This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  “Yeah, go ahead. You’re the most hated man in Australia. Luckily we’ve had a sample of what that looks like.”

  The car moved onwards, a GPS announcing heavy traffic near the city police station. As they turned the corner and passed a man sleeping on the pavement, hundreds of heads swivelled in their direction. Men and women of all ages held signs with the pictures of their loved ones’ faces staring at him. They peered into the car as it approached. After thirty seconds, someone spotted the burned man seated in the rear.

  “It’s him!” the man roared, a gun to runners.

  “Oh, would you look at that now. Someone alerted a journalist,” said Melissa, with her tone of sarcasm dialled on high. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was smiling.

  Bodies flailed in the direction of the car, feet stomping and arms flapping. And then the rain began. Only it wasn’t water that pelted the windows. Eggs. The projectiles cracked against the glass of the car and smeared yolk down the sides. Each connection was a gunshot, a signal of intent. The car weaved through the masses, taking fire and continuing with the occasional WOOOP of a siren to find passage. The signs said MONSTER, or MURDERER, or DEVIL. As they entered police premises, he saw I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL. To this, he nodded. He already had. Journalists piled over the white line and charged at the four cars. They stumbled with equipment and one-track minds eager for a quote.

  Melissa picked up her radio.

  “Boss, we’re here. Journos are ready. Hundreds of people too.”

  “Address the media,” came the deep voice. “Be honest with them. Enough of the bullshit.”

  “Me?” she asked, as though talking to her father once more.

  “Of course. You’ve done well.”

  “Bring him in through the front,” said Melissa to her partner, her shoulders level.

  The burned man watched his captor exit the car and hold both hands in the air. Questions soared like the eggs prior.

  “Is that him? Is that the burned man?”

  “Is that Jason Jensen?”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “Where is Brady Lockhart?”

  Melissa cleared her throat and climbed the steps to the front door. She stopped. When she spoke, strength rumbled from her throat.

  “Earlier this morning we arrested Jason Jensen.”

  “Where?” screamed a female reporter, as if barracking at a football match.

  “In a quiet Victorian town, which will be disclosed in a later report.”

  “What about Brady? Where’s Brady Lockhart?”

  Their eyes scanned the cars, hoping to see the most circulated face in Australian history. The burned man saw the bald, overall-wearing, sullen face from Sulley Ridge escorted through a back door while Melissa held their attention. Behind him were William, his other cuffed employees, a hunched and deflated Mason and a tired Ren. But Ren did not leave the scene. She stood, hands on hips, watching Melissa in awe.

  “Brady Lockhart is to be congratulated. Mr Lockhart discovered the true culprit. His bravery will not be forgotten. The police department will be recommending Brady Lockhart for the Cross of Valour.”

  Melissa waved as the words sunk in, and two burly police officers lifted the burned man out of the back seat. His feet dragged along the pavement as they carried his scarred body towards the police station. The journalists did not charge. They stood, stunned, blank looks on their faces. After fleeting moments of deathly silence, they roared once more. Phones and cameras flashed, blinding the burned man. He stumbled on the steps, the skin on his burned arms twisted like Chinese burns in the schoolyard. As he took one last look out at the mob before being tossed within the station, he saw a picture of Brady Lockhart on a sign. A crying woman thrusted her banner skyward, Brady’s face expanding with the action.

  And then the door slammed shut.

  The cell echoed with the drip of water.

  Tit…tit…tit…tit

  The burned man sat against a cold stone wall that cooled the burns on his back.

  He wondered what William and the boys were saying. He pondered how a betrayed Mason would now clean his hands of any wrongdoing. Cutting deals, no doubt. They were a pack of dogs and he was the bone. The door swung open. Ren entered, her click-clack competing with the tit-tit. She sat on the opposite side of the cell, her arms crossed, the pale make-up now washed away to reveal her true colouring. Ren appeared five years older, and with her hair in a ponytail she no longer looked capable of deviance.

  “Tease,” he said, trying to avoid her stare.

  “Maybe if you didn’t think with your dick or your wallet, you wouldn’t be in here.”

  He lifted his arms to strangle the life out of her, but the chains on his wrists were strapped to the floor. The pain caused tears to seep from his eyes, a regular occurrence with the damage of the smoke nearly a month ago instilled in his eyes.

  “You burned down his restaurant. You helped me find Brady. You’re not innocent.”

  “I did what I had to do, Jason.”

  “Don’t fucking call me Jason,” he spat. The anger was rising and spilling over, the foam on a freshly poured lager. Ren glanced at the door, and then slowly closed it with her leather-booted foot.

  “I was at a crossroads, you know. They put me in with you and I started to like it, the freedom of it all. I kept telling myself that it was all part of the plan to capture a drug lord, but I was telling the bosses less and less. When you rocked up burned and talking about this Brady killing your wife and child, not to mention my best friend, I leaned to the darkness. I wanted justice, and by your side justice was possible. I wanted to find Brady and I wanted him dead. No trial, no chance to have his say or defend his name. But you…” she said, rising. “I want you to be dragged through the gutter in constant pain. I want all of your indiscretions to come out into the light. You destroyed families long before burning down Barron Tower…and then you killed my best friend.”

  “I didn’t burn down that fucking tower you slut!” he yelled, kicking his feet out. Ren smirked.

  “Pathetic,” she said, walking for the door.

  “Nothing but a slut,” he said. “A good for nothing slut.”

  “Ha! And to think, you were ready to pass on your kingdom to a slut.”

  Ren closed the door and the bang shook the small room. A puddle of water allowed the burned man to look at his reflection. The scars were festering. The wound on his throat continued to split open on swift movement.

  She was right. He lived in constant pain.

  And as the day wore on, he knew that pain would last forever.

  The Departed

  “A new face has emerged as the arsonist of Barron Tower. His name is Jason Jensen, a man aged in his forties who suffered horrible burns in the blaze. He is not new to our screens. Jason featured on a nightly news program last week condemning Brady Lockhart for killing hundreds of people. But the mystery behind the most devastating act of crime in Melbourne’s history is now much clearer. Journalists descended on the arriving police vehicles earlier this morning as they brought the burned man to a holding cell.”

  Charlene watched the news report as James and Jasper jostled for pole position on her lap. Wallace handed her another beer as they stared intently at the screen.

  “Dumb bastard. Brady said ‘warn the journos’. I just honoured the kid.”

  Charlene smiled as Karen returned from the bathroom. Showered and with a hearty meal, she was regaining her former self.

  “Give me a look at that hand,” she said, examining the bullet wound. Charlene reluctantly raised her paw.

  “See you at the service,” said Wallace, taking his cue to leave.

  Karen kissed Charlene on the forehead, and James and Jasper soon darted off into the spare room. They turned off the television and embraced, peaceful in the knowledge that Sulley Ridge was no longer haunted by men of greed.

  They stood in the field behind Billy’s house as the sun paid respects behind the mountain
s. The body of Brady Lockhart was resting on a stretcher of logs with a rope dangling off each corner. Lilly had cleaned his clothes and removed all stains of blood, and Charlene noted how handsome he looked resting in the pink dusk. She waited.

  Charlene, Billy, Morris and Kane held their rifles at the ready. Silence mingled with the crowd, more than fifty citizens of Sulley Ridge standing with hands clasped before them and heads bowed in respect. Their necks craned when a car pulled up alongside Billy’s house. Old fears die hard. Out stepped a woman, flowers in her hand, shoulders slouched in sadness. Jane rushed over to the woman and held her hand, and they made their way to Brady.

  “Oh god,” said Cassie Lockhart, breaking down at the sight of her brother at rest on the logs. She dropped the flowers and ran to him, touching his cool face with a palm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  When Cassie moved back into the crowd, Karen spoke. She told a tale of a saviour arriving on a night that wouldn’t end and said Brady Lockhart would always be a part of the Ridge. At the end of her words, four people walked forward to take a rope. Wallace, Sammy, Jerry and Mick, with his remaining hand, lifted the stretcher of logs off the ground and lowered Brady carefully into the grave. Wallace walked over to Cassie, taking her shaking hands in his.

  “It’s a Sulley Ridge tradition to burn as the sun falls. With your permission, of course, we would like to do this for Brady.”

  Cassie nodded. Charlene saw now how much they looked alike, even with the alterations Brady had attempted to use in his disguise from the world. No wonder he hadn’t been able to fool everyone. Charlene aimed her rifle into the sky as Wiggles helped Wallace with the flames. When the grave caught light, Charlene called “RELEASE” and they shot at the mountains. They repeated this gesture, and then joined the rest of Sulley Ridge as the fire burned. The man had been tarnished by fire. Condemned. But here, Charlene was content in sending Brady away as a selfless man who saved the lives of people in her town.

  As the sun left their sight, so did the soul of Brady Lockhart.

  Under the pale moonlight, Charlene and Wallace sat on the grassy field alongside Brady’s grave. Further off from this point were the graves of Max and Tom. The old man withdrew his mobile phone, scoffed and then crushed it under his foot.

  “Poor bastard. Couldn’t catch a break, could you kid?”

  “I wish I’d known sooner. I thought he was here to pillage and plunder.”

  “Nah,” said Wallace, lighting a cigarette. “He didn’t have a clue what he was doing. Saw it the moment he arrived. Had that million bucks in his bag and that was it.”

  Charlene lifted off the ground, feeling the mud attached to her rear. Wallace made no attempt to follow. Karen waited by Billy’s house, engaged in conversation with Jane as they spoke with laughter and exclamation.

  “You coming, old man?” she asked, offering a hand. His face did not leave the grave.

  “I might just sit with Brady a little while longer.”

  She could sense Wallace wanted to be alone, to talk in the night air about nothing and everything. To converse with another that didn’t respond. Charlene made the slow trek up the hill towards the house where many remained, the lights in the windows a beacon of hope. Bodies moved, and glasses were raised, jovial silhouettes no longer confined.

  “I was just telling Karen about the time Brady came into my shop demanding money for those arseholes. Thought he was going to shit his pants,” laughed Jane.

  “I thought about shooting him once,” shrugged Charlene. “Probably best we didn’t pass a stick around the campfire telling everyone our stories during the ceremony.”

  As they spoke, a police car rolled onto the driveway and illuminated the trio in yellow light. Charlene shielded her eyes as she looked within. Morris was in the front, and three heads moved in the back. In the distance Wallace stood, peering into the car. As the doors flew open, two smaller figures dashed through the field and slammed into Wallace, hugging him tightly. A woman emerged from the back and Morris helped her towards the women. Charlene saw Wallace’s wife use Morris as support as his grandchildren pointed her out. Wallace took a hand on each side, smile beaming, and hurried up the hill.

  “Has he been behaving?” she asked, a croaky throat. Her hair remained blonde despite her age, curls curtaining her thin face.

  “Not lately, missus Randall,” said Charlene. “His aim needs work.”

  Charlene raised her injured hand and they all shook their heads.

  “Don’t work Mum up,” said Morris. “She already thinks he’s lost his mind.”

  Wallace let go of his grandchildren and wrapped his arms around his wife, kissing her on the cheek. He then extended his hand to Morris.

  “Thank you, son.”

  Morris waved the hand away, embracing his father.

  Charlene followed Karen and Jane into the Corden house to leave the Randall clan in peace. The atmosphere was different to a night in The Ginger Bastard. There were no gambling machines, or screens, or arguments. Here there were friends and family speaking over a drink and not looking to the door expecting an entrant wielding a gun. In the far corner, Sammy and Wiggles were rubbing James’ stomach as Jasper chased Jerry for a piece of chicken.

  “We should re-open the school with Brady’s money. Get the kids back into the Ridge. I’ll go back to teaching,” said Charlene, picking up a party pie off the tray. “I miss it.”

  “Do you think your husband will come back?” asked Jane.

  Charlene put her arm around Karen’s waist and pulled her close. They didn’t need to talk anymore. The scenes of joy played out before them, a house free of Siphon’s crew and their reign of hate. There were no demons left to walk on Sulley Ridge, and Charlene sipped her beer as the stars turned their attention to a land more entertaining.

  The Plight of a Hero

  The boy sat in the corner of the room watching the other children play. Their mouths opened, their hands clapped, but all were mere movements heard only through vision. Few bothered to talk to the boy, but he watched their lips move as they called him ‘freak’. His father had called him ‘freak’. Now his father truly looked like one.

  The boy saw his burned father on the screen being ushered into the police station. The sight made the boy shake. He didn’t know what the police were saying, but he hoped they would lock his father away. The visions replayed vividly in his mind, replacing the children and their board games as rain pattered on the tin roof. His Donkey Kong doll, torn in half and cooked to a crisp by flames, sat by his side.

  She said they were leaving with the nice man Brady.

  She said he had to pack his things, because their new home would be far away.

  She said she would tell his father as soon as they reached the Tower, because if he found out any other way there would be trouble. Big trouble.

  But the boy knew his father. He knew there would be trouble anyway. So he’d planned for the event before she delivered the news.

  His mother was happy. Nervous, but smiling wide and doing that thing she would do to his arm, crawling from his hand to his shoulder with two fingers. The boy knew, though. So he’d prepared.

  His mother was allowed a credit card, linked to his father’s account. The boy used the card often to get comics, game decks, food for his hamster and new gadgets to destroy and reconstruct. He knew the details off by heart. He had a fondness for electricity and heat. Warmth made him feel real. He didn’t hear explosions, but they sent vibrations through his body.

  When he got home from school his parents were arguing. Mother was being slapped in the face every time she talked, and father increased the power on each blow. The boy turned to his bedroom to see the packages stacked on his bed.

  On the weekends he’d worked with his uncle on the powerlines, even though he wasn’t really allowed to. His uncle said that having one less sense made the other four sharper and having him there made the job easier. His uncle didn’t have kids, and
his uncle didn’t call him ‘freak’. Electricity was a powerful current that could start an unstoppable blaze. His uncle showed him how. The boy knew electricity and conductors. He knew fire.

  The arguing couldn’t be heard, but the room shook as glass was tossed and tables were flipped. The boy had collected his belongings and crawled through his secret space in the wall. His hamster lived in this space, so his father couldn’t kill him. It was the safest place in the world. The boy remembered zipping the hamster up in his jacket as he found the switchboard in the basement.

  The children playing board games were pointing in his direction now as he continued to see the events of a month prior. But their calls might as well have been curses.

  Once his bag had been emptied, the boy had returned to the crawl space and hidden under the blankets of his bed with his hamster. Preparations complete. After the vibrations stopped, the boy had packed his suitcase with all his toys. His Donkey Kong from Brady was his new favourite. He woke up and went to school.

  The woman was tugging on his sleeve now, but the boy was busy recalling the fateful day his mother passed. He had come home from school on the Friday to see his father sitting in the loungeroom, a glass of whiskey to one side and a gun on the other. He looked in the boy’s direction but offered no greeting. Blood was on his hands. The boy ran into his room to see his hamster twisted so far around that his poor little spine had snapped. Rage enveloped the boy. The feeling still made him turn beetroot red in the present. The tugging on the sleeve stopped.

  The boy had attacked his father with nothing but stray arms and legs with minimal muscle and maximum intent. When a gun pressed to his forehead, the boy ran. He picked up his pink lighter and entered the crawl space with his dead hamster. Wait for the nice man Brady, that was the plan. He would save them. He would arrive and stop his father. The boy wiggled into the wall that had small eye holes to see the kitchen. His father had strapped his mother to the oven. Black lines ran down her eyes. She wore her nicest dress, but the happiness was replaced by fear. Her eyes locked with the boy’s, and he squeezed his lighter. Brady wasn’t here, and the sun was long gone. He went to the planned spot, cut the wires and flicked the pink lighter. The flames became a warm comfort on his face, the smell of petrol intoxicating. Puffs of dark smoke swirled, causing him to cough, so he moved to the next level. And the next level. He felt the explosions in his limbs.