1 DEAD OF NIGHT
The first thing we hear is a scream. High pitched but male.
What the ****?
We're sinking?
The boat's on
fire?
I *** ****** ***** and we dash, ******* **********
******, into the stateroom. There's a single red globe and it makes the space
look like a broom cupboard in hell.
Maxine and Danny are
perched bolt upright like meerkats on the bunk. ***** ****** **** ****
***** All her interesting bits are quivering with fright.
The screams come from the client, Michael, who's writhing on the floor and
seems to be trying to tear the flesh from his chest. Then, face contorted with
pain, he arches, goes rigid and slumps.
'Michael?' Viv gasps
and rushes to her husband, face blank with shock. As she waves her hand in front
of his eyes the rock on her finger glints.
I check the guy's
pulse. He has the heartbeat of a sex doll. If this were a horror flick you'd cue
the ant to walk across his eye.
'He's dead?' Maxine squeaks.
'You're not wrong.'
She covers her gaping mouth with her hand.
Then a yell comes from Danny, 'Jesus Christ!'
Next, he's
hugging his gut, face distorted and grunting. He doubles up and pitches off the
bunk.
Maxine gives a petrified howl.
Danny's
yelling with pain, eyes like piss holes in the snow. His hands clench like claws
and one leg jerks like he's wired for ECT.
Then the jerking
stops.
He's just a shape on the coir matting.
I don't get it. He's checked out, too?
Dead people in cop
shows have the meaningless stares of puppets. But this pair looks as if they've
been eaten alive from inside.
Five mother-naked people, two
dead, and we're miles from anywhere. We boggle at each other. It's as
preposterous as Tosca Act Three.
I feel Danny's wrist. Zilch. I shove him
like a child pushes a faulty windup toy - not because I'm irreverent but because
it's so hard to take this in. I've been his willing dish mop for years. I'm half
his harem *********. The other half, the grieving widow doux, is still keening
like an Arctic wolf.
I gawk at the others. 'What did this? Did
they eat something we didn't?' My voice sounds as if I'm in a tunnel. I'm numb
and thank God for that.
'We all had the same,' Viv clings to
the bunk as if she might fall.
There's no point asking Maxine
what happened. She won't be making sense for some time.
I look
at Viv, 'Better ring 000. Where are we? Do you know?'
'Off
Hungry Beach.' Her eyes are dull.
'So we wait for the water
police?'
'No. Because they'd take us to Ettalong.'
Stuff that, I think. The place is half way to Gosford. I can do without a
midnight tour of the Central Coast.
She says, 'We'd be better
to get back to the wharf.'
'So you can drive this thing?'
She nods.
The two of us struggle into our clothes. My shoes
seem to have shrunk a size. I tell the blubbering mess that's Maxine not to
touch anything but she doesn't seem to hear.
Two stiffs and
mourner in the buff? A nudist's funeral! Naked we come. Naked we go. Die young
and have a good-looking corpse.
Viv calls out. 'Jen? Need your
help.'
I drag up to the cockpit.
She's in the
seat behind the wheel. 'You go up front. I'll start the engine and go slow
ahead. When the anchor cable's hanging straight down you press the red button.
It starts the winch.'
So much for romance. Suddenly she's the
skipper and I'm demoted from object of desire to deckhand. A whiff of money or
self-interest and sensuality gets the big A.
I edge around the
wheelhouse, clinging to the safety-rail. Dark water laps at the hull like the
tentacles of doom. A spotlight on top of the deckhouse suddenly floods the
pointy end. The exhausts gurgle, the boat shudders and drifts ahead. When the
anchor line falls behind the prow, I press the tit and a motor whines.
As the dripping rope comes up so does my dinner in a technicolour yawn, arcing
to the blackness below.
I taste bile, wipe my mouth and hit the
button again. Finally, the anchor clears the water. I wave back and she switches
to idle.
Then she's beside me, guiding the anchor into the
hawse-pipe. 'You all right?'
'Do I look it?'
She's ashen herself but helps me up. 'Come on. Back inside.'
I
stand near her in the wheelhouse as she pushes the dual throttles forward. The
bow lifts and everything vibrates. She points to the illuminated compass card.
'Hold that bearing. I'll ring the police. Watch out for lights. There could be
other boats about.' She goes down to the saloon.
I perch on the
chair behind the wheel, the compass blurring in front of me. The planing hull
jolts as it bashes into each crest, outside the sloping windscreen - blackness.
For all I know we're heading for rocks.
The two of them carking
it together? It makes no sense.
She returns flicking shut her
mobile and takes the wheel.
I shout above the racket. 'What did
they say?'
'They'll meet us at the marina.' She's still
functioning on remote.
'Do you feel all right?'
'Terrible.'
'I mean, sick? Like throwing up?'
'Not poisoned if that's what you mean.'
I go below to check on
Maxine. I have to step over the bodies because she's curled up on the bunk.
I pull her hands away from her face. Her makeup's streaked like an Indian
brave. 'You better get some gear on. You're going to be talking to the fuzz.'
She doesn't seem to hear and recoils like a spring.
I stagger
back up to the stern deck to let the night air clear my brain and stare at the
wash as it streams behind like a shroud.
Two guys **** Maxine,
then die?
Does that mean she's lethal?
I don't buy it. She's a stroppy bitch but no assassin.
No,
there's something I'm not seeing here. Something I know I've missed - some small
detail that makes sense of what's gone down. Was it something that Danny or
Maxine said this morning? I hit the repeat button in my memory and start to
replay the day...
It's 10.30 AM and I'm sitting in the
agency trying to write the frigging Glamglo commercial when Danny rocks in and
perches on my desk as if he designed it. 'So we'll pick you up at eight?'
'And this shindig's on their yacht?'
'Not a yacht, a fifty
foot gin bin with two staterooms. You can wear high heels and knickers are
optional.' He's an agency suit, so he'll turn on anything to keep the account -
special boxes to sporting events, parties with paid sluts and Ice...
'Is this classified as client contact?' I bat my lost doe eyes. 'Then I want
more perks. You heard it here.'
'Lighten up.' He flashes
infuriating dimples and decamps, leaving the hint of budget-busting aftershave.
I don't like it. Just because I **** him and his squeeze doesn't make me cool
about a five-some. I feel used and grab the blower, wanting to sound off to
Maxine.
She says, 'Hi, hon. Set for tonight?'
'Dunno. Rather just be with you.'
'Sweetie. You will be.'
I can smell her warm skin now, ***** **** ******** ********** ****** **** 'So
why are we doing this? Just to keep the PetPrad account?' PetPrad is the pet
food giant - turns orphaned joeys into mince to feed Pekinese. 'And how do we
know we won't end up the object of their infections?'
'The
client ***************.'
******* ************ ************ ******
************ ****** ********** **********
I've met the pair at agency
dinners. They're South African and loaded. The MD of the agency trots me out as
window dressing. It's exploitation. There are two types in agencies, the
creatives and the suits. And I'm a creative, not some bloody client-contact
drone.
She senses I'm pissed off. 'Anyway they take care of
themselves. They're clean. We've never had health issues.'
'So
how come I'm the sacrificial lamb?'
'They're your biggest
account. It's a war zone, love.'
'Like do we have to *****
*****?'
'One way or the other!'
'Wasn't in the
job description.'
'Very droll. Now they'll smoke or be on Meth.
But they won't mind you getting smashed on Bolly.'
She knows
I'm ticked off by drearies in the agony-of-ecstasy rave scene and can't stand
tribute acts that think it's cool to be ill. I was born hyper anyway - need a
CNS depressant - so drink the world pretty. Call it ethics if you like.
Then she tells me what she'll wear: the fake brown silk number with the V-neck
that shows off her olive skin and sensual body. She says, 'See you tonight. And
we'll... share dessert, okay?
I hang up, ***** **********
*****.
Where the hell was I?
I squint back
at the laptop - at my vomit-making thirty-second spot for shampoo. I need a cute
slogan and I'm bleeding from the brain.
Then Jack Norton, the
agency MD shoves his head through the door. 'Hi, Foxy. Good luck for tonight.'
He winks obscenely and goes.
That was the kickoff. No
glaring revelations there. But I know I'm not seeing something and it won't
leave me alone.
I cling to the railing of the boat, face into
the wind. We've rounded West Head. The breeze is stronger. I can see the lights
of Palm Beach.
So is the clue in something that happened after
we shipped on this plastic fantastic?
It nags at me.
I think back to the start of the cruise...
The gin-palace
chafes its fenders at the Newport marina. Super-high fly bridge. An egomaniac's
wet dream. We cruise, exhausts burbling, past the forest of rocking masts, past
the floating white elephants that never leave their moorings.
It's almost dark and the running lights are on. Pittwater at night. Romantic.
But I'm cold in this off the shoulder tube.
Danny's in the
wheelhouse, snowing the client. Maxine's in the saloon organizing food. I'm near
the stern in the shelter of the wheelhouse with Viv, the client's wife. She's
got the designer dress, the oh-so casual bling, but seems uncomfortable in it,
like someone in uniform.
'Chilly wind.' She opens a locker and
pulls out two sou'westers. 'Here, put this on.'
As she
half-vanishes beneath one jacket, she says, 'Musto. They're good.'
All seriously wealthy types are slaves to brands. She's a greyhound of a woman,
small and thin with a narrow face, and nervous. As she helps me with my zip, I
***** ******* **** ***** ******.
She moves the
zipper up in little jerks as if dressing a favourite child. ****
**** ****. 'Can I tell you a secret?'
I nod.
'I've ***** ****** ******** *******.'
Maxine bawls up the
companionway. 'Viv, I can't find the bleeding can-opener.'
'Coming.' She dashes off like she's seen the fake bunny, leaving me alone under
gem-bright stars.
There's not much swell and West Head's a
vague silhouette. Creaming out astern is the phosphorescent wake. I feel warm,
content, expectant.
It's going to be a wonderful night.
***** ******* ******* ******* ******* ***** So I head for the head. It has a
floor-length mirror on the door. I have a pee, then check out how I look.
Amazing really. Despite a brain like a sewer and a heart of molten lead, a
beautiful innocent stares back at me. Sure, I work at it a bit, if you count
lifting weights and jogging - tight is might - but the rest is genetics: big
liquid eyes, adorable nose, small trim frame with great lift and separation,
child-aborting hips and a pert Asian cutie's arse that's consumer-friendly to
the palm. And if I open my mouth and stare up, I'm a pre-Raphaelite Madonna.
Nature imitating art!
It's quite a facade for an emotionally
flatlined cynic - a rig that can charm birds from the trees and melt strong men
into mozzarella. And it has the same effect on women, which helps when you're
bi. There's nothing more effective than looking like a fallen angel. You can
slide out of practically anything. It's better than a diplomatic passport.
I apply more lippy and head back to the action.
We round West
Head and anchor off what looks like a small beach but hard to see in the dark.
It's peaceful. You can smell eucalyptus, hear the water lapping against the bow
and feel the slow jerk as the cable takes up.
Our hosts don't
put on music. And I don't read them as spaced out on ye old artificial chemical
bond. We eat the curried remains of dead animals, slurp Cabernet like siphons
and the chat gets wackier by the minute.
Maxine, across the
cabin table, has *** ***** ******* but she's pretending to be fascinated by the
skipper who's blathering about the pet-food game.
'And you
never make mistakes?' Maxi asks him.
'I did once when I thought
I'd made one. But I hadn't.'
'You're not serious.'
'I am. I never lie. We'll actually that's not quite true.'
Danny, who's sitting beside me, pumps out another one-liner. 'Reminds me of the
guy who thought he was decisive but now he's not so sure.'
The
client walks his fingers up Maxine's arm until they *** ***** **** ******.
'Oops!' he says. 'Anarchic hand.' Then he does a production number, fighting to
drag the wayward mitt back by the wrist.
Maxine cackles, right
into it. I don't know what's got into her. She's been strange these last weeks,
as if there's something she's not telling me.
***** ****** *************
****** ****** ********* ******** ****** ******* ***** ******
The evening deteriorates nicely. Soon the greyhound wife is staring at me, lips
apart. Her delicate frame in that high-necked, backless dress makes her look
like the Royal Doulton goose girl. I'm ******* ***** ********
********** Maxine's ******** ****** ******, an indication that it's time.
Michael takes the cue, lurches up and pulls her arm. 'Did I ever show you the
rope locker? It's just forward of the main stateroom.'
'Sounds
fascinating.' She gets up and sways against him.
'I'd like to
see that.' Danny gets up, too.
'Into bondage?' the client
grins.
'I wear a watch.'
The course of the
evening is set. It's kicking off as an ambidextrous threesome.
The stateroom door closes on them leaving me with the wife.
Our hands meet across the table.
All's right with the world.
The second cabin's cosy. I can't quite remember how we get there. ************
********** ******************* ******************** ************ ************
********** ***** ** *** *********** ******** ********* ******* ********* ******
****************** **** **** ** ***
Then we hear the first
scream.
Here endeth the replay of the day. There's a
clue in there somewhere. I'm sure of it. But I'm stuffed if I can spot it.
And there's no time to analyze it now. The wharf looming up ahead is like a
crash site - red and blue flashing lights dancing across the chequered strip on
the side of a squad car.
The shit's about to hit the fan.