Dark Ink

by Gary Kemble

Harry threw their tools out of the pit. The shovel, the pickaxe, the torch. He had one last look at the body. It was half naked. He felt awful, leaving her like this. Abused by Lily Sweeney and now desecrated by him.

  ‘Harry!’

  ‘Hang on,’ he said.

  He knelt and fixed Elizabeth Tawny’s clothes, placed the torn teddy bear back under one arm.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. He grabbed Dave’s and Sandy’s hands and clambered out of the grave, kicking the casket shut on his way out. His body hurt. His back, his ribs, his arms. His head. But he had to keep going or all this would be for nothing.

  He bundled their tools together, risked a look over his shoulder. The police were still down the hill a little way, but they had their torches out and were scanning the cemetery. Sandy led the way, doubled over. Harry followed.

  ‘Hey!’ A woman’s voice. ‘Hey!’

  For one moment, Harry had the bizarre thought that it was the girl, calling out from the grave. Then Sandy and Dave ran for it. Harry followed, tools jangling. He felt heat on his back, imagined one of the cops drawing their Glock, taking aim . . .

  He dived to the right, up the hill. Sandy and Dave headed west, following a row of headstones. Harry cut across now, running parallel to them. His chest burned. A stitch bloomed in his side. He risked another look over his shoulder. Torchlight bobbed across the cemetery. Behind that, the police car’s lights bathed the cemetery in blue and red.

  Harry surged up the low earth hill at the edge of the cemetery, crashed through bushes on the other side. Lost the pickaxe. Thought about retrieving it, then gave it away as he saw the torch beams, closer now. Sandy and Dave pushed through the bushes a hundred metres down the hill.

  The car was just up the hill. He ran for it, pulled the door open and jumped in. He thrust his hand into his pocket. No keys.

  ‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  Dave pulled the passenger-side door open, got in, slammed it shut. Sandy jumped in the back.

  ‘What?’

  Harry had a vision of the cops coming over the rise, one in front of the car, one behind. Guns drawn now, or at the very least, Tasers. Then, a memory. Taking his car keys out of his pocket, putting them into his backpack with his water bottle. He’d been worried about dropping them in the grave.

  He pulled open the backpack, reached in and felt the reassuring shape of the Eiffel Tower keyring Bec had bought him when they were in Paris. He shoved the keys into the ignition. The car started first time, for once.

  He slammed the gearstick into drive and floored the accelerator. Left the headlights off. Sandy looked behind them.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘All clear, so far.’

  Harry willed the tired old Corolla to find some extra speed from somewhere. He could taste blood in the back of his mouth. On the left, they passed the turn-off to Mt Coot-tha.

  They rounded the corner, heading towards Bardon, and he flicked on the headlights. Harry let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

  ‘Thank fuck for unfit cops,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 37

  Harry, Sandy and Dave sat at the dining room table, staring at the little bag. It was cotton or hemp, as Sandy had expected, but black ichor had leaked and dried, so the fabric resembled dead, dessicated skin. The light failed around it, making Harry’s dining room look darker than it actually was.

  YOUFUCKENPIECEOFSHITYOUPUTITBACKPUTITBACKRIGHTNOW!

  Harry flinched.

  ‘You don’t look so good, Harry,’ Sandy said.

  ‘It’s her . . .’ He paused as she delivered another blast of vitriol. Harry felt achy and hot. His neck was on fire. He ran his hand over the tattoo, and it came away bloody.

  ‘It’s going to get worse before it gets better, I’m afraid,’ Sandy said.

  She grabbed the bag. The look on her face suggested she felt the same way about it as Harry did. Using her fingernails, she pried the string loose, and then opened the bag. Gently, she tipped out the contents.

  ‘We need a small bowl, some cold water, a clean tea towel, and a sharp knife.’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ Dave said.

  As he rose from his seat, Sandy grabbed his forearm. ‘Sharp,’ she said.

  Dave nodded and disappeared into the kitchen while Sandy spread out the items.

  GETYOURFILTHYHANDSOFFITSLUT!KILL HERHARRY!SMASHHERWRETCHEDHEADOPEN!

  Harry groaned. Red mist descended. He pictured himself grabbing the knife off Dave and gutting them both. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  ‘H-hurry. Please,’ he whispered.

  There was a small bone, a scrap of fabric stained black, some plant matter that disintegrated in Sandy’s hands, and a small disc, also stained black. She picked up the bone.

  ‘This is a human bone. A finger bone.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘Probably mail order, back then,’ she said.

  ‘Are you fucking shitting me?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nope. I mean, they’re sold for study, not for witchcraft. Anyway, it symbolises getting, or grasping.’ She placed it down. ‘If we did a DNA test on this, we’d find the blood of both Lily Sweeney and Eizabeth Tawny. It binds them. When Elizabeth died, it gave Lily some degree of second sight, and the ability to control people.’

  Dave returned, placing the bowl, tea towel and knife on the table. He assessed Harry and picked up the knife again.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ Sandy said.

  She turned her attention to the dried herbs. ‘Bark, probably from a borrachero tree, death cap mushrooms, parsley and probably some poison squeezed from a couple of cane toads, which is why I don’t want to touch it.’

  Harry shuddered.

  ‘Sorry, did you say parsley?’ Dave said.

  Sandy offered him a wry smile. ‘Also known as devil’s oatmeal, if you can believe it. It was said to grow seven times in Hell before the devil gave it permission to grow on Earth. The Haitian Voodoo high priests would have used these ingredients to make their so-called “zombie powder”. Mistress Hel would have something similar in her lair, but this here,’ she gestured at the bag, ‘this connection with the spirit realm, amplifies her powers on Earth.’

  Sandy picked up the final item, the amulet. She wet an edge of the tea towel and wiped it. As the black came away, the silver underneath shone through.

  ‘Sterling silver. Another powerful magical substance.’ She wiped both sides and handed it to Harry. He shook his head.

  ‘I . . . I can’t touch it.’ He palmed the sweat off his brow.

  Sandy stared at him hard, then looked to Dave.

  ‘Can you do the honours?’

  Dave took the disc off Sandy. ‘A St Christopher’s medallion?’

  Sandy smiled. ‘Ironic, isn’t it. Check out the back.’

  Dave turned it over, frowned. Showed it to Harry. ‘Mean anything to you?’

  Harry nodded. It was a miniature version of the design he’d found under the doormat at Godwin’s house, and behind the first aid kit in the cherry picker storage case. And he’d seen it chalked on the floor at Mistress Hel’s place.

  ‘Now what?’ Harry said. ‘You’ve figured all this out, but how does that help me?’

  Sandy took the amulet from Dave and sighed. ‘We need to inoculate you, Harry.’

  She took all the items and put them in the bowl of water. Almost instantly, the water turned black. The surface seemed to shimmer, then smoke, although the water was clearly still cold.

  ‘If we directly apply this to you, it will sort of short out the magic. You’ll be free.’

  Harry felt chills running through him.

  GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTTHEYRETRYING TOKILLYOU!

  Harry leapt from his chair. In his mind he saw himself making it to the car, driving to Mistress Hel’s place and waiting it out in the safety of her playroom. He made it halfway across the room before Dave grabbed him.

  Harry thrust an elbow back. Dave grunted but held on tight. Harry should have been able to take Dave, easil
y – Dave’s experience of martial arts stretched no further than a bit of biffo on the footy field in high school. But Harry was weak, tired and broken. He felt legs entwining in his own and then he was falling. When they hit the ground, his back and ribs exploded in pain and he passed out for a couple of seconds.

  ‘Get his shirt off!’ Sandy said.

  ‘No! No!’

  Harry wondered who was yelling out like that, then realised it was him. Dave ripped Harry’s shirt off, then rolled him onto his stomach. Harry felt a strong hand at the back of his head, pushing his face into the carpet. He felt rage and fear vying for control. He lashed out, gnashed at the carpet and finally cried in frustration.

  ‘Hello?’ a voice called out from behind the front door.

  ‘Yeah?’ Dave said, panicked.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ a woman’s voice. The next-door neighbour.

  Harry saw legs pass him as Sandy rushed for the front door.

  ‘Help me! Help . . .’ Dave thrust a hand over Harry’s mouth.

  Sandy opened the door.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’

  ‘Intervention,’ Sandy said, her voice perfectly calm. ‘My son . . . heroin . . .’

  ‘Oh . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Tough love. It’ll be okay. Sorry about the racket.’ She closed the door.

  Sandy returned, and Harry saw she now had the knife in her hand, dripping with some black liquid.

  He groaned. ‘Please! Please, Sandy. Don’t.’

  ‘Harry, I can’t lie to you. This is going to hurt.’

  ‘No! No!’

  ‘Hold him, Dave. I don’t want to hurt him any more than is necessary.’

  The knife felt like an electrified brand. Pain lanced through Harry’s body, setting alight every nerve ending. He bucked despite his injuries, but Dave was sitting across his back and he couldn’t escape. Harry didn’t black out again. Blacking out would have been merciful.

  ‘Again.’

  The pain was worse the second time, and coupled with horrific visions of Mistress Hel, plunging her scalpel into Harry’s body over and over.

  ‘Again.’

  Harry saw the pain as lines in his mind. Lines of acidic fire, burning through his sanity. The lines turned themselves inside out and he saw the world, he saw the light die in every eye on earth, he saw a glorious black shape rising into the air.

  ‘I’ve got to go again, Harry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Fuck off, fuck off, you cunt. Leave me! I’m fixed now. I’m fixed. PLEASE!’

  Cut. Harry rose out of his body. I’m dying, thank Christ, I’m dying. He saw Dave lying over his arse, Sandy leaning over him. Black mist spewed from the cuts in his back. Within seconds it had coalesced into a thing with claws and teeth and red eyes. Only he could see it. Sandy was talking to Harry, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. The thing ripped open Sandy’s mouth and forced itself into her. She coughed, tried to pull it out. Her eyes bulged. Dave turned, horrified, as Sandy exploded, coating the room in red.

  ‘You’re doing well, Harry. Just one more now.’

  Harry blinked. Fuck.

  ‘No, I can’t bear it, I can’t . . .’

  Cut. Harry’s eyes filled with a light so bright his eyeballs burnt to a crisp. A black tidal wave rose in him, washing the mammoth shape away. Darkness. A moment. An eternity. Harry opened his eyes as his stomach convulsed, sending wave after wave of black bile spewing across the red carpet. He heard Dave cry out in disgust, and felt perverse joy.

  And then, finally, merciful unconciousness embraced him.

  CHAPTER 38

  Johnny dusted his hands, butterflies dancing in his stomach. He thought he’d done a good job, but what he thought didn’t matter – what Mistress Hel thought was everything. He checked his phone, in case he’d missed a message. Yellowing grass stretched away from the shed to the horizon, cut only by rusty barbed-wire fences. Low, dusty hills framed the parched cattle country.

  Turning back to the shed, he took the instructions out of his back pocket and checked them over once more. He’d found them on the internet and printed them out. Now they were stained with his sweat and blood and the pages had been folded and unfolded so many times they were falling apart.

  Johnny’s mind tried to put the pieces together: the police truck, the sacks of ANFO, the wires and the detonators. He felt as though he should have been able to figure out what it all meant. But then he found himself thinking about Mistress Hel. The curve of her thighs, her bright red lips, eyes that saw right through him. All that mattered was that what he had done matched the instructions. Satisfied, he folded the instructions and placed them in his back pocket. On the horizon, dust rose into the sky. She was coming!

  Johnny ran to the house, hoping he could get changed and clean before she arrived. Then he stopped, remembering the van was still uncovered, and the doors of the shed were open. He ran back to the shed, then remembered that the gate was closed, and that Mistress Hel hated having to get out of the car to open the gate. He headed for the gate, then stopped. But if it wasn’t her, and someone saw the police truck, it might get reported . . .

  Johnny froze, torn in three directions at once, unable to make up his mind. He cursed, wiped tears away, cursing again as the dust stung his eyes. He hobbled back to the shed, pulling the old wooden gates shut on squealing hinges. He yanked a chain through the steel loops but didn’t bother locking it.

  He sprinted to the gate in time to open it as her black BMW pulled up. Through the dusty windscreen he caught a glimpse of her big sunglasses and red lipstick. He felt a surge of happiness that he’d managed to get to the gate before she pulled up. She would appreciate that. He may not get any thanks for it, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was happy. Because when she wasn’t happy – he shuddered.

  Johnny looked up, cursing himself for zoning out. He was tired. So tired. The car was already edging behind the house. He closed the gate, then ran for the house. He surged through the front door and the bare lounge room. The house was cold. Curtains drawn, dim after the brightness of outside. His eye still stung. He raced into the kitchen. Warped formica benches, a rust-stained porcelain sink, a bar fridge where an old full-sized Kelvinator once stood. This room’s window faced away from the road, so he was allowed to keep the curtains open.

  The back door opened. He reached for the glass on the draining board, then opened the fridge and pulled out a plastic jug of water. With shaking hands, he filled the glass. Seeing the water made him realise how thirsty he was. How long had he been working out there? Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter. He set the glass on the table and lowered himself to his knees, bowing his head.

  Her heels clumped up the back steps, then clacked across the linoleum floor. The sound raised goosebumps along his arms. She stood just out of sight. He knew she was smiling. He could sense it. But that didn’t mean she was happy. She knew he wanted to see her, any part of her. She knew that where she was standing was tempting him to disobey a rule. And that would mean punishment.

  She stepped forwards so he could see her black patent leather shoes, her stockings. He groaned, then hissed a curse at himself. Then muttered an apology. She ignored him, laying her clutch on the table, ignoring the water he’d set out for her.

  ‘Hello, Johnny,’ she purred.

  ‘Hello, Mistress.’

  ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘Almost, Mistress.’ Johnny felt a surge of panic. Why hadn’t he worked harder? Why hadn’t he got up earlier this morning? Or worked though the night? God, it was so selfish of him, to think about his rest when Mistress had done so much for him. ‘I’m so sorry . . . I just . . .’

  ‘Shh,’ she said. She laid a hand on his head. ‘You’ve done well. Go and wait in the lounge room and I’ll bring the blade in.’

  ‘Oh! Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ Not thinking, he crawled forwards and wrapped his arms around her. She was wearing a tight black dress. He could smell her perfume.<
br />
  ‘Ugh! Get . . . off . . . me!’

  She kicked him away. All the happiness evaporated. Johnny curled on the floor in the foetal position, panic gripping him. What if she left him? What if she didn’t give him relief? It was a week last time, what if . . .

  He risked a look at her. Her face was contorted in disgust as she brushed the dust off her dress.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . . I’ll buy you a new dress.’

  ‘It’s Gucci. Where are you going to get two thousand dollars?’

  Johnny’s mind froze. He couldn’t think of anything. He wished he were dead.

  ‘You don’t have a job anymore, remember? You work for me now. And I don’t pay you – well, not with money.’ She pulled a chair out, sat down. Crossed her legs. Tapped her toe. ‘How much is an orgasm worth, do you think? To me, I mean?’

  She was smiling again. Johnny stopped breathing.

  ‘Answer me! What is it worth to me to give you an orgasm?’

  ‘N-n-not much.’

  ‘That’s right. Not much. Maybe five dollars. Maybe. So what if I was to trade that two thousand dollars for your next two hundred or so org . . .’

  ‘I’ll rob someone!’ Johnny yelled. ‘I’ll do over a convenience store.’

  Without realising it, he was back on his knees, forehead against the floorboards.

  Mistress Hel laughed. ‘You would too, you perverted little fuck.’

  She placed a heel into the back of Johnny’s head.

  ‘Do you remember the first time we met?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  ‘As in, the very first time. In the basement of that fucker’s house. And all those men were . . . urgh!’

  Her heel pressed harder into the back of his head. He gritted his teeth.

  ‘Y-yes . . . M-mistress.’ Johnny’s mind was reeling. He hated it when she brought this up. She knew he was just a kid. She knew he was powerless to help her, just as he was powerless to help himself. But he also knew trying to justify what happened wouldn’t help him; it would only make her angrier.

  ‘All those men. Revolting men. Unable to control themselves. And what did you do to help me?’