After Ariel: It started as a game

by Diana Hockley

  A sleek, low and extremely expensive car slid into a park at the front of the building. Why did the rich always get a parking space when they needed it, like the heroes in movies?

  He watched as a huge man got out, clicked the locking remote with nonchalant arrogance and bounded into the building. Testosterone to burn and Dingo’d bet everything he owned that this bloke had women coming out his ears.

  Normally, Dingo was – in spite of his solitary upbringing – pretty level headed, especially in his work. All that changed after Ariel came into his life for such a brief time. It was as though, with Ariel’s death, his public persona was all he had left. The rage simmering inside blinded him to everything but the presence of Macho Man.

  Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight...that’s a dark red car...no, it’s brown. It has to be brown. Teneleventwelve...red car danger, red car danger...breathe...breathe...that’s right. The security light above the door to the foyer came on and lit up the area. It was dark, gleaming blue! You’re okay, it’s blue.

  He wondered where the man mountain had gone, but it didn’t make any difference where he was headed, Dingo’s sole focus was the camera. Having overheard her telling Ally Mochrie she had a dinner date that night, all he had to do was be patient. He shielded his watch with his coat and clicked on the tiny light on the dial. 7.20pm. she’d surely go out soon and then he could spring into action, up the tree, over the balcony wall and into the bedroom. Ten minutes at the most.

  A couple passed him, oblivious to anyone but themselves, but he shrank farther into the bank of shrubs on the edge of the park. A stiff breeze had him shivering. He pulled the hood of his anorak over his head and thrust his gloved hands deep into his pockets. Not long now.

  The front door of the block swung open and the hulk stepped out, holding the door open for – Pamela! So this was the one she had the hots for. Dingo didn’t think much of her choice, but conceded that most women would fling their knickers into the ring for that one. He watched sourly as they got into the sleek, dark blue monster and drove off.

  Now!

  He slipped a pair of surgical gloves on, carefully tugging them up as far as he could without tearing them. He’d brought two pairs just in case; it paid to be thorough. Looking both ways, he stepped out of the shadows and started for the unit block. Being right at the front with one balcony overlooking the small park, it jutted over the narrow laneway. Just as he started across the gap, someone came around the corner. Slouched in a duffle coat with a tasselled beanie on his head, the young man walked toward him. By his side trotted a stocky, black dog. A Staffordshire bull terrier, it paused as it neared Dingo and growled. Its owner stopped and called it to heel. ‘He don’t like strangers, mate.’

  ‘Er, well I’m not going to hurt him.’ Dingo thrust his gloved hands into his pockets and stood perfectly still. He knew from his nights of roaming the streets of his home town that you never ran from dogs. He had a scar in the back of his leg to prove it.

  A sneering laugh, accompanied a smoker’s cough. ‘Too right, you won’t mate. He’ll have ya as quick as look at ya.’ Eyes gleamed in the periphery of light from the front of the building. ‘If I want him to.’ After a moment’s intense scrutiny, he whistled the dog to heel and they walked off, the animal pausing to look over its shoulder as they reached the back of the units. It knew he was planning something – oh yes, it knew. The sneering youth had a pretty good idea that Dingo was where he shouldn’t be as well.

  Breathing heavily, Dingo backed up and slid back into the bushes. He’d have to wait until things, namely his heartbeat, settled before trying again. He peered at his watch. 7.45 already! How long would Pam and the thug be out? If they had arrived at the restaurant, then they’d need an hour to eat and a bit of time to talk. If he was any judge of body language they’d be back to her place right after they’d eaten and bouncing around in the bed, but if he was lucky they’d go to her boyfriend’s place.

  Something crackled behind him. He pressed further into the shadows and peered around. Someone was walking through the trees several metres away. He squinted as a tall woman walked out onto the footpath and into the streetlight. A jogger? She turned away from him and trotted off along the road leading to the river. Whew.

  He moved forward to re-check the approaches to the building. There was no one in sight, so he slithered across the road, and made a quick run to the tree –

  ‘Harley? Come on puss!’ A woman calling her blasted cat. She made clicking noises and banged what sounded like a spoon on a tin can. Dingo raced back across the lane and into the trees again. Something hissed at his feet. He jumped into the air and almost fell as a dark shape streaked out of the trees and across the road.

  ‘There you are Harley, you naughty boy. I wish you’d stay out of the park.’ She scooped up the cat and walked back into one of the ground-floor units. Dingo leaned back against the trunk of a rather substantial tree. Fucking hell. Dogs and cats everywhere...

  He glanced at his watch. He’d been trying to get to the tree for three quarters of an hour already. He glanced in each direction. Nothing coming in the way or cars or people...it was now or never! He pulled his hood further down to avoid security cameras, sprinted for the tree, swung up into the lower branches and quickly climbed to the height of the balcony. The unit next door to Pam’s was dark. He paused, waiting for the leaves to stop shaking and assessed the situation while he checked his gloves for damage. Nothing apparent, so no chance of leaving fingerprints. He really didn’t expect even the cops would look for prints in the tree, but you never knew.

  Only a metre over to the balustrade. He leaned toward it, only to hear someone walking along the laneway. Shit, it was the man and his dog again. Hardly daring to breath, Dingo, froze as the man stopped to light a cigarette and looked up and down the laneway and then over at the park, appearing to consider his options. The dog sat beside him, grinning up at the tree. Oh God, Jesus no...

  Just as Dingo was sure he’d been sprung, the dog’s owner grunted something, clicked his fingers and the dog, with a final glare at Dingo, and sloped off with his master.

  No more time to waste. He stretched across the short divide and grabbed the railing along the top of the wall. With a heave and a wriggle Dingo tumbled onto the balcony, landing with one foot in a pot plant. Cursing, he stepped out of the crushed plants and bent to try and revive them, but it wasn’t going to work. Pushing the pot into the corner of the balcony – maybe Pamela Miller would be too taken up with her man to notice it until morning – he touched the handle of the French doors.

  It moved. He grasped it and turned.

  She’d forgotten to lock it!

  He opened the door and listened. There was no radio or TV on. She’d left a light on in the lower part of the unit, just enough for him to see that the room was tidy, with no clothes strewn on the bed. He moved cautiously into the room, breathing in smell of woman, then moving to the en suite, from which emanated the tantalising scent of talc, soap and bath salts.

  He stepped over to the door and gasped! Someone was at the far end – no it was his own reflection in the mirror! He leaned against the door jamb, breathing heavily, imagining Pamela and her bloke finding him dead of a heart attack on her bedroom floor, and wouldn’t she be surprised? Chuckling, he went back into the room and looked around. Hm...maybe she’d kept the place tidy to invite the boyfriend up here. The front of his jeans tightened as his imagination took over...he looked at the bed, licking his lips, in danger of forgetting what he was there for. Time was passing. The camera! Where was it?

  Drawers, cupboards – he started at the bedside tables – reading glasses, novel, notebook, pens, postcards from friends, loose earring, some M & Ms in a small jar, lip gloss, a box of condoms – oh you slut, Pam – and then worked his way through the rest of the room, paying particular attention to the top shelf of the wardrobe. An avalanche of handbags landed on his head. Angrily he tossed them aside and stretched up to feel around the back of the shelf; nothin
g. Her chest of drawers only held clothes. He liked her taste in knickers, but no sign of the camera. He scooped up the handbags and hurled the whole lot up onto the shelf, jamming the door shut before they could come down again.

  Suddenly exhausted, he flopped onto the bed and considered his options. Where would she keep it...he lurched up. He’d nodded off – what time was it? 8.30!

  He rushed out of the bedroom and opened the door of the practice room next to it. A music stand, an old upright, ornate piano, shelves filled with sheet music. He glanced around, noting the “egg-carton” insulation. Good girl. He opened the cupboard against the far wall, but saw only piles of music books. The small CD player on top of the unit was of no interest.

  The camera had to be down on the bottom level of the split-level unit.

  Fortunately she’d left a small nightlight on. Frantic now, and thanking his lucky stars the few steps into the lounge and kitchen area were carpeted, he ventured down, sliding his gloved hand along the wall so he wouldn’t slip. Landing with a splat and a broken ankle was something which didn’t have any appeal. Tennineeightsevensixfivefourthreetwoone...

  Think. It’s an expensive camera. Where would she put it?

  He forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly as he let his eyes wander around the room. Family photos, the piano and paintings...dozens of books...he looked along the shelves where expensive ornaments gazed down on him. Keeping calm, his gaze slid across the comfortable flowered lounge, to the coffee table where a magazine lay open at the page with the crossword. She’d almost finished it – clever girl – and then to the dining room table. He moved closer to where her flute case lay open, the beautiful instrument gleaming in the dim light. You’d lose that, along with everything of value if it wasn’t me here, babe!

  The camera had to be somewhere here. The thought of it in the car made his balls cringe. A noise came from outside the front door. Voices, footsteps! Before he could even think about hiding, they passed. He heard a door opening somewhere. Sweat broke out all over his body. He had to get out of here! He looked at his watch – 8.55.

  Dingo went to the kitchen intending to open every drawer, even the refrigerator if necessary, but suddenly there it was, on a small side-table near the door. He scooped it up. Thank you, God. His hands trembled as he picked up the case lying next to it and stuffed the camera inside, cursing as the strap caught in the zipper. Hurry! Frantic now, he struggled to close the case as he ran for the steps up into the bedroom, unaware that a tiny piece of one of his gloves had torn in the metal zip and dropped to the floor.

  He raced across the bedroom to the balcony doors and slipped through, trying to keep below the level of the balustrade. He peered over the railing. Nothing stirred. Thank you, God.

  He slung the strap of the case around his neck. It was the work of a moment to swing across into the branches. Just as he was about to climb down, the Audi came around the corner; as it swept past, he caught a glimpse of Pamela Miller’s wild hair under the streetlight.

  He tumbled the rest of the way down the tree, dashed across the laneway and into the park. Panting and shaking with fear, he hunkered under a shrub, holding his precious booty tightly to his chest. He could see the couple through the leaves, brightly lit by the lights at the front of the building. The boyfriend got out of the car and came around to open the door for Pamela. They stood for a moment, faces close. Dingo could sense the charge of sexual energy crackling between them. The boyfriend closed the car door, pressed the button on his key to lock it, slipped his arm around Pamela and they disappeared into the building.

  A garbage bin caught his attention. Carefully he ripped off the surgical gloves, rolled them into a ball, gently lifted the lid with one finger under the handle and dropped them in, scarcely taking his eyes from the front of the building.

  His mind flew into panic. Had he left everything as he’d found it? The handbags! He’d thrown them back into the top of the wardrobe, uncaring of how they’d landed. Pam wouldn’t be looking at them tonight! With any luck, she wouldn’t realise there’d been an intruder until morning. He had to get back to the hotel and crunch that SC card under the heel of his boot.

  Stumbling through the park, tripping over tree roots and side-stepping low branches, he made his way to the road on the other side and walked back to the hotel. Now he had the camera there was no reason to hang around the area. He couldn’t wait to get home to the familiar nest he’d created for himself and his music.

  He sauntered across the foyer, past the empty reception desk to the lifts, briefly acknowledging a greeting from a staff member coming from the bar, who looked at him strangely. It was only when he reached his room that he realised he was still wearing his hood pulled half down over his face and the camera was bulging under his jacket. It didn’t matter. He’d be gone first thing in the morning.

  He laid the camera on the bed, wiped his sweaty hands on the legs of his jeans and then opened the case. It was a beautiful piece of digital machinery. He took it out of the case, turned it around several times before opening it and taking out the card which he inserted into the reader and took a deep breath. Slowly he flicked through the photos.

  His blood turned to ice as he reached the end of the card.

  He couldn’t believe it. Only Pamela Miller’s photos were on the flash card. Roma Street Parklands for God’s sake, flowers, trees, waterfalls – tower blocks of units across from the transit centre. The kids fucking playground!

  He stuffed his face into the pillows to stifle his screams. Where are they? Where are the photos of Ariel and me? His howls echoed in his brain; his body curled into the foetal position. They’d posed, danced on the grass, grinning. He’d risked his job, his freedom, his safety in breaking into Pamela Bloody Miller’s unit – all for nothing! His breath came in great gasps.

  He felt as though he was having a heart attack. It took a long time for him to calm down and when he did, an idea crept into his mind. Had the Humphries woman only pretended to take their photos? But she’d written their names down – no, his name because Ariel had been giggling and doing handstands while he was talking to the journalist. Would the police find his name among her things? They hadn’t come to question him, so apparently not – at least not yet.

  His bladder threatened to explode. He raced to the bathroom, used the loo then wiped his hands and face with a warm, wet face cloth. Ten...nine...eight...seven...six...five... Even if they did find his name, what would it mean? Nothing at all – unless she’d written something about the photos beside it and his phone number. Did she date the pages of her notebook?

  He slumped on the bed, so exhausted that he couldn’t think straight. His lower back ached along with his shoulder. His bitten finger seeped blood and serum from under the dressing. He groped miserably in the bedside drawer for the packet of bandaids he’d put there within easy reach. All he wanted to do was creep back to his unit on Kangaroo Point, a wounded animal but safe amongst his own possessions and not be trapped in some alien hotel with women, dead and alive, crowding him on all sides.

  Suddenly, he made a decision and flew into action. He packed up his possessions, collected his toiletries from the bathroom and threw the cameras and their bags into his bag. Paid up until the next morning, he left his key-card on the bedside table, hoisted his backpack over his shoulders and picked up his bags.

  He was going home.

  CHAPTER 37

  Violation

  Pam

  Tuesday, 8.45PM

  It was the rush to the loo in stockinged feet that alerted me to the fact that my unit had been broken into. We’d come back from dinner, I’d kicked my shoes off by the front door and left Anthony to put the electric jug on for coffee while I scooted up to the bedroom level....and then...you know how something registers, but it sort of doesn’t? When you’re caught up in the moment and it isn’t until you’ve settled again that you realise something is different?

  I’d washed my hands, tried to do something with my hair
and was about to walk out of the bathroom, when I realised I had grit on my feet.

  Now, anyone will tell you – especially Ally’s mum, Aunt Eloise – that I am not the neatest person in the world. In fact, when I’m not being “Holier than thou,” cleaning up in case a new boyfriend, in this case my personal assassin, takes fright and runs, I live in perpetual clutter. But I hadn’t had time to turn my unit into Hurricane Hollow, so I hadn’t picked up grit on the tiles – but there it was, stuck to the fibres of my tights.

  I tiptoed slowly out of the bathroom and looked around my room. Nothing obvious, but when I turned on the light, I went cold. Small flecks of dirt led from under the curtains across the balcony doors and in a direct line to the bed where they vanished. The bed! Someone had been lying on it; I knew I’d straightened it before I left.

  I screamed.

  ‘What is it?’ Anthony bounded up the steps.

  All I could do was point at the particles and then the bed. Frowning, he moved carefully around them, peered down, then at the French door leading to the balcony. ‘Did you lock this tonight before we went out?’

  I couldn’t remember. ‘I thought I did, but...’

  He moved over to the curtains, took a pen out of his shirt pocket and moved one aside. The door was closed. Then he took one of his copious white handkerchiefs and placed it over the door handle.

  It opened.

  Throwing me a stern look, he pushed the door open and leaned out. ‘Is there a light for out here?’

  ‘Yes.’ I sidled along the wall and flicked the switch behind the other curtain.

  ‘There’s more dirt out here. Looks like someone stepped in one of your pot plants. No, don’t come out, just stay where you are.’

  My skin crawled. What had the intruder touched? Had he been in my underwear drawer? Was it the bloke who hit me and tried to steal my camera – the camera! I raced down to the kitchen-dining area. My precious flute was still lying in its case. Where in God’s name had I put the damn camera? I couldn’t think straight. Anthony came back down the steps and watched as I circled in confusion. ‘What are you looking for?’