BRODIE HENDREN’S TUESDAY started badly. Somehow, Airbnb beds—unlike hotel beds—reminded him of all the people who’d been there before him, sleeping or doing whatever the hell they did. And he woke up feeling out of sorts. With any luck he’d be confronting Karen later, but even so he felt somehow…
He couldn’t quite name it. It seemed to be a jumble of discontent, sullenness—which he hated in himself—and dissatisfaction. Back when he was a kid, a teacher had written ‘Brodie possesses a disorderly mind’ in his report card. Yeah, well, fuck you—he’d come a long way since then. You didn’t achieve that if your mind was disorderly.
Even so, as he lay in a bed used by strangers, staring up at the dawn light smearing the ceiling, he had a shot at ordering the things he was feeling. First, he hadn’t been sticking to his diet. He needed to buy some probiotics to offset the fast-food toxins compromising his gut health. Offset the breakfast crap he’d bought at the convenience store down the street last night because he didn’t know where the fuck else to go: a yogurt stuffed with sugar, a floury apple and rice crackers too close to the use-by date. He nearly picked up an energy drink, too, but the energy came from sugar and caffeine, and fuck that for a joke. Should’ve packed a couple of litres of Hendro’s Headers.
What else? The Glock pistol was still minus its clip which, the way his luck was running, wouldn’t be waiting for him at the mail centre on Magill Road.
He stuck a couple of pillows behind his back and opened his laptop…and a shameful memory came flooding in. He winced, groaned, shut the lid. He shouldn’t have jerked off last night, watching Brie Haven. He’d been weak. All she’d done was walk around in a dressing gown, tidying up before bed, but he’d pumped himself desperately in anticipation. He should be above that kind of thing. It defiled him, defiled his body and his core character.
What would Seb Verco do? Hendren took a deep breath to build character strength and, without a second thought, opened his laptop again and deleted the bitch’s video link.
He could get it back up again if he needed to. But he wouldn’t need to. He’d moved past that.
Okay. Feeling more in control, he checked his listings—sluggish—then checked in on Seb to cheer himself up.
Fucking hell, now the poor bastard was being ganged up on by some #MeToo slags. Forced to attend Los Angeles police headquarters to face rape and inappropriate touching charges—photographed on the steps with his lawyer.
Looking pretty good, actually—fit and healthy—he summed the whole matter up in a nutshell: ‘I’m rich and successful, so is it any wonder unscrupulous people want a piece of me? People who know me know that I like and respect women.’
Brodie Hendren shut down his laptop and stepped into the shower, wondering if maybe the reason he’d woken up feeling so shithouse was because his body had absorbed Seb’s bad luck through the airwaves overnight.
With a renewed appreciation for his body and its sensitive antennae, he lathered up vigorously, treacherous cock included, an act of excoriation to rid himself of toxins, negative thoughts and all the shit that women heap on you. Their arrogance and entitlement. The way they never take responsibility for their own poor choices. The way they program themselves to be victims. And how they block and ignore you. It was as if you could hardly afford to look at a woman these days without being accused of rape.
He thought of Karen telling the cops he was responsible for her bruises when she was exactly the kind of bitch who’d hurt herself to get a man into trouble. He told the cops that, but they took her side anyway. Woke cunts.
He was well into it by now, almost chanting as he soaped himself…
Then the water went cold. No pressure, either—just when he needed it most, just when he needed to feel the full, lashing force of hot water sluicing all the poisons down the drain. Shivering under a weak dribble, he was forced to splash impotently at the lather with his hands.
Stepping out, reaching for a towel, he caught a glimpse of his body in the misted mirror. Looking good. The looksmaxxing regime was paying off: exercise, diet, a bit of Botox and filler, a bit of cheek and jaw sculpting with a little hammer.
But Jesus, was that a hint of belly? After just a day or two of crap food?
Feeling utterly pissed off, he headed out in the Mustang. He was halfway to Box Office on Magill Road, window down, waiting to turn left at a traffic light, when a toned woman on a bicycle came alongside, propped one foot on the ground and took a swig of water from the bottle mounted to her frame. He turned his head to check her out, and quickly away again. He was having a shit day, and really didn’t want to see contempt on a woman’s face just then.
She said, ‘Cool car.’
He chanced a quick look. She actually looked like she meant it. ‘Thanks.’
‘See ya!’ she said, streaking ahead when the light changed.
That was a mood-lifter. It must have sharpened his cognitive abilities, too, because he thought: Who else has looked at this car and noticed it? Anyone in the Adelaide Hills, for example?
He headed for a side street and googled motorbike rentals.
The nearest place—called, in some kind of anti-marketing flex, Mid-Life Crisis—was in the next suburb. Renting a Kawasaki took a while, and when he reached the parcel joint, he was ready to thump someone. But his envelope was ready and he rode to a quiet park to open it. There was no sign that it had been opened or tampered with. He took out the ammunition clip. It slid into the butt of the Glock with a click that spoke of expensive, finely calibrated engineering and death.
He checked his watch: 1.30 already. Time to get in a few practice shots.
Google Maps took him to the Scott Creek conservation park, not all that far from where he needed to go in the Adelaide Hills. There were no parked vehicles when he arrived, and no rangers around when he set out to walk the Almanda Mine Loop. He passed the Engine House and an old stone chimney, but instead of turning left at Bagot’s Shaft he turned right, climbing into an isolated clearing surrounded by gum trees, dense shrubbery and a low, rocky cliff face. Useful sound absorption. With last night’s orange juice bottle propped on a mossy log as a target, he fired ten shots—three hits and seven near-misses. That would do: he was familiar enough with the weight and balance of the pistol now, and he’d be shooting point-blank anyway.
He walked back to the Kawasaki, alert for random day-trippers and rangers. With any luck the shots would be put down to feral animal control. According to the website, the Wildlife Service carried out these purges once or twice a year.
He checked his shoes. Damn, dust on the toecaps. Grass seeds in his socks. He took a few minutes to sort himself out.
It was almost 4 p.m. by the time he arrived in Battendorf. He cruised the motor repair joint first. No white Forester, which he’d pretty much expected, so he headed up to the main street and made a slow pass of Mandel’s Collectibles. There was a Back Soon note on the door. He rode to the end of the block and turned left, then paused at the entrance to the one-way alley behind Karen’s shop and spotted the Subaru.
So: they were around somewhere. He wheeled the bike into a narrow gap between dumpbins and walked through to the main street. He was hungry. He needed sugar and carbs. No: he didn’t need sugar and carbs, he needed protein. He needed to feel good inside and out. He needed something to cure his unease, his disquiet. Fruit. A mixed salad. A Hendro’s Header.
But fucked if he could find a decent place on that miserable excuse for a main street. He stood indecisively at the window of a coffee shop. Buns, scrolls, Danishes. Would it kill him? He could easily make up for it. Do a few weights.
Be strong, he told himself. If in doubt, channel Seb Verco.
Five o’clock. Five-thirty, six, six-thirty. He walked from one end of the street to the other, then made a broad circuit, taking in various side streets, and, as evening darkness folded around the town, it occurred to him that he might be pulling an all-nighter.
Hungry again, he checked that Karen’s Subaru was still parked behind the shop, then walked to the nearest pub. It was buzzing mildly. No one seemed interested in him, so he ate a parma in the dining room, and, holding a regretful hand over his poor stomach, returned to the alley. The place spooked him: dark clouds scudding across a rising moon, and a chill in the air. But the Subaru was still there.
Then: headlights. Tyres rumbling along the cobbles. He hurdled over the museum’s scrappy hedge, crouched and peeked: a cop car.