She starts to stand up. I put my hand on her ankle and pull. She loses her footing, her body slaps the floor. Clutching the scissors in my hand, I leave my chair and step over to her before she has a chance to recover from the fall and lift her massive body. I climb onto her back and grab a handful of her bun, pulling her head close to my face. I hold the scissors at her neck, pressing the tip into her skin. I am aware of what I can achieve now with one final movement.
“Even if you aren’t fucking my husband, I’m still going to take your jobs,” she whispers. Her words make me press the scissors harder against her skin. “The reason I can’t kill you is because I would be in jail instead of doing your jobs,” she says with a throaty laugh that makes the scissors against her neck vibrate.
I lean close to her ear. “I would never sleep with your husband if only because you have touched him, so you picked the wrong battle, but my jobs are my existence, so keep your grubby hands off my work.”
I take the scissors away from her neck and push her face into her well-vacuumed cream carpet. My eyes scan the carpet for my phone and find it tangled amongst the ropes that had held me earlier. I scramble to retrieve it, glancing over my shoulder as I find my way to the hallway hoping to find my backpack. I have never been so happy to see my bag, but would it be empty? I lunge for it and feel the weight which ensures me that my precious cameras are still inside. I hurl my body at the front door thankful when the handle twists open, and my feet greet the front step. My legs wobble with every step that takes me away from her house and with each step I check over my shoulder. The sun has just set and I worry that I will trip in the darkness and she will be standing over me. I lift my hand to touch my mouth, realising then that I am still holding the gardening scissors in my hand. They are heavy; how did I not notice I was still holding them? Her scissors are slowing me down. I need to drop them. But instead, I slide them into the side pocket of my backpack at the same time feeling the pocket for my keys. Grateful when my fingers wrap around them, I increase my speed, eager to put the key into the lock of my door.
Breathless from running home, I fling open my door and close it immediately behind me. The sound of the lock closing reassures me of my safety. I place my bag down next to the door. I can smell that she was here, that same flowery scent I had smelt when she was whispering in my ear. I walk from room to room pushing the doors open, expecting someone, her, to jump out at me. Next, I check my computer, dreading this moment the most, had she been able to access it. All my photographs, my client’s information. I press the keyboard, and the password prompt flashes up onto the screen. No, there’d be no way she could have gone past the password prompter. I look at my desk; my organised and clean desk indicates that something is missing. I press knuckles into where the notebook usually sits until they have turned white, hoping the pain will make my notebook reappear. “Fucking bitch,” I swear out loud. In her hands now are all of my business plans, photo session ideas and booking calendar.
Suddenly feeling dizzy I sit down on my sofa. Picking up a half-eaten animal cracker I throw it at the wall. I lie down and pull a purple throw over my shivering body. My eyes struggle to stay open, I still need to stay awake and call the police. But I can’t keep them open and so I let them close on the thought of calling the police. Tomorrow I will need all my strength to deal with the aftermath of what Helena has done. I fall into an unsettling darkness and dream about sitting, scratching my skin, in the corner of a busy street. People rush past me in every direction as I sit in a gutter and beg for money.
Helena
I hear the key in the door while I’m sprawled out on the floor, and I realise that there are still ropes lying on the carpet. I lift my body and wince in pain. When Zody pushed me I’d landed awkwardly; the pain pulsates through my arm as I reach for the ropes and crawl to the lounge to cram them under the sofa. Only one of the ropes fits, I don’t have time to see why the other doesn’t fit. Then I remember Marla, I haven’t heard her cry, is she still in her bed? I stand, take a deep breath, and walk to the door to meet Archer with the smaller rope behind my back.
“Hi, hun, is there anyone else here with you?” Archer asks, craning his neck to look into the lounge as he touches my arm. I pull away immediately because of the pain from the fall and because I don’t want him to touch me.
“I received a message from Zody; you might remember the photographer who lives here in Teabrook, the one we met in Corfu,” he says.
I shake my head to indicate I don’t remember her, concentrating on keeping the rope behind my back, feigning half interest in what he is saying.
He loosens his tie as he speaks and walks past me into the kitchen. “Yeah well anyway, she sent me a text. In her message, she said she’d locked herself out of her apartment and wanted to stay here until the locksmith came. I told her to call you. I’m not sure why she would be texting me. I ran into her a while ago at the airport and also this morning after our breakfast, but I didn’t think I would be her first point of contact,” he says like he is actually contemplating why Zody messaged him.
I follow him into the kitchen, look closely at his face, and wonder if I should use the rope to choke him, or maybe I should use the rope on myself.
“No I didn’t hear from Zody,” I say but what I am saying sounds too unbelievable for my own ears. “It looks like you couldn’t help her with her problem so she must have organised somewhere else to stay,” I add.
The weight of what I have done suddenly hits me as I walk upstairs to check on Marla. Yet as I hold the rope against my body, I feel a sudden thrill that I could use it again.
“You must have had a busy day,” Archer says holding the door of the fridge open, as I walk into the kitchen. I hold Marla on the arm that isn’t radiating a hot pain.
That remark would usually have irritated me, but today wasn’t an ordinary day, I had cooked up a kidnapping. “We’re going to have to order a takeaway dinner tonight; Marla has a stomach bug, so I haven’t had time to make dinner,” I say.
“I noticed you bought medicine from the chemist,” he says closing the fridge and picking up the hay fever medicine from the bench.
I freeze.
“You’re not giving this medicine to Marla, are you?” he asks with concern.
“Why would I do that, Archer? Her medicine is in her room,” I reply annoyed. “She hasn’t vomited since I gave her a dose of Panadol earlier on today.”
Maybe I should have said Marla vomited, that would explain any smells that Zody had left behind.
“Also, I have had a few enquiries from couples wanting to book their wedding photography which has also kept me busy.” I’m desperate to change the subject from medicines.
“I’m glad Marla feels better. And that’s terrific to hear about your enquiries, have you started to advertise somewhere new?” he asks coming over to kiss Marla on the head.
“No, I’ve been concentrating on my social media presence, and looks like my efforts may be finally paying off. I might be busy with jobs the next couple of weeks. I will need you to rearrange your work schedule to look after Marla.” I pick up the hay fever medication and put it in the cupboard.
He looks at me disapprovingly. I wonder if it’s because he knows I don’t suffer from hay fever.
“Helena, I have always told you, you don’t need to work while Marla is still small, but if it makes you happy… Just make sure you still have time to look after yourself and Marla – and me occasionally!” Archer slaps me on the arse like he usually does when he wants to show me that he is not taking what I say seriously.
“Can you order dinner for tonight at least?” he asks.
“Of course, how about Thai? But you’ll have to pick it up, I still have quotes to prepare. Oh, and take Marla with you.” I pass Marla into his arms and sit down on my bouncy ball to place the takeaway order online.
“Thai sounds good; order Chilli Jam for me. Seems you’re already too busy for us; this is what I’m afraid of,” I hear him say
from the dining room. I freeze, remembering the chair where Zody had been tied. I had forgotten to bring it back to the table. I lean back and watch as Archer carries Marla on his hip, picks up the chair, and carries it back to the table. No need to fret over a wayward chair I tell myself and turn to focus on my computer screen.
I want and need to stay at home for the next few hours, and Archer has to leave the house. At any moment I expect the police to knock at the door. But more than that I am bursting with curiosity and anticipation to see how Zody would get herself out of this sticky mess I’d got her in.
She hasn’t written an update on any of her social media profiles, and I can’t figure out if that’s a good or a bad sign for me. Maybe she’s still sitting at the police station conveying the details of her capture. I wait impatiently for Archer to take Marla and leave the house. I lock the door behind him when he finally leaves. I sit down in the lounge where my prisoner sat just a few hours ago. There is a white paper lying on the coffee table. Reckless me. How could I have not noticed it, what if Archer had found it first? I take my phone out of my pocket and push the paper in its place to throw away later. I open Zody’s Instagram account. I notice that the last post is still the one created by me: what is Zody thinking? Why isn’t she communicating with her precious audience?
I listen for a knock on the door, refresh her Instagram page, and listen again. I repeat this process until Archer returns holding the takeaway.
“Let’s celebrate your newfound fame,” he says sarcastically, holding up the plastic bags with our dinner.
I laugh, refresh my phone one last time, then put it away in my pocket.
Zody
Helena was right, the itching does stop after a while but not the mad itch I feel for revenge.
I need to go to the police; I should have done that last night. No, the pain I plan to cause her will have to be much worse than a mild questioning by the police. Secondly, I don’t want the police to consider me a suspect should everything go according to plan – once I have a plan.
I’m spread out on the sofa, one arm dangling to the ground, thankful I am in my own lounge. I lift my head toward the morning light and look at the balcony where the rain is hitting, it is drenching the cacti that don’t need to be wet, and the sound is hitting my brain where it doesn’t need to be hit. I can hear a sound, a knocking, coming from the front door. The intercom downstairs has been broken for a month, so people can walk into the building unchecked. It must be Helena; she is standing at my door holding a silver tray.
The nausea and vomiting had stopped before I fell asleep so when I roll off the sofa, I find an unused vomit bag under my stomach which I’d taken back to the lounge with me when nausea had overcome me during the night. I rub red welts that make a circle around my wrists, the pain is raw and radiates to my elbows. I lift my body wearily, throw the vomit bag on the table, and walk to the door; I might need to use it later.
I check through the eye hole that Helena is not at the door. Still hesitant it could be a set up I open it to find a thin man with bushy eyebrows in a courier’s uniform. I sign for my package.
“Had a big night eh?” the courier says, his eyes focused on my wrists.
“Huge,” I say and close the door.
I place the cardboard box, which I can see is the packaging for my clients’ USBs, on a rack next to the door. I notice my backpack and the gardening scissors sticking out the side, I pick up a scarf from the shelf and take the scissors out of the bag. Even though my fingerprints are already on the scissors, I might need them for evidence soon.
My usual enthusiasm to turn on my computer or check my social media accounts first thing in the morning has turned to sheer dread, though I know it’s inescapable. I feel nauseous, so I walk quickly to the bathroom as a precaution. I examine myself in the mirror; there are red marks on my face that don’t look worse than they feel; I’ll need to put disinfectant on my wounds. I look at my clothes: the black shirt and pants I was going to wear to photograph Joe’s and Gwen’s wedding day yesterday, and just the thought of missing their wedding accelerates the bitter tasting yellow liquid from my stomach to my mouth. I feel the sharp acidic liquid flow through my throat until my shoulders begin to shake and soon I realise I have no vomit left and I’m vomiting air.
Eventually, I sit down at my computer, I have to rein in all the wrong that has happened to me and channel some productiveness. I begin with the most challenging task: looking through emails, Instagram and text messages, reliving what Helena put out into the world under the guise of being me. Foremost to deal with is the text message that she sent to the abandoned wedding couple. I clench my stomach to stop myself from feeling well… basically anything. I need to be made of steel to cope with this situation and I need to think strategically about how to save my career and deal with the trouble that will be coming my way, such as being sued by Joe and Gwen for ruining their wedding day. To buffer myself from the blow, I take a deep breath and put together a simple but sincere email.
Dear Joe and Gwen,
I am writing to apologise for not being there for you and for missing photographing your special day.
It is not possible for me to explain to you here why I was not there yesterday to capture your memories, and there are no excuses. I do, however, have a genuine explanation that I can offer you if you provide me with the chance to talk to you both in person. Even though I am well aware this is not any compensation, I will provide you with a full refund for the amount you paid me for my service. I would also like to offer you both a complementary photo session if you would allow me the opportunity to make this up to you. Please contact me if you would be willing to meet so this unfortunate situation can be rectified.
Zody Lee Swabler
The next step to salvage my reputation, I log into my Instagram account and type a new post.
To all of you that have been sending me messages and kind words, I sincerely thank you for your support. I am happy to write that, no, I am not quitting photography. Yesterday my account was broken into and hacked. I will not go into this further but please, if you were thinking of booking me to photograph your wedding previously, I am still available to take your enquiries. And past clients, be assured that you will still receive your photos as stipulated during your booking process.
For those who have been misled and have emailed an alternative address, please reconsider before booking your photo session with that person.
Still open for business.
Zody xxx
The feeling of control inches back through my fingers as I type even though there is irreversible damage done to my reputation and my business. But I am aware that some things in life are beyond my control.
I open an email from a potential client who has cancelled a meeting we had booked for this afternoon. I send an email acknowledging the confirmation. Then open another message from a couple who are requesting a refund for a wedding booking.
With this mess closing in around me, I need to clean. I can feel Helena in here with me; she has touched my keyboard, she has touched my photo albums with her fat jealous fingers. I miss my gold notebook; I can picture it sitting in her bag waiting for her to open it and steal my secrets.
In the kitchen, where I know she has also been, I take out a giant yellow sponge from the cupboard under the sink, put it under cold running water and forcefully wring it in opposite directions with two hands. I pretend that it’s Helena’s brain and I am extracting the classified information that she has read in my diary.
I wipe the strangled sponge along the kitchen bench. My foot kicks something underneath and I pick up the bag containing purple paisley pants from the Loose Bee store. I take my keys – remembering they have her fingerprints on them and wipe them with the sponge.
The rain has started in perfect timing to wash her off me. I stroll slowly and deliberately, so the rain soaks through my clothes and I am dripping water when I enter the store.
“Welcome to the best loose cl
othing in town,” a girl’s voice calls from the rear of the shop.
Chantel walks over, surprised to see me.
“My fiancé has been away on a business trip so I couldn’t tell him about you,” she says.
“No, no, that’s okay, I didn’t come here to see if you wanted to book in your photography, though I do need to talk to you urgently. Can you close the store for an hour?” I ask.
She hesitates before replying. “I’m not able to leave the store until Amanda comes in – she does the afternoon shift and will be here in about fifteen minutes. But come into the lunch room out the back, and I’ll also give you a towel, you are dripping all over the floor!”
Chantel takes out her phone and types a text before gesturing me to follow her. We pass the racks of bright, loose clothing and into a small room. I wipe myself dry with the towel Chantel hands me, and I sit down on a leather stool next to a microwave.
“Would you like a tea? I don’t drink tea so I’m not good at making it but you look like you need a warm drink.”
“No hot drink necessary,” I say afraid I may spill it because my hands have started to shake and it’s not from feeling cold.
“Wait a second.” She holds up a finger, and looks closely at my face. “What happened to you? Right there, you have two bloody red stripes across your cheeks.”
I run my fingers over the lines. “That’s what I’ve come here to speak to you about.”
“You’ve come to talk to me about the red marks on your face?” She wrinkles her nose confusion showing on her face.
“I have to tell you this for your safety,” I begin.
The door chimes as I start to put my words together and I look through the half open door of the lunchroom nervously. A girl with curly red hair walks toward the room we are sitting in and opens the door wider. For a moment the red hair makes my body freeze on my stool.
No Reception Page 6