The Glitter Game

by Judy Nunn

  She told Simon about her regular weekend hunt and smiled wryly at him as they closed the wooden gate and got back into the car. So how come she hadn’t gone on the hunt last weekend? Simon wondered to himself. Then he realised — the telethon, of course.

  Vicky had another three places marked in the Herald, all in the same area and all too upmarket.

  ‘I pick a different area each week,’ she explained ‘and cover it by foot. Everything’s so damn expensive though, there’s no such thing as cheap suburbs any more. Not inner city ones, anyway.’

  ‘So? Why bother buying cheap? You’ll sign up for another year of “The Glitter Game” at the end of the season, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure. If they want me.’

  Simon roared with laughter. ‘If they want you! Hell, Vicky, you’ll be able to name your own price. You’re a star, mate, you’ve got to start thinking like one.’

  ‘OK,’ Vicky grinned back. ‘Take me house perving — find me a star home.’

  They spent the next two hours driving around the wealthiest harbourside suburbs and, while Vicky happily ‘house perved’, Simon did his own surreptitious perving on Vicky. Every time she nudged, pointed and lifted those electric eyes to meet his with a ‘Cop that one!’ Simon felt a chill down his spine. God, how he wanted her! But he kept telling himself to play it cool.

  Vicky refused lunch, apart from a Coke, and, by two o’clock, was insisting she go back and pick up her laundry.

  ‘So, this is where you live.’ Simon looked up at the apartment block that he already knew so well.

  ‘Yeah. Real star material, eh?’ Vicky swung herself over the side of the car and heaved the bag of laundry off the back seat. ‘Thanks, Simon. I’ve had a great time.’

  She wouldn’t let him carry the laundry upstairs for her but he wasn’t the least bit fazed by that. He’d downed a couple of Dexedrine with his Coke and he felt good, strong and confident. ‘How about dinner, then? We could rage on to a couple of discos afterwards.’

  ‘Nah. I’ll skip dinner, thanks.’ Vicky slung the laundry bag over her shoulder. ‘Tell you what, though, I wouldn’t mind a bit of a rage. Start at the Hard Rock?’

  ‘You’re on.’ Simon swung the car out into the traffic. ‘Pick you up at ten.’

  ‘Flat 4D,’ she called after him.

  He waved acknowledgement without looking back. Tonight they’d rage all right.

  And rage they did. From the Hard Rock Cafe to Bobby McGee’s, to Metropolis, to Site, and finally to the Bourbon and Beefsteak where three am saw them drinking tequila slammers and eating nachos.

  ‘Isn’t it funny how you can drink so much on a rage night and end up not feeling remotely pissed?’ Vicky remarked, her mouth full of melted cheese and chilli. ‘It’s all the sweating you do on the dance floor, I guess. Hell, that chilli’s hot.’

  Simon offered her his beer chaser. He wasn’t feeling pissed either. He wasn’t feeling anything. The cocaine was meeting the alcohol which was meeting the Dexies he’d been downing all evening and he was floating.

  ‘Let’s drive to Watson’s Bay and look at The Gap,’ he said.

  It was dark and it was chilly but it didn’t matter. They felt very comfortable together as they sat looking out over the Sydney Harbour heads and the vast expanse of black beyond them. Simon took Vicky’s hand and she didn’t resist. She smiled at him and he kissed her, very, very gently. As their lips parted, Simon wanted to cry. He’d never felt himself so overwhelmed with love. It wasn’t lust at all, it was an all-consuming love the like of which no one had ever felt before. He dropped her hand and looked out to the ocean. He mustn’t say anything to her about it — he might frighten her off. But he wanted to know her, everything about her. And he wanted her to know him. So he started to talk.

  Vicky’s heart went out to him as he talked about his family. He’d had everything that money could buy. Nannies, boarding schools, holidays at exclusive riding schools, everything that money could buy — except parents.

  Vicky realised that Simon was probably a bit maudlin with the drink — after all, he’d put away twice as much as she had — but he was so sad, so sincere. Besides, they had more in common than she’d realised. She hadn’t had parents either. And before she knew it, Vicky was telling Simon her own background. Then they were kissing again. Still gently, so gently. Finally it was Vicky’s suggestion. ‘Shall we go home? To my place?’

  She’d never offered herself to anyone before. Simon nodded and helped her up.

  Vicky had no idea how it happened. One minute they were lying on her bed, kissing, Simon’s hand beneath her shirt tenderly caressing her breast. Then the kiss became a little too insistent and his teeth were biting into her lip, and his caress became a little more brutal. He was starting to hurt her. She tried to pull away, to signal that he was hurting her. But when she did, he dug his teeth savagely into her mouth and ripped her bra apart, twisting and kneading and bruising her flesh.

  She managed to push him away from her and leapt up from the bed. ‘Simon! What the hell’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Come here, bitch.’ The eyes that stared back were mad, demented. He sprang at her, grabbing both her wrists and pinning her against the wall.

  ‘Stop it, you’re hurting me.’ She tried to sound in control, as her mind sought frantically for a defence plan. Should she reason with him? Get angry with him? Scream, to scare him off?

  ‘Take your clothes off bitch.’

  Vicky decided to buy time. ‘It’s a bit impossible with no hands.’

  He released her hands and stood back watching her every move. As she slowly undid the buttons of her shirt, he unbuckled his belt.

  Vicky decided to reason with him. ‘Come on, Simon, give us a break. Be fair.’

  ‘Faster.’

  ‘I’ll scream. There’s a lot of people in this building.’

  ‘I said, faster!’

  What the hell, Vicky thought, she might as well give it a go. She knew damn well that the tenants of Darlinghurst bedsits didn’t answer screams in the wee hours of the morning but maybe it would scare him off.

  Her scream rang out for a fraction of a second before Simon’s backhander slammed into the side of her face and she fell to the floor, momentarily stunned, her elbow cracking against the side of the bed.

  He grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her to her feet. That was when Vicky knew there was only one way out. ‘OK, Simon, you win.’ The stranger’s red, angry eyes stared at her disbelievingly. ‘I said, you win. OK?’ She nodded for him to let go of her. He did, once again stepping back and watching her like a hawk.

  Vicky undressed and stood before him, trying to read which way he wanted it. Standing up? Bending over? Lying down? Hurry up, hurry up, her mind was saying. Get it over and done with and don’t hurt me any more.

  Simon didn’t bother to undress. He pulled his jeans and underpants down over his buttocks and gestured for her to lie on the bed. He entered her painfully and continued to thrust violently, desperately, for what seemed like hours to Vicky. She felt her fingernails bite into the palms of her hands and she could taste the blood from her torn lip as it seeped between her clenched teeth. Oh God, when would it stop? She had heard that junkies often had trouble ejaculating. She had to come up with another plan.

  Simon himself was tiring now.

  ‘Why don’t we take a break?’ she said. ‘You want a joint?’

  He looked at her suspiciously. ‘I thought you weren’t into dope.’

  ‘I’m not. Just grass. It’s good stuff, too.’ She gestured to the dresser. ‘In the bottom drawer.’

  Simon rolled off her with a groan. ‘OK. Get it.’

  She hurled herself at the door.

  ‘You cunt!’ Simon threw himself at her just as she managed to wrench the door open. She felt him grab at her hair then let go as she slammed the door behind her, catching him heavily on the shoulder.

  She tore down the hall to the bathrooms at the far end. She could hea
r him thundering along behind her, cursing as he pulled his jeans up.

  Not daring to look back, she dived into the door marked ‘Women’ and slammed it shut just as Simon’s full weight landed against it. By the time he’d opened it, she’d ducked into one of the cubicles and bolted the door.

  ‘I’ll get you, bitch.’ The voice sounded thick, drugged and unrecognisable as Simon backed out of the women’s bathroom.

  She stood there naked, panting and frightened.

  Vicky sat shivering on the rim of the bath. She’d long since stemmed her bleeding lip with cold water but the bath tap kept slowly trickling and she continued mechanically dabbing at her lip. The sound of the water and the repetitive act of dabbing were strangely comforting to her.

  She wondered why she wasn’t frightened any more. She was worried, certainly. She was worried about how she was going to get help in her naked state — the public phone was in the front foyer on the ground floor. And she was sore. Her head, her face, her shoulder were all throbbing, and there was an insistent pain between her legs.

  But she wasn’t frightened. She was more depressed and disappointed than anything else. Hell, she sure could pick them, couldn’t she? The first person she’d ever wanted to make love with, a junkie! She of all people should have known better. She was disappointed in Simon, she was disappointed in herself, she was disappointed in life, and, for the first time in her seventeen years, Vicky was depressed.

  She’d been a fool. She’d broken all her rules and she bloody well deserved to be raped! Well, back to square one, she told herself. Keep your nose clean, don’t get into trouble and don’t get involved with anyone. Damn it, she’d relaxed far too much lately. She’d concentrated on work and fun and dropped her guard completely.

  Gradually her strength and self-esteem returned as her resolve strengthened, and she started to form a plan of attack. She looked at her watch. Seven o’clock. She’d been sitting there for an hour and a half. If Simon was still in her flat, who could she trust to help her get rid of him? She certainly didn’t want to call in the police. Better to just get him out and pretend the whole episode had never happened.

  The thought of having to face Simon at the studio next week was of no great concern to Vicky. If he was this far gone, he wouldn’t keep his job much longer anyway. No, the immediate problem was how to get rid of him. Nothing else mattered.

  Vicky suddenly thought of Greg. He was the only one she could trust. Yes, she’d ring Greg.

  She started pulling metre after metre of paper towelling out of the dispenser. God, how embarrassing, being caught at the front foyer phone wrapped in paper towelling.

  ‘What did you bring the shampoo for? You haven’t got time to wash your hair.’

  The door to the ‘Womens’ opened and Vicky recognised the voices of the two lesbians from Flat 6 across the hall. She jumped up and turned the bath tap on full blast.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ she heard Maxie hiss, ‘someone’s running a bath.’

  ‘There should be a sign up.’ Val’s voice was deliberately loud. ‘People shouldn’t be allowed to take baths in the morning.’ There were only two cubicles per bathroom on each floor of the apartment block.

  ‘Forget it,’ Maxie answered dismissively. ‘We’ll share a shower.’

  ‘But it’s downright rude. People should have more —’

  ‘I said, forget it. Skip the shampoo and we’ll share a shower.’

  Vicky waited until the shower had been running for a full two minutes before she unlocked her cubicle door and peered out.

  Draped over the top of the cubicle door opposite were two bath towels. Steam was billowing above the door and Vicky decided to risk it. She flicked one of the towels off, wrapped it around herself and stole out into the hall.

  She was about to creep down the steps to the front foyer and the phone but, when she looked down the hall to her flat at the end, she noticed the door was ajar. What the hell, she’d risk that too. Maybe he’d gone. Maybe he’d fallen asleep or passed out. She crept towards the door.

  When she was nearly there, her heart started to thump. You silly bitch, she told herself, what if he’s sitting there waiting for you? He’ll be angry. You don’t want to be hurt any more. Turn around, go back to the bathroom.

  The simple solution of getting the lesbians to ring Greg flashed through her mind but she just as quickly dismissed it. The law of Darlo bedsits was that everyone minded their own business. She’d got herself into this one, she’d get herself out with as little help from others as possible. And if Simon had gone, she wouldn’t even need to ring Greg.

  She eased the door open a few centimetres. From the little she could see through the gap, the room was in utter chaos. Here goes, she thought, and she kicked the door wide open, turned and started sprinting down the hall.

  She slowed as she reached the bathroom door. There were no following footsteps. She turned. No one there. The door to her flat was wide open and there was no sign of anyone inside.

  Mr Blackman from Flat 8 at the other end of the hall appeared, toilet bag and towel in hand. He looked disapprovingly at Vicky in her semi-naked state as he made his way to the ‘Mens’. Mr Blackman was eighty-eight and always looked disapprovingly at Vicky. He saw her picture regularly in newspapers and magazines and knew she was in some sort of television show but, as he couldn’t afford a television set, he didn’t own one. And as he didn’t own one, he didn’t approve of television. And television was never around in his day anyway. And in his day all actresses were sluts. So the sight of Vicky now merely confirmed his views and he continued to mutter his disapproval as he hobbled into the ‘Mens’.

  Vicky breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God. Simon had gone. She’d clean the flat, soak in a hot bath and pretend the whole thing had never happened.

  But Simon hadn’t gone.

  There was no sign of him as Vicky closed the door and surveyed the havoc about her.

  She righted the overturned heater, switched it on and dressed hurriedly in front of it, rubbing the warmth back into her body.

  Then she stopped as she heard a noise from behind the kitchen bench. She waited. There it was again. A sort of choking sound. And she realised Simon was still in the room.

  Vicky edged back towards the door, opened it and kept it ajar as she finished dressing. Then, poised for flight, she called out, ‘Simon?’

  Nothing. She crossed to the bench and peered over to discover Simon passed out on the kitchen floor. He was lying on his side, his jeans pulled up but his fly wide open. A small pool of vomit lay on the linoleum next to him.

  He stirred. There was another choking sound and a further thin stream joined the pool. He coughed and the cough caught in his throat, making a strangled noise. For a moment Vicky thought he was going to choke on his own vomit and instinctively she dived forward and shook him. ‘Simon! Wake up! For God’s sake, wake up!’

  Simon’s eyes snapped open and he was instantly alert. ‘Vicky. G’day. Are we having a good time?’ He noticed he was on the floor. ‘Hey, did I pass out?’ Then he noticed the pool of vomit at his elbow. ‘Oh shit.’ He looked genuinely remorseful. ‘I didn’t know I’d had that much to drink. Hell, I’m sorry.’ He scrambled to his knees. ‘Can you get us a cloth? I’ll clean it up.’

  Vicky found herself automatically obeying him and, having handed him a dampened tea towel, she watched in fascination as he efficiently cleaned up the elbow of his jacket and then the floor, chatting amicably all the while.

  ‘God, how gross. I really am sorry. It must have been all that fresh air up at The Gap. Bloody embarrassing. I don’t normally throw up on people’s kitchen floors, you know.’ He grinned up at her engagingly. ‘Well, not on a first date, anyway.’

  Vicky stared at him, stupefied. It was quite obvious he didn’t remember a thing.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Simon asked as he stood up and crossed to the sink. Then he looked down at his jeans and his unzipped fly and stared back at her in horror. ‘Did I
try something on?’

  ‘You could say that, yes.’

  Simon dumped the tea towel, rinsed his hands as quickly as possible and zipped up his jeans.

  ‘What’d I do?’

  He seemed genuinely concerned and, although Vicky felt she was in no immediate danger, she cautioned herself nevertheless. Use your sense, girl. He’s obviously schizo and if you tell him to leave he’s just as likely to turn on you again. Don’t say anything. Call Greg.

  ‘What’d I do, Vicky?’ he asked again.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ she answered, collecting some change that had spilled from her handbag, along with everything else, to the floor. ‘I’ve got to make a phone call first.’

  ‘Hey.’ Simon suddenly noticed. ‘What happened to your lip?’

  ‘Tell you about that too.’ And she left.

  Vicky didn’t say anything to Greg about the rape. Given Simon’s memory loss and apparent normality, she wasn’t sure what to say to Greg. But there was one thing she was sure of. She was no longer going to keep quiet about Simon’s drug addiction.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re scared to ask him to go?’ Greg queried when she was halfway through her story. ‘Just tell him. The cheeky little bastard. Tell him it’s poor form to pass out and throw up on people’s floors and you want him to get out. Easy.’

  ‘You come and do it. I don’t want to risk him turning on me.’

  ‘Why should he turn?’

  ‘Because he’s a junkie.’

  There was a pause. Then, ‘He’s what?’

  ‘It’s true, Greg. He’s already flipped once and I’m worried he’ll do it again. He’s totally schizo.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Be there in fifteen.’

  Vicky went to the bathroom and examined her face in the mirror. It didn’t look good. The lip was puffed up and black with congealed blood and there was what promised to be a healthy bruise on her right cheekbone. Her scalp hurt where he’d ripped out a fistful of hair. In fact, now that the pressure was off and she could allow herself to relax, Vicky realised that she ached all over. She patted her face with cold water, dried off with a paper towel and slowly walked back to the bedsit.