Christa Ludlow : Double Header

Bitch! My eyes jerked open to see only darkness.

Flames of fear raced down my spine.

Who was in the room with me? That voice, full of bitterness and husky with alcohol, still reverberated in my head. That voice… Oh no. I knew that voice.

Tiredly, I sat up in bed, switched on the bedside lamp and reached for my pen and notebook.

***

"That’s how it’s supposed to be," said my friend Claire, over coffee at Bar Italia on one of the rare occasions when I surfaced from the depths of writing. "The characters drive you. Kerry Greenwood talks about Phryne Fisher like she’s a real person."

I was annoyed. I had expected more sympathy. No writer deserves to be woken at 3 am by one of her characters. "Rubbish. It’s all in the writer’s subconscious, whether they know it or not. I must be so close to my characters that I’m thinking about them even when I’m asleep."

Claire looked sceptical.

"It can happen," I said. "Carmel Bird suggests that you start writing immediately you wake up because you’re in a relaxed state, receptive to the workings of your imagination. It’s not surprising that writing gets into your REM sleep."

"Well I think you’re very fortunate," she replied, stirring her cappuccino. "At least you have characters with lives of their own. Do you know what Jack wrote on my last effort? ‘Your main male character would be more believable if he didn’t combine the looks of Tom Cruise with the charisma of John Howard.’"

Jack is our creative writing lecturer. Claire and I are both writing students, although our backgrounds are very different. Claire decided to write erotic novels after her divorce left her with a comfortable terrace in Balmain, two grown up children and lots of time on her hands. Now she is running a one woman campaign on campus to make erotic fiction a genre subject.

Jack at least is receptive to her ideas, although this semester he was teaching the crime fiction genre class, so Claire’s created a PI who wears black rubber around the office and works undercover in a massage parlour.

As for me, I’d always liked writing stories, but after dropping out of University I had travelled overseas for three years, working at casual jobs. Nothing seemed as exciting when I came back to Sydney, and the boyfriend I had collected on my travels decided to return to Canada and became an accountant. I drifted into a series of clerical positions. They paid well enough, and left me lots of spare time, but now my weekends mainly consisted of hanging out in the living room with my cat.

My latest job was writing publicity brochures and advertisements for a real estate agency in Paddington. After six weeks of writing about "Parisian lifestyles" and "sun-drenched views" I knew that there was a lack of fulfilment in my life, so I enrolled at the University to give it a second try.

I didn’t know much about crime writing. It was the only writing class at a time that suited me, though, and I thought it would be easy enough. I’d read some Ruth Rendell – I was in.

How wrong I was. According to Jack the fashionable crime story was "hard boiled" – James Ellroy, Dennis Lehane, other authors I’d never heard of. Most of them American. I couldn’t get into it. I had no idea what I would write for my assessment.

Finally Jack took pity on me. "Here, Anna," he said. "Have a look through these. I keep old news cuttings just in case I can turn one of them into a story idea one day. You might find something you can work on."

I flicked through the articles until I found one that interested me. It was an article from the Herald. The journalist’s name was Simon Healey. He had investigated the system of police witness protection in Australia. One woman he had tracked down had agreed to talk about her experiences. She had been married to a lawyer who had worked for some serious criminals during his career. One of his clients, Bill Kotsidis, was involved in drug importation. The police had focused on the lawyer as the weak link in the chain, and sure enough, he turned informer on his client’s importation network.

Her husband’s decision changed everything for "Maxine", as she was called in the article. Overnight her life as she knew it ended. She and her two children had been whisked away overseas by the witness security program to an unknown destination. They had lost their friends, their family, even their names and were forced to assume a new life "somewhere in an English speaking country". They even had to leave the family dog behind.

She was pretty scathing about the way the police handled it. Security bungles, confusion with their travel arrangements, and no money to speak of were just some of the problems she described. She and her husband still weren’t reunited; he was hiding somewhere in Australia, waiting to give evidence in Kotsidis’ trial. Of course, I reminded myself, that was months ago. There was no way of knowing what had happened since.

Healey hadn’t been able to use her real name in his article. She was just referred to as "Maxine"; her husband was "Robert".

It sounded like the basis of a good story. I thought I could write something from the point of view of "Maxine" – the midnight escape, the constant fear that her husband’s enemies would find her and take their revenge, and the loneliness. I copied the article, took it home and started writing. The first words flowed on the page without any effort, without even thinking about it:

Hang on, I thought. Was this woman trying to convince people that she didn’t know what her husband did for a living? Who would believe that?

I knew that I would have to rewrite that part. But just then, I couldn’t. I had to write the scenes that were coming into my head faster than I could type. The nightmarish interview when she was told her life was effectively over. The disbelief, the anger, the craziness. The children screaming for their father.

And then the flight to Los Angeles with their entire lives packed into three suitcases. I didn’t stop writing until they were safely on the aeroplane and then, as they slumped in their seats while Sydney receded in the distance, suddenly I was able to relax.

I’d never written anything like this. I wasn’t planning ahead or thinking out the plot. The words came into my head and I typed them rapidly into the computer. Just like that. I used to have trouble writing five hundred words a day. Now it was a thousand, two thousand, even three thousand. What had started out as a short story had passed the magical five thousand word barrier and it was heading for a novel.

This went on for two weeks. I would find myself writing at work, trying to hide the computer screen from my boss. At the end of the day I was exhausted, but I couldn’t rest. I had to keep a book beside my bed for the dialogue that would come into my head just as I was dropping off to sleep. Maxine had an eventful life before the witness security program cut it short, and I described it all in flashbacks. Robert was weak, and it was weakness that had led him into working for Kotsidis. At first everything had gone well. The money flowed in, Robert’s small criminal law practice expanded, and the family were able to move up to the North Shore. Maxine had taken up the good life with enthusiasm, driving the children to school in the Range Rover, working on the rose garden, and decorating their Art Deco house in Wahroonga. I could almost see her – the blonde bobbed hair, the elegant Trent Nathan suits, the designer sunglasses. She was even thinking of starting a career as an interior decorator.

But then that was before it all went ‘belly up’ as Maxine – I mean I – described it.

One weekend Robert told her a few clients were coming over for a barbecue at their house. Kotsidis was among them, although Maxine didn’t know who he was then. His friends weren’t Maxine’s type at all.

"Where did you say you met these people?" I hissed at Robert as I took the bowl of mango salsa out to the table. He was looking sick, despite the flush on his skin from the heat of the barbecue.

"Just business friends, sweetheart. Make nice, OK? That salsa looks delicious. I’m sure they’re having a good time."

"My salsa’s wasted on them," I told him. I looked over at them. They were roaring with laughter at some joke one of them had just finished telling. "Fucking beautiful, mate," said Kotsidis. "You screwed him good." The table was littered with beer bottles.

One of the men got up unsteadily from the table and went towards the hedge that enclosed my rose garden. I followed him. "Excuse me," I said in a polite voice as I caught up with him, "is there anything I can…" My voice trailed off as I saw the yellow spout of urine drizzling onto my precious Saratoga tea rose. "What are you doing?" I gasped.

"What does it look like?" he said, turning around. "You want a closer look? Come here." He grabbed at my arm. The bowl flew up, clipping him on the ear and spattering him with mango and chilli.

"Fucking bitch! I’ll make you lick it off!"

***

"She’s taking over my life," I complained to Sofia, the receptionist at the real estate agency where I worked. Sofia looked serious. She was into auras, spirits and New Age philosophies.

"Perhaps you’re a bit psychic. You could be channelling this woman. Have you thought of that? She could be talking to you, taking you over. Did you see that movie with Michelle Pfeiffer?"
"No."

"Very scary, hon. This woman could be possessing you, using you for some purpose of her own. You should get help with this."

"What do you mean, possessing me? But she – well, she’d have to be dead, wouldn’t she?"

"I don’t know. You need professional help. I can refer you to someone if you want."

Just then my boss Adrian came into the office, clutching an "Open for Inspection" sign. He looked suspiciously at me. "Have you done that brochure for the Bellevue Hill property yet?"

"Uh, not quite." I began fishing through the papers on my desk. "It’s here somewhere."

"And what’s the story with that advertorial you left on my desk yesterday? You described a totally different house to the one we’re selling."

I couldn’t remember writing the advertorial at all. "I must have been confused. Give it back to me and I’ll rewrite it."

"Just get it right this time." He tossed a piece of paper at me and marched into his office. Sofia rolled her eyes and went back to her typing.

I looked at the piece of paper. He was right. The text was supposed to begin "Your search for the classic Paddington terrace is over" but instead it described a house in Wahroonga, ‘a generously proportioned family home with no expense spared on the interior. You’ll adore the Art Deco living room with original ceiling and light fittings and the rose garden has to be seen to be believed … the family are forced to sell so their misfortune is your opportunity. Don’t delay! Inspect today!’ I frowned. Something about the house sounded familiar. Art Deco fittings and a rose garden… Surely not…But when had I written this? I couldn’t remember. Was I so obsessed with Maxine that I had described her house instead of the classic Paddington terrace?

I looked at the address. 16 Tarrant Street Wahroonga. Could this be Maxine’s house? No, of course not. Get a grip, Anna, I told myself. I had written this, and I had no idea where Maxine had lived. The newspaper article hadn’t mentioned it. The descriptions of the house and Robert’s barbecue and the rose garden had come out of my imagination, nowhere else. But then where had the address come from?

***

By the time I found Tarrant Street, it was dark. I couldn’t see the street numbers from my car and finally I parked and got out to look for the house on foot. It had taken me an hour and a half to battle my way through the traffic from the eastern suburbs, all the way telling myself this was a waste of time.

It didn’t take long to find the house. There was the number 16 mounted on the front wall – directly below a "For Sale" sign.

I stared at the sign. Could this be the explanation? Could I have read the advertisement for this house somewhere else, stored it in my mind and then without realising it, reproduced it at work?

Of course there was a way of finding out. I could take a closer look at the house. I knew what it looked like, inside and out – at least I knew how I had described it. If the house wasn’t the same as my own imagined version, then I would know there was nothing weird going on.

Pushing all thoughts of ghosts to the back of my mind, I reached over the back of the gate and lifted the latch. It was well oiled and didn’t make a sound. Keeping low so that I couldn’t be seen from the street, I made for the side of the house. The windows were all dark but the white stucco walls gleamed in the reflected street lights. Holding my breath, I explored the garden.

It was all here. The barbecue, built into a rustic sandstone surround. The outdoor tables and chairs in elegant wrought iron. The rose garden, surrounded by a tall hedge and the Saratoga tea rose, its scent filling the night air. I looked around, I peered through the windows. Everything was as I had imagined it, up to the Venetian glass mirror above the living room fireplace.

I felt strange. Dizzy, as if I was going to faint. I can’t faint here, I thought. I had to get to the car. Somehow I stumbled back through the garden to the gate. I slipped out onto the footpath and then stopped, suddenly aware that someone was watching me.

A man was standing under the street light. He said nothing, just looked at me. Could he be the real estate agent? He was wearing a suit. Through the buzzing in my ears, I forced my brain to work fast.

"Beautiful house, isn’t it?" I summoned up a smile, probably wasted in the dark. "I just couldn’t resist having a look. We’ve been searching for a home in this street for ages."

The man took a step forward, into the light cast by the street lamp. He had a thatch of brown hair and the kind of face that told of years of boozing at the pub. There was an old white scar across the bridge of his nose, as if someone had slashed him with a knife. His suit jacket was tightly stretched over his massive chest. "You’re interested in this house?"

"Oh, yes. Well, must go, bye!" I walked fast until I had passed him and then I ran for the car. His gaze followed me as I started the engine, released the brake and drove away up the street.

I didn’t stop until I got home. I didn’t care that I hadn’t eaten, I just fell onto my bed still in my clothes and sleep came like a knockout punch.

Kevin Slattery. He haunted my dreams. After my altercation with Kevin at the barbecue he seemed to take pleasure in dropping in unannounced. I would be preparing tea for the children, or reading the newspaper with my morning coffee, and turn around to see him, leaning against the door frame, grinning at me. That scar, white with age, across his fleshy nose. Those shiny suits that looked incongruous on his huge, bear-like frame.

The worst time was when I went to pick up the children from school and saw him there, talking to them outside the school fence. You’d better believe that I gave the principal a lecture the next day about letting strange men talk to the children. "But he said he was a friend of yours," she told me. "He knew all about you and the children."

He was always polite in public, particularly when Robert was around. But I would hear him whisper, so quietly that only I could hear him, whenever he was close enough. "Bitch… want a closer look?"

By then I knew that Robert was in trouble. But I didn’t realise how deeply involved Kevin was. If only I had known about him then what I know now– my husband’s life wouldn’t be in danger. Still, it’s not too late to act. In fact it’s now or never. Two heads are better than one.

Two heads are better than one…

This had gone on long enough, I decided. No more midnight monologues. There was a way to sort this out once and for all - and I would do just that in the morning.

***

The telephone rang for what seemed like ten minutes before he finally answered.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is that Simon Healey?"

"Yes, who is that?" The voice sounded cautious, almost…frightened?

"My name’s Anna Cartwright. You don’t know me. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions, about an article you wrote for the Herald."

"Which one?"

"It was about a year ago. You interviewed a woman who was in witness protection. Her husband had worked for Bill Kotsidis." I waited. Silence at the other end of the phone line.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

"Who is this?"

"I told you, my name’s Anna Cartwright –"

"No, you can’t get to me this way. I know your voice."

"I’m sorry – I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to you before…"

"Why can’t you leave me alone?"

"Please, Mr Healey, I just want to know some more about Maxine. You might not believe this, but ever since I read your article strange things have been happening, and I think Maxine is somehow involved. Can’t you tell me any more about her? Do you know where she is?"

"No one knows where she is. No one can contact her. That’s how she does it you see. She’s very clever."

"What, Mr Healey? What does she do?"

"I can’t talk about it. Look, if she’s giving you trouble I’m sorry, but I have my own problems."

"Please, just answer this one question. Kevin Slattery. I think he was involved with Bill Kotsidis. Does that name mean anything to you?"

Another silence.

"Mr Healey?"

"Why do you say he was connected with Kotsidis?" He sounded different now, more alert.

"Because – because Maxine told me he was." As I said the words, I believed them. Maxine had told me. She was trying to tell me that Robert, who was still in police protection awaiting the trials, was in danger. She had sent me to the house, where Slattery was waiting.

"Maxine told you? You’re in touch with her?"

"In a way," I said.

"Look, if you’re right…can you meet me?"

"Why? What do you know?"

"I know Slattery. He’s not a crim – well, he’s not supposed to be. He’s a cop."

***

Simon Healey arranged to meet me at the Silver Lotus restaurant in Chinatown for lunch that day. I rang the office and pretended I had a migraine. Luckily Sofia answered the phone.

I was planning to get a taxi to the meeting but for some reason I decided to leave early and walk to Chinatown. I could have a look at the shops on my way, I thought.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the David Jones windows as I walked down Market Street. My blonde hair looked OK – I’d had it cut recently – but the clothes were all wrong. Time for a change. I went inside and made my way to the designer floor. The Trent Nathan racks were hung with expensive suits in colours like an Italian window box full of flowers– geranium red, fern green and marigold. I tried on the red suit. Why hadn’t I ever worn clothes like these before? I blew my fortnight’s wages on the suit, a top to go with it and a pair of black high heeled shoes. In the Ladies toilets I wriggled into the suit and threw my own jeans and T shirt into the waste bin. I wouldn’t be needing those again. On the ground floor I picked up a pair of sunglasses with black lenses that hid my eyes, and a red Christian Dior lipstick. Outside in the street I applied the lipstick with the help of the display window and then set off for the meeting.

Chinatown’s narrow footpaths were busy with office workers seeking a quick lunch, Chinese grandmothers doing the shopping, and curious tourists. I looked at my watch. Still fifteen minutes early. I turned into Dixon Street, heading for the restaurant. To my surprise, Healey was standing outside, looking up and down the street. I recognised him from his photograph in the newspaper. I tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned around and his mouth fell open. "You – you…"

"Simon? It’s me," I said. "Anna Cartwright."

"Oh my God," he said. "For a minute I thought you were– I’m sorry, you surprised me." He looked me up and down as if he could hardly believe his eyes. The suit was having an impact already. "Look, I was going to take you in here but there are some cops I know in there already having lunch. I don’t want them to overhear us. Can we go somewhere else?"

"Sure."

"This way." He led me along Dixon Street then turned down an alleyway leading towards Darling Harbour. "There’s a little place down here that I know quite well." He glanced back at me again for about the eighth time. It was as if he couldn’t quite believe I was there.

The alley we turned into was quiet and shadowed. The buildings were mostly warehouses and offices and their doors were all shut. While I could smell the garlic and roasting meats wafting from the restaurants behind us, it didn’t seem the kind of place where you would find somewhere to eat.

Therefore I wasn’t really surprised when Kevin Slattery stepped out of a doorway in front of us, with a gun in his hand. He looked pissed off.

Then he saw me and he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

"Hello Kevin," I said.

"You," he said slowly. "How did you get here? Are you fucking crazy, Simon?"

I looked at Simon. He started backing away from me, the way you do from a package that might explode any moment. "Don’t be stupid, Kevin, you fat fuck," he shrieked. "It’s not her. It can’t be her. It’s the Cartwright woman I told you about. She doesn’t know anything. We’re still safe."

"How can we be safe until we know where the diary is?" snarled Slattery. "You don’t have the faintest idea, do you? And why is she dressed like that? This is fucking weird. Okay, Maxine," he turned to me, "if that’s what you want to be called, where is it?" He raised the gun.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," I told him. I felt strangely calm. In fact compared to Simon, who was shaking and mumbling, I was the Ice Queen of calm.

"I think you do. That’s why you rang Simon. Wait," he said, his eyes growing sharp. "That was you at the house the other night, wasn’t it? Is that where the diary is, at the house? Or maybe you have it already. Maybe," he said, advancing on me, "you stole it right under my nose."

"We can get her to tell us later," quavered Simon. "But now for fuck’s sake let’s get out of here, someone could see us."

"Yeah, OK." Kevin grabbled my arm and pulled me towards a silver Commodore parked in the alley. He pushed me into the back seat and got in next to me. The muzzle of the gun grazed my cheek. "You drive," he said to Simon. "We’ll go to her place first. Then we’ll call Kotsidis."

Simon took off with a roar of the engine. I hadn’t had time to put on my seatbelt and as he turned the corner with piercing squeal of the tyres I rolled hard against the window, then back against Kevin as the car straightened up.

He yelled something at Simon, I don’t know what. I thought to myself, What next, Maxine? I was out of ideas. It looked like her story would never be written. Suddenly Simon yelled out "No! Get away from me!". The car swung to the left so sharply I thought we would somersault. I heard Kevin cursing. As I was flung across the seat I thought I saw a flash of bright geranium red through the windscreen, before my head was flooded with pain and then – blessed silence.

***

"I should have known Maxine had a plan," I told the detective taking my statement from my bed in hospital. "She had it all worked out."

He frowned at me. "I wouldn’t go on talking like that, if I were you. Apart from the fact that it’s an offence to disclose information about a person in witness protection, there’s no sign that "Maxine" had anything to do with the accident. Healey never regained consciousness. He must have lost control of the car."

"She was right about the diary, though," I said. "It was at the house?"

He nodded. "Buried next to one of her roses."

I leaned forward excitedly. "Of course! The Saratoga!" I said.

He looked confused. "No, a Double Delight. My wife grows them." I sank back, disappointed.

"But unfortunately the bag she buried it in wasn’t sealed properly. The writing’s illegible." He sighed. "She was afraid to tell us where the diary was in case we leaked it to Slattery, but we thought she was keeping it to herself. The diary had details of trust accounts and cash deposits – it would be worth a lot to the wrong people. And once Kotsidis had the diary, there would be no reason not to murder Maxine and her husband."

"Well, then, how could I have known about Slattery if she hadn’t told me?" I asked in triumph.

"Easily," he said. He pulled a crumpled newspaper article out of his pocket and handed it to me. "He’s been in the news lately. Suspected of corruption. He’s been giving evidence in the Commission for the last week. You must have just read his name in the newspaper and made up the rest." He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a sympathetic look. "Are you sure this is your first bang on the head?"

I slumped against the pillow. It was true I hadn’t heard Maxine’s voice since I’d woken up in hospital two days earlier. Then something else occurred to me. "What about the house? I knew where the house was. She must have told me that."

"You didn’t write that advertisement, Anna," he said gently. "It was just sent to the wrong office. The house was put up for sale through the same real estate chain that owns the agency where you work. Didn’t you notice their name on the For Sale sign?"

"No," I muttered. I couldn’t believe I had missed something so obvious.

"Don’t worry," he said. "I’m sure Maxine is grateful to you none the less." He patted my hand and left.

If she was grateful she at least could have sent a card, I thought. Instead I was alone in hospital with a lump on the head, an eight hundred dollar suit and an unfinished story. I would probably never be a writer. My ideas had all been hers, I realised. In fact my whole life was empty compared to Maxine’s. What would I do now?

The nurse bustled in through the open door.

"Aren’t you lucky," she said. "These just came for you. As you’re being discharged today, you can take them home while they’re still blooming. Such a gorgeous scent they have!"

Slowly I reached out to touch the creamy petals of the Saratoga tea rose. My fingertips touched the card buried among the leaves and I pulled it out.

Get well soon. Two heads are better than one…and I have a small gardening job for you.

"Nurse," I called. "Could you get my suit out for me? I’m ready to leave."

© Christa Ludlow 2001

Please note that permission to publish stories from the Scarlet Stiletto Awards 2001 online has been expressly granted to Sisters in Crime Australia Inc. You may not republish, reproduce electronically or in paper form, or otherwise make use of these stories without the permission of the author.

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