The Property Manager: You'll never rent again...

by NS Thompson

  You however looked as fresh and casual as usual and I took my hat off to you when you stood up at the beginning of the pantomime and suggested that the town meeting be conducted privately without television cameras and reporters. Not surprisingly, you were shot down in flames. I saw you sitting with Jenny, rolling your eyes and having a private giggle at some of the more ridiculous suggestions that were put forward throughout the evening.

  At least Michelle put to rest some of the outlandish rumours doing the circuit - in particular the one about there being supernatural forces at work. So the girl to die at the scene was Sarah Moorebank and the one who kicked on for a day or so was her cousin, Skylar Birkin (her mother should have been murdered for calling her that name.) Sandy was at the time, Skylar’s guardian as her mother was in a rehabilitation unit at the mental hospital in Goulburn.

  There was the usual blame directed at DOCS. Deserved or not, that’s not going to bring the girls back or help the investigation.

  I felt like standing up and saying “Ron Fisher did it!” That would have given me a laugh. But, as you know, I didn’t say a word. I just stood against the side wall in amongst the throng and watched on impotently.

  What no-one is saying publicly but all are thinking, is that it is one of the unfortunate patients from Bosley House. They wander the streets by day like zombies. The locals have learned to tolerate them and I know they all go to your surgery or are escorted there if too incapacitated. They are schizophrenics, mentally retarded and a whole host of other bizarre afflictions, some without names. While the manager of the half-way hostel got up tonight and guaranteed that none of the patients is dangerous, I think it’s too bold a statement to make. The very nature of mental illness is that impairs thinking properly. I can only hope that the police have gone to check if anyone from there was unaccounted for on Wednesday night.

  Didn’t one of them go missing a couple of weeks ago? Actually you might not have heard about that as I think it was just before you moved to Babylon. His name was Stan Drayton and speculation has been rife, but the general consensus is that he threw himself off a nearby cliff or hung himself from a tree somewhere deep into the national park. He was deeply depressed and had attempted suicide over twenty times. (That’s a loser for you). It has dropped to sub-zero temperatures some nights so it is unlikely… no……impossible for him to have survived the elements. He has no family or none that lay claim to him. But a random attack of such violence against innocents screams “psychopath.”

  If it’s a local murderer I put money on a ‘Bosley House’ connection, otherwise it was a drifter passing through.

  I’m in a bad mood now which means I need to take a deep breath, knock back a warming glass of port or two, pack my lap-top into the front seat and cruise on down to Birch Park Road to shoot the first scene of Amazing Grace.

  I’ve loaded the receptor and reconciled it with my system. I’m sure I can get close enough to be in range and still get good reception.

  I feel a bit like James Bond.

  I’ll check in later with results.

  11:08 p.m.

  I’m speechless. This is the most amazing toy. I’ve been laughing in the car all the way home. I’m deliriously pleased with the results. While I sometimes lose a bit of sound quality when people turn their heads away, it’s sublime picture quality. Not grainy or dull. The lens is tilted so you do get a bit of a fish-eye effect when anyone comes too close to the camera.

  I got to your place and did a u turn about the cul-de-sac, very slowly. I could see Jenny’s car parked beside yours. I’ve seen the beaten- up Sigma outside her place. She lives quite close to me and I see your car there regularly, too. You’re spending a lot of time with her. It’s nice to have a best mate. I can’t say I’ve really ever connected deeply to one other person in a ‘best friend’ kind of way. I don’t think many men do. We are pack animals. You’ve got a pod of whales, a flock of seagulls and a fraternity of men.

  Mind you I haven’t been involved in many fraternities either. I was in the chess club at school – the captain – no less! But there wasn’t a lot of social interaction there – more silent battles of wills and calculated strategies played out largely in hushed whispers.

  I worked in a Real Estate in the city before moving to Babylon and there was a nice familiar feeling between the staff there. We socialized now and again and went to each others barbeques. It was a nice group to belong to. I feel like the thread hanging out of the bottom of a shirt with the outfit I’m in now.

  Back to my film debut. I parked outside the house next door. I was well out of sight and not under a street light. Unless you flashed a torch through the window, I was invisible. With trembling fingers, I opened the lap-top, logged on and pushed the right series of buttons to get into the appropriate program. I had set it up to have each separate camera linked to the one receiver. It would give me less on-screen time but I was not after quantity of film. I was after art-house not blockbuster. I decided to start recording from the camera nearest the kitchen. It gave me a view through the kitchen, past your fridge into the dining room. I hoped you and Jenny were sitting there. From what I had already learned from observation was that the dinner table seemed to be the social hub of the house.

  I held my breath and looked at the flashing light, reading – RECORD! I pushed hard and sat back in suspense for a few seconds as all I saw was grainy, snow and listened to white noise.

  And then. Holy hell, we were in business! A clear, uninterrupted view of you sitting at your dining room table. Jenny was on the other side and I could only see her head, over the raised kitchen breakfast bar. You were talking loud, so sound was all good.

  You were getting quite passionate, talking about the murders and how the town would be affected negatively.

  “There’ll be an air of paranoia and suspicion.” You went on to say that instead of the locals welcoming strangers as they always had, there would be apprehension and distance because anyone could be the killer, coming back to visit the scene of the crime.

  Jenny laughed in a great explosive belly laugh. She’s a raucous woman, isn’t she? Jolly and irreverent. She told you that you’d been watching too many bad crime shows on television.

  You pulled a face and poured another glass of champagne. You really are quite the party girls, aren’t you?

  At that point a head appeared, taking up a lot of space, getting smaller and more in focus as it moved away. It was one of your older sons. I have trouble telling them apart. I think the older one has a darker appearance.

  He began hassling you for a note for school for an excursion.

  You told him to bring it to you.

  He got frustrated, raising his voice, saying that he’d given it to you the week before.

  This argument went on for a few minutes. I couldn’t see you, because Eli, who you had identified, was obscuring you, standing before you with arms on his hips in confrontation mode.

  I don’t know if you resolved anything because your middle son stormed off and called something back that sounded abusive but it was not clear enough for me to make it out.

  He seems like a highly strung boy. I guess that’s hormones. He’d just be entering into puberty I suppose. I remember it being an angst ridden time. I was spotty and short, and an all round geek. I got teased for being intelligent. I wasn’t that much brighter than the others but I worked harder. I studied all night for exams. I wasn’t brilliant but I always did my very best.

  You and Jenny continued your discussion and it turned to Stan Drayton. Between the two of you and, I suspect, a bottle or two of cheap bubbly, you came up with the laughable theory that Drayton had run away from Bosley House and was living in a cave in the National Park, living in animal skins and eating fox flesh. He was getting sick of the gamey taste of fox and lured the Moorebank girls into the bush one day when they were hiding down there, smoking cigarettes. He asked them to bring him food and they did that for a few weeks but last week they turned up with hot chips f
rom the Marigold Diner and he went into a mad rage because nothing from the Marigold was edible. I won’t keep going. You have the idea. When you gave up the act and began laughing, Jenny leaned forward with a deadly serious face, said, “That sort of thing happens all the time, you know.”

  With that you both erupted into uncontrollable laughter. I guess it was funnier there than it was watching it as a third party. Maybe I needed some champagne to appreciate the full hilarity of her comment.

  You told Jenny you would have preferred to stay home and watch “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” than go to the meeting. She rolled her eyes and teased you about your addiction to quiz shows. That’s a funny pastime to have. Well, I suppose not. But I didn’t have you pegged for a TV quiz nut. You certainly can’t be characterized, can you?

  Harry came out and interrupted the conversation, looking for something to eat. You were obviously annoyed but didn’t get angry.

  That was Jenny’s cue to leave and you told Harry he could sleep with you for the night.

  I hadn’t expected you to have company, so I stopped recording, logged off, switched off and hot-footed out of there before Jenny’s bomb came up the driveway. She might recognize my Volvo.

  Home now….

  I’ve been watching my footage for over an hour, figuring out what I will keep and what I won’t. It was good to see some healthy disagreement between you and Eli. I liked that you stayed cool and calm while he had a mini-tornado of a tantrum. Harry obviously has bed-time issues. You appear to be a healthy, normal family with all the normal disagreements and frustrations.

  I freeze-framed the film as you laughed fitfully. It is so good to see you so happy.

  Your smile makes me smile.

  What I like most about you is your healthy ability to accept the world around you, seeing the good and the funny side of everything. Your rather irreverent concept of the Moorebank girls being savaged by some grown up Mowgli of the jungle, I found refreshing. Silly and childish, but refreshing. I’m glad you can step back from this and not get bogged into the drama. The tragedy and the “I knew them so well, they were like my own children, Sandy was my cleaning lady, I once lent the girls some money….bla,bla,bla…how many points do I get for being more attached to these deaths than you?” game that this shallow town is playing.

  I’ve got this damned tribunal hearing against Erin, the four toed sloth tomorrow. The woman is deranged. She’s got long blonde hair and long lean legs. She was going to be a gymnast until she ran over her foot with a lawn mower and took off a toe. From fifty feet away she comes across as a bit of a ‘babe’, but get close and she has the head of a boxer dog. Whenever I need to inspect her house, she greets me in little more than a swimming costume and parades around like some bitch on heat. She’s five weeks behind in her rent and I have been very patient, believing her stories of the settlement she is about to get from her ex-husband and the insurance payout that is almost finalized. It goes on and on. The woman drinks a cask of warm white wine of an evening and does a pole dance on her front balcony to entertain the neighbours and passing traffic. When I finally threatened to take her to the tribunal to recover the arrears, she lashed back that she would complain to my boss that I have been sexually harassing her.

  I laughed thinking it was a joke until she actually did.

  Ron didn’t fire me on the spot and listened to my side of the story. He just kind of snorted and then seemed to forget about it. When I got the summons from the tribunal, a copy went to Ron and he hit the roof. He had counted on me to sort the problem out myself and when the tribunal became involved, Ron decided to distance himself from me. He was hedging his bets – treating me like the invisible man in case I was found guilty and keeping me employed in case I was cleared of the charge.

  Good night. Wish me luck tomorrow. I’m not worried. I’ve got a few aces up my sleeve.

  Thursday 1/07/05

  A pinch and a punch, it’s the first of the month. I slept well last night. I’m feeling very confident about the hearing this afternoon. In fact I am now looking forward to having my moment in court. The four-toed sloth does not realize who she has come up against. She’s a silly girl, playing a dangerous game.

  I got up early to play with my film. It’s fun to take up a new hobby. I’m fascinated by the concept of movie making. I’m actually thinking about doing a course. Perhaps even at my age doing a total career shift and becoming a film director.

  Listen to me! I’ve lost my mind.

  Ten or fifteen minutes of time playing with a camera and I think I’m Steven Spielberg!

  I pulled my best outfit from the wardrobe. It’s a woollen weave, two-button single-breasted suit by Ralph Lauren and whenever I wear it, I look great and feel great. It reeks of success and style. The silly whore I’m up against today will indubitably look like a tramp, sound like a tramp and behave accordingly.

  I’ve chosen a pale blue shirt and a striking yellow tie with a small pattern of red squiggly spots (for want of a better description). The splash of colour is a bold and optimistic statement. If I go dressed for a funeral they might just bury me. Image, Gracie, is everything. The face you present to the world is the only one you’ll be judged on because despite what they tell you – most people DO judge a book by its cover.

  6:43 p.m

  Ohhhhhhhh! Yesssssss! I am an exonerated man! Guilt free! Innocent! Without stain!

  I gave a sublime performance.

  The tribunal member hearing the application was Christine McDonald, a woman who I have had many dealings with. I have always agreed with her decisions and found her fair and today was no exception. The sloth arrived looking like a Christmas hamper in red stockings and a short, green velvet dress with the standard plunging neckline. Those melonous things hanging out the front are like silicone headlights. There is nothing natural about Erin Summer – from her deed-polled surname to her peroxide hair. It would not surprise me if she had mown off her own toe for attention and a payout. She was probably a terrible gymnast anyway.

  Ms McDonald read through the application and raised her eyebrows. She looked over her glasses at me and I gave a sad and confused little shrug. She looked from me to the blonde Christmas tree and pursed her lips.

  First up, she asked IT to give her account of my alleged “sexual harassment.”

  In a totally affected voice sloth began to spew forth a torrent of lies and absurd claims.

  1. I had offered her a rent reduction for sexual favours.

  2. I had asked her if her breasts were real.

  3. She had seen me slowing down outside her house to look at her sun-baking on the balcony.

  4. I had asked her if she had a boyfriend.

  She began to dry sob and I fought the urge to lunge at her and strangle her to death. What a shockingly bad portrayal of a victim she gave.

  I went next, shaking my head and addressing the tribunal member like a benevolent headmistress. I expressed my deep regret that Ms Summer needed to make false accusations in an attempt to discredit me simply because she was afraid of eviction due to substantial rental arrears. Contrary to the suggestion that the applicant was an innocent woman being preyed upon by the evil property manager, I suggested that the lewd behaviour was her own. In support of this, I produced an affidavit from each of her neighbours, stating that they were unable to let their children play in their own back yards because Ms Summer constantly walked about naked or thereabouts and had, on a number of occasions, been seen engaging in sexual acts with her boyfriend, on her back porch and in full view of the neighbours windows.

  I produced copies of my very standard and professional letters to her, requesting payment of back-rent. I indicated that I had never received a response until during a routine inspection, three weeks ago, when I explained to her that I would need to take the matter to the tribunal. At that time she became abusive and called me a lecherous pervert who undressed her with his eyes. I explained quite curtly to Ms McDonald that no one need imagine Ms Summer witho
ut clothes as she spent most of the time in that state anyway. I feared I’d gone too far with that last comment, but my pointed and most disapproving glance at the heaving cleavage, sealed the deal for Christine McDonald.

  She ruled that no further action would be taken. The matter was dismissed and the tenant warned to pay all outstanding rent within a fortnight or be evicted. She also reprimanded the sloth for making false allegations and told her she was lucky I did not press charges.

  I shot the creature a look of “gotcha!” and drove home singing along to the radio, something I never do.

  Ron Fisher greeted me like the prodigal son, slapped me on the back and told me he’s taking Karen, Belinda and I out for drinks tonight. The bastard said he never doubted me and that, in his words, Erin Summer “is a mangy slag.” Charming.

  I’ve come home to change because I don’t want to have to dry clean this suit. I’ll get into something more casual and head down to the Thistle.

  I’m keen to get more of you onto my computer screen, Grace. I don’t really want to open the film with you and Jenny guffawing like drunken hyenas. Perhaps I’ll get my camcorder out of its box and give it a test drive. I bought it with last year’s tax return and haven’t used it yet. I’ll take some footage of the township and surrounding scenery -to set the piece geographically. Perhaps, I can film patients going in and out of your surgery. If I sit in my car and park it down near the Chinese restaurant at about midday on a Friday, I might even be able to get you going in to pay rent. Wouldn’t that be amusing?