The Stalk Club Read online

  “You first Nat. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The group of five looked to Natalie Bassett. She was small and petite, with wavey brown hair - for today at least - small upturned nose and easy on the eye. She was dressed in a dark blue tailored suit that hugged the curves of her body like a dirty uncle. As he did every time he saw her, Grant mentally shook his head, wondering how on earth his brother, Bryce, who sat attentively beside her, had managed to snag such a girl. Not that his brother didn’t have his good points, but at one hundred and seventy-two centimetres tall, a body shaped like a pudgy beer can, receding hairline and a relatively low paying job, he had never been mistaken for Matt Damon.

  Natalie sat on her hands, grimacing. “Well it’s a bit embarrassing really. I lost my guy after only a few minutes and then spent the next two hours trying to find him again.”

  “You’re kidding? How?” responded Bryce.

  “I followed him for a few blocks towards Darling Harbour, but then he ducked into an office block and jumped into an elevator. There was security in the foyer and I couldn’t get past them. So, to cut a short story even shorter, I got zip tonight.”

  “You must be losing your touch princess,” laughed Craig, pleased that he had one person less to compete with for the opportunity to again abuse his liver free of charge. Craig Thoms was six feet tall and possessed a wide and strong set of shoulders that tapered down to slim legs. His blue eyes were set in an open and expressive face which was normally decorated by a smirk of some kind. His hair was straight brown and overdue for a cut.

  “Kiss my arse Craig“, replied Natalie

  Craig was about to add ‘whatever turns you on honey’ but Grant got in first and saved him from his usual mistake of going one step too far.

  “Alright kids, that’s enough. How’d you go little bro?”

  “Not much better than Nats I’m afraid. You didn’t do me any favours tonight.”

  “Really? Your guy looked like a serial killer to me. So what happened?”

  “Ok, my guy got on a bus so I jumped on too, but made the mistake of sitting next to a small but incredibly pungent old woman. I didn’t ask, but I got the strong impression that she wasn’t overly keen on regular showering,” he said with a straight face.

  Craig let out a raucous laugh. It was one of the reasons he liked Bryce. Bryce was a self-admitted pain in the arse sometimes, but in small doses he was one of the funniest guys Craig had ever known.

  “Finally, after a thirty minute ride out into the burbs, he got off the bus and went into his house. By this stage I was very excited, not. I could see him through his window and although he might have looked like a serial killer, all he did tonight was switch on the TV, grab a beer, put his feet up and scratch his crotch. He wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry so I decided to cut my losses and try and find a bus back here. I didn’t even find out what his name was.”

  “That’s too bad Bryce. How about I go next,” said Craig magnanimously. “That way you guys can concede defeat and not bore me with more of your pathetic efforts.”

  “Here we go,” sighed Natalie, rolling her eyes theatrically.

  Craig plugged his handicam into the USB port of Bryce’s laptop, which was sitting on the table in front of them. Grant turned it to the wall and the group crowded in behind it so no-one else could see what was on the screen, not that anyone nearby seemed to notice or care. There were several other groups in the bar crowded around their tablets, checking out their Facebook accounts. Craig focused his attention on the viewfinder of his handicam as he commenced playback of his footage on the laptop. The image of a man walking down the street came on the screen.

  “Meet Mr. Jeffrey Quinn.” narrated Craig. “He’s a little strange looking, which is no doubt why you chose him Grant.”

  Grant nodded. The man in the footage was paper thin, wearing olive coloured outdated pants which fitted him snuggly and a bright orange shirt which screamed in silent outrage at his lime green tie. The footage showed him walking, with briefcase in hand, thirty metres ahead of the camera.

  A new image of a small apartment complex surrounded by a large security fence came up on the screen.

  “Mr. Quinn lives in a swanky apartment complex in Darlinghurst, apartment seven.”

  Craig again fast-forwarded the footage. When he stopped he was indoors, in an entryway of a brightly lit and expensively outfitted apartment.”

  “You didn’t!” cried Natalie aghast.

  “I did,” said Craig, grinning in return. “I followed him to his door and waited outside. I thought I could hear the shower running so I tested the doorknob. It was unlocked so I invited myself in. I think he was probably expecting someone.”

  The others were silent, with mouths agape and eyes glued to the footage.

  “Craig, why do you do this stuff?” asked Bryce. “It’s against the rules, you know, that rule about not breaking any laws?”

  “Hey, we’re all law-breakers here, stalking is against the law.” Craig looked back to the laptop screen, fascinated by his own footage. “Here is his wallet with all his credit cards and licence. Geoffrey Quinn, aged fifty-two, organ donor. And here you can see where I go into his bedroom,” he added excitedly as he relived the moment. The sound of running water could be heard as Craig entered the bedroom. He had pointed the video camera through the open door of the ensuite bathroom where the blurry apparition of someone showering could be seen through the fogged glass. “I could have gone through his sock drawer if I’d wanted to.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t,” said Natalie with a mild look of distaste on her face, although she too was riveted to the screen.

  “You took some crazy risks here. I mean, what if you’d got caught?” asked Grant.

  “No-one can catch me. I’m too fast and too smart. Anyway, it was all worth it if you guys have to buy me drinks for the rest of the night,” he replied, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.”

  “Not so fast buddy,” countered Grant. “We haven’t heard from Jen yet.”

  The group turned to Jen who smiled. Jennifer Nolan had clear blue eyes, small straight nose and curvaceous lips that turned down appealingly at their corners. She was the newest and normally the quietest member of the group and had only joined a couple of months previously as a friend and room-mate of Natalie’s.

  “Ok. Well my stalk was bad, but for different reasons than Natalie’s. For the first hour I sat and watched the woman Grant chose down several Daiquiris with her friends.” Jen went on to tell the group how she had followed the woman to a quiet laneway where she had been spotted and had to dive behind a dumpster to hide. “I was so scared, I wasn’t sure if I should give up and just get the hell out of there, but I decided to keep going.”

  “So what happened then,” asked Natalie becoming increasingly intrigued.

  “Well I followed her up the laneway at a discrete distance, but then I think she got a little freaked out. She started running in her high heels, but then tripped over and fell flat on her face. I didn’t know what the hell to do, but I felt so sorry for her that I went up to her to try and help her up.”

  “You didn’t?” asked an incredulous Craig with mouth agape.

  “Yeah I did. I tried to help her get to her feet but she started screaming and then tried to spray me with mace or something. Some people from the street ahead heard her and came towards us, so I took off back down the laneway and barely stopped running until I got back here. My heart still hasn’t recovered!”

  By this stage Craig was laughing so hard that he had to wipe away tears from his eyes. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages. You are the shittest stalker ever,” he said between gasps for air.

  Chapter 4

  Manuel Torres was late, which was unusual for him because for the past seven years he had lived his life like clockwork. What made his being late even worse was that he was meeting with someone who he would always make time for, whatever the circumstance. It was someone who he owe
d his life to, someone who for no apparent reason other than friendship, had reached out and saved him when his need was greatest.

  He walked past Nero’s Lounge bar on Market Street and briefly noted the reflection in the window. He saw a man of medium height, lean and well muscled. His head was shaven and despite being mid-winter the skin was brown, courtesy of his father’s Brazilian heritage, or at least that was what his mother had told him. His father hadn’t stayed around long enough for him to personally verify this. Manuel wore jeans and a black jumper which was a little tight around his broad chest. By most standards he cut quite a handsome figure and as a result, received admiring glances from some of the young women he passed on the street, which he either missed or ignored. If any of the interested women had a chance to get to know him they might not have liked what they found. What had once been a tough yet easy going youth had turned into an uncompromising and hard piece of stone courtesy of the seven years he had spent at the Goulburn Correctional Centre mixing with the cream of New South Wales worst prisoners. They had taught him some tough lessons but ultimately he had survived.

  Manuel had knocked off at five from the panel beater shop where he’d been working since his release eight weeks previously. Turning down the usual after work offer to share a couple of cartons of beer with the other guys in the shop, he had travelled home to his dingy Redfern apartment, swapped his dirty overalls for his current attire and taken the train into the city. He checked the time on his mobile phone and quickened his pace.

  Five minutes later Manuel arrived at Pellegrinos Italian restaurant, where he had been eating free of charge every Friday night since his release, courtesy of his friend Bruno Trulli who managed the restaurant. They had first met almost nine years ago when at the age of sixteen Manuel had started working there. Initially Manuel had planned to stay just long enough to earn enough cash to buy a battered Subaru WRX that his friend was selling, but he soon began to enjoy the energetic machinations of working in a busy and successful inner-city restaurant. He worked hard, and progressed from dishwasher to kitchen hand, in the process, discovering a natural flair and ability for food preparation. Through his efforts he earned the respect and friendship of Bruno who encouraged him and arranged for him to commence a chef apprenticeship.

  Unfortunately things didn’t quite work out as planned. Manuel had been involved in street gangs since he was ten. Although he played his part well enough in their territorial disputes, petty crimes and other delinquent acts, it wasn’t by choice or desire that he was involved. It was just a way of surviving adolescence in the deep western suburbs neighbourhood where he lived. If you weren’t in a gang you were an easy target for those who were.

  On a hot and muggy January night seven years ago he had gone out cruising and drinking beers with his friends. They tried to gatecrash a Facebook advertised party in Blacktown, hoping to meet some new girls and score some food and booze, but were turned away. Things got a little heated, a few punches were thrown and they were chased backed to their car by a group of twenty youths. Manuel was fuming as he’d caught a lucky punch from some big private schoolboy hero and his nose was broken and bleeding. As they drove away, Manuel impulsively grabbed his friend’s handgun from under the seat. He had planned to fire into the air to scare them, but his rage got the better of him. When he saw the guy who had smacked him, jeering with his friends at their car, he pointed the gun in his direction and pulled the trigger. His shot went wide and killed a fifteen year old girl. Manuel had just turned eighteen years of age, was convicted of manslaughter and sent to Goulburn Jail.

  In prison he soon realised he was just a child, alone among men. He was harassed and assaulted from day one, by members of the various cliques that existed there and anyone else who was in the mood for fun, or whose tastes ran to brown smooth-skinned teenage boys.

  Before long Bruno Trulli came to visit him. He was Manuel’s first visitor. His mother, who was the only family he knew of, abandoned him after his arrest, saying that it was the straw that broke her back. He didn’t blame her as it was the straw that almost broke his back too. In the stark and bland visitors centre Manuel broke down in front of the old man. He cried for the first time since he could remember and told Bruno he didn’t think he could survive for much longer. It was then that the old man saved him. Bruno somehow arranged for the right people inside the prison to keep an eye out for him. It didn’t quite amount to protection and it didn’t mean that Manuel’s incarceration was the equivalent of a holiday in the Maldives, but it was enough to give him the breathing space he needed to find his feet in the prison system. It was enough to help him survive. Manuel asked how Bruno achieved this, but the old man just smiled and said that he had a lot of friends. Manuel knew that he owed the old man his life, absolutely and completely.

  Despite the watchful eye of Bruno’s connections and Manuel spending as much of his time as he could away from the general populace working or studying, his time in prison was pockmarked with its fair share of skirmishes. He learned to fight and knew he could and would kill someone if he had to. He learned to have no regrets, to act violently first and to survive. Through endless repetitions of heavy weights he built up his slim young body and on the day he left prison he tipped the scales at just on ninety kilograms of hard, lean, muscle, seventeen kilograms heavier than when he went in.

  Upon his release Bruno helped him find accommodation and work at the body shop. Since then, Manuel had come to Pellegrinos every Friday night to eat and talk about old times and new plans with Bruno. It was during these chats that Manuel discovered Bruno had some troubles of his own and Manuel had willingly offered to help in an attempt to repay his debt to him.

  Manuel entered the restaurant which was located in the base of a large office block on Castlereagh Street. Its double glazed façade afforded diners a clear view of the street beyond without the accompanying noise and fumes. Upon entering he saw Bruno standing at his counter, checking the bookings for the night, just as he did six nights of the week and had done so for fifteen years before Manuel had ever set foot there.

  “Good Evening Manuel. You look well,” said the old man in greeting, warmly shaking his hand. Manuel again noted how much Bruno had aged since he had first met him. His hair was now completely white and there were deep, permanent lines around his eyes, mouth and forehead. He had lost weight as he aged and now only budged the scales to sixty kilograms and the black dinner suit he wore hung a little loose in places.

  “And you old friend,” replied Manuel quietly.

  ”Freedom seems to be agreeing with you. Please, take a seat,” Bruno said, guiding his guest to a table in a quiet corner at the rear of the restaurant.

  The restaurant had undergone a facelift since Manuel had worked there and some serious money had been spent. An oval shaped island bar now occupied the centre of the restaurant and the kitchen had been completely refurbished and was now open plan, allowing the clientele to watch the kitchen staff dance around the flaming grills as their meals were prepared.

  New customers entered the restaurant and Bruno left to greet them. Manuel dined on a huge serve of Linguini con Pollo and two pints of beer before leaving and making his way to the Northern entrance of Hyde Park. It was their usual routine.

  After a ten minute wait Bruno approached and they walked a short distance together before taking a seat on a park bench beneath the night shade of the large fig trees. At that hour, the park remained a busy thoroughfare for those with money, and a meeting place for those without, but their bench was far enough removed from all so they could talk in peace.

  “You look well my friend. That girl of yours, Kylie? She must be satisfying your needs,” said Bruno with a wry smile.

  “Yes she does, in every way,” replied Manuel, a rare smile briefly alighting on his lips.

  “You must tell her nothing of this,” added Bruno in a more serious tone.

  “I know,” replied Manuel, deciding to quickly change the subject. “How are preparati
ons coming along?”

  “We are close now.”

  Chapter 5

  It was almost eight o’clock Wednesday evening and Craig Thoms was nearing the end of his shift. He was tired from being run off his feet for the last ten hours, but he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand because he couldn’t afford to make a mistake. He lazily strolled down the quiet hospital corridor pushing a wheeled bucket with a mop, scanning the hallway ahead while also listening for footsteps behind him. He casually turned around to double check that he was still alone and then ducked into the medical supply room on his left.

  Working quickly, he pulled a key from his pocket, moved to the mesh walled drugs locker located in the corner of the room and unlocked it. It was the size of a large walk-in pantry and its shelves were neatly stocked and organised with antibiotics, painkillers and other medications that were kept in the ward. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder through the steel mesh that now encircled him and pressed forward with his task.

  He quickly located and sized up the stocks of the drugs he was after on the shelves, knowing that he needed to strike a balance between taking as much as he could without taking too much and alerting the other staff members, particularly the hard-arsed Sister Patricia who ran the ward like a detention camp and possessed a sharp eye for detail.

  “Though shalt not be greedy,” he reminded himself quietly.

  He packed five small boxes into his underpants, dropped several ampoules into the murky water in his bucket and then quickly rearranged the remaining stock on the shelves in an effort to disguise what he had taken. He re-locked the doors with a gentle and quiet snick and tested it just to be extra safe, thus ensuring he didn’t make the mistake he’d once previously made by leaving the door ajar. Taking a deep breath, he put on his holier than thou face – which was a stretch of character for him - and ever so casually strolled back out into the hall, pushing his bucket ahead of him.