Death on Demand Page 2

  “Half an hour later, on the plane, he’s still mortified by his faux pas. The guy in the next seat can see he’s a bit uptight and asks if he’s okay. ‘I just had the most horrendously embarrassing experience,’ he says, and explains what happened. ‘Tell me about it,’ says the other guy. ‘I know how easy it is to get your words mixed up when you’ve got something on your mind. At breakfast this morning I meant to say to the wife, ‘Darling, would you pass the marmalade,’ but you know how it came out? ‘You fucking cunt, you’ve ruined my life.’”

  The joke met with a mixed reaction. Jonathon shrugged as if he didn’t really get it; Fraser emitted a low, appreciative chuckle; Christopher spluttered a few times then let out a roar, like a motorbike kick-started on a cold morning.

  “Settle down,” said Jonathon. “It wasn’t that bloody funny.”

  “Actually, I wouldn’t have thought it was your sort of joke,” Fraser said to Christopher. “Twenty-five years of married bliss and all that.”

  Christopher dabbed his eyes. “You like racist jokes, but you’re not a racist – or so you keep telling us. And since when was I going on about wedded bliss?”

  “Maybe not this time,” said Adrian, “but you’d have to admit it’s been a bit of a theme over the years.”

  “Yeah, well, that was then,” said Christopher.

  “If I didn’t know better,” said Jonathon, “I’d say that sounds like trouble at mill.”

  Christopher shook his head crossly. “I thought I married the girl next door, not bloody Wonder Woman.” He stood up. “The shithouse calls. I might be some time.” He went inside.

  “Well, I’ll be fucked,” said Fraser, eyebrows aloft.

  Adrian said, “Are you two thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I’m not thinking about sex,” said Jonathon, “so probably not.”

  “I reckon he’s got something going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A bit of stray,” said Adrian, “a bit of crutch, a bit of what makes you throb in the night.”

  “You think he’s having an affair?” said Fraser.

  “Don’t be daft,” said Jonathon.

  “You’ve got to admit,” said Adrian, “that was way out of character. Like a whole different person.”

  “Give the man a break,” said Jonathon. “His life’s been turned upside down – that’s got to take a bit of getting used to.”

  “Jesus, it’s been awhile now,” said Fraser. “Besides, what’s the big deal? It wouldn’t take me too long to get used to my wife making a shitload of money.”

  “Nor me,” said Adrian. “Then she could fuck off and fend for herself. There’s something’s going on there, you can put the ring around it. You guys see more of him than I do so maybe it’s harder for you to pick up, but I sensed it the moment I laid eyes on him at Westhaven.”

  “You know what I don’t get?” Jonathon asked Adrian. “If things are that bad at home, why don’t you just split? Okay, she’ll walk away with half, but you’re the most expensive fucking dentist in Australasia: you’ll make it all back and more in ten years.”

  “Fuck that for a game of soldiers,” said Adrian as Christopher rejoined them. “I haven’t sweated my balls off all these years to hand the bitch half of everything I own on a silver platter. And I don’t want to work for another ten years either. In five years tops I want to be an ex-dentist kicking back in Noosa.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Jonathon. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased you don’t want to do that because I happen to like your wife. But if the relationship’s as poisonous as you make out, you could retire to the Riviera and still be unhappy.”

  “He’s got a point,” said Fraser.

  “Pity this isn’t America,” said Christopher. “You could just look up Dial a Hitman in the Yellow Pages.”

  Adrian extended his arm across the table for a high-five. “Right on, brother.”

  JOYCE

  St Heliers, Auckland, six years ago

  It all boiled down to self-discipline. Sure, being organized helped, but a lot of what people called organization was really self-discipline: having a structure to your life; sticking to your plans and routines regardless of what circumstances and other people threw at you. Having a few brains helped too, but less than you’d think. Look at her: nobody’s fool, no question about that, but certainly no Einstein. She came across plenty of people who were brighter than her. For that matter some of her employees were brighter than her. So how come they worked for her and not the other way round? How come she was more successful than all those brainboxes out there? Two words: self-discipline.

  She did her stretches at the bottom of the drive, glancing up at the dark mass of the house.

  Where would their lovely home be without her self-discipline? Gone west, that’s where.

  Self-discipline had got her through a degree while holding down a full-time job. Self-discipline had enabled her to raise two well-adjusted, high-achieving kids while working part-time. And self-discipline had been the key to building a thriving business from the ground up when their comfortable little world was on the verge of falling apart.

  It was 5.59 a.m. She shook the traces of sleep-stiffness from her arms and legs, set her watch and eased into a jog. Within twenty-five metres she was moving at the brisk tempo she’d maintain for the next three quarters of an hour.

  Self-discipline had enabled her to roll back the disfiguring effects of childbirth without resorting to cosmetic surgery, like some people she could mention. To heck with that: this body was all her own work. And pretty darn trim for fifty-one if she said so herself, as she often did when she inspected it in the full-length mirror in her walk-in wardrobe.

  Self-discipline got her out of bed at 5.40 every second morning to go for a run. Even on mornings like this when the chill turned your nose red and your fingers white and it would be so easy to sink back into that big, soft bed. Even if she’d been up late getting on top of her paperwork, or cleaning up after a dinner party while her husband was upstairs snoring his head off. Assuming he was capable of negotiating the stairs. Even if she had a rotten cold, because you couldn’t let a little bug rule your life. Every second morning, without fail, she was down at the gate stretching by 5.55 and on her way by six. You could set your watch by her.

  Her route never varied. What was the point? It was exercise, not sight-seeing. Mind you, she’d be doing the old eyes-right when she passed a certain house that had just gone on the market, a snip at $8.7 million. Dream home was right. Dream on. Not that they couldn’t have done the deal. Since the business took off, getting money out of the bank was the least of her worries – they were almost offended that she didn’t want more. Once bitten, twice shy, though. She had nothing against bankers – well, nothing much, anyway – but she didn’t want them owning a chunk of her home. When you own it outright, no one can take it away from you.

  If it was up to her husband, they’d be moving in next week. He still didn’t get it even though it was his over-confidence and, let’s face it, lack of self-discipline that had landed them in the poop in the first place. Oh well, he was what he was and that leopard certainly wasn’t going to change his spots. Besides, she wouldn’t have fallen for him if he’d been a different person, more like her. They were a classic case of opposites attract. No, it wouldn’t happen next week, but it would happen. And the first he’d know about it would be when she tossed him the front-door key and said, ever so casually, “Darling, you know that house in Lammermoor Drive that we were so keen on…”

  People couldn’t believe she went jogging without an iPod. What a waste, drifting through this precious, uninterrupted time with your head clogged up with music. This was when she did her best thinking.

  Maybe she would have checked before crossing the road if she hadn’t been preoccupied with the looming confrontation with her increasingly distracted personal assistant. Maybe she would have noticed the car if the driver had had his headlights on. But the
re was so little traffic at that hour of the morning in those leafy suburban streets.

  By the time the engine noise did penetrate her cocoon of concentration it was too late. She was in the air for several seconds, her body a bag of shattered bones, her limbs as limp as a rag doll’s, because death was instantaneous.

  ROGER

  Ponsonby, Auckland, three years ago

  Jesus, who’d live in the suburbs? Stuck in traffic twice a day and sipping sparkling mineral water while the rest of the crew got shit-faced. As opposed to this: a ten-minute walk from SPQR to his front door, seven if he took the shortcut through the old bakery site. He could do it on autopilot, and often did.

  At least Phil didn’t do the stuck record thing tonight, thank fuck. He just didn’t get it. You couldn’t really blame him. People who grew up poor craved financial security – it was their Holy Grail. They lay awake at night fantasizing about getting that big break and never having to worry about money again.

  So when they were offered a truckload of coin for the company, Phil couldn’t think past the thrill of seeing telephone numbers on his next bank statement and the fuck-you call to Mum and Dad. Hey, guess what? Your dropkick son who left school at fifteen and still smokes dope is a dead-set millionaire. Not a theoretical, if you sold everything you owned and lived in the in-laws’ spare room-type millionaire, but a real fucking millionaire. Keep buying the Lotto tickets, man.

  Phil wasn’t thinking about what a pain in the arse it would be having to answer to other people after twenty years of being your own boss. Shit, it would be bad enough reporting to the guys in London, but at least they had an industry background and seemed to accept that making films and TV programmes wasn’t always and only about the bottom line. That dipstick in Sydney, though… As far as he was concerned, if it didn’t have celebrities with big tits, forget it.

  Phil couldn’t – or wouldn’t – see how soul-destroying it would be jumping through hoops and kissing arse to get the green light for projects that right now they could decide on over a long lunch. And while the guys in London weren’t dipsticks, they weren’t Kiwis either. How fucking hard would it be to get London excited about uniquely New Zealand stories?

  There’d be paperclip-counters always looking over your shoulder, insisting on proper budgets and timesheets and fully documented expense claims. There’d be some sanctimonious bloody company code of conduct that would knock the fringe benefits on the head. For Christ’s sake, half the fun of being in the fucking film industry was the hot chick factor.

  Take the new girl; he certainly intended to. Man, did she spark up in the bar just now when he was talking about hanging out at Cannes with George Clooney and Brad Pitt. It crossed his mind to ask her if she’d mind popping back to the office to help him get out a pitch document, but experience had taught him the value of patience. Give her a while to get her head around the idea of fucking the boss who was old enough to be her father. Besides, when the time came he wanted to put his best foot forward and he was a few glasses of red past that point.

  Sure, it was different for Phil: like all the other old hippies, he probably wanted to send his kids to private schools. But he knew the score. Shit, whose bloody idea was it to have that legal agreement that both of them had to approve any change to the shareholding structure?

  It was a shame Phil had his tits in a knot but he’d get over it. He always did. It wasn’t as if it had been sweetness and light and never a cross word between them, especially the last couple of months. But at the end of the day, they complemented each other. As a partnership they had credibility and runs on the board; if they split up, they’d just join the queue of hustlers and wannabes and bullshit artists hawking their half-arsed ideas to anyone who’d sit still. So Phil would get over it. He had to. He had no fucking choice.

  Once he’d got over it and they had a serious, edgy project on the go, he’d remind Phil that he’d saved them from a fate worse than death: working for the man, coming in every day to do shit they’d be embarrassed to put their names to, being bad-mouthed behind their backs as pretenders who’d talked the talk but sold out the first time a big cheque was waved under their noses. And Phil would thank him for it.

  In a couple of weeks the new girl would be ripe for the plucking. No, he wouldn’t use the old “Can you work late tonight?” gambit, tried and tested though it was. The casting couch – as Phil called it – in his office had seen plenty of action over the years, but it was really designed for wham, bam, thank you ma’ams, not that they didn’t have their place in the scheme of things. But if you were contemplating something more than a one-off Friday night quickie, repeat business as it were, home was the go: the outdoor fire, the spa under the stars, the super-king bed that seemed to bring out the beast even in the good girls. But even though he’d be pawing the ground, he’d have to remember not to come this way. Fuck, it was dark. No wonder that last chick freaked out and bailed on him.

  He froze when the arm snaked around his neck and a male voice snarled in his ear: “Take out your wallet and drop it on the ground.” The choke hold tightened. “Do it, fucker.” As he pawed feebly at the hip pocket of his jeans, he was swung around. A gloved fist slammed into the middle of his face. He reeled backwards, blood filling his mouth. Through the firestorm of pain and terror he saw a hoodie, saw a knife blade flash, saw nothing else.

  EVELYNE

  Remuera, Auckland, nine months ago

  They were two of a kind, she thought: stubborn old bitches.

  She looked down at the golden Labrador lying at her feet. Wag just pipped her age-wise, fifteen dog years being ninety-plus in human terms according to some chart her daughter had found on the Internet. They were really just hanging on because the alternative – slipping away into oblivion – was even less appealing.

  They still had their marbles, thank God, but were a couple of physical wrecks. Now and again the woman who did her shopping and cleaning tried to interest Wag in a walk around the block, but after fifty metres or so she’d just lie down on the footpath and refuse to budge. A far cry from the days when she followed you around like a shadow until you gave in and got the lead, then dragged you through Cornwall Park practically ripping your arm out of its socket.

  As for her, the stairs were her Berlin Wall, a barrier to the outside world. Going down was manageable but, Lord above, getting back up. Her son’s solution was for her to move into a ground-floor apartment or a “unit” – what an evocative term for home, sweet home – in a retirement village. Not on your Nellie, buster. She’d lived here since 1968 – they’d actually signed the contract the day the Wahine went down – and moving now would seem like a repudiation of the best years of her life and the memories that sustained her. She wasn’t going anywhere; they’d have to carry her out in a wooden box.

  Her solution was much more elegant: install a basic kitchen upstairs, convert one of the spare bedrooms into a living-cum-TV room, et voilà: the stairs were no longer a problem because there was no reason to go downstairs. Someone asked her if she ever got bored being restricted to one floor. What a daft question. Housebound was housebound: what difference did it make how many rooms your world had shrunk to? Besides, boredom was as much part of old age as loneliness and infirmity, although it didn’t get as much recognition.

  By and large she’d learned to live with loneliness. The only way she was going to see her husband was if he was waiting for her on the other side. Much as she’d like to believe that, and much as she’d like to think her decades of conscientious church attendance would be rewarded, she wasn’t taking it for granted. If there was an afterlife, she hoped her mild scepticism wouldn’t be held against her.

  She always went along with her friends’ suggestions that she must miss the entertaining, but that was for their benefit – they’d probably be offended if she disagreed. In fact, she didn’t miss it at all. It was something she and her husband had done together. He loved planning a dinner party, putting together a menu, organizing the food a
nd wine, and his enthusiasm rubbed off on her. And in those days she had a decent appetite and liked a glass of wine or three. Now she ate like a bird and a second glass of wine left her feeling as if she’d been sandbagged.

  She missed her daughter and grandchildren – and son-in-law up to a point – but they lived in Brussels. Their visits every second Christmas were, by some distance, top of her ever-diminishing list of things to look forward to. Her son and daughter-in-law lived on the North Shore. Of course she enjoyed seeing them but, if she was absolutely honest, it wasn’t the end of the world if he rang to say they were too busy to make it over that week. Maybe she was being unfair but, when they did come, she always got the feeling they’d spent the drive over working out why they couldn’t stay for very long.

  The truth was the relationship hadn’t been quite the same since she’d politely but firmly rejected her son’s suggestion that he should take over the running of her financial affairs. It was for his own good, not that he could see that. Despite ample opportunity he had failed to demonstrate that he’d inherited his father’s astuteness in money matters. A couple of her husband’s friends, who did share his astuteness in money matters, were happy to look after her affairs and had done a very good job of it. Unlike some other widows she knew, she’d come through the recent financial turmoil relatively unscathed. When the time came her son could do as he pleased with his share of the inheritance, and if he didn’t, his wife certainly would. The look on their faces that time she jokingly suggested she might leave a decent whack to the SPCA… Clearly there were some subjects one simply didn’t joke about.

  Goodness gracious, what was that racket? Wag really was on her last legs if she could sleep through that. It was one of those dreadful radio people being inane at the top of his lungs. Why were they so proud of being imbeciles? It sounded as though it was coming from downstairs, but her help had left hours ago and anyway wouldn’t have dared to put talkback on at that volume. It had to be some kind of electrical fault or power surge. Oh well, nothing else for it but to venture downstairs for the first time in months.