“N-now?”
“Afraid so.”
“N-no, I’m n-not going anywhere. I want to see to my poodle. You can’t just break in to somebody’s home. I haven’t done anything wrong.” He stood up.
The young uniformed officer grabbed his shoulder.
Harry froze, and pushed back an impulse to react.
“Sit down.”
“Cuff him,” said the plainclothes police officer.
“W-What for? I said I haven’t done anything.”
“Arms out.”
Harry looked at the young uniformed officer, and thought about it. He held out his arms, and closed his eyes as the cuffs were put on.
“We had a tip off that you had a young girl in here and she was screaming. What do you expect us to do, and there’s blood everywhere outside?”
“W-What? That’s nonsense.”
“You do know Mackenzie Tyler?”
“Of course. W-why?”
“You saw her yesterday?”
“She was here last night.”
“A nine-year-old? Here? Alone with a grown man?”
“It’s not what you think. She’s always here. I look after her, for her grandparents.”
“And you hurt her?” He watched the faces of the policemen, their eyes never left him, watched his every reaction.
“S-She’s hurt?” His stomach lurched and he stood up. When Kim had died giving birth to Mackenzie, he hadn’t been there. He didn’t even know that she had given them a daughter. But her parents had taken her in, brought her to the small country town of Whittleside Way, and raised her. Harry followed.
The young constable closed his eyes and nodded.
A chill passed through Harry and he went cold.
“We thought that you might be able to shed some light on that,” said the plainclothes policeman.
“H-how? W-w-what’s w-wrong with her?”
“Young Mackenzie was found strangled nearby. Late last night.”
“You’re lying! She c-c-can’t be.”
“You’re a sick pervert!” The policeman snapped. “And now she’s dead!”
Harry felt sick, and he fell into the chair. Grief struck him, like a knife that twisted in his gut. Tears clouded his vision. He shook his head. His daughter was dead? “This can’t b-be true.”
“Very convincing. You can tell us about it at the station.” Harry felt a hand on his arm, encouraging him to stand.
“I can’t h-help you. I d-don’t know anything.”
“Then tell me why we found her less than 100 meters from here. Yours is the last house before the forest?”
A memory tugged at Harry, something important. “Not dow-n by the large oak?”
“Told you he’d know something, Constable,” said the plainclothes policeman. His smile never touched his eyes.
Harry shook his head and tried to blink away his tears. “This can’t be a c-coincidence,” he said as his stutter cleared. “I’ll come with you, but I need my icebox from the bedroom.”
“Your icebox? What would you want that for?”
Harry stared at the plainclothes officer for a moment and shrugged. “I take it everywhere.”
“I’ll check it out, Constable.” He walked into Harry’s bedroom.
When he returned, he grabbed Harry’s singlet, pulled Harry off balance and onto the floor.
“You’re a sick man, Harry Mills.” He yelled and poked his finger hard into Harry’s chest. “I want that thing out of that icebox and buried if we release you. Understood?”
“What’s in it?” asked the constable.
“Don’t ask.” He glared at Harry.
* * *
Harry sat in the back of the police car and clenched and loosened his fists in rhythmic fashion. Turmoil churned within him like malice. He didn’t care about being handcuffed, nor was it the first time he’d been a prisoner.
He had forced himself to be still during the time they had put the cuffs on and walked him out to the car, but he had observed everything. He took in the 12 gauge in the boot of the police car. There would be shotgun cartridges in the glove compartment. The keys to his cuffs were in the left hand pocket of the plainclothes officer—another mistake—the man had chosen to drive and would be unable to stop Harry. And there was no barrier between the front and rear seat. Harry took a deep breath and exhaled, pushed away the compulsion to respond when he was restrained. He reminded himself that these men were not the enemy, that this was an honest mistake. To ensure that he could exact revenge for Mackenzie, he had to stay in control. There was something about that oak tree, the location of her death.
“Breathing a bit hard there,” said the uniformed officer with a grin. “He’s sweating too, Senior. I’d say that those were signs of a guilty man.”
Both men laughed from the front seat.
“Anything you want to say to help make it easy for you?”
Harry leaned forward. “Tell me about what you found at the scene. How was she killed? Was there anything odd hit you about it? Was it ritualistic?”
“Shut up! We ask the questions, not you.” The man turned to his senior. “Jesus, what is all this crap? I thought you said he was the stuttering bookseller from the main street?”
Mackenzie! Anguish like bile filled Harry’s stomach. He turned away from the men’s senseless chatter and looked out the window. Strobing from the passing street lights, a constant pull of light and dark created hypnotic shadowy images. Harry’s skin tightened and his heart rate climbed. It was best to let his mind wander.
The image of a parade ground appeared. Harry smiled as he remembered how he felt, fresh and green, just out of school.
“You men listen up,” said McNeil, their drill sergeant as he dusted off his army greens. He bent down and picked up a weapon. “This is the M60, air-cooled gas-operated open bolt machine gun. It’s effective up to eleven hundred meters and can fire nine hundred seven point six two millimetre rounds in less than two minutes. The results are devastating. It’s got a kick like a mule, and a bite like a snake. With a velocity of eight hundred and sixty meters a second it will penetrate six millimetres of thick steel plate at five hundred meters, or a flak jacket at one hundred meters. A round from this baby will pass through you like a hot knife through butter. From now on it’s your best friend. Whenever you have a shower you give it a clean. If it gets a grain of sand on it or a spec of dust, you give it a clean. You don’t eat; you don’t sleep, shit or shave unless it’s clean, cocked, and ready to be fired.” He stopped and grinned as he put the M60 down. Then he picked up a rifle and lifted it into the air. “This is the L1A1 SLR, or self-loading rifle. Like the M60, it also takes the seven point six two millimetre rounds. If the M60’s your friend, then this baby is your girlfriend. You kiss her at least once a day, sleep nice and close to her every night. You treat her well men, like your life depended on it.” He kissed the rifle and then put the weapon down.
“Understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
McNeil’s eyes bulged. “Don’t call me sir! I work for a living! I said DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“YES SERGEANT!!!” cried the men in unison.
“Good. It might be the only thing between you and a body bag. Special Air Service Regiment use these weapons so don’t think that they’re for pussies. They got a cut down version they call ‘The Bitch’, so do the right thing by her.”
Harry smiled over the recollection. It had taken a while to get his head around what he wanted to do in the service, but he earned his SASR badge and the right to carry ‘The Bitch’.
The desert heat of Al-Bahra returned with the sound of machine guns. Harry smelled death.
“Grenade!”
He ducked as a dull thud reverberated around him. A man screamed. Harry tensed and—
The police radio crackled into life. Harry remembered that he was under arrest. At least the urge to harm had vanished.
“Sierra Vixen Two Three, this is Mitre One, over.” There was stati
c at the end of the stranger’s voice transmission on the radio.
“Roger Mitre One. Send,” said the plainclothes officer.
“Mitre One . . . ” There was a long pause on the radio. “Tell me you don’t have Harry Mills in the car with you right now.”
“Yep! We got him good and proper, Mitre One. Bastard’s on his way in for more questioning.”
There was more silence on the other end of the radio transmission. Then the voice bellowed from the radio. “He’s a decorated war hero for God’s sake.”
“Sorry, but he’s all but admitted to killing Mackenzie.”
“Idiots! You let him go right now. He won’t say, and most people don’t know, but Mackenzie is his daughter. Harry wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Dust stirred as the car pulled up on the side of the road.
The radio crackled to life again. “Harry, it’s Dave Randall. You still on that medication for your trauma?”
Harry nodded. He raised both arms so they could remove the handcuffs. “I t-t-told you that I d-d-didn’t have anything to d-d-do with her death.”
* * *
“I’m sorry, Harry,” said Anne, a local poodle breeder. “I can’t give you any more of my poodles. Four have gone missing in as many years. I don’t know what’s going on but I want my dogs to go to a good home.” She turned to look at her sister, Mavis, standing nearby. “And before you interrupt, Mavis, it’s not personal. Harry’s a good man, but I just want them to go to someone I can be sure can give them a long and happy life.”
“It’s got nothing to do with poor little Mackenzie either,” added Mavis. “We know that you loved her like a daughter. I don’t know how the police ever thought it might have been you.”
“I-I don’t know how they d-did either. Bu-bu-but I wish they w-would hurry up and f-find out w-who did it. It’s b-been months now.
Anne paused and gave Harry a mournful look. “You understand Harry. Don’t you?”
Harry considered what Anne had said, while he tried to quell the nervous blinking. “Of c-c-c-course.” He agreed, voice low and quiet. He understood completely, and turned away and walked off, head down, carried the icebox that went everywhere with him.
“He was a good butcher,” said Mavis loud enough for Harry to hear as he traipsed back to his car, “but with that terrible business with his poodles and now young Mackenzie, it’s taken a toll on the poor man. Your poodles are all he’s got, Anne.”
“I know,” Anne said. “But I’m more worried about the dogs. I heard another of my poodles was slaughtered and left on his doorstep one night. It’s all very upsetting if you ask me. They say that he carries one around in that icebox of his.”
“No,” said Mavis with surprise, “I’ve never heard such things!”
“Oh yes, but you’re right about one thing Mavis. He hasn’t been coping since Mackenzie.”
Harry slammed the door of his car, and silenced the women’s gossip. He looked in the mirror and waited for the nervous blinking to subside; something that began when he lost Kim, and yes, the women were right, it was worse with Mackenzie’s death. It was as though he’d swallowed sharp knives. Military training that had helped him compartmentalise everything about her—so he could manage each day—but he was sure that the anxiety, the stutter, and blinking wouldn’t go until he found closure.
* * *
Harry sat on his chair at the bookshop, and ground his teeth in frustration, until his jaws ached. A search around by the oak tree, where Mackenzie died, had revealed nothing. What troubled him most was the stir of a distant memory that failed to surface. He knew it was important. It would come to him, eventually.
The sound of a bus rambling down the main street interrupted his reading, and he pushed the chair back and stood nervously. It was half-past-three, and his pulse climbed. The nervous blink returned. School children invaded the Main Street, flooded into shops. Mackenzie had always showed up about now.
A small group tumbled into his shop—loud schoolkids—and scattered to the four corners. “Found your poodle yet Harry?” The taunt came from behind the safety of the tall, but narrow rows of bookshelves. Another boy stood in the open, behind an open comic, stuttering loudly to the cheer of a small group of adolescent boys. “Sorry about your p-poodles, H-Harry!” The unsympathetic comment was followed by sniggers as some of the boys ran out the shop.
Harry heard the groan of the door to the adult’s book section. “G-G-Get out of there!” He raced over and opened the door. “You’re t-too young!” For the boys it was the most interesting room in the shop. Men of all kinds would call, too, usually around lunch time, others just before closing; eager to get their fill of titillating, yet trashy magazines.
Gilbert Smyth stood in the doorway; he wore a smirk that screamed trouble. He was Harry’s neighbour, in his final year of school, and his thick, dark hair was slicked down flat against the side of his face. He walked everywhere with his mouth wide open, shirt half out, and a sullen downcast eyes.
“G-G-Go on, g-get out! You’re n-not eighteen yet!”
“Doesn’t stop me from doing anything I want, old man.”
“J-J-Just get out,” said Harry. A few boys behind Gilbert laughed.
“What are you going to do about it, pathetic old man? Couldn’t even protect Mackenzie from the cold.”
“Ge-Ge-Get out!” Harry roared in a rage. “Ge-Get out of my shop, or else.”
“Or else what? What will you do? St . . . st . . . stutter all over me?”
Everybody laughed.
“I’ll s-s-speak to your mother L-L-Lyn!”
“Like she has a say in what I do. Don’t you ever mention her name again—you lost that right a long time ago.”
Harry nodded; he had dated Gilbert’s mother, when she moved into the district.
Gilbert turned and looked around at all the books in the room, and leered. “Come on, let’s have some fun somewhere else.”
Harry locked the front door, turned off all the lights and crawled into the furthest corner of the room, fists clenched and held tight to his head. Armed combatants he could deal with, but nothing in the forces had trained him for this. The taunts about his poodles were more frequent. His beautiful fiancée, Kim, Mackenzie, and his poodles; they had been happier times. Four of his poodles had gone missing over several years, all had been decapitated.
He looked over to the icebox, to where Snoop, his most prized poodle was stored. Kim and he had bought him when things were better. Snoop had been their dog and they bought her a gold medallion to celebrate her naming ceremony. It had been a wonderful gesture, symbolic of their commitment to each other, just as much as Snoop’s long life with them. They would each take turns spoiling her, as if she was their child. When he returned from theatre, after Kim’s death, Harry put the medallion on Snoop’s chain to remember her. That was the night he found Snoop dead by the oak tree, decapitated. Snoop symbolised everything that had been great about his life; Kim, a future together, that’s why he’d had Snoop embalmed, why he carried Snoop around with him in the icebox, so he wouldn’t forget Kim.
Harry pulled his fists away from his head and stood. That was it! His beautiful Mackenzie! A daughter he had not known about until he returned from the war. She had been found at that oak tree. All his dogs, Mackenzie, there had to be a connection. But what? Kim had died, and Mackenzie had moved to live with her grandparents. The town didn’t harbour any resentment against him, Mackenzie, or her grandparents.
* * *
Harry sat in the park along the edge of the river, and put down his book and watched the ducks quack nervously around him. It was his favourite time and he enjoyed the warmth of autumn sun on his back. He threw some sandwich crusts down for the ducks and watched as they gobbled up the scraps.
The voice of a local tour guide whose name escaped him drifted past as he lectured a small group of children. This area was a regional boundary for the Kaurna and Peramak people. He followed the conversation.
“
This was neutral territory and different groups met together for ceremonies and danced at the full moon—”
“Late lunch?”
Harry turned and faced Alice, the local proprietor of the furniture shop next door to his bookshop.
She smiled.
He liked Alice a lot, and shifted on the bench to give her room to sit. They’d been on a couple of dates together, and she had made it clear that if Harry wanted, their relationship could go a lot further. “You could say. A business proposition I couldn’t refuse.”
“Shop all locked up for a while?” She sat down beside him and rubbed his arm.
He nodded. “I was told to come back at three.”
“Harry, I don’t know why you do it, loaning the shop out like that. I think it’s disgusting! A grown man and women having sex in your bookstore! It’s just not right.”
Harry nodded helplessly. “It’s money. It helps pay the bills.”
Alice sighed. “What’s happened to you, Harry? Why do you put up with it? You could get a job anytime you wanted as a butcher again. You wouldn’t be hiding out in that dark little shop of yours. You’re a damn good butcher, if I remember. Go and take up that offer to work with Stripes Meat! Move if you have to, just grab hold of your life again. I’m here for you.”
“I know.” He squeezed her hand. “I don’t know if I can be bothered. It’s been a hectic couple of years, and now, Mackenzie. I just need some time to find myself again.”
She patted his hand. “It’s been hard for you, I’ll be the first to admit that, but you just can’t sit on your hands. You wonder why they don’t have any respect for you. Stand up to them—all of them. The town, the students, the mayor and his dirty little secretary. Don’t think people don’t know what’s going on right now in your shop.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Harry nodded in agreement and found some more food to throw the ducks.
They sat there is silence, just enjoying the quiet day until Harry looked at his watch and stood up. “I suppose I should go and tidy up, before the boys visit, “ said Harry.
“You mean Gilbert Smyth?” She shuddered. “There’s something about that boy. He gives me the creeps.”
The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2013 Page 31