A Killer Among Us

by Rhys Stalba-Smith

  There was a great boom at the door. Another, followed by the sound of wood splintering and a door slamming inwards. Then drunken laughter. Sarah panicked more and become less calm with her searching. The only place that seemed viable was under the bed in the Burke’s room. So that was where she went.

  Sarah listened as the laughter transitioned inside, a small sobbing below it all. Elaine crying. Sarah watched from under the bed as feet gathered in the entrance, headed into the house. She craned her head ever so slightly to the side, to see them passing in the hall. The officer with Michael was unknown to Sarah, but he was carrying a bottle of spirits and pouring it on Tom’s face as he dragged him along. Michael poked Elaine forward with the barrel of a shotgun.

  Sarah held her hand over her mouth, when she saw Tom’s face more clearly. Bruised, blooded, deep gashes roving over his features. He was barely coherent and couldn’t stand even when let alone. Stephens’s partner let him go and Elaine rushed to his side to keep him upright. Sarah crawled forward, watching them in the kitchen via the hallway mirror.

  Constable Stephens now stood licking his lips. His face red and held together by stitches. A bottle of brown liquor clung in the hand not holding the shotgun. His face was puffed and straining, a great bandage wrapping his head. Where’s he hidden then Elaine? he asked. Ethan, he called. Laughing as doors were opened and slammed. Little bastard where are ya? Where’s my boy?

  Elaine sobbed.

  I said where’s my boy? Slap!

  Elaine cried. There was a grunt that Sarah took to be Tom speaking.

  I’d not say anything dickhead, you’re already in a lot of trouble. Unless you want more of what’s been given? Now, where is he?

  I don’t know, Elaine managed. He was being sat this afternoon.

  Who’d you hire? Hope it wasn’t some fuck’n foreigner. Trust my boy with that lot. They’re all bloody dirty. The swill of a drink being drunk. Where is he?

  I don’t know Michael, Elain said.

  Doesn’t he normally get sat here?

  He does, she sounded manic. I don’t where—

  Sarah watched Constable Michael Stephens snap and punch Tom quickly in the face. He fell without ever seeing the violence come. She couldn’t believe her ears. Michael was Ethan’s dad? All these years, had he known? Had anyone else? That was why they came here so often.

  Well who sits him then? You get one of those little pert beauties doing it? Maybe they took him back to their homes. We’re all respectables lots round here.

  Sarah’s heart was hammering. She had to concentrate to hear Elaine talking. She had her fingers crossed, please don’t say please don’t say.

  I said, who sits him.

  In a small voice, that Sarah barely heard. The Gardner girl.

  Well where the fuck is she then? Stephens yelled. His open palm came flying, colliding with Elaine’s face and she was forced to the ground. Tom groaning and trying to get up. Where the fuck are they? He booted Tom in the ribs.

  From the floor Tom managed to say a few words. Sarah missed them but saw the look of anger on the constable’s face.

  Whadyou fuck’n say pommy?

  There was silence. Sarah watched Stephens’s face tightening. The flesh around the stitches turning white as he his face began to snarl. Blood leaking out of the wound. Then the pump of a shotgun loading.

  Say it again.

  Tom said nothing.

  I said, bloody say—Boom! the world exploded—it again you bastard!

  Sarah clasped her hands to her ears, her mouth. But she was too late in putting one to her mouth. She’d screamed as loud as her lungs would carry. Even with Elaine screaming hysterically, even with the men yelling at the dying Tom Burke, they’d heard . When she opened her eyes and looked at the mirror, she began screaming again at the face of Constable Michael Stephens looking at her in the hallway mirror.

  Sarah’s blood turned light and she began to feel cold in her chest. Her heart knocking against her spine, she tried wiggling back under the bed. Further under, hoping maybe she’d not been seen. She was praying that they didn’t find her. That they hadn’t seen her. But she knew it was a lie. She saw the face of the killer staring at her in the mirror. Staring at her in her place of hiding. Even as she listened to the screaming man coming after her, she hoped it was all a bad nightmare. That she’d wake up. That she wasn’t here.

  In the time it took for the second constable to come find her, and for her kicking and screaming against him under the bed to come to an end, the shotgun spoke for the second time. Another loud boom ringing into Sarah’s ears, making her believe a similar fate was on her way. She was dragged into the kitchen by her hair. Thrown to the ground at the feet of Constable Michael Stephens. Next to her the bodies of Elaine and Tom Burke. Michael leering down at her.

  Well well well, the Gardner girl, he said. You know I’ve always spied you walking home on my drives. I bet you think I’m pretty scary at the moment?

  Sarah said nothing, lying in the spreading blood of her employers, only able to gasp. Telling herself not to stare at the pantry cupboard. Not to give away Ethan’s hiding spot.

  Where’s my boy? he asked.

  She didn’t reply. Just kept telling herself not to look at the cupboard.

  Another one, aye? All you women are the same. But you’ll learn pretty quick, he knelt down. His sewn cheek hanging out towards her. The blood running down his neck and under his shirt. You’ll learn that I can get a whole lot fucking worse when I want to. Then, lying about where my boy is will be the least of your worries.

  Charlie sat there, remembering those words that his sister had uttered to him years ago. Told him like a confession on that last day. Like a great secret that he should have known after all this time. He should be aware of the greater truths in the world. That sometimes evil won. Sometimes evil succeeded. And worst of all, sometimes it was preferred over the truth.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of it when she said it. He’d only asked her if she needed anything? When she finished, she finally said that no she didn’t need anything. She had all she needed right here. Did he need anything? What about some lollies? Why didn’t they celebrate? He wished he’d asked more. He wished he’d seen it for what it was, and not what he wanted. Even as he drew the bath for her on his way out, he was just a boy. He could only see what he wanted.

  But like a distant call finally gettings its listener, he began to feel scared. Fearful. The look in her eyes had been one of a frightened beast, now that he thought about it. Didn’t wolves look like they were smiling when they were about to attack? Eyes of desperation. He’d been too young to understand the sadness in the last few years, and hadn’t really found out the whole truth of her disappearance, but he’d tried to be the best brother he could. But as she’d spoken, and as he last saw her when he left, he had the distinct feeling that no matter how good of a brother he’d been, it would never have been enough.

  So then the eyes he’d finally seen that afternoon, he realised as he walked home, had been ones of truth. The ones of a tired defeated soul. The eyes of someone who’d just found their answer to their great fatigue. When he entered their house, which was a little too humid for his liking and called out to his sister, he saw those eyes again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Spaghetti Saloon was a ten minute walk from the offices of the Adelaide Courier. At five thirty Charlie left with everyone else and headed in the loose direction of the restaurant. He wandered the back streets towards King William, where he then turned north on the main strip running through the city and eventually came to the place.

  It was a hole in the wall. A staircase running up between two large restaurants. The western themed design began with the two-way swinging cactus door on the sidewalk. Upon entry Charlie saw pictures and posters all over the walls, Clint Eastwood, Yule Brenner, Sergio Leone, Lee Van Cleef. The stools at the bar were horse saddles, stirrups having been fashioned into feet placements. All the meals on the menu were nods to
wards classic films, even the drinks were lines of dialogue. In one of the corners on a continuous stream were the movies themselves. The room was mustard yellow, cactuses and mountains painted at varying distances, and towards the street facing side, was a big stage. Cowboy Karaoke every Friday from 8. Charlie thanked his lucky stars that it wasn’t Friday.

  He was greeted and shown to his table by the owner Roger had called Chow. His name was actually Nero Tong. Nero spoke with him when he brought out each meal. He talked of his father’s passion for the films, his love of Italian food. That the idea for the restaurant had actually come about from the evenings his family spent sharing with their neighbours. The Tong’s, as they called themselves when they came to Australia, You wouldn’t be able to pronounce my real name anyway, he winked, lived in a suburb with plenty of other migrants and immigrants after the war. Because of this, the Tong’s neighbours had been an Italian family called the Caravecci’s. They too had come to Australia after the war. The father, Milo, had left his job working in the film industry of Italy. It was these he would play every Friday night, and to anyone wanting to come, would open his arms. It was this way they became friends, and not only Nero’s love for Italian food had began, but also his father’s.

  It was this angle Charlie wanted to focus on in his piece. The food was great, the puns delicious, but the story that tied the whole place together was what he felt made it an unmissable experience. For one of the first time’s in the last ten years, he’d had a truly great evening. He’d felt carefree and happy. The worries of the day had disappeared. He’d been transported to another world and been fed. He was content. By the time eight rolled around, and he realised he’d been eating for almost two hours, he was sad to leave.

  On the street he felt his peace disappear and it be replaced by a different presence. The feeling in the air was of mistrust and hostility. People were looking at their feet and the islands of light beneath each storefront a haven. Those waiting for buses gathered in huddles, barely anyone by themselves. Charlie saw the news running in one of the shop windows, saw the headline posters on the newsstand for the next day. A man was giving away the evening edition at the entrance of the train station. The word had spread. The people knew now. There was a killer amongst them.

  Charlie wrapped his coat tighter, he too avoiding peoples eyes. He made his way back towards the offices, this time taking the main street and brightly lit areas. Even with the news there were people at the bars and restaurants, full at capacity and still moving along. Happiness in numbers was easier to ignore the sadness. The oppression of the evening felt heavy on him, he’d forgotten his meal already. The dark was darker, the shadows deeper, the silence deadly. People were on edge, looking him up and down as he passed them. Who was this man walking by himself? Even with the traffic still heavy, the break lights a flood of red in the sea of black, they did nothing for comfort.

  He began thinking about how the killer would be enjoying this. Their happiness from everyone else’s fear. People afraid to ask for help, to look at someone even. How people wouldn’t even feel safe to walk alone. He kept seeing the paper headlines everywhere, the next day’s edition hinting at the full story. There were more televisions running in shop windows now, different news channels running the same story. He wondered if the killer was among them? If he or she were out and enjoying their creation? The pandemonium. There was a heavier police presence in the city. More groups moving about. A few young men, probably teenagers, were calling after him. Acting tough. Why you walking alone man? Why you running? There were still a few people like Charlie walking by themselves, but those that were had eyes following their every move. He noticed a girl in front of him walking alone. Clutching her thin coat, the tipsiness of her post-work drinks evaporating quickly. Everything was drenched with the murders. The five bodies that Charlie had known about since the morning, were circulating not just between papers and media stations, but now the minds and hearts of the people of Adelaide.

  Was it this that what made the killer happy? Charlie wondered. The power. The control. That they were another, more devious, arm of the truth? Carl had talked about their right to allow the truth to be free, that the police were only trying to stop hysteria, but what was the killer’s motive? Were they the same? The truth should be seen. That’s why the pictures had been sent, the name implied. It was all a message. All a part of the poor soul’s dream.

  He remembered what Carl had said to everyone that afternoon when he’d returned from meeting Roger, that it was their right, the women’s rights, the right of the people, for the death to be heard. To be known. Because at the moment they weren’t known, and it was society’s role to know them. To know these women and help them. Below the skin of an editor trying to please owners, ad agencies, and readers, was still a boy that had dreamed of reporting a story big enough to break the rules. Charlie realised they were all writers with a book in them, some of them just did it differently.

  So the obscene images were put up. Five women. A letter drawn on each of the photo’s backs. All the women were the same. Long dark hair, faceless, heartless, posed. All the photos were taken in the same location. The killer obviously had somewhere where they could work without distraction. Only one photo, of the woman found in the water waste drain, was different. Charlie wondered who’s face had been found? He felt incredibly sad by that fact. That even now, nothing could be implied. He wondered what the police were doing. The people were wondering the same, but for their safety. What was being done to protect everyone else? As one of the reporters through the window at Charlie had said, They’re dead, what we’re worried about is who’s next. The police chief hadn’t replied.

  Charlie’s eyes came back to the woman in front of him. He realised that she was similar to the ones that had been murdered. But even then they were arbitrary things, long hair and similar shape wasn’t much to go on. Obviously they were starting points for any analysis, but what tied them together? Was it a mother complex for the killer? Were they mother incarnate, sister, female figure in their life? Or were they women that had spurned them? Was the killer the victim? There were so many questions, so many blanks. For him it was just as insatiable, a curious person, a doctor of the mind.

  He tried to think like them. How did they manifest that this was the only way for them to live? To kill others. To control with fear. It had to have been done to them.

  Charlie watched her walk. The movement of her hips. How her arms swung. She kept looking about her person too. Readjusting her coat again and again. Was this what was enjoyed? The anticipation of the act? He knew that to be true. The preparation, the imagining, the idea of it. The idea of doing something so against society’s rules was probably what turned them on so much.

  Charlie and the woman were coming towards the offices of the paper now. He could see the convenience store normally closed during the day, now open. The light spilt out onto the pavement. She was walking quicker. Charlie, unaware, had begun speeding up too. Matching her speed. Her head swivelling back, adjusting her coat, quickening again. Looking at him. She had the wrong idea, he realised suddenly. He wanted to call out, but if he did in this environment, he’d hate to imagine what would happen. He matched her. He’d catch up and tell her he was only worried for her safety. She was only a handful of paces ahead, he could easily dash up to her. But then a man running after a woman in the dark? Better walk.

  But this was it, his mind said. This was the catch. This was the race the killer enjoyed. They were nearer the store, twenty metres, then ten.

  He better call out. She looked like she was about to flatout run to the store. His breathing was short. Excited. Nervous.

  This was it. This was the element they all chased. This high. Charlie’s senses were laser like. Only on the girl. Only on the moving dress. The coat. He didn’t hear the traffic moving, didn’t hear the horns, the low bangs. He didn’t know anything other than the woman that began running.

  Charlie was calling out just as she launched
for the door, yanking it open in a triumphant pull. But as the terrified woman opened the door of the convenience store. At that precise moment, a man had been coming out. Some kid all in black, it would later be reported, barrelling into her and through her. As they both fell, Charlie saw the bright flash and loud bang in the woman’s abdomen. Saw them hit the floor and the woman’s head bounce off the concrete, the kid clumsily rolling off. The gun had shot from his hand in the fall and slid onto the road. A bag of money bursting open like blood at her head. The kid was up quickly, running forward for the gun. But in the same way that Charlie hadn’t heard the world because he was so focused on one thing, so too did the kid.

  In his excitement and fear he moved for the gun not hearing the traffic, not seeing the bus pulling into the lane for the stop a few shops ahead. Having found his feet in a panic as he moved, he didn’t see the bus. Nor did the driver see him. So when he ran out onto the road, into the headlights of that twenty tonne commercial bus highlighting the black metal gun he was looking for, there were only so many things that could happen.

  Charlie saw the sickening slam and it stopped the breath in his chest. The body of the robber was flung thirty metres in a second. The crunch and thump of glass and metal rending to an impact. The too quiet roll of a body landing and collapsing over itself. The bus lurching to a stop and rolling back on it’s springs. The girl now lying on the pavement clutching her abdomen, screaming. It was a second that had been an eternity.