Araluen (59 page)

‘Want to party on?’ Michael asked. ‘I’ve laid in crates of champagne and we’re all going back to my place.’

‘Oh yes,’ Emma laughed, ‘I want to party on all night.’

At least twenty people ended up back at Michael’s. He wasn’t too happy to find Stanley amongst them. He deliberately hadn’t extended him a personal invitation and he was irritated beyond measure when Emma refused the offer of a lift. ‘No, it’s okay thanks, Michael,’ she said. ‘I’ll go with Stanley and Derek. You can drive some of the others and we’ll meet you there.’

The music was loud and most of the gang seemed still to be on a high. But Michael needed a boost. Half a dozen people gathered around him as he put the glass board on the coffee table and started cutting the coke.

They passed the board from one to the other, ceremoniously snorting a line each, even Derek. Derek had decided to be in anything that was going that night. He’d worry about tomorrow
when tomorrow came, he told himself, Mandy was right, this was the night of a lifetime.

‘Emma.’ Michael called her over. He wanted to get her away from the crowd in the corner which included Stanley. ‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘Come on,’ he urged when she hesitated, ‘this is our big night. Share in it.’

Why not, she thought, as she accepted the tightly rolled hundred dollar bill. She remembered the one and only time she’d snorted coke before. She’d been with Michael then too. They’d been working on
Halley’s
and it had been a buzz. She snorted deeply and then fought the desire to sneeze. Yes, he was right, this was their big night, she must share in it.

Stanley watched from the sidelines. It was mad to snort coke on top of the pills they’d taken, he thought, and he was angry with Michael for leading Emma astray. There was nothing he could do, though, Emma was too far gone to listen to him. Besides, he himself was too drunk to tell anyone what to do. He avoided the champagne and had another beer.

It was Mandy’s idea to take the party to the basement. ‘The pool!’ she shrieked, and started stripping off her clothes. ‘Hey, everybody! The pool!’

In minutes, clothes were flying everywhere. Naked and semi-naked people were running down the stairs and throwing themselves into the pool with gay abandon. The music was turned up even louder, two crates of champagne were carted downstairs and the party continued.

Not a bad way to sober up, Stanley thought as he stripped down to his underpants and prepared
to join the throng. In the middle of the pool, Mandy climbed aboard Derek’s shoulders and together they called for a battle to the death. ‘Fight! Fight!’ Mandy yelled and Derek, between her thighs, was laughing so much he could hardly stay upright.

Stanley grabbed the half-naked Emma and heaved her onto his shoulders. ‘We’ll take you on,’ he said, and Emma squealed with delight. Stanley wasn’t sure whether he’d joined in the horseplay merely to feel Emma’s thighs about his neck or whether he’d wanted to avoid the possibility of them ending up around any other man’s neck, but he threw himself into the fray and soon he and Emma were the champions, beating every couple who took them on.

Michael was the only person not joining in the fun. Nobody noticed him standing fully clothed by one of the marble columns looking down at the frolics below. He studied Emma’s breasts. He studied her buttocks which clearly showed through the wet lace panties which clung to her body. And he studied her thighs, locked either side of Stanley’s face, and her ankles hooked behind his back for leverage.

Michael was sweating. Were they lovers? Had Stanley been possessing Emma all the while without Michael’s knowledge? He thought of the gun in the dressing-table drawer upstairs. Maybe the gun wasn’t meant for Karol Mankowski after all, he thought. Maybe it was meant for Stanley.

No, he told himself, that was madness, insanity. Calm down, calm down. Emma was uninhibited because of the drugs she’d taken - she wasn’t used
to drugs. Michael had been aware of the sexuality in her when he’d danced with her. She could be anybody’s tonight. But not Stanley’s, he thought. Not Stanley’s. Not anyone else’s either. He made a promise to himself. Mine.
Mine.

He downed his champagne and poured himself another from the bottle on the railing. Then he turned his back on the gleeful squeals and shrieks and poolside frolics and crossed to the coffee table. Meticulously, he cut two more lines of coke and snorted them.

He sat back for a minute, waiting for the extra buzz. The music stopped but no one came upstairs to put on another CD - they were too busy splashing and giggling below.

Michael got up, went to the kitchen and took a bottle of Bollinger from the refrigerator. He put it in an ice bucket on a tray with two fresh glasses, and carried it up to his bedroom. He put it on the table by the window, then he set out another two lines of coke. She might want an extra lift by the time she came upstairs, he thought.

And, when he was sure that everything was in order, he turned the video on. High in the wall, behind the air vent, it started to quietly whirr.

He sat for several minutes planning his attack. Somebody downstairs put on another CD, the theme music from
Once Upon a Time in America.
One of his favourite CDs, one of his favourite movies. Haunting. ‘Amapola.’ The party was starting to quieten down a little. Good, he thought, she’d be getting mellow. Not sleepy. Oh no, still on a high. But playtime was over. Now
she’d want the real thing. She’d want the feel of flesh upon flesh. She’d want the moment she’d been waiting for, the moment he’d been waiting for. Yes, they were meant to be one.

Michael could have laughed as he walked downstairs. There was no competition. Just Stan. Poor stuntie Stan. How had Stanley ever thought he’d get a look in? Michael was the only person in Emma’s class. Emma was a creator, just like he was. And he was the creator of
Earth Man.
It was his invention. If they only knew to what degree he’d manipulated its success. Oh yes, Michael had the power. And Emma responded to power. Every woman responded to power.

There was no one in the living room. Whoever had changed the CD had returned to the pool. Good, they could all stay there while he and Emma went upstairs.

From the ground-floor landing, he looked down at the pool. Several people were still splashing about, but in a desultory fashion; others were sitting around, some half-naked, some wrapped in towelling robes, sipping champagne and talking. The party had mellowed. Emma was in a corner talking avidly to Derek who was raving back, neither of them really listening to each other.

Out of the corner of his eye Michael could see Stanley in the opposite corner trying to help one of the film crew follow ‘Amapola’ on the guitar. Michael loathed guitars and he loathed people who brought guitars to parties. But it was a welcome sight. He was sure that Emma loathed guitar players too. His eyes were on Emma as he slowly descended the stairs.

‘Hello, Derek,’ he said. ‘Having a good time?’

Derek halted mid-conversation and swivelled eyes that were completely out of focus somewhere in Michael’s direction. ‘The best, the best, the best,’ he said. The man was off the planet. Michael turned towards Emma.

But to his utter astonishment, before he could say anything, her mouth was on his and her body was pressing insistently against him.

‘Michael,’ she murmured and he could feel her tongue flicking across his teeth.

The room vanished as he held her to him. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, yes,’ she said.

Nobody seemed to notice them go, not that Michael would have cared if they had. Derek’s glassy eyes were still focused on nothing and the splashing in the pool, the buzz of conversation and the strains of ‘Amapola’ continued, oblivious.

In the master bedroom, he closed the door and she snorted another line. ‘Music,’ she whispered, ‘let’s have music’

He took a perfunctory snort himself, he certainly didn’t need any more and, as he ripped his clothes off, he grabbed the first CD he could lay his hands on and put it in the player built into the bedhead. It was a remaster of an old Donna Summer recording.

He poured the Bollinger but they only downed half a glass before they attacked each other’s bodies. She was as ready as he was.

Donna Summer was moaning ‘Ooh, love to love
you baby, ooh love to love you baby, ooh love to love you baby … ’

Then they were on the bed, naked, and he was driving himself into her. It was everything that Michael had hoped for, lived for. Her skin upon his skin. Their flesh mingling into one. This was no videoed fantasy that he would relive tomorrow. This was real. This was Emma. He was possessing his own Emma. And she was clinging to him, begging for more. She was his flesh and blood. And now she was his. Finally his.

He felt good. Strong. Powerful. And although her passion was exciting him, he knew he could go all night. His own pleasure was of no importance. He wanted to drive her into a frenzy. It didn’t take long. Her answering thrusts quickened and she started to cry out. He drew back. Only fractionally. Just enough to tease. Enough to keep her on the knife edge of ecstasy. Any moment now, he told himself, any moment now … ‘Ooh, love to love you baby, ooh, love to love you baby, ooh, love to … ’

Suddenly she stopped crying out. He could feel she was on the threshold. The time had come. He would give her the greatest pleasure of her life. Yes, my darling, he thought. Yes. Now. He placed his right hand on her neck, positioning his fingers over her carotid arteries and he started to squeeze.

It was a game he’d played before. He would release the pressure at her moment of orgasm and the sudden rush of blood to her brain would intensify her pleasure. He squeezed, gently at first, then gradually applying more pressure.

She gasped in ecstacy, her eyes rolling back in
her head. She started to writhe but he refused to let go. Then she was bucking wildly and he was bucking with her, the two of them rivetted together. He loved her. He had loved her for years and now they were one. Forever one. He wanted to die at that moment. He wanted to die for the sheer love of her. And he wanted her to die with him. In ecstacy. Together. ‘Ooh, love to love you baby, ooh, love to love you baby … ’

He could feel her climax. There was no need for his own pleasure. His energy was spent, in any case. He lay gasping for air. He looked at her, and she looked back at him. But there was something wrong.

A glimmer of light found its way through Michael’s fogged brain. She wasn’t looking at him, she was staring at him. That was what was wrong, she was staring. And her mouth was open. And she was terrifyingly still.

‘Oh God, no!’ He smacked her face but still she stared back at him. ‘For Christ’s sake, no!’ He felt for her pulse. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he panted, ‘sweet Jesus! Emma! Emma!’

Help. He had to get help. ‘Emma, Emma,’ he whimpered as he pulled on his trousers.

‘Ooh, love to love you baby, ooh love to love you baby, ooh love to love you … .’

Stanley was in the living room. Still half-naked, he was squatting beside the stereo in his damp underpants ferreting through the CDs when Michael appeared on the upper landing. ‘Get real, Toddie,’ he was calling downstairs, ‘ "Duelling Banjos" is
a bit out of your league right now. What else?’

‘Help me,’ Michael panted, and he grabbed the railing for support.

As soon as Stanley saw Michael he knew that something was terribly wrong. But he’d known something was terribly wrong when the man had come downstairs to the pool half an hour ago. The glassy eyes, the tight smile, the air of supreme confidence - all the signs Michael displayed when he was drugged out of his brain - but there had been something else. Something driven, something insane. ‘Hello, Derek. Having a good time?’ Michael had asked, but his voice had a strange, intense edge to it. Stanley had known then. Of course no one else had noticed.

He’d watched as she kissed him and he’d watched as the two of them went off together, Stanley cursed himself. He should have stopped them.

‘What is it? What have you done?’ He was already racing up the stairs.

‘I’ve killed her. She’s dead,’ Michael whimpered as Stanley pushed past him and into the bedroom. ‘She’s dead. I’ve killed her.’

Stanley stared at the body on the bed. ‘Oh, Christ!’ he said as he knelt beside her. He lifted her and thrust a pillow beneath her shoulders. Then he arched her head back and placed his mouth over hers. As he alternated between breathing into her and pumping her chest, he kept saying over and over, ‘Breathe, Mandy, breathe. Can you hear me, Mandy? Breathe, Mandy, breathe. Can you hear me?’

As he said it, the fog in Michael’s brain slowly
cleared. Of course! This wasn’t Emma. It was Mandy. When he’d gone down to the pool to get Emma it had been Mandy who’d kissed him and thrust herself against him. It had been Mandy who’d come upstairs with him and Mandy to whom he’d made love. How could he have thought it was Emma?

But that meant that he hadn’t killed Emma. On the instant of that realisation, Michael’s panic disappeared and he felt suffused with a sensation of utter calm.
Stanley has killed Mandy,
he thought. He watched as the half-naked Stanley ground the heel of his palm into Mandy’s chest. ‘Breathe, Mandy, breathe.’
Stanley has killed Mandy.
That’s certainly what it looked like - and that’s what it would look like through the lens of the video camera…

Michael quickly pulled on his jacket. He positioned himself where the camera could see him. ‘What have you done, Stanley? What have you done?’ The camera microphone would pick that up.

‘Breathe, Mandy, breathe.’ Stanley didn’t hear a word as he locked his mouth over hers. Even better, Michael thought. It looked as though he was mauling the girl, raping her even. It would be easy to edit the tape. And the soundtrack. It was what he was good at, wasn’t it? Give him enough footage and he could create whatever fantasy he chose.

‘Stan! Stop it! For God’s sake, what are you doing?’

‘Breathe, Mandy, breathe.’

Michael thought of the gun in the top drawer.
He’d be defending Mandy’s honour, wouldn’t he? Then he realised that the dressing table was out of camera range. Damn. No good. The gun would look too premeditated. The killing of Stanley needed to be impulsive, accidental. He could hear himself saying, ‘I was simply trying to stop the man.’