Derailed (49 page)

Silence.

“Are you blackmailing me, Scarlett?” Greg demands. “Because that is illegal, Scarlett.”

“Heavens no, Greg. I wouldn’t want to break the law. I’m just saying that you don’t want to have to lose your Maserati, your Rolls Royce, your unlimited credit cards...You don’t want to have to fly commercial again after only traveling in your wife’s private jet, Greg. Seriously.”

Silence.

“She won’t find out because I will pay you back from my husband’s life policy. It’s over a million dollars. Help me out here, Greg.”

Two weeks later, thanks to Greg’s generosity, and with the help of Milton Smyth, Norman’s bail is being arranged.  

RITCHIE

With his shoulders hunched and his horn-rimmed glasses on the tip of his nose, Norman drags himself into the visiting room and takes a seat. He looks a lot thinner and smaller than in the grainy video. Perhaps it’s because of the prison food, or his recent dalliance with his shanker, or the isolation cell where he spends his days. Or maybe he’s just pining for Scarlett.

“Hello, Norman,” I say in a good-natured voice. “I’m so glad you asked to see me, because mate, I want to thank you personally for…you know…” I shift my eyes toward the guard standing against the wall, who is trying hard to blend into it and failing due to his barrel-shaped body.

“Is it true?” Norman asks.

“What?”

“You and her?” His beady eyes, made even beadier by the thick lenses, bore into me.

“We’re in love, if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t believe –”

“We are grateful for your loyalty, Norm –”

“We? WE?” He’s almost out of his chair.

“What’s the problem?” I ask, feigning a confused look.

“Who’s
we
?” he demands.

“Me and Scarlett. We are grateful for all that you’ve done for us, mate.”

“Us?” His head bobs, his eyes flashing with fury. “US?”

For a few seconds I blink rapidly at him. “We’ve been through a lot, and Scarlett, she’s fragile. She wouldn’t be able to handle this place. Thanks to you she doesn’t have to. You helped us so much, and I will not forget it, man. I promise to take good care of her. She’s a woman who needs someone like me to take care of her.”

He jerks forward. “You? Someone like you?”

“Yeah. I will take good care of her. I promise. We may move to the U.S. for a while. Until the dust settles. Then we can come back to –”

“U.S.?”

“– Sydney.” I nod. “But right now, she wants to take me to Hawaii. Says it’s beautiful out there. Peaceful. And to be honest, I think it will do her good after all that she’s been through. Don’t ya think?”

“So you’re fucking her? That slut? Huh? Huh?”

“Hey, don’t you disrespect my woman, you hear. And it’s not about fucking – we’re in a
relationship
.”

“Like fuck you are!” His nostrils become as large as his glasses.

“Hey chill, will ya? Nothing to get riled up about. Whatever you had, it’s history, bro. She’s moving on, and you need to understand that. Know what I saying?”

He leans in and peers at my neck. “Is that…is that a hicky?”

With a sheepish grin, I touch my neck. “You know Scarlett, she always marking me, her territory.”  

“Fuck you,” he snarls.

“Aw man, don’t be like that. She’s my woman, man. She and I, we’re so good together, so compatible, you have no idea. Especially in the bedroom, man. She’s got that thing going on – there’s more happiness in giving than receiving. If you know what I mean.” I give him a lewd wink. “That’s my favorite part about her. The bedroom. That’s where her
real
talents lie. She tells me that I’m the best, and I don’t know if I believe that, but I’m a man, so yeah.”

“Fuck you and fuck that cheap slut!”

“Don’t call her that. She’s got class, man.”

“I’ll show her,” he shrieks, shaking his index finger at me. “Just you wait and see, you dumb cunt. I’ll show her.”

I stand up. “If you’re gonna disrespect my woman, I’m gonna leave.” I whistle as I walk out of the prison.

SCARLETT

When I see the detectives with the cops at my door, my heart lurches.

“Scarlett Murdoch, you are under arrest for the murder of Bradley Murdoch. Anything you say…”

Dread washes over me. Norman, the bastard, has betrayed me. Why? I arranged his bail. I thought he was in love with me. Somebody has gotten to him. Rival? She has to be behind it. Bitch!

“You guys are making a grave mistake,” I say in a threatening voice. “I want to call my lawyer.”

A cocky female cop with a mad case of acne whose chest resembles an ironing board chuckles.

“I
demand
I be allowed to –”

“You’ll get your one phone call when
we
decide to let you,” the slut who probably didn’t have a date at her high school dance says as she cuffs my wrists. They cart me off in the back of a police van. Not in in the back of a police car, but a
van
. It’s humiliating, especially since Mabel and the two foul-looking creatures next to her watch my arrest with grins on their faces.

At the police station, the detectives try to strong-arm me into a confession. As if they can. 

“Norman was my pharmacist,” I say. “Over the years, we became friends. Good friends. Of course I suspected he was smitten with me – most men are – but I had absolutely no idea he was
obsessed
with me, enough to kill my husband. Who knew what went on in that mind of his? I loved my husband. We had plans for the future. Huge plans. He was
the plan
– why on earth would I want to kill him?”

“You had a life insurance policy, the house that –”

“Things I don’t care for. In fact, I’ve signed it
all
away to his ex-wife and children. That is the kind of person I am. So Bradley’s death benefited me in no way. I get nothing from his death. Zilch. Where’s my motive?”

“Well, it is our understanding that you were coerced into signing away the property and life insurance policy.”

“Your understanding? Well, that is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard. I gave it to Rival Murdoch and her children. Out of the goodness of my heart.”

To my great relief, the detectives literally scratch their heads.

“Ask anyone who knew us, and they will tell you that we both were madly in love with each other.”

“Norman was seen visiting your house after Bradley’s death.”

“A lot of people visited after Bradley’s death. He was just one of the friends who dropped by and offered his condolences and support. God knows, I needed all the support I could get.”

Luckily, my daddy and his team of lawyers swarm in and become my mouthpiece after that.

Bail is set at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and I have to surrender my passport.

“You have to put up your property for bail,” my father says.

“I can’t Daddy,” I murmur.

My daddy’s necks jerk to look at me. “Why not?”

“I gave the house to Rival.”

“Are you fucking NUTS?” he screams. “Why the hell did you do that?”

I don’t answer.

“Are you stupid?”

“No.”

“Are you dumb?”

“No!”

“Are you a moron?”

“No, I had to. She made me, Daddy!”

“She
made
you? She made YOU?”

I cover my ears with my hands. “Stop yelling at me, Daddy!”

“You go get your own bail then, Scarlett, ’cause I sure am not going to part with a quarter mill. No fucking way.”

I don’t answer.

“You hear me? If you want to be dumb enough to give away your house and money, then you find bail money yourself.” He storms off, leaving me in tears. 

That’s the thing about my daddy – he’ll do anything for me but part with his money. He’s a tight-arse and has been that way his whole life.

Hours later, I call Samson, my father’s right-hand bitch.

It’s funny how all men give you the same spiel when you try to extort money out of them. “Are you fucking crazy?” he hisses. “I don’t have that kind of –”

“You have a property, right?”

“So?”

“Put it up.”

“No fucking way!”

“Samson, when my house is sold, I will give you back the money with interest. I promise.”

“Scarlett, NO!”

“Samson –”

“I need my wife’s signature to do that anyway, and there is no way she will –”

“Oh, please, just forge her signature, Samson! It’s not like you haven’t done it before. Remember when you bought me the beemer? You did it then?”

A short silence follows. “You realize this line is not private,” he says in a guarded voice.

Like I give a shit.

Twenty-four hours later, I’m out on bail.

SCARLETT

Norman is out on bail, thanks to my daddy and Greg’s generosity. I’ve decided to connect with him and explain a few things.

“I’m sorry,” Norman says in a sorrowful voice. “She showed me photos of the two of you, and he…he said stuff, and I got mad.”

I smile at the emaciated traitor, weak from his injuries, sitting hunched in the front seat of my mother’s Mitsubishi, hands between his thighs, shoulders rounded.

“That’s okay, honey. I don’t blame you. You were upset. That is why I picked you up. I wanted to explain things, see how you’re doing. And I believe you deserve an explanation. You deserve the truth.”

His head bobs. “I am so happy to hear from you. I thought you’d never speak to me again.”

“What! No way would I do that. After all I went through to get you out on bail?”

He smiles. “I really appreciate that.”

He should. Without my help, he wouldn’t have made bail. 

“Look, Ritchie and Rival, they both lied to you, and with Photoshop, anything is possible these days. Those pics weren’t real.” I reach over and stroke his cheek with the back of my hand. “Poor baby, I know how you must have felt. But I still love you. You are my rock, my anchor in life. No matter where I go, I will always return to you.”

For a while we drive in silence, with Norman staring ahead into the dark.

“I can recant my statement, you know.”

“That will help,” I say, as I pull up at the beach and turn off the engine. “Thank you.” I slide over to him and start to kiss him.

After a few minutes of dry humping, I say, “I feel like a midnight fuck in the ocean. What d’ya say? Ever had a blow job in there?”

He shakes his head, his eyes shining in the dark. 

I smile and fling open the door. Ensuring no one is around, Norman and I race to the beach.

“This is my favorite spot,” I say as we move toward a large rock with affords us the privacy we need. I drop to my knees and pleasure him for a while. Then I push him to his knees. “Your turn,” I say, pulling down my bikini and shoving his head into my crotch.

After a minute or so, I call out his name and grab a tuft of his hair. “Norman baby, look at me.” 

It is when he looks up that I run the blade swiftly and deeply across his jugular, ensuring that I get the carotid artery as well. It takes a few seconds before Norman realizes what has happened. “Shouldn’t have crossed me, Norman,” I say.

He clutches at this throat with both hands and looks at me, blood squirting all over me. I turn him around and hold him face down in the water. “I’m not trying to drown you; I’m holding you downwards to aid rapid blood loss, honey. It leads to a quick demise. Also, it’s to ensure that all my DNA is washed out of your mouth and your dick.”

When I am sure that the only person standing between me and my freedom is dead, I release his body, throw the knife into the ocean and wade out of the surf. Sometimes, you have to do things yourself to ensure it is done properly.

I take a fifty-five minute drive to meet Samson in Wollongong. He is happy to provide me with an alibi – I was with him all evening preparing for my upcoming court case. My cell phone, which Samson has in his possession, pings of a tower in Wollongong.

Impressed? You ought to be. The prosecution’s star witness, their
only
witness, is dead. How can the defense cross examine him? All charges against me
have
to be dropped.

Fuck you, Rival, and fuck you, Ritchie!

SCARLETT

I’m most upset by the unflattering photos of me in the newspapers. Bad angles, lack of good lighting, poor quality newspaper – it all adds up, and I hate the way I look. So far none of the photos have showcased my style, my flair, my moxi.

I’ve had to engage the services of my very own photographer to take a heap of photos of me in my various designer outfits. He’s embedded among the press and has been ordered to sneak a few shots of me inside the courtroom as well. Every time I emit an emotion, dry my eyes, cover my face with my hands, he is to take a photo of it.

But, to ensure I capture poignant moments, I have also engaged the services of a sketch artist who draws away inside the courtroom. It’s costing a fortune, but dear, dear generous Greg; he’s such a sweetheart. 

Oh, and I have also appointed a writer who visits court every day in preparation for my upcoming book. (One that Rival will have absolutely NO access to.) The writer is to focus on the emotional reactions during the court proceedings, and not so much on the facts.

Since I am confident of an acquittal, a hung jury, or for all the charges to be dropped due to Norman’s death, I’m rather enjoying my time in the limelight. Every day of the trial is an
affair
for me, and I enjoy it immensely. 

In fact, in anticipation of all the crying I plan to do in court, I’ve re-touched my cosmetic tattooing around my eyes and my lip blend. I’ve even got eyelash extensions and had my nails done in Silky Peach. Planning and co-coordinating my outfits and hairstyles takes time and effort, but it is imperative that I do.

Why? Allow me to explain. Men and women will clamor for my book. Men are usually happy to skim transcripts, note the boring facts. But women, now they are different. To keep a woman’s interest, you need to add drama to it. The theatrics, the Broadway show, the glossy photos, a little romance – it all makes for riveting reading.