Stalker (4 page)

Lily took his word for it. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

Smithy shrugged. ‘Not April 1st. House-mate playing a joke?’

Lily shook her head. Genevieve bought two of everything, but a sense of humour or even playing jokes wouldn’t be on her shopping list

‘I’ll change it back for you,’ offered Smithy, expertly choosing his tools.

‘Thanks Smithy,’ Lily wondered how much that was going to cost her. Genny wouldn’t pay half. And Lily’s holiday job money was going down quickly. She didn’t have much in her cheque account. Being a radio volunteer took hours from a part-time job, and with her parents with Volunteers Abroad for six months, she couldn’t borrow a few dollars, although Ben was holding the family emergency money if she really needed it.

‘Have you been having any other security problems?’ asked the locksmith.

‘Nothing that you could help with,’ said Lily. ‘Thanks.’

‘Just a service fee, no materials,’ said Smithy.

‘Thanks again.’ Lily wrote the cheque. Plastic money went too fast, but cheque butts she almost kept track of. ‘That shouldn’t bounce,’ she said, scribbling her driver’s licence number and address on the back. He already knew where she lived, so why would you fake it? Especially as he could have charged her more.

‘Thanks. If I ever need another locksmith, I’ll give you a ring.’ Lily smiled. ‘I do a program on public radio. Maybe we could do a program on locks or security, or how often people use locksmiths?’ Saying ‘we’ made it sound more official. Bernie didn’t care what she talked about during the graveyard shift as long as sponsors thought there was an audience. ‘Would you be interested in being interviewed, or is some of your work secret?’

‘Sometimes we have to keep quiet,’ said Smithy. ‘But you could give me a call if you decided to do the program. Number’s on there.’ He pointed to the receipt. ‘And on the van of course.’

Were repeat customers a sign of success or failure for a locksmithy?

‘Thanks again,’ said Lily as the van drove off.

During the graveyard shift that Friday night, Jamie had listened to her story. She could tell that he thought she was over the top about a bent door key. Later, it was different.

‘I suppose you told him you were doing a program on locks soon?’ suggested Jamie. ‘Did he give you a discount?’

Lily blushed.

*************************************************************

Love letters… Old boyfriends.
Photos. Panty hose drawer. Bras. Knickers. They don’t interest me. But this does. A tape. An audio tape. Labelled. I’ll make a copy, on her recorder… and she won’t even know….

But perhaps I’ll leave a little clue… for later… She should know I have the power to come in and out of her life… just a little clue….

****************************************************************

Saturday 7
^th

The flowers arrived the next day, late Saturday morning as she was stirring the mushroom sauce for the pasta. A bread stick. A proper meal. With lots of fast thawed peas. After the Friday shift, her brain was so wired up, she rarely slept long. Sometimes she even dreamed she was handling talkback in her sleep. Bad sign! When you started dreaming about microphones, and disembodied voices, maybe it was time for a change?

She should ring Ben and suggest a game of squash. Her brother was so mega-physical and ordinary, his size was reassuring. But she was also conscious of trying to make it on her own while their parents were away

in that unpronounceable place. She didn’t want to ask Ben for money from the family emergency fund.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She opened the door, still holding the spoon.

‘Excuse me. Is there a Lily Noelle living here?’ The delivery-guy looked a bit worried. He held out the flowers. White lilies and red poppies, with greenery in between wrapped in brown paper, with a straw tie. A circle of lilies and poppies.

‘Yes, I’m Lily Noelle.’

Lily stared down at the flowers. ‘Who are they from?’

‘Card inside. I guess someone must have sent lilies especially because of your name.’

‘To me or for me?
‘Lily opened the small envelope. Lilies are for remembrance. The writing was clear and in black. No name of sender. Lily turned the card over. The florist’s name was on the back. She was getting that feeling at the bottom of her stomach. Not panic.
Just wariness. A feeling that things were getting worse, and she couldn’t control them. Those long poppies could also be called tall poppies.

‘Did the person pay by cash or credit card?’ asked Lily.

The delivery guy shrugged. ‘Cash I think. We often get orders to deliver flowers to the house when someone had passed away instead of sending a wreath to the chapel or the church so the family will still have them afterwards. You’d better check with the Boss.’

‘Would you have a record of who ordered it?’

‘A name and address? Maybe on the receipt. Maybe not. Is there some problem?’

Lily nodded. ‘This is a wreath of lilies and poppies. No funerals around here that I know about. My name is Lily and I’m not a tall poppy. Also, I am not dead.’

Lily
rang the number on the card. ‘Flowers for All Occasions.’

‘My name is Lily Noelle. I’m ringing you for two reasons. Firstly, I do a community radio program on 3BC. Thought I might do a ring-in about flowers for special occasions. Would you be interested in being interviewed? ‘This was said in her ‘official’ voice, the one she’d been practising the past few weeks. Just in case she ever did make it into big time media.

‘Oh, well,’ the owner sounded a little more interested. ‘Do many people listen to your program? ‘

‘Quite a few but we’re not sure about the numbers. Public radio stations can’t afford audience surveys. It’s the graveyard shift, after midnight.’

Lily smiled to herself. Graveyard shift. Funerals. Wreaths. She was getting a bit morbid.

‘I’ve been sent a circle of lilies from your shop. That was the second reason I’m ringing you. It looks a bit like a wreath and no one in this household is dead. I’d like to find out who sent it to me.’

‘Sorry,’ The ‘Flowers for All Occasions,’ owner sounded harried. ‘You got a wreath? Usually we check. But I’d had fourteen weddings today. And three funerals. As well as the usual. And I have to close soon. I’ve been up since 3 am you know. Maybe I could check it on Monday for you?’

‘Thanks, but is there any possibility of checking your records now?’ Lily understood about how night work and broken sleep made you jumpy, but she wanted to know who sent those flowers and why.

‘Sorry. I’ll call you back Monday,’ was the firm reply. ‘Unless the flowers are dead? I mean they were fresh when you got them weren’t they?’

‘Yes. Why shouldn’t they be?’

‘Dropkicks or psychos sometimes send dead flowers to ex-girlfriends. We don’t do those at ‘Flowers for All Occasions.’

‘Just one more question,’ persisted Lily. ‘Is it usual to put lilies and poppies together in an arrangement?’

‘Only if the customer requests it.’

‘So your customer must have specifically asked for only lilies and poppies?’

‘Probably.
Look, I really can’t remember. I’ll have to check in the book. I’m pretty sure one of my casuals did the arrangement. I’ll let you know on Monday. I’ve got your name and address. Okay? Give me your phone number.’ She hung up.

Giving out an unlisted number was stupid, Lily realised. She should have just given her mobile.

***********************************************************

At first, I was going to send her a bunch of roses. Red roses are for love it said on the St Valentine’s Day cards in the newsagency. Nice smell but they’ve got prickles, thorns, spiky bits. Like most things, they aren’t as they appear on the outside. And everybody else sends roses. I’m different. So I looked at the tall poppies which have a special meaning and they’re in season. Then I started thinking about her name. Lily. She deserved some lilies like her name, now I know it’s her real name. I know they’re the death flowers, but I sent a circle, to the house. Maybe Lily would realise that someone like me knows the meaning of her name, and the circle will lead her back to me. Especially with the clue I left. The signed clue. But it might not. Not everybody thinks like me. Genius are in short supply around here. The girl at the florist shop didn’t say anything. I thought they might check up whether someone was dead or not, but I deliberately went in during the busy time.

I could have arranged for one of those special deliveries, you know the insult bunches. Dead roses or the ones with the tops cut off… all done up nicely, but they didn’t seem right, not this time.

Although if Lily doesn’t respond to me soon, I might have to get tougher.

Car Troubles

The Vomit was the next hassle. Yellow. And enough to make anyone spew.

Other students drove secondhand cars to uni. The Vomit was about ninth-hand and dying slowly. Transmission. Tyres. Brakes. And all the expensive bits. And uni parking meant buying a permit, or racing out of lectures to move The Vomit before the parking officer rounds. Since last semester, when the Vomit’s ignition started playing up, on the days it wouldn’t start, Lily cycled to uni, and used a lock to chain her bike to the lecture-room railing. Media Studies lectures always seemed to be surrounded by chained bikes. Healthy or broke media students?

‘Get it fixed, Sis, before the parents come back,’ warned Ben. ‘Or you won’t get anything as a trade-in.’

‘Trade in for what? ‘She couldn’t afford new wheels. Males thought that cars mattered more than people. A car got her from one place to another. That was all. She had to keep the car running, and the service was 10.000 km over.

‘If you’re really broke, I’ll help. You can have my old bike.’

‘Thanks.’ At least it had gears. Ben’s new one was never allowed out of his sight, and had every timing or measuring gadget an athlete needed.

Hurrying past the uni noticeboard ads she saw the Summer School programs advertised. Would it be cheaper to enrol for the basic mechanics course, at the summer school? No time.

‘Maybe I’ll get a job teaching radio survival skills,’ muttered Lily. ‘Multi-skilling for the fame game. How to survive the graveyard shiftwith or without a stalker.’

Today, The Vomit was the last car, sitting like a piece of yellow sculpture at the end of Siberia, the far carpark where all the potholes joined together. There was another dark oil stain underneath. Lily bent over and peered under her car. Not more trouble.

Paul, who was in her tute, stopped. ‘Need a hand?’

‘Why? Have you got a spare one?’ At this point she would have considered any help to make the Vomit start. A triathlete like Paul who was blond, tall and had a fulltime job exercising didn’t need wheels, he had legs with muscles like hams, and even his hands were enormous. He jogged most places.

‘There’s a black oily leak, every time I park the car.’ Lily was getting worried. It looked like she’d be staying there for a bit. She opened the bonnet.

‘If you need a mechanic ‘M’ brother Dominic’s cheap and he’ll do a good job but he takes ages. Go see Dominic. Tell him I sent you. You can play one of my favourites on your program if you like.’ From his tracksuit pocket, Paul handed her a business card with wheels on it. More wheels!

‘No worries,’ said Lily glancing at the card. ‘If it won’t start again this time, how do you suggest I get it to Dominic’s place? Jog? ’ She let the bonnet slam and got inside the driver’s seat.

‘Drive?’ said Paul. ‘Or I’ll give you a push to get you started?’

Amazingly, the Vomit started first time. Lily was fed up. After her outburst at Paul, it was one time she didn’t want it to start first go.

‘Thanks Paul,’ she hung out of the window, feeling a bit bad about being so narky. ‘Sorry, it’s not your fault my car won’t start, other
times’ This
stalker bit was getting her down. Could it be Paul? Not likely. But she was now beginning to suspect everyone. Since Paul used his spellcheck constantly, she didn’t think he’d write Stalker hate mail. The Stalker could spell and even played with the meanings of words. Maybe that was an important clue. Even the e-mail was properly spelled, and that was unusual. Most people keyboarded so fast, there were always typos. No, it couldn’t be Paul, but…

So that’s why ten minutes later, she found herself outside Dominic’s Garage looking for someone who looked like Paul. No-one did.

Dominic was a hairy armed, bald man in overalls. The only clue was his name stamped on his overalls.

‘Ahhh… I’ll look after it for you, Lily. Likely... Need a coupla days, but no worries. Heard you on the radio… have it on in the workshop. Famous aren’t ya?” Dominic wiped his oily hands on a rag. Sunlight glinted on the hairs of his short, muscled arms below the rolled up navy overalls Bald on top, Dominic’s hair seemed to have replanted to his arms.

‘I’ll use my bike this week then. How much will the service be? ’

The spilt petrol smell clung to Dominic’s Garage which was just a street away from the studio. Music and talkback blared from the oily finger-printed tranny.