Читать книгу An Eye For An Eye - Arthur Klepfisz - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

Brett's family had migrated from Ireland several years before he was born. He was the second of eight children, two girls and six boys. Unlike some large families, the siblings did not fend for each other, and each child struggled to survive as best they could. Brett’s two sisters lived in England, and his five younger brothers lived in Australia, but as far as Brett was concerned, they could have lived on Mars. He had minimal contact with his family and both his parents had died in 1981, about five months apart. It didn’t feel like a loss to Brett, as for him they had barely existed before then.

Brett's father had worked as a labourer in Australia and was an aggressive man, prone to excessive drinking. Most of the money he earned was lost at the local pub or with the illegal SP bookie down the road. Brett’s mother had been a pretty girl in her youth with many friends, he'd been told, but life had sucked her dry, and like her children, she lived in fear of her husband's anger.

Brett was not overly concerned about the death of the prostitute as the investigation appeared to be petering out. However, he was prone to periodic black moods where he would sit alone at the kitchen table nursing his beer, immersed in troubled thoughts of the past. Jenny knew to avoid intruding at these times, as she feared his blistering rage.

Whilst misery loves company, his did not seek the company of other people. During these down times, Brett's thoughts would drift through a range of bitter moments in his life, of which there were many.

Recollections would surface of his alcoholic father beating the daylights out of their mother, and treating his children with the same brutality.

Brett recalled the time when he felt his own body had grown big enough to take his father on. He relived the vivid images and sounds of the day he heard muffled screams escaping from his parent’s bedroom, and the whimpering that greeted him as he pushed open their bedroom door and then wished that he hadn't.

The light that he flicked on revealed the punching bag of misery that was his mother, her body deflated by her husband's blows.

‘Get the fuck out of here, you little turd!’

Brett now had a man's body – a young man's body – though he still trembled as his anger fought to douse the flames of his fear. He moved forward as his father leapt out of bed dressed as the day he was born. Somehow a naked man looks more beatable and vulnerable.

They stood less than a metre apart, glaring at each other, one body giving in to the ravages of age, gravity and lifestyle. A junkyard of wasted souls and missed opportunities. Brett looked down and his right foot connected with his father's testicles, the way his father had taught him to drop kick a football. As the older man doubled over, Brett smashed his fist into the balding head. His mother stayed on after that, whilst his younger brothers were too young to break away.

That night, Brett slept under a bridge and ceased going to school. He did a range of labouring jobs over the following months and survived, but the emotional scars remained, covered with a veneer of aggression and at times his own brand of brutality. No one ever dared suggest to Brett that he resembled his father in any way. He never spoke to his father again.

Before the year was out, Brett came to share an apartment with another young labourer, who introduced him to Deborah and The Union. The Union was a sect led by Deborah Duval and was housed on a 10 acre wooded property in the outreaches of Warrandyte. Brett was ripe for the picking, lacking a family structure and immersed in self-doubts. Deborah's group became his family and he lived with them for a while and resumed his schooling, taught by a number of sect members. About two years later, Brett left The Union after commencing a cadetship with the Victorian Police Force. The schooling he received whilst living with Deborah’s group, and the connections she provided within the Victorian Police Force, helped to ensure that his cadetship application was successful.

Brett took to the structure of the force as if it was the last missing piece of his life's jigsaw puzzle. He particularly enjoyed what he saw as the legitimisation of his urge to wield power and exert physical force.

Brett married Jenny when he was twenty-five. She came from a similar violent background, which left her damaged and needy, but not tarnished with the same anger that polluted Brett's life. She initially mistook his sexual demands for caring and they married soon after, when she became pregnant.

Brett did well in the Victorian Police Force, rising to the rank of detective sergeant in the vice squad and then homicide squad, at the relatively young age of thirty-two. He maintained contact with Deborah, and she had decided he was of more value to her outside the sect, as his position gave her a measure of protection. He chose to move to the homicide squad feeling he would be subjected to less scrutiny than in the vice squad.

For a long time Brett had puzzled over Deborah's past and his inability to decipher it. Then, several years ago he struck gold.

His name was Matt – a petty criminal who had been picked up for alleged armed theft. Brett had become involved with his case after the elderly man, who Matt had robbed at knifepoint, died from a severe heart attack during the robbery. The details poured out of Matt in response to Brett’s interrogation, and he described his failed marriage to a sixteen-year-old girl. Matt dramatically drew a picture of life repeatedly letting him down – including his young wife deserting him after only two years of marriage. He explained with an air of disbelief that his ex-wife was now fabulously wealthy and ran a sect up in the hills.

Brett’s interest was suddenly piqued and he learnt that Deborah had reinvented herself, where in spite of her limited schooling she had become a Guru to hundreds of people, many of them with tertiary education. Brett’s features revealed nothing of the excitement that now tingled his body, but he filed the information away for future use. He well knew that the dirt of the past can become the poison of the present.

Matt described Deborah as a ‘pretty young thing’ that he and others thought was somewhat empty headed, referring to her as ‘Nancy’, which was her birth name. Her intelligence did not show up in her academic results, as she had little interest in school or the subjects they taught there. Her parents were not troubled by her lack of achievement at school, as they had not performed there either. They saw no reason why she would need an education when it had been denied to them.

Likewise, her teachers were not troubled by her lack of performance, as they themselves felt trapped in careers and school that had not fulfilled their aspirations. They believed that even her looks would not elevate her above the stagnation of emptiness and poverty that surrounded her.

Brett gained the impression that her parents envisioned her being crushed by the weight of a lack of education. Her mother became embittered by recurring betrayals and her father succumbed to being pickled in his alcohol as a way of numbing the bitterness surrounding his upset of the hand that life had dealt him in being railed constantly about being a labourer in all kinds of weather for very little pay and having to follow the idiotic orders of people he didn’t respect. Her mother wore her body down further, working as a cleaner in other people’s homes.

Deborah, or “Nancy” back then, learnt to refine her anger to the point where it was silent, because to acknowledge such things made them appear real. She quarantined herself from her family’s failures, as if they were infectious viruses that could be passed onto her. She was an only child, as her parents felt further children would be a drain on them.

She could see her parents withering under the pressure of existence, where nothing in life tempted them any longer. She had no memory of them having been any different, but people who knew them, said they had been alive and vital in their youth. Nothing drives some people more than the vision of what failure can bring.

She chose to leave Northcote HSC midway through Form 4, eager to enter what she called the real world, and commenced her life from then on. Prior to that time, to those who prided themselves on their ability to pick losers, she appeared to be one. Her parents never got to know their daughter Nancy had reinvented herself and disowned her past as soon after both her parents died from medical causes.

Deborah worked in a variety of short term unskilled jobs that she considered trivial, until two years later she began working with a group running yoga classes. Within a year of starting she went on to develop her own small but increasingly popular yoga school, and this opened the door to having contact with people possessing positions of power.

To those who came to know her, it was never clear when she made the decision to head a sect, and possibly she herself could not have pinpointed the time in her life when such a momentous determination developed. Most likely it was a seamless transition generated by her desire to escape her parents’ fate, where she realised that like chess, at the end of the game, the queen and the pawn go back into the same box, but whilst the game was on, she was determined to win.

On Deborah’s 10-acre property, there were scattered huts and a larger house where she and her partner Bill stayed. Over 35 young children lived on the property and were clothed in exactly the same manner, all with their hair dyed blonde. A number of the adults in the sect were responsible for supervising and educating the children, as they did not attend outside schools. These supervisors were mainly women and meted out punishments in a strict manner, at times bordering on cruel. Any sign of rebellion by the children would be suppressed by the use of solitary isolation and canings.

Deborah also possessed a store of illicit drugs obtained from medical and paramedical contacts, and she allowed these to be used at times to sedate the children, as a means of controlling them. The drugs used ranged from tranquilisers and antidepressants to LSD.

The goal of the children’s schooling was that one day they would become nurses, social workers, teachers and the like. These were all occupations that could be used to assist Deborah in building up and protecting her group and her control over them.

The children were all given her surname of Duval. Brett learned that some of the children had been taken from young unmarried mothers, where social workers connected to The Union had convinced the distressed mothers to give the babies up for adoption. Other children were progeny of the adults who belonged to the sect and lived on the property. The remainder of the children originated from a breeding program instituted by Deborah, where she dictated which man would sleep with which woman on any particular night. These children also took on her surname and were dressed identically with the others.

Brett wondered if Deborah really thought she was developing a master race or whether she just viewed them as a bunch of screwed up kids that she could control, as she did the adults.

Immersed in his alcohol and maudlin thoughts, Brett recalled the conversation when Deborah had rung him the day before.

Wednesday, 20 January 1988

6.30 p.m.

Brett sat himself at the counter of the DT's pub with two of his workmates. DT’s was a pub he often frequented, a satisfactory waterhole and hiding place that he chose in preference to rushing home.

He nursed his beer, though the urge was to drink something more numbing but for the fact he had to drive home later. Though he had his workmates alongside, he might as well have been on his own, as the fog of his black mood began to engulf him.

He was no stranger to these moods and this night the alcohol and black mood blurred the world around him. Not by choice, the piercing sound of his phone dragged him back.

Deborah’s angry voice penetrated the fog, engulfing Brett.

‘I've had it with those media rags reporting a bunch of lies from the termites who've deserted. They're out to destroy me and The Union. I’ve heard that many of those deserters have been seeing that quack psychiatrist Dr Wright and complained about The Union, and he’s promised them to try and get the authorities involved.’

Brett remained silent, stunned by the angry outburst. What the fuck can I do about it, Deborah? he silently queried, as his mind translated her words into a demand.

As if reading his thoughts Deborah reminded him that in the same manner she had pumped air into his career, she could also readily deflate it. Her message was clear to Brett that he either assisted her with this problem "or else". He knew the "or else" was not an idle threat.

‘I want you to drive up to see me no later than 8.30 p.m. tonight so we can discuss the best way of dealing with this problem.’

Brett again heard this as an order, rather than a request.

He went through the motions of letting Jenny know that a major case was taking him out of town and he wouldn't be sleeping at home that night. When his call went through to message, allowing him to leave a scripted response without questions being raised, he felt a sense of relief. Not that he would have felt any pressure to answer truthfully, and having left the message, neither he nor Jenny would broach the matter again.

Brett's career had stalled in its original upward path as initially he had moved up the ranks, scoring significant convictions of drug peddlers, petty criminals and a rapist/murderer who ran a prostitution racket, even if it involved using unorthodox measures at times. If it came down to their word against his, then he knew he was safe, but he was tiring of the hassles of dealing with the Police Ethical Department.

Recently a young hoon had laid complaints against Brett, alleging he had “belted him up”. It wasn’t Brett’s job to catch idiots like this but he was driving home at the time, saw the hoon doing skids down a North Melbourne street, and decided he’d bring him in. The case was due to go to court, where he knew some smart-arse lawyer would attempt to give him a hard time. He knew how to handle himself in the witness box and believed he would get out of it, but who needed that shit? He thought to himself.

About a year and a half ago, he was put in charge of a task force whose main aim was to investigate The Union sect and the allegations of abuse voiced by a number of ex-members. Naturally he had undermined the investigation at every turn, but it had now come to a point where he needed to produce a scalp or his superiors at Police Headquarters would start asking questions. There had already been some grumbles that he’d been able to deflect, about the lack of progress.

So far he had never found a right time to tell Deborah about the prostitute who had died, and he wasn’t sure there would ever be a right time.

8.15 p.m.

Brett drove slowly up the long winding driveway of Deborah's commune. He felt more comfortable calling it that, rather than that stupid, pretentious name of the “Union”. It was a large property, set up high, so one could see the lights of Melbourne shining bright in the distance like jewels above the city sewers.

Brett didn't want his own kids ending up like this, like him, hating the world around them. He knew that he could probably stop work even now, as he had saved and invested carefully. The perks in his job had enabled him to accumulate a considerable sum of money.

No more than he deserved for dealing with the scum that were part of his work, he felt. He couldn't be too obvious with the way he spent his money, couldn’t splash it around, or questions would be asked. It would be stupid to buy expensive cars or houses, but he could still enjoy life's pleasures without drawing attention to himself. Shopkeepers, pub owners, fast food outlets, and prostitutes – they all felt the need to give him gifts. No way would he end up like his father – as broke as a compound fracture.

Deborah’s white colonial style house stood at the end of a winding path, set in 10 acres of wooded land. Poplar trees elegantly lined the route leading to the house, whilst the other sect members lived in scattered huts at least 100 yards away or more. The children's dormitory was placed amongst the huts.

Brett's visits to Deborah were not on a regular basis, but averaged about once a month, and were always associated with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Much as prey is mesmerised by a cobra about to strike, so Brett felt inextricably entangled in an erotic mesh that drew him to Deborah.

As he climbed out from his parked car, he became aware of a tall bearded man approaching him. Brett felt an instant dislike building up, as the needles of the unfamiliar man's hostility pierced the air around him. The man’s features appeared disconnected to each other, with teeth jostling for space and a furrowed, overpopulated forehead.

He had narrow, slit like eyes and his nose suggested pugilistic involvement in the past. The man's body was enveloped by a cloak of aggression and brute strength. Brett knew he could handle himself in a fight, but he didn't particularly want to take on King Kong, as he had instantly named him.

‘Wadya doin’ here?’ he demanded of Brett. ‘Can't you read the sign? No Trespassing.’

During the asphyxiating silence, Brett weighed up his options and then explained in a controlled and outwardly calm manner, that he was Deborah’s guest.

Without a reply, the man backed away as seamlessly as Deborah materialised behind him. Not for the first time, Brett marvelled at Deborah's appearance, as the saturnine darkness enveloped her. She was totally different to the type of woman he was usually attracted to, nor was she the type that he would have expected to be interested in him. He knew that their convergent needs drew them together, spiced with a sense of threat, feeling stronger than sex but incorporating it at the same time.

He had read that intense negative feelings such as fear could stimulate sexual arousal, and he was aware of being pulled to Deborah like the powerful force of magnets drawn to each other. It continued to puzzle him, as he was used to being the one in control.

Although not usually given to speculation about such matters, Brett had no doubt at all that Deborah did not leave her looks to the vagaries of ageing, but regularly used the skills of a plastic surgeon. It was money well spent, he thought, as she was certainly a woman that turned heads, with people who passed her twisting to get a second look.

However, he knew there was something else about her, another dimension altogether, that endowed her with the power to lead and control others – including himself. But he found that he was unable to put that extra dimension into words. Like a chameleon, she seemed able to change her external appearance, as the outside environment altered, and as her followers in The Union grew and revamped, so did she. When Brett threatened people, it felt obvious to him and them; but with Deborah, there was a smouldering sense of danger that he could sense but had difficulty putting it into words.

As Deborah approached him Brett noticed that her dog – he couldn't remember the name of the mongrel – stood in the shadows nearby, guarding his owner. Its parentage was unknown, at least to him, though it looked to Brett as if a bull terrier had played some part. It was the ugliest dog he had ever laid eyes on, a dog that not even a bitch would love. Its body was misshapen and it had a skin condition causing part of its body and most of its chunky face to be red and inflamed. It was a thrusting ball of snarls, and the very opposite of the dog he would have expected Deborah to have, given her obsession with disguising her past and presenting perfection to the outside world.

Deborah moved slowly away from the car park, along a path, and Brett knew he was expected to follow in her wake. He anticipated where she was heading, as it was Friday, and he was aware that every Friday night at 9 p.m., The Union members congregated in the church-like hall on the property.

When he entered, he found the congregation were already seated, shrouded by the semi-darkness of the hall, with not a sound to be heard.

Brett walked to the back pew whilst Deborah glided towards the front, where a bluish light shone on the throne-like chair that she sat on. In the glow of that light, Brett could see that Deborah was now enveloped in a long, dark blue robe. Her assistant, a pale woman of almost transparent appearance, joined her and stood alongside, clothed in a similar coloured robe. The shining light created an aura around them, and scattered candles cast an eerie, flickering illumination around the perimeter of the room.

The smell of incense hovered in the hall as Deborah rose from her chair and the congregation pushed their benches back and knelt, crossing themselves in the unique manner that she had decreed.

With his past involvement in the sect, Brett choreographed his own movements to keep in time with the congregation. The congregants knelt for five minutes, making the sign of the cross in reverse and in silent prayer, before resuming their seats. No one made eye contact with any other, and each person appeared immersed in their own world, as if hypnotised.

Deborah still had not uttered a word and to Brett, it felt as if the heavy silence pressed the congregants to their seats. Brett himself felt weighed down by the atmosphere in the room.

The service lasted close to 45 minutes, mainly made up of meditation, until at the end, Deborah and the congregants knelt and chanted together the mantra of The Union.

“To thy Last Supper

Shall we be allowed to stay

We have not given thee a kiss of Judas

Nor betrayed any secrets to thine enemies

We shall outlive them and topple them

So the lesson shall be learnt.”

For all his doubts, in the subdued light and surrounded by the smell of incense, Brett always found himself suspending disbelief and drawn into the ceremony, leaving him uneasy as he left the hall at the end.

After the congregation filed out, Brett followed Deborah to her house, which appeared empty apart from the two of them. He knew that she had a partner, Bill, but he was never visible at times like this. For the first time since Brett's arrival Deborah's languid voice addressed him as she passed over the glass of red wine that she had just poured. Her statement that she was giving him wine to drink required no response from Brett, nor had she felt the need to ask him if he wanted to drink.

They sipped their wine in silence, not looking directly at each other, and Brett found it hard not to be mesmerised by the leaping flames from the log fire close by. Having drunk half her wine, Deborah got up and in silence walked to her bedroom. Brett knew without asking that she expected him to join her.

He felt like a bystander viewing the unfolding events, and marvelled how different this was to any other interaction he had had with a woman or even with a man. At all times Deborah led and Brett followed – as if he were partnering her on a dance floor. She was the queen bee of their relationship. Brett was never sure what she got out of having sex with him, not that he really cared, but he was curious. Did she get any physical pleasure or was it merely another way of controlling him? Come to think of it, what did he get from it?

She dictated their sex as she did every other part of their interactions. From the time his naked body met hers, the precarious journey began. He felt excitement akin to the shiver and feelings he experienced with any extreme activity where danger lurked—such as sky diving, which he’d done several times, or dealing with a criminal who could be armed. He equated it with the coupling of some spiders or praying mantises, where the male would be consumed at the end.

He knew his mates at work would have been amazed to learn of the things that he read and knew, and they certainly would have found it difficult to believe that he could have a relationship like this.

As Deborah mounted him, she placed a pre-prepared ice block between her lips, and then let it slide into her mouth. Her tongue skated around its cold, smooth surface as her buttocks moved rhythmically above and around Brett. In the past, Brett had felt spooked by this ritual, but was now more at ease with it and aroused by her body. He knew that the ice block would contain a slip of paper with the typed name of a perceived enemy. He gave them the name of ‘misfortune cookies’.

He climaxed as he heard her reciting her mantra:

“To Dr Andrew Wright

I bequeath this curse

May he forever return to dust and earth.”

As bizarre as it all sounded, Brett knew that her capacity for malice and revenge outweighed even his own.

As Deborah rolled onto her side, she deposited the ice block into a glass beside the bed. Brett was unsure whether she had also climaxed, but what she couldn't control was the response of her body, the moisture and skin changes revealing to him that she had been sexually aroused. He waited for her to break the silence.

‘Go to sleep, Brett. I'll wake you in about an hour and we'll talk then.’