in plastic. “Your client’s jacket,” she says, and lobs it onto my desk.
My mind draws a mental blank. What client? What jacket? “My client’s jacket?” I prompt.
“The one you wanted Jo to get from Security.”
Understanding dawns and my heart beats a little faster. Car Park Girl’s jacket. Eliza has just delivered it.
“Right, great. How did you manage that?” I say it calmly. No big deal. But if I was standing, I’d be weak at the knees.
“I nicked it for you,” she says shamelessly.
“You what? How?”
I motion her into my office.
“Don’t worry, there’s no longer any record of it on the system.” She winks at me.
“This is very helpful, Eliza.”
I look at the parcel and suddenly have a strong feeling that everything is going to work out. The events of this week have been a glitch.
I decide that when I make partner, I’m going to steal Eliza from IT to be my EA. She’s clever and pretty and suddenly I’m very aware of what an asset her quick mind and systems knowledge would be. Jo has been literally holding me back.
“Eliza,” I tell her, “One day, if some huge IT company hasn’t snatched you up, I’m going to steal you to be my EA.”
Eliza smiles lazily. “That might be fun, Mr. Ray.”
“Jackson,” I say generously, although I think the “Mr.” is partly tongue-in-cheek.
“Jackson it is.”
Suddenly I just want her out of my office.
◆◆◆
Car Park Girl has been busted. There is a credit-card receipt made out for a four-liter can of acrylic black paint in the front upper pocket.
Her name is Belinda Goodluck and it’s about to become a misnomer. Once I find where Ms. Goodluck lives, I’m going to introduce her to the concept of regret.
For the first time I notice that the sky outside is blue. A rarity in winter. There is sun, too. And a whole other world full of possibilities. And sometime soon, tonight by my estimation, Belinda Goodluck and I will be talking.
I briefly consider taking Dukie along then dismiss the idea. Somehow, despite my meticulous planning and watertight processes, I’ve been exposed. Dukie would have to be the weakest link, the highest exposure to risk. What happened at work with Belinda can never happen again.
Although my recreational pursuits are somewhat unconventional, I could no sooner give them up than stop breathing. But they don’t have to be in the form of the Park Rape Team. They don’t need to involve Dukie.
I was solo for a very long time before I added Dukie to the mix. And he was only added to increase media sensation. He was also intended to take the fall if it ever came to that. Now clearly, it’s safer for all concerned, being me, that this chapter comes to an end.
There is therefore no need to ever contact Dukie again. Hideous, gruesome little man. As much as Ms Goodluck deserves some quality time with Dukie, that’s best left alone.
I’m going to need Ava on standby as an alibi tonight. I call her and invite her over for late-afternoon sex and, wait for it, dinner afterwards. She still sounds slightly put out and I wonder if I should get myself someone slightly plainer. Someone who would be grateful I was taking time and energy out of my life to abuse them.
◆◆◆
Of all nights for it to happen, Ava decides she doesn’t want to have champagne. I find my mind once again straying to thoughts of someone plainer. My fantasy plain girl wouldn’t turn down champagne.
Ava looks gorgeous tonight, but I am dreading the sex. I’ll think hard about Savannah sauntering around her bedroom naked and hope for the best. Maybe I’ll fantasize about sex with my fantasy plain girl? Maybe there’ll even be time for a quick visit to Savannah when I’m done with Belinda? It’s been no time at all and I’m already missing her.
“No champagne? I can’t even tempt you with half a glass?”
Ava’s chin is raised in a slightly challenging way which is new for her. Which I already hate.
“Not even a drop?” I’m wearing my appealing, humorous look which normally goes down a treat. “Maybe there’s something downstairs that would entice you?” I’ve got to get these drugs into her.
“What are you cooking me for dinner?”
“My famous lasagna.”
There is a gourmet Italian restaurant just down the road. I’m hardly going to have time to cook but when Ava wakes up, she’ll expect to see remnants of something.
“That’s going to take a while, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Which is why I want to get started. I’d planned to pour you a nice deep bath.”
Ava sighs as if the prospect of sipping wine in a bath while I cook is all rather a drag. “Maybe there is something that could tempt me downstairs,” she says finally.
She flounces off to my cellar which I made the mistake of showing her when we first met. How was I to know someone who looked that good would know about wine? She’ll find something exceptional, of course.
I get out my pasta machine, throw a fennel bulb and some token tomatoes on the bench, and wonder what $300 bottle Ava will surface with.
8
Belinda Goodluck flats in Wilton, a hilly suburb seasoned with a generous covering of native trees and shrubs. It’s where people who want to live close to the north side of the city go when they can’t afford Wadestown but are too proud to live among the pylons in Chartwell. Older, more established houses perch precariously on the hills. Cheap-looking new townhouses are jammed together in non-existent spaces where developers have simply cut foundations into sheer cliff.
I’m driving the Maxima tonight. I’ve switched the plates with some expensive replicas that match another Maxima of the same description, owned by a man called James Playford. In the glove box are a wallet with an ATM card and a credit card (both fakes) and an internet chess-club card (real), all in the name of James Playford.
I haven’t put much thought into how I’m going to manage this escapade. I just know I require a certain amount of key information and Belinda needs to be gone. Then things can go back to normal in my life. I’m mystified as to why Belinda hasn’t told the cops. But if she had there’s no way I’d be a free man tonight.
Belinda’s flat is part of a larger house that is old but well-maintained. It rambles along a gentle slope halfway up one of the many hills. I’ve parked about half a kilometer down the road. The street lighting is even poorer than the parking and I can barely see the footpath.
My disguise tonight is a grey wig with a maroon felt cap over it tucked well down over my forehead. I’ve tied plastic bags over my shoes so as not to leave footprints near or inside the house. They rustle as I walk but aren’t visible in the dark.
It’s hard to disguise your height when you’re 6 feet 2 inches but I’ve padded myself up under my cheap grey jacket and am slouching, which makes me look older and less athletic. I walk up the path and knock smartly on the door. No need to behave in a covert manner. It only attracts attention.
Belinda flings open the door. She looks like she’s been in a cage fight. Her face is bruised. One of her eyes almost completely obscured from swelling. And the top of her shirt is ripped. When she sees me her eyes widen and there’s a fleeting glimpse of shock in them. I push her gently back into her house, punch her hard in the face and she blacks out. I slip on a pair of gloves while she’s out to it, lock the door, tie her to a chair and put the jug on. It could be a long night.
“Please don’t rape me,” is the first thing she says when she wakes up.
Her nose is bleeding again, her bulging eye repugnant. How insulting. Does she think I’d just rape anyone?
“Does carnal interaction with your corpse count as rape?”
Necrophilia naturally sickens me but the fun of it all is Belinda doesn’t know that. She immediately breaks into hearty crying. I look round the room. Chairs are overturned. Items have been hurled at doors. Someone’s fist has been through the wall.
“Seems I’m not the only person you’ve annoyed lately,” I say.
I hope for the other person’s sake they’re not planning a revisit tonight. I don’t like being interrupted.
“Hey, I have some black paint in the car,” I tell Belinda. “I should bring it in and redecorate.”
I clap my hand over her mouth because she’s going to scream. Her jaw moves soundlessly, and her face feels waxy through the latex. I pick up a small paring knife I found earlier in the kitchen while she was unconscious and wave it in front of her face.
“Enough with this fracas. One more sound, one syllable, and you’ll find yourself minus an eye.”
I move my hand away just in time for her to vomit. There’s not much and it dribbles down her neck.
“Don’t move,” I tell her.
Keeping a careful eye on her I stroll back through the kitchen. It’s a train wreck, like the living area. I make two cups of tea. Belinda has only herbal blends in her pantry. Our teas smell of licorice and something flowery I can’t quite identify. Quite likely they were manufactured by a subsidiary of Chang’s.
I untie her hands and she accepts her tea with shaking hands and a microscopic speck of hope appears in her eyes. Then her eyes are drawn back to the paring knife. She looks irrefutably sorry for the inconvenience she’s caused.
I take a sip of tea and it’s not bad. I must remember to take the cup with me or wash it thoroughly.