This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  He said it so casually, nothing more certain. The news reported Brady Lockhart as someone to approach with caution. Call the police right away, they said. But as she watched him kiss Lilly on the cheek goodbye, shake Wallace’s hand and drive away in Max’s old Ford Falcon, danger felt far off. Perhaps living amongst Siphon and Hayes had dulled all other reference points.

  “Need a hand?” Charlene asked Lilly.

  “No thanks, it calms me.”

  Wallace entered the room holding a rifle.

  “Up for a bit of shooting practice?”

  Charlene nodded, remembering the hunts with her father. Her childhood was full of cherished memories in Sulley Ridge. The children who were forced to flee would always see this place as hell. Her father loved the Ridge and died long before Siphon’s reign. All memories of their time together lived in a positive bubble. The school rotted with decay. Other than the Pritchard clan, not a single young face had passed through these parts in years. Plant life wrapped itself around the playground like a python constricting its prey, the paint in the equipment flaking away to bleakness. Now there were people willing to fight for the land and the people who felt responsible for its decline. Maybe this man with the world on his heels could make a difference on that which stood before him.

  “I’d never say no, old fella.”

  A Deadly Narrative

  The lights bore holes into the burned man’s skull. The crowd watched on in bated silence, their faces purposely dimmed out of view. The studio felt smaller than what it seemed on television, less truthful, more of a stage to the speaker than a hub of truth. Across from the burned man sat Terrence Stewart, fingers kneaded, his feet drumming against the rug that separated the two brown chairs. He looked at everything and everyone except his interview subject. But when the cameras turned on and the crowd-controllers held up a sign, Terrence became a professional that put on a show for the millions of viewers.

  “The Barron Tower burn. It has affected us all. But none more so than the man before me. He lost his wife to the fire,” a pause, “he lost his son to the fire,” another pause, “and he knows who started the blaze.”

  The crowd were all in. Terrence’s slicked back black hair shone, a lighthouse on the rocks bringing the ships to shore. And they waited for more.

  “As a victim of the fire, you spent some time in hospital after that fateful night. Can you explain to us the moment you regained consciousness?”

  The burned man saw all faces turn to him. He was on the podium, and the world was listening.

  “I opened my eyes to white. For a second, I didn’t know where I was. But then I felt the heaviness in my arms and the burns on my face and throat. I was jacked full of drugs but still I felt the flames on me. I still feel them, even now.”

  The sympathetic eyes of the crowd were stars across the clear night sky.

  “And it was you who first claimed Brady Lockhart to be the culprit, did you not?”

  “Yes. I don’t know Brady personally, but I learned that he was seeing my wife. I believe he was stalking her. When he couldn’t have her, I think he decided nobody would. I saw him light the fire. It was a calculated approach, an act of terror. A tower doesn’t burn that way by accident. He planned this for some time. He didn’t think of all the innocent lives that had to choose between jumping out of a building or burning to death. Brady Lockhart only thinks of himself.”

  Terrence nodded seriously, his mouth pursed and eyes half-drawn. The burned man despised this act. He wanted to look down the barrel of the camera and call Brady out.

  “Thinks, that’s present tense. Do you know where he is?” asked Terrence, leaning in towards the burned man and opening his hands quizzically.

  He wanted to yell in return but remembered who was watching.

  “No, no I don’t. I’m of the belief he is hiding in the countryside, because the city has too many eyes. That’s what I would do.”

  “And you described what Brady Lockhart looked like. Can you do so again?”

  The burned man knew this was pointless. His picture was posted and shared across the internet more times than Donald Trump since the event. But the audience wanted it. He could see it in their faces.

  “Slender and tall, hair in a bun, green eyes. Sounds like I’m describing a female model, doesn’t it?”

  Nobody laughed.

  “Your wounds are horrific. But mentally and emotionally you are coping well, I must say.”

  Terrence was focusing on him. The burned man didn’t want attention. He didn’t want another interview or a book deal. This was already too risky. He wanted to call out Brady Lockhart in such a way that he would be forced to make contact.

  “I’m focused, Terrence. What good would it do my wife and son if I acted like a raving lunatic?”

  The reporter nodded. It was time.

  “I do wonder for the safety of his sister though,” he said, cutting in before Terrence could talk. “I’m worried about all of your people waiting outside her gates like vultures. What if a victim goes mad and does something stupid? You’re pointing them right at his only family member,” he said, and then looked at the closest camera. The reflection of wounds stared back. “They’ve already burned down his restaurant in retaliation. People don’t stop there, not in my experience. I had a conversation with her, Terrence. Did you know that? I spoke to his sister.”

  “I did not,” he shot back, eager for more. For a moment, anger flashed.

  “Yes, we spoke. She was so sorry for what her brother did to me and my family.”

  And then he pulled something out of his pocket. Melissa would hang him for this.

  “This is my wife’s phone.”

  The burned man waited for a reaction. The mouths of the audience gaped.

  “Is Brady’s number in there?” asked Terrence, leaning so far over that his chair tipped. He regained composure. Had he forgotten where he was?

  “Yes, but Brady ditched his phone long ago. There are no messages, no correspondence. Just a number.”

  He turned the phone on, a bright flash filling his palm. Everyone was silent, waiting for a magic trick.

  “I sincerely hope nothing happens to his sister,” said the burned man, softly. “I’m not sure we can protect her.”

  Holding the phone up to the camera, the burned man felt full control. They watched him from the shadows as he spoke, dangled upon every word, sympathised with his loss. Brady Lockhart was the villain. He, the burned man, was the hero. For years he had been injecting this city with substances of influence for a hefty profit, and now he delivered them a person to hate for free. Crowds love an obvious villain, someone to purely despise and blame for the world’s problems. And he was holding one up into the light.

  “Call me tonight, Brady Lockhart. You know her number. Let’s chat about all this privately.”

  Terrence Stewart spoke for five minutes about the Barron Tower Burn and paid tribute to the victims. He announced the burned man’s courage for appearing on camera to talk about such a horrific event that carried significant loss. But the burned man caught glimpse of his crew in the crowd. William was yawning, staring at the off-screen antics of the upcoming presenters. Gabe was a statue. Ren winked when she caught his eye, and the burned man smiled.

  For that second, he forgot the whole country was watching.

  A Tale of Melbourne

  Jerry brought the man his second pint of frothy local ale as he sat in The Ginger Bastard waiting for Siphon’s crew. Meet at the pub, the leader had said. Nightfall reigned in the Ridge and locals were scattered about the location. They drank, they played pool, they gambled and watched the news telecasts on the widescreen televisions. Mick, seated and dealing with two tradesmen from out of town, looked up and provided the man with a narrowed stare. Jerry wasn’t asking for coin with each pour of a new beverage, but the glass hitting the table grew more threatening upon each ask. Billy was playing pool with others and rarely took his eyes away from the front door. The man felt l
ike a leper. Fair enough. He mused at the difference between Sulley Ridge and the rest of the country; here they could see him and didn’t want him, out there they would do anything to find him.

  The left screen in the pub flashed to a set with two men seated opposite one another. The news reporter, hair slicked back and features too sharp, spoke about the Barron Tower Burn as though it had altered the course of history for Melbourne. Perhaps this was true. But the Sulley Ridge patrons continued with their vices as if Melbourne was situated in the Middle East. And then the screen panned to a horribly burned man with dressing on his facial wounds and arms. The man knew this victim was one of the lucky ones. When he spoke, the man’s head began to swim. The words ‘lost his wife’ and ‘lost his son’ sounded like shouts of accusation through the television and into Sulley Ridge. The familiar voice spoke evenly, calm and rational. He spoke of waking up in a hospital bed and talking to the journalists.

  The man pressed his palms against the hard wood surface as he realised why the country knew his name. Why they knew his features and his face and his restaurant. The burned man mentioned his sister, of speaking to his sister, and of the potential harm surrounding her at all times. The threat floated through the air, a feather only he and the burned man could see, a sick form of telepathy. And then the burned man, with his reddened arms, withdrew a piece of technology that lit the match to so many memories. It took the man’s utmost focus to remain upright.

  “I’m not sure we can protect her.”

  Rage bubbled within. Cassie didn’t deserve cats scratching at her door while she tried to live her life. This bastard had placed full blame on Brady. This all made sense now. Not some witness that saw him flee the building or crush the pink lighter. This burned beast set the wolves on a scent. This burned beast was supposed to be dead.

  The phone…

  “Call me tonight, Brady. You know her number. Let’s chat about all this privately.”

  Despite the sadness of the event and the rolling list of people who had died that night, the burned man smiled for a second. He smiled serenely.

  The man lifted out of his seat with throbbing legs and moved towards the exit. The cool breeze of the night air entered his lungs but still he could not breathe. The man bent over at a ninety-degree angle, resting his hands against the railing, and vomited out the free beer across his feet. His knees buckled as the days before the Barron Tower Burn crashed upon him like the tide to a sandcastle.

  “That ale will get you,” said a voice. The man lifted his head to see Wallace approaching. If Siphon saw him talking to Wallace respectfully, there’d be hell to pay.

  “You alright? What’s wrong?” whispered the old man, leaning down. “Are they in there?”

  The man shook his head, a dribble of brown gunk on his chin.

  “Come ‘round the back.”

  Wallace helped the man up and they waddled down the gap between the old clinic and The Ginger Bastard. Once out of sight from the street thanks to an overflowing dumpster resting against brick, Wallace spoke again.

  “I know it’s hard, kid. Hopefully it’ll all be over soon.”

  “Not that,” said the man. “An interview on the news…I know who put my name out there…threatened my sister, will hurt her…will kill her if I don’t call. I have to call. I have the number. I need to call. My sister…I can’t lose her too.”

  Wallace handed the man a cigarette. He wasn’t one for smoking. Cassie would’ve killed him. But when the flash of fire ignited the white coil, strength returned; not from the inhale, but with the sight of the all-conquering flames.

  “You don’t have to tell me shit, kid. But I’ll be honest; even with the grand fuckery going on ‘round here I’m still keen on hearing what happened that night. Feel like talking?”

  He did. The man wanted to talk. The burned man managed to bring out the honesty, because memories evolved once more into reality.

  “I know it’s wrong to spend time with another man’s wife. It’s even worse to enter a relationship with her. But it all just happened Wallace, and I had no restraint. She came into my restaurant one Friday night with her girlfriends and they didn’t have a booking. But I hated turning people away. One of my waiters was ushering the group outside, and I asked them if they were happy to sit at the bar. Just drinks, they said. I spent the busier nights mixing drinks and talking to the customers, and she ordered a Tom Collins. They were all beautiful women, but Jasmine carried this sadness when all others looked away. It sharpened everything, like putting in contacts after straining your eyes. I saw the ring on her finger. She didn’t hide it. If anything, it looked like a symbol of her disdain. I wanted to know more.”

  Wallace’s head kept peering over the dumpster to see if Siphon had arrived. But he listened intently, placing a hand on the shivering man’s shoulder.

  “We struck up light conversation and her friends started to filter out. We’re laughing and she’s drinking and I’m drinking because fuck it right? I own the damn place I’ll do what I want. Then at some stage when there’s a pause I notice everyone’s gone. The waiters are cleaning up and counting the tills and we’re making a mess on the bar talking shit. Her blonde hair was up, and she had these little paw mark tattoos behind her ears. Rabbits. Her pets. Her husband set them free one night while she was working. Her eyes welled up at the thought and I put my arm around her. It was wrong, Wallace. I didn’t think I’d be that guy. You see affairs in the movies and shake your head, but in that situation, I couldn’t help myself. I took Jasmine up to the roof of the building, it was a warm night, and we just sat on beanbags smoking weed and chatting shit. She showed me pictures of her rabbits and her boy and her childhood. I was all in. Too good for me, mate. Looking at her, she was too good. I guessed her husband was some workaholic banker, fucking secretaries and taking constant business trips. If I’d known…fuck, if I’d known maybe it would’ve stopped me before I was in too deep. But no.”

  Footsteps made the two men press against the brick, stamping out their cigarettes. The sound of piss hitting the wall was followed by a steady trickle that flowed under the dumpster and around their feet. The pisser left, and the man continued.

  “Jasmine wrote her number on my hand. Wrote it, old school, with a fucking pen. Said the next play was up to me.”

  “How long before you made the call, you dirty bastard?” smiled Wallace. The man did not smile back.

  “The next night we went to a movie. Then she stayed at my place. Some days we had breakfast or read together at a library, but she strictly said no outdoor contact. Her husband would kill us both. I thought fuck him, right? If he treats her so bad, she should leave him and live with me. Bring the kid too. We’ll get ten rabbits and let them roam the apartment. After four months I met her boy. Sweet kid. Deaf. Jasmine said the father acted like the boy didn’t exist and said Jasmine must’ve fucked a simpleton because the kid wasn’t his. But the boy was smart for twelve, Wallace. Fixed my fucking oven, great with his hands. Bloody genius. Cooked meals. Even helped his uncle with electrical shit. I’d be proud of this kid. At this point I think fuck it, I’ll call this husband. When Jasmine was asleep I checked her phone and took down the number. I dialled, and he answers with ‘yes honey?’ and I burn. I’m on fire. But I hang up. I see the poor boy attached to his iPad, rarely having the chance to venture outside because of his dad’s shame. The next day I tell Jasmine that the three of us are going to Moomba, a Melbourne festival.”

  “I’ve been to Moomba with my grandkids” said Wallace, reminiscing.

  “It’s the first time we’re out together. Holding hands. Kissing. As though her husband didn’t exist. The boy is smiling and laughing and he’s so happy. Jasmine is so happy. Shit, I was damn happy. I won the boy a stuffed Donkey Kong doll and he hugged me. It should’ve made me appreciate the situation, but I burned within. At the end of the night I told Jasmine that I’m taking her and her boy away from her prick of a husband. Pure fear dawns on her face, but she agrees.”


  The dark part of the story filtered into the man’s mind as two cars parked across the street with high beams on.

  “I see her the next day and her face is swollen, lip cut. Hurts her to wince. Ironic now, looking at my own face. She was unrecognisable. That’s where I got this idea from. I took her to the hospital and the doctors scolded me as if I did the beating. Jasmine told her husband she was leaving with the boy, and he knew, he damn knew I’d get the blame. Now he’s done it again…fuck…”

  “Keep going,” said Wallace, desiring the conclusion.

  “I call him and this time I speak. I tell the bastard that his wife will be collecting her things in two days and he’ll never see her or his boy again. I blast him. I was shaking. I couldn’t control myself and I called him every name under the sun. But he didn’t flinch. His voice didn’t waver. There was no fear. When I told Jasmine she almost throttled me. Tells me he’s some underworld drug dealing gangster that runs the show around Melbourne. As I said, if I had of known…”

  Wallace lit another cigarette.

  “I get the feeling you still would’ve tried,” he said, resting his head against brick.

  “She went home the next day with her boy to pack her things, and I stupidly went out to buy a ring. I was going to propose, wore a suit and all, even though she was fucking married. Told her I would pick them up outside Barron Tower at ten and take them away forever. I don’t own a car. Wasn’t far, anyway. The boy…he warned me of the father…”

  The man slid down onto his rear, head in his hands.

  “I’m waiting outside, near the bushes, and I hear a piercing scream. My heart is racing and I’m not sure what this prick will do to her. He’s dangerous. I thought he might kill her. The whole point of this was to protect her, to give her a better life. I enter the building and knock on the door. But some Indian guy answers, watching a horror movie with his wife. Once the door closes I feel a knife at my throat and I’m dragged into a room. She’s there…”