Who killed Jimbo Jameson? That was the question that should have been uppermost in my mind.
However, the question that was consuming my thoughts was how to get my hands on Jack Reynolds. I’ve never been good at the helpless fluffy bunny act, but I didn’t want to scare him off with my natural hit-’em-over-the-head-with-a-baseball-bat-and-drag-’em-back-to-my-cave tendencies.
So I laced up my running shoes and took the problem to Centennial Park.
I like the park in the early morning. I like the quiet and the rabbits and the birds and I like watching the sun lighting up the city skyline through the trees. Of course, you have to stay out of the way of the juggernauts of lycra-clad cyclists who are convinced that they own the road, the park and the world, but I figure live and let live. That’s because I’m not allowed to shoot them.
Once the endorphins kicked in life became clearer, simpler. I had to ambush him. I had to stalk him and engineer an accidental meeting that would get our relationship out of uniform and into a more informal setting. But so far, all I knew was that he lived at Bondi Beach and surfed every morning. He drank at the Icebergs or the Royal and watched the footy at Easts. I lived in Paddington, ran every morning, and usually drank in bed. He liked to talk about footy and surfing. I didn’t. And what I had in mind had nothing to do with conversation.
I needed a Plan. Theoretically, we could bump into each other on the beach. I would be finishing off my early morning run with a quick dip. He would be carrying his board out of the surf. We would see each other – and I would finally get to see that bod of his – and somehow we would end up in his apartment eating croissants and sipping on fair trade coffee that he roasted and ground all for me. And then, he’d realise that all he wanted from life is what I can give him.
This meeting would have to take place on an RDO, or the night before, because my fantasy included a very thorough multiple-orgasmic session of hot steamy sex. My imagination sort of hit a brick wall there, because I couldn’t or didn’t want to work out how I would manage a relationship with him. Would he be OK to take direction from me in the bedroom as well as the squad room, or would he feel emasculated? Would I have to modify my natural instincts to cater to his probable desire to dominate a female? On the other hand, he might like to be ordered around. Or he might hate it and call me a ballbreaker. Would he…Shit. I had fantasised all the way to the end of a relationship before I’d even managed to get him out of his boardshorts.
But The Plan could work. As soon as Phil fixed my car I would be able to drive to Bondi Beach and spring my Jack-trap. Meanwhile, I mentally ticked off what I needed for bait.
First, a new jogging wardrobe. My old Hanes t-shirts just weren’t going to cut it, no matter how comfortable they were. This project was going to involve lycra and an industrial-strength bra that could double as a bikini top and magically fall off me on cue. New running shoes, of course.
Next, another session with the laser and a wax job to tidy up afterwards. Then my nails. What colour polish would be best? Gel. It doesn’t chip. Gotta get those callouses scraped and work some heavy duty moisturiser into my huge feet. I’d have to get some white cotton socks to wear to bed so that the foot goop didn’t ruin my sheets.
Which would have to be replaced. And pillows. I needed new pillows. Lots of them. Feather ones. The bedroom would have to be repainted. It would probably be best if I hired a decorator who could do one of those two-day blitzes. Perhaps I should move?
My head was in the decorating clouds when I jogged past a clump of trees and Old Faithful, the park’s infamous flasher, jumped out in front of me, rudely snapping me back to reality.
Poor Old Faithful. He didn’t know what hit him, but he’ll never forget his trip to the police station.
I’m a detective, and I can be a very effective detective. Between filling in forms explaining Old Faithful’s early-morning arrest, it didn’t take me long to get my prey’s address – that fabulous block of apartments on Notts Avenue – which told me that he probably surfed the southern end of Bondi Beach. So if I parked my car on Notts Avenue, did the return Bondi to Bronte run and had a swim after the run, I would maximise my chances of accidentally bumping into Constable Jack, especially if I varied my arrival by ten minutes every day. This could work.
I booked a wax job, an emergency consultation with More Than a Handful, where they prescribed me a miraculously sexy sports bra, and found a couple of amazingly comfortable jogging shorts at Rebel Sports. My plan was to run in the bra and lycra shorts over a bikini bottom. All I had to do was kick off my shoes and socks, wriggle out of the shorts, and then run into the surf and, hopefully, into Jack. A fake tan on Thursday, feet and nails on Friday, and I’d be ready to go on Saturday. Yes, this was going to work.
The Jimbo Jameson case was taking up most of my time, dammit. The more I learned about him, the worse he got. He had been a truly horrible person. My Jack fantasy was the only thing that kept me going. If I closed my eyes all I would think about was Jimbo if I wasn’t thinking about Jack. But why was Jace wriggling into my dreams? Where did that come from?
Phil the mechanic finally called to tell me that my car could be collected for a bargain price that brought tears to my eyes. But now my Jack-trap plan could be put into operation. I was waxed, tanned, smoothed, plucked, primped and primed for some serious drought-breaking action.
Saturday morning was perfect. Light cloud cover and a bit of an onshore wind, but that’s good running weather. I pulled my hair into a really high, flippy ponytail, and applied tinted moisturiser and water-proof mascara to my freshly dyed eyelashes. Tinted lip gloss and two condoms in my security wrist-strap with emergency car key. Industrial-strength jogging camisole and black lycra shorts over a basic high-cut black bikini bottom that screamed “this woman is hot and fit and doesn’t need to impress anyone”.
The gods were with me. There was a parking spot right at the top of the stairs to the beach, which gave me time to check out Jack’s apartment. No sign of him, which theoretically meant that he was in the water. I surveyed the surfers with my trusty pair of binoculars, and was reasonably sure that I recognised his shoulders. I mean, all surfers look alike in their wetsuits, but his silhouette was distinctive, especially as I’d been thinking about it all week.
So phase one of The Plan was falling into place. I skipped down the stairs to the walking track and gave myself up to the fresh salty air and soon the endorphins kicked in. I danced up the big stairs, cruised past Tamarama and was at Bronte in no time and the return run was over before I knew it. The Plan was flawless. Jack was riding a wave as I bopped down to the beach.
Yes. This was going to work. I kicked off my running shoes and socks and wriggled out of my shorts, making sure that I transferred my weight from leg to leg to maximise hip movements. Carefully not making direct eye contact with Jack, who was dropping off his board and hopefully looking at me, I turned my body sideways as I tightened my ponytail, giving him a good look at my tanned, toned belly and runner’s arse.
Then, as if in slow motion – minus the Vangelis soundtrack – I ran into the water. Freezing, but we all have to suffer sometimes. Fearlessly, I ducked under a small breaker, and came up for air just in front of Jack. My brilliant Plan was working. I executed a perfect double-take, pretending surprise at seeing him, and again pulled at my ponytail to give him a front view of the previous side view and cold-water perky nipples.
And then, my surprised-to-see-you squeal turned into a scream, as my body was circled by a burning sword. Pain. White hot pain was wrapping around my thighs and my perfect butt was on fire.
Jack was beside me, dragging me to the shallows and splashing water at my thighs.
“Bluebottle. I’ve gotta get the stingers off your skin. Stand still, will you?” His face was level with my crotch, and my body was on fire, but this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The pain was excruciating. Worse than a taser. Worse than a whip.
“Oh fuck! Get it off me, get it off me!” My world was condensing into a grid of pain. Was this what hell was going to be like?
Jack was splashing water everywhere, but it wasn’t putting out the flames that were now eating through to my bones. “Shh. You’ll scare the fish.”
“I don’t care if the fucking fish have nervous fucking breakdowns. I just need you to kill whatever it is that’s killing me!”
“You’ve got a bluebottle wrapped around you, and you have to stand still so that I can pick off the stingers. So shut the fuck up and let me help you.” He was so sympathetic.
“Hey, Jacko’s finally got his hands on a screamer.” I heard a raucous laugh coming from another surfer who was wrestling with Jack’s abandoned board as well as his own.
“Fuck off, Matt. She’s picked up a stinger.”
“Then piss on it, mate. Piss on it.”
My eyes widened. “Don’t you dare.”
“I have no desire to die, and besides, that’s an old wives’ tale.” He looked into my painmaddened eyes. “Maddie, you’re going to have to come up to my place and I’ll get you under a hot shower. Do you think you can walk? Or do I have to carry you?”
Bits of The Plan were still tracking perfectly, even if other bits had gone horribly, terribly wrong. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want the pain to go away. Make the pain go awayyyy.” I was sobbing now.
“OK. Are those your shoes and clothes over there?”
I nodded.
“Great. Matt will bring them up, and I’ll help you.” I felt a strong arm around my waist, and I was almost carried out of the water and onto the sand. The pain was increasing now, or perhaps I was going into shock.
I wish I could remember when Jack picked me up and carried me across the road and into his apartment, but I do remember yelling when he stood with me in the shower and turned on the hot water. He took the shower hose from the holder and sprayed my thighs, then turned me to focus on my butt. “Sorry about this, Maddie, but these have to go.” He pulled off my bikini bottom. “There are stingers on the fabric.” I was beyond embarrassment, but he was concentrating on rubbing my butt. And it hurt. My bum was on fire.
“Make some sugary tea, Matt,” he yelled. “You know how to make tea, don’t you?” Then he handed me the shower hose. “Here, hang on to this. I have to get out of this wetsuit. Just keep the hot water on the sting, and if you feel woozy, sit down before you fall down.” He patted my arm. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
I looked down at my legs, which were marked with raised red slashes, and I could only guess at what my arse looked like because I couldn’t start to describe what it felt like. The hot water could have been helping, but I wasn’t sure. What’s the difference between stabbing red hot agony and searing molten lava pain? I just closed my eyes and tried to calm myself.
“I want you to keep that hot water on the stings for another five minutes. And drink this.” He handed me two Panadols and a cup of hot, sugary tea, which I drank obediently. “I hope the hot water lasts.”
He had a towel around his waist, and that was probably it because I hadn’t heard him opening any drawers in his room. I closed my eyes and the thought of Constable Jack in just a towel took my mind off the pain. For the moment, at least. And then a wave of nausea washed over me, and I slid down the wall and into oblivion.
Well, I made it into Jack’s bed, but not quite the way I had in mind. I vaguely remember being picked up, wrapped in a towel, and carried to a soft place where the fire was replaced with ice. He was holding ice packs on my thighs, and I was lying on another icepack under my butt. What was left of my modesty was covered with a hand-towel. “Is this helping? Or should we go back to the heat treatment? I’ve sent Matt down to the chemist to get you some stuff for the stings” He leant over me and looked into my eyes. “How do you feel? I’ve never had a woman faint on me before.”
“And I’ve never fainted before. I’m so sorry I’ve made all this mess. Your bed…” I didn’t know what to think or say or do. I just wanted the pain to stop.
“Matt’s getting you a coffee, too.” Now he had my attention. “Just keep on with the ice, and don’t worry about the bed. It’ll dry out.”
He sat on the side of the bed and rolled me onto my side. “I just need to check your butt.” My heart was already racing. “Not bad. I think your thighs got the worst of it.”
I had to giggle, in spite of the pain. “That’s the first time I’ve been told that my butt’s ‘not bad’. It’s on fire, goddammit!”
He laughed. “OK, I stand corrected. Your arse is hot. Does that make you feel better?”
“Yes, thank you. Now, can I put my arse back on ice, please?” And I rolled back onto the cold pack just as the door opened. At least I was still wearing the jogging bra.
Matt was back, with coffee and antihistamines and creams and a selection of Danish pastries and some oranges. “Keep your sugar levels up, babe.” He handed me the coffee cup. “The chemist said that the antihistamines might make you sleepy, but I figured that if you could sleep through the worst of the pain…” Matt was brighter than he looked.
“I thought I’d better get you something to wear, so I hope these are OK.” He handed me a pair of black knickers. Matt was definitely brighter than he looked.
I lost a few hours, but at least when I woke up the pain was manageable although the welts were impressive. There was a glass of water and two more Panadols on the bedside table with a little note stating “Eat Me”. A mix of male voices, bursts of laughter and music was coming from outside the closed bedroom door. Oh goodie. More people to get a good look at my boobs in my sexy jogging bra that matches my new black bikini pants that will highlight my striped thighs and matching butt. Yippee-fucking-do.
I wrapped a wet towel around me and walked stiffly towards the voices. My thighs were swollen and hot, and my arse was still on fire. God knows what the rest of me looked like.
The laughter stopped, although I had no way of knowing if it was because of me, or the sight of a woman intruding on a male bonding session. I think it was me. They were watching a surfing video on a huge television screen and the verandah was strewn with wetsuits and surfboards. I chose not to notice the tobacco and pot haze.
Jack moved over to me, his face concerned. “I was just about to check on you again. Glad you’re alive. Those antihistamines really knocked you out, didn’t they?” So caring. “I called your doctor friend, Chris, and he said to let you sleep it off.”
“How did you get his number?”
“Basic detective work, detective. Chris told me to report back to him when I’m driving you home. Now where’s your car and where do you hide the key in that outfit?”
I unzipped the wrist-band. “This will open the door, and the ignition key is under the driver’s seat. It’s the red Alfa parked out the front. But I can drive home. I feel OK.”
“No, you can’t drive when you’re taking those pills. You can’t even sit down. You just don’t know it yet.” Much more male laughter from his mates. “And this time it’s not my fault,” he threw back at them. Bloody male sexist humour.
“Come on, Maddie. Time to go home. I’ll take a cushion for you to sit on.” He wasn’t kidding. Sitting down really hurt. But what really hurt was having to listen to Jack talking to Chris about my predicament. Very funny, fellas. Very funny.
Chris was waiting at my door, and he took a professional look at the welts then handed Jack some cortisone cream and told him to help me smooth it on the stripes. “It’s been a while since I was in Casualty and I was never very good at dermatology, but if you become tachycardic whilst applying the cream, please call me immediately.” Funny ha ha.
I hobbled to my bed, and gingerly lay on my side while Jack tenderly applied the cream to my thighs and then moved to my butt. “Would you like me to stay with you for a while?” he asked.
My fantasies were coming true, but definitely not in the way I had hoped. I took another pill and went back to sleep.
When I woke again, it was dark, and I wasn’t alone in the bed.
That bloody cat was back, and he was snoring.
My condition inspired a thousand bad jokes that had everyone in stitches except me. The Monday morning update was humiliating, and I will never forgive or forget certain members of the New South Wales Police Force who will forever be on my shit list. Still, the pile of paperwork on my desk was a welcome distraction. I called Dr Chris for a mid-morning followup consultation and macchiato. And some sympathy.
“Now, Maddie. How are you today?”
“Thanks, Chris. This morning is much better and the welts and the swelling have gone down, but the marks are still there.”
“They’ll take a while to fade, darls, but you’re lucky. If those stingers were just a little bit higher you would have been in big trouble. If I remember correctly, lady bits are very sensitive and…oh shit – my mind just can’t go there. Can we change the subject please?”
I kicked him. “So you’re not going to switch to gynaecology. What’s the matter? Scared?”
“Terrified. Give me a nice uncomplicated heart any day. It goes pitter-pat, pitter-pat. Simple. Now, we are going to change the subject. Just keep rubbing in the cream, take two aspirin and call me in the morning. And if you ask me, Surfer Boy enjoyed rubbing your arse, Maddie. Shall I tell him to keep an eye on it?”
“I don’t know what to do about that one, Chris. He’s so bloody young. I don’t want to turn into my mother. But he’s so bloody hot. And he’s only temporary until Marco gets back. And what must he think of me? I’m a flake who faints and gets stung on the bum and he thinks I’ve already got a fuck-buddy. But the only male who’s been in my bed lately is a ginormous black cat that turned up in the middle of the night and killed my budgie. This could be a disaster. What should I do?”
Chris took my hand and kissed me on the nose. “Go for it, girlfriend. I saw the way he looked at you, and he insisted on staying with you until you went to sleep. Now, if a guy goes through something like Saturday morning and sticks around, he’s a good guy and you should jump his bones just as soon as your bum doesn’t hurt anymore.”
I kicked him again and took my hand away. “Oh, very funny. But seriously, I need help with this one. I just want to get my hands on him for a few hours. A couple of days, tops. And then I’ll put him back.”
“You won’t hurt him?”
“You’ve seen him. He’s unbreakable.”
“Then go for it. Don’t you have a light bulb that needs changing?”
“Oh please. I can do that for myself.” And then I remembered the cat. I could ask Jack to fix the bathroom window to keep out the cat. Perfect. The Plan was back on track.
Just then, Jack pulled up in the squad car and beeped the horn. I high-fived Chris and carefully slid into the passenger seat. We finally had a time to talk with Lynnette.