PREDATOR
SMILE
Copyright
2005 Jarad Henry
Children are everywhere. Boys run from ride to ride.
Girls straddle ponies in the merry-go-round. Parents mind show bags and fluffy
toys. The screams of uninhibited abandonment are infectious, and a broad smile
plays across his face. For a moment he looks like Mr Moon himself, the mighty
face beneath which he walks to enter to
Daylight is fading, but still light enough for
his mirrored glasses, the scenic railway and park boundary painted bright
orange by a brilliant sunset. Right now he is watching a young girl, maybe five
or six years old. He prefers girls. The warm weather means that many of them
are dressed lightly. This one wears a tiny white singlet and short pink dress.
The hem rides high on her leg, exposes her thigh as she squats over a show bag.
A woman stands beside the girl, watching. Her
blonde hair matches the little girl’s. The mother, I figure. The girl
digs out a set of white wings and tares open the plastic wrapper. ‘Look
Mummy. I’m an angel!’
The girl is very much like me, when I was her
age. With his head tilted, pretending to watch the ferris wheel, the Predator edges sideways for a
better look. Beads of sweat dot his forehead. After a moment he forces himself
to look away. This is the discipline. You have to know when to move on. Years
of prejudice and intolerance have taught him this. At least, that’s how
he sees it. It’s how all of them see it.
Strolling past, I watch him buy a Cadbury show
bag from a chocolate stall, tie it to the side of the
pram he’s pushing. No baby or
toddler occupies the pram. It’s merely a prop. It gives him a place here,
helps him blend in. Around his neck the digital camera weighs heavily, reminds
him that he’s not here to look.
There’s work to be done and I watch as he sets about finding his
spot for the night. First, he queues for a hotdog and coke. Then he pushes the
pram past the carousel and baby rides to a bench seat between the mini roller
coaster and spinning aeroplanes. This is a good spot. He has used it before, but not for a few
months. Rule number two. Always move around. In all the years I’ve been
watching him, he has never drawn attention to himself.
The Predator is built low and wide, and he walks
with the lazy aloofness of a bear. But, like a bear, he can be just as fast and
vicious. Today he wears a hideous Hawaiian shirt and beige shorts with brown
sandals. The hotdog is a nice touch. A navy blue Yankees cap completes the
look. Just another
overweight, fast-food-loving tourist from the U-S of A. Setting the hotdog aside, the Predator
studies the other parents in the park. He especially watches the fathers. I do too. I wonder how many are like
him. How many have the same urges and desires? How many actually act upon them?
Right now the Predator is smiling, but his smile
is a well practised fake. I should know. It is what he used on me. Now I see
the truth. Underneath he is angry, confused. Why can’t society accept
him, he wonders? Don’t people realise his desires are not born out of
choice? If they could tolerate homosexuals, why not him?
Why did he have to pretend all the time? These are the questions that exist
beneath the smile, the same questions that sadden and anger him, that lead him
to violence.
I edge closer as the young girl with the angel
wings lines up to board the merry-go-round. The Predator is alert now. He
switches his camera on and unscrews the lens cap. The mother watches her little
girl line up, but there’s a mobile phone against her ear and she’s
engaged in deep conversation. The Predator smiles again. He knows she
won’t notice him. Lens cap removed, he tucks the sunglasses in his pocket
and focuses on the Ferris wheel.
Third rule; hide in plain view. He takes several photos of the Ferris
wheel, others of the scenic railway. As the Ferris wheel turns, he waves to
imaginary family members aboard the gondolas.
‘Way to go,
Two girls waiting for the dodgem cars shoot him
questioning looks. He smiles at
them, but there’s a twitch in his lips. When the girls turn away, the
predator examines them from behind.
My guess is he finds them unattractive. They are too old. One of them
wears a polyester skirt and high heel boots, as though she wants to look like a
woman. This repulses him. I can tell by the way his eyebrows, thick and bushy,
draw together like two ugly caterpillars. I can almost hear his thoughts. Why
would she want to look older? I bet he wishes the girls were not here. Maybe he
wants to tell them to leave, go find a brothel if they want to dress like
whores. Angry and frustrated now, he goes to stand but something keeps him
down. An inner voice, perhaps. Maybe the memory of a
distant teacher or mentor, something that calls out to him, tells him to stay
calm, ignore the girls and focus on the angel approaching the carousel.
Whatever it is, the Predator is calm now, and he
watches the young girl board a red and white striped pony. The music starts and
the carousel turns. Lowering the
camera, he zooms in, waits patiently. Soon her pony rounds the machine and
fills his viewfinder. Excitement
floods the veins in his neck as he focuses on getting the money shot. She
laughs loudly, perfect little teeth caked in chocolate, blonde pigtails blowing
back and forth. There it is. For a split second she faces him, her cheeks
flushed red as the pony bobs up and down. He takes the shot but something is
wrong. He’s having trouble with the camera. Maybe the lighting is no
good. Annoyed, he adjusts the aperture and shutter speed, and when the girl
comes around, he has another chance. This time the shot works.
When the ride ends and the girl is led away, he closes his eyes and savours the sounds of
the park. Screams and laughter. The
rattle of the scenic railway coasting up and down the track. The smell of fairy
floss and hot dogs. The beat of pop music thudding
through the speakers. He takes several more photos of different targets,
but none are as sweet as her. It’s the shot of the night and will sell
well on the Internet. More importantly, his brethren will be grateful. He might
even add a copy of it to the special collection he has on his laptop computer.
As he walks to the exit, he sees the little girl and her mother ahead. I hurry
to keep up, see a pause in his step. What’s he doing? Maybe he wants to
follow them back to their car, make the girl another victim. Add her to his
list. Like he did me?
After a moment’s thought, he decides
against it, heads in the opposite direction. Again I follow as he pushes the
pram along the pathway to the car park. The rumble of Friday night traffic
absorbs his footfalls. The sun is low on the horizon, leaving the sky the
colour of ripe pumpkin and the water in the bay like liquid gold. A ribbon of
red brake lights stretch along the Lower Esplanade. A warm breeze blows in off
the water, fills the air with the sweet smell of salt and sand.
Nearing the car park, he stops, scratches his
head. A four-wheel drive is parked where he left his Camry. This is not
right. He circles the four-wheel
drive, as if it has somehow hidden his car. He definitely parked it here.
Always the same spot. For some reason, he even checks the markings on the
bitumen, as if it’s been buried or
something. But there is no escaping it. No one has buried his car. Somebody has
stolen it.
I can’t imagine the panic, the surge of
fear and utter doom that he must feel when he remembers the laptop computer is
in the boot. But then, I can imagine
it. I’ve lived it, as have all
his victims. They say karma is a divine force greater than any of us. Do wrong,
expect wrong. I was just ten years old when the Predator took my innocence, but
now, after all these years, I’m at peace and it’s time for me to
leave. So as my stepfather falls to his knees, realising his life is over, this
time it’s me who smiles. For now the Predator’s mask shall be
removed. No more photographs. No more hiding. No more victims. If only I were
still alive it might’ve happened sooner.