by Bob Goodwin
Strike Me Dead
Bob Goodwin
© 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Bob Goodwin
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher at [email protected]
Strike Me Dead
Cover design by
Spiffing Covers
FORWORD
This fiction story is set in South East Queensland, Australia, predominantly around the areas of the Sunshine Coast and the Gold Coast. It is here you will find long stretches of fine golden sandy beaches and some of the best surfing areas in the world. With plenty of natural beauty from the hinterland to the coast, and a warm sunny climate it provides an ideal lifestyle. However, even in paradise, many people go missing for unexplained reasons. While it is true that most missing persons are located, a significant number every year will be added to the list of long term missing people.
If you have become out of touch with your family for whatever reason and you think, even for a fleeting moment, that they could be missing you or wondering where you are, it’s time to make contact. Make a phone call, send a letter or communicate in any way you choose - even through a third party. Let them know you are okay.
Life, loved ones and family may be the most precious gifts we will ever have.
Bob Goodwin
For Jenny and Sam
And with warmest memories and love
For my mother - Dee Goodwin
And my Father-in-Law - Gordon Crane
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1 – The Tempest
Chapter 2 – Tom Yum Soup
Chapter 3 – Smoke Hazards
Chapter 4 – 1965 – Communion
Chapter 5 – Vertical Push-ups
Chapter 6 – Recall
Chapter 7 – What is a Prawn?
Chapter 8 – Caloundra
Chapter 9 – January 1968 - Where’s Harold?
Chapter 10 – Twitch Twitch
Chapter 11 – Total Recall?
Chapter 12 – Crackers & Roaches
Chapter 13 – The Psych Ward
Chapter 14 – January 1968 - Bangers & Mash
Chapter 15 – Ward Rounds
Chapter 16 – A Plausible Lie
Chapter 17 – January 1968 – No Longer a Child
Chapter 18 – Deep-fried Devils
Chapter 19 – Chicken Chop Suey
Chapter 20 – The Oracle
Chapter 21 – The 1st Confession
Chapter 22 – Christmas Party
Chapter 23 – Chardonnay
Chapter 24 – 1986 – The Screaming Tribesmen
Chapter 25 – Rum Balls
Chapter 26 – The Pork Pie
Chapter 27 – 1993 – Redemption
Chapter 28 – Death in Paradise
Chapter 29 – Mushroom Risotto
Chapter 30 – 10 days, 13 hours & 14 minutes
Chapter 31 – 1996 – Personal Growth
Chapter 32 – Statistics
Chapter 33 – November 2006 – Flathead
Chapter 34 – The Newspaper Man
Chapter 35 – Just One Dose
Chapter 36 – Stun Grenades
Chapter 37 – 2010 – Unfinished Business
Chapter 38 – The Hunter
Chapter 39 – January 2012 – Mysterious Ways
Chapter 40 – Research
Chapter 41 – Morning Prayers
Chapter 42 – Anybody Home?
Chapter 43 – 17th Dec 2012 – Beggars Belief
Chapter 44 – Damnation
Chapter 45 – Back from the Dead
Chapter 46 – Drinking Buddies
Chapter 47 – Future Plans
Chapter 48 – Self-contained
Chapter 49 – Like Father, Like Son?
Chapter 50 – Dale Harding
Chapter 51 – Life’s a Beach
Chapter 52 – The 2nd Confession
Chapter 53 – Going Bush
Chapter 54 – Starbucks
Chapter 55 – Cuckoo’s Nest
Chapter 56 – Driving Rain
Chapter 57 – Who’s Playing Games?
Chapter 58 – Sanctioned by God
Chapter 59 – Expected Visitors
Chapter 60 – Discovery
Chapter 61 – Plan “C”
Chapter 62 – Salvation
Chapter 63 – Wake up, James
Chapter 64 – Thank You
Chapter 65 – Several Days Later
About the Author – Other books
Strike Me Dead
Chapter 1
The Tempest
Every few seconds the bushland exploded into light. The tall eucalypts were thrashing about and bending to the point of near snapping. Several smaller trees had already succumbed and branches were strewn over the ground and along a narrow gravel driveway. The thunder was almost continuous, with long, sustained escalating rumbles and then loud claps that trailed away into the distance. The downpour was torrential and streams poured along the cracks and corrugations of the driveway, dragging away dirt and rocks as they charged down to the swollen creek.
A small dwelling tried to withstand the onslaught. On the roof, a large sheet of corrugated iron lifted as it was forced up by the wind. Between every gust, it banged back down, holding tight to its position, the sound barely audible amid the tempest. The dilapidated guttering no longer served its purpose. Water poured through dozens of rusted holes and cascaded over the edge in sections dammed by years of debris.
A little further along the roof line, where no guttering remained, a wooden ladder appeared. It moved until it found a more or less secure anchor point against the roofing iron. After a moment, the figure of a man slowly and carefully ascended. His naked outline and the dusky pink tones of his body were barely visible through the rain. He held a metal pole in one hand. It was a struggle, but he succeeded in climbing onto the sloping roof surface. The wind seemed to gain intensity, as if to challenge him further. He got down on all fours and pushed upward, still clutching his pole. The rain was changing, becoming icy; and when he was halfway to the peak, the hail came. It was just the size of peas but struck with force and cut at his skin. The noise of hail against tin now eclipsed the thunder. Forward motion ceased as he slowly raised his head to see his goal. His long hair whipped around his face. A quick movement from his left hand dragged the hair from his eyes to clear his vision, but at the same time he lost grip and slid back a metre, his right knee catching a roofing bolt. He screamed out, unheard, as his flesh ripped and blood ran away with the rain. He forced his strong body on.
Within reach of the peak, he kept low to the roof, slowly stretched out his arm, took hold of the capping and hauled himself up. Straddling the roof, he leaned forward, shifting his weight. He began to stand. The wind had not let up and the icy peas continued their assault. The man unfolded and stood upright, leaning into the wind. His image flashed on and off, like a sinister strobe within the eye of the storm. He dragged his metal pole up and took a firm hold with both hands as he raised it vertically above his head. At the top of the pole, a shining crucifix reflected the flashes of lightning. He screamed out for all he was worth.
‘Lord, I beg you, strike me down! Take me now if it be your will! Or release me to do your bidding!’
The hail stopped. The wind eased. On top of the roo
f with his metal pole and crucifix extended to the heavens, the man trembled and smiled.
Chapter 2
Tom Yum Soup
James paused with his spoon near the bowl of tom yum soup. He looked down at two prawns that floated at the top of the dish. He quickly glanced up at his mother. She was looking away from him, distracted by a sizzling plate being served to an adjacent table. This was his opportunity to investigate a little further without attracting her suspicion. He pushed one prawn down amongst the assorted vegetables only to see another slowly float up in its place. He grimaced and tilted his head to one side then leaned in for a closer inspection.
The Blue Orchid Thai restaurant was an award winner in its class. The cuisine was outstanding and while the decor was a little dated and the tables somewhat crowded together, it was still James’s favourite place to dine on the Sunshine Coast. He had been a regular diner for ten years, since he was sixteen. Generally, he preferred a mid-week visit when the patronage was sparse but with his mother offering to pay after being away all week, he was not about to refuse the Friday night reservation. They had even managed to get their preferred table in the right-hand corner next to the window. From here, James could see into the street and more importantly, he had a good view of the night sky.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’
James was caught a little by surprise. The oriental waitress looked more Chinese than Thai. She was young and, as far as James was concerned, probably knew no more about Thai food than what she read on the menu.
‘Ah, well.’ He paused briefly trying to assess the situation. ‘I think something may be wrong here.’
His mother returned her attention to the table.
‘Is the soup not to your liking, sir?’
‘The tom yum is, as usual, truly exceptional. Unfortunately, I think some of these so-called prawns are alive.’
‘James,’ said Carmel slowly as if giving a caution.
‘The prawns are cooked, sir. Their heads have been removed. I assure you they are most definitely dead.’
Carmel replied promptly. ‘Thank you, dear. That will be all. I’ll take it from here.’
The young waitress nodded unsurely, gave a half-smile then backed away.
‘Mother! You don’t understand.’
‘I wish I didn’t, but I do.’
‘But these prawns are not what they seem. There’s some sort of...’
‘You do know what’s happening, don’t you?’ said Carmel, cutting him off.
‘Uh uh.’ He waved his finger at her. ‘Don’t you. Don’t you say it! You’re wrong, mother. This time you are so wrong!’
‘That’s strike one, James. Sorry.’
‘Damn it!’ He dropped his head, allowing his dark hair to fall around his face and provide momentary solitude. Now he needed to be careful for a full week to get rid of the ‘strike’ and have a clean slate again. He glanced sideways through a gap in his hair and made a mental note of the time on his watch.
With the agreement of Carmel, James, the psychiatrist and James’s case worker, this arrangement had been put in place six years ago, after James had had three quick readmissions to the psychiatric hospital. His mother could announce a ‘strike’ if she believed James was showing any symptoms of relapse of his schizophrenia. Most commonly, this would be a paranoid delusion, auditory hallucination or bizarre and unusual behavior. After three strikes, there would be a compulsory visit to his psychiatrist, Dr Mark Jeffries, with a high probability of admission back into the psych ward. There were several other rules to the deal. Mother could only use one strike per 24-hour period; the strike would expire after seven days; and there was to be no debate or argument about the issuing of strikes.
For James, the upside now was that he could pretty much say or do anything for the next 23 hours and 55 minutes without incurring “strike 2”, providing of course that he didn’t cause a serious incident or a public spectacle.
‘I go away for a few days and look what happens. Have you missed any of your meds?’
‘Please, Mother, not now.’
‘There’s no need to give me that look,’ she continued. ‘The same thing happened last time I went to see your father.’
‘That was on the eleventh of April, over eight months ago. Come on!’ James sat up, sighed and gazed out at the street.
‘I think next time you’d better come with me.’
‘I think not. He never even knows who you are. I don’t know why you bother.’
‘He’s your father. He was my husband. It’s the right thing to do.’
‘Can you hear yourself? He was an arsehole when you were married and he’s still an arsehole now. The difference being now he can’t remember that he is or ever was one. You have a seriously misguided sense of loyalty.’ James scooped up some tom yum, avoiding the prawns.
‘He’s got no one else. I feel responsible. And he was a good father to you right through all your primary school years, despite what you might say.’
Her son shook his head and grimaced as he shifted his attention back to his meal.
The people at the table with the sizzling plates were discussing something. The middle-aged lady and gentleman were arguing about American presidents. ‘JFK was the thirty-fourth president and was assassinated on twenty-third of November, 1963,’ said the lady.
‘No, he was the thirty-sixth president and was killed on the twenty-first of November 1964. We can Google it right now. Winner gets a special treat!’ said the man confidently.
James lifted his head and leaned over. ‘You’re both wrong. Kennedy was the thirty-fifth president. He was assassinated on the twenty-second of November 1963. I get the special treat!’ He turned back to his soup.
‘I’m sorry,’ Carmel said to the couple. ‘Don’t mind my son. He’s a bit forward sometimes.’ She turned to James. ‘Don’t bother other people. It’s not polite.’
‘A strike is not polite, mother. And these so-called prawns are really not what they seem...’
‘No! Don’t go there, James,’ said Carmel sharply. She held up her hand. ‘No discussion. We both know the rules and I know a paranoid delusion when I see one. So that’s the end of it.’
‘Look, he’s right,’ said the man displaying his phone. ‘Just checked on Google!’
‘Yes, I know. He always is about those sort of things.’
James was no longer interested. He poked at his soup, lifted up a prawn with his fork and studied it.
Carmel watched him for a moment as he prodded and pushed at his food. She loved him dearly. He was all she had. It had only been the two of them now for the past fourteen years. They had the usual conflicts a mother and son tended to have. Usually related to domestic chores, paying board and the standard of girlfriends he would occasionally bring home. With the ‘strike’ rule in place, arguments about relapses of mental illness had been kept to a minimum, and both mother and son felt the system was, on balance, beneficial to their relationship. Being strict and at times harsh was Carmel’s way of managing and coping. She had no doubts that her tough approach had kept him out of hospital numerous times. A view not always shared by her son.
James spoke without lifting his head.
‘You need to move on,’ said James. ‘If you’re responsible, you must have caused his alcoholic dementia then.’
‘It’s not alcoholic dementia, as you like to call it. It’s Huntington’s disease.’
‘Anyone that drinks like he did is sure to get brain damage.’
‘Amy has left him, you know.’
‘Good for her! At least someone has some sense. But I’m stumped as to why she was even interested in him in the first place.’ There was a flicker of light in the outside darkness. James turned his attention to the sky.
‘Here it comes. Must be over the other side of Maleny, towards Kenilworth. It’ll be here in an hour and a half.’ He looked at his watch. ‘That will be at eight o’clock, just as I said
. I reckon this storm will be even bigger than the one on the fourteenth of October.’ He pulled his phone from his jeans and typed in a few notes. ‘I’ll be wanting to get photos.’
‘Of course you will,’ sighed Carmel. She shook her head lightly.
The two went silent and continued with their meals. James left all his prawns.
* * *
They arrived home to their eighth-floor apartment just as the first heavy drops of rain slapped against the windows. The wind had cooled and gathered intensity. James let his mother into the unit, gave her a quick half-hearted smile, and then headed straight back down to the car. This was a spectacle he wasn’t going to miss.
Carmel prepared herself a large mug of coffee. She looked at the steaming cup for a moment then tipped it down the sink. From the fridge, she removed a bottle of chardonnay, grabbed a glass then took it to the verandah. She thought about James, his behavior at the restaurant and the first “strike”. In the past, his relapses had been caused by different things. Sometimes it had been due to reducing the dosage of his medication, other times due to stress, once due to a bad dose of the flu and at least once due to the use of marijuana. This time it was unclear, but there was no doubt she needed to protect him from himself. Carmel took in a full mouthful of chardonnay.
The apartment overlooked the Maroochydore business centre, with the Blackall Range in the distance. The light show was amazing and seemed to extend across all of the western sky. James was once again correct and this was clearly going to be the biggest storm of the summer so far.
Chapter 3
Smoke Hazards
It was eight o’clock, Thursday morning and Ryan Alexander was retracing his movements leading up to last Monday evening. The beach from the Spit at Mooloolaba through to Maroochydore seemed never ending, but this was where Ryan, Jessica, Rachel, Brad and Damian had spent much of their holiday right through to Monday night when Jessica vanished. The problem was that they had all been drinking on that evening so a clear recollection of events still eluded him.
Schoolies celebrations were now all over, but the group had stayed on to continue their holiday and plan out their 2013 post-high school “gap” year. There were still four more days left in the beachside apartment with the group planning to return home on Christmas Eve.