5PM
Authors: Chris Heinicke
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A NOVEL
By CHRIS HEINICKE
COPYRIGHT PAGE © 2015 Chris Heinicke
5PM
By Chris Heinicke
Cover Photo by Mark Holzigal, Photographer
Cover Design by Rebecca Berto,
Berto Designs
Manuscript Services—Editing & Interior Design by
Rogena Mitchell-Jones, Literary Editor
All Rights Reserved
This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the properties of the author and your support and respect is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Both author and editor have taken great effort in presenting a manuscript free of errors. However, editing errors are ultimately the responsibility of the author. This book is written in Australian English, therefore includes Australian diction.
To my dear wife Glenda, whose love, support,
and belief in me helped make this novel possible.
Table of Contents
DAY 9
All my life,
I never imagined the hiding place I used for my porno mags as a teenager would be the same place I would be hiding for my life as an adult. However, here I am, lying beneath a dusty old blanket my dearly departed grandmother made for me when I was a snotty-nosed little brat, underneath a trapdoor in my childhood bedroom. Down here, the stench fills my nostrils, and I hate to think how many animals have pissed here over the years since it’s been abandoned since I left home nearly twenty years ago.
Dust coats everything in this shallow hatch like icing on a cake. And I dare not breathe too heavily for fear I might sneeze from dust inhalation and give my location away to the person hunting me.
I can hear the clicking of heels on wooden floorboards as the hunter walks from one room to another without muttering a single word. The sound of approaching footsteps echo throughout the house louder than any shouted threat and encompasses with much more menace. I should just give myself up because I know it’s just a matter of time before I’m found.
I could plead for my life. I could offer money, lots of money. I fear I could end up dead anyway, though. Every few seconds the footsteps cease, leaving me to assume my predator is scouring every nook and cranny of each room they come across.
With the floorboards only a few inches above my nose, I can see thin beams of sunlight spilling through the cracks between the old timber boards and penetrating the thin covering barely sheltering me. My back aches against the cement. The footsteps start again and echo louder as they make contact with the boards of the hallway and then the bedroom as it branches from it… just next to the room I occupy. The clicking sound is the bane of my existence… for however much longer that may be.
I deserve death. My sins have led me to this point and have hurt those I love more than they have me. I should come out, surrender, and embrace the punishment I deserve. I have lied, and I have cheated and caused so much damage to so many people in the last week making me feel to die quickly would be one hell of an easy exit from this mess. But I can’t do it. I can’t give myself up. Even if I wanted to throw myself on the mercy of the hunter, my battered body wouldn't let me do it.
I am a coward.
I pause my breathing as the echoes of the hunter’s steps come to a halt. I can’t do a thing while I’m lying injured on my back in the shallow area between the concrete foundations and the level of the floor. I have no weapons and add to it, I have restricted movement in my body. Silence lingers like an uninvited party guest much longer this time. They know I’m here; they’re toying with me and making sure every working part of my body is paralysed in fear.
I want to cry and yell I’m sorry and that I will do everything to right the wrongs I’ve committed if I’m just given one more chance. But if they hold a pistol and possess a heart colder than the steel their weapon is constructed of, then my words will just ricochet off the crust of their exterior.
Before the next thought enters my head, I hear the sound of clunking steel heels tapping old timber boards filling my ears. This time it’s louder, many decibels louder, and as the volume climbs, my fears are spent spinning in the tumble dryer of my mind. I take deeper breaths with each approaching footstep until I hear them make contact with the boards of the room where I’m hiding. They’re almost deafening as they make their way over where my body lays just a few inches beneath.
Stopping directly above me, my pursuer lets out a chuckle and knocks on the wooden floor until their hands find the hidden edge of the trapdoor. This is it. My heart beats so fast I feel as if it desires to run away without the rest of me. Sweat continues to pour assisting in moistening of my hair as the rest of my body tingles with the rising of goose bumps. I can hear someone breathing softly… and it’s not me. A pair of hands pulls the secret door upwards, the creak caused by the action almost deafening in the still air around us. I try to turn away before the sun shines directly through, but I am too late. My eyes aren’t ready to filter the harshness of the sunlight, but none of it matters now as it looks as though the game is almost up, and I am now living on borrowed time.
So here we are, face to face, and as I stare at my killer, they remove the blanket from me and point the polished long barrelled pistol at my face. I close my eyes and wait for the explosion, knowing it will most certainly tear apart my head.
DAY 1
The alarm rips
my mind from its peaceful slumber. A classic rock tune serving as my alarm tone reminds me it’s Monday morning already, and I need to face the working week. The weekend seems to take forever to come around and then flies past so quickly, especially when I spend at least half of it at open inspections or being present at property auctions. It’s not all bad, though. I made a couple of big sales on Saturday and my wife was in one hell of a frisky mood when she woke up on Sunday. With two children, we have little time for intimacy in the mornings, and we have to keep the noise down. But we had sex and managed to get back to sleep for another hour before my five-year-old daughter came in and jumped on us.
Talissa opens her green eyes and smiles at me. I swear she is just as beautiful as the first time I saw her twelve years ago. Before I knew her, I had both met and been with many beautiful women, but she had been the first to awaken my heart and not just my manhood. She still has the same red silk dress she wore on that night—the one that accentuates her womanly curves. And with her long wavy black hair, she looked like an agent of the devil.
I wanted to commit every sin with her. Every sin she could tempt me into, but she did something else that night, which only served to intensify my hunger for her. By her not giving it up to me on the night we met, I found I respected her highly. Even on our next few dates, we didn’t fall into bed with each other. However, when the first time arrived when we did have sex, it was well worth the wait. I still remember the two of us lying completely naked on the picnic rug just a few feet from the lake basking in the moonlight, as if we were a pair of horny teenagers without a care in the world. I would have died happy that night.
“Good morning, handsome,” she says to me, bringing me back to the real world.
“Good morning, beautiful,” I say back to her as I smile.
I need a shower and some strong coffee if I’m to face a Monday morning with any degree of enthusiasm, and I know she does, too. I drag my tired arse out of bed and head to the ensuite bathroom. My blue eyes hit the bathroom mirror, and as a man near the age of forty, I guess I haven’t aged badly when I compare myself to other guys within my age bracket. Apart from a few extra kilos around the waist, and a fine speckling of grey hairs amongst the short black mass, I look much like the man who walked down the aisle with his wife ten years ago. I’ve never been a gym junkie, but my genetics have given me broad shoulders and strong looking arms. I smile at myself and see the money I’ve spent at the dentists over the years has paid off. This gesture also shows my wrinkles, but if anything, they accentuate the chiselled features on my lightly tanned face.
“Stop admiring yourself and get in the shower, Mr James Bond,” my wife calls from the bed.
* * * * *
The breakfast ritual
is pretty much the same every day. I flick the espresso machine into gear and let it weave its magic and while I await my caffeine fix, I prepare the toast for the children. Talissa appreciates this small gesture as it allows her a few more minutes to prepare for her own day job. Isaac is seven years old and is picked up by the school bus a few minutes before I have to leave for work, while our daughter Matilda is looked after by a babysitter until my wife gets home in the early afternoon.
It wouldn’t be a normal morning if we didn’t have to constantly remind one or both of our children they needed to keep moving, but we rarely need to raise our voices at them. They’re great kids, and I owe it to Talissa mostly, as I always seem to be off early in the day and back around dinnertime and working a lot at home at night plus also going around to various properties on the weekend.
But the money’s good, and I do get a lot back from what I put in. Life is great.
* * * * *
I arrive at
the branch of Phelps Brothers Real Estate a good ten minutes early. Gives me time to pump a third cup of coffee into my system and get my mind in the game. The real estate business is tough and brutal at times. If you want the bigger commissions, you need to wring as much money as you can from the buyers. Sometimes, you need to know when to urge your sellers to settle on a price much lower than they want because a property sitting on the market for more than three months in this area is considered dead weight, and no one wants to waste their time on something you can’t move.
Roger opens the door to the staff room and stops a couple of feet from me with the biggest grin I’ve seen on him in years. He was the best man at my wedding and was there on the fateful night when I met Talissa. I think he might have been slightly envious of me then, but he did take home Talissa’s friend, who had also been easy on the eyes. He’s still a bachelor, and I see little chance of it changing anytime soon.
“What is it, Rog?” I ask, not struggling to wrestle away the look of amusement on my face.
“I have come across the best thing ever on the internet. You have got to check it out.”
“You been downloading goat porn again?”
“Haha, real funny joke there. You still recycling old material?”
I’m wondering what the hell he’s found, as he has a history of saying he’s found the best thing ever, and it’s yet another porn site. Yes, I’m as guilty as the next guy for having the odd look at a bit of female nudity on the home computer, but Roger’s one hell of a perverted bastard whose eyes have seen some really fucked up shit—things I wouldn’t dare to even think about. “Okay, out with it.”
“There’s this new chat program called 3DDreamchat. It’s like chat except you take on the form of an animated character. You can be anything and anybody you want to be and for a few dollars, you can buy some real cool shit and even get into a little bit of mischief with the hottest chicks.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What? Are you fifteen years old? You could be chatting to a pantless hairy sixty–year-old man for all you know. Come on, just get back into better shape and get out there again with real women.”
“I’m pretty good at picking the females from the males. You get to learn how to spot the fake females from the real ones over time. Go on. Just have a look at it for me. Type in 3DDreamchat on your computer tonight and look me up, and I’ll guide you through it. My name’s RogerU69.”
I can’t prevent the escaping laughter, but simultaneously, I nod my head just to shut him up. Regaining my composure, I look over as the door opens. The only female real estate agent in our branch enters, confident and as usual, well dressed. Kate, who’s a few years younger than Roger and me, has been working here for a few years now. I swear if I weren’t married, she would try to have her way with me, but even if it were the case, I still don’t find her attractive. It’s not the red hair or the extra kilos she carries; she’s just totally mind numbingly boring to talk to. I’m sure she’s told me a lot about herself, but I find my mind flying to a distant world as soon as her mouth starts moving.
But she moves a lot of properties.
“Hi, Kate,” I say, almost sounding like I’m happy to see her face, which looks like a garden trowel has been used to apply her make-up. She has a heart of gold, but her looks, she doesn’t have much going for her.
She smiles back and returns the greeting. “Morning, Terry. Did you have a good weekend?”
I flash my client-winning smile. “You could say that. I’m sure the boss will mention the Clydesdale Estate sale I closed on Saturday during the morning brief.”
“You lucky bastard,” Roger says. “Good run of sales lately, hot wife, what more could go so well for you?”
“Maybe Phelps retiring and allowing this branch to be run in my more than capable hands.”
Another person enters the room and heads straight for the urn to fix himself a hot coffee. George is a well-dressed homosexual man of about thirty, with short dark hair, perfectly put in place with enough greasy hair product to lubricate the engines of a jet fighter squadron. He takes a long sip of the hot dark fluid before saying good morning to everyone.
George is a pleasant enough guy. I don’t personally have a problem with gay people, but I can never share their preference of hairy arses over warm moist pussy. But to each their own. I do know his sexual orientation comes as a disappointment to many females though, but when I was a young single man, I would see the potential with people like him off the market for the female population—there were more women available for me.
The four of us make up the engine room of this real estate machine. While Phelps seems to think he’s the one who keeps the wheels spinning, I personally think he’s just a name on a billboard riding the riptides our work produces. And right on cue, he walks in at just a minute before nine.
“Good morning, all,” Phelps says. We all respond with a simple ‘morning,’ which is a catalyst for him to start the Monday morning brief. He doesn’t grab a coffee. He’s one of these rare types who don’t need a caffeine kick-start. I don’t trust those types. Anyone who can just launch themselves into the day without any kind of caffeine trigger doesn’t seem human to me.
“First of all, congratulations to Terry for closing two big deals over the weekend. Either one of those would have been outstanding in itself, but to close the Clydesdale Estate property AND the Regent Parade second level townhouse is something we should all admire.” Phelps almost sounds like he actually appreciates my work.
Everyone in the room claps, and I sit there wishing we could move onto the next order of business. Phelps continues with his drivel, and I let my mind wander to other places. I could really just go back to sleep right now. I would much rather be actually doing something than to sit here going through the monotony of the morning brief. Then something he says gets my attention, “In two days’ time, we’ll be bringing on a temp to help us with all these new properties coming our way. I’m not sure who it is yet, and it all depends on who the agency sends us, but I know you could all do with a little less workload.”
Kate groans and takes a big swallow from the mug in front of her.
“Look, Kate, I know you’re worried about Terry here catching your yearly sales, but I know how many hours you put in a week, and you need to let go of some of your workload.”
“Not like I have a family or even a man of my own to occupy my time. I don’t need any help,” Kate pleads.
She looks at me when she says ‘man of her own.’ Damn, she needs to find someone before she jumps me and tries to rip my clothes off. Why the hell doesn’t she try Roger? He’s single.
“Go look in the mirror, Kate. You have big enough bags under your eyes to pack for a two-month holiday. This isn’t negotiable.”
Five minutes later, the brief ends and the five of us peel off and head to our own office. I have a list of people to call, the top priority being a Mrs Pellmont, a recent widow with a two-story mansion for sale. With a potential two million dollar price tag, I have to make sure I nail it. The day moves along slowly and it seems forever for five p.m. to come along.
* * * * *
I get home
an hour after I leave the office feeling like I’ve achieved a minor victory in securing a meeting with Mrs Pellmont for the following Friday. She sounded pleasant enough over the phone and quite enthusiastic with my pitch. If I can sell the place for the right price, the commission alone will nearly pay for Matilda’s private school fees all through primary school.
As usual, dinner’s ready not long after I get home. Not only is she beautiful, but Talissa is an amazing cook who never fails to satisfy my taste buds, and tonight is no exception.
We eat at the dinner table for every meal. No TV or anything else to tear our attention away from being a family unit. It’s enough of a struggle to get Isaac to eat anything other than chicken nuggets. We can certainly do without the lure of cartoons or whatever it might be he watches during the hours between coming home from school and having dinner.
Each of us takes a turn in talking about our day. Then the kids have their baths, and we read to them for fifteen minutes before it’s time for them to go to bed. Talissa and I usually wind down with a glass or two of wine while relaxing in front of the TV. Tonight is interrupted by Isaac calling out to his mum. He’s not well, so she takes him into our bed and asks if I mind if she goes to bed early. I smile and say it’s okay and head to the office.
