by T M Heron
I’d like to stand round and watch the entire game to confirm my suspicions that this man will become thoroughly detestable on further acquaintance, but I don’t want to be here for half-time when Savannah comes loping over.
Badger, her team’s champion, scores another goal. Savannah’s stepfather brings his hands up to his face and groans. I make a similar frustrated sound. He doesn’t look at me — perhaps he finds my eye indelicate — but says sideways out of his mouth, “Not going to make the finals playing like this.” He says this with the arrogance of an important man, supremely confident that any contribution he cares to make will be of interest.
“No,” I say. “You’ll have to give her a good bashing when you get home.”
But Kenneth isn’t really listening. He’s the kind of man who talks at you rather than with you. “Hmmphh,” he says, and snaps another photo on his phone.
“Check out this shot,” I say. I give him no option, take my own phone and shove it in front of him. It’s a photo Warren took of the horses we killed, dead in the paddock with the winter sun streaming down. He squints at it briefly and turns his attention back to the game.
“Seriously, look harder,” I say, and nudge him in the arm with the phone.
He’s not happy I’ve made physical contact but begrudgingly he takes the phone. He holds it up to his face and angles it to get the right light. Then he looks at it a long time.
“Who are you?” he says.
“I’m the person who killed your horses. Well, I didn’t kill them personally. But I was there. It wasn’t pleasant.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” he says.
“I had a point to make. And a message. But unfortunately, you didn’t seem to give it any weight.”
“What point? What message?”
“The note on your gate. You seem incapable of putting two and two together.” It’s hard to keep the impatience out of my voice.
“What note?” He’s still staring at the phone in disbelief.
“The note that said, ‘Domestic violence is unacceptable.’”
He gives me a blank look.
I’m cursing Warren under my breath for this. All of that trauma to me, not to mention the horses, and we didn’t even get our message across. I wonder briefly about talking to Chang about a refund before dismissing the notion as fanciful.
“Domestic violence?”
If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I’d swear his confusion was genuine.
“What you do to your stepdaughter,” I say shortly, because this has become an emotional subject for me.
“I’d never lay a finger on Savannah,” he says hotly. And right there I realize I’m going to have to physically hurt him.
I snatch back my phone, scroll through to another photo, pass it back to him. “Do you recognize this?”
He looks warily at the photo.
“Your prize Dexter bull,” I say. “From your stud up north.”
“I own that stud with four other people,” he says quickly. “You wouldn’t just be punishing me.”
“I’d be part-punishing you and that’s enough for me. I’d be sure to contact your fellow investors, though, and let them know why their herd had been slaughtered.”
This is an empty threat — no more animals — but Kenneth doesn’t know it. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. Then he says in a plaintive voice, “Savannah is an extremely difficult girl. She doesn’t get on with her mother.”
“It’s no excuse for abuse.” It blurts out.
“Look, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but Savannah has been very trying since they moved in with me. The odd time I’ve lost my temper with her. I’m human.”
“We’re all human,” I say warmly. “But how do you justify beating off outside her window?”
“I—”
“Don’t say it,” I snap. “Don’t deny it. Don’t make me bring out those photos.”
Kenneth stares straight ahead as he absorbs this information. He’s no doubt wondering who in hell I am. But I have already shown him photos of something shocking and he doesn’t challenge me as to the veracity of this next lot.
“What do you want?” he says.
“I don’t want you to ever lay another finger on Savannah,” I say. “And I want you to stop being a disgusting pervert.”
“Okay.”
“If you do either of those things again, I’ll know. And it won’t be your Dexters who wear it.”
“Okay.”
“And,” I say, “I want $50,000.” I hadn’t even thought of asking him for money until this moment. But why not? I’ll have a wedding to plan soon.
“You have my word,” he says seriously. As if his word means anything to me.
He’s forgotten he still has my phone, and I relieve him of it.
“How do I get you the money?”
“You can transfer it into my bank account. I have the details in my car.”
Kenneth follows me to the car park like a docile lamb. I chose the furthest car in the lot and walk confidently towards it. As I walk, I slip on a pair of knuckledusters. I’ve always wanted to try these but never had the occasion.
Once we’re safely out of sight I beat Kenneth to a pulp in the car park. Savannah is safe from him now. And she’s also safe from me. And that’s okay. For the first time in my life I’m about to put an awful lot of effort into an adult woman.
54
Ingrid wears a fitting black dress with long sleeves and a high-neck finish. Other than pearl earrings she wears no jewelry. Her hair, which I have noticed changes hue depending on weather and light, is tonight a deep, reflective copper.
Tonight is our third date — well, fifth if you count those times in the basement. Having missed dinner on Wednesday we celebrated Mel’s arrest with drinks on Thursday. We went out again on Friday, but I was terrified about being afflicted with performance anxiety later and ended the evening early pleading a headache.
Tonight will be different. After I arrived home from hockey I spent the afternoon digesting The Outstanding Lover. I then took things in hand to safeguard against anything premature happening later when I showcase my new skills.
I’m also considering putting a tiny bit of Ecstasy in Ingrid’s drink tonight. Nothing too drastic. Just a granule to ensure she has an enhanced perspective of the evening. It’s becoming something we need to get out of the way. And if our first few dalliances need to occur in this manner, so be it. The pressure has been getting to me.
I feel different tonight, though. It’s not the coke. There’s nothing different there. Rather, it’s the look she gives me when she gets into the car. When we air-kiss she puts a hand on my shoulder. She smells so good.
We drive out past Paremata and along the coast. RIL has purchased a substantial piece of land there and is developing it. At the moment it consists of little more than earthworks leading up to clifftops which drop dramatically to the sea below. We intend to build mansions atop the cliffs where the residents will enjoy unimpeded views of the sea in daytime, and lights from the surrounding coastal community at night. When I propose to Ingrid, I’m thinking of buying her the best property here as an engagement gift. I can see us coming out here for weekends.
But my reason for bringing Ingrid here tonight is not to show her the night lights of the surrounding coastal communities. Nor is it to get a feel for which plot she most favors. Tonight those are mere diversions. The true motive of this outing is that once we have eaten the picnic I have made, and finished our champagne, my blood alcohol reading will be borderline. It will be irresponsible for me to drive back to Wellington. We will have no option but to stay the night out here, in a luxury lodge I’ve already pre-booked.
I think at some level Ingrid senses my intentions for the evening. She appears excited and alert. I noticed she was carrying a small overnight bag when I picked her up. It’s safe to say we’re on the same wavelength. It has sure been a long time coming.
“This is a beau
tiful area,” Ingrid says as she settles back in her seat, champagne flute in hand. Not a cheap travel flute either, but heavy crystal, the real deal.
We sit and listen to the waves crashing hundreds of meters below. “Would the sound of that keep you awake at night?” she muses.
“I’ll keep you awake at night,” I say, and take her hand.
She laughs and her hand settles in mine. I’m instantly aroused and glad we are in the dark. I feel infused with a sense of confidence and well-being. Tonight will be perfect. Soon I’ll drop the tiny morsel of Ecstasy in her drink and within a few hours she’ll be begging me to find a motel. I lean back against the seat and luxuriate in the moment.
At some point I become aware I’m stroking her hand. Her voice, which sounds excited, has faded into the background a little. Eventually she gives me a little shake. “Jackson, I need to tell you something.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, struggling back out of my dream. “I think I’m more tired that I realized.” I have a small laugh inside that I already have us booked into the luxury lodge.
“Jackson?”
“Yes?”
I stroke her hand again and it focuses me. I can’t begin to imagine how phenomenal the sex will be if I’m getting this kind of buzz from caressing her hand.
“I’ve given you a small dose of ketamine.”
“You’ve what?”
“Ketamine, I’ve given you ketamine.”
I’m pretty sure this should alarm me but I’m feeling totally unpanicked. This must be what trust feels like. “That’s funny,” I say, “because I was just about to give you Ecstasy.”
I take her hand again. I’ve become somewhat obsessed with it.
She withdraws her hand sharply. Then she leans over and slaps me hard across the face with it. My cheek smarts but I find myself lethargic and strangely unreactive.
“I gave you a small dose about ten minutes ago,” she says. “But since then you’ve also imbibed a much larger dose.”
As she says this she starts moving about the car. I can hear her packing things away, or is she unpacking things? “You had the smaller dose first because I wanted you coherent enough to understand what is happening,” she says. “Look at me, Jackson.”
I turn my heavy head to the side. She is taking off her clothes.
“Look at me.” She smiles. “This is the first and only time you will ever see me undressed.”
She reaches into the back and retrieves what I thought was her overnight bag. Starts pulling out various garments. Long black tights and running shoes. Then she gives me a look of unadulterated hatred.
“Do you remember,” she says, “a girl called Suzannah Montgomery?”
The name is vaguely familiar. But I’m still trying to understand the dreadful look she has just given me. My good buzz has evaporated. I’m starting to feel disorientated and extremely worried.
Ingrid’s face is above mine now, pale and angular. I’m not sure what has changed but her features have somehow contorted.
Suddenly a concise picture of Suzannah Montgomery snaps into my mind. Along with the words she said to me as she lay naked and trembling on my rug. Kill me and someone in my family will make you sorry you ever lived.
I remember it clearly.
Unfortunately the rest of my mind isn’t functioning quite as clearly as my memory is.
“I didn’t kill her,” I say. It’s all I can come up with.
“Tomorrow I’ll go to her,” says Ingrid. “And I’ll show her photos of the wreckage of this car at the bottom of that cliff. You’ll be among the detritus. You’ll be dead, and your body will be broken.” She points out at the darkness in front of us.
A wave of heaviness washes over me. Along with the deepest sense of dread and unease I’ve ever experienced.
“That’s the second dose of ketamine kicking in,” says Ingrid, who must be watching me closely. “You’re not the only one with an in-depth knowledge of drugs.” She struggles into her leggings. “So now you know — I don’t care for you. I never have. You’re not fully human. There’s something really wrong with you. Do you want to know how I found you?”
“Okay.” This is the least of my concerns right now, but I want to appear agreeable. String this out and give her a chance to change her mind.
“Too bad. I’m not saying. But let me tell you why I helped you clear your name.”
She’s now lacing up her running shoes. She looks nothing like she used to look: her eyes are fiery balls of orange, and I think I may be hallucinating. “I helped you because prison is too good for someone like you. And I could hardly kill you while you had 24/7 surveillance.”
Her face appears in front of me again, all out of proportion, golden eyes blazing. I want to fight her but at the same time I feel strangely divorced from my body. I can’t even wriggle my fingers. There is a sensation of air rushing past me, a sound of wind in my head, as though I’m out on a prairie somewhere, but I’m not moving.
“You’re going to die,” she says, “And the only reason it isn’t going to be more painful is because you didn’t lay a finger on me when you drugged me in the basement the other night. You could never comprehend my terror when I realized you’d drugged me.”
Actually, I’m thinking I may be pretty close to that at this moment.
She moves away from me. And although I’m sure I’m perfectly still, I feel as if I’m falling. It’s a terrible sensation. Humans are born with only two instincts: fear of loud noises, and fear of falling. Everything else is a learned response.
My mind is clearing of its stupor in the most remarkable manner, but my body feels as though it’s made of rubber. I muster every last reserve. “Blrrbrk,” I manage. Christ, I’m probably drooling like Nature Woman did towards the end.
I’m going to die. I’m going to fucking die. Yet I’m not capable of uttering even the most basic plea for salvation. I’ve heard a number of such speeches from my girls over the years. Some of them truly unimpressive, yet none as insignificant as what I’m managing now.
But even if I was capable of talking or pleading, she would still kill me. The one person I’ve ever been able to love hates me.
I taste something in my throat and realize my mouth is full of bile.
I want to tell her she won’t get away with this. But she’s clever and she will. I want to tell her falling in love with her was the biggest mistake in my life. But it was actually only the second. Not taking Suzannah Montgomery seriously would have to be the biggest.
Terror explodes inside me and I’m barely capable of coherent thought for a moment, except to register deep shock that one of my girls has won.
Ingrid punches me awake before she adjusts the automatic transmission. “Enjoy hell,” she says as the Bentley starts to move slowly forwards.
It crushes large pieces of rock and bounces through tussock as it grinds towards the cliff-top. A door slams as Ingrid disembarks. Disembodied thoughts fly through my mind about the possibility of last-minute rescue. But this isn’t a movie. The Bentley gathers speed. It occurs to me I still have my seatbelt on. It occurs to me this is a ludicrous observation.
I stop thinking about rescue, and seatbelts, and start wondering about the existence of heaven and hell. It’s not anything I’ve ever put a great deal of thought into, but they suddenly seem relevant. Fuck, I’m going to die. And my funeral will be nothing like my father’s — or Jo’s.
The Bentley bursts across the lip of the cliff, and momentarily lurches to a halt. But I know all too well now it’s not going to stop, and if it did, she’d push it. It seesaws backwards and forwards for several nauseating seconds, along with the contents of my stomach. Then, like the worst kind of rollercoaster, it tips over. As it hurtles towards the rocks below, I hear fanatical laughter. It sounds like Belinda Goodluck.
Epilogue
Two years later
Most of Ingrid’s plan was perfect. But she didn’t kill me. I wish she had.
“We’re survivo
rs in this family,” Mother tells me.
She tells me this every day. When she says “we”, I’m sure she’s also referring to Helena. And although my entire body is without sensation from my “accident”, the anguish of being lumped in the same category as Helena is more painful than anything I’ve experienced physically.
For the first year Mother used to cry a lot and lament the fact I was foolish enough to experiment with drugs, let alone drive in that state. “Oh, Jacky darling, what were you thinking?”
Then Neville, who continued to run RIL after my accident, married and had a daughter. It gave my mother a new lease of life. I swear to God she sees Neville as her second son.
And so I get to hear Mother’s excited commentary on all the latest news of Neville’s baby. As if it’s family news. As if I might find these tedious updates more interesting than hearing nothing. As if I’m a vegetable that can’t think.
Just because I can’t speak. Or move. Or eat. Or shit without medical assistance.
Unlike Helena I can’t even be strapped into a wheelchair. I’m strapped instead to a gurney. Which is angled up a little, to give me the ability to see.
I wish I didn’t have that either. Because most days, for the largest part of the day, I’m left in the company of my sister. And her boyfriend, Brent. I wasn’t imagining things long ago when I thought there was something taking place between them. Now I get to see it first-hand.
Then after he’s gone, Helena loves to talk. As it’s always been, I’m the only one capable of hearing her.
Brother Jacky, she says, you have restored my faith in God.
Then my nurse comes into the room. He’s here to shift me and dress the bedsores I can’t feel that are rotting my flesh. He’s thorough, but impersonal. He also thinks I’m a vegetable.
“Nnngh, nngh, nnnggghhh!”
Helena’s eyes are alive with triumph.
Acknowledgement
