Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

  *

  The sunning turned to sleeping and by the time Hope awoke it was mid-afternoon. The sound of the river was pleasant and he was almost completely dry. His neck no longer particularly hurt either. It was like starting the day anew. With a little sunburn.

  The Young Brothers had not accrued the most number of arrests in the Sacksville logbook, not even close, but they had been mentioned as much as anyone, and that was possibly more telling: always in trouble and barely ever any arrests, and whatever there was never translated into anything more than the most basic misdemeanours; perhaps it was blackmail that did it, perhaps it was fear; whatever it was, the scent was bad enough to justify the walk.

  They were four brothers, sons to a lumbar truck driver who preferred the company of mountains over family, though he passed on the occasional smuggling job. The mother had not rated a mention in the logbook, which may not have been a good thing, for if she was in the picture she should have at least been cited for bailing out a sibling from time to time.

  The Young Brothers owned the Motor Right Garage on the highway a mile out of town, and at that point it pretty much had the roadside to itself. It still did not take a big striding Hope long to get there. With all the rusted out hulks in its yard the garage looked more like a place where vehicles went to die than be repaired. The property’s main structures were a corrugated iron, double doored garage with an old Caltex Petrol sign on the side and an adjacent whitewashed weatherboard house with weeds banked up against its walls and cracks riddling all three of its road facing windows. An opening in the garage double doors was the only sign of life on the property. Hope was heading that way. He stopped to fix himself up in the window of one of the old wrecks on the way. Missing its front wheels and backseat and covered in cobwebs, the Pontiac sedan had seen better days, and the reflection it cast was not much better. Hope did the best he could to make himself presentable, patting down his hair and straightening out his cuffs and collars before continuing on ahead.

  A dog started barking from inside the workshop. Hope was unable to see it but he could hear the yanking of chain, which he suspected was sparing him an unpleasant encounter.

  ‘Shut up!’ somebody raged from the same direction and the dog yelped with the thud of a kick.

  A young blond man walked out of the workshop holding a wrench and an oil rag.

  ‘You looking for something, mister?’

  As he neared he looked even younger than his first impression intimated - indeed, his cold look of disdain had added a good five years. He swept back his unkempt fringe with the greasy knuckles amongst the rag. He was wearing old blue overalls through which his thin pale arms were strung. The way he was brandishing the wrench was more akin to a mugger than a mechanic. Hope was beginning to suspect this was one man deserving chaining more than any dog.

  The man’s disposition was not growing any the more pleasant for the delay in Hope’s response. ‘Well?’

  ‘Are you one of the Young brothers?’

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Maybe. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Are the other brothers around?’

  ‘That’s two questions I don’t like, mister. If there’s a third you’re going to hurt bad. Normal folks who come here have a vehicle in disrepair. Anyone else better beware.’

  Hope felt his heart quickening and realised it was a registering of real danger, the kind of danger that the others he had visited in Sacksville had only shown traces of. This was as thick as the sauce on Texan spareribs. A part of Hope was urging him to ease off in the face of it, but going against it just added to the thrill.

  ‘I’m not so much looking for you and your brothers as looking for badness in all its pungent forms, not in an evangelistic kind of way, but in some kind of way, and I’m led to believe with the Young brothers it comes in the form of lying, cheating, stealing and probably a bit of killing as well. But no car that needs fixing.’

  The man sucked onto the last trace of his restraint as though it were an aching molar. ‘Are you a cop, boy?’

  Hope shook his head. ‘A gentleman by profession.’

  ‘A gentleman for Christ sake? A gentleman of means or just a mean old gentleman?’ He chuckled at his own pun and swung a fierce blow, the knuckles, hardened by the wrench, crunching against Hope’s cheekbone. Hope crashed to the ground. He knew it was only his training that kept him conscious. But there was more coming. Kicks into his chest and one directed at his head that he just had to block.

  The young man took it as lucky reflex and returned his assault to the body. Hope wanted to play it out, get to the other side of the beating; he was in no doubt this was a killer upon him, but before he countered he needed to know if this was the black sheep of the family or if it was indicative of the whole Young family.

  The young man kicked him so hard in the stomach he almost tripped himself over; that was what brought the assault to a conclusion. His rasping breath simmered into another chuckle.

  ‘Boy, I really took a piece of you, didn’t I?’ It was a sensual voice, as though passion had just been sated. ‘I can get quite greedy like that. Leave nothing behind for my brothers. They’d each be wanting their little bit of you as well. So, I guess it’s your good fortune they’re out of town. Gone a couple of days doing one of those things on your list.’ He grinned. ‘See, I answer questions.’ He stretched out and exhaled. ‘That really helped blow off some steam. I got to admit I get lonesome when things are too quiet. Real lonesome.’ The last traces of the rasping breath were gone now, the voice calm and sure. ‘If you still want to meet my brothers, come back another day. I’ll be sure to leave something for them then.’ He shaped to kick Hope again, but the compulsion that had gripped him had now faded. He relented and stepped away. ‘There’s no point going to the cops either. The ones round here are good for nothing. Unemployed farmers. We own their sorry behinds.’ He paused, looked at Hope a moment. ‘Where you from, boy?’

  Hope did not try to reply, though doubted he had the wind in his lungs to get a sound out anyway.

  The young man lost patience and walked off, muttering to himself, ‘Out-of-towers...so fuckin’ stupid.’