Killing Adonis

by J M Donellan

  “Callum, this is Yvette Rothwell.”

  “How was your conference call? Successful, I trust?”

  “Very. We’ve acquired a great deal of carbon. And…sold a lot, too. Which is good, obviously, to be both selling and acquiring. Much better than just selling. Or just acquiring. Better to do both.”

  “So, the time difference doesn’t bother your business too much, then?”

  “Well, no, the global age and all that. What with the Internet and, er, Bluetooth and the synergising of global interfaces and so forth.”

  “Yes, I see. Although, it’s odd that you would conduct business with Tokyo at this time of night, given they are only an hour behind.”

  Freya nearly buckles. Should have fucking thought of that, she swears internally, hoping the fallout of the collapsing lie won’t entomb both her and Callum before the diamond-clad black widow is done.

  “Anyhow, thirsty work. I need a drink. Freya?”

  “Moscow Mule please, make it a double. Bar’s over that way.”

  Callum nods, acknowledging that he knows this means she wants a triple.

  Yvette’s eyes settle back on Freya as though she is sizing her up for a body bag. “Soooo, Freya. He’s quite a catch.”

  “I’m a lucky girl,” she replies, while searching for the closest implement she could conceivably use to perform a covert Cluedo-style murder.

  “So, are you and Elijah getting along well then?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “It must be a very…special bond, the rapport between carer and patient.”

  “It is, yes.”

  “I’m not sure if you know this, but Elijah and I used to be…very close.” The tiny pause between her words sufficiently explains exactly how, at the mere mention of Yvette’s name, Rosaline transformed from “sweet and coy” into “burn and destroy.”

  “Such a tragedy, that accident. And poor, dear Rosaline when she found out about what he’d done.”

  Freya inhales sharply as she waits for the explanation, but finds her attention abruptly captured by a burst of fireworks. She watches them shower and flare and fade. This is the one time when everyone else sees the world the same way she does: filled with light and colour and energy rippling in streams and exploding through the air. Usually she is glad to have her little Kandinskys, her private way of viewing the world in constant coloured cacophony, but sometimes, just sometimes, she wishes everyone else could see life the way she does. Of course, the world happens to think the same thing about her.

  Callum returns and hands her a triple-strength Moscow Mule and they clink glasses. For a moment Freya forgets Yvette and Evelyn and Harland and all the trials, tribulations, and temptations that fill her life and just enjoys watching the cascade of colours with her best friend, drink in hand. Minutes later the last green flash cuts a luminous swathe across the sky and the final “oohs” and “aahs” fade out like the finale of an old Motown song. Freya is about to attempt to pry a few tantalising hints about Elijah’s accident from Yvette’s forked tongue when the string quintet launches into a series of ecstatic and swirling crescendos. Freya’s vision is swarmed by green and purple, and she staggers to regain her balance.

  Yvette’s perfectly manicured claws descend gently on her as she sways. “Oh, darling, are you alright? Perhaps that cocktail was a little too rich for your palate?”

  Freya is about to wrench the diamond from Yvette’s neck and beat her over the head with it when she hears Harland’s voice booming out of the speakers behind them. He’s on the second-floor balcony, waving, with Evelyn standing beside him as though he were a monarch addressing his subjects.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you once again for gracing us with your presence. It’s been too long since I’ve seen most of you, and not long enough since I’ve seen others.”

  Begrudging, scattered laughter. Harland coughs and continues.

  “Well, it’s been a little more than four months since our favourite son had his tragic accident…”

  From anyone else’s mouth, naming a favourite of two sons in front of a crowd of hundreds would be offensive. For Harland, it is no more unusual than reciting a shopping list.

  “You all know our boy’s long list of achievements, his work with AIDS victims in Rwanda, a two-time silver medallist at the Olympic Games, his support of Amnesty International, his work for Médecins Sans Frontières, his inspiring compositions. For one so young, he achieved more than any of us could hope to equal in several lifetimes. Elijah, the heir of the Vincetti family empire and legacy that has been a proud cornerstone of this city for one hundred and sixty-five years, struck down by the cruel hand of fate—”

  “He really needs to hire a better speechwriter. He sounds like a drunk B-grade celebrity making a speech at a charity gala,” whispers Freya.

  Callum spurts both vodka and laughter, drawing glares from the aristocrankies around him.

  “When Elijah had his accident, I thought none of us would ever recover from the shock. Luckily, that wasn’t the case. We’ve worked together as a family, and slowly he’s been healing, as have we. I have every confidence that, maybe even sooner than any of us had dared to hope, he’ll be back to full strength. And now, without further ado, it’s time to bring out the guest of honour!”

  The doors of the main atrium spring open and Rosaline appears with her trademark real estate agent smile. She waves with a nervous giggle and then runs back inside, before reappearing with Elijah, looking comfortably numb from the safety of his luxury mobile bed, which is lined with plush velvet and adorned with sterling silver trim.

  Silence descends on the crowd; a sort of awkward ectoplasm that smothers and shifts across the assembly. Finally, two hands meet in a timid collision, and within moments the clap spreads until the whole crowd is applauding.

  From the balcony Harland begins to sing, “Haaaaaa…” and that first telltale syllable leads the whole crowd into singing.

  “Happy birthday to you…”

  Freya and Callum stare at each other as though they are bearing witness to a human sacrifice.

  “Am I the only one who thinks that every one of these people is crazy?” whispers Callum.

  “No, I think they know how barking mad this whole thing is. I think it’s just an Emperor’s New Clothes type of thing. Everyone looks so awkward,” Freya replies.

  “How much did you say they were paying you?”

  “Not enough, I’m starting to think.”

  As the crowd begins to launch into “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” Freya hisses, “Are you kidding me? How long is this going to go on for?”

  Madonna’s voice blares from Callum’s pocket. “Seriously, Cal, even your phone has bad taste in music.”

  “Screw you. Hello? Yep. What? Hang on a second, I can’t hear you.” Callum ducks behind one of the trees to talk in private. Freya watches the farcical fanfare unravel in front of her as the last voices die down and the string quintet takes over. The crowd is noticeably relieved when they are allowed to return to mingling. Freya sneaks away and sits on the garden swing chair outside the kitchen doors.

  “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Jack! How nice of you to show up. Some party you’ve got going on here. There’s so much eye candy I think I’m getting ocular diabetes.”

  He throws her an impish grin. She has to admit he can be quite charming when he’s not being a strange, nervous introvert. Although, she thinks, he does look a little off-colour. “Are you okay, you look a little pale and sweaty?”

  “Oh, no, it’s ah…it’s nothing. Just, you know, allergies. I get like this when I go outside sometimes. Just trying to reinforce that reclusive writer stereotype, you know.” He’s not a good liar, but Freya doesn’t feel like pushing. “Haven’t you missed your flight?”

  “What?”

  “It’s 10:23. Wasn’
t your flight to Timor due to leave a few minutes ago?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Guess you’re stuck here with me, then,” he says with a grin.

  “Could be worse.”

  They glance back up at Harland waving from the balcony like a jovial dictator.

  “You didn’t feel like making an appearance on the podium before all of Harland’s loyal subjects?” asks Freya.

  “God, no. I hate public speaking. Actually, I hate the public in general. Plus, I wouldn’t want to detract from any of Eli’s attention; it is his oh-so-special day, after all.” His sarcasm almost masks the traces of bitter contempt.

  “I guess not.”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  “That’s my best friend, Callum. But if Yvette asks, he’s my carbon-trading boyfriend.”

  Jack twitches slightly, then nods.

  “But we’re not…you know…He’s actually gay. I just wanted to mess with her. I can’t really explain why.”

  “She tends to bring out the worst in people. Personally, I wouldn’t let that vile vixen within spitting distance unless, of course, it was for the express purpose of spitting on her.”

  Freya laughs. “You bitter, jaded man.”

  “Like I said, it goes with the trade.”

  “Jack, you’ll have to forgive me for being blunt…”

  “I’d be disappointed if you were anything else.”

  “Well, good. Don’t you think all this is a bit fucking weird? Don’t your parents think that maybe Elijah isn’t really getting all that much out of the festivities held in his honour?”

  Jack smiles. Nods. Sighs. “I have, numerous times in the past months, attempted to broach the subject with Lord and Lady Vincetti. The result was like shaking a sleepwalker carrying an armful of knives. Eventually, giving up on talking sense seemed like the only sensible option. Besides, they don’t have a lot of time to focus on the lesser child when the golden boy is in such a delicate state. The Lord and Lady are perfectly comfortable as monarchs of their own private kingdom of delusion.”

  “Delusion can be a powerful thing. Have you ever seen Marilyn Monroe? We spotted her the other night, in the city.” Freya elects to leave out the part where her car became intimately acquainted with a pole while she was escaping from a pair of enraged delinquents.

  “What do you mean, Marilyn Monroe? ‘Happy Birthday, Mr President’ and all that?”

  “Yes. You’ve never seen her?”

  “I don’t get out much these days. The world outside has too many street marketers and discount food outlets for my liking. I prefer the world inside my head.”

  “Okay, point taken. In any case, she’s been around a long time. She dresses like the real Marilyn, and I don’t just mean the odd feather boa and set of killer high heels. I mean she cakes on the makeup, the beauty spot, the accessories. Even the way she walks, it’s uncanny. Every time I see her she’s in a different knockout get-up. The sad thing is, though, the real Marilyn died so young that in a way she immortalised her beauty. She never grew old and gained weight or wrinkles or grey hair. For this Marilyn, the years haven’t been so kind. She’s getting older and wider, there’s this incredible sadness that lurks beneath the thick coats of makeup, like every day the reality is slowly overtaking the fantasy.”

  “It’s like the old cliché: tell a lie for long enough and you will start to believe it. Sometimes people can focus so intently on constructing the walls of their fantasies that the real world starts to matter less and less, until it becomes nothing but a backdrop. Given time, they just mix and match the parts of reality that fit the fantasy.”

  “So, what about you then, what’s your dream?”

  Jack’s eyes dart towards the cluster of party guests bustling around Elijah and Rosaline. He grimaces. “My whole life is a dream. I’m a writer. I deal in fantasy and delusion. It’s the real world that terrifies me.”

  Laughter erupts from the group of revellers gathered around Elijah’s bed. Rosaline throws her arms up in the air and shrieks with joy.

  “Some party your family throws, and quite a crowd. I bet every yacht club and Masonic centre in town is empty tonight.”

  “They aren’t my kind of people.”

  “And who exactly are your kind of people, Jack?”

  “When I find out, I’ll let you know. But in the meantime, I wouldn’t mind getting to know you a little better…”

  “Why Jack, are you—?”

  Freya is interrupted by Callum’s return. He slips his phone into his pocket as he swigs champagne. “Sorry, Frey. Sam was having a relationship crisis. Again.”

  “That’s okay. Callum, this is Jack Vincetti.”

  “How lovely to meet you. This is a fabulous home you have. I was wondering, Jack, what with you being filthy rich and all, how is it that we don’t see more of you in the media?”

  “I prefer to keep to myself. I’ve never been fond of bright lights and red carpets.”

  “And what exactly are you fond of?”

  “Cal-lum. Could you please behave yourself for a few hundred seconds? Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me for a moment I have to go powder my nose, or whatever euphemism women are supposed to employ for needing to piss these days. Be good, both of you.”

  She pushes through the crowd of Armani- and Versace-clad revellers. The guests have relaxed a little now; champagne has loosened ties and tongues. Eyelashes are batted, lips are licked, and boasts are being made. The air is thick with arrogance and innuendo.

  We’re all just teenage boys and girls trying to get laid. The bicycle tricks get replaced with luxury cars, and the bragging of girls making out with girls gets replaced with plunging designer necklines. But it’s all the same game, played with different equipment.

  She closes the door behind her and admires her surroundings. It’s quiet in here. Calm. Still. She sits down and “powders her nose.” The quiet trickling echoes around the marble and red interior of the room. Freya flushes and checks her reflection in the mirror. It confirms the beauty people keep telling her she possesses. Her hair is strikingly red under the bright fluorescent light.

  She unlocks the door and is about to open it when it bursts towards her, sending her sprawling back onto the bathroom floor. A hand reaches down to her.

  “My apologies, Freya. I shouldn’t have been so clumsy.” Harland’s voice is slurred but confident.

  She takes his hand and he pulls her up. His grip is firm and strong. “No problem, Harland. Great party.”

  She pushes to get past him as quickly as politeness will allow but he grabs her shoulder and says, “You want to share a little party powder with me? It’s good stuff, imported directly by an Argentinean colleague.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I should.”

  “I won’t tell Evelyn, I promise. She’d go ballistic if she found out I had any myself, you know.”

  “No, Harland. I’m not interested.”

  Harland looks at her with unwavering eyes that are very much accustomed to acquiring whatever they desire. They travel down the contours of her chest and thighs and then back up again in a markedly unhurried fashion. Harland’s lips curl upwards. “You sure about that?”

  Freya reaches for the door and wrenches it open, then hurls herself outside. She straightens her dress, scratches at the itchy red patch of skin on her wrist and makes her way towards the bar.

  15

  The Danger Room

  ***

  Freya resists the urge to charge straight back to the only two people in this collection of walking stock portfolios who she feels she can even remotely trust. She nearly collapses with relief when she finds Jack nursing a drink by the main entrance. He looks nervous and ill at ease, his head darting around like a meerkat looking out for predators.

  “You took your time,” he says.

 
“Don’t even start. Where’s Callum?”

  “Phone call again. You okay?”

  “Not even slightly. Can we get out of here?”

  “Sure. Roof?”

  “God, yes.”

  Jack takes her hand and leads her back through the crowd. She snatches a beer from a drinks tray as they move around the back of the house in what feels like a series of Escher-inspired tableaux before reaching the ladder that takes them onto the roof. Jack goes up first, and she is equal parts annoyed and impressed when he offers his hand down to her for a second time. She obliges and he pulls her up. They survey the inebriated battlefield below.

  “Do you think they’ll see us up here?” asks Freya.

  “I think they’re all too blinded by narcissism and their eye-fucking of each other’s wives to be bothered by us.”

  They listen to the distant laughter and watch the crowd orbiting among a constellation of candles below.

  “Jack, if you hate it here so much, why don’t you leave?”

  He doesn’t answer for a while. For so long in fact that she wonders if he has even heard her. She is considering whether or not to repeat herself when he says, “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “You could, but I asked you first.”

  Jack shrugs and replies, “Where else would I go?”

  “What do you mean? It’s not like you’re strapped for cash. You could go anywhere.”

  “Frey, I don’t like the thought of faraway places. I spend too much time inside my own head to worry about what might be going on anywhere else. It’s safe here. Comfortable. And besides, who would I go away with? I don’t know anyone.”

  “You could meet new people?”

  “No, thanks. A stranger is just a jerk you haven’t met yet. I find it hard to get to know people. Vice versa, I guess.”

  “I’d go away with you, if it was somewhere fun. And you know me.”

  “That’s true. But you don’t know me.”

  “Oh, please, don’t play that stupid introspective-melancholic-artist card with me. I’m a painter, remember? I’ve spent far too much time around boys who cry into their red wine to get girls to open their hearts…and legs.”