Private Oz (Private 7)

I felt a drip, drip, drip on my face.

My car had rolled and ended up driver’s side to the tarmac. I could see a shape close to, almost on top of me. Gradually my vision cleared enough to make it out. Becky’s face. Her dead eyes open, staring at me … droplets of her blood falling onto my cheek.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I couldn’t speak, just produced animal noises in my throat. Tried to pull away, horrified, I turned my head slowly. A pain shot down my spine. I could just see Cal in the back. He’d slumped to the side, body contorted.

I managed to twist in the seat and had the presence of mind to feel for Becky’s pulse. Then I saw the cut in her neck. She was almost decapitated.

I felt vomit rise up and I spewed down my front. I thought I’d choke and a part of me wished I would. I could visualize the new life if I were to survive. A life alone, my family gone … just like that.

I turned back to Cal, unbuckled my seat belt, gained enough leverage to slither into the rear of the car.

“Cal? Cal?” My voice broke. “Aggghhh!” I screamed again. Another stream of vomit welled up and out. I started to cry.

“Cal?” I pulled him up. His head lolled, blood trickling from the side of his mouth.

I thought I saw his eyelids flicker. “Cal?” I shouted again. I got his wrist, pulled it up, tried to find a pulse. His arm wet with blood. My fingers wet with blood. No pulse.

“CAL … CAL.” I shook him.

I reached for my cell, pulled it from my jacket but it fell to pieces in my hand.

There’s a gap in my memory after that. Next thing I knew I was clambering through the passenger window. The buckled window frame and remnants of glass were cutting me open, but I didn’t care. I landed on the road, guts churning, blood in my eyes diluted by tears flowing down my cheeks. I groaned … a primordial sound.

There was a revolting smell … petrol, rubber … I managed to get to my knees, leaned on the car and pulled myself into a hunched, twisted figure, feeling like an octogenarian suddenly. The front of the pickup truck stood ten feet away, hood crumpled, windshield smashed. I could see the top of the driver’s head above the steering wheel.

I shuffled over. From far off came the sound of sirens.

The door of the truck fell away as I yanked on the handle and I just managed to step back before it landed at my feet. It was an old, screwed-up wagon. The driver hadn’t been wearing a belt. His face smashed in, spine snapped. A vertebrae protruded from his shirt back.

I leaned in, caught the smell of alcohol. Then I saw the can of beer on the floor of the passenger side. It lay in a puddle of foaming liquid.

The fury hit me in a way I’d never experienced before or since. It was pure, all-consuming. I grabbed the guy’s hair, yanked his head back. His features were just recognizable. He was maybe twenty-five, blond, little goatee.

I felt the vomit rise again, but this time I held it down, lifted my fist, smashed it into the dead driver’s face. I hit him again and again. “BASTARD!… AAGGGHH!..MOTHER-FUCKER!

I kept hitting and hitting, the dead man’s shattered head lolling around.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Chapter 12

JUSTINE SMITH WALKED into the hotel room on the top floor of The Citadel overlooking Darling Harbour. It was fantastic. Luxurious room, shimmering evening sun. Sliding doors opened onto a walled deck, a jacuzzi sunk into the balcony.

She’d naively hoped the opening of the Sydney branch of Private would offer some welcome relief from the usual death and destruction back home in LA. Fat chance!

She kicked off her shoes and walked into the bedroom. It was cool, the air-con set just right, the bedding turned back, a chocolate placed on the pillow. The room smelled of orange essence.

Unbuttoning her blouse, she turned and caught her reflection in a wall of mirrors. Slipping off her skirt, bra and panties she stood naked considering her body.

“Not bad, baby,” she said. Did a half-turn to her left. She had a narrow waist, flat tummy, firm boobs. “Gotta be some benefits from eating nothing and having no bambini, I guess.” She did a pirouette and headed for the bathroom.

Then she changed her mind. Pulling on a robe, she went back in to the main room, slid open the doors and felt the crisp heat. A refreshing breeze came in over the harbor. She strode to the chest-high wall, admired the view.

Two minutes later, Justine was naked and immersed in bubbles, a glass of Krug on the side of the jacuzzi. “God! This is the life!” she said aloud and rested her head against the soft cushioning behind her neck. With her eyes closed, she reached for the champagne flute, brought it over and let the bubbles explode inside her mouth.

Her cell rang.

She groaned, and a voice in her head said: “Ignore it”. But that wasn’t in her nature. She lifted herself from the jacuzzi, padded over to the phone, naked and dripping.