This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  “Brady, can you hear me? You’ve been shot twice. I need to remove your clothes, so I can get to the wounds. Stay with me, listen to my voice.”

  He saw her nod to Wallace, who used a pair of scissors to chop away his jumper and t-shirt. The Randall pair gasped together. Expecting a horror show of blood and innards, they were first greeted with bundles upon bundles of money taped to the man’s skin. The crisp yellow notes were wet with red on the shoulder and in the middle of the back.

  “Rip them off,” said Lilly, now only seeing a patient.

  Wallace began tearing away what remained of the million dollars. Even though he was focused on the man’s health, his lips moved as he counted the money. Lilly placed a tea towel on the shoulder wound, and when they flipped the man over it quickly became clear that the back wound was the grave danger.

  “Get him talking,” she said, attending to the bullet hole as the man held the tea towel in place on his shoulder.

  “Ah…I don’t get it, kid. Where did all this money come from? Did you load up a bag in that burned prick’s house before you jumped out of his window?”

  The man moaned, teeth chattering as Lilly doused the leaking wound in antiseptic.

  “The money wasn’t his. He…arghhh fuck…he knew I sold the restaurant. Jasmine told him our plan, he forced it out of her. She told him everything. I strapped the million dollars to my body when I went to pick her up. The plan was to go on holiday immediately, just the three of us. I worked hard. For a long time. But when I knew what he was, I couldn’t risk money anywhere else. He…he didn’t care about his wife. He didn’t care about his son. He lured me there for money. I’m no thief, Wallace.”

  “Never said you were, kid.”

  “I’ve never trusted…anyone…with money. But I would have handed it all over to Jasmine and her boy. You know…the boy hated his father…more than she did. I…I knew sign language. My sister had a…deaf…friend. So I saw what he would say to his mum, every time. The boy said he would be ready…the boy said he would protect her…and so would I.”

  Lilly shook her head at Wallace, unable to retrieve the bullet.

  “I can’t stop it,” she said, helpless.

  “I want…I want you to give the money to them.”

  “To who?” asked Wallace, leaning closer.

  “Town. Mick, Charlene, the Pritchard clan. You. Cops are…here. Sulley Ridge is free…now.”

  “You don’t know that,” said Wallace, sombre.

  “Cops…are here. They will take that burned prick. And they will take Siphon. I know it. Morris knows the plan. Two birds. One stone.”

  Lilly helped turn the man onto his back once more. Tears fell freely from her face. The man lifted a hand to her cheek.

  “It’s okay Jasmine. I’m here. He won’t hurt you anymore. We can…go to Queensland. Far north. Lots of money. Always warm. Okay?”

  Lilly nodded, sobbing now. Her hand rested on his burning forehead. His mind flashed between the past and the present. One moment he saw Wallace and Lilly, the next he saw only Jasmine.

  “Did the plan work?” he asked Wallace.

  “It did, kid. It worked.”

  “Good.”

  He closed his eyes, but Lilly slapped him awake. Hard.

  “You’re not dying on this bed. No.”

  In a fit of strength, Wallace lifted the man off the soaked bed and out of the house, onto the porch. He propped him up on a rocking chair, the very first moments of sunlight beginning to rise over the mountains.

  “Whiskey,” he said to Lilly. He pulled up a deck chair and sat next to the man.

  “Don’t you want to…see Siphon get locked up?” asked the man.

  “Not really. Sick of seeing that prick fuck’s head. I’d rather have a drink with a friend than watch the downfall of my enemy.”

  Lilly passed them a glass of whiskey each. The man accepted with a shaking hand, spilling some of the contents on his jeans. He managed a sip, and then placed the glass on the table. Breath became difficult, as though his head was dunked under water. Wallace fixed his eyes on the rising sun, and so did the man. His chair was damp and slippery. The view was now a water painting, wet colour tossed against a brick wall. The edges blurred.

  “Greg McDonald,” chuckled Wallace. “A shearer, fucking Jesus. Nobody was really going to believe that story, were they? Shave your head, break your nose. You’re still too smooth to be one, kid. Sorry about your hands and all that.”

  The man tried to speak but could no longer articulate words. The rays of light started to blast through the gaps in the mountains of Sulley Ridge and christen Lilly’s flowers. The cows grazed on greenest grass, the birds chirped in victory, and Wallace sipped his whiskey with a tear in his eye. The man hoped the town would rise again. He hoped Wallace would see his family and live in peace.

  And then he accepted Jasmine’s hand into a world beyond the mountains where money, Melbourne and the name Brady Lockhart meant nothing more than wind.

  Crack of Reign

  Charlene, Sammy and the professional were carrying an unconscious Siphon across the grassy field as Wiggles scouted ahead. The night was slowly being replaced by the promise of a new day, and Charlene half expected Siphon to transform into stone in the exposure to light. But he was just a man, and as his limp body was carried with ease towards town she wondered how one limp figure could cause such pain and unrest in a beautiful land.

  “Where you from?” asked Charlene, the silence causing her heart rate to jack.

  “Melbourne.”

  “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  She wanted to know why this hard man with gloves was holding Wiggles in a cubby reserved for youths. He didn’t appear to be an uncle. But the question could jeopardise the mission.

  “Brady Lockhart,” he said, as though two words were enough to explain everything.

  “Oh,” she replied. “He’s not that bad, you know.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “You going to kill him?”

  “I drive. I get paid. Don’t much care why.”

  Charlene looked to the man of few words, his eyes a protective glaze over Wiggles. At another time this would’ve been deeply concerning. But as their mother slept, Charlene assumed the role of guardian. As long as she remained in Sulley Ridge, the Pritchard clan would always be under her care. Up ahead were two red kangaroos bounding away from the ever-present sirens and lights. They bounced like thieves being tracked after a robbery, their great chests of muscle puffed out and proud. Behind the pair was a man running towards Charlene with his hands in the air. The professional let go of Siphon and followed the red kangaroos deeper into obscurity. He vanished, just like that. Sammy and Charlene, uneasy by the shift in weight, dropped Siphon onto a patch of grass and stumbled over on all fours. Morris had Wiggles by the arm and was yelling at the top of his lungs.

  “He needs to be quiet,” said Sammy. Siphon’s handgun was still in her pocket. He started to fidget, the gash in his head bleeding profusely. His slumber was almost over.

  “Quick, go tell Morris to get help,” she said, pushing the boy. “Go!”

  Sammy sprinted as teenagers do, all arms and legs and lungs, leaving her alone with the leader. The visions of Hayes commanding her into submission were vivid, the rumblings in her stomach returning. Morris continued to vocalise his position, backed by no other cops. Some sirens remained, but the sound was lessening in volume and intimidation. Siphon stirred. Charlene pulled out the handgun and hoped she wouldn’t have to shoot. The unzipping of Hayes’ pants replayed, sending shivers and goose bumps down her arms.

  “Charlene!” roared Morris, a call so powerful and raw. Her necked snapped towards him and she was met by six white eyes within frozen bodies. Morris, Sammy and Wiggles were pale. The cool instrument brushed against her throat. His hot breath wilted away the hairs on her neck. One thick arm wrapped around her wide waist, and the other waited to end her life.

  “The gun is empt
y,” he said, as she pressed the nozzle into his midriff. She pulled the trigger. Nothing but a click. Another click. Another click.

  “I’ll take that as attempted murder.”

  Morris withdrew his own pistol but did not come any closer. The boys stood behind him, unable to look away.

  “Put her down, Siphon. It’s over,” he said, using his best authoritative voice.

  “Fuck off Morris you poor excuse for a cop. It’s over when I say it’s over.”

  “Town is swarming with police.”

  “They have no power here.”

  The cool instrument cut skin without any pressure.

  “Shoot this prick,” she felt herself say, the action causing another cut.

  Morris ignored her.

  “Your boys are locked up. They’re being transported out of this town. The others are dead. You’ve got nobody left. If you kill her, it just adds to your list of crimes.”

  “What crimes can you prove?” he said, moving backwards with Charlene to make the shot more difficult. “I’ve done nothing wrong. All honest business.”

  “Tell that to the judge. You’ve got an entire town full of evidence.”

  Wiggles and Sammy were gazing at Charlene, wondering if this was the last time they would see her. She wanted to tell them that everything would be okay.

  “You’re weak Morris. At least Max had the balls to stay here after dark.”

  Morris whispered something to the Pritchard boys, and they dashed off towards town without looking back.

  “We can wait here all night if we have to.”

  “You can’t kill me,” said Charlene, so only Siphon could hear her. “If you kill me, he’ll gun you down. I’m your last hope of support. Imagine that, you thick bastard. Me, the fat lesbian, the only thing standing between you and freedom.”

  “Shut up!” he growled.

  “You’re a little man. Stunted growth, no doubt. Rough childhood. No friends, other than those bribed by money or held at gunpoint. Do you know what they do to people like you in jail? You’ll be targeted the moment you step in a cell block.”

  Siphon raised his shard. The impact of a bullet sent them both flying backwards.

  They brought him in through the back of the pub to avoid the police, who were still questioning townsfolk on the streets. Morning arrived. He was dazed, injured and struggling to speak, the golden tongue now melted. The room was filled with familiar faces. Kane, Mick being tended to by Lilly, Wallace, Billy, Jerry holding his rifle, Sammy and Wiggles. Morris and Charlene joined the troop, dumping Siphon in the middle of the pub. Jerry locked the front door. The people of Sulley Ridge crowded around the bane of their town, anger seeping from their pores. Lager was passed around, a ceremony like no other. Siphon was moaning in pain, the bullet through his shoulder and the other through his leg enough to halt any danger. A wounded bear. Morris holstered his pistol and spat on Siphon’s face.

  “Apologies for the mess,” he said to Jerry, who waved it away. All eyes glared at Siphon. For the first time they didn’t need to cower in fear of an outburst. Billy still limped with the pain of a shot foot. Mick’s face was drained of colour, his missing forearm causing endless pain as Lilly worked on the wound to stem the blood flow. And Charlene cradled her bleeding hand, a bullet passing through in Morris’ assault.

  “What, huh? What’s this bullshit then? Some gang rape? Just take me to the cops and be done with it. I’m sick of your games.”

  “Sick of our games?” growled Kane. “You killed my fucking brother!”

  He launched a powerful boot into Siphon’s jaw, a clear snap on connection. A spray of crimson lined the wooden flooring. Sammy and Wiggles copied their brother, kicking Siphon hard in the ribs. Siphon tried to talk, but blood trickled down his chin from a tongue pierced by his own tooth.

  “Moan all you want, badger. They can’t hear you,” said Billy, smashing Siphon across the face with a crutch. Lilly turned, focused on Mick’s wound. Charlene took a step forward. She leaned down.

  “Where is Karen?”

  “Ugmrhhhh.”

  “I said, where’s Karen?”

  “Ugmrhhhh, Ugmrhhhh.”

  Siphon started making driving motions with his hands.

  “In his ute,” said Morris, stepping forward. “We’ll go and check that out. Charlene, I’ll tell the cops it’s all under control and I’ll be in my car. Come out when you’re ready.”

  Morris left from the back. Silence. Their eyes darted to one another, waiting.

  “A good friend died at my house earlier. That good friend is the reason you’re here today, Siphon. An out-of-towner gave us what we needed to bring you down. I want you to know that. His name was Brady Lockhart. Nod your head,” said Wallace.

  Siphon refused to obey, and Jerry whacked him in the forehead with the butt of his rifle. A jagged gash opened wide and sent a waterfall of red down Siphon’s face. A pool of blood had formed beneath him, his breathing laboured and in spurts. He tried to crawl across the floor on his hands and knees, leaving an oozy trail like a snail in the summertime. Mick, seated, stomped on Siphon’s wrist with his boot and crunched the bone. Wallace circled, a shark to a feast.

  “We put up with your shit long enough. But do you know what you’ve done? You’ve strengthened this town. If anyone tries to take over Sulley Ridge again, we’ll be ready. Mind if I light a smoke? My son would appreciate it.”

  Jerry smiled. “One for me too.”

  Charlene needed to find Karen. This taunting of Siphon was warranted, and she enjoyed it. Did it make her as sick as him? She didn’t know. But as Billy, Kane and Mick started heaving kicks into all parts of Siphon’s leaking body, she nodded to herself. Finally, they were united. Siphon’s wails became gurgles, his teeth scattered about the pub. Kane brought down his foot with force, and Charlene heard the crack of skull. The end of the devil’s reign.

  But the kicking did not stop. As she left The Ginger Bastard through the back of the pub, the thuds became a chorus to sing along to.

  Morris opened the back of the ute with Siphon’s keys. Karen’s gaunt face stared up at them. Charlene lifted her frail body out of the ute and removed the tape from her mouth. Dried blood was etched on the piece and tears welled up in Karen’s eyes. Once the ties were removed from hands and feet, Charlene rubbed life into the joints.

  “Are you alright?” she asked, kissing Karen on the cheek. “I’m sorry we didn’t find you earlier. We tried. We—”

  “Yes, I’m okay. I’m so hungry. They were feeding me scraps. Said they would turn me mad, so I didn’t tell anyone about Brady. And if I did, nobody would believe me.”

  “It’s all over now.”

  “He’s…they’re…gone?”

  “Everyone is gone. We’re free.”

  Karen threw her dirt-covered arms around Charlene and they hugged tightly, Charlene being careful not to squeeze too hard. Magpies called in the tree above, united souls that remain with the same mate for life. Wind blew across the fields and sent old leaves on their way, the new leaves watching on.

  Deviance

  On the horizon the burned man could see the rows of Melbourne skyscrapers in a huddle, teammates deciding on a game plan before embarking on war. Traffic slowed their progression as the winding highways intertwined and the morning peak arrived with honks and the screeching of brakes. The burned man saw police cars to the left, and police cars to the right. They surrounded him, enclosed within a procession for the damned. The burns on his face were fire, the lack of painkillers revealing the true pain of the wounds sustained at Barron Tower. The mere thought angered him, as the ghost of Brady lingered evermore.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said, a song on repeat. “I’ll answer to the other crimes you want to pin on me, but not that one.”

  He had seen first-hand how the public reacted to Brady when his involvement broke across the country on millions of screens. Considering he lied to Australia on a telecast alongside a journalist, the burned man knew his
own circumstances would be worse.

  “You can keep saying that all you like, Jason. To be honest, this will be a long trial that will capture the attention of the world. Plead your innocence until you’re blue in the face, but the people want answers. And after what you’ve said on tape, your credit card linked to things that can go boom, the obvious motives and your long list of other crimes as reported by the one you call Ren, they won’t soon forget your mangled face.”

  He went to speak, but she cut him off.

  “For a moment I felt sorry for you, lying in that bed barely able to move. My father said it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but I pitied you. Losing your wife…your son. But you killed them, Jason. And if you would kill them without thinking twice, odds are you wouldn’t hesitate to burn down a building full of people you don’t know. Because you don’t care about anyone else, do you?”

  The burned man looked out the window, aware that talking to Melissa would do naught in finding peace. He knew he should wait for his lawyer. But silence hurt more than the threat of the future. They entered the CBD, the sun now blotted out by the high-rise buildings. The car rolled to a stop alongside the Barron Tower site. The tower had crumbled to the ground, and now there was a vigil in the shape of a heart covered in a rainbow assortment of flowers, casting colour across the drab landscape. People surrounded the vigil, wrapped in jackets and scarves and beanies as puffs of morning smoke escaped their mouths. They rubbed their hands together in the morning chill, warmed on the heat of their fallen family and friends. The burned man saw the sorrow in their eyes.

  “Why are we stopping?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “I want you to see what you’ve done before you try to talk your way out of a life sentence. I want you to see it, knowing everyone will now blame you instead of Brady.”

  “I’ll be reporting you,” he snarled.