5 Ways to be Famous Now Read online

  5 ways to be famous now

  MAURILIA MEEHAN

  MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

  www.transitlounge.com.au

  Copyright© 2016 Maurilia Meehan

  First Published 2016

  Transit Lounge Publishing

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Cover image: Catherine Macbride/Trevillion Images

  Cover and internal book design: Peter Lo

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Cataloguing-in-publication details are available from the

  National Library of Australia:

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN: 978-0-9943957-6-4 (e-book)

  To Katie Rose, Jonathan Haig and Dwapara Rising

  Man moves entirely towards his increase, and his decrease.

  Montaigne

  ME #1

  Rest assured, you will find me a most reliable narrator. Facts only.

  I first met Captain Kirstin MacKinley when she strode into Araballa Library, where I am the library aide and project officer. I enjoy handling books and other combustibles. All eyes turned to this remarkable woman, six feet tall in her high heels, broad shouldered and of military bearing. I might have fancied her if it had not been for those long silver and turquoise earrings … but more of that later.

  You will probably remember Araballa for our Black Saturday bushfires and the dramatic headlines:

  Arsonist will Strike Again

  Railway Station Gutted

  Flames Endanger Lives

  Insufficient Evidence to Prove Deliberately Lit

  Well, I wasn’t going to leave my silver lighter behind, was I? I keep a scrapbook of all the events I create and all the articles pondering my psychology: ‘Depraved Pleasure’. ‘Perverted Thrill’. The nouns are accurate, the adjectives not. I have no pathology. It’s just an intellectual game of cat-and-mouse, a battle of wits. And I will always outsmart anyone I take on when it comes to intelligence. You get my drift?

  It’s not only the fire events I organise. I make sure I’m first to ring 000, within minutes of starting each fire. I want to give them a sporting chance. I watch the rush of fire trucks and stir to their deeply arousing sirens. All this, just for me. And then, respectable citizen that I am, I don my yellow volunteer’s uniform and man the hoses that battle the blaze I started. The newspaper clippings and web downloads I officially file under ‘Social History (Fires)’.

  Except for my roster on the check-out desk and helping people use the computers, I spend the rest of my time in a small private cubicle at the back of the library, compiling oral histories about topics of my choice. The idea is that future researchers will be fascinated by how people are living now. Future history. I have finished ‘Social Problems of Gambling’, in which I mainly interviewed myself under various aliases, using different voices and random photos I copied from Facebook. Bushfires are now my focus.

  I used to spend my time filing away interviews of people affected by my fires, because I was genuinely interested. At first. But these folk proved a little repetitive about their burned photo albums and insurance hassles, so I provided a little necessary balance by interviewing myself again, imaginatively playing the role of victim. As such, I always posit theories about the perpetrator. His motives. His possible abused childhood. The victims rarely focus on him. And he is, after all, the protagonist of each fire event.

  I consider Araballa Black Saturday to be my first perfect crime, but I have never repeated my one-off mistake of blurting it all out, looking for recognition. I have discovered a more subtle way of sharing, and all because of one of my bookish ex-lovers. These days most of my lovers are book borrowers. I meet a steady stream of sensitive, susceptible females at the check-out desk.

  I was so keen to please one particular redhead that I accompanied her to her regular hobby writing group. I had no trouble with the little exercise that began each session and I found my ‘character’ immediately, while others were still chewing their pencils.

  My hero liked to start fires and was so brilliant he was never exposed. Gritty realism, they called it, and begged me to explore his psychology and write more about his childhood. So I discovered my anonymous outlet and it made me a star, at least in that little circle. Week by week, I learned about the deeply disturbing elements of my behaviour through my writing. Fires, they said, were symbols of sexual blah-blah and Freudian hoo-ha.

  I will always owe that redhead for introducing me to scribbling. It has, so far, saved me from again revealing ‘his dark secret’, as my writing group called it. I became addicted to the weekly dose of praise and vicarious recognition. But because I have a rather small stock of characters, the group began to tire of me. They started to call me obsessive. So I had to cart my wares elsewhere.

  There are so many of these receptive little groups. I discovered that I could rotate them, presenting the same character, the same story, over and over. Always a hit. The characters the other members created never did anything outrageously bold. Mostly they just sat and thought about relationships or suicide. Hey, there’s more to life than that, I could have said, but there was no chance of any of them going bush with a silver lighter.

  This scribbling has been my safety valve. Addicted again, I suppose, but it’s nice to have an addiction. It structures the day. Gambling cured me of a short but intense period of being addicted to artistic girls. Taking up fires again cured me of gambling. I can’t see I’ll ever get over fires. It all started in my childhood, of course. But more of that later.

  So here you have me. Literate, capable of action. A rare combination. And that rare entity who has committed the Perfect Crime.

  You understand the inherent frustration of such a secret, so you will not be surprised to learn that, for my second perfect crime, I am creating this record for future archivists at Araballa Library to discover after my death. It will cause a sensation because my second perfect crime will be ramped up a notch. My first fatality.

  By now you will trust me when I say that I will deliver.

  Allow me to return to Captain Kirstin MacKinley.

  She has become a great fan of mine. I have been helping her check certain financial records because she doesn’t trust her accountant. At first I thought she was in the navy, with her peaked white cap and gold-braided jacket, but her long jet black hair, blunt-cut in a square-fringe Chinese style, gave the lie to that. And those dreadful earrings and the heels. Definitely not regulation. Her skin has the look of expensively buffed leather and her startlingly blue eyes are outlined in black. She holds herself very straight, looking down from her height without lowering her chin. She radiates the self-assurance that springs, I guess, from years of having her whims instantly obeyed.

  If I may confide further, when I first saw her, she reminded me of Xena Warrior Princess, whose image covered my bedroom walls when I was younger. In fact I have had quite a few sexual experiences with her, if you get my drift. Of course Captain Kirstin, as she prefers to be called, is quite mature. At least my own age, early forties. But, instinctively, I want her approval.

  She has already praised my computer skills. To further impress her, I mentioned that I am authorised to access identity details not only of our own borrowers but those of any library registered for interlibrary loans.

  ‘So you could locate anyone who has a library card?’

  ‘Not without good reason, of course.’

  ‘Naturally. Well, you might be just the sort of discreet, reliable man I always ne
ed. Have you ever done ballroom dancing?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  For in my youth I had neglected no chick-pull skill.

  ‘Barista? Waiter?’

  Anyone could do that, so I nodded. But I wanted to loosen her up, as she is what I would call a tense woman. Clipped speech, stiff posture and hair and hands that are almost over-groomed. I like a woman to smell natural, perhaps a little Nivea hand cream, but she wore scent. Thankfully, it was Ocean Breeze, the only one I could bear. I invited her to lunch at the hotel next door to the library. It was my first proper visit to that establishment, though I had once briefly looked in the windows to see if it had my favourite machine, Hawaiian Ladies.

  I have a rather special relationship with that model, the result of having struck up a bond with one of my fans at the library check-out. He was a computer programmer at the Gaming Authority headquarters, and he used to come into the library to order the more alternative books on the subject that his organisation didn’t buy. He liked hardbacks about famous hackers, but they were expensive so I agreed to order in the titles he wanted. They interested me too. After a while, he started bragging that he had identified a weakness in Hawaiian Ladies. He had discovered how a certain chip, which calculates payouts and prevents tampering, could be hacked. All he wanted in return for sharing this secret was to take home all the hardbacks before they had been accessioned. Let him steal them, to put it plainly.

  Was he insane? If I were him, I would have wanted a million bucks in return for that secret. But then I am normal. Naturally you will be curious to know how he did it. All I can say is that it involved inserting a specific combination of coins. For example: insert two coins, wait three seconds, one coin, wait five seconds. You get my drift? The faulty machine automatically pays out.

  That guy at the Gaming Authority almost went to prison, so I have been cautious about trying it. But I really wanted to impress Captain Kirstin. This would be my trump card.

  I used to be addicted to unrigged slot machines. I preferred quiet pubs, with a few machines all to myself. Authentically yeasty and dim as a pub could get, with dedicated male drinkers silhouetted against the carnival glow of unattended pokies. Into the murky shadows I would step, trying to look like a man without a plan. Studying the aesthetics before I actually touched the controls was foreplay. Taking my time. Fingers tingling, flexed around a tall glass of foaming Guinness. Warming up. Then I would scan the gloom, locating the ATMs. I liked everything to hand. Ideally, I wouldn’t have to stand up to get to the money because all the best gambling stools are fitted with wheels. Just roll over, do the business, roll back. Stay in the zone.

  How did I get over my addiction? The secret is to replace one addiction with another. My addiction to arty girls had been replaced by gambling. Gambling by reverting to my childhood passion, lighting fires.

  As Captain Kirstin and I entered the swing doors of the hotel next door, I loved the way everyone looked at her — even though it meant they were doubly sure to remember my visit. I don’t like these modern, overlit bistro pubs with carpets like bath sponge underfoot. I briefly missed the old thrill of gloomy light and uncertain wins. But then it passed.

  We dined well on fish of the day and then I carried Captain Kirstin’s glass over to the closest machine so she had to follow if she wanted to finish her drink. I pulled out a padded stool for her. To my astonishment, she sprayed it with a can of steriliser pulled discreetly from her handbag. She wiped the stool dry with a tissue and then perched on it, seeming amused at this new experience. I spent a ritual moment cracking my knuckles, explaining to her the sacred, traditional artwork on the screen. Getting the feel of its personality was important, I said. And I described my objective clearly. The three Hawaiian girls would shake their hips to celebrate my jackpot after exactly five insertions of coins. To ensure her undivided attention, I asked her to count aloud.

  She was worth the slight risk of going to prison. In fact, the threat of possible prosecution provided the highest level of excitement I had ever experienced before a strike.

  The moment before a strike has always been my happiest. Heaven awaits. No limits. I’m poised for action. About to embark on a roller-coaster chase. It’s the thrill of the pause before lighting a cigarette. Or igniting dry grass in a paddock.

  But back to Captain Kirstin. She counted and I made quick work of lining up those three dancing girls for the win. The machine spewed its guts and everyone cheered. But even though I was sure to add a huge tip while settling the lunch bill with my winnings, the patron was sour. I guessed all would be fine as long as I never returned to his establishment. As for Captain Kirstin, she didn’t say much as we collected but I saw her thick eyebrows lift so high that they disappeared under her black fringe.

  ‘How did you do it so quickly?’

  ‘I’m a boy wonder.’

  I thought it better to remain a man of mystery. A little early in our relationship to admit that I also hacked the CFA so I can have a front-row seat when they battle any of my fires that I am unable to attend personally. I was confident that she was quickly becoming my biggest fan. And she set my mind aflame with possibilities.

  We headed for the respectability of the library. On the way, it was her turn to impress me. She owned a small cruise ship which would be ready for a maiden voyage to Antarctica the following year, she said.

  ‘If you can take a few weeks leave from work, I might have a vacancy soon for a right-hand man. Computer work, but you also need to be able to turn a hand to anything that comes up. Flexibility of the utmost …’

  And so on. At the entrance to the library, she handed me an envelope and told me to open it in private.

  ‘It’s a random name. A test. Find out this person’s address. Give me your ideas for getting her on board my ship. If I’m impressed, the job is yours.’

  This was the oddest job interview ever. She was begging, if you get my drift, even if I would have to be some kind of dancing waiter for her. Yes, Captain Kirstin was a woman of mystery but, as she walked away, I knew I was on my way to removing her many veils.

  Back at the library, I started to analyse how to maximise the benefits of this unexpected new friendship. It was frustrating not to be able to form a clear plan. Any course of action would depend on what Captain Kirstin’s own intentions turn out to be.

  I sat down at the terminal, logged into ‘Borrower Details’, and then looked at the name she had written down for me.

  Not much surprises me, but I couldn’t believe it. Could it be the same person? Could it be that this person of interest to the captain is the same one I used to know? I was certain this was not a random name, as she had claimed. But why does she want her? Lesbian romance was my first disappointing thought. But even if she is that way inclined, the captain is such an attractive woman, surely she wouldn’t have to trick a lover into spending time with her?

  Slowly, a plan was starting to take shape. How could I structure my results so she would believe it was to her advantage to also have on board whoever else I might suggest? At this stage I didn’t really know what I planned to do to my additional targets, but that was a minor point. I was pretty sure that the captain intended no good to come to her own quarry. I would just have to follow her lead until she eventually revealed her intentions.

  And then I thought of an obvious ruse to get her target and mine aboard. The rest fell into place. It was all astonishingly simple, as brilliant ideas always are. And it was bound to convince her I was her man. I was going to be a player in this high-stakes game.

  Working at the check-out desk, I have become familiar with classic crime novels. We lend out thousands of them. People are insatiable readers of the genre, but most of the novels are fairly simple puzzles and they bore me. Especially the ‘Perfect Crime’ sub-genre. However, the idea of executing a flawless crime on a daunting scale is irresistible. And now I have all the necessaries.

  Motives? Mine, obviously. And Captain Kirstin’s — to be discover
ed.

  Deserving victims? Four.

  Perpetrator? Why, that would be yours truly, assisted by the captain.

  Location? How to gather all the targets together? Tradition would require a snowbound chalet or country house filled with friends or relatives. I do not have friends, as such, apart from any current amour, much less a friend with a country villa. But I do now have one huge new fan, who owns something much grander than the most impressive country pile.

  Fate, in spectacular style, has now entwined me with the fascinatingly wealthy Captain Kirstin MacKinley.

  1

  CAST-OFF

  Captain Kirstin MacKinley was justifiably proud of her perfect masterpiece, the Queen Mary. Soon she would greet her passengers and personally conduct the Ghost Tour, a duty she has reserved for her own pleasure.

  As she scrubbed up in her Japanese-themed bathroom, her mind was still full of the awe-inspiring digital fireworks that had celebrated the ship departing Hobart. The iridescent streamers had been so realistic that the passengers had reached out to catch them, only to discover they were holograms. Innovative and environmentally sound. No permit needed. No bureaucratic port authority ordering her to clean up.

  Now on to Antarctica, that realm of ice and snow, with her trusted crew at the helm of this virgin ship. She had chosen Eastern Antarctica, more remote than the peninsula, so the journey would be colder, the seas rougher. But what was most pleasing was that there was very little chance of sighting any other ship on the voyage. She intended to avoid human contact at the research stations (with all that early explorer blarney) by attempting an opportunistic landing in the Ross Sea region. She could blame uncertain ice conditions if the passengers queried her. She would use the same excuse to bypass Macquarie Island, where the idea of 150,000 breeding pairs of king penguins nauseated her almost as much as did a swarming human crowd. She was sole owner of the custom-built Queen Mary. It was her personal plaything and all decisions were hers alone.