The Last Days of Kali Yuga

by Paul Haines

  'Excuse me sir,' I say politely, and you have to be, it's part of the job, 'but you'll have to move along.'

  'What?' he says, his face screwing up in indignation. 'I gotta permit. The council says I can sell these here.'

  He indicates the armful of homeless bum magazines he's hawking. The Big Issue they say. The Big Fucken Issue. This junkie cunt wouldn't know the big fucken issues if he shot them into his veins.

  'I'm sorry sir,' I smile sympathetically as I flash him the badge. 'Government business here today. You'll have to move along. Perhaps you could try the corner of Swanston and Flinders?'

  He grumbles something and begins to shuffle away.

  Fucken cunt, he won't get away with that. I remove my earpiece in case someone picks up on what I'm about to do.

  I grab his shoulder and dig my fingers into his flesh, spinning him around to face me. There's not much meat on his bones. 'What did you call me?'

  His eyes widen and his mouth pops open. He starts to stammer something and I can feel his saliva spray my cheek. I can't understand him now, he's too scared, just stuttering bullshit. His breath stinks and I'm standing in the warmth of his BO.

  'What did you call me, sir?' I make sure he sees my free hand reach underneath my jacket for the inside pocket. 'What did you say?' I shake him hard. He drops some of his homeless bum magazines.

  'I d.d.didn't say nothing.' His limp, dank hair glistens in the late morning sunlight like weeds wet with piss.

  'You better fucken not have mate. Move along.' The cheek of the prick. He picks up his magazines and shuffles off.

  I put my earpiece back in, no longer incommunicado, back with my team. I tap it lightly to make sure it's still receiving and look around to see if anybody noticed the incident. No one did.

  Yeah, it's not the crazies you have to worry about. No one much cares if you have to pop one of those fuckers, maybe their immediate family or something, but after a week or so of headlines the rest of the world moves on. Something else comes along, something more tragic or important like one of those sluts leaving that bimbo band where they all mime shit and don't write any of the music anyway. Talentless fucks.

  One of our cars has pulled up near the corner of Elizabeth and Collins Street. I can see the guy inside the cab and I give him a nod. He's an undercover. He nods back, pulls the 'Not For Hire' sign down on the sunvisor and pretends to read a paper. He's right on time. Can't remember the bloke's name but he's dependable. What you'd call a good cunt.

  Not many people know we use taxis—great cars for cover, eh? We use lots of things people wouldn't suspect. Couple of the fruit stalls around here for instance. The owners don't mind, we make it worth their while. The government has a lot of money, my friends.

  Don't get me wrong, I'm not a cop or anything, that ain't my job. I'm further up the ladder than that, past that shit. The cops clean up after us. I'm what you'd call a regular. We dress a certain way, look a certain way, so Joe Public can recognise us. Good suits, too, fucken good suits. Couldn't buy this sort of material if I was in your average suit job, fuck no, I'd be lumbered with some shitty, four-hundred-dollar piece that after a few dry cleans looks shiny and worn.

  Yeah, nah, it's a bonus with this job, you have to look smart, tailor-fucking-made, mate. The public expect it. They don't want a shabby, two-bit loser looking out for the winners, do they? No.

  You need to stay clean. Mind and soul, mate.

  Some smarmy prick across the road is staring at me. I think he's one of the local politicians, nothing big, just local council. Munching on a muffin, chewing away on the taxpayer's dollar. I've seen his face around before, thinks he's a fucken bigshot. Well he's in the fucken way. Here he follows my rules. I start to cross the street but he sees me coming and hurries off.

  Fucken politicians. Mostly wet cunts, all weak at the knees. Never trust a thing they tell you, lying bastards using someone else's beliefs.

  And you don't want politics fucken with your head in a high-pressure job like this either. No way. We're expecting the Foreign Affairs Minister of some war-mongering country at this hotel at midday. She's meeting with the P.M., and there's a whole lot of sensitive shit to sort out. Human rights issues, economic sanctions, you know the story. The problem is this Minister has a President with a fucken big army and they're only a little way away from our shores so we want to keep this woman happy, but not to the point of pissing the UN off. Then we'd be one of the bad guys, too. If things don't get sorted out today we could have a real war on our hands.

  Almost noon. Fifteen minutes. Should've eaten before I started, who knows when this shift will finish. And that cunt with his muffin hasn't helped. Fucken politicians, fucken council members. Useless bastards really.

  Not like me. I'm fucken good at my job.

  I'm smart, I'm strong, I'm tall, I'm handsome. I'm good with guns. Shoulda been an actor.

  I use a Colt .45, a classic piece, and non-issue for police. You want something fast and meaty in this line of work, and the government makes sure we get the right tools for the job. I've heard say that there are men who substitute their gun for their cock, and I reckon some of that say is bang on. Not saying it's me mind, but I know what they're saying.

  I'd feel naked out here without my piece. I've got to carry it off duty these days. People eventually get to know who you are if you're good at what you do. And I'm good. And I'm ready. I'm always ready.

  Things are starting to heat up now. The church bell is tolling midday. The time is getting closer. The lunch crowds are starting to spill from their office prisons into the street, all noise and mouths and feet and bodies, making things harder for guys like us. Why the fuck did the government choose lunchtime for the meeting? And in the middle of town for Christ's sake?

  Stupid fucken question. I know why.

  It's for the cameras and crowds. High-profile people, let's make it big. Let's make it look like we love each other, we're the best of friends. I hate that shit, all that insincerity, it's just fucken showmanship. PR. Cocksucking.

  About twenty metres away two of my men are stationed, one on either side of the street, dark suits, dark glasses, closely cropped hair. Good.

  There are two taxis at the corner now, and one of the drivers has got out the cab and into position. He's one of the Greek boys. Fuck he's got fat, I'll have to have a word to his boss. No room for slouches in this job.

  I'm surprised there's so few protesters here. I thought there would be dozens of the moaning cunts by now but there's just a handful of gooks up near the taxis. They're not waving their placards and signs yet, but as soon as that Minister shows up I'll bet you my niece's virginity they'll start making noise.

  A couple of boys in blue have just walked out of the coffee shop over the road and up a bit. Good to see the local force involved in this operation, always reassuring for backup. They've got take-away cappuccinos or something and are too busy to notice me acknowledging them. Fucken pricks, who do they think they are? And what sort of cop buys coffee from a fucken café? If you're a cop on the beat, you go to places like Maccas. It's cheap, and more importantly it's fast. You just don't have the time to fuck around while some trendy homo bubbles your cup for you. Not that I got anything against homos, but you know what I mean.

  These cops are a bit fucken suss if you ask me. It's things like this you have to watch out for. These are the guys who'll most likely surprise you—the hired hands, the assassins. I'll have one of the boys move a bit closer to them.

  'Roy, you on?' I murmur into the mike attached to my jacket's lapel.

  Nothing comes back, so I press my finger against the earpiece hoping to hear better.

  'Roy, can you hear me? Got a couple of suspects in uniform outside the coffee shop. Over.'

  Still nothing.

  'Roy, you there?'

  I look down towards the corner of Queen and Collins where Roy is positioned. The prick has his back to me and is talking into a mobile. Jesus, what the hell's going on here? I'll be
having a quiet word to him after this, the daft prick. You can't afford to have an unreliable member of the team. It could cost you dearly. Looks like I'll have to keep an eye on the cops as well.

  I'm getting a bit nervous now, too, I can feel it worming its way through my guts. This is a good sign, it means I'm up, I'm on. Complacency will kill you in any profession, and just like emotion and politics, you can't afford it.

  Ten past midday. A car pulls up near the curb. It's a late-model BMW and three people get out, two men and a woman. It's her, the Minister, and she's bang on time.

  She's quite attractive, something I wasn't expecting. Wonder what it'd be like to fuck her? She looks like one of those cold, hard bitches. Fuck her and break her defences down, open the emotional flood-gates lurking beneath that pristine visage, inside that tight, little cunt a hers.

  I check out her two bodyguards as they walk with her to the hotel entrance. Seem like regulars although something doesn't sit right with one of them. He keeps looking at the Minister and he's too old—maybe early forties—and he's too fat. I don't remember him in any briefings.

  Things are starting to move more slowly around me now. I think faster, sharper, my reflexes honed and keen. Time is slowing down for me. The gooks up near the corner have started to move towards us. One of them is shouting something at my man in the taxi who's giving them the finger. Their feet move in slow motion.

  I glance quickly back towards Roy. He's moved closer to the cops. The cops aren't doing anything strange yet. Jim's also in position.

  I keep my body between the Minister and the curb, between trouble, and I can see clearly now, so clearly. Everything is moving so slow. Traffic drifts by at half speed, the noise slurred and muted. The world is suspending in ice and I am fire through it.

  The Minister approaches the hotel doors and she pauses. She stares at me, looking like she's about to say something, but the man behind her, the fat one, looks at me. I can see it in his eyes. He knows. He looks back at the Minister as one of his pudgy hands moves to touch her. The other hand reaches inside his jacket.

  Jesus Christ, it's happening. They're going to take her out.

  'David? Is that you ...' the Minister is saying but I'm already moving, the gun in hand, aiming at the fat man.

  'Get down!' I yell, throwing myself between her and the assassin. She's screaming as I push her down onto the ground. My gun barks loudly and the bullet takes the assassin in the forehead. Blood sprays from the back of his head and his knees buckle. I put another bullet into his throat as he falls. To make sure.

  The other bodyguard makes his move but I fire into his stomach. He's so close his blood spurts over my hands ruining my suit. Then I'm shielding the Minister, her body safe beneath me. She's screaming hysterically. Someone is yelling, I don't know at who, and the gooks are running away screaming.

  Where the fuck are Roy and Jim?

  The yelling voice is getting louder as things start to speed up again. Things burst back into real-time. My ears pop and the traffic noise is suddenly deafening. The Minister is screaming and crying. Her body shudders through mine. There's a moment of intimacy here, something she'll never have again with anyone. I can feel her heart beating inside me.

  'It's okay, it's okay.' I try to soothe her. 'It's over now, you're okay.'

  'David!' she screams beneath sobs, 'What have you done? What have you ...'

  She knows my name. I get slowly to my feet, looking warily around.

  ' ... the gun!' the voice yells clearly now. 'Drop it now! Drop the gun or we'll shoot!'

  It's those fucken cops! They're in on this, too.

  Where the fuck is Roy?

  I can't see him anywhere. I can't see anybody anywhere, the taxis are empty, what the fuck is going on? They've all fucken deserted me! I'm going to have to take these bastards, too. This will be tricky.

  'It's okay, officer.' I raise my hands. 'It's under control now.'

  'Drop the fucken gun!'

  The eye of the storm descends and now is my time. I move languidly, taking both the cops out, a bullet to the head for one, a bullet through the eye for the other, but before I can move, something smacks into my chest throwing me backwards onto the concrete.

  They shot me, they fucken shot me! I didn't see them move, it was too fast, it was ... fuck, my chest, oh fuck, I'm hit. I'm hot, far too hot. Something inside me is ripped and I can feel it bubble with every breath.

  The buildings tower up above me on either side of the street to a clear, blue sky. There are no clouds.

  The woman next to me, the Minister, is crying. Her face is a strange mixture of pity and hate. 'You fucken crazy bastard, David!' she screams at me. 'Look what you've done!' She is covered in the blood of different men.

  How does she know my name?

  The man I shot in the stomach is writhing around somewhere near my head and moaning loudly. He was screaming but his throat isn't working too well now. I wish the cunt would shut up, I need to concentrate. His blood is pooling around my head and matting in my hair.

  My chest is on fire and every breath I take burns.

  'What have you done?' she whispers. She's not the Minister.

  'Sarah?' I choke. What the hell is she doing here? I try to say more but blood is thick in my throat. The pain is fading. This is the first time she's talked to me, really talked to me since she ...

  One of the cops is above me. He's kicked away my gun.

  'What's in his ear?' one of them says.

  'It looks like a hands free for a mobile,' the other says. 'It's not attached to anything.'

  'Ma'am,' one of the cops says gently as he puts his filthy fucken hands on my woman and pulls her away from me.

  'I know him, I know him,' she says sobbing into the cop's shoulder, one of her hands pointing back towards me. The ring on her finger sparkles in the sunlight, singling me out, accusing me. It's someone else's, not mine. 'I used to work with him at the city council. In accounts. His name is David Strathwick, he ...'

  I knew her once.

  Her voice drains away into meaninglessness. It's getting harder to breathe and I can hear sirens wailing.

  Above me the sky is turning black.

  ***

  Afterword: The Sky is Turning Black

  This is an early story, one that is nasty and paranoid. It's not speculative in any way, but it is urban and it is dark, characteristics that define a lot of my body of work. It is probably one of the earliest pieces in which I explore the device of the unreliable narrator, a device that is also present in a lot of my later stories. I love the unreliable narrator. It rewards re-reading as all the clues that are planted should become more evident, and by re-reading, I mean all stories that use the device, not just this one (Christopher Nolan's film Memento, for example, uses this to magnificent effect, and repeated viewings still leave you open-mouthed in admiration).

  My Slice of Life character has its origins in the protagonist in this story, but instead of just being nasty and paranoid, I decided to have fun with it and soak the character in black humour. It works much, much better as a result. He's not in this collection, though. He's living in Slice of Life (The Mayne Press, 2009), which showcases the more humorous side of my work, though humour is a subjective thing, and most critics described the collection as downright disturbing.

  "The Sky is Turning Black" comes from smoking too much pot late at night and sitting in the dark listening to other people talk. Oh, the places one finds inspiration!

  ***

  The Feastive Season

  The aroma of roasting turkey lured the young girl from her dreams into the kitchen. Her mother stood slicing potatoes amongst dishes of vegetables and trays of meats. There were pots of spices and herbs, and bowls of dough and chocolate. It had been a lean winter and the smells made her ravenous.

  'What are you doing, Mother?' the girl asked, her eyes wide. She could not remember seeing so much food in their house.

  'It's Christmas Eve, Emily.' Mother layer
ed the potato slices into a flat, clay dish.

  'Is all this food for tonight?' asked Emily, dipping a finger into a chocolate-coated mixing bowl.

  'Most is for Saint Niklaus. He gets very hungry this time of year.' Mother sprinkled cracked pepper over the potatoes before smothering them in a cheese sauce. 'Don't you remember last Christmas?'

  'Not really.' Emily sucked her fingers. 'Did I get a present?'

  'The joys of being only four years old,' said Mother.

  'She's lucky,' said a surly voice from the kitchen door.

  Emily, absorbed in the bowl of chocolate, missed the look that her mother gave her older sister, Rebekah. A look at first hard, and then forgiving. She did, however, notice Rebekah's pale face and red eyes.

  'Have you been crying?' asked Emily.

  'It's none of your business,' Rebekah snapped, glaring at her mother.

  Heat blasted from the potbelly stove as Mother slipped the potatoes onto the upper tray. The door banged shut, making Emily jump.

  'Don't speak to your sister like that,' Mother said as she wiped her hands on her apron.

  Rebekah's bottom lip quivered and her eyes brimmed. 'It's not fair!'

  Mother moved fast. She wrapped Rebekah in her arms. 'Hush, child. Sshhhh ...'

  'I don't want to! Mother, please don't make me!' Rebekah sobbed into her mother's shallow bosom.

  'It comes early on some, my love. For this Christmas Eve, you are a woman,' Mother soothed, while her eyes scowled at Emily to leave.

  Father swept into the kitchen, a weary bear, snow clinging to his cloak, an axe in his hand. 'What is it, Marthe?'

  Rebekah wailed again and Mother pulled her closer. 'Take Emily,' Mother said. 'Women's talk. She fears the coming eve.'

  Father's nostrils flared and a sheet of ice slipped behind his eyes. 'Of course.'

  He carried Emily from the kitchen into the living area, and she felt his arms tremble. Father sat her in front of the fire and hung his coat next to the hearth. He rubbed his hands as he blew them from blue to pink, smiling and laughing all the while.