The Stalk Club (3 page)

“I
did,” said Craig, grinning in return.  “I followed him to his door and waited
outside.  I thought I could hear the shower running so I tested the doorknob. 
It was unlocked so I invited myself in.  I think he was probably expecting
someone.”

The
others were silent, with mouths agape and eyes glued to the footage.

“Craig,
why do you do this stuff?” asked Bryce.  “It’s against the rules, you know,
that rule about not breaking any laws?”

“Hey,
we’re all law-breakers here, stalking is against the law.”  Craig looked back
to the laptop screen, fascinated by his own footage.  “Here is his wallet with
all his credit cards and licence.  Geoffrey Quinn, aged fifty-two, organ
donor.  And here you can see where I go into his bedroom,” he added excitedly
as he relived the moment.  The sound of running water could be heard as Craig
entered the bedroom.  He had pointed the video camera through the open door of
the ensuite bathroom where the blurry apparition of someone showering could be
seen through the fogged glass.  “I could have gone through his sock drawer if
I’d wanted to.”

“I’m
surprised you didn’t,” said Natalie with a mild look of distaste on her face,
although she too was riveted to the screen.

“You
took some crazy risks here.  I mean, what if you’d got caught?” asked Grant.

“No-one
can catch me.  I’m too fast and too smart.  Anyway, it was all worth it if you
guys have to buy me drinks for the rest of the night,” he replied, rubbing his
hands together in anticipation.”

“Not
so fast buddy,” countered Grant.  “We haven’t heard from Jen yet.”

The
group turned to Jen who smiled.  Jennifer Nolan had clear blue eyes, small
straight nose and curvaceous lips that turned down appealingly at their
corners.  She was the newest and normally the quietest member of the group and
had only joined a couple of months previously as a friend and room-mate of
Natalie’s. 

“Ok. 
Well my stalk was bad, but for different reasons than Natalie’s.  For the first
hour I sat and watched the woman Grant chose down several Daiquiris with her
friends.”  Jen went on to tell the group how she had followed the woman to a quiet
laneway where she had been spotted and had to dive behind a dumpster to hide. 
“I was so scared, I wasn’t sure if I should give up and just get the hell out
of there, but I decided to keep going.”

“So
what happened then,” asked Natalie becoming increasingly intrigued.

“Well
I followed her up the laneway at a discrete distance, but then I think she got
a little freaked out.  She started running in her high heels, but then tripped
over and fell flat on her face.  I didn’t know what the hell to do, but I felt
so sorry for her that I went up to her to try and help her up.”

“You
didn’t?” asked an incredulous Craig with mouth agape.

“Yeah
I did.  I tried to help her get to her feet but she started screaming and then
tried to spray me with mace or something.  Some people from the street ahead heard
her and came towards us, so I took off back down the laneway and barely stopped
running until I got back here.  My heart still hasn’t recovered!”

By
this stage Craig was laughing so hard that he had to wipe away tears from his
eyes.  “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages.  You are the shittest
stalker ever,” he said between gasps for air. 

Manuel
Torres was late, which was unusual for him because for the past seven years he
had lived his life like clockwork.  What made his being late even worse was
that he was meeting with someone who he would always make time for, whatever
the circumstance.  It was someone who he owed his life to, someone who for no
apparent reason other than friendship, had reached out and saved him when his
need was greatest. 

He walked
past Nero’s Lounge bar on Market Street and briefly noted the reflection in the
window.  He saw a man of medium height, lean and well muscled.  His head was
shaven and despite being mid-winter the skin was brown, courtesy of his
father’s Brazilian heritage, or at least that was what his mother had told
him.  His father hadn’t stayed around long enough for him to personally verify
this.  Manuel wore jeans and a black jumper which was a little tight around his
broad chest.  By most standards he cut quite a handsome figure and as a result,
received admiring glances from some of the young women he passed on the street,
which he either missed or ignored.  If any of the interested women had a chance
to get to know him they might not have liked what they found.  What had once
been a tough yet easy going youth had turned into an uncompromising and hard piece
of stone courtesy of the seven years he had spent at the Goulburn Correctional
Centre mixing with the cream of New South Wales worst prisoners.  They had
taught him some tough lessons but ultimately he had survived.  

Manuel
had knocked off at five from the panel beater shop where he’d been working
since his release eight weeks previously.  Turning down the usual after work
offer to share a couple of cartons of beer with the other guys in the shop, he
had travelled home to his dingy Redfern apartment, swapped his dirty overalls for
his current attire and taken the train into the city.  He checked the time on
his mobile phone and quickened his pace. 

Five
minutes later Manuel arrived at Pellegrinos Italian restaurant, where he had
been eating free of charge every Friday night since his release, courtesy of
his friend Bruno Trulli who managed the restaurant.  They had first met almost nine
years ago when at the age of sixteen Manuel had started working there.  Initially
Manuel had planned to stay just long enough to earn enough cash to buy a
battered Subaru WRX that his friend was selling, but he soon began to enjoy the
energetic machinations of working in a busy and successful inner-city
restaurant.  He worked hard, and progressed from dishwasher to kitchen hand, in
the process, discovering a natural flair and ability for food preparation.  Through
his efforts he earned the respect and friendship of Bruno who encouraged him and
arranged for him to commence a chef apprenticeship.

Unfortunately
things didn’t quite work out as planned.  Manuel had been involved in street
gangs since he was ten.  Although he played his part well enough in their territorial
disputes, petty crimes and other delinquent acts, it wasn’t by choice or desire
that he was involved.  It was just a way of surviving adolescence in the deep
western suburbs neighbourhood where he lived.  If you weren’t in a gang you
were an easy target for those who were.

On a
hot and muggy January night seven years ago he had gone out cruising and
drinking beers with his friends.  They tried to gatecrash a Facebook advertised
party in Blacktown, hoping to meet some new girls and score some food and booze,
but were turned away.  Things got a little heated, a few punches were thrown
and they were chased backed to their car by a group of twenty youths.  Manuel
was fuming as he’d caught a lucky punch from some big private schoolboy hero
and his nose was broken and bleeding.  As they drove away, Manuel impulsively
grabbed his friend’s handgun from under the seat.  He had planned to fire into
the air to scare them, but his rage got the better of him.  When he saw the guy
who had smacked him, jeering with his friends at their car, he pointed the gun
in his direction and pulled the trigger.  His shot went wide and killed a fifteen
year old girl.  Manuel had just turned eighteen years of age, was convicted of manslaughter
and
sent to Goulburn Jail.

In
prison he soon realised he was just a child, alone among men.  He was harassed
and assaulted from day one, by members of the various cliques that existed there
and anyone else who was in the mood for fun, or whose tastes ran to brown smooth-skinned
teenage boys.

Before
long Bruno Trulli came to visit him.  He was Manuel’s first visitor.  His
mother, who was the only family he knew of, abandoned him after his arrest,
saying that it was the straw that broke her back.  He didn’t blame her as it
was the straw that almost broke his back too.  In the stark and bland visitors
centre Manuel broke down in front of the old man.  He cried for the first time
since he could remember and told Bruno he didn’t think he could survive for
much longer.  It was then that the old man saved him.  Bruno somehow arranged
for the right people inside the prison to keep an eye out for him.  It didn’t
quite amount to protection and it didn’t mean that Manuel’s incarceration was
the equivalent of a holiday in the Maldives, but it was enough to give him the
breathing space he needed to find his feet in the prison system.  It was enough
to help him survive.  Manuel asked how Bruno achieved this, but the old man
just smiled and said that he had a lot of friends.  Manuel knew that he owed the
old man his life, absolutely and completely.

Despite
the watchful eye of Bruno’s connections and Manuel spending as much of his time
as he could away from the general populace working or studying, his time in
prison was pockmarked with its fair share of skirmishes.  He learned to fight
and knew he could and would kill someone if he had to.  He learned to have no
regrets, to act violently first and to survive.  Through endless repetitions of
heavy weights he built up his slim young body and on the day he left prison he
tipped the scales at just on ninety kilograms of hard, lean, muscle, seventeen kilograms
heavier than when he went in.

Upon
his release Bruno helped him find accommodation and work at the body shop. 
Since then, Manuel had come to Pellegrinos every Friday night to eat and talk
about old times and new plans with Bruno.  It was during these chats that
Manuel discovered Bruno had some troubles of his own and Manuel had willingly
offered to help in an attempt to repay his debt to him. 

Manuel
entered the restaurant which was located in the base of a large office block on
Castlereagh Street.  Its double glazed façade afforded diners a clear view of
the street beyond without the accompanying noise and fumes.  Upon entering he
saw Bruno standing at his counter, checking the bookings for the night, just as
he did six nights of the week and had done so for fifteen years before Manuel had
ever set foot there. 

“Good
Evening Manuel.  You look well,” said the old man in greeting, warmly shaking
his hand.  Manuel again noted how much Bruno had aged since he had first met
him.  His hair was now completely white and there were deep, permanent lines
around his eyes, mouth and forehead.  He had lost weight as he aged and now
only budged the scales to sixty kilograms and the black dinner suit he wore
hung a little loose in places.   

“And
you old friend,” replied Manuel quietly.
”Freedom seems to be agreeing with you.  Please, take a
seat,” Bruno said, guiding his guest to a table in a quiet corner at the rear
of the restaurant.

The
restaurant had undergone a facelift since Manuel had worked there and some
serious money had been spent.  An oval shaped island bar now occupied the
centre of the restaurant and the kitchen had been completely refurbished and
was now open plan, allowing the clientele to watch the kitchen staff dance
around the flaming grills as their meals were prepared. 

New
customers entered the restaurant and Bruno left to greet them.  Manuel dined on
a huge serve of Linguini con Pollo and two pints of beer before leaving and
making his way to the Northern entrance of Hyde Park.  It was their usual
routine.

After
a ten minute wait Bruno approached and they walked a short distance together before
taking a seat on a park bench beneath the night shade of the large fig trees.  At
that hour, the park remained a busy thoroughfare for those with money, and a
meeting place for those without, but their bench was far enough removed from
all so they could talk in peace.

“You
look well my friend.  That girl of yours, Kylie?  She must be satisfying your
needs,” said Bruno with a wry smile.

“Yes
she does, in every way,” replied Manuel, a rare smile briefly alighting on his
lips.

“You
must tell her nothing of this,” added Bruno in a more serious tone.

“I
know,” replied Manuel, deciding to quickly change the subject.  “How are
preparations coming along?”

“We
are close now.”

It
was almost eight o’clock Wednesday evening and Craig Thoms was nearing the end
of his shift.  He was tired from being run off his feet for the last ten hours,
but he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand because he couldn’t
afford to make a mistake.  He lazily strolled down the quiet hospital corridor
pushing a wheeled bucket with a mop, scanning the hallway ahead while also listening
for footsteps behind him.  He casually turned around to double check that he
was still alone and then ducked into the medical supply room on his left.

Working
quickly, he pulled a key from his pocket, moved to the mesh walled drugs locker
located in the corner of the room and unlocked it.  It was the size of a large walk-in
pantry and its shelves were neatly stocked and organised with antibiotics,
painkillers and other medications that were kept in the ward.  He cast a quick
glance over his shoulder through the steel mesh that now encircled him and pressed
forward with his task.

He
quickly located and sized up the stocks of the drugs he was after on the
shelves, knowing that he needed to strike a balance between taking as much as
he could without taking too much and alerting the other staff members,
particularly the hard-arsed Sister Patricia who ran the ward like a detention
camp and possessed a sharp eye for detail.