by C. J. Sutton
“Who might you be?” asked this burned man, his arms a shade of sickly red and a wound on his throat suggesting sour infection. His head bore no hair, not a strand, and his mouth twisted into a sinister curve.
“I run this town. The fuck are you?”
They sized one another up, Siphon and this burned man, and all surrounding the two faded away. In their eyes she saw no fear, only personalities used to intimidating anyone they spoke to. But neither backed down. No flower wilted on this dark night.
“Get back in your fancy ride and leave this place,” said Siphon. “Let me deal with these ungrateful cunts in peace.”
“Not until I get my money.”
“What money?” asked Siphon, his favourite language.
“One million dollars. I’m not leaving this piece of shit town until I have it.”
Charlene watched Wolfgang drag Whizz away from the street and lean him against the side of the ute. He held his own pistol and watched the conversation between these two figures of power.
“If there was one million dollars hanging around here, I’d know about it.”
“You wouldn’t know about it if it was tattooed on your dick. The money has been here for weeks. Brady Lockhart has been here for weeks.”
The mention of the most wanted man caused Siphon to shake his head.
“I know that. I’ve known it since that troublemaking fuck walked in here. He didn’t have any money.”
This burned man scoffed.
“You really are a small country hick, aren’t you?”
Siphon punched this burned man in the face before anyone could blink. He dropped, firing before he hit the ground. The bullet pierced Siphon’s leg, causing him to limp for cover. And then the sirens changed their moods. This burned man scurried off towards the four-wheel drive, ducking for cover as a wailing Siphon unloaded his clip. Blue and red flashes altered the night sky and Wolfgang drove his ute away from his leader. But the sirens approached from either side, and their stampede sounded like the hooves of thousands.
“I don’t believe it,” said Charlene, marvelling at the light show as it grew closer, closing her eyes to give full reign to her hearing. “I haven’t heard that noise since…”
“Max,” said Sharon, finishing the sentence. Charlene tossed Billy’s rifle into the Pub Tub and turned. The girl in leather was checking this burned man’s face, but he was otherwise unscathed. They argued amongst themselves, some pushing and shoving, and the heads in the four-wheel drive soon became full bodies that dashed out into the cover of trees. But this burned man did not run. He stood in the middle of the road with his arms folded, waiting for the police to reach The Ginger Bastard.
“Let’s check on Mick and the others,” said Sharon, clutching Charlene’s belt and pulling her out of a stupor. As she looked around, panic set about her heart.
“Siphon,” she muttered. “He’s gone.”
“Fuck Siphon. The cops are here, and they’ll take him down. Let’s go.”
Charlene ran out onto the road, her eyes darting to find the puppeteer of pain. This burned man turned his scarred head and noticed her for the first time. The police were less than a minute away.
“Lost something?” he said, schoolyard chatter.
“The man that hit you, where did he go?”
The red arm raised slowly, pointing in the direction of the Pritchard residence. Charlene nodded.
“If you get the chance, kill the midget for me,” he said. She ran.
Past the pool of blood where he was shot.
Past Jane’s shop where a crimson handprint stained the glass.
Past two quarrelling cats screaming into the night air.
Into darkness.
Droplets of blood were clear on the asphalt road. When they stopped, Charlene veered into the high grass where a trodden path now presented. He moved fast for an injured man.
Charlene waded through the grassland without a weapon. She didn’t know what she would do once she caught up to the dangerous Siphon, who still had a gun. But she couldn’t let him escape the one chance of capture from police. The chill ran up her exposed arms and caused her to shiver. Trees stood weary, each trunk a potential hiding place for the man who knew where Karen was. In her mind she admitted why the prey now chased the predator. Karen. Karen, who had spotted the most wanted man in Australia before anyone else, a flash in her eyes enough to warrant this treatment.
Up ahead Charlene saw a figure moving. It made for the Pritchard house at first, but as the sirens blared and lights flashed the figure saw a boy scurry into a tunnel. Now she saw Siphon’s face and the sly grin that registered as Sammy Pritchard disappeared into his hiding place. As though a zombie alerted to a blood bag movement he ran, limping furiously, eager to escape the lights and sounds that signified an end to the anarchy.
“Stop!” shouted Charlene, but he did not deter. Siphon entered that black hole, his height at ease with the opening.
‘Fuck,” she said. “Fuck, fuck.”
She couldn’t wait for the police. By then, Siphon would have Sammy in his hands. In Siphon’s eyes she had seen madness. A person drowning was a person dangerous, and Siphon drowning was the most dangerous of all. Picking up a tyre iron, Charlene ran to the tunnel opening and crouched down.
“You leave him alone,” she shouted, hearing an echo. Her voice faltered. Siphon’s laugh returned, a sinister excrement that surrounded her from all sides. Memory of this tunnel and the claustrophobic feeling set in, but she moved on all fours as the lights of safety were removed. As she tried to gain pace her hand slipped on something wet and she fell flat against corrugated iron. Tears fell, not from pain but from fear. Her mind constructed images of what was about to meet her in the small cavern at the end of the tunnel. She had not heard Sammy’s voice. Only Siphon’s laughter…and then multiple voices. Deep voices. Conflicting voices. And a skull-crunching pistol whip.
With throbbing arms and a heavy head Charlene thumped through the final curves in the tunnel and arrived at three faces staring at her: Sammy, hugging his knees, and Wiggles being protected by a man she had never seen before. He held the gun at Siphon, who was knocked unconscious and slumped against the wall. The gun was now levelled at her.
“She’s okay, mister,” said Wiggles, pulling this man’s sleeve down. He wore black gloves and well-ironed clothes, a professional in his craft. His face did not move, emotionless, deep lines carving age through rock. He still eyed Charlene suspiciously as she checked Siphon over.
“He’s alive?” she asked.
“Yes,” came the voice, thick with annoyance. It was as though he had been disturbed from playtime.
The sirens were muted from this constructed hideout. The professional put his arm over Wiggles’ shoulder and pulled him close. There was nothing deviant in his manner, a protective hand resting on the chest of the young boy.
They sat in silence. Charlene checked Sammy, the boy of fifteen looking more like a child of six.
“Your mum alright?” she asked, satisfied that he was well.
“Sleeping. She takes pills.”
“The police are here.”
It was like announcing a new species of animal at the zoo.
“Really?” said Wiggles, looking up. The professional realised that any bliss from this scene had evaporated. He ruffled Wiggles’ hair and grabbed Siphon’s legs.
“What do you want to do with him?” asked the professional.
“We take him to the pub.”
The Public Enemy
A horde of cars with flashing lights roared onto the main street of Sulley Ridge. The burned man stood in the middle of the road with his hands on his hips, watching the serious faces exit their vehicles and withdraw their guns. A curly haired cop led the charge, highlighting vantage points and possible hiding places. The cop knew this place well. The burned man puffed his lips, basking in the attention.
“Well look who it is,” said a familiar voice. “Drop your weapon and put your
hands behind your head.”
The burned man turned to see Melissa the cop staring at him, gun in hand, a posse of city cops behind her. He tossed the pistol into the grass and smiled.
“You followed me all the way out here? You’ve wasted your time.”
Twenty cops were on the road, firearms tracing the burned man’s every move. The boys from the four-wheel drive dashed further away, sprinting towards the line of trees in the distance. William led their charge as their feet pattered against gravel.
“Get them,” said Melissa, nodding a head in their direction. Five cops jogged away, sensing no danger. She was the commanding officer.
“Looks like your faithful servants have deserted you,” she said, holstering her pistol and moving closer to the burned man. “Jason Jensen, you are under arrest for the suspected shooting of Brady Lockhart and, to be frank, a thousand other drug and extortion charges that I cannot list without assistance of your file. And based on new evidence, it appears you are now the primary suspect for the burning of Barron Tower.”
The burned man’s eyes widened with the first two words and the final sentence, but he was stifling laughter.
“Playing ‘Guess Who?’ again, Melissa?”
“You led everyone on a wild goose chase, didn’t you? Thought you were so smart.”
Gunshots caused everyone to duck. The boys were firing pistols at the approaching cops, hidden by the greater darkness behind the trees. One officer went down. Another tripped and whacked his head on the asphalt. The burned man ran for cover, sliding into position next to the four-wheel drive. Ren and Mason had their backs to the vehicle, guns in hand.
“What’s the plan here boss?” asked Mason, the rear window smashing inward with a stray bullet.
“Looks like the boys took the initiative.”
“If there’s one thing they have in common,” he said, firing twice and recomposing, “it’s a hatred for cops.”
“In there,” said the burned man, and the three of them dashed into The Ginger Bastard. Mason flipped a table and pulled the burned man down, ready to defend his boss. For a fleeting moment the burned man wanted to thank his enforcer, but the situation dawned once more.
“You burned Barron Tower?” asked Ren. Her face turned a whiter shade than usual. Eyes of darkness pleaded with light. The burned man wanted to slap her.
“No, I didn’t burn that fucking tower down. Look at me! What kind of idiot do you take me for? I’ve been set up.”
The door to the pub smashed off its hinges. The curly haired cop looked directly at the burned man and continued his search. He was alone.
“Where the fuck is Siphon?” he asked.
“Who?” responded the burned man.
“Siphon. Short man. Big arms.”
“What the fuck have we stepped into?” said Mason. A man at the bar, holding a rifle, scared them half to death.
“He’s injured. Last I saw, he was limping off to the Pritchard place. Charlene followed after him.”
“Thanks Jerry,” said the cop and vanished. Mason aimed his gun at the door, ready to fire. Ren’s weapon dangled by her side.
“If you’re not going to use that, can I have it?” he said, snatching at the gun. Her grip was powerful, and his burned hands lacked the skin to challenge her. A megaphone boomed.
“Jason Jensen. Come out with your hands up. If you do not comply, we will storm the pub with orders to capture you dead or alive. I will count to ten.”
Ren stood up, her pistol shaking at the burned man.
“I’m done with you. You killed all those people. You killed my friend! You’re a sick ugly fucking bastard and I hope they come in here and shoot you in the head.”
Mason handed the burned man his pistol. For the first time, there was fear in Mason’s eyes. The city thug lost his groove in this sullen land.
“End her, boss,” he said as she walked towards the door. The burned man wished he had his father’s pistol, which sat in the bushes waiting to be taken by the cops as the murder weapon. But as he watched the leather-glad Ren click-clack out of the rural pub, he looked around. Where was Brady?
Ren left the pub without harm. He heard her raspy voice tattling to Melissa, their conversation carrying through the megaphone. A pair of bitches if ever he saw them.
“I told you not to trust her, boss. You should’ve listened to me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She fooled you with that cunt of hers, didn’t she? Now we’re fucked. Fucked!”
As Melissa’s count reached its final digits, the burned man lifted an arm around Mason’s neck and brought the warm nozzle into his ear. They walked towards the door-less exit of the pub.
“The fuck you doin’ boss?” he asked.
“Shut up. I’m sick of your thick voice.”
The two men entered the dawning morning air, darkness revealing the slightest tinge of day break. Cops were stationed at all angles, waiting for the command to fire. The burned man looked to Ren. He watched her lips. She was spilling the beans on his entire operation. Her mouth wouldn’t move quick enough for her mind, the words cascading.
“I’ll put a bullet in him if anyone comes closer,” said the burned man, feeling Mason limp against him.
“Not likely,” said Melissa.
“I didn’t burn down that tower,” he said. “I didn’t fucking do it. I’ve done some shit, but I didn’t do that.”
“You keep saying that, but we have credit cards under your name linked to all manner of things that go boom. Credit cards that were reserved for groceries until you decided to become a firebug suddenly. Right when you realised Brady was running off with your wife. Usually you get your henchman to do the dirty work, but now your hands are marked.”
The burned man cursed under his breath. This was a set-up and it was untrue, he thought. His boys were all cuffed and kneeling on the ground. The two cops who had sustained injuries were questioning them with brunt force. Rats everywhere. William was crying.
“Did you know she was a cop?” asked Melissa.
“Who?”
“The one you call Ren.”
His knees weakened and a forceful whack against the back of his head caused the pistol to drop harmlessly. The cops ran at him like feeding time in the lion enclosure. The barkeep looked down at the burned man, as though he saw someone else.
“I’m sick of fucks like you,” he said, and disappeared back into his workplace. The burned man felt hands clasp around him, the burns searing hot. He was on his feet, ushered to a police car, and all eyes traced his movement. He saw pure hate.
“We’ve got a long ride home,” said Melissa, applying the cuffs. “You have hours and hours to think about the people you killed in that tower. Everyone will know. It’s worse, too,” she said, as she pushed his head down and applied his seatbelt. In the car next to him, the burned man saw a sweaty face atop overalls. The bald man was cuffed, bleeding and downcast. They nodded to one another, and he didn’t know why. Melissa sat in the front.
“It’s worse because you made them all want Brady dead. An innocent man bludgeoned by the media. His sister holed up in her home. The restaurant he basically built with his bare hands, burned to the ground. All because your wife wanted to leave you.”
The burned man knew to be quiet. Anything he said would be used against him, and by Melissa’s confidence they had an encyclopedia on the subject. As the door slammed, so did this town around him. Where was Brady Lockhart? Where was that prick?
“Is Ren really a cop?” he asked, watching the woman assist with the detaining of a shaken Mason.
“Yes. I didn’t know until that day I took you in to the police station. While we were in there, someone noticed her. They made sure her cover wasn’t blown, but since that day we’ve been in contact with her. When that local officer phoned me today and said Brady Lockhart had passed by, we raced here. And then we listened to that recording from Brady. You were supposed to be the smart one in all of this, Jason. Now you’re ju
st a murderer who walked right into his trap.”
The sirens and lights flashed on and a procession of cars began to leave Sulley Ridge. Two squad cars remained parked outside the pub. As Melissa’s partner started to drive away from a place called Mick’s Hardware Store, a cop waved in the middle of the road.
“What?”
“Your buddy also killed a young man on the way here. Shot him with this gun,” said the cop, holding DON’T MISS in a plastic slip. The gold shone brightly as the blue and red sirens flashed, and Ren’s face illuminated.
“Thank you, Officer,” she said. They drove onwards.
“You really are fucked, excuse the French,” said Melissa.
Whiskey Sour
The ute swerved onto Randall residence and skidded to a halt outside the house. The man opened his eyes to see Wallace shaking him violently.
“You’re too heavy, I can’t lift you,” he said, before screaming: “Lilly!”
The man felt the blood leaving his body, trickling down his back to seek escape. The bullet wounds burned and sent constant fits of fire to his brain. He looked over the dashboard to see Lilly running out in her sunflower pyjamas, hair awry, trying to see what the commotion was about. When their eyes met she put a hand over her mouth. She saw a dying man. The man saw Jasmine, rushing to his aid.
“We need to get him inside,” she said, but her face told the truth. Two sets of Randall hands wrapped around his body, every movement searing agony. They pulled the man out of the ute and towards the house, his feet dragging snake-lines into the dirt. He heard sirens, faint in the distance.
“Morris…did it?” he asked.
“He must’ve, the good lad. Got your recordings and proved our claims. You did well kid. We’ll have a beer with Morris in a week, you hear me? We can go anywhere you like. You’ll be free, no more ‘most wanted’ bullshit.”
The man coughed and tasted metal. He opened his eyes again, now lying on the bed he’d woken up in weeks prior. His face had somewhat healed since then, but his body now heaved with damage inflicted by a much more dangerous man. Lilly’s voice, a song in winter’s chill, washed over him.