Bang. Bang. A sharp metallic rapping came from the flat door. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I cringed backwards and my line of sight narrowed.
Startled out of her reverie, Fiona dropped her bundle. She went down on her knees, scrabbling for the bills strewn about the floor. Rap, rap, came the knock at the door. ‘Just a moment,’ she called, scooping up an armful of loose money, dumping it on the table and going down for more. ‘Who is it?’
‘Me.’ A male. Not Karlin.
‘Coming.’ She disappeared from my sight briefly, then darted back with a piece of cloth, some sort of throw-sheet off the couch. It billowed above the table and fell loosely over the money. She composed herself, smoothing down her clothes and hair. She came towards me, scooping up her shoes on the way. When she reached my hiding place, she paused to slip on her shoes. She leaned against the louvred door. It clicked shut.
My heart shot backwards in my chest, hit my spine and bounced off. My legs requested a transfer to other duties. I braced myself for exposure. Fiona, oblivious to the pulsating tom-tom of my heartbeat, stepped to the front door and opened it. All I could see was a section of carpet, visible through the downward-raked slats of the closet’s louvred door.
‘Hi.’ Fiona was purring, butter not melting in her mouth. ‘What brings you here?’ Like this was the nicest surprise she’d had all day.
‘Just a chance visit.’ The voice sounded familiar. When I heard it again, I had no trouble putting a face to it. ‘I called in across the road to see if the picture had arrived safe and sound. Janelle said you’d come home for lunch, so I thought I’d join you.’ It was Lloyd Eastlake.
Things were getting more interesting by the moment. I hung on Lambert’s response. She said nothing.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
A moment’s silence. ‘Um. I’m just on my way back to work, actually.’ And not really in a position to do any entertaining, what with the flat all cluttered up with hundred-dollar bills.
Eastlake was undeterred. ‘Let’s have a little drink first. Celebrate your success. The Centre for Modern Art’s first major acquisition. Our Home, ours at last.’ His tone was more than just chairmanly. ‘You look a bit flushed. You haven’t been having one all by yourself, have you? You naughty little girl.’
She played along. ‘Okay, I admit it. You caught me at it. But I really must be getting back. The picture has to be stored away properly. You know what Janelle’s like.’
‘What’s the hurry? Janelle will be fine.’ The tone was playfully wheedling, but there was a possessive edge to it. ‘You haven’t got someone in there with you, have you?’
‘Like who?’ She laughed the idea away, resenting the inference.
‘An attractive woman like you,’ he said, turning it into a compliment. ‘Could be any one of a million men.’
This all had an air of easy intimacy to it. I began to suspect I knew what Fiona had meant when she said she knew how to handle Lloyd Eastlake. ‘I just love it when you get jealous.’ Playful sarcasm. ‘Married man and all.’
‘C’mon. How about that drink.’ Eastlake didn’t want to stand in the door. He was coming inside. Like it or not.
I was breathing through my skin, willing myself invisible. Eastlake’s shoes appeared in the louvre-framed square of carpet in front of the closet. Suddenly, the outline of Fiona’s red dress pressed back against the door. The louvres bulged inwards and the whole door creaked on its hinges. Fabric rustled against fabric. Fiona had grabbed Eastlake and pulled him against her. Another sound came—part moist sucking, part sibilant inhalation, part low moan. They were going the smooch, the full mutual tonsillectomy by the sound of it.
The vixen! ‘Hmm,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘I do find it exciting, I must admit. Getting Our Home at last.’
Lloyd Eastlake wasn’t a man to pass up an opportunity. ‘Hmm,’ he agreed. Now that she’d started him up, there was no stopping him. The cupboard door bowed inwards. All I could see was the bare backs of Fiona’s calves, her ankles, her fire-engine red shoes. Eastlake’s shoe slid between hers, the light grey check of his trousered leg rubbing against her bare flesh.
Movement traced the silhouette outline of Fiona’s body. Something slid behind her, cradling the small of her back. Through the slats of the louvre, I could clearly see the individual hairs on the back of Eastlake’s hand. My mouth turned to a desert. It seemed inconceivable that they couldn’t hear my heart beating. I could hear every breath they took, distinguish their individual rhythms. I might as well have been in bed with them.
They might as well have been in bed with each other. The pace of their breathing quickened, the volume of their slurping noises. Eastlake’s hand was tugging up the hem of Lambert’s dress. Her knickers were pale lilac. His hand slid into them, down into the valley of her buttocks. Her feet eased wider. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll have to buy you an expensive painting more often.’
She moaned encouragement. Eastlake’s hand was out of her knickers. He was down on his knees, tugging at them. Her legs closed. A flash of lilac slid past her white knees. Through the inverted V of her thighs, I saw him shake free of his suit jacket. He reached down and opened his trousers.
All the blood in my body had converged in my groin. I could have got a job as a coat hook. The pulse in my ears was beating a rhythm like the time-keeper on a slave galley. Faster. Faster. Ramming speed. I screwed my eyes shut and tried to think of something else. Anything else. Humpity, humpity, went the door, threatening to burst in. Bang, bang, bang.
I peeked, knowing already what I would see. Fiona’s feet had vanished, raised off the floor. Little ridges of red dress were being forced into the gaps between the louvre slats. So too was the bare flesh of Fiona Lambert’s arse. One red shoe lay on its side. The other had vanished. Eastlake was still wearing his. I could see their stitching. Four-hundred-dollar shoes. Only the tips showed. His trousers were round his ankles. His calves were braced. His knees were buckled. His thighs were thrusting.
Bang, bang. I closed my eyes and searched my mind for some distracting thought. I peeked again, then squeezed my eyes tight.
Eastlake’s trousers were Prince of Wales check. This was the pattern favoured by the sharpies, part of the uniform. Wide Prince of Wales check trousers and skin-tight maroon knit tops. That’s what Geordie Fletcher wore.
Geordie Fletcher and the horrible twins, Danny and Wayne. I was back at the Oulton Reserve. Round and round I was spinning, biffed and bashed at every turn. My life was in the hands of a gang of brain-dead sharpies. Spider, my supposed protector, was in league with the enemy. My hand was curled tight around the neck of a bottle. A potential weapon, but tangled in the folds of my coat.
Suddenly, it came free. I brandished it like a club. Dizzy with vertigo, I staggered sideways and fell. The bottle hit the concrete path. Broken glass scattered in a pool of spilt alcohol. I was on my knees breathing in the acrid smell.
‘Fucking idiot. You wasted it.’ Geordie Fletcher had me by the collar, hauling me to my feet. This was it. The cat-and-mouse game was over. I was about to be beaten shitless. The twins had stopped their jeering and fallen silent. Big brother was going to show them how it was done.
More fool him. The neck of the bottle was still in my hand, a hard knife-edged cylinder. Slashing sideways, I caught Geordie unawares. My blow sliced across his thigh, opening a gash in his pants. Blood sprayed into the air.
Geordie jumped back. Amazement lit his face. My fear became exhilaration. I thrust the bottle neck in front of me, daring them to try anything. The Fletchers circled, Geordie’s surprise turning to rage. Spider Webb elbowed his way between the twins. ‘Put it down, Whelan,’ he said. ‘Don’t be a dickhead.’ Somewhere in the dusk beyond the tea-tree, car doors slammed and footsteps raced towards us. Every sharpie in town was about to descend on me. There was blood everywhere. ‘Come on, you little cunt,’ Geordie yelled. ‘Have a go.’
I did. I rushed him. Spider grabbed my arm, twisti
ng it. ‘Drop it. Drop it.’ Pain shot through my elbow. The bottle neck fell from my hand. Broken glass crunched underfoot. Geordie kicked me in the balls. The pain was searing. Spider’s face was in mine. ‘Fucking idiot.’ Bent double, eyes welling, I retched.
The galloping feet arrived. Hands grabbed my hair, jerking my head back. I swung wildly, no longer caring what happened. An adult had me. A police uniform. A sergeant’s stripes. I recognised the face. I’d seen it in the hotel, drinking with my father after closing time. Open handed, he whacked the side of my head so hard that I saw stars and my teeth nearly fell out. ‘You’re coming with me, son.’
‘Come! Come!’ urged Fiona. ‘Yes. Yes.’ She said some other things, too. Things I won’t repeat here.
The pace of Eastlake’s thrusting increased. The closet door quaked in its frame. An anchovy smell tinged the air. Rumpity, rumpity. Casanova let out a plaintive groan. Hissing like a braking steam train, he slowed to a halt. Suddenly, all was still.
Eastlake disengaged with a suction-cup slurp. Fiona Lambert’s bare backside separated from the louvres and her feet found the floor. Her dress fell back into place. She let out a long breath. I wished I could do the same. ‘You tiger,’ she said. ‘That was wonderful.’
With a dull thud, Tiger Eastlake slumped back against the wall opposite. He swallowed, caught his breath. ‘You came?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She might have fooled him, but she wasn’t fooling me.
‘You sure?’ His voice was post-coitally dreamy.
‘Would I lie to you?’ Her real love, I knew, was lying on the dining table. The knee-trembler had kept him out of the living room for a while. But what was she going to do now? Push him out the door? Her back was still pressed against the closet. ‘Now I really do need a drink. Be a darling. There’s an open bottle in the fridge.’
Eastlake’s hands came down and his pants went up. A zipper zipped. He took a step closer. Nuzzling sounds. He was compliant. His shoes swivelled in the direction of the kitchen. As he moved away, Fiona’s back came off the door. I sensed, rather than heard, her flit across the living room.
From the kitchen came the rattle of a refrigerator shelf. Bottles clinked. A cork was withdrawn. A cupboard opened. Glass nudged glass. I could have done with a drink myself. And a cigarette. I like one afterwards.
‘I don’t suppose Max Karlin personally delivered the painting, by any chance?’ called Eastlake. There was a well-practised familiarity at work here. The easy way the switches went on and off. This sex business between him and Fiona had been going on for some time. But the casualness of Eastlake’s question was a little too studied. He had something on his mind.
‘Max?’ Miss Innocence was relaxed. The dough must have been safely out of sight. ‘Haven’t seen him since Saturday. Why?’
She came over, picked up her knickers, went back into the living room. ‘Where’s that drink?’
‘I’ve been trying to contact him all day.’ Eastlake came out of the kitchen. ‘He’s not returning my calls.’
I remembered his anxious grab at the phone when I’d rung. Poor Lloyd. His timing was lousy. Thirty seconds earlier and he’d have run into Karlin on the stairs.
‘I really should be getting back to work,’ Fiona said. Not, of course, with any of her previous door-blocking urgency. They were like a married couple. He wanted her to listen while he complained about his hard day at the office.
‘Sorry to burden you with my worries,’ he said. ‘I know you hate shoptalk. But if you hear from Max, tell him to call me immediately. There’s a rumour going around that he’s getting cold feet. The Karlcraft Centre is at the don’t-lookdown stage. The whole thing is in danger of falling over if Max loses his nerve right now. Obelisk has sunk a lot of money into Max Karlin. More than I was authorised to lend him. I’ve staked Obelisk’s whole future, and my own, on Max’s success. If he goes belly-up, he’ll take me with him. The least he could do is return my calls.’
‘You worry too much.’ Fiona played the wifey part, smoothing his fevered brow. ‘He’s probably just in a meeting or something. It’ll be okay, you’ll see. If he rings to check that Our Home has arrived okay, I’ll tell him to call you straight away.’
Eastlake was pacing about while Fiona made reassuring noises. I couldn’t quite make out what was being said. My whole body ached from the effort of standing to attention. Carefully, I moved my wrist into a position where I could read my watch. Thirty minutes I’d been standing there. It felt like years. I needed to urinate. Suddenly, something jolted my heart back into my mouth. I heard the sound of my own name.
‘That reminds me,’ Eastlake was saying. ‘You don’t have to worry about Giles Aubrey any more. That Whelan guy rang me, said he was dead. I knew I shouldn’t have told you what Whelan said Aubrey told him. You’ve probably been worrying about it.’
‘Dead?’ she said, only mildly curious. ‘How?’
‘Whelan didn’t say. All very enigmatic, he was. I’m meeting him later, so I’ll find out then, I suppose. Anyway, there’s one less problem.’
‘Oh, I was never really worried about Giles Aubrey.’
Yet again, I couldn’t believe my ears. But the logic was overwhelming. The story Aubrey told me—whether true or not—had the potential to derail the CMA’s purchase of Our Home. Lambert had put a great deal of effort into making sure the sale went ahead. She had a lot riding on its successful conclusion. She could hardly just stand by and let Giles Aubrey ruin her plans. A woman as young, fit and ruthless as Fiona Lambert would have no trouble pushing a frail old man down a steep riverbank.
‘I’ll just try Max again.’ Eastlake came closer and I heard a distinct grunt as he bent to pick up his hastily shed suit jacket. Blip, blop, blip. Mobile phone dialling noises. Silence. Glasses tinkled. The kitchen tap ran again. Fiona, clearing up. Eastlake got through, asked for Karlin. ‘Still not back? Okay. Same message.’
My bladder was full. If I didn’t get out of that fucking closet soon, I’d have to start paying rent.
They were at the door. ‘Remember, if Max calls…’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell him…’
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Eastlake spoke in tones of unalloyed affection. Jesus. The schmuck was in love.
The door closed. Lambert waited a beat, then let out a long sigh of relief. She moved down the hall. Seconds later, the pipes in the wall behind me started up. From the direction of the bathroom came the sound of running water, then of teeth being brushed. Brush, brush, brush. Then the shower started. Above the cascade of the water, I heard the screech of a curtain being tugged along a metallic rail.
Leaning lightly on the cupboard door, I popped it open. Reassuring myself that no-one was coming up the stairs, I drew the flat door shut behind me. My shirt was drenched in sweat and draped with cobwebs. My hands were shaking. I gulped air. My breath came in short pants, dressed for the weather.
I hurried downstairs, gripping the banister.
Droplets of moisture flashed in the sunlight. Sprinklers played across the lawns of the Domain. Children ran between the trees squirting each other with water pistols. Senior citizens at picnic tables poured streams of steaming tea from thermos flasks. After what felt like an eternity trapped in that broom closet, my bladder was about to explode.
Tilted forward at the waist like a particularly obsequious Japanese, I scuttled across Domain Road and cast about for a public convenience of some description. The only facility in sight was a shoulder-high bed of red and yellow canna lilies. Advancing into its leafy interior, I proceeded to irrigate its tuberous root structure.
Below the waist, I sighed with relief. Above the neck, I struggled to make sense of all that I had just observed. Some things were crystal clear. Others were murky and obscure. I had a growing sense of dismay and responsibility.
That Fiona Lambert was some piece of work. And she definitely had Lloyd Eastlake’s measure. Our Man in the Arts, puffed up with smug vanity, was a soft target. Part
icularly by the time Fiona Lambert had finished working her charms.
Scam one was the CUSS set-up. Eastlake, doing his girlfriend a favour, had put the art investment business of the Combined Unions Superannuation Scheme her way. This entailed a conflict of interest on his part, both as a director of the CUSS and as chairman of the Centre for Modern Art, but he had probably done no more than what a thousand other company directors did every day of the week. His hot-shot lover, however, had taken full advantage of the opportunity to slip the unsuspecting CUSS an entirely fabricated art collection. The sheer scale of her audacity was staggering.
Scam two was the Szabo deal. Eastlake, persuaded that Our Home was an absolute must for the CMA collection, had exerted his influence with both the government and Obelisk to fund its purchase. Fiona, meanwhile, had forced Max Karlin to sell the picture and cut herself in for a piece of the action.
My presence within the stand of lilies, I was suddenly aware, had not passed unnoticed. An amorous couple reclining on the lawn nearby were beginning to cast hostile glances towards where my head extended above the leaf line. I turned my back to them, lest they get the wrong idea.
Was it really possible that Lambert could have got away with her CUSS fraud if not for the accidental depredations of a pair of skylarking ten-year-olds? Would Taylor’s forgeries have remained undetected in the face of public scrutiny? And why had Taylor been colluding with Lambert? According to Giles Aubrey, he hated her guts. Had the whole Szabo–Taylor story been a product of Aubrey’s notorious tendency to misrepresentation? Or had Marcus Taylor eventually become reconciled to his father’s ambitious young bit of cheesecake? Or had his broker, Salina Fleet, handled customer relations? Was it possible that he had no idea that Lambert was the buyer of his ‘appropriations’?
The Brush-Off Page 25