The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim

by Laurent Boulanger

  We were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee before leaving for our restaurant outing. David tried hard to make me feel better, asking if there was anything he could do to help.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I said, not wanting to burden his conscious with my single-mother traumas. ‘I’m just having trouble getting through to Michael. He hasn’t been himself since an incident last year, and now, well, it’s like talking to a brick.’

  David sipped from his mug. ‘Hey, that’s normal. We were all the same at his age. Teenage years are the most difficult in life. You don’t belong anywhere, you don’t have any worth to anyone, everything you say comes out wrong, and mostly, you don’t believe anyone could really love you for who you are. I don’t remember my teenage years being much fun. Maybe Michael feels the same. Maybe he doesn’t feel like he really belongs anywhere. Maybe he doesn’t feel loved.’

  ‘I love Michael, and he knows it.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘I give him everything he needs. The freedom he craves, I let him decide what to do with his life, and in return he treats me like if I’m the enemy.’

  David took my hand in his. ‘Ah, come on, Kristina. Don’t you think you’re over-reacting? Do you seriously think Michael doesn’t care about you?’

  I stood still for a few seconds, my stomach churning and filled with highly-strung emotions. I pulled my hand away from his. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more. I brought up Michael by myself, thinking I had made the right choice. But now, I’m wondering if it wasn’t a mistake. Without a father, Michael doesn’t have a male figure he can look up to and respect. That’s probably why he is confused. But whatever the reason, it makes me miserable to see him miserable. And I don’t know how much longer I can live like this way.’

  David said nothing for the next thirty seconds. He let me simmer in my own thoughts.

  ‘You know, Kristina,’ he finally said, ‘I think you’re the nicest person I’ve met in a very long time. Maybe you think Michael doesn’t love you because you don’t truly love yourself.’

  I shoot him a defensive glare.

  He went on, ‘I’m not saying you can’t accept yourself. At our age, if we haven’t accepted ourselves, we’re doomed. What I’m getting at is do you ever ask yourself, “Do I really love who I am?” Have you ever asked yourself that question, Kristina?’

  No, I hadn’t asked myself that question. I guess I was too busy wondering if Michael and the rest of the world loved me.

  ‘You make it sound so simple,’ I said. ‘Life is not about loving yourself. It’s about being part of society. It’s about loving others and being loved in return.’

  ‘Ah, but you see, that’s where you become vulnerable. If your self-worth is build on someone else opinion or feelings, that you lose control of yourself.’

  ‘Well, that’s easy for you to say - you don’t have kids.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know what it’s like to love someone unconditionally, to put your life at risk to save them, to give them everything you’ve got at the chance of loosing everything you want and everything you’ve got.’

  ‘And because I don’t have kids, that makes me incapable of understanding other people?’

  I paused for a few seconds. Maybe he was right. Maybe it had nothing to do with it, and I was just trying to fight an argument I couldn’t win.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘so what’s your point?’

  ‘If you want people to love you, to accept you for who your are, stop trying. Just embrace yourself and the world you’re in, otherwise you’ll let other people control your life. And that’s how you become confused and lose direction.’

  David was nice, but he probably read too many New Age books. He sounded like some guru who was trying to convert me into his religion. It was like watching Oprah.

  ‘I know you mean well, David, but please don’t try to lecture me about life. I’m a very independent woman. I fell to see how we’re going to get anywhere if we start telling each other how to live our lives.’

  His eyes went glassy, and I knew I hurt him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I went on, ‘I don’t mean to be rude. I just don’t like being told what to do.’

  ‘That’s all right. I understand. I don’t like people telling me what to do either. I’m fairly independent myself. Our independence is probably what attracted us to one another. I respect the choices you’ve made in your life, and I respect you as a person. That’s why I’d like to get to know you better.’

  I smiled and took his hand in mine.

  Another man had just entered my life.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  We ended up going to Jacques Reymond for dinner. I had never been to the French restaurant before, but David insisted that just the location in Prahran, and the way the grand old mansion and garden had been converted into a restaurant and reception room was worth the bother. He was right. We choose a private room with a fireplace.

  ‘Jacques Reymond is the best chef in Melbourne,’ David said as we read through our menu.

  ‘Really?’ I asked, a little taken back by the prices.

  ‘Expensive, I know, but it’s worth every dollar. Jacques is from the Burgundy regions, you know where they make great wines.’

  ‘Yes, I know everything about wines.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  I ended up ordering what he ordered because firstly I wasn’t very hungry, and secondly I had never eaten anything on the menu anyway. We began with an entree of tart of scallop and baby octopus. I picked a bottle Auxey-Duresses, and on testing, its aroma was filled with the fragrance and freshness of raspberries and wild strawberries, as was often the case with reds of that region.

  David was agreeably cheerful, but no matter how entertaining he tried to be, my mood remained low. Michael was on my mind, and all I felt was guilt of not having done enough as a mother to make him feel strong and confident against the challenges of life. I knew there was only so much I could do, but excuses never sat well with me. Maybe I was being too harsh on myself.

  By the time we began consuming the breast of duck for our main course, David was elaborating on some renovation plans for his bookshop. But my thoughts were still scattered all over, and I found it hard to focus on our conversation. As much as I was glad to have some delightful company, the thought of rushing back home tempted me. Restaurants were not really my thing when it came to romancing. I liked the freedom of being at home, where I could act impulsively without having to worry about who’s eyes were on us.

  Finally, when the young waitress came and asked us if we were ready to order dessert, I said, ‘Can we go home, David? I’m really not in the mood to stay up all night.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, his voice surprisingly cheerful for someone who had just spent the whole evening with a grump like me.

  When we got back to Craigieburn, Michael was asleep. At least, I thought he was. It was 10.32 p.m., and the light in his room was turned off. No music was blasting from his teenage sanctuary. I was tempted to go and see how he was, but resisted after concluding I had invaded his privacy once too many already that today.

  I invited David to stay for a nightcap but had another agenda trotting at the back of my mind.

  ‘What have you got?’ he asked. He slipped off his wool-blend sports jacket and carefully placed it across the arm of the floral couch in the living room.

  ‘Brandy,’ I said.

  ‘Brandy is fine.’

  ‘Cognac or Armagnac?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ He looked sightly embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not very familiar with fortified wines.’

  ‘Cognac is more refined and elegant. Armagnac is earthier and more robust. Either way, the best brandy is always made from the worse wine.’ My last boyfriend had an encyclopaedic knowledge of wines, and I was fortunate enough that some of it had rubbed off on me. ‘But if that scares you,’ I went on, ‘I can always give you a glass of Fundador - it’s a cheap and na
sty Spanish brandy I keep behind the bar for people who don’t appreciate the finer wines.’

  ‘Okay, I think I’ll just have what you’re having.’

  ‘Cognac it is then.’

  We sat on the couch, sipping our brandy and getting used to being alone by ourselves. In the background Bill Cunliffe, one of America’s best and busiest jazz pianists, was playing Bud Powell’s Polka Dots and Moonbeams on my hi-fi system. The lights were low, thanks to the dimmer control I had installed, and the atmosphere was that of a Sunday bay-side cafe.

  I was dying to make a move and kiss him, but I felt it better to wait and let him do the seducing. Still old-fashioned at heart, I didn’t agree with the views of Gloria Steinem or any other radical feminists. I believed in my own power and my right to choose, but when it came to romance, I liked to be pampered. Also, if he made the first move, and later I changed my mind, I could always argue that he came on to me, that he didn’t leave me a choice. And that I was drunk anyway, so I didn’t know what I was doing.

  ‘Any progress on the investigation?’ he asked, breaking the awkward silence between us.

  I hated discussing the Evelyn Carter case with him. It was bad enough I had invited him over when he was a key witness in the on-going investigation. But desperate for intimacy, and with the effect of the brandy clouding my judgement, I choose the path of least resistance.

  ‘Nothing so far,’ I said. ‘We’re looking for a little black book where Evelyn would have kept names and contacts of her clients. The killer would most certainly be in that book. I just don’t understand where the book has gone to. Conveniently vanished the night she was killed.’

  ‘Maybe the killer took it with him when he killed her. Since she was found naked, it’s easy to assume that he took her personal belongings with him.’

  Now that David mentioned it, it was true that we never recovered Evelyn’s driver’s license, credit cards and other personal items women usual took with them everywhere they went.

  I took another sip from my brandy and continued on the same topic for lack of having anything else to say, ‘So, you think the bastard got the book?’

  ‘Seems like a logical conclusion.’ He paused and then added, ‘So, the lab’s figured out who’s semen it is they found inside her?’

  ‘Nope. No idea at this stage.’

  Nodding, I poured myself another brandy. Dizziness began taking over. I wasn’t used to drinking so much, and I knew that when I drank it meant something in my life wasn’t going right. And what the hell was he waiting for? I began to ponder on the possibility that he might be gay, and I never picked up the obvious signs.

  I took a mouthful of brandy and swallowed it. It felt good.

  And then, without warning, I titled my head towards David’s. The smell of his citrus aftershave filled my nostrils, sending my soul to a new level of ecstasy. So much for not making the first move. I had a serious need to review my stand on feminism and the art of seduction.

  My head resting on his chest, I said, ‘ I always swore I’d never get involved like this... but you are so terribly attractive.’

  He brushed my hair with his hand.

  ‘I knew from the moment we met, you were meant for me,’ he said.

  I looked up to him smiling. ‘Did you?’ Half of me wanted to believe him, the other half assured me he was testing my gullibility.

  ‘You have the most beautiful eyes,’ he said. ‘And that smile.’

  I didn’t answer, but stared at him instead. A warm sensation was taking over my body, and I knew it wasn’t the brandy. The alcohol had gone to my head a while back. I wrapped my arms around his neck and gently moved my head closer.

  We kissed slowly, like first-timers do, and then passionately. His kiss tasted sweet. It made me feel like I belonged somewhere. It reminded me of lollies I used to hide under my pillow as a little girl and ate at night when the lights were turned off, and everyone was asleep. I used to suck on the strawberry hard-boils, feeling secured and happy. David’s kiss revoked those feelings.

  After kissing, everything brushed past too fast for me to recall all the details. All I remember is I was drunk, and we were in my room, and we made love.

  And it was good.

  Damn good in fact.

  I hadn’t made passionate love to someone for a very long time. My heart and soul were bare for his taking.

  David seemed to know what I wanted without asking. He explored every part of my body with such gentleness. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. I went to sleep in the haze of a drunken hour, feeling like I had just sucked on a kilo of strawberry hard-boils.

  When I woke up the next morning, nausea forcing me to go to the bathroom and empty the contents of my stomach. My skin had turned yellow, bags hung under my eyes, and, basically, I felt like shit. The taste of expensive cognac was hanging at the back of my throat like cough medicine.

  David was still in bed asleep when I returned to the bedroom, my auburn hair pulled back into a pony tail and my face refreshed from splashing it with tap water.

  His hair was unkempt, and there was a smile on his face. I stood at the edge of the bed, watching him sleep. I was happy but at the same time confused. Was this really the man I had longed for all my life? How would I know, and how long would it take for us to trust each other beyond a shadow of a doubt? I wanted to get down on my knees and beg God to make him the one because I was sick and tired of searching for the right man. But I had enough dignity left in me to remain on my feet.

  Trying not to dwell too much on my emotional despair, I paced to the kitchen and put some water on the boil for coffee.

  While the water was heating up, I decided to sneak into Michael’s room to see if he was still asleep. I had no idea what the time was, but daylight had already crept inside my home, and I could hear cows humming outside. I left my watch by the side-table in the bedroom, and I’ve been putting off buying a wall clock for the kitchen forever. It felt like around eight thirty, but with a hangover, it was hard to tell for sure.

  I pushed the door of Michael’s room gently, in case he was asleep. But no one was in bed. The clock on his side table read 9:32 a.m. I miscalculated by an hour. Michael had already left for school and wouldn’t be back until later this afternoon. Chances were I wouldn’t be here when he got home.

  When I returned to the kitchen, David was already up, scooping out coffee from a jar of Nescafé.

  ‘How do you have yours?’ he asked before I had time to greet him.

  ‘Black, no sugar.’

  ‘Mmmm...’

  I moved behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist.

  ‘Last night was good,’ I said. ‘Was it good for you?’

  He turned around and kissed me. ‘Nights are always good.’

  ‘Do you still love them in the morning?’ I asked.

  ‘I love them to death,’ he said and pressed his lips against mine.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Frank and I were on our way to the VFSC in Macleod. I was driving my Excell, while he was chain-smoking with the window open. The air was cold and went right through my blouse. Grey clouds hovered over the city, and I knew the day wouldn’t end without another downpour. God, I hated Melbourne winters. All I really wanted to do was stay home with the heater on full blast and overdose on hot coffee all day long. Temptation was even stronger on that particular morning - I was still feeling the effect from drinking too much brandy with David the previous night.

  ‘Do you have to?’ I asked.

  Frank knew I was talking about his smoking. Without arguing, he tossed the cigarette out the car, and wound up the window. He was clean-shaven and looked as if he had had his eight hours sleep. Even after a week, I hadn’t gotten used to seeing him without his moustache, and my first impression still stood; he looked younger and almost attractive.

  ‘So who was your hot date yesterday?’ he asked, staring at the road ahead of him.

  ‘Is that a trick question?’


  He turned around and scrutinised me for a little while.

  I choose to ignore him.

  ‘Did you fuck him?’ he finally said, all emotion drained from his voice.

  I pressed hard on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. I reached over his laps and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Get out!’ I ordered.

  He stared at me as if I’d just knocked him over the head with a cricket bat.

  I went on, ‘I’m not joking, get out of the car now. You can catch a cab or hitch-hike’

  The car was parked to the side of a busy highway, and there would be no way of him finding a cab unless he called one on his mobile. Frankly, I didn’t give a damn. I was in no mood for his attitude, especially first thing in the morning.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I didn’t mean in like that. I was joking. I was out of line.’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘Kristina...’ His apology was turning into whimpering. ‘Don’t do this here. I was wrong, all right. What do you want me to say? If I’d known you were in such a pissy mood, I wouldn’t have said anything. I swear. Give me a break.’

  If I’d been a man, I would have punched him square in the jaw and let him collect his own teeth.

  I slammed his door from the inside and said, ‘Fine, but one more word out of you, and you can take a hike.’

  ‘Sure, sure. I’m really sorry. I’m just not used to—’

  ‘Not used to what? Not used to the idea that I’m my own person, and I’ve got the right to go out with whomever I choose, and that you’re not the man I want to spend the rest of my life with?’ I released the handbrake and merged back into the traffic. ‘I can’t believe you can be such a jerk at times. You think you know someone after spending so much time with them, and then you realise you don’t know them at all.’

  ‘Ah, come on. You make it sound like it’s the end of the world.’

  I said nothing more but clenched my teeth instead.

  ‘You know it’s not my fault,’ he added. ‘You know how I feel about you. I get jealous when I hear you’ve been out with another man. What do you want me to do? I haven’t seen you for months. You haven’t called. I mean, were we really friends to begin with or just work colleagues?’