Simone Kirsch 03 - Cherry Pie

by Leigh Redhead

  ‘How did you know her?’ I gasped, still lying on Perry.

  ‘Why do you keep calling her Cherry Pie?’

  Rochelle laughed, the same dry cackle that had come from Meg’s mouth at the Coopers Arms. Her tongue poked out, flicked at her plump top lip, and her voice turned sickly sweet. ‘I call her Cherry Pie ’cause that was her name when she worked at the Fuck Hole.’

  ‘You’re full of shit. She demonstrated against that place.’

  The corners of Rochelle’s mouth curled up. I stared at Mum and she looked back at me steadily, not contradicting her. Even though I was sitting on top of ninety kilos of muscle and bone it felt like there was nothing solid beneath me.

  ‘Yes, but before she cut off her long blonde hair and ditched the miniskirts for boiler suits and sensible shoes she worked at the Love Tunnel under the alias Cherry Pie.’

  ‘But she—’

  ‘She’s a fucking hypocrite is what she is! What she always was! I worked there because I had no fucking choice, but she was just a nice middle class girl slumming it. She’d finished high school, could have got any number of jobs but no, working as a bank teller or a secretary wouldn’t have fitted into her cool, bohemian lifestyle or given her any street cred.’

  ‘We needed the money.’ My mum stared daggers at her.

  ‘We were fucking broke.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Rochelle laughed, ‘I remember now. Your father, the musician, couldn’t lower himself to work for his rich parents so Cherry just had to get a job at the club. Poor darlings. How else were they going to stay true to their counterculture values and keep themselves in pot and embroidered flares? You know how I knew she didn’t really need the money?’ She dug her heel further into Mum’s chest and when I moved to get up she tightened her finger around the trigger. I froze.

  ‘Your mother was too good to turn tricks out the back. Oh, all the punters wanted her to. Christ, you should have seen the money they offered. Men, always want what they can’t have. Don even encouraged her himself, but no, she refused. It was beneath her, she was the golden girl, untouchable, the prissy little ballerina up on stage. I was forced to do it because I didn’t have a boyfriend with rich parents to fall back on.’

  Mum raised her head and looked Rochelle straight in the eye. ‘Spare me the fucking sob story, Rochelle. The only reason you were forced to turn tricks was to support your raging smack habit.’

  Rochelle pulled back her heel and kicked Mum in the ribs. I made to move again and she looked at me, wild eyed, trigger finger twitching.

  ‘What’s your problem, Rochelle?’ Mum asked, really giving her some sass. I was proud to see her so defiant, but wished she’d shut up. Rochelle had the gun and I didn’t think she’d have a problem using it.

  ‘People like you looking down on me.’

  ‘I didn’t look down on you. When I became a feminist I thought I could change things from the inside out. That’s why I organised meetings, tried to get a union happening and yes, finally demonstrated. I wanted to help you.’

  ‘Save me from myself ? You’ve seen the light so I must too? Oh thanks.’

  ‘No. I was lobbying for minimum wages, decent working hours, women having control over their own bodies—’

  ‘You were stirring up shit. I clawed my way up and learned to make the system work for me—in the traditional way. You catch more bees with honey than with goddamn crew cuts. I’m a strong, successful woman. I’m the real fucking feminist here.’

  ‘Actually, I’d have to disagree with you, Rochelle,’ Mum said.

  ‘That so?’

  ‘Yeah. Real feminists don’t get their strength holding a big metal dick in their hands.’ And she drew back her legs and kicked, her Mary-Janes striking Rochelle’s forearms. Rochelle flew back, hit the wall and Mum screamed at me to run. I did, but not in the direction she intended. I bolted forward, my only thought to get in between her and the gun.

  I wasn’t fast enough. Rochelle straightened her arms, pulled the trigger and shot Mum in the head.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I didn’t make it to Rochelle. My shin bones dissolved into marrow and I crumpled next to Mum’s body like a newborn foal. I knew I should put pressure on the wound but I couldn’t tell where the bullet hole was. All I could see was red, gumming up her hair, flowing across the tassled carpet edge, pooling in cracks between the floorboards. I lifted her by the shoulders, put one hand under her neck and rested her head in my lap, then ripped off my flannelette shirt and wrapped it around her skull. So much blood, dripping between my fingers, soaking into my jeans.

  I didn’t cry, didn’t make a sound, but inside my mind was screaming that it wasn’t happening, that it couldn’t be real. It was. Mum’s body was warm and felt light as a bird. Rain roared on the roof. My heart throbbed slow and hard.

  I was about to feel for a pulse when I heard a click and looked up. Rochelle stood over me, holding Alex’s revolver in both trembling hands, pointing it at my head. Her face was white, except for the red bite marks, and her top lip quivered, as though even she couldn’t believe what she’d done. Blood had spattered onto her raincoat and the room smelt of raw meat, burned out incense and the firecracker scent of the freshly fired gun. Sweat rolled down my back although I was shivering, clammy and cold.

  Rochelle took a deep breath to steady herself. Her pupils were huge and I saw the tendons flex on the back of her freckled right hand as she began to depress the trigger. My first instinct was to squeeze my eyes shut but I forced them open and stopped trying to deny what had happened. Rochelle had killed my mother and she was going to kill me. I wanted to tear the bitch apart, gouge into her flesh with my fingernails, rip her fucking face off, but I couldn’t let go of Mum. I couldn’t even speak. A soup of rage, grief and guilt roiled through my veins as the trigger moved and I stared down the barrel’s dark round hole and realised it was the last thing I would see.

  ‘Rochelle!’

  We both turned our heads. Sam Doyle stood framed in the front door, black shirt and pants soaked and clinging to his solid body. He edged down the hall, arms outstretched, so she could see he wasn’t armed.

  ‘How?’ Her eyes flicked from him to me and back again.

  ‘The Mercedes has a tracking device. I heard the shot.’ He stopped as he entered the lounge and looked around, taking in all the bodies, Mum bleeding from the head. His face went grey and he seemed to age ten years before my eyes. ‘Jesus, Rochelle, what have you done?’

  She looked at him but kept the gun trained on my face.

  ‘I had to, she tried to kill me. Thank god you’re here.’

  ‘She’s lying.’ My voice choked, like my throat was full of phlegm.

  ‘Give me the gun,’ he said. ‘This ends now.’

  ‘She’s dangerous.’ Rochelle nodded in my direction. ‘They had a scam going on, blackmail. When I wouldn’t pay up they tried to get rid of me, her and Cherry and the cop.’

  He shook his head and held out his hand. ‘Hand it over.’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  He took a couple of quick strides and was in front of her, between me and the gun. I still couldn’t move. Mum’s body had started to twitch. An ambulance. I had to get to the phone.

  ‘Why do you care so much about these fucking bitches?’

  Rochelle’s voice had gone all whiny and ocker, like a strung out junkie looking for a fix. ‘I’m the one spent half my life with you, you cunt, played the perfect wife, put up with your affairs.’

  Sam grabbed for the gun but Rochelle held on tight. It was pointed at his belly and they started a tug of war. I snapped out of it, flexed my leg muscles.

  ‘And I didn’t know you at all,’ he said. ‘All this time I thought Don killed Melody. It was you, wasn’t it?’

  I gently lifted Mum’s head and placed it on the edge of the rug.

  ‘You never really loved me,’ Rochelle screeched. ‘Holding a candle for that stuck-up slut.’

  ‘It’s over, Rochelle. I cal
led the police when I heard the gunshot. Simone,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘get out of here. Now.’

  I scrambled up but didn’t run for the front door. Instead I dashed straight through to the kitchen and picked up the phone, dialled triple 0, screamed for an ambulance and hid behind one side of the arch, out of range.

  ‘What is the exact location of the emergency?’ the operator asked.

  I’d opened my mouth to speak when I heard the blast, muffled this time. I stuck my head around the doorway. Sam was leaning into Rochelle, and they swayed together, like drunks slow dancing at the end of a wedding. She’d shot him in the guts. His legs buckled and Rochelle pushed him to the ground, aimed the gun at me. I dropped the phone and dashed across the kitchen, heard a sharp crack and the ceramic fruit bowl exploded behind me. I tore through the laundry, launched myself at the back door, lunged for the lock. It didn’t turn.

  Deadbolted. I shook the handle, kicked the wood—nothing.

  Metal security bars caged the window.

  Rochelle’s heels clattered through the kitchen and I looked around wildly for a weapon or a way out but all I could see was an energy efficient front loader washer, laundry basin, folded-up ironing board and tubs of fermenting soybeans.

  I glanced into the bathroom. More barred windows, a flimsy lock and natural products that hadn’t been tested on animals.

  Useless.

  In desperation I kicked over one of the tofu tubs, water and white gloop sluicing across the tiled floor. My shoulders strained as I lifted another and when Rochelle skidded around the corner I hauled the bucket back and swung it forward, splattering the contents in her face. Her expensive heels aqua-planed across the tiles and as she fell back I heard another crack, then a metallic clank as a bullet pierced the washing machine.

  Her arms cartwheeled and I didn’t wait for her to hit the ground, just barrelled straight into her, grabbing at the gun. We struck the tiles with a wet slap, Rochelle breaking my fall and letting out a winded ‘Oooff.’

  I lay on top of her and tried to pry the gun from her hand, but she gripped the weapon so tightly her knuckles almost burst out of her leathery skin. With her free hand she swiped at my hands and face, clawing flesh. One long nail broke off and stuck straight out of my forearm, like a thorn.

  I got both hands on her wrist and bent it back.

  ‘Stop! You’re breaking my arm! I have osteoporosis!’

  ‘Should have eaten your dairy products, bitch.’

  A burning pain tore across my cheekbone as one of her nails narrowly missed my eye. I ignored the sting, turned my head and applied more pressure until her wrist cracked like a dried out twig. Her shriek was inhuman, like a demon doused in holy water, so shrill my ears popped. I yanked the gun from her fingers, straddled her inflated chest and stuck the barrel in the socket of her left eye. I’d been so helpless when she’d shot my mother. Now molten energy surged through my veins.

  ‘How’s it feel, Rochelle?’ I pushed harder, feeling gelatinous tissue tremble beneath the steel.

  ‘Please.’ She choked, writhing desperately beneath me.

  ‘Don’t kill me. You don’t want to do this.’

  ‘Why not? You deserve it and my karma’s already shot to hell.’

  I was going to pull the trigger and watch her skull explode and brains slop out over the tiles. Blood rushed in my ears, my vision tunnelled and my heart hammered like I’d just OD’d on speed. Sirens wailed in the distance. My trigger finger twitched and a sharp ammonia smell hit my nostrils. Rochelle had pissed herself.

  ‘Bye, babe.’

  I tried to press the trigger but I couldn’t get my finger to move. At first I thought there was something wrong with the gun but it wasn’t that. My body wouldn’t obey the instructions from my brain. Pull the trigger, I screamed at myself. Shoot the bitch. Fucking shoot her. My finger wouldn’t move. My hand started to shake. My chest spasmed, breath coming out in convulsive gasps. Hot tears streamed down my face, the salt water stinging the scratches.

  When Rochelle realised what was happening she let out a mocking, incredulous laugh. ‘You’ve got no balls. You can’t do it. You can’t fucking do it.’

  She was right. I pulled the barrel away from her eye. The lid had turned purple and was almost swollen shut. Then I drew the gun back and smashed it across her temple. That, I could do.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Two days later, in the middle of the day, I lay on the couch in striped flannelette pyjamas, a doona wrapped around my body like a cocoon. Hot air blasted from the wall heater’s shuttered vents, but I couldn’t seem to get warm.

  Outside, low lying clouds scraped skeletal branches and every now and then brilliant shafts of sunlight burst through, illuminating dust motes and the general shabbiness of my flat: grimy bookshelves; smudged fingerprints on the doors and light switches; the posters’ torn and curling edges. The Russ Meyer chicks didn’t seem so cool and cheeky anymore, just tacky, like my whole damn life.

  Chloe clattered away in the kitchen cooking up some sort of Polish comfort food and I smelled paprika, onions and frying meat. In front of me the coffee table held a glass of red, a packet of sedatives, cigarettes and an ashtray, and on the television Dr. Phil berated a clean cut American couple, telling them to get their shit together and take responsibility for their miserable lives. The TV had been on for the last twenty-four hours, numbing me more effectively than the Xanax. I kept my attention on the screen whenever I was awake, because every time I looked away the memories flooded back, and the pain twisted like a knife in my guts.

  Dealing with the police had been a blur. They’d arrived not long after I’d knocked out Rochelle, seen me holding the gun and tackled me to the floor. I’d spent the night in the lock-up, trying to explain what had happened in between bouts of hyperventilating and hysteria, no one able to tell me what had happened to my mum. Apparently Alex’s unit and Duval from Homicide had vouched for me, in a fashion, and Sam backed up my story when he awoke from surgery, finally convincing them I wasn’t responsible for the bloodbath.

  When I was released Joy took me back to her place for a shower and a change of clothes—cords and an oversized burgundy shirt—then we’d driven to RPA hospital in Camperdown, to see if we could find out what was going on.

  In the car, an old red station wagon, she explained some things about Mum. How she’d worked at the Love Tunnel, quit when she got pregnant with me, then gone back when my dad pissed off. It was around that time she’d answered an ad of Joy’s for a flatmate, the two of them sharing babysitting duties and Joy turning my mum on to women’s lib.

  ‘But why did Rochelle want to kill her?’ I asked. ‘Why did Sam kidnap me? It was something to do with Melody, wasn’t it?’

  Joy nodded. ‘After Peta was fired from the club she found a part time job at a shelter for battered women. That’s where Melody ended up, after she got bashed.’

  ‘Bashed?’

  ‘Uh-huh. She was walking home from work and some thug dragged her into a lane, started beating her up and said he’d been sent by Sam. Melody reckoned the guy would have killed her if a prostitute and her john hadn’t come upon them and scared him off.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘She had something on Rochelle and Sam. Your mother knew, but she wouldn’t give me the details. Said the less I knew the safer I was. I suspected it was information about Edwin’s death. Pretty suss how Rochelle married him and less than six months later he was dead. Then bam, Sam’s back together with her and they’re developing the property with Don Davison.

  They weren’t allowed to knock down the original building, but they got away with putting up that ugly apartment block out the back. Ended up making a lot of money from the deal. If Melody had proof they’d knocked off Edwin, it could have put a major spanner in the works. Your mother told Melody she had to get out of town, disappear, and she did, but while she was getting better she stayed with us for a little while and with other women we knew.’

 
‘Did you know Sam kidnapped me?’

  She nodded. ‘It was the most hideous moment of my life. I was looking after you and Andi while Peta was at work, left you playing in the back yard and the next time I looked you were gone. The phone rang and a man, Sam, told me to get Peta home, and that if either of us called the police, you were dead. I did as he said. Christ, your mum was beside herself.

  ‘We waited by that fucking phone for what seemed like forever. He didn’t call back until three am. Peta spoke to him, left the house and came back with you half an hour later, bundled up, asleep and unharmed, thank god. I said we should go to the police, dob him in, but she said he was in with half the cops in the Cross and she was going to do what he’d told her to. Take you and move away. We decided on New Zealand because I had relatives you could stay with and it was such a long way away. So now you know why we always hated him so much.’

  ‘Yeah, but Rochelle wanted Mum dead. By kidnapping me Sam was saving her life.’

  Joy had snorted.

  Inside the hospital a young female surgeon with dark liquid eyes and a plait of long black hair took us into her office to break the news and we sat on padded vinyl chairs, Joy gripping one of my hands in both of hers. I hadn’t slept, but instead of blurring, everything in the room, from the table edge to the shelf full of medical texts, stood out in sharp relief.

  ‘I have good news and bad news,’ she said, and my body tensed, a boxer anticipating a body blow. ‘Your mother, Peta, is going to be fine.’

  I breathed out and my muscles went limp so suddenly I almost slid out of my chair. Joy let out a victory whoop. The doctor told us the bullet had lodged in Mum’s skull, damaging a lot of blood vessels but missing her brain, and they’d managed to remove it without too much trouble. I started laughing and crying at the same time and felt an effervescent fizzing expand through my chest like I’d won the lottery or fallen in love, until she said: ‘Stephen Merrick, I believe he’s her partner? He didn’t make it.’

  Joy and I stopped dead.