Читать книгу An Eye For An Eye - Arthur Klepfisz - Страница 10

CHAPTER FIVE

Wednesday, 20 January 1988

11.56 p.m.

‘Get up.’

The command from Deborah met no resistance, and Brett was immediately alert. He checked his watch and guessed that the extra few hours sleep he’d been allowed were more to do with Deborah needing the time rather than any concern about his tiredness.

He knew that whenever Deborah invited him up to her compound, it was never just for a social outing. There was always some underlying issue that she wanted to speak to him about, and on this occasion he suspected that it had to do with psychiatrist Dr Wright and her concern that he might be involved in trying to expose her group.

Through his work with the Victorian Police Task Force, Brett had heard rumours that a number of aggrieved ex-sect members were attending Dr Wright, and it was therefore not a surprise to recently hear from Deborah that she was becoming increasingly troubled by this. She had become more and more concerned about the volume of ex-sect members airing their grievances about The Union to Dr Wright.

Brett had initially drawn her attention to this, but it was highlighted as a concern for Deborah when a sect member Beverley went to see her dermatologist, Dr Lee, who did sessional work in the same building as Dr Andrew Wright. The patients of Dr Lee and Dr Wright shared the same waiting room. Deborah described how Beverley had recently reported back to her the details of a coincidence that occurred when she attended her dermatologist.

While waiting for her appointment, Beverley had noticed an ex-Union member, Tracy, sitting at the other end of the waiting room. (Deborah tended not to believe in coincidences and felt many events were predestined rather than occurring by chance.) Beverley told her excitedly that on the spur of the moment she decided to go and sit next to Tracy. There were no other patients in the waiting room at the time, so Beverley chatted, asking Tracy how things were going in her life. Beverley recalled that Tracy and her partner broke away from The Union 10 months earlier, and after the brief startled silence that followed Beverley’s greeting, Tracy began responding cautiously to Beverley’s chatter. As she started describing the recent breakup of her relationship after leaving The Union, Tracy’s eyes filled with tears and her controlled answers lost out to the rage inside, leaving her inconsolable even with Beverley’s arm around her.

Beverley reported to Deborah the bitter allegations that Tracy had made about the role of The Union in destroying her relationship with her partner. In a rage undiluted by her tears, Tracy expressed the wish that Deborah would be punished for the havoc and damage she had inflicted on other people’s lives. With a humourless laugh, Beverley told Deborah that for the first time in her life she gave silent thanks that her dermatologist was running late, as it gave her the freedom to listen to more of Tracy’s story. She described to Deborah that it was like the waters of a dam escaping the walls that had held them back, so that the torrent of Tracy’s words and emotions spilt out unfiltered.

Over the next 15 minutes, Tracy’s pressured voice described how she and a few other former sect members had poured out their stories to Dr Wright, describing their hurt and complaints about The Union. Fighting to regain control, in a whisper that was more like a hiss, Tracy told Beverley how Dr Wright reassured her that he understood and shared the concerns of people damaged by The Union. He promised that he would try and speak to the appropriate authorities about the issues the ex- sect members had related.

After Beverley said that, Tracy suddenly clammed up, probably realising she may have said too much. Minutes later, as if orchestrated, Beverley’s doctor called her in for her consultation.

After Beverley told Deborah about the chance encounter with Tracy and what was said, Deborah organised some of her members to monitor the building where Dr Wright worked, recording which ex-Union members were entering. She also arranged to have the rooms of Dr Wright broken into and was able to obtain a list of his current and recent patients, revealing the names of nine former sect members.

On the drive to Deborah’s compound, Brett had decided that he wouldn’t mention the death of the prostitute. He wasn't sure that he would ever discuss this with her, for even though she adopted a priest like a role in her group, where members opened up to her, she was not inclined to dispense forgiveness following their confessions. What he or The Union could do about Dr Wright wasn't clear to him at this stage.

Brett was fully alert after Deborah’s voice jarred him awake, so he dressed quickly and joined her in the kitchen, where she had already prepared a coffee for them both. The hot liquid warmed him and he inhaled the aroma of the coffee beans, whilst her mongrel dog jumped up and licked the back of his hand, though Brett was on guard, knowing the mutt could readily switch from lick to snarl.

Deborah looked at Brett in silence, before asking directly what he thought should be done about Wright and his threat of interfering with her group. She said that she was now very aware that more and more ex-Union members were attending Wright and voicing their bitter complaints about her group to him. She revealed that about a month ago she had arranged for one of her current female members to be referred to Dr Wright as a patient, pretending to be unwell and posing as an ex-sect member, so she could gauge what Wright knew and how negative his attitude had become towards the group.

That visit demonstrated to her that Wright had become increasingly furious about The Union activities and had a strong desire to expose and close them down. Her stooge confirmed that the situation was as bad as she had feared.

Haltingly, Brett attempted to reassure Deborah that he was working on the issue, but her dismissive questioning pinned him down and he had to acknowledge that he really had no clear plan that would guarantee success in stopping Wright.

A task force headed by Brett had been set up close to one and a half years previously, with the primary purpose of exposing The Union activities and their alleged criminal behaviour. The Victorian Police Force had for a number of years put aside complaints and rumours relating to the Union, but eventually felt that they needed to investigate possible criminality associated with the group.

Brett had successfully undermined the investigation without detection, but needed a scalp to divert attention from the task force’s apparent lack of success. Brett was also concerned that if the doctor managed to bring an increasingly hostile focus on the Union, then there was a danger that he, Brett, would be caught up in it. In addition, there was also the associated risk that if Wright involved higher authorities, then it would be a lot harder trying to stall their probing.

Slowly and deliberately, Deborah filled Brett in on a scheme she had devised and already set in motion, before telling Brett about it, though this action didn't surprise him as he had never seen her as a team player. He had to acknowledge that the scheme was brilliant.

Through her contacts, Deborah had learnt that there was a vacant position for a night-time cleaner/security person at the coroner's court. She directed Peter Robinson, a 38-year-old follower of hers, to apply for the position, which he succeeded in obtaining. The brief she gave him was to be on the lookout for any information that could be used against Dr Wright. As Robinson worked as a night-time cleaner, he was often on his own in the building and was able to snoop around the various offices, and hopefully access files and data at times, as the security was porous. Deborah was optimistic that something useful would be unearthed eventually that would destroy Wright’s credibility.

Brett had hoped to stay with Deborah until at least the next morning, but she abruptly terminated their meeting, saying something unexpected had sprung up, and he needed to leave. He had not made it clear to Jenny when he would be returning home, and these days she didn’t expect to receive that kind of information. There were times he might walk out the front door at home, calling back over his shoulder to no one in particular, that he was visiting a friend. Jenny would hear this and choose to say nothing, as it had become a ritual where the terms “friend” or “work” could represent going to a brothel or the local pub or whatever, in the language they now used.

For Brett, these pronouncements in a Catholic sense were akin to a confession and absolved him of guilt, if any existed. At times he wondered why he bothered, as he no longer cared and Jenny no longer believed him, nor took note of what he was saying. Her life had been set in concrete. He decided not to go straight home.

He pondered if it would bother him to have Jenny screwing another guy. Probably not, he thought, as their relationship had become meaningless. But the ego thing – wondering if the other guy had satisfied her – that would get to him. What if she got to love the other guy? He doubted that there was another guy. So what if she didn't love the other guy but liked his sex?

Sex and feelings had long ago divorced each other in his life. Brett drank from sex like he drank from beer. You bought it, you downed it, and you threw away the empties. But he knew that he wouldn't tolerate anyone taking something that belonged to him, whether he wanted it himself or not.

It troubled him that he couldn't get it up at will these days. The Viagra helped, but he felt it shouldn't be like this, and he believed his manhood was leaking away. It took more to arouse him now and he was aware that inflicting pain on a woman and seeing the fear in her dilated pupils – that turned him on. Trouble was, he was piss scared that his body was failing him and that people were no longer frightened of his authority. The thoughts sat on him like a brooding bird which one day might fly off altogether, leaving him an empty shell.

1.50 a.m.

Brett pulled up outside the Cherry Ripe, one of his favourite clubs. It was situated in King Street in the central business district, where investors had commenced converting warehouses into clubs and bars offering adult entertainment. Some of the clubs in this area stuck to the letter of the Law, such as Goldsmith’s nightclub, The Underground, but the Cherry Ripe was at the sleazier end of the spectrum. It was located in the same street as The Underground, and only about 80 yards away from it, but the two clubs had little in common. The Cherry Ripe was a watering hole open well into the morning hours, with scantily clad waitresses who were rumoured to perform other duties as well, while The Underground was not even rumoured to be of any ill-repute.

As Brett walked in, he took note of who dropped their gaze and who edged away. Steve the barman knew him and gave him free drinks, but you wouldn't call him a friend, He didn't have any real friends, Brett’s thoughts muttered to him. He nursed his beer at the counter and watched a repeat of a boxing match on the TV behind the bar. He felt the match was staged and that he could have taken on either of the boxers involved and laid them out without difficulty.

His grandmother used to say that misery needs company. Rubbish, he thought. Company would just make you even more miserable – maybe that's what they're trying to say. Sometimes he chatted to Steve or whichever barman was on, but tonight he couldn't be stuffed doing it. Steve was good that way. He didn't speak to you unless you spoke to him first.

There were few people in the club at this hour and only one scrawny, scantily clad waitress. Brett looked across at the wreck drinking at the other end of the bar, whose face looked familiar. He vaguely recalled a list of petty crimes and drunkenness. The derelict was dressed in rags and had probably slept under a bridge though Brett imagined the bum was not as old as he looked.

The man sidled over towards him and was obviously pickled, and Brett knew if he let the fool talk, then it would be a temporary diversion from his own maudlin thoughts. The world wouldn't miss this wreck, but he wasn't going to be the guy that took him out.

By now the alcohol had weighed his own thoughts further down. He decided to buy the guy a few beers and what happened after that was no longer his responsibility.

The remnants of a man had layers of face folded over each other and giving in to gravity. His ugly mug was just asking for a fist to come smashing into it, but Brett decided it wouldn’t be his. He had often reflected that it was fortunate people couldn’t be charged for their thoughts; otherwise we’d all be in the clink. The stench from the swill of beer, sweat, vomit and cigarette fumes insulted Brett’s nostrils. He felt really pissed off. Just one guy looking the wrong way at him and he’d let him have it. If it didn't happen here or in the street later, then it would happen at home. He felt tempted to go for a screw in the brothel and get it out of his system, but in one of his better decisions he convinced himself to go home, remembering he had an early morning shift the next day. One more beer and he would bomb out the moment he hit the sack.

Thursday, 21 January 1988

8.30 a.m.

Having cut short her meeting with Brett, sending him home during the early hours of the morning, Deborah was able to get a few hours of light sleep. She carefully concealed the circles under her eyes and painted on her dark red lipstick.

This morning she was to meet with Peter Owen, the owner of a well-known private gallery, which he founded in the mid 1970s after retiring from business. Telling Brett to leave early, without any explanation, had freed up time for an earlier arrival at Peter’s gallery and allowing her more time to meet with its owner. However, she knew she could have arranged this meeting on another day, remembering how it had thrown Brett off balance when she told him he would have to leave and a puzzled, hesitant veil had spread over his features as he had done what was asked of him.

Exercising control over Brett and creating uncertainty was the stock of her trade. She had surmised that with people like Brett, it was safer to have them feeling unsure of themselves-to be reacting rather than initiating. It was a skill honed over many years. These days, she ensured she stayed in control, believing this reduced the risk of someone catching her unawares and hurting her.

9.57 a.m.

Deborah entered the Owen Gallery and seated herself to one side and towards the back, a strategic position where she could observe and not be particularly noticeable. This wish for anonymity seemed at odds with her presentation. Even in her early sixties, one could hardly fail to notice her. The high cheekbones and bright blue eyes, in a face framed by auburn hair, and a taut, slender figure that belied her age, made heads turn as she entered the room. She was comfortable with letting them look, feeling that at the end of the day they would know little more.

Peter Owen was a wealthy benefactor of the Union, having lived in the commune when younger, and then deciding to leave and make his mark in the world when he was in his mid-twenties. Deborah had been comfortable with his decision at the time, as she needed people of influence on the outside as well as the more pliable followers on the inside.

Peter was now married for the second time. After twenty-five years of marriage and two children, he had felt the need for change and new challenges in his life. He had achieved his financial goals as a land developer and investor, and as his marriage punctured and started to feel flat, he sought an injection of excitement. He lived alone for a year until in his late fifties he married a woman half his age. Their initial contact was made through an online agency with the not too subtle title of sweetdaddy.com, where attractive young women could make contact with very wealthy, older men.

Lilli, a young Chinese woman who was living in Hong Kong and had recently graduated from the University there, majoring in politics and economics, responded to Peter’s advertisement and was happily chosen. She ran Peter’s gallery proficiently, having entered into the marriage in the same manner, meeting both their needs. She had not been briefed about Peter’s past connection with Deborah, but seemed wary of her, sensing that Peter's friendship with Deborah was something that she needed to keep an eye on.

Today she and Deborah had nodded their heads in greeting without the wish to chat further.

The gallery space had been filled with temporary seating for an art lecture, which was a monthly fixture at the Owen gallery. Deborah had come partly out of interest, but primarily to enlist Peter’s financial help. The Union depended on benefactors for sustenance, as the group did not generate any significant income of its own.

Rather like a religious order, Deborah chuckled to herself, but we are more creative in our bookkeeping.

At the conclusion of the lecture, Deborah intended to follow Peter into his study for a brief meeting without Lilli, which she and Peter had prearranged. They could have met privately in a coffee lounge or wherever, but she enjoyed the thought of taunting Lilli, as well as publically promoting her image as a person of culture and learning.

Like herself, Peter was a physically striking man, over 6'1" in height, and with a physique that had once been athletic, but now was witness to the excesses of his life. Peter still had the same face but it had now doubled in size, and his girth had followed a similar path. It was many years since Deborah had slept with Peter, but the mutual attraction remained, and neither had ruled out the possibility of sex in the future. However, it was less complicated putting that aside for the moment and letting the desire bubble on.

Sex was always on tap for Deborah, beginning with her live-in partner, Bill, and a range of other men she might choose to sleep with. She continued to enjoy sex with Bill, with little else in their relationship and Bill accepted whatever crumbs were thrown to him. His role in The Union was that of a maintenance/handyman-handy indeed, she thought wryly to herself.

Deborah enjoyed watching the theatre acted out by the devotees of these art lectures. They appeared to use language of their own, and sincerity wasn't a word included in that language. As they chatted with each other, she could see people's eyes roving the room, looking to see who else might be present that they would prefer talking to.

The lecture for this day was on contemporary art and she heard a lot of words being uttered and observed people around her sagely nodding their heads in agreement. At the same time Deborah struggled to make any sense out of what had been said. Could I really be the only one struggling to understand? but she doubted that she was. She thought the whole scene was a jigsaw approach to culture, where one had to go through the whole maze of lectures and learning, trying to put it together and still exit unable to find the meaning that one had been seeking.

There seemed to be no limits as to what constituted Art, and she wondered that if anything could be called Art, then what criteria could the critics apply in assessing it.

Whilst considering herself an atheist of art, she still knew that with correct advice such as Peter was able to give her, it could be a lucrative area of investment. She believed that a squiggle on paper could be of value if one knew who had drawn it. A squiggle drawn by Picasso could be worth a small fortune, whilst the same squiggle drawn by someone totally unknown would be viewed as worthless and the object of scorn. Notwithstanding her sceptical approach, she realised that this was one area where it was worthwhile playing the game by other people’s rules. If anyone knew the value of words and acting out a role, then Deborah certainly did. She was looking for value not sincerity, and knew that Peter was of a like mind.

As she looked at some of the art hanging in Peter's gallery, she was unable to detect any skill being required to produce it. Peter told her it was an example of the Sandcastle phenomenon. She was not prepared to admit that she didn't know what he was referring to, but he burst out laughing, confessing that he also couldn't see any intrinsic worth in that particular oil painting.

He said that so-called experts had told him that it was a significant piece of work, and that it was the underlying concept that made it important. When he heard that, it brought to mind a time years back when he was on holidays with his eight-year-old nephew, Billy, who had entered a sandcastle competition. As the judges approached to assess Billy’s effort, the castle suddenly collapsed, leaving a pile of sand and no time to rebuild it. On the spur of the moment he had suggested to Billy that they call it ‘I Never Promised You a Rose Garden’. Laughingly he said that he could hear the judges discussing whether it was likely that Billy had thought of this title himself or whether an adult connected with Billy had come up with the idea.

Still chortling, Peter said that the judges ended up awarding first prize to his nephew, and since then whenever Peter found himself confronted by art that appeared to consist of a pile of something without any differentiating features, he would refer to it as a ‘Sandcastle phenomenon’. He explained that he only dealt with this type of art because art experts would extol its virtues and he sensed that he could make money out of it.