Flames

by Robbie Arnott

  Thurston Hough

  Mr Hough,

  Thank you for your response. I would indeed like to hire you to build my sister’s coffin. For this service I am capable of paying you a further $22,000 on top of the initial $5,000 I offered for your advice. I trust this will cover the cost of the materials as well as your fees.

  Charlotte is twenty-three. I have attached her measurements to the back of this letter. As for her condition, I must not have made myself clear in my previous letters—for this I apologise. She is not suffering from any illnesses or diseases, nor does she have any pre-existing conditions or tendencies that are of any immediate concern to her well-being. Other than her mental frailties, she is currently in a state of good health (although I haven’t seen her for a few days). I don’t need this coffin to bury her in; I need it as physical proof that she won’t be cremated. She will eventually be laid to rest in it, of course, but not for many, many years. I hope this unusual circumstance doesn’t upset your process.

  Yours sincerely,

  Levi McAllister

  Mr Nincompoop,

  I regret to inform you that you have been addressing your letters to an incorrect address. This is not the office of the Guinness World Records, where you are clearly trying to set the record for buffoonery and incompetence. This is the home of a scholar and craftsman who has no time for your brain-shattering levels of stupidity!

  My process, which you claim to have been mindful of, depends entirely on the condition of the subject at the time of their death. From reading The Wooden Jacket (if you weren’t lying; I am starting to doubt whether you can read at all) you should know that different varieties of timber have wildly different reactions when they are filled with corpses and interred into the earth. For example, a coffin made with blackwood panels will ensure that no trees can grow within a fifty-metre radius of the plot where it has been buried—no trees, that is, other than the single blackwood that sprouts directly from the coffin’s heart. This tree will grow far larger than an ordinary specimen, towering above the barren landscape. And in almost all cases it will host a tenant: a single black-faced cormorant (a bird usually found clinging to coastal rocks) will create a nest in its highest branches, endlessly peeling off a loud, soul-rending cry into the sky. If anyone wanders too close to the blackwood the cormorant will swoop down and deliver bloody justice to the unlucky invader.

  Golden wattle, on the other hand, that capricious, fluffy-dusty do-gooder of a plant, will produce an entirely different result. A coffin built from wattle will initially have no discernible affect, but after a week the air around the plot begins to take on an unmistakable odour. This smell has variously been described as that of a never-cleaned public toilet, a mountain of fish guts, the rotting gums of a lifelong liquorice fanatic, and a bonfire of pubic hair. All accounts say it is the worst smell the author has ever encountered.

  Or take native myrtle. Any plant that sprouts from the soil surrounding a myrtle coffin will begin producing large red berries. Weeds, trees, hedges, even flowers—all will burst forth with orbs of scarlet fruit. Taut-skinned and tumescent, they are not poisonous, but they do taste strongly of copper. Anyone who eats this fruit will develop an intense desire for red meat, particularly beef carpaccio and black pudding. On some occasions this hunger has driven these fruit-eaters to devour any meat raw, or even—if urban myths are to be believed—to gnaw on the limbs of strangers, loved ones or themselves.

  And there are more, many more—you have my book; I need not go on. So you should realise, idiot though you are, that I must have some sort of sense of the person I am putting in the ground. It would be erroneous to bury someone who was popular and gregarious in life in a box of blackwood—a solitary tree that houses a territorial seabird would be an inappropriate ending for their physical remains (and make it very hard for their friends and family to pay their respects). It would, however, be seemly to put an axe murderer in a myrtle coffin, to create within the landscape a permanent reminder of their bloody crime.

  I should decline this work and discontinue our correspondence. However, other events have forced my hand. Yesterday I received a pink-bordered letter from the Tax Department that featured such words as ‘overdue’, ‘bankruptcy’ and ‘collection agency’. How dare these tax cretins hound me! How dare a moron like Mavis and her fanatical, hate-mongering Country Women’s Association set them on my trail! Rather than waging war with these devils (and I could, you know; I am a crack shot with an air rifle) I have decided to push ahead with your project, despite the challenges your ignorance presents. The amount you mentioned in your previous letter will be enough to get these leeches off my back, at least for a while.

  And before your underdeveloped mind starts fretting about what sort of coffin I’m building, do not fear. I have long found that the most appropriate material for those who have died young is wood taken from the many-hued whorls of an old snowgum. Its hard, cold-to-the-touch timber does not rot or warp or even fade. Instead it fossilises, and so too does the body it contains. The flesh of the dead turns as hard and unyielding as the stony coffin, and cannot be altered by any natural means. This way the beauty of the young—I assume your sister is beautiful; what twenty-three-year-old woman is not?—is preserved for all time. I understand she isn’t dying right now, but she could die at any time, so snowgum is undoubtedly the safest and smartest option.

  I should also mention that I won’t be using wombat fur as inlay. I know I claimed that this is my usual practice, but it seems my suppliers in the south are suffering from some farming difficulties. To address this fur shortage I have taken to trapping water rats. They are plentiful in the South Esk River, which flows past my homestead, and their fur is perhaps even softer and thicker than that produced by wombats. In fact, only a few days ago I trapped an unusually large specimen with the finest coat I have ever seen. Mottled black on top, with a glowing golden belly, it is always warm to the touch, even when laid outside under a winter moon. I find myself running my fingers through it whenever I am working. It is truly a wondrous pelt, and will be the perfect furnishing for your sister’s last resting place.

  Now I am off to scale the heights of Ben Lomond to select a snowgum to harvest, saw and shape into a coffin. Do not bother me with any more of your inane enquiries. Rest assured that work has begun.

  Thurston Hough

  Mr Hough,

  Thank you. Snowgum sounds like a fantastic choice. I’m sure that Charlotte will agree, once she sees the result.

  In the meantime, please let me know if there is anything I can do to assist you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Levi McAllister

  Mr Hough,

  I have not heard from you in a fortnight. I trust that work on my sister’s coffin is going well. I wanted very much to tell her about our project, but she has still not returned home. Don’t worry—there have been reports of her travelling through various towns, and as I write the police are looking for her. I’m sure this is just a part of her grieving process.

  Also, I have a lot of free time at the moment. Do you require any assistance with the construction of her coffin? I don’t mean to imply that you might need it—I am simply offering help in the form of manual labour.

  Yours sincerely,

  Levi McAllister

  Mr Faecal Brain,

  For the love of all that is precious and beautiful in the world, leave me alone! I do not care about the shameless wanderings of your strumpet sister, nor do I want you anywhere near my workshop. The work is progressing at a normal rate. Building the finest coffins in the world takes time.

  There is only one thing you can do for me: poison the South Esk River. For some unholy reason the denizens of this accursed stream have taken to harassing me whenever I go to the water’s edge. Water rats, eels, blackfish, herons, frogs, even the occasional platypus—they are all trying to kill me! The horrid creatures bite at my toes and legs every chance they get. The birds even take wing at the sight of me and try to wink
le my eyes out with their dagger-like beaks. I am under siege, McAllister, from the moment I stray within twenty metres of the river. The world has gone mad. Tax pirates, letter writers, killer river beasts: they are all out to end me. Such is the price of genius, I suppose.

  But do not worry. I am getting on with the construction of the coffin. The snowgum I harvested from the cliffs of the mountain has yielded a fine grain of wood, and its planks are strong and straight. Coupled with the glorious water-rat pelt, it could be my greatest work yet. I should be finished within the month. Unless you can kill everything in the river, I beg of you: leave me alone.

  Thurston Hough

  Mr Hough,

  It’s been a month since you last wrote to me. Can you please provide me with an update on your progress? I’m sorry to hear about your troubles with the South Esk. I too have been experiencing some difficulties—the police were unable to find my sister. They say that they’re still searching for her, but one officer told me privately that they believe she’s moved interstate and they aren’t putting many resources into the case. I’ve resorted to hiring a private detective.

  Yours sincerely,

  Levi McAllister

  Mr Quivering Pile of Irritation Made Human,

  This is the last time you will hear from me. Not just because the experience of reading all these pointless stories about your gypsy sister has been more unpleasant than seeing my dentist and proctologist in the same afternoon; our communication must cease because I am unable to complete the coffin you commissioned.

  I have never before reneged upon a deal. Nor am I the sort of person who makes excuses. I will simply give you the facts: I am besieged in my own home by the creatures of the river. The last time I wrote to you they were only molesting me when I ventured near their accursed waterway—now they are actively harassing me whenever I poke a foot out my front door. Yabbies tap their claws against my windows, glaring in at me with their demented bug-eyes. Herons circle above my property like vultures on the plain. Eels squirm across my lawn to bite at my feet, dying in packs on the grass. Drakes assault my outer walls with their horrid beaks and corkscrew genitalia. But the worst, the most persistent, the most hateful are the water rats. They have started digging at the foundations of my house like dogs at a beach. During daylight hours I shoot at them from the window, but at night they return, always in greater quantities than before, scratching and nibbling and scouring away at the wood and dirt my house is built upon. In the darkness I peer out and see the devilish lights of their eyes, surrounding me as they scurry about, enacting their hell-driven mischief. I am sure that their number has climbed into the hundreds. And if I cannot find a way to stop them, I am equally sure that my number is up.

  Your coffin lies half-finished in my workshop. As odious as the thought of actually meeting you in person is, you are welcome to come and collect it in its current state, and attempt to complete it yourself. But you shall not be taking the glorious water rat pelt with you; it has become my sole comfort in these troubling times. I spend hours at my front window with my fingers immersed in the endless warmth of its fur, while my other hand grips my trusty rifle. At night I lay it over my pillowcase, where it heats my cheek throughout all of my fitful dreams. Even to gaze upon its wondrous lustre lifts my spirits. It is dear to me in ways I cannot hope to describe.

  So come: collect your half-made coffin. I shall not charge you for it, even though I have laboured over its creation. I no longer need the money—the taxman has no chance of getting to me while these creatures plague my doorstep. Come take the flesh-stoning panels of freshly carved snowgum. But the pelt stays with me, moron boy. The only grave it shall adorn is my own.

  Thurston Hough

  ICE

  You shouldn’t drink gin before you drive a sedan. But you also shouldn’t talk back to your mother, wear black with blue or sleep with loose men, and I’d done all those things plenty of times, so I didn’t hesitate when I soaked my throat with a thick finger of Tanqueray before I hit the road.

  New client. Weird kid—or at least he’d seemed weird on the phone. Tweaky voice, even though his words were smooth. Like his private-school manners were paved over something that had cracked. Even before I met him I didn’t trust him. But I needed the cash, and I needed the work—too much time between cases let a muddy fog waft into my thoughts. It was better to stay busy.

  He lived on a farm on the coast between Beauty Point and Hawley Beach, about an hour’s drive from my flat in north Launceston. I burned up the East Tamar Highway, tyres sliding across the black ice that filmed over the road on every shadowed corner. I shouldn’t drive so fast. The Lancer can’t handle it. It’s handled a lot of things, but black ice: it’s never been able to come to terms with that. The third time I spun out I grudgingly slowed down, crawling all the way to the Batman Bridge, where the light sprayed over the broad blue river, forcing me to blink and grunt and yank down the visor. It sure was pretty, all that light on all that water. I’m not interested in pretty things.

  I made it to the farm twenty minutes later, although it wasn’t really a farm, or not what I thought a farm should be. There were no sheep. No cows. No pigs or geese or goats. No barking dogs, shearing sheds or irrigation machines. There was just a lonely dirt road, a sandstone cottage and a few thistle-filled fields that sloped down to the grey ocean. How this kid made money had me beat. But as long as he had it, I didn’t care.

  I parked next to the cottage and knocked on the door, which he opened a few moments later. In the dim light I couldn’t make him out that well, but when he invited me inside I got a proper look. Skinny face. Skinny arms. Skinny everything. He offered me tea. I declined, but he boiled the jug anyway, said he needed a pick-me-up, sounding nervous and shaky. As the water heated he had a go at a bit of chitchat—how he’d seen my ad in the paper, how he’d assumed I was a man, whether the drive was all right; all the usual small talk that I don’t go in for.

  Eventually the jug clicked off, and then we were sitting at the table in his little kitchen, me picking at my cuticles, him sipping and telling me what I could do for him. The story wasn’t as unusual as he thought it was. Mother dies, daughter goes bonkers, son acts like nothing’s wrong, daughter runs away. He could’ve told me this in an email. Sure, the whole reincarnation thing was a bit off-script, but I’d seen stranger things happen to stranger people—blackmailers who’d stolen souls with high-powered cameras; thieves who’d sold their shadows to puppeteers; adulterers who’d swapped faces with gargoyles. You name it, I’d seen it. And I’d investigated it, solved it, and been home by nine with a glass of gin and a thick sandwich. Skinny boy’s mother and all her twice-dead relatives didn’t make me blink.

  He handed me a photo of the sister as he spoke. Normal-looking girl in her early twenties. Dark hair, like his. Pale skin. A bit of mongrel in her face, I’d guess, but you never really know about that until you see someone fired up. I slipped it into my pocket. When he stopped talking I took out my notebook. Did the cops find anything?

  He rubbed his face. Not really. She was travelling south. The last place she was spotted was on a bus headed to Franklin. I went down there myself, but nobody had seen her. He was trying to sound calm, but there was that nervous shake again, wobbling about beneath his tongue.

  Who was the lead on the case?

  Pardon?

  The lead. The detective.

  Oh. He frowned and got up to fetch his wallet from the kitchen bench, pulled out a blue card. Senior Detective Graham Malik. He looked back at me. You know him?

  I tugged on a stubborn piece of skin. Somewhat. Graham Malik. The Last Graham. At least I’d be dealing with a face I knew. I stood up and smoothed back my hair.

  That’s it? He swung forward from the bench. You don’t need anything else?

  Nah. I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair and made for the door, where I paused. I’m a master of the doorway pause. Except one thing. Now I turned to see what his face would do when I asked: Where�
�s your old man’s place?

  The cracks I’d heard in his voice swam up to his face, snapping over those pointy little cheekbones. Why?

  A girl goes missing, you generally check her dad’s place first.

  She’s not there.

  Probably not. But I’m still going to check.

  His voice rushed out, high and jittery. That isn’t necessary.

  I crossed my arms. You want me to find her?

  Of course.

  Then let me do my job.

  He had a go at staring me down and lost, badly. With wet eyes he grabbed a letter from the bench and marched over, handing it to me. Here. It was addressed to a Jack McAllister at a property down the highway, closer to Launceston. I slipped the envelope into my pocket and made to leave, but the kid wasn’t done talking. When will I hear from you? I’d appreciate updates.

  I’d appreciate a long weekend with some Olympic gymnasts, I thought. But I didn’t bother telling him. I just opened the door and felt the wind slap my face. I’ll be in touch.

  Half an hour later I arrived at the old man’s house. It was a big timber pile just south of Exeter, perched on a bend overlooking the Tamar. The sun was falling fast, dropping behind the western hills, dragging shadows over the valley.

  The house was something else. I don’t go much for ostentatious architecture, but I could appreciate what was going on here. Three storeys, two chimneys, at least five bedrooms. Built out of some kind of rich red timber that almost glowed, but that might’ve been the dusky light. Myrtle, I guessed, although I don’t know anything about wood. The mansion was surrounded by a sprawling, overgrown garden, flowers and bushes and all sorts of scrub pushing firmly against each other in what must have once, years ago, been a vast garden. Trees thrust up through the foliage, towering over the house, competing for the light. Some part of me realised that, like the view from the bridge, it was all rather pretty. I stopped looking at it.