Game Changer Page 13

  She smiled to herself as she thought of Alex Tripp, a single father of two boys on her program. He had asked her to have dinner with him. She was not sure she was ready. Despite declining his inviting twice, he was quite persistent. Her cousins and girlfriends liked the idea.

  “He’s white,” she protested.

  “So what?” her cousin Moana shot back. “Look what the last Poly you got involved with brought you? White men got the equipment and they know how to use it too.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “A real lady would never kiss and tell,” Moana’s cheeky smile induced catcalls from the other girls.

  Moana had a point though. The successful banker was handsome and single.

  She eventually agreed to a movie on Saturday evening. Paulette was an attractive woman, tall, fawn- complexioned with shoulder length, wavy black hair. Her straight nose, even teeth and large dark eyes fringed with thick long lashes gave her a slightly Asiatic appearance.

  Unbeknown to Paulette, a pair of eyes, masking the deadly reptilian nature of the beholder, watched her through night vision binoculars. Z adored his fifth Muse. Through this last three months, he felt he knew her intimately. Tonight though, he was preoccupied. He knew her routine by heart.

  Predictable Paulette would go straight home, check in on her children, then she would watch TV with her parents. At eleven, she would retire.

  Z was getting impatient. Paulette needed to hurry so he could get to Muse Number Six, so helpless, so compliant and just waiting to be possessed. His blood boiled with desire. Like the flashing letters on a billboard, his heartbeat pounded out her name: Jamie Maddox. He could feel her calling him to come, like an ancient siren calling him to his destiny. He had to go.

  CHAPTER 15

  Jamie Maddox wore her hastily put-together outfit for the party with her classmates. The last minute invitation had come from her classmate Greta Szachs straight after exams, even as she was feeling a little left out.

  That morning, as she rechecked her completed exam paper, she felt a tiny stab on the back of her neck.

  “Yo Jamie, you comin’ to that party tonight?” Alfonso Stevens, her Jamaican classmate, thought he was God’s gift to women.

  “No, I’m not,” she whispered back.

  “Why not?” he persisted.

  Gosh, the man was incorrigible. She had not been invited, but she would not give him the satisfaction. Concentration broken, she decided now was good a time as any to hand in her exam paper.

  Outside, she found her classmates gathered around the Renee Russo lookalike, Greta.

  “Hey Jamie, here’s your invite to tonight’s shindig,” Greta said. “Please say you’ll come. I could have sent an e-vite, but I thought a personal touch might be better.”

  Thanking her, Jamie took the card, a thread of worry snaking its way into her consciousness at the short notice. She needed a babysitter fast if she wanted to go. She barely knew the others in her class, beyond interactions at school and group projects. Greta, former model and successful businesswoman owned a modelling agency that represented models all over the world.

  “I’m sorry about the short notice, but if you’re having babysitting troubles, just bring them over,” Greta offered. “My girlfriend Suzette can arrange something.”

  As Jamie walked to the bus stop, her Facebook Messenger pinged. Her cousin Delilah and her friend Bridgette were just outside Sydney. They would be at the Circular Quay station in half an hour. The girls studied at studied hospitality in Cairns and were coming over for holidays. She had completely forgotten they were coming.

  They were typical village girls, still culture-shocked at Australian life. As soon as they got into the house, the pair started on the cleaning and cooking while Jamie got ready. She opted for a Bohemian look, choosing a yellow pair of stretch jeans, a white long-sleeved button-down shirt, a black beaded vest, leather embroidered heels, several sterling and enamel rings on her fingers, bangles and cuffs of various colours, large coin hoop earrings, a blue satin scarf and topped it off with a felt matador hat. Her close-cropped hair had started growing out again. Dabbing on gel to hold loose strands in place, she applied her makeup, silently thanking YouTube for makeup tutorials for women of colour. She went for a smoky-eye and downplayed -lips look. Even Sammy thought she looked beautiful, a rare feat.

  “Like a gypsy,” Randy added.

  Laughing, Jamie hugged him. Inside though, she was apprehensive. The invitation said nothing about the dress code. What if she turned up looking outlandish, she worried. Sam would know. She quickly video-called her.

  “You’re the bomb dot com,” her pragmatic best friend crowed. “Girl, you’re killing it. Just go have a good time and please make sure you get laid tonight.”

  “I will have a good time. But climbing Mt Everest might prove a little easier than getting laid,” Jamie laughed.

  “Does getting laid mean a sleepover?” Randy asked from her bedroom door.

  Jamie shooed him from her room to the sound of Sam’s laughter.

  She uploaded a selfie on Facebook, captioned:

  “Exam over. Time to part-ay!! Club Pasadena, Bondi- the city awaits. Ambai Sam, wish you were here. Feeling great~ in Botany Bay, Sydney, Australia

  Greta lived in the well-heeled suburb of Bellevue. From the taxi driver, Jamie learned that residents included Australia’s wealthier families like the Packers and the family of former Prime Minister Sir William McMahon. Suddenly Jamie felt shabby in her pre-loved outfit and Go Low accessories. Greta was clearly well to do if she lived here. Hardly surprising, since she used to be had been an international model on the Paris and New York runways for twenty years before starting Zero Models Agency. Her agency managed several Australian models in Europe and the US. She recently added a fashion line to her busy schedule. Greta, it seemed, thrived on challenge. When her marriage broke down, she returned to get her degree in marketing. When her son was old enough to decide he wanted to live with his father in Canada, she returned to pursue her master’s degree, run her modelling agency and visit her son every holiday. Even at age forty-five, Greta could easily pass for thirty. The glamazon had long legs, thick auburn hair and a gorgeous smile aged well and looked amazing. Ever the social butterfly, her personality was friendly and effervescent.

  Greta opened the door and enveloped Jamie in a cloud of Chanel No 5 and a hug reminiscent of ‘Tinkerbelle meets the Big Friendly Giant.’

  “Come on in and meet everyone,” she said. “Wow, you look amazing.”

  All of Jamie’s trepidations about her shabby outfit evaporated. Suzette, Greta’s housemate, a curvaceous pretty brunette, welcomed her with a hug. Most of their classmates had come. They were established career men and women. Jamie usually avoided them even though they were friendly and outgoing. Their in-depth knowledge of marketing intimidated her. Though she had been an account manager, their wealth of experience made her feel like a novice. Besides Alfonso, Jamie was the only other black person in class. There were two Asians and one Pakistani. The rest were white. Tonight, they were mostly dressed in expensive nothings, and Jamie stood out in her exotic ensemble. They immediately put her at ease, complimenting her on pulling off an adventurous look. Jamie helped herself to a glass of champagne, surprised how quickly it went to her head.

  They feasted on shredded duck and ricotta-filled agnolotti with cumquats and oregano butter. Alfonso tried to engage Jamie in small talk, but his sleazy innuendos made her skin crawl. She spent half the night, avoiding him. She also made a startling discovery - Suzette was Greta’s lesbian lover.

  After dinner, Jamie offered to help Suzette clean up while the others retired to the deck for after dinner refreshments. As they unloaded the dishwasher, Jamie heard the toipo’o bird’s call. Startled, she quickly opened the window to listen intently.

  “Jamie, what is it?” Suzette asked.

  “Just some silly superstition,” Jamie replied quickly, ears cocked for the second call.

 
The toipo’o had to call three times to confirm an impending death. The second call came.

  “How on earth did it find its way its way to here?” she wondered aloud.

  “Was that a bird?” Suzette asked.

  She had heard the bird too.

  “Yes, let’s wait for the third one,” Jamie replied.

  “It sounds like an owl but has a higher pitch. I don’t think I’ve heard this bird before,” Suzette said.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Jamie answered, still listening intently for the next call.

  Just then the third call came: long, loud and so clear it drowned out all other background sounds of traffic and suburbia.

  “The bird is a mythical one,” Jamie explained. “We believe it is the messenger of death. If someone close to us is going to die, it warns us.”

  “Wow, and it flew all the way to Sydney?”

  “It’s just a myth,’ Jamie replied, feeling silly for even mentioning it. “No one’s ever seen the bird so even its existence can’t really be proven.”

  “But we just heard it,” Suzette countered. “It didn’t sound like any bird I’ve encountered.”

  “That’s just it, we only hear it,’ Jamie continued. “No one’s ever seen it.”

  According to legend, Jamie told Suzette, the harbinger of death only came from the land of the dead to warn of an impending death. If someone was destined to die, his spirit went ahead to the land of the dead. The bird would visit the family to warn them to prepare for the inevitable. In rare instances, fate could be thwarted with spells to retrieve the soul back to the land of the living.

  “That’s really interesting,” Suzette was amazed. “Do you think someone will die?”

  Jamie shrugged. Australia was a long way away from home. They would have to wait and see.

  The party proceeded to Club Pasadena .Jamie posted another photo on Facebook of the group on deck, drunkenly smiling at the camera. She captioned it:

  “Whuddup Bondi! Is it just me or did the night just get younger? Feeling high~ at Club Pasadena, Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia

  Jamie bummed two cigarettes off Clive Wittner and went outside for a smoke. Though a non-smoker, cigarettes helped her clear her head. The crowded footpath forced her into an alley. Leaning against the wall, she smoked one cigarette after the other. Just as she stubbed out the last cigarette, powerful arms grabbed her from behind and pinned her to the wall. A hand clamped over her mouth. Panicked, she struggled to free herself from the vice-like grip.

  “Come on baby, you know you want it,” he murmured, his breath hot in her ear.

  Alfonso! Using a trick she had learned from Sam, she let herself go limp. He thought she was weakening. He tried to adjust his hold and his hand slipped, presenting her the fleshy part of his palm. This was the break she needed. Jamie bit down on his hand with all her might. He yelped in pain and let her go. A screaming Jamie took off running, Alfonso hot on her heels.

  “Get back here, bitch!” he yelled.

  He grabbed her vest. She shrugged it off and doubled her pace. If he was going to rape her, he should try it out on the footpath in front of the clubs.

  “Hey, what’s going on here?’

  Flashlights shone in her face. Three nightclub bouncers had heard her screams and came running. Jamie sank to her knees, oblivious to her torn shirt and exposed bra. Alfonso skidded to a halt.

  “You okay, Miss?’ one of the muscular men asked.

  “He tried to rape me,” she gasped.

  “No, no, she’s my girlfriend,” Alonso said quickly.

  “I’m not,” she sobbed. “He’s lying.”

  “Hold it right there mate,” a bouncer, who looked like he could pass for Mike Tyson’s body double, ordered.

  “She’s lying, she’s my girlfriend,” Alfonso insisted.

  “You can explain that to the cops,” he replied, whipping out his mobile to dial triple zero.

  Alfonso fled, two security guards in hot pursuit.

  “Do you know where he lives?” the Tyson-lookalike asked Jamie as he helped her up to her feet and wrapped his jacket around her.

  She had lost her hat and earrings, makeup smeared all over her face. She looked a hot mess.

  “No, I don’t, “she answered, shaking like a leaf. “His name’s Alfonso Stevens and he’s my classmate. The school has his address.”

  She had never felt so helpless in her life.

  Z watched from his vantage point. Rage filled him that this ugly turd would dare lay his filthy fingers on his Muse. Jamie Maddox was his and no one else. The red haze descended and static filled his ears. He gave in to the rage. Someone was going to have to pay.

  The security guards helped Jamie upstairs to the club manager’s office to wait for the police. A beautiful woman introduced herself as Ebony Perez, owner of Club Pasadena. She wrapped a blanket around Jamie and helped her to the couch.

  “Where are you from, Jamie?” she asked as she placed a cup of hot steaming coffee before Jamie.

  “Papua New Guinea, it’s an island off the coast of Australia,” Jamie automatically slipped into rote.

  Very few Australians knew where PNG was, yet most Papua New Guineans knew the Australian national anthem. The Kokoda campaign of World War II kept older Australians aware.

  “I know where it is,” Ebony replied with a smile. “My mum’s a Solomon Islander, which explains my dark colouring.”

  “Then your dad must be Asian,” Jamie guessed.

  “Yeah, Filipino,’ she replied with a smile. “Are you part Asian too?”

  “Yes, Malay Indian,’ Jamie replied, surprised she easily admitted to a heritage she was ashamed of.

  The police were sympathetic. Constable Mabel Darwin assisted her, taking pictures of her bruises and the state of her torn shirt. They took her to the hospital, she was treated for minor bruises and examined for sexual assault. Constable Darwin took her statement then drove her home.

  It was dawn when Jamie got home. She got in the shower, letting the hot, scalding water strip away Alfonso’s touch. He made her feel dirty. When she got out of the shower, the girls were already up, making breakfast. Jamie gave them some money to take the kids out for the day. She turned on the television and fell asleep on the couch.

  CHAPTER 16

  Creepers in the undergrowth grabbed at her ankles, tripping her. She picked herself off the ground and made made a run for the clearing on the other side. Safety lay just up the track. The hamlet of a family she knew. The shadowy figure relentlessly chasing her. Effortless. Unhurried. Menacing. Like he knew the ending to this nightmare. He paused at the crest of the hill. Then he swung something in the air. A lasso. She felt the rope wrap itself around her ankle. A yanking motion and she hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  A guttural scream pierced the silence of night. Logan landed on the floor with a thud. Chuck woke with a start and switched the lights on. Logan lay, dazed and taut with terror, sweat-soaked and emanating waves of unimaginable horror. Chuck was no better. His heart beat a flurry of tattoos. Jamie’s bloodcurdling screams almost gave him a heart attack.

  Logan came to, and picked herself off the floor. She hurried to the bathroom and peeled off her pyjamas to stand under the cold water at full blast. The dream had been so real, her left ankle and hip hurt as if she had been pulled off the bed. It always started the same, each time progressing a little further. The lasso was a new element in the nightmare. She had felt it tighten around her ankle. Subconsciously, she felt the end was coming, and it would be horrific.

  As she towelled off, Chuck’s hulking form filled the doorway.

  “I made coffee,” he said simply.

  “Thank you babe,” Logan replied, grateful for his thoughtfulness. “What time is it?”

  “Almost five am,” he told her. “Same nightmare?”

  She nodded.

  “This time it got physical. I felt you being pulled off the bed.”

  “I rolled over.”

  Lo
gan hoped feigning dismissiveness would hide the terror she felt.

  “You need help babe,” Chuck replied, unconvinced. “What you are seeing is almost real.”

  Chuck told her he had made an appointment with Lyle Moore, his colleague and renowned psychoanalyst.

  “How could you do that without talking to me first?” she demanded angrily.

  “How can I talk to you when you don’t want to talk about it? Babe, you haven’t had a full night’s sleep in months.”

  As usual, Chuck’s pleas fell on deaf ears.

  “I am dealing with it, Chuck,” she retorted.

  “Lisa, it’s me you’re talking to.”

  “I’m in the middle of an investigation,’ she shot back. “I don’t have the time.”

  “Just one hour of your time,” he pleaded. “Please just do this for me.”

  “You’re not listening to me, Chuck.”

  “Babe, this could kill you,” he said.

  “Come on Chuck, are we on Elm Street now? Is Freddie Kruger about to stab me to death in my sleep? I told you I don’t have time. Jesus, you’re unbelievable.”

  Logan quickly dressed and stormed out of the house, not bothering with makeup or jewellery. Chuck did not follow her out, knowing it would be futile.