This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  Without glancing upward, the man handed Veronica the five hundred dollars and received a key on return. He noticed her dismay at the ease in which the transaction occurred, and knew she pondered asking for more. But he walked away twirling the key in his hand, searching the hallway for the room that would lock away the world.

  The man entered the sour-smelling abode, glanced around for peeking eyes, and collapsed on the bed. He kicked off his dress shoes, removed his belt, wiggled out of his pants and desired sleep. But the itch on his body rose. He stood, removed the shirt and began peeling away the bundles of fifty-dollar notes from his torso. Each tear ripped away hair and skin. Hundreds of thousands of dollars fell away onto the bed, creating a yellow sea of notes.

  He ran a cold shower and sat on the floor, washing away the remains of smoke. The temperature lessened the burn on his arm, yet the flames were still crackling at his heart. The solitude of the shower brought back the screams of the dying tenants, some dashing out of the building in flames and others trying a fifty-feet drop that resulted in splatter. The red puddles were like fresh crimson rain from the sky. Screams of the dying were wails of hopelessness. The man rose, groggy.

  Wanting no attachment to those who died, the man ran the bathtub and washed the bottom of his dress shoes. Flakes of dirt, shit and grass turned the water dark. Blood, a sickly brown, added flavour to the cocktail. To be rid of these clothes he needed new ones.

  The man sat on the bed, naked, and stared at the television. Its black screen taunted and replayed the screeching cat bashing its head against brick to rid of the burning pain. He turned the television on. Immediately, the familiar scene covered the screen. A reporter spoke solemnly to the camera:

  “The death toll continues to rise. Authorities are saying that it will be impossible to predict the fatality count until all tenants are contacted. Since it was a Friday night, the hope is that many were out or away. But the city wakes up heavier this morning, as parts of the building still burn and bodies are identified. So far, upwards of eighty people are confirmed dead.”

  The reporter paused, shaking her head, and returned to the camera.

  “There are no reports on how this fire started. Many are shouting terrorism. Perhaps somebody simply left on an appliance. Speculation is rife, but right now we pay our respects to those who lost their lives in the Barron Tower Burn.”

  Those three words danced across the screen, tinged with orange. The man watched on, waiting.

  “Ten people remain in a critical condition. It’s hoped that someone will have information to fill in the gaps of this tragedy. If anyone has seen anything suspicious, please contact police.”

  The man turned off the television. He opened the window to let in fresh air, but the morning air was now still and troubled by the death only a few hours south. The man never wanted to leave this humble room again, despite the scene of just a bed, window, bathroom and television. But he knew that the hours where the city stood in shock were vital. This chance would not present again. He searched for a pen and paper, settling for a pencil and a piece of cardboard. He wrote his shopping list:

  Shirt.

  Shorts.

  Sturdy shoes.

  Underwear.

  Cap.

  Sunglasses.

  An electric shaver.

  Contacts.

  Pliers.

  Padlock.

  Rubber bands.

  Hair dye.

  Tweezers.

  Backpack.

  Bread.

  Water.

  Alcohol.

  The man assessed the list while getting dressed, tapping each word to ensure absolute necessity. The shops in this regional town would be filling up as each minute passed, finding supplies for a weekend BBQ or family gathering. He stared at the money: one million dollars.

  He wondered if the red-haired girl would enter the room once he left. Highly likely, a sneaky face. But he lacked the tape to strap every bundle back into place, and the patience to bundle each note waned as the sun rose higher and higher. Time to be quick. The man pocketed his key, opened the window at the back of the room far enough to squeeze through, and fell onto gravel with a thud that scared away a pair of magpies. Pushing the window closed, he crept out of the bushes, unfamiliar to the area he walked. The main street was a mere two minutes stroll away from the cheap excuse for a hotel. Few bodies lingered on the street, a car passing by every thirty seconds and parking on the side of the road. The man pushed into a clothing shop and bounced backward. Glaring into the window of the store, a boy held up two fingers. The man shrugged.

  “Two minutes,” he yelled, tapping at his wrist that bore no watch. The man suppressed an urge to break through the glass. He tapped his feet on the sidewalk, glancing left and right, expecting a parade of police to burst down the main road at any moment with guns drawn and cuffs at the ready. A jingle signalled the opening of a door.

  “Sorry mate. Can’t be opening before eight. Boss always says don’t start bad habits.”

  “I’ll be quick,” said the man.

  “You seen the news? You seen it? They reckon one hundred dead. More to come. The fuck happened, mate? Woke up to take a piss and me missus runs in, turns on the radio. Couldn’t believe it.”

  The man walked on, checking for the most average clothes on the rack.

  “What’cha looking for?”

  “T-shirt, shorts, pair of boots, couple of pairs of underwear. If you can bring all that to me in under two minutes, I’ll spot you an extra twenty. Everything in medium.”

  The boy appreciated a dash of excitement in his mundane Saturday morning. As he rounded up the garments and shoes, the man noticed a bald spot on the back of the clerk’s head. He had to be older than he looked. The man pinched his eyes, knowing he needed sleep to function.

  “What did you get up to last night, mate? You smell like shit.”

  So much for the shower. More wasted time.

  “Party,” he answered, picking up a belt with an ox on the front.

  “Some party huh?”

  “You have no idea.”

  The boy dropped the bland clothes onto the counter and began scanning the barcodes. Each beep sent a punch into the man’s chest.

  “That’ll be seventy bucks…plus the twenty you owe me for that record speed.”

  The man handed the boy two fifties and took the clothes into the change rooms. He placed his burdened clothes into the bag and applied the average wear, placing both pairs of underwear on. The mirror taunted him, frosting at the mere sight of the suited man now in the clothes of a weekend bumpkin. One million dollars, yet the look of a pub gambler.

  “All good in there, mate? Need anything else?”

  “Sunnies and a cap.”

  “Timing me again?”

  The man let the question linger and caught both items as they fell into the change room. With a t-shirt, the burn was a pimple on a prom queen.

  “Jumper?”

  A black hoodie fell into the room, but the man wrinkled his nose. Too cliché.

  “Jacket?”

  A brown leather jacket, much more suited to the man. He walked out, handed the boy another fifty and made no gesture of goodbye as the door jingle rang. A group of men, not dressed dissimilar to the man, approached.

  “Any money it’s them Muslims, any money. Would’ve planted a bomb on Tuesdi and been back in Iraq for nightly prayer on Wednesdi,” said a thick man, no neck.

  “No way, too obvious man. I reckon it’s them teenagers, partying too hard and setting shit on fire for a laugh,” said a shorter man with the same face. Brothers.

  “Nope,” said the three-pronged rake-man, sweeping the dust off the floor with his gangly limbs. “This is how it is. Some woman lights a candle and waits for her husband to get home, ready to rock his world. But ol’ husband ain’t coming home, he’s spending the night with his mistress. Woman falls asleep, candle hits a curtain and boom: fire in Barron Tower.”

  The man continued
forward, feeling the trio gain speed on him. He hunched as he walked, holding his bag full of clothes with enough DNA to power a train. He lowered his cap and adjusted his sunnies. Another group, four women jogging. This town was considered regional, but it was not small. Dozens of eyes glazed over the man as he walked into the convenience store, searching for the items on his list. A baby screamed. A toddler tugged at the man’s sleeve and pointed at a bleeding cut on his leg. The man handed her a bag of lolly snakes and watched as she ran to her mum. After a quick stop into the hardware store, the man needed one more item from the list: contacts. He saw a pharmacy three shops down.

  “Bit warm for a jacket, hey boss?”

  Two women, holding hands, stared quizzically at the man. They waited for a response.

  “I’m from further up the country. That’s what you call warm. This is tame.”

  They nodded in unison but blocked the path.

  “Your eyes,” said the softer voice, leaning in closer, “that green is piercing. I bet that works with the ladies…or men, whatever your preference.”

  They were rooted to the footpath, ready for a Saturday morning chat. The prime time for those without burden.

  “That hair needs a trim though,” said the bulkier woman. “You look like Severus Snape with that mess. My sister around the corner will cut it, will only cost you a tenna.”

  “Excuse me ladies,” said the man, brushing past. He felt their eyes on his back. Paranoid, he knew. But any attention set the scene to panic. He entered the pharmacy and picked up a pair of brown-eyed contacts, swiped at a packet of paracetamol and parted with another fifty. The list was complete, but his stomach growled when the scent of freshly baked meat pies tempted him with an invisible finger. The aroma of pastries combined with the forgiving smell of ground coffee beans, and no level of panic was about to deter his progression into the bakery.

  Every table inside was full as well as the tables on the street, but the man noticed a courtyard out the back. Unsure if to order first or wait for service, he approached the counter. A burly woman wearing an apron and gloves shook her head.

  “Sit down love. We’ll be with you in a second.”

  The man found a single seat and table in the far corner of the courtyard, alongside a small fountain where sparrows jolted their heads and insects simmered above water level. Lilies lined the path and closely cropped grass of the greenest variety emitted a new fresh smell that lingered with the pastries and coffee. For the first time in hours, the man felt his heart rate steady. A newspaper sat on his table, and the front page bore no news of the night prior. No television graced this courtyard, and the only sounds came from local citizens enjoying their breakfast and a Vance Joy track playing on low volume. Calm.

  “What’ll it be, lad?”

  “Whatever I can smell. Meat pie, I’m guessing?”

  “Correct, lamb filled with chunks of onion.”

  The words caused his stomach to speak in agreement.

  “Anything else?”

  “Latte, extra strong, two sugars.”

  The woman smiled, a tooth missing in front.

  “The perfect pick-me-up.”

  She waddled away as the man pushed his bags further under the table to avoid detection.

  He relaxed his shoulders. Loosened a buckle on his belt. No immediate danger presented here. But the man knew he needed to keep moving. The people here, while friendly, were nosey. If shit hit the fan…

  Two men wearing high-vis orange vests entered the courtyard and pulled up seats next to the man.

  “Where you off to today?” asked a man old enough to be the other’s father, a skating rink of black gracing the top of his tanned head.

  “Mate, all the way up to Sherry Grove. Plonking past all the pieces of shit scattered about Victoria. You name it, I probably have to go there before the weekend is out. Reckon she’ll serve me a schooner this early?”

  “That sucks. I finished my load, drove all night. Firing up the barbie later, reckon I’ll be six deep before the meat’s cooked. I’m set.”

  “Lucky bastard,” said the younger man. His stomach was trying to swallow his lower half, twig legs sticking out for support. The man listened intently.

  “Come ‘round for a beer before you head off?”

  “Dunno mate, I’ve got about three hours before I leave. If they breath-test me, I’ll be screwed. I’ll be happy with my breakfast schooner.”

  “Fair, I know that feeling too well.”

  They continued jabbering about beer, but the man felt a plan forming in his head. When the waitress walked past, he requested his meal and beverage in take-away packaging and picked them up off the counter. The pie vanished before he left the bakery. The heat of the coffee was a friendly arm draped across his shoulder. Streets were filling with people, many likely having returned after work in the city or on the road during the week. No feeling regenerated a mind like a crisp Saturday morning away from the city. The man ran across the street with his bags in one hand and the extra strong coffee in the other and entered the front of the hotel.

  “Didn’t even see you leave,” said the familiar voice, a red bun popping out from the top of the desk.

  “I’m sneaky,” replied the man, finding his room and entering. All the money remained. Nothing had changed. He breathed a sigh of relief and emptied the content of the bags onto the bed. No time to waste.

  He ripped open the electric shaver, stood in the bathroom and shaved off his midnight locks. They fell away, clinging to hope that they could be re-attached. The floor was covered in black strands. The man meticulously shaved his head repeatedly to leave only the finest level of hair, then rubbed in hair dye to change the colour from black to mousey brown. Next, he opened the packet of coloured contacts and changed his eyes from piercing green to mud brown, blinking multiple times to adjust to the fittings. Already he was gazing at a foreign man. But it was not enough.

  A burden on the man were his thick eyebrows, caterpillars creeping across a blank canvas. He grabbed the tweezers and plucked, and plucked, leaving a thinner line that appeared messy and seldom cared about. In terms of appearance, one trick remained.

  The man pulled out the pliers, hands shaking. He smiled widely at the mirror, assessing each tooth. He had a toothy mouth.

  Not the front two. Too hideous and obvious.

  Not the next two either.

  He glared at his canine, pointing like a vampire fang, a culprit in a criminal line-up.

  “Sorry old friend, you’re coming off,” he said. The man swallowed paracetamol pre-emptively, swigged at a bottle of Jack Daniels and lifted the pliers. He clamped the metal onto the fang, wiggling lightly to test its strength. He breathed deeply.

  “Fuck…fuck…fuck…” he recited.

  And then he yanked with full force, muscles straining. The pliers dropped to the floor, blood speckled his hand. But the tooth remained. The man tried to suppress his groans, taking another swig from the bottle. He tested the tooth with his tongue…and it budged, ever so slightly.

  “C’mon mate,” he muttered, picking up the pliers once more. He turned the television on. There was an interview with an elderly woman, mother of a young man found dead. She sobbed, her face a red mess, and the reporter moved closer. With the metal attaching to chosen tooth, he yanked…and the tooth tore out of gum. Blood spurted across the television. The man felt his mouth well up, red lines spilling down his jaw. He reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels, but before he could sip the brown liquid the man passed out onto the floor.

  The man stood at the Truck Depot with a backpack slung over his shoulder, all belongings and money stashed tightly into a dozen compartments. He had spent the previous two hours cleaning the hotel room with diligent care. Two full plastic bags of bloody tissues, hair and towels had been disposed of in nearby public bins, and his tooth now rested at the base of a creek. Another stop at the pharmacy had resulted in the purchase of a range of products to deal with possible infection in the mou
th. The man was now ready to depart further into the Victorian wilderness.

  The man walked towards an eighteen-wheeler with his thumb in the air, noticing the younger man from the bakery seated within, reading a sports magazine. When he knocked at the door, the driver dropped his blue Gatorade and blinked.

  “The fuck you doin’ mate? I just cleaned in here!”

  “I need a ride. I’m not from around here and I’m running low on cash.”

  The truck driver stared with an eyebrow cocked. He had an acne scarred face, craters on a dull moon.

  “Where you headin’ then?”

  The man had remembered a tale told some time ago about a Victorian town visited by a friend with itchy feet. With no law enforcement other than a patrol car that drove through twice a day from nearby towns, the place was a haven for passers-by that only those who cared to pass by knew about.

  “Sulley Ridge,” he said with conviction.

  “Why the fuck would you want to go to that shit place?”

  “I’m a shearer from Western Australia, just looking for a job. My wife kicked me out, so I boarded a plane to Victoria looking for work.”

  “She punch that tooth out?”

  The man smiled widely. “Nah. That was a bit of a bar fight.”

  “You don’t look much like a shearer, and you don’t look much like a fighter.”

  The man tilted his head slightly and glared at the driver, a challenge without words.

  “I’m not some taxi, mate. I don’t just pick up hitchhikers and drop them around Victoria. What’s in it for me?”

  The man opened his backpack ever so slightly to reveal a full bottle of Jack Daniels and a wad of crisp yellow notes taped around the label. The driver looked around suspiciously, expecting a parade of people to jump out from behind a crate laughing. But the silence lingered.

  “You could hire a car with that. You’re not going to bump me off at the next stop and steal my truck, are ya?”

  The man smiled, zipping up the bag and shaking his head.

  “I’m a man of peace, my friend. I desire the quiet life away from the city lights and the mayhem.”