Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

  Suspension shakes as the men alight. They’re big guys: wide necks sloping broadly to heavy shoulders, flannel shirtsleeves rolled back over thick cable-tight forearms. Large hands, red and thick-callused.

  Hale steps outside. Beyond the truck, the drive follows a slight slope before it meets the road. Beyond that, the gentle undulations of pastureland, gilt-topped by late sun. To the right, a belt of pine trees serves as shelter from wind off the neighbouring paddocks. To the left, his father’s Land Rover and a rusted-out tractor shelter inside an arched metal shed.

  The air bears that verdant manure and silage odour. The dogs are giddy on it, barking and yelping to be let loose.

  The three guys fan out in the yard, shadows cast gangly and hose-like ahead of them. The two passengers have crowbars. One guy is using his to rehearse a golf swing. The second guy has his gripped at each end, braced across his shoulders. His shirt below the bottom button is parted over a fat gut thatched with black hair.

  The driver says, ‘Heya, matey.’

  Hale says, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is Daddy home?’

  Daddy. The term is patronising. It rankles. Hale says, ‘No, he’s not.’

  The driver glances at the barn. ‘Are you sure? His car’s here.’

  Hale pauses. Golf swing guy sinks a couple of putts. Hale says, ‘What do you want?’

  The driver laughs. ‘So he is home. Great.’

  ‘He’s in bed.’

  Golf man makes a visor with his hand and checks the height of the sun. ‘Should be up and about, this time of day. Lazy bastard.’

  Hale says, ‘He isn’t feeling well. You should come back another time.’

  The driver shakes his head. ‘No, if he’s in, we definitely need to see him.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He owes us some money.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t owe anybody any money.’

  The guy with the gut laughs. He takes the crowbar off his shoulders and makes a fake baseball swing. Aggressive, head-high. He says, ‘Kid’s a fuckin’ classic.’

  A low laugh rolls back and forth between the three of them.

  ‘How old are you, matey?’ the driver says.

  ‘I’m not your mate.’

  ‘Suit yourself. How old are you?’

  ‘Twelve,’ Hale says.

  ‘Twelve. Jesus. Thought you were older.’ He smiles. ‘He sends his twelve-year-old kid out to warn us off. Holy shit.’

  They all laugh. The guy with the gut kicks a stone skittering towards the shed.

  Hale stands and looks at them. ‘How much does he owe you?’ he says.

  The driver smiles. ‘Yeah, see, now he’s not so sure of himself. How much does he owe?’ He scratches his head. ‘We’ll call it an even hundred.’

  One hundred dollars. One hundred dollars is a lot of money. Much more than what is stashed in the jar in the kitchen.

  ‘Dad doesn’t have money like that at home.’

  The driver shrugs. ‘Well, tough shit, bucko.’

  Hale doesn’t answer.

  The driver says, ‘Okay, look. I’m going to run the clock for you.’ He raises his watch, inspects the dial. ‘We’ll say five minutes. Either you can bring the money yourself, or your dad can, or he can come outside and have a chat with us. If not, we’re going to let the dogs off the chain, and maybe start putting the crowbars to good use. Maybe break a leg or something. Okay?’

  Hale doesn’t answer. He goes back inside. The door to his father’s room is closed. He pushes it open and steps into the room. The air is stagnant, hot and liquor-laced. A faint chemical smell from the heap of clothes he wears to work.

  His father is beneath the covers, foetal and immobile. Hale shakes him gently.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘I can’t, John. I can’t.’

  ‘There’re people here. They want money.’

  ‘I can’t, John.’

  He doesn’t know whether his father is fully conscious or not. Lucidity is intermittent. He panics at the thought he is going to have to deal with the men himself.

  A shout from outside: ‘That’s one minute!’

  Hale runs back through to the front of the house. The door is closed. He moves through to the kitchen and tips a chair back on two legs and drags it juddering to the entry hall. Careful not to nudge a doorframe. The shotgun case is stored high, roof-level above the little writing desk that holds the telephone.

  ‘Run, run, little piggies. The Big Bad Wolf’s on the way!’

  He hears something break. Maybe one of the rear lights on the Land Rover, shattered by a boot, or a practice golf swing. A bout of hard, wild laughter. He braces the backrest of the chair against the edge of the little desk and stands up on the seat. Tiptoed, he can just reach the twin catches securing the lid on the case. He stretches one-handed and grimaces and pops one side, and then the other. The gun itself is recessed slightly: he has to put one foot up on the desk in order to reach it. He gets an awkward grip on the barrel and lowers it carefully, the thing dense and unwieldy, see-sawing gently against his wrist. He lays it on the floor. A thin sheen of oil residue along the barrels, whorls of his sweat standing up against the lacquer on the stock. He breaks the breech quietly and sights through both barrels and sees fresh air at the other end. A burnt aroma of scorched powder and oil touches his nostrils. Hale stands back up on the chair and finds the box of Winchester 10-gauge shells. He removes two and sits down cross-legged on the floor and feeds the shotgun one per barrel.

  ‘Three minutes!’

  The key to the shotgun’s trigger lock is with the keys to the Land Rover. He hurries through to the kitchen, but they aren’t on their normal peg. He checks the bench top. He looks in the fruit bowl. Nothing.

  Back to his father’s bedroom. No motion from the quilted lump as he approaches the bed.

  ‘Dad, where’s the car keys?’

  His father doesn’t reply. Hale shakes him. ‘Dad, Dad, Dad. Where’re the car keys?’

  ‘I don’t know, John. I don’t know.’

  He hears another smash. Maybe Land Rover brake light number two. The dogs are barking. Hale tries to stay calm. There has to be a second key somewhere. He’s never known something to have just one set.

  He checks the top drawer of his father’s dresser: loose change, some Polaroids of his mother, letters from a bank.

  ‘Four minutes!’

  He starts to panic. Breath grows light, shallow pants keeping shy of his lungs. He wants to vomit. He checks the dresser, top to bottom. Nothing. Fingers clumsy with shakes. He crouches and checks the shoe boxes his father keeps beneath the bed. No keys.

  ‘All righty, we’re coming in!’

  Something smashes against the front door. He pictures the lock splitting, the wood along the jamb splintering free.

  ‘Dad, help. Help. They’re going to come inside.’

  His father doesn’t reply. He hears a sudden, dry crack, like the door had split lengthways. He sees the pile of clothing on the floor and kicks it.

  Something tinkles — something metal?

  He scrabbles, hands and knees, checking pockets, checking folds.

  He finds them: the Land Rover keys, and attached: the trigger lock release. The shotgun is on the floor in the entry hall, the breech still open. He runs for it; slams and crashes from the front door. He reaches the gun just as the door gives and Golf Swing man appears in its absence.

  Hale snaps the breech closed. He sights on the guy’s stomach. Low angle with one hand cupped around the trigger guard, it isn’t evident the lock is still in place.

  The guy says, ‘Whoa, shit. Easy.’

  He backs off a few steps, hand raised. The other two move closer for a view through the door, retreat when they see the gun. Hale waits for them to give him some distance, and then he uses the key off the Land Rover’s ring to release the trigger lock. Shakes and sweaty fingers, it’s third time lucky with the insert. But the gun is now free to fire.

  He gets to hi
s feet and steps past the broken door into the yard. A breeze has the trees lolling frond-like. He raises the gun to his shoulder and draws down on the driver.

  ‘Get in your car and drive away,’ he says. ‘Or I’ll blow your head off.’

  There’s a waver in his voice that the driver catches. ‘That’s a double-barrelled shotgun. You’ve only got two shells.’

  Hale falls quiet a moment. He tries to keep the gun still. ‘So you’ve got a one-in-three chance of living,’ he says.

  The driver laughs. ‘Maybe we could let the dogs off.’

  Hale closes one eye. He hikes the muzzle a fraction and finds the guy’s chin. The gun is too heavy to keep static: the sight traces a loose ellipse.

  ‘If you let your dogs off, I’m going to shoot you in the head.’

  ‘You shouldn’t promise Christmas presents you can’t deliver.’

  Hale looks at him and says nothing. He understands the implication: he has to prove he can follow through. A twelve-year-old with a wavering shotgun and a shaky voice lacks credibility. So he swings the gun left and triggers one barrel and puts a 10-gauge load of number four buckshot through the front windscreen of the truck. The recoil thumps the butt against his shoulder. A kiss of gun smoke plumes radially. Glass explodes in a winking arc.

  The roar of the shot rolls out over the paddocks, returns as faint thunder off the hillsides, a far-off promise of rain. The three guys duck reflexively and fan out, aghast. Hale keeps the gun raised. He realises afterwards there was a reasonable chance of hitting one of the dogs, but he didn’t. The shot had left a ringing in his ears. The truck windscreen looks like some raw wound, ragged hard-edged shards lining the perimeter. Pieces are still falling free and tinkling inside the cab. Because of the angle, the driver’s side window has caught maybe a half-load.

  Hale says, ‘Drive away.’

  ‘We can come back,’ the driver says.

  ‘I don’t care. I’ve got a whole box of ammo.’

  They stand staring at him, anchored by the fact he still has one chambered shell left. The dogs are skittish from the shot, hackles raised and prowling back and forth in the tray. The guy with the gut has dropped his crowbar.

  Hale keeps the gun up and trained on the driver as the three of them get back into the cab. Glass shards crack beneath the tyres. He watches them until they reach the road and disappear, and then he lowers the gun and goes back inside.

  The Haines/Allen residence was two minutes past the liquor store. Double-storey weatherboard, an empty carport annexe to the left. A narrow frill of deck along two sides of the upper level.

  Hale left the Escort around the corner and walked back. No car, no sign of indoor activity. He cupped his face to a downstairs window. A parted curtain revealed a kitchen and living area, free of furniture. Maybe a down stairs flat, awaiting tenancy.

  Timber stairs accessed the upstairs deck. He went up and knocked on the kitchen door. Nothing. He stood back against the adjacent wall and waited. The neighbouring house on the corner was only single-level. It left the deck exposed to street views on both sides. It was quiet, but he didn’t want to hang around. He gave it another minute, and then he picked the lock and went in.

  He’d half-expected long abandonment, but the air smelled fresh. The newspaper on the table was a day old. He stood and listened. Summer heat had the fridge on a steady hum. No creaks of cautious feet, but he did a quick walk-through to confirm vacancy. Everywhere the signs of recent use: toothpaste scum in the bathroom sink, a damp shower curtain, a battery-powered radio, still running. Where are you, Dougie? It had been a quick trip from the store, but at a stretch the woman could have called in time for him to drop everything and leave.

  A fake name and a history of violence. It felt like progress.

  He went back to the kitchen and hunted for a cash-stash. The cupboards held flatware only. He circuited the living room. Nothing in the furniture. The television was LCD, slim construction precluded concealment. The medicine cabinet content was lawful. Nothing under the mattress in the bedroom. He checked beneath the bedframe: a shoebox worth of receipts, a plastic container of nine mil hollow points, a box of 10-gauge shells.

  He nudged a curtain aside and risked a glance out. Still all clear. The radio’s news bulletin predicted drawn-out balminess. He browsed the receipts. Nothing eyebrow-raising. He delved on: a manual for a ’98 Toyota Hilux pickup, an envelope with a passport in the name Douglas Allen. Now we’re getting somewhere. Doug looked late thirties, short dark hair and a sparse goatee. An earnest clench-jawed stare, like he was trying to melt the camera lens.

  He returned everything to beneath the bed and checked for a gun safe. Nothing in the closet, nothing above the cupboards in any of the other rooms. It wasn’t great news. He didn’t want to hang around if the guy was packing something chambered for 10-gauge ammunition.

  He headed back to the living room. A false name, an assault record, evidence of gun ownership. The robbery connection had to be more than just idle chance.

  It must be progress.

  He used his cellphone and tried Devereaux’s desk line again. No answer. He sat down in front of the television. A photograph on the wall behind depicted a Doug/Leanne headshot. It could have been a wedding snap. Doug was beardless, their smiles bore a ’til-death-do-us-part glow. He wondered how long it had taken to lose the gleam of optimism.

  A car pulled up further down the street. He headed down the hall and checked the bedroom window view: one ’98 Toyota Hilux parked kerbside, twenty metres up the street. Unobtrusive, but for an off-tune turbo diesel.

  Hale stayed at the window. He watched Douglas Allen slide out of the cab and walk towards the house. He had what might have been a Remington 10-gauge shotgun held along one leg.

  Shit. Leanne must have tipped him off.

  Hale left the window and walked back to the rear of the house. His pulse ramped up. Internal access to the lower floor was boarded off: entry would be via either the kitchen door or the living room ranch slider. The deck was too exposed for him to take the guy as he came up the stairs. He sifted cutlery drawers: forks and non-serrated butter knives only.

  Shit.

  Footsteps ascending — make a decision. Hale stepped back into the corridor just as Douglas’s head crested the stairs. He led with the shotgun, closed in on the kitchen door. Mistake one: Hale hadn’t relocked it. Mistake two: Hale’s cellphone was still turned on.

  You fucking amateur.

  Douglas propped the shotgun one-handed and popped the kitchen door off the latch. It squeaked and yawed a half-metre. Not quite enough to sidle in. But Doug was patient: he stayed on the threshold, gun up. Quiet settled, blanket-soft. The radio commentary was still running, distant and static-laden. The fridge stood at ease, blind to the tension.

  A crisp tap of muzzle on glass, and the door swung open. Footsteps on lino: tentative, predatory. Hale pictured him standing there, a squint along a cocked barrel. He backed up, glacier-slow. Fingertips to the wall, toe–heel steps. Sweat beaded his hairline, he willed it not to drip and leave a trail. Tactics were still undecided: part of him advised rushing the guy while he still had run-up space. Part of him cautioned that head-on versus a Remington offered poor odds.

  Footsteps resumed. Hale moved left, caught a glimpse of matt-black shotgun barrel. He sidestepped into the bathroom. Toilet opposite, a combined bath and shower stall right of the door. A thick odour of stale steam. The mirrored cabinet bore the ghost of it. He reached the bath. Two tiptoed strides, an agonising held breath. The curtain was partly drawn. He slipped around it into the stall.

  Quiet again. He braced for a shot through the curtain. The radio in the bedroom switched off. He backed up closer to the wall, taps and the showerhead nudging him hard. A squeal of floor joist as Douglas came back down the corridor. His search scheme wasn’t logical: he was retracing covered ground.

  He entered the bathroom. Hale heard his breathing as he passed the door. A lump of shadow against the mildew-sprayed
partition. He hoped he wasn’t backlit from this side. The drain at his feet gurgled hollowly.

  The muzzle nudged the curtain end. A tar-black two-inch stub. It tracked slowly towards him, material bunching against it. A sodden green concertina. The support rings chimed faintly.

  The gun paused. Hale waited, pulse raging. Contorted against the stall end, glued awkwardly in situ.

  Seconds of ear-bleeding quiet. And then his phone rang.

  Hale lunged.

  He got a hand on the barrel, just as the gun swung towards him. He pushed it away, dived sideways through the curtain. The sound of the shot was massive, deafening in the bathroom confines. Pellets spewed wide and blitzed the enamel. The spent shell arcing and rattling against the walls of the bath. A skein of burnt powder smoke spreading.

  He struck the guy with his shoulder. The impact sheared the curtain pole off the wall. They tumbled in a mess of lime-draped limbs. Hale still had a hand on the barrel. He twisted hard. A scream and a clean crack, like a finger caught in a trigger guard.

  Don’t hang around.

  He clawed hands and knees for the hallway, made the kitchen door at a sprint. He was bleeding — Jesus. Abdomen, left side, above the hip. He pulled the kitchen door, vaulted the deck railing one-handed, hit the carport roof. A jarring drop to the ground, a limping dash across the neighbour’s back yard. Damage assessment: his shirt was scarlet, armpit to waist.

  He reached the street, glanced back at the house. No sign of Douglas. He was probably still fighting the curtain. Hale’s hand shook as he keyed the Escort’s lock. He fell in and tore away northbound.