The Property Manager: You'll never rent again... (22 page)

I parked a little ways down Norman Street. Well out of sight but not out of wireless range. I saw the shadow of the cyclist as he crested the hill and disappeared down the other side. With the moon in the distance and the billowing grey clouds in the dark night sky as a backdrop it almost looked like he was flying – like a witch on a broomstick – to your door.

I got my equipment all readied and began to record. You were pretending to be asleep. Your bathroom light was on. That is a flag to me that HE is doing a night raid. When you are given the rare night off, you sleep with the bathroom light off and your door ajar. On Cock-a-doodle evenings your door is closed and presumably locked to ward off insomniac little boys.

You were curled up into a foetal position and the sheet only covered you from the waist down. Your breasts were squeezed together and spilled out over your forearms. I could see that your sleepy eyes were half awake and your impatience was palpable. You rolled onto your back and pulled the sheet up a little higher as soon as you heard the squelch of tyres down past your bathroom and the tell-tale thump of a bike being rested on the bricks outside your back wall.

You shut your eyes after shaking your hair out about the pillow, posing like a sleeping Aphrodite. How pathetic. Perhaps you fantasize about a home intruder breaking in as you sleep, to rape and ravage you. I believe your mate wears a black balaclava, that his wife knitted him, on extra freezing midnight raids. Although he has never gone as far as fucking you while wearing the woollen mask, it naturally inspires all sorts of potential to my mind.  I heard him tell you that his wife is addicted to sleeping pills. That makes these escapades so much easier for him. She doesn’t look like a pill popper but if you are to believe Jacqueline Sussan, pill poppers look like everyone else. 

So, needless to say, your man stripped and leapt into the warmth of your bed. You gave a little squeal because he was as cold as a block of ice after riding through the frosty darkness to your door.

It makes me sick to listen to the two of you giggling and enjoying the comfortable banter of a couple of carefree teenagers. You throw away decency and all responsibility when you leap into the arms of that buffoon. You are naïve enough to believe that the two of you have SOOOO much in common. Compatible genitals is about it from where I’m standing! Or sitting. Seething.

Your lovemaking has changed. I’ve noticed that you spend more time just snuggling. That’s dangerous. You’ll become deluded that he loves you. He’s a prize arsehole to lure you into his web. He’s a married man and I can tell you right now that he won’t leave his meal-ticket-wife to move in with you and your needy three children.

I’ve looked back at the screen and cannot believe my eyes. You both appear to have fallen asleep. How amusing. I wonder if you’ll sleep through until morning. That might cause trouble as the wife’s drugs wear off and she wakes up to an empty spot beside her. Brainwave. I have shut the computer off and I’m driving down to your place. If I’m very careful and quiet, I do believe I can wheel his bicycle down into the bush behind your place. If I can get it into the very dense scrub it will be some time before it is found. Brilliant.

Home….very late…..

Mission accomplished. I went back up to the car and continued to watch you sleeping. It was about an hour before you stirred and then snapped upright, shaking your lover into consciousness. He was disoriented for a few moments (as you would be) and then pulled on his clothes in a hurry. No time to shower off the germs tonight. I watched him leave via the sliding door and began to count….one….two….three….four…five and voila he returned somewhat perplexed. I’ve watched the footage a couple of times and know the script almost word for word.

“I can’t find my bike!” He announced in a panic.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean – it’s not where I left it.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m serious. I always leave it in the same place.”

“Shit.” You pulled the sheets up around you and began shaking your head.

“It’s her. Shit. Andy. It’s Amanda. I keep telling you she knows.”

Lover-boy began a nervous pace to the bathroom and back, shaking his head.

“No. I’d sense that. I swear she doesn’t know.”

“Get real, Andy. This is freaking me out. What if she was out there while we were having sex. Jesus Christ.”

You threw yourself back onto the pillows and sighed.

“It’s not Amanda, Grace!” You raised your voice, Mr Cox. Touchy. Touchy.

“Think about it.” You countered. “Someone wrote ‘slut’ on my mirror. Who else would do that? Who else would give a damn that we were together? Then there was the cat. That was deliberate.”

“She couldn’t do that. She might be a cold bitch but she’s not insane enough to saw off a cat’s leg.” He was adamant.

“How do you know, Andy?”

“Because I’ve been married to her for half my life.”

That comment had you clenching your teeth and you rolled away from him, into a tight ball.

“Don’t get shitty, Grace. You know I’m married. Don’t get stupid about it. We agreed from the start that this was just sex. No strings.”

You rolled back and gave him a cold stare.

“Well who wrote ‘slut’ and who tortured my cat and who took your fucking bike? And more to the point – why???”

Cox put his hands on his hips and challenged you straight back.

“Maybe you’ve got a jealous ex-boyfriend. Who were you fucking before I came along, eh?”

“No-one!” You bristled and sat back up. “It’s your wife. Next, she’ll bring her carving knife over and slice me up while I’m asleep.”

“You’re being paranoid, Gracie. It’s most probably one of your big boys. Ben or Eli. They’re pretty protective of you and it wouldn’t take much to figure out what’s going on between us.”

There was a long silence and then you stood up, pulling the sheet with you. I have noticed that you never let yourself be fully naked in front of him. Under the covers, yes. While you are playing jack-hammers, yes. But never so that he can get a clear look at that scar on your belly. What are you ashamed of? Do you think he’ll reject you because of the imperfection? How sad. He just might, of course, being the shallow bastard that he is. You are his own private porn show and those fake-tittied pussies are always “perfect”. You are real. Normal.  

You slipped from the sheet into your bath robe and stormed out of the room, returning a few minutes later to announce that your two boys were deeply asleep.

“Or so they want you to think.” Andy snarled.

“Go. Walk home to your regular gig!” you snapped and pointed to the open door.

He slumped a little and came and put his arms around you.

“Don’t do this, Gracie.”

“Good-night.” You gently pushed him out the door and locked it after him. For about five minutes you sat on the edge of the bed with your head in your hands and I think you may have been crying. Then you went and turned off the bathroom light and I could see you no more. Perhaps you are beginning to see the futility of this “relationship.”

It began to rain as I got home and I wondered if Cock-in-the-box would be able to explain how it was that he was wet and had no bike, if the wife was sitting up waiting for him. Jesus, perhaps I should get a camera into their place to see what the state of play is on that side of the fence.

It’s a perfect winter’s morning. The sun is shining in a cloudless sky. The air is fresh and brisk, clean and crisp. I feel confident that it will be a good day.

I am so proud of the way you stood up to that fellow last night. He parades his marital status around you with no respect for your feelings . He says it’s “just sex”. How can you agree to such poor conditions? You are an attractive, intelligent and caring woman and should not sell yourself short. You are being used and abused and you do it with eyes wide open. It was nice and encouraging to see you order him out of your

bedroom for standing there defending his wife to you, passing the blame onto your sons.

I am going to reward you. That seems only fair. That way you will read the karmic signs and get off this crazy merry-go-round of lust. Today I will withdraw some money from the A.T.M at the pub and put it in an envelope with a small anonymous card. I did some research on the net this morning and discovered that it will cost you about six hundred dollars to re-register your car. The fine is a separate matter and you will still need to take care of that but my donation will at least get you back on the road. When you do finally meet your secret admirer with his mask removed, you can thank me appropriately. Until then, you can have the mystery and intrigue. It’s all very poetic and romantic to have an anonymous love, don’t you think?

Monday 27
th
July

5:34p.m.

Home early.

God. What an awkward afternoon, I’ve had. Not long after I got back from lunch at the Marigold, I noticed Sandy Moorebank getting off the bus and crossing the street toward the office. My heart did a somersault and I felt like vomiting. I almost tripped over my feet, trying to get up the few stairs toward my office, so that I could shut the door and hide.
”I’m not in!” I shouted back to Belinda.

I got in behind my desk and crouched down with my head on the wood as I heard the bell on the door jingle as it opened. There is a small window looking out over to the front desk and although it’s impossible to see through it from the front desk, I was taking no chances.

I could barely hear the conversation but the door jingled again a moment later and then an envelope came sailing through the space, landing on my desk beside my head.

“Mail!” called Belinda with her annoyingly chirpy voice.

I sat up straight and tore open the thing with a sense of revulsion and gloom.

Here’s a copy of the barely literate letter.

Dear Mr Thorn,

Michelle told me about you being Sarah’s dad and I woz really upset. I never knew and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you cos I didn’t know. I just wanted to say sorry and here is a picture of her for you. Also I am sorry for all the problems with my rent but I will try to pay you back one day it has been hard times for me. I wont tell anyone about you being the dad.

From Sandy.

How extraordinarily tragic that this woman doesn’t even know how to spell my name but she bore me a daughter. I had a lump in my throat as I read and while appalled at her uneducated, ungrammatical rant, I was moved by the humble sentiments. I stared at the photo of the blue eyed little girl and she stared back at me, meeting me properly for the first time. I quickly turned it over and slammed it on the desk as Belinda entered the room without announcing herself first. God, she exasperates me.

“What do you want?” I snapped.

“Wow, settle!” she said back. “I just wanted to know if you want coffee. I’m going to the café.”

“No,” I mumbled. “I’m fine.”

She left with a disapproving frown. I wish Ron would sack her. Then you could come and be our front desk girl, Gracie. Would you like that?

I tucked the letter in my pocket and went back to work. Paperwork. Dull. Dull. Dull. I had an inspection at two in the afternoon.

It never ceases to amaze me how tenants can expect their full bond back when they leave a property in a sub-standard condition. I am a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to cleanliness. It’s not hard to clean a house. It’s not rocket science. You get some product, a few rags and scourers, a vacuum and you clean. These tenants had cleaned the front half of the oven. What is that about? Why do half the job? Do they think I’m an idiot? I’ve been doing final inspections for a hundred years and know every trick in the book. I take a white glove and run it over the inside of an oven. If my glove comes out still white – the oven is acceptably clean. If not – do it again or I’ll charge you fifty dollars to get someone else to do it professionally. The skirting boards were atrocious. There were cobwebs all around the upper front door. The kitchen blinds were greasy. The lawn had been mowed but the edges of the property and garden beds were not trimmed. I told them I’ll come back tomorrow and do it again and if I’m not happy, they’ll get one more chance. Naturally the couple were unhappy with my refusal to sign over the bond right there and then.

I pride myself on letting properties in excellent condition. It is not unfair to expect people to leave homes the same way they found them.

Enough shop talk.

On my way back from the inspection I put the envelope in your mailbox. No one saw me. It was a swift and clean operation. You had an electricity bill and a postcard from your brother. His handwriting is appalling. I took the postcard and will incorporate some of the info to my next communication with you on e-mail. I want you to open up to your little brother and talk about more of your personal life. I might ask you to tell me what your happiest childhood memories are. That says a lot about a person.

You will be heading off after work. I hope you appreciate my generous gift and I hope you use it for the car and not cases and cases of champagne for your girls’ week away.