Chapter Eleven

Abalone

 

Sandra wanted to get out of the apartment fast, but she couldn’t leave. Poor Sebastian. She touched his warm face and felt the bruising that had still hadn’t shown. She knelt next to him and cleared more of the debris off him, saw how his body lay. It was unnatural. Looking around the room, it seemed he’d been beaten in various places before he fell here and was probably kicked some more. His shirt was stained with blood. His arm was broken, twisted the wrong way and snapped at the elbow. He did not, as they say, look at peace.

Sandra documented everything. Took photos of his bruises, his shirt, every detail she could quickly snap. The flash kept going off. Damn flash. She couldn’t get as close or the quality she needed. It was frustrating that this stupid fucking camera was taking these fucking amateur shots GOD DAMMIT – she stopped herself before she threw it into the wall. She felt tears on her face. Fucking camera.

I don’t cry when I’m frustrated. I don’t get frustrated.

She wiped her face, sniffed – Jesus, snot now? – and looked at Sebastian. Maybe he’d meant well. Maybe he was a prick. She’d never know. She knelt next to his dead, warm body, touched his forehead. Very warm. He can’t have been dead for long. Filled with panic, she checked for a pulse – no, he was dead. Whatever had happened here, she must have just missed it. She stood up and spun around. She was grateful for the open plan, it meant there was nowhere for anyone to hide apart from the bathroom. She wasn’t going back in there again. Besides, if they’d killed him, then they would have killed her by now as well. No jump out and surprise, just hello *wack* dead byeeee.

Of course, now that they’d killed him, where did they go? His chest was destroyed – even if she knew how to resuscitate she’d just crush him more. Maybe that’s why they did this sort of thing. Whoever they are. Wherever they are. She fought a surge of irrational – or perhaps rational – fear. She had to stay in control, be practical. She opened his jacket, checked his pockets. Nothing. His trouser pockets were empty as well. It was a bit much to ask I guess.

She stood up, and considered her position. She only briefly entertained calling the police – given how quickly and easily she was dropped as a suspect with the last dead body didn’t fill her with confidence. Besides, she’d broken into a crime scene. There’s no way she could have beaten him like this, but if these people will do this to a man as powerful as Sebastian seemed to be, then she wouldn’t be safe with the police. It would only make the target on her so, so much bigger. The less who knew what she knew the better.

She snapped a few more photos, and then set about returning the scene to how she’d found it. She apologised to Sebastian as she picked up pieces of debris and buried him further. No phone, no wallet, no ID. Was he dragged here, or was he already here? She considered her first hypothesis – how they’d entered and began ransacking. So he probably was here already. Maybe they caught him by surprise. She went back to the entrance, and re-enacted as if they were dragging him in. Or at gunpoint maybe. What if he’d surprised them? If he was already here? Then he would have jumped them. From where? The bathroom?

This is ridiculous. She thought about the TV detectives, and how they’d stand in one spot and hypothesise (she liked that word) and figure out what happened based on how the room was laid out, but all she saw now was 50 square metres of chaos, a dead body, and a neat and tidy bathroom. A neat and tidy bathroom? She could see it clearly from where she was standing. Now why was the untouched? She sidled up to the doorway. The light was on. She leant on the frame and inclined her head inwards. She could see the sink, the toilet, and the shower which, thankfully, had the curtain drawn again. But the room was tidy.

She stepped in. Her breath went in, and refused to come out again. She shut her eyes, and forced herself to breath out. In, and out again. I’m okay. I need to be here. She opened her eyes again, and concentrated on being rational. There was no body in the bath. In fact, the bath seemed perfectly clean. Now why is the bath clean? Would they have cleaned it that soon? Everything she ever thought she knew about police procedure was officially bunk. TV was bullshit. Reality was fucking scary.

She stepped forward and flung the curtain aside to get a clear look. The bath was spotlessly clean. Someone in the last 48 hours had scrubbed it shiny clean. And it didn’t smelly super-bleachy, so it probably wasn’t today. Strange. She looked on the bench. Squeaky clean. This whole bathroom was squeaky clean. So, they turned the apartment upside down looking for something, but the bathroom remained not only cleaned, but untouched.

She imagined the people – whoever they were – turning the apartment over. Looking for something. Then Sebastian walks in. Sees what’s going on. They assume he has what they’re looking for, and beat him to death when he doesn’t – or maybe can’t – tell them. So then, dead body on their hands, they panic. Then panic and they leave. Why leave? Because you have a dead body to deal with. How do you deal with that? You get somebody who can take care of it for you, and come back for the body.

Shit.

She heard the sound of the key being inserted into the door.

Shit.

She quickly grabbed the bathroom door and swung it shut, gently stopping it before it slammed. She heard them enter, and the door was shut behind them. Footsteps: two, maybe three people. It was hard to tell without hearing them speak. They paid no attention to what they were walking on, and crunched across the floor.

“Over here” she heard a voice say. Something was unfolded, and a zip. Sebastian was tall. How were they planning on doing this? There was a little talking going on. It sounded like three people. A few jokes were made. Some complaining, some laughing. It was all a bit hazy, lost in the thumping of blood in her ears.

Then someone mumbled something, she wasn’t sure what it was, but she certainly heard the words that answered:

“In the bathroom.”

Shit.

Without hesitation she slipped away from the door, slid into the bath, and quietly as possible pulled the curtain across. The crunching of every footstep helped mask her movement. She lay flat in the bath as the door opened. Once more she found herself holding her breath. If she survived this, she promised herself to go freediving for abalone. All this not-breathing should be put to some use other than fear and pure survival.

She could se a dark blob through the curtain. She heard his feet clomp, dragging the heel, and stop at the sink. He stood there for a moment, then knelt down and opened up the cupboards under the sink, rummaging around for something. Messily.

“Nothing here”, he called out. They called him back, and he stood up again. But instead of leaving, he came closer to the shower. She shut her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. Instead she heard the toilet seat being lifted up, and a fly being undone. There was a pause, and then a slight grunt, and a powerful stream charging into the middle of the toilet bowl. She opened half an eye and saw the blob right next to her, the only thing separating the two of them a flimsy, semi-opaque sheet of plastic. She could see his head looking down at what he was doing. Did it really take that much concentration to pee? Then see saw him look up, and around the room. His body seemed to echo his movement, and she heard the sound of urine hitting the side of the bowl, and then the floor. Clearly, yes, it did take that much concentration to pee. It didn’t seem to bother him. Momentarily she wondered if she’d ever lived in a share house with him. It was something she never understood - when blessed with a pointy thing to aim with, why was it so difficult to get it in the right direction?

He didn’t seem to care where he was pissing. He eventually found the toilet again, trickle stop, trickle, stop, trickle, stop – he should get his prostate checked – trickle, stop, drip, drip. Shake. Shake. Shake. Jesus how many times can he shake that thing? Shake. Breathing, shaking, breathing. Was he doing what she thought he was doing?

Someone called from the other room, and mumbling an expletive he stopped ‘shaking’, leant forward and flushed. She marvelled at his ability to piss on the floor, half wank, and yet still flush the toilet and wash his hands. There some things in the world she knew she would never understand, and the nonsensical toilet habits of men were right at the top of the list.

She thought about this as she heard the sounds of callous men in the other room shuffle debris around. She thought about all the people she’d lived with, and how they all used the toilet for the same function yet somehow managed to each have an individual routine. She ignored the jokes in the other room, their complaints of the weight of the body, how one of them kept joking about how tall Sebastian was and how small their suitcase was. She thought about how the toilet was probably the one thing not susceptible to peer pressure, how once you learn the basics everyone develops their own unique way of doing things in there. She didn’t listen to the conversation about how much easier it would have been if the bath hadn’t been cleaned, and they could cut the body up in there and carry it down in several suitcases. She was too busy thinking about the toilets as work. She thought about when they had had a big ‘equality’ drive, and the suggestion of unisex toilets came up. As they finally stuffed Sebastian into a suitcase, and the handle was drawn up and she heard the wheels struggle across the floor, she remembered the time she couldn’t be bothered queuing for the ladies and had used the disabled toilets right after Ivan had been in there. She was disgusted by the smell and slight mess he left behind, and at the same time amused by the fact that, no matter how superior someone played themselves out to be, they still have to defecate, they still smelt like shit, and they still tried to hide that reality from others. Suitably distracted, she smiled at that memory as the door shut.

There was silence in the apartment once more. But there was no guarantee for how long, and she had to get out.

She sat up in the bath, listened once more. Silence. She pulled the curtain aside, had a quick look around the room once more. Bathroom cupboards he been turned over. Pee on the floor next to the toilet. If I were to hide something, where would I hide it? She opened the cistern, careful to not tread in the piss. There was nothing in there. Placing it carefully back down again, she turned and left the bathroom. Whatever everyone was looking for, it was gone. She stood in the doorway, surveying the mess and the area where the floor could now be seen, where the body of Sebastian Pohler had lay and probably died, a body now stuffed with indignity into a suitcase and taken somewhere to be ‘disposed’ of. Sure, he was dead, the person he was not there anymore. Sure, it was just flesh, organic matter to be composted. But somehow it seemed all wrong. Not what would happen, but how it would happen. The callousness of it. It was cruel.

It was time to leave. She went towards the front door, and grasped the handle. There was talking outside. Shit. She carefully backed away, and watching where she was treading headed towards the balcony. She’d have to climb over the balcony to 305. Hopefully that door was unlocked, and she could hide out there until they left the building.

Eyes on the floor, she watched every step she took. She had to be fast, but she had to be silent. If she could hear their mumbling, they could hear her crunch. It was because she was doing this that she discovered two things – the first was a phone, screen slightly cracked, lying a few metres from where Sebastian had lay. As she knelt to pick it up, she wavered on her feet nearly fell. As she steadied herself she saw, just near the wall, an expensive looking wallet. She picked it up and checked inside – sure enough, the wallet had once belonged to Sebastian Pohler. His drivers license, cards, and a large amount of cash were neatly filed away in a very neat looking wallet. She dropped both in her bag and hurried to the balcony. At some point someone would realised the idiots who collected the body missed that vital piece of evidence, and will be back for it.

They came back faster than she’d expect. She was just onto the balcony when she heard the front door opening. Halfway through sliding the door shut, she let it go and leapt across the gap to 305, and found herself hiding again, squatting against the railing, eternally grateful they’d built solid balconies and not glass. She heard the door slide open again. The wind drowned out any specific sounds, but she could sense somebody there. She wedged herself in. They stood there, and she heard their shoes twist on the concrete base. Then she heard a familiar voice call out:

“Which idiot was smoking out here before?” and they went back inside, the door shut behind them. She thanked the idiot for smoking out there. Whenever they did it.

She exhaled. Yes, definitely abalone diving. She could make a lot of money free diving after this. Creeping low she shuffled towards the door, reached up and tried to open it.

Locked. Why was the only apartment not in use locked? Typical.

She sighed. She shuffled back to the edge where she’d hidden from the familiar voice, and wedged herself in. Unless she felt like trying blond naked guy’s apartment, she was stuck here. And she’d had enough running, enough heart in throat moments for the time being. She was exhausted. This balcony will do for the time being. Without thinking about it she shut her eyes. She was asleep in an instant.