The Mak Collection (158 page)

Mak stood up and felt something hard under her foot. She rolled her boot to one side and saw she was standing on a single coin—or rather, half of one. It was an American
quarter, and it looked like a bite had been taken out of it. She examined it from all angles. The edge seemed to have been crushed by something, but the rest of the coin was unscratched and unbent. She placed the quarter on the bed and frowned.

A coin out of place. You missed that one, Glenise
, she thought suspiciously.

She pocketed it for later, then took out her digital camera, checked that it had a fresh, correctly labelled memory stick, and began to take the first photographs for her new case.

When Makedde emerged from Adam’s room thirty minutes later, she felt only the tiniest step closer to knowing who he was.

She moved into the hallway and looked both ways. There was some movement in the kitchen directly below, a cupboard closing, the rattling of china, the shriek of water coming to the boil again. She stepped into the bathroom. It, too, was spotless. The towels were dark. There was a mirrored cabinet above the sink. She opened it, hopeful. If it were anything like hers, the shelves would be overflowing with toiletries, vitamins, toothpaste oozing out of tubes.

Anti-psychotic medications, party drugs, bags of condoms, what have you got for me…

There was a small tub of hair gel. Deodorant. Toothpaste still in a box.
Boring
. Mak opened the cupboards under the sink and found nothing but neatly folded towels, a rubber plunger.
Nothing.

Makedde readied herself to face Adam’s distraught mother again. What had she learned? Her son was tidy. He read novels and watched DVDs. He liked
Star Wars
. He liked the Jim Rose
Circus. And he had a strange coin. He most likely entered and exited his room through the window and down the drainpipe. But why? Mak descended the stairs wishing she’d discovered something more tangible, something to give hope that Adam would soon be returned to his mother, but of course it was far too early for results.

Glenise was waiting for Mak at the bottom of the stairs.

‘More tea?’ she asked.

‘Oh, thank you,’ Mak replied, not at all meaning it. ‘But I should get going soon.’

Tea was poured and Mak returned to her place on the lonely loveseat, smiling gently. She hadn’t had to use the tissues yet and she hoped the meeting would not turn to tears now. Adam’s mother sat across from her, expectantly. She seemed to have gained some composure. Her posture was stiff and proud.

‘I was wondering…does Adam’s room look any different than normal to you?’ Mak asked.

‘Not really.’

‘You didn’t perhaps clean it?’ she suggested gently. If Mrs Hart had cleaned the room to make it presentable for her and for the police, it was an extremely counterproductive thing to do.

‘Oh no. I wouldn’t do that. He has to clean his own room.’ Glenise held her gaze, and her answer was direct. Could the orderly teacher’s pride allow strangers to sift through her only child’s untidy room if it had been a mess?

‘It’s very well organised in there,’ Mak observed.

‘Oh, yes,’ Glenise replied, swelling with pride. ‘Adam’s a very neat boy. I didn’t raise any slob.’

Mak smiled. ‘You certainly didn’t.’ She took a sip of tea for the sake of diplomacy, but she had spent enough time in this
pleasant, fractured home with its antiseptic grief. For the moment there was nothing more she could accomplish.

‘Before I go, may I have a look at where Adam kept his bike? You said he sometimes left it alongside the house?’

‘Of course.’

Mak gathered her things, and Glenise led her out the front door. The suburban street looked different in the slowly waning daylight, the houses beginning to be bathed in purples and greys, the shadows growing longer. They walked around to the side of the house, overgrown with green grass. Mak dodged a spider web, and was struck with images of Glenise Hart mowing the lawn alone, working in the garden alone, shopping for groceries alone, cooking for one.

‘He often kept it here. But it’s gone,’ Glenise said.

There was less than two metres space between the Harts’ house and a tall fence separating the property from next door. Mak could see wheel tracks through the grass, but it was hard to say how recently they’d been made. She again spotted the drainpipe that extended up to the roof, past Adam’s window. Had Glenise never noticed that her son conveniently parked his bike at the bottom of it?

By the look of that photo on the beach, Adam would certainly have had interest from the opposite sex. Or both sexes, actually. But Glenise had denied he had a girlfriend, or any ‘special’ male friends. Right on cue, Glenise reached into her pocket and presented Mak with the photograph from the mantle.

‘Oh, thank you.’

‘Bring him home to me,’ the woman said.

Mak nodded. ‘Don’t worry.’

They walked back to the front of the house, and Mak left
her client with her arms crossed, silhouetted by the glow of the slowly sinking sun.

‘I’ll be in touch again later this week,’ Mak assured her.

‘He didn’t run away,’ the woman said once more, adamant.

Mak thanked her for her hospitality, neither legitimising her belief that her son could not possibly have run away, nor refuting it. But the way that flyscreen had come off made her think it had been removed many times before.

‘I was just wondering, has Adam ever travelled to America?’

‘America? No.’

Mak supposed he could have got the coin anywhere. ‘If you could get that list of Adam’s friends to me as soon as possible, that would be helpful. Thanks again for your time. I know this is hard for you. I’m confident we’ll find him.’

The early evening air felt refreshing as she gained distance from the house, and from Mrs Hart, who stood in the doorway watching. The hire car engine started with a splutter. It was not the most glamorous exit, Mak reflected, but as she drove away, she felt lighter.

Lush red theatrical curtains were pulled back to reveal a nearly bare stage. Off to the right, a small band assembled, looking artfully dishevelled in tatty tuxedos—a guitarist and an androgenous-looking drummer surrounded by her kit.

The round drum was painted in old-style lettering.

LE THÉÂTRE DES HORREURS

A drum, lonely for other instruments, rolled its rapid rhythm, and on cue two young women appeared, both petite and dressed in classic burlesque attire: blood-red corsets, fishnets and tiny velvet hats set over the side part in their tightly curled blonde wigs. The makeup gave them the look of goth twins, their lipstick black, skin white. One pushed a cart like a restaurant trolley; the other carried a vintage-style placard:

ARSLAN LE CONTORSIONNISTE

The audience watched as the woman with the placard shimmied her way across the stage, striking little poses and making gestures in Bettie Page pin-up fashion—a smile here, an eyelash-heavy wink there—ensuring the placard was noticed by all. She daintily placed it on an easel stage right and joined her twin.

The audience waited, anticipation palpable.

Finally, the wheeled trolley was pushed to the front of the stage. On the trolley sat an ornate box not even half a metre wide, about the size of a minibar or large overnight bag. With lace-gloved hands the two attractive women stroked the box lovingly, making clear something of value was inside.

‘
Arslan le contorsionniste
,’ came an announcement in exotic-sounding French. ‘
Amoureux tordu…
’

The women gracefully reached down and locked the wheels of the cart so it would not move, then stepped away in their stiletto heels, blowing the mysterious object fond kisses and disappearing from view beyond the vaudevillian curtain.

The box sat centre-stage on its elevated cart, unmoving.

Again, the audience waited.

A full minute of suspense followed, seeming like an impossibly long stretch of time, the lone drummer tapping out a low roll. Finally, a striptease beat began, the guitarist strumming exotic, sensual sounds, and centimetre by centimetre the doors of the box opened, as if they had a life of their own.

Oh!

The audience collectively gasped as one hand appeared, and then another. Incredibly, a full-grown man was emerging from the box before the stunned audience, the empty space beneath the cart making it clear that this was no trick. Arslan the contortionist had not just appeared from a trap door under
the floor, or from a hidden container within the trolley. A whole person had folded himself into that box, and he now rose, extending one arm and then the other, stepping out, unfolding himself limb by limb, and making a show of unfurling fingers and toes and placing his spine back into a more natural, upright alignment.

He stood.

Amazing…

Despite fitting in the box, this was no small man. He was exceedingly lean and sinewy, but well muscled, and looked at least 180 centimetres tall. He wore his slick hair parted to one side, and sported a 1920s-inspired thin moustache, curled up at the edges, a look which added enormously to the sense he had been transported from an earlier era, the ornate box his time capsule. His skin was the colour of milk chocolate, his bright green eyes rimmed with kohl. In ballooning white boxers and black socks pulled taut with old-fashioned sock suspenders, he posed, chest out, like a silent-era movie star caught in a particularly risqué moment. The creature on the stage grinned, and raised an eyebrow lasciviously, as if performing for the intimate pleasure of a lover. He curved one leg around the other, looping it once, twice, three times, locking it around his thigh, shin and ankle, seeming to will his bones to rubber.

Amoureux tordu.
Twisted lover.

The young man in the back row folded his arms and smiled, delighted by the riveting spectacle. Watching this act for the fifth time, he was still amazed by Arslan the Contortionist’s impressive flexibility and theatrical flair.

As the act came to an end he applauded along with the crowd, and felt the soft wings of butterflies building up in his stomach.

The next act was a crowd favourite. It featured the classic French beauty pictured in the program—Bijou, ‘the most assassinated woman since Paula Maxa’, starring in a famous play of the Grand Guignol.

It was a gruesome tale of love and revenge.

Le Baiser dans la Nuit
.

The Final Kiss.

Mak pulled up to Loulou’s apartment block with a sense of lightness. She was into the work. Her mind had a task to focus on, a puzzle. She was in Sydney. It was the beginning of a new beginning. For the first time in months, her failures did not seem to be clinging quite so closely.

She stepped out of the rental car, and stared at something on the road behind her.

No.

Andy’s car.

Her stomach fell. The timing was terrible.

Andy’s red Honda was parked on the street outside the building, and the sight of him waiting there for her pulled everything out of focus. Mak felt panicked in an instant.
How could he know where I’m staying?
Mak could make out his dark silhouette behind the wheel. Her heart lurched at the sight.

Andy. Not now.

After his earlier call, bad reception and all, she’d realised he wanted to see her, but at the apartment? Unannounced? Like this?

She had not expected to feel so thrown by his proximity. It was too soon to see him. Makedde strode across the footpath, up the stairs and to the front door of the apartment block, briefcase in hand, barely breathing. She tried to keep her thoughts sober, and listened intently. As she fished her keys out there was the sound of a car door closing and footsteps behind her. She felt, as much as heard, Andy’s approach.

‘Mak…We need to talk.’

‘I agree,’ she replied, looking resolutely at the keys in her hand. She didn’t want to look at him. Yet. She stuck the key in the street door and opened it.

‘You weren’t answering your phone.’

Mak had switched her phone off, hoping the problem would go away for a while. Yet here he was. Her jaw felt tight, her stomach uneasy.

Get this over with.

They stepped inside the echoing hallway of the apartment complex and made their way to her temporary abode like a couple attending a wake. The stark corridor seemed to Mak to stretch for miles, the white concrete and harsh lighting oppressively institutional. They reached the door of Apartment 101, and in a tense silence she let him in. Only once she closed the door behind him did she allow herself to acknowledge the man she had spent much of the past five years with. She turned to faced him.

Andy.

Just as she had feared, she found the sight of him pleasing. He wore faded jeans, and had rolled up the sleeves on a collared shirt wrinkled from the long drive. If he’d been working, he would have worn a suit, she knew. He had driven to Sydney for her, she was now certain. Her eyes ran over his features, and
took in the familiar face with its strong jawline and handsome but imperfect features: the slightly crooked nose, the generous mouth, the scar on his chin. His face was shaded with stubble, circles under his intense green eyes. His dark hair was full, and only slightly greying at the temples. Andy’s naturally strong build was impossibly appealing to her. He had always possessed an indefinable masculinity that she found compelling. And then there was the height—with Mak being so tall herself, it was not every man she was forced to look up to, as she was now. Even in such unpleasant conditions, she found him magnetic. Frustratingly, that had always been the case.

There was love there. There had always been love there. But it was flawed love, deeply flawed.
He’s just familiar. That’s all. We are like a bad habit for each other.

‘I see you wasted no time finding me,’ she challenged him, looking up to meet his eyes. ‘Does the whole police department keep a file on me these days, or did you just send someone to follow me yourself?’