Eileen’s heart beat faster at the idea that the murderer was masquerading as every woman’s dream, flaunting attributes that would prove deadly if he got them alone. She had assumed it would be easy to spot a serial killer; now she wasn’t so sure.
Her mind flashed back to her childhood and the ominous warnings she’d heard when coming home late.
“Walk fast.”
“Avoid shortcuts.”
“Always tell somebody where you’re going and let them know when you get in.”
Her childhood had been a talisman against fear, and she’d had automatically rebelled against the advice. She’d found these redundant tips to be a double standard; none of the neighbourhood boys suffered through pre-outing lectures. All she got when she pointed out the unfairness were deep frowns and frustrated responses: “They’re boys, they don’t have to worry.”
Boys, Eileen remembered thinking bitterly. She didn’t see the difference. When Timothy Rudder had braked his bicycle suddenly with Eileen sitting on the handlebar, both of them had flown off and scraped their knees. Same blood, same pain. But different rules: Timothy was petted and comforted with the standard, “Boys will be boys.” At Eileen’s house, she was told, “Stop — getting — mix — up — with — little — boy — things”, each word punctuated with a stinging lash across her legs.
But this killer who went around snuffing out the lives of young women was the first proper example Eileen had of why boys were different. Women lived in constant fear of being assaulted, robbed and murdered for no reason other than just existing. How do two sets of people, sharing the same planet, breathing the same air, get such different realities to navigate? She envied Holden’s habit of walking home late at night. There were times she was afraid to even run down the apartment stairs and jump behind the wheel of her car to leave home, far less walk through her poorly lit village.
The faint jingle of the telephone in the office snapped Eileen out of her thoughts. Death was calling again.
* * *
HOLDEN BUSTLED INTO THE LUNCHROOM ten minutes later, pulling on his jacket. “Eileen, we’re going to Shorey Lakes.”
“Who died?” she asked as she folded the newspaper.
“My mother’s cousin’s husband. Clifford left already.” Holden blew out an impatient breath. “What are you doing?”
“Just gimme a minute.” She dug around under the kitchen sink and emerged with the Baygon tin before she pushed her sunglasses on her face like a movie star. “Let’s go.”
“Eileen, it isn’t for me to bring up the delicate issue of stealing supplies, but why do you take insecticide with you every single time you leave?”
She tipped her sunglasses at him as they walked out the door. “Why is it a delicate issue? You’re the boss and if I’m stealing, I’m stealing.”
Holden grimaced as she opened the car’s hood. “Maybe upon our return we could have a little chat about impropriety.”
“Impropriety?” Eileen asked, as she unscrewed a hose and pulled a plastic garnish off the engine. She cocked her head to the side and uncovered the can. “Frankly, I see this as a company perk. You said you’d reimburse travel expenses and this helps with the upkeep of my vehicle.”
She pressed the dusty garnish into his hands. He looked at his soiled fingers and said in surprise, “Upkeep?”
“Yeah. Cover your nose.”
He didn’t have enough time to remove his pocket square before a thick cloud of insecticide issued from the nozzle into the car’s engine and filled the air. It stank to high heavens, and it was all Holden could do not to choke. He coughed and sputtered, and by the time he stopped, Eileen had put everything back to normal.
“The starting motor doesn’t work properly. Baygon gives it a little kick.” She winked at him. “Normally, I do it before you get outside, but you moved too fast today. Get in.”
Holden sniffed himself and sighed. He smelled like the exterminator with the heavy tongue who sweated too much and called him “Hoddeh”.
The engine wheezed and sputtered, rocking back and forth like a sick horse on race day. With a loud bang, the car shot forward across the gravel parking lot and straight into the busy street.
Holden held onto the door handle for dear life, clutching his pocket square to his chest as he muttered two curse words.
“Oh shoot, I sprayed too much,” Eileen laughed as the car tumbled across the road and mounted the sidewalk as traffic swerved to avoid them.
“Why don’t you get a new car?” Holden spluttered angrily as the car bumped its way off the sidewalk and back onto the asphalt as vehicles around them screeched and honked.
“Oh, please. You’re vexed ‘cause I’m stealing Baygon. How would you get on if I asked for a raise?”
Holden hated it when she was right.
* * *
WITHIN TWENTY MINUTES, they’d left the narrow streets of Bridgetown, driving past churches and rum shops before turning down a steep incline set among the east coast's renowned red clay hills.
On the way down the incline, Holden realized that Eileen’s brakes were less reliable than he had thought. His bowels almost helped him confirm that giving her a raise would be a worthwhile investment, but the road soon levelled out, saving his dignity from certain peril. He pressed his handkerchief against his forehead, dabbing away the sweat that dripped into his eyes. The drive was the perfect metaphor for his perception of Eileen: wild and unexpected and certainly never dull.
Up ahead, a wooden sign with cracked black letters pointed them to the small picturesque seaside village of Shorey Lakes. Chattel houses opened their back doors to a view of the Atlantic, their hinges weeping rust-coloured tears from years of exposure to salt-tinged breezes. Instead of cars in driveways, overturned Moses boats with weather-beaten hulls rested on sandy banks beneath lanky coconut trees that swayed to and fro.
Eileen
