Siren (21 page)

On Saturday, Glenise Hart waited in line at the supermarket near her home, pushing an overflowing trolley.

She felt a stab of loneliness, contemplating the groceries. She could not escape the fact that she was about to buy a lot of things she did not need. The household was not running out of supplies as quickly as usual. Adam’s favourite snacks still lined the cupboards, and her shopping trolley was brimming with stocks of food necessary to satisfy her son’s young appetite, stocks she didn’t really need. But Glenise was still shopping as if everything were normal. Though it had been almost two weeks since Adam had disappeared, she had not told anyone except the police, the investigation agency and the Murphy family, who’d recommended them. No one at work needed to know and, anyway, she would not have been able to handle their questions and concern. Glenise was barely containing her fear that she had not only lost her husband to a freak accident but had also pushed her only child away.

You will be alone.

‘G’day,’ the check-out boy mumbled.

‘Hello,’ Glenise responded, with a cheer she did not feel.

‘That will be two hundred and thirty six dollars and fifty cents. Cash or credit?’

She dutifully handed over her credit card.

‘Credit or savings?’

‘Credit, thank you.’

Normal. Everything was so very normal. She would return home with the groceries to the same home that until recently had been inhabited by both her husband and their son, and try to feel normal about it.

The check-out boy swiped her MasterCard, and tapped his fingers a few times while he waited for it to go through. The fingers stopped and he frowned. ‘It says your card is declined.’

Glenise blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘Your card has been declined. Do you have another one?’

Glenise frowned. How could the card be overextended? By her calculation it should have at least another $3000 on it, more than enough for this grocery expedition. Despite the fact that her late husband had previously balanced the bills, she was very good at doing the family accounts herself, and there were never purchases made that she didn’t know about or could not account for. There had to be some mistake.

‘Can you try it again?’ she asked, confused.

‘Sure,’ the young man said unenthusiastically.

He swiped the card. He waited.

‘Sorry,’ he said simply and handed it back.

She reddened. For a moment Glenise did not know what to do. Her thin veneer of normality had been torn open.

Adam.

Of course.
She peeled her wallet open again and pulled her American Express card out of its slot. ‘My mistake,’ she said, smiling stiffly. ‘This one should work.’

Seventeen minutes later, Glenise was on her home phone, barely breathing as she waited. She had been on hold for what seemed an eternity.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am.’ The voice on the other end of the line sounded slightly concerned. ‘There was a fairly large purchase made outside Australia on the card in the past twenty-four hours. In euros.’

There was a long pause, interrupted only by a crackle of static. ‘Ma’am, are you there?’

‘Yes. Can you give me details please?’

‘The payment was made to Cartier in Paris. I’m afraid the exchange rate isn’t very good at the moment. The total came to $3482.75 Australian.’

Adam!

‘Ma’am, do you want to report the card stolen?’ the woman asked.

Glenise paused. ‘No. No thanks. It’s fine. I remember now. Cartier in Paris. Oh, yes. Silly me. Everything’s fine. Thank you for your help.’

Glenise hung up, and quickly pulled herself together. This was good news. She knew where Adam’s card was, and that meant she knew where he was likely to be.

Shakily, she picked up the phone and dialled Marian Wendell and Associates Professional Private Investigations.

Makedde drove to St Ives more or less straight from the airport knowing only that the news about Adam was urgent, and that his mother believed there was a chance he had been located. She hoped for Glenise’s sake that was true, and that he was safe and well. A day and a half in Brisbane had done nothing to bring him home.

She rang the doorbell, and the door opened immediately. Her client must have heard the car pull up.

‘He’s in Paris. My boy is in Paris. Get him for me,’ Glenise said, gripping her arm tightly. She appeared even more high strung then before.

Paris.

‘Are you certain?’ Mak asked, her heart speeding up.

Le Théâtre des Horreurs.
It had to be the troupe he was following. She’d checked on the net and the troupe that had been in Sydney and then Brisbane had completed its Australian tour and could well have returned to its base in Paris. Was Adam there, too?

He is serious about this.

‘Come in, sit down.’ Glenise hustled her into the living room and sat on the edge of the couch, eager. ‘He used my credit card in Paris.’

‘Is he in trouble? What was the charge for?’

‘Something from Cartier.’

‘Cartier? The jeweller?’
My God. He wants to marry someone.
‘Glenise, do you know what he purchased?’

‘No. The lady from the credit card company just said it was from Cartier. It cost more than $3000! I was afraid to ask more questions in case I aroused suspicion and the card got cut off. I don’t want Adam to get cut off! I need him to come home.
I need you to go and get him for me
,’ Glenise pleaded, her voice rising. The corners of her mouth turned down. Her eyes glittered. Mak worried that her client might be on the edge of tears, this one time she’d forgotten to bring tissues. ‘Bring him back, please.’

Paris.

Paris was one of Mak’s favourite cities. She had modelled there in her teens and early twenties and had not been back in almost a decade. Naturally she would jump at the opportunity to return.

Mrs Hart went on. ‘I don’t think he’d come back with me. I need you to do it.’ Mak watched as the woman wrestled with some internal conflict. ‘I wasn’t totally open about everything. The truth is, things have been very difficult at home since John was killed. Adam has been, well, playing up a lot, and we’ve had some terrible fights. I’m afraid I must have pushed him away.’

Mak nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry to hear that things have been difficult. It’s hard to lose a spouse, and hard to lose a parent.’

Glenise’s voice wobbled. ‘Please, find my son and bring him home.’

Mak promised to do all in her power to find Adam and persuade him to return. She would be on the next available flight, and the first place she would be looking was wherever Le Théâtre des Horreurs was performing. That brochure was not a coincidence. Not if Adam had been in Brisbane and was now in Paris at the same time as the troupe. He had written about them and ripped out the pages. Or someone else had. Wherever they were, wherever the brunette with the ‘great legs’ was, Mak believed she would find Adam.

But what if he doesn’t want to come back?

On Sunday afternoon in Paris, Arslan the contortionist sat folded into his old stage box, spying on the world inside Bijou’s luxurious bedroom.

This was an oft-adopted position for Arslan, and the pose—though requiring great discipline—comforted him. Over the years he had trained himself to maintain this secretive confinement for hours at a time, his entire frame fitting neatly inside the small, knee-high box. It had several spy-holes through which he could observe the room around him. The box had been replaced—for stage purposes—with a more ornate and beautiful one, of brighter wood, which stood out under the spotlight. Arslan was still attached to his dark old box, however, for reasons Bijou was not aware of. Often, after being temporarily replaced by another lover, he would return to Bijou’s sleeping quarters to be near her in this way. Such was the case now. The young lover who had most recently replaced Arslan was in Bijou’s bedroom with her.
Adam.
In less than an hour they were all required to be in the little theatre to prepare for their first performance back in Paris. Instead of
getting ready for the evening’s show, Bijou was half-listening to her new young lover while she tinkered at her impressive, Hollywood-style dressing table.

‘I know you said you don’t ever want to marry. But I wanted to show you my commitment,’ the boy said. He was earnest in both words and appearance, attired in smart trousers and a pressed shirt. He looked serious, and gripped a small package.

‘
Oui
?’ Bijou responded, turning from the mirrored vanity where she had been powdering herself.

‘
Oui
,’ Adam repeated, his pronunciation appalling, Arslan thought. ‘Bijou, um,
amour. Je t’aime
.’ He handed her the box, which was beautifully wrapped in vibrant red. ‘Happy birthday.’

Arslan’s eyes narrowed.

‘What is this?’ Bijou asked coyly, her eyes sparkling with delight. She was now perched on the edge of her vanity stool, her silk dress falling open to reveal her shapely legs. Arslan could see her back reflected sensually in the mirror behind her. Her dress had a deep ‘V’ that exposed her spine to the waist. He vividly remembered having effortlessly liberated her from it on numerous occasions, when he had been her preferred companion.

‘You deserve the most beautiful things in life,’ Adam said earnestly.

Arslan shifted a few millimetres in his box. He had given Bijou a spectacular bouquet of roses this year for her birthday. He could see them in the corner of the room, standing proudly, and colourfully. What would this gauche boy buy her? And two days late? Some horrible perfume?

He watched as she untied the bow, and slid the ribbon off the box.

‘You are so kind,’ she told the boy, and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. She peeled the paper back to reveal a red jewellery coffret.

The boy clasped his hands together tightly. ‘I love you, Bijou,’ he said as she opened the little box, her delicate mouth opening in surprise. ‘I wanted to give you this on your birthday, but—’

And now, to Arslan’s horror, Bijou was smiling, delighted. ‘Oh, my dear Adam! It is
magnifique
!’ she exclaimed.

Arslan could not see! He tried to shift position, only to discover, naturally, there was no room to manoeuvre. He could not see what was in the box, but
her
eyes were wide with wonder at whatever it held. She was overjoyed. What had this fool given her?

‘
Magnifique
!’ she repeated.

Arslan felt himself panic. He wanted to leap out of the box and snatch the thing away. What was it? What had he given her? A ring? Was he proposing?

Bijou reached into the box and lifted something from it. It glittered in her hands, and he could make it out now—a beautiful piece of jewellery. A ring. It was small but undeniably elegant. Arslan could make out the store name on the jewellery box.

Cartier.

‘I love you,’ the fool told her. ‘I love you.’ He was on his knees now, embracing her legs and resting his head against her soft thighs. ‘I had it engraved. It says
Amor Vincit Omnia
, and your name. Love conquers all.’

Bijou was speechless. The boy took the ring and gently placed it on her hand. It took him a couple of tries before he found the right finger.
Clumsy boy.
Now he sat back on the
bed and admired the gift he had chosen, while Arslan strained to get a better view of Bijou’s reaction.

She reached for an ornate hand mirror from the vanity table to better admire herself, to admire her slender fingers, now complemented by this shining piece of jewellery.

‘You are the only woman I have ever loved,’ he told her, back on his knees.

‘
Je t’aime, aussi
,’ she replied, admiring the way the gold sat against her skin. She leaned towards Adam and kissed him hard on the lips.

Arslan’s stomach churned. She appeared so passionate. This was different. He could sense it. Could she actually be falling for this boy?

‘I will wear our pearls tonight…the pearls you gave me in Sydney.’

Pearls?

She removed an antique-looking set of pearls from the drawer of her vanity, and the boy took them from her with care, placing them around her slender throat with a lover’s touch.

Now more than ever, Arslan wanted to kill this interloper.

The boy’s fingers trailed maddeningly down her nape, down her exquisite back, and she twisted on her stool to gaze up at him. ‘Run away with me,’ she blurted.

Arslan blinked.
What did she say?

‘I’m so tired of this life, these shows, this ungrateful troupe. Let’s go away.’

‘But what about your career? You’re a star, Bijou!’

Bijou turned back to the mirror. Watching her young lover’s reflection, she dabbed rouge on her cheeks and lipgloss on her sensual mouth. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she said firmly,
‘enough of this life.’ She put down her makeup. ‘Always travelling, always working, always looking after those kids.’ She threw her arms in the air. ‘Enough of it! Enough of them. I haven’t been treated properly for years. We’ll do this show together, tonight, you and I. And then, we leave.’

What was she saying?

Arslan’s English was far from fluent, but he could not mistake her meaning. Was she being literal, or was this some tale she wished to make the boy believe?

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll have enough money to live on for years.’

Arslan’s face darkened. She meant it. Bijou was going to leave him, and the rest of them, to be with this foolish boy she had taken up with. She was going to take all their money, his money, his twin sister, Yelena’s, money. She was never going to give them, or the rest of the troupe, their proper share. She wasn’t hanging onto it for them, doing what was best for them. She wasn’t looking out for their interests. She was going to rob them and abandon them.

After decades, Bijou was leaving again.

Non! Maman, non…

Inside his small box, Arslan felt the sting of hot tears. He saw himself leap from his secret place like a jack-in-the-box to strangle his mother with those pearls, but he did not move or make a sound. His torment remained contained, just as
he
was, in the little box. He stayed folded in the tiny box just as he had been taught as a child. Like the others, he and Yelena were the spawn of Bijou’s affairs over years of travelling in vaudeville. His biological father was a Russian-born contortionist, a defector. Arslan had no memory of the man, no photograph. He and Yelena were not allowed to speak his
name. And from the earliest age, they were not allowed to call her ‘
maman
’, either. Bijou had them, but they never had her. She had come and gone from their lives as it suited her, and denied them normal motherly love. Her sexual love for Arslan had also come and gone.

Maman…

After a decade of travelling as a troupe, finally giving them all a place to belong together, Bijou was going to leave them again.

Arslan could not let her do that.

Bijou and her lover left her apartment for the theatre, and as soon as the door clicked shut, Arslan opened the top hatch of his old stage box. He crawled out limb by limb, and gracefully touched his feet on the hardwood floor as a spider would. Inwardly, he shook with grief.

He was quick to make his way to the quarters he shared with Yelena, to change and grab his things for the performance, aware that he would need to race to the venue—only a few blocks from the corner of Montmartre where all the troupe lived in close proximity—to arrive on time. But before he left, he stood by the doorway with his eyes shut tight, struggling with a decision.

Maman…

Back in his own apartment, he walked quickly, determinedly, to his single bed and lifted the mattress. His hand hovered near a vial of liquid he had hidden there. His body froze momentarily while inner turmoil raged. Finally he picked up the vial and pocketed it.