by Robin Storey
‘Then again, we might not,’ Baldy said. ‘Depends if you can keep your mouth shut.’
‘We have ways of making sure you keep your mouth shut,’ Droopy said, ‘apart from taping it up. Something to think about if you get bored.’
‘Come on,’ he said to Baldy. ‘I’m tonguing for a beer.’
Baldy winked at me. ‘We’ll have a drink for you, sweetheart.’
They left. I heard the front door bang shut and shortly after, the roar of an engine and a car speeding away.
Silence settled around me. How had this happened? Yesterday, I was a mild-mannered, law-abiding restaurant manager; today I was sitting in a grotty laundry, tied up by a couple of criminals whom I’d murder without blinking if I got half a chance.
One thing was certain – I was not going to wait here all night trussed up like a pig on a spit in the hope they’d be generous enough to release me when they returned. Neither did I want to find out how they’d make me keep my mouth shut, but I’d worry about that later. I struggled against the tape on my hands for several minutes.
Slow down, you’re wearing yourself. I breathed in deeply and flexed my arm muscles slowly against the tape, building up to maximum strength and holding for as long as I could. Then when I thought my arms were going to pop out of their sockets, I stopped, marshalled my strength and started again.
Through the laundry window the sky was grey as dusk crept in. There’d be few more depressing places to spend the night, sitting on a cold, hard floor, my only company a battered old Westinghouse and cracked laundry tub, and surrounded by dirty washing that had been there for God knows how long. I could make out pyjama pants and socks, but I didn’t want to look too closely.
I began another round of pushing against the tape. Come on, Ali! Pretend you’re in the gym and that hunky guy with smooth, olive skin and even smoother muscles is watching you in the mirror as you’re doing your chest presses.
It was pitch black and I was beyond exhaustion when I felt the tape slacken a fraction. I pushed some more, felt the tape stretch and then slipped my right hand out. I’d done it! I slumped with relief, every muscle aching as if I’d just done ten rounds in the boxing ring. I ripped the tape off my mouth. Ouch! One hell of an exfoliation treatment. Then I wrenched the tape off my left hand, unwound it from around my ankles and hauled myself up from the floor.
I felt around the room for the light switch and turned on the light. My hands and feet were numb and I spent a few moments rubbing some life into them. I examined the lengths of masking tape, amazed at my own strength. Perhaps, having been in the boot of Baldy’s car and subjected to the heat from the sun, it had lost some of its durability.
I looked at my watch. 9.05pm. Daybreak would be about 6am. I had nine hours to find Herman’s stash before Droopy and Baldy came back. No way were they getting their dirty hands on it. I went down the hall to the main bedroom and turned on the light. I could scarcely see the carpet for all the clothes and belongings thrown on the floor.
‘For God’s sake!’ I said out loud. I suppose I hadn’t really expected Droopy and Baldy to tidy up after ransacking the place. I put everything away and went systematically through the house, doing the same in each room. As I did so, I checked all the drawers for false bottoms and the cupboards for hidden nooks, and studied the walls for any evidence of hidden panels. It wasn’t very likely, given that it wasn’t Herman’s house, but I was leaving no stone unturned.
I suddenly realised I was ravenous – lunch seemed an eon ago. I looked in Herman’s fridge – half a limp lettuce, a bottle of tomato sauce and a couple of shrivelled apples. I’d put up with the rumbling stomach. I went into the spare bedroom, navigated through the piles of junk to the filing cabinet against the back wall and opened all the drawers. The bottom two drawers were empty. In the top drawer were half a dozen file hangers stuffed with papers. This was the only drawer that Droopy and Baldy hadn’t emptied – perhaps they’d taken a quick look and decided there was no money in it. It was possible, though, that Herman had hidden some notes in between some of the stapled pages.
I scooped the file hangers out of the cabinet and carried them into the living room, where I could rifle through their contents in relative comfort. I sat on the couch, pushing a pile of clothes out of the way, and worked my way methodically through the papers. Household accounts, receipts, warranties, tenancy agreement, bank statements and blood test results. Nothing out of the ordinary, and unfortunately no banknotes slipped in between the pages.
As I took the pile of bank statements out of the hanger, something fell out. Two boarding passes. One for a Virgin flight from Sydney to Perth on 6 August. Just over 2 months ago. And the other was for a flight from Perth to Sydney on 7 August. Why would he go all that way just to return the following day?
I flicked through the bank statements – monthly statements of his everyday account and his Visa card, going back a couple of years, the most recent on top. There were the normal transactions on his everyday account – modest amounts of cash withdrawals, presumably for living expenses, and regular debits to BWS bottle shop. There was a payment into his bank account from Centrelink every fortnight, which I presumed was a pension payment. There wasn’t a lot left in his account at the end of each fortnight.
The Visa card statements were more interesting. His July statement contained the payment for the flight to Perth in August - $565 return. A lot of money for a pensioner to spend on a one day trip. His May Visa statement also showed the payment for a return flight to Perth, as did the one for March. Going through all the Visa statements, I discovered that over the last two years, he’d flown to Perth and back on an average of once every two months.
What was more intriguing was that the amount owing on his Visa card was always paid off in full by the next month’s Visa statement, but there were no corresponding transactions in his everyday account. He either had another bank account or was paying cash. It had to be tied up somehow with his illegal business. Unless he had a girlfriend in Western Australia. Somehow I couldn’t see it – from all accounts, horse racing and casinos had taken priority in his life over women since his wife had died. So what was so inviting over there? I’d never been to Western Australia, but it conjured up images of swans swimming on pretty lakes and boozy winery tours.
There had to be other clues somewhere. Come on Herman, wherever you are, help me! I leafed through all the papers again and found something I’d missed. On the back of an A4 computer-generated receipt for fertiliser from a plant nursery, a list was scrawled in pencil:
Commonwealth bank everyday account: whichbank67
Visa card: tomycredit1900
Telstra: phoneafriend 85
AGL electricity: lightupmylife404
Virgin Frequent Flyers: agirlsbestfriend99
Passwords to his accounts, and he’d obviously had fun creating them. The Virgin password didn’t fit in though – it should have been something like ‘flyinghigh’ or ‘theskysthelimit.’ A girl’s best friend is diamonds, so the saying goes, although not being much into jewellery, they did nothing for me. Virgin and diamonds – where was the connection? I pondered for a few moments until a thought occurred to me. The only flights he made were to Western Australia – isn’t there a diamond mine there?
My iPhone was in the glove box of my car, along with my purse. Thank God I hadn’t brought them in with me – my captors would undoubtedly have taken great delight in relieving me of them. I opened the front door and peered out. A dim light shone from a nearby street light, the only sound a slight breeze rustling the trees. I dashed down the street to where my car was parked, half expecting Droopy and Baldy to spring out at me from the darkness. I pulled my car keys out of my jeans pocket, unlocked the car, retrieved my phone and raced back to the house, recording a personal best for the 200 yard sprint.
Back in the living room, I Googled ‘diamonds Western Australia’ on my phone. It was there, first entry. The Argyle Diamond Mine, in the remote no
rth of Western Australia, one of the world’s largest suppliers of diamonds. I read everything I needed to know about the Argyle open pit and underground mines, and about their rough, uncut diamonds and the famous Argyle pink diamond.
I then Googled ‘diamond smuggling in Australia’, and read about how organised crime groups recruit employees of Argyle and other associated companies to steal diamonds for them to smuggle and sell overseas. Would Herman have really been into that? And if so, what part was he playing in the process? Perhaps he and Droopy and Baldy were all members of an international diamond smuggling syndicate, and Herman was holding out on them, or siphoning off some of the profits. It was all wild guessing on my part, but I had to keep looking. I had to believe this stash, whatever it was, was in the house somewhere and not buried in the yard, as Droopy and Baldy seemed to think. I’m no criminal but if I had illegal goods I wouldn’t be burying them in the ground – too vulnerable to the vagaries of the weather, like flooding, and too much like hard work. Brains, not brawn, was my motto and I’m sure Herman would have thought the same.
I scanned the living room for places I hadn’t searched. I noticed a large discoloured patch on the beige curtains over the sliding door that led from the dining area out to the back yard. Curtain rods! I’d heard of people hiding things in curtain rods – prawn heads, mainly, as an act of revenge by disgruntled lovers, but it would be an ideal place to hide money or jewels. I grabbed the least rickety wooden chair, dragged it over to the curtains and stood on it. I lifted the curtain rod out of its tracks, but it was a lot heavier than I’d anticipated. I overbalanced and came down hard on the tiled floor, the chair on top of me and smothered in musty curtain.
I lay there, winded, shards of pain stabbing my rear. I fought my way out from the curtain and hauled the chair off me. I felt something hard under my hand and looked down. Beside me on the floor was a pile of glittering stones. Most were brown, except for the small but exquisite pink stone that shone like a jewel in a desert, outshining even the two claret-red stones beside it. Even if I hadn’t just done a crash course in diamonds on the internet I would have recognised them. I was looking at an Argyle pink diamond – rare and worth probably three times more than all the others together.
Where had they sprung from? They hadn’t come from inside the curtain rod as the ends were still screwed on. I examined the chair. There was a rectangular hollow in one of the legs and a piece of wood the same size lay on the floor – a trapdoor which had flown off with the impact of the chair hitting the floor. The diamonds had been hidden in the hollow. Brilliant! Who would have thought of looking in the leg of a chair? Certainly not me – I had my clumsiness and Herman’s shonky craftsmanship to thank for my good fortune.
I scarcely noticed my sore rear as I shoved the diamonds into my handbag, turned out the lights and locked up the house. I drove back to the motel, checked out and was on the road to Sydney by midnight. By the time Baldy and Droopy turned up at Herman’s house, I’d be safe in my own bed.
*
I’m on the plane to the Bahamas – as Herman didn’t make it, I’m going in his place. First stop is Hong Kong, teeming with jewellery dealers eager to buy diamonds, particularly the Argyle Pink, no questions asked. Then a long, luxurious holiday in a five star resort sipping cocktails with smiling, handsome waiters at my beck and call, before I find a quiet little seaside town with a vacancy for a coffee shop.
I’m not worried about Droopy and Baldy finding me – money can buy you a lot of things, including anonymity and a new life. I’ve changed my mind about diamonds – I’m very fond of them now. Could even call them my best friend.
And Herman was right. I do have a bit of spirit in me.
THE END
THE MUSE
Esther Palfreyman’s heart plummeted as she pulled out the bulky envelope from her mail box. Her name and address was printed on it in her own large, rounded letters.
She opened it and slid out the synopsis and first three chapters of her manuscript Love Incorporated. Attached to it was a letter. Another rejection.
In the kitchen she uncorked the bottle of champagne she’d bought to celebrate her publishing contract. As it was apparent there wasn’t going to be one, she might as well drink it now.
The next morning she arrived at work at the Taxation Office feeling very fragile.
‘Are you all right, Esther?’
Joe McCormack at the desk beside her was looking at her with concern.
‘I’m fine, just overdid it a bit last night.’
‘Oh? What’s happened?’
Esther hesitated. The more people she told about her novel writing, the more she would feel a failure if she never got published. The throb in her head increased its tempo. Oh, what the hell.
‘I wrote a novel and it’s been rejected. Six times.’
‘You poor thing, how disappointing for you.’
Esther gave a stoic half-smile. Joe had been the manager of audits before his wife left him; then he had a breakdown and went on stress leave. When he returned to work he’d been given the less demanding job of data input operator. With his soulful eyes he reminded Esther of a lost puppy trying to find a home. Vulnerability in men made her feel uncomfortable; she’d always been attracted to strong, self-assured men who made her feel safe. Joe was attractive in a sensitive, romantic poet way, but she couldn’t imagine ever feeling safe with him.
‘Anyhow, keep plugging away. All famous writers get rejected - look at JK Rowling!’
Esther gritted her teeth. If she heard one more mention of JK Rowling she’d scream.
After dinner that evening she sat at her computer and opened up her second manuscript The Power of Love, of which she’d written six chapters. Her despair lifted and she felt a surge of resolve. After all, she’d only been writing for a couple of years, since she’d enrolled in her creative writing course and experienced that ‘aha moment,’ when she knew with a deep certainty that writing was what she was born to do. It was in her genes – her grandfather had been a compulsive scribbler of poems and short stories, although he’d never had any published. And she’d chosen to write romance because her own life was so lacking in it that even vicarious romance seemed better than none at all.
She began to type, absorbed in her hero and heroine’s first romantic encounter on a deserted beach. After a few minutes she became aware of another presence in the room. Her skin crawled. She turned around. There was no-one there.
‘That’s nauseating in the extreme, I think I’m going to throw up.’
Esther screamed and sprang out of her chair. Behind her on top of the bookcase was a creature. That was her first impression, but on closer inspection she could see it was a man, in perfect proportion but the size of a doll. He wore a white shirt, bow tie and dinner jacket with a kilt and slave sandals. He was perched on The Complete Oxford Dictionary, swinging his tiny, hairy calves and regarding her with cool nonchalance. He had dark hair and eyes and a neat pencil moustache and even through her shock Esther registered that he was rather handsome – like a miniature Johnny Depp.
‘Sorry if I frightened you. My name’s Albert – I’m your muse.’
He held out his hand.
‘If you don’t want to shake hands, that’s fine, but please close your mouth. You look quite ridiculous.’
Esther snapped her mouth shut.
‘I presume you know what a muse is?’
‘Yes.’ Esther’s voice came out as a strangled croak. She cleared her throat. ‘I…I didn’t know I had one.’
‘Now you do. Of course muses, arising from Greek mythology, are traditionally female, but I’m striking a blow for equality. We male muses are still a minority, so you should be grateful I’ve chosen you.’
‘Thank-you,’ said Esther. Perhaps if she humoured him he would go away.
‘What does a muse actually do?’
‘To quote the job description, “inspire and stimulate creative thought.” Which, in some cases, prese
nts quite a challenge.’
He bounded from the bookcase on to her desk and gestured to her chair.
‘Sit down and I’ll show you.’
Esther sat down. He picked up a pen and used it as a pointer on her computer screen.
‘This scene where Lucy and Tye have their first kiss. “He pressed his mouth on to hers, its force engulfing the two of them until the world around them receded and she felt herself falling into a chasm of sensual bliss.” ’
He made a retching sound. ‘That’s what I was referring to when I arrived. It’s stomach-churning! What is this man doing? Sucking her up like a vacuum cleaner? Not sexy at all, unless you have a cleaning fixation. It’s obviously a while since you’ve had a man in your life.’
Esther blushed. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a knot, that’s Lucy’s prerogative,’ he said, grinning. ‘Don’t you think it’s much more sensuous to start off with a few light kisses on the neck to make her shiver, a nibble on her ear, then a gentle stroking of her hair from her forehead and a soft kiss on the lips on his way to the other ear?’
Esther said nothing. She didn’t want to admit that this rude, self-important Lilliputian in need of a wardrobe makeover might know more about writing love scenes than she did.
He sprang over to her keyboard and before she could stop him, he’d deleted the entire page.
‘Now just a minute…’
He put his hand up. ‘Write it again. I’ll help you and you’ll see how easy it is.’
Esther placed her hands on the keyboard and looked at Albert. This man is crazy and I’m even crazier for doing this. He winked and gave her the thumbs up.
Just as she was wondering how and when inspiration was going to strike, the words began to form in her mind. They built up momentum to full speed, her fingers flying over the keys as she transcribed them. In a few minutes she’d filled the page. She sat back and read it through. It was far better than anything she’d written before. Sweet and tentative, building up slowly to the first kiss, tempered with realism and a touch of humour.