Heller
by JD Nixon
Copyright JD Nixon 2011
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its original form.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real locations, is purely coincidental.
Discover other titles by JD Nixon as Smashwords.com:
Blood Ties (free ebook)
Heller’s Revenge – coming soon
Cover design by JD Nixon
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Chapter 1
“I’m sorry, Tilly, but I’m going to have to let you go,” Barnaby said, not sounding nor looking particularly sorry at all.
He’d asked me to stay behind after the show had finished and I’d agreed unwillingly, watching as my fellow cast members dispersed, laughing with each other and trading friendly jibes. He stood in front of me with his arms crossed, his doughy butt resting against the back of a chair. His bulbous swamp-brown eyes were flat and cold and his fleshy lips glistened as he ran his tongue around them.
“No. But why?” I asked, bewildered and dismayed. There was still another two weeks left on my contract and I needed the job badly. It had been months since I’d had a paying gig.
“You’re just not convincing in the role,” he shrugged with feigned disinterest, casually scratching his scalp, releasing a blizzard of dandruff. “The audience doesn’t believe in you. I can see it in their faces.”
They were the worst words an aspiring actor ever wanted to hear. But considering the role I was currently playing and the audience, they were also unbelievably ridiculous.
“Barnaby. I’m a piece of fruit,” I reminded him in a reasonable voice, eyeing him steadily. In fact I was a slice of watermelon, bedecked in an unwieldy, triangular-shaped foam costume. My green and white rind swung out wide in a semicircle past my hips and my legs were encased in green tights sticking through the bottom of the rind. The red foam wedge of the costume climbed to a point above my head and my arms poked awkwardly through its sides while my face showed through a hole at the front.
It was an easy month-long gig – a series of short concerts across the city’s primary schools to promote nutritious eating for the under-twelves. Funded by the Department of Health, it paid well enough to keep my lecherous landlord off my back for a few months. And it didn’t involve me taking my clothes off, as did so many of the other ‘acting’ jobs that I applied for and consequently refused. So of course I’d been thrilled when Barnaby had rung to tell me that I’d auditioned successfully.
I’d been cast in two roles in the show. Wearing a school uniform with my hair tied into two plaits, I had a starring role in the first half as a small girl who refused to eat her vegetables. One night in her sleep she was dragged away to VegieLand by a bossy, know-it-all carrot to personally meet and learn about the different vegetables. In the second half, I climbed into costume as the watermelon for an all-singing, all-dancing fruit salad extravaganza. Luckily for me it was an ensemble cast, because I don’t have a good singing voice and was happy to let the melodious, but overloud, pineapple next to me sing for both of us.
Barnaby shrugged again. “Your little girl isn’t so great either. Let’s be honest – it’s a hard role for you to pull off,” he countered, deliberately lowering his gaze to sweep across my generous chest, mercifully hidden behind the bulky foam costume. I met his eyes at that comment, saw the spiteful gleam in them and suddenly understood what was happening. He had asked me out to dinner the previous day and I’d turned him down, finding him unattractive and dull. I was being punished.
He was a community liaison officer with the Department (whatever that meant) and was the concert organiser. He had the ponderous manner of a born bureaucrat and the smug certainty in life of someone who could count on receiving a regular pay cheque. Pompous and humourless, he was full of an undeserved self-belief in his great artistic managerial skills. In short, he was a complete tosser and I had taken an instant dislike to him that I had tried to hide. I was struggling to hide it right then.
I blinked my light brown eyes down at him, far taller than him even in my flat shoes, and relaxed my facial features into my sweetest expression. “Oh, but I really need the money. Isn’t there anything I can do to change your mind about letting me go?” I pouted at him, wondering momentarily how far I would go to keep a job.
“Well, now that you mention it,” he smirked, placing his hand with caressing familiarity on my upper arm, running his fingers lightly up and down. “Perhaps I might be persuaded to reconsider. Why don’t you slip out of that costume and we can . . . discuss . . . it further in the dressing room.”
I knew then that I wouldn’t go very far at all, because I couldn’t repress the shudder of repulsion that rippled through my body at his touch. He obviously wouldn’t change his mind about firing me if I didn’t give him some sugar, but my sugar-bowl was empty. I prised his fingers free from my arm.
“If you touch me again the only fruit you’ll be fondling today is your own bruised plums after I kick them,” I said pleasantly, flashing him a brilliant smile and burning my bridges with him forever. I turned and walked backstage, my mind consumed with the sheer joyful thought of taking off the watermelon costume. I doubted it had ever been cleaned in its long life, redolent with the body odour of its many previous wearers. The incredible heat of the day had only added my own to the noxious casserole.
I reached around to unzip myself. No matter how hard I tried though, I only ended up struggling uselessly, twisting myself around back and forth trying to reach the zip. But it stubbornly remained in the centre of my back, totally unreachable from either side. Someone had always been around to unzip me after the other concerts, but because Barnaby had kept me late, the place was now deserted.
Damn.
I heard footsteps behind me and spun to find that Barnaby had followed me backstage, bad-tempered rejection oozing from his pores, mouth sulky with petulance.
“Can you unzip me, please?” I asked politely, showing the nice manners that my mother had taught me. Just because I thought he was a creepy pervert who’d been sickeningly turned on by my little schoolgirl role, didn’t mean I shouldn’t mind my Ps and Qs.
He grunted and stalked over to me, yanking ungently on the zip. He was responsible for the costumes, so his irritation with me wouldn’t stop him from performing his duty as the brave protector of such important government-owned property. As if I wanted to steal an ancient, faded and stinky foam watermelon outfit anyway! I was equally amused and insulted at the thought. What on earth did he think I would do with it – wear it around town? I mean, how embarrassing would that be?
The yanking continued for what I judged to be an excessive amount of time with no resultant zipping noise signifying any success at bringing me closer to freedom from the costume.
“What’s the matter? Why are you taking so long?” I snapped at him, suspicious that he was using the exercise as an excuse to get his hands on me again. I hoped he realised that I had meant it about kicking him in his plums. My foot was primed and raring to go.
“Your little thingy’s broken,” he said, frustration clear in his voice.
“I’ll break your little thingy in a minute if you don’t hurry up,” I threatened, throwing away any pretence of being civilised with him. “It’s frigging hot in this costume. And it reeks. I have to get out of it urgently.”
“The little thingy,” he repeated sullenly. “You know? The little bit you hold to move the zip up and down. It’s snapped off. And now the zip won’t budge at all.”
I spun around to face him. “Are you telling me the zip’s broken?”
“Yep. Looks like it,” he informed me blandly, his features expressionless.
“So I can’t get out of this costume?”
“Mmm, it’s not looking good,” which was said with the definite hint of a bitchy smile.
“Barnaby, it’s forty-one degrees today,” I reminded him.
“It is a very hot day,” he agreed, fanning himself briefly with both hands, suddenly cheerful.
“Barnaby, I have to catch the bus home.” His smile widened.
“Sorry Tilly, there’s nothing I can do. These costumes are old. I guess the Department should think about retiring them and buying some new ones.” His accompanying smile brimmed with schadenfreude. “Tell you what. I’ll let you go home where you’ve a better chance of finding something to help you undo the zip. Maybe some pliers might help?”
He gave me another fleeting flash of his pearly whites, except they weren’t white at all, more of a weak pee yellow. I was seriously starting to hate him.
“But you have to return the costume tomorrow to my office downtown,” he ordered, abruptly aggressive. “Any damage to it will be docked from your pay. You understand?”
I stared at him angrily. I hadn’t even been paid one cent yet for the two weeks I’d already worked and there he was, threatening to take some of that much needed money away from me. Didn’t he realise that my landlord had exorbitant rent and busy hands?
“Your costume will be returned in pristine condition,” I promised, with all the frostiness of a snowman sucking on a snow cone during a snowstorm in Siberia.
He snorted at me rudely and carefully scooped up all the other discarded foam fruit and vegetable costumes while I stood immobile at the back of the stage, the full awfulness of my plight slowly sinking in. I’d been counting down the minutes until I could remove the hot and smelly costume for the day. Guess I’d have to restart the timer.
Shoulders slumped, my small backpack of clothes and belongings dangling from my hand, I left the school hall and trudged to the bus stop. Dark thoughts swirled around my mind as I tramped the streets. I’d enjoyed the rare experience of having a job, had liked the work and the regular hours and had been looking forward to receiving some pay. But now I was fearful of my immediate future, not so much because of the penury, but because of the boredom. I wanted to have a job. I wanted something to do in my life. I wanted to earn some money. And I really didn’t want to have to move back home with my parents because I couldn’t pay my rent. I had turned twenty-five a month ago, for God’s sake! It was humiliating to still be so dependent on them at my age.
By the time I reached the bus stop I was drenched in sweat. The stop had no shelter and was situated on a busy road, so I was forced to stand in the blistering sun, inhaling exhaust fumes while I waited. And waited. The bus was twenty minutes late and I was the only passenger waiting for it at the stop. But I didn’t feel the slightest bit lonely, accompanied the whole time by a barrage of horn-tooting and catcalls thrown from the vehicles zooming past me. Very funny everyone, I thought sourly, let’s all make fun of the poor, unemployed piece of fruit.
I was in an exceptionally foul mood when the bus finally arrived, struggling to even get through the door in the stupid costume. The driver didn’t bother to hide his gales of laughter when he set eyes on me. I was a surly piece of fruit by the time I paid for my ticket, deciding to hide at the back of the bus so as not to attract any more attention.
Too late, I realised as I clutched my ticket and manoeuvred myself in that direction. Every pair of eyes on the bus was glued to me. That was when I also noticed that the entire bus was full of males, every passenger either a student from the local private boys’ high school or a construction worker knocking off for the day from a nearby building site. I groaned to myself, because we all know how sensitive a bunch of teenagers and labourers would be towards a young woman caught in such an embarrassing situation.
I lumbered my way down the narrow aisle, accidently knocking the hats off every schoolboy with my wide rind butt, causing a commotion as I progressed. Even if there had been a spare seat, I wouldn’t have been able to sit down, my butt was so big. I had to stand sideways in the aisle just to fit, clinging to a pole as the bus lurched back into the traffic.
Soon enough, I became fed up with the staring and the snickering of the other passengers.
“What’s the matter?” I demanded angrily, looking around. “Haven’t any of you ever seen a slice of watermelon before?”
My mistake for engaging them.
“Not as sweet and juicy as you, sweetheart,” quipped one labourer, and the whole bus erupted into laughter.
“You look good enough to eat,” said another, sniggering.
“Too right she does! Darling, I would give my right nut for the chance to munch on you,” piped up a third.
“In your dreams,” I told him sullenly.
“Geez, I wouldn’t mind getting two pieces of fruit into me every day, if they looked like you,” said one man.
“I’d rather get me into a piece of fruit, if it looked like her,” laughed his mate, and there was much hilarity between them at that crude comment.
“I’ve got a banana and a couple of kiwifruits here,” said another, grabbing his crotch. “We could make a beautiful fruit salad together.”
“More like a baby pickle and two cherries, if you ask me,” I retorted scornfully. “And you can keep your produce to yourself, thanks very much.” He licked his lips and made a slurping noise. More laughter. I rolled my eyes and returned my gaze to the ad for haemorrhoid cream plastered on the wall of the bus, trying valiantly to block them all out.
On and on they went though, throughout the whole nightmare of a journey, all the way across the city. Casting my eyes to the heavens in suffering silence as I clung on, I realised that I was experiencing what had to be the absolute nadir of my life. And there had been a few low points already along the way for comparison, but that bus trip beat them all by miles.
When the bus finally reached my stop, I shambled my way to the exit, receiving a friendly cheer from the remaining passengers. I gave them a sarcastic royal wave in return and almost fell out of the bus when I propelled myself forward after discovering that my rind was wider than the door. Stumbling as I stepped out onto the footpath, I fell flat on my face because fate had obviously decided that my day hadn’t been humiliating enough already. I staggered to my feet, dusted myself off and rued my grazed and stinging knees and hands. Ignoring the shouts of laughter from the bus passengers and the curious glances of passers-by, I straightened up, mustered as much dignity as I could, and made my awkward way down the three blocks to my home. I reminded myself that I was proud to be an actor and that no matter what Barnaby had said, I knew that I’d made a convincing piece of fruit.
I lived with my best friend, Dixie, and two nerdy male engineering PhD students, Jon and Don. The four of us crammed into a poky two-bedroom flat located in a distant western suburb still waiting for the housing boom to arrive. Our slummy unit block was squeezed between an illegal rave club and an all-night kebab shop, which made sleeping every night quite a challenge. There wasn’t a lot of privacy or space available in the flat, especially as Jon and Don’s main goal in life appeared to be to ‘accidently’ brush up against Dixie or me as often as possible. They had the social niceties of league players and the hygiene of cockroaches, but also the family means to pay more than their fair share of the overpriced rent, so we tolerated them. Well, Dixie tolerated them. I couldn’t stand them, or tell them apart.
By some small miracle the lift in the building was actually working so I caught it to the seventh floor. Once inside though, I pinched my nostrils closed with my thumb and index finger to avoid smelling the putrid mix of body odour, urine, hot chip grease and dirty nappies that permanently hung around. The lift doors opened to a dim and dingy hallway, fronted by four closed doors. Our flat was at the end of the hall and as I passed the other doors I noted the familiar sound of the Samadi family’s screaming twin babies from behind the first door, the thumping bass and marijuana smoke of the two stoners from behind the second door, and the eerie silence of the unsmiling, shadowy loner who never made a sound or said a word, from behind the third door.
When I unlocked the door to our tiny flat, it was soon apparent that nobody was home because it was so quiet. Damn! Who was going to help me out of this costume? I was beginning to think I would be stuck in it forever. Of course I could have asked a neighbour to help me, but the Samadis didn’t speak any English, I wasn’t confident I’d make it from the stoners’ place unmolested, and I simply didn’t want to know what the loner was doing so silently in his flat.
I decided that I had no option but to wait until Dixie came home from work, so poured myself a large glass of chilled water, the only thing in the old, cavernous fridge. Gulping it thirstily, I scavenged in the pantry for some food. I was starving, having had nothing to eat since breakfast when I’d scoffed a tub of yoghurt that was worryingly past its expiry date. After a thorough search, my available choices appeared to be a couple of stale crackers or a small shrivelled apple.
I chose the crackers, but spat them out after my first mouthful. They were really stale. Optimistically, I checked the food kitty, an old cracked pottery jar we used to store our pooled grocery money. Totally empty – not even five cents to spend. It was so empty that a spider had built a web inside. It glared up at me with hostility when I picked up the jar, so I hurriedly put it back down on the bench again. I don’t like spiders.
With no alternatives, I unenthusiastically peeled the apple of its wrinkled skin and ate it, flopped on the cracked brown vinyl lounge. Late afternoon TV entertained me until Dixie came home. She announced her arrival with a loud stream of obscenities before she’d even opened the door. From previous experience, I gathered she couldn’t find her keys in her chaotic, oversized handbag, so I struggled to my feet and opened the door for her.
She took in my costume without a word, barely even glancing at me, bursting through the door in the middle of what turned out to be a very long-winded and vitriolic rant about her boss. She raged about his idiocy, his vile personality and his complete lack of respect for her as both a human being and an artiste. Dixie’s been my best friend since we started high school together and was petite, cute and curvy with a Malaysian mother, Australian father, gorgeous black eyes and a terrifyingly large libido. She had short spiky hair that she regularly coloured and this week she was bright green, her hair standing on end like electrified Astroturf. She was also one of the most self-centred people I’d ever known. The entire universe revolved around Dixie and her needs and wants and the rest of us could go jump. But despite this, I was a loyal kind of person and didn’t give up on her, even when she was at her worst. We did have a lot of fun together.
Her outrageously large handbag came in handy sometimes, as I was about to rediscover when she pulled out from its fathomless depths some burgers and fries. I gave a silent cheer. She had managed to smuggle home some food from her part-time job as a burger-flipper at a nearby fast food chain restaurant. She wasn’t always successful in her attempts as her well-cursed boss was rather suspicious of her and kept an eagle eye out when he wasn’t distracted by a disaster. Fortunately for us though, disasters were frequent at that restaurant, especially in the kitchen. Some were probably even deliberately caused by Dixie herself. So she found many occasions on which to supplement our impoverished lives with greasy, heart-attack inducing food. Yum!
I grabbed one of the burgers, greedy with hunger, only to have it snatched out of my hands.
“That one’s mine! I made it myself and it’s got loads of extra extras. I call it the Dixie Special. You can have the other one,” Dixie ordered, and I had to settle for its poorer, less-endowed cousin. Why she just couldn’t make two Dixie Specials so we could both have one was beyond me, but that was Dixie for you – rarely a thought for anybody else. I felt my customary pang of guilt at eating stolen goods as I bit into the burger and shovelled the fries into my mouth, but hunger does a good job of realigning your moral code.
After we’d demolished the food, Dixie sat back and finally noticed that there was something different about me.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” she asked, eyes wide with incredulity as she realised she’d just dined with a giant slice of watermelon.
“I’m kind of stuck in it,” I admitted sheepishly. “I need some help to take it off. I had to catch the bus home wearing it.”
She laughed for a solid five minutes at that confession, tears pouring down her reddened face, gasping for oxygen. I thumped her on the back and waited with patient resignation for her to finish. Finally she subsided, only the occasional watery snort of laughter disrupting the quiet.
“You’re such a moron, Tilly,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. Skip the personality analysis, will you, and help me? It’s so hot in here,” I snapped with annoyance, standing up and turning around so she could unzip me. “You might need some pliers. The little thingy’s broken off.”
“No, it isn’t,” she said, unzipping me easily. Realisation that I’d been duped swamped me in an instant.
“No! That bastard! He tricked me,” I groaned, slapping my forehead in disbelief at my own stupidity. “I trusted him and he lied to me. I’ve just completely humiliated myself in public for no reason.”
Dixie started giggling again. “Tilly, you’re a mega-moron. You shouldn’t be so trusting. Especially of men.”
I frantically began peeling the costume from my body, only to have it tear apart in my hands. Shit! There went any chance of receiving my money from that job, because I suspected that Barnaby was the type of person who would calculate the cost of replacing the costume to the exact cent that I was owed in backpay. I collapsed on the lounge with my head in my hands, my singlet top and gym shorts plastered to me with sweat. I had just worked my butt off for two weeks for nothing.
Dixie screwed up her face and recoiled in disgust as I sat down. “Oh yuck, you stink! You need a shower.” She pulled me to my feet and gave me an ungentle push towards the bathroom. “Go have a shower and then I’ll buy you a drink. Sounds like you could do with one after the day you’ve had.”
She was right, twice over. I was rank with BO and I certainly could do with a drink after making such a fool of myself. I scrabbled around in our bedroom for some clean clothes and headed to the bathroom. It was its usual mess, dirty clothes and damp towels covering the floor. Dixie’s makeup took up most of the tiny vanity bench-top and her toiletries hogged the mirrored medicine cabinet. That was okay with me, because I didn’t have much of either anyway, so didn’t need much space. And neither of us cared whether the students minded or not. I wasn’t sure if they even bathed much at all.
The shower cubicle had never been cleaned once the entire two years that I had lived in the place, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one to start a precedent. Its disgusting state did mean that I took the fastest showers I’d ever had in my life though, and that day was no exception. I quickly lathered, shampooed and rinsed, finishing as soon as possible. I ran a comb through my longish, wavy dark chestnut hair and slapped on some deodorant and moisturiser, noticing that my container was nearly empty. I cursed Dixie out loud. She was a frequent and unrepentant borrower, user and keeper of my clothes, makeup, shoes, boyfriends – anything she could get her hands on.
I dressed in a short denim skirt and stretchy black v-neck t-shirt and pulled on some flat sandals, carelessly applied some makeup and dried my hair while Dixie showered and changed. I emptied my purse on my bed and counted my available money. Twenty dollars was all I had in the world, which had to cover food, rent and utilities, not to mention bus fares and some new moisturiser. If I didn’t find another gig soon, I would either have to move back home or sign up for a low-level temping job in an office. With those depressing options crowding my mind, we walked down to our local pub. It was busy that evening and almost chilly inside, its air-conditioning turned up full blast to compensate for day’s high temperature. Evidently, everybody had decided that night to go out to dinner to escape the heat, because the pub was packed.
“You buy the first drinks while I find us a table,” commanded Dixie, haring off before I could protest. I gazed after her in annoyance, distinctly remembering her offering to buy me a drink. I muttered to myself as I ordered, handing over half of my precious twenty dollars to purchase two glasses of the nasty house white wine that I watched the barman blatantly pour from a catering-sized cask. Dixie had managed to find us a small table up against a wall and I dodged over-excited children and doddering pensioners, carrying the drinks safely to the table.
We chatted casually for a while, filling each other in on our day. I unwisely made the mistake of complaining to her about my seemingly endless and depressing single status. She immediately sprang into action to find me someone.
“What about him?” she asked, nodding her head towards a good-looking, fair-haired man in dark blue jeans and a red polo shirt waiting at the counter to order dinner. He was nibbling on his bottom lip, indecision stamping his face as he dithered between the chicken schnitzel special and the roast of the day.
“Nah, he’s not tall enough,” I dismissed. “You know I hate towering over a man.”
She sighed impatiently and looked around. “Well, what about that guy over there? He’s tall and cute.”
“He sure is,” I agreed. “But I think that very pregnant woman standing next to him is his wife.”
She shrugged as if to say so what? Her eyes roamed the crowd again. “Ooh, what about him? He’s tall, cute and with no knocked-up chick nearby.”
“True, but I think he’s gay,” I pointed out. “Look at his t-shirt. It says: I want to flout that I’m out. Sounds sort of gay to me. Plus, he’s got his hand on that other man’s butt.”
“I suppose,” she conceded unhappily. “Okay, okay. I’m not giving up. I love a challenge. Hmm.” She scanned the room again, then smiled triumphantly. “What about him?”
“He is tall and cute, but he’s way too young for me.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because he’s wearing a school uniform! It’s probably not even legal for us to be looking at him.”
“Don’t be silly – he’s over the age of consent.”
“Barely.”
She continued to stare at the teenager who must have been dining with his parents directly from a school function, an appreciatively calculating smile teasing her lips. “He’s very cute, though. I could teach him a thing or two that he won’t learn in school.”
“Dixie, stop it. You’re scaring the poor kid.” The teen glanced over at us nervously, his protective mother hustling him back to their table to join the family, throwing us a disgusted look as she did.
“What a bitch! I was only looking,” sulked Dixie.
I laughed. “It’s the way you were looking at him that was bothering her.”
Dixie turned her attention back to me. “I give up. Your problem is that you’re too fussy,” she said, taking a sip of wine. “You have to stop being so picky. Just shag the next man who asks and your problem’s solved. That guy we met at the nightclub the other night was okay. You should have shagged him. I would have.”
“He was married! And he tried to grope my boobs when we danced together.”
“You do have great boobs, so you can’t really blame a man for trying to have a feel,” she said, sipping her wine again, halfway through her glass already.
“Yes, I can! And besides, you know I’ve sworn off one-night stands. I’m sick of them, especially after the last one. I always feel so cheap and dirty afterwards.” My mind took me back to that horrible feeling I’d had a few months ago waking up in an unfamiliar house, head pounding with a killer hangover. I’d rolled over to find myself naked in bed with a snoring stranger who’d sure seemed a lot better looking the previous evening when I’d been wearing my vodka goggles. I’d dressed quietly and sneaked out of his place in my bare feet so as not to wake him, praying that I hadn’t given him my phone number. It was on that journey home on the bus that I’d vowed to myself not to do that ever again.
“You’ll never get laid with that attitude,” Dixie warned, not having any compunction herself about one-nighters, married men, or apparently, teenagers.
“I don’t want to just get laid,” I grumbled. “I want . . . I dunno. I want something more than that.” She shot me a scathing look, rolling her eyes with deep scorn. We were worlds apart in our attitudes to sex.
I sighed in self-pity. Not only was I unsuccessful romantically, I was also pretty much a flop at scoring jobs in the two years since Dixie and I had both decided to chase our dream to become actors. Well, to be honest, it was more Dixie’s dream than mine. I followed her because I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted to do with my life and it had sounded fun. But it wasn’t. I’d only managed to notch up a bare handful of acting jobs since I started. One had been a non-speaking role as an extra in a locally-made turkey of a movie that I’d done primarily for the free catering. I’d also managed to land an unfortunately long-running commercial for a high-fibre breakfast cereal. My overjoyed and un-constipated enthusiasm for bran had mortified me every time the ad showed on TV, but gave my family and friends endless fodder for teasing.
About six months ago, in what I mistakenly believed was going to be my big break, I’d scored a brief stint on the soapie Summer Days. I’d played the conniving and slutty half-sister of the town’s doctor, but she was killed off after a few weeks in a gigantic fireball after sleeping with half the town and breaking up a popular character’s marriage. I was still getting hate mail about that.
My other big role was as the Third Hottie in a low-budget and low-talent slasher film called The Harvester’s Crop. My character was hacked to death in the first ten minutes with a scythe by a madman known as The Harvester. It still rankled that I’d missed out on the First Hottie and Second Hottie roles. As far as I know the movie didn’t make a single cent, bypassing all normal avenues of distribution and ending up on some obscure horror website. I’d always had my suspicions that it was never meant to be released at all, and was made solely for the private entertainment of the three pimply, but well-off young directors. That made me especially glad that I’d refused to wear a bikini during the shoot. I mean, seriously, who wears a bikini and high-heels running around the fields at night when a psychopathic murderer was trying to kill you with a primitive farming implement? The other two Hotties didn’t object to wearing their bikinis though and that’s probably why my character was bumped off first. But you see, I do have some artistic integrity.
I sagged into depression thinking that I was almost down to my last dollar and if I didn’t find some acting work soon, I wouldn’t be able to pay my share of the rent. I really didn’t want to ask my parents for money yet again. I pictured Dad’s stern face, his eyebrows slightly drawn together, mouth pursed, as he gave me what I had dubbed ‘The Lecture’. I could recite it by heart: how I should be more responsible in my life and get a steady job like my two older brothers; how when he and Mum were twenty-five they were already married with a toddler, a baby and a mortgage; how I should settle down with a good man. Have to find one first, Dad, I always said back to him at that point, looking up at him with my big eyes, my most pitiable expression on my face. That made him pause for an instant and pat my cheek with affectionate consolation before resuming his spiel. And even though each time he coughed up some cash in the end, I was becoming tired of hearing The Lecture. I didn’t need any reminding about exactly what was wrong with my life. I was the one living it, after all.
My mobile suddenly chirped. Dixie and I exchanged hopeful glances as I answered, hearing the grating, coarse voice of our shared third-rate agent, Kristo.
“No good, Tilly,” he rasped down the phone line. He inhaled from a cigarette, paused briefly, then exhaled with a disagreeable deafening roar of air in my ear. I could almost smell the nicotine through the phone. “Sorry, love.”
“Yeah, no problem, Kristo,” I said, dejected but unsurprised.
I’d tested earlier in the week for a role on Learn or Earn, a shockingly bad show set in a fictional university town that relied heavily on the tense standoff between the university folk and the townsfolk for its story-lines. The character was the psychotic, alcoholic secret love-child of the university’s vice-chancellor. She gets it on with the married town mayor then tries to kill him, sparking – yep, you guessed it! – a tense standoff between the university folk and the townsfolk. Just like every other frigging week. It was utter shite and the director had stared at my boobs the whole audition. But at least it would have kept the landlord off my back. Not that the creepy jerk hadn’t offered several times to climb onto my back in lieu of me paying my share of the rent.
“They gave the part to that blonde bird with the big tits. They said she had the attributes they were looking for,” Kristo told me.
I replied tartly, “Is that what they call them now?”
“What? Very talented girl, that one though. Very promising. I’ve offered to look after her career. Already found another job for her when she’s done with Learn or Earn.”
That made me see red. “Well, bully for her! But what about me? What have you lined up for me next?”
There was an awkward silence down the line. He cleared his throat noisily. “I’ve been thinking about you lately, Tilly.”
Uh-oh. “Thinking what exactly?”
“Thinking that you might be better off with another agent. That I might not be the best fit for your . . . ah . . . talent.”
I stared at the phone, mouth open in shock, before slamming it back to my ear. “You’re dumping me as a client?”
“Now don’t go putting it like that. Let’s just say that I’m freeing you from your contractual obligation with me to allow you to explore other options.”
“What about Dixie? Are you going to dump her too?”
Another silence. “Dixie’s more serious about being an actor. And at least she turns up to the auditions I organise for her.”
“Kristo! You’ve sent me to three porn movie auditions this year! I’ve told you a million times that I refuse to do stuff like that. I want to keep my clothes on!”
His voice hardened. “Like I said, Dixie turns up for her auditions, no complaints.” I glanced over at my friend with fresh eyes. “And besides, I haven’t made a cent from you for months. I don’t do this for fun, you know.” He thawed a little. “Look, love, take a word of advice and find another job. Acting’s not for you.”
I couldn’t argue with that, but I was so angry that I hung up on him. The arsehole! I’d put up with a lot from him in the last couple of years. He’d tried it on with me a few times in his shabby downtown office, but I’d played dumb, staring at him with my eyes wide, a slightly puzzled expression on my face as if I didn’t quite understand his double entendres and dirty suggestions. He gave up on me after a while, writing me off as someone with great boobs but sadly lacking in the brains department. And he thought I couldn’t act!
Well, that was your last chance, I warned myself. If I wanted to pay the rent this month and avoid the landlord’s lechery, I had to find a real job. I leaned over to the next table where someone had abandoned the local news rag. I skimmed the employment ads, dismissing them offhandedly. Boring. Boring. Boring . . . no wait. I read the ad more carefully. Nah, boring. Boring. Really boring. Weird. Boring. Then I noticed the little ad wedged at the bottom of the second page. It was inconspicuous, not designed to catch your attention, restrained and uninformative. I wondered briefly if noticing it was the first recruitment test, given the nature of the business.
Client Manager
Security & surveillance business
Must be
discreet and experienced
Enquiries: 0400 xxx xxx
Hmm, client manager? Security and surveillance? That sounded a bit cloak-and-dagger, a bit exciting, maybe even a bit dangerous. I was immediately interested, my boredom slipping off my shoulders like a silk cloak. Before I became a professional actor (and please don’t laugh when I say that), I’d done some client relations work. As long as you could stay calm under extreme provocation, keep a straight face while blatantly brown-nosing and could tolerate being a drudge, there were worse ways of earning some money. Like acting, I thought bitterly as I carefully ripped out the ad from the paper. I’d ring about the job first thing in the morning.
Chapter 2
I pressed the buzzer next to the glossy black front door and waited as I’d been instructed. When I rang to enquire about the position I was told by a polite and mellow male voice to send in my CV via email. I had sneaked onto Jon’s (or Don’s?) laptop to do so and barely an hour later received a phone call from the same man inviting me for an interview the following morning and providing me with directions. The suburb was one I’d never visited before. It was shabby, previously industrial but slowly morphing into an uneasy mixture of high-density residential and white collar commercial businesses. Property there would be worth a fortune in about ten years, but it was still distinctly grungy right then.
I glanced up at the old redbrick building in front of me, calculating that it was about six stories high. It had probably been a warehouse/office combination in a previous life. It had a grim facade with no interesting features except for its sash windows, the front door and a large garage door off to its left. No external signage indicated that the Warehouse (which is what I decided to call it) was a business premise. There was nothing but a shining brass street number neatly centred on the door and an unusual number of security cameras focussed on the entry, garage door and all sides of the street.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as I waited. I’d decided to dress conservatively despite the continuing heat, aiming for a slightly prim and proper look. My makeup was discreet and although I didn’t think that my bargain reproduction designer suit (half-price on sale), in a demure shade of pale rose, was too crushed from the long bus trip across town, I smoothed down the skirt with my hands just in case. I’d left the top two buttons of my white cotton blouse undone and pulled it down slightly to expose a bit more cleavage. I wasn’t above using my assets for my own benefit when necessary and hopefully my interviewer would be male. My scuffed rose-coloured court shoes were pinching my feet after the walk from the bus stop and I was having serious regrets about wearing them. Thankfully it wasn’t as hot today, but I still felt twin trickles of sweat making their ticklish way down my spine and between my breasts and hoped they wouldn’t leave damp patches on my blouse.
Glancing down, I cursed, noticing a run in my left stocking and prayed it wasn’t visible from the front. I patted my hair to make sure it hadn’t escaped from its neat chignon. I’d taken a lot of care to make sure I looked respectably presentable. I had a feeling that first impressions would be important in this position.
The door flung open suddenly, startling me. A small, sharp-faced teenaged Goth stood in the doorway, so androgynous in appearance that I had to heads-or-tails in my mind over whether it was a girl or boy. I chose boy, but I wasn’t one hundred per cent confident in my choice as there were no discernable lady or man lumps to give me any decisive clues about gender. He stared up at me through his carefully sculpted jet black fringe, thick black kohl encircling his big, pale blue eyes. He wore black skinny jeans, a belt studded with small silver skulls, a striped black and purple t-shirt and chunky black combat boots. His left ear held six silver piercings, his right ear five, and his nose three. He wore a silver skull ring with red jewelled eyes on his right ring finger.
“Hi,” he said in a friendly voice, “you must be . . .” His eyes dropped to his hand where I could see something scribbled in black pen. “Ms Chalmers, right? I’m Niq. That’s Niq with a Q, by the way”.
No help there even. That could be a girl or boy name. “Very pleased to meet you, Niq with a Q,” I said politely.
“Follow me, please.” His voice was also decidedly ungendered – not too deep for a female, not too high for a male. The boy/girl led me down a hallway to a lift and repeatedly stabbed the up-button with a black-painted nail. I thanked the heavens for the building’s frosty air-conditioning and stole a surreptitious look around me while we waited. The walls were bare redbrick and the floors polished but well-scuffed dark hardwood. A stairwell led both up and down stairs. Besides the front door, there was only one other door on that level, and it remained firmly closed. There were no paintings, rugs or plants. It was pure jailhouse and as quiet as a tomb except for the clunking and clattering of the lift slowly grumbling its way down to us.
As we waited for the lift, the inner door was thrown open and four of the biggest men I’d ever seen in my life spilled out into the hallway, laughing at something one of them had said. They were tall, broad-shouldered and seriously muscled. They were dressed identically in black polo shirts with a gold H embroidered in script on the pocket, tucked into black cargo pants, with black utility belts around their hips and the same black boots that Niq was wearing. The four men stared at me with open curiosity and I smiled at them sweetly, eyes huge with sheer astonishment at their size. They looked intimidating, but nodded at us with a reassuring affability as they passed.
“Guys,” Niq acknowledged indifferently, barely casting his eyes in their direction. They didn’t notice, their eyes fixed on me as they clumped downstairs. The word SECURITY was plastered across the back of their polo shirts in gold lettering. As I watched their retreating backs, they all threw me flatteringly attentive glances over their shoulders as they left. One of them turned back a second time to give me a cheeky wink. I decided that I liked this place already.
The lift landed with a thumping shudder and the wooden doors slowly opened with an agonising screech. We stepped in and Niq repeatedly pressed the button for the second floor. The doors reluctantly closed. A nervous energy seemed to radiate from the little Goth as he chewed on a thumbnail while staring up at me intently through his fringe. He seemed, not hostile, but strangely excited by my presence. What was that about?
“You look like that chick in that lame ad. You know, the one about the cereal,” Niq said. He suddenly burst out in a shrill, overjoyed singsong voice, “I’m the happiest girl in the nation now I’ve cured my constipation!”
I cringed at hearing that corny jingle again. I wasn’t going to admit to that, so I shamelessly lied. “It wasn’t me, but I hear that all the time. I guess I do look a bit like her.” Niq stared at me suspiciously as if my protest wasn’t quite believable. I gazed back with wide-eyed innocence. I had to admit I was impressed though – it was an uncanny impersonation of my hammy acting.
One of those awkward silences descended. I smiled at him briefly and raised my eyes to the lift ceiling, surprised at its intricate timber inlay. I thought that must mean that the lift was quite old because lifts weren’t built like that anymore. I hoped it was safe as it slowly ascended, screeching misery all the way. To take my mind off that worry, I turned back to the little Goth.
“So Niq, do you work here?” I teased gently. He was only thirteen or fourteen at most and so slight in stature that one of those huge security men could have crushed him with his bare hands.
“No,” he smiled shyly and peered up at me through that black fringe. “I’m still at school, but I will work here when I finish. I want to work here now, but Heller says it’s important for me to get a proper education first.” He rolled his eyes at that sensible piece of advice like a typical teenager.
“And who’s Heller?” I asked conversationally, barely stifling a yawn. The rave club next to our unit block had been pounding out thumping bass until five o’clock in the morning. I had finally properly fallen asleep at one minute past five, only to be woken up at three minutes past five by a garbage truck noisily making its way down the street.
“You don’t know who Heller is?” he asked me with genuine surprise. “But –”
Before he could finish, the lift shuddered and stopped suddenly for a few ticks before continuing again, unbalancing the both of us. Alarmed, I clung like a gecko to the lift wall, my palms flat against the side to brace myself.
“Are you sure this thing’s safe?” I asked, slightly shaken.
“Hasn’t crashed yet,” he replied, brushing the hair back from his face and smiling up at me again.
And thankfully it didn’t today either. At last the lift stopped with a terrifying lurch that made me reel against the side of the cabin, my hands out for balance again, my stomach leaping into my mouth. The doors opened and I prepared to step out to face my interview ordeal, but unhappily the lift hadn’t made it to its destination. Instead, it had decided to discontinue the journey about two metres short. We were caught between floors.
“Uh-oh,” said Niq, pressing the close-door button frantically. Nothing happened. He then pushed on the up button. Again nothing. Niq turned to me. “I think it’s died.”
“You think?” I asked, a little sarcastic.
“Daniel!” Niq screamed suddenly, making me jump. “Daniel!”
From the gap in the lift, I saw a pair of legs walking quickly towards us.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” a man apologised profusely to me, kneeling down to peer awkwardly into the lift cabin. “Don’t panic. I’ll get you out of there as soon as possible.” Then he turned to Niq, crossly. “Niq! I knew I should have brought Ms Chalmers up myself instead of trusting you. I told you not to use the lift. You know it’s not safe.”
I shot Niq a smug told-you-so smile.
“Sorry Daniel,” Niq replied, pulling a face back at me.
“Okay, let me think for a second. Niq, I’ll get you out first and then you can help me with Ms Chalmers. Grab onto my hands and use your feet to climb up the walls of the cabin.”
Daniel leaned down into the cabin and grasped Niq’s hands. He hauled the little Goth up until Niq was dangling from the floor of the next level, legs kicking out wildly as he tried to maintain his grip. I watched with interest, wondering how I was ever going to complete the same obstacle in my suit and heels when one of Niq’s chunky boots unexpectedly cracked into my nose. I shrieked in pain and staggered against the lift wall, holding my face, my eyes tearing up uncontrollably.
“Oops, sorry!” Niq shouted down to me, finally managing to swing one leg onto the floor and quickly scrabbling to pull the other one up as well, escaping the lift. Niq and Daniel stared down at me anxiously.
“Oh dear. Are you all right?” Daniel asked with concern.
I touched my nose tenderly. It hurt like hell. I hoped it wasn’t broken.
“Sure, it’s nothing,” I lied bravely, blinking away the tears. I took off my tight shoes and tossed them up onto the floor above. I threw my handbag up as well. This was going to be very inelegant. Thank goodness I had worn my best pair of panties today!
Daniel grabbed my hands and I tried to do what Niq had done, climb up the wall of the cabin using my feet until I could throw one of my legs onto the floor above my head. Unfortunately my stockings made my feet slippery and I couldn’t maintain a grip on the polished timber panels of the lift wall. Daniel was trying valiantly to drag me up, almost pulling my arms out of their sockets in the process, but it was no good. He just wasn’t strong enough and Niq wasn’t able to reach. Daniel let me go, promising to be back in a second. I thought briefly of removing my stockings, but decided that there was no way that I was going to start taking off my clothes in a place that appeared to be full of men.
Daniel returned quickly, talking softly to someone else. Another pair of shoes appeared in the gap, fashionable glossy pointed black shoes.
“Heller will be able to get you out, Ms Chalmers,” Daniel told me in his soothing voice. “You’ll be free in a minute.”
A different man knelt and reached his arms down towards me. I couldn’t see him well from where I was but lifted my arms up helpfully and before I could even take a breath, he gripped my forearms and forcefully pulled me up. He wasn’t gentle and I scraped my entire body as he dragged me out of the gap between the top of the lift and the floor. I stumbled with the momentum of being hauled up and fell with a great lack of dignity on my hands and knees at his feet.
I sat back on my haunches and looked up at him. I had to look a long, long way because he was very tall, well over two metres, with a muscular fit body, cheekbones you could slice your hands on and a sensuous mouth. A light tan emphasised his spiked, razor-cut blond hair and incredible glacial blue eyes. His teeth were very white and even. He was exceptionally well-dressed, completely in black – black silk shirt (with a gold H monogrammed on the pocket), black suit, black shoes. He wore an expensive silver watch with a black face and a chunky silver ring with an engraved H logo on his left ring finger.
He was the most astoundingly beautiful human being I had ever set eyes on in my whole life. He was more beautiful than an entire host of heavenly angels, more beautiful than the progeny of the most beautiful gods who had ever reproduced. He was simply drop-dead deliciously divine. My eyes goggled and my pulse quickened. My mouth dried up. I had to urgently press my lips together to stop my tongue from lolling.
I had just met Heller.
Chapter 3
He bent over, grasped my arms again but more gently this time, and pulled me to my feet. I managed to steady myself, gaping up at him in stunned, stupid, silent wonder. My eyes were gigantic in my face and not one cogent word formed itself in my brain and made its way down to my mouth. I was literally dumbstruck. I’m from a tall family and am very tall for a woman at 180 centimetres (about six feet for you old-fashioned folk), but I felt tiny standing next to him. His eyes raked my face intently and frowning slightly, he took a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me.
“Your nose is bleeding,” he commented, a charming northern European accent tingeing his voice. German? Danish? I took the handkerchief and gingerly dabbed at my aching nose, eyes fixed on him still. Would I ever be able to look away?
“I kicked her in the face,” Niq confessed. Heller turned his frown on Niq before stepping alarmingly close to me. My heart started racing. He reached towards me, gently grasped the bridge of my nose with his fingers and moved it around carefully. Somehow I managed to stifle my yelp of pain, although my eyes watered again. When he stepped back afterwards, I suddenly wished he hadn’t, despite the extra pain he had caused. I wanted to catch the scent of his tantalising cologne again. He stared at me and frowned once more, his blue eyes boring into mine relentlessly.
“It’s not broken,” he diagnosed coolly. I delicately held the handkerchief to my nostrils to stem the flow of blood, trying to ignore the screaming pain. I despaired of the terrible first impression I was making with this extraordinary man, dripping blood onto my suit and onto his carpet. He was immaculately groomed and you could tell at a glance that appearances were important to him.
“Niq, what in God’s name were you doing in the lift? I have told you a hundred times that it is not safe!” Daniel seethed. Heller spun his blue spotlights back to Niq, giving me a brief reprieve. The little Goth hung his head and seemed to shrink a bit smaller at the rebuke. I was immediately sorry for him. He was just a kid, after all.
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