The Property Manager: You'll never rent again... (21 page)

I certainly bear her no grudge for the INTRUSION into my private life.

Jesus Christ! I hope this turn of events stays quiet. I would be beyond mortification if the facts were to leak out. Nothing would kill one’s reputation more than being the police suspect in a paedophiliac murder investigation, I would imagine.

Shiraz is going down nicely. Snow has stopped and the streets are now full of brown sludge.

    As soon as Michelle had bid me adieu and gone out to chat with the over-all- clad beings, I put this journal away safely in the safety of the safe. Ssssssssssssss.

It could not be said whether the police would be back to run a fine tooth comb through my house. There was nothing in the car to link me to the murders. They were just wasting time there.

As I now feel my legs get heavy and my blood rise in temperature thanks to the calming, relaxing delicious red wine in my system, I get to thinking about...

MY DAUGHTER!

Sarah. Twelve years old. I don’t know what her birthday was but I do know what her death-day was. I don’t know what her favourite colour was but I know the flowers on her coffin were pink. How did she do at school? What colour were her eyes? What made her laugh?

I didn’t know anything about her at all. The extent of my knowledge was that she had been sexually molested and then brutally knifed to death not long after buying her last meal of hot chips.

I also knew that her mother was a junkie whore.

Perhaps little Sarah had inherited more of me. I think my chromosomes would have been far superior to those contributed by Sandy. I hate even writing that name.

The bitch will probably turn up at my doorstop to ask for twelve years of child support!

Drink heightens my emotions. My mood, whatever it may be, intensifies. I’m sad and angry at the same time. And I’m getting sadder and angrier with every glass.

How would I have coped all these years, had I known? Would I have embraced this urchin as my child? Or would I have denied her existence? Could I have dealt with the ongoing communication with the Moorebanks that would have been required had I been a part of Sarah’s life? The honest answer is – I don’t know.

Maybe I would have fought and won custody of the kid. Sandy would have had a hard time proving she was a fit mother. And then I could eradicate all traces of the Moorebank influence from Sarah’s life. Mind you, I was married to vulture-breath during that time and I don’t think she would have been too happy about raising the local junkie-hooker’s brat that her husband had sired.

Who am I kidding? What makes me think I could be a good father? I don’t know what a father is! Father equals ghost. Mystery. Vague memory.  I’ve seen other men with their children and on the whole fatherhood looks like a nice place to be. But I wouldn’t know the rules. The things to say. When to go all out with discipline and when to ease off.  All I know is this –

IF I HAD KNOWN THAT GIRL WAS MY DAUGHTER – THINGS WOULD HAVE BEEN DIFFERENT AND SARAH THORNE WOULD NOT BE SIX FEET UNDERGROUND WITH MAGGOTS FEASTING ON HER EYEBALLS.

Now I’m having to focus hard on writing legibly. It’s getting a bit sloppy. I haven’t heard from the police. They haven’t been back which has got to be a good sign, although those forensic test things take a few weeks, I think. The paranoid part of me thinks that the cops have made this crap up. Sandy gave them a list of local men she’s screwed and they’ve decided to conveniently frame me. I should have supervised them raping my car the way they did. The mats have been taken, as well as the rug in my boot and a bag. I am so bloody lucky that I brought the computer inside the other day. If it had been in the car, I’m sure the bastards would have taken that too. It’s a completely unnerving feeling to be suspected of something you are innocent of. Who kills their own kid? Oh well, I take that back. Hundreds of people every year kill their own children. That woman in the States who drowned all of hers…and Folbigg….that was just unbelievable. After the first two, you would think questions would be asked. How screwed up – she’d killed two of her own kids and was not even close to being a suspect and here am I, minding my own fucking business and the cops think I’m some Charlie Manson kiddy fucker!

Arggh! Life is not fair.

My daughter is dead! She died like a dog. Like a bit of unfortunate wildlife, mauled and eaten up by a stronger creature…in the dark…in the bush.

She was from all accounts a nice girl. Karen told me at some point that Sandy’s daughter was not at all like her mother. She was apparently polite and well behaved.

The local rag had done a full page obituary of the two girls in the issue published soon after the murders. In it, the local lesbian school principal had sung the girls’ praises, saying they had been studious and vital members of the student body. And Gracie, your Dr Death, had put his foot into the hokey pokey and added that Sarah and Skylar had often come and washed the patients’ cars at the surgery for five dollars apiece. He called them enterprising and even added that Sandy and her sister were wonderful mothers doing the best they could under difficult circumstances. I wonder how they were paying him for their prescription drugs, eh???Eh?Eh?Eh?

Nudge. Nudge. Wink. Wink.

Fuck the police! What makes them think I am capable of such a heinous crime? I am not an animal. Have I got a criminal record? It would be pretty strange for a mild-mannered man such as myself, to live happily and quietly in a small township for nearly fifteen years without so much as a whiff of scandal and then BAM to suddenly realize that he was not who he seemed, but a monster that raped and murdered young girls. I’m no detective and I don’t have a badge but I do think that someone capable of this crime would have been leaking clues for some time. Problems with child pornography, a past offender, a violent or insane person.

The man who shot your husband, Gracie, was probably not an accountant or a lawyer. He was probably a crack addict who had a history of violence with a file as long as a John Holmes dildo.

Who was Jack the Ripper? They never figured that out, did they?

I guess he had to start somewhere and one of the unfortunate prostitutes had to be first. There’s always a first time. Granted.

But you can bet your bottom dollar that little Jackie Ripper displayed some psychotic tendencies long before he disembowelled his first victim.

The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that my daughter’s murderer was from the loonie-bin, Bosley House. Only a deranged, sicko could do that. I’m going to go down there myself and talk to the manager of the hostel. I want answers. First thing tomorrow Yes Sireee. Answers. Who killed my daughter? I will find out and I will make sure they pay the full penalty for their evil act.

I’m getting too uncoordinated to write. Bye. Over and out.

Sunday 26
th
July.

I am never going to drink again. My head feels like a punk- rocker has placed the speakers to his stereo inside it and turned the volume up to eleven.

There is no way I am going to Bosley Housel today. They’d want to take me on as a patient, I’m sure.

Oh my God, the neighbour, Mr Potter, has started up his bandsaw. What the hell does someone need a bandsaw for on a Sunday morning? The only purpose that springs

(ever so slowly) to mind, is to cut my own head off. Gneouwww. One neat saw above the shoulders, with a bit of resistance and high-pitched whirr as it soldiered though the cervical region, though cartilage, bone and spinal cord. Just thinking about that makes me feel better.

Is it market day? Maybe…

I feel like going to the Marigold for a greasy bacon burger with the lot.

In fact, I will.

Later

Not sure if I feel better or worse. The cerebral punk- rocking is easing off….now down to a steady heavy metal beat.

I’m sure Tony gave me a funny look when he gave me my change. I’m fairly intuitive like that and he’s usually so gregarious and witty. He was as flat as a ‘road-kill toad.’

Speaking of road-kill, I’ve weaned myself off fantasizing about dead wombats to keep me pure. It hasn’t been an issue because I’ve been completely celibate since GG let out her last breath of air.

You, dear Grace, need to be purified and rid of germs before I will touch you. An exorcism, so to speak.

I’ve missed you and wonder what you’ve been up to.

Did I tell you that Erin Von Bitchface actually brought her rent up to date? Who would have seen that coming? I am powerless to do much at this time but, given her history, I know it is only a matter of time before she slips up again and I’ll be ready to pounce.

I noticed that there are quite a few cars parked outside Jenny’s place. Party central. I have no doubt that you are there with bells on. I’ve decided to go for a walk. If I had a dog, I’d take him too. Speaking of dogs, I wonder how the Cox’s hound, liked his bone.

I’ve been tied up with my own dramas and have not kept up to speed with your life. That must change and soon.

I’ve put on my runners and track-suit and will stroll past Jenny’s with my ears peeled for sounds of your pealing laughter and then I might peel an orange and listen for the peal of bells from St Andrew’s. Honestly, I am quite silly sometimes. I was trying to relive an English exam where I had to write a paragraph describing a homonym or was it a homophone…..or a homograph. Damn. Time drinks away at the memory juice.     

Later that same day…..

I’m still feeling very second hand.

Erin, the sloth was at Gemma’s little soiree so I guess she’s joined the legion of single mothers. You people must have very low membership requirements. I could hear her hyenic laughter as I walked past the back fence.

By the time I got to the main street I was exhausted and felt clammy. Alcohol poison oozed from my pores and the pounding in my skull was a monotonous lament of “Why? Why? Why?”

I had a dog when I was a boy. Mother gave it to me for my eleventh birthday. It was a Beagle and I named him Benny. I think it was a tribute to Benny Goodman. I can’t remember. Anyway, my pet lasted about two weeks and then Mother sent him to the pound because he had been pulling sheets off her clothes line and making messes on the concrete slab out the back. I cried for days. I was devastated. I have never had another pet except for that brief episode with Larry the loathsome feline.

I turned around and headed for home. Harry was outside Jenny’s place, playing with a gaggle of other children. He said “Hi” as I walked past and I stopped and chatted with him. He’s a friendly little chap because he went on to tell me about the troubles with your cat. I sounded suitably shocked and concerned and I felt a tiny twinge of guilt because Harry had been very upset by the ordeal.

But I see it like this – if someone smuggles drugs into a backward, Asian country they may face the death penalty. You do the crime, you do the time. I would feel very sorry for the family of the criminal but frankly – life is sometimes hard and what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Apparently the cat is home and recovering well. Hell, he’s probably getting more love and affection than he might have with four legs.

I bid Harry adieu and said I’d see him about town some time and then he told me that you were going on a holiday to the beach for a week.

“Which beach?” I asked.

“Pretty Beach”, he answered me. “We’re staying in Doctor John’s caravan. I’ve never stayed in a caravan before! We’re leaving after Mum finishes work. We’ll get back at lunchtime or something next Monday.” He looked so excited. I had never noticed how long his eyelashes are. They are like tarantulas.

“Are you going with the Doctor?” I enquired.

“No. Just Jenny and Mum and the kids.”

“Are your big brothers going too?” I tried to sound indifferent.

“Nope. They’re staying with their friends in Sydney. They’ve already gone.”

I gave him a pat on the back and strolled off, my mind tumbling the new information about my head like a tumble dryer.

I could hear the music from Jenny’s backyard spilling all the way down the street – the unmistakeable trill of “Queen”. Altogether too sissy for my taste. Freddy Mercury could sing but the falsetto puts me on edge. I’ve always liked Neil Diamond. My mother had a crush on him for years. I think I’ll put on “Hot August Night” right now. 

I’ll come to your street and play eye-spy later tonight. If you and lover-boy are still an illicit item, I imagine he’ll peddle over to give you a carnal send-off and I am already hatching a plan so that it will be the last time you two ever rut again.

The dashboard clock reads …1:02 a.m.

You people are so bloody predictable. Shallow and transparent.  Of course your visitor arrived with his permanent erection and salivated all over you. It’s become almost a ritual hasn’t it? Midnight bike-ride through the bitter cold, park bike at back of house, tiptoe across the terrace, slide the glass door and slip inside for some desperate carnal pleasures.