THURSDAY’S ORCHID
By
Robert Mitchell
All rights to the novel are reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the copyright holder. The situations and characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental.
Robert Mitchell
Queensland
Australia
[email protected]
Other books by Robert Mitchell:
The Lucinda Legacy
Golden Eagles
Beneath Yellow Clay
Dark Eye of the Jaguar
The Khilioi
The Emperor’s Jade
The Stone Dog
There are brief outlines of each of these after the conclusion of Thursday’s Orchid.
Thursday’s Orchid
One
Singapore – November 1994
There’s no water dripping off the walls, and no icy wind whipping around my legs; but I’m freezing. I can’t stop my limbs from quivering, nor my teeth from chattering. It must be warm outside. I can see rays of sunlight striking the ceiling, filtering through the dirt clouding the small high window. Soon the sun will start its fall towards the distant horizon; a horizon I can’t see – one I might never see again. Yes, it is hot outside; just like it was that other time – that other Thursday.
It was hot then; but I wasn’t closed in on all sides as I am now. I was out in the open, exposed to the world; but trapped, trapped on a ten-thousand-ton freighter sitting on a reef off the south-east coast of new Guinea, with the sea trying its best to break the ship into two – striving to take me and my future into the boiling foam.
I can hear those crashing waves even now, pounding against the stern, smashing against the rust-stained hull, the spray flying high in the air. I can see the flies again, black swarms of them; the smell of diesel, unwashed sweat, the rancid stench of rotting meat filling my nostrils. I can even hear the killer as he stalks the decks in the dark hours. He’s coming for me, but he’s not going to get me. The porthole is locked. I checked it an hour ago. And the chair is still wedged solid behind the cabin door.
I’m wandering again. I’m not on the ship. That’s all past. It’s now, here. But what does it matter? Anything to block out the other thought that won’t leave my brain, pounding its message again and again.
Why? How?
Greed, that’s how.
When? Six months ago. Maybe it happened long before that; but six months ago was when it all came together, when the threads joined with each other, and the twisted strand led to my destiny, to here, to this hard echoing place, this prison. I don’t remember what day of the week it was, but it wasn’t a Thursday – at least I don’t think it was. But then again….?
Why the fixation on Thursday? If anything goes wrong, it happens on a Thursday. There are people who refuse to leave their beds on Friday the 13th. Me, I always have that nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever Thursday morning rolls around. I’m told I was born on a Thursday; at least that’s what it says on the birth certificate. You can bet my father came home blind drunk one Thursday night; about nine months prior to the date on that certificate. My mother was probably glad to see the back of him after he took off and went bush. Not that I remember much; I was still a child when he left.
Where to start? On the ship?
No, before then. The ship was only a few weeks back. I remember now. It was six months ago, the day I bumped into Nick again, the day he tempted me to join him in the project that was to set me up for life. God, that’s a laugh! Life! Six months ago. Or was it only five? It doesn’t really matter now.
I was in Adelaide, the capital of South Australia; a bustling city, far different from that large country town, as the eastern States once called it. Today it has attained a sophistication of which it can be proud; not as big as Sydney or Melbourne, but just as important.
I was at a loose end, spending time passing time – if you know what I mean. I was still fairly flush with cash, even though I hadn’t done a deal for some time.
I’m a promoter – at least I was – a businessman, a wheeler-dealer, an entrepreneur. You name it and I’ve probably been involved in it. I would deal in anything that turned a reasonable profit, a non-taxable profit. Most of the time those transactions were on the wrong side of the law to some extent or other; but not the law as I believe it to be. My law is something different. My law is the law of nature, the survival of the fittest and smartest, not the law of legislatures. The laws set out in the statute books are only guidelines: ground rules for the man in the street; and watch out if he oversteps those ground rules. But the people at the top of the pile tend to ignore most of the rules, for they have better things on which to spend their time – making money!
I sometimes wonder whether the politicians – put into power by the wealthy and influential – actually insert a couple of slender loopholes every time a piece of legislation is enacted. It makes things easier for those who can afford the smart lawyers; and the computer-happy accountants.
Ground rules, that’s all they are – just like the rules of sport. Watch any game and take note of how many players break the rules; and see how often they get away with it.
Laws are made for other people, not for me. Nobody really obeys traffic laws, gambling laws and who – given the chance that he won’t get caught – wouldn’t pocket a wallet full of cash found lying on the roadway? It’s these laws and rules that tend to keep the masses in their place. They give people like me and the other smart operators the chance of making a killing now and then.
Well, that’s my philosophy, and nobody can convince me otherwise.
Until I reached the age of twenty-one I was just the same as everybody else: a member of the plebian society. I had been educated and indoctrinated by the State until I turned sixteen. I couldn’t wait to get away from the pettiness of school and the restrictions imposed by the single parent. My mother blamed me for most of her problems. All she ever drummed into my head was the idea of getting a good job, earning a reasonable wage, marrying a child-bearing wife and moving into that suburban brick-veneer box. The reasonable wage was fine, but a sports-car and a few girlfriends seemed more important than the other plans she had for me.
Not that I was a tearaway or a problem kid. I probably had some of the wanderlust that finally drove my father out of the house to places unknown. From the day I left school I had one job after another, the first being a counter-jumper in a city department store. It was boring work – but a good place to meet girls. There were hundreds of them working there. The pre-Christmas period was the best time of all – all those young virgins straight from school, trying to earn extra money for the holidays. But the sex paled after a while – giggling girls in the stock-room.
Then followed a succession of jobs: from labourer to window-cleaner; furniture-remover – wearing a clean white apron; delivery-man and tyre-repairer. You name it; I’ve done it.
After three years of working in and around the city I moved out to the country. The work was more satisfying, although harder. You could talk to the bosses on their own level. The only problem was the lack of constant work – if you could call it a problem – with never more than six months on the same property. At least you didn’t get stale sitting around the same place day in and day out. Seasonal work: rouseabout on a sheep station, hay-carting, riding boundary fences, picking fruit.
The country meant a shortage of female company. School teachers and nurses were the only ones available. The farmers’ and graziers’ daughters were
reserved – like Indian brides – for the sons of the gentry.
My most interesting and rewarding job by far, in more ways than one, was when I met George.
Somehow or other I had managed to crack the crazily mixed position of diving instructor, cocktail waiter and general rouseabout on a resort island on the Great Barrier Reef. Scuba diving had been a hobby of mine for years and I was quite good at it, even if I say so myself. This expertise, together with the knowledge of small motors I had gained while working on the land, qualified me for the position. Mixing cocktails was something I learnt later – mainly by trial and error. Most of the so-called sophisticates wouldn’t know a good cocktail from a bad one. The work was pleasant, but it was the extra benefits that gave the added bonus. I don’t know why it is, but take any young female away from her home environment and all inhibitions are gone.
A good-looking fellow like me can be hard to resist: one hundred and seventy-eight centimetres, or five foot ten in the old measurement; blue eyes and fair hair. The cleft, deep in the middle of my chin, really throws them. I’ve always prided myself on my rugged appearance. Not that I would have won Mr. Universe or anything. I’m more like the poor man’s Robert Redford. When my smile creases the suntan and my eyes sparkle a welcome, the girls just can’t resist.
The uniform helped as well: navy-blue cotton jacket, pale-blue trousers and a grey shirt, set off with dark blue loafers. Of course, that was just the evening wear; what we dressed in to go hunting. During the day it was a pair of shorts, broad-brimmed white hat and a neat polo shirt. Being the diving instructor didn’t do any harm either.
Two years in the one place was a record for me. I think the previous longest stint had been about seven months. But in some ways it was beginning to pale. It was too easy and I was becoming casual about the whole thing. There were too many young girls and it was like shooting fish in a barrel. They would just lie back and smile, coy and innocent. Still, the pay was good and those tips were mounting into a nice little packet.
Then I met George.
One of my jobs was to attend to any small item of maintenance that didn’t require the expertise of the professional – like changing tap washers. It’s the little things that affect the rest of your life, like the blown globe in one of the bedside lamps in Bungalow 27.
The bungalow was occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Cooper – George and Peggy. I hadn’t met either of them, although I had served George Cooper a few drinks at the bar from time to time. He appeared to be well heeled and certainly knew what he wanted. George was a little on the beefy side, although he had the height to carry it – about one hundred and eighty centimetres, just a little taller than me. He would have been about fifty-two then, and still had most of his hair – grey at the temples and dyed a jet black for the rest. He wore a smiling face, a pleasant face, dimpled cheeks. He seemed to have the knack of getting action out of people; of getting them to do things for him without expecting something in return. Not that his tips weren’t spread around; they were, but never exorbitant.
Mrs. Cooper; well Peggy was the other side of the coin. She was slim, small, never seeming to give more than the hint of a smile – never the life of the party. She was about the same age as him, but had allowed the grey in her hair to assume its proper perspective.
As I said, a globe had blown in Bungalow 27. I was in my free time but, as I knew that they wouldn’t be using the bungalow for a while, I figured I might as well get the job out of the way. It was just after the midday smorgasbord, the meal that knocks most of the guests out for the afternoon; leaving the staff in peace for a couple of hours.
I had seen George Cooper boarding the resort’s game-fishing launch, and I knew it would keep him offshore for at least three or four hours. It didn’t appear to be his scene at all. He was usually lying back on a sun-lounge, under the shade of a coconut palm, pretending to read a book. Sitting on that launch was going to be at least three hours of rolling around on a choppy sea, no alcohol, no smoking below decks, no shade to speak of and no lithe young bodies to think rude thoughts about.
Mrs. Cooper was where she had been for the last two afternoons; studying the coral and many-coloured reef-fish from the comparative comfort of the glass-bottom boat, a mere hundred metres from shore. I could see her from the verandah of their bungalow, the cord of the big Mexican straw hat tied tightly under her chin. By the time the boat returned – in a couple of hours – she would be ready for a shower and a snooze, so now was the time to change that globe.
Using my master-key I opened the bungalow door and walked in. No sooner had I moved through the doorway into the main room than I heard sounds coming from the bathroom. The place should have been empty. The maids serviced the rooms in the mornings and nobody else was permitted to enter without the guest or the manager being present. Maintenance was different.
Deciding that it might be a thief, I left the front door ajar and crept forward. If someone came out of that bathroom with anything in his hands other than a cake of soap or a toothbrush, I would be out through the doorway like lightning.
The sound of the door opening and my movement forward had been smothered by the noise of the air-conditioner. Like those in most resorts, it was fairly old and rattled like the devil.
I reached the doorway and peered through the half-open space; and gaped, dumbfounded. There was George Cooper, making violent passionate love to Dotty Munro in the bathtub – Dotty, the manager’s wife. The curtains were drawn but the fluorescent light was on. I felt as though I was sitting in the front row of a porno theatre, or what I imagined the front row would be like. It wasn’t just that the light was blazing down, or that they were in the bath, but the fact that they were both covered in fine amber froth. There must have been two dozen empty beer cans strewn around the floor. I’ve heard of people making love while splashing themselves with white wine, cow’s milk, and olive oil – but beer?
There was no way they could have noticed me, not in that frenzied state. I stood mesmerized. He was so gross and middle-aged, and she was so petite, a lady; but this was no lady. I put her down on my mental list for future consideration.
She had her teeth fastened into his shoulder; one hand on the left cheek of his great fat backside and the other hand – a delicate little hand – fondling and massaging his most precious of possessions. My lips went dry. I could feel the perspiration trickling down the insides of my thighs.
George Cooper lunged down and fastened his mouth onto her left nipple, taking great slobbering gulps, treating her young breast as he would a ripe mango. Then both hands were clasping her firm rounded buttocks, squeezing her around and over his thighs until they joined as one.
The grunts and groans quickened their pace. I was hard, my shorts straining. I stepped back and turned to leave, but didn’t see the cocktail table behind me, nor the two empty glasses they must have drained before adjourning to the bathroom. One of the glasses hit the tiled floor with a shattering screech.
George’s head spun round, but he was too late. I was through the doorway in an instant and hurtling down the pathway like a startled rabbit.
There was no liquor in my room, nothing to calm my shattered nerves. The staff weren’t allowed alcohol on the island, only when we went back to the mainland – once a fortnight for three days. I still had nine days to go.
I sat there trembling, keyed-up, lustful, but with nothing to work that lust out on. There was only one thing to do. I threw off my clothes, grabbed my togs and sprinted for the beach. The cool water had never felt better. It helped, but not much.
Another four hours to go until dark, and company.
It didn’t end there.
My presence must have frightened the daylights out of both of them. He probably thought his wife had tired of the reef and persuaded the boat driver to bring her back to shore; but if she had, she would have still been there when he came out of the bathroom. Dotty would have looked up thinking to see her husband with a shotgun, but there was nothing but the
sound of my footsteps receding down the path.
George hadn’t panicked. Dotty, on the other hand, had wet herself in fright. George finally calmed her down, halted the hysterics and bundled her under the shower, washing away the beer. Once she was dressed, and all the seams were straight, there was no way he could stop her from taking off through the back way and tearing down the rock-lined path.
But George, cunning George, didn’t take long to pick on me as the culprit. As if he could call me a culprit, for I had been there legitimately. It was George that was the dirty old man, doing things to a girl thirty years younger than he was. Would I still be able to pull the young ones when I got to his age?
He knew it hadn’t been his wife and it couldn’t have been Dotty’s husband, otherwise he would have had a chair or something heavier smashed over his head. There was no sign of forced entry, so it had to be someone with a key. The maid had done the room in the morning, so it had to be another member of the staff. He recalled the lamp that hadn’t been working the previous evening, but he had made no complaint. He had ignored the blown globe. He had wanted the afternoon to himself – and Dotty.
About an hour after the fiasco he went boldly up to the front desk to lay a complaint. According to his story, he was almost asleep when the door opened and a figure walked in. At first he thought he was dreaming, but then realised it was an intruder. He jumped up and screamed abuse, but the intruder had taken fright and run off. The sun was shining through the door and he couldn’t tell who it was. Nothing was taken, but would they please investigate and find out who the hell it was?
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