by C. J. Sutton
Here, everyone simply waited for the next murder hoping it wasn’t them.
Into the Spotlight
The burned man walked out of the interrogation room only disturbed by the wounds on his face. After an hour of questioning by Melissa and her partner under the lens of recording, the burned man saw Ren and Gabe seated in the foyer of the police station. Ren had her mobile phone out, scrolling through social media, while Gabe stared at a child red in the face from screaming at his mother. It was as though the pair had never met, two individuals from different generations focused only on what was before them. This was why the burned man had told Mason and William to go home; big mouths, bigger egos. A woman cleared her throat behind him.
“Why do I feel like you’re holding something from us?” asked Melissa, still holding her notepad which now contained pages of scribble. She glanced at Ren.
“Because I’m your only lead to Brady and you wish I had more. But I don’t. He’s vanished, and while I would love to find him I don’t even know where to begin.”
She clicked her tongue, now out of earshot from her partner. During the interview she told the other police officer she ‘had it covered’ but he wouldn’t leave. The child started kicking his mother in the shins, and the burned man noticed Gabe smiling. It was a horrific sight. Satisfaction.
“Why were you really at his house?”
“For clues, same as you. Do I have to repeat myself? Everyone in Australia wants to know where Brady Lockhart is. I hear there’s a reward. I could use the money for plastic surgery. Do you like my burns?”
“Nothing to do with him stealing your wife then?” asked Melissa, tossing her hair out of her doll-like face.
“I never said stealing. I said fucking. Best you learn the difference, cop. How’s your old man going? Did he watch any more of Brady’s victims die?”
Ren saw her boss free from the deep caverns of the station and walked over to the pair.
“Can we go now? This place blows.”
“What’s the rush?” said Melissa, smiling. “You’re up next.”
The burned man stepped in between the women and put an arm over Ren. It was the first time he had touched his protégé. At first the leather of her jacket creaked as she tensed, but soon she relaxed into his embrace and allowed him to lead her away from the prying cop.
“I’ll speak to you soon, cop,” he said. Both had forgotten about Gabe until the driver lifted off the chair, gawking at the kid. The mother noticed the sullen man staring at her boy and grabbed her son’s arm. He yelped. Gabe’s face darkened. He took a step in their direction before the burned man spoke.
“Gabe, quick now. Before they take you in for all those parking tickets.”
The driver stopped, nodded and followed the pair out of the station. As the mother scowled towards Gabe, the burned man turned to reveal his full face. The boy buried his head into his mother’s bosom, and they concerned themselves with the departing contingent no more.
The morning sun bashed against their faces, the heat causing an extra burn to the wounds. The burned man removed his arm from Ren, who almost stumbled as she leaned into his warmth, and they entered the car. Gabe applied his sunglasses and silence, driving them onto a main road as Melissa watched from within her station.
“Pass me your phone,” the burned man said to Ren, who hesitated. He snatched the white rectangle from her grasp and dialled a familiar number.
“Don’t worry, I won’t look through your private pics. Unless you want me to?”
“Terrence Stewart, Channel Four News,” said the reporter, heavy drilling heard in the background.
“Terrence, it’s me,” he replied, the voice alone being enough identification.
“Oh…hang on,” Terrence replied, barking orders at someone before the drilling sound ceased. “What have you got for me? Have you found Brady? What’s the deal here? I’m not sure I ever want him to be found, to be honest, but I hope if anyone breaks the case it’s me…I mean us, you know? That’d be huge. Biggest find since Osama.”
The burned man held the phone away from his ear and sighed. He waited a further minute before speaking again.
“Some reporter, huh. Aren’t you supposed to listen?”
“Well yeah,” he replied, remembering who was on the other end. “Shoot.”
“If you put me on Channel Four tonight, I’ll have an interview on prime time with you. Only you. I don’t trust the tricks of the other bastards.”
“Do you have new information?”
“I have the only information!” barked the burned man, screaming into the phone as his burns raised in temperature. “Do you want the highest rating interview of the year, or do you want to miss out to a rival network?”
Terrence muttered to himself, discussed the current schedule for the night and responded in a softer tone.
“Sure thing. Sure thing, my friend. You’re on. They’ll want to know your name, and I mean, I don’t even know your name…so, what am I billing it as? Couldn’t have Ali vs Foreman without a name, you know?”
“I’m unrecognisable, they don’t need a fucking name. But if you want to call me something…go with The Burned Man. How about that, Terrence? Get your dick hard or what? Text me the details and I’ll be there. We’re doing this live.”
The burned man tossed the phone back to Ren and reclined his seat.
“Why the interview?” she asked as her phone binged with a text. He noticed how her eyes had no sign of tiredness, but her dead-straight black hair had begun to fray. Her legs were slightly open as she sat in the back seat, and when she caught him looking she gave a wry smile. The burned man could see nothing but leather, but the intent soothed his skin.
“Brady is somewhere. He can ignore social media, but the news will find him. I’m going to make him call me. And then we’ll be arranging a little get together.”
“And why the hell would he meet with us?”
“His restaurant was his life and losing that part of him obviously hurts. Does he know that we torched it? Doubtful, it wasn’t hard to find out that he owned Bun Ahoy. But sister Lockhart is his only family member. He is hiding in the hope that authorities will protect her from harm and settled in the notion that people won’t kill an innocent woman. Well, he’s not aware that I know of his sister. And believe me; after what he’s done, he will know I’m an exception to the rule.”
He Who Casts
Charlene woke groggily in her car which was parked across the road from the Pritchard house, behind the first row of overarching eucalyptus trees. The morning fog evaporated as the sun found passage through the woods, her tinted windows doing little to stifle the rising degree. Her shotgun still rested across her knees, fully loaded. As she gazed out onto Pritchard land, everything seemed in order; car parts remained in their positions, no new tyre marks were woven through grass or gravel, and the tunnel that led through to the secret hideout of the younger boys appeared untouched by older hands. Charlene turned on the engine to add vibration to her joints, decided against annoying the Pritchard clan again and drove to Wallace’s house.
In the driveway were Wallace’s ute, Morris’ squad car and Max’s Falcon. Charlene grew nervous. She wanted to go home and check on her dogs. She wanted to see if there were any more photos of Karen wedged into her mailbox. But she parked her car and entered, leaving the shotgun locked in the boot. Lilly answered the door.
“Hi Charlene,” said Wallace’s daughter. They had gone to school together, and Charlene had always admired Lilly from afar, her beauty intimidating. Charlene had been closer with Max; much more in common with the country cop. Shooting, farming and beer.
“Hi Lil, your old man wanted to see me?”
“Yes, come in. They’re waiting.”
“They?” asked Charlene, smelling a baking pie. She walked into the kitchen to see Wallace and Morris in a heated conversation. Morris had his full police gear on, the hat squashing his curly hair down comically, his gun resting at his hip. Th
e buckle had been released.
“What’s all this?” asked Charlene, and as she turned she froze. Seated in the lounge room was Greg McDonald. With his back to the company he shovelled scrambled eggs into his mouth as though it was his last meal. Fresh bandages had been applied to his hands and neck. Despite the time of day, a frosty beer rested by his side.
“What is he doing here?” said Charlene in a low rumble. “What are you blokes playing at?”
“Easy,” said Wallace, lifting a hand. “We have something to discuss with you.”
“That man was standing alongside Siphon when they hung Tom,” she growled.
“He watched on with them. And now you invite him over for breakfast and heal his wounds?”
Lilly entered the room, ushered the trio into the lounge and everyone looked at Greg.
“Hi,” he said, feigning a smile and returning to his eggs.
“Were you in my house?” asked Charlene, trying to stop her arms from shaking.
“Please sit,” said Wallace. The Randall pair each took a chair at the table, but Morris and Charlene remained standing as if ready to run or fire. Fresh bouquets of blues and reds were in vases around the room, wide windows shining in thick rays of yellow light. The baking pie mixed with the aroma of flowers and generated a sense of calm and peace. But Charlene did not feel peaceful.
“Fine, stand. But we have news, provided nothing leaves this room. Nothing I say, or any of us say here today, leaves this room. Can you promise me that?” said Wallace.
Greg nodded. Lilly smiled. Charlene and Morris looked to one another. What choice did she have? Sulley Ridge was cursed with lingering death and torture. Hopping into bed with a devil seemed miniscule to the safety of the Pritchard boys. She nodded. Morris threw his hands in the air and sighed.
“Good. Brick is dead.”
“What?” said Morris, finally taking his seat and placing his gun on the table. He removed his hat and ruffled his own hair.
“Our man here played a card game with the big fella and he choked on his own vomit after sinking too much grog. Likely full of drugs too. He now rests at the bottom of the pond out the back of Billy’s place.”
Charlene was stunned into silence.
“All those boys do is drink and take drugs. Seems pretty advantageous that he died when your mate here was playing cards with him.”
Morris eyed Greg suspiciously. Charlene recoiled at the sight of his mouth, missing teeth and rotting gums. She could smell his breath from across the table. Even the hair on his head was uneven. But she noticed something about his eyes today. They were different. Piercing green.
“Probably choked all the time,” said Greg, pushing his plate away. Empty. “But the others were passed out and I watched him die. Could’ve stepped in but I didn’t.”
“Oh, so we’re supposed to trust you now because you watched a gangster die?” spat Morris.
“Yes, but not because of that.”
Wallace resumed talking, aware that the exchanges between Morris and Greg were going to end in a fist fight. And neither man would back down.
“Greg here is working with me. He’s my eyes and ears in there. Siphon needs to be stopped before another one of our people gets killed. You lot can’t even be in the same room, let alone plan a way to rid of these bastards. If we had united after Max’s death instead of sending our women and children away hoping it would pass, maybe it wouldn’t have got this bad.”
Morris eyed his gun. This time, Charlene spoke.
“What do you get out of it? You’ll get more money from Siphon, and you’re free to leave whenever you want. You have no roots in the Ridge and Wallace doesn’t pay. Makes no sense.”
Greg nodded and sipped from his beer. He drank local brew as though no other drop ever graced his tongue. Lilly placed the laptop in front of Charlene and Morris and pressed play on a video file. It was the announcement of Brady Lockhart as suspect number one in the Barron Tower Burn. Charlene saw a distant camera trying to focus on the burning building as black silhouettes fell from great heights. After thirty seconds of footage, Brady Lockhart’s face covered the screen.
“I’ve seen this on the news for days, why are you showing me this?” asked Morris, but Charlene looked up from the screen to Greg. The shaved head, missing teeth and busted nose were top notch disguise, but those green eyes were identical. They could not be mistaken.
“Holy shit,” she said, placing a hand over her mouth.
“What?” said Morris. “What am I missing?”
Greg McDonald moved closer. Finally, Morris saw the resemblance. He lifted his gun off the table and aimed it at the man’s head.
“Fuck,” he said to himself, then “fuck!” much louder.
“Calm, boy,” said Wallace, placing an arm on Morris’ shoulder.
Charlene felt ill. The murderer was in Sulley Ridge, in the same room as her, glaring straight at her.
“This is why we trust him,” said Wallace. “He needs to vanish, and Sulley Ridge may be the last place in Australia possible for that. He can’t leave.”
Charlene didn’t know what to say. She hoped Morris would find the right questions to ask. Lilly was seated with her hands in her lap, apron covered in flour, serene in the sunlight.
“This only makes matters worse,” said Morris. “At first I thought this was some dumb city slicker wanting a piece of Siphon’s cake. Now we’ve got the most wanted man in Australia, probably more dangerous than Siphon. Fuck!”
“I’m not dangerous,” replied the man, softly, “I’m trying to help.”
Lilly left the room. Morris paced back and forth, unsure what to do with his hands or his gun. Charlene analysed the situation, trying to put together the jigsaw of floating revelations.
“You want to help us?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The man sat back down. She didn’t know what to call him. Brady. Greg. Prick?
“People think I’m some kind of monster. That’s fine. But I can do some good here, away from the eyes of the law.”
“What do you think I am, ‘uh? See this badge,” said Morris, pointing to his shirt.
Wallace stood, tired of Morris.
“If you don’t sit down and shut up, you can get out of my house.”
Morris settled as Lilly brought out a steaming meat pie that caused their stomachs to growl. She placed it in the middle of the table, but nobody moved.
“Bit hot, wait a minute,” she said.
“What are you going to do? Lock them in the barn and burn it?”
Charlene turned to Morris. She wasn’t sure why, but her hatred towards the mysterious man was lessening. The eyes…she couldn’t look away from those sorrowful eyes.
“He’s offering to help us. It’s alright for you, Morris. You don’t have to sleep in Sulley Ridge wondering if your dogs will be chopped into pieces or mauled by Killer when you wake up and brew your morning coffee.”
Wallace took the floor.
“I want to hear from Greg.”
The man took a deep breath. He was uncomfortable, but Charlene knew revealing his identity was a trustworthy act despite the claims against him. He now had something to lose.
“You can trust me because I’ve trusted you. I watched Brick die. But he’s just muscle. They will have another Brick by nightfall. We could cut off Siphon’s money through Wolfgang. We could cut off his intelligence through Harvard. But their skills can be replaced, same as Killer’s bite. Hayes is the one I can’t put my finger on. But they made this a lawless town. We don’t need to play by the rules. Why do you all play by their rules?”
An awkward silence lingered between the folk of Sulley Ridge. They glanced at one another looking for an answer. Charlene envied Morris because he only had to drive through the town once a day, and even then, he just scoped the streets. Lilly had not left the house since Max was ripped in two. Wallace…he drank himself stupid most days, but at least he was planning something. Remembering
Jerry’s rebellious act, she felt Wallace somehow played a role.
“Because we’re a town that has seen pain,” she said. “We don’t want more pain.”
“Pain,” said the man. “Have you seen what’s happening in the city? Pain is everywhere, Charlene. It’s time the town unites and casts out these bastards.”
“Since Siphon’s rule everyone has gone their separate ways. Everyone focuses on their own jobs. Billy, Mick, Jerry, the Pritchard clan, even you Wallace; families with long histories in Sulley Ridge, yet all we do is squabble,” said Charlene.
“It’s true,” confirmed Wallace. “But if we don’t try, we’ll all be dead or as good as dead within the month.”
“What’s the plan?” asked Lilly as she cut the pie into four pieces, handing each person a generous serving. She saved none for herself. Birds chirped on the windowsill, eager for the scraps. And they sat at the table for two hours together, no malice. No swearing, no pointed fingers, just chatter and pie as though a table of friends discussing weekend plans. Finally, Morris stood up to leave. He shook no hands, but the gun was holstered. Lilly took the dishes into the kitchen and washed. Wallace went outside for a piss, leaving Charlene alone with the man. He finished his third beer and smiled at her.
“I was in your house,” he said. “But I would never harm your pets. I took the photos to prove my worth. It’s a harmless act.”
Charlene tried to smile, but too much fear for what waited on the horizon held her lips in line.
“Have you taken any other photos?” she asked. “Maybe of people? Women?”
“Just the dogs,” he said, getting up and stretching his back. “Siphon knows how to trigger everyone individually. Don’t let him rattle you. We’ll bring the prick down.”