red dress were being forced into the gaps between the louvre slats. So too was the bare flesh of Fiona Lambert’s arse. One red shoe lay on its side. The other had vanished. Eastlake was still wearing his. I could see their stitching. Four-hundred-dollar shoes. Only the tips showed. His trousers were round his ankles. His calves were braced. His knees were buckled. His thighs were thrusting.
Bang, bang. I closed my eyes and searched my mind for some distracting thought. I peeked again, then squeezed my eyes tight.
Eastlake’s trousers were Prince of Wales check. This was the pattern favoured by the sharpies, part of the uniform. Wide Prince of Wales check trousers and skin-tight maroon knit tops. That’s what Geordie Fletcher wore.
Geordie Fletcher and the horrible twins, Danny and Wayne. I was back at the Oulton Reserve. Round and round I was spinning, biffed and bashed at every turn. My life was in the hands of a gang of brain-dead sharpies. Spider, my supposed protector, was in league with the enemy. My hand was curled tight around the neck of a bottle. A potential weapon, but tangled in the folds of my coat.
Suddenly, it came free. I brandished it like a club. Dizzy with vertigo, I staggered sideways and fell. The bottle hit the concrete path. Broken glass scattered in a pool of spilt alcohol. I was on my knees breathing in the acrid smell.
‘Fucking idiot. You wasted it.’ Geordie Fletcher had me by the collar, hauling me to my feet. This was it. The cat-and-mouse game was over. I was about to be beaten shitless. The twins had stopped their jeering and fallen silent. Big brother was going to show them how it was done.
More fool him. The neck of the bottle was still in my hand, a hard knife-edged cylinder. Slashing sideways, I caught Geordie unawares. My blow sliced across his thigh, opening a gash in his pants. Blood sprayed into the air.
Geordie jumped back. Amazement lit his face. My fear became exhilaration. I thrust the bottle neck in front of me, daring them to try anything. The Fletchers circled, Geordie’s surprise turning to rage. Spider Webb elbowed his way between the twins. ‘Put it down, Whelan,’ he said. ‘Don’t be a dickhead.’ Somewhere in the dusk beyond the tea-tree, car doors slammed and footsteps raced towards us. Every sharpie in town was about to descend on me. There was blood everywhere. ‘Come on, you little cunt,’ Geordie yelled. ‘Have a go.’
I did. I rushed him. Spider grabbed my arm, twisting it. ‘Drop it. Drop it.’ Pain shot through my elbow. The bottle neck fell from my hand. Broken glass crunched underfoot. Geordie kicked me in the balls. The pain was searing. Spider’s face was in mine. ‘Fucking idiot.’ Bent double, eyes welling, I retched.
The galloping feet arrived. Hands grabbed my hair, jerking my head back. I swung wildly, no longer caring what happened. An adult had me. A police uniform. A sergeant’s stripes. I recognised the face. I’d seen it in the hotel, drinking with my father after closing time. Open handed, he whacked the side of my head so hard that I saw stars and my teeth nearly fell out. ‘You’re coming with me, son.’
‘Come! Come!’ urged Fiona. ‘Yes. Yes.’ She said some other things, too. Things I won’t repeat here.
The pace of Eastlake’s thrusting increased. The closet door quaked in its frame. An anchovy smell tinged the air. Rumpity, rumpity. Casanova let out a plaintive groan. Hissing like a braking steam train, he slowed to a halt. Suddenly, all was still.
Eastlake disengaged with a suction-cup slurp. Fiona Lambert’s bare backside separated from the louvres and her feet found the floor. Her dress fell back into place. She let out a long breath. I wished I could do the same. ‘You tiger,’ she said. ‘That was wonderful.’
With a dull thud, Tiger Eastlake slumped back against the wall opposite. He swallowed, caught his breath. ‘You came?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She might have fooled him, but she wasn’t fooling me.
‘You sure?’ His voice was post-coitally dreamy.
‘Would I lie to you?’ Her real love, I knew, was lying on the dining table. The knee-trembler had kept him out of the living room for a while. But what was she going to do now? Push him out the door? Her back was still pressed against the closet. ‘Now I really do need a drink. Be a darling. There’s an open bottle in the fridge.’
Eastlake’s hands came down and his pants went up. A zipper zipped. He took a step closer. Nuzzling sounds. He was compliant. His shoes swivelled in the direction of the kitchen. As he moved away, Fiona’s back came off the door. I sensed, rather than heard, her flit across the living room.
From the kitchen came the rattle of a refrigerator shelf. Bottles clinked. A cork was withdrawn. A cupboard opened. Glass nudged glass. I could have done with a drink myself. And a cigarette. I like one afterwards.
‘I don’t suppose Max Karlin personally delivered the painting, by any chance?’ called Eastlake. There was a well-practised familiarity at work here. The easy way the switches went on and off. This sex business between him and Fiona had been going on for some time. But the casualness of Eastlake’s question was a little too studied. He had something on his mind.
‘Max?’ Miss Innocence was relaxed. The dough must have been safely out of sight. ‘Haven’t seen him since Saturday. Why?’
She came over, picked up her knickers, went back into the living room. ‘Where’s that drink?’
‘I’ve been trying to contact him all day.’ Eastlake came out of the kitchen. ‘He’s not returning my calls.’
I remembered his anxious grab at the phone when I’d rung. Poor Lloyd. His timing was lousy. Thirty seconds earlier and he’d have run into Karlin on the stairs.
‘I really should be getting back to work,’ Fiona said. Not, of course, with any of her previous door-blocking urgency. They were like a married couple. He wanted her to listen while he complained about his hard day at the office.
‘Sorry to burden you with my worries,’ he said. ‘I know you hate shoptalk. But if you hear from Max, tell him to call me immediately. There’s a rumour going around that he’s getting cold feet. The Karlcraft Centre is at the don’t-lookdown stage. The whole thing is in danger of falling over if Max loses his nerve right now. Obelisk has sunk a lot of money into Max Karlin. More than I was authorised to lend him. I’ve staked Obelisk’s whole future, and my own, on Max’s success. If he goes belly-up, he’ll take me with him. The least he could do is return my calls.’
‘You worry too much.’ Fiona played the wifey part, smoothing his fevered brow. ‘He’s probably just in a meeting or something. It’ll be okay, you’ll see. If he rings to check that Our Home has arrived okay, I’ll tell him to call you straight away.’
Eastlake was pacing about while Fiona made reassuring noises. I couldn’t quite make out what was being said. My whole body ached from the effort of standing to attention. Carefully, I moved my wrist into a position where I could read my watch. Thirty minutes I’d been standing there. It felt like years. I needed to urinate. Suddenly, something jolted my heart back into my mouth. I heard the sound of my own name.
‘That reminds me,’ Eastlake was saying. ‘You don’t have to worry about Giles Aubrey any more. That Whelan guy rang me, said he was dead. I knew I shouldn’t have told you what Whelan said Aubrey told him. You’ve probably been worrying about it.’
‘Dead?’ she said, only mildly curious. ‘How?’
‘Whelan didn’t say. All very enigmatic, he was. I’m meeting him later, so I’ll find out then, I suppose. Anyway, there’s one less problem.’
‘Oh, I was never really worried about Giles Aubrey.’
Yet again, I couldn’t believe my ears. But the logic was overwhelming. The story Aubrey told me-whether true or not-had the potential to derail the CMA’s purchase of Our Home. Lambert had put a great deal of effort into making sure the sale went ahead. She had a lot riding on its successful conclusion. She could hardly just stand by and let Giles Aubrey ruin her plans. A woman as young, fit and ruthless as Fiona Lambert would have no trouble pushing a frail old man down a steep riverbank.
‘I’ll just try Max again.’ Eastlake came closer and I heard a distinct grunt as he bent to pick up his hastily shed suit jacket. Blip, blop, blip. Mobile phone dialling noises. Silence. Glasses tinkled. The kitchen tap ran again. Fiona, clearing up. Eastlake got through, asked for Karlin. ‘Still not back? Okay. Same message.’
My bladder was full. If I didn’t get out of that fucking closet soon, I’d have to start paying rent.
They were at the door. ‘Remember, if Max calls…’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell him…’
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Eastlake spoke in tones of unalloyed affection. Jesus. The schmuck was in love.
The door closed. Lambert waited a beat, then let out a long sigh of relief. She moved down the hall. Seconds
