Sleight Malice

SLEIGHT
~ use of dexterity or cunning, especially so as to deceive.

MALICE
~ the intention or desire to do evil; ill will.

Rough hands grabbed her. Clamped
across her waist, his powerful arm squeezed the breath from her lungs. He
hauled her backwards, her thrashing arms and legs no more an inconvenience to
him than if she had been a pinned fly.

She coughed,
her eyes watering as the hot, acrid air seared the inside of her throat. With
both hands, she tried in desperation to prize the immovable weight from her
stomach. “Let me go! Get…”

Her chest
convulsed against the heavy, grit-laden smoke. The man’s hold on her eased. She
seized her chance and wrenched herself from his grip. She stumbled forward,
shielding her face with her arms, but the fire’s intensity drove her back.

Back into the
arms of the firefighter.

“What do you
think you’re doing? You can’t go in there!” shouted the hulking black and
yellow protective-clad figure. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

Desley James
scarcely heard him over the din of the fire trucks, pumps and roar of the
blaze. Her only concern was for Laura. Where was she? Had she been at home? Had
she escaped the inferno? What about Ryan?

She opened her
mouth to speak, inhaling a mouthful of burnt air instead. Spluttering, she bent
her head forward and drew the thin cotton T-shirt she wore over her mouth and
nose.

“Have you got everyone
out?”

The firefighter
leaned down, his ear almost touching her face. “Sorry, what was that?”

She repeated
her question, watching his face as her words, muffled by the fine weave of her
makeshift filter, sunk in. He averted his gaze, but not before she had her
answer.

“Oh dear God,
no. Please tell me it isn’t true. It’s not possible,” she added in a whisper
only audible to herself.

This time when
he lifted her off her feet she didn’t resist; all the fight had left her. A
female police officer joined them, draping a blanket around Desley’s shoulders
as the firefighter set her down beside the open back door of a police car.

She shivered,
pulling the blanket in tighter as she sunk onto the backseat, the wool fibers
bristly against her hot skin. The vehicle’s interior light cast a ghostly pall
over the two faces staring down at her.

Like limp party streamers the
night after, blue and white police tape fluttered in the breeze. In the stark
morning light, the suburban Melbourne bungalow’s blackened skeleton seemed to
mock Desley:
You’re too late…

The nearer she
went, the more overpowering the reek of water-sodden ashes and burnt timber
became. Her stomach churned against, not only the sickening smell, but also the
sheer awfulness of it all. And no one could or would tell her what had
happened. All she knew was that at ten o’clock the night before, when she’d
stood on her doorstep and bade her friend goodnight, Laura Noble had been alive
and well.

Tired and more
than a little tipsy, Desley had gone back inside, bypassing the dirty glasses,
plates and two empty wine bottles littering the oversized black-and-white dice
that served as a coffee table, and climbed straight into bed. Seconds later she
was deep in dreamless sleep.

She woke with a
start, sitting bolt upright, her eyes wide. Disorientated by the red and blue
lights strobing her bedroom, she wondered for one absurd moment if a UFO had
landed outside her window. The high-pitched wail of sirens soon brought her
back to her senses.

Her heart hammering,
she jumped out of bed, crossed the room and opened the door that led out onto
the bedroom’s narrow balcony. The night chill cut through her long-sleeved but
lightweight T-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms. She smelled smoke, heard shouts
and the rumble of engines. But all she could see from her upstairs vantage
point was an orangey-red glow above the rooftops towards the end of the street.
Near where Laura lived with her partner Ryan Moore.

Trying hard not
to panic, she raced back inside and down the stairs to the front door. Halfway
out the door, she realized she was still wearing her pajamas. She faltered, but
only for a split-second, too concerned about her friend to worry about the cold
or what she looked like.

She hadn’t had
to go far to confirm her worst fears. The blaze from Laura and Ryan’s rented
home lit up the street. Would she have plunged into the burning house if the
firefighter hadn’t stopped her? Could she have saved her friend? Why hadn’t she
insisted Laura stay with her while Ryan was in Sydney? She shook her head, the
only answers to the mounting questions, more questions.

Oh, God
, she suddenly thought,
does Ryan know?
Had the police
tracked him down yet, broken the heartbreaking news to him?
According to
Laura, Ryan was due back from his business trip that morning; a homecoming he
would never forget.

“I thought I
might find you here,” said an instantly recognizable voice from behind her.

She started,
sidestepping as she glanced over her shoulder. “What do you want, Trent?”

“That’s a nice
way to greet your husband.”

“Ex,” she
reminded him, although technically she was still married to him. In her mind,
he had ceased being her husband the minute he walked out the door of their home
three years ago to live with his young mistress.

“Don’t be like
that.” He stepped in front of her, tilting her chin up with his fingers. “Hey,
you’ve been crying—”

Her head
snapped back, her hand slapping his away. “Jesus Christ, Trent, what did you
expect? Do you really think I'm that much of a cold-blooded bitch I wouldn't
grieve for my best friend?"

Trent blinked,
confusion clouding his tanned face. “I don't think we're on the same page here,
Des.”

Page? What
did pages have to do with anything?
Numb with grief
she couldn’t think straight. “For goodness sake, Trent, just for once can’t you
speak English?” She wasn’t in the mood to play his word games; she’d had enough
of it during their seven-year marriage to last a lifetime.

His pale grey
eyes peered at her from under long, blond, almost transparent eyelashes. She
felt a small tug somewhere deep inside her and immediately felt angry with
herself. He meant nothing to her.

Attack her best
defense, she stood hands on hips, scowling at him, her chest thrust out like a
puffed-up bantam rooster. “Well? Out with it.”

Cocking his
head, he gave her a disarming grin. “You’re beautiful when you’re mad.”

Again, that
familiar tug. She shook her head, dismissing it as stupid. He could save his
corny lines and impish smiles for someone who cared. “And you’re bloody
unbelievable!”

Trent sighed,
his expression solemn as he looked past her at the burnt out shell of what had
once been a house. “Perhaps we should start again.”

She gave a
quick nod, her eyes following his gaze. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“So,” he said,
“do you know if they’ve unearthed Laura yet? It’ll take her a while to recover
from this.”

Desley’s mouth
dropped, her eyes brimming with tears as she turned on him. “You sick bastard!”

“What?” His
hands came up, palms out in defense. “What have I done now?”

“Have some
compassion. I know you and Laura never got on, but joking about her
resurrecting is just too much, even for you.”

His face paled
under his tan. “I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know
what? That they pulled what was left of my best friend’s body out of the fire
last night? Or that she’s not going to miraculously rise from the ashes?”

She watched his
lips moving soundlessly, and imagined his thoughts racing for the words to undo
what he had said.

“No, you’ve got
it all wrong, Des. Believe me.” He rubbed his hand back and forth across his
chin. “God, I could do with a drink about now.”

She suspected
it wouldn’t be the first for the day, but made no comment, waiting for him to
go on. His drinking problems were none of her business.

“Unearthed; it
was a poor word choice…”

What’s new,
thought Desley irritably.

“I should have
said located…”

She frowned at
Trent as he snatched up her hands and squeezed them. His fingers felt hot and
intimate against her cold skin.

“Look,” he
said, meeting her gaze head-on, “I don’t know if Laura is dead or alive, but
one thing’s for sure, it wasn’t her corpse they pulled out of the fire.”

She gasped,
every muscle in her body tensing. Torn between disbelief and overwhelming
relief, she searched his face for clues. Truth or sick joke? No smirk tickled
the corners of his mouth. He held her gaze without blinking, his expression
unchanged.

“Say that
again,” she said, the hope cartwheeling through her head making her feel
uneasy. What if he was wrong? What if she had misheard him?

“It’s simple:
the body in the house was male. So unless Laura was a man in drag, it couldn’t
possibly be her.”

“I don’t
understand. How can that be? Laura was the one at home, not Ryan. He was
supposed to be in Sydney.”

Trent shrugged.
“I’m only telling you what I heard.”

Her heart sank.
“Heard from who?” she asked, half-expecting to hear that it was Mrs So-and-so
who heard it from Mr So-and-so who heard it from his mate who overheard a
conversation somewhere that he probably wasn’t supposed to be privy to.

“The police.
The bastards woke me at some ungodly hour this morning, dragging me out of bed
to answer their ridiculous questions,” he said, his voice taut with
indignation. “Why the fuck they thought I might know anything, I don’t know!”
He let out a loud huff.

The resulting
blast of minty Listerine breath hit Desley square in the face. She blinked, her
eyes watering. She wrested her hands from his grip and stepped backwards. She
knew him well enough to know the overdose of mouth freshener was a cover for
his drinking: either a heavy session the night before or a tipple or two that
morning. She also knew him well enough to keep her mouth shut about it.

Although
curious to the reason for Trent’s visit from the police, Laura’s welfare and
whereabouts remained uppermost in Desley’s mind. “You’re telling me Laura got
out in time, right? Is she okay? Where is she? Do they know who the man was?”
She paused, took a deep breath and touched the back of her ex-husband’s hand
with her fingertips. “Please, Trent, I need to know everything you know.
Straight-up…” She hesitated and then added, “None of your usual bullshit.”

His
barely-there eyebrows arched, his bottom lip pushed out in a pout as he looked
down at her. “Steady on, Des.” He hid his hands in his trouser pockets, dancing
from foot to foot. From the biting wind chill or something else, she wasn’t
sure. “How about we discuss it over a coffee back at your place?” he suggested.

She groaned
inwardly. Anxious as she was for immediate answers, she knew demanding he tell
her there and then could only be counter-productive. And besides, they were
starting to draw the attentions of the blue-overalled forensic investigators
methodically sifting through the charcoal and ashes.