by L. A. Larkin
‘Cops … the cops …’
Her eyes are closing. He shakes her, hard.
‘Did he?’
‘No … cops scared me.’
‘Bullshit. What did he tell you, Serena?’
She is opening her mouth and trying to call for help. But her reactions are slow and his hand instantly covers her mouth and nose. She is trying to breathe and can’t. Wide-eyed with terror, she is wriggling feebly, like a madman in a straightjacket. He is suffocating her. He is killing her.
‘Tell me the truth and I’ll let you live. Scream and I’ll kill you.’
Serena blinks her tearful eyes. He takes his hand away and she breathes deeply, gasping in air, but even breathing is a clumsy process.
Barely able to hold herself up, she speaks.
‘I did … n’t … speak … to him,’ is all she is capable of saying, her mind telling her to protect the professor.
‘What do you know about the Gweru research?’ says a voice she doesn’t recognise. Where did it come from?
Another face is looking at her. A man. Pale blue eyes. Gaunt face. Darko. Cigarette smoke is swirling around him, as if he were an apparition. He is moving in and out of focus.
‘Noth … ing. I didn’t find … anything. I failed.’
‘Of course you failed,’ Bukowski laughs in her face, mouth wide, and she smells the wine on his warm breath. ‘Did you really think you could outwit me? Me? You don’t play me, use your sex to manipulate me. I play you. I control you.’
He is taking her face between his hands and his mouth is pressed on hers. It engulfs her, his tongue forcing her mouth open, his stubbled skin scratching hers. He demands her acquiescence. She wants to resist but her body is not responding. She cannot even control her jaw. He invades her mouth, and tears fill her eyes. The terrible realisation dawns that he has total control over her.
When he pulls away, Serena tries to speak. Barely opening her lips, she mouths in slow motion the tiny word, ‘No’.
Serena is being lifted, her head flopping back; she’s a dead weight. Her limbs are numb. Shadows are swirling around her.
‘Well?’ It is Darko.
‘She doesn’t know enough,’ Bukowski is saying.
‘And she won’t remember?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘And the journalist? I don’t like her sniffing around.’
‘Arrange an accident,’ Bukowski says.
She is glimpsing an upside-down image of the hallway and then the lounge room, her head bobbing. No one in the room looks up. They are busy. Craig’s shirt is undone, flashing his tanned stomach, as Gordana runs her tongue over his chest, moving downwards, lapping like a cat at a bowl of cream. Sasha is masturbating as she watches them. A porno film is playing. Bodies writhe. Body parts merge, appear and disappear. Mouths open, tongues fill them.
The flickering light from the lounge room fades as Serena is carried around dark corners. She can see little, but she is feeling everything. She is touching crisp, cold sheets, but cannot move a finger. She cannot speak. Corpse-like, she is staring at the ceiling. Tears stream down her face. She is feeling her dress being removed; black eyes are staring down at her, his body towering over her.
Hands, lips, sweat dripping above her; whose lips are on her breasts? Whose mouth bites her lip and draws blood, leaving a taste of rust behind? Who rolls her over and places large cushions under her stomach, her head at an angle, lying heavily on the bedsheet?
Cigarette smoke is wafting over her and she smells Darko’s rancid sweat as his arms manoeuvre her into position. He is receding, looking at her one more time before he leaves the room. She is trying to scream, to say no, but her mouth and tongue are lifeless. Through watery eyes, she watches the only candle in the room flicker and die. She can see nothing. She is feeling Bukowski’s hands running down her back and cruelly gripping her hips. She is barely breathing, she is so terrified.
Darko returns and speaks.
‘There’s someone downstairs asking for her. He’s coming up.’
Bukowski is still, but his grip on her tightens.
‘Fuck it!’
He releases her and she lies there, like a discarded rag doll.
‘Get a cab. Get rid of her,’ Bukowski orders. ‘Now!’
She thinks she is alone and then she sees his face.
‘I own you, bitch,’ Bukowski whispers. ‘Never fuck with me again.’
Chapter 44
Throat dry, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She tries to move it. It’s like ripping Velcro.
Half awake, half asleep, she aches. Curled up like a foetus under a sheet, she floats in and out of consciousness. She wants to sleep some more but it’s too bright. Why is it so bright? Her hair covers most of her face but sunlight peeps in underneath the strands. Her eyelids feel stuck together and she tries to open them. She can’t. Eyelids closed, she watches pink bubbles float by. Her cheek is resting on her hand. She extends some fingers and it feels like moving them through liquid cement. She drifts into unconsciousness again and has no concept of the hours passing.
That light. Why won’t it go away? She tries to open one eye and feels each eyelash tearing. Blurred shapes fill the room: white, yellow, black, brown. The room swims as if she is underwater. Prising open the other eye, she tries to focus, as if peering through binoculars that haven’t been adjusted correctly. Her body feels so heavy. She tries moving her head and it is as if she is learning to do this for the very first time. Initially, it simply doesn’t move. Then, as if in slow motion, it lifts, and a shooting pain stabs her behind the eyes, and she shuts her eyelids tight, gasping. She daren’t move, hoping it will go away, and slowly it dulls to a throbbing ache. Why does she feel so terrible? Her eyes still shut, she tries to uncurl her legs and, as she does so, she registers a numbness in the one bearing the weight of the other. Slowly, they stretch out.
Why does her body feel so restricted? She moves her free arm down and feels the material of her dress wrapped around her legs. Her arm muscles retract in pain; an intense ache, as if she has been lifting weights that are too heavy for her. Why is she wearing a dress in bed? Still lying on her side, she pushes back the sheet and attempts to kick it further down the bed, but a pain in her left thigh stops her. She swallows.
Like a fragile old woman, she carefully moves her legs so that they dangle over the edge of the bed, and uses their weight to help her sit up. The room swirls around her and she grips the undersheet to prevent her from toppling over. She feels very sick and knows she needs to reach the bathroom. She wills the room to stop spinning, and stares at one spot until it’s still enough for her to recognise her own chest of drawers, upon which are photos of friends and family. She knows now she is at home in Coogee. Serena looks down at the crumpled dress and notices a dark stain.
Where was I last night? And how much did I drink? Too much, far too much.
She has never experienced a hangover like this before.
Serena stays perched on the edge of her bed. As she becomes more aware of her body, so she becomes more aware of how much she aches. The nausea is more intense now, so she braces herself and, using her sore leg muscles she stands, falling forward into her chest of drawers, which saves her from collapsing. As she pants with the exertion, she notices her bedsheet. There is a small red patch on it. Blood.
Have I cut myself? Did I fall over in a drunken state? Why can’t I remember?
Her body odour is sour. And alien. Her underarms are sticky with her sweat, sweetened by the fragrance of her deodorant. But she also smells aftershave and male sweat, raw and pungent. It makes her retch and she swallows, staggering to her bedroom door, which she urgently opens, and shuffles painfully to the bathroom, the brightness of the day forcing her to squint.
Closing the bathroom door, she leans over the toilet bowl, hands straight out in front, pushing against the wall to keep her vertical. The nausea comes and goes but she can’t manage to be sick, so she sits on the toilet and groans, hea
d in hands, hugging herself, grappling with her confusion.
The Gene-Asis dinner. Bukowski’s hotel suite. Serena remembers going there. She can see Gordana in her red dress. She drank wine. She danced. But what then?
Oh God, what did I say? Did I betray myself?
Chapter 45
‘You stupid, stupid cow,’ she says weakly, too exhausted to fully express her self-disgust.
She keeps trying to remember. An image from last night materialises in her mind. She is in a dark room and she is smoking a cigarette. No, it’s a joint. But she can’t remember anything after smoking the joint. She can’t remember when she left or how she got home. She groans.
With little steps, she reaches the kitchen and sips from a glass of water. She can feel it running down her throat and into her empty stomach. It feels so cold. Her mouth begins to unglue itself as she stares sleepily out of the window. She realises from the shadows outside that it is late in the afternoon.
‘Hey,’ she hears behind her, very quietly. She recognises John’s voice. She knows she must look a mess, and is too ashamed to turn around.
‘Hey,’ is all she can say. Her voice is shaky.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, standing closer now.
‘Terrible.’
She still doesn’t look at him.
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thank you. I need a shower.’
He says nothing in response and she guesses he has gone to another room. She takes some more sips of the water and then turns to find him standing there, concern on his face. He is clutching a newspaper he’s been reading.
‘I’ve been worried about you.’
‘It’s just a hangover.’
He starts to speak and then stops. He is clearly choosing his words carefully.
‘I came to the hotel. It was late and I was worried. They said you’d left. I got home and you weren’t here. Then, barely five minutes later, a taxi driver banged on the door. You were unconscious. I had to carry you inside. I almost called a doctor …’
‘I’m sorry, John. I know I’m a mess. God, I need to sit down.’
She is feeling faint, and shuffles over to a stool and sits.
‘I guess I had way too much to drink. I’ve no idea how I got home. I’m so embarrassed,’ she says, as she lays her head in her folded arms.
‘Did you go on somewhere after the dinner?’ he asks, sitting on a stool opposite her. Still with her head on the table, she closes her eyes in shame. She knows that John will think her completely dumb when he hears what happened.
‘Some of us went up to Bukowski’s suite for drinks.’
She is expecting some kind of reprimand but receives none. Surprised, she moves her head and looks at him. There is a look of pity in his eyes; or is it sympathy? It confuses her.
‘Bukowski was logged in, from his penthouse. I wanted to use the B0r3r. The B0r3r!’ she says, suddenly wondering if she still has it. She lifts her tired arms to check her ears.
‘I removed them. They haven’t been used.’
‘Oh.’ She can’t remember.
‘Who was there?’
‘Bukowski, of course, and Darko, his wife, and a couple I can’t really remember. Oh yes, he was in charge of the China operations. Called Craig, I think.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘I don’t think so, why?’
That look is still in his eyes, and he stretches across the table and takes both her hands in his.
‘Serena, your dress was only half done up.’ He stops, seemingly unsure how to continue.
‘What?’
Then she thinks she understands his meaning. She lets her head hang and squeezes her eyes shut. She is mortified as she doesn’t know if it is true. Over the last week, she’d allowed herself to wonder if she and John could become more than friends. The chemistry between them was magnetic. Now she knows John wouldn’t want to touch her. And who could blame him? She goes to a party, perhaps fucks someone and can’t even remember it.
‘John, I already hate myself enough, so please don’t ask me to explain. Because I can’t. I can’t remember anything, and I feel about as cheap as it’s possible to feel.’
He looks away and takes a deep breath.
‘What can you remember?’
‘Oh, John, please. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I don’t want to talk about it.’
She is about to stand but he grips her hands.
‘This is important, Serena. What do you remember?’
‘I remember going to Bukowski’s suite. I tried to find the right moment to use the B0r3r. We drank. They offered me a joint. I smoked it. I remember feeling strange. Feeling sick.’
‘What type of joint?’
‘I don’t know. Hang on, they called it something funny. A time bomb or something.’
‘An atom bomb?’
‘Yes, that was it.’
‘Did you know you were smoking heroin?’
She is staring at him, shocked.
‘I was? Oh God, John, I can’t remember anything after that. What if I said something? What if I told them my real name, or mentioned you or Trace? Oh my God, what have I done?’
‘Did they drop anything in your drink, or give you any pills?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’
She is sobbing now, but is so dehydrated that the tears are salty and stinging. John moves and, kneeling next to her, puts an arm around her.
‘Serena, you’re covered in bruises, your leg has a stab wound, and you can’t remember anything that’s happened to you. You might have been date-raped,’ he says, holding her tight, his voice shaky.
She is full of shame and wriggles free from his arms. She stands with difficulty, refusing to look him in the eye.
‘I’m having a shower,’ she mumbles.
‘I don’t think you should,’ he says with difficulty. His face looks drawn and pale.
‘Why?’
John is standing near her, gazing at her tenderly. She knows the answer but cannot face the possibility she was raped.
‘You need to go to hospital as you are. You will wash away the evidence.’
His voice cracks as he says the last sentence.
Serena can’t look at him and bows her head. He takes her gently in his arms and she leans into his chest, inhaling his fresh, soapy smell, and weeps, knowing she is safe now.
‘I think I’ve been raped, but I don’t know,’ she sobs, her body convulsing. She knows he will hold her for as long as she needs him.
He whispers, ‘I’m so sorry.’ He waits for her weeping to subside and then wipes her eyes with a tissue.
‘Would you like me to call the police or a doctor?’
She shakes her head.
‘What’s the point? I can’t say who raped me, or even if I was raped. I think so, but what use is that?’
‘You can tell them what you remember and who was there.’
‘No, I can’t do that. No.’
‘But, Serena, how can they catch this man if you don’t report it?’
‘John, if I go to the police, I’ll never find proof they killed Dad. I have to know what’s in the professor’s file. I’m so close to finding it. On Monday, I’ll use the keylogger. Come hell or high water, I’ll get proof.’ She coughs and, as she lifts a glass to drink, her hands tremble.
‘Serena! Forget the fucking file. It’s you I’m concerned about. You need to see a doctor. And there’s no way you can ever go back into the Gene-Asis building.’
‘John, I am not going to let them beat me.’
‘You could’ve told them everything last night. And if they know what you’re up to, you’re lucky to be alive. For Christ’s sake, this is madness,’ he says, his voice raised.
‘John, please, my head.’ She rubs her brow, trying to form clear thoughts. ‘So, why am I? If they know, why am I alive?’
‘I don’t know, Seri, but it’s time to stop. Seri?’ he calls after her retreating figure.
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‘I must warn people—Keith, Tracey, McPherson,’ she replies. He catches up with her in her bedroom and grabs her bruised arm. She winces in pain.
‘I’m sorry.’ He raises his hands in apology. ‘Seri, just stop for a second. Let me do it. I’ll make the calls. I’ll make sure they’re okay. But let me take you to hospital. They can run tests to see what drugs you took; find out … what happened.’
Serena ignores him, picks up the phone and sits shakily on the edge of her bed. She is trying to focus on the keypad of her phone but it is making her feel sick. It is swimming around in front of her eyes, but her strength of will drives her on. She sees him glance at the blood stain on the sheet. She pulls the top sheet over the stain, to hide it.
‘Let me do it,’ says John, and she hands it to him. In a faltering voice, she dictates a message, which he sends:
I was drugged by Bukowski and may have betrayed you. I am so sorry. I can’t remember a thing. They could be looking for you right now. I will never forgive myself if something happens to you. Go somewhere no one can find you.
‘I think we should contact the British Embassy in Zimbabwe,’ says John.
‘Not yet. What if I’m wrong and I blow her investigations? No, let her decide. Now for Keith,’ she says, taking back her handheld and blinking at the fuzzy keypad. She dials Swift Farm and gets voicemail. ‘Keith, call me. It’s really urgent.’ Her head feels twice as heavy as it should as she lifts her eyeline to where John is standing. ‘Where are they? Someone should be there,’ she whispers. Serena dials Keith’s mobile. Again, voicemail. She covers her mouth, unable to voice the nightmare vision in her head. She dials another number and reaches Senior Sergeant Shane Weston. He hears the quiet terror in her voice and orders a car round to the farm.
‘What’s happened, Seri?’ Shane asks.
‘Just find my family. Please.’
‘But you must tell …’
‘I can’t. Please just find them.’
She ends the call and slumps back onto the bed. Her head spins as she curls into a foetal position. ‘McPherson,’ she whispers, desperate for sleep, but refusing to succumb to the powerful concoction of drugs in her system.
