This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  Copyright © 2019 by C. J. Sutton

  Artwork: Adobe Stock © cuckoo_111

  Design: Soqoqo

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Black Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2019

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  For Dannielle

  Acknowledgements

  For my first novel I acknowledged the people and artists responsible for motivating me towards a career as an author. As this is my second novel, I will focus on highlighting those who directly helped and influenced This Strange Hell.

  To my publishers, Laurence and Steph Patterson at Crooked Cat, thank you for once again accepting a manuscript from the other side of the world. This book is filled with Australian references, but you only ever questioned one slang word in the editing process. Your continued support, along with the other Crooked Cat authors, is something I’m truly grateful for.

  To the editing work of Heidi Catherine, who first read the manuscript and provided brutally honest feedback, I appreciate the countless suggestions in improving the story and making all my crazy ideas plausible and realistic. We both know I was never going to take the ‘tone down the violence’ advice, but I specifically came to you because I knew you’d challenge me when others would not.

  To Catherine Fearns and Jo Fenton, brilliant authors who endorsed the book. We all published our first novels around the same time and having your kind words on the cover will help push this deranged story into the hands and minds of new readers. Thank you.

  To my wife Dannielle, raised in a town of similar distance to Melbourne as the fictional Sulley Ridge. It’s only right that I dedicate a book set in the country to you, even if you’re proof that you really can take the country out of the girl. Thanks for being patient while I sit at my computer creating anarchy. We have some amazing times ahead of us.

  I must acknowledge the unique Australian outback. The people of the country are strong, passionate and work harder than anyone else. Melbournians have such a diverse landscape only a few hours from their homes, but few venture any deeper than the popular regional towns. My advice would be to visit your countryside. Sometimes the fresh air, eucalyptus trees and the sight of kangaroos bounding across plains is enough to escape city oppression. Every person living in the outback has a story to tell in their local pub. Grab an ale and let it take you.

  Lastly and most importantly, I would like to thank everyone who read my first novel Dortmund Hibernate. Your purchases and reviews made this next novel possible. Writing a book can feel like solitary confinement at times but knowing that people were buying and enjoying my story gave me the confidence to write another twisted tale. A review can often be the instigator behind a new reader picking up the book and turning to page one, and it can also be the motivation for an author to conquer the blank page on darker days.

  I’m always keen to read feedback and answer questions from anyone interested in my stories. Please feel free to drop me a line at c_j_sutton@outlook.com at any time.

  About the Author

  C. J. Sutton is a writer, freelance journalist and author based in Melbourne, Australia. He holds a Master of Communication degree with majors in journalism and creative writing. His fictional writing delves into the unpredictability of the human mind and the fears that determine our choices in life.

  As a professional writer C. J. Sutton has worked within the hustle and bustle of newsrooms, the competitive offices of advertising and the deep trenches of marketing. But his interest in creating new characters and worlds has seen a move into fiction, which has always pleaded for attention. This Strange Hell is his second novel.

  This Strange Hell

  We live on naught but a billiards table standing in a crowded room.

  In the pockets are the great buildings that rise up to the clouds, stadiums that erupt, cars fighting for front position like an army of ants eager for home. Attention surrounds these pockets as punters wait for a ball to drop into the darkness. A signifier of capture, completion. The eye and mind believe that the game is won in the pockets, and few keep tabs on the middle of the land where many coloured balls are spread out, biding their time, eager to avoid the pockets. You can see them. You may aim for one. There are many.

  For the pockets are the cities, the corners of our world where millions migrate. But in that green ground between pockets you will find balls that live without concern of corners. Their issues rest with what is in immediate proximity. A pocket could lose its netting and the heavy balls could drop to the floor, breaking toes, and the balls furthest away from the edges will be the safest from harm. Yet not all harm is in the pockets.

  The white ball strikes all, and eventually all balls are placed in the pockets if a game is to end. But if the eight ball ventures first, everyone remaining escapes migration. The eight ball must be avoided, and the eight ball knows this. It sits on the green with an infinite mark that all fear to touch. It rests on the green and knows you will do all in your power to evade connection until absolutely necessary. For even the slightest touch may end the game or send the other balls into disarray. A stray white ball allows a second chance. A stray eight ball could mean the end of times.

  Understand the billiard table, good reader, and you will understand the lay of the land.

  Understand the billiard table, my comrade, and you will accept the rules of this strange hell.

  A Solitary Man

  The suited man dashed through the dark Melbourne streets as the building burned behind him.

  The heat of the flames could still be felt on the parts of his skin not covered by crisp navy attire. Sirens echoed into the night, approaching. Shadows danced across the concrete jungle, mocking the man as he searched for an escape from the crackling tower.

  The man used tight alleyways to navigate away from the chaos, the smell of rubbish and old piss an alternative to the accusatory eyes of late-night pedestrians. Rats scurried alongside the man, urging him onward, joining his army of the damned. And then as planned he broke out onto a street so populated that he differed not from the rest of the Friday night creepers.

  Beneath a neon sign advertising beer and cheap thrills, the man assessed his clothing. Knees had blackened, shoes were scuffed with white lines and his jacket was charred at the shoulder and breast. He removed his suit jacket and walked along the street, disposing of the expensive clothing in a dumpster when a break between spotlights shrouded his activity.

  “Can I have that?” asked a homeless man, sticking a bearded head out from a blanket on the pavement. The man nodded and continued walking, wishing he had a beard to cover his face in mystery. He stole a leather jacket hanging from a chair outside a kebab shop, no soul noticing the crime. His hair, in a bun atop his head, began to fray as the strands attached to thick beads of sweat. Cars raced by at sickening speeds despite free bodies swaying on the road, neither human nor machine paying attention to the traffic signals. The man searched for a yellow vehicle, and then stuck his hand out when a sedan appeared unoccupied. The car stopped, and as he moved his arm a split formed at the shoulder.

  “Where to?” asked the taxi driver, his window down. A strange odour wafted out of the gap, but the smell of burning building still dominated the man’s senses.

 
; “As far away from here as we can get.”

  The driver nodded, and the man escaped the street. Without asking, the man closed the window.

  “We can’t go down town, some building is blazing. Heard it on the news, saw it with my own eyes, sir I did.”

  The man shrugged.

  “Happens all the time. Just take me an hour north.”

  The driver raised an eyebrow.

  “I need a destination, sir…”

  The man’s pupils darted, the ever-watchful eyes of the Melbourne night accusing him of a long list of crimes. A teenager slammed both hands on the bonnet of the taxi and puked a vile green substance across the windscreen, chunks of decay taunting the driver. He opened his door and threw his hands in the air, drawing attention to the vehicle and those in the vicinity. The man evacuated as a pair of youths grabbed the driver and tossed him onto his drenched bonnet, a waterslide to asphalt.

  The man could see the black plumes of smoke against the midnight sky, a darkness unchallenged. He could feel the heat, remember its power, surrender to its touch. In a swell of bodies, he felt something hard in his jacket pocket. He withdrew the pink lighter and dropped it onto concrete, crushing the firefly beneath his shoe.

  The competition for a taxi was too fierce, and the man could not use an Uber. He needed an escape from this madness. Scores of tipsy heads wobbled down the stairs to the underground train station. The man followed.

  “That’s my fucken jacket,” roared a deep voice, “my fucken jacket ya bastard!”

  The man used his sober feet to descend the steep stairs and manoeuvre through the flailing limbs. He was thin, which assisted in the movement; but he was also tall, and his head popped up amongst most. When he reached the platform, a hand reached out and grappled the collar of the jacket. Fists followed, but the man had already faced his fight tonight. He twisted out of the jacket and waded through the overwhelming heat of the mob, feeling exposed without some form of protection atop his white shirt. The man slipped into the disabled bathroom and collapsed onto the toilet, wondering if his own vile green substance would fountain from within his stomach.

  With burning arms, the man lifted himself onto his feet and stared in the mirror. One of his ears was black from the smoke, a cut above his right eye had smeared a horizontal line of blood across his eyelid and he could smell burnt hair. He turned on the tap and washed his face thoroughly, hoping to erase all memory from the night, the screams of the dying and the thuds of those who jumped from twenty storeys high.

  A thundering roar from outside the door signalled an arriving train. The man had no idea where the transport would take him. He dashed out onto the platform and launched into the train, managing to find a seat facing opposite all entry points. His body shivered not from the cold, but from the exposure. The man removed his rubber band and let the dark locks fall free, covering the singed ear and cut brow. Not until the train moved did he look up.

  “Look at this, they are saying fifty people dead.”

  “I heard seventy. Surely nobody could survive that.”

  “Watch this man’s head explode on impact…wait…wait…there it is!”

  The voices were of a volume that rapped on his skull. Every passenger had their phone in hand, witnessing the horror that occurred down town. Some covered their mouths with hands, others wiped at tear-streaked faces, and pockets of drunken youths smiled at the delight of death in proximity. They pushed their closest ally to watch a seven-second video of death. The screen became a gateway into the burning building, the flames dancing off the faces of the viewers. The man realised he was the only passenger without a phone in hand. He withdrew his Smartphone, turned it off and ejected the sim card. With all eyes on mayhem, he snapped the card between his fingers and tucked the remains into the gap between seats. He then stared at his black screen, not needing a feed to see the candle-like faces of the dead.

  “My brother lives there!” shrieked a female no older than sixteen, a red Vodka Cruiser attached to her palm. “Let me off, let me off!”

  She banged on the doors of the train, red sugary substance spilling down her arm and onto the floor like a steady stream of bright blood. Each hit increased in force, her eyes white with fear. Losing her footing against the wetness beneath, the female smashed the glass against the handrailing and caused a shower of shards to spray across the hearty travellers. One of the youths from the group enjoying the show on the screen shielded his face, and then approached the white-eyed female.

  “You got glass in my fucking eye, you slut.”

  “Fuck off, my brother is in there,” she protested, waving her phone at the youth. He wore a blue bandana over his throat like a German Shephard and had slits cut into his eyebrows.

  “I don’t care.”

  He snatched her phone, opened the door to the next carriage and tossed the sparkling rectangle out into the night. She wailed, dropped to the floor and slammed her head repeatedly against the railing. Two males from her group charged at blue bandana like bulls to red, and the train descended into an organism of punches and kicks. The man moved closer to the door and found a way out at the next stop, slipping on the red substance and almost falling onto the tracks. A hand reached out and grabbed his forearm, and he winced.

  “Steady brother,” said a woman with a shaved head. The man nodded.

  When she walked away, the crowd followed her direction to a row of trams curtained by buildings. The man slowly rolled back his left sleeve to notice a blotchy burn mark seeping yellow ooze. He quickly curled the white sleeve back to his hand and continued onwards. The next train arriving in four minutes was an express line to a town he had never heard of. The man tossed his phone onto the tracks, emptied his wallet into the nearest bin and crossed his arms in wait.

  His black hair veiled his face.

  His dark eyes veiled his heart.

  Sneaking

  The first specks of morning simmered at the foot of the horizon, a tinge of orange marking Saturday’s territory with history. Many citizens of Melbourne had burned that night. The man was slumped against the inside of the moving train, the midnight hair of his head pressed against the graffitied glass. Few souls were present, and those that were had their heads down in silence, sleep or solemn prayer. The man looked out at the start of the new day, appreciating the green hills and red gums replacing skyscrapers and crazed youths. The end of the line was a town three hours out of the central hub of Melbourne. For the man, this was not enough. But no screens, no attention and no violence graced this land. And that was appreciated.

  The train slowed as it neared its destination, waking the sleepers with a jolt as the brakes screeched against tracks. They wiped saliva off the sides of their mouths and rose, cracks in their knees and tiredness in their minds. The man remained seated, watching a huddle of dreary-eyed youths lift one another up weakly and return to their quieter homes. Their make-up was smeared across their faces, citrus-like scents wafted across in thin tendrils and hands were covered in grime, yet the man nodded to each person as they passed. He knew the laws of towns outside the city; be gracious, be kind. Blend in. Once everyone had left, he too made an exit.

  Stepping onto the platform was a refreshing punch of wind to the face. Parents picked up their children in family vehicles designed for people-moving, mothers and fathers yawning as the doors slammed shut. They woke as their passengers yearned for bed, oblivious to the antics of their offspring. Few goodbyes were said. No cars remained for the man, who surveyed his surroundings. His arm ached. His head throbbed. His eyes were seeping from the smoke of the fire. Legs pulsated from the sprint through alleyways in dress shoes.

  There were no faces, but he felt exposed. Everyone would be waking up to the news of the burned building, the scores of dead civilians and the hunt for the person responsible. The man walked.

  Across the main road was a building that said VACANCY in red neon light, the first letter A missing. The man needed to hide from the world to decide on his next move.
Before crossing, he tossed everything left in his pockets into the green bin and looked both ways. No cars. The town was still waking, rising with the growing orange tinge on the horizon, the sun peeking over the hills to see the man step through the double-doors of the hotel.

  Nobody was at the reception desk. The man saw a bell and hesitated, smoothing down his hair to hide the ear and the cut. Too early.

  “Hello sir,” said a chirpy voice, rising from the desk. The man startled.

  “Hi, I’m here for a room.”

  “Well, do you want the deluxe suite or the single?”

  “The single is fine,” he said, absently rubbing at the burn on his arm and assessing the room.

  The woman, mid-twenties with no make-up and red hair in a bun, typed furiously on the computer. She bore no evidence of a recent wake-up. The man guessed night shift, which rattled anxiety through his body: what if she watched the news?

  “Now I’ll need your credit card and some form of identification. Your driver’s licence is fine.”

  The man pulled out his pockets, leaned on the desk and winced.

  “I’ve had a rough night…Veronica,” he said, squinting to read her name badge. “I’m only in town for one night. I have cash, and I’m more than happy to pay you double the rate for the single. I have no luggage and I make no mess. Some guys…they stole my wallet and phone, then hit me,” he continued, moving his hair ever so slightly to reveal the cut, “so will cash do?”

  Veronica stared at the man, waiting for more. He withdrew a wad of cash from within his shirt and began counting.

  “Five hundred,” she announced, making a decision, “Two hundred for the room, two hundred for insurance, and one hundred for my discretion.”