have the painting. It might have been stolen, purchased and the sale never recorded, or maybe Clyde owed someone and gave them the painting as payment.”
“Then I might be able to discover that knowledge. Getting to know our not so friendly murderer, he would have been incensed at a theft, smug at a good sale, and I doubt he’d have allowed himself to fall into debt.”
“You look exhausted.”
“Clyde’s a hard initiation into the mind of a total sociopathic serial killer. One minute he’s thinking of his wife and how beautiful she was, the next page he’s screwing some prostitute or slicing open a woman’s throat.” My horror gauge had long passed holy-moly-let-me-out level.
Clyde Owen Jones was our own Jack the Ripper. But he spread his evil over two countries and for over at least two decades.
“I’m going to need the painting to afford long-term therapy.”
If I got to the end of this nightmare with no painting in hand I’d eat a whole cheesecake, drink a bottle of scotch, find a priest and give him some exorcism work. Just to make sure nothing of Clyde remained.
I’d also revisit his grave and stomp on it. With six-inch metal tipped stilettoes.
Would Clyde feel it? No.
But it would sure freaking help my inner demons.
#
Traipsing over Sydney’s airport car park, I cursed the weather and wished I’d worn blue. To visit Josey Richards, Clyde’s descendant and possessor of more journals, I’d dressed business entrepreneur. The sky sitting in a dismal blanket matched my charcoal gray trousers, and the rain my silver of sodden silk blouse. Hopefully the weather didn’t try and find a way to mimic my red belt, shoes, and earrings.
Cause that’d be scary.
Sydney is Brisbane on cocaine. It has a harder faster edge to the style and the way of living. Sydneysiders are more ambitious and want a bigger chunk of the Australian dream. It has houses so expensive I can’t compute the numbers, and suburbs that are so rough that rats cower.
Rain at a constant drizzle, I wandered around the airport’s car hire area. The parking map the attendant had given me was a useless sodden blob in my hand. The area had not long ago been renumbered and named, but my map had not scored the same upgrade. I was wet, cold, and cranky. My bag spun sideways, wrenched out of my grip and made a funny grinding sound.
Oh crap, the rough tarmac had eroded off my bag’s tiny wheels. I kicked the bag right in the guts and burst into tears. And then started dragging the POS sans wheels. Wedged in newish and tight pointed boots, my feet protested with throbbing demands, but they had nothing on my right arm. I couldn’t use cast covered lefty to drag my bag and share the load, so now both ached equally. Wee, life’s freaking awesome.
My hair dripping rivulets of water, I at last found my car’s lot and sobbe d in relief. My car was green. Bright vivid frog green and super compact. I’d seen larger green tree-frogs hiding in my loo. I opened the hatch, lifted my wet travel bag remains and dumped it into the tiny space. My bag, built for a few nights worth of clothes, overhung. Eyes shut I told myself not to cry, again. Tears held in check, I thudded the bag with my non-broken arm. It didn’t move. I thudded it harder.
Anger boiled to lid popping level. “Piece of crap car, crap bag, crap day. Crap every-frigging-thing.” I climbed onto the rear bumper, put my knees on the bag and bounced. “Take that.” Nothing. Clutching one handed onto the hatch’s raised door, I stood and jumped. Slurp , the bag slipped in. I hit the bumper with my knee and landed on the ground, ass first.
What to grab, my knee or ass? I whimpered and rolled in puddles. I should have put the bag on the passenger seat. Freaking stupid too late to help, epiphanies.
A minute passed as I felt out the full spectrum of self-pity. Satisfied with my misery fest, I pushed myself to my feet. In a futile effort to look nice, I used my hands to brush myself
“Then I might be able to discover that knowledge. Getting to know our not so friendly murderer, he would have been incensed at a theft, smug at a good sale, and I doubt he’d have allowed himself to fall into debt.”
“You look exhausted.”
“Clyde’s a hard initiation into the mind of a total sociopathic serial killer. One minute he’s thinking of his wife and how beautiful she was, the next page he’s screwing some prostitute or slicing open a woman’s throat.” My horror gauge had long passed holy-moly-let-me-out level.
Clyde Owen Jones was our own Jack the Ripper. But he spread his evil over two countries and for over at least two decades.
“I’m going to need the painting to afford long-term therapy.”
If I got to the end of this nightmare with no painting in hand I’d eat a whole cheesecake, drink a bottle of scotch, find a priest and give him some exorcism work. Just to make sure nothing of Clyde remained.
I’d also revisit his grave and stomp on it. With six-inch metal tipped stilettoes.
Would Clyde feel it? No.
But it would sure freaking help my inner demons.
#
Traipsing over Sydney’s airport car park, I cursed the weather and wished I’d worn blue. To visit Josey Richards, Clyde’s descendant and possessor of more journals, I’d dressed business entrepreneur. The sky sitting in a dismal blanket matched my charcoal gray trousers, and the rain my silver of sodden silk blouse. Hopefully the weather didn’t try and find a way to mimic my red belt, shoes, and earrings.
Cause that’d be scary.
Sydney is Brisbane on cocaine. It has a harder faster edge to the style and the way of living. Sydneysiders are more ambitious and want a bigger chunk of the Australian dream. It has houses so expensive I can’t compute the numbers, and suburbs that are so rough that rats cower.
Rain at a constant drizzle, I wandered around the airport’s car hire area. The parking map the attendant had given me was a useless sodden blob in my hand. The area had not long ago been renumbered and named, but my map had not scored the same upgrade. I was wet, cold, and cranky. My bag spun sideways, wrenched out of my grip and made a funny grinding sound.
Oh crap, the rough tarmac had eroded off my bag’s tiny wheels. I kicked the bag right in the guts and burst into tears. And then started dragging the POS sans wheels. Wedged in newish and tight pointed boots, my feet protested with throbbing demands, but they had nothing on my right arm. I couldn’t use cast covered lefty to drag my bag and share the load, so now both ached equally. Wee, life’s freaking awesome.
My hair dripping rivulets of water, I at last found my car’s lot and sobbe d in relief. My car was green. Bright vivid frog green and super compact. I’d seen larger green tree-frogs hiding in my loo. I opened the hatch, lifted my wet travel bag remains and dumped it into the tiny space. My bag, built for a few nights worth of clothes, overhung. Eyes shut I told myself not to cry, again. Tears held in check, I thudded the bag with my non-broken arm. It didn’t move. I thudded it harder.
Anger boiled to lid popping level. “Piece of crap car, crap bag, crap day. Crap every-frigging-thing.” I climbed onto the rear bumper, put my knees on the bag and bounced. “Take that.” Nothing. Clutching one handed onto the hatch’s raised door, I stood and jumped. Slurp , the bag slipped in. I hit the bumper with my knee and landed on the ground, ass first.
What to grab, my knee or ass? I whimpered and rolled in puddles. I should have put the bag on the passenger seat. Freaking stupid too late to help, epiphanies.
A minute passed as I felt out the full spectrum of self-pity. Satisfied with my misery fest, I pushed myself to my feet. In a futile effort to look nice, I used my hands to brush myself
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