Origin

by Greg McLean

  ‘Leth me go, Mick.’ Her teeth are broken and she spits blood. The cut lip adds to the scar on her face.

  ‘Something me dad taught me early on. You wanna catch a piece-of-shit dog, ya gotta use bait.’ He rips her dress down. Her scars stretch and glint in the daylight. He uses the knife she’d given him to cut away her bra and panties. She twirls, white.

  He heads for the blinds and she begins to thrash against her bonds. ‘Goddammit, you sthycho! Leth me go! Mick, don’t do thisth to me.’

  He falters, one hand on the blinds. ‘Stop . . . stop struggling. Why do you always have to struggle?’ The hippie chick: defiance in her eyes, the hatred, the disdain. He hates being looked at like that. How Rose is looking at him now.

  ‘Not like thisth, Mick. No, not like thisth.’ She bucks so hard her wrists bleed.

  He can’t take that look in her eyes and turns his back, opens the blinds wide and turns on all the lights.

  ‘I was out all day,’ he says, trying to stay calm. ‘Drove around till I could see I was being followed. Then I came back here plain as daylight. No hiding anymore. And when they come they’ll be distracted by you hanging like in a butcher’s window.’

  ‘What are you?’ She’s staring at him like he’s an insect, an alien. Like she’s seen beneath his mask too late. He feels flayed bare beneath that betrayed gaze and his skin crawls.

  ‘Stop looking at me like that. You wanted this. You made me —’

  ‘No! That wath me doing it.’ She angrily spits out another piece of tooth. Fixes him with her stare. ‘You hath no right —’

  He launches in, grabs her. ‘You shoulda let it go! But you kept pushin’.’ He thrusts her away, can’t stand being so close to her, her accusing eyes blazing so close. He backs away towards the door, trying to contain his emotion. He stands in the doorway panting, hands on either side of the jamb holding himself up. Then the calm comes and he smiles. ‘You made me realise something in the end: nothing matters in this life. Might as well have some fun.’

  She stares at him. ‘You killed thuh couple in the van. And . . . and the shhhooter from your station too. Tha’th why the polithe are coming for you.’

  ‘The police? Well, Roberts maybe. But we got visitors first.’ The calm’s flowing through him like ice water now and her anger at him no longer matters. He grins. ‘Just hang round and you might meet them.’

  ‘Mick!’

  He leaves her to thrash against the chains, spitting his name like it’s the Devil’s.

  *

  She fights like a trapped animal for so many hours he has to move away from the house or his resolve will break. By nightfall she’s twirling slowly, mumbling in delirium, and the sight of her hurts him so much he almost cries out with relief when he senses the shadow against the horizon beyond the northern windbreak of trees. It gives him something to focus on and forces her from his mind.

  Of course the fat fuck’d come in on the easiest route. The ground’s too uneven on the other side of the house and it’d require too much effort to walk up. The pedo has a shotgun crooked under one arm and a gutting knife in his belt. Despite his oozing bulk, his gait is silent as a cat’s.

  But Mick’s quieter. He’s crept up on feeding dogs, roos lying in the shade listening for movement, even birds pecking through underbrush. He can do this blindfolded.

  Jerry the Fiddler stalks on the balls of his feet, checking for reaction from the lighted house every few steps. Rose’s naked shape beckons. Although the man keeps sweeping the surrounding area, her form always draws him back. He can’t help pausing and gawking the closer he gets. Just something about a nude chick that stops men dead. Even pedos.

  The fat bastard hears a soft snap of a branch behind him and whirls the shotty. Teases the trigger. He’s armed himself well for close combat. At this range the double barrels would blow a man in half.

  Mick darts in from the side and has opened a grinning line across his distended belly and grabbed the gun before the bloke even sees him. Jerry stumbles, blinking with that first hot stab of pain, and grasps for his blade. Mick kicks him in the chest and he lurches backwards, his great stomach unbalancing him so he falls like a turtle on its back. He can only reach up and finger the spreading chasm of his gut. Yellowed fat peeks through the blood.

  Mick clamps the bastard’s mouth shut before he can scream and mark their position, in case the others are close.

  Mick grins. ‘Fat Jerry and his fuckpuppet.’ The man blinks tears of pain and surprise that roll down into his ears. ‘Ya know, I thought at the time you were one sick bastard. But now I realise: who am I to judge?’

  He pulls his hand away when the fucker licks it with a slobbery tongue.

  ‘There’s more . . . like us,’ the prone man manages. He’s having trouble speaking and holding his stomach closed with stubby fingers. ‘They’ll come . . . for you too, kid. Find you . . . like I did.’ His voice is higher pitched than Mick remembered from the bar, maybe from pain.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what Cutter said. Before I killed him and fed him to the dogs. He underestimated me ’cause I was young too.’ He raises the knife but the bloke’s not done yet.

  ‘Young? No – stupid.’

  Mick pauses, frowning.

  The man speaks in spluttered gasps. ‘You let that hippie girl go . . . Shoulda taken out . . . the truckies . . . You never let anyone go.’

  The man’s been fumbling for a rock behind him the whole time. Mick impales his hand to the ground. The blade slides nicely between the thin bones. As the man sucks in breath to scream, Mick jams a handful of leaves into his mouth. The pedo splutters up a dirt-flecked spume.

  ‘Thought you’d eat anything, ya fat cunt,’ Mick says. ‘I’m done learning from all of you. What was that song you were singing? “I don’t need you anymore. But you’re still mine.” Reckon it’s time for me to take over, hey?’ He pins the man’s other arm with one knee and plunges a hand into his bloated stomach, fists past the bulbous pockets of squelching yellow into his warm organs, finds something firm and pulls. Jerry tries to scream through the muck in his mouth as the ropes of his shit-filled intestines come into view. Then Mick plunges the first link into his mouth.

  Jerry puts up a hell of a fight but Mick still gets a couple of feet back into him.

  When it’s done Mick squats, admiring his work, breathing hard. ‘Anyone ever tell ya you were gonna eat yourself to death, Jezza? Looks like they were right.’ He gives the blood-smeared belly a slap.

  As he drags the body, with considerable effort, he looks at Rose still hanging inside. The lights will be too much of a challenge, as they had for Jerry here. She’ll draw the rest in like moths to a flame. He sees her face and has to look away, from an acid pang of something that nearly breaks him there and then.

  Not quite as jovial now, he puffs as he pulls along the fat man. He’s barely got the huge overfed bulk of his first kill of the night halfway to the house before he senses something on the edge of vision. He freezes and lowers slowly to the ground.

  His good humour returns.

  The brothers are flanking him, coming in quiet and deadly on foot from the south – where he would’ve come from. They’re even downwind. He smiles in the dark.

  We’ll see how stupid he is.

  They split and creep in from different angles and he can only concentrate on one of them: the smaller brother, Drago. Whippet-lean, the man moves silent through the overgrown patch of buffalo grass near the road. The canniest route he could have taken. With the ground sloping down from the house the younger Celepˇci can come in crouched and not be seen against the horizon. It’s only that Mick’s anticipating the approach and tracks him the moment the man cuts across the open expanse of the dirt track that he’s able to keep the Serb in sight.

  In the back of his mind he tries to keep aware of Vuka too – knows if he’s circling around the hillier overgrown veggie patch near the chicken coop, Mick’s got about fifteen seconds before he can help his brother.


  Drago passes within a foot of Mick’s hollow in the long grass. Hears nothing as Mick sweeps the strands aside and slaps the blade against his throat, stills the Serb’s hand clutching the bowie knife. ‘Heya, prickatel,’ Mick whispers, then hears too late the ruffle of feathers as Vuka already passes the chicken coop – must have run, using Drago as distraction.

  A click like a death knell in the quiet as the older brother chambers his gun. Mick angles Drago as a hostage. Peers around his slicked jet-black hair.

  Vuka grins at them on the edge of illumination from the house, his teeth white against his permanent five o’clock shadow. The barrel of his rifle looms.

  ‘Our little friend,’ Drago says, unmindful of the knife vibrating against his throat. ‘We said we would see each other again, yes? A shame it like this.’ He nods to the house. ‘You think that would draw us? It too obvious.’

  Mick shrugs. ‘Made you stay away from it. Meant you only had a few choices in. Easier to spot.’

  Vuka frowns. ‘You fuck up, Aussie Mick. Draw too much attention. Make it hard for all of us.’

  ‘Got that wrong, you garlic-eating wop fuck. There is no “us” after tonight.’

  ‘No. There isn’t. The fat man, he laid low. We knew about him, but he not problem for us. Once someone fucks up as you did, you need to go.’

  Mick can sense Drago plant his feet, knows he’s about to drop to one side so Vuka can get the shot. He holds the wiry man tighter, needing to buy time. Pulls him further back into the shadows. Vuka has to take a step towards him.

  ‘Something I don’t understand,’ Mick says casually as he gauges Vuka’s distance. ‘Jerry the Fiddler was fucked in the head, obviously. They don’t get any wronger than that twisted piece of slime. But you two? You’re a coupla good-looking blokes. And I’m not a poofta for saying it. So why?’

  The brothers hesitate, thrown. Have never considered this before. ‘Why do you?’ Vuka says.

  Mick pauses, grins. ‘Nah, don’t put this on me, ya funny bugger. I’m genuinely curious. I mean, who was the first one of you crazy bastards who said: well, we can’t fuck that sheila, might as well kill her then?’

  ‘We’re crazy?’ Vuka scowls. He nods to the house. ‘Isn’t that your woman?’

  Mick follows his glance and when he turns back the man’s squinting down the sight of his rifle. Mick crouches back behind Drago.

  ‘Your brother’s head’ll be on the ground before you get the shot off. You want that?’

  ‘Vuka was crack shot in paramilitary before coming here,’ Drago says. ‘He needs only a sliver of your skull. Even your muscle-twitch won’t be enough to kill me.’

  Mick tries to turtle his head into his neck. But it’s not enough. ‘No need to get angry, mate. We’re all friends here.’

  ‘You’re going to die.’

  ‘Apart from that.’

  ‘Stupid Aussie bitch dog. You blunder amongst us and expect us to let you live? You deserve to die for that.’

  Mick sighs. ‘Second person to call me stupid. Don’t appreciate it. I found you two, didn’t I? You Brylcreem-coated retard.’ He’s almost back into the trees by now.

  ‘You cannot run,’ Vuka warns. Mick stops. Then smiles. Tightens his grip on Drago.

  ‘Who’s quicker to the draw? Should be interesting, eh buggerlugs? See how good you really are. But one last thing: who come up with the rats? That was genius.’

  Vuka freezes. ‘How you know about that?’

  ‘I know a lot, prickatel.’

  Drago smiles a slow smile. ‘So you see the woman eaten. But the man too. How that make you feel, big man? Seeing his testisi eaten. Did you imagine how it felt? Imagine doing it yourself?’

  ‘Fuck you! Sick fuck!’ Mick almost loses it. ‘I don’t go in for that shit, you freak.’

  ‘I think maybe you do. You watched, didn’t you? Out here in the desert such things are . . . practical, is all. Take what you get.’

  Mick’s stomach tightens. He doesn’t like where this is going. ‘Maybe all you wops is poofs then. No morals. Must be a lovely home movie to show the family at Chrissie. You should invite them over from Wogland. If they’re not all dead yet. You blokes kill each other over there, right? Must be why you bring it here. Life’s cheap. Fucking dagos.’

  The man’s face screws into a snarl, takes the bait. Beside him, Drago growls. ‘You Australian fuck. You know nothing of us. Our culture. We rip you limb from limb, feed you your own balls, shit down your neck.’

  ‘True. Haven’t heard of that custom before.’ He’s glad to have them on the back foot again. ‘I know more than you think, though. Like which path you’d take tryin’ ta get to me. Younger brother in from the south, using the angle of ascent. Older, dumber brother around to the west to flank me. Knew how to keep you coming until I got you where I want you.’

  In a flash Drago grabs for the knife against his throat. Holds the handle long enough for Vuka to take the shot. ‘Still you die!’

  Vuka rips up the barrel to fire, taking a small step forward to steady himself. And steps square into the dingo trap.

  A snap like a croc’s bite. The air echoes in pain. It takes Vuka a second to react and then he howls and keels over, leg stuck to the ground like it’s nailed.

  Mick pulls all his bodyweight to one side and knocks the surprised Drago off balance. The Serb loses his grip on the knife and Mick cuts his throat in an instant. The flood of gore like a valve unlocked in his neck. The man bends and the black stream waterfalls to the ground.

  Mick crosses the distance before Vuka can even raise the rifle and sticks him to the hilt. The big man tries to throw him off but Mick stabs him again and again: quick short underhand thrusts in the guts. The man blinks surprise and relaxes beneath him as the blood runs over them both.

  Mick crouches above, grinning. ‘Pain’s not so fun when it’s happening to you, hey?’ He rattles the dog trap and the man screeches. ‘Any consolation, I woulda got you with one of these eventually, whichever path you took. Just one more to go – we’ll see if Roberts is any better than you lot.’

  Even on the brink of death the man looks up.

  ‘Yeah, Roberts,’ Mick says. ‘The cop. Hides it pretty well, don’t he? That whole cancer routine. Think I pissed him off so much he woulda come for you after he dealt with me, anyway. So he’s top dog. But at least we got to spend these last moments together. Wonder if your brother’s dead yet?’

  He raises the man’s head and they watch Drago, on his hands and knees, collapse to the ground. Vuka closes his eyes in anguish.

  Mick grabs a fistful of Vuka’s shirt. ‘You know what? You love each other so much, ya fucken poofs, maybe that’s how you should go out.’ He drags Vuka, trap and all, towards his brother. The Serb tries to scream with pain but his lungs have filled with blood and he can only gurgle bloody spit. His leg bumps over the ground.

  Drago has fallen onto his face and Mick uses all his strength to roll Vuka onto him. They lie together like something unnatural. Vuka’s guts bleed all over his brother’s arse. ‘There, that’s better. Brotherly love, hey? Y’can thank me in yer next life.’

  He notices the bowie knife glinting off to one side and grabs for it. ‘I like your knife by the way, Drags. You won’t be needing it anymore.’

  There’s a snap of a branch. A gun cocks.

  ‘Neither will you.’

  17

  Mick glances up, eases back from the knife. ‘Ya know, you’re looking well, Robbo. Cancer’s cleared up nice, hey?’

  ‘You’ve caused me a lot of grief,’ the policeman says from the darkness.

  ‘I know. I was watching.’

  The barrel of Roberts’ rifle wavers at that.

  ‘Yeah,’ Mick grins, ‘yer not the only one knows what the other’s up to. Not as well-covered as you thought. Poor Ol’ Kevvy. Did you really have to kill him? Or all these other murders got you stirred up? Feeling a bit jealous? A bit . . . toey?’

  He takes a step backwards, using the d
istraction of the conversation, but Roberts shakes his head. ‘I know where you got those traps buried, boy. Each one of them. They’re not going to help you now.’

  ‘Did you just call me boy?’

  The policeman smiles. ‘Think you’re a man, do ya? You’re nothing. You revealed yourself in no time. Like a fucken amateur.’

  ‘Cutter framed me.’

  Roberts chuckles, nods. ‘So, he gets you to take us out, then takes you out. He’s got free run.’

  Mick doesn’t say anything.

  ‘But you got him first.’ Again, Mick’s silence answers for him. ‘Well, that’s a shame, Mick. A bit older and ya mighta got away with it. Instead you brought hell down on your head.’

  Mick nods at the .243. ‘That’s a nice shooter. Me dad had a gun like that. Would do me nicely.’

  ‘Collecting, are we?’ Roberts smirks. ‘I think that’s at an end now. Boy.’

  Mick glares at him.

  ‘Walk.’ Roberts motions with the gun. ‘Or your girl dies slow. Months from now.’

  He’s got no choice. Mick walks toward the lit-up house, letting himself veer slightly near the grass when Roberts stops and picks up the knives he’d dropped.

  The policeman growls. ‘I told ya. I know exactly where the traps are. Walk!’

  He’s used up all his options. Mick has to head straight for the house. Inside, Rose hangs slumped like she’s already dead.

  Except she’s not.

  She stirs as they step in. Her wrists have rubbed to the bone and the blood streaks to her shoulders. Her legs have drained of strength. But she blinks awake through the pain and her eyes blaze when they see him. Mick falters and then she sees Roberts in the shadow of the doorway behind. The gun in his hand.

  A clattering knife skids past Mick’s toes. The same one Rose’d given him. ‘I want you to pick that up,’ Roberts says,‘and stab her.’

  Rose licks her cracked lips. ‘Fuck . . . the both of you,’ she croaks.

  Mick can’t move.

  ‘Do it, boy. Or I blow your head off. And then she’s mine. Think you’re a man? This should be easy.’