Monkey Business (12 page)

I stood on the street.

He's probably dead.
Just like that. I wondered how many wives and mothers of men who went to war have been told this news. Your man is missing in action, presumed dead. Killed in action. Dead. Probably dead. Obviously. I shook my head.

No. No! He's alive. I
know
he is. I'd feel it if he wasn't. What would Kitty know anyway? I nodded once. ‘Good.' Now I had things to do. I pushed away all thoughts of dead Jack, focusing instead on his very alive, beautiful self, knowing (hoping) the Law of Attraction would hear me.

I looked up and down for the black Hummer. Instead there was a yellow Toyota that screeched to a halt in front of me. Not wanting to be the innocent victim of a drive-by shooting and have my mother find out I wasn't really in Bali, I got in.

‘Airport, lady?'

‘Not yet.' I asked Bruce Willis which was the best hotel in Seni.

‘The Koala Bear Hotel!' he said with a big grin in the mirror.

‘No, I mean the hotel where a very important person would stay.'

He stared at me wide-eyed, possibly worried that I'd discovered he hadn't in fact taken me to a nice hotel.

‘It's okay,' I said. ‘I love the Koala Bear Hotel, but I need to go to the best hotel to meet someone.'

‘Hotel Sebastian, lady?'

‘Then let's go.'

Seeing I was sticking around another day, I thought I may as well see if Jack had stayed in any of the hotels in town. And I knew that the best hotel was the right place for me to search for him. Why the best? Because he wouldn't stay anywhere else, of course. I thought if I went there I might learn something. That is if I didn't actually find them there, Jack and Joe, lying by the pool reading books, drinking cocktails. I'd be happy for exactly one second before I killed them both.

The Hotel Sebastian was no Grand Hyatt, but it was certainly a step up from the Koala Bear. Several steps up. I felt the relief of its cool interior, thinking it had a lovely tropical charm and I could imagine Jack staying there. The quiet, spacious lobby had polished timber floors, high ceilings and giant fans circulating the air. I had a quick fantasy about arriving there with Jack in a chauffeured car, being fussed over as we checked into our room. I thought maybe I could stay there tonight.

I stood at the reception desk and smiled at the young man in his neat uniform.

‘Good morning, madam,' he said in very clear English.

‘Good morning, do you have availability tonight?' I asked, grandly. ‘Oh, and what is your room rate?'

He tapped his computer. ‘Yes, madam, we do. Three hundred American dollars per night.'

‘Oh.' Maybe the Koala Bear wasn't so bad at eighty bucks. ‘Er, I'll think about it.'

He nodded, smiled.

‘I'm actually looking for someone who may have stayed here recently,' I said.

‘Yes, madam?'

‘His name was . . . 
is
Jack Jones.'

Without checking his computer, the receptionist said, very politely, ‘I am sorry, madam, but I cannot give out information about a guest.'

‘Oh. Well, I don't actually know if he was a guest. I just wanted to check.'

He smiled again and looked sympathetic. ‘I am sorry.'

I stared at the man, having no idea what to do now. So I cried. Tears sprouted out of my eyes and the man looked horrified, glancing around.

I took quick advantage and, while fumbling for a tissue, said, ‘I'm sorry, but . . . but we were supposed to be coming on our honeymoon here and I thought . . .' I added a deliberate sob.

The receptionist looked around again and then turned to his computer. He said in a low voice, ‘Can you say the name again, madam?'

‘Jack Jones.' I spelled it. ‘From Australia. Thank you so much,' I whispered.

After a minute he said, ‘I can see here that we have never had a Mr Jack Jones from Australia staying in this hotel.'

‘Oh. Well, thank you.' He probably used a different name anyway.

Just then, two men walked out of the hotel lift. They nodded at each other and one headed for the reception desk where I was standing – it was Dwayne from the plane – and the other sauntered across the lobby toward the exit. The second man was so familiar, I gasped loud enough for him to turn his head and look at me. He looked like Hugh Grant. He gave me a sly smile and continued on his way. The porter held the door for him and said, ‘Good morning, Mr Berringer.'

Dwayne approached me, his eyes narrowed. He glanced back at the other man, said to me, ‘You know him?'

‘That man?' I watched him walk through the door and muttered, ‘Berringer . . .'

‘That's right. Rupert Berringer.'

‘Berringer . . . ' Why did I think I knew him? Because he looked like a famous actor?

Dwayne said, ‘How do you know him?'

‘What? Him? I don't!'

He gazed at me, suspicious. ‘Well, can't stop and chat,' he said. ‘Let's have a drink later.'

‘Oh, sure.' I turned back to watch Mr Berringer, who, I could see through the window, was waiting out the front, checking his watch. Dwayne dropped his key at reception, squeezed my arm, told me he'd be in touch, and left the building.

I walked slowly to the exit as Mr Rupert Berringer got into a hotel limousine. Berringer. Who had the name Berringer? I was suddenly and so surprisingly transported back in time that I stopped dead in my tracks. I could hear JD's voice, soft but crystal-clear, drifting through the open library doors on the night of his cocktail party:
Berringer's recruiting more men every day
 . . .

I bolted for the exit, looked frantically around. I waved at the porter.

Without leaving his post, he said, ‘Yes, ma'am?'

‘I need a taxi, urgently!'

‘You will ask inside.'

‘Never mind.' I rushed down the palm-lined road away from the hotel and was very happy to see my new friend still there in the taxi zone, leaning on the crumpled bonnet of his car, smoking and smiling.

‘Hello, pretty lady. You need taxi?'

I leapt into his car. ‘Come on!'

‘Yes, lady!'

He threw his cigarette on the ground and hurried into the driver's seat, zooming away before his door had closed, flinging me back into my seat.

‘Where, lady?'

‘I'm not sure yet.' I sat forward and scanned the road ahead, then I scowled at Bruce Willis in the mirror. ‘I'm not happy with you.'

He pouted. ‘Sorry, lady. Free ride today.'

‘You said that before.'

‘Free ride now. Koala Bear Hotel?'

‘No. Not yet.'

Ahead of us, Rupert Berringer's limousine appeared.

I slapped Bruce on the shoulder. ‘Follow that car!'

His eyes lit up. ‘Yes, lady.' He zoomed up close to the limo, sitting about a metre from its rear bumper.

‘Don't go right up his bum; he'll know you're there. Don't you know anything about tailing a car?' Like I had so much experience myself.

‘Sorry, lady.' He slowed, and we assumed a reasonable distance. The limousine was taking its time, rolling down the main street of Seni, past Kitty's place, past my hotel and away from town.

So, did I have a plan? When the limousine stopped, would I leap from the taxi, point at Mr Rupert Berringer and shout, ‘You stole my man!'? And he would say, ‘Oh, yes, I'm really sorry. I'll go get him.' I sighed, feeling despondent again. But at least I was doing something. Something more than just wallowing in a stinky hotel room or turning into an alcoholic at the Bum Crack Bar.

After about fifteen minutes, the limo turned off the main road and headed towards the sea. A sign in English and another language said that the Port of Seni was down there, and that only authorised people were allowed. Bruce went to follow the limo and I said, ‘Don't go down there, for God's sake.'

‘Yes, lady.' He pulled up and waited for instructions.

The limo didn't stop at the security booth but continued on, disappearing into the parking lot. I said to Bruce, ‘Okay, you can go down there.'

He peered at me in the rear-view mirror and pointed. ‘Down there, lady?'

‘Yes. It's okay.' Probably not okay. How would I know?

Bruce Willis drove slowly along the forbidden road and stopped at the security gate. I was trying to work out what to say to the guards. I thought I'd put on an American accent and pretend to be looking for my P&O ship. But there were no security people, and the boom gate was up.

Bruce said, ‘Go, lady?'

‘Yes, all right. Let's have a look. And, hey, you'd better not be charging me for this.'

Bruce drove through the parking lot. I saw the limo parked near a pile of shipping containers. And a black Hummer. While I watched, a crane lifted a container off a barge and placed it carefully with the others. Samson was standing there, next to the Hummer. Rupert Berringer was talking to someone and pointing at the containers. I knew that someone. It was Phil Collins. Why was sweet, harmless Phil Collins talking to Rupert Berringer and Samson the gang man? Maybe Rupert was the wrong Berringer. He didn't look like a bad man, after all. He looked like a movie star.

Berringer looked around – directly at us. With a yelp I ducked and Bruce Willis panicked, planting his foot and screeching through the car park, sending gravel and stones flying. I rolled around on the back seat. Everyone in the vicinity was no doubt looking at us. As soon as we were safely through the security gate I sat up and shouted, ‘Are you crazy?'

‘No, lady!'

‘Oh, for God's sake. How embarrassing.'

Back on the main road, Bruce stopped the taxi and turned in his seat.

‘Where now, lady?'

Where indeed. I stared out the window at the busy Port of Seni, wondering about Rupert Berringer and Phil Collins, and wondering if Jack was down there. There was no way I could go home, not now that I was on a trail of some kind. No. I wouldn't leave Saint Sebastian without Jack Jones. Alive or dead.

I called the airport and changed my ticket to an open-dated one.

As Bruce Willis drove I braced for an argument about payment. But when he pulled up in front of Kitty's he didn't say anything, just looked at me over his shoulder with big puppy-dog eyes and a downturned mouth. Maybe he'd watched my performance at the Hotel Sebastian.

‘Let me guess,' I said. ‘Your wife needs a kidney transplant.'

I could see that he was considering future possibilities, armed with this new information. I handed him a twenty-dollar note, but only because we'd driven much further than I'd planned.

When I walked into her shop, Kitty was in the middle of a sales pitch. She had several squirming, bouncing, vibrating things lined up on the counter and the young sex couple from the Koala Bear was inspecting them. So they hadn't left for Bali yet; that was somehow comforting.

Kitty squealed my name and gave me a hug before retrieving my backpack from behind the counter.

‘Kitty.' I took her arm and pulled her away from the sex couple so we could talk privately. ‘Jack's not dead. I know it.'

She looked a bit taken aback by that. ‘How do you know?'

‘I . . . I
feel
it.'

She waved her hand. ‘I think you have had a big shock, Erica Jewell. You should just go home.'

The girl customer giggled.

Kitty called out, ‘I will be just one moment more.'

I shook my head, whispered, ‘Have you heard of Rupert Berringer?'

Kitty went still and stared at me. ‘Why are you asking about him?'

‘So you know him?'

‘I . . . um . . . have heard of him.'

The backpacker guy said, ‘Have you got this but bigger, like mine?' and waved a giant latex penis in his girlfriend's face. He laughed; she punched his arm.

I said, ‘Kitty, you know that man, Samson. I saw him talking to Rupert Berringer today. Can you ask him about Jack? He might know something.'

She stared at me a few seconds more, stony-faced. ‘Of course! Especially for you, Erica Jewell. Now, back to my customers.' She rushed back to the giggling couple. As I turned to leave, Kitty called after me, ‘If you want, there is a party tomorrow.'

‘A party?'

‘You should come along.'

Whatever. I gave her a wave and left.

I told Bruce to take me back to the Koala Bear.

The receptionists greeted me with no enthusiasm or recognition. They handed me the key to the same room and charged me ten dollars more per night.

I dumped my bag and went straight back downstairs to where Bruce Willis was waiting. I sat in his cab, scratched a mozzie bite, and asked him how much he was planning on charging me.

‘No charge,' he said, looking offended.

‘Is there a supermarket nearby?'

‘Yes, lady.'

The supermarket was crowded. I scanned the aisles. Everything was white. There were boxes and bottles and various containers of things, but it was all white with writing I couldn't understand – Spanish? I spoke to a girl standing next to me.

‘Could you tell me where the insect repellent is?'

She looked at me, shook her head and moved quickly away, like I had a contagious disease.

There was a staff member stacking shelves. ‘Excuse me, can you tell me where the tampons are?' I said and she gave me a blank look. ‘Do you speak English?' No expression. How to sign ‘tampons'?

A woman's voice behind me whispered, ‘The next aisle.'

I turned. She was smiling and pointing.

I said, ‘Thank you.'

‘You're welcome.'

The queue for the checkout was long. I'd found the tampons and insect repellents, but there was no recognisable brand. Still, anything that kept those little bastards away was fine by me.

I jiggled, impatient. Why were there so many people? The checkout girl was examining each item, looking for the barcode before aligning it precisely with the scanner. Didn't she know you just wave the thing around and the scanner finds it? Why was the queue so long anyway? ‘What's the deal with this place?' I muttered.

From behind me the helpful woman from before said, ‘It's the economy, my dear. Things have picked up, so everyone can afford to shop here now.'

I was embarrassed. ‘Sorry.' I glanced at my watch.

She smiled and nodded.

‘You speak very good English,' I said, hoping to make up for my rudeness.

‘Thank you.' She was a well-fed lady, by the look of it. About fifty.

‘What language is spoken here?' I asked.

‘Portuguese, mostly, but I like to practise my English.'

‘Where did you learn it?'

‘I spent quite some time in Puckapunyal, and other places.'

‘My Puckapunyal? I mean, in Australia?'

‘Yes, I was evacuated there during the invasion in the seventies. You know. I quite like Australians. Where are you from?'

‘Melbourne,' I told her.

‘Ah, Melbourne is very nice. And what are you doing in Seni?'

‘Um, it's kind of a long story.' I glanced ahead to the front of the queue, which hadn't moved. I wondered how much Bruce Willis would charge me.

‘You're in a hurry with your snail bait, I see,' said the woman.

I looked at the ‘tampon' packet in my hand. ‘Bloody hell,' I groaned.

She said in a low voice, ‘The goods here are mostly from Indonesia and sometimes it's impossible to work out what is what. And,' she added in a whisper, leaning in, ‘things are often misshelved.' She gave me a wink and pointed to aisle number three. ‘On the left, just down a bit.'

When I got back to the queue, the woman was second from the front and waving to me. She beckoned and made room for me ahead of her.

‘Thank you!' I beamed at my new friend. I held up the packet, questioning, and she nodded. As I paid the cashier I said to the woman, ‘It was nice meeting you and thank you again, so much.'

‘I do hope we meet again.'

I waved and left the supermarket and as soon as I stepped outside, I drowned myself in the insect repellent. It stunk, but I didn't care.

Bruce Willis drove me back to my hotel and I gave him money because it was too hard to argue. I took about ten minutes to climb the stairs. I had no energy. And I knew, once I was in my room, that I wouldn't know what to do next. I couldn't just spend all my time at the Bum Crack Bar waiting for something to happen, could I?

I pushed open the door to my room and froze. Wrong room? I stepped back, checked the number on the door, checked the number on my key. And then realisation struck. This was my room, but someone else had been in there, ransacking it. All my stuff was strewn around. The pillows had been stripped of their cases, the mattress had been thrown onto the floor. My heart started thumping. What if someone was still in there? I listened, stepped hesitantly forward, my hands shaking. Pushed open the bathroom door. No one there, but stuff chucked around. I opened the wardrobes, rushing back to the door in case there was someone inside.

All clear.

Who'd been in my room? What did they want?

I started putting everything back in order, but it wasn't easy with trembling hands. I thought maybe I should leave it and call the police, but I knew that, if I did, I'd be facing a whole load of questions that I really didn't want to answer.