Cherry Pie (32 page)

‘You talked to Simone?’

‘For ages. The stupid little tart was desperate to know why you were scared of Sam so I thought of a fib and got him to go along with it. He told her it was because of the protest. The best lies are based on the truth, don’t you agree? She bought it. If only she knew the real story. I might tell her when she gets here. What do you say?’

‘I say once a lying junkie slut, always a lying junkie slut,’ my mum said, and I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop myself audibly gasping. She never used the S word.

Rochelle slapped her face, grabbed a handful of Mum’s short hair and wrenched her head back, digging the gun barrel under her chin.

‘Now you’re just making me cross. I was going keep you alive in case we needed leverage, but I don’t really think it matters. May as well get it over with now.’

Jesus. I had to do something. Make a noise, distract them?

But then what? They’d shoot me through the ceiling and we’d all be dead meat.

‘Rochelle,’ Perry scolded, ‘if you’re gonna shoot anyone, use the cop’s gun.’

He tugged it out of the waistband of his jeans, turned his back on Alex and walked across the rug to hand it to her. Alex’s eyes flicked open. Rochelle and Perry were looking in the opposite direction and the rain was coming down hard. In one swift move Alex rolled onto his side, drew his knees up to his chest, slipped his bound hands around his feet so they were in front of him and jumped up. They heard him and had just started to turn when Alex lunged at Perry’s back, threw his hands over his head, and yanked on his neck. The two of them fell backwards and the gun flew out of Perry’s hand and clattered across the floor, coming to rest by Steve’s prone body.

Rochelle pointed her gun at Alex but couldn’t take a shot with Perry in the way. A huge thunderclap shook the house and the rain pissed down, booming on the roof, gurgling down overflowing gutters. Alex pulled hard against Perry’s throat, the plastic ties digging into his skin, and Perry made a sound like a cat hoicking up its Whiskas and drummed his heels on the floor.

Mum, wrists still tied behind her, leapt up from the couch and ran at Rochelle, butting her like a ram. Rochelle wobbled on her high heels and fell to the floor, and Mum threw herself on her, attempting a head butt. When that didn’t work she started biting her neck and face. Rochelle shrieked.

That was my cue and I was about to race back to the spare room, grab whatever blunt object I could find and leap into the fray when Perry elbowed Alex in the guts, struggled free and started stomping him in the head, going crazy. That sort of shit could do serious damage and by the time I hustled through the attic it might be too late.

There was only one thing I could do. I lifted the hatch completely off and threw it to the side. Perry’s head was directly underneath me. I squatted over the hole and jumped.

I flew through the air, hit Perry’s neck with my knees and we crumpled into a heap, his head cracking as it bounced off the floor. We were sprawled half on top of Alex, who was out cold again, and I lay still for a second, stunned and winded, sucking in air. Perry didn’t move. Maybe I’d snapped his neck. I hoped so. If I’d broken anything myself I was running on too much adrenaline to feel it. I stretched out towards Steve, reaching for Alex’s gun, and my fingers had just touched the butt when I heard Rochelle screech, posh accent completely obliterated.

‘Don’t fucking think about it! I’ll blow her fucking head off!’

I looked over. She’d gotten free of Mum and was picking herself up off the floor, pointing the gun at Mum’s head.

Mum lay on her side, hands still tied behind her, glasses askew, dark red lippy smudged.

Rochelle patted her hair-do which had tilted to one side.

She was breathing heavily, fake boobs swelling beneath her coat. ‘Possums, huh?’

I ignored her. ‘You okay?’ I looked at Mum.

‘I think so.’

‘Shut up.’ Rochelle kicked Mum onto her back and ground one spike heel into her chest.

‘Stop hurting her,’ my voice wobbled.

‘ “Stop hurting her”,’ Rochelle mimicked, sounding exactly like one of the mean girls at school who flushed heads down toilets and lorded it over the back of the bus. ‘Should have thought of that before you spied on me, you stupid bitch. Your mother was actually sensible, believe it or not. Caused no trouble, kept to herself. I didn’t even know she was back in Sydney until you rang the Doyle Food Group. Kirsch. German for Cherry. Had a different name when I knew her but when you said that it clicked. Cherry Pie, daughter named Simone. Didn’t take me long to find out where she was at and all about you. Of course, I was prepared to leave it until you started sniffing around, hiding under my bed. That was just fucking rude. So whatever happens from now on in is your fault.’ She gesticulated with the gun before pointing it back at Mum.

A horrible thought occurred to me. Maybe Rochelle was right. Maybe everything was my fault and I was finally being punished for all the deaths I’d caused in the past. Farquar, Van Annen, Vincent Pirelli, other thugs whose names escaped me, and Meg’s sister, Fran. The lyrics from a country song drifted through my head. Something about how nothing was free and everything had to be paid for, in the end.

‘How did you know her?’ I gasped, still lying on Perry.

‘Why do you keep calling her Cherry Pie?’

Rochelle laughed, the same dry cackle that had come from Meg’s mouth at the Coopers Arms. Her tongue poked out, flicked at her plump top lip, and her voice turned sickly sweet. ‘I call her Cherry Pie ’cause that was her name when she worked at the Fuck Hole.’

‘You’re full of shit. She demonstrated against that place.’

The corners of Rochelle’s mouth curled up. I stared at Mum and she looked back at me steadily, not contradicting her. Even though I was sitting on top of ninety kilos of muscle and bone it felt like there was nothing solid beneath me.

‘Yes, but before she cut off her long blonde hair and ditched the miniskirts for boiler suits and sensible shoes she worked at the Love Tunnel under the alias Cherry Pie.’

‘But she—’

‘She’s a fucking hypocrite is what she is! What she always was! I worked there because I had no fucking choice, but she was just a nice middle class girl slumming it. She’d finished high school, could have got any number of jobs but no, working as a bank teller or a secretary wouldn’t have fitted into her cool, bohemian lifestyle or given her any street cred.’

‘We needed the money.’ My mum stared daggers at her.

‘We were fucking broke.’

‘Oh yes,’ Rochelle laughed, ‘I remember now. Your father, the musician, couldn’t lower himself to work for his rich parents so Cherry just had to get a job at the club. Poor darlings. How else were they going to stay true to their counterculture values and keep themselves in pot and embroidered flares? You know how I knew she didn’t really need the money?’ She dug her heel further into Mum’s chest and when I moved to get up she tightened her finger around the trigger. I froze.

‘Your mother was too good to turn tricks out the back. Oh, all the punters wanted her to. Christ, you should have seen the money they offered. Men, always want what they can’t have. Don even encouraged her himself, but no, she refused. It was beneath her, she was the golden girl, untouchable, the prissy little ballerina up on stage. I was forced to do it because I didn’t have a boyfriend with rich parents to fall back on.’

Mum raised her head and looked Rochelle straight in the eye. ‘Spare me the fucking sob story, Rochelle. The only reason you were forced to turn tricks was to support your raging smack habit.’

Rochelle pulled back her heel and kicked Mum in the ribs. I made to move again and she looked at me, wild eyed, trigger finger twitching.

‘What’s your problem, Rochelle?’ Mum asked, really giving her some sass. I was proud to see her so defiant, but wished she’d shut up. Rochelle had the gun and I didn’t think she’d have a problem using it.

‘People like you looking down on me.’

‘I didn’t look down on you. When I became a feminist I thought I could change things from the inside out. That’s why I organised meetings, tried to get a union happening and yes, finally demonstrated. I wanted to help you.’

‘Save me from myself ? You’ve seen the light so I must too? Oh thanks.’

‘No. I was lobbying for minimum wages, decent working hours, women having control over their own bodies—’

‘You were stirring up shit. I clawed my way up and learned to make the system work for me—in the traditional way. You catch more bees with honey than with goddamn crew cuts. I’m a strong, successful woman. I’m the real fucking feminist here.’

‘Actually, I’d have to disagree with you, Rochelle,’ Mum said.

‘That so?’

‘Yeah. Real feminists don’t get their strength holding a big metal dick in their hands.’ And she drew back her legs and kicked, her Mary-Janes striking Rochelle’s forearms. Rochelle flew back, hit the wall and Mum screamed at me to run. I did, but not in the direction she intended. I bolted forward, my only thought to get in between her and the gun.

I wasn’t fast enough. Rochelle straightened her arms, pulled the trigger and shot Mum in the head.

I didn’t make it to Rochelle. My shin bones dissolved into marrow and I crumpled next to Mum’s body like a newborn foal. I knew I should put pressure on the wound but I couldn’t tell where the bullet hole was. All I could see was red, gumming up her hair, flowing across the tassled carpet edge, pooling in cracks between the floorboards. I lifted her by the shoulders, put one hand under her neck and rested her head in my lap, then ripped off my flannelette shirt and wrapped it around her skull. So much blood, dripping between my fingers, soaking into my jeans.

I didn’t cry, didn’t make a sound, but inside my mind was screaming that it wasn’t happening, that it couldn’t be real. It was. Mum’s body was warm and felt light as a bird. Rain roared on the roof. My heart throbbed slow and hard.

I was about to feel for a pulse when I heard a click and looked up. Rochelle stood over me, holding Alex’s revolver in both trembling hands, pointing it at my head. Her face was white, except for the red bite marks, and her top lip quivered, as though even she couldn’t believe what she’d done. Blood had spattered onto her raincoat and the room smelt of raw meat, burned out incense and the firecracker scent of the freshly fired gun. Sweat rolled down my back although I was shivering, clammy and cold.

Rochelle took a deep breath to steady herself. Her pupils were huge and I saw the tendons flex on the back of her freckled right hand as she began to depress the trigger. My first instinct was to squeeze my eyes shut but I forced them open and stopped trying to deny what had happened. Rochelle had killed my mother and she was going to kill me. I wanted to tear the bitch apart, gouge into her flesh with my fingernails, rip her fucking face off, but I couldn’t let go of Mum. I couldn’t even speak. A soup of rage, grief and guilt roiled through my veins as the trigger moved and I stared down the barrel’s dark round hole and realised it was the last thing I would see.

‘Rochelle!’

We both turned our heads. Sam Doyle stood framed in the front door, black shirt and pants soaked and clinging to his solid body. He edged down the hall, arms outstretched, so she could see he wasn’t armed.

‘How?’ Her eyes flicked from him to me and back again.

‘The Mercedes has a tracking device. I heard the shot.’ He stopped as he entered the lounge and looked around, taking in all the bodies, Mum bleeding from the head. His face went grey and he seemed to age ten years before my eyes. ‘Jesus, Rochelle, what have you done?’

She looked at him but kept the gun trained on my face.

‘I had to, she tried to kill me. Thank god you’re here.’

‘She’s lying.’ My voice choked, like my throat was full of phlegm.

‘Give me the gun,’ he said. ‘This ends now.’

‘She’s dangerous.’ Rochelle nodded in my direction. ‘They had a scam going on, blackmail. When I wouldn’t pay up they tried to get rid of me, her and Cherry and the cop.’

He shook his head and held out his hand. ‘Hand it over.’

‘No,’ she said.

He took a couple of quick strides and was in front of her, between me and the gun. I still couldn’t move. Mum’s body had started to twitch. An ambulance. I had to get to the phone.

‘Why do you care so much about these fucking bitches?’

Rochelle’s voice had gone all whiny and ocker, like a strung out junkie looking for a fix. ‘I’m the one spent half my life with you, you cunt, played the perfect wife, put up with your affairs.’

Sam grabbed for the gun but Rochelle held on tight. It was pointed at his belly and they started a tug of war. I snapped out of it, flexed my leg muscles.

‘And I didn’t know you at all,’ he said. ‘All this time I thought Don killed Melody. It was you, wasn’t it?’

I gently lifted Mum’s head and placed it on the edge of the rug.

‘You never really loved me,’ Rochelle screeched. ‘Holding a candle for that stuck-up slut.’

‘It’s over, Rochelle. I called the police when I heard the gunshot. Simone,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘get out of here. Now.’

I scrambled up but didn’t run for the front door. Instead I dashed straight through to the kitchen and picked up the phone, dialled triple 0, screamed for an ambulance and hid behind one side of the arch, out of range.

‘What is the exact location of the emergency?’ the operator asked.

I’d opened my mouth to speak when I heard the blast, muffled this time. I stuck my head around the doorway. Sam was leaning into Rochelle, and they swayed together, like drunks slow dancing at the end of a wedding. She’d shot him in the guts. His legs buckled and Rochelle pushed him to the ground, aimed the gun at me. I dropped the phone and dashed across the kitchen, heard a sharp crack and the ceramic fruit bowl exploded behind me. I tore through the laundry, launched myself at the back door, lunged for the lock. It didn’t turn.

Deadbolted. I shook the handle, kicked the wood—nothing.

Metal security bars caged the window.