Killing Adonis

by J M Donellan

  “I was wondering what all the worker bees were buzzing about.”

  “Indeed. So things are going to be hectic around here for the next day or two. He’ll be twenty-seven.”

  “Good thing he’s not a rock star then.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You know, the Twenty-seven Club. A lot of great rock stars died the year they turned twenty-seven: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison…”

  “Do you not think it’s in rather poor taste to mention that fact in light of my son’s current condition?”

  “His condition? Is something wrong with Jack?”

  Harland’s brow furrows, transforming it into a Japanese minimalist painting of a series of wave patterns. “Jack? Why would…? Oh! No. Jack’s birthday isn’t until April, or June, or something…Tomorrow is Elijah’s birthday. That’s why everything must be absolutely perfect.”

  He moves over to the bed and lays his hand gently on his immobile son’s shoulder. It is a gesture simultaneously awkward and sincere. “I’ll need you to take his suit measurements.”

  “His suit measurements? For…a suit?”

  “So, irony is a key focus in nursing degrees nowadays, is it?”

  “No, but…”

  “Neither of those are words of which I am particularly fond. Here.” He throws her a roll of tailor’s tape and moves towards the door. “Rosaline will also need you to help choose flowers and run around town with a few errands. She’s not particularly good at making decisions, or anything else for that matter.”

  The door closes with a click.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  “Morning, Eli. Sorry I’m late.”

  She strokes his face gently, admiring its statuesque contours. She wonders what colour his eyes are, if they share his brother’s strange blue tint. Freya unrolls the tailor’s tape and whispers, “Some family you got here, handsome. Well, we’d better get you measured for your birthday suit then, huh?” The double entendre makes her laugh, blush and cough at the same time. It’s only 8:07 a.m. and it’s already been the strangest day of her life.

  (So far.)

  ***

  Freya is staring out of the passenger window trying extremely hard not to think about pink and blue nursery rooms. The consequence is that she can think of nothing else. “And so what about you, doll, have you ever been in love?”

  “Sorry, Rosaline. I was miles away. What did you say?”

  “I was asking, have you ever been in love?”

  Freya looks at Rosaline, whose happiness is so intense it almost has a palpable vibration. “I’m not good at the whole girly talk thing. My sex life can basically be summed up as a series of bitter disappointments, each more moronic and Bon Jovi-adoring than the last. Nothing even approaching the ‘L’ word I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetie! One day you’ll meet your perfect man, just like I did!”

  “Well, daytime TV sure as hell seems to think so. So, who’s your Mr Not Wrong then?”

  The sound of the brakes screeching produces a sharp, angry red. It is this colour that Freya notices before she’s aware the car is skidding to a violent halt. “What?”

  “Did I say something?”

  “Frey, do you honestly mean to tell me you don’t know? Why the hell do you think I live at that house? Who do you think I am?”

  “I guess…I guess I hadn’t thought about that.” The sound of the screeching car horn behind them manifests as a fog of blood orange in Freya’s vision.

  “Frey, Elijah is my fiancé. I’m the Vincettis’ future daughter-in-law. Did you think I was the maid or something?”

  “No! I mean, I moved in yesterday and…”

  Rosaline bursts into a peal of laughter and playfully slaps Freya’s shoulder, her mood switching with schizophrenic speed. “Freya, you are such a scream!”

  Freya, dizzy with discomfort, elects to change the subject. “So, how did you two meet?”

  “I’m so glad you asked! It’s been a while since I’ve got to tell this story! I was on vacation in Austria and Elijah was living in a cabin composing the soundtrack for an English war film—”

  “Elijah was a composer?”

  “Is. He is a composer.” A subtle hint of venom invades Rosaline’s trill, but melts away like ice in an inferno as she continues. “He’s a brilliant composer, even though it’s something he does in his free time. Anyway, he was between semesters at med school and he figured he’d use the downtime to get creative, and that a quiet ski chalet in the Austrian alps would be the perfect place for it.”

  “I’ve often had the same thought.”

  “Really? How fabulous!”

  It is apparent that sarcasm does not thrive in the saccharine bubble of Rosaline’s world.

  “Anyway, I met him out on the slopes. You should have seen him! It was the first time he’d ever even seen a pair of skis, let alone tried to use them! Poor thing could barely stand! He looked so adorable, fumbling to get up out of the snow. I couldn’t help myself, that gorgeous blond hair, that chiselled jaw. He was like a walking Greek statue, you know, David’s Michelangelo or something?”

  “You mean Michelangelo’s David?” says Freya, electing not to add that Michelangelo was, in fact, Italian.

  “Yeah, that’s the one! Anyway, I helped him up and showed him a few tricks, we got along splendidly. He is such a charmer!”

  “Did he get the hang of it in the end?”

  When Rosaline laughs it sounds like a choir of Tickle-Me-Elmos. Eventually she recovers and pulls into the florist’s driveway. As they step out of the car she looks at Freya and says, “Honey, he was a two-time silver medallist at the Winter Olympics.”

  “He what?”

  “You should have seen him. So graceful, he was like poetry in motion. Although, don’t tell him I told you this, but the fact he missed out on a gold, it really got to him. He’s a humble soul, my Elijah, but competitive as hell when the mood is right!” Rosaline sighs and glances around conspiratorially before whispering, “Can I tell you a secret? Elijah and I have been trying to get pregnant for a little while now and I think it’s going to finally happen soon!”

  Freya looks into her bright blue eyes and wonders how someone so sweet ever became such a raving, certifiable nutcase. “Rosaline, do you mind if I ask you something…about Elijah?”

  “Of course! Anything!”

  “What happened to him?”

  The cheer falls from Rosaline’s face like a dropped towel, leaving her anger naked and exposed.

  “Frey. I’m going to tell you this once. And once only. We. Don’t. Talk. About. That. EVER. Got it?”

  “Of course…I shouldn’t have asked. It won’t happen again. Scout’s honour.”

  Rosaline’s face lights up as though it had never been anything but drenched in bliss. “Swell! Let’s go get fruit smoothies!”

  ***

  When they return to the house, Evelyn is holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a fistful of a terrified Portuguese chef’s shirt in the other. “I don’t care if they’re out of season. Get them flown in from somewhere where they’re in season. Honestly, we can’t have a black-tie gala event without fresh strawberries! What the hell are we, immigrants?”

  The chef mumbles an apology and escapes as soon as she relaxes her vice-like grip.

  “Ladies! Did you bring the flowers? Are they spectacular?”

  “Wait ’til you see what they’ve done for the centrepiece. Elijah is going to love it!” Rosaline announces.

  Evelyn claps her hands together, satisfied. “I’m sure he will. Fantastic! Rosaline, be a dear and fetch Maria and put the flowers in one of the spare rooms, will you? Freya, could you come with me?”

  Freya follows the rhythmic click-clack of Evelyn’s heels across the marble
floor. She approaches a table laden with champagne glasses and pours two, hands one to Freya and holds the other in her manicured hand before leading Freya upstairs to the balcony. It’s not until Evelyn trips slightly on the staircase and awkwardly rights herself that Freya realises she is in fact quite drunk. Her speech has lost none of its characteristic causticity, though, betraying how accustomed she is to intoxication.

  Well, we have that in common, at least.

  They stare out at The Sorcerer’s Apprentice-scale operation unfolding below: tables being set with white lace cloths, hedges being trimmed, decorators moving Italian furniture from one corner of the garden to the other and back again. Freya is glad that she has a drink in hand; the whole diorama is bewildering.

  Evelyn drains her glass and places it on the balustrade. She reaches into her pocket, removes a silver box of cigarettes and a lighter. Takes one, lights it, and inhales.

  “I thought that smoking on the grounds was forbidden?”

  “When you make the rules, my dear, you also get to break them.”

  She offers the box to Freya.

  “No thanks, I don’t smoke anymore.”

  “Me neither, if anyone asks,” Evelyn replies.

  She drags and expels a grey cloud towards the blue sky above them. “I assume you heard…last night?”

  “Heard what?”

  Evelyn’s lips curl upwards in what could, in polite circles, be termed a smile. “You’re very sweet to be so discreet, dear, but please, we’re both adults. Last night, Harland and me?”

  “Yes. I did hear that.”

  Evelyn nods, gazes out over her little empire. “He can be an arse, that man. You should see him around those tiny-waisted, balloon-chested trollops that flitter about him. It does quite go to his head. He needs a good kick up the pants every now and then to remind him whom he comes home to. I do love him. I know I may not seem warm, but I’m not a monster. I love him, and my children. And Rosaline.”

  “I’m quite sure that you do, Evelyn.”

  “Especially Elijah. Especially him. My perfect, darling boy.” The sudden warmth seems uncharacteristic. “It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t have children of their own, but Elijah…Elijah is like every dream and wish and hope I ever had made flesh and blood. Like my own little Pinocchio, but with a better nose. I so want the best for him. The very, very best.” Evelyn pauses and drags intently on her cigarette. “Do you know why I hired you, Freya?”

  They ran out of adequately qualified Mexicans at the illegal immigrant cheap labour fair? “I was hired under the impression that I was to be his nurse?”

  “The impression?”

  “Yes, Evelyn. If we are speaking frankly, I didn’t spend three years at university to become an errand girl.”

  “Well, if we are speaking frankly, which clearly we are, you also didn’t spend three years at university expecting to make the kind of money you’re making or living in a house such as this, now did you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I make no apologies for your misconceptions, Freya. However, a nurse’s job is to care for her patients, is it not? And Elijah needs your care.”

  “He needs me to care for him by taking his suit measurements and picking up flowers?”

  “I’m going to respond by simply reminding you that disobedience and unnecessary questions are two of my least favourite things, along with hippies and airports. But that’s neither here nor there. You will do as you are told. We have a flexible arrangement in regards to your employment and your duties will be likewise malleable. You are free to leave, at any time, but you are not permitted to question my directives.” Her words are sharp, measured and firm, but without any hint of anger. “I picked you for a reason, child.”

  “That being?”

  “You’re pretty enough, presentable. But you aren’t Harland’s type. He usually goes after blondes.”

  Evelyn picks up the champagne glass and holds it out in the air, watching the light reflecting in its facets. Her fingers open and the glass plummets to the ground. The sound of its shattering causes the storm of activity beneath them to stall for a moment. The worker bees look desperately at each other, stupefied into silence.

  “Well? Don’t stand there like a bunch of stunned fish! Somebody clean it up!”

  She regains her composure with lightning speed, turns to Freya and says, “That will be all.”

  ***

  Excerpt from The Sins of Adonis

  The first time I saw her I felt the jaws of lust grip me with a ferocity I had never known before. Of all the girls I have defiled, none had ever been so pure, so innocent, so unbesmirched as her. She looked as though she was composed of nursery rhymes and fables. As though she was wandering through life waiting for the rest of the world to become the technicolour musical that already was in her head.

  I never loved her, I know that, but if I am being truthful I think it was the closest I ever came to love. And more than that, there was a part of me, however small, that believed I was turning into something abhorrent and she might be my last shot at redemption. As though by standing in the light of her halo for long enough I might somehow become cleansed.

  The moment when those diamond blue eyes stared down at me was unbearably, searingly, incomparably magnificent. I couldn’t wait to see those eyes shed tears, to look directly into them and feel the lies roll easily off my tongue and see them swallowed by this unimpeachable beauty.

  “Oh dear! You poor thing! Are you okay?” She took my hand in hers and even through our gloves I could feel it.

  Electric.

  8

  She’s Waiting for Godot to Impregnate Her

  ***

  “It’s unnatural.” Callum pokes his fork warily at the pancakes on his plate, as though they might contain traces of Soylent Green.

  “It isn’t.”

  “It is! It defies the preordained order of the universe!”

  “You’re such a drama queen. No pun intended.”

  “Whatever. You know I’m right.”

  “I know that you’re a whiny spoilt brat who is far too precious about their pancakes.”

  “I am not precious about pancakes. I love pancakes. I want to have their babies, but it is simply wrong to eat a breakfast food at 3 a.m.”

  Freya sips her milkshake, wishing it was slightly more bourbon-laced, or at least some sort of magical beverage that would reduce rather than expand her waistline. She points at Callum with her fork and asks, “How many times have we had this argument?”

  “Well, evidently not enough because you still manage to drag me to this godforsaken place twice a week.”

  “Callum, it’s pancakes, in a church, at 3 a.m. What’s not to love?”

  “You mean apart from everything?”

  “I don’t let a clock determine when I eat what I want to eat. Pancakes are every bit as delicious at 3 a.m. as they are at 7 a.m. Cereal is just as time-saving and practical a food source at dinnertime as it is at breakfast.”

  “Anyone would think you’d been raised in a hippie commune.”

  “Anyone would be an arsehole.”

  She takes another forkful of pancake and berries and tries to ignore the terrible eighties power ballad dribbling out of the speakers as clouds of pinky-orange hover in front of her field of vision. She loves this place, this former house of worship converted into a pancake parlour soundtracked by terrible pop music for drunks and cheapskates. It’s like a three-dimensional metaphor for all of the indulgences and shortcomings of the modern era. “You hear about Kyle Engels?” asks Callum.

  “The Happymax guy they found tied to that kid’s train set?”

  “Mm-hmm. With his eyes burned with acid.”

  “Not exactly dinner conversation, Cal.”

  “Dinnertime left us several hours ago, but do you rea
lise that makes two corporate assassinations in a week?”

  Freya chews, swallows, shrugs. “They aren’t actually dead.”

  “A minor technicality. They’ve both been maliciously attacked in the course of one week. A little unusual, don’t you think?”

  “It’s a lot unusual.”

  “You know what else? I was reading in the Financial Review that the Davies Group was investigating a merger with Happymax.”

  Freya’s eyes glaze over at the mention of the word merger. “Could we get to the part where I care?”

  “Davies Group is…or rather, was run by Wilson Davies, who was poisoned a few days ago. What’s more, if they’d successfully merged, then Davies was going to use its increased asset base to dramatically expand into the European markets, making them direct rivals with the two powerhouses there: Halcyon and Novoscorp.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?”

  “‘All this stuff’ is the wheels and cogs that make the modern world tick, Freya. You chastise me for not knowing references to obscure literature and then you don’t even bother to learn anything about corporate politics? These are the people who run the world and, unlike politicians, we can’t vote them out of power every few years. So, in answer to your question: there are some real-world benefits to being a media junkie.”

  Two teenage boys in the opposite booth wail atonally along with the Pearl Jam song playing on the stereo. They are covered in a chaotic jumble of tribal tattoos, surf T-shirts, gold necklaces, tight pants, and haircuts that appear to have been executed by a drunk arborist with a fondness for asymmetry. Noticing her gaze, they begin to slither their hands through the air and flick their tongues, miming acts of furious fornication.

  She flips them off with her right hand and uses her left to shovel blueberries into her mouth. “I think I like you better when you’re yelling about cars in posh restaurants than when you’re whispering conspiracy theories in pancake churches. Cal, this week has been way too weird for me to even begin thinking about other people’s problems.”

  “I told you they were eccentric,” Cal says in his well-practised, I-told-you-so tone.