This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  “I had that fucking window fixed last week,” she roared. “Billy and Mick, get the fuck out. You’re walking back.”

  “Nah, c’mon, Shaz,” pleaded Billy, sheepish. “Accidents happen, you know?”

  Sharon watched as the automatic door slid open. Mick didn’t protest, exiting the vehicle and starting his walk towards Sulley Ridge. Billy approached Sharon, swerving into the man and knocking him out of his seat.

  “Shaz, make that prick walk. I’ll be right, he just got to me you know? Got that sore ankle. Can’t make the trek.”

  He rubbed his foot and winced. Sharon turned her head.

  “First of all, did you have a log of shit for lunch? Jesus Christ. Second, get the fuck out of my van. Third, I expect payment for that window on Monday. Fourth, if you want to hitch a ride in this van ever again, get the fuck out. And fifth, try wearing a damn seatbelt for once in your life.”

  The men whacked their headrests and chanted for Billy to leave. Some were enjoying the antics, while others were eager for their next drink and wanted to continue home. Once he finally evacuated, the mini-van started up again. After five minutes it stopped. Sharon turned to the man.

  “Your turn. Get the fuck out.”

  “What? Why?”

  “New faces get the boys rowdy. So realistically, you broke that window. I’ve given you a head start on Mick and Billy, because they would’ve left you naked in the bush. Town is an hour walk up the hill, can’t miss the sign. Out you get.”

  The man didn’t want to draw further attention to himself, aware any arguments would not end kindly. Despite their drunken state, a person does not forget the face of a troublemaker. He nodded, stepping out onto new terrain. As soon as he was out of the mini-van it roared up the hill, a cloud of dust shadowing the escape.

  And the man walked onward. The incline wasn’t steep, but the air had a different density. With Mick and Billy on his trail he kept looking back, expecting the big man or the window-breaker to come charging at him within seconds, ready to steal his money. But they never did. The man kept to the edge of the road alongside the shuddering trees and beginnings of bush land. Birds chirped to signal the closing ceremony of the day, the sun beginning to lower its colours to give the moon its seat in the sky. The man used the clean air and lack of human life to ponder the events of the night prior and to plan his next move. Soil was disturbed by his step; the first imprint in these lawless grounds.

  A Struck Match

  “Why the hell did you call a journalist?”

  The cop, flanked by a nurse and the doctor, berated the burned man as he smirked under the influence of body-numbing drugs.

  “Now he knows we’re looking into him. He’ll hide,” continued the cop, her blonde hair awry, the name Melissa floating through the burned man’s mind.

  “His face is everywhere by now,” responded the burned man. “Somebody will find him. Why limit yourselves?”

  As if to respond to the question, a woman in a suit entered the room and demanded attention.

  “Sir, you don’t need to answer any questions from the police. You have a right to remain silent, and in your state, I suggest you do so.”

  “Who might you be?” asked the burned man, eyes half-closed and basking in bliss.

  “A lawyer. I’m here to assist you.”

  The woman flashed a card, before realising the patient was in no state to read. Despite the coolness of the drugs, the burned man felt a gnawing itch between his toes.

  “Get out,” he said.

  “Excuse me sir, but without a lawyer present—”

  “I told you to get out. Doctor, nurse or cop; can one of you kindly remove this person.”

  The lawyer stared dumbfounded at a burned man with nothing but slits for eyes and a bandaged body. She raised her hands and left on her own accord. He wondered if she was entering each room recruiting needy clients.

  “Sorry,” said the nurse. “I’ll wait outside and make sure nobody else comes in.”

  “Thanks love,” said the burned man, trying to flash a smile but feeling a strange sensation on his lips.

  The doctor motioned to leave, but the burned man stopped him with a click of the tongue.

  “How long before I’m up and about, doc?”

  The reflection of the fluorescent lights bounced off the bald head of the doctor. The burned man remembered this was a father and daughter combination, and he could see the care each exhibited towards the other. He noted that this could be useful.

  “Hard to say, but the burns are not as bad as originally thought. There will be lifelong scarring, but you will be okay.”

  “Great,” he said, nodding. “I notified the journo because I’m fully aware of how long an investigation takes. Social media is wildfire when used correctly. By placing his face on every screen in the country, we up our chances of flushing out the rat.”

  The cop shook her head, leaning against the wall for support. The burned man focused on her chest as she spoke, feeling a strange pull in his crotch. Strange, because he didn’t find her attractive in the slightest.

  “All we have is your word that this is our culprit. The word of a man who has had a cocktail of drugs to cancel out the pain. The media want something, and they’ll grab anything. Now, I’m not calling you a liar. But there is a thing called innocent until proven guilty. And the public are already executing him. If the wrong people find Brady, they’ll kill him. He could be dead already.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said the doctor, his gloved hands shaking. “You’re willing to stick up for someone who may be behind so many lost lives. Would you like a tour of the injured and dying? Do you know how many have died on my shift, in my care?”

  She gave her father a look that suggested a conversation outside was warranted, but the burned man needed to hear every word. He continued.

  “Don’t blame the nurse. She only dialled the number and left the phone by the table. Did you know that her brother lived in Barron Tower? They haven’t found him yet. People want answers.”

  The cop pushed a chair away with her foot, the smash against the wall causing the light to flicker.

  “I don’t understand how or why a man can set light to a building for no good reason,” said Melissa, waiting for wise words from her father. But none arrived.

  “Brady Lockhart is a dark man. I know him only from his stalking of my wife.”

  “I looked him up. He’s clean.”

  The burned man felt like the ice man. Sweat turned into icicles that were sharp weapons capable of gouging out eyes and piercing skin.

  “He may have a clean record, but he’s not a clean man. He’s violent, cunning, and above all, sneaky.”

  It was the doctor’s turn to talk.

  “Is there anyone we can call for you? Family?”

  The burned man took a deep breath.

  “Brady killed my family.”

  An awkward silence held dominance in the room. Outside became dark, the first stars since Barron Tower began to burn.

  “Maybe a friend, someone who can help you?” continued the cop, aware that someone close to the burned man may have information on this Brady Lockhart character.

  “Yes, can you call Mason? He’s an old pal.”

  The cop nodded and dialled the number provided. The doctor checked the burned man’s vitals and pretended to delve into work while Melissa filled Mason in on all that had happened with his friend. The conversation was short, sharp and productive.

  “Mason will be in tomorrow morning. I suggest you rest up and focus on your recovery. Let the police handle the investigation. If Brady had any part to play in the deaths of anyone last night, he will be found and punished accordingly.”

  The burned man doubted the words of the cop. He hated cops. The mere presence of Melissa made his remaining skin crawl. For the drugs weren’t as effective as he played them out to be. His body was used to potent drugs. This high was nothing. And as the muted television flicked across Brady Lockh
art’s face once more, he calmed in the knowledge that the world was doing his job for him while he remained incapacitated. But soon, he would join them.

  And when he did, the trail of destruction would begin.

  Into Sulley Ridge

  The man saw rusted buildings up ahead and a street sign that said MAIN leading away from the road and into Sulley Ridge. He took his first steps on the poorly maintained asphalt and walked towards the town with the backpack slung over one shoulder. Its weight was a burden that caused immense sweat to soil the clothing, and a stench that would not flee without a fight.

  The eucalyptus trees were not as dominant in these parts, branches hacked to create a wider opening into the lawless land. Green became a lowly shade of yellow and a jagged tinge of brown, a sickly welcome mat. The dusk air whipped at the man’s face as he surveyed the area, no human or machine alive in his wake. The first building was a red rusted shed, the paint stripped off in so many sections to look like dried blood had been used to cover secret etchings. The man ran a finger along the corrugated iron and smelt the burnt rubber wafting from within. He continued walking.

  The narrow road opened slightly, becoming two lanes that snaked through a street lined by one-storey outlets. A general corner store, newsagency, abandoned café and hardware store were shut, the typical red CLOSED sign dangling from the door knob. Leaves blew through the street like citizens basking in the lack of humanity, but soon voices could be heard up ahead. A carpark was nestled alongside The Ginger Bastard, a pub with wooden logs stacked out front in a pyramid. A teenage boy was seated atop the triangular structure, smoking a thick cigarette and carving letters into the wood. His head shot up when the man’s footsteps became signals of approach.

  “Fuck you lookin’ at?” said the boy, trying to add a deepness to his voice.

  “Is this where a bloke gets an ale?” asked the man. With the sun near vanished and no place to stay, he needed to enter the land of the locals to see if accommodation could be sorted with minimum fuss and questioning. Drunk locals cared not for the events in the city, he hoped. For he bore the means to shout any man or woman a beverage, a gesture that spoke volumes in all languages.

  “Best ale in the Ridge in here.”

  The man pulled out a fifty dollar note and waved it for the boy to see.

  “You reckon you could let me know when Mick and Billy are coming down the road? I’ll spot you a fifty now, and another fifty for a job well done.”

  The boy launched himself off the wooden logs, snatched at the note and tried to tear it. When he was satisfied, he smiled and returned to his perch.

  “Will do, fella. Saturday night can be a big night ‘round here. I’m already on the lookout for shifty blokes. Mick and Billy aren’t banned. You want me to stall ‘em?”

  “Good on you. Nah, just let me know,” said the man, aware the boy was fishing for more cash. He stepped onto the veranda of the pub. There was nothing like the crowd of a rural drinking hole. The same faces every night, sitting in the same chairs and content in the familiarity of the place, talking shit and letting go with comforting ales by their sides. Sulley Ridge offered a unique spin on the setting, for the man knew many strangers passed through for a glimpse at a town without stationed authority. When he pushed opened the double doors and entered the warm environment, the faith in his plan began to wane. A football match had most of the drinkers enthralled, spilling litres of beer onto their bare arms as they cheered, jeered, swore and celebrated. On the identical television alongside the game was a news report, and the man saw his own face staring back at him in High Definition. The photo was from two years ago, when his hair was shoulder length and greasy.

  Nobody turned to greet his entry or to suggest he was unwelcome. He sat in a booth in the corner of the pub and felt relief as the backpack slid onto its own chair. Sitting down caused his legs to pulsate, and the heat of the room was reason to remove the jacket. Now that he was here, he cared not for the burn on his arm. The men closest to the screen projecting football were scarred across their forearms, on their necks and some even on their faces. To be unblemished would have been a worse disguise. Here it was a symbol of belonging to the harsh lands.

  “Drink, boss?” said a grey-bearded man who had half his attention on the game and other on the table he was wiping down. He wore a wet apron and a tattered white shirt with sleeves rolled, revealing thin arms of poorly applied tattoos from yesteryear. He did not look his patrons in the eye.

  “Sure, pint of ale.”

  “You got it.”

  The man handed the barkeep a note, but he shook his head.

  “I’ll start you up a tab, boss. Fix me up when you leave.”

  The man knew the trick; get drinkers tanked and then charge them whatever you damn well please. Money wasn’t an issue, but anonymity was; he played by the rules of the barkeep and settled into his seat. The man counted thirty people in the pub. Ten blokes were enjoying the football match alongside the bar, while another group of four men and a woman were huddled around a pool table hitting balls and sinking piss. A trio of women aged in their forties were playing Blackjack on the table nearby to the man, and the remaining stragglers were spread out alone to partake in a drinking session with the mind as prime entertainer. The man recognised some of the faces watching football from the mini-van, but they were yet to show care for him.

  The pub had a slightly run-down interior that felt all at once homely and distant. The room was a wide oval, with the bar and televisions on one long side and betting machines lined along the other. At one point was an entrance, which was closest to the man’s table, and on the other were doors to the toilets. With a designated card area and pool area, the pub offered social outlets and money-making opportunities. The man could understand the appeal for the locals and passers-by alike. The bar held all your standard liquors; Bundaberg, Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Gordon’s Gin and Smirnoff. Two beer taps were for the local ale and Carlton Draught, while bottles of wine were dusty on the top shelf. From his surroundings, the man saw only pint glasses with local ale in the hands of attendees. Anything else would be blasphemy.

  The boy came running inside, much to the barkeep’s dismay.

  “Oy, get out Sammy! I’ve fuckin’ told you a dozen times, bastard Pritchard kids always running around like headless geese.”

  Sammy sported closely cropped hair not dissimilar to the man and had chubby hands that looked like gloves on a fighter. His head darted around the room, and when he locked eyes with the man he motioned outside. And then Mick walked in, a thirsty hero with a distinct gait returning from a mission. Sammy ducked out again before anyone could see his exit. The man figured it was a poorly spent fifty. Luckily, he had many.

  “Get me an ale, Jerry. That bitch made me walk for hours.”

  Mick walked towards the mob watching the football and found a spot front and centre as they parted. He snatched at the pint and swigged, belching in satisfaction. He was the largest man in the room. Another soon walked in.

  “Billy Corden, you dumb bastard,” yelled a woman from the pool table. “You broke another flamin’ window? Why can’t you just sit still for once? We can’t afford that.”

  She approached Billy, who had a red face and a limp, and slapped him across the cheek. He was too tired to fight back. She followed up the motion with a pat on the shoulder, to which the man figured was a gesture between husband and wife. She ordered him a beer and fanned his face with her white shirt, his dehydrated tongue hanging out of his mouth. Mick glanced over his shoulder at Billy, and the Corden pair seemed to retreat within themselves. The former looked fresh; the latter looked done.

  While the scenes before him were engrossing, the man startled when an elderly gent sat beside him holding a full pint.

  “Howdy,” he said, taking up the spare seat.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Well,” he said, swishing spit around in his mouth. “That’s you, on the telly. Ain’t it? Figured I’d
come and see what all the fuss is about.”

  The Coop

  The man felt sharp stabs in his spine. The old man wasn’t looking directly at him, instead watching the news while his mouth made clicking noises. He had wiry grey strands on his jaw, a sour zesty stench and too much hair for a man his age. He swigged from his glass and turned to the man.

  “Looks like you’re tired, boy. You plan on running?”

  The man steadied his breathing and tried to find calm. The old man before him was not flustered or afraid. He was not in a rush, and nobody else in the room looked their way.

  “Why?”

  “No shit haircut, pulled tooth and change of clothes can take away the look of someone all over the news. You have that gaze, even if the colours of your eyes are changed.”

  Mick was scanning the room and locked eyes with the man. But the man cared not for the alpha. He kept his attention on the old man, who knew his identity. He tried to keep any stutter out of his speech.

  “Why would I run and give you the opportunity to rat me out? I’ve got a better offer. I’m going to stay in this town, and if you so much as wink at another person to tip them off I’ll kill your family and burn down your house. But…I’ll also pay you, in cash, for a room on the outskirts of town and a shit car nobody wants. I’ll continue to pay if you uphold my story; I’m a shearer from Western Australia who moved because his wife divorced him and shacked up with a rich accountant.”

  The old man hiccupped and laughed at the same time, causing a trickle of ale to come out of his nose.

  “You don’t much look like a shearer. You look like the rich accountant in this story.”

  “Best you give me a crash course then, old man.”

  “Brady ain’t no shearer’s name, but I bet you’ve sorted that out by now.”

  The man noticed his hands were gripped so tightly to the table that certain sections were blood red, and others were snow white. The volume of the name made his reactions become more meerkat than man.