Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing

by Lord, Gabrielle

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ she asked, coming over to the door.

  ‘Black and one, please.’

  He held her gaze a moment longer than was completely necessary before going back to his office and Gemma felt a little awkward. She glanced down at herself. As far as she could see, everything was in order: her navy slacks were clean, her cream blouse and red and cream striped jumper seemed innocent of any blemish. She went to the little mirror behind the door and checked that she didn’t have spinach wrapped around a front tooth. Reassured, she went out to the kitchen for something to eat and started the coffee-making. Taxi was sulking, hiding under the lounge. He didn’t even bother batting at her fingers when she crouched down to tease him. Nor did he come running when she opened the fridge, usually a sure-fire cue to get him up and going. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asked him, irritated that the shelves were almost bare apart from a little smoked salmon and some salad. I wish there was someone who’d just do the marketing every week, she thought. Someone who’d make sure there were always plenty of goodies in the fridge. She realised she felt like something more substantial—and hot. She found some bread and a lump of good Gloucester and made toasted cheese, with an extra slice in case Mike wanted some too. She carried the coffee and the toasted cheese on a tray, knocking with the toe of her shoe and pushing the door open in the same way.

  The second office was smaller than her own, but warmer in winter because the windows were free of climbing vegetation so the low sunshine filled it during the afternoons. Mike was printing out as she put the tray on the low table next to the printer, noticing the expensive automobile magazines in a pile. Men, she thought. They don’t get salad but they do get the internal combustion engine. She failed to interpret this in any satisfactory way as she passed his coffee to him and offered him the toasted cheese. He took a slice and she perched on the edge of the desk used by Louise and, to a lesser degree, Spinner. Spinner pretty well lived in his vehicle, making his office in the white Rodeo utility, where a change of tarpaulins or the addition of metal frame fixtures on the back created a new disguise when necessary. He himself could do wizard-like transformations, using old beanies, headbands, leather jackets and football jerseys, turning himself from a wizened old man to a sturdy flyweight contender and back again in minutes.

  ‘Mike,’ she started as he bit into his toast, embarrassed by what she had to say, ‘I’ve been getting nuisance email.’

  ‘That’s no good,’ he said, between chews.

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I want to talk to you about what I can do.’

  He finished the toast, picked up a pen and started doodling a series of overlapping triangles.

  ‘What sort of nuisance email? Spam?’

  She shook her head. ‘Pornographic,’ she said. ‘It’s horrible.’

  Mike looked at her with surprise and she felt a blush start at the base of her neck. She looked away and cleared her throat.

  ‘What’s the best thing to do?’ she asked. Part of her reasons for employing someone with Mike’s capabilities had been to keep computer technology in-house, and save a small fortune in services and fees.

  ‘I can install a program for you,’ Mike said, ‘that will block the addresses of any known nuisance.’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘That’s just it,’ she said. ‘It’s not just one or two addresses. They’re all different. Lots of them from all over the place. Somehow my address has become available to any perv in cyberspace.’

  Mike looked even more surprised.

  ‘Somehow, someone who knows my email address is encouraging people to write to me. I’m getting dozens every time I log on. It’s diabolical.’

  Gemma thought of the ugly threats and sexual hatred conveyed by strangers at the speed of light. The net is the greatest producer, distributor and retail outlet for pornography than any other system, she’d read somewhere.

  ‘My sister says if a traveller from another galaxy wanted to know what human beings are like,’ she said, ‘they should just check our reflection on the Internet.’

  She noticed Mike looking at her closely, penetrating grey eyes very direct.

  ‘I can install a selective firewall,’ he said, ‘that searches for certain key words, so any email containing any of those words would be automatically blocked.’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Gemma, feeling the heavy burden of the last few days easing. ‘Please do that.’

  ‘Just give me the list of words.’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ she said, picking up her now empty plate and cup. ‘Come to my office and you can see for yourself.’

  She went to her computer and logged on, entered her password and waited. Her heart sank. There were dozens more already. She could feel the warmth of Mike’s body as he stood behind her, watching while she opened one of the emails at random.

  ‘Hi Dirtygirl,’ she read, ‘I really enjoyed your fantasy. I came in my pants just reading it. You must really like it rough. This is what I’d do to you. First I’d handcuff you, one hand on each side of the bed then I’d gag you . . .’

  Gemma turned away, sickened, and Mike stepped back to let her get up.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you don’t have to read the rest of it. I can do that and make a list of the words that crop up all the time. That should get rid of the majority of them quickly. Any that slip through, we’ll just add to the prohibited list.’

  ‘But what about genuine messages?’ she said. ‘My friends might use some of those words in their emails.’

  ‘Nice friends,’ he said.

  It was the sort of remark that Spinner might make, but at least Spinner was predictable and Gemma was never offended by his narrow-mindedness. It was part of his charm. Now, Gemma felt both defensive and angry at Mike’s words. She didn’t want this response from him.

  ‘That’s very self-righteous,’ she said, trying to laugh it off.

  ‘You can email them that they’d better clean up their language or they’ll be purged,’ he said and the moment passed. ‘As a general rule with email,’ he went on, ‘presume that anyone can read anything you’ve written. That way, you’ll take more care with it. It might feel the same as writing a letter, but it’s a letter that can be accessed by a lot of people. A letter in a drawer in your house doesn’t have that potential.’ He considered a moment. ‘And shut your PC down for a while,’ he said.

  ‘But I need it,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. You’re the boss.’

  Six

  Gemma cleaned up the last of her lasagna, picked up her glass of red wine and looked around Kit’s freshly painted dining area, a section of the cosy living room, with old-fashioned picture rails and heavy red curtains closing the window against the sea beneath the cliff walk. Kit was looking terrific these days, Gemma thought, glossy and alive. Since her divorce some years ago, Kit had blossomed.

  ‘You look great, Kittycat,’ she said.

  Kit smiled to acknowledge the compliment, then looked more closely at her younger sister. ‘I can’t say the same for you, Gems,’ she said. ‘You’re working too hard.’

  ‘It’s not really work,’ said Gemma. ‘It’s life in general.’

  Kit took the empty plates away and Gemma followed her out into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve been getting awful email,’ Gemma said. ‘Horrible stuff. I was even feeling guilty that somehow I must have caused all these pathetic dirty-minded sickos to come after me. It’s been horrendous.’ She scraped the dishes and put them on the counter.

  ‘Gems, I don’t understand,’ said Kit, turning round from the sink. ‘How does something like that sort of harassment start?’

  Gemma knew exactly how it had started, but there was no way she could admit that to her sister. ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure,’ she said vaguely. ‘But I imagine it’s not di
fficult to get to someone’s email address and post it somewhere in cyberspace and invite the weirdos to respond. It’s a high-tech version of writing your enemy’s name and phone number in the public toilets.’

  •

  Later they finished their wine with coffee in front of the open fire. Outside, the Pacific roared like a train, driven by a strong south easterly that had risen only in the last few minutes.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s odd,’ she persisted, ‘that a complete stranger got hold of your email address in the first place?’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘I just don’t know,’ she said. ‘But it’s not that hard. No one regards email addresses as particularly private.’ That at least was true. She felt the relief of answering honestly.

  ‘Any interesting clients?’ she asked, tossing back the last of her wine, changing the subject.

  Kit flashed her a look.

  ‘I know you can’t talk about them, but you could sort of give me a general idea.’ Gemma said. ‘You know, along the lines of whether you’ve got anyone who’s in love with their poodle or something a bit different.’

  Her sister just laughed.

  ‘I had this dream,’ Gemma said, changing back again. ‘A huge meteor was coming towards me. I was on Earth but I knew it was up there, light years away. I was standing near the lions. On Delos, I think.’

  Kit got up and walked over to the bookshelves, pulling out a large illustrated art book.

  ‘I looked up Delos,’ said Kit, ‘when you first told me about the lions you were making. Delos is where Leto gave birth to Apollo and Artemis. And, according to the legend, no one else was allowed to be born or to die there.’

  ‘Sounds like fairyland,’ said Gemma. She phrased her next question carefully, worried about giving too much away. ‘If a person came to you,’ she said, ‘saying they’d always felt something was missing from their lives, what would you say?’

  Kit laughed and shook her head. ‘I don’t have a particular formula that I use when people say things to me, Gems. It all depends on who they are and what their lives are all about.’ She paused. ‘But it’s a very common feeling,’ she added. ‘Many people feel an emptiness in their lives they can’t account for. Sometimes whatever or whoever they’ve been using to fill it up suddenly isn’t there anymore. Or it doesn’t work any more. Or they reach a certain age and look back and feel they’ve missed something along the way. I see a lot of people who say that to me in their different ways.’

  Gemma thought of the violent man stalking Sydney’s sex workers. ‘You don’t happen to be seeing someone who picks up women who look a bit like Ally McBeal and bashes and rapes them?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Kit. ‘But he probably wouldn’t tell me if he was.’

  ‘I thought clients told their therapists everything.’

  ‘Whatever made you think that?’

  ‘But wouldn’t you know? If they were withholding secrets from you?’

  Kit laughed. ‘Gems, I think you attribute powers to me that I don’t have.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gemma impatiently, ‘but I know you can read people, read their energy. That must tell you things.’

  ‘It might tell me that they’re withdrawn and secretive in their way of being, but it doesn’t necessarily tell me what their secrets are.’ She paused. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘someone like that doesn’t do therapy unless he’s had some huge insight into the fact that he’s using violence against women as an outlet for old rage. I doubt if that happens very often.’

  ‘I visited one of those people’s victims in hospital,’ said Gemma. ‘She’s in an awful state. How would someone like that be if you just met him on the street?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ said Kit. ‘Alienated. He might be the kind of loner the profilers talk about. But not necessarily. Some violent men can be quite charming as long as everything’s going according to their script. If charm was part of the family training. But if this fellow targets street girls it might be because he can’t face women socially. Or he might have a grudge against sex workers in general.’

  Gemma immediately thought of her client Peter Greengate, whose hatred had for an instant hardened his eyes and how he’d remained standing, watching her closed door instead of walking away.

  ‘I’m going to visit the man who owns the car used in the last attack. He claims it was stolen.’

  ‘He would,’ said Kit. ‘You be careful. Why not send a man instead? He could do some of that “all women are asking for it” routine and see what the guy’s reaction is.’

  Gemma considered. ‘I want to get the feel of him myself.’ She saw Kit flash her a look, then look away.

  ‘Will’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night. Can you handle my cooking two nights in a row?’

  Gemma hadn’t seen her nephew for ages. ‘How is Will?’

  Kit smiled. ‘He’s very well. He’s studying Law part time. He’s got a job with the Registrar General’s department. It’s hard to believe he’s been straight now for over two years. He says he can’t believe it either sometimes.’

  ‘It’s good, Kit.’ She thought of something. ‘And thanks. I’d like to come over but I’m undercover tomorrow night. I’m on the streets as a sex worker. And I’m hoping to pull a special client.’

  Kit’s face drained of colour. ‘Not that man we’ve just been talking about? The one who’s attacking street girls?’ She looked sick and Gemma wished she could take the words back. I should never have told Kit about this, she realised too late.

  ‘What is it?’ Gemma asked. ‘I can see you don’t approve.’

  Kit shook her head. ‘Of course I don’t. It’s crazy. Don’t do it.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said in a calm voice. ‘Kit, I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Gemma felt provoked and she could feel her face getting hot. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact I do.’

  Kit stood up and walked to the mantelpiece where two photographs stood in oval frames. She picked one of them up and Gemma, straining to see, recognised an early portrait of their mother.

  ‘I don’t think you do,’ Kit said. ‘It’s not only a foolish idea, it’s also very dangerous. Surely I don’t have to remind you of what happened a couple of years ago when I was almost murdered as a direct result of your acting out.’

  Gemma sat, open-mouthed. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What acting out?’

  ‘I’m referring to your habit of picking up men.’

  ‘Oh, for heavens sake,’ Gemma began, feeling anger and irritation together. ‘That was just unlucky. I don’t have a habit of picking up men!’

  ‘Gemma, stop deluding yourself. You’re still doing it! Except now you’ve got hundreds of men harassing you by email. How did that happen?’

  Gemma felt guilty and defensive. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—admit to her sister that she had indeed been silly and flirtatious, pretending to be someone she wasn’t on an Internet chat line.

  ‘I didn’t think it was your habit to blame the victim,’ she retorted, going on the attack.

  ‘It’s not a question of blaming anyone. It’s a matter of living responsibly,’ said her sister. ‘We express who we are in everything we do. Have a look at what your behaviour says. I think you’re behaving in a very foolish way. You seem compelled to keep putting yourself into dangerous situations.’ She put the photograph of their mother down. ‘But what makes it even more dangerous is that you seem to be completely unconscious of this.’

  ‘I’m not unconscious about it. It’s my job for God’s sake,’ Gemma said. ‘I don’t do it for fun. It’s my work!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Kit. ‘You just rationalise it away. Don’t you ever ask yourself why you’re drawn to the sort of work you do? Why do you want to do these sorts of things? Like dressing up as a hooker to attr
act a potential killer?’

  ‘Because I’m suited to it,’ Gemma snapped. ‘Because I’ve got the training for it.’

  ‘So have heaps of others. Someone else could do it.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Gemma said caustically. ‘So it’s okay for someone else to do dangerous work, but not little Gemma? You talk about my childhood as if you weren’t there too. It was our childhood and if I was affected, so must you have been!’

  Kit’s voice didn’t change and the very mildness of it irritated Gemma even more. ‘The police are properly equipped for this sort of thing,’ Kit was saying. ‘It’s not your job to be running some pro-active operation to catch such a dangerous man.’

  ‘The police aren’t doing it. That’s just the point. And it is my business. That’s why Shelly asked me and that’s why I’ve taken it on. I make my living investigating people and their lives and their problems. Just like you do but in a different way. You take on dangerous clients. Don’t try and tell me otherwise. I don’t criticise you for that.’ She was surprised at her own vehemence and realised she wasn’t quite finished with Kit yet. ‘You reckon I’m compelled, as you put it,’ she said. ‘But what about you? Maybe you’re the one with unconscious motives here. Still protecting little Gems at all times! In a couple of years I’ll be forty, Kit. I don’t need protection from my big sister anymore.’ She stood up, grabbed her jacket and her purse, wanting to go home, feeling unaccountably sad. ‘And I’ve got enough on my mind just now,’ she added, ‘without having to deal with your criticism.’

  She strode out of the room and up the hall, aware of her sister following. Outside, the sea crashed against the shore as the wind strengthened, rattling the windows and whining under the doors. Kit moved in front of her, opening the front door and standing back to let her pass. Gemma stood there a moment, unwilling for them to part like this.

  ‘Kit, I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Please, Gemma. Reconsider.’