by C. J. Sutton
Cassie’s look changed. From pain and fear to shock, not from the cut but the words of the burned man. She wanted to speak. Mason removed the cloth.
“He…you definitely saw him do it?”
“Brady killed my wife. He killed my son.”
Despite having one less digit, Cassie rose and went to her room. Ren moved aside. She returned with a key.
“He was always a nice boy, I promise you. In school he’d either have his nose in a book or his hands in the kitchen. Our parents died years back, so we only had each other. I don’t believe he could hurt anyone. Not like this. There’s more to it, surely.”
Even though she pleaded, even though she proclaimed his innocence, she handed the key to the burned man. Cassie also scribbled an address on a piece of paper.
“But if you saw him do it, they need to find him.”
The burned man assessed Brady’s sister, and with her hair in a ponytail they looked identical. Both tall and thin, they shared a walk that suggested nobody else existed. Watching her walk angered the burned man, but he remained composed. Cassie had nothing to hide. She was as much a victim, because her innocence mattered not for the reporters. Her privacy evaporated the night Barron Tower burned down, and her fate remained aligned with her brother’s. For the longer Brady was missing, the more the vultures would press in on her life. The burned man tossed the key to Mason, read the address and stood up. He felt like he would stagger but managed to find a sliver of strength to remain upright. Cassie cradled her hand, tears rolling down her cheeks. Was it from the removed finger, or the removed sibling? He couldn’t be sure.
“What do we do with her, boss?” asked Mason, as if Cassie wasn’t even in the room. She leaned against the wall. Defiance. That same defiance Brady Lockhart reeked of, that wife-stealing, money-flogging, hero-complex defiance etched into his personality. The wound hurt, it was clear. But she was prepared for any follow-up, and the burned man wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
“She’s cooperated,” he said, wishing he could scream at his deputy. “We’re not like Brady Lockhart now, are we?”
Ren handed Cassie her mobile phone. As sister Lockhart reached out, Ren pulled back slightly.
“We don’t need to warn you about keeping all this quiet, do we?” she asked, and Cassie shook her head. The burned man knew she wouldn’t squeal. Firstly, she knew no names. Secondly, with danger averted, this woman wanted every ounce of privacy to remain with her. The phone exchanged hands and they joined William in the kitchen. He was scrubbing the last of the dishes while muttering to himself, and Ren took a rare opportunity to smile.
“Suits you,” she said, pointing to a plate. “But you missed a spot.”
William tossed a mound of bubbles at Ren, wetting her leather jacket. She pushed him into the fridge, knocking down a bundle of magnets and photos. The burned man leaned down, picking up a recent picture of the siblings Lockhart. He put it in his pocket with the address and walked out the back door. His troop followed.
“Try it again,” whispered William, pushing Ren each time she tried the key in the lock, but it was the wrong key. It didn’t fit. The apartment block was silent, but no covert entry was necessary; for there were 24 separate units and no reporters stationed outside. The burned man watched Ren try one more time, but her shoulders shrugged.
“Well, you’re a master locksmith,” suggested Mason. “Pick the damn lock.”
The burned man held up a hand.
“She gave us the wrong key on purpose. Which also means—”
They turned around to see two police officers standing at the stairwell, arms crossed. The burned man had never seen the front cop, male, bald before. But the other he was well acquainted with.
“Fancy seeing you here, Aaron,” said Melissa, eyeing them off wearily.
“Just checking if our friend Brady is home.”
“How do you know where he lives?” asked the other, aggressive. “We’ve been staking this place out for three days and not a single stone has been thrown at the window.”
Sister Lockhart hadn’t called the cops. She knew some vultures remained in trees.
“Investigative journalism.”
“I’ve been looking for you, Aaron,” she said, caring not for the audience or the fake name. “The sole witness, it seems. I’ll let this little event slide if you come down to the station. Right now.”
A Bloody Hand
Charlene walked the gravel road leading to the Pritchard house. Half-completed cars and spare parts were scattered across the lawn, the smell of oil and the smear of grease a mechanic’s wet dream. The old weatherboard home needed a new coat of paint and a good weeding, but the boys were too focused on cars and sweets to bother with homely tasks. A spectacular view of the mountains presented behind their property, but the Pritchard clan weren’t into such things. Charlene knocked on the door, hearing nothing but the occasional sniffle from an unknown nose.
The door opened and neither party spoke. Sammy was wearing an ugly purple shiner on his cheek from where he was knocked out. He tried to look Charlene in the eye, but the pain was all too near. She ruffled his hair.
“How are you, Sammy boy?” she asked, handing him a crisp red note. This was his language. But still he did not speak. Sammy moved aside to allow Charlene into his home, where the sobs and sniffles were louder. In the middle of the lounge room, crumpled on the carpet, was Mrs Pritchard holding her dead son, Tom. Her oldest son, Kane, sat in a reclining chair, leg wrapped with a blanket, blood still a lively red. Charlene placed a hand on their mother, who was shaking and warm. Her head shot up as though woken from a coma.
“Who…what are you…my boy,” she wailed, eyes of glass. “Look what they did to my boy.”
“I know,” said Charlene, focused on the crazed stare of Kane. He was a statue, transfixed on his dead brother. His chest did not heave, his hands did not shake. Kane became one with the recliner and showed no signs of life other than a wounded leg still seeping.
“Where’s Wiggles?” she asked, turning to Sammy who stood by the door with his hands by his front. He shrugged. A foul smell lived here. A rotting decay hidden within the foundations, planted by Siphon.
Tom’s head lolled, a thick bruise around his throat where the rope choked him out of this world. And for a fleeting moment Charlene wondered if he was in fact the only peaceful soul in this room.
“Why would they do this to my boy?” asked Mrs Pritchard, arching her back up and down as her arms embraced Tom. She was a thin lady in a summer’s dress, varicose veins like uneven webs across her pale legs. Her arms were burdened by scars from the removal of melanomas to the point where she now avoided the sun like the plague. Her boys were all she had. Siphon had made sure her husband was no longer in a state to provide for her. Permanently.
“Someone broke into the barn and took something,” said Charlene, trying to sound indifferent. “Siphon wants to know who and why. He’s angry. You know what he’s like when he’s angry. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Pritchard.”
“He’s threatened my Sammy,” she cried, reaching out, “and my Kane. And even my poor Waylon.”
Hearing Wiggles’ real name was like arriving in a foreign country and being greeted in their native tongue.
“Please Charlene,” said Mrs Pritchard, now turning her attention to the only other woman in the room. “Don’t let them hurt my boys. We’ve been through enough.”
Charlene found herself saying words she hadn’t planned. They just escaped, mice scurrying away from the clutches of the cat.
“I promise, your boys will not be harmed. I won’t let it happen. You have my word.”
Kane’s head pivoted to meet Charlene’s eyes.
“You can’t promise that, you lesbian. You can’t promise that. You couldn’t stop Tom being strung up like a puppet in the street, or that fucking dog ripping a hole in my leg. You couldn’t stop what they did to Dad, or to Max, or to anyone. You just fucking stand there. You’re always i
n the background acting like the Mayor but you’ve fucking nothing to stop them. What next? Dial triple zero and ruin us for good?”
He rose from the chair, towering over Charlene.
“He’s going to come for me tonight, and he’ll get Killer to finish the job. Tomorrow it’ll be Sammy, drowned in the pond. Who knows what he’ll do to Wiggles, probably chop off every last finger and toe and have bets on what time he’ll bleed out. And then they’ll take Mum into the barn and share her around until her body can’t take it anymore. Don’t come into our home with your bullshit words, you fat bitch. It should be you they target.”
Kane brushed her aside and stormed out the back door, which flung back and rattled on its hinges. Mrs Pritchard offered no apology for her son’s outburst. She was solely focused on cradling her dead boy. Sammy held out his hand and Charlene took it. Kane’s final words haunted her. He was right. Sammy led her out of the house, through a maze of car parts and towards a tunnel.
“You have to crawl through,” he whispered, pointing into the darkness.
Charlene didn’t have the heart to deny him. Her body barely fit into the gap, but she supposed that was the idea of a secret hideout. She wiggled through the corrugated iron and a labyrinth of black, the dust entering her lungs and the surface scratching her bare hands. She felt a cut but continued onward, hearing Sammy scurrying behind her. Up ahead there was nothing, and behind there was a boy blocking her retreat. She tried a deep breath, but it made her head swim. Claustrophobia kicked in, and for a moment Charlene wondered if she was conscious. But her hands and knees kept moving, and finally she entered a low space the size of a child’s bedroom. The boys had told her of this hideout but being here now made her marvel at their imagination.
“Hi Wiggles,” said Charlene, handing the boy a packet of gummies. He had his back to her and was pre-occupied by something. The clang of metal against metal echoed. All around them was a fortification of wood, car frames and other bits and pieces. Charlene didn’t know if she was still on Pritchard property. He took the gummies but didn’t turn. Sammy soon joined them.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Building a gun,” said Wiggles, too busy for idle chat. “I came here, just like you said. Haven’t left. I’m not leaving. They can come in here and I’ll shoot them with this.”
He held up the piece; three pointy bits of metal woven together with wire, real bullets placed in three compartments at the top. Sammy didn’t have the courage to tell his little brother that it was useless, and neither did Charlene. She sat alongside the boy and picked up some wire, hoping he would never have to try using his toy.
“Need some help?” she asked. He handed her three rods of metal.
“Sure. Will you stay with me? We can keep them out. Tom always said two eyes are better than one, but I reckon four would be even better than that!”
He chewed the gummies and did not take his eyes off his work. The Pritchard clan were good with their hands, she knew. Their father, a mechanic, had serviced all cars in town. Now townsfolk had to trust a less-than-enthused Mick or be left to their own talents. Sammy, red-eyed and face blotchy around the wound, tugged at Charlene’s shirt. There was no school to prepare them for the world.
“Am I going to die?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, putting an arm around each boy as they sat on grass and pondered events that kids should not have to ponder. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
Charlene heard a bark. She wondered if Hayes would send Killer through the tunnel and into the space to attack the boys. But if she admitted to the events of the barn, what would Killer do to James and Jasper?
“Don’t come into town tonight. Stay here with Kane and your mother, no matter what. Promise me?”
The boys nodded.
“So, is there a quicker way out of here or do I need to tunnel out?”
Sammy and Wiggles pointed to the tunnel simultaneously.
Seeing the barn in the distance reminded Charlene of Karen. Still missing. Billy Corden wasn’t on his porch reading the paper or drinking beer today. He wasn’t tending to his animals or yelling at the television. The house stood still, bracing for nightfall and the mayhem that would follow. Charlene knocked on Billy’s door, and she then felt something hard press into the small of her back.
“What do you want?” asked Billy, and she could smell the whiskey.
“Can I turn, Bill? Are you going to shoot me now? Haven’t we caused enough death?”
“I haven’t caused anything,” he said, lowering the rifle. Charlene turned to see a shirtless Billy, red scratch marks on his skin, tiredness set within his face. None of them had slept.
“We have, Billy. We can’t let the poor Pritchard boys cop it because of us.”
“Because of us,” he yelled, dropping the rifle. “I told you, I said don’t fucking go in there! You didn’t listen, neither of you did. Your bitch of a girlfriend wasn’t even in there!”
Charlene felt her face redden with rage.
“That bitch took the bullet out of your foot and stitched you up, so you shut your damn mouth.”
They were staring at one another on Billy’s porch, no audience privy to the poison ready to be unleashed. Charlene prided herself on remaining calm, but calm had hitchhiked out of Sulley Ridge.
“I don’t care about her,” he said. “I care about me and my wife. If we tell Siphon the truth, he’ll kill Jane.”
“Didn’t you hear him? He’s going to kill all the women anyway unless we stop him.”
“Yeah, and how do you propose we do that Charlene?”
She had no other options.
“I’m going to tell him it was me. I’m not going to say your name, or Mick’s name. I will leave that open to the both of you. But I can’t let another dead boy be on my conscience. It’s too much, Bill. They’re good boys.”
Billy whacked the side of his house with his crutch. The little hair he had left was sticking up in obscene angles, keeping watch in all directions. He stunk. But Billy always seemed to carry a stench, whether it be body odour or cow shit on the soles of his feet.
“I need a drink,” he said, limping into his house. Charlene followed. The Cordens owned the nicest home in Sulley Ridge, with views of the Ridge to which the town was named. Others had a distant view of the collection of rising mountains, but out of Billy’s window you could see the drop of terrain on either side. The green colouring was straight out of a paint bucket, and that which once inspired hope signified a dream they could never achieve. Billy handed Charlene a beer, and they drank together.
“We rattled the cage, badger,” he said, staring at the ridge. “It didn’t matter if it was the other day or a year from now, eventually Siphon wanted to remind us of what he could do. Those men grow bored and they want to hurt something. When they first took the barn from me, I saw what bastards could do. But now…they’ve put us in this position because we have too much here. Any other person in any other town would just jump in the car and drive away. Any other town would have a police station, not a cop who drives through each day hoping the gang aren’t on the street. Our old cop shop stores fucking wooden planks. We have our roots in this godforsaken land and they know it. Land, homes, memories…they use it. I hear the screams from the barn every night. It might be a man being beaten senseless, or the cheers from punters, or a young girl being raped. But I hear it, every sound. I know I’m a dickhead, Charlene. I know that, and I know nobody likes me. I don’t really care. I just want my wife to be safe. It pains me to say it, but I’m glad my parents died before Siphon arrived here. I’m glad Jane can’t have children. Who the fuck would want to live here?”
Charlene had never heard Billy talk this way. The town distanced themselves from the Corden pair because they believed Billy was in on Siphon’s rule. Mick generally led this charge. But never had Billy and Jane been excluded.
“Maybe we’ve reached that end, Bill. Sometimes money isn’t enough for thes
e people.”
“Maybe,” he replied, watching his cows graze on a particularly green patch of grass. “It doesn’t help when an outsider joins them. That Greg probably put Siphon up to it. He’s the one we should be tossing into the flames. Blame the prick collectively. Doesn’t look like he’d be able to talk his way out of it, huh?”
“Nobody puts Siphon and Hayes up to things. They’re sick men by themselves.”
The door opened, and both beer-drinkers almost dropped their ales. Jane walked in with her hands full of groceries, at least half a dozen plastic bags ready to burst at the seams. Billy hobbled over to help her, and they began stacking their shelves and fridge in silence. They had a way, this pair. Alone they seemed the unlikeliest to live within a happy marriage, but together they were incapable of leaving the other’s side. Charlene tried to hide the jealousy from her face as she watched them perform daily tasks. Her own marriage had never been this relaxed. If her husband wasn’t outside tending to the farm or away on a job, he was inside trying to get as drunk as possible. They stopped having sex three years before he jumped in his truck and never returned. But he still sent money. For that she was eternally grateful.
“Let’s go to the pub,” said Jane, a surprise chirp from an aged tree. “Let’s have a drink and play some pool. No point sitting here waiting for doomsday.”
“What’s the point?” said Billy, biting into an apple.
“Billy Corden, you put that apple down and get dressed. We’re going to the pub for a drink. Never in my life have I heard you turn down a drink.”
He took another bite of the apple, placed it on the counter and walked away.
“Stubborn man, isn’t he?” said Jane, still focused on the shelves.
“Most men are.”
“I know what you did, Charlene. I know what the three of you did.”
Charlene opened her mouth for rebuttal, but Jane beat her to it.