THE DOOMSDAY DEATH CULT ORGY part 3

“It’s a tragedy,” says Lorenzo, looking out the domed-glass pod into the night. He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”

I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows, down at the long crystalline beach. It curves, like a swung white cat, far below us. The night casts an eerie cold light over the scrubby hills. The distant moonlit granite peak of Waychinicup is a lone beacon. The doomsday cult compound has a chill, other-worldliness about it. Surrounded on all sides by glass, with pod-like rooms radiating from its vast central corridor, its centre is open to the elements. The plexiglass, geodesic-domed roof has vanished, along with whoever once inhabited this strange commune. There is no sign of the Japanese doomsday cultists.

The rest of our party are still on the ramble, exploring the labyrinth. But there is no sign of life. The water and power are on, but nobody’s home. Beds, TV, a lounge, a fridge – but no Japanese. The doomsayers have simply vanished.

“A disaster,” says Lorenzo.
“You think they finished themselves off? Drowned themselves in the ocean, or maybe –”
“No. I mean its a disaster that you forgot the marijuana. We could be mulling up by now.”

Bing walks past along the corridor, his long black coat flowing behind him. He holds a tray of candles, giving his pale face a horrorshow glow. His expression is distant as he exits into the open central arena. It seems he has become a character in a Stephen King novel.

“We could be mulling up now, right here on this table,” Lorenzo jabs his index finger down emphatically on the marble-topped, circular table.

Bing continues on his solitary path, climbing the large rock at the centre of the commune. He places the tray of candles on the rock, then carefully lays himself down beside it. There he remains motionless, staring up at the cold dark sky.

Martine and Dylan amble in. “Wow,” says Dylan. “It’s like we have found ourselves at the centre of some kind of mystical black hole. Or at least, Bing has.” He wanders into the kitchen and returns with some teacups. “Scotch?” He begins pouring out the Ballantine’s. Martine watches as he fills her cup. “I’m driving,” she says, taking the cup in both hands. She takes a sip. And another.

“Oh, alright,” says Lorenzo, taking his teacup of scotch. “But we could be mulling up by now.”
I shake my head. “It’s back at the apartment somewhere, it’s got to be. You know, I could get some more from Ray and we could all come back Saturday night. Have a party. A doomsday death cult party.”
“Yeah!” says Lorenzo. “Yeah!”
“Did you see the spa outside?” asks Martine.
“A spa?” I wander over to the glass corridor. There, amongst the kentia palms, stands a shower head, and next to it, a fibreglass spa. Empty now, but a spa nonetheless. Bing is still laid out on top of the rock. I wander back and sit down at the marble table.

“It’s a spa alright.” I shake my head wistfully. “I used to have a spa, back in the bad old days, when I had the recording studio. It was under the frangipani tree...” I take a slow, warming sip of scotch, and recollect my housewarming party with Justine, the artists’ model. “For some reason now I always associate spas with orgies.” Lorenzo’s eyes light up. “An orgy!” he shouts. We turn to stare at him. “An orgy!” he repeats, enthused. “Saturday night! We’ve got hooch, we’ve got a spa, we’ve got a beach party ... now all we need are some nurses!”
Dylan nods. “Nurses. What’s the difference between a nurse and the Eiffel Tower?”
“I know that one,” I say. “Not everyone’s been up the Eiffel Tower.”
Dylan downs some more scotch. “Well, what’s the difference between a Ferrari and a nurse?”
“Not everyone’s been in a Ferrari.” I look at Martine. “I have, of course. My friend Lewis has one.”
Dylan pours out more scotch and hands it to me. “Alright then, Mr Man With All The Answers And A Friend Who Has A Ferrari. What do you call an Aborigine flying an aeroplane?”
He has me there. “I don’t know.”
“A pilot, you fucking racist.”
Lorenzo looks confused. “What’s this got to do with the orgy? Are we inviting the Aborigines?"

We stumble down the steep hill, crashing through the scrub. After several scotches, I feel impervious, indestructible, as I bound whole headlong metres across tea-tree and saltbush. I reach the wire fence and simply bound across that too, kangaroo-like. The others scramble along the fenceline, looking for a suitable opening. There is none, and the fence wire is pulled taut.

“Ach, it’s not a problem,” says Dylan. He hands me a teacup, still miraculously filled to the brim with scotch. He grasps the fencepost at the base, and pulls it holus bolus from the sand, then lays the entire wire fence forward onto the saltbush. Our party climbs across it in an alcoholic haze. We find the sand track that leads back to the car. “Man,” says Bing. “That was intense. Are there any other places like that in Albany?”

Friday night, we’re at the Premier for farewell drinks with Bing. He is heading north to Carnarvon, following in the Art Director’s footsteps. Lorenzo, Dylan and I are getting steadily plastered in honour of Bing’s promotion to the Tropic of Capricorn. A good-looking barmaid with a wild gleam in her eye comes over to our table, seemingly just to make idle chit-chat with Dylan. She seems to have taken a shine to him. “I’m Nova,” she says. “That’s an interesting name,” says Dylan. “I work at the Vancouver Arts Centre,” Nova says, looking across at Dylan coquettishly. “Well, that’s interesting, because I –” begins Dylan.
“Do you want to come to a party?” Lorenzo blurts suddenly to Nova. “We’re having a beach party tomorrow at midnight and I think you should come. We’re having a bit of a smoke.”
“Mary, mother of god,” Dylan says. “I thought for a minute there you were going to say we’re having an orgy.” Nova looks a flustered, hastily collects the empty glasses, and heads for the bar.

“I’ve got to get my plane,” says Bing.
“Well, I’ll see you at the Carnarvon Cup,” I say. “If I don’t make it, here’s Nurse Nikki’s mobile number. Say hello to her for me.” Exit Bing. Enter Martine with her husband Derek and her friend Dolores the Journalist.

Derek offers to buy a round of drinks. “I just heard about your trip to some weird house on the beach last night,” Derek says, smiling. He’s always smiling. Such a nice guy. “Martine tells me you guys are trying to organise an orgy out there.”
I shake my head. “No, no, we were just saying, it was the kind of place where –”
“With the nurses.”
“Well –”
“And I heard, secondhand, some really bad jokes about nurses,” says Derek.
“Well, we were just –”
“I’m a nurse,” Derek says.
Lorenzo is totally unfazed. He raises his glass. “Well I guess that means you’re invited.”

He’s a dark horse, that one.