After Ariel: It started as a game (19 page)

I started down a long pathway bordered by bottle trees heading deeper into the shadowed tunnels.

CHAPTER 19

Nightmares

Dingo

Sunday, 11.30AM

Ariel clawed at him, screaming! He kissed her hard, pressing his body down onto hers, holding the back of her neck –

Dingo lurched upright, fighting to free himself from the sheets, as he tried to switch on the table lamp. His heart leaped around in his chest like a frog trapped in a jar. Had he been yelling?
It was a dream, nothing more
. No sound of footsteps running. Best get control...ten, nine, eight, seven, six – Ariel get back in your box – fivefourthreetwoone...
I didn’t mean to hurt you! I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry.

A car horn down in the street sent a fresh jolt of fear through him. He struggled out of the twisted sheets, damp from his sweat and rushed for the en suite, where he dry retched until he fell, exhausted, against the porcelain bowl.
It was a dream, just a dream.

His lower back hurt. He twisted carefully to look in the mirror. A faint line of bruising ran from one side to the other where he’d landed across the stair in the photographer’s house. Trembling, he rinsed his mouth, splashed water on his face, then cleaned his teeth and took three Codeine capsules. The small bottle of tablets on the glass shelf under the mirror jogged his memory.
Remember your Sertraline, love. You know if you don’t take your tablets, you’ll go doolally
...
Get off my back, Mum, or I’ll...kill you.  She’s dead she’s dead she’s dead.

It was a cold, dark day on his eighteenth birthday that he’d buried Frances. Only the vicar and the Trustee of his father’s fortune attended, his mother having remained a recluse until the day of her death. Strangely, when he left her there on the bleak hillside overlooking the edge of the city, he felt lost, disoriented. The cat had long since died and Frances had refused to get another, so Dingo bore his loss alone. It didn’t occur to him until years later that he was a damaged person, but in spite of the women in his life and the friends he had made, he was still alone.

He went into the bedroom and did some gentle stretches. He couldn’t afford to have anyone notice the stiffness in his gait or his aching shoulder. What to do? First, the city. And he had to dump the camera that night.

His stomach rumbled. He squinted at his watch: eleven thirty. He pulled the curtains open, flinching as sunlight flooded the room. Below, cars passed silently – blue, white, green, silver – so many silver cars – why did everyone choose silver? Were they cheaper? Was it the latest colour – the only colour – no, there was a reason. Someone had explained it to him once.

Lunch was in progress by the time he got downstairs. He paid the cashier and then helped himself liberally to the buffet, relieved there was only a smattering of what appeared to be tourists sharing the elegant dining room. No one took any notice of him as he wolfed a chicken salad. The digital card reader was his priority for what was left of the day. He had to be at the headquarters of the Pacific Symphony at nine o’clock the next morning. He wanted to get back to his unit on Kangaroo Point and practice his music. He could also have access to his car. He could
walk
it from the hotel, but...he almost dropped the ball on his poise as his mind flashed back.

‘I want to go for a walk!’

‘But it’s nearly four in the morning, Ariel.’

‘It’ll be getting light shortly and the river is gorgeous when the sun comes up! Come on Dingo, it’s the best time of day. We’ve cleaned everything up. Mum’ll never know you were here, so let’s go!’

Back in your box.

He wasted no time in getting out of the hotel. Newspaper posters shouted at him from the corner store a block down from the hotel: ‘World  Famous Journo Murdered!’ and ‘Vale Goldie!’ There photos of Pamela Miller in
that
dress. He didn’t fancy her particularly but the golden vision – and those shoes – caused a twitch in his second brain. He forced himself to dismiss the image and concentrate on his mission to get a card reader. Beads of sweat prickled his torso. He wished he’d not worn a hoodie, but then how could he hide his face?
Don’t be silly. No one knows who you are, stupid – except for the rest of orchestra. Put your sunglasses on.

Unable to help himself, he stopped and purchased a paper. The newsagent was inclined to be chatty. ‘Terrible thing, that. Right down near the ferry, too.’ He mumbled something vaguely appropriate and hastily allowed another customer to take his place. He walked slowly down the street, heart sinking as he read the front page and realised just who he had fought with and that Pamela Miller was the Humphries woman’s cousin.

Why did I do it? They’d be screaming for his blood. He leaned against a lamp post to gather his wits and rest his back.
Oh God...threefoursix...threefourfive...oh God...no...
Now the Humphries woman had broken out again. He forced back the voices tramping around in his brain. Shut up,
shut up!
 

‘Are you all right, young man?’ The elderly voice breaking into his thoughts almost gave him a heart attack. An old woman leading a small dog, who was even older than she, if that were possible, stood beside him, looking concerned.

‘Yes, thank you. I’m fine. Rough night out.’ Dingo flashed the beautiful smile which had endeared him to women all his life.

Her face lit up and patted his arm. ‘You young people, I don’t know...’ She shook her head, still smiling, and went into the shop.

Feeling he was pushing his luck, he rolled up his paper and strode out for the city, swinging it like a baton, willing his heart to stop pounding. He was glad to blend in with the Sunday morning walkers, some of them hoodies like himself.

The view of the river as he crossed the bridge was lost on him, as he brushed past the family groups dawdling along and stopping to take photos against the backdrop of South bank. The shops would be open in the Myer Centre. He edged his way through the crowd and found a place which sold card readers. It was all he could do not to rip the thing out of the shop assistant’s hands as she pointed out the various attributes and then went on to talk about other more expensive brands. ‘No that one will do.’

Disappointed, she placed it in a plastic bag and fixed up his credit card. He wandered out of the shop and walked slowly toward the Transit Centre, thinking he might stop at a bar on the way. A drink would be good. Then Dingo saw Pamela Miller ahead, crossing the street, heading for the Roma Street Station. Would she know what was happening at the house? Would she tell him if she
did
know? He hurried after her, wincing from the pain in his back and shoulder. As he ran into the ground floor, he saw her talking to someone at the desk. Uncertain of how to approach her without looking too interested in the murder, he lurked behind a newsagent’s stand. She walked to the lockers and started stowing her bags and flute case, before walking toward the back of the station.

Thanking his stars she was so tall, he slunk after her, keeping at least six or seven people behind, debating whether to follow her or go back to the hotel and use the card reader to check the weird Nikon card. He tucked his parcel into his jacket and then, following instinct kept his head down and tracked her into the park where she wandered, seemingly without any purpose, stopping now and then to touch a flower, or read a plaque by the side of the pathway. He stayed well back as she talked on her mobile and ate a snack, after which she got up and strolled slowly through the park. If she happened to see him, he could chat about the concert and the orchestra.
Did she see him leaving right after Goldie Humphries? Wait, just wait and see what she does.

He thought there was all the time in the world – until she took what appeared to be a professional photographer’s camera out of her bag.

CHAPTER 20

Attacked!

Pam

Sunday, 1PM

The realisation that I was the focus of someone's attention wasn’t something which leaped out at me, but rather a slow and terrifying understanding that I was being stalked. It wasn’t the sort of scrutiny which lets you know a gorgeous hunk of testosterone is eyeing you up, more the type of:  ‘I'm watching everything you do and waiting to pounce...’

Frightened of being mugged, I stowed the camera into my handbag and tucked it tightly under my arm with the strap wound around my wrist. Nothing happened, so after a while I relaxed a little. Then something moved on the periphery of my vision. Startled, I froze a moment and peered through the tall ferns nearby. Should I step into the inset pathway in front of me? No, I'd be trapped. My heart pounded and perspiration broke out over my body, sending prickles of panic into my stomach. I looked around for a group of people to join – pensioners, school kids – anyone – but while I’d been absorbed in the history of the gardens and taking photographs, the families had momentarily deserted the pathways to picnic on the lawns below. A small group of elderly women laughed as they pointed at something in the distance. I started toward them, pushing through a large overhang of fern.

Something crashed into my head.

Bright pain hurled me to the ground.

My face smashed into the planks of the walkway.

Lights danced in front of my eyes; a large hand snaked under my stomach, clenched the strap of my handbag and jerked violently.

I flattened myself onto the ground, curling my arm under me.
‘No. No!’

A steady stream of warm blood trickled down the side of my face and into my mouth.

The hand pulled away, wrenching my shirt free of my jeans. I grabbed the front of my shirt with the hand around which the strap was twined, and tried to protect my head with the other.
First thing, get your
face out of the dirt.

Bracing myself, I gingerly turned my head, trying to open my eyes before rolling onto my side. A middle-aged man stared down at me, his face creased with concern.

A babble of shocked voices pierced my consciousness. ‘Hey! Are you all right?’

Am I all right? Someone has hit me in the temple, blood’s streaming down my face, my eyes are full of tears, I'm almost knocked cold with shock, but – ‘Yes, I'm fine, thanks. It's nothing.’

‘I'll look after her,’ said a whispery voice above my head. ‘I’m her brother.’

‘I don’t have a brother!’ No one appeared to hear or understand.

‘She’s a bit confused.’

Someone wearing huge black sunglasses like blow-fly eyes, face half covered by a black hood loomed over me. His breath smelled of mints, his hands encircled my wrists like manacles as he pulled mine from my head. Deep in the inner recesses of my mind, familiarity stirred but vanished before I could catch it. I squinted upward through a haze of blood in my right eye, but the sun was behind him.

‘No, this isn't right! Get away from me! I don’t know you!’ I protested weakly, trying to push his hands away.

A small audience gathered, no doubt bristling in anticipation of drama. I jerked my wrist out of his hand, clamped my own hand over the cut on my head and braced myself against the stinging pain, still clutching my handbag to my stomach. If I closed my eyes tightly enough, he might go away. 

Another voice chimed in. ‘I'm a nurse. I've called for an ambulance.’ I opened my good eye. A floral-perfumed woman with a kind face was kneeling in front of me. 
Thank God.
 ’You mustn't move until the paramedics check you out. You've got a nasty cut there, love, so keep still and don't turn or lift your head.’

The space where my supposed brother had been was empty. The pounding in my head intensified. My skin felt tight as the blood trickled down my face. Nausea swirled through my stomach, threatening to shoot into my throat. ‘He tried to steal my handbag,’ I muttered, trying to overcome the metallic taste in my mouth.

‘Who?’ She paused, glancing around nervously.

‘The man who was here just now. Hoodie – green shirt. Sunglasses.’

She looked around. ‘He’s not here now. Are you with friends? What's your name?’

I tried to focus. ‘Pamela Miller. I'm here on my own.’

She glanced at her watch. ‘Someone's phoning the police.’ She took a wad of tissues from her bag, proceeded to soak them from a water bottle and gently wiped my mouth before squeezing some water through my lips. ‘Rinse out, get that blood out of your mouth,’ she urged, ‘but don't swallow.’

Gratefully, I complied. ’I think he tried to rob me,’ I quavered.  

My audience faded, no doubt disappointed I wasn't seriously hurt.

‘Can I phone someone for you? I'm Kathleen, by the way. My husband and I were just about to go home when he saw you lying on the ground.’

A witness! ‘Did he see that man hit me?’

‘No. Someone said he was your brother, but he went away.’ She looked puzzled. ‘Are you 
sure
 he was the one who hit you?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ But
was
I sure? A large hand had shoved under my body, pulled at the strap of my handbag and in so doing had reefed my shirt out of my jeans. I was a woman alone and easy pickings. He’d only to watch and wait for the chance when there'd be no one else around. Why hadn't I left the garden when I realised I was being followed?
Stupid, Pam ,stupid.

I drifted off for a few minutes, and awakened to the sound of voices and a scuffle of footsteps on the pathway. Two paramedics swiftly unpacked their bags. One medic wiped my face and cleaned my mouth of blood with something soft and wet. Enquiries were made as to whether I was feeling pain anywhere else. Competent hands checked me for injuries, my blood pressure taken and a torch flashed in my eyes. ‘You'll need to come with us,’ they announced as they strapped a neck brace on and then lifted me onto a flat stretcher, carefully holding my spine and neck rigid. Expertly and swiftly I was trundled to a waiting ambulance.