8 Hours to Die

by JR Carroll

  He ended up at the stormwater drain, where he spent hours and hours alone, until it grew dark, and he could not put off going home any longer.

  *

  In the days that followed, Stefan stewed over his situation. He still couldn’t believe Uncle Luc could do such things. He realised it’d been going on for some time without him noticing, due to his inebriated state. He remembered the things he’d noticed in the mornings; things that were not right: his pants in disarray; the smells in his bed; the vague sense that something had happened in the night …

  He remembered Luc’s hand on his thigh, and his words: Don’t get me wrong, but we get along fine, don’t we? We have fun together.

  He saw now why Uncle Luc had actively encouraged him to drink. There was the occasion when he’d caught Luc putting a powder into his drink: an extra sedative, no doubt, to make sure he wouldn’t wake up. How many other times did that happen, without Stefan’s knowledge?

  He remembered waking up feeling like his backside had been scraped with a wire brush, and noticing Luc’s manicured three-day growth later that evening.

  The thought of it made him want to throw up.

  He realised now how Luc tacitly encouraged him along the path of various forms of corruption: the drinking, the dirty movies, the smoking and even the thieving. Luc must have noticed the cash missing from his wallet. Perhaps he regarded that as a fair trade, or payment. He never once offered a single word of criticism of anything Stefan did. Yet nothing escaped his eagle eye, Stefan was certain of that.

  It all fitted. He was being done from day one.

  Who could he turn to? Not his father, whom he despised; not his sister, with whom he had little or no contact.

  It never crossed his mind, even for a second, to go to the police. Police meant trouble.

  And he would never in a million years tell the school authorities. That would be the very worst thing he could do. Those interfering busybodies would make sure everyone in the school—and his neighborhood—knew about it.

  A thought flashed through his mind: Scud Murphy, the biker. You ever in trouble you can’t handle, just come here and ask for Scud Murphy!

  It was tempting.

  But he knew he could never tell Scud Murphy, either. The plain fact was that he could never reveal his dirty and shameful secret to anyone, period. It was his alone to deal with.

  It didn’t seem fair for a thirteen-year-old to be in this position.

  *

  Come the next weekend, Stefan was screwed right down tight inside himself. Would not speak to his uncle, sit at the table with him, or even look at him. Luc, on the other hand, carried on as if nothing had happened: playing his stupid jazz, whistling, working up a sweat in the kitchen, preparing meals that Stefan never ate.

  Stefan was outside most of the time, dodging school, shoplifting, hanging out with friends at the stormwater drain. Occasionally getting it on with Martine, whenever she showed up. He rarely saw her any more. She’d left home, or been kicked out; lived in digs with some other runaways. She was doing hard drugs now.

  One time she didn’t want to do it in front of the others, but he forced her pants down and made her. She cried afterwards, but he didn’t care. Let her cry.

  Stefan was drunk, drugged on pills, or both, most of the time. Time drifted by in a blur.

  Just how he preferred it.

  Saturday night, when he came home late—drunk—there was a party in full swing. Stefan could hear it well before he reached the house. He went inside, ignoring everbody, and made a beeline for his room.

  He lay in bed for a while, listening to the bitchy talk and occasional squeals of laughter, the clinking glasses and bottles, the background of Count Basie or Duke Ellington or whoever.

  At last he fell asleep.

  When he opened his eyes sometime in the wee hours, all was quiet in the house. He could not go back to sleep: thoughts were tumbling around in his overwrought brain like clothes in a dryer.

  He got up, still in a half stupor, went into the darkened lounge room and accidentally kicked over a glass of something that was on the floor. Ignoring it, he proceeded to Uncle Luc’s room, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

  Luc was lying on top of the bed, still dressed, snoring his head off.

  His cigarettes and lighter were on the dresser. On the floor was a stack of newspapers. Luc often read them in bed.

  Stefan lit a cigarette, took a few puffs. Then he placed it between Luc’s fingers.

  He crumpled some of the newspapers and stuffed them under the bed.

  Then, using Luc’s gold Ronson, he set fire to the paper in several places. Watched it burn, gathering intensity as it spread. He lit the curtains for good measure.

  Stefan left the room and stood on the other side of the closed door.

  In a little while he could smell smoke.

  He grabbed a couple of towels from the bathroom and shoved them against the base of the door. He could hear the crackling of flames within the room. He wondered if Luc would ever wake up, or just die in his bed.

  In a way he wanted his uncle to wake, see what was happening, and suffer.

  He wanted him to experience fear and terror. To see that he was caught in a trap from which he would not escape.

  The flames grew more intense. Among the noise Stefan could hear Luc coughing and spluttering. Stefan pictured him lurching around in the dark and the smoke, stumbling against furniture, trying desperately to find a way out …

  It was never going to happen.

  Now the smoke was seeping out through the cracks around the door.

  The doorknob began to turn.

  Stefan seized it; held it tight so it wouldn’t move. He put his foot up against the wall to gain extra leverage as Luc tried with all his might to pull the door open.

  Luc was strong, but Stefan was stronger. Remarkably so, given his tender years.

  It never occurred to him for a second to let his uncle out.

  Three or four minutes later, the struggle ended. Stefan removed the towels from the base of the door, returned them to the bathroom.

  Then he ran out into the street, screaming.

  By the time the Service de sécurité incendie arrived, half the house was ablaze. Flames roared out though the windows, curling up onto the roof and threatening adjoining properties.

  No one trapped inside had a chance.

  *

  In the investigation that followed, Stefan was questioned closely by both police and fire officers. There were suspicions. But no one could seriously believe that a sweet-faced thirteen-year-old would commit such an atrocious crime against a doting uncle—a substitute father—who had given him nothing but love and attention.

  Luc was known to drink to excess, and then smoke in bed. There’d been a party in the house that night; he was almost certainly drunk by the time he retired at around 2.30am.

  Official verdict: death by misadventure. Fortunately for Luc, he had succumbed to smoke inhalation before the flames burned him to a crispy critter.

  Stefan went to live with his father in a cheap hotel in Pointe-Saint-Charles. Thaddeus was now working as a pastrycook for a chain patisserie.

  Stefan went to a new school. It wasn’t bad. He had no trouble readjusting. He never mentioned anything about the fire to anyone. It was over and done with. He had no regrets; none whatsoever. His terrible secret was shut down tight in his mind, along with everything associated with it.

  One day his father told him he was sending for his sister, and the three of them were going to embark on an adventure. They were going to get a fresh start together. Apparently Luc had a life insurance policy, fifty thousand dollars, with Thaddeus named as beneficiary. Thaddeus was grieving terribly for his brother. He wanted to leave Montreal, which held only bad memories for him.

  Stefan asked where they were going.

  Thaddeus told him: ‘Australia. We’re going to Sydney, in Australia. L’Australie.’

  Stefan had never he
ard of it. He assumed it was somewhere in North America. But then he consulted an atlas at school. Australia was an ocean away; a whole new world in the southern hemisphere.

  He couldn’t wait to get there. There was plenty he wanted to escape from too.

  *

  When he arrived in Sydney with his father and sister, Stav was immediately sent to a Catholic school, a red-brick prison-like institution in a working-class area, not far from where they lived.

  Stav hated it from the start.

  The teachers, all brothers, were strict and vindictive. Stav ran foul of them early on. One day he gave lip to his English teacher, and was sent to the teacher in charge of discipline, Brother Corrodus, to be punished.

  Brother Corrodus was a rangy, slit-lipped man without one molecule of kindness in his bones. He seemed incredibly old, but was probably only in his fifties at the time. He gave Stav six cuts with the cane on each hand and sent him back to class with a dire warning in case he should ever repeat the offence.

  Sometime later he was caught with a bottle of liquor and cigarettes in his locker. The liquor he’d stolen; the cigarettes he’d purchased from a ‘friendly’ shop owner with money he’d stolen from his father’s wallet.

  For that offence he received another thrashing. His father was summoned to the school and informed of his son’s grave transgressions—criminal transgressions.

  Thaddeus was devastated to learn that his dear Stavvie could be capable of such immoral actions. It came as a great shock to him. Always an emotional man, he was reduced to tears in the headmaster’s office.

  The police became involved.

  Stav was given a stern lecture by one of the cops, in the presence of his father. The cop told him he’d finish up in a juvenile detention centre if he wasn’t careful.

  In the end, he was let off with a warning.

  *

  One day he was rounded up with a group of boys who were watching another boy masturbate in the toilet. He told Brother Corrodus that he was not part of the group; that he just happened to be in the toilet at the time. It was true. For once in his life, Stav was innocent.

  It cut no ice with Brother Corrodus. He had Stav in his crosshairs from his prior offences.

  All the participants were lashed mercilessly.

  When it was Stav’s turn, saved till last, Brother Corrodus made a speech before meting out his punishment.

  ‘God shines a light,’ he said, ‘showing the way ahead. Not far behind is the devil at your tail. But in your case, Dechaineux, I fear the devil has caught up and claimed you as one of his own.’

  He then caned Stav on both hands, six of the best. After that, he told him to bend over. The punishment was not over yet. He was to be caned on the backside too.

  ‘This gives me no satisfaction,’ Brother Corrodus told him. ‘But it is a matter of principle.’

  He then put his hand inside the back of Stav’s pants, to see if there was any padding. ‘I know the tricks boys get up to,’ he said, groping in Stav’s pants for longer than necessary.

  Stav was aware that boys sometimes put magazines or wads of paper down their pants to soften the blows. But how could he have possibly done that when he was brought directly from the toilet to Brother Corrodus’s office?

  It wasn’t the last time he suffered such abuses at the hands of Brother Corrodus. Far from it. In the end, Stav decided to dish out some retribution of his own. One night he broke into the school with a can of petrol, and set in on fire. The damage was considerable, and he was soon arrested and charged.

  The cop’s words rang true: he spent three years in a juvenile prison, where he picked up even more bad habits. By the time he came out, his future course was set in stone. He was an outlaw, through and through. Thaddeus didn’t want to have much to do with him after that: he was eighteen, an adult; he could go his own way, straight to hell, if he chose.

  28

  The thought had passed through Tim’s mind to make a run for it. He visualised how it would happen: they’d slip out the back door, run down to the valley, shielded by darkness, going nowhere in particular, just running into the night, heading for the state forest, lose themselves there, hope these bastards would give up, not bother pursuing.

  There were positives and negatives.

  If they were spotted escaping, they’d be pursued and inevitably run down. That was a scenario too awful to consider.

  They could get away, maybe, but they’d have to survive in the bush for one, two nights. There was nothing out there, no civilisation. No one to rescue them, no means of communication. No one would even know they were out there. They could end up dead from cold or exhaustion on the forest floor. And, if Amy broke down or hurt herself, what then? He’d have to carry her. But carry her where?

  And what if he broke down? Can’t see your footing, it’s an easy enough thing to do.

  They wouldn’t be able to go back to the house in case the bastards were still there, staking it out.

  It didn’t seem an attractive enough option. There was really nowhere to escape to.

  But, now that he had the gun, he figured the odds a bit better. They might be more wary. He didn’t want a firefight, but if they managed to break in, he had a semiautomatic pistol with a more than half-full magazine. He’d already counted: there were twelve of the nine-millimetre rounds left. They could do a lot of damage at close quarters.

  He’d have to be careful not to waste any of them.

  *

  ‘Let’s try some psychological warfare,’ Cornstalk said.

  Cornstalk could be such a wanker sometimes, always carrying on as if he were fighting a war. Christo found it highly annoying.

  ‘Like what?’ he said.

  ‘We talk him out,’ Cornstalk said, giving him a level stare. ‘See how that goes down.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Cornstalk took a slug of Beam as he approached the side of the house, where Christo had broken the upstairs window.

  ‘Hey, Tim!’ he shouted. ‘Come on, man. Don’t play hard to get. You know it’s only a matter of time!’

  No response from the house.

  ‘Can you hear me, Tim? Everything OK up there? Anything you need? Pizzas? Come on, answer me. We’re just talking now. See if we can’t resolve this situation.’

  *

  Tim and Amy heard him loud and clear. They were still sitting on the bedroom floor. Tim’s gut told him to shut up, say nothing, give them nothing.

  ‘What’ll we do?’ Amy said.

  ‘Ignore it.’

  ‘He wants to talk.’

  ‘He can want to talk all night long. We don’t play his mind games.’

  ‘But … if he’s talking, he’s not hurting us. Talk can’t hurt you. We could buy some time. Maybe you can convince them to leave us alone. Negotiate. Offer them money, whatever they want.’

  Tim looked at her. He couldn’t believe she meant it. But she did.

  ‘Negotiate? Amy, it’s bullshit. He’s looking for a weakness, a way in. Once he gets in, he’ll kill us. That’s the tactic.’

  ‘I’m just saying … it might be worth a try,’ she said.

  ‘No, it isn’t. Sweetheart, this is not talkback radio. We’re not having a robust exchange of views here. It’s a bit more serious than that!’

  ‘Fuck you,’ she breathed.

  *

  ‘Tim!’ the man yelled after a five-minute break. ‘Come to the window at least. I got a proposal!’

  Tim got to his feet. He approached the shattered window with care, sidling up alongside it. At least he’d have a good view of this person who was obviously the leader.

  He spotted the tall man with the ponytail. He was right out in the open. He must’ve known Tim had the other guy’s pistol, but didn’t seem at all concerned for his safety. He had what appeared to be a sawn-off shotgun down the front of his pants. Tim didn’t recognise the man, but he looked every inch an outlaw biker. No doubt on a wanted list somewhere. The thought crossed his mind tha
t he might just be able to pick the guy off from here …

  Tim held the weapon by his side. ‘You want to hear my proposal or not?’ the man said.

  ‘Keep talking, mate. Cops’ll be here soon. They’re on their way,’ Tim found himself saying. He stepped in front of the window where he could be seen.

  ‘Ah, that’s better,’ the man said. ‘What’s that you say? Cops on the way? How’d you manage that, mate? Mental telepathy?’ He pulled out a mobile phone and pressed some numbers. Then he held it towards Tim, who could see the bright rectangle of its lighted screen.

  ‘See that? No signal. It’s a dead zone, Tim. You know that. A dead zone, and you’re right in the middle of it. We’re off the grid, man!’

  Tim heard some laughter from the other two. They were out of sight somewhere.

  ‘Why don’t you crawl back under your rock?’ Tim shouted. ‘And when you get there, tell Markleigh to do his own dirty work.’

  ‘What’s that?’ the bikie said. ‘Markleigh? Who the fuck’s Markleigh?’

  Tim’s grip tightened on the pistol. The man was wide open. He kept the gun by his side.

  ‘At least let your woman go. We got no beef with her. She’s gone, out of harm’s way, and then it’s just man to man. How’s that?’

  Tim became aware that Amy was standing behind him.

  ‘If they let me go,’ she said, ‘I could go and get the cops.’

  ‘Yeah, you could,’ Tim said. ‘And maybe you could bring the pizzas, too.’

  ‘If they let me go—’

  ‘They are not going to let you go!’ Tim told her. ‘Why would they do that? You’re the only witness to a murder—understand? Go out that door, you think you can just jump in the car and off you go, bye-bye? What you will be is a hostage, Amy. Then I have to give up, and it’s all over.’

  ‘Tim, this is not a courtroom,’ she said. ‘Yours is not the only opinion that counts. I’m in this too!’

  Tim drew a deep breath. ‘These men are experienced career criminals. That means they are also habitual liars and manipulators. They’ll do anything to get what they want. And right now, they’re trying to drive a wedge between you and me. That’s the plan—divide and conquer. And it’s working, Amy! Listen to yourself!’