all his doubts, in the subdued light and surrounded by the smell of incense, Brett always found himself suspending disbelief and drawn into the ceremony, leaving him uneasy as he left the hall at the end.
After the congregation filed out, Brett followed Deborah to her house, which appeared empty apart from the two of them. He knew that she had a partner, Bill, but he was never visible at times like this. For the first time since Brett's arrival Deborah's languid voice addressed him as she passed over the glass of red wine that she had just poured. Her statement that she was giving him wine to drink required no response from Brett, nor had she felt the need to ask him if he wanted to drink.
They sipped their wine in silence, not looking directly at each other, and Brett found it hard not to be mesmerised by the leaping flames from the log fire close by. Having drunk half her wine, Deborah got up and in silence walked to her bedroom. Brett knew without asking that she expected him to join her.
He felt like a bystander viewing the unfolding events, and marvelled how different this was to any other interaction he had had with a woman or even with a man. At all times Deborah led and Brett followed – as if he were partnering her on a dance floor. She was the queen bee of their relationship. Brett was never sure what she got out of having sex with him, not that he really cared, but he was curious. Did she get any physical pleasure or was it merely another way of controlling him? Come to think of it, what did he get from it?
She dictated their sex as she did every other part of their interactions. From the time his naked body met hers, the precarious journey began. He felt excitement akin to the shiver and feelings he experienced with any extreme activity where danger lurked—such as sky diving, which he’d done several times, or dealing with a criminal who could be armed. He equated it with the coupling of some spiders or praying mantises, where the male would be consumed at the end.
He knew his mates at work would have been amazed to learn of the things that he read and knew, and they certainly would have found it difficult to believe that he could have a relationship like this.
As Deborah mounted him, she placed a pre-prepared ice block between her lips, and then let it slide into her mouth. Her tongue skated around its cold, smooth surface as her buttocks moved rhythmically above and around Brett. In the past, Brett had felt spooked by this ritual, but was now more at ease with it and aroused by her body. He knew that the ice block would contain a slip of paper with the typed name of a perceived enemy. He gave them the name of ‘misfortune cookies’.
He climaxed as he heard her reciting her mantra:
“To Dr Andrew Wright
I bequeath this curse
May he forever return to dust and earth.”
As bizarre as it all sounded, Brett knew that her capacity for malice and revenge outweighed even his own.
As Deborah rolled onto her side, she deposited the ice block into a glass beside the bed. Brett was unsure whether she had also climaxed, but what she couldn't control was the response of her body, the moisture and skin changes revealing to him that she had been sexually aroused. He waited for her to break the silence.
‘Go to sleep, Brett. I'll wake you in about an hour and we'll talk then.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Thursday, 22 August 1986
1.25 p.m.
In theory, Andrew’s appointment book allowed for him to take a lunchbreak of half an hour, but theory can evaporate in the face of reality. Frequently his break for lunch was gobbled up by going over time with some appointments or using the break to return phone calls that he felt shouldn't wait.
He had personally drawn up his own timetable and he wryly noted that there were occasions where an outside observer would have expected him to be in charge of his scheduling. However, to Andrew, it often felt as if the timetable controlled him, and for a long time it remained unaltered in spite of feeling that it wasn’t working out.
Today he decided to take charge and managed to secure his lunchbreak by taking himself down the street to buy his lunch, choosing some sandwiches together with a coffee. On most days he had brought the traditional paper bag lunch to work, and when possible, ate it at his desk as he wrote notes and made phone calls. He now realised that the only way he could secure a break during the day was to leave the building. He chuckled to himself how something that was bleeding obvious had felt like a revelation.
As he left the building and closed the door behind him, he became aware of a prickly discomfort, as if he was a truant wagging school, and realised guilt was at play, and uncertain why.
Just before he left his medical rooms, Andrew asked his secretary Rosemary whether he could get her anything down the street and told her he'd be back in time for the next patient. Rosemary had been with him for close to ten years now, and he felt she was a wonderful secretary, admired by both his patients and himself.
Years back, a work colleague had told him that the criteria for picking a perfect secretary was to find a middle-aged woman, possibly in her mid-forties, someone who had never married and wasn't in any current relationship – a “spinster”. God, Andrew hated that term – single men didn't have a label put on them.
‘You need to find a single woman who is generally unhappy in her personal life and would be married to the job,’ came the unsolicited advice from his colleague. At the time Andrew thought these comments were cynical and in poor taste, and he continued to feel that. Yet Rosemary in fact did fulfil those criteria, and Andrew reflected on how unfair life could be, as Rosemary showed so much warmth in her dealings with the patients, and yet, away from work, this warmth dissipated in the barren waste that was her personal life.
1.41 p.m.
Andrew seated himself at the back of the local coffee shop where he was able to observe the other people and not be disturbed. He had always enjoyed watching people and their interactions. The waitress brought the sandwich and blueberry muffin that he had ordered, as well as a strong coffee. He thanked her politely before opening a copy of the Sun Herald that he had picked up from the counter. It was not a paper he rated highly and felt it was a rag, but ease won out over content, as he found the page size a lot more comfortable to read.
Not like some of the other daily papers where turning a page might cost you a coffee, accidentally knocked over, or impair the vision of the person sitting next to you.
On page 4 of the paper, he noted an article by Penelope Dee, who was distinguished by the title of “Investigative Journalist”. This label provoked a knee-jerk cynicism in Andrew as he had the impression that a lot of contemporary journalists cannibalised material from other outlets, often rehashing it and then presenting it as the fruit of their own labour. He reflected to himself how journalism was no longer seen as a noble profession by many in the community.
Personally, he conceded that there were a number of admirable journalists still around, but like many, he had the tendency to lump them all together and to judge journalism by the lowest common denominator.
What commanded his attention now was Dee’s article describing how many young females, often university students, worked as strippers or prostitutes to raise the money required to pay for their keep and ongoing education. The article alleged that in some brothels up to 50 per cent of the prostitutes working there were students.
Andrew could accept the premise that some female students did use prostitution as a source of income,
