Mad was waiting on the intersection three blocks from the house. John handed over the keys, shook hands in a businesslike manner and joined me in the ute. We drove down to the coast through a landscape of crystalline purity; the sky a cloudless blue, a sweet crispness on the air and views of such heart-stopping perfection that one feared an incautious sneeze might shatter the scene into billions of brilliant shards.
Jon sneezed – the scene remained the same.
"Caught a cold?"
"Sun in my eyes."
"Takes a bit of getting used to - all this light after weeks of wet."
"I think I'll manage. Where're we going?
"Spying."
"And?"
"Shopping, then to the gallery and take it from there?"
"Good one."
We deposited Hank's cheque in Jon's almost empty account. That way we both had access to funds on our own cards. A shopping centre about half a kilometre north west of the gallery provided a couple of mobile phones, food and sundries. We left the ute in the shoppers' car park and, in Hank's old clothes, wandered down to the beach and along the eroded shoreline. Towels under our shirts suggested beer-guts; fishing rods provided cover. John carried lunch and a few cans in his rucksack; I had other things in mine. Casting our lines occasionally and fruitlessly, we ended up at the rocks below the gallery.
A cap with side flaps hid Jon's hairless head and earrings; wisps of wig escaping from an old, wide-brimmed straw sun hat distracted from my profile. We lounged against the rocks at the top of the cliff with a view of the rear and one side of the gallery. It was a day made for lazing. Jon unpacked the sandwiches.
"What'll we do when this is all over?"
The same question had been revolving in my own head. I knew what I wanted, but it's difficult to know how to reply to that sort of question. If you're too enthusiastic the other person can feel pushed. If you're noncommittal he'll think you're not keen. His expression gave nothing away. To hell with it, I thought. A relationship in which you're always worrying if you've said the right thing can never work. "When this is all settled,' I said firmly, "we'll live happily together for the next couple of centuries; fighting, loving, arguing, agreeing, disagreeing, laughing, crying, and…"
"Catching anything?"
I nearly shat myself. "Na, mate. Bloody good excuse to get away from the missus, but.' I had the words ready, but wasn't ready for Glaze to be standing beneath me. He'd approached the same way we had, along the low-tide sand. What the hell had he heard? Had I been talking too loud as usual? Jon hunched over his line concentrating on a knot. I screwed up my face to peer down at the enemy.
"Y'on holiday, mate?' I asked, querulously nasal.
"No such luck. I work over there.' He hauled his lean frame easily up the rocks and indicated the gallery.
"Pretty bloody posh place,' whined Jon. "Bet it's worth a few bob, right on the sea and everythink. My place got washed out. Have to live with the fuckin' in-laws. Jeeze, what fuckin' wankers. They're on my bloody back day in and day out. D'ya live there then?"
Glaze pulled a face and turned towards the gallery as if in search of classier company. "I stay there when it's busy. My place in the hills was unaffected by the flooding."
"House in the hills, eh? Costs a packet to buy up there, I reckon. Especially now. You've gotta be worth a bit."
"A bit."
"Nice place?"
"Not as remarkable as this."
"What's it like waking up right next to the sea? You must have an important job. Are you an artist?"
Glaze's air of distracted disdain settled my nerves. We mightn't be worth looking at but he couldn't resist showing off.
"I'm an artist - of sorts,' he said airily. "Not with paint and suchlike – more… body art, you might say, for a select clientele."
I wanted to smear his self-satisfied smirk across the rocks.
"Must be great to work here and have a place in the hills. Fuck, I wish I was rich.' Jon vented his frustration on the increasingly knotted line. "Bet you drive a beaut car."
"Mercedes."
"I bloody knew it. A fuckin' Merc! And I have to walk because even the fuckin' busses aren't running properly."
Glaze was torn between going, and gloating.
"Get yourself a job, man. There's work out there for those who really want it."
"Says Richie Rich. You don't know the half of it, mate. You give a show for a bunch of rich wankers and bingo - money in the bank. No one wants an honest day's work from an honest bloke."
"I work bloody hard for my money! I'll be working my butt off most of tonight, while you're home screwing your missus."
"Here? You're giving a show here? Can I come?"
"Not here, and not unless you've a spare thousand bucks to chuck around. So don't try and tell me about hard work. You're bone idle, the pair of you.' His mobile phone interrupted what looked like developing into a reason for us to thump him. He turned his back and mumbled, but there was no disguising the reaction. His body stiffened, he grunted twice, shoved the phone into his pocket and took off.
"Reckon they've heard the good news, then?"
"I reckon."
My Mercedes burned off up the road towards the hills.
For the next couple of hours a constant stream of sightseers drove past the gallery, about a dozen stopped, one came out clasping a purchase. Halfway through the afternoon, Brian pulled up in the Volvo, went inside and re-appeared fifteen minutes later with Mad's remaining drawings. Two overweight blokes in business suits pulled up at three thirty in the latest model four-wheel drive, but came out empty handed. A short time later a van pulled in to the car park and drove to the front entrance, out of sight. About twenty minutes later it took off again. Around four o'clock the Mercedes came back, followed by MacFife's Porsche and another car. Doors slammed and irritated voices echoed.
We were starting to feel conspicuous, so packed up and wandered back the way we'd come. After stowing the props in the back of the ute, we changed into conservative gear; sports coats, neat shirts and ties. Jon looked good in a tweed cap. Hank's trousers were a little baggy round the waist and slightly too long in the leg for Jon, but it was amazing how well the clothes of a seventy-four year- old fitted two guys in their twenties. We strolled back along the road as if enjoying the warm evening, and stopped for a natter opposite the well-lit gallery. The van from the afternoon reappeared and drew up to the front door.
"Looks like the show's going to be here tonight. Probably getting a bit draughty up in them thar hills."
"Must be mighty sad they've lost their doggies."
"And their prisoner."
"Reckon they're feeling vulnerable?"
"Hardly. Those types think they're gods."
The inside of the huge front windows of the gallery were already half covered with silvered insulating paper. As we watched, a workman up a ladder dropped another roll to the floor, holding it in place while his assistant taped it securely. There was apparently going to be a need for privacy.
"Uh-oh! Keep that bitch off me!' Jon wandered a few metres away and leaned over a fence to peer intently at a couple of mould-infected citrus trees. I stared vaguely out to sea. A high-pitched squawk roused me in time to steady CC, who had caught one of her ridiculously high heels on the edge of the gutter and was toppling towards me. It was well done - almost believable.
“Oh, how foolish of me, thank goodness it was you.' She giggled seductively. "What a happy coincidence. Imagine falling into the arms of a complete stranger!
I smiled, extricated myself and pushed her upright.
She leaned on my shoulder and checked her shoes for damage. "Everything's simply bedlam at the gallery."
I tried to look excited. "Is it the opening tonight? Don't tell me I got the date wrong!"
"No, no. Just an impromptu little party for a few of the director's friends. But he always goes to a great deal of trouble and suddenly we're short staffed, such a nuisance."
"Must be."
She nodded dolefully then visibly brightened as an idea slipped into her head. "I don't suppose… No of course you wouldn't, a gentleman like you. How silly of me."
I smiled vaguely, not wanting to hear what was coming, and started to move off. "Well, have a happy party."
She clawed at my arm as though for support. "Wasn't that young man extraordinary the other day?' she burbled fatuously. "I don't suppose you've seen him since? I know it sounds ridiculous, but he was looking for work and we do need someone to help in the kitchen."
I frowned.
"I know it's stupid, but I'm such a softie. I always try to overlook people's faults and search for the virtues behind them.' She smiled up at me expectantly and I tried not to puke.
A sudden poke in the back from Jon as he wandered past, nearly thrust me into the woman's arms. He grunted something. I nodded vacantly at his back.
"Nice meeting you,' I called vaguely, before once more gazing into the mascara'd depths of CC's watery eyes. "I think… no, it probably wasn't…'.
"What?"
"I think I saw him sprawled over a bench back there."
"Where?"
I pretended to rack my brains. "In front of that pizza place, I think it was. But… I'm not certain. Those types all look alike."
"Yes… and he'd be completely unsuitable. I can't imagine what I was thinking. One should never trust people like that – especially at a respectable party. My dear departed husband always said my soft heart would be my undoing."
She shook herself, bared yellow teeth and glanced over her shoulder, impatient to go. "Well, I've recharged my batteries. They'll be docking my salary if I stay away any longer. Lovely to see you again.' A pat on my arm and she crossed the road in the perilous scuttle enforced by high heels and tight skirt.
Jon was already out of sight, so I walked briskly back, rehearsing all the arguments I could think of to dissuade him. CC passed me in her car, tooted and waved.
Hank had fitted a windowless, fibreglass canopy on the back of the ute, so we'd slung our sleeping bags and all the gear in there. It was bedroom, kitchen and anything else we needed. Jon had already changed into his "sex clobber'. I composed my face into a mask of enlightened rationality and asked, "What's the rush?"
"She's obviously trying to find me. Wants me to work tonight. It's our chance to get some dirt."
"I don't want you to."
"You're mad! We've got to grab every chance we can get!"
"It's too dangerous."
"You'll be there."
"Outside."
"If you hear me scream – call the cops on the mobile."
"Ha, bloody ha."
He put his hands on my shoulders and said slowly, "I'll go and meet her and see what the job is. She won't need me for a couple of hours, so there'll be plenty of time to sort out a fail-safe plan.' Before I could argue he jumped down and swaggered through the golden haze of evening, head high, hips thrusting - visible to anyone driving in either direction. I'm not sure which emotion was uppermost – foreboding, love, or lust. I couldn't believe that glorious creature was my friend, companion, lover. Life couldn't be that generous. Something was going to go terribly wrong! Thus did fear spoil both happiness and the beauty of the evening.
To take my mind off the dangers I sorted and stacked all the "just-in-case' gear we'd appropriated from Hank, making a space large enough to sleep, prepared sandwiches and made a list of all my worries. Fears faced are supposed to lose their power. When the gallery was being built, Max hollowed out a section of a rear windowsill and hid a spare master key, concealing the gap with stucco. A tap with a stone would break the cover and I'd have a key! Only he and I knew of it. My phone rang.
"Yeah?"
"She's gone, but I'm not sure where. Spending more than five minutes with CC makes me paranoid. Drive to the far end of the old K Mart car park where the canal's become a swamp. When I'm sure I'm not being followed I'll join you."
"Roger."
"Eh?"
"Will do."
"Great."
"I'm on my way."
"Yeah."
"Hang up, you great galah."
"Where? There's no hook – Oh… you mean switch off… Roger."
"Eh?"
"Will do."
"What?"
For answer; the sucking noise of a sloppy kiss. My heart was full. I drove to the rendezvous and parked in the deepest dark and shadow. A minute later Jon was beside me. "Drive to that park by the river."
"It's a smelly mess."
"That's right. No one'll be there."
I drove, parked, we climbed in the back, accomplished a few intimate exercises on the sleeping bags, then lay contentedly in the darkness.
"I needed that."
"What?"
"Deep physical and mental contact with someone pure and simple."
"Simple?"
"As in straightforward, uncomplicated, honest and trustworthy."
"That's me. Well?"
"She picked me up just past the Pizza place. I acted as though I didn't remember who she was – a bit spaced out. She offered me two hundred to help out at a dinner tonight. A group of business people from Melbourne, sizing up the Coast for investments – at least that's the story. They want a bit of entertainment – nothing very heavy. There'll be five girls and two guys to match the five men and two women in the party. No fucking, just eye-candy - sort of "pet for the evening' – something like that."
"Do you want to do it?"
"No. But I will. Do you mind?"
"Yes."
"Enough to forbid me?"
"I can deny you nothing."
"It's up to me?"
"Yep."
"I promise I'll be careful."
"What time?"
"Nine."
"It's nearly eight, that gives us an hour to eat and plan."
"I've eaten. She fed me – that's why I was so long. She wanted to make sure I was going to be sober."
Our plan was simple. I'd park the ute as close as possible to the gallery without being obvious. Jon would go to the private entrance while I made my way down to the beach and climbed up the rocks so I could approach the back entrance unobserved. After retrieving the spare key I'd throw a rope onto the roof and wait. Jon would grab the first opportunity to sneak up to the roof, secure the rope, throw the end down, leave the roof door open and we'd take it from there. As I said, simple – or do I mean simplistic? He probably wouldn't even get near the door to the roof.
By ten o'clock I was starting to panic. Eleven cars and their occupants had arrived. Music and laughter sounded faintly above the lapping of waves. Suddenly, the slightest of thumps and a black line jiggled against the white, moonlit wall.
Somewhat less than invisible in dark tracksuit and woollen hat, I hauled myself up, slid over the coping and froze. Someone was coming out of the door to the stairs. Fortunately, he wandered over to the other side of the roof where he stood smoking, gazing towards the hills. I pressed myself back in the deeper darkness behind the coping, not daring to move. Music and light drifting up through the opened dome had camouflaged my noise. After a couple of minutes he flicked the glowing butt into the car park, gazed down through the dome, grunted and returned to the gallery.
It was a while before I dared move – there might be someone else. I tried the door - locked. I hauled up the rope and peered cautiously over the edge of the dome. In front of the blocked out windows, a small stage flanked by urns sprouting gilded foliage, was splashed by the glow of eight candelabra on small tables beside eight armchairs. The rest of the gallery was lost in shadows.
On stage a blond and a redhead wrestled indolently under an amber spotlight, watched by five middle-aged, overweight males and two fashionably scrawny women of a similar age dressed for a subdued cocktail party. Wearing black thongs and nothing else, three young women were serving something colourful and creamy while Jon and a curly haired youth topped up glasses. Soft music drowned conversation.
CC, her bones wrapped in lurex spangles, kept an eye on proceedings from the gloom. MacFife, the only healthy-looking person seated, lounged in the eighth armchair while Glaze, gauntly elegant in white linen suit, slithered among the guests; chatting, charming, smarming. The girls' lazy nude wrestle progressed to erotic fondling. Plates were cleared, glasses recharged, and guests exchanged nods of anticipation.
Easy-going music became a staccato beat as Scumble's massively muscled naked body prowled onto the stage. He grabbed the blond by the hair and thrust her face in his groin, then upended the redhead and buried his head between her legs. She gazed vacantly into space until Blondie, having aroused the beast, took a well-earned breather while Scumble copulated doggy style with the redhead before carrying them off, one tucked under each arm. It was surprisingly funny and the audience was appreciative.
Glasses were refilled while CC herded the staff upstairs and closed the door. MacFife stood and asked a question. Everyone laughed and raised hands. CC wheeled in a chromium tea trolley and handed out straws and lines of what was obviously coke, on slabs of black glass. The excitement was palpable. Glaze, lean and mean in black codpiece, boots, dog-collar and armbands bristling with shiny metal spikes, leaped onto the stage, hands on hips, solemn, hard, and not even slightly ridiculous. The music thumped - insistent.
The trolley was wheeled away, music swelled and the waiters and waitresses, now in gold Lurex g-strings, lap-danced for their guests. Jon gazed at the ceiling while his woman busied her hands inside his pouch. Scumble reappeared with a whip and chased the young people away.
The music switched to a jolly rendering of The Teddy Bears' Picnic, and a prepubescent-looking girl carrying a basket of fruit skipped onto the stage, sat on a beanbag, peeled a banana and used it as a dildo before enticing her partner from his armchair to join her and experiment with different fruits and vegetables.
What followed was chilling. Two beautiful naked girls chased each other onto the stage and fought like wild cats. Blood dripped as they bit flesh and tore hair. There was no music, no sound other then their grunts and snarls. Eventually, one girl pinned the other with a knee on her neck, strapped on a dildo similar to the one that had done me such damage, and performed. I felt sick but the audience loved it.
Glaze, in crotchless leather harness, returned to the spotlight dragging a girl by the hair. Jon and the other boy followed and watched from the floor as Glaze flicked at her with a whip till she stripped. She cowered back in fear. The audience sat forward in their seats. However, before he could do anything else, Jon and the youth leaped onstage, snatched the whip and forced him to back off. The audience booed. The wailing girl clung to the other boy's legs for safety, but he simply held her while Jon ripped off his g-string, rolled on a condom and mounted her. After a noisy and obviously faked orgasm, the boys changed places, then each took an arm and dragged the sobbing creature off.
During the last act, in which Scumble and Glaze both misused a girl, Jon slipped in and whispered in McFife's ear. He stood and accompanied Jon into the shadows. At the end of the act, CC replenished glasses and MacFife beckoned a sweating Glaze and Scumble into the shadows. There appeared to be a disagreement, but eventually they nodded, MacFife returned to his seat, and Scumble escorted a simpering CC to him. MacFife kissed her on the cheek and offered the arm of his chair, where she perched awkwardly. Glaze, still naked, jumped back on stage, fondled himself lewdly and grinned.
"We've decided that as you've been such a great audience we'll give you an encore to make your hair curl before you take your boys and girls home to practise what you've learned."
They clapped in drugged dissatisfaction. Sex without love, affection, caring or tenderness, creates a gaping appetite. The greater the dissatisfaction, the more perverse the acts until only cruelty, pain and suffering can trigger release. I was trying not to think. It couldn't be real – could it? I'd been amazed at Jon's erection, until I remembered Frances's gigolo. I wasn't jealous. Loveless coupling with a stranger is pitiable, not something to excite jealousy.
My mind was a mess. Relief Jon had worn a condom. Fear he'd be forced to do worse things. Afraid of what came next – because CC had lied. The kids were going back to hotels with those revolting people. Hatred and fear prevented thought. I was hurting for the kids, although they didn't seem concerned for themselves. What horror story their childhood? I rolled away from the edge. All thought of trapping MacFife had vanished. Jon had to get out of there!
An insistent, thumping beat dragged me back to my post. Scumble, a priapic satyr, sweaty, glistening, was dancing towards CC, hips thrusting. He pulled her gently to her feet and kissed her long and passionately on the lips. She was obviously perplexed, but unworried as he led her onto the stage. Glaze shooed all the kids out and up the stairs, locking the door behind them. The audience tensed.
Scumble was a tomcat taunting, encircling his prey. Mesmerised, CC turned with him, eyes captured in his. He made little dashes forward, she backed off – unsure. He retreated and smiled. CC held her hands to her throat, a gesture of uncertainty. Not yet fear. Scumble turned away, bent over and thrust his bum at her, wagging it obscenely, poking his tongue out at the audience. They sniggered.
Suddenly, arms swinging like a hairless ape, he bounded round the stage and, with a shout of triumph, pounced onto the woman's back, dragging her to the ground. A shriek of pain as something snapped, her ankle in those stupid heels. She grabbed at it in agony.
Scumble stood astride her, pulled her head up and thrust his penis in her face. She tried to push it away but he kept jamming it at her eyes, nose, ears, mouth. She grabbed it with both hands and tried to pull herself up. He stood firm, hands on hips, mouth a leer. She swung weakly for several seconds before her attacker nonchalantly raised a foot, sent her crumbling back to the floor, and wandered into the shadows.
The audience shifted in their seats – confused. CC froze - terrified.
Glaze ran onto the stage and lifted her to her feet. She threw her arms round his neck and clung, ankle bent at a sickening angle. He smoothed her hair comfortingly. The music throbbed. She could have screamed her lungs out – no one outside would have heard. Out of the shadows crawled Scumble. He squatted behind her and slid his hands under her dress. She tried to pull away, but Glaze held her firmly while the shimmering garment was ripped from bottom to top and thrown away. Glaze stepped back, leaving the skinny, pale, pathetic old woman in ridiculously small, black-lace bra and panties, wobbling on one high-heeled foot.
A snigger rippled through the audience.
Scumble lumbered forward brandishing a knife. CC toppled. Glaze caught and held her while bra and panties were sliced off and tossed away, exposing grey pubic hair and breasts that were mere flaps of skin. Her whole being shrivelled as Scumble took hold of a nipple, rolled it viciously between finger and thumb, then held the knife as if to slice it off. He laughed, repeated the threat with the other, then turned to the audience, his face a question.
Their expressions were as frightening as the action on stage.
Scumble turned back to CC, shrugged apologetically as though to say he was only doing his job, took a nipple delicately between the finger and thumb of his left hand and gazed into her eyes. Her mouth was working but no sound arrived. He shook his head, shrugged again, then stretched the sagging, blue-veined flesh taut before slicing cleanly through the base of the nipple. Blood spurted– but only briefly. The pain must have been horrendous. Eyes seemed to occupy half her face, mouth opened to scream, tongue moved, lips stretched in agony and her throat worked, but the scream was silent.
Glaze bent forward, doubled her up, grabbed hold of thin thighs and lifted to expose the old woman's private parts. Little spurts of urine set the audience guffawing. Scumble bounced off stage to the nearest table, pulled out a candle, grinned cheerfully, waved it at the audience, then extinguished it between her legs.
The music was a soft heartbeat as Scumble wrapped his left arm around CC's neck and pulled her head against his chest as though regretting what he'd done. After gently brushing stray hairs from her eyes, he placed the heel of his right hand against her temple and gave a quick shove. The snap was audible from the roof. I rolled away and threw up.
I lay there, sick to the core. How could I have agreed to Jon's being part