by C. J. Sutton
“What’s your name then?”
The old man stuck out his wrinkled hand.
“Wallace. Wallace Randall. Pleased to meet you, Brady.”
The man raised his finger to his mouth and ducked slightly, aware that Billy was now within earshot.
“Don’t use that name,” he whispered.
“Greg or Graham?” asked Wallace, nodding.
“What?”
“Do you want to be called Greg or Graham?”
“Those can’t be my only options.”
“…”
“Fine. Greg.”
“Do you have a last name, Greg?”
“McDonald?”
“Better. You’re learning, Greg McDonald from Kalamunda.”
They shook hands.
“You have soft hands.”
“So?”
“You ever actually seen the hands of a man that works in farming? If you’re committed, you’ll walk up to the closest wooden fence, grip on tight and run your hands up and down. It’ll hurt like hell. But cuts that skin up real nice. Then make a salt water sink and dip them in.”
“Anything else?” said the man, sarcastic.
“Get drunk and pick a fight with Mick Thomas.”
The man looked at Mick; his girth strained his shirt, his arms and legs tree trunks on a bus. He had a red scar running down from his left ear into his shirt, and his hands were hammers ready to work on metal.
“I’m trying to stay alive, hidden and innocent, remember?”
“Your face is too pretty, even with that missing tooth. If you want to disguise yourself, change yourself. A broken nose, busted cheekbone and swollen lip will be a start. Now, drink with me.”
He knew the old man was right. He chugged his pint and raised his hand for a second.
“How will I work, with all these injuries you’re inflicting on me? What if I’m rushed to hospital and my identity is blown?” he said, relaxing slightly.
“Better to have them than to not. If I spotted you so easily, the other folk will pick you out soon enough. Faces glued to their damn screens.”
They sat together just drinking their beers and watching the football game. Half time was nigh, and the scores were level. The man thought back to nights with his father, sharing a slab and watching their favourite team play. Days to savour. Days long gone.
“Why are you helping me?” asked the man, staring into the hazy eyes of the old fox.
“Who said anything about helping?”
He let the question dangle, then moved to a more serious one.
“Are you innocent, Greg McDonald from Kalamunda?”
The man watched those around him partaking in drinking, sport, competition and gambling. Despite being early in the night, this lawless land did not yet seem condemned. The women playing cards were laughing in high pitch, the pool game appeared civil and even Mick Thomas wore a smile as the half time siren blew. Billy and his wife had disappeared.
“Innocent. No, no I don’t think I’m completely innocent, Wallace.”
Wallace leaned in, his breath stinking of yeast.
“Did you change your looks before or after they posted your face all over the god damn news?”
The man struggled with the answer, and the old man waved the question off.
“Never mind. In Sulley Ridge we’re all looking for a buck. We do what we can to make each dollar. You’ve offered me money for housing and for a car. I happen to have both ready and waiting, kid. Maybe you did set fire to that tower and killed hundreds of people. Maybe you didn’t. But if you ever think of threatening my family again, you will die.”
The old man spoke with no malice and rose out of the chair.
“Enjoy your night. And don’t forget the fight. If my fuckin’ eyes can make you out, what’s to say none of these spring chickens will?”
Wallace walked away with an empty glass and watched as another pint was poured. He yelled out “thanks Jerry” and sat alongside another ageing citizen. Meanwhile, the man finished his second pint and ordered a third. With a lack of food in his system the beer was causing his vision to blur and his mouth to dry. Country moonshiners love a strong ale. Now that he was tipsy, he felt as though someone cranked the heat and all eyes were on him. His own face on the television stared accusingly, mocking his inability to escape the world and its way into every town, no matter how large or small. The man saw guns holstered on the wall and wondered if they were real, acknowledging how easy it would be to pull out the shotgun and shoot the screen, followed by the old man for being such a wise old bastard. Jerry slammed the third pint down, which vanished in two minutes, the liquid sitting heavy in his bladder as Billy Corden and his wife returned. The fourth pint spilled as he lifted glass to his mouth, sloshing his clothing and causing a puddle beneath his chair. Greg McDonald. Brady Lockhart. He didn’t care what name they gave him now. Each hit of a pool ball caused him to start, each clunk of glass a warning sign in his heart. He studied the side of Mick Thomas’ face and wanted nothing more than to ram a shard in his cheek.
The man stood.
Luck Be a Lady
The woman had seen everything.
First, the drunk man with the missing tooth stumbled out of his chair and slung his backpack over his shoulder. His mouth was moving but she couldn’t hear the words.
Next, the drunk man approached the lads watching the footy, walking straight up to Mick Thomas and tapping him on the shoulder. As he turned, the drunk man smashed the empty pint glass across Mick’s jaw and started swearing uncontrollably.
The woman heard the words “hit me”.
Mick didn’t need further invitation. The woman watched as Mick placed his beer on the bar mat carefully, cracked his neck and jabbed the drunk man in the forehead with such force that he fell on his arse. The skin split and blood leaked freely. But Mick wasn’t done. He lifted the drunk man up by the throat and slammed him back onto the wooden flooring. The lads were cheering Mick on. Even Billy, seated by his wife, pumped the air. Outsiders were common, a stream of new cash. But take on a local before his crowd and you’re likely to cop a beating with full courtside atmosphere.
The woman winced as Mick’s left swipe broke the drunk man’s nose. Another two jabs to the cheekbone, followed by a kick to the ribs. The drunk man bled from a dozen holes and dripped across the beer-soaked wood, smearing crimson with his hands as he tried to regain footing.
“Stay down, ya silly bastard,” Jerry yelled. He was the only man protesting, simply because the mess would be his responsibility and blood was hard to clean. The rest chanted for more pain.
“Fuck ‘im up, Mick!”
“Toss his arse out o’ here!”
The woman looked into the drunk man’s eyes, and despite his obvious struggle with excessive intake and tiredness marking lines on the skin beneath the eyeballs, he stared with anger. It was as though he saw someone else before him.
“Inbred fuck,” he muttered, slipping on the blood. She heard that insult clearly. Mick’s face reddened at the remark. The woman gasped as the biggest man in the room used the foot of his boot to crack the drunk man so hard against the temple that he passed out on connection. Wallace Randall stood before Mick and waved away a follow-up, a referee calling the fight.
“Ease up, Mick. I’ve got some business with this fellow. I need my payment.”
“Check his bag then,” said Mick as he picked up his pint and swigged. “Fuckin’ smashed a glass over my head.”
“I’m old but I’m not blind. You made your point. Leave him be.”
“He’s all yours, Wallace.”
The second half of the game started and Mick soon lost interest with the drunk man, who hadn’t moved. Charlene Wells lifted off her seat alongside her Blackjack players and assisted Wallace in dragging the drunk man towards a booth.
“Does he have a death wish?” she asked the old man as she took an arm and watched the trail of blood following them.
“He’s from Western
Australia. Different rules, I’d say.”
Charlene looked to Wallace and stopped moving the body.
“What business do you have with him?”
Her eyes, a hazel tinge within a grey backdrop, pierced the old man.
“He’s a…I’ve got work to be done around the house. Since Max died…”
The old man stopped, and Charlene knew this was a good time to stop talking. She was one of the few in Sulley Ridge who knew when words needed to surrender. The pair rested the drunk man against a wall, placed his backpack before him and studied his injuries. His face was bruising and bulging already, matted with blood and expanding before their very eyes. Another tooth had been knocked out, while his lips were cracked and seeping. But the worst outcomes were the gash on his forehead and the obscenely bent broken nose.
“I’ll get him home and stitched him up,” said the old man, tired from the effort. He lifted his head to see Charlene with a hand on her hip.
“You mean your daughter will stitch him up.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Any luck on that Blackjack table?”
“None, those girls get me every time.”
The old man placed a paw on her thick shoulder.
“One day they’ll find out you let them win, if they don’t know already. The fun goes, after that.”
Charlene smiled despite the gore beneath her, and the old man asked Jerry to use his phone. The men rarely looked at Charlene. Her wide torso, thick neck and short haircut gave her the appearance of a male from behind. But often they would look to Charlene, because she held the town as a priority when others cowered or abandoned its post. As she glanced at the screen alongside the football, the destruction felt both foreign and familiar. Great towers with hundreds of tenants did not exist in Sulley Ridge, yet death and loss became part of its fabric. When a place is touted as a lawless town with the chance for coin, those with dark hearts flock to the flames wide-eyed.
As Charlene turned her attention away from the screen and the bleeding man, a roar of engines approached The Ginger Bastard. Saturday night spoils. Billy Corden led his wife to the betting machines and placed a fifty in the slot. Jerry started pouring pints of Carlton Draught as though a new sport had been invented for the Summer Olympics. The pool players inserted coins to ensure they had a full game ready. And the men watching the football, including Mick Thomas fresh from inflicting hell, hunched their shoulders and stopped cheering for their team. It was the calm before the onslaught, and the doors flew open reluctantly, a Western gunslinger’s saloon.
“My favourite fucking night spot,” said a man in a singlet, an Akubra atop his head. “Beer, sport, gambling and dry pussies. What heaven!”
He went straight to the bar and grabbed his pint. No coin was exchanged, and he didn’t even look to Jerry. Charlene knew Hayes to be as polite as a trodden snake. Five men entered, and Charlene recognised every face. Last to enter was Siphon, the shortest member of the crew with the thickest arms and the most sadistic mind. Whenever the crew entered the room all normal proceedings were halted, and the dark reign began. The loudest and most animated residents of Sulley Ridge hushed as these callous men stomped the ground and caused a ruckus. And they saw the bleeding drunk man slouched on the ground.
“Who do we have here?” asked Siphon, his moustache even bushier than usual.
“Just some friendly fun,” answered Jerry, waving away the question.
“Were there wagers on this friendly fun, Jerry? Because you know damn well that all bets go through me and my boys.”
Jerry was sweating as he wiped the bar repeatedly.
“No bets here, just an out-of-towner having too much drink and picking a fight. Nothing to see.”
Siphon approached the drunk man and lifted his head by the chin. He stuck out his bottom lip and nodded.
“Must’ve been ol’ Mick Thomas. Now, why would a guy pick Mick Thomas for a fight?”
Mick’s shoulders snapped upright but he continued watching the game on the television, not reacting to the opposition scoring three consecutive goals. Charlene moved to her seat at the table with her Blackjack partners, but noticed Wallace was on edge as Siphon analysed his new business partner. A ringing noise from Billy Corden’s gambling machine removed the focus from the drunk man. Siphon, flanked by three of his men, walked over to Billy and his wife with their pints of ale and wide smiles. Hayes stole pole position before the television and rooted for the opposing team to the Sulley Ridge locals, slapping Mick’s back as they scored a goal. But he received no scowl.
“Billy boy,” said Siphon, pulling out a toothpick and sucking gleefully. “Have a bit of a win, did we?”
Jane Corden was filling an empty pint glass with winnings as her husband stood before Siphon, their faces two inches apart. Billy was taller and broader yet shrunk within himself as Siphon moved closer.
“Just a spot of luck. Not much luck for the Corden clan around here,” he said, trying to remain composed.
“Jane, love,” said Siphon, nudging past Billy. “I’m not sure if Billy boy told you, but he owes us for a spot of work we did near your farm.”
Billy stiffened as Siphon ran a hand across her bare shoulder, but two of the men sandwiched him. Charlene dealt a hand to her company, transfixed by the scene ahead.
“No!” wailed Jane as Siphon took the winnings and left her with nothing. “You bastard!”
“Excuse me, woman?” said Siphon, withdrawing a pistol from within his belt. He pointed the nozzle directly at Billy’s red forehead. “What did you call me?”
“We need it, is all,” she said, wide-eyed, surprised at her own outburst. “The kids are living with their Gran in the city and they need some money for school. Please sir, take half our winnings and leave us with something.”
Hayes, now bored with antagonising the men watching the game, sauntered over with a full pint and an eager mind. His boots clacked against the wooden surface as he revelled in the attention he received from patrons. Jerry was pouring pints again, monitoring the levels in the glasses of Siphon’s men.
“Billy boy, do you want us to leave you with something after we solved that issue near your farm?” he said, circling Jane. “Because we will. But that would mean Jane stays with us tonight.”
Charlene rose, her chair falling backwards and slamming against the ground. She saw the drunk man open his eyes.
“Take the lot and get out,” said Charlene, pointing to the exit. She walked over to Hayes and handed him her remains from the Blackjack game; a wad of notes which she was resigned to parting with anyway. They didn’t know that, and she used this in her favour. Hayes snatched at the notes and passed them out to the boys like a parent dividing equal shares of candy to children. Siphon holstered his gun and met her gaze.
“The biggest balls in Sulley Ridge still belong to a broad,” he said, as his boys laughed. Then, in a whisper: “A day will come when your generosity won’t be enough, lass. You can’t be everywhere, every night, handing out cash.”
“Thanks,” said Billy, to which Siphon withdrew his gun once more and shot him in the foot. A spout of blood erupted from the entry point, and Billy collapsed to the ground. Jane shrieked and ran to his aid as Siphon’s boys chuckled and Hayes poured the remains of his ale over the man’s red face.
As Siphon waved his gun around to everyone in the room, they froze in time and waited for a sign to re-commence living. He did not wave it at Charlene.
“You’ve got your money, please leave,” she said, remembering that one of Jerry’s rifles was stored behind the third gambling machine; slightly out of reach.
“Goodnight locals,” announced Hayes, taking centre stage. “We’re off to rummage through the town and see what events are pulling in coin on this lovely evening. For anyone who’s interested – Mick, I’m looking at you – sermon is at midnight.”
Charlene knew this was code for the fighting arena behind Billy’s farm. The five men placed their pint glasses on Jerry’s bar and left. Si
phon glanced once more at the drunk man and stuck a thumbs up in his direction.
And Saturday kicked in once more, as if Siphon and his boys had never arrived. The men screamed at the television, Jerry poured his ale and the chatter added thick atmosphere. Charlene assisted Jane in getting Billy to the pool table, and she removed his boot to see the wound seeping streaks of blood. Karen, one of only two nurses in the region, stopped playing Blackjack and attended to the wound as best she could. Karen’s slender build and long blonde locks cascading to her rear would have been a danger in these parts, but as she was one of the only capable healers in town, her position was in the upper echelons. Even crazed men need stitching.
Charlene didn’t watch the bullet removal, or the wound dressing. She had seen enough pain for the night and cared not for the sight. She lifted her chair, sat down and received a fresh pint from Jerry.
“On the house,” he said. They waited for Karen to return before dealing another hand, but Charlene’s mind was elsewhere. Instead, she watched Wallace escort the dazed drunk man out of The Ginger Bastard and into the dark shadows of night.
Self-Inflicted
“Aaron? Aaron, are you awake?”
The nurse was standing at the foot of the bed. The burned man struggled to see her with the natural morning light shining harshly within. The name, foreign, did little to rouse him.
“Aaron? Your friend Mason is here to see you.”
From behind the petite nurse stood a familiar man with a puzzled look. Mason, tall and muscular with a face to frighten children without the dark alley, hunched over to get a better look at the burned man. Dark bags, ever existing under his eyes, explained his dark heart.
“Thanks, Jennifer, much appreciated,” said the burned man, as though dismissing a secretary. He did not forget names. His eyes were stinging. “Please close the door.”
The nurse left as Mason analysed the burned man’s condition. Once privacy was achieved, he spoke with a deep, raspy voice. The burned man was surprised that Mason didn’t take a second glance at the nurse, as he was usually eager to swoop.