Innocent Monsters (24 page)

17 October 2000

THE MAN at the wheel parked the car in front of the Windsor Hotel. He checked his wristwatch —the show was nearly over.

He had not intended to come here, but driving towards the building had made him think about her, and now he wanted to see her.

He knew Kaitlyn had rented a room here to celebrate her sister’s first television interview. She’d told him so the last time they had met, right after a quickie in the restaurant’s car park, in the back of his car. They were both drunk, sweaty. It had been a passionate fuck in a restricted space, his legs sticking out of the opened door in the dark, her feet planted on the roof of the vehicle. She could give herself up, this woman, without questioning where the relationship was going, without nagging. It was perfect. Just thinking about it was giving him a hard on.

He calculated he’d have at least an hour before Jessica made her way here. It would be enough if he made his move quickly.

Roger glanced over at the passenger seat briefly, his hands gripping the steering wheel. William Blaise was sitting next to him looking somehow distressed.

“You don’t have to drive me home,” he heard him murmur. “I can take a taxi from here.”

“Oh, c’mon! It’s bad enough you don’t lemme buy you dinner for meetin’ me this late, at least lemme give you a lift. Nob Hill, is it?” He checked his watch again. “We just gotta stop in here for a minute. I ought to sort a thing out. Just a quickie.” He laughed at the irony of the word in his mouth at this very moment.

Blaise sighed, looked at him with an expression really close to desperation on his face.

“You ok?”

“Just tired. Really, I’ll take a taxi from here.”

“C’mon.” Roger opened the door, threw a leg out of the car. “It won’t take long. You might even get a drink out of it.”

Blaise sighed again, and again, then finally grabbed the door handle and stepped out. Weirdo.

They had met a few times before. The San Francisco Post wanted to publish a collection of his comics, with a biography and a preface from the author about the thinking behind the creation of the main character. Blaise had refused to give a full biography but had agreed to give them a work history instead. They had talked, in person and on the phone, a few emails where exchanged, no more and no less then many others of his clients; they’d had a couple of drinks together after which he didn’t really seem any looser.

Roger didn’t really know what to make of him. Blaise was odd, too silent, too intense, arrogant, moody, but he was talented, that much he knew. Nobody goes from nothing to graphic artist for the San Francisco Post in less than four years without talent. He had to admire that. He respected it.

In the lobby he walked up to a man wearing a blood red jacket, standing almost to attention behind the desk.

“I am here to see Miss Lynch, in room one-seven-three. Could you call her and let her know that Roger Wither is waitin’ for her downstairs?

The man in blood red nodded pressing digits on the phone on his desk. “Certainly, Sir.”

Kaitlyn walked downstairs a few minutes later, slowly, beautiful, sexy, her hips swinging from side to side, her breasts bouncing a little with every step.

Blaise kept his distance standing at the far end of the reception counter, by the staircase to the upper floor, and Roger left him there, where he wouldn’t be a nuisance.

“Hi.” She kissed him standing inches away from him, her full lips pressing against his. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed this wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“I seem to remember
you
mentioning it wouldn’t be a good idea, not me. I was passing by and I thought I’d come in and change your mind.”

“There’s a friend with me upstairs.”

“And there’s a friend with me. Why don’t we buy them both a drink at the bar and go to your room for a while? ”

He brushed the palms of his hands against her hips but she took hold of them and pulled him away quickly. “I can’t.”

“Ok, let’s see, what can I do to convince you?”

“Nothing really. I’m sorry, I said I can’t.”

“But I
reee-ally
want you.” He whispered in her ear.

“We’ll have to take care of that another time, won’t we? Now it’s not a good time.” He stared down at her trying to decide if he wanted to keep trying to convince her or just tell her to go fuck herself. “So what? You’ve really made me drive all the way up her for nothin’?” The tone of his voice had turned too harsh, he could hear it but he couldn’t control it.

“
Made you?
” She laughed at him, laughed right at his face, the bitch. “I thought you were just passing by. And anyway, I didn’t
make
you do anything. You came here all by yourself, sweetheart. I told you not to come days ago but you decided to ignore me.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. You’re right.” He moved away from her, brushed her off waving a hand in the air.

“I don’t understand. What is it you want? What did you expect?”

All he wanted right now was to smack her beautiful face so hard her nose would start bleeding. Maybe then she would let him have his way.

“I expected you to give me a little time. Doesn’t seem like too much to ask from where I’m standing.”

“Oh, c’mon. We both know it’s not time you want. You just fancied a quick one. But guess what, I’m not in the mood.”

“Forget about it. Tell ya what, I’ll leave you to it. Go back to your friend.”

He turned his back to her and walked away. Blaise was still leaning against the reception desk, his stare lost at the top of the stairs.

“Guess we ain’t havin’ that drink after all.” Roger growled at him.

“Doesn’t matter. I called a taxi anyway. It’ll be here soon.”

Roger stared at him, open hands at each side of his body in a weird priest-like pose. “A taxi? For fuck’s sake, didn’t I tell you I was gonna take you home?”

“You looked busy. I really need to get back now.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m goin’ now. You stay here and wait for your taxi. And good luck with it too.”

He took the car keys from his pocket and bounced them off his hand.

“Hey!” William called out before he could take a step. “Who was that woman? She looks familiar.”

Roger turned to look at the stairs but Kaitlyn had already disappeared. “Just a stupid bitch. You have a good night.”

26 January 2001

JESSICA WAS curled up on the sofa in the darkened sitting room, the heavy curtains completely drawn across both the large windows in the room. She couldn’t tell if the sun was out beyond them or if it was a cloudy afternoon and she didn’t care.

Her face hurt. Her ribs hurt. Her head hurt. And she had started to believe she deserved it. All the pain in the world, all she could take.

On the floor by the sofa laid the copy of William’s book, the one he had promised to send her.
Elysa: New York Underground
, published by the Jefferson Company. She had looked through it crying, found a fluorescent green sticky note attached to the acknowledgment page, right at the end. It said,
See? I was telling the truth
, and just above it she had found Roger Wither’s name, the editor. He did know him, of course he did. Why would he lie to her?

On the TV screen the young presenter of the ABC7 news channel was reading about the day’s news again, and again Jessica heard William’s name being mentioned; again she looked up, unable to look away or switch it off. She knew exactly what the presenter was about to announce, she had done so three times already since twelve o’clock that afternoon, but Jessica had to listen, she had to punish herself. She deserved it.

“William Blaise, the young graphic artist behind the very popular character Elysa, which has appeared daily on the pages of the San Francisco Post for the past four years, died last night in a freak accident at his home in Macondray Lane, Russian Hill’s elite neighbourhood. The body was found a few hours ago. Amy Hollyfield reports.”

The reporter came on the screen again holding a large blue microphone in her hand, standing outside William’s house. It looked exactly as Jessica had left it, the curtains of the windows by the main entrance pulled away from the glass, the door ajar. The same, except for the
police-area-do-not-cross
yellow bands tied across the white pillars at opposite ends of the door.

“This was the home of William Blaise, or Gospel, as he was better known by his admirers. The fatal accident took place here, sometimes between last night and the early hours of the morning. The body was found at 10:15 by detective Charles Brown, from San Francisco’s police department. We were told he was expected to meet Blaise at his home regarding one of the department’s ongoing investigations. At his arrival, Detective Brown found the door to the property open and he believes that by the time he found him, William Blaise was already dead. We are told that Mr Blaise died of severe head injuries after being hit by a 150kg marble cross he kept in the house. Although the door was found open, the contents of the house seemed to be untouched and police is not treating the accident as suspicious, but they have invited anyone with more information to come forward.”

Dead.

It was her fault. She had been a coward. Only a coward would have left him lying there without even checking if he was still alive. She had left running because she couldn’t bear the sight of another person she loved laying in a puddle of blood. And there was blood. Quickly, unexpectedly, there was a lot of blood.

How had it got to this? It was wrong, the whole irreversible situation. Wrong. William should have been alive. He wasn’t the one who had been lying to her all along. Not him. Now she knew but it was too late.

“SEE YOU next week, Roger.”

He slipped his arms inside the jacket sleeves and waved a hand at the guy behind the reception desk. “Yeah. See ya.”

Roger Wither got out of the club and started off in his car. It was already three forty-five in the afternoon, he wouldn’t have enough time to stop and get a bite to eat. He picked up his mobile and dialed the office number.

“Nora? I’m on my way back. You think you can organise a sandwich before I get there? I haven’t had lunch yet and I’m starvin’... You’re a star.”

Working out definitely made him hungry.

He had been a member of the fitness club for the past five years. It had started as a sporadic past time, more of a way to relax —for most of his life he’d been blessed with a high metabolism which allowed him to eat whatever he wanted— but lately he had noticed a thickening around his waist, an inevitable layer of fat that seemed to want to spread as his fortieth birthday approached. So now he sweated his way through a spinning class every Monday and weight lifting every Wednesday and Friday during his lunch break, after work when that wasn’t possible. Punctually for the last eighteen months. Everybody knew him at the club, everybody knew who he was and he felt at home there.

Roger didn’t consider himself vain, but he knew he wasn’t the most attractive man in San Francisco and, as his cousin Michael always said, if you ain’t got the face you gotta have the body. A well-shaped torso and muscle definition went a long way when trying to attract women. That was a fact. When he was in the mood, all he had to do was wear a slim fitting top and a pair of jeans with a good cut for his ass and he was away. It never failed.

It had certainly worked with Kaitlyn Lynch.

He remembered that night perfectly.

Roger had met her for the first time at the Phoenix, about five weeks before her death, mid-September. He remembered driving down to the bar straight after work; it had been a long day and all he was really after was to sink into one of their sofas, relax and have a drink before heading home. But then he’d seen her there, standing at the bar by herself with a fitted black dress which skimmed the curves of a perfect body, drinking what seemed to be a mojito from a thin black straw. Her plump red lips had hypnotised him from the very first second; he had watched them move for minutes while she chatted to the bartender, watched them suck from her straw until the only thing he could do was sit next to her and watch them up close.

He’d notice her studying the shape of his arms and his shoulders underneath the ribbed top he had decided to wear with the jacket that morning, so he’d asked her if he could buy her a drink. Within minutes they had moved to one of the brown sofas, she’d told him her name was Kaitlyn, told him about an art gallery in Port Street, about how she was planning to exhibit her own work there within the next few months. All he’d wanted to do was bite her lips so hard they would bleed.

“And what about you?” She had asked. “What do you do?”

Roger remembered thinking about it for a few seconds, about something impressive to tell a woman like her, someone this creative. He remembered deciding that sometimes a man simply has to lie, sometimes what one decides to do with his life doesn’t sound interesting enough to impress a beautiful and highly creative woman. So he had decided to tell her he was an artist himself, a photographer. He’d told her he mostly worked in Europe for a small fashion company but he was planning to start working a lot more back home.

It wasn’t until later, after they got back to his place and Kaitlyn had let him do things to her most women were disgusted by, that Roger had regretted not telling the truth. Kaitlyn had spelled out her full name while putting her bra back on, told him her sister was a writer and he had started to realise that lying about his job had not been a great idea. But it was too late for the truth by then.

So Kaitlyn Lynch had started seeing a photographer who mostly worked in Europe. Granted, it was a bit close to home, Jessica Lynch being her sister, but realistically, he thought the chances of anyone finding out were pretty slim. All he had to do was make sure his full name never came up for a few months and avoid meeting the two sisters together. It wasn’t like he was planning on getting married. He just wanted to have sex, uncomplicated, uncompromised sex. What could possibly go wrong, he had thought at the time.

How foolish he had been.