by Ron Elliott
Grace hung upside down in the back. With her red bra and the way her arms waved around, she looked like she might be dancing at a beach party.
Ned and Ellis were on the roof which was now the floor in a tangle of guns and glass and blood.
The car finally stopped sliding and did a little half turn, slowly rotating around on some point of the roof until it stopped.
Simon pushed the release on his seatbelt and fell past the steering wheel to the car roof. He crawled out through the missing driver’s window and leaned into the back and released Grace’s seatbelt. She dropped on top of Ellis, making him squeal.
‘Come on,’ said Simon. He dragged Grace out through her missing window.
Ellis was half under Ned. He kicked him off then slithered around on his elbows until he saw the pistol laying in front of him. He reached for it, but instead of his hand there was scraped skin and shattered bone. He growled and grabbed for the pistol with his left hand.
Simon tried to lead Grace off, but his leg was hurt. He pushed her towards the trees. ‘Go.’
She paused a moment, then ran awkwardly through the pine trees. Simon noticed she was wearing only one shoe.
Ellis crawled out of the car. Simon moved away from Grace, stopping at the nearest tree.
Ellis got up and leaned back against the car. He looked at his mashed wrist where a hand should have been, then to Simon.
Simon staggered between the trees towards the rising sun.
Ellis yelled, ‘You’re a dead man, Simon. A fucking dead man.’ Ellis coughed a gob of blood. He felt his chest and was sure there was a broken rib poking into something important. He pushed himself up off the car and trudged after Simon like a half blown-up Terminator working on its last battery pulses.
Simon limped up the rise but paused to try to figure out where he should go.
Ellis found the gap between that row of trees, saw Simon some ten trees up, raised the pistol and fired.
Simon staggered and fell. He grabbed at his calf then jumped up and tried to hop. He made it past a couple of lines of trees before the pain in his knee from the crash dragged him down again. There was a fallen pine tree nearby and Simon started to crawl for it.
Ellis came along the line of trees, bubbles of blood popping on his lips. He stopped when he saw some spots of blood on the ground, bright red against the yellow of the fallen pine needles.
Simon dragged himself behind the tree, pulled off his belt and tied it above his calf as a tourniquet. He got ready to get up, but Ellis’s face appeared over the log.
Ellis limped around the cut end of the tree, his gun hanging.
The sun was starting to hit the ground in places, golden and hopeful.
Ellis flopped down next to Simon and squealed in pain. He raised himself back up to rest his back against the rough pine bark and aimed the gun again, left-handed.
‘Ellis.’
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
Simon laid back on the sharp pine needles and closed his eyes. ‘I got the girl away.’
‘She got herself away.’
‘Yeah, I think you’re right.’
Ellis was trying to raise the pistol and sight along the barrel. He couldn’t focus.
Simon stayed down, feeling the pine needles prick him all over his back. It was a good smell, pine, first thing in the day.
‘You didn’t save those others.’
‘No.’
‘Your guy who you ran over doesn’t count.’
‘He does.’
‘Want to know how many I’ve killed?’
‘No.’
‘Now I’m going to kill you.’
Simon didn’t open his eyes. He just lay there. He could hear a bird somewhere. A willie wagtail, he thought, chirping angrily. Then he said, ‘When did I save your life?’
‘You know.’
‘School? When that kid had the stranglehold on you?’
‘Yeah. I knew you knew. Jiujitsu guy had me.’
‘You took to cornering guys in the change rooms after sport.’
‘Ha. Yeah, that way they couldn’t get away. I shit in one guy’s mouth after, too.’
Simon looked at Ellis. The gun was still aimed at him, but Ellis was leaning back on the tree with his eyes closed, blood dripping between his grin. ‘I was nearly passing out and there you were, Simon Carter standing in your ironed shirt talking to him like a psychiatrist. “No Steve. Steve don’t do it. Steve.” I watched you looking at him and talking to him and he stopped. He stopped strangling me. And you took him away. You were showing me, weren’t you? I think you’re nothing, Ellis, but I’m going to save your life and then not even ask for anything back.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘Foster’s got his money and that girl has got her tits and you got your brains. But see, I did pay you back.’ Ellis’s words trailed into a weak cough. The gun rested on his lap. His eyes stayed closed. He was smiling like a stoned idiot.
Simon propped himself up on one elbow. ‘That’s not why I did it. I didn’t stop Steve for you. I stopped him for him. He was going too far and would have regretted it later. My saving you was ... there was no plan. Just coincidences, and a jumble of things meaning nothing. My saving you was collateral kindness.’
Ellis sat not smiling. The gun was still pointed but Ellis was dead.
There was a footstep. Simon looked to see Grace coming from behind a tree. She had the .22. She aimed it at Ellis as she came forward. She pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. She kept coming and kept pulling the trigger but it was out of bullets.
Out of the Past
Simon and Grace limped out of the edge of the pine plantation into a tiny suburb of fake Tuscan homes with roll-on lawns. The retic was going in front of one of the houses. Others had newspapers waiting for folks to wake.
Simon smiled when he saw that it was The Pines. He led Grace into the cul-de-sac where he had delivered Frank, the drunk pie-seller. She’d gotten rid of her one shoe and she was barefoot. Her toenails were painted a bright purple colour.
Simon knocked on Frank’s front door.
Frank’s wife was dressed in tight-fitting tracksuit pants and a green blouse, ready for some power walking after she dropped the kids off to school. She opened the door to find two half naked people covered in blood. ‘Oh.’
Simon said, ‘Hi, is Frank home?’
Grace, her blood-smeared arms folded over her bra, nodded an encouraging smile through a swollen lip.
Frank, already in his white shirt and suit pants, came up behind his wife.
Simon said, ‘Frank, great. Listen, can you call the police?’
‘Do I know you?’ Frank stepped to the door, taking it from his wife. He was getting ready to close it.
‘I drove you home. Your car was stuck in a ditch.’
‘Oh, yeah. No worries mate. Got it back.’ Frank closed the door.
Simon reached quickly for the handle and opened it again before Frank had time to push the lock.
Frank straightened as Simon pulled Bobby/Ellis’s gun from his belt. ‘Frank, this isn’t acceptable.’
‘What’s going on?’ said Frank’s wife from the edge of the kitchen as Frank retreated, his hands raised like he’d seen on television.
Simon and Grace followed. Two kids dressed for school were sitting on the other side of a table eating their breakfast. There were eight different kinds of cereal boxes on the table. In an alcove near some glasses was a little television emitting animated kid-show noises. There were lots of boings and skids, no English required.
‘Hi kids,’ said Grace.
No one was looking at her or the TV or Simon. They were completely focused on the gun with a collection of expressions ranging from fear to wonder. Frank’s wife let her eyes follow Simon’s leg down to where blood was staining her carpet.
Simon said, ‘This is not acceptable, Frank. Just common courtesy. Politeness. Dealing with another human being in a civilised manner. I mean, Ellis ... Ell
is was just always Ellis. A seriously damaged, hurting, animal kind of thing. But surely we haven’t all devolved back into jungle behaviour. We know there are deranged evil things, but don’t the rest of us have to be better, then? Make some effort?’
Frank, his wife and one of the kids stood or sat transfixed trying to look like they agreed with what Simon was saying. The other kid had gone back to watching the cartoon.
Grace touched Simon’s shoulder. She rubbed the skin gently then patted him.
Simon looked down at the pistol in his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I can do better than this.’ He stepped to the freezer and put it on a packet of frozen crinkle-cut chips. He closed the freezer door firmly. ‘Right, let’s forget the gun. Frank, let’s forget that I helped you a couple of nights ago. Let’s say, I’m a complete stranger, who is in need. I’m asking you for kindness, sir. Let’s say, I’ve asked you for a lift into town and you say, hey, sure.’
Frank never took his eyes off the freezer. He said, ‘Hey, sure.’
The automatic door of Frank’s garage wound up and Frank’s car, from that first night, eased out into the bright sunshine. Grace was driving. She wore a green tracksuit top. Simon wore Frank’s shirt. It was clean and ironed.
Grace turned the car out of the driveway and down the cul-de-sac and out onto the road.
FOR THE BIRDS
Connectivity: the extent to which components of a network are connected to one another and the speed with which they can converse.
–ABC Definitions On line
Convergence: the tendency for different technological systems to evolve towards performing similar tasks.
–Diction fairies
The taxi pulled into the quiet tree-lined cul-de-sac observed by a Ninox connivens connivens, commonly known as the barking owl. A dog barked somewhere, but not the owl. It watched Adam emerge from the back of the taxi and go to the popped boot to get out a slightly fire-singed suitcase. Adam was dressed in jeans, a checked shirt and cowboy boots, a little bit too country even for 1991.
‘Wanna shut the boot there, mate?’ called the taxi driver.
Adam did, then put the suitcase on the curb next to a neat row of metal rubbish bins. He went to the back seat and got out a covered birdcage and set that down next to the suitcase before going to the driver’s window.
‘Forty-four thirty. Make it an even forty-five.’
Adam looked up from his wallet. ‘That’s a lot.’
‘There was that detour I explained about and the live animal transporting fee, and you know, now you’ve seen the city – even went past the museum. Lot bigger than ... where did you say you was from?’
‘Mukinbudin.’
The taxi driver said, ‘Welcome to the big smoke,’ as he plucked the fifty from Adam’s hand and drove away.
Adam turned to look at the maisonette-style flats. Four flats, two above the two below. There was an ornate entrance way in the middle. ‘Number two, Chris,’ he said to the birdcage before picking it up. ‘The key is hidden under the mat. Lovely garden.’
The owl sniffed the air. She thought she smelled canary. She liked canaries. They tasted like chicken. Most things tasted like chicken. Even mice. She barked hopefully.
***
During the meandering taxi journey through the streets of the city Adam had indeed passed the impressive sandstone museum. Twice. The taxi driver had noted the age of the building and the night lighting of the façade. It had been dark within and still was now, long closed for the day.
Inside, two figures flitted from shadow to shadow. An imposing polished jarrah staircase led up. A threadbare polar bear stood near a toilet door. In a huge room off the other way the plastic replica of a pterodactyl skeleton shone white in the darkness. The likeness of an Archaeopteryx fossil, urvogel, glowed in a cabinet beyond.
Paul crept from beneath the stairs to a computer set on a black velvet– covered stand. He pushed the green plastic button which activated the multimedia program. A poorly lit photograph of the museum appeared on the screen with a superimposed title: Your Museum. Music played, neither driving nor particularly inspiring, filling the gaps in the commentary, like instrumental putty. The voice of a local newsreader spoke in a friendly tone. ‘Welcome to your museum.’
‘Can you turn the sound down?’ Jane whispered, stepping up behind Paul.
Paul fiddled with a dial but it didn’t seem to change anything. He used the arrows on the keyboard to bring up the floor plans of different levels of the museum.
‘You were supposed to have done this already, Paul!’
‘I’m just checking,’ he lied.
‘Antiquities – third floor,’ she pointed. ‘Come on.’
A photograph of a metal ball came up. It nestled on blue satin. Regal trumpets, muted. ‘One of your museum’s most prized possessions is on loan from St Petersburg. The Princess’s Ball is a perfect sphere fashioned entirely from gold.’
‘Turn the bloody thing off and let’s go,’ hissed Jane.
Paul pushed the red plastic stop button but there seemed to still be a few bugs to iron out in the cutting-edge technology of the museum’s multimedia display. Drawings of a Wiccan goddess holding a triple moon replaced graphs of the world’s rarest metals. The voice kept explaining as Paul put on his balaclava and picked up his very heavy canvas bag and shuffled after Jane.
‘The triple moon of maiden, mother and crone, waxing, full and waning moon, is associated with feminine energy, mystery and psychic abilities.’
Upstairs a guard walked past a large glass cabinet depicting an avian-themed bush scene. There were dead trees full of stuffed birds and a fake waterway with stuffed ducks. A swan sat atop a nest. A dugite lurked. There were eggs everywhere. The guard shone his torch across the dusty little glass eyes until he found his favourite, a pink cockatoo. ‘Polly want a cracker,’ he said. ‘Bwark, bwark.’ He listened. Somewhere downstairs there was someone talking.
‘With a circumference of seventy centimetres, the Princess’s Ball is hollow at its core, but scientists suggest the gold crust to be of two hundred and fifty millimetres in thickness.’
The guard moved carefully down the stairs, his torch at the ready.
Jane and Paul slipped into the Antiquities room as soon as he passed. There were cabinets of special crockery, some weathered clay soldiers, many large vases and urns. In the centre of the room, spotlit, in a protective glass case, surrounded by red alarm beams, lay the golden ball. It was smooth and unadorned. It glowed on the blue satin bed.
Paul opened the canvas bag and picked through intricate cutting devices and complicated electronic measurers.
Downstairs the guard went to the multimedia computer. It was on again, droning its endless trivia. ‘The orb contains seventy ounces of eighteen-carat gold. At today’s gold prices, this makes the ball extremely valuable. However, as an artefact, the Princess’s Ball is of inestimable value.’
Jane stood by the door, keeping lookout.
Paul examined the electronic beams and the intricate wires leading to the base of the cabinet thoughtfully before taking a sledgehammer out of his bag. He took a deep breath then a full swing. Glass smashed and the cabinet tumbled. The ball fell to the floor with a crack and stuck. It sat there in the dent of broken floorboards like an egg in a wooden nest.
Alarms began to howl. Lights flashed and swept.
***
Adam woke, panting, to orange light pulsing in the darkness. His first thought was bushfire. He jumped up ready to get water to the hay shed, but he wasn’t on the farm anymore. He could hear bangs and clatters outside. There was a metallic grinding noise. A motor.
He went to the window. A huge blue truck with a rotating orange light on top idled and revved in the street as men with big metal rubbish bins on their shoulders ran to the bins behind a shopping centre, throwing down their lids with more clatters and up-ending them. They wore blue singlets and bandanas but their sweat glistened in the orange light. They wrestled and dragged the metal b
ins back to the growling truck, its back open and mashing. They hurled abuse at each other and laughed aggressively.
Then Adam saw they weren’t all men. One was a woman, although she had the same short army-style haircut, wore the same shorts and sweat-dripping biceps. She emptied a small bin near the flats and tossed it into the brick letterbox next door. She spat from between perfect white teeth.
The truck rumbled on down the hill, its rear closing and squashing with the faintest gurgle somewhere in its guts. The garbos fell in behind, chanting like army grunts in training, ‘Boom chugga lug, boom chugga lug.’
Adam woke, sweating, at dawn, wondering if he had heard more banging noises upstairs. He looked at the ceiling. There were many cracks, like a map of country roads. This was not his room. That was gone. Adam’s suitcase lay open on a dressing table. He thought he could hear sawing.
He went to his window and looked out. There were empty bins lying behind the shopping centre, lids scattered. Some paper blew, caught by an easterly. It hovered then drifted towards a tree in the garden.
Adam was dressed for work in a blue short-sleeved shirt and a blue tie. He opened and closed empty cupboards as he explored the furnished but unstocked flat. ‘Did those garbage collectors wake you up last night? The city sure is noisy.’
‘There’s a cat! A real brute of a thing. Sat outside the window most of the night, watching me.’
Adam left the kitchen and investigated the adjacent lounge room. There was a couch, chairs and a little desk in the corner. ‘I thought I might get one of those personal computers. You can get CD-ROMS full of information. A whole encyclopedia. Anything you want to know.’
‘I’m pretty sure I heard an owl too. I was hoping he’d get the cat. Adam, we gotta get outta here.’
On a table in front of the lounge window sat the birdcage. Inside a canary jigged up and down on his perch, agitated.
Adam looked into the canary’s plastic feeder box. ‘Chris, you’ve eaten all your food.’
‘Comfort food. I ate to reduce stress. It didn’t work. I’m going through a lot right now.’