The climb to Juliana’s apartment isn’t difficult, even in the low evening light. I’ve done it once before, so
I already have my bearings and know exactly which way to go. My target is the lady’s bedroom.
If I find her in there, I can cut the head from the serpent on the spot. If I don’t, I can wait for an
opportunity to do so.
Knowing that there’s likely to be anything from half a dozen to twenty men in the next room, I’m happier
now that I have the rifle slung over my shoulder. The Glock too is comforting, sitting in its holster under
my jacket, and with plenty of spare magazines in one pocket.
With a knife, a KA-BAR, in its usual spot, the sheath to the back, I’m comfortable that I’m good for any
up-close resistance. But I have spares, a small switchblade strapped to one calf, and an A-F fighting
knife to the other. A length of cheese wire is a lightweight addition, pinned inside my belt.
A last-minute addition is the tyre iron shoved into the belt. It doubles as weapon and means-of-entry,
but shifts disconcertingly as I move, threatening to work loose, and I’m cursing myself for not holstering
it properly.
From street level as I begin my climb, I can see the apartment is brightly lit. Every window shines out
onto the street, Juliana’s bedroom included. But there’s no movement beyond the lights; none of the
shifting shadows of people walking around the room. A flickering blue light suggests a TV might be
playing, but there’s none of the human activity that might accompany it.
Four floors up: I swing up and over the balcony edge, then immediately drop to the floor, ducking out of
sight of any prying eyes. As it turns out, I don’t need the iron. Juliana’s door stands open to the night
air, with no more than a mosquito screen separating outdoors from indoors
Moving carefully, quietly, placing my feet with care, I dart a look inside, but it’s unoccupied.
It’s still the same rat’s-nest tangle of bling and junk. The bed is unmade and, although a double, looks
to have been occupied only by one.
The rifle in my hands, I slip inside. Two doors - the first to the dressing room I saw on my first visit here.
I set it ajar, just in case I need to slip out of sight quickly.
The second door, leading to the lounge beyond, stands closed.
Then, rifle in hand, I stand and listen…
Nothing.
Street traffic: check.
Cicadas: check.
Human activity… not a thing, not even the sound of the TV I thought might be playing.
The muzzle of the rifle hanging low, I inch my way to the lounge door, cocking my ear.
Still nothing.
Slowly, cautiously, muzzle aimed outward, I turn the handle, peer through the crack…
Three seconds later, I lower the gun and step through…
… into a slaughterhouse.
In fairness, it’s a tidy slaughterhouse, with none of the mess and gore one might normally associate
with such a place. Perhaps slaughterhouse is the wrong word. But I don’t have another.
Some of the faces I recognize. I saw them on my first visit. A couple of others are new. Most are men
in, as they say, their prime. Some are middle-aged. One looks barely out of his teens, perhaps freshly
recruited. He was probably a handsome lad while he was still walking about.
But all of them lie, in twisted and contorted angles; faces are blotched red, eyes sightless and staring,
but the pupils huge. The room reeks of the vomit which trails from mouths, over clothes, furniture and
flooring.
The TV plays with the sound turned low, some sit-com acted out by fake smiles, plastic faces and
canned laughter. It feels… inappropriate… and with the toe of my boot, I nudge the plug free from its
socket.
I find one body in the bathroom, a glass of something on the washstand which, when I tentatively test it
with the tip of a finger, then the tip of my tongue, is brine…
Trying to make himself throw it up?
Wonder what she used?
And how she got it down all of them at once?
In fact, the last part doesn’t take too much thought. Beer glasses lie scattered everywhere; some with
their contents half-consumed, others spilled and empty.
Why?
They were on her side…
… weren’t they?
Outlived their usefulness?
Sheer spite?
Boredom?
Unsettled, I hover…
What to do next?
Back in the bedroom, I make a quick search, briefly comparing what I saw on the previous visit, with
what’s here now. In truth, it’s hard to see the difference in the magpie’s nest of stuff. But on an impulse.
I open the bedside drawer where I found the one book in the room: Juliana’s handbook on Poisonous
and Psychoactive Plants, stuffing it into a pocket.
Perhaps I’ll gain some insight into her way of thinking…
On the other hand, I’m not sure I want to examine too closely the contents of Juliana’s psyche.
Anything else?
No.
Time to go.
*****
James
It’s not easy leading a normal life. A cloud hangs over us all, and Mitch’s palpable unhappiness doesn’t
help.
And I feel terrible.
At least Georgie seems to be getting a grip on reality.
I’ve taken to alternating between breakfast in the house, with Michael, Charlotte and Mitch, and
breakfast in the hotel dining room, with Georgie.
She’s subdued. “I’m sorry I made trouble for you, Dad. I’ll do my best to make friends with everyone.”
“Thank you, Georgie. That would be an enormous help.”
“I know you asked me to stay in the hotel, but perhaps I could join you for lunch? If Charlotte and I
could get to know each other properly, maybe we’d get along better.”
I reach over the table, pat her hand. “A very good idea. Why don’t you join us in the house, later today.
Say, about one?”
“I’ll be there.”
*****
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