Better dust than the thing she’d found hanging from the beam in the laundry, the blood pooled in the ankles, glory gone. An unmoving thing that turned slowly on the rope. A broken thing.
Her love, stronger than time, scourging her with regret. She turned in the bed and groaned.
Mockery feasting on despair.
Sleep. She had to sleep.
Love — the most dangerous thing in the world.
TEMPTATION AND BENT TIME
FIORDLAND, NEW ZEALAND
The house was a twenty-minute drive from the small township along a narrow road that wound between steep cliffs. Cain drove slowly in torrential rain, wipers on high. He crossed three wooden bridges — typical of this remote area — single lane with a caution sign each end. The rivers beneath the bridges thundered over jagged rocks and cascades sprayed from the high side of the road.
It was an ominous landscape, every turn revealing a new cloud-blurred peak gashed by thin waterfalls. He reached a cleared valley of tussocks and tree roots hacked from mossy beech forest.
The building commanded the valley, sat well back on the high side of the road. It looked more like a country hotel than the domain of a wrathful ghost. Behind it rose a precipitous backdrop of trees and sub-alpine scrub.
The curving drive was flanked by neat lawn and well-placed trees. He stopped the car beneath the entrance portico and the sound of rain on metal ceased. He’d expected a home this far south to have walls made mouldy by spring rains. But the ranch-style, two-storey building with its bay windows and elegant air was well maintained, its paintwork spick.
He got a bag out of the boot, crossed the terrace to the door and rang. A vacuum cleaner switched off. Through frosted-glass panels, someone coming.
‘Cain?’
The Great Stromlo matched the briefing photographs. Shabby clothes, clerical collar, thin frame, pouched face.
‘Mark West’s the agreed name.’
‘Yes of course, Mr West. Please come in.’
The tiled entranceway had stairs leading up.
He said, ‘Impressive place.’
Stromlo’s doleful look. ‘There should be a sign: Lasciate ogni speranza . . .’
Abandon hope?
A woman came down the stairs. The original was considerably better than the unfinished substitute. She wore tight black stretch-jeans and a woollen top open at the neck. She had a ripe curve to her hips and upper body, heavy breasts, soft lines to her shoulders and arms. The way it all moved was intriguing.
‘So the parcel’s arrived.’ Her voice sounded like Baileys Irish Cream gurgling through a warm bassoon.
‘This is Mark West, our new security man.’ Stromlo introduced the woman. ‘Eve Rinaldi.’
She stepped over the vacuum cleaner that Stromlo had apparently been using at the foot of the stairs, came forward to shake his hand. ‘You’re very handsome.’ Then to Stromlo, ‘I’ll take him up.’
As he followed her she said, ‘This used to be a conference centre. They couldn’t make it pay. Too far away from anywhere. We got it cheap.’
He lugged his bag up the second turn of stairs, watching her rounded but neat rear straining her jeans pleasantly as she climbed. They walked to a bedroom with en suite and view out over the valley. As he put down the bag, he spotted a movement sensor at the corner of the ceiling.
She said, ‘Father Roberto vacuumed in here this morning. He doesn’t have to do it but sees drudgery as penance. He’s a strange character — but a wonderful music teacher for Nina.’
She led him back down to the expansive lounge room that had been chalk-marks in the EXIT mock-up. It had a sprawl of comfortable furniture, a baby grand and a hooded central fire where logs smouldered in a pile of white ash.
‘Central heating,’ she said.
He gazed at the sweeping sodden view. The windows, true to the briefing, had security strips. ‘A beautiful place.’
‘It’s converted well. Jane and I have made lairs of some of the upstairs suites. She has her workroom. I have my sewing room and materials storeroom. My doll studio’s downstairs in what used to be a conference room. Then there’s the pool, gym, sauna. We don’t lack much. We have four garages in a separate building at the back with staff accommodation above them.’
‘Cosy.’
‘So you’re here to protect us from the Russians?’
‘I understand they paid you a visit.’
‘Two of them. We said “no”.’
‘The next time you mightn’t have a choice.’
‘If you do your job properly we will. Coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Follow me. Cook’s off today. Jane’s at work. You’ll meet her later.’ They entered a commercial kitchen. ‘We haven’t remodelled this yet. Too hard.’ She fiddled with a mini espresso machine.
‘Powdered stuff’s fine.’
‘In that case . . .’ She spooned some crystals into a mug and filled it from a steaming electric urn. ‘Milk?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Cow’s milk’s bad for humans. Ideal for calves of course.’ She went to a fridge as big as a walk-in cupboard.
The sound of the rain and the hollow tick of a reproduction railway wall-clock.
‘You’ve brought guns, I suppose?’
He nodded.
‘We won’t leave, you know.’
As he took the cup, the girl walked in. She wore a floppy jumper and jeans. Long fair hair hung down her back. Her sulkily beautiful face and slim frame made her classic jail-bait.
Eve said, ‘Nina. This is our new security man, Mr West.’
‘You going to screw him?’ She spat the words.
‘Behave yourself.’
‘Suck eggs.’ She grabbed a biscuit from a canister.
Eve shrugged. ‘They’re angels at two, contentious at five, savages at ten and demons at thirteen.’
Her daughter threw the canister to the floor. Biscuits scattered over the tiles.
Her mother ordered, ‘Out. Now.’
The girl stood her ground, legs apart, holding her breath. Her eyes bulged slightly and she made a small grunting noise. The room, for no clear reason, became cold.
‘No!’ her mother cried. She clapped once and pointed at the door. ‘Out.’
The girl glared a moment longer then flounced from sight.
Eve frowned. ‘She’s so destructive. I need to go and talk to her. Excuse me.’
As he stood in the empty kitchen, sipping coffee, he noticed the ticking had stopped and glanced up at the clock. The minute hand had bent until it was touching the glass. As he watched it bent further. He stared at it, incredulous, cold sweat starting down his spine.
Stromlo came into the room, squatted stiffly, began to pick up biscuits.
Cain pointed. ‘The — clock.’
He glanced at it. ‘Yes. Like Lazarus, we are trapped in the sepulchre of time.’
‘The hands, I mean. They’re bending.’
He looked again. ‘Devil’s child. I suggest we go back to the lounge room.’
‘Why?’
‘You never know.’
‘Know what?’
The priest reached for the canister but it rolled as if retreating from his hand yet there was no draught in the room. He growled, ‘Jesus Christ rebukes you oh demon, oh deceiver,’ then lunged, caught the canister and dropped the biscuits back inside. He slammed the lid on it, stood and placed it back on a bench top. ‘Come on.’
Cain was staring again at the clock. The hour hand had fallen off and now lay against the glass.
As they moved back to the lounge, there was a crash behind them. It sounded as if the tin had fallen and the biscuits were back on the floor.
‘What’s that?’
‘The devil’s work.’
‘Shouldn’t we . . .’
‘Best to ignore it.’
‘How?’
‘The trouble with evil is there’s nothing easier to get used to.’ The priest hunched into a chair by t
he fire and stared morosely at the rain.
Cain reluctantly sat, still churning at what he’d seen. ‘How does she — do it?’
‘I doubt she knows. I’ve talked to her but our relationship’s mortified — a conversation with the dead.’
‘Christ. It’s . . .’
‘Unsettling.’ His wintry smile. ‘Yes, you can be briefed very well. But the actual thing. Always imprevisto. It’s not under her control, of course. It comes when she reaches a certain emotional pitch. It seems to need the force of that to appear.’
He nodded. The best defence against the unknown was to keep things to business. He pointed to the ceiling. ‘You switch the movement sensors on at night?’
‘One can’t with things flying around. I have a hard-wired seismic sensor grid that monitors the perimeter and another around the house.’
‘Ten-metre spread?’
‘Yes. Because the staff comes and goes by day, I switch it on at night.’ He pulled something out of his pocket. ‘This is the receiver. It has light, vibration or beeper readouts.’ He worked the selector switches. ‘Also shows grid and quadrant. I have a spare.’
‘Any transponders for the family?’
‘They won’t wear them.’
‘Is the Russian team still in the country?’
‘No. But from what we know, they’re making plans for the kidnap now.’
‘So I don’t have long.’
‘Perhaps a week.’
‘And you’re ready to roll?’
‘Just waiting for the duplicates.’ He leaned close. He smelt of plonk. ‘The postman, bank manager, accountant, solicitor — all transferred, paid off or changed. Eve’s doll contacts are mostly American — made by post, internet, not a problem. The sisters keep to themselves so the local situation isn’t hard.’
‘Looks like you’re on top of it.’
‘The last people to change will be the staff. The gardener and housekeeper will be leaving before the duplicates arrive.’ He poked again at the fire. His thin body still seemed wiry. ‘Try to get Jane to give notice at the chemist. Her duplicate will know general pharmacy but obviously can’t dispense.’
‘So you’re set?’
He lifted the poker, scratched at the fire. ‘As set as a candidate for the inferno can be. Corpore vili.’
‘Aren’t you confusing your cover with your vocation?’
‘Your cover, Cain, is secular. But I was ordained. Ordained! Thus I am a travesty. I long to separate the spirit from the body.’ He swayed slightly, nursing his hyper-reflection. ‘Tell me . . .’ A breathy whisper smelling of port. ‘What manner of priest removes the Holy Father from the Church?’
‘You were doing your job.’
‘A Judas,’ he moaned. ‘A Judas.’
Cain steered it back to business. ‘The Rinaldis were from Palermo. But the sisters are hardly good Catholics.’
‘Nothing here,’ the priest hissed, ‘is true. It’s the devil’s house.’
‘I’m not convinced the devil fits a post-modernist world.’
A hollow laugh. ‘It means you’ve never lived in Brazil.’
‘Rhonda says it’s condition red here. Seems over the top to me. How do you read it? Quando comincia lo spettacolo?’
‘Molto buono,’ Stromlo smiled, displaying gapped yellow teeth. ‘We have time. I have excellent comms. I’m almost hard-wired into their intelligence.’
‘Okay. So how do I get to the sisters?’
‘You help them violate community standards. They’re animals — cows that copulate with one bull.’ He produced a silver flask from his back pocket, unscrewed the top. ‘My medicine. Scusi.’ He swigged, gasped with relief and said, ‘Brown muscat. Very cheap.’ He put the flask away with care. ‘They tempt. They tempt.’
‘Tempt you?’
‘Punch and Judy. The twin temptations of a priest. Mi capisce?’ He moved his head as if his collar were a noose.
Cain nudged it back on track. ‘So whatever way they go, forcibly or willingly, the mechanics of the switch remain the same?’
‘Si. We’ll remain with the duplicates for a time. Also the cook — who is our partisan.’
He nodded, stared at the fire. Small explosions from the burning wood shot embers over the circular brick hearth. It was still pouring outside but the house seemed quiet. He’d been told that the staff had Thursday off.
Stromlo turned to him suddenly, face bloodhound long. ‘Gianpaolo. Did you see him?’
‘Yes.’
The priest closed his eyes, hissed through his teeth. ‘How is he?’
‘Magnifico.’
He shook his head and rocked.
‘So anything else you want to tell me?’
The man just rocked.
‘Right.’ Cain got up. ‘I’ll check the house.’
HOUSE OF DOLLS
Cain knew the place was difficult to secure. He walked halls and corridors, peering into rooms, and eventually came to the humid central atrium with its heated pool and fernery. Spa and sauna one end, showers and gym the other. He looked up. The glass roof streamed with rain. He put the exterior recce on hold.
A noise from the back of the house. He followed his ears to Eve’s workroom. It had cluttered work benches, an electric kiln and shelving stacked with doll parts and moulds. The floor supported bags of plaster, plastic-wrapped clay and mounds covered in damp cloths.
The beautiful voice. ‘Come in.’ Eve Rinaldi, in plastic apron, was working by the bench. Four smooth boards encased a mould. The frame was held by sliding brackets.
He asked, ‘Can I help?’
She lifted a board clear. ‘No, this bit’s easy.’
‘So you sell dolls to America?’
‘Where the money is.’ She walked to the end of the bench and his eyes slid to her rear. She was a doll herself, disturbingly so. She removed a wet rag to reveal a clay sculpture of a head. The face was beautifully done. ‘It starts like this, then you make a plaster mould.’
‘What if the poltergeist comes and . . . ?’
‘Nina isn’t allowed in my workrooms. I’ve told her if she wrecks anything, I’ll send her back to her father.’
An effective threat, he decided. The father had tried to rape her.
‘When the mould dries you open it like those.’ She pointed to half moulds on the shelving behind. ‘You take out the sculpture, put the halves back together, pour slip — that’s liquid porcelain — through this hole and wait till you see drying rings.’
‘Involved.’
‘Very. I’m just giving you the overview. So when it dries to the thickness you want, you pour out the rest and it dries in the mould.’
‘Why doesn’t it stick?’
‘Because porcelain shrinks slightly. Then you open the mould, get out the shell . . .’ She chatted about greenware, seamlines, multiple colour firings, dresses, shoes, gloves, wigs. ‘Hundreds of hours of work go into an original porcelain doll.’
‘What’s one sell for?’
‘I get $8000 each for a limited issue of five. That’s $40,000 from one mould. And you people want me to walk out on this?’
‘Just for a while. When the Russians pinch your duplicate, you’ll come back. But if you don’t accept our offer and get grabbed — you’re out of business.’
‘I’m not convinced.’
‘If you’d been to Moscow you would be. Snow, slush, things falling apart. Not your scene.’
She took off the apron, looked at him speculatively. ‘What are you like at plumbing?’
‘Depends what it is.’
‘I’ll show you.’ She led him up the back stairs into a bedroom and pointed to the en suite. The taps weren’t dripping or stuck. The cistern seemed fine.
He went back into the bedroom to ask her what was wrong. She now sat on the bed, pulling the woollen top over her head. He stared at the full breasts, barely held by the light bra.
She said, ‘Don’t look so surprised. It’s what they told you to do to us,
isn’t it?’
‘Just like that?’
‘Why not?’ The dark chocolate voice. ‘We haven’t had anyone for months.’
She put her hands behind her and undid the bra. Her freed breasts hung lower but were full and firm with mouthable nipples. She pulled back the bed-cover, unzipped the front of her jeans. ‘Your cue.’
He’d been propositioned many times but never so frankly. As he sat beside her she started undoing his shirt, his pants, then drew his head down to her breasts. He moved his tongue up between them, then round the nipples.
She lay back. ‘Don’t you like me?’
‘Behave.’
She lay still and shut her eyes.
He undressed himself, then her. The peeled Eve was worthy of Eden — beautifully shaped, the hips and belly superb. He began with her slowly, stroking her, drawing it out. She shuddered at his touch, opened her eyes to look up at him.
‘Close eyes.’
She did, obedient now. He kissed her lightly on the brow, worked down, avoiding the mouth, parted now for a kiss but left wanting. With the back of his fingers, he stroked every part of her, leaving the breasts and between her legs till last. Then he began with his tongue, feeling her tremble with each touch.
He brought her to the edge of climax, her hips and thighs squirming, arms tensing, before releasing her wrists and running his tongue up the whole of her — around her breasts, armpits, neck.
When he finally slid into her, her fingers dug into his back. Her eyes were open now, her hair across her face as she squirmed.
In less than a minute she arched and gasped out her release, then lay as limp as one of her dolls and murmured, ‘God. You’re hired.’
He flipped her, wanting to savour the shape of her from behind. She didn’t need cuteness lessons, had a butt a surfing magazine would have paid for. Rock of ages, cleft for thee . . . He slid back into her, let himself come. Sex — the hollow victory. Copulate or perish. ‘Feeling better?’
She looked at him from within some personal bliss. ‘You’ve just made yourself irreplaceable. ‘Jane’ll want some of this.’ She curled inside his arm like a cat. ‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Married men develop what British airmen used to call “uxorial drag”.’
Exit Alpha Page 12