by C. J. Sutton
“You okay?” signed the woman. She now had a crowd of children behind her watching the boy like a lion behind a cage. He nodded. Her sign language was shit, he noted. As his burning eyes warned them, they backed away to their board games.
The orange embers danced on his face. The boy had seen a vision of his mother and Brady laughing on the rooftop after finishing his quest. Brady knew sign language. When the three of them were in a room, he would sign to his mother, just so the boy could understand the conversation. But the visions soon ended as the fires licked his arms and caused him to scurry back into the wall. He needed to free his mother before the flames reached her. The boy found passage into his room, peered out and saw Brady. He was yelling at his father. But tears were rolling down Brady’s face, just like his mother’s. The heroes in the comics don’t cry. He ran. He fought. He tried to set her free. And then the gun flashed.
“Water?” signed the woman. She was irritating the boy. Brady’s face flashed onto the television screen next to the word ‘VALOUR’. Maybe the comics were wrong.
His father had made the money sign with his hands. Brady shrugged, his mouth wide and spit flying. Smoke was filling the room. The boy ran, distracting his father as Brady smashed him into the dry wall. The boy dropped his pink lighter but ran back into his room to grab his belongings. His mother was dead, and he wanted to go with Brady to this new place the money would buy. Far away from Melbourne. When the boy returned to the living room, Brady was gone. A window was shattered. Something shiny glistened on the ground near the glass; a ring.
The boy now moved this ring between his fingers. The other kids had tried to steal it from him, but the boy snapped his teeth at anyone who came too close. It was Brady’s ring for his mother. He had his Donkey Kong. He had his ring. And he had his secret.
His father had waved him over, a plank of wood pinning him down to the floor as smoke filled the room. When the boy got too close, his father grabbed the hood of his jacket and pulled. But his father was weakened. The boy exited from the same window as Brady and dashed off into the night, searching for his saviour.
The woman handed the boy water. He didn’t want it. Hundreds had died from the fire he started, but not the one man he wanted to kill. Finally, the police had captured his father. But Brady was dead. And as the words filled the screen, the boy lost all hope for being saved. He lost all hope for returning the ring. He stood, stretched his legs and walked over to the huddle of children playing monopoly. They didn’t notice as he moved slowly behind them. And when he flicked his new lighter and a girl’s pink dress caught flame, nobody suspected the boy who couldn’t hear.
Nobody suspected the ‘freak’.
And then he cried. Because he understood now. Heroes cry while villains smile.
Epilogue
A huddle of greasy men in overalls sat at a table in the far corner of Three Oak Barrels, a pub within a country town nestled in the heart of Australia. Cards were fanned out across the wooden surface, a game of Blackjack causing note and coin to exchange hands as the men built their empires. Droplets of beer lingered on the table like morning dew on blades of grass, and the men spoke loudly over the rising atmosphere on a Saturday afternoon. They swore, they laughed, and they counted their hands with the slightest movement of lips. When two new faces entered Three Oak Barrels, the dealer tracked their movements. As they pulled out wallets and fished through yellows to pay for their frothy pints, the dealer nudged the man closest to him.
“Check it out,” he said, chewing on a cashew. “Fresh meat.”
“Can we ever have a game without you roping in some poor prick out for a weekend drink?”
“This game is a car, and money is the fuel. Unless you blokes just want to keep taking each other’s money? Might have to send you home to your wives before sundown at the rate you’re losing your hard-earned.”
The dealer shrugged, but with the seed planted he watched their heads turn. He watched their greedy eyes assess these two new men who were surveying the pub for opportunity. And as the dealer raised his hairy hand in the air, he watched their backs straighten as an offer presented on foreign soil.
“Here they come,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Be nice.”
The circle of players pretended to focus on their hands, but one man stifled a giggle and the others tried to avoid his reddening face in the hope of remaining indifferent. Last week they won thousands off a pair of Melbourne slickers with more money than sense, and the travellers barely even noticed. Today they hoped for more.
“Afternoon fellas,” said the first man, extending his hand to the dealer. He accepted.
“Afternoon. We saw your heads darting around like a couple of hungry rats. Fancy an honest game of cards?”
“Sure,” said the first man. He took up the spare seat. They all stared at the second man, who looked out of place in such a scene.
“What about your bum chum there. He playing?”
The first man looked up to the second and smiled.
“Nah, he doesn’t take to cards. He’s more your driving, scouting, glove-wearing stiff. Me, on the other hand, I’m a gambling veteran. High stakes, y’know?”
The first man opened his wallet and let the fifties spill onto the table like a starry-eyed tourist.
“What are we betting per round?”
The dealer noticed the rest of the table with their mouths gaping and wanted to slap every one of them. He kicked some shins for good measure.
“Your call.”
The first man pushed five hundred dollars into the middle of the table. Some men were hesitant, looking to their dealer. One stood up and went to the bar, engaging in conversation with a woman half his age. The others shrugged their shoulders and entered into the pot.
“That’s a fair first gamble, my friend. Risky move. If you lose, your time in town could be short. What are you doing here, anyway? Checking out the markets?”
The first man scoffed. Tapping the table for his cards.
“We’re thinking of setting up a little business in a country town,” he said. “We’re in the warehouse game, clothing made from the finest Australian wool. You’ve got fields and you’ve got cattle, but we can up your game. Extra profits.”
The first man called for a card. He swore, slammed the table with his fist and showed his hand to his new friends.
“I bust,” he spat, forcing a wicked grin. The crowd rubbed their hands together.
“Tell us a story,” said the dealer, trying to keep the profits filtering in.
The first man snorted before taking a deep breath.
“I love stories. Get a load of this one. I entered some town a while back with nothing but my hat, my dog and my giant balls. Walked into a pub, just like this one, and heard some boys talking about opportunity. They had the drive, but not the know-how, you see? People pretend they want change when they’re bored. But when change arrives they crumble, they want out. Profit isn’t easy, blood gets them queasy. Sometimes you’ve got to be a little forceful on locals to break them out of their ways. When finally they opened their pockets, there was so much money we didn’t know what to do with it all.”
The dealer scrunched up his nose when the new man trumped his hand. He pointed to the second man.
“How’d you two meet? Bum chums, huh?”
The second man tensed, but the first waved away the intimidation with a smile. He knew this game well.
“My partner here found me in the bush, passed out. I must’ve had too much drink. A chance meeting, wouldn’t you say?”
The second man nodded.
“Look,” said the first man, leaning in close. “I’m more than happy playing second fiddle. Last time I hired a boss, real sick motherfucker, just so I could blend in and run things from the ground. Loose lips when boss man is out of range, you know? Funny what you can learn about these people when they think the top dog is away.”
The dealer beamed as he won a hefty hand off the traveller, barely l
istening to the words being spoken. The first man lifted his Akubra and glared at the players.
“I’m Josh,” said the dealer, extending his hand once more. His language was money.
“I’m Hayes. This is my partner, Gabe. My Rottweiler, Killer, is out front. It’s just a name; you’ll love him, he’s real friendly. I think we’ll be happy here. Nothing beats the fresh air of a country town.”
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