Dome of Death - 17. Chapter 17 Performance

Mad was waiting on the intersection three blocks from the house. John handed over the keys, shook hands in a businesslike manner and joined me in the ute. We drove down to the coast through a landscape of crystalline purity; the sky a cloudless blue, a sweet crispness on the air and views of such heart-stopping perfection that one feared an incautious sneeze might shatter the scene into billions of brilliant shards.

Jon sneezed – the scene remained the same.

‘Caught a cold?’

‘Sun in my eyes.’

‘Takes a bit of getting used to - all this light after weeks of wet.’

‘I think I’ll manage. Where’re we going?

‘Spying.’

‘And?’

‘Shopping, then to the gallery and take it from there?’

‘Good one.’

We deposited Hank’s cheque in Jon’s almost empty account. That way we both had access to funds on our own cards. A shopping centre about half a kilometre north west of the gallery provided a couple of mobile phones, food and sundries. We left the ute in the shoppers’ car park and, in Hank’s old clothes, wandered down to the beach and along the eroded shoreline. Towels under our shirts suggested beer-guts; fishing rods provided cover. John carried lunch and a few cans in his rucksack; I had other things in mine. Casting our lines occasionally and fruitlessly, we ended up at the rocks below the gallery.

A cap with side flaps hid Jon’s hairless head and earrings; wisps of wig escaping from an old, wide-brimmed straw sun hat distracted from my profile. We lounged against the rocks at the top of the cliff with a view of the rear and one side of the gallery. It was a day made for lazing. Jon unpacked the sandwiches.

‘What’ll we do when this is all over?’

The same question had been revolving in my own head. I knew what I wanted, but it’s difficult to know how to reply to that sort of question. If you’re too enthusiastic the other person can feel pushed. If you’re noncommittal he’ll think you’re not keen. His expression gave nothing away. To hell with it, I thought. A relationship in which you’re always worrying if you’ve said the right thing can never work. ‘When this is all settled,’ I said firmly, ‘we’ll live happily together for the next couple of centuries; fighting, loving, arguing, agreeing, disagreeing, laughing, crying, and…’

‘Catching anything?’

I nearly shat myself. ‘Na, mate. Bloody good excuse to get away from the missus, but.’ It was lucky I had the words ready, but I wasn’t ready for Glaze to be standing beneath me. He’d approached the same way we had, along the low-tide sand. What the hell had he heard? Had I been talking too loud as usual? Jon hunched over his line concentrating on a knot. I screwed up my face to peer down at the enemy. ‘Y’on holiday, mate?’ I asked, querulously nasal.

‘No such luck. I work over there.’ He hauled his lean frame easily up the rocks and indicated the gallery.

‘Pretty bloody posh place,’ whined Jon. ‘Bet it’s worth a few bob, right on the sea and everythink. My place got washed out. Have to live with the fuckin’ in-laws. Jeeze, what fuckin’ wankers. They’re on my bloody back day in and day out. D’ya live there then?’

Glaze pulled a face and turned towards the gallery as if in search of classier company. ‘I stay there when it’s busy. My place in the hills was unaffected by the flooding.’

‘House in the hills, eh? Costs a packet to buy up there, I reckon. Especially now. You’ve gotta be worth a bit.’

‘A bit.’

‘Nice place?’

‘Not as remarkable as this.’

‘What’s it like waking up right next to the sea? You must have an important job. Are you an artist?’

Glaze’s air of distracted disdain settled my nerves. We mightn’t be worth looking at but he couldn’t resist showing off.

‘I’m an artist - of sorts,’ he said airily. ‘Not with paint and suchlike – more… body art, you might say, for a select clientele.’

I wanted to smear his self-satisfied smirk across the rocks.

‘Must be great to work here and have a place in the hills. Fuck, I wish I was rich.’ Jon vented his frustration on the increasingly knotted line. ‘Bet you drive a beaut car.’

‘Mercedes.’

‘I bloody knew it. A fuckin’ Merc! And I have to walk because even the fuckin’ busses aren’t running properly.’

Glaze was torn between going, and gloating.

‘Get yourself a job, man. There’s work out there for those who really want it.’

‘Says Richie Rich. You don’t know the half of it, mate. You give a show for a bunch of rich wankers and bingo - money in the bank. No one wants an honest day’s work from an honest bloke.’

‘I work bloody hard for my money! I’ll be working my butt off most of tonight, while you’re home screwing your missus.’

‘Here? You’re giving a show here? Can I come?’

‘Not here, and not unless you’ve a spare thousand bucks to chuck around. So don’t try and tell me about hard work. You’re bone idle, the pair of you.’ His mobile phone interrupted what looked like developing into a reason for us to thump him. He turned his back and mumbled, but there was no disguising the reaction. His body stiffened, he grunted twice, shoved the phone into his pocket and took off.

‘Reckon they’ve heard the good news, then?’

‘I reckon.’

My Mercedes burned off up the road towards the hills.

For the next couple of hours a constant stream of sightseers drove past the gallery. About a dozen stopped. One man came out clasping a purchase. Halfway through the afternoon, Brian pulled up in the Volvo, went inside and re-appeared fifteen minutes later with Mad’s remaining drawings. Two overweight blokes in business suits pulled up at three thirty in the latest model four-wheel drive, but came out empty handed. A short time later a van pulled in to the car park then drove to the front entrance, out of sight. About twenty minutes later it took off again. Around four o'clock the Mercedes came back, followed by MacFife’s Porsche and another car. Doors slammed and irritated voices echoed.

We were starting to feel conspicuous, so packed up and wandered back the way we’d come. After stowing the props in the back of the ute, we changed into conservative gear; sports coats, neat shirts and ties. Jon looked good in a tweed cap. Hank’s trousers were a little baggy round the waist and slightly too long in the leg for Jon, but it was amazing how well the clothes of a seventy-four year-old fitted two guys in their twenties. We strolled back along the road as if enjoying the warm evening, and stopped for a natter opposite the well-lit gallery. The van from the afternoon reappeared and drew up to the front door.

‘Looks like the show’s going to be here tonight. Probably getting a bit draughty up in them thar hills.’

‘Must be mighty sad they’ve lost their doggies.’

‘And their prisoner.’

‘Reckon they’re feeling vulnerable?’

‘Hardly. Those types think they’re gods.’

The inside of the huge front windows of the gallery were already half covered with silvered insulating paper. As we watched, a workman up a ladder dropped another roll to the floor, holding it in place while his assistant taped it securely. There was apparently going to be a need for privacy.

‘Uh-oh! Keep that bitch off me!’ Jon wandered a few metres away and leaned over a fence to peer intently at a couple of mould-infected citrus trees. I stared vaguely out to sea. A high-pitched squawk roused me in time to steady CC, who had caught one of her ridiculously high heels on the edge of the gutter and was toppling towards me. It was well done - almost believable.

‘Oh, how foolish of me, thank goodness it was you.’ She giggled seductively. ‘What a happy coincidence. Imagine falling into the arms of a complete stranger!

I smiled, extricated myself and pushed her upright.

She leaned on my shoulder and checked her shoes for damage. ‘Everything’s simply bedlam at the gallery.’

I tried to look excited. ‘Is it the opening tonight? Don’t tell me I got the date wrong!’

‘No, no. Just an impromptu little party for a few of the director’s friends. But he always goes to a great deal of trouble and suddenly we’re short staffed, such a nuisance.’

‘Must be.’

She nodded dolefully then visibly brightened as an idea slipped into her head. ‘I don’t suppose… No of course you wouldn’t, a gentleman like you. How silly of me.’

I smiled vaguely, not wanting to hear what was coming, and started to move off. ‘Well, have a happy party.’

She clawed at my arm as though for support. ‘Wasn’t that young man extraordinary the other day?’ she burbled fatuously. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen him since? I know it sounds ridiculous, but he was looking for work and we do need someone to help in the kitchen.’

I frowned.

‘I know it’s stupid, but I'm such a softie. I always try to overlook people’s faults and search for the virtues behind them.’ She smiled up at me expectantly and I tried not to puke.

A sudden poke in the back from Jon as he wandered past, nearly thrust me into the woman’s arms. He grunted something. I nodded vacantly at his back.

‘Nice meeting you,’ I called vaguely, before once more gazing into the mascara depths of CC’s watery eyes. ‘I think… no, it probably wasn’t…’.

‘What?’

‘I think I saw him sprawled over a bench back there.’

‘Where?’

I pretended to rack my brains. ‘In front of that pizza place, I think it was. But… I'm not certain. Those types all look alike.’

‘Yes… and he’d be completely unsuitable. I can’t imagine what I was thinking. One should never trust people like that – especially at a respectable party. My dear departed husband always said my soft heart would be my undoing.’

She shook herself, bared yellow teeth, and glanced over her shoulder, impatient to go. ‘Well, I’ve recharged my batteries. They’ll be docking my salary if I stay away any longer. Lovely to see you again.’ A pat on my arm and she crossed the road in the perilous scuttle enforced by high heels and tight skirt.

Jon was already out of sight, so I walked briskly back, rehearsing all the arguments I could think of to dissuade him. CC passed me in her car, tooted and waved.

Hank had fitted a windowless, fibreglass canopy on the back of the ute, so we’d tossed our sleeping bags and all the gear in there. It was going to be bedroom, kitchen and anything else we needed. Jon had already changed into his ‘sex clobber’. I composed my face into a mask of enlightened rationality and asked, ‘What’s the rush?’

‘She’s obviously trying to find me. Wants me to work tonight. It’s our chance to get some dirt.’

‘I don’t want you to.’

‘You’re mad! We’ve got to grab every chance we can get!’

‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘You’ll be there.’

‘Outside.’

‘If you hear me scream – call the cops on the mobile.’

‘Ha, bloody ha.’

He put his hands on my shoulders and said slowly, ‘I’ll go and meet her and see what the job is. She won’t need me for a couple of hours, so there’ll be plenty of time to sort out a fail-safe plan.’

Before I could argue he jumped down and swaggered through the golden haze of evening, head high, hips thrusting - visible to anyone driving in either direction. I’m not sure which emotion was uppermost – foreboding, love, or lust. I couldn’t believe that glorious creature was my friend, companion, lover. Life couldn’t be that generous. Something was going to go terribly wrong! Thus did fear spoil both happiness and the beauty of the evening.

To take my mind off the dangers I sorted and stacked all the ‘just-in-case’ gear we’d appropriated from Hank, making a space large enough to sleep, then prepared sandwiches and made a list of all my worries. Fears faced are supposed to lose their power. When the gallery was being built, Max hollowed out a section of a rear windowsill and hid a spare master key, concealing the gap with stucco. A tap with a stone would break the cover and I’d have a key! Only he and I knew of it. My phone rang.

‘Yeah?’

‘She’s gone, but I’m not sure where. Spending time with CC makes me paranoid. Drive to the far end of the old K Mart car park where the canal’s become a swamp. When I’m sure I'm not being followed I’ll join you.’

‘Roger.’

‘Eh?’

‘Will do.’

‘Great.’

‘I'm on my way.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hang up, you great galah.’

‘Where? There’s no hook – Oh… you mean switch off… Roger.’

‘Eh?’

‘Will do.’

‘What?’

For answer; the sucking noise of a sloppy kiss. My heart was full. I drove to the rendezvous and parked in the deepest dark and shadow. A minute later Jon was beside me. ‘Drive to that park by the river.’

‘It’s a smelly mess.’

‘That’s right. No one’ll be there.’

I drove, parked, we climbed in the back, accomplished a few intimate exercises on the sleeping bags, then lay contentedly in the darkness.

‘I needed that.’

‘What?’

‘Deep physical and mental contact with someone pure and simple.’

‘Simple?’

‘As in straightforward, uncomplicated, honest and trustworthy.’

‘That’s me. Well?’

‘She picked me up just past the Pizza place. I acted as though I didn’t remember who she was – a bit spaced out. She offered me two hundred to help out at a dinner tonight. A group of business people from Melbourne, sizing up the Coast for investments – at least that’s the story. They want a bit of entertainment – nothing very heavy. There’ll be five girls and two guys to match the five men and two women in the party. No fucking, just eye-candy - sort of ‘pet for the evening’ – something like that.’

‘Do you want to do it?’

‘No. But I will. Do you mind?’

‘Yes.’

‘Enough to forbid me?’

‘I can deny you nothing.’

‘It’s up to me?’

‘Yep.’

‘I promise I’ll be careful.’

‘What time?’

‘Nine.’

‘It’s nearly eight, that gives us an hour to eat and plan.’

‘I’ve eaten. She fed me – that’s why I was so long. She wanted to make sure I was going to be sober.’

Our plan was simple. I’d park the ute as close as possible to the gallery without being obvious. Jon would go to the private entrance while I went the same way we had that morning, along the beach then up the rocks so I could approach the back entrance unobserved. After retrieving the spare key I’d throw a rope onto the roof and wait. Jon would grab the first opportunity to sneak up to the roof, secure the rope, throw the end down, leave the roof door open and we’d take it from there. As I said, simple – or do I mean simplistic? He probably wouldn’t even get near the door to the roof.

By ten o’clock I was starting to panic. Eleven cars and their occupants had arrived. Music and laughter sounded faintly above the lapping of waves. Suddenly, the slightest of thumps and a black line jiggled against the white, moonlit wall.

Somewhat less than invisible in dark tracksuit and woollen hat, I hauled myself up, slid over the coping and froze. Someone was coming out of the door to the stairs. Fortunately, he wandered over to the other side of the roof where he stood smoking, gazing towards the hills. I pressed myself back in the deeper darkness behind the coping, not daring to move. Music and light drifting up through the opened dome had covered my noise. After a couple of minutes he flicked the glowing butt into the car park, gazed down through the dome, grunted and returned to the gallery.

It was a while before I dared move – there might be someone else. I tried the door - locked. I hauled up the rope and peered cautiously over the edge of the dome. In front of the blocked out windows, a small stage flanked by urns sprouting gilded foliage, was lit by the glow of eight candelabra on small tables beside eight armchairs. The rest of the gallery was deep in shadow.

On stage, a blond and a redhead wrestled indolently under an amber spotlight, watched by five middle-aged, overweight males and two fashionably scrawny women of a similar age dressed for a cocktail party. Three young waitresses wearing thongs, were serving something colourful and creamy while Jon and a curly haired youth wearing nothing at all, topped up glasses. Soft music drowned muted conversation.

CC, her bones wrapped in Lurex spangles, kept an eye on proceedings from the gloom. MacFife, the only healthy-looking person seated, lounged in the eighth armchair while Glaze, gauntly elegant in a white linen suit, slithered among the guests; chatting, charming, smarming. The girls’ lazy wrestling progressed to erotic fondling. Plates were cleared, glasses recharged, and guests exchanged nods of anticipation.

Easy-going music became a staccato beat as Scumble’s massively muscled naked body prowled onto the stage. He joined in the wrestling and with little opposition from the girls, had his way with them as they gazed vacantly into space. Then, tucking one under each arm, he trotted off. It was mildly amusing and the audience applauded.

Glasses were refilled while CC herded the staff upstairs and closed the door. MacFife stood and asked a question. Everyone laughed and raised hands. CC wheeled in a chromium tea trolley and handed out straws and lines of white powder, on slabs of black glass.

Snorting completed, the guests sat back, twitching with excitement, or delirium. Glaze, lean and mean in black codpiece, boots, studded dog-collar and armbands bristling with shiny metal spikes, leaped onto the stage, hands on hips, solemn, hard, and only slightly ridiculous. The music thumped - insistent.

The trolley was wheeled away, music swelled, and the waiters and waitresses wearing bored smiles, lap-danced for their personal guests. Jon gazed at the ceiling while his woman fondled his interesting bits.

Scumble reappeared with a whip and chased the young people away.

The music switched to a jolly rendering of The Teddy Bears’ Picnic, and a prepubescent-looking girl carrying a basket of fruit skipped onto the stage, sat on a beanbag, peeled a banana and used it as a dildo before enticing a ponderous male from the audience to join her and experiment with different fruits and vegetables.

Two beautiful girls chased each other onto the stage and fought like wild cats. Blood dripped as they bit flesh and tore hair. There was no music, no sound other then their grunts and snarls. Eventually, one girl pinned the other with a knee on her neck, strapped on a dildo similar to the one that had done me such damage, and performed. I felt sick but the audience loved it.

Glaze, in crotchless leather harness, returned to the spotlight, apparently dragging a girl by the hair. He dumped her on the stage. She cowered in fake fear. The voyeurs sat forward in their seats. Before Glaze could do anything else, Jon leaped onstage, snatched the whip from him and forced him to back off. The audience booed. The girl clung to the other boy’s legs for safety, but Glaze snatched the whip back and forced both boys to perform doggy style with the expressionless girl who never stopped chewing gum. His own performance after their obviously fake orgasms was no more convincing than theirs. One of the patrons yawned.

If this was the standard of sexy titillation provided up at the tent palace, MacFife was not going to make a fortune. Perhaps the loss of Patrick, his guard dogs, and knowing his hideaway had been discovered, had made him careless – or too nervous to do anything really bad in this much less than secure environment.

While drinks were replenished, Jon whispered in MacFife’s ear. He immediately stood and followed Jon into the shadows, beckoning to a sweating Glaze and Scumble. After what looked like a short argument, they nodded, MacFife returned to his seat, and Scumble escorted a simpering CC to the corridor that led to the back door.

Glaze jumped back on stage, fondled himself lewdly and grinned. ‘You’ve been a great audience so here’s something to make your hair curl before you take your boys and girls home to practise what you’ve learned.’

Three girls sauntered onto the stage, one wearing a gigantic dildo. They had just begun an athletic, if not particularly aesthetic series of invasions of every possible orifice when I heard voices from the rear of the gallery. I raced to the parapet and stared down at Scumble and CC, clearly visible in the moonlight. She was shouting, he slapped her, she struggled, he wrapped his left arm around her neck and pulled her head against his chest as though comforting her. After gently brushing stray hairs from her eyes, he placed the heel of his right hand against her temple and gave his right hand a sharp shove. The snap was audible from the roof.

This was getting serious! What was happening to Jon?

The audience had been clapping in drugged dissatisfaction. Sex – especially vicarious sex without love, affection, caring or tenderness, creates a gaping appetite. The greater the dissatisfaction, the more perverse the acts until only cruelty, pain and suffering can trigger release. I was trying not to think. It couldn’t be real – could it? I’d been amazed at the erections, until I remembered Frances’s gigolo. I wasn’t jealous. Loveless coupling with a stranger is pitiable, not something to excite jealousy. My mind was a mess. Relief Jon had worn a condom. Fear he’d be forced to do worse things. Afraid of what came next – because CC had lied. The kids were being prostituted to those revolting people. Hatred and fear prevented thought. I was hurting for the girls, although they didn’t seem concerned for themselves. What horror story their childhood? All thought of trapping MacFife had vanished. Jon had to get out of there! But where was he?

Scumble’s murder of CC had taken longer than I realised and for several long minutes I peered into the gloom below as the lights were extinguished, trying to work out what was happening, sick to the core. How could I have agreed to Jon’s being part of this? A series of shouts from the car park sent me to the front parapet. Cars were already driving away. I should have been down there! Jon, back in his sexy jeans and waistcoat, was shouting, arguing with his woman and fighting MacFife who raised both hands in surrender, took out his wallet and pressed money into the angry woman’s hand. She looked at it, nodded, slammed into her car and sped off.

Jon turned in the direction of where we’d parked our utility truck only to be met by Scumble, now in a tracksuit. Surprised, Jon backed into MacFife, who held him while Scumble knuckled him in the temple, then tossed the slumped body into the boot of the Mercedes.