by C. J. Sutton
The man whacked the wall with the side of his hand.
“Jasmine is strapped to the stove top, her face an inch from the burner. Her ankles are tied. Her hands are bound. There’s a gag in her mouth. Pig on a spit, really. Her husband punches me in the side of the head and pulls out a gun. He’s smiling. He says we can be together forever, but we’ll never leave this room. For what feels like half an hour we’re in this same position, waiting for the bullet. Finally, there’s a noise in the dry wall. The husband kicks a hole in it and drags out the boy. Smoke is starting to fill the room. And then there’s an earth-shattering bang above. Not from the gun either. It’s getting hot, but I’m focused on Jasmine. The boy seemed…defiant. He was gazing at his father, almost challenging him to do something. I wish I had his strength, because in that moment I was helpless.”
The man looked up to Wallace and there were tears in his dark eyes, the contacts re-applied.
“He said ‘if either of you move, I’ll shoot her’ but he knew the boy couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t hear him, Wallace. He’d never heard anything in his life. The building was clouded with smoke and we were all coughing. When the husband bent over to cough, the boy ran to his mother and tried loosening the binds. It happened so quickly. She wiggled and wiggled, looking at her boy with pride, and then the gunshot…the fucking gunshot, it blew a hole in her temple and all their eyes seemed to fixate on me…accusing me…even her…my fault.”
“Ah lad, I’m sorry,” said Wallace, placing a hand on the man’s quivering shoulder.
“The boy didn’t hear the shot, but he felt his mother’s blood all over his face. He ran. I charged at the husband. We connected with such force that the prick was embedded into the wall. I kept kicking him as the bangs became frequent. The money—”
The man stopped. He saw Wallace’s eyes light up with the mention of money and remembered where he was and who he was talking to. He took a small detour in the tale.
“I searched for the boy…and then I was struggling to breathe. I heard thumps outside…bodies breaking open on the pavement. I’d just lost Jasmine. The last thing I wanted to do was run away from her body, but I didn’t have a choice. I fled, Wallace. I heard the husband screaming at me, telling me he would find me and slit my throat. He kept saying my name. He said it so often and so loud. And then debris crushed him. I smashed out of the window and just ran. I ran past the carnage and the cries and the dying and I just searched for a way out of that hell. Nobody else was running. They were helping family, friends, neighbours. I was watched as I ran, and I felt so fucking guilty. I was so scrambled that I ignored pleading eyes and outstretched hands. I didn’t care about saving them, because I had already failed the people I wanted to save. And the world thinks I’m a monster, perhaps rightly so. I wanted to get away. I wanted to be as far away as possible…and as much as the gunshot haunts me, and Jasmine’s head exploding repeats every hour, the pleading eyes twist knives into my chest.”
“Who started the fire?” asked Wallace.
“I don’t know. If I did know, maybe this would all be a little easier. That way, the guilt wouldn’t feel so real. When I was running from that burning building, something in my jacket pocket was clinking. I reached in and found a lighter, a pink fucking lighter I’d never seen before in my life. Nobody would have seen…but I felt eyes, Wallace.”
Wallace handed the man his mobile phone.
“Maybe it’s time you called this son-of-a-bitch. Clean this shit up. Nothing is more important than family.”
Cars rolled up to The Ginger Bastard and the voices were distinct. Hayes was singing a country tune at the top of his lungs, and he wasn’t alone.
“Quick, get in there,” whispered Wallace, pushing the man.
The man wiped his face, peered over the dumpster and snuck through shadows into the side door, the smell of piss still prominent. He walked over to the bar, accepted a new pint from Jerry who was busily pouring five more, and sat back in his seat. Wolfgang entered first, grabbing his pint and glancing at the man. He gave the slightest nod of recognition. Harvard did the same, like schoolboys warned of their company. Hayes continued to sing, doffing his Akubra to anyone in his way. Siphon was last, but alongside him was a strapping young man who had to duck to avoid the frame of the door. With a shaved head, a singlet and menacing eyes, he was Siphon’s upgraded model of Brick. They all pulled up chairs and sat at the man’s table, beer spilling over the furniture.
“Greg fucking McDonald,” said Hayes, slapping the man on the back. “How the fuck are ya?”
Where the others were cautious, eyes darting, Hayes swooned like a bird seeking a mate. They all stunk of manual labour, zesty and sour.
“This is Whizz,” said Siphon, introducing the strapping lad to the man. They nodded to one another. Beyond the gang the chatter lowered. Mick no longer directed foul looks at the man, and the other citizens busied themselves with whatever presented in their hands. But the man’s mind drifted up and over Sulley Ridge, through the hundreds of kilometres of Victorian landscape and into the heart of Melbourne. To his sister, forced to hide within her house. To the woman he loved, shot and burned from existence. And to the devil pulling the strings.
“What do you think, Greg?”
He hadn’t been listening and had hardly touched his ale.
“About what?”
Hayes leaned in close. His pupils were dilated. His breath reeked of tobacco.
“Prefer to be somewhere else?”
“No, just tired. You wankers are nocturnal and I’m acclimatising.”
“Acclimatising,” he mocked. “Words like that make me think you’re playing us all.”
Siphon withdrew a knife stained with blood. The man noticed how the fresh crimson dripped from the edge. He wiped it on Wolfgang’s overalls and held it in the air.
“I know who entered my barn,” he said, for all to hear. “The culprits will be dealt with.”
The short man walked the pub spinning his knife as the rest of his crew watched on. He moved closer to Mick, smiling.
“Who are your friends?” Siphon asked Mick, slamming the knife into the table.
“Fuck off,” said an out-of-towner with handlebars and a bolt through his nose. The knife entered his throat before anyone could blink. Blood spurted out like a damaged dam and sprayed the face of Mick. The third man at the table scooped up his belongings and dashed for the exit, but Hayes’ stray foot caught him on the run and he fell to the ground with a forceful thud.
“Where do you think you’re going with all my money?” said Siphon, wiping the knife on Wolfgang’s overalls again and leaning down to further intimidate this quivering man.
“Just leave me be.”
Hayes laughed. He whacked his comrades and they laughed too. Their forced laughter became the only sound in The Ginger Bastard and perhaps Sulley Ridge. The man smiled and tried to blend, watching the sprawled man hoping to escape without a gash in his neck. But all he saw was Jasmine strapped to a stove top awaiting her fate from an individual more dangerous than any here. Wolfgang emptied the pockets of the tradesman, counted the cash and tucked it all into his front pocket, a kangaroo pouch. And they let the second man go off into the night with his tools between his legs.
Jerry continued pouring. Mick turned his attention to the car racing on the television. The pool game continued, and the gamblers pressed their buttons. And while Whizz dragged the dead tradesman out of the pub, the man fingered Wallace’s mobile phone in his pocket. Her number flashed across his vision over and over again in red neon.
As the gang fleshed out their plan for Sulley Ridge in hushed tones and the occasional chuckle, the man plotted how this phone conversation would go. After another two pints and orders from the self-proclaimed king of the land and his drug-affected knight, the man stumbled out of The Ginger Bastard ready to press dial.
Re-ignition
The mobile phone vibrated on the glass table. The burned man saw a new number flash up on
screen. Ren noticed the change in her boss and left the hotel room with two mini vodkas, all expenses paid by Terrence Stewart. There was no ring, just vibration that shook the glass, a dying mosquito praying for relief. The burned man pressed the button and held the phone up to his less damaged ear.
“Hello?”
Heavy breathing on the other end.
“Brady?”
“I’ll kill you,” said the voice, thick with pain. “You leave Cassie alone.”
“Tell me where you are, Brady.”
“You’ll probably trace the call anyway,” said the voice.
“Wouldn’t know how to do that. And as you know, I’m not a big fan of the cops. I’m of the belief that you need to tell me where you are, if you want to save your sister.”
“Fuck you. I’m hiding because of you.”
“Doubt it,” said the burned man, turning the phone on speaker so he could open a bottle of wine. “I didn’t start the fire.”
“Neither did I!” roared the voice, laced with anger.
“Well you tried to steal my wife and my son.”
“Your wife hated you. Your son hated you. I was trying to save them.”
“And a good job you did, too.”
Silence again, waiting for the other player to move his piece.
“They’re never going to stop hunting you, Brady. You can’t hide forever.”
“What do you want then, huh? You want to strap me to a stove and shoot me in the head, is that it?”
The burned man poured his shiraz, watching the red substance fill the glass.
“How have you managed this, Brady? I’m impressed. Your face has been everywhere, yet you’re free. Not a single lead. And you’re clearly about to tell me where you are.”
“Why is that?”
“You left the caller ID on, and you’re a smart man who would’ve thought of that.”
“I don’t understand why you killed her. I don’t understand why the building just happened to burn down on the same night. I want answers too. I’m going to tell you where I am. You can come to me and we’ll end this.”
The burned man waited.
“Well?”
“Not tonight. I’m going to text you the address tomorrow afternoon, and you’ll be here by nightfall.”
“I want that money, Brady.”
But the voice was gone, replaced with a tone. The burned man sipped his shiraz and gazed out upon the city from thirty floors up. Lights covered the land in falsity, a glow to deceive the truth above. Slabs of concrete ruled the night sky and towered over the parks and fields which were erased of their green value. A giggle outside the hotel room caused the burned man to open the door, dressed only in pants and with his bandages now off. Standing in the opposite doorway was Ren, clothed in a white robe which flipped the reasoning of her general attire. A man without a shirt was leaning into her. His muscles fought one another to see which could produce the highest definition. When he saw the burned man, his eyes widened, and he retreated into his room.
“Did you have to do that?” said Ren. She wasn’t angry, but her tone suggested his power over her was slipping.
“I was just checking to see what made the emotionless girl laugh,” he said, the shiraz staining his lips and teeth. Ren opened her robe slightly to show off the wad of notes tucked into her G-string. The burned man noticed how tanned the skin beneath makeup show truly was. He could not look away, and she allowed the peek.
“Selling to street buyers is one thing. Selling to rich hotshots is another. He gave me four times the usual rate. A little laughter here and a flash of skin there can’t hurt my profits. The future isn’t on the streets, boss. The world has stretched out far enough. Now it grows upwards.”
Ren handed the burned man half of the revenue. After looking down the corridor he grabbed her black hair and forced her inside. He locked the door, bent her over the chair and lifted the white gown. He was instantly erect. Ren cocked her rear up further, wiggling slowly left to right, anticipating further touch. But the burned man walked over to the wine bottle and poured another glass. Moving back to the window to look out at his domain, he felt Ren’s eyes on him. Brady Lockhart was within reach. The most wanted man in Australia had holed up somewhere far away. He was going to receive the location from the man himself. Power throbbed where burns were present, a soothing liquid.
Finally, he turned around. Ren was gone. The burned man replayed the recorded message over and over and over.
Jasmine had deleted all message correspondence. She kept no photos. But his boy had taken one when nobody else had been paying attention. It was saved in a folder called My Friend. The burned man touched the screen. Brady was smiling as he watched Jasmine in the kitchen. She too, smiled. And as the burned man stared at the screen, he smiled as well.
Unified
She heard them approaching from town. The rumbling of cars that wanted locals to know they were rampaging. Charlene guessed Greg’s house was the destination, the man she now had to trust to rid of their foul play. Morning only just began to filter light into Sulley Ridge, the sun peeking over mountain tops to send thick rays through the trees. Birds chirped and took flight. From her window, Charlene could see Greg in the kitchen cooking his breakfast, his thin silhouette enough to keep her calm. But they didn’t turn down Greg’s driveway. Siphon’s crew turned down hers.
James and Jasper yapped and scratched at the door. Charlene hadn’t taken them out for their morning piss yet. But as the two utes sped down the gravelled driveway she ushered her dogs into the spare room and locked the door. The shotgun was loaded, but she checked anyway. The utes turned their high beams on and illuminated the house in false light. Hayes knocked on the door.
“Special delivery for Ms Charlene Wells,” he said in a sing-song voice. Charlene opened the door with only a fly screen protecting her from Hayes’ touch. His hands were black. His eyes defied sleep. She could smell his sweat through the screen.
“What do you want?” she spat, angrier than expected.
“Nothing. I’m just sending a present, direct from Siphon.”
Wolfgang lifted a boulder-sized tarped bundle out of the ute. He carried it like a groom carries his wife to bed after the wedding. His face was emotionless. The bundle was tossed onto Charlene’s deck and landed with a hollow thud. The tarp fell away, and the stench was immediate. Charlene raised the nook of her elbow to her face and dropped to her knees. The body was so charred that the remains were almost unrecognisable. Bones were protruding from burnt skin as though someone had stomped on a roast chicken in the street. The head was shaved but the face remained angelic, innocence torched for pleasure. The mouth, still open, froze in a scream.
“We know it was you,” said Hayes, placing his hand on the screen. “We found this in the barn.”
He withdrew Charlene’s driver’s licence from his vest pocket and tossed it onto the deck. Charlene suppressed vomit, unable to look away from Jazz, the teenage girl she thought they saved from this cruel fate. Cooked to a crisp. No escape from the Ridge.
“Karen is still with us. You’ll need to go see Siphon tonight if you want to see her again. If you want us to lay off the Pritchard boys, best you bring your accomplices. Fail to show up,” he said, removing his Akubra for the first time to reveal a balding head, “Karen will receive the same treatment as your friend here.”
Hayes turned to leave. Charlene grabbed her shotgun and aimed the barrel at his back. Wolfgang saw the gesture and didn’t so much as flinch. They entered their utes and drove away. As quick as they had dumped this poor girl’s body, the men left Charlene’s property and drove towards town to defy their nocturnal habit.
Charlene opened the fly screen door, her mouth and nose covered by her red woollen jumper. Flies buzzed around this poor girl’s carcass. The way her face had set in the flames looked like excruciating agony. The roast was her death. Charlene felt tears streaking her face. The man was watching her from his kitchen window. She could feel his
gaze and wondered if he would come over. But he didn’t. Charlene was alone with this dead teenager, and she didn’t know what to do with her. James and Jasper scratched at the door. She let them out.
Each dog sniffed the new addition to the deck. As if understanding the sorrow, they did their business and went back inside. Charlene dialled Mick’s number. He arrived within ten minutes.
“They’re pigs. Fucking pigs,” he said, pacing the deck and avoiding the blank stare of the girl. Charlene had told him they claimed to have Karen, and surprise was quickly replaced by anger. Greg was no longer standing by the window.
“He knows I had others with me. The girl probably squealed. She would’ve identified you by your scars and Billy by his foot. If you don’t come with me he’ll kill Karen.”
Mick spat into the dirt and kicked a gnome, smashing the ceramics across the lawn.
“We should’ve fucking killed her,” he growled. “Should’ve just ended it like Bill said.”
“And then we would be like them.”
She placed her hand on Mick’s bicep, hoping for a rational conversation despite the situation. He was shaking.
“Siphon will kill us, Charlene. He’ll kill us tonight.”
He said the words so matter-of-factly that they almost derailed her.
“I highly doubt it. Me, you and Billy are some of his best avenues to money. But if we don’t go he will kill someone else.”
“It’s all fucked,” he said, throwing his arms in the air. “Why did he take Karen in the first place? He started this bullshit.”
“Maybe we can ask him.”
Mick scoffed. And then he turned his attention to the house across the lawn.
“I know you’re fucking in there, you cunt!” he yelled, his hands cupped. “I’m going to come in and finish the job.”
The screams echoed as a reply. Charlene wanted to fill Mick in on the plan, but she knew the goalposts had moved; Karen’s life became priority number one. James sniffed Mick’s leg, and the man reached down to pat him behind the ear.