Evil Genius

by Catherine Jinks

  Cadel rubbed his nose. He said, in a small voice: ‘You think I’m a good liar?’

  Thaddeus glanced at him. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Cadel had never really thought of it as lying. He had thought of it in terms of stalling, outwitting, omitting. He liked to regard himself as an heroic loner, battling mighty forces, not as a sneaky little outcast.

  Thaddeus surveyed him with a detached, appraising expression.

  ‘You have the face for it,’ he went on. ‘An innocent face. Not all of us are so fortunate. If you said that you’d never let food pass your lips, I’d almost believe it.’ Seeing Cadel’s troubled look, he narrowed his eyes. ‘What I told you about never taking people at face value, Cadel, applies just as much to words. Words don’t really have fixed definitions. You’ll find that out as you grow older. The word “liar” isn’t as straightforward as it sounds.’ Once again, he turned to his draft questions. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we might throw in a few multiple choice questions, here. Just to relax ’em. What do you think?’

  Much to Cadel’s surprise, Partner Post attracted more male than female clients. This meant that he was forced to impersonate a lot of women, and he found it very difficult indeed. Women’s magazines proved helpful, as did some of the novels he borrowed from the library. He also eavesdropped on the year-twelve girls, who talked ceaselessly about boys, movies, music and clothes. He would copy down what they said, and use some of it in what he privately called his ‘pash’ emails. Because he was so small and quiet, he was usually able to listen in without being noticed.

  After a while, he even became quite attached to some of the girls. He couldn’t help it. Most of them were stupid, and a few were quite cruel, but two at least were bright, and nice, and pretty. Ayesha wanted to be a musician (she played the viola) and had long, smooth, dark hair, a vivid, intense face, and an eccentric taste in clothes. Rhiannon was different; she was freckled and witty, with a bubbling laugh, generous curves and a razor-sharp mind when it came to puns, insults and one-liners. She was also very good at foreign languages, having mastered at least three.

  Cadel admired both these girls. When he tried to talk to them, however, he didn’t know what to say. Ayesha was often so distracted that she hardly registered his attempts to make conversation. She was always running off to rehearsals, or arguing with someone about Greenpeace, or scribbling frantically away in a notebook with a worn leather binding. Rhiannon was less busy, but she was always surrounded by a circle of laughing friends. She was hugely popular because she was so funny – and sometimes she was funny at other people’s expense.

  This became horribly clear to Cadel one day when he was in the library at lunchtime. It was a sunny day, and the windows were open; a soft breeze carried the sound of distant shouts and squeals from the playground into the dim corner where Cadel was sitting. Then, to his surprise, he heard Rhiannon’s voice. He realised that she was perched on a bench just beneath the library window, talking to her friends Seth, Sally and Caitlin. They were talking about a classic German film called M, and Rhiannon was impersonating an old movie actor called Peter Lorre. She was an excellent mimic, on top of everything else.

  ‘But it was a silent film,’ Caitlin objected. ‘Peter Lorre didn’t talk in that film.’

  ‘Jesus, didn’t he?’ Rhiannon retorted. ‘Then I guess it must have been the voices in my head. Come to think of it, they were telling me to “kill, kill, kill”. Naturally, I assumed it was Peter Lorre.’

  ‘Peter Lorre went to Hollywood, you dong,’ Seth pointed out wearily, addressing himself to Caitlin. ‘He was in lots of films. That’s why most of us know what he sounded like.’

  ‘Well I’ve never seen him,’ said Caitlin. ‘What’s he been in, anyway?’

  ‘Arsenic and Old Lace,’ Rhiannon replied promptly.

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘You’ve never heard of anything,’ Seth sighed. ‘You know who he reminds me of? Peter Lorre?’ Rhiannon suddenly remarked. ‘I was watching that film, and you know who I thought of? Cadel Piggott.’

  Cadel’s heart skipped a beat as a burst of laughter greeted this comment.

  ‘Cadel Piggott?’ Sally exclaimed. ‘No.’

  ‘They don’t look anything like each other,’ Caitlin declared.

  ‘Except for the pop eyes,’ Seth mused. ‘And the pudgy hands. And the moon face.’

  ‘I’m not saying they look alike,’ said Rhiannon. ‘I’m saying they act alike. They sort of creep around like cockroaches –’

  ‘You think Cadel Piggott’s a killer?’ Seth demanded, in melodramatic tones.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Rhiannon. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s bound to be an underwear stealer.’

  ‘An underwear sniffer!’ Seth yelped.

  ‘Oh, for sure,’ Rhiannon laughed. ‘You can see the skid marks under his nose!’

  Cadel got up and closed his book. He left the library. From that day on, his admiration for Rhiannon turned into acute dislike. He had overheard other year–twelve students joking about his personal life, but had never considered Rhiannon capable of jumping on that bandwagon. It made him very bitter.

  He became disillusioned with Ayesha shortly afterwards. Rhiannon and Seth were an item, he knew, but Ayesha didn’t appear to have a boyfriend. Although she enjoyed the company of Chris and Bruno, she didn’t seem to be going out with either. Bruno was a handsome smart-arse who played in a band. Chris was stringy-looking hippy with a gentle soul and no critical abilities to speak of. He played acoustic guitar.

  In Cadel’s opinion, Ayesha stood head and shoulders above both these boys. What’s more, she scoffed at ‘traditional’ attitudes towards mating and dating. So when plans were announced for the end-of-year formal, which was still several months away, it crossed his mind that this might be his opportunity to connect with Ayesha. If she had a problem with all the tired, conservative ‘pairing-up’ that went on at a school dance, she might actually consider going to the formal with him. As a kind of statement.

  ‘No thanks, Cadel,’ she said, when approached. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Are you going with someone else?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  ‘Then why not me?’

  They were standing near a lilac bush, and there were tiny mauve petals sliding down Ayesha’s hair. They looked so pretty – she looked so pretty – that Cadel had found the courage to speak out. ‘It would be a non-ageist decision, don’t you think?’ he pressed. ‘And we could do it in style.’

  ‘Style isn’t my style,’ Ayesha pointed out.

  ‘No. That’s true.’ Cadel ticked a mental box. Of course, Ayesha wasn’t a limousine sort of person. ‘All right, then. No limousine. But you have to admit I’ve got more up here’ – he tapped his head – ‘than most of the kids at this school combined. So why won’t you take a chance? Since you like to be different.’

  Ayesha gave an exasperated sigh. She shifted her books from one arm to the other and tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear.

  ‘You see, that’s exactly why I don’t want to go with you,’ she said. ‘I mean, you’re so damned smug. “I’m rich, I’m smart, I’m pretty, I’ve got the lowdown on everyone”. You sit there looking superior – can’t even be bothered talking to people –’

  ‘But –’

  ‘You might think you know everything about everything, Cadel, but you don’t know a thing about yourself. If you weren’t so snotty, I’d feel sorry for you, I really would. Coming up to me like you’re doing me a favour . . .’ She shook her head. ‘And if you really are gay, like everyone says, then it’s even sadder. Be honest with yourself. Take a look at yourself. Don’t be pathetic.’

  Cadel flushed. He was suddenly, overwhelmingly angry – so angry that he couldn’t even speak. Ayesha must have seen the tears of rage that sprang to his eyes, because she seemed to relent, a little.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I had to be honest. It’s best to be honest. Yo
u’ve got a lot going for you, Cadel, if you’d just realise that you’re not as wonderful as you think you are.’

  And she walked away. For once in his life, Cadel couldn’t cope. He actually skipped half a day of school. Though it was only recess, he went straight home and lay down, his mind turning and churning. He told the housekeeper (he no longer had a nanny) that he was suffering from a stomach bug.

  This was also his excuse the following day, when he presented his roll-call teacher with a note from Mrs Piggott.

  By that time he had formulated a satisfying revenge. The whole of year twelve would suffer – he promised himself that – but it would take a lot of hard work. Hard work and a cool head. He would have to calm down. He would have to control the terrible feelings of hurt and fury that kept bubbling up and clouding his vision. Only by focusing would he show all those junk kids exactly what they were worth.

  During the remainder of the year, while his classmates grew pasty and tired from studying and revising, Cadel concentrated his energies on just two things: Partner Post, and the frayed emotions of his year-twelve enemies. He started to compile a database. In it, he organised every little fact that he knew about his classmates: their timetables, their past romances, their weak points, their ambitions. He noted the growing tensions in the air around him, as the Higher School Certificate gradually approached. Acne flared. Religious conversions became more frequent. A lot of couples split, made up, and split again.

  Cadel was pleased to see the stress levels rising and did all he could to encourage the process. He started rumours. He blocked corridors, to direct certain people past certain conversations. He worked out who was betraying whom; who was taking drugs to ease jangled nerves; who was becoming overtired; who had just about decided to pack it all in, and get a job at a beach resort. For hours every night he would sit and construct a mental image of all the links between the other sixty-three kids in year twelve.

  He knew that the two weeks between their last day of term and the beginning of the exams would prove to be a challenge, because most of year twelve would then be out of his reach. He also knew that the year-twelve formal, on the evening of the last school day, would be his final chance to wrap things up. So he bought himself a pair of black trousers, a jacket and a silk shirt. He paid his fee, which covered dinner and the cost of the venue. He endured the fussing of Mrs Piggott, who insisted that he take a hired car to the event, and who also presented him with a cravat and a waistcoat, both of which he took off in the car. Finally, he arrived at the hall where his classmates were celebrating the end of school to discover that his name wasn’t on the list at the door.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ joked Bruno the smart-arse. ‘You look kinda small for a year-twelve person. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ laughed his girlfriend – who wasn’t Ayesha. ‘Don’t be so mean.’

  ‘Yet another screw-up,’ said the Vice-Principal. ‘Sorry about that, Cadel. Don’t worry, you can still go in. I know you’ve paid your money. Here. Don’t forget your stamp.’

  The stamp was designed to discourage gatecrashers. Cadel held out his hand, received the stamp and went in. The hall was dark and noisy. Coloured lights flashed. There was a live band on stage. Food was laid out on tables near the walls: spring rolls, mini-quiches, marinated chicken wings. There wasn’t supposed to be alcohol, but somehow it had been smuggled in.

  As the music pounded, and the dancers writhed, Cadel drifted from group to group. He sidled into the toilets and out again. He saw pills, beer-cans and smoking butts being passed surreptitiously around shadowy corners. He even saw money change hands at one point, and made a mental note of two particular names. Most people seemed to be getting high on something. Arguments broke out. One girl pushed another girl. Rhiannon started kissing Bruno. Caitlin staggered into the toilets, retching, where she joined a large group of vomiting classmates.

  Cadel watched.

  For the most part, he was completely ignored. Only on three occasions was he addressed by anyone. The first time was when Sally and her mate, Jessica, stumbled over him. He was sitting on the floor with his back propped against a wall and his knees under his chin. Sally didn’t see him there. She tripped on his black suede shoe, and would have fallen if Jessica hadn’t held her up.

  ‘For Chrissake!’ she barked, peering through the dimness. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing down there?’

  ‘It’s Cadel,’ said Jessica, swaying slightly.

  ‘Cadel?’

  ‘Hello, Cadel.’

  ‘What the bloody hell are you doing down there?’ Sally repeated. She sounded furious. ‘Get up! You’re in the way!’

  ‘Ah, don’t be mean,’ Jessica protested.

  ‘He’s a bloody idiot.’

  ‘He’s only a little kid.’

  ‘Are you hiding?’ Sally demanded, and Jessica giggled.

  ‘Hiding from you,’ she said, and whispered something in Sally’s ear. They both laughed then, and careened off into the throbbing crowd.

  Cadel closed his eyes, briefly. He was getting a headache. But when he opened them again he caught a glimpse of Heather Parsons, who was almost certainly drunk, being hustled through a fire door by someone who looked very much like Damian di Matteo. This sparked his interest. He rose, and pushed his way through knots of heaving bodies until he reached the fire door. Then he shoved it open.

  On the other side of the door lay a covered car park, poorly lit. Despite the lack of illumination, however, Cadel could make out two moving shapes. One was helping the other into a dark-coloured van which had white graffiti glowing on its flanks.

  ‘Cadel?’ said a voice.

  Cadel whirled around. Behind him stood Mrs Brezeck. She was quite small, even in high heels, and her eyes were almost level with his. Her glossy dark hair was pulled back in a bun, and the mole on her cheek cast a tiny shadow with every flash of the red strobe light behind her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Not much,’ Cadel replied. ‘Just seeing where this goes.’

  ‘Well you’re not allowed outside, once you’re in. Weren’t you told that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well you’re not. So come back, please.’

  Cadel obeyed without argument. As he retraced his steps, Mrs Brezeck pulled the door shut behind him, firmly. Then, raising her voice against the blaring music, she said: ‘Having fun, are you?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, are you having fun?’

  Cadel looked at her in surprise. ‘Sure,’ he rejoined.

  ‘In your own particular way, I suppose.’

  Something about her voice made every nerve in Cadel’s body leap to attention. He blinked, and held her gaze.

  Masked by the dimness, her face told him nothing.

  ‘In my own particular way,’ he echoed, slowly. ‘Yeah. I guess.’

  She nodded. ‘Well – I’d wish you luck in the exams, if there was any chance that you’d need it,’ she said, and abruptly walked away. Cadel was disconcerted. He wriggled back to his patch of floor, only to discover that it was occupied. Seth was lying there, looking vacant.

  Cadel stepped over him.

  About an hour later, Cadel was sitting on a chair beside one of the food tables, which was covered in crumbs, smears and shattered remnants. In his hand he held a glass of lemonade and half a curry puff. His feet were planted firmly on the floor; it had been a long time since he had sat with dangling feet.

  The crowd in front of him was thinning. A lot of people had left the dance floor, too drunk or sick or tired to stay upright. Through a moving screen of silhouettes he saw Ayesha’s. She was draped all over Bruno.

  The two of them approached the table beside him unsteadily, as if in search of something to eat. Ayesha was wearing a silk flower in her hair. Bruno’s shirt was unbuttoned. They both looked dishevelled.

  ‘No more prawns,’ Ayesha groaned, scanning the finger-food wreckage. Then she caught sight of
Cadel.

  They gazed at each other for a moment, while Cadel slowly chewed his curry puff. His own shirt was still neatly buttoned. He wasn’t even sweaty.

  At last he swallowed, and said: ‘That guy beside you came with another girl, you know.’

  ‘Piss off,’ Ayesha replied, and dragged Bruno away.

  Cadel didn’t care, though. Because by then he was already talking to Kay-Lee McDougall.

  NINE

  Kay-Lee McDougall was a Partner Post client. She had filled in the assessment form, paid the joining fee and sent Cadel a passport photograph. The photograph showed an ordinary-looking woman with long blonde hair, finely plucked eyebrows and a slightly squashed nose. Kay-Lee was twenty-five. She worked as a nurse in a hospital called Weatherwood House, in Sydney’s western suburbs.

  Studying the photograph, Cadel was surprised. Although Kay-Lee’s face was pleasant enough, it didn’t strike him as particularly unusual. Yet according to her assessment form, she was very intelligent indeed. Cadel and Thaddeus had included a set of questions designed to give a rough measurement of someone’s IQ, and Kay-Lee’s was exceptionally high. What’s more, she gave her interests as number theory, cryptosystems, and detective novels.

  ‘She says she likes guys who are “a little bit crazy”,’ Cadel told Thaddeus. ‘She says she doesn’t care about looks, or age, but that she wants someone intelligent.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Thaddeus, frowning over Kay-Lee’s assessment form. ‘Number theory? There wouldn’t be many idiots interested in that.’

  ‘Except the ones still trying to square the circle,’ Cadel remarked. He was studying Thaddeus’s face. ‘What is it?’ he suddenly asked. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you think she’s telling the truth?’

  Thaddeus didn’t reply at once. He flicked through a few more pages, pulled at his nose, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes.