Whistler crossed the short distance in seconds and swung at Johan’s face.
Johan leaned back but Whistler moved too quickly. The blow glanced the side of Johan’s head, and he retreated further back.
“I don’t have time for this,” he shouted and ran forwards, head down.
Whistler gave him a hard shove back.
“Fuck you,” Johan roared and dove at him. He drove a fist under Whistler’s arms and into his stomach. Whistler gasped and doubled over. Johan straightened and followed the blow with a sharp knee, connecting with a hip. He dove in for another attack.
Whistler struck out with a foot and caught Johan on the knee. The blow, although not strong enough to break his patella, inverted the joint enough to bring sickening pain.
Johan screamed and ducked away, clutching his knee. Each step brought jolts of electricity shooting up his leg. He limped a few metres and screamed again.
Another song drifted over from Whistler. He paused between bars to suck in heavy, ragged breaths.
Johan didn’t recognise the song, nor did he care. He stepped forwards and snarled at the burst of pain from his knee. “You’re nothing. You live in shit!” Standing upright he tried to block out the pain. Screaming, Johan ran forwards, arms outstretched. He grabbed Whistler by the stained and stinking vest.
Whistler grabbed Johan in return and they slammed into the side of the shaft. Johan received the worst of the impact, his head striking the brick.
“Fuck you,” he spat again.
Whistler pulled Johan in and headbutted the bridge of his nose.
Johan flopped back and slammed against the bottom edge of the hatch. The tramp had the upper hand and bent Johan back, a palm under his jaw. Johan pushed, but a kick to his damaged knee ended that resistance. Whistler pressed Johan’s moaning body further across the edge of the hatch.
“P-Please…” said Johan. “We didn’t mean to… do anything. We were scared, it was a mistake.”
Whistler, his face inches away, glared at him.
“Please,” Johan continued.
Whistler released him and stepped back, eyes still locked on him.
Leaning up and away from the hatch, Johan rubbed his back.
“Th… thank you,” he said. “I meant every word I sa—”
A slim figure rushed at him like a speeding train from the shadows, hands slamming into Johan’s chest.
The edge of the hatch struck Johan at the base of his spine. The impact swung his body back and into the void.
Nat grabbed his legs.
“No!” Johan screamed. “Please!”
She flipped him backwards.
Johan plummeted through the darkness, screaming all the way down. He caught a glint of light on a moving surface a moment before he plunged into the water, sinking deep. He thrashed, cheeks bulged.
Johan pumped his arms and kicked. Eyes closed, he thrust out a hand and, feeling the lack of resistance, realised he’d broke the surface. He burst from the water, gasping and spluttering.
“Help me!” he cried.
The bottom of the shaft reeked. Sweeping his arms through the water, Johan felt lumps floating on the surface. He cried out with vomit spraying from his mouth, and dipped under the surface. Pushing his body up, he coughed out the putrid water.
“Please,” he wailed upwards. The open hatch at the top of the shaft allowed in a square of light. A shadow appeared, someone looking down.
“Help me!” Johan screamed again.
“There’s always a right time for action,” said Nat at the top of the shaft. The hatch slammed shut, bringing total darkness.
“No!” Johan tread water but his legs were already tired from the fight. His head slipped below a third time, the taste of shit and chemicals invading his mouth, his throat… his lungs.
Johan waved his hands above the surface and choked, inhaling more of the churned sewage.
Vanishing beneath, the foam closed over his body, silent and undisturbed.
EPILOGUE
~
ONE YEAR LATER
Nat chuckled and elbowed Max, sitting next to her in the booth.
Accompanied by two guys, both looking too young to be in the Fourth Dimension, the girl approached the bar. She wore knee high black vinyl boots and a red tartan miniskirt. Fishnet stockings covered the skin in between. Her tight black t-shirt had some band logo splashed across the front. Her hair, platted and tied in two long ponytails, hung from her head like droopy horns. Two circles of thick black makeup covered both eyes.
“And to think,” said Nat, “I used to walk around like that.”
“Things have changed,” said Max and sipped his drink. He winced. “What the hell is this?”
“Something Bubba made up. Told him it was our anniversary and he made something special. Why? Don’t you like it?”
“It’s too sweet,” he said and placed the glass back on the table. He smiled and scratched his head through his short hair. “But thanks anyway.”
At the bar, Monique glared at the three newcomers. She leaned on the bar. Bubba, bottle of rum and a glass in his hands, watched with interest.
“You think I be crazy, girl?” said Monique “You be eighteen, I be the Queen o’ Sheba.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” whispered Max.
The girl attempted to argue back, but Monique’s upturned hand cut her short.
“Unless I be seeing some ID, you be leaving.” Monique placed her hands on her hips.
“Do as she say, boys,” said Bubba and laughed. “Tha does not want to see ma woman get angry.”
Defeated, the three walked back out, their faces hung low.
Nat watched them go. “She’ll learn,” she said. “Probably not the way I did, but when she grows up…”
“Learn what?” Max took another sip and winced.
Bubba glanced over.
Max raised the glass and took a deep swig.
“You don’t need to stand out to be different,” said Nat and grabbed his hand, “to be happy.”
In the lift, they ascended to the fifth floor. Walking along the corridor, TVs played, actors’ voices muffled through the doors and walls. In well over a year, Nat still hadn’t seen any of her neighbours. Now, more than ever, she appreciated it.
At the end of the hall, she dug through the contents of her handbag and removed the key. Nat unlocked the door and swung it open.
“Agnes?”
In the living room a large, half-naked figure stood over the crib. Agnes lay in his arms.
“What… what are you doing?” cried Nat.
Jacob lifted the baby to his face and brought her head to his mouth.
“Jacob! No!”
Jacob gave the baby a small kiss on the forehead and gently laid her back inside the crib.
“I told you not to wake her up after nine,” moaned Nat and removed her coat.
“Can’t help,” said Jacob and turned around. The round scars on his chest and stomach stood out on his mottled skin. “She cute. She like Uncle Jacob.” He collapsed on the wide sofa beside Whistler, who quietly watched television.
Nat worried that the cheap sofa would snap in half every time he sat down.
“Not winding her up again, are you?” said Max and quickly closed the door. He approached the crib.
“Me?” said Jacob. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “No.”
“Pain in the arse,” said Nat and joined Max. “We’re going to get Alcazar to sit next time, even if his birds do shit all over the flat. You two should get jobs.”
“No jobs,” grunted Jacob. “Watch TV.”
Nat sighed and slid her arm around Max’s waist.
“I know it’s not perfect,” he said. “But isn’t it better that we’re all together?”
She sighed again and gave him a squeeze.
“Better a dysfunctional family than no family at all.” She smiled and looked down into the crib.
Their daughter gurgled contently and yawned. All of
her three eyes closed.
“A family,” said Max and kissed her on the head.
Daniel I. Russell is the author of Samhane, Come Into Darkness, Tricks, Mischief and Mayhem, The Collector and the Australian Shadow Award Finalist, Critique, currently living out in the country of regional south west Australia. All the sharks, spiders and snakes keep him awake at night, but his four children tend to scare them off.
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