This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  “Maybe you should’ve treated your wife better, and we wouldn’t be in this mess,” said the man, softly. “Maybe you shouldn’t have killed her.”

  “That’s not how a marriage works. For better or worse, remember? Oh, you wouldn’t, because you were a loser before then and you’ll be a loser when you’re dead. You were nothing. I made you something by calling on this goose chase. See what I’m capable of?”

  “Lies,” he breathed. “Bullshit, more like. You know I didn’t burn down that tower.”

  “I know that. You know that. I planted that pink lighter in your jacket, too. But let me tell you; nobody else knows shit. You should see their faces when your name is mentioned. I was in a room of grieving family and friends. They want justice, and they’ll celebrate nation-wide with a holiday when this is all over.”

  The burned man only had eyes for him. The man realised that nothing else in their vicinity registered. Not the bar, the men, the opportunities. He only saw the most wanted man in Australia, a desire etched into his psyche. Despite the wounds, he beamed in his discovery.

  “I saw your sister,” he continued, withdrawing the photo he’d stolen from her house.

  The man lashed out, knocking over the remains of his pint. But his hand missed the burned man’s throat as ooze seeped out of a gash. He tried to straighten himself out. Jerry hurried along and planted a new pint on the table.

  “Good service,” said the burned man. “Anyway, the journalists and cops wanted a piece of sister Lockhart. I managed to get in. Poor girl can’t leave the place. She gave me the key to your apartment and off I went. Didn’t harm a hair on her pretty little head, promise.”

  He held up his hands as if surrendering to a rifle, feigning shock.

  “She doesn’t have a key to my place,” said the man.

  “Well I figured that out the hard way, didn’t I. There’s this cop, her nose is so far up my arse it’s speckled brown…but anyway, that’s not why we’re here.”

  “Why are we here?” asked the man, genuinely curious.

  “To talk,” he replied. “To catch up on old times.”

  The man saw Wallace watching intently. Even as he spoke to Jerry, his eyes did not divert from this meeting between foes. The man decided to push on.

  “You killed her. She wanted to leave, and you shot her. It wasn’t the fire or the smoke. They’ll find that out. They always do, you know.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Brady. When a building that big crumbles, it crushes everything beneath it. Jasmine’s skull would be dust, not some fossil with a hole in the head.”

  “Don’t say her fucking name!”

  He slammed his hands on the table.

  “Calm down. You’ll knock another pint over. She was my wife, I’ll say her name however I please and whenever I please. You think you were the first man she fucked behind my back? She didn’t care about you. She just wanted an adventure for herself and that retard boy. I bought her everything. She was rich. I handed her cash and she let me put my dick in her arse. Tell me a better marriage than that.”

  They both looked up at the screen as Brady’s face flashed on, a number scrolling along the bottom of the telecast. The burned man looked from the screen to the man.

  “As if you could burn down a building and kill hundreds of people. You’re weak. You cut your hair, put in some contacts, knocked out some teeth, cut up your hands and copped a fair broken nose. But it’s a poor disguise. You sit with that same weak slouch. Colour you black and I would still recognise you anywhere. When you came into my apartment I thought how can Jasmine want such a speck of shit? But it’s the way of the world. Men that look like women, women that act like men. How have the last few weeks been?”

  “Hell,” confessed the man. “How did you get out of that building?”

  “There was a boy, the neighbour’s kid. I used his body as a battering ram. Managed to jump out of the window that you smashed. The cops must’ve thought it was Jasmine’s retard boy. I don’t even know where that little shit got to.”

  The man tried to remain composed, but every word from this deranged individual caused his body to burn with rage.

  “He was your son. Your fucking son, your flesh and blood. And you just call him names?”

  “Not my son,” said the burned man, and for the first time the man felt himself gain territory in this battle. The burned man looked away, finally noticing the others.

  “I was going to give him a home, you prick. The three of us. I think he hated you more than Jasmine and me. She told me. He told me.”

  And then he was staring at the nozzle of a pistol, an etching on the side in gold. The burned man flicked off the safety, the niceties and light chatter now a notion of the past. The man heard the door swing open again, and the pour of liquid on glass, but he dared not look away from the gun.

  “Where’s the fucking money, Brady?” said the burned man, bored of the meeting.

  “Why do you want it? It’s not your money. I thought you were profitable.”

  The burned man tightened his grip.

  “Jasmine told me you had money. Hard cash. One million dollars, ready to start a new life. Savings from the death of your parents and the sale of your restaurant. It made it look even more suspicious to the police when they realised you sold Bun Ahoy only a week before running off. Tell me where the money is, and I’ll make this quick.”

  The man wanted to catch Wallace’s eye. In the dim light of The Ginger Bastard he needed a friendly face to keep calm under the duress of a likely bullet from this beast.

  “They’ll find out you burned it down, eventually,” he managed.

  “Doubt they’ll figure anything out,” he said, eyes wide. “They’re stupid. They don’t even know who I am. I killed a boy on the way here and nobody will ever know. We might as well be in Mozambique.”

  After nothing from the man, he darkened.

  “Tell me where it is!” he roared, shooting the man in the shoulder. He flinched with the power of the hit and felt the blood trickling down his chest. But there was no pain, for pain had become his normal state. It provided the chance for the man to look at those around him. Everybody remained focused on their own task. This town did not flinch with bullets anymore, unless they were aimed in their direction. This was their norm, too.

  “I’ve been living at a house,” said the man, now struggling to talk, “just out of town.”

  “Where?”

  He traced a line on the table in beer, a map towards Max’s old residence.

  “A safe in a wardrobe. Jasmine’s birthday is the code.”

  The Ginger Bastard started to spin on an invisible axis like the world to which they sat. The man gripped onto the table as Wallace shook his head slowly. The man lifted, grabbing his pint and walking to the old man. And then he heard another gunshot, the sound to end all times. A blast in his back caused the man to tumble forward, the pint glass shattering on the ground beneath. He soon joined horizontal comfort, falling like a tree hacked with an axe.

  But before he lost consciousness he pressed send on the phone in his pocket. The voice recording travelled from this phone of Wallace to the phone of Morris.

  Before he lost consciousness, he knew the police had a confession of murder, a motive to kill and the predicted location of a new suspect in the burning of Barron Tower.

  Before he lost consciousness, he hoped the truth would reign supreme. His own face dissolved slowly on the television screen.

  Before he lost consciousness, he also sent the burned man’s name to Morris. For he knew the drug lord’s identity. And soon everyone else would too.

  On High Beam

  The burned man felt the shudder in his hand as the bullet pierced the middle of Brady Lockhart’s back. Australia’s most wanted man dropped like any other, crumbling against a floor of broken glass. An old man eyed him as the gun recoiled, as if ready to strike. But the rebellion soon dissipated in this aged country hick, and the burned man smiled to h
is small audience. Even the swarming and buzzing of a thousand bugs did little to dull his joy.

  Brady Lockhart was down. The location of the money was confirmed. And in this town there were no police on standby. The locals barely bothered to look at the bleeding man on the wooden floor. He almost felt sorry for Brady. Pathetic.

  “Another,” said the burned man, motioning for the barkeep to pour him a pint. The barkeep did not look up as he set down the local brew, and he did not request payment.

  “Something to say, old man?” said the burned man to the watcher at the bar. He guzzled the drink and let the foam trickle down his neck, the coolness against his burns a welcome feeling. The old man clicked his tongue, held his glass with a shaking hand and entered a conversation with the barkeep. The burned man was disappointed. The world wanted to see Brady Lockhart fall. Newsfeeds were full of his face and not a single lead to his location. And now the burned man had gunned the country’s big mystery down, and not a soul seemed to know or care. For a fleeting second, he wished a crowd had formed as the man bled out before him, slain in a rural town with a disguise and a crushed heart. But then again, thought the burned man, serves him right to die alone. The pool cue hit the balls with precision. Nobody reached for a Smartphone to record the incident. Nobody dashed off into the toilets. Simpletons.

  The burned man was tempted to put another bullet in Brady, the man’s shaved head just asking for relief even though it was face down on broken glass. He raised the gun, closed an eye and knew he wouldn’t miss. But the world needed to see Brady’s face to know this wanted man was dead. They wouldn’t show a mound of mashed potato.

  He walked away from the aged drinker and the bleeding body and pushed out into the night air. His men were standing against the cars, smoking and chatting. Why did he bother bringing this small army? William and his crew were annoying. Faces of youth destined for mummy and daddy’s basement. Entitled little pricks. He didn’t need them.

  “Hey!” he yelled, just to see their surprise.

  “Was he in there, boss?” asked Mason. Their eager faces, children in a classroom.

  “Brady Lockhart is done.”

  He announced this with pride, puffing out his chest and holstering his gun. Expecting a shower of appreciation, these faces merely nodded. The boys entered the four-wheel drive, ready to embark.

  “We’re not done yet,” he said, entering the passenger side of Gabe’s car. Mason and Ren went to follow.

  “No, wait here. Keep a lookout. Phone me if anything goes down.”

  The burned man did not want to share anything with these fools. Not a single one of them. He had done everything. This was his victory. Mason and Ren wanted his crown. If they wanted it, they would have to kill him. His thought process had sharpened with the shots.

  “Where to?” said Gabe, focused on a lamp pole before him. The burned man provided directions and they sped off, away from the single-strip town. It was dark. Excruciatingly dark. Gabe used high beams to navigate down a road blanketed by a line of arching eucalyptus trees to one side, and fields of unknown crops on the other. Everything was a shade of black. The moonlight struggled behind the oppressive clouds, and the silhouette of a house became clear. As the car turned, the high beam caught a small figure running through a maze of deconstructed cars. Gabe slowed. A young boy looked up, dazed by the white light, holding a toy plane in his hand. Fingers were missing. Gabe stopped the car. The burned man looked to him. Specks of saliva on his bottom lip.

  “We’re not splitting the money with those fools, Gabe. I won’t do it. They’re a bunch of idiots.”

  No response.

  “You right?” asked the burned man, staring at his driver.

  “You go on. Get the money. I’ll be here. Pick me up on the way back. Need some fresh air.”

  The burned man shrugged. More money for him. Gabe exited his car and walked towards the small boy, who proceeded to crawl through a tunnel. Gabe kneeled and followed, disappearing into the boy’s world. He shuffled over to the driver’s side and drove away from the house.

  Bats soared high above as the burned man navigated his way to Brady’s hideout. When he saw a Ford Falcon parked down a driveway he knew this destination was discovered, an X on the map. Turning the car, he passed a letterbox with the name Randall etched long ago. A porch light remained on to welcome him, and he parked alongside the Falcon to keep the high beams on the house.

  Dogs yapped. The sound removed the eerie feeling of being alone in the middle of nowhere. The burned man struggled with these new surroundings. No high buildings or dense traffic to keep him company as he shot his way into the house. The pitch of the gunfire silenced the yapping dogs, and the burned man switched on all the lights as he rummaged through the house. A safe in a wardrobe was his only clue. The burned man entered the bedroom, the state of the bed as if nobody had slept there for a decade. He ran his finger along the wall, a thick layer of dust transferring from surface to skin. The wardrobe was open.

  The burned man leaned down and searched for a safe, moving old shoes to locate the box. He entered Jasmine’s birthday, and a glorious click signified success. Shining her phone into the space, he expected neat bundles of money stacked in piles ready for his removal. Nothing. He stuck his hand in the space, reaching further in, and heard a twang. Pain shot through his fingers. He stared at the mousetrap attached to his index finger and roared in rage. Slow and silent movement was disregarded for his rampage. The burned man tossed every bit of furniture and checked every plank of wood for the money. Nothing. And then his phone began to vibrate in his hand.

  “What?” he yelled, hurling cans of tomatoes at the wall just to see the red run.

  “You might want to get back to town,” said Ren. Her voice wavered.

  “I’m busy. Deal with it yourself.”

  When Ren went silent the sounds of influence and intimidation filled the phone. The burned man knew these sounds well, for they were generally emanating from him.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  Gunshots pierced his eardrums as though directly pointed at the phone. Ren shrieked.

  “Ren?”

  “There’s…some kind of fight going on.”

  A gunshot. A moan.

  “Please boss,” she said, as genuine a word as he had ever heard from this rebellious young woman.

  “On my way.”

  Wilted Flowers

  Charlene arrived in time to see Kane assist Mick into The Ginger Bastard, a trail of blood behind them. Siphon fired at will from outside his ute, screaming profanities and blowing away the windows of the pub.

  “Park behind Mick’s store,” she said, directing Sharon and her Pub Tub out of view. A foreign four-wheel drive was parked outside The Ginger Bastard, containing a carload of heads and two more outside, ducking for cover. From their look they weren’t regulars. Charlene, with Billy’s rifle slung over her shoulder, moved behind a dumpster and assessed her surroundings.

  The shirtless men were no longer a presence alongside Siphon. With Harvard and Hayes out of action, his remaining allies were Wolfgang and Whizz. Each man held a firearm, but they did not fire. They watched their boss raining hell on The Ginger Bastard, reloading, and going again. Splintered wood and shattered glass replaced rain and hail on the weather forecast.

  “Come out here you fucking cunts!” he roared. His arms were bulging with muscle and lathered by sweat. Beneath the light of the lamp post he appeared mad. His eyes were attempting to free themselves of skull and embark on their own adventure.

  “Whizz, get in there and bring me Mick. I’m going to finish the job.”

  The machete dangled from Siphon’s belt, still oozing with innards. Whizz nodded and walked towards the pub with his lumbering gait. The out-of-towners looked from Siphon to Whizz, oblivious to the town’s politics and wondering what kind of place they had stepped foot within. And then Whizz flew backwards as a bang caused a woman to scream. The giant body crumpled onto the ground, ch
est heaving. The tip of a rifle emerged from the broken window of The Ginger Bastard, smoke wafting from the nozzle. For the first time, Siphon sought cover.

  “Jesus,” said Sharon. “That big bastard took flight.”

  Wolfgang held up a hand to the rifle as if a truce against bullets and checked Whizz for life. Charlene raised her rifle and aimed at Wolfgang’s head as everyone else focused on the players on the road. Looking down the sight, she had the perfect shot to end his life. Her finger hovered on the trigger as Wolfgang’s pale face suppressed the blood spurting out of Whizz’s upper body.

  “Help,” he mouthed, failing in his attempt to stop blood flow. Siphon walked over to his remaining men. He raised his gun to Wolfgang’s head, motioning him forward.

  “Go get Mick,” he said.

  “You’ve lost your mind. They’ll shoot me. You don’t even care.”

  “No, I really don’t. Either you go, or I’ll shoot you right now myself.”

  “All those years and this is how you repay my loyalty?”

  “Prove your loyalty. Right now.”

  While these men were bickering, Charlene noticed a man sheltered by the four-wheel drive slowly move towards the boot of the car. When he stood upright he was tall, taller than the ride, almost double Siphon’s height. He rummaged around for a few seconds and then withdrew something that glinted against the moonlight. Charlene traced her rifle on this new target, unsure of his allegiance. As he raised his firearm, the lights of an approaching car bathed them all in yellow. Like roadkill assessing their oncoming doom, they froze.

  “Who is it?” whispered Sharon, both of her hands on Charlene’s shoulders as she watched the vehicle, a make too classy for Sulley Ridge. It parked behind the four-wheel drive. Out stepped a man covered in burns. He held a pistol with gold etchings visible from across the street. This burned man peered into the four-wheel drive like a father checking on his children before a session at the pokies, placed a hand on the woman dressed in leather, and then marched to the centre of the road where Siphon still trained his pistol on Wolfgang.