As we pass two famous directors drinking martinis, one says, ‘Have you seen that pale blonde? Stunning!’ The other answers, ‘She could give Seabring a run for her money! I wonder who she’s signed with?’
I look out at the garden from the foyer’s floor-to-ceiling windows. I haven’t seen the stunning pale blonde since she slapped the knife out of my hand.
Phineas leads me through the foyer, past a bar in the back of the room, to a roped-off set of stairs. ‘Quickly,’ he says as he moves the rope aside. We climb the stairs until we come to the second floor. ‘This is the west wing, Jerry.’
It’s quiet up here without all the guests and the small talk and the clinking glasses. There are four doors on either side of the hall and a large, nude pastel painting hangs at the end. The painting, it’s of a girl who is crouching down in a big tin tub. A jug full of water sits next to her on a small wooden table.
‘It is called “After the Bath, Four” by Edgar Degas,’ Phineas says. ‘It’s worth more than twenty million. That’s a good thing, too. No one would dare touch it.’ And to my utter shock, Phineas pulls the Degas painting open like a door. ‘I told you how Matthew designed this house personally? This is one of the reasons why. Go on, get in.’
Phineas follows me through and pulls the painting shut behind us. Inside, dim red lights barely illuminate the passage we’re in. It’s no more than three feet wide. The ground is padded in thick foam. Two-by-four support struts run diagonally from wall to floor. The passage extends in either direction before making right turns with the build of the west wing. Phineas gives a quiet chuckle when he sees my mouth hanging open. ‘The rich, what they do to keep themselves entertained.’
‘What is this?’
‘This is a secret that only Matthew, I, a few others – and now you – know about.’ He explains that this passage runs behind all the rooms in the west wing as he leads me in one direction, our feet not making a sound on the foam padding. And I can’t help but think of playing Clue with Emma. These passages are exactly like the secret passages in the board game.
Around the corner, where the passage turns left, rays of light shine through double slits in the walls. The slits, they’re peepholes. Each pair look into a different room. The rooms are all empty, but they’re as richly decorated as the rest of the house: expensive paintings, lush furniture, mini-bars. I lean in to look through the third peephole, placing my hand on the wall to steady myself from rocking on the foam padding.
‘Careful!’ Phineas hisses as he pulls my hand from the wall. ‘That’s a doorway too. It opens a painting on the other side. There’s one room on this side of the wing that has an opening and one room on the other side.’
I try to hide my look of astonishment at all this. And Phineas answers before I even have to ask. ‘Matthew likes to watch,’ he says. ‘He enjoys it more than anything. None of his guests know. Sometimes he even sits back here and films them – in case he has trouble with them down the road.’
I can tell that the look on my face doesn’t instill a lot of confidence that he’s made the right choice by showing me all this. That’s when I’m reminded that I’m supposed to find this all wonderful. ‘Whatever gets you off, right?’ I say, and Phineas grins like we’re in some boys’ club together. ‘My dad always told me how he loved the different girls–’
Phineas quickly stifles a loud laugh and slaps me on the back. ‘Jonathan could be a real braggart! But no Jerry, I’m sorry, even fathers embellish sometimes. He wasn’t quite Rico Suave. Jonathan only ever used one girl. A gift from Matthew to help him get over his depression. A real stunner, too. Looked like a young Audrey Hepburn.’ He shakes his head. ‘I would have loved to have a piece of that one, but no one else was allowed to touch her.’
And suddenly a shriek of laughter comes from the room we’re standing behind. We peer through the peepholes. In the room Matthew Mann, his fat, roly-poly back towards us, gropes a woman in his arms. The woman, she’s wearing a white, tea-dance-twenties dress and her hair is a golden blonde.
What the hell is Epiphany doing?
Phineas whispers, ‘Looks like he’s found another actress who wants a part. Let’s give them some privacy.’
We quietly traipse along the thick foam padding, carefully stepping around the two-by-four struts supporting the passage walls. But in the dim red light I trip over a dark-blue plastic bucket left over from the passage’s construction. The contents of the bucket – some loose nails, a small hammer, a roll of duct tape – all spill onto the floor’s foam padding.
Phineas signals for me to be more careful, then turns and continues making his way down the passage until we come to the corridor behind the rooms opposite from where we were, the ones on the other side of the west wing’s hall. What Phineas doesn’t see in the glow of the dim red light is that I’ve picked up the small hammer and slipped it into my pants pocket. When I find Nico this could work better than the steak knife would have.
Then I notice that, on this side of the west wing, there’s a small ladder at the end of the passage.
‘We don’t want to be moving the girls through the halls in front of all our guests,’ Phineas says when he sees me looking at the ladder. ‘But I didn’t bring you back here for an architectural tour. I promised you a show.’
‘I thought it didn’t start until ten?’
‘Remember how I said stars think they deserve anything they want when they want it? The big enough stars, you have to accommodate them.’
Phineas nods towards the slit of light protruding from the wall we’re behind. ‘Careful,’ he warns. ‘That’s another door you’re standing in front of.’ Through the peephole, the room on the other side is lined with framed movie posters of Matthew’s films. On either side of the room are plush couches and chairs and, directly opposite the peephole, is a sofa like a shrink would have – one of those leather ones with the long backrest. On either side of the shrink’s sofa are small tables, each displaying a golden Oscar statue.
But the main attraction in this room is the man in it. He’s the most recognisable star in the world.
He’s the star who has three blockbuster trilogies under his belt.
The star who’s done comedy, thriller, action and indie, all to critical acclaim.
The star whose box office receipts exceeds six billion gross.
And this star, from the other side of this wall, he’s staring right at me.
‘Variety said we would never get Hugh Fox to sign with us,’ Phineas whispers one peephole over. ‘They had a point. How do you sign someone who’s worth more than God? What could you possibly offer him? This was part of the contract.’
Through the peephole Hugh Fox curls his finger in a ‘come here’ motion and a girl walks into view. The girl, she must have been right below my peephole. Her hair hangs to just below her bare shoulder blades. It’s a dirty, dark-blonde colour, but only because it’s summer. It’s the kind of hair that goes brunette in the winter. Emma’s used to do the same thing. She’s wearing a spaghetti-strap dress with a white-lace top that becomes flat as it flows to the tops of her knees. A little pink see-through frill pokes out a few inches below the end of the dress. Her legs, like her arms, are thin and tanned. Pink flip-flops cover her feet.
Next to me, one peephole over, Phineas whispers, ‘The rest of the girls will be dressed for tonight in beautiful white communion gowns Matthew has picked out, but Fox wanted something a girl might wear to her sweet-sixteen party.’
Through the peephole, Fox orders, ‘Turn around.’ And the girl, she turns like she’s a model on display. She’s beautiful, the little girl is. Her teeth are a bright white and a light-pink gloss gives her lips a nice shine. She’s definitely not sixteen – maybe fourteen. But those eyes, they’re caked in eyeliner. She could very well be younger.
And through the peephole, the biggest star in the world drops his pants followed by his black briefs. Then he takes something that looks like a leather strap from his shirt pocket and twists
it over the top of his penis and under the bottom of his scrotum. And as he strokes his penis, he tells the girl, ‘I want you to call me “daddy”. Now get on your knees.’
And the little girl, she kneels.
‘Go ahead, grab it.’
The little girl places her little tanned hand on Fox’s penis. Her small hand makes his dick look that much larger.
‘Ask me if it’s a lollipop.’
My stomach churns.
‘Is it a lollipop?’ The girl says in pretty good English. Hugh Fox stops stroking his dick and glares at her. ‘Is it a lollipop, Daddy?’
And I vomit in my mouth a little. The acidic taste burns my throat, but I swallow it. I turn to see if Phineas has noticed my disgust. But Phineas, in the next peephole over, hasn’t noticed me at all. And suddenly, looking through the peephole next to mine, he begins to breath heavily.
And in the room a muffled, bubbly voice says, ‘There you are!’
And behind the wall, Phineas says, ‘Oh, shit.’
Phineas says, ‘Oh my God.’
I turn back to the peephole.
In the room, the bubbly voices says, ‘I’ve been looking all over for my fiancée–’
And here’s the thing: if you’re gonna rape a little girl, lock the door.
Jordan, the Starlet, she says, ‘Baby?’
She says, ‘Hugh?’
She says, ‘What are you doing?’
And through the peephole, I see as she raises her hands to cover her mouth, but she’s unable to utter a cry. It’s one of those cries that won’t come after the realisation that your forty-million-dollar-a-picture boyfriend is about to get head from a tweenager.
Hugh Fox spins around, knocking the little girl to the ground. The cock ring has made his balls go a shade of blue. ‘Jordan!’ he squeaks. And as the Starlet begins to cry, as she runs from the room, a little scream escapes her mouth down the hall. Fox quickly pulls his pants over his bulging penis and tells the little girl to stay put; he’ll be right back. ‘Daddy will be back with your lollipop,’ he cries madly as he runs out the door.
And behind the wall with me, Phineas is running down the passage now, running back the way we came like his ass is on fire. ‘I’ve got to handle this!’ he yells. ‘Close the painting on your way out!’ And even in the red glow of the darkened passage, the back of his neck is a pale white.
When I look back through the peephole Phineas is dashing past the room’s open door. He shouts to someone in the hall, ‘There you are! Take the girl back to the others!’ And the little girl in the room, she just sits on the floor, drawing imaginary images on the carpet with her finger.
Then all breath leaves me as the man Phineas shouted to enters the room. Through the peephole I see his face is marked with scars from a fight. His six-and-a-half foot figure dwarfs the little girl on the floor. Those large hands – those murder weapons – take the little girl’s face and he says, ‘You’ve been such a problem, haven’t you?’
And behind the wall, in my hand, I’m gripping the hammer I took.
And in Nico’s hands, the girl, she’s smart enough to remain quiet as he fondles her head with those meathooks. The ones that bruised Bela’s neck. The ones that crushed her windpipe. And Nico says, ‘You’ve caused me so much trouble. You know your momma is here looking for you?’
Momma?
He says, ‘She gave me all these, your mother,’ and rubs the scar marks on his face.
He says, ‘Do you even know what a mother is?’
And Epiphany’s daughter, she doesn’t reply.
Nico shakes his head. ‘Fuck the commission. Let’s see if your virginity is worth all the trouble and money they paid to keep you all these years. Get on the couch.’ Like a trained dog, Epiphany’s daughter gets off the floor and sits on one of the plush couches. ‘Face the wall. On your knees. Bend over.’ And the girl, she does all this. Nico flips up the bottom of her dress, exposing yellow panties.
From somewhere out in the hall someone laughs or cries, or both. It’s hard to make out from this side of the peephole.
In the room, Nico checks over his shoulder. ‘Wait there,’ he tells Epiphany’s daughter. ‘Don’t move.’ He leaves the room and while he’s out, the girl does exactly what he says: she waits, kneeling on the couch, facing the opposite wall, dress hiked around her hips. She’s as trained as can be.
My face is pressed firmly against the peephole. I place my hands on either side to steady myself on the foam padding. But the passage door makes a creak as it gives way a little bit under the force of my hand, and the girl on the couch – Epiphany’s daughter – she looks in my direction. But I stop myself from opening the door. I resist the surprisingly strong desire I have to save this girl. So her face turns back towards the couch, then it turns towards the door leading to the hallway.
And me, with the hammer in my hand, I realise this is my chance, my perfect opportunity.
And I want to tell the little girl, Epiphany’s daughter, that I’m sorry, but life isn’t fair. We’ve all got our own problems. We’ve all got our own shit we need to fix. You aren’t mine.
When is a man most relaxed, most distracted, most vulnerable? When he’s shooting his load into something.
This will level the playing field. This is how David can sneak up on Goliath and bludgeon him to death over the head.
But in my head, a battle begins to rage. It’s a battle of doing what’s necessary versus doing what’s right.
In the room, on the couch, Epiphany’s daughter, she sways. It’s hard to stay kneeling for so long.
And in my head, the battle; on necessity’s side is almost every victim who’s ever lived shouting, ‘Save her and you give up revenge!’
And in the room, on the couch, one of the girl’s little pink flip-flops has slipped off her foot, but she leaves it on the ground. She doesn’t dare move from the position Nico has ordered her into.
Look, I’m sorry she has to be the sacrificial lamb, but this is for the greater good. This isn’t just for me. It’s for everyone who Nico won’t be able to hurt in the future. This is for justice. The justice you have to make when God or life won’t give you any.
But then in my head, on the other end of the battlefield, I see Emma. One little girl standing against the legions of necessity. She doesn’t speak to me, or prod me to join her side. Even if she did, her tiny voice would be drowned out by the onslaught of the cries from the hordes that challenge her. Emma, she just stands on her lonesome.
In the room, on the couch, Epiphany’s daughter wobbles. Tears roll down her cheeks at the realisation that the horror she has been bred for is about to come to pass.
In my head, I say to Emma, If I open this passage door, if I try to rescue her, I give up my chance to surprise Nico from behind. He’s so much stronger than me and I give up the only chance I have of overtaking him.
‘It’s for Justice!’ the legions of necessity shout.
And Emma, on the other side of the battlefield, she stands there against the whole world. A rock of conviction in a place where men believe in nothing and scoff at all things.
Behind the peephole, my throat tightens.
My grip on the hammer tightens.
But…
Damn it.
‘Come on,’ I call, and open the passage door. ‘Hurry!’ I say to Epiphany’s daughter.
And there it goes – any chance of me getting the jump on Nico. He’ll come back. The little girl will be gone. There will be another manhunt like there was the night of the wrap party.
I’m hanging halfway out the passage door, beckoning the little girl to follow me in, but the girl doesn’t move. She just keeps looking out the hallway door.
‘Come on!’ I say again.
Then a chill engulfs my body.
A voice says, ‘Perro.’
It says, ‘I hoped I’d see you again. I’m just surprised it’s in this room.’
Nico stands in the doorway. That’s why the girl stayed put. She
could see him coming down the hall.
His large hand touches the top of his skull. ‘I owe you something,’ he says, biting his teeth together.
And I see LaRouche, gap-mouthed.
‘Run,’ I shout at Epiphany’s daughter. ‘Run!’ But she stays frozen on the couch, one flip-flopless foot dangling off the end.
Nico laughs. ‘Run where? Your little secret passage? Where’s she going to go from there? Where are you going to go, perro?’
He takes a gun from beneath his jacket and motions me into the room.
He says, ‘You can drop the hammer.’
And I do.
He says, ‘No, on the other side. Pick it up and leave it in the passage.’
So I do.
He says, ‘Now seal the passage.’
And I close the painting shut.
Now he says, ‘See this?’ and quickly shows me the back of his head. Where his hair has been shaved, several stitches lace his skin. ‘You almost killed me that night.’
‘I wish I had.’
Nico clicks his tongue. ‘Don’t be rude, perro. You’ve already been such trouble.’
I curl my fists.
‘Easy, perro. Who has the gun?’ Nico chides. ‘You need to learn not to be a troublemaker. Now me, I do not like trouble. I thought I proved that to you in Mexico when we made our deal. I was willing to let you go. But then you did what you did, even after I explained I just needed to get rid of Hanna to protect my business. But your decision, you made me follow you to Porto. I had no choice.’
‘You killed her.’
‘It was one person, perro. A bitch in heat,’ Nico says. ‘She was just a penalty for what you did.’
And I lunge at Nico and he swings his gun at me and I feel a tooth crack as it hits my jaw.
‘Down, perro. Down!’
I scamper back towards the wall, clutching my jaw in my hand. One tooth cracked. The pain is unreal and that’s just one. I have thirty-one left for him to crack.
Nico, he’s saying, ‘After I killed your friend, I went to my storehouse in Spain. And what did I find? My caretaker tied to a tree, almost dead from the Spanish heat, and my house in ruins. Hanna had burnt it down like she did my orphanage.’ He pauses and shakes his head, then he steps towards me and swings his gun again. On the other side of my mouth I hear another crack.
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