by HMC
White Walls
A psychological thriller
by
H.M.C
White Walls
Third Edition
Copyright © 2015 by H.M.C
First published in 2013 by the author www.hmcwriter.com
© Cover Design – KILA Designs www.kiladesigns.com.au
Cover Image – Daniel Sanchez Blasco www.dsbfoto.es/
Formatting - Country Mouse Design countrymousedesign.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
ISBN 978-0-646-90462-7
For Coleen,
who told me I could be anyone I wanted.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my partner in crime, Keith, for encouraging me and keeping me sane.
Thank you to my mother, Coleen, and brother, Guy, for supporting me in every crazy venture I ever chose to undertake. Your unconditional love has made me who I am.
To my friends and beta readers, Sara Caldwell, Pamela Daly, Nadia Achilles and Karen Parkinson, thank you for telling me that White Walls was going to work – even when it was scribbles on random scraps of paper.
Thank you to Alicia Kemp for filling in the missing parts.
A big thanks to Ariel Hudnall for helping me with the third edition.
Thank you to Valerie for creating a workplace that encourages dreamers, as well as doers.
Thanks to my amazing editor, Carson Buckingham. You are wise, patient, and a bloody good mentor.
Lastly, to Eddie (AKA Dad), at your wake your pub mates asked if I’d published my book yet – it was the faith you had in me that kept me going.
And here it is.
PART ONE
The DOCTOR
An Acrylic Wasteland
Two storeys up, in an old apartment, George Barter bit his nails. He looked down at the street and watched a young policeman put his arm around a dark-haired girl. He wondered what they were doing together, again, and came to the conclusion she must be sleeping with him to get out of strife. She was trouble that one, trouble with a capital T. He watched as they walked out of sight.
George noticed someone else observing the couple’s rendezvous. The culprit’s straw-coloured mop of hair gave him away. He was hiding against a wall near the corner store, and he poked his head out to sneak glimpses. Were they even trying to be stealthy nowadays?
‘I can see you!’ George hung himself out the open window. He was menacing from such a height, the building becoming his body, and he becoming Godzilla.
The figure disappeared.
The punks upstairs were making a cacophony with their pathetic, thrashing, pull-your-pants-up – you invalid – trash-music. But yelling out the window at them would be futile. They’d likely poke their heads out, call him an old faggoty fag, then turn their shit-box up a little louder. Young people.
George was agitated. He’d have to call his landlord soon to let him know he’d be vacating the premises. The building was unsafe, too loud, and totally overpriced. Not to mention the dripping taps, faulty electrical sockets, and a communal laundry that smelled of cat urine. He could smell it in his clothes.
George was unable to concentrate on anything for too long and found himself pacing his apartment. He moved to sit down in front of his mirror – decorated obsessively with collages of various faces from magazines. Madonna might’ve been getting old, but she knew how to look good doing it. She gazed back at him with bedroom eyes. Too bad he was an old faggoty fag, or he’d have taken her on. Some days he would copy their makeup and feel fabulous. On days like today, however, he looked at them and felt like an old lump.
The middle-aged man noticed for the hundredth time that his hair was receding. He pulled his lips tight and frowned, exacerbating the lines on his face. Ageing was such a tragic process. How brutal to be gorgeous one day, only to dry up like an old leather handbag the next.
George stood and shuffled through his home. Abstract paintings, photos and sculptures adorned the rooms. Each of his art pieces had one subject – George Barter’s face. He had filled his home, his mother’s home, and an entire section of an art gallery. There was always room for one more. Art for art’s sake.
Just as a particular piece caught his attention, the doorbell rang, and he jumped. He stormed over to peer through the peephole, with his open dressing gown flowing behind him. ‘Who the hell is it? What do you want!’
‘I’m here about the rent.’ George stood silent and stonily resolute behind the door. ‘Listen. If I don’t get it by the end of the week…’ His landlord looked and dressed like a scarecrow in a shabby navy suit. Well he wasn’t scaring crows, or George, and he wasn’t getting a cent until he repaired a few things around this dump he had the nerve to refer to as a ‘luxury flat!’
‘You want money? Fix the taps!’
His landlord sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘The taps are fine. We had a plumber come in last month, remember?’ He waited for a moment, and when George gave no response, he said, ‘I’m leaving now. Rent or you’re out. You have one week.’
‘I’m giving my two weeks’ notice. Those punks upstairs are dangerous. I can’t stand this place any longer!’
‘You’ve been saying that for three years, George. Rent. Goodbye.’
‘Arsehole.’ George was disappointed when he got no reaction. His landlord trotted off down the hall. George huffed at the keyhole.
His black curtains shut out daylight. He had painted the walls red and festooned them with large black swirls to a startling effect, though it deepened the surrounding darkness. He couldn’t leave this place. Not really. Antique furnishings lined the walls. Lamps and mirrors, velvet couches and chipped ornaments abounded. He lived like a vampire in solitude amongst the beauty of his trinkets. This place was awful, but it was his place – his little slice of Screw-Ups-Ville. And he’d stay, probably until the day he died here, alone, and whatever stray was stinking up the communal laundry downstairs would come up and eat his carcass until there was nothing left of him but old antiques and mediocre pictures of his mug. ‘Well, at least they won’t have to pay for a coffin.’
George poured himself a coffee and looked at the clock. He’d usually be going to visit his shrink right about now, but he was gone, like everyone else that abandoned George. He never liked him anyway. He’d suggested George was a narcissist and a hoarder with developing agoraphobia, which, of course, George resented. He suggested that he go forth alone, and multiply. Against his mother’s will George had quit therapy and had been happy ever since – well as happy as George could get, anyway.
Today wasn’t one of those ‘happy days,’ however. There were people spying on his building. As he peeked out from behind the heavy curtains, he noticed there were now two of them. They didn’t even try to hide the fact they were stalking him. Straw head was now standing next to a bull-sized man who looked like he’d walked straight off the set of Good Fellas.
No matter what he shouted, they remained. This was becoming an everyday occurrence and made it tricky when he wanted to venture across the street to the supermarket for food and supplies. As a result, he now had to tolerate that odious teenager assigned to deliver them.
George sat back down in front of his mirror and switched on a lamp. He used a spectrum of L’Oreal powdered makeup to paint his eyelids, lashes, and cheeks. It took him half-an-hour to apply the practised lines of colours, after which, he picked up his sketchbook to draw a self-portrait.
He held a lump of charcoal in his fingers and flipped through the pad, only to discover that he’d filled it. George
squeezed the charcoal and it shattered.
He paced. He panicked. He swore.
George had no art supplies. The supermarket delivery had already been made and he certainly couldn’t be expected to wait until next week for paper. He snatched the phone in disgust and dialled the art emporium across the street.
‘Hello, and thank you for calling Canfield’s Art Supply. How may I help you on this lovely day?’
‘Hello, Maud.’ He knew she hated her name.
‘Hello, George.’
Success! She was deflated like a limp balloon. He twirled the phone cord around his fingers.
‘I need a large sketchbook or canvas please. God has provided me with the most amazing piece for my next artwork and I must begin immediately. It’s a matter of life and death.’
‘Well, come on over, George. We have plenty of what you need right here.’
He took a breath to calm himself. ‘No, Maud, you don’t understand. If I come out I’ll be followed.’
There was a pause. ‘Well, George, I’m sorry but I can’t leave the shop. I can pop over this afternoon around five but that’s the best I can do, sorry.’
‘By five o’clock the image will be gone and I will never have it back!’ He heard her huffing and instantly regretted raising his voice, as much as he detested provincial clerks everywhere.
‘Gotta go, got a customer.’ She hung up on him. He was stunned.
‘Got a customer? Got a customer? What am I, a bloody stick of rhubarb?’ George stared down at his white knuckles clutching the receiver. He smashed it down onto the hook and threw his chair back.
He grabbed his phone and hurled it against the shelf, scattering his books. Next he took a pair of scissors, tore down his favourite paintings one by one, and cut them to shreds. He saw red, literally. The rampage continued unabated for many minutes.
Chest heaving, George grabbed a large glass filled with brush cleaner. In a final act of defiance, he pitched it out the window towards his stalkers. The smash as it hit the pavement was most satisfying. He smiled as he struggled to catch his breath. George could hear voices in the street shouting up at his window.
The hurricane that was his rage had resolved itself into an inconsequential breeze. He caught his breath, and his light-headedness ebbed away. Why do I do this? He surveyed the surrounding wreckage. He fell to his knees to clean the mess, when his buzzer rang.
The streets stirred. The quiet bustle of this country town was charming enough, but Samantha Phillips had the mother of all headaches, and so the charm passed unappreciated. She rather felt like throwing up. Sam dry-swallowed some painkillers instead, and offered up a prayer to whatever deity happened to be listening – and giving a shit – that the throbbing and nausea would be short lived. She was surprised when the things actually slid down her throat and didn’t make a comeback.
Sam’s eyes were closing involuntarily, and she wanted to curl up on the footpath and sleep. Last night’s painted face was wearing thin and her reputation around town even thinner, but who gives a damn? All she wanted right now was a hot shower and the comforting lather of apple shampoo to wash out the stink of several ashtrays.
She tottered down the main street. The shops lay parallel to the road, quaint and ancient sentries without a gap between them. A sudden mid-morning wind made her eyes water, and she pulled the neck of her green woollen jumper over her chin. The loose knit style made it useless.
It wasn’t so cold here in Fairholmes, Australia, though. Not in comparison to other places she’d heard about. Not like where the cold could rattle your bones and freeze your soul. It was just enough to make your teeth chatter.
The young woman surveyed the town through slitted eyes. It was bubbly for eight-thirty in the morning. She wondered why everyone seemed so god-damn chirpy. Sam watched the shop-owners fuss to get ready. A couple of middle-aged mothers and an old man in an Akubra hat lurked outside watching and waiting like sales-predatory vultures. Even some young ones were up, their Blue’s Clues kite chasing them down the empty road.
As she waited for her painkillers to kick in, Sam found herself imagining a far off city with normal people – ones that frowned more. City people, who would catch a glimpse of the morning news before taking off to their grey jobs and in their Land Rovers that had never seen dirt. Life would be overflowing with more purposeful movement. The hustle was for a reason. There were places to be, people to see, meetings to attend and caffeine to be consumed. Watching these people bustling around in their own self-importance reminded Sam of a child dressing up in their mummy’s clothes.
At least they have some kind of purpose, her voice tormented.
Oh, shut your face. Do you think I really want to be like them?
Yes. I do, as a matter of fact.
Well, good thing no one cares what you think, huh?
Roger Mack opened his fishing store, Katy Bloom rushed down the street with her three children in tow, Lucus Buckshaw stood at the ATM with paint-slathered overalls and a payday smile dancing on his lips. They were all fresh and rosy, well, perhaps not Katy.
Nope, they’re all losers.
As if you’re not.
Fuck off.
Moving to the city wouldn’t solve her problems. Maybe it would be a distraction for a bit – a way to shove the pain down deeper. She could be anyone she wanted to be in a place like that and get away with much more. Fairholmes kept her in line, as much as anything could. It knew her inside and out and watched her. Who am I fooling? I’m stuck here.
Sam lit a cigarette and nodded to the butcher who stood on the sidewalk in front of his shop. He glared at her and she smiled back.
‘Good morning, Tim.’
‘Samantha.’ He avoided eye contact.
Fairholmes women would gossip like a bunch of gaggling geese when Sam so much as breathed on a married man. She really didn’t give a damn. Give them something to talk about.
‘Lovely carcasses today.’
‘Keep on your way, Sam.’
He wasn’t in the mood and she was a little let down. Ignoring the tacit warning, she leaned up against his store and beamed. ‘Don’t be like that.’
Tim shook his head and disappeared into the shop. The large cowbell in his doorway jangled as he slammed his door shut.
What a simple day he had ahead of him. There was a happiness that people like Tim seemed to indulge in so ignorantly. He had his little shop and a wife who loved him. He had children and grandchildren. They would visit on weekends for a family barbeque. Though outwardly she disdained that type of normality, Sam secretly longed for it.
Who’d have thought that Samantha Phillips would envy a fat, balding, little man who smelled like pork butt?
She consoled herself by imagining that Tim had some nasty secrets of his own locked in a dark seething corner of his psyche. Maybe he wasn’t really that happy.
Her blue eyes stared back from the store window, with lashes layered with so much mascara she looked like she was wearing tarantulas. ‘Damn.’ Sam rubbed underneath them to mitigate that smudgy ‘rugby player’ look. She turned and wiped the cigarette ash off her jeans. They hugged her hips and trailed down to a bootleg cut, covering half of her red Chuck Taylors which were becoming so tattered, she was considering having them revamped. Surely if they could revamp a bathroom, they could revamp a shoe. Sam moved over to scrape them along the gutter and remove some old chewing gum. The gum pulled into a gooey string.
She scowled and took off again, picking up the pace, and longing for the comfort of her warm bed. She’d need sleep to prepare for tonight. A close friend of hers was in town and they had recently gotten up to their old tricks together. They knocked back beer at Safari’s until after 1 AM then went looking for trouble in the back streets of Fairholmes.
They hotwired a Mitsubishi Lancer GLXI, and nicknamed it ‘The Cane Toad’ due to it
s bulging, rust-encrusted lumps. They sped off into the night and the car was a twisted mass of metal by morning.
They hadn’t hurt anyone.
At least, not this time.
Sam took a long drag of her cigarette and a firm hand squeezed her shoulder. She turned to face a gorgeous police officer.
He was a tall man, with a beautifully-sculpted face, and wavy hair that stuck out in small pieces from underneath his police hat. It was neither brown nor blonde. She loved his hair.
‘Hello, Sam.’ Constable Travis Bourke couldn’t smile at her without a hint of adoration. She was dazzling. Even with makeup smeared all over her face like a hooker (another reason he was constantly defending her integrity). Travis always found himself holding his breath when he laid eyes on her, even if he’d only seen her yesterday.
‘I see you’ve had a big one.’
‘How can you tell?’ She pouted. ‘It’s my black eyes isn’t it? Maybe the panda look is in somewhere around the world, but definitely not in Fairdump, Australia. I was just heading home. Want to walk me?’
Travis nodded and put an arm around her. ‘Know anything about a missing car, Sam?’ There was no reaction. Her body never gave her away. Not even a flinch.
‘Ah, nope. Whose car?’
‘Never mind that. You know, I’ve known you forever, and I still can’t tell when you’re lying.’
‘I never lie.’
‘Sure.’ He smiled. ‘Did you think any more about that idea I had? You could be going to a uni lecture right now rather than coming home from a night out. You’d be feeling a whole lot better than you do right now, too. And I wouldn’t have to be asking you about a stolen car. ’
‘Really? You’re already giving me a lecture. I’m learning so much, Travis.’
He smiled again, but this time it disappeared quickly.
‘So what’s really up?’
‘Nothing.’ He gazed down at his rough confidant as they walked – he in his police uniform, with its razor creases and polished shoes, her … as she was. Even though they were so close, it was easy to see how many worlds apart they were.
