The Last Motel (18 page)

CHAPTER FORTY

Madge’s Story

April 4th, 1960

As she switched off the bathroom light and stepped into the dimly-lit bedroom, a smile came over Madge Fraiser’s face. “Are you ever going to get dressed?” she said as she made her way over to the bed.

The man lying on top of the sheets, his hands tucked under his head, smiled. “I will when you do.”

Madge gazed down at his now limp penis, resting against the inside of his left leg, and felt a hot flush sweep through her body.

My God, we just had sex. Do I really want to do it again so soon? Do I want to tire this poor man out?

“Whatcha thinking about?”

Madge broke her gaze and looked Jason MacDonald in the face. He was grinning.

“I can manage it again, you know. I’m a regular Don Juan.”

She nodded. “I know. I’ve never had so much sex in my life. Not even when I was a teenager.”

“So you don’t regret these past six months?” he asked with a hint of uncertainty.

“Of course not,” Madge said.

And she really was telling the truth.

They had been friends for about ten years. That’s when he had first joined the force. A young, strapping eighteen-year-old. Jack had taken him under his wing, as the saying goes. This was back when Jack was Detective Sergeant.

Jack talked endlessly about this new recruit: how he was top in his class, smart as they come, great with a weapon and wise beyond his years.

The first time she met this young superstar was over dinner. He had been shy, polite and had eaten more meatloaf than Madge had ever thought possible.

Even then she had a potent attraction to this boy. Often she would daydream, sometimes dream, about lustful encounters with him. On the odd occasion that she and Jack made love, she would close her eyes and imagine it was young Jason on top of her, thrusting his virile manhood deep inside her.

Over the next ten years, as Jack made his way to Detective Inspector and Jason to Detective Sergeant, her want for him increased. Every social gathering, every dinner at their house was an awkward affair. Jason had grown into a brash, confident man. And with it came the sort of chiselled looks that seemed more appropriate on a movie star than a police officer.

He started flirting with her – innocent looks and gestures that were at first playful, but became increasingly real.

She loved her husband, dearly, but her desires weren’t being met in the bedroom. She was approaching forty-five, yet her sexual needs were still as strong as when she was twenty-five.

So it was almost inevitable. Six months ago they finally had sex, in the hallway of his apartment, while Jack was on duty. She had been amazed they got that far; she was ready as soon as he picked her up in his white Ford sedan.

It was short, hot and passionate.

Madge had come for the first time. And that sensation enlivened her. She craved for it. Not to mention she liked the fact that she was a forty-four-year-old woman having sex with a twenty-eight-year-old stud.

But she was a strikingly good-looking woman for her years. Even she, when looking into the mirror, had to admit that age had been very kind to her. She was trim, tanned and not a wrinkle or sag to blemish her full figure. And her face was soft and full of life.

Of course she felt guilty, ashamed, and yes, also sluttish for cheating on her husband. But she loved the physical contact.

Jason told her on many occasions how wrong it was – yet how right it felt. So they kept on seeing each other.

Jack had no idea, or at least he had never let on that he knew. It would break him if he ever found out, because he loved her just as much as she loved him. He loved Jason, too, though he would never admit it.

So even though she was betraying her loving husband – a hardworking and loyal man – she didn’t regret these past six months. How could she, when what they did felt so sinfully good?

“It certainly has been...an experience,” Madge told him. She corralled her clothes from off the floor and began dressing.

“I guess that’s a hint,” Jason said, still naked and with his hands under his head. “What time does Jack get home?”

“Oh, around eleven, eleven-thirty,” she said as she slipped on her skirt.

“You’d better skedaddle, then.”

Madge buttoned her blouse then sat on the bed while she put on her stockings and shoes.

“I wonder how he’s doing with that new recruit.”

“Have you met him?”

‘Yeah, a couple of times. Seems like a nice guy.”

“A very nice young man,” Madge said. “Reminds me a bit of when you were merely an innocent Constable.”

“Not as good-looking,” Jason said.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Young Harry Wilkes has a certain boyish charm.”

“Watch it, Madge,” Jason chuckled. “You’ll get a reputation as being the Healesville tart.”

That stung her. She knew Jason was only joking, but she couldn’t help but feel that that label was close to the truth. She had often thought that of herself. But hearing somebody else say it, well, that made her really hate herself.

Jason must’ve noticed her sudden dire expression.

“I’m sorry, Madge. That was in bad taste. You’re not…well...one of those.” He sat up. He put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re a wonderful person. I know you love Jack very much.”

Yeah, I love him so much that I’m fucking the son he never had behind his back. I’m a regular June Cleaver
.

“It’s okay. Really.” She turned around and pecked him on the forehead. “I’ll see you...”

He grabbed her and flung her down on the bed. He slammed his mouth over hers and plunged his tongue deep. She could still faintly taste her tangy juices, and though it wasn’t an unpleasant taste, she pulled away. “I’m sorry, Jason. I’m not in the mood.” She huffed. “Shit, I sound like a frigid nun.”

Jason nodded. He had a dejected look on his still handsome face. “It’s my fault.”

Madge grabbed her purse then stood up. “Let’s just forget these last five minutes. Pretend that we just finished having sex. You’re still coming over for dinner tomorrow night?”

He nodded.

“I’ll see you then.”

“Is Wilkes coming too?”

“Yeah. But don’t worry. No need to get jealous. He’s not my type.” She smiled.

Jason smiled back. “See ya tomorrow, darling.”

She turned and headed for the front door. As she stepped out, she heard Jason’s phone ring.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Driving home, her mind was awash with conflicting emotions. Part of her still wanted to keep seeing Jason. She loved the act of sexual intercourse, the feeling it gave her. It was hedonism to the max. Another part, the one that hated being thought of as a tart, wanted to break it off. But that was a selfish part. Because, she still wanted to be with Jason, still wanted to betray her husband, but not at the humiliating expense of being called a whore. She wasn’t one to care what other people thought of her, but even she had her limits. After all, she still had feelings. And yet another part of her, the one constant that kept nagging at her, was guilt. The simple reason being her husband. Because it wasn’t lack of love, or support or companionship that drove her to infidelity. It was only sex.

So a minute didn’t go by, ever since ten years ago when she had first met Jason, that she didn’t hate herself for betraying Jack. Whether it was thoughts or actions, the guilt, her conscience, was an importunate companion.

By the time she arrived home, she hadn’t come to any conclusions.

To see Jason, or not to see Jason?
she thought. That, indeed, was the question.

As she pulled into the driveway, a frown came over her already sour face.

Who the hell is that?
she wondered.

The figure stood up as the headlights passed over its dim form. The person remained on the porch steps while Madge switched off the headlights, then the engine. She hopped out of the car. “Hello,” she called. “Who is that?” She was a smart woman, and being a police officer’s wife, had learned a few tricks to ensure her safety.

“It’s me, Madge. Harry Wilkes.”

Madge sighed with relief at the sound of the young Detective Constable’s voice. “I wasn’t sure who it was,” she said, making her way up to greet him. “Never can be too careful these days.”

Like always, she had kept the porch light on. As she neared Harry she could see his grim face.

The night was cool, and ordinarily she would have welcomed Harry inside. But tonight she could see something wasn’t right. Besides Harry’s sad expression, there didn’t seem to be any sign of Jack.

“What’s going on, honey? What’s the matter?”

Harry suddenly fell into Madge’s arms and started to cry. She was taken back, but put her arms around the boy. “Come on, now. It’s all right.”

Bullshit it’s all right. Where the hell is Jack?!

Her stomach was fluttering. She knew something was terribly wrong –  although it didn’t take a genius to figure that out.

But she felt something deeper, a pain in her heart that almost spoke to her. Something had happened to her husband.

“Sssh, come on. Tell me what happened.” She slowly pushed Harry away. He looked at her. His eyes were puffy and red; the tears had caused grey streaks on his face.

“There was a...a...a stabbing. At the station. He was cra...crazy.” He sniffed a long strand of snot back up his nose. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

A stabbing?

Madge could now feel herself begin to lose her hold on sanity. She felt a little light-headed, so she had to wait a moment before she asked the question. “Where’s Jack?” she said in a shaky, high-pitched voice.

Please say he’s in the hospital. He’s hurt, but he’s still alive…

Harry broke down and began to snivel like a scared little boy. Tears that ran down his cheeks joined the snot that poured from his nose. “Jack’s dead. I’m sorry.” His shoulders jiggled up and down.

A scream tore from Madge’s throat.

* * *

She was sitting on the couch, ten minutes later, when the doorbell chimed. She was cradling a cup of herbal tea that Harry had made for her, although she hadn’t taken any sips of it. Her eyes were stinging from the constant tears, and although she wasn’t in shock, she felt strange, like she was outside of herself.

Jack can’t be dead. He just can’t be. Not my Jack. Not my Jack…

Echoing around her head now was the sound of the front door being opened and then the deep, yet quiet tones of men talking.

Soon Harry came into the lounge. “Ah, Madge. It’s Sergeant MacDonald. He’s come to see how you are. Do you want to see him?”

Madge looked up, but before she could answer, the figure of Jason came up behind Harry. “Hi, Madge. I’m...so sorry.”

Madge extended the tepid cup of tea. “Could you please take this into the kitchen, Harry? It’s gone cold.”

Harry shuffled forward and took the cup from her grasp. “Do you want me to make you another one?”

She wiped her eyes and shook her head. “No thanks. But fix yourself whatever you want. There is tea and coffee in the cupbo...”

“It’s okay, Madge. You just rest easy.” Carrying the cup, Harry headed into the kitchen.

Madge put her head down and cried.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here. It’s gonna be all right.”

She didn’t hear Jason walk over and sit down next to her, but he must’ve, because he now had his arm around her.

But that was the last thing she wanted. He was the last person she wanted to be around. In fact, in one of the few cohesive thoughts she had since finding out the heart-breaking news, she made up her mind that she didn’t want to keep seeing him. She despised him, or more specifically, what he represented.

“Please go,” she whispered.

“Madge?”

“I said I want you out of here. Please.”

Jason’s arm fell from her shoulders. “But...Come on, darling. You can’t be by yourself tonight.”

“Harry can stay,” she choked in between sobs. “I...I don’t want to see you anymore, Jason. And don’t call me darling.”

“If you want me to go, I’ll go,” Jason said, coldly. “But don’t say things you don’t mean, Madge. I know how upset you mus...”

“Get the fuck outta my house,” she hissed. “It’s over. Okay? I’ve betrayed Jack enough. I hate myself.” Those last few words were sobs that escalated into a rush of tears.

The next thing she heard was the front door being slammed shut.

The footsteps of Harry thumped into the lounge. “Is everything okay, Madge? I heard the door slam.”

Bringing her feet up onto the couch, Madge curled up in a tight ball, buried her face in one of the pillows and wept.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

April 5th, 1960

Madge stood at the door and waved to Harry. As his car sped off, she closed the door then stood and listened. There were no sounds except her heavy breathing and pounding heart. The house was too quiet.

She headed into the lounge and fell onto the couch. She turned on the television, just to have some sort of noise.

Staring at the senseless blend of noise and images, Madge felt restless and empty. She didn’t know what to do with herself. The time was only quarter to six, yet everything had been organised.

Jack was of course having an official police funeral, so they were making all those arrangements: it was scheduled for the day after tomorrow.

There had been calls coming in droves all day; Harry had taken most of them, only giving her the phone when it was a close family member or friend.

Harry had been fantastic. Making her lunch and breakfast, doing the washing, being her messenger boy. No wonder Jack had taken an instant liking to him.

He had wanted to stay and fix her dinner, but she said no, that he should go home and get some well earned rest.

She hopped up from the couch and picked up the bunch of tulips that had not long ago arrived from Mike Powell. She went into the kitchen and placed them in a vase. She filled it with water, then put them on the coffee table in the lounge. She sat back down and sighed.

What to do now?
she wondered.

It was nearing dinnertime, but she wasn’t hungry. She was, however, thirsty. So she went over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out the bottle of Black Douglas. She took one of the whisky glasses and poured herself half a glass.

As she placed the bottle back, she glanced up at the photo that sat on top of the cabinet. She smiled as tears ran down her cheeks.

It was her favourite photo of her husband. A professional shot of him all done up in his police uniform, ten years ago. Handsome, regal and proud.

She took down the photo, and with the glass of whisky, sat down on the couch. She placed the photo on the coffee table and stared at it.

My love. My dearest Jack. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for betraying you. Can you ever forgive me?

She took a drink then wiped her eyes.

The phone rang.

She placed the glass down then hopped up.

There hadn’t been a call for about an hour. Practically every person she and Jack had known had called during the day. She took a deep breath before picking up the phone. “Madge speaking.”

There was silence. Then, “Ah, hi. It’s me.”

Pain ripped across her chest. “Hi.”

And goodbye
, she wanted to say.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. Listen, if you’re calling about...”

“I know,” he cut her off. “I’m sorry for walking out on you last night. I guess it was an emotional time for all of us.”

You pompous prick
, she thought.
I told you to leave. And…

“And you have no idea how I am feeling,” she decided to finish. “Listen, Jason. I meant what I said last night. It’s over between us. Can you please understand and respect that?”

Silence. She could hear his breathing. “But I...lo...”

“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t say it, Jason. Don’t even think it. It was always just a physical relationship. I just...Christ! I don’t want to talk about it. Just leave me alone. I’m in mourning, for Christ’s sake!”

She was crying. There were so many emotions flying through her head that she could barely think. All she wanted was to forget every part of her life and think about Jack. Be with his spirit. Remember him. Cry for him. Not be on the phone discussing...
this
.

“Please, Madge. Let me come over. We can talk about this properly. Talk about Jack. He was dear to me, too.” Jason sounded like he was sobbing. That just fuelled Madge’s hatred.

“It’s over,” she told him. “I understand your pain over Jack’s death, but let us grieve separately, in our own way. But as for us...I don’t want to see you again. Ever. Understand? I hate myself for betraying Jack. I don’t think I’m ever going to forgive myself. The least I can do for him now that he’s gone is to respect him. What I should have done while he was alive.”

She heard blubbering. Then, “Madge, don’t do this. I need you.”

She couldn’t help it. “Go fuck yourself. I need Jack!”

She slammed down the phone. She fell to her knees and wailed. The wail turned into a scream that burned her throat.

* * *

The knocking gradually made its way into her consciousness. A low thudding that was at first quiet, then slowly got louder, like turning up the volume knob on a radio. She thought it was the television, but glancing forward, saw that the screen was black. She blinked and from the grandfather clock, saw that the time was almost nine-thirty.

Have I been asleep?
she wondered.
I...can’t remember
.

The knocking continued.

She noticed the bottle of Black Douglas was more than half empty. She frowned. She was certain that the bottle had been almost full when she got it out.

I couldn’t have drunk all that. I don’t even feel tipsy
.

But when she stood, a swirl of light passed before her eyes and her head felt like it had been pumped full of helium. Her legs became wobbly and she immediately sat down and dropped her head.

Eventually the feeling faded, but the knocking continued.

She stood again, slowly, and took a deep breath.

The thudding seemed to be coming from the front of the house.

Of course. The front door
.

That seemed fitting, because she desperately wanted some fresh air. So she shuffled down the hallway and to the door, where the knocking bore into her head like a clamorous power drill.

She flung open the door, felt the instant rush of cool night air, but soon after smelled something else – the pungent fumes of alcohol.

Her eyes were still adjusting to the dimness, and before she had a chance to ask who it was, a body pushed past her. “Who the hell...?”

“I love you, Madge,” came the drunken slur. “You know that? I love...”

“Get the fuck outta my house,” Madge managed to yell in spite of her queasy disposition.

“Not until you tell me that you love me and want to keep seeing me.”

Yes, Jason MacDonald sounded quite sloshed.

She heard the door slam shut and a sudden chill snaked its way up her spine. “Jason. I don’t have anything to say to you.” She turned and saw him guarding the entrance. “Get out of my house,” she told him.

“Not until you take back what you said on the phone.”

“Jesus Christ! My husband has just died! Leave me the fuck alone! What kind of sick man are you!”

She felt bile rise up in her throat, then she opened her mouth and vomited on the hallway carpet. It was hot and watery and seemed to last forever.

She had barely finished spitting out the last of the sour vomit when Jason grabbed her arm and pulled her into the lounge.

Without much regard for gentleness, he threw her onto the couch. She was crying rivers. “Why are you doing this to me?” she sobbed. “Why?”

“I want you, Madge,” Jason said. “And I know that you want me.”

Her sanity seemed to leak out of her mind, then, as she lay frightened and confused on the couch. It was all too much for her – Jack’s death, dealing with Jason. Now him coming over like this. It was too much for anyone to have to endure. She was a strong woman, but not that strong. There was only one thing that her mind seemed able to process: that she wanted Jack. Here, now and for always.

“Jack,” she cried helplessly. “Help me, Jack. I need you!”

“Jack’s dead!” Jason yelled, then began to cry. “He was like a father to me! Some sick fuckingmotherfucker stabs him...” He kicked the base of the couch, hard. Madge felt the vibrations all through her quaking body.

“I loved him!” Jason continued. “And I love you. I want you, darling. I
need
you.”

The next thing she recalled was having her pants being pulled off, then her panties. She was too much out of herself to fight. She heard Jason’s zipper, and remembered saying something like, “No, please no. I don’t feel well and I want Jack.”

Everything that happened next was a blur. His weight on her, his penis pushing its way inside, the foul stench of alcohol blowing into her face, the thrusting in and out, the wet slobber that dribbled onto her forehead and cheeks; they all melded into one awful haze of violation.

She let it all drift away with thoughts of her and Jack together.

* * *

When she opened her eyes, she saw Jason in front of her, zipping up his pants. She felt groggy and awfully sick. She could also smell a fetid mixture of semen, saliva and vomit. It made her gag, although she was either too weak or too empty to throw up.

She lazily looked up at Jason. He was sobbing, wiping his eyes and nose constantly, shaking his head.

Finished doing up his pants, he looked down at her, his eyes red and glazed, and muttered, “I’m so sorry, Madge. Please...forgive me.”

She couldn’t speak. Didn’t want to.

Her body felt dirty and pains tore at her vagina. She began to cry. She wanted to put her pants on, but they were down on the floor and she didn’t want to move. So she remained quivering, crying and hurting.

She moved her eyes to the grandfather clock – it was just after one-thirty.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Jason whined. “I was...drunk. And upset. I...won’t ever bother you again.”

She heard him hurry towards the front door, then the door slammed shut.

He was gone.

And so was she. She felt like her soul had been torn apart and thrown away, lost forever. Her pride, her confidence, her trust had been taken away from her. She felt used and ashamed.

“Oh Jack,” she whimpered.

But she knew Jack was not there to help her. Nobody was. She was alone, now. And she decided then, that nobody would find out about tonight. She didn’t want anyone to know her shame. She wanted to just forget it ever happened. Jason said he would leave her alone, so that was enough.

As she gingerly sat up, she knew that she had to leave this town. Go away and leave it all behind. After the funeral.

She noticed a thick glob of semen on the inside of her left leg. With her underpants, she wiped it off.

She threw the panties to the floor, and as she bent down to pick up her pants, noticed the photo of Jack lying on the floor. Jason must’ve knocked it off.

She picked it up and saw that the glass was cracked.

She fell back to the couch, the picture clutched to her chest and stared at nothing.