One day he would have his own soundproof room. Oh, how the reactions, the screams excited him. But for now he had to do without that particular luxury.
Gagged and bound, the girl began struggling with surprising strength; swiftly he straddled her and punched her square in the jaw with one gloved fist. Her eyes snapped shut and she let out a muffled cry, the tears coming harder. Her body convulsed with sobs, and he felt himself become more fully aroused. He ripped the blanket off her—diminutive breasts jiggled under her thin top, her miniskirt was riding up around her hips, but the black stilettos were in place on the girl’s dainty feet.
He moved down her body and removed her right shoe.
Lovely. Perfect
. Her toes were smooth and delicately formed; he was very pleased. He slipped the stiletto back on, enjoying the look of it more
knowing what perfect digits it housed. He reached for his blade and moved back up his latest possession. She was bleeding but conscious, blue eyes open again and rolling wildly with panic. With one long, graceful movement he sliced through her flimsy top, splitting it open from waist to neck. She wore a plain, cream-coloured bra. He cut through the centre clasp and it snapped open, leaving her pale chest exposed. He cut through her skirt and cotton panties, and placed them in a neat pile with her other clothing.
She was naked for him.
Immune to her stifled pleading and now desperate flood of tears, he continued.
At daybreak, the man decided it was time to leave the parking lot. Although he hadn’t slept a single wink, he wasn’t tired. Sitting beside the girl’s silent body, he felt calm and powerful. Curious, he looked through the girl’s things before disposing of them. He opened the large black bag she had been carrying and found a heavy, ten-by-twelve-inch book—a model’s portfolio. He flipped through it. The photos inside showed the girl in several benign poses; smiling, walking, or standing. Boring. He also found a wallet with a Canadian passport, an address book and a crinkled letter addressed to a “Catherine Gerber”. He unfolded the letter and read:
Dear Cat,
I really look forward to seeing you. Six months is too long apart! Thanks for coming back for my mom’s funeral. She would have wanted you there. She always said you were daughter number three. I doubt I could have survived it without you, and Dad appreciated you being there, too.
Enough depressing stuff! As I told you on the phone, I will arrive Thursday morning at 7.45 on Japan Airlines flight JL771 from Tokyo. If you aren’t in when I arrive, don’t forget to leave a key for me somewhere. The agency has already booked me for a shoot at La Perouse on Friday. Talk about no time for jet lag! Thanks for letting me stay with you. We have so much to talk about. See you soon…
Your best friend always,
Mak
A skerrick of a smile infected his lips. It would make a good souvenir. He checked through the wallet, which held little interest for him, until he found a compartment with photos. Girl with family. Girl with man. Girl with blonde.
He stared transfixed at the photo.
Girl with blonde.
She was intriguing. Tall, with beautiful, thick platinum hair that cascaded down past her shoulders. Who was she? The photo looked like it had been taken in a foreign city. He turned it over and read the smudged writing:
Me ’n’ Mak making it big in Munich!
He stared captivated for a while and then lovingly placed the photo in his wallet, beside one of his mother.
He read the letter again.
La Perouse.
That wasn’t far away.
He took the letter and address book and stowed them in his briefcase. He gathered up the girl’s clothes, put them in a big garbage bag, and when he was ready, climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away unseen into the crisp, dewy morning.
“Sorry, I’m tied up at the moment,” the giggling voice on the answering machine announced. “But leave a message, and if you’re lucky I’ll call you back.”
Makedde Vanderwall shook her head and waited for the tone. “Hey Cat, I just got in. I’m about to jump in a taxi. I know you’re there.” She gave Cat a few seconds to pick up the phone. “Hmm. If you’re
really
not there, I trust you’ve left a key in a self-explanatory location…”
Mak looked forward to seeing her friend. Almost as much, she looked forward to getting out of her slept-in clothes and into a hot shower. Her black turtleneck top felt a bit too travelled-in and her favourite Levi’s had been stained by weak coffee. The coffee’s target had been the cup of a business man seated in 34J, but the apologetic steward missed due to a sudden change in altitude. Or perhaps attitude, Mak was unsure.
She strode across the airport terminal, bags in tow, and inadvertently turned a few heads. As a six-foot blonde, Makedde attracted attention wherever she
went, though she barely noticed these days. Old jeans and morning hair made little difference to the rubber-neck effect.
The flight from Canada was excruciatingly long, and she again wondered whether the five hundred dollars saved by taking the roundabout route had been really worth it. The lengthy wait at customs would have been unbearable if she had known that Catherine wasn’t going to be at the airport. Nonetheless, after more than a day of travel she was a mere thirty minutes away from a happy reunion. She dragged herself to the taxi stand outside and joined the long queue of tired and bedraggled international travellers.
Winter rain had made the roads and footpaths shine. Perhaps July was not the best time to visit Australia, but it was between psychology courses for Mak, so she had to take the opportunity when it came. Her modelling days were numbered and she could still count the figures of her bank balance on six fingers,
including
the decimal point. She hoped it would be a working holiday with lots of working, and a much needed cash injection. A taxi pulled up and popped its boot, and in no time Mak was hurtling through the rain towards Bondi Beach.
Twenty minutes later the taxi crested the rise on Bondi Road, passing Waverley Oval as the clouds parted. Golden rays of sunlight reflected on the twinkling, green grass of the cricket oval, and by the
time they reached the top of Campbell Parade the clouds had completely disappeared, as if Bondi had a special arrangement with the gods of weather. It lifted her spirits to take in the spectacular stretch of shimmering sand and surf. Two whole months to enjoy the beautiful coastline and catch up with her best friend. Perhaps a bit of travel and a revived modelling career was just what she needed to invigorate her lagging spirits.
Makedde stood outside a weatherworn, three-storey, red-brick block of flats on Campbell Parade and checked the address again as the taxi pulled away. She buzzed the intercom for number six and waited. And waited. She tried the door.
Must’ve had a late night
, she thought with slight irritation. The lock was broken, and the outside door opened to reveal a shabby, rickety timber staircase. It appeared she’d have to drag the bags in herself, and knock until Catherine woke up.
Makedde lugged the suitcases up the stairs, cursing the books and winter clothes that weighed them down. She reached flat number six, which was barely distinguishable by a small metal “6” hanging upside down on a loose nail, appearing at a glance as number nine. She knocked on the door.
No answer.
“Urrrrr…” she growled with growing frustration.
She left her bags at the top of the stairs and ventured to the mailbox outside to search for a note
or a key. When she found box number six empty, save for a Thai delivery menu, she felt the first twinge of a headache. She groped around inside the box, hoping her eyes were deceiving her. No luck. Empty.
It was after 9 a.m. on a Thursday morning and surely most of the building’s inhabitants would be working or surfing, so she walked back up to number six and laid into the door with a fierce and futile burst of pounding.
The flat was unresponsive.
She slumped against the door and rested her aching head in her hands.
Chill
, she thought.
Chill, and find a phone
.
Hoping no one would bother to drag her cumbersome baggage away, she stepped onto the street and spotted an orange hooded public phone booth a block away. She walked briskly over to it, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. The phone ingested her coins in a hurried, metallic gurgle, and rang several times before someone answered.
“Book Model Agency.” The greeting was monotonous and disinterested.
“Hi, this is Makedde Vanderwall. Could I speak with Charles Swinton, please?”
“He’s busy right now.”
“How long will he be?”
“Can I take a message?”
Mak closed her eyes. “Look, I just flew in from Canada and I’m standing outside one of your model’s flats with my suitcases, and there’s no one here to let me in or give me a key. I really need to speak with Charles.”
“Just a moment.”
After a couple of clicks, a man’s voice came on the line.
“Hello Charles, this is Makedde Vanderwall…” She explained her situation as politely but firmly as she could manage.
“ We have an extra key for the Bondi flat here if you want to come in,” he replied.
“I’m standing out here with two very heavy suitcases. Could you have someone put it in a taxi and send it over?”
Twenty-eight minutes later a taxi pulled up and Makedde let herself in with the extra key. The accommodation was modest—typical for travelling models—a studio flat with twin beds and a tiny kichen and bathroom. Although the bed looked short enough for her feet to hang off the edge, she savoured the thought of getting horizontal on it. Catherine had only been living in the furnished flat for a month, but Mak noticed that she had already added her special touch to the place. The sparse decor had been livened up with an assortment of chic fashion magazine cut-outs—ads for Gucci,
Chanel, Calvin Klein and Aussie designers Morrissey and Lisa Ho coated the walls in a collage of dizzying couture. She could just imagine the landlord’s expression at seeing the miles of sticky tape holding the pictures in place.
Followed by one hundred mascara-enhanced vacant stares, Makedde took in the small flat—the cramped bathroom, the half kitchen with its minibar-sized fridge, and the large window which opened onto a stunning view of southern Bondi Beach. Across from the window, the two single beds were made with mismatched covers, each with its own uncomfortably thin looking pillow. A pint-sized, seventies-style chest of drawers separated the beds, and Makedde saw a notepad resting on it, beside the phone. She picked it up and read the hastily scrawled message.
JT Terrigal
Beach res
16
14
Makedde couldn’t make much of the note. She had been expecting some hurried excuse for Catherine’s absence, but the message did not appear addressed to her, or anyone else for that matter. Catherine mentioned that she might have a date for the weekend, but she refused to say with whom. Was
the note related to that? The writing looked rushed. Perhaps Catherine had to leave at the last minute?
Puzzled and disappointed, Makedde embarked on a more thorough inspection of the flat. The fridge door, which would have been a natural choice, was littered with takeaway food menus, but no notes. The answering machine was flashing its red “messages” light. Makedde pressed the play button. The first two messages were dial tones, then, “Catherine, it’s Skye from Book. Call me.” There were a few clicks and pauses, but the next message was her own voice, “Hey, Cat, I just got in. I’m about to jump in a taxi…”
She suspected that sometime during the day she would receive an excited and apologetic phone call from Cat, describing how her secret Romeo had swept her off her feet and whisked her away for a scandalous sojourn.
So much for the welcome wagon.
Makedde decided to make herself at home, and the first thing on her list was that long awaited hot shower. Unfortunately, the bathroom proved to be even more cramped than it looked. It was either an ill-conceived design in minimal space, or an illegal conversion from a closet; something she had seen before in other models’ flats. She had to stand on the toilet seat to get to the shower/bathtub, because the sink hung over the seat, and there was no space to move in between. After kneeling on the toilet seat to
brush her teeth, she shuffled across and climbed into the tub.
Mak showered under a refreshing stream of hot water, gratefully soaping away the stickiness of travel. She towelled off and, still warm, crawled into bed wearing a T-shirt and pair of boxers which had retained her affections long after their original owner. She had not slept well in many months, and hadn’t managed to sleep at all on the flight. She was too tired to even think about staying awake to adjust her circadian rhythms. Instead, she set the alarm for 5.30 in the afternoon so she could call Book agency for the following day’s photo session details, and check for any messages Catherine might have left. Sleep came swiftly, but her rest was haunted by disturbing dreams.
Catherine is reaching out…
Catherine is stretching through layers of dreamscape, terror shattering her beautiful features. She is pulled further and further into a cryptic, black expanse. Her face, ghostly and pale, is stretched into a silent scream. Her eyes are growing larger and larger, rounder and more frightened as she is pulled further. A thick, lifeless mass of dark swallows her slowly. She is begging, pleading, as she is swallowed.
Nothing will bring her back.
The phone rang.
Makedde sat bolt upright, beads of sweat covering her face. The clock said 5.22 p.m.
“Hello?”
It was Charles Swinton, her booker, confirming the details for the following day’s photo shoot at La Perouse. The job was scheduled for an early start and it would be a long day. In spite of the recent rain they didn’t require an early morning weather check; they were confident it would clear up.