by NS Thompson
You logged on to your hotmail account and although the screen displayed dots instead of your actual password, I have closed in on the keyboard here at home and played it in slow motion over and over until I am absolutely sure your password is – MICKEY-
I know that your e-mail address is dramaqueen666 because it is on your application form for the house. It is so thrilling that I can at anytime access your mail and read what you say to friends and family. This is almost as good as the bug and the cameras. I’ll know all your contacts and assuming you save most of your messages, I’ll get a bit of background on you too.
I’m off to check it out. Wish me luck. You should be asleep by now. Sweet dreams.
I’m actually looking forward to our date on Wednesday afternoon. I will simply pretend to be meeting some clients to show a house and get out of the office early. I plan to mark my territory and scare the opera-singing bastard out of the picture. I had Belinda type up a “Termination of Lease” form for the Cox’s today. I am going to hand deliver it to their door tomorrow!
Good-night again, my dear. I hope those teenagers don’t keep you awake rebel-rousing all night long.
xxxxxxx
6/07/05 Tuesday. 7:46 a.m
I stayed up for hours last night, peering into another riveting corner of your life. I feel I know you so much more now. I couldn’t read much that you had written because you don’t save your own ‘sent’ messages in your hotmail file. But all or most of the messages you’ve received over the last year are there and many of them were return messages so I did get to read some of your thoughts. Through them and the correspondence sent to you, I joined a lot of dots and coloured and shaded areas of you that before had been a mystery.
I must go to work now. Perhaps we’ll speak at some stage or I might just bump into you on the street. It’s interesting that your brother lives in Spain.
7:45 p.m.
Dropped by the Cox place this morning to deliver my good news letter, telling them that their tenancy is no longer required. They have never been terribly reliable when it comes to paying the rent on time. The place is a mess. The gardens are uncared for and their dog is a gargantuan, saliva-drenched beast that leaves steaming mounds of crap all over the yard and terrorizes the neighbourhood. On top of all that, the lazy house husband is screwing the woman I have hand-picked to be my wife. Oh yes. They must go!
Your golliwog headed mate answered the door, looking half asleep. I apologized for waking him and explained that I wanted to hand deliver their termination notice so that I could explain that the decision to evict them was not mine but that of the owners and that they would not budge on their position, that they were fed up with the erratic payment of rent and were keen to replace them with more reliable tenants. Mr Cox certainly woke up a little then and actually got a bit irritated with me. He explained that his wife had been sick and had been unable to work for a few weeks. I wanted to ask him what was wrong with him that he couldn’t get a job. I handed him the letter, made a pathetic face and apologized once again from the bottom of my heart. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to punch him in the head as hard as I could. I wanted to kick him so hard in the groin that he wouldn’t even be able to think about fucking you again!
But I did none of these things. I just turned and walked back to my car with a satisfied smile. Start packing, arsehole!
The police were interviewing locals again today. At least the media frenzy has abated.
Two heavy-set, bull-necked detectives wearing bad suits waltzed into the office during the early afternoon.
I was asked to produce the Moorebank sisters’ application form and any other letters that had travelled between us. There were only my “reminder to pay”, “demand for payment” and “notice of tribunal hearing” letters to them. There was nothing in the way of a written response. I would be surprised if those women were even literate. It perturbed me just a little that the uglier of the two suits asked me again where I had been on the night of the murders. I very politely pointed out that I had been at home, cooking and watching a little television - generally what I do most evenings. Then, trying not to sound too annoyed, also pointed out that I had ALREADY made a statement to the police to that effect.
In a flat and even voice, without looking up from his cheap notebook, the shorter, unevenly complexioned detective told me that someone in the community had reported seeing my car drive through town not long after seven p.m.
I was momentarily flustered, shaking my head and looking perplexed. Fuck-it! Someone must have seen me driving through town on my way to the Cox residence. Who the hell would tell the police something like that unless they a) had it in for me or b) actually believed I had something to do with the crime?????
The only person I could think of to want to stick the knife in my back was Erin Summer. Perhaps she’d been up against a dark signpost, looking for business that night. Maybe she’d been stalking me! Perhaps she didn’t see me at all but made the story up to ruffle me. I saw no point in admitting it. There was no way anyone could prove I was not at home.
“No.” I said quite forcefully. “Who-ever it was must have been mistaken. I did go out on the next night, Thursday night, but I was on foot. I had dinner at the hotel.”
The spotted dick was quite abrasive when he told me that no-one was interested in what I had been doing the following night. He told me that the town hall would be open between ten and two on Sunday for all local men to volunteer a saliva sample to be filed and analysed in conjunction with the case.
I said no more but was relieved to see them cross the road and make their next stop at the surgery. You were not out slaughtering children that night. Of that I can be quite sure. I suppose the cops are following all leads and I’m the ex-property manager, just as John is the girls’ ex-physician. Dr Death strikes again. I think I’m being paranoid to suspect that someone is pointing the finger my way. It was either a genuine mistake or Sloth trying to rustle up trouble. I’ve made a report with Michelle about my scratched car and so I’d be covered against any spiteful allegations coming from that whore-bag.
Just after midnight – the witching hour
It’s a marvellous night for a romance….fantabulous night for a moon dance.
The moon was full this evening and it cruised in and out of grey clouds like Major Tom’s sky-ship, floating in a most peculiar way. The air was crisp and felt like cold water in my lungs. I didn’t turn my heating on in the car. It’s noisy and I wanted to listen to everything in your house – right down to the dripping taps and your breath. You went to bed early after reading a story to Harry. You sat at the dining room table, sipping your tea while you read and even I got absorbed by the story of the fox and the dog and the magpie. What a love triangle they made. Ultimately I think the magpie got what she deserved. Perhaps the deeper layers of the book were missed by Harry. It is, I know, a children’s book but it has a strong message for all of us doesn’t it? Some of that would be lost on a boy his age. It’s a story about loyalty and betrayal. I wonder who wrote it?
I just googled it and discovered that it was written by Margaret Wild. Good job, Margaret. I think I’ll buy a copy of “Fox,” tomorrow. I believe there is often more quality and depth in the simply worded children’s book than a lot of rubbish on the adult shelves. Kathy Reichs, Cornwall and co. are just sensationalists focused on human weakness and they write obsessively about death and rot, decay and maggots. Do we really need to be reminded of our mortal destiny?
Not having had children myself and being devoid of nieces and nephews, I have had little call to read children’s books in recent years and yet I was an avid reader as a boy. I remember some of those books like old friends – “Where the Wild Things Are.” “Flight to the Mushroom Planet” and all the decadently saccharine Blyton books.
I grew up in a craggy-cliffed seaside village like those told of in Famous Five adventures. I don’t recall ever meeting a smuggler. Not even once.
I waited until I knew you we
re asleep and although I knew it was risky, I left my car and walked back and then down the parameter of your property, keeping deep in the shadows. The moon lit the night and I didn’t want any child catching sight of a shadow out of the window. Music came from the double garage. Not loud but audible and obviously of adolescent origin. Dan was obviously still up and fiddling with his guitar. From my observations and the frequency with which that boy comes and goes from the garage, I’m betting that he’s moved in to it. That would account for the smallest bedroom being used as your office.
That works well for me because the garage is the furthest spot from your bedroom and I don’t want that boy to catch me at play. He wouldn’t understand and would probably be a bit defensive and protective of you - after all he really is the man of the house now isn’t he? And poor old Dan probably shouldered a lot of responsibility when his father died.
I hope he and I can get along. He seems to be a quiet, sensitive boy. Not a big, sporting type but fine boned and good looking. The musical talent generally sits with an arty, romantic type I think. I was never musically inclined. I could certainly appreciate it but lacked any ability to reproduce it. My mother told me that I had the worst singing voice she had ever heard. If I ever tried to sing along to the radio she would just about keel over with laughter. I still sometimes do it to entertain her when I visit her or she visits me. I imagine you’ve got a good voice. A kind of smoky, bar-room voice that oozes sensuality. Will you sing for me one day? The minute you walked in the joint……
God I get distracted, don’t I?
I stole down the side of your house and cut across the back to the large tree beside the alpaca fence. Because of the full moon I could see quite clearly into their paddock and they were no where to be seen. I could see across the sandstone terrace to your bedroom’s sliding doors. You have three sets of blinds covering that area. The one across the door was open half way. Your lights were out. The rest of the house also lay in darkness. I took a deep breath and did a burglar dash to the terrace and keeping close to your covered windows, I inched along until I came to open blind and bent down so that I could look in. It was darker inside your room than out and it took a while for my eyes to adjust.
I could just make you out on the bed. You had one bare arm above the covers and your hair lay in a dark halo about your white pillow.
Very carefully I tried to slide the door open. It moved. Unlocked. You really are careless with security. Slowly and soundlessly I pushed the door open about a foot. The air inside was warm. Your central heating is a godsend during winter, I’ll bet.
My pulse was hammering and I held my breath and eased into the room, staying on my hands and knees. Your bedroom door was almost shut but not quite.
I crawled carefully across the room and stopped about an arms length from your bed. I eased myself up onto my knees and stared at your serene face. Your lips were giving regular, gentle puffs out as if you were trying to blow a tiny, little candle out.
I wanted to touch you but I was afraid you’d stir. You looked like a beautiful doll. I stood for only a minute and then made the careful trip back out the door. Just as I got outside and began to slide the door, your blasted white cat came out of nowhere and ducked under my arm and into your bedroom. I wasn’t going to chase him so I closed the door, leaving him inside and hurried back to the car.
All the way home I whistled and I’ve been thinking ever since, how lucky I will feel to wake up next to you every morning.
It’s too late to play editor tonight. I’m tired. Do you know I am beginning to sleep better than I have for years?
Good-night, precious girl.
7/07/05 Wednesday
We have a date at five, Gracie. It was the first thing to spring into my mind when opened my eyes this morning. It’s raining outside and the wind is sending my wind-chime epileptic. It’s early, so I’ll light the fire (it went out over night), make a coffee and eat a bit of toast and then I will sit down at the computer and begin recreating a visual tribute to you, my love. I’m thinking that I might play some of your conversations on the phone while flashing still photos of you, the house, your friend, your cat, your kids, your car, your surgery, your alpacas etc. Still slices of your life to the sound of your voice. I’ll edit, so that what you’re saying matches the images…you know, you might be saying –“Oh..it was fun at your place, yesterday, Jenny.” While I flash a picture of Jenny’s house. And maybe one of her little girls. You may be talking to your mother, saying “Harry is doing well at school” and I’ll flash a picture of the school and then one of Harry crossing the road in the morning. The beauty of my profession is that no-one in town will blink an eye to see me happy snapping with my work-camera. I’m always photographing buildings and shots of the community for advertising purposes. I’ve become quite good over the years.
Hang on – phone is ringing. Who the….?
Mother. She can be tiresome sometimes. She’s still harping on about the fact that I haven’t seen her since I planted her back at home after her brief stint in hospital. Never mind that I have rung her every second day or so and have stayed in contact with the Blue Nurses who give me reports on her. According to them, she is perfectly well. Her wound has healed and she’s back to being her old bossy self. Did I tell you that she was a school teacher when she was younger? Very much the spectacles on the end of her nose and the ominous, long, wooden black-board ruler that would come down with a crack on the desk of anyone bold enough to whisper to a friend. If I ever forgot to take the rubbish out or failed to shine my shoes on a Sunday night, she would have me write one hundred lines and then sit me in the laundry for dinner. She could be a tough cookie, that woman.
Could be? Still is.
Anyway, she’s just given me a good dressing down for being such an uncaring son. I’m all she has in the world bla,bla,bla. She did ask after you and I said you were wonderful and that all the worries were resolved. She wants me to bring you down to see her on the week-end. I told her we had other plans. Then she started on about how sick she felt. This is a pattern. If she doesn’t get her own way or the high level of attention she demands then she falls back on her health. She is frail and she has aged badly, looking ten years older than her age. Osteoporosis is crippling her. She bends so badly like a twisted branch that she is barely taller than my waist now. But all in all she’s still in one piece and the nurses have reported that her blood pressure is fine and her chest is clear so I’m sure she’s fine. I suppose I could drive down and bring her back up here for the week-end. If she was sick there’s always Dr Death, mind you he’d probably only have to take her pulse and that would be the end of her. Poor John, I wonder if he has any inkling that people are so irreverent about his bad track record of patient deaths. It’s hardly his fault he practices in the geriatric belt.
I’ll think about Mum and call her tonight. I don’t like her staying with me though because she’s very critical of things. She’ll complain that the fire is too hot and that I wash the linen in the wrong detergent and that I play my music too loud and that I have the paintings on the wall in the wrong place and that my car is too flashy for someone like me and that I’m too particular when it comes to women. She’ll possibly go too far and tell me what a lovely woman Vicki was and that I’d been a fool to let her go. I didn’t ever explain the lesbian thing to her. She wouldn’t have believed me anyway. She doesn’t actually believe there is such a thing as lesbianism. I remember her telling me once that women would never do such a thing and that the whole concept had been created by the media which is run by misogynist males. I could show her a few sites on the internet with live shows but she’d still not be convinced.
6:58 p.m
I’ve just come back from St. Andrew’s and I’m in a bad mood! You, of course, looked lovely. Not for me, though, was it? You are so pretty in pink. The concert was tedious. Some of those old croakers really should keep their mouths shut. Your lover boy has a good set of lungs though, doesn’t he? Quite a tenor
! I cringed when he sang, particularly when the word GRACE cropped up and he gave you a faint smile. We sat with the wife. Did you feel DIS-graceful sitting beside her, thinking back to your lascivious evening of adultery? Or were you smug and revelling in your deceit?
The concert went on for about twice as long as it should. I dissected your mate. Looking at the parts instead of the whole package. I was trying to ascertain, what exactly, was the attraction. If I could understand what you were drawn to in him, I might be able to work on being more of what you want and less of what you don’t.
He’s taller than me. Not astoundingly so, though. I can’t add inches to my height anyway, so I’ll forget about that. He’s very swarthy. Dark curly hair. Black clown hair. I have close cropped hair although it was dark once. It’s very salt coloured these days. I whitened early. In my twenties. I’m not about to run out and get a silly wig. The goatee makes him look like Lucifer. I would never ever let my facial hair grow to more than an afternoon shadow. He’s heavier set than me. I’m not scrawny but I don’t have a lot of body mass. I’m lean but lithe. I look fitter than him. He has a hedonistic halo - definitely a man with an indulgent appetite for life. He likes a drink, rich food and is highly sexed. You can see that in some people. He’s got a decadent Roman emperor attitude to life, I’m guessing. I can see him in a toga, reclining on his couch, being fed grapes by some palace harlot while another one massages oil into his feet. I’m more of a serious, disciplined centurion or a well-trained gladiator. He’s a Nero to my Mark Anthony. Or in a Greek mythology analogy – he’s a decadent Zeus to my Apollo! I suppose he is good-looking by a woman’s standards but he’s altogether too alternative and relaxed. He’s a man that seems a bit unravelled.
