Heller's Regret (2 page)

“I’m going to tell Heller.”

I’d known it was a mistake as soon as I’d
said it. He’d stopped typing and finally gave me his undivided
attention. A smile had tugged at one corner of his mouth. I had to
look twice to confirm that, it was such a rare event.

“Good. You tell him. What do you think he’s
going to say about one of his employees turning up unfit for
work?”

I’d known very well what Heller would say
about anyone daring to do that in his business, his bed buddy or
not.

“I’m
not
unfit. I’m just . . . a
little less fit than I used to be,” I’d tried with deflating
defiance. Sometimes you just had to give up when you were beaten,
reserving your energy to fight another day.

Clive had stared at me with grim
satisfaction. I’d snatched the piece of paper back off his desk and
stormed out.

“If you think you’re getting rid of me, I’ll
show you. I’ll be back sooner than you think,” I’d threatened
angrily on my way out.

“Have fun,” he’d called after me, stoking my
anger, an anger that only grew stronger every second I’d spent so
far at boot camp.

I hated everything about Lake Tranquillity
from the second I turned off a minor road to its pitted dirt
approach road. After about eight more kilometres of driving, the
compound came into view. I hated it even more once I set eyes on
it.

What was wrong with Lake Tranquillity Boot
Camp? It would be far easier to begin by listing what was right
with it – and in one word, nothing.

The camp was located in a dry, desolate
place, such a mere blip on my car’s GPS that I almost drove past
the entrance. In reality, it wasn’t terribly far from the city – it
just felt like it. The so-called ‘lake’ turned out to be a sewerage
reclamation dam, and the machinery processing it ensured it was
most definitely not tranquil by anyone’s definition of the word,
not to mention nauseatingly noxious whenever a westerly wind wafted
the smell in our general direction.

On arrival, I was directed to leave my car in
a dusty carpark behind the compound, which consisted of two bleak
cement blocks and a couple of equally bleak, utilitarian amenity
buildings. They were grouped in a semi-circle around a large dirt
bowl misleadingly called the Field.

A straggle of poor, miserable souls mustered
nervously at the Field as instructed in orderly rows. On a rough
headcount, there were about forty of us enduring the torture and
not one of us looked happy about it. I checked my phone while we
waited for something to happen, hoping that Clive had changed his
mind and ordered me back home. No messages.

“Hand over all phones,” snapped a fearsome
man in his late-forties, striding up and down in front of us,
periodically slapping a riding crop against his thigh. I never
worked out why he carried it, because the only sign of a horse I
saw around was a sad-looking donkey on a far-distant property that
brayed gloomily through the night. I knew how it felt – I wanted to
join in.

We all grumbled, pulling out our various
phones.

“There is to be
no
talking back when
you’re given an order!” he roared, making us all jump in fright.
“Everybody drop and give me ten. There are Consequences for
disobedience.”

A bit shocked, we all found our way down to
the ground, some with more difficulty than others. I hadn’t done a
pushup for ages, and by the fifth one, I was struggling. Some of
the others were struggling with their first.

“I can see this is a pathetic group of
weaklings,” he spat in the dirt in contempt. “Stand up when you’re
finished, if any of you ever finish.”

I wasn’t the first one up, but I wasn’t
anywhere near the last. It was an agonising, embarrassing wait in
the sun until the last poor, red-faced, gasping person staggered to
their feet.

“
Pa-thet-ic
,” the man spat again onto
the dirt. If he kept that up, I’d have to say something – it was a
very unhygienic habit.

“I’m the Director of this facility. You will
refer to me at all times as the Director. These three people,” he
nodded to his left and right where one man and two women flanked
him, “are my assistants. You will refer to them at all times as the
Assistants.”

A sweating, overweight man raised his hand.
“Excuse me, Director. I have a question. Are we able to . . .”

He spluttered to a halt, receiving a death
stare from all four staff in return. The Director pointed at
him.

“You stay standing. The rest of you drop and
give me ten.”

With resentful glances thrown at the
inquisitive man, now turning a nice shade of beetroot, the rest of
us quietly groaned our way down to the ground again. The man stood
there, clearly wishing he could disappear, while the rest of us
were forced to do more pushups.

When the last straggler made it back to their
feet, some of them puffing so hard I hoped the Director kept a
defibrillator handy, he eyed us off, one by one.

“Anyone
else
have a question?”

Unbelievably, a woman tentatively raised her
hand. Some of us groaned out loud.

The Director smiled, and it wasn’t one of
those smiles that gave you any comfort when you needed it. He
pointed at her. “You stay standing. The rest of you give me
ten.”

Wearily, we dropped to our knees again. By
the end of the last pushup, my arms were shaking.

“Any more questions?” asked the Director in
an almost kindly voice, which just made it even scarier.

A deadly silence emanated from the group, the
only sound a couple of crows gloating about our servitude from the
freedom of a nearby tree.

“Excellent. Let’s move on. Ladies to the
right, men to the left. Move it!” We shuffled around until we were
in our designated groups. “Ladies, you’re in Group A; men in Group
B. Group A, your living quarters are the bunkers you see in front
of you and you’ll be supervised by Assistants One and Two. Group B,
you’ll live on the other side of the enclosure and will be
supervised by Assistant Three and me.”

A quiver of gratitude spread through me that
I wouldn’t have to deal with the Director, but when I looked at the
uncompromising faces of the two female Assistants, it quickly
withered.

I never found out where Group B lived and
didn’t set eyes on any of them again after that first muster.

I only hoped they were all still alive.

Chapter 2

Group A was divided into two and allocated to
either Bunker One or Bunker Two. The bunkers were so devoid of any
creature comfort that accommodation in an army survival combat
course in the middle of the jungle with no supplies would have
seemed luxurious by comparison. Unpainted concrete walls and bare
timber floors were illuminated with harsh fluorescent lights that
flickered and buzzed annoyingly. Tiny louvred windows, unadorned
with coverings of any kind, didn’t provide enough brightness to
negate the need for the annoying fluorescents, even in the middle
of the day. It was grim and cheerless – pretty much how I felt on
seeing it.

We weren’t afforded the indulgence of
choosing our own sleeping arrangements. The bunks were
pre-allocated, our last names written on a small board mounted on
the wall of our individual ‘personal space’. A basic bedside table
and cupboard stood neatly to the right of our beds. Inside each
cupboard were four sets of the grey tracksuit, correctly sized for
us all. There were no mirrors, rugs or pot plants – absolutely
nothing to soften some of the bunker’s austerity.

The two Assistants were each in charge of a
bunker. We were allocated the delightful and ever-so entertaining
Assistant One. She addressed us as we huddled together in the
middle of the bunker.

“You may keep a toothbrush, toothpaste,
deodorant, hairbrush, one pair of pyjamas and any female sanitary
requirements. You may also remove from your suitcases your runners
and four days’ supply of underwear and gym socks. In the bathroom,
which is located in the centre block, you will find an adequate
supply of soap, shampoo and towels. If you’ve brought any
medication, let me know and I’ll consult the Director. He’ll allow
all doctor-prescribed medication, but we’ll dole out the correct
doses as prescribed.”

“Excuse me,” said one well-spoken,
well-groomed woman. “I really must have my moisturiser, otherwise
my skin will –”

“You stay standing. The rest of you drop and
give me ten.”

There was no hiding our disgusted outburst of
groans this time.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“Now it’s twenty.”

I wasn’t sure I could manage twenty more
pushups, but then I remembered Clive’s face and my determination
grew to mountainous proportions. He didn’t think I could do this,
but I would show him. Those dark thoughts of vengeance kept me
going through the set and I was the first one back up on my
feet.

The woman who’d caused the punishment looked
over at me beseechingly, but I stared ahead stonily, not willing to
acknowledge her.

The last woman, probably the oldest in our
group, struggled to reach her feet when she’d finished. I leant
over to help her, letting her use my shoulder for support – she
might have been my mother’s age. Even I could hear her knees
cricking as she rose.

The Assistant came over to me and stood in
front.
Oh no
, I thought.

“Good teamwork. We like to see that here.” I
breathed out in relief. “And you are?”

“Tilly Chalmers,” I told her unwillingly.

She ran her finger down a piece of paper on a
clipboard. “Ah, here we are. Matilda Chalmers, aged twenty-six.”
She inclined her head to one side. “Hmm, I would have said you were
ten years older.”

Bitch
, I thought.

She poked me in the stomach, making me reflex
backwards. “Too much soft living. We’ll call you Chunky
Chalmers.”

“You don’t have to be so rude. I’m not chunky
and I don’t look ten years older,” I said without thinking.

Her thick eyebrows shot up in delighted
surprise. “You can stay here. The rest of you can do five laps of
the Field.”

I glanced around at the mutinous faces of my
roommates. “I’m going to join them.”

“Ooh, I
do
like your team spirit,
Chunky. But that’s not how we do things here. Now it’s ten laps for
everyone.” She pretended to think. “Tell you what, though. As a
special treat, I’ll let you do twenty laps by yourself after
everyone else is done.” She shook her head deprecatingly. “I’m
such
a pushover for cute, chunky faces.”

She forced me to stand in the increasingly
hot sun and watch while my roommates staggered their way around ten
laps of the dry, dusty Field. I was mortified that I’d caused these
poor women to have to do this. And at that point, I didn’t know if
I was angrier with Clive or with Assistant One. I had to admit,
though, it was a clever ruse to not punish the person committing
the infraction, but everyone else in their stead. It was surely
going to foster discontent in the group and the ganging-up on
people who didn’t quickly learn to obey the rules. I didn’t want to
be the one they ganged-up on.

When the last straggler made her weary way
back after her laps, shooting me looks of hatred, the Assistant
smiled benevolently.

“Nice work so far, ladies.” She pointed to
the middle amenity block. “As I told you earlier, half of that is
your bathroom. The other half is the kitchen and dining room. There
you’ll find ample supplies of cold water and some energy bars to
share between you.” She looked at me with a fake sad expression.
“Sorry, Chunky. By the time you’re finished with your ‘honour’
laps, I suspect all the food will be gone. It’s rationed here.”

I set off jogging with the determination a
lot of long-distance runners have.
Break through it, break
through it,
I told myself with every step. I thought about how
I could kill Clive, or how I could kill Assistant One. Or better
yet, how I could convince Clive to kill Assistant One and
then
kill him, but make it look like Assistant One’s family
had committed a revenge crime. Of course I wouldn’t really hurt
Clive – he was too scary to tangle with and part of Heller’s family
– but fantasies can provide relief in times of great stress or
pain.

And you better believe I was feeling pain. By
lap seven, I had shin splints that made every step a horror. That
pain was overridden in lap thirteen by the side stitch that had me
lurching with every step.

“Do you want to give up, Chunky?” called the
Assistant, in what any casual observer would take as a caring
question.

Fuck you
, I said to myself,
floundering onwards to the end. Barely able to hold myself upright,
by the time I limped, drenched in my dusty jeans and formerly nice,
but now disgusting, buttoned shirt, to the kitchen, all the bars
had been eaten. It didn’t appear as if many had been offered in the
first place, judging by the few wrappers in the bin. Instead, I
gulped down so much cold water that I immediately threw most of it
up in the sink, leaning against it, shaking and sweating, on the
verge of tears.

“Drink it slower this time, darling,” said
the well-spoken voice of moisturiser woman who’d started the whole
problem from behind me.

“But I’m so thirsty,” I panted.

“You can’t drink water too fast when you’re
dehydrated,” she assured, pouring me a miniscule amount in a glass
that I scoffed in a second.

“I need more.”

“Give it a minute.”

“I told you, I’m
thirsty
now!”

“Wait for a minute. Then I’ll give you more.
You really need an electrolyte supplement, not just water.” She led
me to a hard chair. “Come and sit for a while.” She peered around
her surroundings cautiously. “They seem to have left us to have a
break for now.”