Harrowing (14 page)

“But if you were short, like the rest of us?”

Rudolph looked from one of his students to another, frowning, then lowered his head.

“Bad man pull me off my feet? Zen even I can do nothing.”

His voice dropped down almost to a whisper. A minute later he raised his head and gazed fiercely at me.

“Zat what you want me to zay, Annasuya Adler? Zat zometimes I am helpless too?”

I nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” I replied softly. Then I threw my towel back on the floor and raised my fists. “Give me my next task, Mr. Verenich.”

As I was leaving the class, Rudolph strolled towards me with a peculiar look on his face.

“Zo. You have won my respect now, Annasuya Adler. Even you can’t even kick the target properly, yet already you have my respect. Zat is rare, you know. Normally you need to win my respect with your fists. Zat ze kind of man I am, Annasuya Adler.”

I smiled faintly.

“I’m glad. But stop repeating my name so much,” I hissed.

I bent to pick up my bag.

“Is zat what happened to you, Annasuya Rose Adler? Zat is ze reason why you come here? Zome baddie picked you up off the ground in a stranglehold?”

I licked my lips and shook my head.

“See you next class, Mr. Verenich,” I said.

But as I strode away, it suddenly occurred to me: I had never told him my middle name was Rose.

So how did he know?

How did Rudolph know my middle name? And could that have any bearing on the things that had been happening to me lately? On the men who were stalking me? If Rudolph knew my name, it could have been him. It could be anyone in the class. Barry Shulman, maybe. The bloke who’d been robbed while he cowered in his bed.

I tried to remember the voice of the man who had attacked me the other night. That night when I’d walked to Mr. Leong’s takeout restaurant. Had it sounded like Rudolph Verenich? Or Barry? I had always simply assumed it must have been Bruno. But now I wasn’t so sure.

But if it wasn’t Bruno, who else could it possibly have been?

“You shouldn’t be bumming about so late at night all by yourself, whore,”
the voice had proclaimed. As far as I could recall, it hadn’t sported a foreign accent of any sort.

“Lots of crazies out there, Annasuya Rose.”
Whoever it had been knew my middle name. Who else knew my middle name?

I tried to formulate a list of the people I’d told my middle name to. Dr. Rheinhardt. Geri, my agent at the temp firm. Julia, Geri’s boss. Lindsay. Calvin, of course. Sandy Bleckley. Bruno Jarvas. Even Barry Shulman might have heard Rudolph mention it in class. As far as I could recall, I hadn’t told my full name to Bruno Jarvas. But it was on my timesheets. And also on my Facebook page.

And now Rudolph Verenich knew it as well.

*

That night I made an effort and actually managed to whip up fettucini with roquefort. Romeo’s mouth flew open when I placed the dish down before him.

“Well, today it’s real pasta with homemade sauce. Tomorrow what will we have? Canard à l’orange?” quipped Calvin.

“Canary?” Romeo yelped, gulping.

I laughed.

“Canaries, no, ugh.” I made a face. “I have no idea what a canary must taste like.”

“Probably something similar to a chicken,” Calvin mused. “And probably not so different from quail or partridge.”

“You wouldn’t kill those cute little yellow things, would you, Cal?” asked Romeo.

Calvin only smiled enigmatically.

“No, sugar pie, I am not going to make duck,” I said. “I think that’s still a bit beyond me.”

Calvin clapped his hands.

“Tell you what, hon. If you bring me a gigantic basting duck this weekend, I will make a roast that will have you licking your fingers all the way to bed.”

I curled up on my favourite sofa-futon after dinner and idled through Calvin’s mobile while Calvin washed the dishes. Something in his phone made me sit up and scream.

“Calvin, what the fuck is this?”

Romeo came running in alarm.

“What happened, Mimi? Did something happen to you?”

I shook my head, grim.

“Nothing has happened to
me.
But something dire is certainly going to happen to Calvin in two seconds if he doesn’t explain himself clearly to me.”

Calvin turned around and wiped his hands on a dish towel.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he exclaimed, mildly surprised. “As far as I’m aware, I haven’t done anything... lately.”

I flashed his mobile, glaring angrily at him.

“What’s this? You took
pictures
of that grisly dead cat?”

Calvin shrugged, appearing relieved.

“That’s it, hon? Of course I did. It’s evidence, isn’t it? In case you decide to report it to the police. Which, I still say, I really think you should.”

I strode up to him and gave him a forceful shove.

“You took
photos
of that ghastly thing, you fucking asshole? What are you, some sick pervert?”

Calvin gaped at me, this time really surprised. At last he held up his hands as if in truce.

“Well, yeah. I mean, does that
bother
you? Don’t tell me it actually
bugs
you.”

“Of course it does!” I pitched his phone at him. “What do you want? To keep a
memento
of what happened to me? To carry it around so you can remind me about it whenever you feel like it? Get the hell out, you perverted bastard.”

Calvin ogled at me, his mouth open.

“Get out!” I shrieked.

Whirling around, I grabbed his jacket and threw the door open.

“Get out! Get the hell out of my house right now, Calvin Henri.”

Calvin ogled at me some more. Then, reaching forward, he seized his jacket furiously and strode from the apartment.

Romeo peeked timidly at me from around the corner of the bedroom door.

“Why did you do that, Mimi?” he asked tremulously. “I like Calvin.”

I sighed. “I do too, honey buns.” I sank onto the sofa and buried my face in my hands. “But sometimes Mimi just needs some peace. I just want to be alone for a bit, okay?”

Romeo nodded uncertainly. He stepped one foot out of the bedroom, hesitating. Then he ran to my side, cuddled me in a quick hug and hurried back to the bedroom.

I heaved a deep sigh and leaned back on the sofa. Already I missed Calvin. I picked up my phone, thought of texting a message of remorse to him. An image dropped into my WhatsApp. I opened it. It was the photo of the dead cat inside the green plastic bag.

“Just in case you change your mind and decide to go to the police,”
Calvin texted.

I sighed again. Already I could feel the anger draining out of me, my muscles growing lax, tension departing from me as if I were a tightened wire spinning loose from a screw. I smiled to myself. I’d leave him sweating for a short while, then text him back.

I did my usual rounds, which had become so ingrained in me I hardly even thought of it anymore, checking that the door and all the windows were locked, the door securely double bolted. I left the safety chain off, so Calvin could come in if he wanted to.

Then I dragged my laptop over and cracked it open. I knew the whole world had access to my Facebook account. And my full name was on my Facebook account.

That attacker could have been anyone.

I signed in and swiftly changed my profile name to “Annasuya Adler”, omitting the
Rose.
Although by now it was probably too late. Probably everyone who had the slightest interest in me had already clocked my full name.

I glanced at my phone and thought of something. Quickly, I connected the phone to my computer and downloaded the cat photo onto my desktop. Then I signed out of my account and signed in to Elena Farber’s account. There, I uploaded the image of the dead cat.

“This is what that sick bastard did to me the other night,”
I typed in, furious.
“He lugged THIS in through my bedroom window.”

I clicked “Publish”. Changed from Elena’s account to my own and shared Elena’s new publication on my Biography.

Then I kissed Romeo and went to bed.

*****

My life’s blood was starting to get all dried up with Lulu. She was sapping me of all my energy and life force, all my vitality was leeching out, and it was all because of
her.
I seized her naked shoulders and shook her like a rag until her teeth started to chatter inside her mouth. I dragged her around even harder. I pummelled on her cheeks. I slapped my palms across her jaw with all the strength I could muster. She gritted her teeth. But as soon as I let go of her, that simpering, leering smile was back on her lolling face again.

I shoved her into her pestilent chaise longue. She tumbled across the stained upholstery like a lifeless doll, sprawling out face down in an ungainly posture with her legs spread wide, her butt bobbling up in the air with its lumps of unsightly cellulite jiggling about like jello.

“You’re gross,” I said. “I don’t know how I could have ever fallen in love with you.”

I bent down and reached behind the sofa for her putrid satin gown, still loitering about where I had tossed it the other night. I snatched the gown and dumped it over Lulu’s prostrate figure.

“You’re such a lazy bum, Lou-Ange. Don’t even have the will-power or decency to fetch your own clothes.” I sneered at her.

Lulu draped the flimsy garment around her without bothering to get into it, then turned and leaned against her favourite item of furniture, smirking a lopsided grin at me.

“I’m not cold here,” she slurred out. “You keep the house oh so nice and cosy warm, lovey. Why would I ever need clothes while I’m in here?”

All the same, she draped the shapeless rag over herself, sticking her head in carelessly through one of the holes. The robe fell around her inside-out and with the front towards the back, but neither of us gave much of a damn. As she’d mentioned, no one would be coming to see her anyways.

I settled with my scotch on ice on the sofa and stared at Lulu.

“Why don’t you ever go out and make some friends?” I asked. “Everyone I know goes out sometime. Without their partner, I mean.”

Lulu stuck a finger into her cherry-red mouth and sucked on it.

“Mmmhh,” she mumbled. “Mmmhh. Why should I go anywhere? Your home’s nice and cosy. I’ve got all I need here.”

She pranced to the kitchen and grabbed a dollar-store glass from the cupboard, then filled it to the brim with scotch. She traipsed back to her chaise longue, skipping like a child, and humped herself on the sagging seat.

“I’ve got my scotch. I’ve got a place to dump my butt. I’ve got me a nice man to play around with whenever I want. What more could I ask for?”

She groped around for the remote control and switched on something inane as usual. Within a few minutes she’d turned into an idiotic mass, drooling at pre-schoolers thumping about in a sand box while spit dribbled from the corners of her mouth.

I left her alone and stumbled into the kitchen to get a chicken on to roast. As I hummed away by the sink, I heard a tapping on the window. I glanced up. Everything was dark outside.

“Aahh, just the wind,” I murmured. “A tree branch.”

I ignored the insignificant detail jiggling in the back of my mind that there were no trees near the kitchen window. There were trees all around my house. Just not near the window.

I washed out some dishes from lunch, then dragged the chicken out of the fridge. The marvellous thing about roast chicken was that it was a snap to prepare. All I had to do was haul some salt over it and pop it into the oven and that was it. I remembered as a child being forced to slave over the sink for long hours with suds up to my elbows, balancing myself on tiptoes on a stool while washing out all the family’s dirty pots and pans. Now that I had a mega sized dishwasher I could just plop the roasting pan into it afterwards and press the button and that was it.

I was busy humming by the stove, dashing salt over my chicken with the CD player on at full volume pumping out some Pavarotti while I waved my arms about, pretending to be the orchestra director, when I heard it.

A wild and dreadful squeal, like that of a crazed cat in heat.

Just outside my window. So close it sounded as if I could have reached out and touched it with the tips of my fingers, if the windowpane were open.

So strident and powerful, I could hear it even above Pavarotti’s sonorous wails.

So real, so solid, I was almost certain I would see the two creatures in heat just below me, if I dared to peer out the window.

But I didn’t dare.

I laughed at myself nervously.

Come on, Bruno Jarvas,
I whispered.
Are you a big, muscular man, or what?

Gathering up the nerve, I pressed my forehead against the windowpane and took a peek.

There was nothing but darkness and emptiness outside.

Of course there was. What else did I expect?

I pulled my head back. Heaved a tremendous sigh of relief and then wondered what was wrong with me. Turned towards my pot roast and reached for the salt.

Then I heard it again.

That wild, unearthly screech.

Two primal, bestial felines in heat.

Just beyond the thin pane of glass.

Fascinated, unable to restrain myself, I edged near the window again.

Then it flashed up at me.

It was only one instant, but I could make it out clearly.

A dead cat, its striated eyes glassy and unmoving, plastering itself against the clear pane apparently of its own volition.

Its eviscerated gut, oozing slimy innards obscenely all over my window.

It pawed at me with a squishy, sloshy noise. I could hear it even through the wails of the violins.

Then it disappeared.

I leapt backwards with a howl, banging my hand against the chicken. The roasting pot smashed on the ground and cracked into smithereens.

I stood in the middle of my kitchen, frozen, my chest heaving. For an endless moment I simply stared at the window, my hands trembling uncontrollably. A splash of bloodied intestines, like cream-coloured worms, writhed in agony against the window. Viscous bits of entrails stuck to the glass, clung to it stickily and wavered in the breeze.