This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  “I don’t blame you. If I thought Billy was locked up in that hell hole, I would’ve done the same. If you left that girl there, well, we all know how that ends. Freeing her was the only decent thing to do, even if I wish you’d cleaned up your tracks.”

  Charlene nodded as Billy re-entered the room. Within a minute they were in Charlene’s car driving down the straight road, lines of golden wattle that were witness to the growth of this town watching freely. As dusk approached few people were in town, all shops shut except the resident drinking hole. Charlene wanted to ask Jerry about the night prior, to know that her mind wasn’t playing tricks when she saw that rifle resting by his side. For if he was capable of shooting Brick, maybe he would contemplate further rebellion.

  They entered the pub together and noticed Wallace Randall drinking at the bar in discussions with Jerry. Billy hobbled right up to Wallace and almost pushed the old man off his chair.

  “You said you were doing business with him, badger. Should’ve just let Mick finish the prick. Now he’s helping Siphon.”

  Wallace raised a hand, squinted and pushed back.

  “Piss off, Billy.”

  “He’s in your son’s house, he drives your son’s car—”

  “And Siphon does all his deeds in your barn,” replied Wallace, “and takes the money your wife makes at her store and funds his operations. You do business with the devil, I just make money off a demon.”

  Billy’s crutch clattered against the floor, but Charlene stepped between the men.

  “Siphon is talking about killing another Pritchard boy tonight and you’re squabbling over who is to blame? We’re all to blame. We let this go on for too long,” said Charlene, and then she pointed to Jerry. “I saw you last night, holding your rifle. I know it was you who shot Brick. We need more of it.”

  “Wasn’t me,” he snapped back, his hand and a cloth deep within a pint glass.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wasn’t me,” he repeated, filling glasses with ale for the new arrivals.

  “I saw the rifle, Jerry.”

  “It was a tough night. We all saw things, love.”

  Charlene took a deep breath, grabbed her pint and sat at a stool beside Wallace. Jane dragged Billy over to the pool table and placed a dollar in the slot. She broke enthusiastically, but Billy kept looking over hoping to hear a stray word between Charlene and Wallace.

  “What are we going to do this time, old man?” she asked, eyeing off Jerry as he cleaned the bench.

  “Just be patient, Charlene.”

  She turned to face him.

  “The sun is almost down. When it is, Siphon could come into town at any minute looking for a Pritchard boy. I don’t know where Karen is. It’s hopeless, Wallace. Money isn’t going to save us this time. Siphon wants blood and fear.”

  Wallace tapped the bench for another pint. He met Charlene’s gaze.

  “I want you to come to my house tomorrow.”

  “No offence, but I’m not in the mood for a tea party.”

  “If you want all this to end, you’ll be there.”

  He accepted his pint from Jerry and walked away to the betting machines. Wallace was letting the system slurp fifty-dollar notes at will, but Charlene wasn’t going to stop him today. Perhaps he’d rather the machines have it than Siphon and his gang. She watched Billy and Jane play pool, both smiling now. Every time Billy bent over to take his shot, Jane stuck her pool cue up his rear and he seemed to like it. Charlene noted that it would be a funny story to tell Mick, because he always said, ‘if you have ammo on Billy, load my gun’. The fate of the town felt heavy on her shoulders. Despite their rule beneath a tyrant present only at night, Charlene loved Sulley Ridge and the people remaining. She wanted it to be free of corruption, so the wives and kids could come back, so the school and medical practice could re-open, so their lives continued like any other country town in Victoria. For the Pritchard boys to become mechanics and run a family business. For Lilly to work as a town nurse rather than a captive healer. For Karen…to be safe.

  Jane waved Charlene over. Her blonde hair was in a bun, but strands were falling out and sticking to her forehead. She didn’t want to step on their fun. Charlene finished the pint, gave an accusatory glance towards Jerry and left feeling deflated. She drove as the sun set against the parade of trees to the right, beams of orange setting pink against the mountains to the left. Sulley Ridge was beautiful, she thought. Was. The key word, the unfortunate word, the word that cut at her core. Charlene stopped at her own letterbox and checked the mail for the day. There were two envelopes. She opened the first.

  In it were photographs. The first three were of James and Jasper doing their business outside. Her heart began hammering. The next two showed James and Jasper sleeping inside in their beds, the photos taken from within the house. Beneath that shot, a bloody hand rested on James’s throat. Charlene felt faint. She ran to her house, leaving the car in the driveway.

  Yaps greeted her. James and Jasper were alive. She opened the door and they jumped up, scratching her knees, pleading for affection before cocking their legs on her favourite pot plant. Charlene slumped onto her outdoor rocking chair, hands still shaking and clutching the photos. With her dogs in good health, she looked at the remaining snaps. One of her shotgun, which she had clumsily left on the couch. Another of her house from the right. And then the last, more shocking than any before it, of Karen tied to a bed. She was fully clothed, and her face remained untouched, but it was the angle of the photo, the intent of the photographer, the unknown predicament that caused Charlene to see purple dots. It was all too much for her to bear.

  Something moved in the neighbouring house to the right. Through Max’s window Charlene watched Siphon’s newest member, Greg, busy in the kitchen as a light smoke wafted away. The cooking smelled divine, of grilled steak in a broth of herbs and spices that invited her within. But as she watched him effortlessly prepare his meal, Charlene wanted to pick up her shotgun and give him a scare. These photos were taken today. He lived a stone’s throw from her home, from James and Jasper. This man from nowhere was a curse on the land. She wanted him gone. With a face full of bruising and a night full of death, how could he create such a diligent meal?

  Charlene remembered the other envelope. It contained a wad of money, more than she had ever been sent. With it was a handwritten note, cursive, and it only had two words:

  “Trust me”.

  Game of Life

  The man arrived at the barn. Inside were Harvard, Wolfgang and Brick seated at a green fold-out table set in the centre of what was usually the fighting ring. They swigged from bottles of vodka and dealt crumpled cards in their private casino. The sight was of three, but it sounded like twenty. Wolfgang tossed the man his very own bottle of vodka, unopened, and he took a sip after cracking the lid. He hated vodka. This unlabelled bottle tasted like pure fire.

  “Hard liquor cleanses the soul,” roared Brick.

  From the top of the stairs Hayes and Siphon were deep in conversation. Hayes’ Akubra was tipped over his face, but the man could see his sly mouth motoring. Killer was chained to a metal bar, watching his owner. The mutt never slept. They began their descent down the creaky wooden staircase but continued to talk in low volume, forked tongues. Hayes’ head snapped when he saw the man gawking at them. The man almost dropped his vodka. He was on high alert. A few nips stopped his hands from shaking. These men had that look about them tonight; the look of men ready to break something.

  “I don’t bat that way,” said Hayes, waving to the man. “But I hear Brick does.”

  “Fuck off,” said Brick, slamming the table as he lost another hand.

  “Boys,” started Siphon, and everyone turned. He had a way of commanding men much bigger than he. His voice was not as deep as Harvard’s and his power was not as profound as Brick’s, but he dwarfed those men when he spoke with intent.

  “Hayes and I have to go out of town for a deal. Big one today boys. Enough speed
and smack to supply every punter with double the goods and to put every female in a fucking coma. Don’t get too fucked up,” he said, pointing directly at Brick, who was half way through his bottle. “When we get back, we have a Pritchard boy to skin.”

  “A’right boss,” slurred Brick. His eyes were glazed, perhaps from alternative drugs. But the man sniffed opportunity. Hayes walked past the man and squeezed his shoulder, nails digging beneath his collarbone.

  “You eating?” he asked, burrowing further, expecting a yelp. “You look like a ghost.”

  “Cooked myself a fine meal earlier. Not bad in the kitchen.”

  “You any good with roo?”

  “Goes well in a stew, I find.”

  Hayes whistled, whacking the man on the rear and patting Killer before leaving the barn. Siphon swigged from Harvard’s bottle and said something that the man couldn’t quite make out. As Siphon approached the man, he wondered how easy it would be to smash the bottle across his chiselled jaw and marvel at the tooth shower. The others would beat him, probably kill him, but in that action he could prevent the General from commanding his troops.

  “Did you take the photos?” he asked.

  “Yes, of the dogs, as you said.”

  “Good. You know what I like you about, Greg? You get shit done.”

  He said this loud enough for his crew to hear, their ears perking up and faces twisting. Give the sharks a scent of blood before departing sea.

  “Just doing my bit. Wouldn’t mind a bit of extra coin though.”

  Siphon laughed, handed him three hundred dollars and punched him in the arm so hard he had to juggle the vodka bottle.

  “You really love cash, maybe more than Wolfgang. What are you saving up for, a getaway van?”

  The man winked, so Siphon continued.

  “Clean these bastards up at the table, will you?”

  Siphon left like a cloud parting from the sun’s view. A spare seat was set up next to Wolfgang, a flimsy green deckchair ready to collapse. The bookie tapped the seat with a smile. The language of coin was fluent here.

  “Time to lose that cash,” he said. They were transfixed by the notes. The man wondered if Siphon paid them as well as the town thought.

  “Need a piss, where’s the toilet?”

  As soon as he said the words he knew he’d made a mistake. This was country life, with country rules. You don’t ask for the bathroom. You go out and piss on the side of the barn or under the closest tree. Shit, you would even just piss in the wind without a shadow to hide your manhood as the stream waters the field. City rules die hard.

  “Just piss outside, I’m not fucking holding it for you,” said Harvard. The man left the barn still attached to his vodka bottle. He tipped out the contents on the dry grass, turned on the tap and filled the bottle three quarters full of lukewarm water. He returned, zipping up his pants.

  “You piss like a racehorse,” said Brick, his whiskers wet with booze.

  “Want to watch me next time?”

  “Fuck off, fucking hillbilly.”

  Good, thought the man, I’ll take that as a compliment.

  “What are we playing here?”

  “Blackjack, game of kings,” he continued.

  “Isn’t that poker?”

  “No, look, Blackjack.”

  Brick held up his pair of cards. The man couldn’t be bothered arguing that the game of kings was poker, for this wasn’t all a battle of intelligence. It was a war of wits.

  “What’s the wager?”

  “Money, what else? We don’t bet blow jobs here.”

  The man scoffed and muttered “amateurs”.

  “Excuse me, you fucking choir boy?” said Brick, standing up and knocking over his own bottle of vodka. He saved the alcohol quicker than if his child had been dropped into the river. Did these men have families? Did these men parent kids?

  “Money is all well and good, and so is Blackjack, but back in WA we play a bit differently. Higher stakes.”

  These men lived for high stakes. The fruit dangled before their faces and they soon forgot about Siphon’s parting words. Hands pressed against the table, waiting for this challenge of financial gain. Wolfgang was the most eager, a bookie learning of fresh methods in his quest to ruin the pockets of all around him. The man let silence sway, a ticking pendulum in a room of beasts, a fluorescent metronome in their lives of darkness. He sipped from his vodka bottle of water, pretending to wince as the bland nothingness replaced fire.

  “It’s called ‘one up’. Blackjack with a bit of country violence. There’s no official dealer, we just take it in turns. Now, whoever is handing out the cards goes first, trying to hit or get close to twenty-one. Then we move clockwise, trying to beat the previous hand. When your turn arrives, you can call an amount and all remaining players must pop it in to remain in the game. Once we’ve all shown our cards in a round, the winner gets the full kitty. But there’s also a twist. If you try to beat the winning player and bust, that’s three full shots of booze down your throat. Doesn’t end there though. The winner gets to slap you across the face, open hand, full power, no repercussions. May I demonstrate?”

  The man opened his less damaged hand, careful to hide the stitches applied by Lilly. Raw red lines carved through skin, a complex train map fighting infection. Brick nodded, unfazed. With pent up frustration and the agony of constant pain, the man slapped the largest man he had ever seen so hard across the face that he thought he’d broken his own bones. A red hand print rose on Brick’s face, followed by the flushing of the rest of his skin. Wolfgang and Harvard remained still, wide eyed. Silence engulfed the game table, the slap an echo in their minds. Flies buzzed above, smacking against wood as they finished their miserable lives. And then Brick laughed, as blood seeped from the man’s palm.

  “Got a bit of a whack on you, fucking Jesus!” he roared. “Keep going, keep talking.”

  The man let out air and sat back down, his hand throbbing. His anxiety satisfied. Their language wasn’t a three-year course, just a well-trained eye.

  “That’s basically the game, lads. But the trick here is you need to think before you go guns blazing. Try to be too clever and you’ll be pissed, broke and bleeding soon after. Bit of a life lesson. As I said, high stakes and high rollin’. Got it lads? Or do I need to explain it again?”

  Brick looked to Wolfgang. The broad man had his head shaved at the sides, red cheeks and a disorganised facial hair set up, the black hairs sticking out like a light crowd at a rock concert. He lifted his head to swig; two cigar burns clear on his throat. He wore mass, not muscle. Brick had killed Tom with brute strength. Here, he needed brains. The whack barely registered on him. But have these men belting the living fuck out of one another, and then…

  “We’ve got it, don’t fucking question me,” said Wolfgang, pointing. He shuffled the deck while eyeing off the man, his left eyebrow twitching. He still wore overalls over a white t-shirt, sweat marks so profound that the clothing would never recover. The man realised how hot the barn was, even without the screaming punters adding heat with their energy and raised fists. A fly haven. Harvard monitored the deal as Wolfgang tossed two cards to each player. They placed one on the table and checked their other, taking a moment to analyse the reaction of their rivals. For the first time, there was no intimidation. The man felt a tinge of peace and his heart rate slowed. If he played this carefully, his face would remain untouched. But the coin needed to last.

  “May I call the first wager?” he asked, holding a ten of spades to himself.

  Wolfgang nodded.

  “Three hundred.”

  The man placed the yellow notes received from Siphon into the centre of the green table. Harvard’s hazel eyes widened. Brick tossed his notes into the pot like payment to a stripper, one by one. The man caught Wolfgang checking how much vodka was left in the bottle. Still half full. He sucked his front teeth and tossed in the payment. Was he nervous? Harvard let out a sigh and followed suit.

  �
��That’s one thousand two hundred dollars there, lads,” said the man, enjoying the way they were uncertain, enjoying their sudden loss of control, and ultimately enjoying the fact that he had nearly a million dollars still stored at home and a bottle of water disguised as alcohol. He had nothing to lose except a few teeth if he forgot his own rules.

  “I can fucking count,” said Wolfgang. “Alright, let’s go. I raise one hundred.”

  Dealing to himself, Wolfgang revealed both cards. A king of hearts and a three of clubs. After watching these games, the man knew Wolfgang would always take a third card and aim for a direct hit on the twenty-one. But he hesitated, even at thirteen, and the others saw the pause without a hiccup. Harvard and Brick watched the money man ponder his move. The man took this opportunity to ponder the reason: was it the pain, the alcohol, or the kitty?

  “C’mon Wolfie, we haven’t got all night. You can’t raise and then sit on thirteen,” said the man, forcing a smile. Wolfgang raised before he’d seen the three. Now he regretted it.

  “You shut the fuck up, alright? I can’t wait to smash you across the jaw.”

  He finally pulled a card. The seven of spades caused his shoulders to lower, the breath to release and his leg to stop fidgeting.

  “Brick,” said Wolfgang, trying to move on. “Need a card?”

  The enforcer had a total of eleven staring at him. He patted the table for a card. An eight of hearts. And then he stopped, swigging from his vodka and speaking no more. The total of nineteen would not win him the bulging pot. But it also meant no further punishment. Their mindsets had altered for the man’s new game of life. He tried not to show his surprise.

  Harvard’s cards added to fifteen. He looked to his comrades, clicked his tongue and patted for a card. Sweat slowly traced a line from his forehead to his chin, a tear from his brain.

  “Bust!” screamed Brick, kicking Harvard’s chair. Harvard spat a wad of phlegm, missing Wolfgang by an inch. They glared at one another. All the man had to do was not bust, and Wolfgang’s hairy paw would be knocking Harvard into the next round.