The Property Manager: You'll never rent again... by NS Thompson Page B
Authors: NS Thompson
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don’t belong in church today Gracie. Not until you beg forgiveness and show that you are truly penitent. Your drama group was obviously cancelled due to the special occasion.
You are in white. Another glaring mistake. It is a funeral and you have acted like a whore so black really would have been the order of the day.
Suddenly a peal of organ music silenced the murmuring of the crowd.
The two small coffins, suspended on silver trolleys, stood at the end of the red carpeted aisle just below the raised altar. I don’t think I’ve ever been into an Anglican Church. It’s not much different from a Catholic one really. Stained glass, polished pews and the stench of religion. It all smells the same.
The Moorebank family arrived. That unfortunately-named ‘Skylar girl’ was a Moorebank in all but name. The local newspaper reported that her father had died of an overdose three years ago. I scanned the haggard faces, wondering if Sandy’s sister had been discharged from the psyche ward to attend her daughter’s funeral. She was a blonde, skeletal thing and as far as I could tell she was absent. Sandy had mascara running down her face and lipstick smudged up to her streaming nose. She was hunched over and walked with faltering steps, assisted by her mother who didn’t look much better and was obviously three sheets to the wind. The blind leading the blind. Some of the rest of the Moorebank coven straggled in behind, one fellow carrying Sandy’s youngest, an ugly toddler that looked like it suffered from foetal alcohol syndrome, with widely spaced eyes and cauliflower ears. I cast my mind back to the dog- mauled disposable nappies.
I’d had enough of the whole production and discreetly eased my way out of the church. The gawkers stretched all the way back to the ancient iron gates of the church. What a bunch of fucking hypocrites, I thought, sneering at them. Nobody ever had the time of day for the Moorebanks up until a week ago. They were all but spat on by decent folks. Sandy was constantly thrown out of the hotel for soliciting. Her sister, I think her name was Julianne, had tried unsuccessfully to break into every store in town. The police were called to brawls at the various Moorebank homes so often they had become a standard part of Michelle’s shift. Someone told me she regularly drove by their homes before her night shift ended to see if anyone needed an ambulance for injuries or overdoses. In other words they were the ultimate white trash family and they were loathed and despised…..BUT the drama of MURDER had the town in some ecstatic thrall, and everyone but everyone HAD to be involved on some level. The television cameras might have been a lure as well, don’t you think!? The Park Café was closed because of the funeral. It had become a flipping ‘Moorebank holiday’ in town.
I found my car, parked up behind the school and drove purposefully to your house, Grace. I knew you were out of the way for a good hour and I wanted to know what you wrote in your diary about LAST NIGHT. I need to know whether you are truly feeling guilty or SMUG about your wanton behaviour.
I’ve added your house key to my key-ring. Doesn’t that mean we’re going steady??????
Your bedroom was a mess. It smelt like a dirty brothel. The bed was unmade and in a state of disarray. I peeled back the chaotic bedcovers and inspected the sheets.
The footage I have of the abomination is not good quality. Frank did warn me that in bad lighting it was preferable to use black and white film. I should have listened. Your lust had been so frantic and desperate but it was still blatantly obvious that you and your MATE did not practice safe sex. How do you know that this man doesn’t go to hookers or pick up loose women all the time? How exceptionally irresponsible of you, Grace. I’m so disappointed in you I feel like grabbing you and shaking some goddamn sense into you. You are going to have to be tested for a range
You are in white. Another glaring mistake. It is a funeral and you have acted like a whore so black really would have been the order of the day.
Suddenly a peal of organ music silenced the murmuring of the crowd.
The two small coffins, suspended on silver trolleys, stood at the end of the red carpeted aisle just below the raised altar. I don’t think I’ve ever been into an Anglican Church. It’s not much different from a Catholic one really. Stained glass, polished pews and the stench of religion. It all smells the same.
The Moorebank family arrived. That unfortunately-named ‘Skylar girl’ was a Moorebank in all but name. The local newspaper reported that her father had died of an overdose three years ago. I scanned the haggard faces, wondering if Sandy’s sister had been discharged from the psyche ward to attend her daughter’s funeral. She was a blonde, skeletal thing and as far as I could tell she was absent. Sandy had mascara running down her face and lipstick smudged up to her streaming nose. She was hunched over and walked with faltering steps, assisted by her mother who didn’t look much better and was obviously three sheets to the wind. The blind leading the blind. Some of the rest of the Moorebank coven straggled in behind, one fellow carrying Sandy’s youngest, an ugly toddler that looked like it suffered from foetal alcohol syndrome, with widely spaced eyes and cauliflower ears. I cast my mind back to the dog- mauled disposable nappies.
I’d had enough of the whole production and discreetly eased my way out of the church. The gawkers stretched all the way back to the ancient iron gates of the church. What a bunch of fucking hypocrites, I thought, sneering at them. Nobody ever had the time of day for the Moorebanks up until a week ago. They were all but spat on by decent folks. Sandy was constantly thrown out of the hotel for soliciting. Her sister, I think her name was Julianne, had tried unsuccessfully to break into every store in town. The police were called to brawls at the various Moorebank homes so often they had become a standard part of Michelle’s shift. Someone told me she regularly drove by their homes before her night shift ended to see if anyone needed an ambulance for injuries or overdoses. In other words they were the ultimate white trash family and they were loathed and despised…..BUT the drama of MURDER had the town in some ecstatic thrall, and everyone but everyone HAD to be involved on some level. The television cameras might have been a lure as well, don’t you think!? The Park Café was closed because of the funeral. It had become a flipping ‘Moorebank holiday’ in town.
I found my car, parked up behind the school and drove purposefully to your house, Grace. I knew you were out of the way for a good hour and I wanted to know what you wrote in your diary about LAST NIGHT. I need to know whether you are truly feeling guilty or SMUG about your wanton behaviour.
I’ve added your house key to my key-ring. Doesn’t that mean we’re going steady??????
Your bedroom was a mess. It smelt like a dirty brothel. The bed was unmade and in a state of disarray. I peeled back the chaotic bedcovers and inspected the sheets.
The footage I have of the abomination is not good quality. Frank did warn me that in bad lighting it was preferable to use black and white film. I should have listened. Your lust had been so frantic and desperate but it was still blatantly obvious that you and your MATE did not practice safe sex. How do you know that this man doesn’t go to hookers or pick up loose women all the time? How exceptionally irresponsible of you, Grace. I’m so disappointed in you I feel like grabbing you and shaking some goddamn sense into you. You are going to have to be tested for a range
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