Strange Ink

by Gary Kemble

  He climbed into the shower, turned the water on to almost fully cold, and gradually stepped under the jet. The cool water ran down the front of his body. He dipped his head under and the first rivulets ran down his back. He steadied himself against the wall, gritting his teeth. Groaned. He watched the water turn red around his feet. Eased himself under a bit more, until he could rest his forehead against the tiles. The water hammered his abused flesh. He shoved two knuckles into his mouth and bit down to stop himself greying out, and soon blood was oozing from his hand as well, running down his arm and off his elbow.

  He had no idea how long he stood like that, under the water. When numbness replaced pain, he turned off the taps and sat down in the tub, leaning over his crossed legs. Within seconds the oppressive heat was on him again. He cried, in anguish this time.

  ‘You fuck. You fucking fuck! You’re gonna pay.’

  But he didn’t know who he was talking to. He wasn’t even sure if it was him talking.

  ***

  Harry looked at the picture on his iPhone. It wasn’t the best photo ever taken. It wouldn’t win any awards. It wouldn’t appear in any tattooing magazines, but that was nothing to do with the artwork. Even in pain, even in anger, Harry could see that this tattoo was a masterpiece.

  Bright red poppies covered his shoulders, each one pretty much life-size. That was part of the reason he hadn’t been able to see the design. He thought his flesh had been stripped away but it was just the blood blending in with the ink. As the poppies drifted down his shoulder blades, they changed to pale skulls. And then the skulls faded, blending back into his skin. It reminded Harry of an Escher drawing: ducks turning into fish.

  He went to the fridge and got himself a beer. He didn’t care if it was ten on a Sunday morning. It was hot enough to be lunchtime and if this latest invasion didn’t warrant a beer then he didn’t know what did. His hands shook as he broke it free of the six-pack and twisted off the lid. He slumped in his chair and took a long drink, enjoying the harsh bitter taste.

  He couldn’t think of what happened in Afghanistan as a nightmare. It was a memory. It was the sort of thing that veterans were plagued by when they returned from a war zone. A flashback. He was having someone else’s flashbacks. He guessed the tattoos went with that.

  He pulled his notebook over to him and jotted down some notes, pausing every now and then to drink. The man’s name was Rob. A military man. Probably special forces. Australian accent so that probably meant SAS, although he could have been a commando. Involved in the Fajar Baru debacle. Deployed to Afghanistan. Harry didn’t know what date. Post-2001 was as good as it got at the moment.

  Did he live here? Harry added a couple of extra question marks, underlined the query. Ghosts usually inhabited places that were significant to them. Ghosts? Harry laughed. Here was his notebook. Full of shorthand accounts of accidents waiting to happen and morning-tea fundraisers and wedding anniversaries, and now he was writing about ghosts and it wasn’t the story of some crazy man – Harry taking notes just to appease him – it was his own story.

  There were aspects of this mystery Harry could tackle with the skills he’d honed over the years at the Chronicle. Asking questions. He could find out about the history of the house. That was a piece of piss. He could start right now, with the neighbours. A nurse, coming and going at all hours of the day and night; she’d have plenty of information on previous tenants. He could do some database research, go through the newspaper archive and see if anything significant had happened on this street. Harry felt a bit better, knowing that he was starting to gather enough information to take action.

  But he was going to have to go even further off the reservation on this one, employ techniques that were foreign to him. He finished the beer, got another one and then went to the study and grabbed his laptop. He had a quick scout around the news and his email before he got started – a bad habit, ingrained procrastination. Then he went to Google and typed in ‘Brisbane psychics’. Thousands of results popped up. Most of them looked dodgy. The readings were done over the phone or via email. The websites were all pastels and soft focus. The names seemed made up. About halfway down the first page, there was a news result.

  Psychic finds wrong body.

  Harry scanned the article. The psychic, Sandy Flores, had been given information from the spirit world about the disappearance of a teenager from the Sunshine Coast three years before. Every night for a week she had dreamt about finding the body, in bushland near the Mooloolah General Cemetery, in the shade of the Glasshouse Mountains.

  She informed police, and took them to the spot. They didn’t find the body, but they found a body. A man’s torso. Police dogs were brought in. They located a head, arms and legs three-hundred metres deeper into the bushland, in an old suitcase. They were still trying to identify the man.

  Harry googled the woman’s name. There was no website. Nothing at all, certainly nothing with soft focus and pastels. Instead, there was a White Pages listing. Harry jotted down the name and number.

  There was something about the story. Harry wasn’t put off by the fact that she’d found the ‘wrong corpse’. Instead, he found it comforting. It meant that something was going on with her, unless she was involved with the man’s death.

  He scanned further down the search results. She had a blog, last updated two years ago. At that point she was offering her services, doing readings. But then something happened and she gave it all away.

  Harry picked up his phone and dialled her number. While it rang, he doodled in the margins of his notebook. Poppies, skulls, a tattoo machine.

  ‘Hello?’ Wary.

  ‘Hello, is this Sandy Flores?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Hi. My name’s Harry Hendrick, I’m a journalist with. . .’

  ‘Look, I’m not talking to anyone else. That last bastard told me it was off the record and. . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not calling about the body.’

  ‘I don’t care what you’re calling about. Goodbye.’

  ‘Wait!’

  Something about the tone of his voice gave her pause. She didn’t hang up.

  ‘Look. I am a journalist. But that’s not why I’m calling. It’s sort of a habit to introduce myself like that.

  ‘Something weird is going on. I think I might be haunted. . . or possessed, or something.’

  Silence. For a long while, he thought she was going to hang up. He could hear her breathing. He could hear magpies calling in the background.

  ‘You think you might be haunted? I don’t do readings anymore,’ she said.

  ‘I know. That’s why I called you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The people who are doing readings – they look, I don’t know, they look kinda dodgy.’

  Another pause. Shorter this time. ‘So, what’s been happening?’

  Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes. With his free hand he massaged his temples. He would’ve thought that with each telling, it would get easier. But it was the opposite, as if each revision of the story made it more real and, thus, more terrifying.

  He started with the night out, the buck’s night, and the tattoo the following morning. Then the nightmares. The tattoo parlour visit. The second tattoo, and the revelation that it was the design of someone who’d apparently just dropped off the scene. He finished up with the tattoo that arrived overnight, the blood on the sheets, and the strong feeling that he wasn’t having nightmares, he was having memories, delivered by the tattoos’ DNA.

  By the end of the story he was shaking, he’d downed another beer, and the poppies on his back were throbbing. He felt dizzy again, and forced himself to take a deep breath. He waited for Sandy to say something. There was nothing, not even the breathing. For a moment Harry thought the line had cut out. Wouldn’t that be a laugh, having to go through it all again. Then she cleared her throat.

  ‘I’m not bullshitting you,’ Harry said. ‘I know this sounds like some sort of schizo.
. .’

  ‘No, I know you’re not lying,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard of a spirit manifesting like this. I’m picking up some odd vibrations, just talking to you. It’s. . . it’s all jumbled up. . .

  ‘I. . . I don’t do readings anymore. I told you that, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But. . . there’s definitely something going on. I’d need to meet you.’

  ‘That’s fine. Of course.’

  Another pause. A sigh. Harry could sense her reluctance. He dealt with this a lot, as a journalist. People who wanted to commit, but had trouble actually going through with it.

  ‘Whenever is convenient,’ Harry said. ‘And wherever. We could meet at a coffee shop or something if. . .’

  ‘No. No. I’d prefer if we met here. This person, this spirit, do you have anything of his?’

  ‘No. Well, the tattoos,’ Harry said.

  ‘The tattoos. Yes, that’ll do.’

  ‘Okay. When?’

  ‘Friday?’ she suggested.

  ‘Okay,’ Harry said. Then he remembered the awards night. This was more important. But he couldn’t explain it to Christine, and she’d be livid if he missed it. ‘Hang on. Sorry, I’ve got a thing on Friday. Saturday?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She gave him the address. It was up the coast, at least an hour’s drive away. Near the Glasshouse Mountains. The thought of his new tattoo rubbing against a sweaty car seat for an hour made him feel sick.

  ‘Thanks, Sandy. Thank you.’

  ‘Hmm. I’ll see you Saturday.’

  ***

  Harry scouted around on the web, looking up information about Afghanistan in general and the drug trade in particular. He read up about Australia’s involvement in the war over there. Australian troops went to Afghanistan in the wake of the terrorist attacks in 2001. The first phase, involving special forces and the RAAF, lasted about a year. Then Australians all but withdrew from Afghanistan until 2005, when the Special Forces Task Group returned.

  In late 2006 the focus shifted to reconstruction, with an engineering regiment deployed along with protective elements. In 2009 Operational Mentoring and Liaison Teams were embedded within elements of the Afghan National Army, to pave the way for the withdrawal of Australian soldiers.

  Harry had a vision of a bleak valley. He felt the sun on his back and the dry wind in his face.

  Reconstruction Taskforce?

  If Rob was special forces, and Harry suspected he was, then it must’ve been 2006 at the earliest.

  He opened a new browser tab, loaded ABC News 24. He wanted to look at something totally unrelated while he processed the information. There was a piece on funding for private schools. Harry zoned out, eyes blurring.

  ‘Meanwhile, Labor leader Andrew Cardinal has vowed to maintain funding to private schools if he is elected,’ the voice said.

  There was a shot of Cardinal walking away from the camera, with school kids bunching around him. He was in the shadow of an old, red-brick building. He stepped out into the sunshine.

  And the sun caught his hair. Harry was back in the nightmare, back in Afghanistan, watching through his scope as the guy with the silver crewcut faced off against the men at the poppy plantation. Old Silver. Andrew Cardinal.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Harry said. ‘It can’t be. It can’t be.’

  But he knew it could. He knew it was.

  ***

  Harry heard heavy footsteps coming up the front steps. He looked up from the screen, blinked. His tattoo throbbed dully. Dave. He looked tanned and was wearing a flowery shirt Harry hadn’t seen before. He should have looked relaxed, but as he pushed his sunglasses up on his head, Harry saw the worry lines around his eyes.

  He stood in the sunroom, backlit, hands out.

  ‘You okay, Haz?’ he asked.

  ‘Welcome home!’ Harry replied, trying for a light tone but not quite nailing it.

  Dave walked over to the table and laid down his sunglasses. He was breathing heavily.

  ‘Do you remember our last conversation?’ he said.

  Harry nodded.

  Dave shrugged. ‘Well?’

  Harry closed his MacBook. ‘I decided you’re right. Phantom radiation? Pfft.’

  He remembered the feeling of relief when Dave suggested he stay at his place. He remembered the feeling that followed right after that, one of unease at the thought of leaving. Dave was going to explode when he saw the latest addition.

  ‘I’m going to show you something, but I want you to promise me that you’re not going to lose it,’ Harry said.

  ‘Mm-kay.’ Dave reached for his sunglasses, then put them down again. Clenched one fist.

  ‘I mean it,’ Harry said.

  ‘Can we go outside, at least?’ Dave looked around the room. ‘This place creeps me out.’

  Harry walked towards the back door. He could understand Dave wanting to get out of the house, but he also didn’t want to be like some sort of public freak show in the back garden. When he heard Dave following him down the hallway, past the kitchen, he pulled his shirt off, wincing as his shoulder muscles bunched.

  ‘Whoa,’ Dave said.

  Harry stopped on the small back porch, at the top of the stairs that led down into the garden. He hoped Dave wouldn’t touch it. When he turned around, he saw Dave standing a good couple of metres back.

  ‘Are you scared you’ll catch it?’

  Dave shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  Harry pulled his shirt back on. ‘Come on. Let’s talk.’

  ***

  They sat on the grass, under the shade of the mango tree, looking back at the house.

  ‘When I told you I was going to hang at yours, I meant it,’ Harry said. ‘But then it didn’t feel right.’

  ‘Didn’t feel right? How does it feel now, after that?’ Dave gestured at Harry’s shoulders.

  ‘I felt like shit this morning. When I woke up I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know who I was. But now. . .’

  He held his hands out. They shook.

  ‘You want to see this thing out?’ Dave said.

  Harry nodded. ‘I don’t know what is going on. I’m pretty sure I’m not “getting” the tattoos. I guess, theoretically, someone could be breaking in, drugging me, tattooing me. But that doesn’t explain the nightmares.’

  Dave sighed. ‘What do you remember about them?’

  ‘The first one was about being buried. I thought buried alive at first, but now I think he was dead.

  ‘The drowning man. There was a sea full of screaming people. They were asylum seekers.’

  He gave Dave a rough outline of the Fajar Baru disaster.

  ‘Yeah, I remember that. The government tried to cover it up. What about the poppies?’

  Harry closed his eyes. When he’d awoken, it was all there, so real that he had trouble remembering it was a nightmare. But now, already, it had faded. He could only remember vague details.

  ‘It was Afghanistan. . . Red poppies in a bone-white valley. . . I can remember soldiers. . .’

  ‘Australian soldiers?’

  ‘Yeah. And Afghans. And. . . I don’t know. . . You know those guys. . . mercenaries. . .’

  ‘They call them security contractors these days.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s it. . . Something awful happened there. I remember a. . . what do you call it. . . the thing Afghan women wear on their heads. . .’

  ‘Hijab?’

  ‘That’s it. It was on the ground, blowing between the rows of poppies.’

  Harry shuddered.

  ‘That’s it?’

  Harry nodded. He couldn’t tell Dave about Cardinal. Not yet. It would be too much. ‘Yeah, but the first time, it’s always a bit vague. After a few nights, it becomes clearer.’

  ‘Come and stay with Ellie and me. Just for a bit.’

  Harry looked at him. Dave looked back. He had his sunglasses back on. Harry saw himself reflected back. He looked different.

  ‘Why?’ Harry asked.

 
; ‘Harry. We’ve known each other our whole lives. I’ve been with you through thick and thin. Whatever is going on, it’s seriously fucked up.’

  ‘I feel like I need to be here.’

  Dave pulled off his sunglasses. ‘Just have a breather. Get some perspective. You can crash on our couch.’

  ‘I’m sure Ellie would love that. Great start to your married life.’

  ‘If you’re not there, it’ll just be the usual hungover medical students. Come on, Harry. I’m worried about you.’

  Harry looked into the house. He should have been scared. He had no idea how far this was going to go.

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  Dave shook his head. Hissed.

  ‘I can figure this out,’ Harry said. ‘I can’t give up on it. I just can’t.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Harry was in the spare room sorting through boxes when his phone rang. He ran back to the bedroom, where the phone was plugged into the wall. Christine.

  ‘Hi, Chris,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I’m still not feeling the best. I’m going to take things easy at home again today.’

  He didn’t have to fake the sniffles; the dust from the boxes had set him off. Christine said she hoped he was feeling better soon.

  Harry returned to the spare room. At the bottom of the box was a manila folder, bursting at the seams, held shut with old rubber bands. He took it out to the dining room table and set it down. He was already sweating, but seeing the folder after all these years gave him heart palpitations. It brought back so many memories.

  SWENSON was scrawled across the front in red pen. He remembered the day he wrote it. Things were going well, not just with study but in general. Boozy afternoons at the rec club, reinforcing the illusion that he and his classmates were ‘real’ journalists. There was a sense of camaraderie with the rest of the students in his year – Redwood aside. The Swenson story had taken on a life of its own. The documents associated with it had multiplied until the story needed its own folder. He shook his head.

  The story was good.

  Maybe, but Harry couldn’t deal with it right now.

  On impulse, he grabbed his notebook and keys and headed out the door. In a few minutes he was standing outside Bill’s house. He pushed through the gate, waded through the overgrown garden and into the cool shade under the verandah.