Weeping Angels - Alternative Epilogue
“This was the original epilogue for Weeping Angels. My editor didn’t like it because Marla wasn’t one of the main characters in the story. He was right, though he’s usually right! Here, then, is the original epilogue that describes how Marla Simmons makes the world slightly better! ”
Epilogue
Marla Simmons sipped her wine. She preferred whiskey but she wanted to limit her alcohol consumption. The self-appointed assignment she was on required her to drink, but she wanted to remain as close to sober as events allowed.
It had been a long day. After dropping Indy off to her lovely, elderly neighbour, Indy didn’t give her a backwards glance, she left her home in Parapara to catch a midday flight from Nelson to Auckland. Playing it ultra-cautious, the number of surveillance cameras leering from buildings was becoming alarming, she parked in Nelson’s busy Speights Ale House carpark, a ten-minute walk from the airport. Fir one night, it would look as though an inebriated owner had abandoned it for the night.
It was a pleasant stroll to Nelson airport, the flight was on time and she arrived in Auckland just after 2pm. Booking a single night’s accommodation under her preferred alias, Norma Smith, she spent the afternoon doing something she seldom did – clothes shopping. Although numerous security cameras would record her expedition, the long dark ponytail sticking out of a pink cap, sunglasses and activewear meant she appeared suitably different to the executive-styled Norma Smith who had arrived from Nelson.
Now, sitting in the restaurant, was a third version of Norma Smith – a jet-black crewcut, a clinging, white, low-cut top under an unbuttoned black jacket and tight jeans - she was waiting for her date. Right on 7.00 pm, in he walked, or more accurately strutted. To give him credit, he did look like his profile image. Most older men on dating sites imagined they still resembled the black and white image they preferred when they were slim with hair.
Raising her hand to get his attention, he gave her a confident eyebrow raise as he walked over.
‘Norma, you look better than your photo, and that was stunning.’
He held his arms out and, getting to her feet, she gave him the lightest of hugs. ‘You look great too, John. Sometimes men chose images which are—’
‘Ancient?’ he interrupted, grinning as they sat.
Marla’s on-line profile, which she had resurrected from when she had first needed to find a place to stay in Palmerston North, Listed her as an assistant manager in the public sector living in Auckland. It wasn’t possible to be vaguer than that.
John McMahon’s profile was the opposite of hers. Boastful about his work, achievements, possessions and abilities, he painted the picture of an international playboy – a real catch for some lucky lady. It reminded her of Gianluca Vacchi, a self-proclaimed ‘social media sensation’ or, more concisely, ‘a knob’.
On the plus side, McMahon had been easy to track down and even easier for her to reach into his life and seize a fistful of information. Using the metadata from sites that didn’t scrub their images properly, and by employing an image search, she found his address, date of birth, wedding date, ex-spouse’s name which she already knew, his profile on various social media sites, the businesses he owned, the two golf clubs where he was a member, his education and interests. People put their lives online in the belief no one was interested in looking - until they were.
‘Do I detect an American accent?’ he asked, his overly white teeth flashing in the darkened room.
‘Well spotted,’ she said. ‘I came out for a visit about five years ago but, what with Covid and the fact that I fell in love with New Zealand, I’m here for a while.’
They chatted amiably over dinner, he preferred himself as the focus of the conversation, she pretended to be interested. Dinner, the food aspect, was great but she swerved on his offer of a cocktail. He drank heavily, it was unlikely he would be able to drive them home, which she had hoped would happen. A taxi or rideshare would introduce a witness, but what would they know materially? It added a witness to the copious images the security cameras in and around the restaurant captured but the trail would go cold.
In her days as a US agent, she had run honey-trap assignments. Gentle flirting, not too obvious, make them work for what they wanted so she got what she wanted. What the targets usually had was information, or access to information. The real trick was to get the information without them knowing they had been compromised. When she had infiltrated ProtectNZ, a political party funded by the alt-right, she had used a non-lethal drug to incapacitate her target. He woke in the morning with a bad hangover thinking he had drunk too much – and that’s what he would convince himself had happened. The alternative story – that he allowed information about the secretive party to be compromised – was one he wouldn’t want to report to his superiors.
McMahon didn’t have information of value. That made the assignment easier.
‘How did you get here?’ he asked, pushing his empty plate away.
‘A friend dropped me off,’ she said. ‘Sometimes first dates don’t go so well, I drink too much to make them bearable.’
Grinning, he said, ‘You haven’t drunk that much tonight.’
Dropping her voice an octave, she said, ‘No, I haven’t.’
Leaning across the table, taking her hand, he said, ‘I left my car behind, too. I always drink too much when I’m having a great time.’
The word vomit popped into Marla’s head. Resisting her natural urge to reclaim her personal space, she said, ‘Not too much though, I hope.’
Grinning, or was it a leer, he said, ‘Never.’
After paying for dinner, he organised an Uber, putting his arm around her waist as they waited. She knew he lived eleven minutes away from the restaurant by car - a townhouse in a densely populated section of the city meant his neighbours lived close enough to hear major disturbances. She was prepared – there would be no disturbance.
After disarming his alarm system and opening the front door, he gestured for her to enter first. Smiling, she did. At the sound of the click of the front door she turned, still smiling. Approaching her slightly unsteadily, a wet smile and glistening eyes, he reached out with his right hand presumably to pull her to him. Still smiling, she turned side-on, her hand easing his approaching arm away from her. Tilting his head like dogs do when confused, she spun her torso hard, her elbow snapping upwards landing flush on his chin. His eyes rolled upwards as he went straight down, like a puppet whose strings Marla had severed.
Working efficiently, she took out two zip ties and a roll of duct tape. After securing his feet and hands, she made sure the only noise he could make was a muffled grunt. Dragging him into the lounge, she lay him next to the coffee table. Two minutes later, satisfied they were alone, she undid his trousers and pulled them down before helping herself to a drink from his well-appointed liquor cabinet.
When he regained consciousness, she was sitting on the couch, glass in hand, her feet on the coffee table. Groggily, he took in his situation. Glaring at her, he tried to speak but all he could muster was a few undecipherable, guttural threats.
Marla held a finger to her lips until he understood and stopped trying to talk. Standing, she put down her drink, picked up her bag and sat on the coffee table. From her bag she took out her Ka-Bar, a combat knife common in the US army.
His eyes widened.
‘I didn’t think I’d be able to buy one in New Zealand,’ she said. ‘Go figure.’ Using the knife, she lifted his shirt, exposing his genitals. Looking at him, she asked, ‘If I take the gag off, will you make a noise?’
His eyes still impossibly wide and white, he shook his head rapidly. The position he was in had fully dawned on him.
Slowly reaching towards his face, she tore the duct tape in a single, quick movement.
Choking back the pain, he hissed, ‘What do you want?’
Shrugging, she said, ‘You not on the planet.’ She held up a hand in response to his look. ‘Relax, I don’t do that – not anymore. Before I leave, though, you need to convince me that I shouldn’t carve a sign into you warning women that you’re a narcissistic, abusive little fuck. Have you seen Inglourious Basterds?’
Shaking his head quickly, he said, ‘no.’
Marla grunted. ‘Pity. Sorry to spoil the ending, Brad Pitt carves a swastika into the forehead of a Nazi. He can take off the uniform but he can’t take off that. Understand?’
McMahon nodded seriously.
‘Good. Question one,’ she said. ‘What gives you the right to make your ex-wife’s life miserable?’
Frowning, he said, ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Why else? Who else are you persecuting?’
He shook his head. ‘No one.’
‘Just your ex?’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, she’s a lying bitch. You shouldn’t have listened to her.’
‘I’ve never met her,’ said Marla. ‘But I have seen the court documents of the thirty plus cases you’ve filed. And I’ve met the men you sent to find the woman who was helping your wife.’
Marla watched him start to join the dots. His two employees would have likely given him a sanitised version of events. Maybe they mentioned that they had ran into a short woman who talked about stuffing them into a garbage can.
‘This has nothing to do with you,’ he said.
‘Says you. I’ve taken a great personal interest in this case. I don’t like fuckers who abuse woman and get away with it. Your money might make the justice system dance, but it won’t stop me.’
He went to reply, but she put a finger to her lips.
‘I’ve heard enough,’ she said. ‘You’re a sociopath. You are mentally unable to differentiate reality from what you believe. Even now, feeling the cold steel of my Ka-Bar’ - she pressed the blade against his inner thigh - ‘you still can’t believe you’re at fault – that you’re the perpetrator. You think it’s your ex’s fault – you see yourself as the victim. There’s no point in you saying another word.’
His mouth opened.
‘Don’t speak,’ said Marla. ‘It’ll just fuck me off and I’ll forget you can’t help your condition.’
Breathing in through her nose, she blew it out in a long stream. ‘One aspect people with your condition get is consequences. So, listen up, this is all you need to understand. If you don’t leave your ex-wife in peace, let her get on with her life, I will pay you a second visit after which your life will never be the same.’ With the tip of her Ka-Bar, Marla lifted his penis. ‘Do you understand?’
Eyes like saucers, he nodded hurriedly.
Letting it drop and wiping her knife on the carpet, she said, ‘You may see me. You may not. It’s not like the movies. I don’t give villains a lecture before throwing them off buildings. Feel free to contact the police by the way – lay a complaint. You’ll discover that I’m untraceable. You are not.’ She stood, standing over him. ‘Do you know what a watershed moment is?’
He shook his head.
‘It’s a turning point, a dividing line in your life’s path. You’re at a watershed moment, let’s hope you have enough brains to take a different path.’
Cutting a second section of duct tape, she re-gagged him. Kneeling by his feet, the knife near the zip tie, she looked at him. ‘Are you thinking – here comes my chance?’
He shook his head.
‘Very wise.’
She cut the zip tie in a single move, stepping away nimbly. He didn’t make a move but distance is always your friend. After she had packed up, she wiped down the glass she had drank from. She doubted he would call the police, if he did and they found her fingerprints, they wouldn’t set off any alarms locally. Internationally, they would but it wouldn’t get them any closer to her.
With a final check, she made for the door.
McMahon tried to talk.
Her hand on the door handle, she looked over her shoulder. ‘Most people take fifteen minutes to get free.’ He was still trying to argue when she shut the door behind her.
A casual look around confirmed no one was watching. Taking a sweatshirt from her bag, she put it on, pulling the hood over her head. Various security cameras would capture her as she walked back to the hotel, a twenty-minute walk, but no one would be monitoring them. The footage was used if a crime was reported, at least it was today. In the future, who knew what facial recognition technology algorithms and AI would be monitoring everyone’s every move. Tomorrow, she would fly to Nelson then drive home. Even if a bunch of desperate Five Eyes’ agents were actively tracking her, they would lose her trail. And nobody was tracking her.
As she walked away, she hoped her actions would make a difference. A woman she didn’t know would be pleasantly surprised her ex had “seen the light” – hallelujah. Besides, as Grace was fond of saying – sometimes someone needs to do something.
