Prodigal
Page 13
“Anybody,” says Nature Woman. “Can anybody hep me?”
A wave of nausea sweeps over me. The woman has a Canadian accent. I turn and look at Dukie in disbelief. “You abducted a tourist?”
Dukie nods. “Dukie always want an American girlfriend. Miss America.”
The sensations of pressure are back around my temples again, my tic battering away as if the nerve is trying to break free from whatever the hell it is nerves are attached to. “Why me?” I want to yell. “Of all the people this could be happening to, why me?”
“She’s a tourist. A tourist! You don’t abduct tourists, you, you, you asshole. Do you realize how bad it makes New Zealand look internationally when tourists go missing? We get all the wrong kind of attention from it. Do you have any idea how important tourism income is to us as a country?”
By this stage I’m yelling. “And she’s not even American, you ignorant fool. She’s Canadian.”
Nature Woman starts screaming. Normally I love the sound of women fearfully screaming but this is just unnerving. What a hearty bitch — imagine being married to her!
I unravel a gold coiled rope from one of the drapes and tie it around Nature Woman’s neck. “If you don’t quieten right now, I’m going to tighten this,” I yell through the plastic. “Do you want to get out of this alive or not? No one’s going to hurt you if you cooperate.”
The screaming dwindles to ragged breathing. Finally I can try to organize the cacophony of thoughts banging around in my head. I turn and look at Dukie. The fact that his American fantasy has turned Canadian does not appear to have affected him. His pants are around his ankles, and he’s masturbating. For the first time ever I wonder if he’s on drugs.
“Jesus Christ pull your pants up, that’s not going to happen,” I yell. “She’s got to go back. You can’t go around kidnapping fucking tourists!”
Thoughts are fighting for prominence in my brain again. I can barely think.
“Do you really live here?” I ask Dukie.
He nods.
“By yourself?”
Nod.
“Well, go and run a bath. She’s a complete fucking mess. She’s got sweat and, and, you name it all over her, and it’s all traceable straight back to you.”
I tighten Nature Women’s choker and loop the other end around the foot of a chair. She’s quiet and still, and I wonder if I have accidentally strangled her. I look around the room again. What a waste of luxury and taste with Dukie housed here. He’s obviously important to someone.
My beloved gorilla suit is suddenly way too hot. I unzip just the top, since Nature Woman is incapacitated, and free my head, neck and arms. Whew.
I wind my way through the apartment and find the bathroom. It’s all marble and gilt-edged mirrors. The bath could double as an indoor pool. It’s full. Dukie stands beside it, proud of this accomplishment. He turns away and tightens one of the taps.
I move behind him, put both hands around his thin neck, and plunge his head into the water. Drown, bastard.
The speed with which I withdraw them just about dislocates both of my shoulders. The sadistic prick has run Nature Woman’s bath so hot it’s at boiling point.
I’ve lost my element of surprise. Dukie tries to get away from me. He’s eking out high-pitched squeals of distress. His tiny hobbit fingers claw at my hands. That bath is so hot I’d rather feed my hands into a food processer. But there’s no option. I wrestle him back over and plunge his head back down under the water.
The pain is intense. At first my skin feels tight. Then it starts to burn. As if my hands and forearms have been thrust into a fire. Even my palms are burning. Dukie thrashes desperately. How long does it take to drown? His movements become frantic.
My hands and arms are experiencing new dimensions in pain. It feels as if I’m literally cooking my own flesh. And it’s only been a few seconds. If I wasn’t so focused on holding Dukie under I could cry from the unfairness of it all.
I hold my face as far away from the bath as I can. As if doing this will somehow reduce the pain. I catch sight of myself in a mirror. I can do this, I know I can.
I can’t. The pain is too intense. I haul Dukie back, force his head between my knees, and grip him tightly. He’s making all kinds of horrific noises. I struggle my arms back into the gorilla suit. Then my head, as I don’t want the mask flopping into the water. Dukie fights me the whole way back to the bath, but he’s no match.
I force his head back under, greatly relieved that my scalded arms are now insulated by the rubber of the suit. Like dishwashing gloves. I should never have taken the suit off. I knew it was meant for great things.
I’m still thinking fondly of how well it has served me when Dukie does an enormous body-buck. Then his movements diminish until it’s just his neck and head making gagging motions. Then he is still.
I let go of his neck. Nothing happens. I experimentally duck his head back under, but there is no resistance. I let it go and he silently bobs, like a small rowboat on a calm lake. His arms slowly rise to the surface.
Big tufts of soaking black fur float on the water. I want to vomit. This stuff is really not for me. And I’m so angry at Dukie for getting me into it.
Finally I turn my attention to my poor abused hands. Angry red welts are forming up to my wrists. For the pain it caused, the skin should be melting off, but I guess in reality they weren’t under that long.
I fill the sink with cold water. Then I carefully submerge my tortured hands. I stand like this for twenty minutes thinking about the Canadian parceled up in the living room.
◆◆◆
My hands are raw and sting, but they’ll survive the ordeal. The tourist won’t, however. There’s no way I can swing it. I cringe as I imagine the international fallout for our great country. But I’m just the cleanup guy in this. Park Rape Team is written all over key aspects of this rape and abduction. She’s seen Dukie. She hasn’t seen me, but she’s heard my voice. God knows what else she saw while that bag was partly ripped off. The basement. The vans. There’s no option.
I pull my suit the whole way up, mask and all, and collect the bag I dropped in the foyer. It’s warm in the apartment, but I turn the central heating up as high as it will go.
Nature Woman does not make any fuss about being unwrapped by a gorilla.
I sit her on a chair and duct-tape her ankles together, and her torso to the chair, leaving her arms free. She doesn’t struggle. She’s probably still thinking I have a gun. She is sweating profusely.
“Did he rape you?” I ask.
She closes her eyes and swallows. “Where is he? Is he coming back?”
“He won’t be harming you again.”
I run a paw over my fur. “I assure you this sort of thing does not normally happen to tourists in New Zealand,” I say. “We’re a very safe holiday destination.” I squirm uncomfortably in my suit. “Most of our tourists come in summer, but there are attractions all year round. Queenstown, Wanaka, amazing this time of year. I guess you’re here for the skiing.”
I excuse myself. Take my bag into the kitchen. There are many things in this bag, but in my head I’ve committed to giving this woman a peaceful exit. I’ve already probably had my own last peaceful night’s sleep ever, thanks to the disgusting experience I’ve just had with Dukie, all physical harm to myself aside.
I uncap a 500 ml bottle of diet lemonade, tip out 200 ml and refill the space with antifreeze. One hundred milliliters of antifreeze guarantee death in most humans. But I want this as fast as possible. More is more. I replace the lid and make a small tear in the wrapper. I retrieve a second identical bottle from my bag and find two glasses under the counter.
“I’m hoping, given I had no role in your capture, and I’m about to free you, that you’re not going to tell anyone about me,” I say to Nature Woman. “As you can see, the only role I’ve played in this is to rescue you.”
She swallows again and nods.
“Good,” I say.
&nb
sp; I unzip the top half of the gorilla suit and free my head and arms. I plop down beside her on another chair. Place the bottle of lemonade and the glasses on the small table in front of us.
“You’ve probably had nothing since he took you?”
I open my bottle and pour myself a glass of lemonade. I do the same for her with the tampered bottle. I start drinking my lemonade.
For the first time in hours things go right.
With shaking hands she picks up her glass and drains it. I finish my own and pour us both another. She finishes half of that just as quickly.
“Can I get you something to eat?”
“I just want you to let me go. Please, please just let me go.”
“I will, I’m going to, I promise.”
Her shoulders relax a little.
“I’m just trying to work out how to do this,” I say. “Finish your drink, then you might like a shower. I’m going to make us something to eat while I figure this whole mess out.”
I watch her from the kitchen.
The antifreeze hits like alcohol initially. She sways a bit in her chair. Her face takes on a slightly puzzled expression.
It’s not a bad way to go if you ignore the nausea and vomiting and seizures. Which I do. I don’t have the stomach to watch that kind of thing.
Instead I zip my suit fully up yet again. Then I go into the bathroom. Cleaning the entire bathroom with bleach takes two hours. I want to scrub under Dukie’s fingers but can’t bring myself to touch him. His skin is already going funny. Instead, I empty the bath and pour the rest of the bleach over him. Then I refill it with hot water. It turns my stomach to think of him disintegrating in there, like braised pork. But hopefully by the time anyone finds him he’ll be unidentifiable. Anything to make it more difficult for the police is a good thing.
I check Nature Woman. She’s in a coma. Her eyes are wide open, but they’ve dried over. There are remnants of foam caking her lips, but from the look of it she didn’t have anything to vomit up. Maybe she just skipped the vomiting stage and went straight to seizures? Luckily she was restrained by the chair or she might have caused quite a bit of damage thrashing round. I’d have hated to have to listen to that.
I stand there uneasily. She’s well on her way, but she’s not dead. If by some tragic twist of fate she was discovered in the next hour or so, medics might be able to revive her. I’m reluctant to touch her. I feel bad she’s a tourist. But she needs to be finished off.
I can’t strangle her. I did that to Belinda. I don’t want anything about these two incidents to be similar.
I have a syringe of heroin in my bag. But I’ve never injected anyone before. It doesn’t have to go into a vein — although this is the ideal. No, you can inject it straight into flesh. Skin popping. But it’s the whole needle thing I have a problem with. Needles make me feel faint.
In the end I take a plastic roasting bag from the kitchen. I place it over her head and secure it as tightly as I can around her neck with baking twine. It’s a win-win because if the bag doesn’t suffocate her the twine will eventually cut off all circulation.
19
The tourist is announced missing the following day. I hear it driving to work. This is the fastest time in which anything I’ve ever done has made it to media. I’m a little slighted on behalf of all the girls I’ve taken. Why weren’t they given such priority? For all the media knows, Nature Women could be camping in a hut somewhere. Eating wetas.
I look at myself in the mirror as I drive. I look healthy. I look good. I don’t look like the victim of the ordeal I was forced to endure last night.
I don’t look like I’ve spent the night tossing and turning. Unable to sleep as my mind replayed the horror of Dukie turning up at Marcel’s. The gut-wrenching realization that Dukie knew where I worked. The disbelief at Dukie catching a woman on his own initiative. What else might he have done? How dreadfully that could have all ended up for me. I have never felt so out of control. Ava will have to stay even longer now, as once again she’s my alibi.
One day I will stop hating Dukie for this. In the meantime I’m having horrifyingly real flashbacks of the scene at Marcel’s. My jaw has been permanently clenched since it happened. And I’m past trying to control it under the circumstances.
I’m way overdue to see Mother as well, who has been calling constantly. She has a surprise for me, she says. But I’m terrified in case Helena is there and springs me for these latest mishaps.
Yes, one day I will stop resenting Dukie for this, I expect. But for now I console myself that he got what he deserved.
◆◆◆
After a week of national appeals and diminishing international relations with Canada, Nature Woman and Dukie are discovered. No one had notified Dukie as being missing. And from what I understand of dead bodies left simmering in hot baths, they’d have had to strain him out of the water with a special sieve by now. Good luck identifying him.
But good luck is exactly what they have. Dukie has an identity. His name is Duke Harrold Clarke Jr. The son of a wealthy property developer who lives in Sydney. This explains the sumptuous apartment. Clearly in the interests of minimizing embarrassment to the family, information given about Dukie is sparse. Duke Clarke Jr is an “artist” who suffers from “poor health” and leads a solitary existence.
Even the photo is misleading. They’ve used an old school photo. Perhaps because it’s the last one they had? A much younger, cleaner version of Dukie resplendent in a King’s College uniform. How they managed to airbrush out his innate repulsiveness is a mystery to me.
Interestingly, probably out of family pride, a $20,000 reward has been offered by Duke Clarke Senior for information leading to the arrest of his son’s murderer.
“That boy looks vaguely familiar,” says Jo, as she places the newspaper on my in-tray.
“Wishful thinking,” I reply. “I’m sure he’s looking vaguely familiar to a lot of people right now with twenty thousand sitting over his head.”
I bury my face in my hands when she leaves. I’m feeling so bad, I’ve unintentionally had a civil conversation with my secretary.
Jo’s been out of my face a lot more lately, busy doing late hours on urgent work for Mel. Frederick Young, the clever year-two solicitor who busted the CEO of Ferramo at the rave is working with them. Like Mel, he’s great to all secretarial staff and admin. Perhaps this has raised Jo’s expectations as to what she can expect from professional staff.
To normalize things a little I’ve stolen Jo’s personal diary. As with everyone at Bakers she is required to document her appointments and activities using our online scheduler. But Jo, loyal to her philosophy of minimizing efficiency, does not embrace modern technology. Although she humors the firm’s practice of using scheduler, the real detail of her time spent, appointments made, and her pathetic life are scribbled by hand into a dirty dog-eared journal. Personal and work, jumbled all together.
I’m still sure she took my phone. I can’t shake it. Unlike most lost mobile phones, it hasn’t resurfaced over time. Well, let’s see how she copes without her precious diary.
◆◆◆
Despite the craziness that has taken over my life I’m making sure to spend as much quality time with my mother as possible. It’s Wednesday afternoon and we’re shopping for an evening gown.
Every staff member at Victoria’s Gowns knows who my mother is. They refer to themselves as “design consultants”. A euphemistic take on “shop assistant”. I’m assuming all of Victoria’s design consultants are on commission too because Mother’s appearance has stirred up a subtle under-buzz of excitement.
I wonder, by Mother’s causal acceptance of their fawning, if she has become desensitized to it. Or if she just thinks every womenswear shop in Wellington has exceptional client service.
Mother has a charity event to attend this evening. Along with my father she was the major patron. Now it’s just her. And lucky me. Because it’s not as if I’ve got much on my plate.
I’m sitting on a beautifully upholstered couch drinking tea as Mother tries gown after gown. The shop has an endless supply but there’s no ceiling from what I can see on price. I try to keep her talking because she’s emotional today. She’s going to attend that function and do the obligatory speech if it kills her (which I hope it doesn’t, as I’m sure I’m not yet back in the will). Determined not to let Dad down. I’m worried she’s going to cry right there in the shop.
She’s alternating two dresses in front of her that are identical in every way except color. Three impeccably made-up design consultants surround her.
“You know, I think the emerald accentuates the color of your eyes.” One design consultant says this seriously, after much contemplation, as if the subject matter is right up there alongside world hunger.
Mother freezes. “That’s what Harry always said about emerald,” she says quietly. Tears start running down her checks. She tries to wipe them away.
“That’s it, Mother, you’re not ready to do this,” I say.
But she doesn’t move. Her mind is in another place. She’s going down a bad path, remembering all the charity work they did together. She’s falling apart right there in the shop.
“Can I help? Are you okay?” says another consultant.
“She’s fine,” I snap. But she’s really, really not.
I get up and put my arms around her. It turns out it to be the wrong thing to do. As soon as I do, she bursts into proper tears. Mortified, I look over the top of her head which is buried in my chest. I stroke her hair tentatively, and quietly pat her back. Anything to end this scene.