Dangerous Devotions

A D Penhall

Description

Blind barrister Tom Challinor's plans for a well-earned week off are dashed by an attempted murder linked to a Sydney escort agency.
Sonya and her sassy friend Avril are workers in that niche-market agency where the workers are all people with disability, amputees, chair users, or people of short stature. Their eager customers style themselves 'devotees'.
Meanwhile, bizarrely-mutilated dolls are turning up on the doorestep of a women's refuge.
As Tom investigates an underworld of desire, entitlement, and exploitation the menace of predatory passion clamps tight around Avril and Sonya, and young women start to disappear.

Sujets

• Amateur Sleuth
• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Clan Destine Press
• Date de parution: 01 juillet 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781922904102
• Langue: English

Extrait

First published by Clan Destine Press in 2023
Clan Destine Press PO Box 121, Bittern Victoria, 3918 Australia
Copyright © A D Penhall 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including internet search engines and retailers, electronic or mechanical, photocopying (except under the provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-In-Publication data: Penhall, A D TITLE: Dangerous Devotions
ISBN: 978-1-922904-09-6 (paperback) ISBN: 978-1-922904-10-2 (eBook)
Cover Design by © Willsin Rowe Design & Typesetting by Clan Destine Press Digital distribution by Ebook Alchemy
www.clandestinepress.net

In memory of my Uncle Phil who lived with the love of dancing,
music, hard work, and with blindness.
And in memory of Cheryl, who never let either living with disability
and subsequent poverty or the stereotyping and moralising of others irritate her too much.
Thanks to them both for the laughs.

‘Tis a common proverb in Italy, that he knows not Venus in her perfect sweetness who has never lain with a lame mistress … ancient philosophy has itself determined it, which says that the legs and thighs of lame women, not receiving, by reason of their imperfection, their due aliment, it falls out that the genital parts above are fuller and better supplied and much more vigorous … and come more entire to the sports of Venus.’
—Michel de Montaigne (1553-1592) Of cripples
‘Put simply, a devotee is someone who admires, desires, and/or fetishises someone who’s disabled. It can be any disability but most common tend to be amputees, wheelchair users, and other physical or mobility disabilities.
‘Opinions on devotees are very mixed within disability circles, with some claiming they are troubled, exploitative freaks who should be shunned. Others say they enjoy interacting with them, both as potential lovers or allies.
—Kath Duncan in The Ultimate Guide to Sex and Disability: For All of Us Who Live with Disabilities, Chronic Pain, and Illness . Cory Silverberg, Miriam Kaufman, Fran Odette, Cleis Press, San Francisco, 2016, p101


monday

1
An armless Cabbage Patch doll sits on a doorstep. The detached parts are discarded, one leg severed above the knee. Blood – is it real? human? whose? – is splattered across the neck, the chest slashed, stuffing spilling. The doll is propped in a niche, protecting it from the bitter early morning wind that might otherwise topple it.
The house is a refuge for women with disability who are victims of domestic violence. Eight women and eleven children are currently crowded into the mansion that was once home and surgery for a local doctor, later a brothel, more recently a boarding house. A child, hearing daughter of a deaf woman, finds the doll this winter morning, and screams so loudly the nearby windows rattle in their ancient frames. The mother drags her daughter back inside and holds her close. The mother, too, is punched by the horror and emits sounds without words. This is not the first time.
Across the city, it’s a cold dawn, a desert wind, a broken-glass brilliance, starved of moisture, a complete absence of playfulness. With strong, well-practised movements, Tom Challinor climbs from the pool and lets the chill splinter against him for a full sixty seconds before wrapping a towel around his large frame and heading for the house. He enjoys the wind, its lack of manners, the way it tears away at the pretence of Sydney as a warm, sea-trimmed beauty. When it comes to tourism, the westerly winds are among Sydney’s best kept secrets.
Showered and dressed, Tom switches on the espresso machine. He wants the city and its inhabitants to admit to other secrets, and very soon at that. He calls Warren, who’s very good at asking the right questions, or knowing the right people to ask them of.
‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ Warren asks, blurry-voiced.
‘Thought I’d get you before your kids were up. I’m hoping you have time for some work over the next few days.’
‘Surveillance?’
‘Basically.’
‘Anything interesting, I’m in. If it’s bread and butter, my cholesterol’s already over the limit.’
‘This one’s out of the ordinary. A new escort agency, with an unusual twist.’
‘Dunno if that’s possible. And last time I followed a pimp I ended up with a closer connection to some asphalt than I generally fancy. Job wasn’t for a well-known barrister on the right side of the law like you, Boss; doesn’t mean the dangers’re any different.’
‘No close personal contact involved. There’s a van I need you to follow.’
‘A van? What kinda escort agency has a van?’
‘One that supplies elegant ladies, and the occasional gentleman, who use wheelchairs.’ The hiss of the coffee demands attention. ‘This agency serves a niche market. Its workers are all people with disability – some have amputations, some spinal injury. There’re also people with dwarfism and vision impairment. The clients don’t like to see themselves as ordinary punters. They call themselves “devotees”.’
‘Boss, I know y’might have a personal interest, but brothels aren’t illegal anymore. Maybe an escort agency’s dodgier. Thing is, people gotta have work. Manufacturing’s all gone, you know.’
Tom pours his coffee. Outside, a tree-branch screeches resistance to the wind. ‘Agreed. The problem is not with devotees. It’s with an organisation whipping up the extremes of fetish and putting workers in dangerous situations. We’ve been aware of the agency for a few weeks, gleaned what I’ve told you about the van and the workers and have been putting out feelers for more information. Recently, the ante has been upped. Sit down a minute, I’ll give you some detail.’
The story is: late last week, an elderly gent, exercising against arthritis, stumbled across a grotesque scene in Parramatta Park. A young woman was lying, face frozen in fear or death – he couldn’t tell which – below the murky surface of a heavily overshadowed, out of the way section of an ornamental lake. A wheelchair was abandoned nearby. The man managed to attract the attention of other joggers. Together they lifted the young woman from the cold water. One applied CPR, another called emergency services. The young woman survived, although it was edgy for a time.
‘The police reportedly jumped to the conclusion of suicide. The old gentleman stoically insisted that was impossible – she simply couldn’t have pushed herself to the lake. The tree roots were too thick, the ground too broken, debris strewn everywhere. He badgered them at the station. Once they accepted it was not a self-inflicted near-disaster they took more time to get their heads around the fact the young woman – Melanie – wasn’t out touring the park with a parasol and hadn’t elegantly tripped, rolling involuntarily into the water.
Tom sips his coffee, runs his hand over his short hair.
‘They finally noticed it might just be attempted murder. They still appear to be ignoring the information Melanie gave them; that she’d been paid to be in a hotel room with a strange man and with no way of exiting independently. That she’d been taken from the room, involuntarily. They couldn’t believe a nice young woman in a wheelchair would engage in anything as sordid or out-there as sex work.’
Tom can almost hear Warren’s shrug. ‘Boss, they’re coppers. They’re do-ers, progressive thinking’s not their thing.’
‘Indeed. However, we’re not muscling in on the police investigation, not for the time being. In fact, they have a suspect in custody. Our job is to uncover the mechanisms that allow a middle-aged man to have an assignation with a young woman with paraplegia in a hotel room in the western suburbs in the middle of the day, at an exorbitant fee – with limited, if any, safety support. And, as an imperative, to track down the people who are promoting such threatening situations. They’re not simply new pimps on the block, trying out a different sales-pitch: they’re very effectively operating off all the usual radars. There’s big money involved in this set-up.’
‘Well, you got my interest. Isn’t this a job for Ivan though? I mean, how they getting the word out? Talking to each other? Bookings must be net-based, hey.’
’Ivan’s so far drawn a blank. Net, social media, dark web, all as profligate and dirty as ever – while completely lacking any indication of this particular organisation. His impression is that twentieth century communications are being utilised, keeping everything close and relatively unhackable. Eventually he’ll dig something up. In the meantime, there’ll be cracks in the agency’s armour. After the park incident, the staff will be wary, more likely to talk – if only we can find them to ask. And we’ve got to get a handle on the agency’s customers. Our sources tell us the uptake is extraordinary, frenzied. This agency sells the exotic, the fetishistic, the truly unique. Much more can go seriously wrong. Violence toward people with disability comes cheap. And excites some people.’
‘Got the picture. If this agency’s spreading its wings or digging in its claws, how come I never heard of it?’ Warren sounds seriously aggrieved.
‘Your ignorance is a good measure of its discretion.’ Tom means this. Warren is a finger-on-the pulse PI.
‘Discreet means expensive. I bet they’re paying the workers like they’re convicts off the First Fleet, though.’
Good, Tom thinks, he’ll take the job. Warren cheerfully leaves solving major crimes to the police – when he thinks they can manage the job – but he’s always ready to go into bat for the underdog. Tom’s father would’ve liked Warren. Pity Keith Challinor died so young.
‘We’d really appreciate it if you could spare a couple of