Spare Key Read online

  When he came back, he was gasping for air, his throat bone dry and the panties, still wrapped around his wilting penis, were sodden beneath his fingers.

  The realisation was both horrifying and exhilarating. He’d been back to the Red Room. And not for just a peek this time but for a play. It was the first time since the nights preceding his bungled attempt on the girl in Cumming St and they’d all still been waiting there for him. All of his girls had been waiting there all along. All the variations of her. Hanging patiently on their meat hooks and he’d almost forgotten how nice their play sessions could be. And that thought terrified him.

  Now that he’d seen the joys of the Red Room again, his resolve was wavering. He wasn’t certain he could resist if it came again and the empty meathook had been there waiting just like it had been all those other times and Ben could just see his new life wilting and shattering before his eyes…

  I need my pills, the thought broke through his mind as he realised he was now standing by the back door, rattling the lock as he tucked his slimy penis away.

  I need my tools, he thought but shook his head. No, that’s not right, I need my pills.

  But even as he backed away from the door his doubts were echoing back at him. Mandy’s voice: they could have him on placebos for fuck’s sake. Dr Slavia’s: you need to want this to work.

  Maybe Mandy was right?

  He’d been back to the Red Room. He couldn’t write it off like he had the glimpses. It shouldn’t have been possible. Maybe Slavia had put him on placebos…

  Or maybe the reverse…

  …Maybe it was the doubts? If a placebo could make someone feel better wasn’t it possible that the reverse could happen too?

  If he was really convinced they weren’t working then maybe he was the one overriding his pills? Overriding them with his doubts? It had only started after he’d overheard the argument. Everything had been fine before that. It was only after the argument that he’d retrieved his tools…

  Could it be him?

  Ben hoped not. As he scrabbled back across the fence into his own yard, he tried desperately to convince himself that the growing certainty inside him wasn’t true. But if that was the case, then maybe he hadn’t wanted them to work. Really, deep down inside. Maybe he hadn’t had enough of his revenge yet…

  He only realised that the panties were still stuffed into his pocket and remembered the jism splattered across her window when he was safely back on his side of the fence, gasping as he scrabbled for a cigarette. He didn’t dare go back though.

  No, he needed time to think. He needed to take his pills. He needed to stop his doubts. They’d work… He needed to stay away from next door…

  He couldn’t go back there…

  … Well not yet anyway…

  * * * * *

  As she sat sipping her wine, Rachel’s mind was churning with fury that clamped her jaw and had her grinding her teeth in frustration.

  Fucking Maree, she fumed, the alcohol doing nothing to dissipate her anger. She’d only been ten minutes late yet that bitch had acted as though she’d just butchered her first-born. Rachel had known it was coming as soon as she’d stepped through the door and seen her there behind the counter, her chest puffed up with self-importance but really… fuck… REALLY… was the dressing down in front of the other staff necessary? Rachel had seen them giggling away behind their hands and had hated herself for the blush she hadn’t be able to keep from her cheeks.

  Didn’t she realise it was just a fucking café? It’s not like they were working for the UN or something. There had been a grand total of one customer in the store when she’d walked in for fuck’s sake.

  And then the bitchy manner in which she’d reported it to André, the owner, when he’d dropped by. Rachel had been washing up dishes at the time and had clearly overheard her. Overheard how she kept the details vague. Made it seem like Rachel had strode in around lunchtime rather than the ten minutes late she had been.

  Washing that large cake knife had been quite a job for her. She’d barely been able to refrain from rushing over and planting it in the bitch’s back. As she’d watched it glint under the kitchen lights she had just imagined the shocked look in Maree’s eyes. Imagined how good it would feel to scream at her: was it really so important!

  Even just a slap would have been eminently enjoyable but she’d restrained herself. She couldn’t lose her job, not while she was saving for her house. There weren’t many jobs going around for a university drop-out that paid as well as her current one did.

  It was just that fucking Maree…

  Rachel knew she shouldn’t be brooding on it so much. That she was wasting her time ever hoping that vacuous bitch would see the error of her ways – not to mention wasting the blissful hours she had free until she had to go back there – but she just couldn’t help it. It was just so infuriating and as she sipped her wine, she couldn’t help replaying it over and over again in her mind.

  Maybe Ana was right, she mused as she polished off the glass and rose to get a refill. Maybe she did need to get out more… Or get laid as Ana phrased it when she’d called at lunchtime to bully her into a girl’s night out. You spend too much time alone, Ana had told her, it makes you self-obsessed. You sweat the small stuff more. Suddenly everything seems to be about you. Little things just get blown out of proportion…

  Although Rachel had been mildly offended by the whole exchange, she had allowed herself to acquiesce. Not that she was entirely certain it would do any good. She usually found things were great while she was by herself. It was invariably other people that caused the problems. Still it would be nice to blow off some steam tomorrow night… And then there would be two blissful days off after that. Two glorious days of peace that Rachel was already planning to spend tucked up in a doona on the couch with a big stack of DVD’s from the video store.

  Rachel sculled the glass and immediately poured herself another. She could finally feel the effects of the alcohol loosening the tension. Looks like Maree survives another day… She laughed out loud as she picked up her wine and made her way back to the couch.

  Now to just get through tomorrow…

  * * * * *

  Ben snapped awake and raised his hands but the blood wasn’t really there. Instead, gripped tightly in his hands were the jism-streaked underwear and a small, brass key.

  He stared at the key in confusion for a moment, utterly baffled as to how it had come into his possession. Then he lifted the plastic tag it was attached to, read the name Thea, printed in neat script across the back and it all came flooding back to him.

  He’d returned from next door in a panic, the Red Room creeping back in despite his best efforts. All the pretty playthings lined up neatly on the meathooks along the wall. He’d been able to feel it building. The urge. The desire. And even after he’d scoffed a couple of pills it had been there. The image of him waiting for her in the bedroom. Seeing her walk in… Seeing her shock as she surveyed the tools laid out by the bed… The image of that empty, glinting meat-hook… He’d known he’d had to distract himself somehow and his attempt at masturbation had only increased the vividness of the images. He’d began searching the flat instead.

  It was something he always did at some point or another in every flat he’d ever lived in. He’d poke around in any crevice he could find, searching for some remnant of the previous tenants. He rarely, if ever, found anything but occasionally he’d find something so bizarre, he’d just have to stop and wonder why anyone would have left it there.

  Like the time in High St out in Preston, where he found a mattress, a collection of women’s magazines and a couple of candles laid out on the insulation of the roof or the time in Bent St out in Reservoir where there was a photo of a woman dressed in a santa suit tucked under the lino in the kitchen.

  Usually he only found scraps of old newspapers or the odd pen or stray bit of cutlery and at first the search of his current flat had seemed like it was going to yield similar results.
There were a couple of issues of The Age from 1993, inexplicably sitting directly on top of the manhole and a small ball of string down the crack between the bench and the side of the oven. He’d been surprised to find a false bottom in the bedroom cupboard but when he lifted it up, its only contents were a few dustballs in the corners.

  He’d been about to roll back the carpet when the set of the drawers in the kitchen had piqued his interest. He’d removed them all and spotted it down the bottom, tucked into a corner like it had dropped down the back.

  Now as he studied it, the same tantalising questions were floating through his mind as when he found it: What was it for? Why was it in the flat? And who was Thea?

  His mind jumped briefly to the woman next door but he knew that it was just wishful thinking. She’d already introduced herself as Rachel at the tram stop but still the idea persisted. It would make things so much easier. Lower the risks immensely. If he could just quietly let himself in and wait for her. He wouldn’t have to worry about a nosey neighbour hearing him; wouldn’t have to worry about the thrilling tinkle of glass…

  Don’t… His mind barely had time to protest before Ben ran with the thought, picturing how it would play out. He wouldn’t even have to do it right away… He could come and go as he pleased… Watch her while she slept… Drag it out… Enjoy that delicious feeling of power, knowing that the new meathook was awaiting her in the Red Room whenever he wanted…

  Even as his mind screamed no, no, no, Ben was freeing his erect penis from his pants and wrapping the sodden panties around it again.

  A smile split his face as he stroked and even though he knew it wasn’t right, the thought formed.

  Yes, it would be so nice…

  * * * * *

  Ben was still sitting, staring at the key when the pounding started on the door. He just couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of it and the question played over and over in his mind. What was it for? It was similar in design to the key for his flat but he’d tried every lock on every door and window and it hadn’t opened any of them.

  He ignored the pounding as he pondered, running it over in his mind. It would just be so perfect if it was the key to the flat next door but he knew how improbable that was. It was far more likely the key to some forgotten tenant’s parents’ house – probably miles away in the country or something.

  ‘IF YOU DON’T OPEN THE DOOR, I’LL KICK IT IN!’ the voice boomed and Ben looked from the key to the door. A second later it shuddered in its frame and he heard a muffled curse from the other side. Well you wanted a distraction, he thought. He took a swig from the bottle of bourbon then walked over and opened the door.

  An Italian man who looked about twenty was crouching outside, prodding experimentally at one of his boots. When he heard the door creak, he quickly stood up, puffed out his chest and affected a menacing stance… but not before Ben caught the slight wince as he put his weight down on his foot.

  Ben took in the leather jacket, the slicked back hair, thick with oil and the clipboard tucked under one arm. Debt collector. The thought was instantaneous. He had to stifle a grin as he enquired whether the man’s foot was alright.

  ‘It’s fine,’ the man snapped in a nasal whine and locked eyes with Ben, trying to stare him down. Ben stared back impassively.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The man looked immensely irritated at Ben’s unwillingness to lower his eyes and darted a quick glance at the clipboard.

  ‘Are you Stephen Jacobs?’ he challenged. His demeanour and body language had Ben stifling another laugh. The man was clearly gagging for a fight but that didn’t really bother him. Despite the fact he was fairly bulky and clearly spent a lot of time in the gym, Ben wasn’t impressed. There was something about the man that just suggested he was trying too hard. Ben toyed with the idea of showing him in; maybe showing him the contents of his duffel bag; see how tough he really was.

  ‘Are you, mate?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No I’m not,’ Ben paused and savoured the moment before asking the question that he knew from experience all collectors hated. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well if you’re not him, I hardly think it’s any of your concern buddy. Who are you?’

  Ben couldn’t resist the smile this time. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  The collector’s eyes blazed anger. ‘You think you’re smart do ya? Huh? How do I know you’re not him? You got ID.’

  ‘No. Don’t you believe me?’

  Ben heard the creak of the next flat’s door and saw the lady walk out carrying an empty bottle of wine. She kept glancing across at them as she walked and Ben felt the collector’s presence just drifting away as he watched her body shift beneath her flannelette pyjamas.

  ‘Look buddy,’ the collector took a step forward and jabbed a finger in Ben’s chest, ‘stop fucking about. Are you Stephen Jacobs?’ The man’s nasal whine was rising in volume and Ben looked back at him with sudden anger blazing in his eyes. For a moment he’d nearly forgotten the man was present. ‘What, you think you’re a tough guy, huh? You looking for a fight? Answer the fucking question.’

  In his mind, Ben could see himself just backing down: apologising, saying he’d had a bad day, inviting the man in; I just have to get my ID; it’s in the duffel bag over here…

  A slight smile began to twitch at the corner of Ben’s lips.

  ‘Are you Stephen Jacobs?’

  ‘No he’s not.’

  Ben snapped out of it and saw the lady from next door standing just a few feet away. God, she was so beautiful and so hideous all at once, he thought as the meat hook glinted seductively in his mind.

  The debt collector was scowling at the lady, clearly irritated by her interference.

  ‘He only moved in a day ago. Stephen Jacobs left nearly three months ago now. This is close to the fucking tenth time I’ve told you wankers this.’ There was a pulse in her temple, just the slightest hint of a bulging vein and Ben’s breath caught in his throat as he watched it. Suddenly he was transported back, the vague resemblance transforming through the one gesture into a spitting image of her. The same pulse that would jump at her temple as she approached with the hand hidden behind her back. That low gravelly voice emerging from the clouds of smoke, so removed from her normal one as she rasped, who’s been a naughty boy…

  ‘Who are you?’ The collector seemed edgy and off-guard and was half-turned as though undecided on who he should focus on.

  ‘Who I am is none of your business.’ Her face was getting red now and Ben felt like he was falling headlong into blackness, spiralling down into the loop of: who’s been a naughty boy, who’s been a naughty boy, who’s been a naughty boy… He felt like he could cry. You shouldn’t do that to Mummy…

  He wanted to hurt her; to cause her pain but he couldn’t because she was raging and when she raged, she was a sight to behold; a force of nature and he was so young and small there was nothing he could do…

  ‘Who are you? What right do you have to be bothering people who haven’t done anything, huh? Do you have ID on you? I wonder if your company would be interested in knowing the tactics you use? What do you think?’

  Ben was clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides. It’s not her, it’s not her… he thought desperately but it wasn’t working. Everything was beginning to be suffused with a red glow.

  For a second it looked as though the collector was going to jump across and throttle her. His face flushed bright red and a judder of repressed rage shimmered through his frame. If she noticed it, Rachel – it’s Rachel, it’s not her, it’s Rachel – didn’t seem to care and Ben was enthralled watching her.

  Although her anger wasn’t quite as overt as the collector’s, the gleam in her eye suggested that if the man did try and attack her, he would receive a quick knee to the nads for his troubles.

  ‘Look lady, this is none of your business…’ the collector began through clenched teeth.

  ‘None of my busi
ness? Do you know what time it is? And you’re out here yelling away. People are trying to sleep you know. Maybe I should call the police. See if they think it is any of my business. The man told you he’s not who you’re looking for. I told you Stephan Jacobs is long gone. Are you a fucking moron?’

  The collector sputtered in outrage and took a step toward her just as a cab turned into the driveway, bathing them both in its headlights.

  With a muttered, ‘Fuck this shit,’ the collector turned and stalked off, shooting a glare at the Indian man behind the wheel as though it was all his fault.

  Ben found himself alone with her and was both terrified and exhilarated at the same time. He watched her standing there gulping down air and flexing her fingers. He could feel himself stiffening as he imagined striding over, imagined knocking the knife from her hands, clamping a hand over her mouth; dragging her into the flat… but she didn’t have a knife, not really. Because she wasn’t her. But the resemblance was great and he could still make her pay, add another to the Red Room to settle the account, wipe that self-righteous anger from her face but… No that would be stupid. Not out here, people could see and he wasn’t going to do it again, he was starting a new life and…

  The red was creeping across his vision again, solidifying into walls and his dick was lengthening and now she was smiling at him and it was a smile like those ones she wore at the apology breakfasts and he could see she was going to walk over and it would be so easy, it was like she was giving herself to him and the meathook was there in his mind just waiting and he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist, not now.

  ‘Thank-you,’ he barked and slammed the door, scrabbling across the floor for his pills. He needed control. He needed the images to disappear. To rid himself of her advance, the dead, angry look in her eye, the hand hidden away there behind her back…

  But as he wrenched off the lid and dry-swallowed two of the pills, he knew that he wasn’t looking to stop it now. He was only wanting to delay it. Control it so he didn’t do something rash. Because now he knew he would do something. The anger was rising in him, rising above the layered guilt and shame. The anger and the hunger for revenge and there was really no longer a choice anyway. Because as the red walls formed this time, it was plastered there above the empty meat-hook. The white label reading number 12. And once the Red Room had named its victim, Ben couldn’t help but obey.