A Killer Among Us

by Rhys Stalba-Smith

  Oh I know. That Storm Drain Killer book was horrendous. I could’ve drawn something better.

  But it sold, George said, ticking the air with his finger.

  Gene shrugged. She was looking at the table and the window while she spoke, sizing up her prey. What if we make the table more central? she said. Keep the window display as is, maybe put a stack there, pointing to the main window. Stand-up cover below the poster. But keep this, she stood in the place of the customer and was pointing forward. Central. People’re gonna be asking all day, everyone on the bus last night was talking about it.

  Really?

  Oh Georgey, Gene swung her arm around his shoulders. I knew you were somewhat of a luddite but you do have a TV, don’t you?

  Of course I do, George said. I’m not, well I mean I am, but I’m not that bad.

  Okay well just, let me get this one coach. We’ll stack ‘em high to sell ‘em low, as you say. Promise. Gene put her coffee down and tied her hair back, bleach blonde with black roots. Blue streaks. Now, what are your feelings towards that table. I quite like the little maple number, and I think it’ll be cute getting it’s own go front and centre for once.

  But the maple has skinny legs. The weight—

  Weight shmate. Gene waved her hand. It’ll be fine. Plus, you got that card poster in the pack too. We can lean against it, cover up the legs, hide a few more books behind it.

  Have you looked in the promo pack already? George asked, picking up the pile of books and shifting them to another table, freeing up the maple table.

  I may have. Was just little old me last night closing the store. But don’t worry, I didn’t peek at the book. The new table lighter in colour was a contrast to the gren cover. Already a natural highlight my dear, she said.

  I can’t deny that, George said. How many do you think we’ll do today?

  Hmm, conservative? Five. Outrageous? Fifty.

  George laughed, Okay, that’s our ballpark then. If we make fifty I’ll give you your bonus this year.

  Gene moved to the door and unlocked it, You didn’t give it to me last year. She set the door to remain unlocked.

  George moved back to the till and sat down behind the desk. Which is why it’s a prize to aim for.

  Gene grunted, put her hands in her dungaree pockets and waltzed back slowly. You watch the doco anyway?

  No, George replied. I’ll sell the book but I won’t entertain to watch that kinda crap. It seemed pretty empty really, but as always full of hope. Just playing to the gallery. It’ll hurt more people than help, I think.

  Yeah, Gene said, shrugging. Nothing for an award, that’s for sure. But it was interesting. The guy that wrote it has this whole theory of that journalist that went missing around the same time, the cop that lost his wife, and the family tied in together. Made a lot of sense, but dunno if it was cause we want it to, ya know? It was just super sad as well, Gene stood, taking an armful of books to fill from their trolley. You let me know when you want a break from writing and can come out to help. If it’s hectic I’ll bell you anyway, okay?

  George stood and yawned. Deal.

  Now monsieur, get back there and write. We all want to know what DI Brumby’s next adventure is.

  George took their crumpled pastry bag and empty cups and wiped the crumbs onto the floor. Cleaner will get it, he winked to Gene. She rolled her eyes. Thanks for brekky anyway. Always a breath of fresh air in the morning.

  It’s why you hired me darling. You’re the sugar daddy for my library anyway. Now go write, she said pushing him behind the curtain.

  George put their garbage in the trash and passed through the door to his study and sat down. He heard the bell ring and door open for the first customer of the day. Is that the Rachel girl from the documentary that aired last night in the window? a lady asked.

  It most certainly is, Gene replied. A real gut wrencher wasn’t it?

  Yes, the lady replied. Really was.

  George smiled. Gene, late twenties, boots, overalls and tee shirt all covered in paint. The polar opposite of their clientele. The small village really. Why he’d loved her the moment she stepped into the store applying for a job. She was opinionated and intelligent, yet observant and empathetic to all customers needs and wants. She’d replaced Laura perfectly.

  George fired up the radio and fed paper into his writer. He was the luddite that Gene was horrified by deep down. Laura had bought him one of the new computers to use back in the nineties. No more paper, he could still hear her saying. But then how would he edit? Can’t mark up a screen. It still sat in it’s box in the garage. Now a sentimental trophy more than tool. He tuned the wireless to the classical station, which was also the favourite station of a one DCI Brumby. The paper ripped halfway into the feeding and he finished it off. He used an endless ream of printing paper. He read that Jack Kerouac had written like that. A never ending ream allowed the ideas to continue on. So the belief was. But George had spent many times staring at the endless blank space too.

  He was writing the sixth book in his series. It wasn’t exactly writer’s block he had, but he was blocked. Not out of ideas, just out of good ones. He had to lift, he kept telling himself. They weren’t terribly big, nor popular books, but he had a small fanbase that had fallen in love with his main character, DCI Teresa Brumby. A strong minded, ex-farming family daughter in the big city solving crimes. The market was mostly in South Australia because of his use of real names and places, but a few sold in the other states too. The big surprise was in Europe. Germany and Poland to be specific. He couldn’t explain it, nor would he try, but when Gene had sent his books to the international sellers conference, it gained an overseas following. A few of his other books had sold, but nowhere near as well as his crime series. He supposed that maybe people liked the landscapes he wrote about, worlds different to the ones they lived in. A bush noir, as it were.

  Excuse me, he heard another customer ask. The girl in the window, is it—

  Rachel Gardner from last night? Yes it is, Gene said. I can fetch you a copy of you’d like? You’re second in today asking about it. Apologises you’re not first, however this one has your name on it.

  Thank you, the customer replied. I was also after something else?

  The morning followed a similar routine as George wrote, customers came and Gene helped them. The book was obviously more important to people than he’d realised. Probably caught all the missing persons hopeful readers. He kicked himself that he thought of people this way, but he had to know people, the market as it were. And some people just have compassion for the lost. Simple as it was pessimistic.

  He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. He was at the end of his book. Three hundred plus pages and now to wrap it up. It had been a hard case for Brumby. A killer strangling people at bus stops, no witnesses, her higher ups giving her flack. The usual crime cliches. And of course the love interest had fallen flat yet again. Would Brumby find love? George being the writer he was, always kept the fans hopeful but waiting. I can only follow Brumby and find out, he told the old ladies that came in. But he did feel for Brumby, he tortured his characters. But that was why the people loved them. The struggles. The heartbreaks. The thrill. That’s where people clicked with their favourites. They were all part of the George world in some form or another. The time passed quickly and before George realised, he’d been sitting there for another hour pondering. Gene came through the curtain and called into his study.

  Looks like the outrageous count could win today.

  No?

  Yes. Currently at thirty-three.

  Get out! George said.

  Uh-huh, They’re flying out the door. I’ve restocked the pile a few times already, and got a stack at the till now too for any last minutes.

  You’re a charmer.

  I am, Gene curtsied. Phone calls coming in too. That documentary hooked more people than you expected.

  George was pleasantly surprised. Well I’ll gladly admit it, he said, looking at his wa
tch. It’s your lunch if you want it. I’ll come out and do my bid on the till.

  Happy to stay on. It’s not stupid busy.

  No, no you’ve been on for hours already. Have lunch and I’ll serve and fill for a time.

  You’ve twisted my arm then, she said. She peeked back into the store. Better come out now, I think I see a readers club.

  Okay, George stood. What’re you up to for your hour?

  Gotta pick up new brushes. Left them in the tub in the sun the other day. They’ve all dried up into a thick block of paint.

  You could use spirits to clean it all away? George said. I read it in the DIY—

  Okay dad, Gene shook her head, then winked. Thank you but already binned. I’m off to the hardware store now. We need anything here from there?

  Nothing you need to buy.

  Happy to get it?

  No, you go, George waving her away. Already do too much for me anyway. Enjoy your lunch.

  Gene collected her jacket and swung it on. Someday you’ll miss me Georgey-Boy. All my offers to help.

  But I’ll always be grateful. Now go. Shoo.

  Gene flicked at him as she left. Then was gone and the throng of people came at George. He stood at the till and surveyed the room. A few browsing, half of them with copies of the Rachel Gardner story in their hand. He looked at Gene’s markings in the sales book, they were doing very well for the day.

  Excuse me?

  George looked up at the short lady with her handbag clutched to her chest. I watched a sad documentary last night on the television, they said there was a book out today for it?

  Yes the Rachel Gardner story, George said, coming out from behind the till. We’ve got a stand of books over here.

  That’s the dear, she said when he showed her the cover. Did you watch it? Terribly sad. Fascinating though. Poor girl. Poor all of them. We’re a depraved lot really.

  I know, George said. He handed her the copy of the book. I believe the man who wrote the documentary also wrote the book. All speculative of course. But nonetheless a good read.

  Oh you’ve read it? she asked, taking her spectacles from her bosom and reading. You’re a bit cheeky.

  Well the books come in early, so I’m not saying I read all of it. But I skimmed.

  The old lady smiled and held out her note of money. Well I’ll think of you as I read it then, she said. I always feel so sad for all the missing children in our society. Poor souls. Only God knows, I suppose.

  George nodded. He lead her back to the till and put the book through, handed over the change. Would you like a bag for the book?

  I’m fine thank you, she replied, patting her handbag. This’s better than anything paper.

  No worries, George said. Well you enjoy your day, and the book.

  I will. Goodbye.

  George did a quick lap of the store then, correcting stacks, a bit of alphabetising, asking if people needed help. It wasn’t in too bad a shape for the lunch rush. He brought out another box from storage and added to Rachel pile. He’d push this cash baby for all it was worth. Might as well, independent book trade wasn’t exactly the golden goose.

  He was at the table, sliding his fingers under the tape ends when the door opened and the little bell jingled. He called out the usual welcome without looking. There was a gasp from a corner. George stopped the books mid-air, looked to the customer that had gasped. They were staring horrified behind him. He turned back to the door, to the person that had just entered, and froze also.

  She was walking barefoot across the carpet, red prints following her bloodied feet. He could see the glass in them. Her clothes ripped and torn, dirty with grime and hanging from her body. She stank. But before he could judge her anymore—her mouth was moving. Speaking. She was talking slowly, eyes fixated on the books in his hand. Speaking in silence. He knew her.

  My face, she whispered. In window. That’s my face.

  George stood, shaking, swallowing saliva. Nerves barrelling up and down his veins. Excuse me? he asked, knowing exactly what she’d just said.

  My face, window, she repeated. She pointed her bloodied finger at the window display. Now at the books in his hand. Me.

  George could see the cuts covering her body. Her teeth yellowed and a few missing. A big bruise on her right eye. She would be almost thirty, the book had said.

  She was pointing at the books in George’s hands. George’s breath had quickened to a rate that made his heart seem as if it would pound out his chest.

  My face. I’m Rachel Gardner.

  SARAH

  II

  SARAH

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Charlie was looking at a body. The objects surrounding it, looking at the gashes on it, trying to think about who’d done it, then trying to understand it. Thinking of her as an it like they would’ve. Underneath the photo was a caption, the fourth victim of the Sydney Slick. He took another glance at the photo then closed it. Research. Not that he didn’t know about messed up people, he knew plenty, but reading academic books versus writing police thrillers was another thing.

  He adjusted himself on the leather chair, checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes late. The receptionist smiling at him again, a face saying not long. Third, no fourth, interview for the week. However many in as many years. Changing careers in his now early forties had its challenges. Near impossible with a history like his.

  He adjusted again on the chair. Nervous. But then questioning his feelings, trying to understand them, as he used to tell patients. Before prescribing something that would dull their brains. There was the jealousy beneath it all, he knew. Looking at the book of an author. A real published author. Envy at accomplishment. Then the whole journalism bullshit that Eve had planted in his head. He got a bit like this when he was nervous, snappy.

  The door opened to the editor’ room and a man came out. He was speaking with the editor. They shared a laugh and then a handshake. He crossed the room without looking at Charlie and said his farewell to the receptionist.

  Charlie Gardner, the editor said.

  Charlie stood, extended his hand. Hi.

  The editor didn’t shake his hand, instead turned around and headed back into the office. Charlie followed and felt the redness of embarrassment at his collar. Forty years old he was. Not some damn kid. Sit down, the editor said, sitting in his own chair behind his desk. Either side of him were stacks of proofs and various pages.

  So who am I and who’re you? Well I’m Carl Coleridge. I run the Adelaide Courier. I edit like a bastard, and if you do end up working for me, you’ll probably be pissed off at me most of the time. He leaned back. And you are Charlie Gardner. He smiled.

  Charlie nodded, returned the smile. He already knew what was coming. What had been coming each and every interview he went to for the last however many years. It was to be expected really.

  So, Carl said. You want to be a journalist? looking at Charlie’s resume in front of him. Trying to be a writer too?

  Yes, sir.

  Carl is fine.

  Well, yes I’m trying to become a writer. I’m writing a book.

  Everyone’s writing a book.

  Yep, but I’m writing my first. I’ve had a few short stories published—

  In a few journals, if I recall? Carl reread the second page of the resume. The achievements section. New Australian Readers isn’t too bad? I know the editor there. Must be a good wordsmith to get something past Nancy. Oh under a pen name I see.

  Yeah, I was really happy with that.

  Carl leant back in the chair. So tell me why you want to write journalism?

  Charlie hesitated, held back on the passion line of answering. Didn’t ramble on about how it was his calling.

  I’m just worried, Carl went on. And you might understand—

  Here it was coming, Charlie thought.

  That maybe your style will be too academic. I see you were a psychotherapist for about ten years before. Note taking is different to reporting. And as far as wan
ting to be a writer, in my experience it can be more of a fantasy than a reality. Many want to be a famous author, but forget it takes being a day to day writer. They want everyone to fawn over their latest works., but not write the daily weather report recap, or the traffic assessment. They most certainly don’t think of grammar rules for United Kingdom english spelling or American english.

  Charlie was caught off guard. Not how any of the other interviews had gone. Completely different. I’ve written my fair share of report writing, he began. And whilst writing is a hobby. It’s a hobby I take very seriously. As you can see I’ve taken a number of workshops, and along with the short stories, I’m really trying to do it justice. I suppose we all have our fantasies, people live out their fantasies in writing or through other ventures. But I want to be a day to day writer, as you put it.

  Carl was nodding. Charlie watching his thinning hair frizzing back and forth as he spoke. Carl took a pack of cigarettes from the drawer and lit up. Gestured with the pack, want one?

  No, I don’t smoke.

  Carl nodded. Maybe by the end, he laughed. He inhaled deeply. It must be hard, he said.

  Excuse me?

  Applying for jobs and trying to find a new career.

  There it was.

  Charlie nodded, was about to answer when Carl went on. Bet you’ve had enough of the limelight. I can understand the want to be an innocuous writer. I reported on you actually. How long ago was it? Ten years?

  Charlie was about to answer, but realised it had been rhetorical. Instead he watched Carl smoking and reading his resume. A flicker of ash dropping onto his page, singeing it slightly before Carl wiped it away. Charlie had a pang, couldn’t exactly afford to print another one. Carl exhaled the smoke and looked up at Charlie, into his eyes. Staring for a time.

  Well you speak well for starters, Carl said. Confident. I suppose I can hear how that would transcribe to writing. And given your credits, I imagine given enough information you’d speak pretty well about anything.

  Thank you.

  Don’t take the comment just yet, Carl said, smiling with his cigarette in his mouth. If I take you on, and I’m thinking about it more as a morbid curiosity than one of skill, you’ll be working where I tell you.