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

by NS Thompson

  “Oh fuck. Shit. Fuck,”…something along those lines. Not language that should slip from the lips of a lady. GG never swore.

  You grabbed your bathrobe off the floor and wrapped it tenderly around your pet. You cried. The tears running little rivulets over your cheeks. You’ve left your room and a quick switch to the office camera, shows you hurrying down the hallway, calling for your son, Eli.

  He greets you blearily, aroused from his slumber by the urgent tone of your voice.

  “What? What is it?”

  You are verging on hysterical now, Gracie.

  “Pat. Pat’s lost his leg.”

  Your son is suddenly very awake.

  “What?”

  “I think something’s attacked him…a big dog…I don’t know,” you blubber.

  Your concern and distress are alluring. I wish you were as concerned about my feelings as you are a cat’s hind leg or lack thereof.

  Eli starts getting a tad frantic, poor boy.

  “Show me!”

  “No”, your voice is still quivering and you are beginning to shake. “Shit. What are we going to do?”

  Eli takes control at this point. He rushes to get the yellow pages and looks for after-hours vet services.

  Larry, a.k.a Pat, seems to be sleeping in your arms. You are breathing deeply, nestling the creature in your arms like a small baby. Eli finds a twenty-four hour veterinary service and dials the number passing you the phone.

  In a quivering, panic-stricken voice you give your address and explain what you can about the cat’s condition.

  Legless – pretty much sums it up.

  This will hurt the hip pocket, Gracie. Vets don’t come cheap. It would have kept overnight. It’s not like you have the actual leg on ice - to be reattached. That, my dear, is being chewed by your boyfriend’s hound.

  It was kind of a cross between a chicken leg and a very small leg of lamb. With white, blood-encrusted fur. I used the small hatchet from the woodpile on the balcony. One clean swipe was all it took. Almost. Maybe one and a half. Swift vengeance. The cat didn’t even balk. I think he was in shock. Wouldn’t you be? He did begin to make strange noises about a minute later. Howling, whining noises that made my skin crawl. I wrapped a towel around the wound to stem the bleeding. I didn’t want Larry to die. I’m not that cruel.

  The good vet arrived, looking bleary-eyed and just a little put out at having been dragged from his cosy bed at such an ungodly hour.

  Once he’d examined the cat, he was more compassionate.

  “This is a clean cut. Not an attack by any animal.”

  You and Eli looked at one another. Confused.

  “What do you mean?” Eli asked.

  “I mean, this is the result of a deliberate attack using an axe or a saw…I think you’d better make a report to the police. This is a serious case of animal cruelty.”

  The vet gave Eli a deep, dark stare and you could see in the man’s eyes that he was processing the thought that it was the kind of random act of violence often perpetrated by teenagers. Eli’s genuine horror was apparent on his face, though and he looked about as guilty as the pope in a gang-rape line-up. Bewildered and very, very innocent.

  Dr Doolittle then put the cat in a cage and took him away to the animal hospital, said he’d clean and mend the wound, give him intravenous anti-biotics and call you in the morning.

  “Miss Gracie had a pussy who was sick, sick, sick.

  So she called for the doctor to come quick, quick, quick.

  The doctor came with his bag and his hat and he

  Knocked on the door with a rat-a-tat-tat”

  My mother sang me something similar when I was a little boy.

  You will probably have a restless night’s sleep but don’t worry, the cat will be fine. They are resilient animals. He’ll probably become more of a home-body now and you can spend more quality time with him, giving him love, affection and rehabilitation.

  Work beckons. It’s sleeting again, I think, but you’ll warm up on your walk to work.

  6:22p.m.

  Frosty the Snowman was a very jolly soul. It’s snowing. The town looks beautiful and the atmosphere is one of happy revelry. Every child in Babylon is rugged up and out on the street hurling snowballs at one another. It is so very reminiscent of winter at home in England.

  The fall began at about two o’clock this afternoon and by the time the working day was over, the streets were full of people and the snow was blanketing everything. The pine trees along the railway track looked stunning. The organisers of the “Christmas in July” at the hotel would be orgasming over the snow. They’ve been praying for a white Christmas all season.

  You came out from the surgery and your face just lit up like a Christmas tree. You clapped your hands and waved across the street to me.

  “This is fantastic,” you shouted and I knew I just had to catch that on film.

  I ran inside and grabbed the work camera. The batteries were low but I managed to call at you to pose for me.

  “For the local paper!” I laughed.

  You struck a coy pose, with your face to one side, your cheek resting on one shoulder. I got two shots.

  Jenny arrived on foot not long after, with her two girls and Harry in tow. Harry was beside himself with excitement. He was running around squealing and hooting and flinging snow about like a maniac. Without checking for traffic, he bolted across the road to you and you grabbed him and swung him around like a merry-go-round.

  I zoomed across the street and took another happy snap of the two of you.

  And then, lover-boy had to go and ruin it by turning up. He blatantly grabbed you around the waist and picked you up. You gave a little kick and struggle, yelling at him to put you down. I could see your eyes darting up and down the street to see if anyone had noticed his bold actions. I guessed that you missed me taking a quick shot.

  Then you spoke with him and you looked quite serious. I got the distinct impression you were telling him about the cat.

  Do you suspect his wife, perhaps? Who else in this town would be so intent on disturbing you? I wonder. The enemies you don’t know about are the most dangerous. Like the shark you don’t see.

  Cockhead was shaking his head and frowning. He looked quite agitated. Were you arguing, kiddies? You both seemed to be talking over the top of each other. Jenny came over and put her five cents in too. He walked off and appeared to be on a mission. I hurried back inside. Cold.

  Did I mention that Mum’s doctor left a message on my phone saying that a public notice was being inserted in the weekend paper about the old duck, asking if anyone would come forward to claim her for burial? The only chance would be Vicki, and she’s never got more than ten dollars to her name so it’s doubtful she could afford a funeral, no matter how “no frills” it was. I didn’t bother calling him back and I certainly won’t be responding to the ad. Mum’s house was a rental.

  9:10p.m.

  Michelle just came over for a chat. I can’t really talk right now. I’m in a state of absolute shock. I’m speechless. Messed up and numb and freaked out all at once. I’ll tell you about it later after I’ve had some time to wrap my head around it all.

  The police forensic team arrived during our conversation. They are poring over my car as I write. I am going to have to hide this book because it does reveal that I was out on the streets that night. They wouldn’t like that I had lied. This is all totally fucked up!

  Saturday 25th July

  It’s lunchtime. I stayed in bed all morning just looking at the branches swaying outside my window, letting thoughts drift in and out of my head. I don’t feel like eating. Not even coffee. I feel like disappearing so I’ve just opened a bottle of red wine and I’m going to drink it and follow it with another. Numbness and delirium are now invited upon me.

  I just rescued this journal from the safe. I had it specially installed in the wall behind “Sarabande” by Norman Lindsay. It’s a print, of course, but a limited edition. I bough
t it last year on e-bay for $462 dollars plus postage. It’s kind of sexy and magical.

  I’m raving again. Raving mad. But I am not the same man that I was yesterday. I have changed in deeply subliminal ways. Excuse me if I appear more chaotic in thought and deed.

  Let me replay two nights ago.

  I’ll start at the beginning of the very long night.

  I had just gotten home from dinner with the Buxton’s and Hills at the Mountain-view and was standing on my back balcony, videoing my snow-capped garden by night, when I heard a car crunch up my drive way.

  I walked down the side path, my rubber-booted feet sinking into the soft white slush, and came face to face with Constable Michelle, who was making her way down the garden path. She was in uniform but looked relaxed and gave me a smile. It’s always nice to be greeted by a policeman’s smile and not the baton and hand-cuffs.

  “What’s up, Michelle?” I felt a little uneasy, given my visit last night.

  She apologized for interrupting such a beautiful evening and asked if we might step inside as she had something important to discuss with me.

  It was the last thing I felt like doing. I rarely had visitors but Michelle had me intrigued. It is also bad form to decline an invitation by your small town copper.

  What she had to tell me has changed me forever.

  First up, I offered her a cup of tea which she declined. She sat opposite me in the leather recliner and leaned forward resting her elbows on her knees. This journal sat closed on the coffee table between us.

  “This is about Sandy Moorebank.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh and shook my head.

  “I can’t tell you any more than I’ve already told you. I was at home that night and I have never been or wanted to be a murderer of children. The woman owed us rent but frankly that happens every day and it’s not my money so I don’t take it on board.”

  There was a moment of silent show down and then I had a frightening thought.

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  She shook her head and said – “Not yet.” That didn’t sound promising.

  I insisted that our conversation be recorded. My camera was still in my hand. She shrugged and said I could suit myself although it wasn’t necessary and I might regret it.

  I set the camera up on the entertainment unit and set it to record. I did not want anything said between us to be later misconstrued.

  Then Michelle gave the video a death stare, looked back to me and simply asked me how well I knew Sandy.

  I told her – “Well enough to not want anything to do with her.”

  And then she asked me outright if I had ever had sexual relations with Sandy.

  I stood up and got quite irritated.

  “How dare you…” I went on with something to that effect until she stood up and countered it all with one shocking statement.

  “Cut it out Jack. The DNA results are in and you, it would appear, are little Sarah Moorebank’s biological father. Were you aware of that?”

  My mouth gaped and my heart stopped beating.

  Words froze in my chest and I suddenly couldn’t feel my own skin.

  “Did you know that? Did you suspect at all?” she asked me gently.

  I shook my head in slow motion.

  “Jesus!” I whispered “There was that once, years ago. I was so ashamed.” I looked up into Michelle’s sharp, blue eyes and began to cry with embarrassment. She reached out and touched my arm.

  “I’m sorry, Jack.”

  “I was lonely”, I blubbered. “She asked if she could borrow twenty dollars. I was at the pub and I’d had a few too many.” I put my hands over my face and breathed deeply. Trying not to hyperventilate.

  “She was plastered but I still went home with her. It was quick. Terrible. Dirty. I got the hell out of there as soon as I’d sobered up enough to realise what I’d done. Her sister was shooting up heroin in the living room. It was like being in hell. I went home and scrubbed off the germs and have never thought about it since.”

  Michelle helped me to sit back down.

  “Sandy had no idea that it was you either,” she said quietly. “She’s been on the game a long time and she rarely remembers her tricks. She has absolutely no recollection of sleeping with you. Drugs will do that to you. I thought you must have known. You organised the Trivia night so….”

  “No. That was just a compassionate gesture.” I swallowed hard and my throat hurt. “All these years. I had a daughter.” I was feeling nauseous with shock.

  The fact that she was dead hung in the air between us like an ugly black cloud.

  Michelle went on to tell me that I was now a suspect in the murders. I would generally have reacted angrily to such a suggestion but the wind had been kicked out of me and I just shrugged and said – “Naturally” with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

  I stood up and turned off the camera.

  I’m downing medicinal Shiraz, as I write.

  That was when Officers a, b and c entered the picture with their little kits and carry bags. They had been waiting at the bottom of the driveway. Michelle produced the warrant to search my car. I guess I was still reeling from the news that I had unintentionally married my DNA to the Moorebank family, so I just apathetically nodded and gave them the keys. One was a woman with perky tits and they all wore navy blue overalls. They oozed arrogance, as if they thought they were cast members of some stupid ‘crime scene investigation’ television show.

  “I’m sorry, Jack” Michelle shrugged apologetically. “They’ll just have a quick squiz in your car. It’s just routine because of the DNA findings. It might be seen as a motive and all that…sorry. Don’t take it personal, eh?” There was that kiwi lilt.

  It must be a hard job to be a copper in a small town. You know everyone so well. Everyone’s business. You’d be privy to feuds. Know who beats his wife. It would be very difficult to go to the death scene of anyone local. There was a car crash just out of town two years ago where four local teenage boys were absolutely shredded. Michelle was godmother to one of the dead boys. She was first on the scene. Poor woman.

  Last month she had to arrest a local girl for stealing from her employer at the hotel. The girl’s mother was one of Michelle’s friends. It would be tempting to become a bit lax and slack with the enforcement side of the job and I think, generally speaking, that is a very real failing of the good constable.

  I certainly bear her no grudge for the INTRUSION into my private life.

  Jesus Christ! I hope this turn of events stays quiet. I would be beyond mortification if the facts were to leak out. Nothing would kill one’s reputation more than being the police suspect in a paedophiliac murder investigation, I would imagine.

  Shiraz is going down nicely. Snow has stopped and the streets are now full of brown sludge.

  As soon as Michelle had bid me adieu and gone out to chat with the over-all- clad beings, I put this journal away safely in the safety of the safe. Ssssssssssssss.

  It could not be said whether the police would be back to run a fine tooth comb through my house. There was nothing in the car to link me to the murders. They were just wasting time there.

  As I now feel my legs get heavy and my blood rise in temperature thanks to the calming, relaxing delicious red wine in my system, I get to thinking about...

  MY DAUGHTER!

  Sarah. Twelve years old. I don’t know what her birthday was but I do know what her death-day was. I don’t know what her favourite colour was but I know the flowers on her coffin were pink. How did she do at school? What colour were her eyes? What made her laugh?

  I didn’t know anything about her at all. The extent of my knowledge was that she had been sexually molested and then brutally knifed to death not long after buying her last meal of hot chips.

  I also knew that her mother was a junkie whore.

  Perhaps little Sarah had inherited more of me. I think my chromosomes would have been far superior to those contributed by Sandy. I ha
te even writing that name.

  The bitch will probably turn up at my doorstop to ask for twelve years of child support!

  Drink heightens my emotions. My mood, whatever it may be, intensifies. I’m sad and angry at the same time. And I’m getting sadder and angrier with every glass.

  How would I have coped all these years, had I known? Would I have embraced this urchin as my child? Or would I have denied her existence? Could I have dealt with the ongoing communication with the Moorebanks that would have been required had I been a part of Sarah’s life? The honest answer is – I don’t know.

  Maybe I would have fought and won custody of the kid. Sandy would have had a hard time proving she was a fit mother. And then I could eradicate all traces of the Moorebank influence from Sarah’s life. Mind you, I was married to vulture-breath during that time and I don’t think she would have been too happy about raising the local junkie-hooker’s brat that her husband had sired.

  Who am I kidding? What makes me think I could be a good father? I don’t know what a father is! Father equals ghost. Mystery. Vague memory. I’ve seen other men with their children and on the whole fatherhood looks like a nice place to be. But I wouldn’t know the rules. The things to say. When to go all out with discipline and when to ease off. All I know is this –

  IF I HAD KNOWN THAT GIRL WAS MY DAUGHTER – THINGS WOULD HAVE BEEN DIFFERENT AND SARAH THORNE WOULD NOT BE SIX FEET UNDERGROUND WITH MAGGOTS FEASTING ON HER EYEBALLS.

  Now I’m having to focus hard on writing legibly. It’s getting a bit sloppy. I haven’t heard from the police. They haven’t been back which has got to be a good sign, although those forensic test things take a few weeks, I think. The paranoid part of me thinks that the cops have made this crap up. Sandy gave them a list of local men she’s screwed and they’ve decided to conveniently frame me. I should have supervised them raping my car the way they did. The mats have been taken, as well as the rug in my boot and a bag. I am so bloody lucky that I brought the computer inside the other day. If it had been in the car, I’m sure the bastards would have taken that too. It’s a completely unnerving feeling to be suspected of something you are innocent of. Who kills their own kid? Oh well, I take that back. Hundreds of people every year kill their own children. That woman in the States who drowned all of hers…and Folbigg….that was just unbelievable. After the first two, you would think questions would be asked. How screwed up – she’d killed two of her own kids and was not even close to being a suspect and here am I, minding my own fucking business and the cops think I’m some Charlie Manson kiddy fucker!