The Cool Side Of The Pillow
Perry Gamsby
Published by StreetWise Publications,
Suite 1/22 Waikanda Cres, Whalan, NSW 2770 Australia
All Rights Reserved.
http://streetwiseworldpublications.info
Copyright Perry Gamsby 2011
Author- Gamsby, Perry 1961-
ISBN
All Rights Reserved
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dedicated to all the Pete’s, Debbie’s, Nikki’s, Don’s, Hamish’s, Clara’s, Alena’s, Chris’ and even Terri’s and John’s; but never the Tim’s!
“Just keep in mind that a few months ago your wonderful new soul mate, love of your life, best-thing-that ever-happened-to-you-woman was some other poor sod’s bitch wife from hell…” One of my mates.
“Why get married? Just find someone you hate and buy them a house
Cast of Main Characters
Pete Graham, the victim of his wife’s lust and greed.
Terri Graham, the wife who knew what she wanted and how to get it!
John Taylor , the spineless cuckold with more money than moral fibre!
Debbie Taylor, the “past her use by” wife of John and fellow victim.
Nikki (Hamish & Clara) A modern career woman with poor taste in men.
Don, a no hoper who left Nikki, permanently.
Tim, the toy boy from hell!
Alena (Jacky & Kayleen) a modern single mum doing her best.
Chris, a decent bloke with problems of his own.
The Story is set in Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, present day
CHAPTER 1
Don knew his time was drawing close. Suicides have that gift. Alone in all of God's creatures they have the ability to choose the time and manner of their demise. For some, it is a rational decision based more on logic than emotion. For others, perhaps the majority, it is a fairly spur of the moment act that has been a long time coming. Who in their right mind wakes up and thinks, "I'll end it all now, in the drawing room with the sleeping pills!"?
Don knew he was getting closer. All he needed was a trigger. Something he could use to justify ending it all. Then he'd show her, and them; all of them. A fight, an argument, behaviour out of character and socially reprehensible should do the trick. It had worked for him in the past when he needed to manipulate some situations. He had come close before. Even to the point of standing on the cliff edge. The Police Rescue Squad had turned up, right after the ambulance and her. Don was glad she was there to witness what she had caused. Of course the counselor had 'convinced' him it was not her fault. Don had made the right mouth noises and been allowed to get on with his life. Easy.
This time he was going through with it. He would teach her a lesson she'd never forget. It never occurred to him he wouldn't be around to witness her grief and distress. If it had, he would have thought the whole thing through and realised it was not the best plan after all. But if he could think like that, he would not be contemplating suicide in the first place, would he?
Nikki had had enough. It was the mental abuse that really got to her. Constantly being told you are ugly, unwanted and unloved took effect sooner or later. Her self-esteem was dragging along behind her like a wedding train, ripped apart and trodden on by all and sundry. Now he had struck her. Hard. Across the face. The sting of the blow still echoed tactilely across her bruised nerve endings. The pain was made worse by the fact her two children had stood there and recorded it all for their posterity. So had his two kids. All four of them were crying. Trust him to leave her to clean up his emotional mess once again. This has got to stop. She was leaving him. This time she meant it.
Terri cried silently, the sobs of despair racking her lithe body and making her beautiful face ugly with the intensity of her feelings. She hadn't meant to go this far. It had all gotten out of control. Or had it? She knew all along what she was doing, what she was risking. But the risk had seemed worth it at the time. And only time would tell how it would all end. And what was the end? How would she know when she had reached the end? Would she start again, reborn and happy? Or would her life continue on in a never ending cycle of shame and hopelessness? She loved her husband, truly loved him. But what he could give her was not enough. Not enough money, security, life, future. He was a good man and gave all he had, but that was not enough. She wanted more out of life. She deserved more than what he could ever give. He would be devastated she knew, but she had to be strong and see this through to the end. Whatever the end might be. She only hoped she would know it when she got there.
Pete was blissfully ignorant of the impending doom that was about to visit his life and change everything forever. He was blissfully happy, too. He'd just managed a terrific career change at the age of 35 and was starting out on a new job in a new industry and he was very happy. He dreamt of how much his life, Terri's too, would change now he had the chance to do what he loved for his living. Do what you love and do it massively and you will never work a day in your life and you'll be truly successful. That's what his latest self help book was preaching. Pete believed it because it made sense. He had so many plans for him and Terri. Their life together would go from strength to strength and he was the happiest man in the world.
Don still had half a glass of red in his hand when the carbon monoxide took it's toll. He had been drifting off to sleep, his mind full of confused thoughts of anger and revenge when death took him gently in her arms and carried him away. The car radio played on, adding a sound track to his lonely death that no scriptwriter would ever dream of trying out on an audience. The car vibrated to the purr of the motor as he disappeared from this world in all but body. His mind ceased its tortured wanderings and his soul prepared itself for an eternity in damnation.
Nikki stopped the car at the head of the driveway and looked down at Don's car. Music escaped from the closed vehicle as she took a few tentative steps towards the Ford. She could see Don sitting in the passenger seat, slightly slumped against the window and looking away from her. She steeled herself to open the door and tell him she was leaving him. She had only tracked him down so she could make arrangements for the children. His, not hers. She loved them almost as her own; but they were his responsibility and she had enough on her plate right now as it was.
She pulled on the drivers side door handle but the door was locked. Walking around the front of the car meant she missed seeing the hose from the exhaust running up and into the back window. She wasn't taking in detail anyway. She was too hyped up for that. Her focus was on Don and what his reaction would be and could she get away in time if he took another swing at her.
Nikki didn't need to open the door to see Don was dead. Even if it was unlocked she had no need to open the door, reach in and feel for a pulse. His eyes were still closed but she knew instinctively he wasn't asleep. Shaking her head, she stepped back and took in the hose and the newspaper stuffed into the back window. The pain shot through her arm as she smashed her hand, palm first into the window and screamed. All of the abuse and anger of the last twelve months came out in a choked, agonising moan of anguish and hatred. A keening howl that would chill the blood and make any man's hair stand on end. Hatred that he had run away like the coward he'd always been, deep down inside. "You bastard!" she thought. "You lousy, stinking, cowardly bastard!!"
At the time Nikki found Don, Terri was finding her knickers, kicked off and under the hotel bed in a fit of lust and desire that was not totally directed at John. But she didn't know that because she was not tuned in to her sub-conscious mind at that time, only the tiny part of the brain that stimulates sexual arousal. This was different to the first time. The first time he had paid for her services like all the others. Then spent the remaining fifty five minutes of his hour crying on her shoulder about how his wife didn't understand him and how he was rolling in money but had no one he lusted enough for to share it with. That's not exactly how he described it but then he wasn't listening to his sub-conscious at the time, either. He'd just met a beautiful creature who didn't really belong in this B-Grade brothel. A classic case of what's a nice whore like you doing in a place like this?
"I have to go to Singapore on business, Terri. Just for three days next month. I want you to come with me."
Terri was thrilled, yet frightened at the same time. She loved to travel but how would she explain to Pete where she would be for that time? A precious few days that would be worth a month here at home. She knew she would go, after all this was why John had seemed so attractive in the first place. As a top executive in charge of the country's biggest chain of shopping malls, he was on over three hundred grand a year. He had made sure she knew it, too. The jewellery, the expensive restaurants, this top hotel. "Sure. I'll have to come up with something to tell Pete, but I want to go. I hear the shopping is terrific." Already she was feeling the agony and the ecstasy of the double life she had been leading for months, now. She would fool Pete easy enough. She felt guilty but she had her dream, her plan and she was going to see it through. Besides, she was starting to feel something for John. Maybe it was because he was the only person who knew her secret, the only one she could unburden herself to.
"That's great. You'll have to sit in economy, it would look too suss if you sat up in business with me. Besides, my secretary and my wife are good friends. I don't want Debbie knowing until I'm ready to leave her."
Terri's last thoughts as she pulled on her lacy G-string was to remember a few lines she had once heard. Something about, "Oh what a tangled web we weave, when we begin, to deceive..." or words to that effect. She knew exactly what the saying meant.
Pete lay back, one arm cradling his head. Beside him Terri was asleep again, just as she had been when he made love to her. It had been like it was in the beginning. The frenzy of the initial coupling as two strangers learn each others inner secrets for the first time; never to be the same again, almost like losing your virginity.
He had been half way into a deep sleep when Terri turned to him and kissed him. Hard! They hadn't been intimate for several months now, since shortly after she went back to working in the restaurant. He didn't mind her working as a lingerie waitress again. They needed the money and she was bored with the two bit factory job she had held for two years after they moved out of the city. It meant she worked nights and stayed with a girlfriend as it was too late to drive all the way home by the time the place closed at two or three am. He'd offered to come and pick her up but she had almost screamed him down, saying he needed his sleep to be fresh at work the next day. She was right, but... Anyway, she was home tonight and all of a sudden kissing him with a passion he had missed over the years of their marriage as lust gave way to love and familiarity, then to a comfortable feeling of security and then to once a week if they were lucky. But she had been frozen and aloof for weeks now. At first he thought it was his snoring and he tried every cure he could to give her a good night's rest. Then the complaint was he was lazy and did nothing around the house. Now he raced home and made the place tidy for her, washing the dishes and vacuuming the carpets. But still she alienated him. And now she was in his arms once again.
"You taste of lollies" she said dreamily between kisses. Pete didn't follow what she meant, even though she said it three or four times. He felt between her legs and was surprised at how hot and wet she had become already. He was ready too, and not about to miss a chance like this. He climbed astride her and began to revel once again in her recalcitrant refuge. He was almost there when she started screaming, beating him with her fists. He rolled away in utter shock and surprise, lying propped on one arm as he looked at his demented wife.
"Who are you?" Terri asked, "Who are you? You're raping me!" Terri was obviously in shock and Pete knew she honestly believed she had been raped. What had happened between the explosion of passion and the chill of awakening?
"I've never raped anyone in my life, Terri. I'm not about to start with my wife. I don't know who you were screwing, but I know it wasn't me!" Pete rolled on to his side so his back was to her. He almost sobbed with desperation. He was firmly convinced Terri was suffering from Depression. Now it seemed she was becoming delusional. He rolled onto his back and lay there, listening to her soft breathing. Almost as quickly as she had begun raving she had calmed down and was now soundly asleep. Pete loved his wife and vowed he would stick with her through this. He would stay until she was better, he would never desert her. He had always believed the brain was like any other organ or part of the body. It could get sick just like a heart or a liver. But instead of trouble climbing stairs or urinating in technicolour, you behaved differently from normal and your thought processors were messed up. If only he could get her to see a doctor, maybe there was medication that would help.
Debbie was suspicious. She had Johns credit card account laid out on the table in front of her. She cross referenced the dates on the account with her own diary, his days interstate and overseas highlighted. Blind Freddy could put two and two together without any help. John was having an affair. How else could you stay in the best hotel in town at the same time as you are supposedly in Melbourne? She even had his mobile phone account placed alongside so she could confirm his calls to her on those particular nights were made from Sydney. He rang her three, sometimes four times a day. Always had. She knew something was up because he was so much perkier these last few weeks. The sex had been better than ever, too.
The entry for the sixth of March stood out. One hundred and eighty six dollars spent at Crest pty ltd, Hornsby, for 'services'? That was the night he had come home late, almost jumping out of his skin. "Oh Dee, I'm so horny" he had begged her as he climbed into bed. Debbie had done her wifely duty, surprised at the vigor with which he took her. He hadn't been like this since she first took his cherry. He'd been nineteen and working his way through college at the bar she managed. She was thirty three, still sexy and going through a messy divorce. Now she was forty eight and showing her age. He was thirty four and, she was sure, tired of her.
He still loved her, no doubt about that; needed her even. In the way psychologists would have described a classic Oedipus complex. But someone else was lighting his fire. Some young floozy. Debbie didn't pick up on the generation gap giveaway a term like floozy connotated. She just let the tears roll down her cheeks and soak the bills lying in front of her on the big kitchen table they had bought together when they moved back to Sydney.
Debbie looked again at the irrefutable evidence in front of her. Proof her man was up to no good. Well she was going to find out who this slut was and she would fight for her man. And her baby. She already had two grown up daughters from her first marriage and she knew this would be her last chance to have a child. John's child. She looked back at her diary, the sixth marked in red because that was when her temperature had been at its highest. That night of mad love making had succeeded in giving her what she had always wanted. But now the child would become a weapon in her fight for her man. She would use everything in her arsenal, including the fetus growing in her womb if necessary. Everything.
Nikki was staring at the empty glass. She'd finished staring at the empty bottle whilst the glass was still half full. Or was that only half empty? Her mind refused to struggle with the complexities of that half remembered message on a coffee cup. Or was it one of those cheap posters you used to buy and hang in the toilet? Her mind skipped a track and flipped back to the funeral. Almost like the whole event was stage managed by a funeral director recently kicked out of producers school for being too cliché; it had even begun to rain as they stood around the grave. Don had thought of everything, even taking out funeral insurance and pre-paying for a plot in an expensive lawn cemetery.
She had cried during the service, at the grave and again back at Don's parent’s house. People she didn't know from a bar of soap had offered their condolences. What exactly was a condolence, anyway? Could you pick one up at the grocery store? "I'll have a loaf of bread, a litre of milk and do you have any of those condolences, yeah ...the big ones for truly great losses?" Her mind flipped back again to the glass. She had another bottle of scotch somewhere. But one was enough. She wasn't going to go over the edge. She had her children to think off. Don's kids had been whisked away by their mother and her parents within hours of being informed of Don's death. They hadn't said it so much as projected the message that Don would still be here if he had still been with Carey. But Carey, the first wife and archetypal shrew was what had kicked Don off in the first place. Her affair with his best mate. Her affair with their neighbour. And his wife. And all through it ripping him apart with her vitriol and caustic spittle. When Nikki met Don he was so far out on the limb he couldn't climb back in. She'd had to build a tree house around him; a tree house of love and trust. A tree house that, like all tree houses, eventually blew down in one of life's frequent storms.
Oh God! She was sick of thinking in metaphors and similes. The reality of the situation was that he was dead and she was left to carry on. He escaped the day to day drain of filling in time from the cradle to the grave whilst she was left to clean up the mess and get on with it. He was free to continue on the great journey and she had to pay off his ticket. Christ she had bills coming out of her kazoo! Mortgage, car payments, credit cards, school fees, rates; you name it, she knew all of them by the feel of the thick bundle of mail she pulled daily from the mail box. Bills, even wrapped in a thick rubber band and bundled together to protect the innocent articles of mail had a feel all their own.
The unsolicited advertising or junk mail as those not in marketing called them, were a nuisance, but sometimes of passing interest. The letters starting, "Dear Nikki, I just heard and I'm so...." So what? Sad? Sorry? Sickened? Try pissed off! Because that was the best way Nikki could describe how she felt about it. Pissed off! Four years of university, two years post graduate study, not to mention twelve years of private school education and the most apt description she could think of was.. "Pissed Off!" Should be capitals 'PISSED OFF!'
So what? What next? Bed. A good cry to rock her to sleep then up to face another day. Brave face for the kids and those few die hard well-wishers still tapping softly on her door and then back to the kitchen table. They had agonized for weeks over that table. He had wanted a glass topped pseudo modern monstrosity. She won out with the solid timber colonial in pine with a jarrah stain to match the sideboard. They'd paid an extra hundred for the stain and another hundred to have it stressed. Stressed! What a joke! A hundred bucks to have some cabinet maker beat the crap out of it with a hammer. Don should have saved the money and used her head. That's how the side board got the dent in the left door. It would have been a matching set. And what a conversation piece! She could set up her own business designing furniture inspired by random acts of domestic violence. She'd make a.....a ...a killing. The tears started again, only this time they were accompanied on their slow slick trail south by a moan that came from the depths of her soul. Damn you Don!
CHAPTER 2
"It's fifty dollars an hour, fifty cents per kilometre plus disbursements."
"What are disbursements?" Debbie asked.
"Expenses, title searches, fees. You'll get receipts, plus a full report, photo's, everything."
The private investigator was not what Debbie had imagined. Probably seen too many TV shows. This guy was youngish, intelligent and appeared genuine. Trustworthy. He had put her at ease on the phone when he tried to talk her out of spending her money tailing her husband.
"Surveillance is a long, costly and rarely satisfying method of obtaining the proof you want, Debbie." Jack Regan went on. “I could sit outside his home or office for hours and lose him within the first hundred metres. Sydney traffic is not like on TV. You never get a parking spot right across from the entrance, you can't sit more than one car back without losing him at the first traffic light and he'll spot a single tail within minutes if he's switched on. The police use several vehicles, some in front, some behind and some running parallel streets when they do surveillance. And still they lose their mark. They have radios, tracking devices and anything else they need. You can't afford more than one guy for a few hours. Say hubby goes into a block of flats. So what? Half the flats will have women in them, maybe more. How do you prove he saw anyone, let alone did anything? Save your money."
Then she told him about the credit card bills, mobile phone account, all the information she had gathered together.
"O.K. Now you have something. I'll pop by about two and have a chat. If I think I can help, I'll need the first five hundred up front. Let's work that off and see what we get before you spend any more."
And now he was here. In their kitchen. At their kitchen table. Telling her exactly how he would go about ripping their marriage apart for her; because that is exactly what would happen if he did his job right. Providing she wasn't mistaken and he didn't think she was. His first question had been to ask what she hoped to achieve, what was her objective. To prove John was being unfaithful she said. Then what? She didn't know. But she knew she had to be sure in her own mind what she was certain of in her heart.
"Right. I'll do a company search on this Crest Pty Ltd. My guess it is the registered business name of a brothel. They'll be trading under some alluring title but have the credit card merchant's account set up with something like this to avoid embarrassment. The top places use a restaurant as a cover. Easier to explain away a business dinner than just services. If we get lucky there, I'll check the place out to confirm its what we think. Then we might look at doing some surveillance on that place. At least place him at the scene. A bit hard to bluff your way out of that. I'll also check out these numbers on his phone bill. Make a pretence call and see what we come up with. I'm hoping he is calling her. If I get a female I'll run a check with a contact I have and see if we can get a name and address from the phone number. That will cost $250; he's risking his job, so its money well spent. Once we get that we can build a dossier on her and then review your choices. O.K?"
Debbie nodded. She couldn't speak. Fear, or was it something else, gripped her stomach in a claw like hand and the sweet taste of adrenalin filled her mouth. She was excited, but scared. If she had ever been in combat she would have recognized the high straight away. A mixture of fear and excitement, the anticipation of great danger, the almost sexual relief of surviving. She felt it all.
Pete was working the heavy bag, his wrapped and gloved fists beating a rapid tattoo on the leather sack stuffed with rags and his black belt. He didn't wear the thing anymore. He was past that. He used to run a big school, made a good living doing what he loved. But then Terri wanted a break to have kids and they couldn't get by with just his income from the school. It wasn't good enough for the two of them to live on the way Terri liked to live. So he went back to working a regular job. He hated it. He still taught a few loyal students a few nights a week, but it wasn't the same.
The three minute round came to an end in the clock in his head and he stretched out during his minute rest. A quick look at the clock on the wall to confirm his own timing and he was into another round on the speed ball. He could time himself to within five or ten seconds. It was just practise, familiarity. Like anything it was hard at first but repetition worked its magic and now he could time his rounds without the clock. A bit like riding a bike, driving a car or even how we all learnt to walk. If we'd given up after the first tumble we'd all still be crawling.
He was working fast jab combinations. He'd done hooks the previous round. He was rusty and he felt it. It had been months since his last workout. He almost felt like confessing to the bag, "bag forgive me, it has been two months since my last workout." "Do ten rounds and light a candle for forgiveness, my son," the bag replied. Pete shook his head and put his mind back on the job in hand. He knew few successful boxers had any great amount of imagination. If they did they would imagine the pain of losing and not get in the ring. Only a handful of good boxers in history had been champions and able to pass the test for MENSA. Not that boxers had to be dumb to win, far from it. It was a thinking man's game, boxing. You needed brains as well as skill. And fitness. Lots of fitness. Pete didn't have the fitness, but he'd get it back. As for having too much imagination to be a great boxer, he didn't care. He was too old for a career anyway. Besides, he knew that with a lack of imagination came the blissful ability to become single minded and work only for the goal of becoming a champion. Too smart and you got bored before you got there. Pete knew himself well enough to know that he would never have stuck it out. All those hours in the gym, or running roadwork at six a.m. No, he'd be a gentleman boxer and do it for the fun and fitness. Now that Terri was working so much and away so often he had plenty of spare time to get back into it. He would rather see more of his wife but he suppressed his guilt at enjoying the personal time. He even suppressed those random thoughts that came into his head from time to time. Like what if Terri left him, would that be so bad? He'd have time to do whatever he wanted. No! Perish the thought. But he had thought it. What was that about your sub-conscious knowing all, if only you would be smart enough to tune in and take heed?
Terri was lying back in his arms. She was starting to really fall for John. He was different to Pete, more vulnerable. He really needed her and he could provide her with much more security than Pete. At first she had only intended to work in the brothel as a receptionist. But then she saw the money those fat slags were making. She was much prettier than any of them. They knew it and they were jealous. A couple of them had tried to give her a hard time her first night as a worker. But Terri, as fragile as she appeared and as warm as a friendly puppy; was made of sterner stuff. She had her plan and nothing was getting in her way! Nothing and no-one. John had been one of her first. As he talked to her about his old hag of a wife and their palatial home in Queensland, the big executive residence in Castle Hill and the stocks and bonds; she realised this was the sort of security Pete should be providing for her. The plan had started to form in her mind almost of its own accord, as if it had been there all along. She would let the client fall in love with her. She would milk him for all he was worth and her and Pete could live happily ever after on the proceeds. One big sting and she could be free of this job, this double life and never have to worry again.
As they say, the best laid plans.... By now Terri had switched her allegiance from the man she had loved, vowed to love forever, to the new opportunity. She no longer thought of how she could wrest his wealth from him and share it with Pete. Now she thought of how she could free her lover from the clutches of the old hag. It was a kind of Stockholm Syndrome in a domestic setting. Of course Terri didn't know about the Stockholm Syndrome; she had never been a hostage or a bank robber. Or trained to assault buildings. Pete had, the assault part, not the robbery bit. He knew all about the Syndrome. He just didn't know about John. But that, as is the case in all things, would soon change.
Jack was having a good day, the kind of day when things just kept falling into place. Crest Pty Ltd was a brothel, owned by Dallah Pty Ltd, another computer generated shelf company name. If he tracked back far enough he'd find who were the directors and shareholders of the parent company, but that wasn't his objective. He'd talked to the real estate agents who managed the property and they had confirmed the brothel known as 'Heaven's Gate' at the given address was run by Crest. Point one. Now to check out hubby's mobile phone calls.
He started with the number that appeared most often on the bill. Debbie had identified three of the seven different numbers; one was hers, one their best friend and the other her girlfriend. She had been staying with Carol, the girlfriend, one night whilst he was away and he had called her there. It checked with one of the nights in a Sydney hotel when he should have been in Perth, so maybe he was making sure she was tucked up safe and sound?
The other four had all been called once, except for one which had fifteen calls listed against it. Regular. A pattern. Jack liked patterns. People were creatures of habit, that's how they got caught.
A young woman's voice answered his call. "Hi." Soft, questioning, giving nothing away.
"Hello, this is Jack from Vodaphone Customer Service." The first four digits had told him which phone company she was with. "We have received your complaint and I am just touching base to let you know it is being investigated and that we will not be taking any action to recover the outstanding amount whilst we look into this."
"What complaint? I haven't..."
Jack broke in; keeping up the pressure and making sure she was off guard so he could slip in the sixty four thousand dollar question and not make it too obvious. "We are pretty sure our equipment is correct, but occasionally we do make a glitch." You couldn't just ring up and ask for a name and address and not expect her to be suspicious.
"But I haven't..." She insisted.
"Our records show those calls were made from your phone, and we don't have any proof of payment. '
"Look, I haven't..."
"Haven't what?" Jack probed.
"Haven't made a complaint and my account is paid up!"
"Well your number is 0h four nine seven, five five three two one one, isn't it?
"Yes", she replied.
Jack tensed then forced himself to relax, the next question had to sound natural, in order and not suspicious. "And your name is...?" He let it hang in the air.
"Terri Graham"
"Yes, and your billing address?" Go for the throat!
""22 Leyland Place, Emerton" She rattled it off with the unthinking familiarity we all have for something we know off by heart.
YES! Jack tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he wound the call up. "Emerton Tasmania?" Slight rising inflection on the last syllable.
"No, Sydney."
"I'm sorry, we have a Miss T., no first name, Graham listed here. From a different address in Tassie. I think we might have taken down the number wrong, maybe one of the digits should be a four but looks like a nine or something like that." He let her finish off, knowing she would be eager to clear up the confusion and not have to pay someone else’s bill.
"Yeah, that happens. But I am not that person and my account is paid up." Terri spoke with the authority of a once confused person suddenly being relieved to find they were not at fault after all. "You should check your records, what if you billed me for calls I didn't make?"
"That's impossible; each Sim card has its own Imei number, different to the phone number." Jack had had his own share of problems with the phone company and knew a little of the jargon. Enough to sound convincing. "Look, Miss Graham...”
"Mrs" Terri corrected him.
"Sorry, Mrs Graham. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Please accept my apologies and please forget this call ever happened. I've had a rough couple of days with my youngest in the hospital and I don't want to lose my job for making a few mistakes." Hit the woman with the sympathy angle and she was sure to get all clucky.
"Oh, it was no bother. I hope your baby gets better." Terri was genuine in her concern for the voice on the other end of the phone. But Jack had known she would be and he needed that to pull out of the call safely. Women were so predictable in these areas. Mind you, it had cost him two wives by the time he was thirty three to learn that!
"Thank you, Mrs Graham, sorry to bother you, good day." She mumbled her goodbyes as he quickly cut the connection. So now he had a name, an address and the fact she was married. Now it was worth putting in surveillance. Not on hubby, but her. If she worked at the 'Heaven's Gate', BINGO! It was rarely this easy, but sometimes you got lucky! Pity, she sounded like a real sweet thing. If she was a looker he might use her services and bill the client. Purely for the reasons of providing irrefutable evidence, of course! The hooker was a looker. He chuckled at his simple wit as he started to plan the surveillance. Step one, get out the street directory and locate 22 Leyland Place, Emerton. Emerton? Wasn't that one of those housing commission estates now up for first home buyers? Miles out west and full of social security bludgers. Anyway, he had a terrific result; now to work!
Terri had forgotten about the phone call the other day when she picked up her mobile phone and her car keys and headed for the car. She didn't have to go to work this early but it meant she avoided having to talk to Pete. She felt guilty, ashamed and grubby. But she was starting to build her mental shield by convincing herself Pete was to blame. It was easier than accepting responsibility for her own actions.
Forty minutes later she pulled into the car park at the rear of the parlour, none of the girls called it a brothel, and found a space for the old BMW. Grabbing her bag she locked the car and headed for the staff entrance at the rear. She rang the buzzer and was rewarded with the hum of the electric lock releasing the catch. Pushing open the discreetly armoured door she went inside and headed for the girls change room.
Yes, she is a looker, Jack thought. He'd picked her up from Emerton after a quick drive by told him the car she would be driving. A 1983 BMW 735i. A nice limo like car in its day, now worth maybe ten grand or so. Still, a nice ride for a nice ride. He laughed silently at his pun and got the Nikon into operation. After she had headed towards the brothel he had sped past her and got here with a few minutes to spare. He'd checked out likely observation points on his previous visit, even identified the staff carpark and entrance. Time spent in reconnaissance, as his old sergeant used to say, is never wasted. He'd taken a risk not following her all the way here. What if she had been going shopping? Or off to meet hubby somewhere else but nearby? Well, risk was what made the job interesting.
He loved the sound of the motor drive reeling off multiple shots. Just like in the movies. This would give him a reason to hit the client for more dough. Sure, he was coming up with the goods, but then that's when you milked them for all you could. He was sick of workers comp jobs and taking statements from stolen vehicle claimants for insurance companies. It was good bread and butter stuff, but tended to be a little boring. A nice little domestic job where you could get a good result was manna from heaven. Too many of them were the product of wifely paranoia with no chance of proving what didn't exist. Try telling that to the injured party after she got your bill for x number of hours.
Yes, she was a looker. Time to let her get settled, then go in and have some fun. All in the interests of doing a thorough job, of course. Got to give the client value for money, after all.
Nikki put the box down and looked around at the mess moving house always seemed to create. She knew from experience it would take several days, even weeks, to unpack everything and tidy the place up. It would have been easier with Don to help, but he wouldn't be helping anyone now. Thinking about him made her sit down and start crying again. This was becoming a regular occurrence. Of course it didn't help to be moving into the house they had bought together, settlement coming only a week before he died. Died? He killed himself! Suicide. The word stuck in her mental craw as she wondered why the newspapers didn't publish reports on the nations' number one cause of death. Too depressing and something the pollies couldn't throw money at and fix. Suicides only made the papers if the coward took out the rest of the family as he went. Murder-suicide was printable. Plain old knock yourself off wasn't. Consequently, the people left behind had little in the way of support services or tax payer funded grief counseling. Simply left to get on with it and yet they were the true victims.
She looked again at the pile of boxes, crates and haphazardly strewn plastic bags of clothes filling the room. Her two children were outside, exploring the garden with the puppy they had bought only last month. A new start, new home, new pet, new life. Nikki stopped crying as suddenly as she had begun, another symptom her doctor had said would happen and quite normal, to be expected etc. Well, she would cry herself a river, as the old song said. Then she would get on with her life and eschew men for ever. Weak men who hit women especially. Except they all seemed so nice and desirable when you first met them. Then the first hit would make you wonder what you had done to cause it. You would convince yourself you were at fault and try harder to please. He would take everything you would give as his due and toss you an emotional table scrap from time to time so you would continue to chase after him. The next time he hit you would make you berate yourself for making him unhappy again. It took quite a few hits before you would realise he was the one in the wrong. But by then, it was too late. She worried if she was the type of woman who had a thing for violent men, wife bashers. If she was genetically doomed to one smack artist after another. It was too hard to contemplate so she took refuge in the emptying of the closest box. Kitchenware, and she was in a bedroom. Typical.
CHAPTER 3
Debbie was in shock. She sat silent and still whilst Jack Regan, Private Investigator, tore her world into little pieces. The evidence was irrefutable, but she had known the truth all along. It was just so much more painful now there was no doubt left to blindly cling to.
"And this photo shows Mrs Graham entering 'Heaven's Gate'" Jack was speaking in his best 'just the facts, ma'am' voice. He found it helped to keep the emotional forces under check. Right now his client would be stunned and responding mostly on auto-pilot. He laid the last photo on the table and looked at his client, her head on her chest, eyes staring at the floor.
Debbie looked up and saw the compassion in Jack's eyes. He had tried to warn her, after all. But she had to be sure. Now she was sure she wished she wasn't. Oh God! "She is beautiful, isn't she? So young; and married?"
"Yes, to a Peter Graham. They still co-habit at the house in the first photo. Nice little place, well kept garden, coupla dogs and cats. I don't think he knows what she does for a living, definitely he would be unaware of his wife's involvement with John."
"How do you know that?" asked Debbie.
"John's still alive. This guy, have a look at this shot I took of him the next day, is rather large. On top of that he runs a self defence school that is touted in the martial arts magazines as being a reality based street fighting school. I made a pretense call to enquire about classes. He was a world champion martial artist, boxer of some note when he was younger and an ex-Army Special Forces advisor on explosives and booby traps. This is one guy you don't want to have coming after you. He also used to run his own private investigation firm a few years back. In other words, I'd say he is smart and lethal. Typically though, he seems a nice guy over the phone, very professional. I'd say if he was a thug you would have little to worry about. But this guy would get subtle, very subtle." Jack refrained from adding that he had asked a few colleagues who had been in the industry back when Pete was a P.I. and one of them knew him. His contact had confirmed Jack's estimation of the man and finished with a warning to make sure Jack was on the right side of the guy. Jack took the hint. In his game, full of macho wanna-be's and ex-everythings, when you came across a player with real potential, you kept well clear of them. It wasn't cowardice. It was a mutual respect, like two old lions that had been in enough scraps to know when it would cost one or both of them their lives if they fought. Not worth the risk.
"Do you think he would hurt John if he found out?"
"Do you want him to hurt John?" Jack threw back. Always answer a question with a question and see where it went.
"In a way, yes. But I want my husband back. A black eye might teach him a lesson, though."
"Debbie, this kind of guy doesn't mess about with black eyes! If he decides to poke his head up he'll go for the throat. He knows he would be suspect number one, so he would make it worth his while. You might as well get hung for a sheep as a lamb. No. If he does go ballistic, he'll make sure nobody can prove it was him. He'll have alibi's set in stone." At least that's how Jack would do it and he reckoned Pete was just as good as him, maybe better, maybe just a little out of practise. It wouldn't take him long to get back into shape, though. Those guys were like time bombs, some of them.
The scotch bottle sang its siren song and smiled as Nikki walked over to the shelf she called her bar. The trance continued as she found a glass and unscrewed the cap. The scotch chuckled as it dived from the confines of the bottle into the freedom of the cut-glass swimming pool, only one short stroke away from free-styling down her throat. Once in her stomach it would send some of its forces straight into her bloodstream to lull her brain into believing this was good for her. Other units would work their way to her liver and kidneys, leaving behind time bombs set with delayed action fuses, waiting until sufficient explosive force had been built up before starting its destructive work on her internal organs. Blast damage would appear on her nose and face, tell tale signs she would ignore as she swallowed another contingent of colon culling commando's.
The scotch needed time to complete its campaign against her health and well-being. But this one, it knew, was there for the taking. This one would wage war against herself with battalions of booze and regiments of reckless remonstrations against the unchangeable fate Don had bequeathed her. It was simple mathematics. Nikki was past counting or caring as she poured another shot, slopped in a lessening amount of coke and poured down another dose of highland pain killer. Why the hell not, she thought. The kids were with their dad and she was left with a house full of broken promises and half lived dreams. Unpacked boxes; unstacked books, shelves yawning their need for literature to clothe their naked emptiness. Christ she got poetic when she was pissed. Pissed? She was past pissed and she knew it. Knew it in one of those rare moments of lucidity that kept fighting themselves to the surface of her self consciousness, despite the best efforts of her good friend mister scotch and coke. Forget the coke. Let's have the next one straight up!
Terri walked out of the office, her pay in her hand. She was calm, in control and feeling the happiest she had since she started there three months ago. No more whoring for her. At least not professionally. She was going to leave Pete, move in with John and start her life again. No one had to know how she and John had met. She'd tell them they met at the Hilton, in the Marble Bar. As time went on, their circle of friends would change and even the old ones would forget the drama that the break-up would cause. After all, it wasn't their lives and most people were so self centered they only remembered what had happened to them. Besides, none of them would be so uncouth as to mention anything embarrassing in public and she had no control over what they said and thought in private. John was superior to most of them and his boss would never know the details. The phrase, 'sordid details' flashed into her mind. Her self defence mechanisms just as quickly flushed it out.
When she got to the new flat she would call Pete and tell him it was over, she wasn't coming back. No. He'd hunt her down and try to get her back. She knew he loved her desperately and he was very capable of finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. That's why she couldn't tell him there was someone else. He'd kill John. John had money and power but Terri knew he couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag.
She'd seen Pete put two muggers in hospital one night when they were living in the city and coming home from a movie. He'd pushed her behind him like she was a rag doll and put both muggers on the ground in two seconds flat. Then one had pulled a knife from his jacket and tried to slash at Pete's legs. The mugger had raised himself on one knee and was slashing like a threshing machine on overdrive. Pete kicked him in the head, then stomped on his face, using the kerb as an anvil. Then he had calmly taken her arm and walked her away, leaving the two criminals where they lay. Ten more yards and they were inside their little terrace house and Terri ran to the bathroom to vomit. That's why she didn't realise Pete had phoned for an ambulance for the muggers. She stayed hunched over the bowl on all fours for some time before crawling into bed, relieved at surviving the attack and shocked at how easily her husband had beaten those two men. That's why she didn't know he had gone back with the first aid kit and stayed with the muggers until the ambulance came. The streets of the inner city always reverberated to the scream and wail of sirens so she took no notice of one more winding down close to her house. She drifted off to sleep thinking her husband possessed a callous, mean streak that could produce violent behaviour of a kind she'd never before had to witness.
The truth was far different. Pete had reacted instinctively and fast. Just as he had been trained to react. The same way he trains his students. You had no choice. Give them an inch and they would cut up a mile of your intestines without blinking an eye. But Pete could never pick a fight or mug anyone. Or hit them cold bloodedly. It was his training that kept him cool under fire. Then, once the threat was neutralized, the heart pounded again and the legs went weak. But you hid the signs of fear and got on with the job. Once they were no longer a threat, then you could offer them first aid. Pete could not leave them lying in the gutter, but then he had no choice but to finish the knife wielder off. It had been him or them. Simple. His first responsibility was to get Terri safely inside and out of harms way. They might have had back-up waiting in the shadows. Stomping the guys head had been a vicious move, but Pete hadn't picked the fight. You start trying to take someone's life with a knife; you can't say 'time out!' when it starts to go wrong. That punk would have cut his throat and raped Terri given half a chance. So Pete wasn't ashamed of his actions, but he still felt sorry for an injured member of the human race. Regardless of why he was injured or who had injured him.
Terri only had her own recollections of that night to fill her thoughts as she drove to the new flat. She was scared. Her stomach was knotted and she felt like she would throw up any second. She fought to keep herself under control as she tried to remember the way to their 'love nest' as the tabloids would describe it. Pete had never raised his voice to her, let alone his hand. But then she had never done this to him, either. The shame and sense of betrayal enveloped her like a shroud.
John wrapped Debbie in his arms and hugged her tightly. He was so full of happiness he was ready to burst. He had to tell Debbie about Terri. About how happy he was with her. How she made him feel powerful and important.
Debbie felt her skin crawl as John’s arms invaded her space. You creep, she thought. You crawl out of that slut's bed and then you hug me. What next? You want sex? Oh Deb, I'm horny! Like a little boy! She was fortunate John had such a tight grip on her because his next words hit her like a sledge hammer. Blow after blow rained down on her, making her soul stagger under the onslaught. She couldn't believe what she was hearing, what he was saying......
"Debbie, I love you and I always will love you but I'm not in love with you I've found someone else, oh she is beautiful and warm and loving and I need her and please be happy for me, I'm so happy" John's mouth rapid fired the bullets that tore Debbie's heart into shreds. He didn't know why he was blurting this out but he couldn’t stop. It was like a floodgate opening, all the lies and deceit of the past few months being expunged by the simple act of confession. The catholic upbringing he had lived through until he met Debbie and left home had taught him confession was good for the soul and they were right! He was euphoric, ecstatic, relieved, sure he would work things out with Debbie and she would understand.
"I'll still look after you Deb, I've set up an allowance for you and you can keep this house and your car. We'll still be friends and go to dinner and I still want to be able to ring you and see how you are..."
Debbie pushed him away and took a step back. She wanted to slap his face but her arm refused to move. Her face contorted into a medusa like mask that only needed the serpents to finish the image of sheer hatred and loathing. She gave him a look of disgust and repulsion that stopped him in mid sentence. Even in the state she was in she recognised he was dumbstruck at how reviled she was at his news.
"You. Bastard. You. Fucking. Bastard!" Each word spat itself out of a mouth twisted with anger into a jagged tooth framed hole of hatred. "How dare you come into my home smelling of some slut's pussy and tell me to be happy for you! I slaved six nights a week so you could finish college and be somebody and you repay me with lies and deceit. Then you have the gall to think I'll be happy for you! You are a child!" The last word ended in a gob of spit that flew across the few inches that separated them and landed on his chin. "A child! You are not a man. A man would have the decency to be ashamed!" She started to say more but couldn't get her words to come out. Her brain was racing with every nerve ending sending convoluted messages from one neuro-receptor to another. She tried to sort out the words from the thoughts and get the vocal chords to form them, but it was too much. Her sub-conscious took over and hit the safety valve it keeps for these times. Debbie feinted and fell to the floor, her body seeming to shrink in size with the enormity of the grief her soul was sifting through.
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