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

by NS Thompson

  Arggh! Life is not fair.

  My daughter is dead! She died like a dog. Like a bit of unfortunate wildlife, mauled and eaten up by a stronger creature…in the dark…in the bush.

  She was from all accounts a nice girl. Karen told me at some point that Sandy’s daughter was not at all like her mother. She was apparently polite and well behaved.

  The local rag had done a full page obituary of the two girls in the issue published soon after the murders. In it, the local lesbian school principal had sung the girls’ praises, saying they had been studious and vital members of the student body. And Gracie, your Dr Death, had put his foot into the hokey pokey and added that Sarah and Skylar had often come and washed the patients’ cars at the surgery for five dollars apiece. He called them enterprising and even added that Sandy and her sister were wonderful mothers doing the best they could under difficult circumstances. I wonder how they were paying him for their prescription drugs, eh???Eh?Eh?Eh?

  Nudge. Nudge. Wink. Wink.

  Fuck the police! What makes them think I am capable of such a heinous crime? I am not an animal. Have I got a criminal record? It would be pretty strange for a mild-mannered man such as myself, to live happily and quietly in a small township for nearly fifteen years without so much as a whiff of scandal and then BAM to suddenly realize that he was not who he seemed, but a monster that raped and murdered young girls. I’m no detective and I don’t have a badge but I do think that someone capable of this crime would have been leaking clues for some time. Problems with child pornography, a past offender, a violent or insane person.

  The man who shot your husband, Gracie, was probably not an accountant or a lawyer. He was probably a crack addict who had a history of violence with a file as long as a John Holmes dildo.

  Who was Jack the Ripper? They never figured that out, did they?

  I guess he had to start somewhere and one of the unfortunate prostitutes had to be first. There’s always a first time. Granted.

  But you can bet your bottom dollar that little Jackie Ripper displayed some psychotic tendencies long before he disembowelled his first victim.

  The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that my daughter’s murderer was from the loonie-bin, Bosley House. Only a deranged, sicko could do that. I’m going to go down there myself and talk to the manager of the hostel. I want answers. First thing tomorrow Yes Sireee. Answers. Who killed my daughter? I will find out and I will make sure they pay the full penalty for their evil act.

  I’m getting too uncoordinated to write. Bye. Over and out.

  Sunday 26th July.

  I am never going to drink again. My head feels like a punk- rocker has placed the speakers to his stereo inside it and turned the volume up to eleven.

  There is no way I am going to Bosley Housel today. They’d want to take me on as a patient, I’m sure.

  Oh my God, the neighbour, Mr Potter, has started up his bandsaw. What the hell does someone need a bandsaw for on a Sunday morning? The only purpose that springs

  (ever so slowly) to mind, is to cut my own head off. Gneouwww. One neat saw above the shoulders, with a bit of resistance and high-pitched whirr as it soldiered though the cervical region, though cartilage, bone and spinal cord. Just thinking about that makes me feel better.

  Is it market day? Maybe…

  I feel like going to the Marigold for a greasy bacon burger with the lot.

  In fact, I will.

  Later

  Not sure if I feel better or worse. The cerebral punk- rocking is easing off….now down to a steady heavy metal beat.

  I’m sure Tony gave me a funny look when he gave me my change. I’m fairly intuitive like that and he’s usually so gregarious and witty. He was as flat as a ‘road-kill toad.’

  Speaking of road-kill, I’ve weaned myself off fantasizing about dead wombats to keep me pure. It hasn’t been an issue because I’ve been completely celibate since GG let out her last breath of air.

  You, dear Grace, need to be purified and rid of germs before I will touch you. An exorcism, so to speak.

  I’ve missed you and wonder what you’ve been up to.

  Did I tell you that Erin Von Bitchface actually brought her rent up to date? Who would have seen that coming? I am powerless to do much at this time but, given her history, I know it is only a matter of time before she slips up again and I’ll be ready to pounce.

  I noticed that there are quite a few cars parked outside Jenny’s place. Party central. I have no doubt that you are there with bells on. I’ve decided to go for a walk. If I had a dog, I’d take him too. Speaking of dogs, I wonder how the Cox’s hound, liked his bone.

  I’ve been tied up with my own dramas and have not kept up to speed with your life. That must change and soon.

  I’ve put on my runners and track-suit and will stroll past Jenny’s with my ears peeled for sounds of your pealing laughter and then I might peel an orange and listen for the peal of bells from St Andrew’s. Honestly, I am quite silly sometimes. I was trying to relive an English exam where I had to write a paragraph describing a homonym or was it a homophone…..or a homograph. Damn. Time drinks away at the memory juice.

  Later that same day…..

  I’m still feeling very second hand.

  Erin, the sloth was at Gemma’s little soiree so I guess she’s joined the legion of single mothers. You people must have very low membership requirements. I could hear her hyenic laughter as I walked past the back fence.

  By the time I got to the main street I was exhausted and felt clammy. Alcohol poison oozed from my pores and the pounding in my skull was a monotonous lament of “Why? Why? Why?”

  I had a dog when I was a boy. Mother gave it to me for my eleventh birthday. It was a Beagle and I named him Benny. I think it was a tribute to Benny Goodman. I can’t remember. Anyway, my pet lasted about two weeks and then Mother sent him to the pound because he had been pulling sheets off her clothes line and making messes on the concrete slab out the back. I cried for days. I was devastated. I have never had another pet except for that brief episode with Larry the loathsome feline.

  I turned around and headed for home. Harry was outside Jenny’s place, playing with a gaggle of other children. He said “Hi” as I walked past and I stopped and chatted with him. He’s a friendly little chap because he went on to tell me about the troubles with your cat. I sounded suitably shocked and concerned and I felt a tiny twinge of guilt because Harry had been very upset by the ordeal.

  But I see it like this – if someone smuggles drugs into a backward, Asian country they may face the death penalty. You do the crime, you do the time. I would feel very sorry for the family of the criminal but frankly – life is sometimes hard and what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Apparently the cat is home and recovering well. Hell, he’s probably getting more love and affection than he might have with four legs.

  I bid Harry adieu and said I’d see him about town some time and then he told me that you were going on a holiday to the beach for a week.

  “Which beach?” I asked.

  “Pretty Beach”, he answered me. “We’re staying in Doctor John’s caravan. I’ve never stayed in a caravan before! We’re leaving after Mum finishes work. We’ll get back at lunchtime or something next Monday.” He looked so excited. I had never noticed how long his eyelashes are. They are like tarantulas.

  “Are you going with the Doctor?” I enquired.

  “No. Just Jenny and Mum and the kids.”

  “Are your big brothers going too?” I tried to sound indifferent.

  “Nope. They’re staying with their friends in Sydney. They’ve already gone.”

  I gave him a pat on the back and strolled off, my mind tumbling the new information about my head like a tumble dryer.

  I could hear the music from Jenny’s backyard spilling all the way down the street – the unmistakeable trill of “Queen”. Altogether too sissy for my taste. Freddy Mercury could sing but the falsetto puts me on edge. I’ve always liked N
eil Diamond. My mother had a crush on him for years. I think I’ll put on “Hot August Night” right now.

  I’ll come to your street and play eye-spy later tonight. If you and lover-boy are still an illicit item, I imagine he’ll peddle over to give you a carnal send-off and I am already hatching a plan so that it will be the last time you two ever rut again.

  The dashboard clock reads …1:02 a.m.

  You people are so bloody predictable. Shallow and transparent. Of course your visitor arrived with his permanent erection and salivated all over you. It’s become almost a ritual hasn’t it? Midnight bike-ride through the bitter cold, park bike at back of house, tiptoe across the terrace, slide the glass door and slip inside for some desperate carnal pleasures.

  I parked a little ways down Norman Street. Well out of sight but not out of wireless range. I saw the shadow of the cyclist as he crested the hill and disappeared down the other side. With the moon in the distance and the billowing grey clouds in the dark night sky as a backdrop it almost looked like he was flying – like a witch on a broomstick – to your door.

  I got my equipment all readied and began to record. You were pretending to be asleep. Your bathroom light was on. That is a flag to me that HE is doing a night raid. When you are given the rare night off, you sleep with the bathroom light off and your door ajar. On Cock-a-doodle evenings your door is closed and presumably locked to ward off insomniac little boys.

  You were curled up into a foetal position and the sheet only covered you from the waist down. Your breasts were squeezed together and spilled out over your forearms. I could see that your sleepy eyes were half awake and your impatience was palpable. You rolled onto your back and pulled the sheet up a little higher as soon as you heard the squelch of tyres down past your bathroom and the tell-tale thump of a bike being rested on the bricks outside your back wall.

  You shut your eyes after shaking your hair out about the pillow, posing like a sleeping Aphrodite. How pathetic. Perhaps you fantasize about a home intruder breaking in as you sleep, to rape and ravage you. I believe your mate wears a black balaclava, that his wife knitted him, on extra freezing midnight raids. Although he has never gone as far as fucking you while wearing the woollen mask, it naturally inspires all sorts of potential to my mind. I heard him tell you that his wife is addicted to sleeping pills. That makes these escapades so much easier for him. She doesn’t look like a pill popper but if you are to believe Jacqueline Sussan, pill poppers look like everyone else.

  So, needless to say, your man stripped and leapt into the warmth of your bed. You gave a little squeal because he was as cold as a block of ice after riding through the frosty darkness to your door.

  It makes me sick to listen to the two of you giggling and enjoying the comfortable banter of a couple of carefree teenagers. You throw away decency and all responsibility when you leap into the arms of that buffoon. You are naïve enough to believe that the two of you have SOOOO much in common. Compatible genitals is about it from where I’m standing! Or sitting. Seething.

  Your lovemaking has changed. I’ve noticed that you spend more time just snuggling. That’s dangerous. You’ll become deluded that he loves you. He’s a prize arsehole to lure you into his web. He’s a married man and I can tell you right now that he won’t leave his meal-ticket-wife to move in with you and your needy three children.

  I’ve looked back at the screen and cannot believe my eyes. You both appear to have fallen asleep. How amusing. I wonder if you’ll sleep through until morning. That might cause trouble as the wife’s drugs wear off and she wakes up to an empty spot beside her. Brainwave. I have shut the computer off and I’m driving down to your place. If I’m very careful and quiet, I do believe I can wheel his bicycle down into the bush behind your place. If I can get it into the very dense scrub it will be some time before it is found. Brilliant.

  Home….very late…..

  Mission accomplished. I went back up to the car and continued to watch you sleeping. It was about an hour before you stirred and then snapped upright, shaking your lover into consciousness. He was disoriented for a few moments (as you would be) and then pulled on his clothes in a hurry. No time to shower off the germs tonight. I watched him leave via the sliding door and began to count….one….two….three….four…five and voila he returned somewhat perplexed. I’ve watched the footage a couple of times and know the script almost word for word.

  “I can’t find my bike!” He announced in a panic.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean – it’s not where I left it.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I’m serious. I always leave it in the same place.”

  “Shit.” You pulled the sheets up around you and began shaking your head.

  “It’s her. Shit. Andy. It’s Amanda. I keep telling you she knows.”

  Lover-boy began a nervous pace to the bathroom and back, shaking his head.

  “No. I’d sense that. I swear she doesn’t know.”

  “Get real, Andy. This is freaking me out. What if she was out there while we were having sex. Jesus Christ.”

  You threw yourself back onto the pillows and sighed.

  “It’s not Amanda, Grace!” You raised your voice, Mr Cox. Touchy. Touchy.

  “Think about it.” You countered. “Someone wrote ‘slut’ on my mirror. Who else would do that? Who else would give a damn that we were together? Then there was the cat. That was deliberate.”

  “She couldn’t do that. She might be a cold bitch but she’s not insane enough to saw off a cat’s leg.” He was adamant.

  “How do you know, Andy?”

  “Because I’ve been married to her for half my life.”

  That comment had you clenching your teeth and you rolled away from him, into a tight ball.

  “Don’t get shitty, Grace. You know I’m married. Don’t get stupid about it. We agreed from the start that this was just sex. No strings.”

  You rolled back and gave him a cold stare.

  “Well who wrote ‘slut’ and who tortured my cat and who took your fucking bike? And more to the point – why???”

  Cox put his hands on his hips and challenged you straight back.

  “Maybe you’ve got a jealous ex-boyfriend. Who were you fucking before I came along, eh?”

  “No-one!” You bristled and sat back up. “It’s your wife. Next, she’ll bring her carving knife over and slice me up while I’m asleep.”

  “You’re being paranoid, Gracie. It’s most probably one of your big boys. Ben or Eli. They’re pretty protective of you and it wouldn’t take much to figure out what’s going on between us.”

  There was a long silence and then you stood up, pulling the sheet with you. I have noticed that you never let yourself be fully naked in front of him. Under the covers, yes. While you are playing jack-hammers, yes. But never so that he can get a clear look at that scar on your belly. What are you ashamed of? Do you think he’ll reject you because of the imperfection? How sad. He just might, of course, being the shallow bastard that he is. You are his own private porn show and those fake-tittied pussies are always “perfect”. You are real. Normal.

  You slipped from the sheet into your bath robe and stormed out of the room, returning a few minutes later to announce that your two boys were deeply asleep.

  “Or so they want you to think.” Andy snarled.

  “Go. Walk home to your regular gig!” you snapped and pointed to the open door.

  He slumped a little and came and put his arms around you.

  “Don’t do this, Gracie.”

  “Good-night.” You gently pushed him out the door and locked it after him. For about five minutes you sat on the edge of the bed with your head in your hands and I think you may have been crying. Then you went and turned off the bathroom light and I could see you no more. Perhaps you are beginning to see the futility of this “relationship.”

  It began to rain as I got home and I wondered if Cock-in-the-box would be able to explain how i
t was that he was wet and had no bike, if the wife was sitting up waiting for him. Jesus, perhaps I should get a camera into their place to see what the state of play is on that side of the fence.

  It’s a perfect winter’s morning. The sun is shining in a cloudless sky. The air is fresh and brisk, clean and crisp. I feel confident that it will be a good day.

  I am so proud of the way you stood up to that fellow last night. He parades his marital status around you with no respect for your feelings . He says it’s “just sex”. How can you agree to such poor conditions? You are an attractive, intelligent and caring woman and should not sell yourself short. You are being used and abused and you do it with eyes wide open. It was nice and encouraging to see you order him out of your

  bedroom for standing there defending his wife to you, passing the blame onto your sons.

  I am going to reward you. That seems only fair. That way you will read the karmic signs and get off this crazy merry-go-round of lust. Today I will withdraw some money from the A.T.M at the pub and put it in an envelope with a small anonymous card. I did some research on the net this morning and discovered that it will cost you about six hundred dollars to re-register your car. The fine is a separate matter and you will still need to take care of that but my donation will at least get you back on the road. When you do finally meet your secret admirer with his mask removed, you can thank me appropriately. Until then, you can have the mystery and intrigue. It’s all very poetic and romantic to have an anonymous love, don’t you think?