by C. J. Sutton
Coming to, the day was nearing its end. Stars could be seen already, great balls of light double in size to the city’s offerings. The man plucked out all the splinters, bandaged his hand with supplies left in Max’s cabinets and grabbed the keys to the Falcon. He withdrew five thousand from his backpack and found a safe in the bedroom with a numbered lock. Cops. They had their uses.
The Falcon spluttered to life, and the man realised he did not know which way the town was located. On the neighbour’s porch sat a woman on a rocking chair, reading a book in the falling light as two small dogs slept on their sides. She lifted her eyes from the read and looked at the man, and he the noticed a shotgun resting against the white panels of the house. He remembered her, seated with two other women in The Ginger Bastard, and her kind face smiled. As if reading his mind, she pointed left. The man waved out of the window, then looked stupidly at his bandaged hand like a boxer unable to remove his gloves. She shook her head and off he went, kicking up dirt and dust down the driveway and exiting his new property.
With windows open, the fresh air took him, and despite the swell of his face, the cuts in his hand and the chorus of flies the man felt free. He didn’t need a driver. He didn’t need to hide. Right now, as the cavalry searched the cities, the man with his head on a million screens could go about his day like a citizen of a country town, even one classified as a lawless land. To the left stood eucalyptus trees which swayed with the arrival of kookaburras, their laugh no longer mocking the man. Kangaroos bounced across the road ahead in a pack, moving in time for the Falcon to pass through unscathed. A slight veer to the left and some buildings could be seen up ahead, small huddles of people walking the street with woven shopping bags and stern faces. The man pulled up the Falcon at a spare park and stepped onto the cement. Nobody turned, despite his appearance, focused only on the destination before them.
“Hey, you took a damn beating,” said a familiar voice. Sammy Pritchard, wearing shorts and a singlet, dashed over to the man for a closer look. “Did Mick do that?”
“Yeah, I thought you’d back me up.”
“Really? For a fifty? You’re off your rocker, mate.”
Sammy was sucking on a red lollypop, grime on his cheeks and hands. Better than a cigarette. He looked up, pondering the man, as if waiting for a challenge.
“Where can I get some food?” asked the man, seeing the hardware store up ahead. Within, a large frame lifted empty pallets onto a trolley. He knew that walk. Mick Thomas.
“Corner shop,” said Sammy, sucking loudly. Out of the shop came three more faces, and the man knew instantly that they were all Pritchard boys.
“Oh shit, it’s him!” gawked the youngest, freckles staining his skin. “Back for round two? I tell ya, Mick shoulda been a boxer.”
Sammy wiped his hands on his singlet and smiled as his little brother boxed the air.
“Where are my manners? These are my brothers; Tom, Kane and Wiggles.”
“Wiggles?” asked the man, looking at freckle face.
The boy lifted his hands to reveal three missing fingers. The man lifted his own hands to show the blood-stained bandages. The boys laughed, but not Kane, who towered over the rest. He was in his twenties, broad and angry. He sported a one-inch brown mohawk and had a badly bruised eye. He grabbed Wiggles by the back of his head and pushed him forward. Tom went to speak, perhaps two or three years older than Sammy, but noticed the now cocked grin of his older brother.
“Walk on,” he said to his family, and they each winked at the man before walking off down the track leading out of town. Kane moved closer to the man, his breath smelling like onion and his lip containing the slightest drop of blood from dryness.
“Why you down the street?” he asked, a whisper.
“I’m fucking hungry. I’m guessing you don’t have Uber Eats up here.”
“The fuck is that?”
“Never mind.”
“Look, you don’t fit here. No busted face or shredded fists will fix that.”
The man glared at Kane.
“You fucking sure about that, mate? I’m here for some coin, just like everybody else.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Kane in a snarl. He noticed a car approaching, shook his head and followed his brothers up the track. A cop car. The man felt his chest tighten. The blue and white vehicle slowed alongside him, window down.
“Jesus, what ‘appened to you?” said the cop, his sunglasses and cap shading his face.
“Hit by a car,” lied the man, trying not to make direct eye contact.
“Need a lift somewhere?” he replied, and then his eyes rested on the Falcon. His head snapped back to the man, who was also wearing the dead cop’s clothes.
“Got some identification, mate?”
“Sorry, left it at home.”
“Where’s ‘ome?” he asked. “Wouldn’t be Max’s old place, would it?”
“Maybe.”
The cop took off his hat, curly brown hair falling away like overcooked pasta.
“You’re driving a dead man’s car, wearing a dead man’s clothes and living at a dead man’s ‘ouse?”
“Guess he doesn’t need it anymore,” said the man, and he began walking away. “Ask Wallace if you don’t believe me.”
A hand reached out and gripped him directly on the burn. He tried to hide the pain.
“I drive through ‘ere once a day, just through the main street ‘ere. I don’t come up by that ‘ouse. Not anymore. But don’t give me a reason to, you ‘ear. What’s your name?”
“Greg,” said the man, “Greg McDonald.”
“Alright Greg,” said the cop, sceptical, “I’m Morris.”
He was a strange build, a thin man that retained a beer belly swallowing his waistline. No facial hair to speak of, not a strand. Morris walked with a gait, an unforgettable one at that. Almost a drag of his left foot.
“Keep your ‘ead low, Greg. When the sun goes down in Sulley Ridge, not even I make myself available. Take care.”
The cop drove away, staring at the Falcon. The man finally let out air, at peace knowing that even the authority here cared not for Barron Tower and the man on the run. He entered the Corner Store with an eye on Mick, who was loading up a citizen’s car with gas tanks. The ring of the bell caused the owner to lift her head from the cash register. They locked eyes. Jane Corden, wife of Billy, narrowed hers and folded her arms.
“What do you want, troublemaker?”
“Just some food,” he said, raising his hands for what felt like the twentieth time. The store was lined with shelves that barely had any items. Cans of soup and baked beans were in one corner, like a bomb shelter expecting a lengthy stint from the next top-up. A frozen slushy machine dripped with bright red ice, and three roast chickens pivoted on a rotisserie. Jane sprinkled salt on the chickens and turned back to the man.
“Billy told me about you, after he got shot in the foot,” she said, as if blaming the man.
“Who shot him?”
“You blind? You were there.”
“No offence, but I was pre-occupied with being unconscious.”
She rummaged around in a basket and pulled out onions, which were left to simmer on a frying pan above the flames. The smell caused the man to weaken at the knees.
“Siphon. It’s always Siphon. You’ll see.”
The man nodded, but no longer cared for conversation. His mouth dried at the sensations tingling in multiple parts of his body. The wafting smell of chicken, dripping in fats and oils, caused his feet to move closer. He was also relieved by the lack of flies.
“Two chooks thanks,” he said, struggling to pull a note out of his pocket. Jane bagged up the food, packed in some onions and took the fifty.
“Keep the change,” he continued, wanting nothing more than to return to his new home, eat his meal and watch some television. A beer would be fantastic, but he left the store and heard the ring signify his exit. Fighting the urge to rip open the bag and devour the
crispy skin of the chook in the street, the man approached the Falcon. But as he reached for the handle, a faint cry could be heard between the store and another unmarked building. The sounds of dying citizens from Barron Tower remained vivid…but there it was again. A whimper of pain, followed by a “stop, please stop,” in the distance. The man tossed his dinner into the car and walked between the buildings, which led to a dirt track winding down to a lookout. A blue station wagon sat idle, and no people could be seen. He walked down the track, looking left and right, and once again heard a moan below.
“Hello?” he said, seeing nothing but trees swaying with the breeze, leaves gliding down to rest on the path before him. A cat dashed past, causing him to curse in frustration. Mind playing tricks. The run-in with the cop, he guessed. Panic. Anxiety.
The scream was piercing, causing the resting magpies to evacuate. The man looked around, unable to see anything, and felt a push from behind. He tumbled down the path without being able to regain footing and landed a metre from the station wagon. They moved so fast. His hands were bound, a sock was stuffed into his mouth and he was barrelled into the back with ease. Something was thrust over his face, and the world turned to black. He was moving, unable to speak or even wiggle his hands. He kicked and kicked and kicked but nothing budged.
“Save your strength,” said a voice. “You’ll need it to survive.”
This is Personal
The burned man listened to the muffled voices from outside as he pretended to sleep.
“I can’t just let him go, Melissa. We need his Medicare details, confirmation of his identity, actual family. We can’t be copping any flak for negligence in such a delicate time. Once they solve this mystery, the news will look for any angle to keep that tower on our screens.”
“The longer he sits in there, the less chance we have of finding Brady. He may lead us straight to him. Whether innocent or guilty, I need to get to this man before the public does. You’re the one who told me to follow him up. I’ll take the hit if I have to.”
Someone entered the room. He opened his eyes and watched as the nurse removed the drip from his arm, followed by the bandages from his face. She did so carefully, trying not to let her stare linger on the damage that would never fully heal. The doctor walked in, followed by the policewoman. This time, the nurse did not leave.
“You’re free to go, Aaron,” said the doctor, sending a sideways glance to his daughter. “But you must rest and make sure these burns aren’t aggravated. Once again, I’m sorry for your loss. If you need anything else, please let us know. I want you to come in here again in one week. I’ve prescribed your medication, so don’t skip it. And don’t drink alcohol.”
The doctor walked away, and then stopped when the policewoman remained in position. She removed her hat, as if the gesture alone demonstrated care.
“If they find out you mentioned Brady’s name,” she began, choosing words carefully, “the journalists will hunt you, no different to how they’re parked outside Brady’s sister’s house. I’ll need to be aware of your new location…”
The burned man yelped as the nurse tore a bandage off his shoulder.
“So, in other words Melissa, you’re keeping tabs on me.”
“Basically,” said the cop, not enjoying the casual mention of her name. “If people want answers, and they think you have them, this may not be pretty.”
The nurse assisted the burned man into a sitting position, and despite feeling helpless he still said: “I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t doubt that,” continued Melissa, avoiding eye contact. “But we need to find this guy, and who knows; he might try to contact you.”
The burned man laughed, a volcano erupting in his chest with lava spilling down the sides.
“The last thing Brady Lockhart will do is contact me. Give me your card. I’ll keep you posted.”
The policewoman handed the nurse her card, said thank you to Jennifer and left the room after her father.
“Cops,” he spat, standing for the first time. “I’m a half-cooked piece of meat and they still can’t leave me alone.”
The nurse, her blue eyes icy, held the burned man steady as he took his steps.
“I’m going to the site once my shift is over,” she said, shy. “If you want, you can come along? I like to go after work, I feel I owe it to my brother.”
The burned man saw the innocence in her. Jennifer’s anger had depleted, replaced with utter sorrow and the deepest sadness. Fragile, cold and ghost-like. The room, so white, made his head spin. He needed to get out of here.
“I’d love to,” he replied, applying some clothes Mason had brought in. The nurse smiled. But behind that curve of lip there was emptiness.
The burned man glared at the remains of Barron Tower, the smell of decay still present. Every surface was blackened, as though stuck in constant night after the sun rose. Police tape surrounded the perimeter of the building, with a sign stating that falling debris remained a danger. The scene looked like a game of Jenga played by giants, and one false move at any moment could bring the remaining blocks down with force. Little grass was left, a brown sludge and soot replacing the parklands. The burned man bent over, a sting in his arms, and picked up a silver ring pressed into the mud. The nurse’s hand found his shoulder, and despite the drugs her touch caused searing heat to return.
“What level were you on?” she asked, tears streaming down her face as she remembered her brother. Seeing the scene live was very different to the television.
“First floor,” he said, handing the ring to her. “That’s probably why my legs are the only part of me not touched by fire.”
“My brother was on level five. I wake up at night, wondering how he chose to fight. Did he jump? Did he try to save others? I’ll never know. Maybe it’s better that I don’t know.”
The burned man ducked, with much effort, beneath the blue and white police tape and tried to re-ignite full memory of the fateful Friday night. Very few people were in the vicinity. The news programs had reported every possible angle over the past week, and now the focus was on capturing Brady Lockhart rather than dwelling on the deaths of hundreds. News reports asked the question: how could a man just vanish when everyone was looking for him? Only a guilty man, they concluded.
“You shouldn’t go in there, it’s not safe,” said Jennifer, her arms cradling herself. But the burned man continued. Blood stained the pavement. Black footsteps led away from the building, and his muddy steps paved a new direction. The entrance was so damaged that even the slightest breeze caused small chunks to fall away. The burned man remembered his escape.
“Excuse me,” said a broad fireman, in full gear other than the head. “You can’t be this close. We need to bring the rest down.”
When the burned man turned, the fireman stepped back. Large patches on his cheeks and forehead covered the worst of the burns. Even so, the skin in view made the fireman lower his tone. Deep red and yellow boils had formed in the exposed areas, while a blotch on his neck appeared to be vibrating with heat.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, slightly bowing his head. “Have your moment.”
The burned man nodded, wanting to see his own face and the horror inflicted. His mind raced. Brady Lockhart had taken his wife. Brady Lockhart had condemned his son. If not for Brady Lockhart, this building would stand, and those lives would not be names on a banner running across the bottom of a television screen. He pondered that night and the final seconds with his family.
“Do you need a lift…somewhere?” asked the nurse from behind the tape, quickly replacing the word home.
The burned man absorbed Barron Tower as seagulls flocked like vultures circling for further death. The buildings surrounding the site, once dwarfed by such a grand monument, were now school bullies to the ruined dwelling. They mocked the black remains with their presence. The burned man scanned the streets, wondering if the cop had followed them here. It wasn’t likely that she would let the burned
man out of her sight just yet, with him being the only link to Brady Lockhart.
“Yes, please. Can I also use your phone?”
After explaining to the nurse twice that she likely had a tail and he didn’t want to be disturbed by constant police probes, Jennifer agreed to meet the burned man’s contact in a heavily populated area. Once they were jammed in traffic and turned a corner, the burned man left the nurse’s car and entered another car swiftly. Despite the pains and the limitations, a manoeuvre performed so often has a way of making the body act without thought. Nobody honked; few noticed. At peak hour in Melbourne’s Central Business District, a tail is almost impossible with only one car. And the burned man knew the cop wouldn’t have spread full details to other authorities just yet; she knew the consequences.
“Boss, how goes it?” said Mason, both men seated in the back. Their driver, Gabe, focused on the road ahead and did not greet the burned man.
“How do you think? I’ve been stuck in that fucking bright hell for so long I can feel my blue balls pressing against my bandages.”
“No news on Brady. That cunt is a slippery one. We didn’t want to move on the sister or the restaurant he owns before your say so. What’s that saying, about one opportunity?”
“You’re not a scholar,” said the burned man, unable to turn his neck without pivoting his body, a Batman stuck in the 1990s. “What have you been doing, then?”
Mason shifted in his seat. His size gave the appearance of a gorilla shoved in a Jeep. The deep voice made him even more comical.
“Keeping the street honest, y’know?”
“In other words, standing there with your dick in your hands. Hurry up, Gabe. Bastards at the warehouse are probably dumb enough to put a welcome home sign across the building with my fucking name on it.”
They turned into a driveway with an automatic roller door and drove another fifty metres to reach a brick warehouse with crates of clothing stacked on pallets. Two men, sharing a smoke and with a foot each leaning against the building, noticed the car and quickly straightened like soldiers called to order. When Gabe drove right up to the entry, each man dashed inside to alert the other employees. The burned man felt at ease.