He thought to himself.
About a year and a half ago, he was put in charge of a task force whose main aim was to investigate The Union sect and the allegations of abuse voiced by a number of ex-members. Naturally he had undermined the investigation at every turn, but it had now come to a point where he needed to produce a scalp or his superiors at Police Headquarters would start asking questions. There had already been some grumbles that he’d been able to deflect, about the lack of progress.
So far he had never found a right time to tell Deborah about the prostitute who had died, and he wasn’t sure there would ever be a right time.
8.15 p.m.
Brett drove slowly up the long winding driveway of Deborah's commune. He felt more comfortable calling it that, rather than that stupid, pretentious name of the “Union”. It was a large property, set up high, so one could see the lights of Melbourne shining bright in the distance like jewels above the city sewers.
Brett didn't want his own kids ending up like this, like him, hating the world around them. He knew that he could probably stop work even now, as he had saved and invested carefully. The perks in his job had enabled him to accumulate a considerable sum of money.
No more than he deserved for dealing with the scum that were part of his work, he felt. He couldn't be too obvious with the way he spent his money, couldn’t splash it around, or questions would be asked. It would be stupid to buy expensive cars or houses, but he could still enjoy life's pleasures without drawing attention to himself. Shopkeepers, pub owners, fast food outlets, and prostitutes – they all felt the need to give him gifts. No way would he end up like his father – as broke as a compound fracture.
Deborah’s white colonial style house stood at the end of a winding path, set in 10 acres of wooded land. Poplar trees elegantly lined the route leading to the house, whilst the other sect members lived in scattered huts at least 100 yards away or more. The children's dormitory was placed amongst the huts.
Brett's visits to Deborah were not on a regular basis, but averaged about once a month, and were always associated with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Much as prey is mesmerised by a cobra about to strike, so Brett felt inextricably entangled in an erotic mesh that drew him to Deborah.
As he climbed out from his parked car, he became aware of a tall bearded man approaching him. Brett felt an instant dislike building up, as the needles of the unfamiliar man's hostility pierced the air around him. The man’s features appeared disconnected to each other, with teeth jostling for space and a furrowed, overpopulated forehead.
He had narrow, slit like eyes and his nose suggested pugilistic involvement in the past. The man's body was enveloped by a cloak of aggression and brute strength. Brett knew he could handle himself in a fight, but he didn't particularly want to take on King Kong, as he had instantly named him.
‘Wadya doin’ here?’ he demanded of Brett. ‘Can't you read the sign? No Trespassing.’
During the asphyxiating silence, Brett weighed up his options and then explained in a controlled and outwardly calm manner, that he was Deborah’s guest.
Without a reply, the man backed away as seamlessly as Deborah materialised behind him. Not for the first time, Brett marvelled at Deborah's appearance, as the saturnine darkness enveloped her. She was totally different to the type of woman he was usually attracted to, nor was she the type that he would have expected to be interested in him. He knew that their convergent needs drew them together, spiced with a sense of threat, feeling stronger than sex but incorporating it at the same time.
He had read that intense negative feelings such as fear could stimulate sexual arousal, and he was aware of being pulled to Deborah like the powerful force of magnets drawn to each other. It continued to puzzle him, as he was used to being the one in control.
Although not usually given to speculation about such matters, Brett had no doubt at all that Deborah did not leave her looks to the vagaries of ageing, but regularly used the skills of a plastic surgeon. It was money well spent, he thought, as she was certainly a woman that turned heads, with people who passed her twisting to get a second look.
However, he knew there was something else about her, another dimension altogether, that endowed her with the power to lead and control others – including himself. But he found that he was unable to put that extra dimension into words. Like a chameleon, she seemed able to change her external appearance, as the outside environment altered, and as her followers in The Union grew and revamped, so did she. When Brett threatened people, it felt obvious to him and them; but with Deborah, there was a smouldering sense of danger that he could sense but had difficulty putting it into words.
As Deborah approached him Brett noticed that her dog – he couldn't remember the name of the mongrel – stood in the shadows nearby, guarding his owner. Its parentage was unknown, at least to him, though it looked to Brett as if a bull terrier had played some part. It was the ugliest dog he had ever laid eyes on, a dog that not even a bitch would love. Its body was misshapen and it had a skin condition causing part of its body and most of its chunky face to be red and inflamed. It was a thrusting ball of snarls, and the very opposite of the dog he would have expected Deborah to have, given her obsession with disguising her past and presenting perfection to the outside world.
Deborah moved slowly away from the car park, along a path, and Brett knew he was expected to follow in her wake. He anticipated where she was heading, as it was Friday, and he was aware that every Friday night at 9 p.m., The Union members congregated in the church-like hall on the property.
When he entered, he found the congregation were already seated, shrouded by the semi-darkness of the hall, with not a sound to be heard.
Brett walked to the back pew whilst Deborah glided towards the front, where a bluish light shone on the throne-like chair that she sat on. In the glow of that light, Brett could see that Deborah was now enveloped in a long, dark blue robe. Her assistant, a pale woman of almost transparent appearance, joined her and stood alongside, clothed in a similar coloured robe. The shining light created an aura around them, and scattered candles cast an eerie, flickering illumination around the perimeter of the room.
The smell of incense hovered in the hall as Deborah rose from her chair and the congregation pushed their benches back and knelt, crossing themselves in the unique manner that she had decreed.
With his past involvement in the sect, Brett choreographed his own movements to keep in time with the congregation. The congregants knelt for five minutes, making the sign of the cross in reverse and in silent prayer, before resuming their seats. No one made eye contact with any other, and each person appeared immersed in their own world, as if hypnotised.
Deborah still had not uttered a word and to Brett, it felt as if the heavy silence pressed the congregants to their seats. Brett himself felt weighed down by the atmosphere in the room.
The service lasted close to 45 minutes, mainly made up of meditation, until at the end, Deborah and the congregants knelt and chanted together the mantra of The Union.
“To thy Last Supper
Shall we be allowed to stay
We have not given thee a kiss of Judas
Nor betrayed any secrets to thine enemies
We shall outlive them and topple them
So the lesson shall be learnt.”
For
