Heller's Regret (34 page)

It wasn’t long before Farrell and I were
besieged with people wanting to enter the hall. Energetic music
pumped from loud speakers inside and I found myself moving in time
with it. Then I caught the lyrics of a couple of the songs. Each
seemed to be extolling the virtues and agonies of maintaining your
virginity in an era where you couldn’t turn around without a
celebrity virtually thrusting their crotch or shaking their butt in
your face.

Closer to the end of the rush, I recognised a
familiar face hauling his creaky body in my direction.

“Fancy seeing you here again. Remember
me?”

“Oh, I remember you all right,” I said to the
wizened man I’d dubbed ‘Ancient Elvis’ after his potentially
hip-cracking performance during an Elvis talent competition. He’d
got me into a lot of trouble.

“I’m pretty unforgettable,” he said with
shameless immodesty.

“I wouldn’t have guessed you were a virgin,
being a man of your . . . er . . . maturity.”

“I’ve been married six times, and I might as
well have been a virgin through four of them. The other two wives
were saucy little madams if I do say so, but that’s all in the
past. I’m a born again virgin now.”

“Born again? Really? How interesting.”

“I’ve heard some of these older broads can be
pretty desperate after years of not having the pleasure of an
experienced gentleman in their boudoir.”

I shuddered to myself at the picture this
conjured up in my brain. No amount of brain bleach would ever make
that
go away.

“Um, I don’t want to criticise, but do you
think it’s quite ethical to go to a virgins’ conference hoping to
score?”

He waggled his overgrown snowy eyebrows. “Ah,
that’s my secret, hot stuff. Do you see any other guys here doing
the same thing? Of course you don’t! Nothing here but virgin men as
far as the eye can see. Women don’t want that,” his scorn quickly
turning into a hacking cough fit that had me looking around for a
respirator. “They want
real
men – a man who knows what he’s
doing, who isn’t afraid to pick a woman up and carry her to his
bedroom before taking her to heaven with his irresistible seduction
techniques.”

Dear Lord
. I suddenly felt queasy,
scrunching my eyes tight.
Curse this too vivid imagination of
mine
. Him staggering from side to side, wheezing as he tried to
carry any woman to his bedroom would probably end up with her in
hospital and him in the morgue.

“You okay, Chalmers?” asked Farrell.

The Old Dude spun to glare at him. “Who’s
this wally when he’s at home?”

“He’s my partner.”

“What happened to the other guy? That
dumb-haired wimp too scared to kick anyone in the goolies? A good,
swift kick in the goolies would sort out a lot of problems in this
world, if you ask me.”

“We didn’t ask you,” Farrell interrupted his
incipient rant.

“You’re pretty rude for a wally,” Old Dude
sniffed. “Worried I’m going to outclass you with the virgins,
Muscles?”

“Is this guy for real?” Farrell asked me.

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. My
hearing’s perfect. Probably better than yours with all that muscle
in your skull blocking your ears. I should teach you a lesson by
kicking you in the goolies.”

“Enough with the goolies already,” I said,
exasperated. “I can’t believe you’re still so obsessed with them.”
I glanced at his ticket with perfunctory attention, just wanting to
get rid of him. I nodded towards the door with my head. “Go on. In
you go. And I don’t want you to cause any trouble or try to kick
anyone in the goolies. And leave the virgins alone.”

“Geez, who died and left you in charge, party
pooper?” he muttered to himself. He hitched up his sagging pants
that were nearly as old as him and had come and gone in fashion at
least ten times since they were stitched together about a century
ago. He sauntered through the door with all the confidence of a
stud a quarter of his age.

“Watch out, ladies,” I smiled at Farrell.
“Great-Grandpa’s on the loose and looking for lurve.”

“Unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head.
“He’s half my size and threatened to kick me in the goolies. He’s
like some toothless chihuahua threatening to bite a dinosaur. Do
you know him?”

“I met him in a previous assignment. He’s a
crafty old bastard.”

A melodic dinging warned everyone that the
conference was about to begin. We herded a few stragglers inside.
Farrell decided to stay outside for thirty minutes to catch any
latecomers while I went inside, closing the doors behind me.

The hall was full. As the trio ascended the
stage to the lectern, the chair scraping, low hum of conversation
and mobile phone ringing gradually quieted. The first fifteen
minutes was spent on welcoming attendees and general housekeeping,
including explaining the program for the day.

My eyes roamed the hall, picking out Old
Dude, who’d somehow managed to surround himself with middle-aged
women. I really would have to keep a close eye on him.

The age range of the virgins surprised me,
from young teenagers to quite elderly people. From a quick scan,
there also seemed to be a balanced representation of women and men
present. It appeared this was an equal opportunity movement.

To kick off the conference, the keynote
speaker was a guy called Griffin, who spent longer on his hair than
his arguments. A charismatic man, he headed a large church and was
often in the news. His church undertook a lot of school-based
preaching on the benefits of chastity pledges. He was quite a
controversial person, roundly criticised for his conservative views
on gender roles. In his spiels, he gave greater emphasis to the
importance of girls protecting their virginity in order to maintain
their ‘purity’ for marriage. Critics argued this virtually gave
boys the green light to screw around with the ‘bad’ girls before
settling down with the ‘good’ ones.

Hearing him reiterate all that rubbish turned
me off wanting to listen to any further speakers. Satisfied that
everyone was engrossed in his bombastic message, I slipped outside
to Farrell.

“Bored already?”

“Annoyed already. But I did learn that I’m a
bad girl for not defending my virginity so I could gift it to my
imaginary husband on our imaginary wedding night.”

“A lot of men prefer bad girls.”

“Lucky for me or I’d never get a date.”

He teased me with that subtle hint of a smile
again. Farrell was positively rolling on the floor with mirth
today.

“Ever been with a virgin?” I asked him.

“Nah. What about you?”

“Never. I’m not sure I’d enjoy sleeping with
a guy who wasn’t personally experienced in inserting thingamajig A
into slot B with confidence.”

“It’s not really something you forget once
you’ve done it.”

“Guess not. Do you think virgins look
different to people like you and me?”

“No,” he said in surprise. “Why would
they?”

“I dunno. Being carnal should make a
difference in how someone looks, don’t you think?”

“No. Does learning to ride a bike change how
someone looks?”

“Of course it does. You’re on a bike. You
instantly look different.”

“It’s impossible to argue with you.”

“Because my arguments are unassailable?” I
smiled.

“Nope. Because your logic is so twisted and
convoluted, it’s like arguing with a sack full of snakes and just
about as rewarding.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Hugh.”

“It wasn’t meant as one.”

“You gotta grab what you can when you
can.”

“Chalmers, that ought to be your motto.”

Chapter 25

The day plodded on, interminable slow. By the
end, Farrell and I took turns yawning, stretching and jogging on
the spot to relieve the physical pressure of standing for most of
the day.

The Old Dude trudged away dejectedly, not
hoodwinking any of the ladies the previous day. But you didn’t get
to be a middle-aged female virgin without being a good judge of
character, especially of a man’s. None of those ladies was buying
what he was selling. He’d have to rely on more than his
questionable charm to convince any of them to abandon their
long-held beliefs.

When the last attendee had left, the
organisers locked the doors to the hall for the evening. I helped
them clean up and restock the refreshment tables in anticipation of
tomorrow’s morning rush, placing a large cloth over each table when
we’d finished. Farrell helped Tom straighten up the chairs and
dispose of the rubbish.

“Such an enlightening, empowering day,”
gushed Miriam, her face glowing with happiness. Harriet nodded so
forcefully her head nearly fell off her shoulders.

Farrell nudged me in the direction of the
stairs to the carpark, eager to leave. The trio of organisers had
parked on the other side of the building. Tom’s arm hung around his
wife’s shoulders as they walked in the opposite direction to us,
Harriet shadowing them. I wondered idly if they wound her head up
each night, ready to bobble around the next day.

At the Warehouse, Farrell and I also parted
ways for the evening.

“I’ve had enough virgins for the day. I’m
going to deliberately dream of sexy people tonight,” I decided,
unclipping my seatbelt, visions of a naked Heller already
tantalisingly forming in my mind.

“You’ll probably end up dreaming of old
goolie guy instead.”

“Aw, Hugh, don’t wish that on me, or I’ll be
forced to hope you’ll dream of Mrs Burwood romping in your
bed.”

“Not going to happen. All my dream spots are
fully booked out by someone else. I’ll see you at eight sharp in
the morning again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clive waylaid me outside the security
section, wanting to know how the day went.

I shrugged, yawning. “It was okay. Nothing
exciting happened. They’re not exactly a bunch of bruisers looking
for trouble.”

“Trouble usually goes looking for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you keep saying.”

“Don’t forget, eight sharp in the
morning.”

“How could I forget when everyone keeps
reminding me?” I grumped at him. “I do own a watch, you know.”

Niq almost jumped on me when I reached my
flat. He followed me inside, chatting to me non-stop as I cooked
dinner, pinching some of the food off my plate, though he assured
me he’d already eaten a huge evening meal. I had to shoo him out in
the end so I could shower and drop into bed.

It only felt like a second since I closed my
eyes when my alarm sounded. Grumbling, I had a quick shower,
changed into a fresh uniform, chucking the old one I’d abandoned on
the bathroom floor last night into my overflowing laundry hamper.
Note to self: do some washing tonight
– just what I needed
after a long day at work.

I enjoyed a more leisurely breakfast, eating
while I watched the morning news. One channel covered the latest
air disaster; another the economic forecast for the country; and a
third the capture of five members of a terrorist cell, the
accompanying video showing a bullet-riddled house in a quiet
neighbourhood in some country town. Finding all those options far
too depressing to share with my boiled egg and toast, I switched
off the TV.

I made sure I was down in the security
section promptly at five to eight. Farrell and I almost pushed
another team out of the way to snare the last of the newer 4WDs,
smugly enduring their rude finger gestures when they were forced to
take a lesser vehicle.

“You’re a competitive man, Hugh.”

“I like driving a nice car, and this one is
all class. A real pleasure to drive.”

“Heller wouldn’t buy something tacky or
second rate. Totally not his style.”

“It’s all right for him. He’s got the money
to do that. The rest of us have to put up with what we can
afford.”

“Been there, done that.”

“Not lately.”

“No, I guess not.” Heller looked after me
well.

The Old Dude was one of the first arrivals
that morning.

“Didn’t get lucky yesterday, hey? Guess those
virgins are more than capable of picking a wolf amongst the lambs,”
I smiled.

“I just have to find the right one. A woman
who’s wavering in her faith. She’s more likely to come to this
conference as a way of confirming she’s made the right decision.
But deep in her heart, she’s yearning for a real man to sweep her
off her feet.”
And drop her on the floor when his hip seizes
up
, I thought. “And there’s one now. Look out, beautiful, here
comes the man of your dreams.”
One woman’s dreams equal
another’s nightmares.

He moseyed over to a woman in her late
fifties standing by herself with a cup of tea in one hand and a
conference program in the other. She rolled her eyes while reading
the offerings for today as if she’d seen and heard it all before.
She looked up in surprise when the Old Dude approached her, but
soon they were laughing and conversing like old friends.

“Well, blow me, look at him go,” I said to
Farrell in wonder. “You should ask him for some pick-up
tricks.”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“So why am I seeing that graffiti all over
town saying,
Call me for a good time, please, pretty please
,
with your phone number and initials?”

“Don’t push it, Chalmers.”

“You’re no fun today.”

“Good. That’s the way I like it. So stop
yapping and get back to work.”

“Ooh, did that order come with a supersized
serve of grumpiness for free?”

“See what I’m doing now? I’m ignoring you.
I’m finding it very gratifying.”

“Someone got out of bed the wrong way this
morning.”

He stayed true to his word and didn’t answer
me.

A loud burst of what sounded eerily similar
to the noise an enraged chimp made echoed around the foyer,
alarming everyone. Instinctively, I looked around for an escapee
from the zoo. But the horrible sound came from the lady being
chatted up by the Old Dude. She made the blood-chilling noise
again, and I think it was laughter. Aghast, the Old Dude stared at
her, stepping back a pace. She quickly covered the distance between
them, moving even closer to him, her hand clenching his arm so he
couldn’t escape without biting her fingers off.