Welcome To Wherever You Are (41 page)

*

‘She’s here,’ Jane said curtly.

Inside the locked bathroom she whispered into a mobile phone. ‘I’ll give her a stronger sedative before she goes to bed, but wait until I call you before you send the car.’

Back in Montgomery, Alabama, Reverend Devereaux hung up the phone and gave a victorious smile.

Ron and Nicole stared at each other, both equally frightened and uneasy.

Nicole took a step backwards, having learned from her showdown with Eric that when backed into a corner, human behaviour could return to its most basic, animalistic form at the drop of a hat. But the anger she felt towards Ron was stronger than her fear of how he might retaliate.

Confrontation did not sit well with Ron, but try as he might, he couldn’t find a way out of the situation. And in his sixty-two years on the planet, he had placed himself in many an unusual situation.

*

Ronald Arthur Hancock had never met anyone he could call a friend.

Home schooled on a remote corn farm in Oklahoma, and with no brothers, sisters or neighbourhood kids to play with, Ron was accustomed to his own company.

He was a shy, scrawny seventeen-year-old on a drive into town for farm supplies when the tornado struck. Ron and the general store’s customers took cover in the storm shelter until the violent, rotating column of air passed. By the time Ron reached his home later that afternoon, it was scattered in pieces across the great plains, along with his parents’ bodies. He was left with nothing but a generous insurance policy payout.

Being alone was made harder by Ron’s lack of skills that others took for granted – the ability to empathise, relate to or identify with other people. He’d been told by his father these were necessary smarts to get by in life, but the developmental disability in his brain caused him to freeze when anyone, even a familiar face, tried to engage him in polite chit-chat. As a result, much of his time he spent alone in his motel room, passing the time practicing conversations with his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Ron took a rare excursion one Presidents’ Day when Uncle Sam’s Great American Circus rolled into town. As the townsfolk enjoyed the rides, stalls, animals and performers, it was the hall of mirrors that transfixed Ron. He was fascinated by how flexible glass contorted his face and body into mutated shapes. By simply standing and doing nothing, he could become something unrecognisable from himself. It was, ironically, a moment of clarity.

His first job after his parents’ farm was flattened was working for a mirror manufacturer in Tulsa. Despite his lack of experience, he was employed as an apprentice and learned how to mix the reflective coating, apply it to suitable substrates and construct frames from various woods, metals and plastics. Ron adored his new career, and each time he completed a commission, he saw something different about himself in his reflection.

A decade had passed when Ron was tasked with manufacturing a 5-feet-square, two-way mirror for the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville. As he hung it in the warehouse for a final check and polish before transportation, he was delighted by how he could observe his workmates from one side and not be seen from the other. A two-way mirror allowed him to be a part of the world without ever having to interact with it.

Ron joined his foreman Hank on the truck ride to Huntsville to fit the mirror in a small, green-bricked, brightly lit room. On one side where the mirror was to be pitted was a row of wooden chairs, and on the other, a stainless steel table with five leather straps and two wrist restraints.

‘It’s where the death row boys get the needle,’ Hank explained. ‘The witnesses can watch him die, but he ain’t gonna see them. All he can see is his own reflection and the light going out of his own eyes.’

Butterflies circled Ron’s stomach, and for the next fortnight, all he could think about were what stories the mirror he created would be able to tell. When child-murderer Bobby Dalgleish’s execution date was set for a month’s time, Ron invented an excuse to contact the prison and lied, suggesting the mirror might have a near-invisible hairline crack in need of urgent repair.

After giving it a detailed once over in a convincing performance, Ron asked if he could remain there to witness the execution. The suspicious chief eyed him up and down – it wasn’t a request he received often – but concluding Ron was innocuous, consent forms were signed and countersigned, and Dalgleish’s execution was the first of sixty-two Ron observed over the next two and a half decades. Ron gained no pleasure or thrill from watching a state-sanctioned murder; it was the ability to covertly watch someone at their most vulnerable that attracted him.

Executions weren’t a weekly or even monthly occurrence in Texas, meaning Ron travelled the country seeking them out. Sometimes he’d pose as a long-lost member of a victim or perpetrator’s family needing closure or to offer support; on other occasions, he pretended to be working as a reporter for an obscure small-town publication with a make-believe vested interest in the execution.

Not every appointment went the way Ron intended. When in Alabama he discovered the observation room contained a window not a mirror, he immediately walked out. In Arizona, he felt short-changed when a curtain was drawn as soon as the lethal injection was administered. But over time, the criteria for witnessing an execution became tougher, the identity checks more rigorous and Ron more frequently refused entry.

When his employers shut up shop in the recession, Ron’s savings and farm insurance payout funded his travels across America, and eventually he found himself as the oldest guest at a decrepit backpacking hostel in Los Angeles. The owner had made it known she’d happily sell for a bargain price, so Ron used the last of his savings to purchase his first home since the farm.

Although Ron didn’t need to interact with people, he learned to appreciate being surrounded by them, and sometimes he’d sit in his office with the door ajar, going about his hostel business as the voices on the other side went about theirs.

Ron had yet to meet a woman who would make any impact on his life. That was until the night he sat inside a private peep show booth at a strip club and instantly fell for a beautiful dancer called Savannah, as she moved before him from behind a two-way mirror.

*

‘You spied on Savannah while she was in her bathroom?’ Nicole began. ‘That’s disgusting! Jesus, Ron, she trusted you.’

‘I wasn’t spying – someone had to look out for her,’ Ron replied, his voice trembling. ‘She was vulnerable and she needed me.’

‘She was only vulnerable because of people like you taking advantage of her.’

‘I didn’t take advantage, I just needed to be close to her.’

‘Yeah, I can see how close you’ve come,’ Nicole replied, and gave a disgusted glance at the discarded tissues lying by Ron’s feet. ‘You’re sick.’

‘I’m sorry, please don’t tell her,’ replied Ron, and Nicole recognised angst in his eyes. He moved towards her, but a wary Nicole temporarily forgot about her bruising and reached down to grab a piece of the broken perfume bottle and held it in front of her like a weapon.

‘Why shouldn’t I tell her? Because she’d see you for what you are? A dirty, grubby little pervert?’

‘I’m not.’

‘What you’ve done isn’t normal, Ron! Surely you can see that? And Savannah needs to know.’

‘But if you tell her she’ll never come back, and I’ll never see my . . .’ Ron’s brow wrinkled and he clasped his hand over his mouth.

‘See your what?’ asked Nicole.

When Ron didn’t reply, the penny dropped for Nicole.

The thumping beat of electronic dance music blared from six large speakers surrounding a DJ’s booth as around 600 hostellers danced and drank across the floodlit Santa Monica beach.

Partygoers had walked or been bussed in from Los Angeles’ six hostels in Venice, Santa Monica, Hollywood and Hermosa Beach to mark the end of the summer with an all-night celebration. As a rule, LA’s vast beaches were legally out of bounds by 10 p.m., but tonight was an exception courtesy of a tourism initiative to promote the city as a place to stay rather than to use as a stopover between more traveller-friendly regions like San Francisco or San Diego.

LA Tourism Board and hostel managers collaborated to fund two photographers and a film crew to take pictures and video footage for a print and online viral video promotional campaign. Marshalls handed guests wristbands, coloured to match their respective hostels, and keep unwelcome gatecrashers out.

A scout was sent to find the most attractive of the travellers to appear in the forthcoming promo material, but Matty and Declan politely refused the offer when approached, and relocated to a quieter section of the beach. Declan tucked into a second cheeseburger with all the trimmings while Matty lay on the sand, propped up by his elbows, staring into the distance. He kept his exhaustion to himself.

‘D’you reckon we should start thinking about moving on?’ asked Declan.

‘Finish your food first.’

‘I meant leaving LA.’

‘Why? You love it here, we’ve made friends here.’

‘I know, it’s been a blast. I just thought you might want to try somewhere else.’

‘Nah,’ said Matty shaking his head, ‘if you’re happy, I’m happy, and this is a good place to be.’

Declan grabbed a plastic cup of beer and a bottle of water for Matty from an ice bucket behind him.

‘Water, gee, thanks,’ sniffed Matty, although even the thought of alcohol passing his lips made him nauseous.

‘It’s good for you – it flushes out your bad toxins.’

‘It hasn’t flushed you away.’

They paused to stare at two girls, dancing ahead of them.

‘You’re losing your touch,’ smiled Matty. ‘Look at the blonde one, she’s been giving you the eye all night. Once upon a time you’d have been there like a rat up a drainpipe. Go over and talk to her.’

‘You don’t have to tell me twice. Are you coming?’

‘No, I’m gonna get arseholed on Evian.’

‘Stay out of trouble,’ replied Declan, and wandered over towards the girls as Matty watched.

‘I’ll be with you in spirit,’ he smiled.

‘Oh good God, tell me her baby isn’t yours,’ Nicole said to Ron as they stood amongst the shards of broken mirror and glass in Savannah’s bathroom. The piece she’d use to fight off any potential attack remained in her grasp.

She genuinely hoped to hear a firm ‘no’, but Ron’s shamed silence gave Nicole her answer.

‘You drugged and raped her and made her pregnant, didn’t you?’ she asked quietly.

‘I didn’t drug her, I found her when she needed help,’ replied Ron, ‘and don’t use that word – I didn’t rape anyone. I love her.’

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER – SAVANNAH’S MOTEL

Ron sat in an armchair in the corner of Savannah’s motel room, drumming his fingers across the arm, watching her as she slept under a tartan quilt.

Whatever drug had been slipped inside the water bottle in the strip club had had the desired effect, but not for the perpetrator. At first Ron wondered why anyone would want to do that to the girl he adored, but as he stared at her inert body, he began to understand.

From his usual seat in the shadows at the back of the club, Ron knew Savannah wasn’t like the other girls she shared a stage with. Those girls’ eyes betrayed the sexuality they were trying to promote; they were filled with either pretence or desperation. Savannah was different, and from the moment she’d sashayed past him in her black bra and panties and caught his eye, he knew they’d just shared something special.

However, his frustrating inability to engage with strangers meant he chose not to interact with her and, instead, he’d pulled his baseball cap down towards his thick eyebrows and sunk ever deeper into his chair.

During a fortnight of frequent return visits, Ron watched as Savannah contorted her supple limbs around a pole either on stage or in a back room, surrounded by peep show customers who could sit in private booths masturbating behind two-way mirrors. He’d spent close to $3,000 getting to know her body better than he knew his own.

That night four months ago, the stars had aligned and their worlds collided. Ron could barely believe his eyes when Savannah stumbled in front of the car as Peyk picked him up from the club. Together, they lifted her into the vehicle and laid her out across the back seat, and when Peyk found her motel key inside her handbag, they drove her back to her room and put her to bed. Ron purposefully failed to mention he knew who the girl was, but offered to stay with her until morning to make sure she was okay.

Savannah had been unconscious for around an hour and half before Ron hesitantly plucked up the courage to approach her side of the room. He knelt by the bed and tentatively ran his rough fingertips through her soft hair. Gradually he moved his mouth closer to hers and gently kissed her lips. Then he slowly slipped into her bed, unbuckled his belt, slid down her shorts and guided himself inside her. In less than twenty seconds, he climaxed.