How delicious! That’s the only way I can describe it. The watching and anticipation. The stalking and waiting; so exciting! The preparation. The look in their eye when they know what’s going to happen to them. It’s hard to say what the best bit is really. Selecting them gives me goose bumps, because they don’t realise they’re being chosen. Actually, I do admit to getting aroused during the selection process. I find it a turn-on sorting the wheat from the chaff, sifting through all those vacuous brunette lookalikes. There’s never a shortage of that type of girl, is there? The way they dress, the way they act. The dirty way they look at the jockeys. When I think about it, stalking gives me a high, too. Following safely at a distance. Invisible to the little trollop’s senses. Jesus, even an antelope can sense a lion’s presence in the grass. And it’s so easy to follow the brainless scags home. They suspect nothing, know nothing.
I never try too hard to conceal my presence, although I’ve heard tell of others who go to extraordinary lengths to try and hide their DNA evidence. Like using latex gloves and condoms or even vacuuming up their mess afterwards. But all those precautionary measures sound rather silly, really. They say you always leave a trace of something behind, no matter how careful you might be. And I really don’t care if they find my prints or my semen. For I have no record, and I never will have. I’m unknown to police. Indeed, I’m unknown to my victims until I make their acquaintance and then, it’s all too brief. I’m the invisible man, so do your best, catch me if you can.
What have I covered? Selection, stalking . . . but I can’t leave out the waiting. Now that’s always exciting. Especially if I’ve let myself in and have to hang about until they return. And speaking of letting myself in, how easy that has been. With the spate of hot weather, the idiots had virtually put a ‘house open’ sign up, leaving every window ajar, flimsy flyscreen doors their only security. One slash with a knife through the mesh and you could unsnip any lock in seconds.
My, what a surprise. What a complete, fucking surprise when they find me dressed in my jockey silks and a knife against their throat. That outfit’s so clever, isn’t it? And so appropriate. Makes perfect sense, really. I mean, they’re silk chasers anyway, so why not provide the uniform? Give them what they really want. And what about my other little touch with that Carmen strumpet? Oh my God! That was just massively brilliant, given that it was totally spontaneous. Her trembling fingers, barely gripping the lipstick in fear. But I made her write those words. Letter by letter. She could barely spell, the halfwit. I guess she’s not going to learn anytime now.
I should have made Amanda write those words before I killed her. Her of all people; Amanda, the original silk chaser. The filthy two-timer could have written a book about the subject. But I didn’t think of it at the time. She was my first kill and it was all a bit of a hurried blur. I should have drawn it out more, taken my time like I’ve learnt to do now, done the job properly. Still, I’m a bit like an improving racehorse; getting better with each run, aren’t I?
Saturday night was like Groundhog Day. I picked up Maxine from her apartment, drove her to yet another function she was organising and dutifully swanned around with a glass of wine trying to mingle with people I neither knew nor particularly cared about. This time it was an opening night for a new art gallery over in Armadale that Maxine was promoting. Even her instructions were the same: ‘Do you mind if I leave you for a minute? I’ve just got to make sure everybody’s happy and the show’s running smoothly,’ she said.
No sweat, I was getting used to the drill by now. At least the subject matter was something I could relate to. The new gallery was called The Sport of Kings and like the name suggested, it had an interesting collection of prints and original artworks from the turf. There were also a number of other sports represented. Tennis, football, boxing and swimming’s greatest moments had all been painted or photographed for sport devotees. Some of the works were quite good, not that I know anything about art. One caught my eye over on the far wall. It demanded attention and had a small group of admirers surrounding it. The painting was an original Charles Billich, in which he’d captured the essence of Derby Day. Men in morning suits and top hats. Smiling ladies sipping champagne from flute glasses underneath wide brims and fascinators. The mood of a crowd in party mode. A city skyline in the background and the horses transposed against a sea of jockeys’ vibrant silk colours. I could imagine how nicely that painting would look hanging above my fireplace.
I found myself drawn to the painting and walked closer to look at it. There was a group in front of me already inspecting it and as I approached them from behind, I recognised Kagan Hall’s voice floating over and above everyone else’s. See what I mean about Groundhog Day? The same racing A-list was invited to all these gigs. Hall was talking to a man and a woman with the same confidence and authoritative knowledge about art as he had about racing. Was there nothing he didn’t know about? I listened to him impressing the pair.
‘Well, of course Billich is renowned for painting sport and horse scenes. But he’s done some wonderful exotics and then there are his dance paintings. His Bolshoi collection is probably regarded as his best example.’
The woman on his left, a ditzy-sounding redhead, made some ooohing and aaahing noises. Said he knew an awful lot about Billich. Her partner seemed impressed too and he took a step forward to inspect the painting more closely.
‘Of course, I should know,’ Hall said, ‘I have two of them in my own collection.’
He held up his catalogue for the woman to see and that entailed standing nice and close; close enough to place a hand on the small of her back and impart some other clever arty fact about Billich. He kept his hand there too, the smooth bastard, even with her partner only a step away. Hall prattled on about texture and light as he lowered his hand to her buttocks. She appeared halfway between squirming politely and not wanting to cause a scene. Must be hard for a woman to know how to react in that situation.
‘G’day, Kagan,’ I said, pushing between the two of them and pretending to peer at the painting. ‘How would you like to get your hands on that?’
He turned around coolly and carefully dropped his arm by his side. If I’d surprised him, he didn’t show it.
‘Oh hello, Punter,’ he said.
‘Nice painting. Hi,’ I said to the redhead. ‘I’m John Punter.’
‘I’m . . . we’re just going,’ she said.
‘Friend of yours?’ I asked Hall.
Hall took his time answering, watching as the woman grabbed her partner’s arm and hustled him across to the safety of the other side of the gallery.
‘No, I never met her before in my life. Excuse me, will you. I’ve just seen some people I need to speak to.’
I ended up doing slow laps of the gallery floor, balancing a glass of red and a catalogue and trying to look like I fitted in. I’d done half a dozen rounds and inspected every painting and print before I thought everyone must surely think I was doing track work. I gratefully accepted some sushi being offered by a waitress and then took myself off to a quiet corner, hoping the night would finish soon and I could go home. Maxine eventually spotted me hiding away and came to my rescue.
‘I’m sorry, Punter. I’ve left you all alone, haven’t I? They’ll be finished in a minute. Jacki, she’s the gallery owner, has just got to make a bit of a speech, and I’ve got to organise some photos and then we’re done. Then you can have me all to yourself.’
Maxine planted an apologetic kiss on my cheek and dashed off again to do whatever she had to do. Her minute grew to half an hour as the gallery owner droned on and on in her speech, thanking anyone and everyone who’d helped her set up shop. Finally she finished, Maxine was happy with the photos the journalists had taken and we left.
We drove home to my place for a change. My idea. The last couple of weeks I’d stayed the night at Maxine’s pad over in South Yarra. She owned one of those huge two-storey apartment-cum-townhouses with everything that opened and shut. Her father had bought it for her as a twenty-first birthday present and I could have fitted my entire flat in her entrance hall and lounge area. Nothing wrong with spending the night at Maxine’s, but the truth was that over the past couple of nights I’d felt like I was being hijacked. Pick Maxine up, go to one of her functions, go back to her place. Di dah, di dah. So when I made a right-hand turn at Glenferrie Road she said, ‘Oh, are we going to your flat, then?’
‘Uh-huh. Mr Punter, aka assistant events coordinator, has decided that after dutifully following orders and attending two functions in two days, he has the choice of where we spend tonight.’
Maxine giggled and put a hand on my knee. I felt her relax for the first time all night. ‘I guess I have been a bit bossy, haven’t I? Do you want to stop off somewhere and get some takeaway?’
‘No. I’ll cook up something at home for us.’
‘Do you want to buy some wine?’
‘No. Got a rack full of it.’
‘Do you want to pick up a DVD, then?’
I shook my head.
‘Is there anything you want to do tonight?’
‘Uh-huh.’
I felt for her hand and positioned it a little higher up on my thigh.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see.’
I don’t know if it was that we’d both been missing each other over the past week or so, but as soon as we got inside my front door we attacked each other like a couple of wild animals. Clawed our clothes off with urgency and had each other on the bed, the floor and on several other items of furniture not really designed for coupling. We grunted, we groaned, we sighed. Laughed at each other when we were finally sated. Then fell asleep together on a battle-strewn bed surrounded by lingerie and carelessly discarded clothes.
The next morning I awoke to Che scratching at my open bedroom door for his breakfast. He was none too pleased about another big cat invading his territory, either. He looked dis dainfully at Maxine sleeping in my bed and gave one of his high-pitched yowls, which clearly meant I don’t like this in cat talk. I slipped out of bed and fixed him a bowl of those obscenely priced top-shelf biscuits he insisted on. Well, let’s be honest, I was the sucker who bought them for him.
First light was peeping through the plantation shutters in the lounge room and I debated whether to put some coffee on or go back to bed.
‘Punter? Is that you clobbering around out there? For god’s sake, it must be midnight, come back to bed.’
An easy decision to make. I slipped back underneath the sheets. ‘How come you’re so warm?’ I said, spooning up to her. She wriggled back into me, seemed to perfectly complement my body shape.
‘What were you doing, getting up?’ she asked dreamily.
‘Feeding Che. It’s his breakfast time.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Five thirty.’
‘Oh my God! I’m never awake at this hour. In fact, I’m not awake now.’
I cradled her in my arms. Hands exploring gently, my stubble rubbing on her neck. ‘I know how to wake you up.’
When I woke up again, it was nearly ten. I gazed at Maxine, lying asleep and naked next to me. She looked like one of those exotic nudes that someone like Billich might paint. A wave of hair curled over her face. The sheet was drawn back to reveal the small of her back and the glimpse of a breast. Quite stunning really, women’s bodies, the way they attracted men. I thought about it for a moment and about our relationship. Last week I’d missed her like crazy when she’d been away. When she’d got back, it had been all work with her and I’d been ignored, which had irritated me. Yep, admit it, Punter, you’ve had the sulks for the past two days because Maxine left you on your own at those functions. Not the centre of her attention, were you? But that was all forgotten now, as I planned to treat her to a long, lingering breakfast down at Southbank.
Maxine woke up with a start. ‘Oh, fuck!’ she said, sitting bolt upright in bed. ‘I’m going to be late and it’s all your fault.’
‘My fault?’
She jumped out of bed, talking to me as she dashed for the shower. Che let out a screech; she must have trodden on him in the hallway.
‘Oh, you stupid cat! You shouldn’t be there. Yes, it’s your fault. I’ve got be at a racing barbeque Winning Way is sponsoring. You should have woken me hours ago.’
So much for the long, lingering breakfast. After her shower, Maxine dashed about with a towel wrapped around her trying to locate various items of clothing discarded from the night before.
‘Have you seen my shoes? Oh, why do they always hide on me when I need them most?’
‘Try underneath the couch in the lounge room.’
‘I didn’t think we got that far.’
‘Trust me, we did.’
‘Can you call me a cab?’
I called up a Silver Top and told the operator that yes, the passenger was ready to go right now.
‘Have some toast before it gets cold.’
Maxine took a mouthful of coffee and a snatched bite of toast before running back to the bedroom to get dressed. A pitter-patter of hurried footsteps on my wooden floorboards signified she’d found her high heels. They reverberated around my apartment along with a steady stream of curses about how late she was going to be.
‘Are you mad at me?’ she said, fiddling with an earring.
‘It’s just that I thought we were going to spend –’
She cut me off. ‘I’m sorry, sweetie, forgot to tell you about this work do thingy. You can come with me if you want.’
I must have looked less than impressed.
‘No, I didn’t think so. I’m sorry. You’d probably be bored. How about we do dinner tonight instead? Just us, I promise.’
When the cab tooted outside she pecked me on the cheek and apologised again for having to rush off. She hurried down the stairs, flung open the taxi’s door and dived inside. Then she wound down the window as it drove off, gave me a frantic wave and a final parting goodbye that all of Hawthorn must have heard. ‘Hey, Punter, you were great last night!’
Che joined me on the doorstep as I watched the taxi di sappear up Glenferrie Road, a don’t-ever-invite-her-back-again expression on his face.
A little later my mobile rang. It was Billy.
‘Punter, it’s me. Some bad news, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh yeah?’ That’d be unusual for me this morning. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s Gino’s. Somebody smashed in the front window.’
I swore.
‘Yep, they got us and the milk bar three doors down.’
‘Them too?’
‘Made a right bloody mess. Glass everywhere. I’ve called a security company and they’ll be out soon to put up some shutters.’
‘What about the window, when can they fix that?’
‘Dunno. I’m goin’ through the phonebook now tryin’ to find a glazier who works on a Sunday.’
‘Any other damage, anything stolen?’
‘Nothin’ I can see. Little bastards want a good dose of national service,’ said Billy, starting up on his favourite theme. ‘Six months of marchin’ up and down sand dunes in the outback. That’d fix ’em, guaranteed. They’d learn a bit of respect for other’s people’s property, I can tell you.’
‘Did you see anything?’
‘Nah. I heard it, though. And then a moment later another crash of glass. Must have been the milk bar’s window, the second one. By the time I rushed downstairs they were gone.’
‘Can we still open up for business tonight?’
‘I think we’ll be okay. It won’t look the best, but it’ll be safe enough once we sweep up all the glass and the security shutters go up. We’ll just have to cope, that’s all. Listen, I gotta go, the cops are here.’
‘Do what you can, Billy. I’ll drop by later and have a look at the damage myself.’
About the only good news I could salvage from Gino’s broken window was that I hadn’t yet dropped off the poster that Billco had painted. If it had been put up in the window, it may have been damaged. Billy rang off, leaving me out on the verandah with Che. He sensed things weren’t going well for me and gave me one of his commiserating you’re-not-happy-I’m-not-happy chirps. I picked him up and took him back inside.
‘I know, I know,’ I said, stroking him. ‘Girlfriend’s bailed. Window’s smashed. Not a great way to start the day. Things can only get better.’