Heller's Regret

by JD Nixon

  While I was online, I created an anonymous account on a free email provider and sent Trent’s team a tipoff about the boot camp. He might not run a story on them, but he might and it was worth that opportunity to try.

  The next few days were peaceful. Corby popped by to speak to me. Heller had filled him in about my boot camp experience and he’d done some preliminary research into it and the company behind it. We went over my story in greater detail, him interrupting my narrative now and then to ask for clarification or more information about something I’d said. I told him the first names of the women who’d escaped with me. I couldn’t help him with their last names, phone numbers or addresses, which made me realise how little conversation I’d had with them. Most of us had been too tired all the time to spare much energy for socialising.

  “Doesn’t matter. Heller’s printed out the database of attendees for me,” he assured with a wink. “It contains all sorts of useful information.”

  “I’m not even going to ask how he managed that.”

  “Most of the time with him it’s best not to ask for more explanation than absolutely necessary. That’s my creed in life.”

  Before he left, he told me that the legal process would move slowly, and to not expect any result in a hurry. He’d now instruct his minion to organise statutory declarations from the other ladies. Heller had arranged for his men to collect our luggage, personal items and cars from the boot camp.

  “You have a minion?”

  “I am master of the staff in the legal department at Heller’s.”

  “All one of them,” I smiled.

  “Hey, don’t knock it. A megalomaniac has to start somewhere.”

  I spent the rest of my free time catching up with my parents, watching DVDs with Niq on Heller’s big TV, and eating. My nights were spent making love with Heller.

  Our relationship had evolved. As though he’d satisfied the burning lust he’d shown during our first months together, he’d mellowed and softened over time. It was as if, finally assured I would be there for him every day and night, he no longer had the need to take me so greedily and so often.

  Our lovemaking had evolved too. He was much more tender, content with slower, loving sex, taking his time. These days we rarely had the rough, urgent sex that characterised the earlier part of our relationship. Some nights we didn’t have sex at all, satisfied to just hold each other and kiss. Other nights, I slept in my own flat if I was very tired or if he was working late and would disturb me when he came home.

  Apart from his absences for his special jobs, what we had felt more like a real relationship every day. I couldn’t be happier about that.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning I rose early, ready to return to work and start this mysterious job at which Heller had hinted. I tried on my work uniform, gratified to find that not only did the cargo pants fit me, they were now too big. I had to use a belt to hold them up. Clive had nothing to complain about today.

  In the office, I hummed to myself as I made a coffee. I drank it with enjoyment while I spent some time tidying and dusting my desk, topping up my stationery, and watering the office plants, picking off their dead leaves. I couldn’t believe how neglected they’d been during my suspension.

  When Heller arrived, he beckoned me into his office. I sat opposite him. It felt like the old days sitting there, half-dreading, half-anticipating my new assignment.

  “How are you feeling today, my sweet? Are you up to going to work?”

  I smiled and did a fancy gesture with my hand to bring his attention to my uniform – something I’m sure he hadn’t missed. “I’m dressed and ready for action.”

  “I don’t think there’s going to be too much action in this job. It’s a perfect way to ease yourself back into work.”

  He sketched out the assignment for me. An elderly lady wanted someone to look after her grandchild while she was in hospital for a week.

  “Why she doesn’t get a family member to help? It’s a lot of money to pay for some babysitting,” I pondered. “The kid’s not psycho or anything, is it?”

  “She told me she doesn’t have any other family. I guess that’s why she’s looking after the child herself. She’s quite elderly, in her mid-eighties. The child is about ten years old. A boy. She said he’s well-behaved and quiet.”

  “Sounds too good to be true. Too simple.”

  “Don’t be so cynical, Matilda. Not all of your jobs have to be dangerous. This is a nice little job for you.” And if I were honest with him, I’d have to admit to still being a bit tired, despite my days of rest. An easy job was exactly what I needed.

  He was fully occupied today, not able to drive me over to my assignment himself. I went down to the ground floor to the security section to see if I could cadge a lift with anyone, lugging my bag and my handbag over my shoulders.

  I really wasn’t looking forward to meeting up with Clive again. When I entered the section, I was surprised and touched that the men present clapped for me. I heard various refrains of “Welcome back,” from more than one of them.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly, over and over.

  Clive looked up from his work and then pointedly glanced back down, ignoring me. Geez, how juvenile – pretending I didn’t exist, I thought. Who would have expected that from him, of all people? He was forced to come out and virtually throw the ID card I’d had to hand in all those months ago at me.

  “Thank you, Clive,” I said politely, taking perverse pleasure in the inarticulate grunt I received in return.

  I asked if anyone was heading out soon in the general direction of the suburb I needed.

  Bick spoke up, “Farrell and I are working in the next suburb. We can take you.”

  “Thanks, Bick,” I said gratefully. What an interesting team they’d make. Farrell, so reserved and serious, while Bick was cheeky and cheerful. But they were both professional and focussed on the job, so perhaps they had more in common than I realised.

  “Is that okay, Hugh? Heller’s too busy to take me,” I asked politely, careful to keep my voice neutral. Our history was well-known, gossip shockingly rife amongst the men. There were no secrets in this section, and I did my best these days not to fuel their gossip. Heller too had become much more discreet about our relationship, to my eternal gratitude.

  “Sure, Chalmers. No problem,” he replied, turning his attention back to fastening his utility belt.

  We waited patiently while Bick primped and preened in front of the section’s full-length mirror, adjusting his uniform slightly to better highlight his muscularity, running his fingers through his hair to tweak his hairdo.

  I sighed impatiently. “Come on, princess. Hurry up! You look beautiful enough. Let’s go!” I urged, worried I was going to be late.

  With one last look at his rear view, he followed us down to the garage where I jumped in the back seat of their allocated vehicle, throwing my bag in beside me. As Farrell drove, I explained to them my laidback assignment, lording it over them that I’d be playing with Lego and throwing a Frisbee, while they were stuck doing security at a suburban bank which had been robbed the day before. It was exceedingly improbable that the bank would be robbed again today, as it no longer contained any money, but management felt it would calm nervous customers to see some beefy men protecting them. Barn door, horse, et cetera. For them it would be a day of utter tedium, standing for hours in the sun in front of the bank, attempting to remain alert on the minuscule chance that there actually was any trouble.

  “I hope there’s some talent working there to perv on at least,” prayed Bick. “I haven’t had a date for ages.”

  I hesitantly offered to see if any of my single friends were looking for a date.

  “No, thanks,” he refused adamantly. “The last time you set me up with a friend, it didn’t end too well.”

  I still felt guilty about that. I’d introduced Dixie and him and they’d dated a few times, but she’d treated him badly. He didn’t deserve that.
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  “How’s your love life, Farrell?” he asked.

  “Can’t complain, Barnes. I go more for quality, not quantity.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. Bick burst out laughing.

  “That means he hasn’t been getting much either,” he chortled.

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that statement,” Farrell responded, deadpan.

  Bick laughed harder. “And that means he hasn’t been getting any.”

  We drove in silence for a while.

  “Tilly, do you think I’m good looking?” asked Bick. Dixie must have really crushed his self-confidence.

  “What do you mean, Bick?” I prevaricated.

  “As a woman, do you think I’m good looking?”

  I tried to lighten the mood. “I only like pretty boys,” I teased.

  “Hey, hang on a minute! I can understand you saying that about Farrell. He’s as ugly as sin. But I’m a pretty boy,” Bick protested, turning to pout at me.

  “You? A pretty boy? In your dreams, Barnes. Face it, you’re butt ugly. What do you think, Hugh?”

  “He’s as butt ugly as they come, Chalmers.” Deadpan again.

  Bick sulked for a few minutes before Farrell pulled up in front of an enormous timber house. It was on a big block of land, hidden from its neighbours by tall, unkempt hedges, although the yard itself was tidy and neatly mown. A two-metre tall wrought iron fence, severely rusting in spots, surrounded the entire yard.

  The house was double-storied, painted in a dreary dark grey colour, with black trimmings. It was unusually constructed, with four gables jutting from the roof and a wide, uncovered veranda at the front.

  The house had a closed, still appearance, every window tightly shut, every curtain drawn. I stared at it in dismay. It didn’t look like a fun place for a kid to live. I couldn’t see any swings or bikes left lying in the driveway, no tennis balls or Frisbees stuck on the roof, or any other toys strewn across the lawn.

  “Geez,” exclaimed Bick. “It looks like a haunted house.”

  “Don’t say that.” I scanned the house again. “It doesn’t seem as though anybody’s home,” I said, puzzled, double-checking the address Heller had given me. We were at the right place.

  I asked the men to wait until I made sure that the client, Mrs Grimsley, was home and there hadn’t been any misunderstanding. I dragged out my bags and opened the tall, rusty gate. It screeched all the way open and all the way closed. I cringed at the noise.

  I walked quickly up the path and front steps to knock loudly on the black front door.

  I waited for an age and was about to give up, when the door hesitantly and slowly opened and a sweet-faced elderly woman poked her head around, a mop of white fluffy hair surrounding her face like a cloud. I explained who I was and she smiled nicely, inviting me in. I gave the guys the okay symbol, and they drove away with a jaunty toot of the horn.

  I stepped into the house and Mrs Grimsley shut the door behind us. The first thing I noticed was the incredible heat, which was not surprising given that every window was shut and it was thirty-three degrees already that day. I could feel the prickle of sweat immediately forming between my shoulder blades and between my breasts.

  “Goodness me, it’s warm in here,” I commented.

  “Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it? The warmth is very good for my poor old bones, and Samuel prefers it warm as well. This house gets very cold, to be honest. It’s too big for us, but I was born here and will probably die here, just like so many other Grimsleys.” She sighed. “I couldn’t possibly live anywhere else. Not now. Not at my age.”

  “Samuel? Is that your grandson?”

  “Yes.”

  I gazed around the large entry hall, the three-metre ceiling, ornate cornices and light fitting all impressive, but the old-fashioned furniture and general sense of dilapidation and lack of maintenance gave it a shabby appearance. I could see no sign of the boy.

  “Is he here? I should probably meet him before you leave. I don’t want to frighten him. You know, an unfamiliar face suddenly appearing in the house.”

  “He’s a bit shy,” she smiled. “When he’s ready to meet you, he’ll come out. Let me know if you see him. He’ll probably lurk around for a while before he’s ready. He doesn’t get to meet many new people, I’m afraid.” She shook her head sadly, then cheered up. “Now, how about a lovely hot cup of tea? You do drink tea, don’t you?”

  She looked so anxious about being hospitable, and knowing how elderly ladies loved their tea, probably not even having any coffee in the house anyway, I assured her that I loved tea, despite the wilting heat. The last thing I really wanted to imbibe at that moment was any boiling liquid. I felt a trickle of sweat making its ticklish way down my spine as we spoke. But she was as sweet-faced as my favourite grandma, so I couldn’t possibly refuse.

  However, when she painfully made her slow, arthritic way to the kitchen, I felt a massive pang of guilt and forced her to let me make the tea instead. To my surprise, she allowed me to. It had always been my experience that elderly women didn’t like anyone messing in their kitchen and shot pure daggers of steel into the spines of anyone who even dared suggest that they weren’t still capable of doing everything themselves. But maybe that was just my grandmas.

  We entered a dark hallway off the entry hall with a row of closed doors on either side. She took me down to the door at the end of the hallway to a large, but antiquated kitchen. She hovered as I made the tea, giving me instructions, ensuring that the water was boiled to the right temperature (on the stovetop, not in an instant kettle), the teapot warmed sufficiently, and the right amount of tea leaves placed in it. Just like my grandmas. My heart panged – I missed my two grandmas.

  After much nervous instruction, everything I did had been finally approved. I was allowed to bring the tray into the ‘tea room’ off to the right of the hallway, a tiny, claustrophobic, dusty room stuffed full of very old-fashioned furniture. Portraits of severe, humourless, long-dead relatives glared down at us disapprovingly as we sipped from her delicate, floral china, sweltering in the humidity. Well, I was at least. Mrs Grimsley appeared as fresh as a daisy as she carefully held her teacup. I gulped my tea, despite its bitterness, wanting the torture to end as soon as possible. I was worried I might faint with heat exhaustion if it became any hotter. I decided the first thing I would do when she left was crack a few windows open and maybe just lay in the front yard, swallowing in fresh air, regardless of what the neighbours thought.

  “I can see you were thirsty,” she exclaimed with delight, probably the first time that her tea had been ‘appreciated’ for years. She topped up my cup with her shaky hands, and I watched her closely, breath held, afraid that she would burn herself with her unsteady actions. I didn’t have the heart to say no to more tea, even though I was almost melting.

  “Thank you, Mrs Grimsley, that’s lovely,” I lied, discreetly wiping the perspiration from my brow. I took another polite swig of tea, remembering what I’d read on the internet about people in very steamy climes drinking hot beverages liberally. I guess it made sense – it probably helped you sweat, I thought and sipped my tea. It was certainly helping me sweat.

  Somehow, I managed four cups before I felt my bladder pressing down on me. She directed me to an ancient toilet, which she referred to as the ‘water closet’. Possibly the first one ever installed in the city, I thought idly as I pulled the chain to flush. I took the chance to splash my face with lukewarm water from the washbasin tap, noticing my reddened appearance in the spotty mirror. I returned to find with dismay, my cup filled to the brim again.

  But as I sat there drinking that other cup (fifth or sixth? I couldn’t remember). An unexpected chill crept around me. Ooh! I thought happily, maybe the air-conditioning had finally kicked in. Tendrils of icy air wended their very welcome way around my legs, slinking up my body until I actually shivered.

  “Is everything alright, Miss Chalmers?” she asked, sharp-eyed.

  “I suddenly got
a chill. Your air-conditioning is slow to fire up on a hot day, but thank goodness it finally arrived.” She smiled with satisfaction.

  We finished our tea and I carried the tray back to the kitchen, quickly but carefully washing up the china. We went to sit in the parlour, a generous room overlooking the front yard, full of large, Victorian-era sofas and wing-backed armchairs. I rubbed my arms, which had broken out in goose bumps, vigorously

  “I can’t believe how quickly the temperature’s changed. It’s really quite cool now, isn’t it? Your air-conditioning must be very powerful,” I marvelled.

  She smiled tightly. “I did warn you that it is a very cold house, Miss Chalmers.” She paused for a moment. “You can take your choice of bedrooms upstairs. There are a number of them to choose from. I sleep in a small room on this floor. The stairs are just too much for me these days, I’m afraid. I don’t go up there very often anymore at all.” She sighed. “This house is just too big for me to manage by myself, I know that, but I have to keep going for Samuel’s sake. My biggest concern is his welfare. I’m his only remaining family and I’m ever fearful that they will take him away from me. I don’t know what will happen to him then. Every knock on the door makes my heart pound.” She smiled sadly. I squeezed her hand sympathetically, catching a movement in the corner of my eye. I glanced over to the doorway in time to see a little head disappear.

  “I just saw him,” I told Mrs Grimsley in a low voice. She clasped her hands together.

  “Wonderful! I’d call him over, but there’s no point. It won’t be long before he comes to meet you himself. Now he’s made an appearance, I know he’s not afraid of you.”

  Chapter 7