Siren (18 page)

‘I know. I’ll wear the gloves.’ The cotton evidence gloves were soft and white, like something a gemmologist would use to handle diamonds.

Makedde hoped that by rubbing pencil lead lightly across the remaining blank page, she might be able to make out some of what had been written on the final pages that had been torn out. It was a pretty unsophisticated trick, but it sometimes worked.

‘Let me know if you get anywhere,’ her boss said, and shooed her from her office.

Mak took the diaries into the waiting room while Marian worked the phones, keeping updated on her agents and their cases.

‘Okay, don’t make me look stupid here…’ Mak murmured, opening the last diary to the torn pages and rubbing the first blank page very carefully with the edge of the pencil. Immediately she could see there were a few spots where Adam had pushed his pen hard enough into the page to
make an indent, but it hardly made the entire entry legible; rather, the edges of some letters started to appear. By the time she was finished, three strings of letters had emerged.

THEAT

JOU

OVE

Theat, jou, ove
?

Mak stared at the letters, willing her brain to find the connection.

The subterranean Visy Theatre in Brisbane’s Powerhouse descended into a hush.

The intimate stage was almost bare, waiting. Eyes were fixed upon it. The evening performance was well underway, and the next act would soon emerge. Adam Hart sat grinning in the back row, his heart lifted by a new sense of love and possibility.

And excitement.

In seconds, there was a dramatic whirl of colour as a performer strode across the stage in a splendid Victorian costume of deep burgundy and ebony, the coat long, and the shirt finished with a tie of black lace ruffles.
Lucien
. As he paused and came into focus, the audience could see that he wore dark eyeliner, and on his right eye lines of black flicked up into stripes like painted eyelashes, right to his eyebrow. The man’s face was sharp, but exceedingly handsome, his mouth delicate and small, his eyes large and dark, framed by exquisitely arched brows and dramatic cheekbones. His hair was deep brown and dishevelled, and worn long around the
ears, without any of the shiny falseness audiences had begun to associate with Vegas-style magicians, who seemed always to sport too much hairspray and dyed facial hair, almost as if it were a trade requirement. This man brought to mind the golden era of Victorian magic. In no time he had the small Australian audience in the palm of his dexterous hand.

Lucien the Illusionist.

Silently, Lucien extended a hand from one of his long cuffs, his palm up and fingers elegantly curled, his fingernails painted black. He beckoned stage left where a burlesque-attired assistant appeared carrying a small silver tray. In fishnets, corset and veil, she was an alluring cabaret throwback. Gracefully, she produced from the tray a small, flat object. The magician gripped it carefully between his painted fingers, and walked a dramatic arc along the footlights, holding it up. It was a razor blade, and it glimmered dangerously in the lights. To demonstrate the blade’s lethal authenticity, Lucien beckoned again to his glamorously dressed assistant, who pulled a handkerchief from the top of her corset. She held it in front of her with both hands, pulling it taut. With one swift swipe, the illusionist sliced through it with the blade, leaving it in two pieces. Satisfied that he had proved his point, he stood centre-stage and placed the blade on his tongue.

And swallowed it.

The audience winced and gasped.

Adam Hart did not wince. He had seen this act several times already, and he now sat watching carefully, a man enchanted and awed.

As if eating the razor blade wasn’t enough, the assistant now held out the plate again, placing one delicate hand on her rounded hip, as if to dare the magician to take another. He
picked a second razor blade from the plate and placed it on his pink tongue. So convincing was the illusion that Adam actually tasted faint metal in the back of his throat as he continued to watch for the magician’s deceit. You simply could not swallow razor blades and expect to live. Adam knew that. Still, the effect was captivating, and unsettling. He racked his brain for how it could be done. He knew something of the technique, but only from books.

Onstage, the illusionist swallowed, uncomfortably it seemed. He coughed. In minutes he swallowed four more razor blades in the same fashion, stopping halfway to again prove their lethal edge by slicing a dramatic ‘X’ through a paper scroll. When next his burlesque-attired assistant returned she removed her necklace. She handed it to the magician, who held it up to examine it under the lights.

Incredibly, he ate it.

Lucien took a sip of water, gargled, and with a series of motions of his mouth and throat, one hand on his stomach, he reached into his mouth and—
voilà
!—as he opened his mouth wide, he grasped the end of the necklace. There was a razor blade dangling from it, then another, then another, all evenly placed. The string of blades came out of his mouth with surprising elegance.

He held it up to rapturous applause.

Sleight of hand…sleight of mouth…

Adam applauded with the crowd. Looking around, he saw eyes wide with the wonderment of magic, hands pounding together. Of course the audience logically knew that no one was really able to eat deadly razor blades only to attach them to a necklace within their body and pull them out in a perfect string, unharmed—but they had not picked the method, nor
did they really want to know how he did it. It would be like spoiling a Christmas surprise. This was the unspoken contract between magician and audience—honest deceit.

How Adam wished he could one day be on that stage.

Now, Lucien made his exit with a wave of his dramatic cuff. He would appear again to tantalise with more of his illusions later in the program. The intimate theatre plunged into claustrophobic darkness as the curtains closed, leaving the audience with nowhere to look. Immediately the air was thick with conversation about the last act. In their seats couples touched blindly and whispered exclamations of wonder.

‘
Did you see that
…?’

‘
Razor blades! How did he do it?
’

Within this cloak of darkness, Adam sat silently, electrified, but wearing a smile. He had no wish to debate the magic of Lucien the Illusionist with anyone there, and he knew better than most what they had seen. He instead turned it over and over in his head like a child with a Rubik’s Cube. He was awed. He’d seen countless videos of routines, but this was truly the best live act of its kind that he had witnessed. He hoped that Lucien would open up to him, perhaps pass on his secrets.

Perhaps he would even invite him onstage.

When Adam watched the show he temporarily forgot his own woes and internal conflicts. It took him out of himself, and Adam Hart indeed wished to be far from himself, far from anywhere he had ever been.

There was activity near the stage.

Bijou.

The next act was about to start.

A familiar warm red glow peeked through the curtains and spread across the crowd. The lush red theatrical curtains were
pulled back. The musicians—Lara, the drummer, and the contortionist-guitarist—had reassembled, looking artfully dishevelled in their tatty, old-fashioned tuxedos.

Again, Adam marvelled at how the performers could play so many roles, and show such a range of skills. He could still hardly believe that the troupe had only seven performers; there seemed so many more.
And there is about to be one more.
He applauded along with the crowd, feeling the soft wings of butterflies building up in his stomach. Much more than the saucy burlesque act, and even more than the master illusionist, the next act was his favourite. It was a classic play of the Grand Guignol, a gruesome tale of love and revenge.

Le Baiser dans la Nuit
.

The Final Kiss, starring the most mesmerising beauty he had ever seen.

Bijou, my lover
, la femme assassinée.

Adam had to watch the play carefully. Bijou was grooming him for the starring role.

Here we go.

Mak had already worked a full day on barely a wink of sleep. In addition to meeting up with Pete, and pencil-rubbing Adam’s diary, she’d checked out the Théâtre des Horreurs website, following up on the flyer she’d found in the diary. It had some interesting, undated photographs of their performances, but unfortunately it looked like it was not updated frequently. She’d also hoofed around St Ives interviewing Adam’s neighbours, with little result. She’d clocked off at seven to work on her own extracurricular assignment—seeing what Damien Cavanagh was up to. She had again started with her trusty computer, trawling the internet for hits on the man Pete Don had mentioned, and quickly found references to James Wendt and his stint in a Spanish jail for drug trafficking. He had only just been released and was already looking well connected in Australia. She had printed off a colour photograph of him and folded it into her purse.

Waiting, waiting…

Now in a black figure-hugging satin dress and heeled leather boots, Mak was prepared for a night of either continuing to sit in her rental car bored to tears for a few more hours, or following Damien through the sleaziest dives in Kings Cross or to a meeting with the questionable Mr James Wendt. She realised that she so desperately wanted to catch him up to no good, it bordered on perversity. After three hours stuck in the car with an increasingly pained bladder, she was ready to jump at any chance of a lead.

Around midnight, the waiting game was finally over. Damien Cavanagh pulled out of the driveway of the Darling Point house, impossible to miss in his black Lamborghini. He was without a minder. Mak followed him at a distance, wondering what the heir to one of the biggest fortunes in Australia might do on a sleepy Wednesday night. He drove himself into the city and stopped in an alley outside the Metro, a rock venue. Mak rolled the window down, and heard music pouring out. Patrons were still arriving. Two women in tiny dresses and fishnet stockings passed the man at the front door and teetered up the steps inside.

GOOD DRUGS BAD WOMEN, a poster outside the theatre declared, promising international burlesque acts. Mak thought the name of the gig inappropriate for Damien, who seemed more interested in
bad drugs
and
good women—
good, underage, innocent women. In fact, the whole gig seemed a little too cool for a spoilt rich kid. But burlesque was sweeping the world with new-found popularity, thanks to Dita Von Teese, and it seemed that even the rich and infamous were interested. She wondered if James Wendt was inside, enjoying the show.

Mak watched from the car as two men rushed down the steps to greet Damien. One took keys from him to park his
flashy Diablo somewhere safe. The other passed him a black eye-mask and led him inside.

An eye-mask? Dress-ups?

A vote for anonymity, she expected. Well, she had some tricks of her own. Mak found a park a couple of blocks away, pulled a black pageboy wig out of the glove box, and struggled for a few minutes to tuck her blonde hair underneath it. She lacked the fishnets and Mary Jane shoes that would make the burlesque theme work, but after hiking up her dress a couple of inches and slicking red lipstick across her mouth, she looked like she was part of the scene.

She locked the car and strolled up the street towards the venue, making a show of herself as she approached the bouncer.

‘Hi,’ she purred confidently.

‘Ticket,’ he replied, unaffected.

‘Do I need a ticket?’ she asked, bringing a finger to her mouth. ‘I’m with our friend…you know, in the Diablo. I had to make sure it was parked.’

Recognition. ‘Go on up. He’ll be waiting.’

Or not.

Mak ascended the staircase, her head already beginning to feel warm from the wig. At the top she pulled her dress back down to her knees out of habit.
This is Damien’s crowd?
The venue was packed with an eclectic mix of rockabillys, goths, goggled steampunks, men in long velvet coats and rockers with greasy hair and ill-fitting jeans. The few straight-looking types stood out like freaks. In her black dress, she was positively boring. Half the women were in knickers and corsets.

Mak made a beeline for the toilets, pleased not to be wearing the head-to-toe latex dress some poor woman was struggling with in the next cubicle, and emerged seconds later
feeling greatly relieved. She strolled into the main hall, and saw that the fashion was far from the only entertainment.

On a bare stage, an emaciated MC with slicked hair, Jagger-lips and the long face of a young Tom Waits was slipping the suspenders off his shoulders and undoing the buttons on his ivory dress shirt with exaggerated drama. His shirt soon hung open to reveal a lean, white stomach. His lips quivering obscenely, he made an announcement into the old-fashioned microphone. ‘Ladeeez and Geeeeeeentlemen, I will now perform a fan dance. And, of course, later this evening we have the much-anticipated international burlesque performer—BELLADONNA!’ There was violent applause at the mention of the name, and with this the MC pulled his shirt wide to expose a concave chest with two black ‘X’s of duct tape covering his nipples. He caressed the ‘X’s lasciviously and pouted his engorged lips.

Brilliant.

Now the MC brought a stand-up floor fan over. He plugged it in, and it blew gusts of air at him while he performed a satirical striptease, with liberal suggestions of auto-eroticism. Mak laughed out loud. The man was a sensational tease.

She looked around.

Where is Damien?

Mak’s stature assisted her in scanning the crowd for the man in the mask. Perhaps he had a contact there, someone who could hook him up with whatever he desired?

A rockabilly band next took to the stage, amped up to maximum volume. They began performing a song that appeared to be about cocaine use—perhaps fittingly for the Snowdroppers, as they called themselves.

Just as she was getting into the music and working her way from one side of the room to the other, looking for Damien Cavanagh or James Wendt, Mak noticed with discomfort that a man at the nearby bar, sober as a stone, was looking at
her
intensely. He had dark eyes, prominent eyebrows, a handsome face, thin lips. She had been prepared for leering drunks or awkward conversations with oddly dressed strangers, but not this. He was too focused as he approached her, too sober.

‘Do you come to gigs like this a lot?’ he asked. Immediately there was something Mak didn’t like about him. Something she didn’t trust. Just behind him, a buxom redhead leaned against the bar with her bosoms lifted proudly, hoping to catch his eye, or hers, Mak could not be sure.

‘
Are
there gigs like this a lot?’ Mak replied with incredulity. She doubted that, but then she had been out of Sydney for a while. She continued to scan the crowd, hoping the man would leave her.

Her attention was again diverted, this time by a flash of flame. ‘Absinthe, darling.’

It was the redhead, holding a glass towards her.

‘Hi,’ Mak said.

Already the woman had the flesh of her shoulder pressed against Mak. She blew her own flaming drink out and sucked the shot back in the time it would take any normal person to inhale a raindrop. Mak took her cue to quickly extinguish her little fire. Steadying herself, she tossed the absinthe shot down her throat, barely touching the warm lip of the glass. It stung, and left a hot aftertaste of liquorice.

Oh, wow…

‘Thanks for the drink. That’s very cool of you.’

‘You looked like you needed it. There’s a clique that put on things like this every few weeks. Different venues, different names. You should really come more often,’ the redhead told her. ‘You’re so pretty you should be onstage.’

‘Thanks,’ Mak said awkwardly, still keeping an eye out for Damien and Wendt in the gyrating crowd.

‘Did you see that French troupe when they were in town?’ came another voice. By now the strange man was being distanced from her, and she was grateful for it.

Mak looked over her shoulder. Her new friend was a tall, thin, serenely attractive woman in full gothic attire: white face, black lips, glossy black hair falling down her back to a nipped waist encased in tight corsetry. Mak had moved forward to place her empty shot glass on the bar, and was now frozen mid-lope, like a gazelle in an artist’s study.

‘Do you mean Le Théâtre des Horreurs?’ Mak responded. ‘No, I missed them.’

Perhaps this is Adam Hart’s kind of place
? Somehow, that was hard to imagine.

‘Shame.’ The black lips pursed slightly. ‘Moira Finucane is on next week at the Speigeltent. I hope I see you there.’ She spoke the last sentence with a small flicker of a smile. Now it dawned on Mak that she was alone at a bar, being flirted with. It was familiar, of course, though much more fun in this crowd. Nothing like her other work for Marian.

Mak returned the woman’s smile, flattered. She wondered if accepting the absinthe shot had been such a good idea. She could have turned it down, but it would have seemed rude. Now her brain was more than a little fuzzy. For a few seconds she searched for something to say to the woman, who she felt was infinitely cooler than she was. ‘Yeah,’ she
finally managed, feeling hugely unimpressive, and perhaps even unworthy of the get-up that had piqued the woman’s interest.

‘You make a pretty brunette,’ the lady goth persisted.

‘Thanks.’
The wig is obvious. I knew it was obvious.

Before Mak could compliment her in return, the woman walked away to join her group, a glass of dark liquid in her pale hands. She left behind the faint scent of incense. In seconds, the man had slid into her place, and to Mak’s horror, he leaned in close and spoke into her ear. ‘You’ve been busy since you got back in town,’ he said.

She flinched.

Had she heard that right?
Back
in town? That was not standard pick-up chat. ‘Pardon me?’

His look was direct, but he didn’t answer. She was sure he had heard her question.
What’s going on here?
He seemed uninterested in repeating his question, and she did not want to play games.

‘Oh, I see, you’ve been reading the papers, huh?’ she mumbled, not caring whether he heard her over the loud music or not. He was like the man on the bus, commenting on the news articles. How annoying. Now she wanted to leave. She turned, but was intercepted.

‘You shouldn’t be following him,’ he said, gripping her forearm.

She yanked her arm away. ‘What?’ Her head snapped around to face him eye to eye. His thin lips looked mean.
Cruel.
At this distance she could smell him, and he smelled of cheap cologne and dirty money.

The Cavanaghs. The Cavanaghs have sent him. He’s following me. The bastard is following me.

‘Where’s your baseball cap, arsehole?’ she said. ‘I’m out of here.’

‘What’s up? Is this guy bothering you?’ Her buxom red-haired admirer gave the man a vicious shove, which he didn’t react to, and grabbed Mak by the hand, hauling her away from the bar, nearly causing her to trip. Now Mak noticed a full-sleeve tattoo of swirling waves and koi. The woman had muscle.

Holy shit. This is getting crazy.

The man held his hands in the air, palms up, and didn’t follow, but Mak suspected she would see him later, if he was indeed the man in the baseball cap. Mak felt she had already outstayed her welcome. She was halfway down the staircase when her flame-haired protector spoke up.

‘But Belladonna hasn’t even gone on stage yet!’

‘I’m sorry. I have to go. Thanks for the drink.’

The bouncer noticed her on the way out. ‘Leaving so soon?’

She said nothing.

Mak arrived home humiliated. It should have been easy to follow Damien Cavanagh around for a few days, and figure out who his main contacts were, and what they were known for. If he was up to his old tricks, she’d soon find out. But what was the story with her being tailed everywhere? Did Damien really have security looking out for her?

Dammit.

She marched down the echoing hallway and fumbled with her keys. The door opened for her, and she found herself looking at Bogey, unshaven, his black hair slightly ruffled. In her boots she was slightly taller than he.

‘Hi, are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Sort of.’

It was one in the morning, and he was still awake. There were sketchpads on the coffee table. He noticed her looking at them. ‘Just working on some design ideas for a new chair,’ he explained. ‘Kick your boots off and relax. Would you like a drink? I made myself a rum and Coke. Would you like one?’

‘Sure,’ Mak answered. ‘Tonight was a damned disaster,’ she said flatly, and sighed. ‘At least a woman bought me a drink, so I guess it wasn’t a total failure.’ She plonked herself heavily on the sofa.

Bogey took her coat and placed it carefully over the back of a stool, walked to the stereo and turned it on. It was tuned to a station playing a Nick Cave tune: ‘Into my arms…oh love…into my arms…’

‘Is the music okay?’

‘I love Nick Cave. Love him.’

‘So what happened?’

‘It was stupid of me. I was trying to follow Damien Cavanagh, and I got made. Bad.’

There was the clinking of ice, and the sound of bottles. ‘Is he still up to no good?’ Bogey asked.

She looked up. At least someone sympathised with her side of things. ‘I don’t know yet. That’s what I hope to find out.’

He handed the drink to her, and sat next to her on the sofa. ‘I think you are very brave,’ he said.

Their faces were close, and without a word she locked her lips to his—the first time she had ever kissed him; the first lips she had kissed except Andy’s for what had been years. He tasted delicious. His mouth was soft, his lips like pillows, and so much warmer than hers. His whole body seemed unreasonably
warm and magnetic to the touch. They lunged at each other like lovesick teenagers for a moment, kissing and holding each other, until she pulled back, awash with guilt. Was it because she had wanted this so much while she was still living with Andy? She had only just broken with him, and already she was prepared to leap into this other man’s arms? Was this what her heart was made of? But, of course, he wasn’t just any man.