Siren (9 page)

With shaky hands, Mak sat up and untangled the sheets that had wrapped themselves tightly around her body.

On the windowsill Loulou’s alarm clock glowed: 2:35 a.m. Mak was alone, edgy and now viciously awake. She had convinced Andy to leave. She had pushed him out the door and locked it, then cried herself to sleep.
The last time. That is the last time you will ever cry yourself to sleep over him, or any other man.

But she was restless now. And awake. As her disorientation faded, she realised that something had woken her.

The front door.

There was a footstep. The front door creaked and clicked shut. Someone was definitely there, in the apartment. It was not her imagination.
Shit.
Mak made out the sound of one set of footsteps, not two. It could not be the lovebirds Loulou and Drayson back ahead of schedule…

This is bad…

Immediately, Mak snapped into her well-honed survival mode. With silent stealth, she rolled out of Loulou’s bed,
arriving in a crouch on the floor and picturing in sharp relief every dimension and object in the dark room.
Set of keys to hold in my fist like a weapon. Alarm clock wire. Knives in a rack in the kitchen—too far. Sliding window one foot away. Garden courtyard beyond.

There was a noise like something hitting a wall, a rustle of metal, then footsteps approached.
No time.
In seconds Mak had rolled under the bed with the apartment keys in her right fist and one of Drayson’s pointy black shoes in the other.

The bedroom light came on.

Mak squinted.

She had only a sliver of vision. The intruder was a man of slim build, with dark hair, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. He was alone. He had his back to her. Strangely, he was leaning casually against the closet door and kicking off his cowboy boots. The leather jacket landed on the floor.

What the…?

With his boots off, he turned towards the bed and began undoing the snaps of his black collared shirt. Mak blinked, still gripping her makeshift weapons, though less tightly. The man’s shirt came off to reveal one tattoo after another, illustrating an attractive, toned torso. A large belt buckle, in rockabilly style, cinched his jeans and he unbuckled it with one hand as he tossed his shirt with the other. A face emerged from beneath the crown of rocker hair, a face framed by a familiar quiff and a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

I don’t believe this. I don’t bloody believe this…

‘Bogey…?’

The sound of her voice startled him. He jumped back a metre, then fell into something like a ninja stance, eyes darting in all directions.

‘Bogey, it’s Mak,’ she explained from the safety of her hiding place.

‘What…? Where are you?’

‘Don’t laugh…I’m under the bed. I thought you were an intruder.’

He bent to look for her, but she stopped him. ‘Don’t look! I’m not wearing any clothes.’ Her words hung in the air, surreal, and she began to laugh. ‘This is so ridiculous! Sometimes I hate Loulou, I really do.’

‘Mak? Are you okay? They didn’t tell me you were going to be staying.’

‘Loulou didn’t tell me
you
were here!’

There was either a massive miscommunication somewhere, or Loulou really was a scatterbrain. Or playing Cupid.

‘I think this is yours,’ Mak said, and held the pointy black shoe out from under the bed as a kind of peace offering.

‘Oh, Mak. I’ll get you something to put on. I’m so sorry.’ She watched the lower half of his body rush off and appear a few moments later accompanied by a fluffy pink robe. He placed it next to the bed, careful not to look at her.

‘I’m not sure if this is my colour,’ Mak said, still under the bed—relief, bewilderment and a certain excitement coursing through her.

Tuesday morning the summer sun beat down on Lara as she traversed the alley with an armful of boxes and a heavy satchel thrown over her shoulder.

She had already packed her drum kit and personal belongings on the tour bus, and now she halted before the steps of the star performer’s gleaming Airstream, hoping to have a chat. She needed to discuss a problem with the glamorous Bijou, presently leaning languidly against her trailer door, shaded from the sun in a silk slip and robe, a cigarette balanced elegantly between the fingers of her right hand.

La Femme Assassinée.

Bijou was fully made up and bejewelled, even though it was morning, as if she thought she might be living in a black-and-white film and had to forever be ready for her close-up. While the rest of the troupe had been eating at a nearby café and packing their things, she would have been powdering, scenting and painting herself. Bijou was never seen without makeup, and she never ate before midday. Breakfast was vulgar, she was often heard to say.

‘Tell me you’re not going to,’ Lara said.

Bijou took a drag of her cigarette, and smiled slightly.

The two women were a study in contrasts. Lara had been born and raised in America and divided her time between Venice Beach, California, and Paris when the troupe was not on the road. Bijou, however, was born in Paris and was proudly, demonstratively French—if arguably from another era. Lara had none of Bijou’s affectations. She wore her hair cropped short, and preferred to dress in baggy jeans and T-shirts when not performing in her mannish stage tuxedo. Bijou, on the other hand, would never be seen in anything less than the attire of a star. The concept of casual dressing was anathema to her. Thankfully, she had long ago given up complaining about Lara’s lack of feminine glamour. It helped that Lara did not like men, and there was no competition between Bijou and this much younger woman. Bijou reserved her scorn instead for the troupe’s other two female members, Gia and Yelena, who it seemed were never thin enough or pretty enough to live up to her demands.

Lara and Bijou shared an unusual relationship that defied conventional labels. In fact, most of the troupe could be described in such terms. Few on the outside would understand their dynamic. But one thing was clear: Bijou was the star, the senior and founding member of the troupe, and had the final say in all of the big decisions. And she held the purse. Her absolute authority was rarely questioned. Lara was the only member of the troupe who would even dare to delicately enquire about Bijou’s decisions, or choice of company…which she was questioning now.

The packing up was being finalised before the drive to the final show of their Australian tour, and while Bijou was
wasting time with her cigarette—and Lara was waiting for a response—the rest of the troupe was doing the heavy work. Lara was becoming impatient.

‘Don’t do this again,’ she pressed, the satchel weighing heavily on her shoulder. The petite performer only flashed her beautifully painted eyes at the younger woman in response, then turned her gaze to observe the well-built young man walking towards them, the subject of Lara’s comments. The boy had the moronic beauty of youth in abundance, Lara had to concede. His hair was blond and thick, his body lean, fit, and precisely formed. He had been in the company of the theatrical troupe for a full week. For Lara, this was seven days too many, but the star performer clearly thought otherwise, and no doubt would have her way. Bijou was no dummy. She spoke fluent English and Russian, in addition to her native French, and yet when it suited her she would feign misunderstanding. ‘
Comment? Je ne comprends pas
.’ Or, as with this conversation, she would simply choose not to respond. Bijou had no peer in the art of getting her way.

‘Brisbane? For one show? Why bother?’ Lara complained, before he was in earshot.

And certainly not Paris…

At that moment the young man approached bearing a styrofoam cup of coffee.

Bijou had sent him to fetch a café au lait, her morning beverage of choice. It would be pretty hard to find coffee she liked once they hit the road again. Adam must have sensed he was being watched. He looked up with an eager smile, his eyes directed towards the object of his flagrant crush, who for her part returned his gaze with an encouraging nod and a flick of the tassel of her robe.

Merde.

Lara shook her head, not finding the words to express the frustrated thoughts cycling through her brain.

The young man waved in their direction with the enthusiasm of a child, and sped up his pace. Bijou, having remained silent all this time, only smiled mischievously. ‘
Pourquoi pas
?’ she said.

Why not?

And then Bijou, the infamous scream queen, the assassinated woman, vanished into her trailer, leaving only the teasingly beautiful scent of L’Air du Temps, and the whirl of silk robe in her wake.

First thing on Tuesday morning Makedde Vanderwall sprinted to the bathroom to avoid her accidental roommate, Bogey Mortimer.

Thirty minutes later she emerged, composed, fresh and perfumed, wearing a blouse and pencil skirt, heels in hand, hair tamed and makeup applied, the slight puffiness of her eyes the only clue to the draining and near-sleepless twenty-four hours she had experienced. She wished she could have put her alarm forward by an hour or two, but she was eager to meet Tobias Murphy before he left for school. It was still too early in the morning to call Loulou, who would no doubt be sleeping off another night of holiday festivities in Byron. Mak would have a few choice words with her later.

She padded quietly across the polished concrete floor of the hallway, unsure if Bogey would be awake. After only a few steps, her nostrils knew the answer.

Coffee.

Bogey was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast and working the coffee machine like a barista. He turned when she
approached. ‘Hi,’ she watched his mouth say, mesmerised. He gave her a slow, friendly smile. ‘You obviously don’t need beauty sleep. You look great.’

She felt herself grow a little taller with his compliment. ‘Hello, stranger,’ she replied, and immediately regretted the cliché. She still felt somewhat off guard in his presence. The couch was a little dishevelled, a doona thrown over one end. ‘I hope you slept okay.’

‘I slept just fine. Espresso or latte?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I’d love a latte. Thank you.’

‘I think there’s enough milk,’ he replied, tipping the carton. ‘I made you some toast and eggs. I hope you don’t mind scrambled?’

‘Perfect.’

Heaven. Is this heaven?

Mak had not seen Drayson’s friend Bogey Mortimer in almost a year. Back then, she’d had rather a crush on him. He was attractive, artistic, sensitive, interesting. She had convinced herself that he had seemed appealing because she and Andy were having problems—and Bogey was so different to the jaded, stoic cop that was Detective Andy Flynn. In the time since she’d last seen Bogey she had wrestled with her relationship with Andy and finally moved to Canberra to make it work, only to watch everything between them dissolve into misery and petty bickering. That once promising future was gone. She knew the reality of the loneliness and frustration the relationship held for her. It was over.

And here he is. Bogey. I can’t believe it.

‘You still hanging out in strip clubs for a living?’ he quipped, plating their breakfast.

Mak laughed. ‘Not lately. But I’ll have to make a return.’

Shortly after their first meeting in Melbourne, she had dragged Bogey along to a lap dancing club called Thunderballs when a case had led her to contact a particular dancer at the club. Bogey had agreed to be her fake boyfriend, so she wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion in the male-dominated environment. She recalled how he had sat nervously tapping his foot and wondering where to look while a dancer named Charlotte tried to wiggle her way around Mak’s probing questions, quite in the buff. Memories of that shared moment brought a slight grin to her lips.

‘You still designing coffins for bikie gangs?’ was her comeback. Once a coffin-maker in small-town Australia, Bogey had moved on to designing furniture, but not before his services had been enlisted by the Coffin Cheaters gang, who’d had him make coffin-shaped eskies and tables for their club-house when he was a teenager. In return, they had marked him with a number of wild tattoos.

‘No coffins this week,’ he replied good-naturedly.

She sat on a stool and he served her, leaning over her for a moment to put her plate down. He smelled like honey and amber incense, and her attention lingered on his scent, before the lure of food drew her to her plate. The eggs looked perfect, and steamingly hot. Mak herself was domestically retarded. She could barely cook toast. ‘Thanks, Bogey. This looks fantastic.’

‘My pleasure. I thought you could use some caffeine and sustenance.’

That I can.

After breakfast she led Bogey into Loulou’s bedroom. ‘I really am sorry about the mix-up. I put your things over there.’ She pointed to one corner of the room.

I touched his underwear. I folded goddamn Bogey Mortimer’s underwear without even knowing it.

‘It’s no problem, really. I’m the one who’s sorry. No one wants to wake up like that.’

Mak left that one alone.

‘I had to drive back to St Kilda on Saturday for a couple of extra things from the shop.’ He had a boutique furniture shop showcasing his own designs.

That would be why she hadn’t been disturbed the first night.

‘You must be exhausted from all that driving.’

‘I like driving,’ he said, and she remembered his beautiful vintage car. Who wouldn’t enjoy driving that?

Standing so close to him, her heart sped up. Or maybe it was the fresh caffeine. She remembered watching him take his shirt off. Tattoos. Skin.

Loulou, dammit. You could have prepared me.

Bogey leaned down and picked up the folded pile of his things. Her eyes clapped on his form a touch too long—the curve of his muscles, the back of his neck—and when he stood up again, she looked down at her feet.

Awkward. This is awkward.

‘Thanks again for breakfast. You are so thoughtful. I am so sorry to eat and run, but I have a case,’ she said abruptly. ‘Perhaps we can catch up later? I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to.’

She turned on her heel and headed out, still not quite believing the night she’d had.