The Property Manager: You'll never rent again... (29 page)

Distracted by the cat, as I was, I didn’t notice you stirring.

“Andy?” you called loudly and I looked up to see a shadow sitting upright in bed, looking directly at me.

I froze for an instant in shock and then scrambled to my feet, grabbing my black plastic bag as I went and ran straight for the forest which was about a twenty foot dash. My heart was banging in my chest and I scratched myself on twigs and branches. After a couple of minutes I stopped. Panting, I turned back. I could still see your house and see that your bedroom light was now on. That was a close shave and I couldn’t believe that I was grinning and feeling completely aroused. I had nearly been busted by you and it had seriously turned me on. I laughed a little at that thought.

I waited for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only twenty minutes, before gathering the courage to leave the security of the dense foliage. My foot was only inches from lover-boys hidden bike. Your light had been back off for a few minutes and I stole down the south side of the house, because you had no visual of that area. As quickly and quietly as possible, I pulled each wrapped present out of the bag and left them all over your welcome mat. The little vestibule there will protect them from any weather that may swing into town in the wee hours of the day.

That was a thrilling evening.

I saw a group of dark youths wandering down Ellery Street, on the way home. I couldn’t tell whether your boy was one of them. Probably. Shame.

I’m one hundred percent sure you didn’t see who was at your door. I’m sure the cops would have come knocking if you’d seen my face. It was very dark and I had a black beanie on. Perhaps that’s why you thought it was lover-boy. He’s taken to wearing beanies around town so that people don’t ask him why he shaved his head.

Saturday 8
th
August.

I have to go to work this morning. Damn it. Saturdays should be for relaxing. But, I’ve got two separate couples coming in to sign leases and get keys this morning so it is imperative that I am present to go through all the various clauses of the contract and witness the agreements. You’ll be doing your drama classes anyway so I couldn’t spend time over there anyway but I’m still running on nervous energy and adrenalin from last night. Although I’m sure my anonymity remains intact, there’s that niggling doubt in the depths of the subconscious that leaves you feeling like emptying your bowels. I’m jumpy and fidgeting and can’t wait to see what you thought of my gifts. It must have been a pleasant surprise. Did Cock-head ever, EVER, give you anything. Nothing but a good time, heh?

The weather is back to being grey and bleak and windy. I will put my equipment back in the car and sally forth to your abode for an afternoon of visual entertainment.
Until then. Cheers.

2:36p.m

Jesus, I’m getting very aggravated by life in general. One minute every thing seems positively rosy and then the thorns come out and rip your hands to pieces. I try to always do the right thing. I put others before myself, far more often than I ought. I keep to myself. I ask no-one for anything. I’m a giver, not a taker……and still all the bastards and bitches in the world seek me out to make my life just that little bit more DIFFICULT!

What am I talking about, you may ask?

Let me tell you….

First up. Nine-thirty. I’m signing up a nice young couple into the unit above the general store. All the paper work is done. Finishing signatures. Just about to hand over keys. In the door walks the wind-blown, walking-dead, Sandy Moorebank. I reeled back as if bitten by a snake. Karen looked up from her desk and gave the bedraggled creature a smile. Why, Karen? Why do you have a smile for everybody? It pisses me off! You’d even smile at the fucking Grim Reaper when he appeared with your number. Did you major in Congeniality at the University of Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy?

Just once I would have liked to see you greet a loathsome ex-tenant, who owes us a shit-load of money, appropriately. Something along the lines of “Hi bitch. What the fuck do you want?”

But no..while I was speechless and gulping like a gagging goldfish, you said in your polite, vanilla and honey voice – “Good morning Sandy. How are you coping with everything? What can we do for you?”

The words I did not want to hear came back, sliding over her rotting teeth.

“I need to talk to James,” and then she added, “in private.”   

Was that absolutely necessary, Sandy? The ‘in-private’ bit? It made it all sound very sordid. I blustered about the desk and handed the clients the keys, shooing Sandy up to my office with a deeply irritable frown carved into my brow.

When I followed her into the room and shut my door, I turned and spoke through clenched teeth and my voice came out in a hiss.

“What do you want, Sandy?”

She sat in a chair by the desk and put her hands over her face, taking a deep breath and then she looked up at me with bloodshot eyes, haloed by rough stains of mascara.

“I need to borrow some money.”

I sat behind my desk and my face was numb with anger.

“I’m trying to get off smack but it’s so hard….I’m strung out and I just need a bit of money …just fifty bucks so I can get some pills to help me calm down and sleep though all this shit….and I need nappies for the baby.”

She raved on in a most plaintive voice and she put her scarred hands between her knees, to stop them from trembling. She smelled bad and her peroxided hair was so greasy it looked like she’d dunked her head in the Marigold’s deep-fryer. A black stripe of regrowth oozed over her scalp.

“I’m not in a position…” I began, the thought of her infant’s nappies sending the taste of bile into my throat.

“It’ll never happen again, I promise…it’s just cos of Sarah, I thought you might…”

“Are you fucking blackmailing me, Sandy?” I leaned forward and glared at her, my voice sounding almost as angry as it ever has. Low, sharp and menacing. She got a fright. I could tell by the widening of her eyes.

“No,” she shook her head more times than was necessary. “Never, man. I would never do that. That’s low. I’m just really desperate and I didn’t know who I could go to…My mother kicked me out and I’m with some schizo at the caravan park.”

I debated silently the pros and cons of this dilemma and after only a minute, I took my wallet out of my back pocket and flicked a fifty at her. She grinned and I really wish she hadn’t.

“There. Now fuck off and don’t ever ask me for money again, or I will go to the police and tell them you are blackmailing me. That’s a jail-able offence, Sandy. I truly don’t give a rat’s arse about being your kid’s father. It was a mistake. An accident. I have forgotten it…so don’t think you can squeeze anything more out of me. Now get out.”

I put my head down and pretended to read something in front of me. I heard her close the door.

That was my morning at work, Gracie.

I got out of there at a little before twelve.   I was of course surprised to find that the school car park, just behind that of the office, was completely vacant. Usually the parents are there to collect their children from your drama group. Odd. Perhaps you had cancelled. Were you sick, I wondered. So, I got into the Volvo and did a quick drive-by to discover a collection of cars on your front yard. I prickled inside, wondering why everyone thought your front yard was a fucking car-park!!! The Buxton’s red SUV was parked on the curb. Those people have class. I hot-footed out of there before they saw me.

I decided to go the corner to set up the computer which sat on my passenger seat. I passed the Jerk’s big, rambling, smoky, troop carrier coming the other way towards your place. That made me hurry.

By the time I had parked somewhere inconspicuous and pressed all the appropriate buttons, you were already talking to HIM in the kitchen. There were still a few drama students running about in your back yard. I could see them through the open blinds.

For some reason unbeknownst to me, you held your class at home today.

“It wasn’t me, I swear!” he had his hands out as if he were pleading.

“You weren’t sniffing about my back door in the middle of the night, looking for a bit of action? It’s not like you’ve never done it before!” You sounded cranky.

“No. And before you start, it wasn’t Amanda either. We were home all night.”

“Together in bed, all cosied up? How gorgeous? Was she stoned and wasted enough to fuck you?”

“Stop it, Gracie.” He looked hurt. What a loser. “I don’t want Violet to hear.”

You stopped and greeted another parent who was collecting a small blonde fellow. After they had left you resumed your conversation with the bald idiot in your kitchen.

“I really don’t have anything to say to you. If you left those gifts…the lingerie, the wine…then thanks but it doesn’t help your cause. As long as you are in her bed, you won’t be in mine!”

“Lingerie and wine, heh?” He sneered. “You didn’t waste any time getting back in the saddle. Who is it? Another drama dad? A patient? Some dreg from the pub? Your doctor boss?”

“Get out,” you said softly and I thought I could see the beginning of tears.

“I’m sorry but there’s still so much swirling about in my head, Gracie. Nothing’s changed at home. I’m miserable and all I can think about is you. Thank-you for coming over the other night. It was wrong of me to involve you like that.”

“No kidding,” you sounded softer. “Andy, I’m still freaked out about last night. Someone was at my door, playing with my goddamn cat. Right outside my window. It might have been the same person who hurt him?”

“Not Amanda,” he said quietly.

“Not Amanda! Not Amanda! Why not Amanda? She’s a fruit-loop. A complete nut job. I’ll photocopy some of her medical file and show you if you don’t believe me. She’s faked so many illnesses. She’s addicted to painkillers. She’s what they call a hillbilly heroin addict. Do you know she takes a form of morphine M.S Contin. All the operations she has are so she can get the good stuff…pethidine…etc. Her migraines? It’s for the drugs. Have you ever heard of Munchausen’s Disease. That’s what she’s got. And that is a major mental illness.”

He just looked at you and shook his head.

“I don’t want to hear. You don’t understand and I know you’re trying to make me see her in a bad light….”

“Get out. Just go…”

“Will you see me on Monday? I’ll meet you here during your lunch break.” He pleaded with you, putting his hands together as if in prayer.

“No.” You were strong.

“Just to talk and work this out. I’m messed up and I think I do have feelings for you that need to be sorted. Please.”

You stared at him hard for a full minute before…

CR

   UM

         B

           LING

And you said – “Okay.”

That has made me somewhat irate, to say the least, Grace.

7:35p.m

Do you think you can lure him away from his wife by delivering the dirt on her? I don’t know that anything you say is true anyway. I have put on Pavarotti singing his lungs out to Puccini’s Nessun Dorma and I am listening to him wail so eloquently as I write. You are a desperate woman. It has become obvious that you perceive yourself as being in need of a man. You have lost all common sense and your value system appears to have shut down. I will save you from making a grave mistake.

I have finally found (after searching for an hour), the piece of paper I wrote your codes to gain entry to the surgery. I would like to know for myself, just out of sheer interest, if the story about Amanda Cox is right. I am going to head down to the surgery after dark, probably at about nine p.m. The surgery car-park backs onto the hotel car-park. At nine o’clock on a Saturday night, all the barflies are well and truly settled on their stools. The pub doesn’t close until midnight, so there shouldn’t be too much action around that darkened area of town then. Naturally I’ll wear black and I must take a torch so that I can see the keypad for the security system.  I’m quite excited. I feel like Tom Cruise out of Mission Impossible. I know everyone in town so it will be quite a thrill to be in a position to be able to look at anyone’s file that I care to see. I want to see my daughter’s file. There might be something there. 

I have every intention of stopping this thing between you and lover-boy, once and for all. I’m trying to sound cheerful and positive but inside I have maggots crawling through my veins. The blood behind my eyeballs feels like it is clotting and although it is still winter and cold outside, I feel like my skin is blistering and peeling off my muscles.

Monday lunch-time is your final trial. It’s all in your hands at this point in time. I am going to give you options –

1. Leave Andrew Cox for dead. Let him become just a rotting carcass of a memory.

OR

2. You become the rotting carcass in my memory. I will make you one. I will take away everything that you used, so cunningly, to entice me - your green snake-eyes - your big fat tits – that clever tongue that spits lies. Those long red tresses will be gone, too.