‘Hey Aussie,’ he said almost pleasantly. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that.’
‘You filthy, low bastard.’ Andrea’s hate somehow managed to give her the strength to curse him between sobs.
‘Now is that very nice baby?’ He reached down and slapped her lightly on the behind. ‘I thought you Aussie broads were all good sports,’ he laughed.
Andrea recoiled in horror at his touch. ‘You raped me, you stinking, rotten animal. See how much you’re laughing when I get the police.’
Andrews laughed again. ‘Rape? Police? Are you for real baby? You invited me up here, an Aussie broad on vacation in Hawaii. How many like you do you think the cops get. Besides, do you think Mal Andrews is my right name? Do you think these glasses are for real? They’re false. My vision’s twenty/twenty. And can you afford to fly backwards and forwards between Hawaii and Australia to contest a so-called rape case? That’s if you can find me.’
Andrea looked at him scornfully through her pain and tears and also numbed by the realisation of what he’d just said.
‘But why don’t you ring the cops? This is what they’ll find.’ He pulled a joint from the pocket of his shirt and lit it, not inhaling any but spreading the smoke around the room. He smoked it halfway down then stubbed it out and opening her handbag, crushed the rest inside, spreading marijuana all through her bag. ‘There you go. The smell should last in here for at least two hours and when, and if, the cops should question me I’ll tell them you invited me up here for a smoke. I might even tell the hotel security on the way down that you’re dealing on the premises.’ He laughed again as he made his way to the door. ‘You’re not in Australia with the kangaroos now Andrea. See you later baby.’ As he opened the door he hesitated. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. It’s Hawaii, isn’t it? Aloha.’
As soon as the door closed Andrea burst into tears again knowing full well everything he said was true. She had never felt so miserable and dejected in her life and there was nothing she could do and not a soul she could turn to. She rose painfully from the bed, completely broken in spirit and body and staggered to the bathroom where she started throwing up. When there was nothing left to throw up she just leant against the sink dry-retching.
The haggard reflection staring back at her in the mirror was an awful sight. Her hair was matted and dishevelled and her new white dress was almost ripped apart. Where Andrews had belted her an ugly red weal was visible across the side of her face and her bottom lip was split and weeping blood; both eyes were puffed and raw from crying.
Besides feeling totally miserable she also felt disgustingly dirty. Putrid almost — like she’d been in contact with something rotten and decaying. Suddenly she could feel his evil presence on her, and with a cry of repugnance tore what remained of her clothes off and got under an almost scalding shower to try to wash away the misery and filth that Malcolm Andrews, or whatever his name was, had left upon her.
There were hardly any tears left in her. She stood on the balcony with a towel wrapped round her and stared numbly out into the ocean but every now and again however, a cough and a sob would rack her body. She stood gripping the railing till her knuckles almost turned white, gazing bewildered at the night sky and wondered what she had ever done to anybody in her life to deserve something like this.
After a pitiful night’s sleep Andrea didn’t feel like any breakfast, so she made some coffee provided for in the room. She felt dreadful and still looked a mess and would have liked to have stayed in her room all day but the cleaning lady wanted to get in. She wound back the film in the little camera still sitting on the dresser, remembering there were still some photos of home on it. She decided to get them developed hoping they might take her mind off things. With extra make-up on and a pair of dark glasses to hide the marks on her face she felt more like a criminal than the man who had attacked her, as she skulked through the foyer of the hotel trying to avoid any others in her party.
She dropped the film in to one of those processing shops where it’s developed and packaged automatically, then did her best to try to walk away the pain and emptiness inside her. She was walking, almost shuffling along the back streets of Waikiki not feeling any better when somewhere, not too far away, she heard the sombre tolling of a church bell; in her state of shock she had completely forgotten it was Sunday. Like a beacon she was drawn inexorably towards it.
The source of the bells, when she finally found it, turned out to be the poorest excuse for a church she had ever seen. Not much bigger than an ordinary house, it was badly neglected and sorely in need of repairs and a fresh coat of paint. Weeds had sprung up through the cracks in the pavement out front, and the bells she had heard turned out to be a tape playing through an old, rusty P. A. system bolted to the wall. Somehow though the little church had a certain charm in a humble sort of way. At the foot of the steps a young priest was smiling and saying goodbye to some elderly Hawaiians. They looked like the last of what was an obviously very small congregation.
As the last parishioner left Andrea approached the priest. He was a tall, well-built man of Polynesian extraction somewhere in his early thirties. His short-cropped, dark hair was starting to go grey round the temples. For a priest he was quite handsome with a pleasant smile and kind, understanding brown eyes.
‘Hello young lady,’ he said warmly, as Andrea stood in front of him. ‘Can I help you in some way?’
‘Is it all right if I come inside and pray for a while Father?’ Andrea mumbled nervously. They were the first words she had spoken all morning.
‘Certainly. It’ll be a pleasure to have someone as pretty as you visit us.’ He took Andrea’s hand and shook it gently but warmly. ‘I’m Father James Conesceau.’
‘Andrea.’
‘Welcome to my humble church Andrea.’ He turned and waved a hand towards the dilapidated building. ‘I’m afraid this house of God is more like one of his weekenders. But. . . we like it, and you can have all the prayers you want Andrea.’
‘Thank you Father.’
The smiling young priest ushered Andrea through the door then left her alone. Inside, the little church was just as run-down as it was outside but it was peaceful and relaxing in an impecunious sort of a way. Andrea found a pew, knelt down and started to pray though for what she didn’t know, just some understanding and peace of mind. It wasn’t long before her emotions burst and she started crying again — great salty tears that racked her body and made her face feel like it was going to burst as they ran down her cheeks and splashed on to the dusty wooden floor. She was still crying when with a slight start she looked up to see Father Conesceau anxiously standing next to her.
‘Are you all right young lady?’ he asked, genuinely concerned. He knelt down alongside Andrea and took one of her hands placing it gently between his. ‘Is there something I can do? Anything at all.’
Andrea looked into Father Conesceau’s eyes for a moment then buried her head in his chest. He put his arms around her shoulders and held her to him tenderly.
‘If I can help you at all, please — please tell me. I am God’s messenger you know.’
Suddenly, understandably, Andrea recoiled from the priest’s touch. ‘Yes, well I’d like to give a message to your so-called God, Father,’ she said bitterly. She stood up abruptly and stumbled towards the door. Father Conesceau remained for a moment then followed her.
Outside in the sunshine Andrea leant giddily up against the wall of the church and took several deep breaths. Father Conesceau stood near her but at a discreet distance.
‘Young lady, I can see you’re deeply distressed and deeply troubled,’ he said ‘but please. . . please, don’t ever lose your faith in God. Never.’ Father Conesceau gazed around him absently then back at Andrea. ‘I mean, we all have our troubles at times. The owners have threatened to close my little church if I don’t find $15,000 in the next two weeks. But. . . I still haven’t lost my faith in the Lord.’ The young priest smiled softly at Andrea. ‘I’m sure he will provide.�
�
‘Well maybe he will for you Father,’ Andrea replied rancourously. ‘He is a bloody man, isn’t he?’
‘Man or woman. God’s always there when we’ve got troubles.’
‘Well Father, you’ve got your troubles. I’ve got bloody mine.’ Without another word she turned and started to walk away.
‘Goodbye Andrea. If ever I can help you the door is always open.’ Father Conesceau watched her walk away and offered a little prayer: God bless you Andrea. May you find solace. No matter what your problem is.
On the way back to the hotel Andrea picked up the photos and dropped them in her bag. She’d calmed down slightly by now and was starting to feel a little remorseful for being so rude to the priest. After what she’d been through, he’d been the only one to at least try to help and she’d turned on him. She made a mental note to go back and apologise before she left for Australia.
She went straight to her room, sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed at her eyes. As she stared vacantly at the floor something on the dressing table caught her eye — she reached over and picked it up. It was a folder containing two plastic credit cards — American Express and one for the First Hawaiian Bank. She stared at them incredulously for a few seconds trying to figure out where they’d come from. Then with a shock she realised they must have fallen out of Malcolm Andrews’s pocket or wallet and the cleaning lady had picked them up and put them on the dressing table. But the name on them wasn’t Malcolm Andrews. It was Charles Andrew Hasslinger.
She glared at the two cards with an intense hatred and loathing. Even though she knew the real name of the man who had raped her there was still precious little she could do about it. She went out on to the balcony to get a bit of fresh air and clear her head — after handling Hasslinger’s credit cards she felt almost as if she’d touched him again. After a few minutes she came back inside and lay back on the bed to have a look at her photos.
The first ones were the family and friends seeing her off at the airport. They brought a sad smile to her face; she thought how good it would be to see them all again with this Hawaiian trip turning out so rotten. Next were some of the local museum and her getting on the bus; they weren’t bad. The marine park ones turned out all right, especially the ones of the killer whale and the dolphins jumping up in the air. She’d managed to get the sun in the right spot at the Arizona War Memorial and they turned out surprisingly good for an amateur. The ones taken at the Ala-Moana shopping centre were just so-so but when she came to the last four she screamed and sat bolt upright on the bed staring at them in horror and disbelief, scarcely able to comprehend what was before here eyes. There in her hands were four photos of Charles Hasslinger, alias Malcolm Andrews, raping her. Crystal-clear and in colour — they couldn’t have looked any better if they’d been done in a studio. She sat staring at the ghastly things almost mesmerised. But how? Then it dawned on her. The bloody faulty little camera. She remembered putting it on the dressing table facing the bed while she looked for some more film and the bloody thing had gone off. Four times. And with all the lights in the room on the photos had turned out crystal-clear — too clear for her liking — and with Hasslinger turning the radio on loud, neither of them had heard the click of the shutter or the automatic-rewind mechanism.
She stared at them for how long she didn’t know. Then a great wave of revulsion swept over her as the memory of the night’s sickening attack came flooding back. She threw the photos in the rubbish basket and sped from the room in need of a stiff drink.
There were only a handful of people in the bar near the hotel foyer when she ordered a double brandy and dry — no ice. She sat down in an empty cubicle near two beefy Americans who looked as if they’d just returned from playing golf. They were wearing loud check trousers and open tongue shoes and one had on a peak-cap with the words Kaealana Golf Club on the front. They gave her a brief smile which Andrea ignored.
Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly get the drink to her lips but after two or three good sips she managed to regain her composure. Closing her eyes she rested her head back on the padded seat behind her, still scarcely able to believe what she’d just seen. The distinctly audible accents of the two Americans sitting in the next cubicle came drifting over.
‘You’ll have to improve your handicap old buddy, or you’ll be buying me drinks every Sunday for the rest of your life.’
‘Yeah. That birdie on the last green really screwed me.’
‘Yeah. Heh, heh. Hey, talking about screws, good old Charlie Hasslinger did it again last night.’ At the mention of that name Andrea’s eyes popped wide open.
‘Yeah. What was the story there again?’
‘Oh, Charlie picked up some little Aussie broad last night in a club near here and screwed her back in her hotel room. Said she wasn’t a bad piece of ass either.’
‘Son of a gun. Charlie’s old lady just got back from L.A. this morning. If she ever found out it’d be Charlie’s ass.’
‘Oh, that Carmel. Now that’s one old lady I would not like to tangle with. She’s just itchin’ for a divorce, too, you know.’
‘Yeah. I hear old Charlie’s terrified.’
‘That’s right. Carmel’d just love to have some of Charlie’s millions and no Charlie.’
‘Heh, heh. Yeah, it’d be goodbye to Hasslinger Marine Engineering.’
‘And goodbye Charlie.’
‘Yeah. Oh well I guess he just likes to live dangerously. . . Anyway, I guess we’d better get going Bob. You’ve gotta drive me home.’
‘Sure.’
The two Americans finished their drinks and walked out, nodding to the barman as they did. He smiled back. Andrea watched them leave then took a pen out of her bag and wrote down every name the two men had mentioned on the back of an envelope. She finished her drink and trying to remain calm walked over to the barman who was standing with his back to her, polishing glasses.
‘Excuse me.’
The fair-haired barman turned around and smiled pleasantly.
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Those two gentlemen who just left. I’m not sure, but I think I’ve met them before. Are they regulars here?’
‘Kind of. They come in for brunch and a few drinks every Sunday after golf.’
‘The tall one. His name’s Bob. Is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s Dr Robert Jerome. He runs a large private hospital out near Diamond Head.’
‘I thought that was him. And his friend was. . . ?’
‘That was Martin Eisenberg. He runs the biggest travel agency on the island. He’s an elder in the Jewish community. A very respected man.’
Andrea snapped her fingers. ‘I thought that’s who it was. I met them at a Charles Hasslinger’s house. Would you know him? I think it was near some beach.’
The young barman stroked his chin for a second or two. ‘That would probably be Charles Hasslinger who owns a big ship building company on the other side of the Ala-Wai Canal. They build and service power-boats and cruisers. I think he lives out near Makaha Beach. That’s probably the beach you’re thinking of.’
‘Now I remember, yes. Okay, thank you very much steward.’
‘You’re welcome ma’am.’
On the way up to her room in the lift Andrea added those names to the others on the back of the envelope.
Back in her room Andrea spread the photos, the credit cards and the envelope with the names on it on the bed and sat looking at them for a while. Eventually she put them back on the dressing table and went for a long walk.
The rest of the day was spent lost in thought and it was almost dark when she got back to the hotel; she had a light meal in the hotel foyer then went to her room and spread the things back out on the bed.
There was enough evidence there to incriminate Hasslinger or at least build a case against him and a good girl probably would have gone to the police to do just that. She went out on to the balcony for a minute then walked into the bathroom and washed her face, sp
lashing plenty of cold water on her eyes to try and soothe the inflamation brought on by the bouts of crying. But there were no tears left in her now. And something else was gone; that easygoing, almost weak streak in her. Instead, she could feel a strange hardness in the pit of her stomach, spreading through her body. She looked into the mirror and noticed her eyes had narrowed and there was an unfamiliar, almost evil glint behind the redness.
‘You’re not going to cry any more over that bastard,’ she told herself out loud. ‘Time for you to toughen up girl. That someday has finally come.’ And the following day Andrea Hayden decided she was going to do something she’d never done before. She was going to do something bad.
She was almost in a good mood when she got up around eight that morning. She breakfasted in her room then got out every item of make-up she had in her bag. She applied several heavy black layers of eye-shadow and mascara around her eyes, two or three coats of bright red lipstick on her mouth and topped it all off with a ghastly, ostentatious black beauty spot just under her left cheekbone. With a rubberband she pulled her hair back in a ponytail and teased up a great, fluffy fringe in front. Then after padding her bra up with tissues to give her boobs a bit of lift she put on a shirt, which she tied in a knot round her waist to show plenty of navel and cleavage, and climbed into a pair of tight jeans and the highest heeled shoes she could find. With the photos in her bag and trying not to feel too embarassed she clomped and wiggled her way through the hotel foyer stopping to get a packet of bubblegum. Christ, she thought, as she spotted herself in a full-length mirror, I wouldn’t look out of place zapping up Parramatta Road on the back of some bikie’s Harley Davidson. Several construction workers on a building site opposite the hotel gave her a long low wolf-whistle as she got on a bus and headed for a part of Honolulu the two flight-stewards had warned her about — Hotel Street.
After about ten minutes walking around she found what she was looking for — a grotty little camera and developing shop tucked away in a small side street. An electronic buzzer rang as she entered. From behind a filthy floral curtain at the rear of the store a hairy, sweating Hawaiian stopped out and lumbered up to the counter — he had a mouthful of rotten yellow teeth and stank of B.O., stale beer and cigarettes.
The Real Thing Page 30