Open Wounds

by S. C. Farrow

  As she steps out of the bathroom, she catches sight of something in the corner of her eye. Her heart starts racing as she turns to look. Two uniformed cops are coming through the front door. She holds her breath and glances through the front window. Sure enough, the highway patrol car that sped past them on their way here is parked a few short metres from the bus. She slides her eyes over to him at the table. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, warning her not to do anything sudden. Not to do anything stupid. She looks back at the cops, smiles slightly as she stops to let them pass, then quietly goes back to her table.

  She takes her seat beside the window, slowly and quietly, as he shoves the last bite of food into his mouth. He watches the cops chatting and laughing with the women behind the counter as he chews.

  She watches a fly crawling around the rim of her cup, stopping every now and then, coal black against the cup’s sullied white, to rub its feet together in a disease spreading frenzy. A last hoorah perhaps, before the final lure of the purple light.

  When he’s done with his lunch, he picks up his serviette, wipes his mouth, glares at her, and demands to know where his coffee is.

  Shit, she exhales. She forgot it.

  A moment later, the old ladies stir. It’s time to get back on the bus.

  He gets up, tucks his shirt into his pants and his phone into his pocket. She grabs her handbag and gets up too. As she turns to join the old ladies, he grabs her wrist and yanks her back. ‘Wait,’ he demands, as he shoves his fingers through her hair and sinks his fingers deep into her skin. Her collar scratches the back of her sweaty neck as he squeezes.

  They hang back as the women and cops file out the front door

  She hears the zap of the ultraviolet light as the fly meets its fate.

  Finally, he shoves her forward, commands her to get going, as he guides her past the tables and back into the blistering heat.

  Outside, the hot dry air burns her lungs. He steers her past the cops who stand beside their patrol car chowing down on their fatladen food towards the queue of little old ladies who are waiting to board the bus.

  With his fingers wrapped tightly around her neck, he pushes them into the middle of the line. The old ladies behind them frown and purse their lips.

  The line steadily moves forward towards the door.

  Four and a half years of wearing his frailties like an old woollen overcoat that’s patched and ugly.

  Her heart starts pounding in her chest.

  A step closer.

  She can’t do it anymore.

  They’re almost at the door. Finally, he lets go of her neck, but she hesitates to climb aboard.

  He pushes her, snaps at her to hurry up.

  She turns around to face him. ‘No.’

  His face darkens like a charcoal sketch. ‘Get up there,’ he hisses through gritted teeth.

  Her heart hammers against her rib cage as she steps around him.

  Furious, he grabs her arm, pulls her back, and hisses through gritted teeth, ‘Get on the bus.’

  She shakes her head, she can’t get on the bus. If she gets on the bus, she’ll die. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she says sternly.

  The little old ladies ahead of her turn around to see what’s going on. Several of them head back towards the door.

  Furious, he yanks her close and warns her to do as she’s told.

  The cops look up, their attention caught by the commotion.

  ‘Let me go,’ she says, trying to wrench herself away.

  ‘Get on that fucking bus.’

  ‘Let me go,’ she yells.

  Pushed to his limit, he slaps her across the face so hard she slams into the side of the bus. As he raises his fist to have another go, the old ladies step in between them.

  He clenches his jaw as he looks around and realises he’s surrounded by a bunch of old women in white.

  Then he sees the cops coming towards him. ‘Shit,’ he hisses, before taking off in a sprint.

  She holds the side of her face as she stands up and looks at the women surrounding her. One of them, one of three she encountered in the ladies’ room, holds out her hand. ‘The bus is leaving, dear. We’d better hurry.’ She nods and takes the old woman’s hand.

  They climb aboard the bus and the door hisses closed behind them.

  She makes her way down the aisle and takes her seat. A moment later, the bus pulls out of the carpark and onto the highway. She swipes at a pearl of sweat that trickles down beneath her collar as she slides into the seat by the window. She peers through the dark lenses of her sunglasses as the cops shove him, handcuffed, into the back of the patrol car.

  The bus picks up speed. They’re on their way.

  She nods as she leans back in her seat, grateful for the cool, conditioned air.

  The Roos are Loose

  Drool pools beneath Brutus’s jowls as he lies on the floor with his big black eyes staring up at Daniel who sits on the edge of the double bed tapping his fingers slowly, unconsciously, on the cold steel barrel of the .22 rifle that’s propped between his bare feet.

  Daniel watches Kelly though the bedroom window. She’s in the backyard wearing paint-stained track suit pants and that raggedy old band t-shirt that she loves so much as she hangs laundry on the clothesline. Her long blonde hair hangs in a tangled mess over her shoulders. She’s been up for hours but still hasn’t found the time to brush it.

  The kids are in the yard with her. Emma’s sitting at the patio table pouring tea for her favourite dolls. She’s got her mother’s blonde hair and slender limbs. She loves school and her friends, and those ballet lessons… She hasn’t missed a single one since they signed her up at the On Pointe Ballet School over a year ago. Daniel smiles, almost imperceptibly, as he remembers her recital a few weeks ago. He was so proud of her. She’d remembered every step, every twirl. But Matthew… Bloody hell, he’s a handful. He couldn’t stop fidgeting. The last thing he wanted to do was sit there for an hour watching his sister prancing around on the stage. He just wanted to get up and play.

  Now, he’s playing with mud. He picks up a huge handful of it, squeezes it between his plump little fingers then promptly lobs a gob of it at Emma. He laughs and laughs when it misses her and hits the clean white sheet that Kelly just hung on the line. Kelly throws a hand to her hip and barks his name, but it’s hard to be mad at him when he smiles and claps his little hands together triumphantly.

  A tear wells in the corner of Daniel’s eye. He loves them so much, but he can’t take it anymore. The pain. The fear. The nightmares…

  The boxer dog flinches as Daniel wraps his fingers around the barrel of the gun and tightens his grip.

  ‘So, how’d it go?’ Daniel’s father says, plonking the teapot down on the table in front of him.

  Daniel remembers the teapot fondly. It was his mother’s favourite. It’s the one she used when special visitors came.

  Daniel’s leg jiggles at a furious pace beneath the table. ‘The bloke was a prick.’

  ‘What do you mean he was a prick?’

  ‘He said my list of skills was limited.’

  ‘What’d you say?’

  ‘I told him that I’ve got lots of skills but that I can’t put ’em on my resume because they’re classified.’

  ‘What’d he say to that?’

  ‘He said he wasn’t sure that I’d be happy doing administration.’

  His father takes his seat at the head of the table then wraps his fingers, tremulous with age, around the teapot’s handle and pours their tea. In all the years Daniel’s been gone from home, nothing has changed. The same wallpaper hangs on the walls. The same cupboard doors don’t quite shut properly. The same dishes sit on the cupboard shelves. It even has the same smell, the smell of musty carpet and brittle lino.

  Daniel shakes his head. ‘Twelve years, dad. Twelve bloody years and it all counts for shit. I’ve got all these skills that mean absolutely nothing. They’re all bloody absolutely useless unless I’m in some godfors
aken desert hunting down someone else’s enemy.’

  His father scoops a mountain of fine white crystals from the sugar bowl. ‘Yeah, well, you’ve just got to take it on the chin and look for something else. You’ve got a family to look after.’

  Daniel slams his fist on the table, sloshing tea over the sides of their cups onto his mother’s old yellow tablecloth. ‘I know I’ve got a family,’ he shouts. ‘I know I should be looking after them. Don’t you think I’m trying to do that?’

  The old man grips the teaspoon of sugar as he looks up at him in stunned silence.

  Without another word, Daniel gets up from the table and walks out the back door, slamming it closed behind him.

  ‘Yeah!’ Robbo cries after sinking the striped blue ball in the corner pocket. ‘What’d I tell, you, mate?’ He says grinning from ear to ear. ‘This one’s mine.’

  Daniel laughs. ‘Yeah, well, I thought I’d spot you one game. Don’t want you crying in your beer.’

  Childhood friends, Daniel and Robbo have been coming to the one hundred-year-old Ballegie Pub since they were kids, sitting on their mothers’ knees and sneaking sips of their fathers’ beer. All these years later, the dank smell of decrepit wood and the fetid stench of the beer-soaked carpet are oddly comforting.

  Robbo leans over the table as he lines up his next shot. ‘Watch this. Fourteen in the top pocket.’

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Daniel says, smirking. ‘I’m going to get another beer. You want one?’

  Robbo looks up. ‘We’ve been here less than an hour, mate. That’s your third.’

  Daniel bristles. ‘Just shut your yap and take your shot.’

  Robbo frowns but doesn’t push it. He gets his eyes back on the game.

  Daniel turns around—and slams straight into a punter who’s walking past the table causing beer to slosh like a tidal wave over the rim of the glass in his hand.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Daniel says. ‘Sorry about that, mate.’

  Furious, the bloke shoves his pointed finger in Daniel’s face. ‘I’m not your mate and you should watch where you’re going… Cunt.’

  Daniel’s mind races back to Afghanistan where he’s looking down the barrel of a rifle held by a Taliban insurgent. Right there, at that minute, a million thoughts race through Daniel’s mind as he calculates the quickest and most efficient way to take the man out.

  The next thing he knows, he can hear his name being called, ‘Daniel. Let him go.’

  The sound of Robbo’s voice echoes in Daniel’s ears.

  ‘Daniel!’

  Sweating and shaking, Daniel snaps out of it. He realises he’s got his hand around the stranger’s throat and that Robbo is tugging on his arm desperately trying to pull him away. The guy’s face is bright red as Daniel’s fingers sink deeper and deeper into his flesh.

  ‘Daniel!’

  Daniel lets go.

  The bloke clutches at his throat as he gags for breath.

  ‘Get outta here, mate,’ Robbo says, pushing the bloke in the direction of the door.

  The bloke coughs as he looks back before slinking out the door. ‘The bloody roos are loose in the top paddock, that’s for sure.’

  Robbo frowns as he looks at his friend. ‘What the fuck was that?’ he says, aghast.

  Daniel drags his fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t know.’

  Daniel swills Carlton Draught from a stubbie as he sits on the couch watching the Magpies trouncing the Bombers in the final quarter of the televised match. Emma’s beside him, playing quietly with one of her dolls. Matty is on the floor in front of them, squealing as he smashes his toy cars together head on.

  Daniel glares down at him. ‘Hey, Matty, keep it down, all right,’ he says. He knows the kids are just playing, but the noise. He can’t hear the fucking TV.

  Entranced in his game, Matty doesn’t seem to hear him.

  Daniel turns his attention back to the TV, just in time to see Collingwood’s full forward leap onto his opponent’s shoulders to take a spectacular mark. ‘All right!’ he shouts, sitting forward and pumping his fist in the air. ‘Go, Pies!’

  ‘Bam, bam, bam,’ Matty cries out as he smashes the cars together again.

  ‘Matty,’ Daniel yells, ‘shut up, I told ya.’

  But it’s no use. Matty’s excitement has reached fever pitch. He pounds one car on top of the other, ‘bam, bam, bam,’ his voice jangling Daniel’s nerves with every smash.

  ‘Bam, bam, bam, bam!’

  ‘Mathew!’

  ‘Bam, bam, bam!’

  Daniel grits his teeth and raises his hand ready to strike the boy. ‘I told you to quit that fucking noise!’

  Matthew looks up at him, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

  Emma clings to her doll.

  Fury burns in Daniel’s eyes as he glares down at the boy.

  Terrified, Matthew’s bottom lip starts trembling. A moment later, he starts wailing.

  Emma leaps off the couch and runs out of the room leaving her doll behind her.

  Daniel drops his hand, gets up off the couch, snatches Matthew up and holds him tight as he whispers over and over again how sorry he is.

  Brutus sits in the kitchen doorway watching Daniel who stands in the hallway with his back pressed firmly against the wall. In the tunnel-like space, he can hear faint noises of the children playing in their rooms. The wailing of a battery-operated fire engine from Matthew’s room, and the sounds of a make-believe tea party from Emma’s. In the kitchen, he can hear Kelly talking on the phone.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for months,’ she says with a stern voice.

  Then silence as Kelly pauses to listen to the person on the other end of the line. Finally, she responds. ‘He can’t wait another seven weeks,’ she argues. ‘He needs to see someone. Not next month, not next week. But today…’

  More silence.

  Daniel closes his eyes, aware that his wife is doing battle for him. Ashamed that his wife is doing battle for him.

  ‘I don’t care if his case is making progress! It’s not fast enough. He needs help. He needs help now.’

  Daniel turns and walks away.

  ‘Look,’ Kelly says with an exasperated sigh, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t think you understand the urgency here.’

  Daniel knows it’s a battle she can’t win.

  No one can win.

  The sound of the receiver slamming into the cradle follows him as he goes.

  On the edge of wakefulness, Daniel frowns and gasps as he stirs from a fitful sleep. Finally, he opens his eyes and realises that Kelly isn’t in the bed beside him. It must be late. She must have gone to work. He can hear the radio playing in the kitchen; the community station. The announcer is talking about the Ovine Johnes crisis and the toll the disease is taking on local sheep farmers.

  The voice gets louder as Daniel walks down the hall.

  In the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast lingers in the air. Daniel goes to the fridge and grabs the carton of orange juice.

  Tap, taptap, tap.

  The plastic tassel hanging from the blind strikes rhythmically against the glass on a breeze that steals in through the open window.

  On the radio, white noise seeps into the spaces between the radio announcer’s words.

  Tap, taptap, tap.

  The tassel still swings in the breeze.

  The announcer’s voice becomes garbled military radio chatter.

  Brutus sits beside him, starts nuzzling at his hand.

  Daniel looks down at him, pats him on the head.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The military chatter gets louder.

  Helicopter rotor blades whir overhead.

  And somewhere a woman starts wailing.

  Daniel looks up.

  Drops the carton of juice.

  It hits the floor spewing liquid like a volcano.

  On the other side of the room, the Taliban insurgent aims a rifle at him.


  Daniel holds up his hand. ‘No.’

  The insurgent’s finger twitches on the trigger.

  The plastic tassel hits the glass.

  Radio chatter fills the room.

  Daniel takes a step back.

  The insurgent pulls the trigger.

  Daniel shouts and hits the floor.

  Kelly rushes in. The kids are behind her. Emma takes one look at her father trembling on the kitchen floor then slinks behind her mother. ‘What’s wrong with Daddy?’ she whispers, clinging to her mother’s leg.

  ‘Emmy,’ Kelly says, ‘take Matty to his room, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Emma replies.

  Emma takes Matthew’s hand and leads him out of the room.

  Kelly takes a step towards her husband. ‘Daniel?’

  Daniel doesn’t reply. It’s like he doesn’t even know she’s there.

  Kelly kneels on the floor beside him, slowly reaches out to touch his shoulder. ‘Dan? What’s going on, baby?’

  At last Daniel turns to look at her, fear churning in his bloodshot eyes.

  Kelly wraps her arms around his shoulders. ‘It’s all right. It’s okay,’ she whispers, as she wraps her arms around him and holds him tight, rocking him as they weep.

  Brutus sits outside the bathroom, his nose pressed against the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. Inside the bathroom, steam fills the tiny room, hangs from the ceiling like sinister stratus cloud. As the water cascades over his shoulders, Daniel presses his palms against the wall tiles and unleashes a silent scream, ripped from the deepest, darkest places inside his soul.

  The smell of freshly-baked biscuits fills Louise Miller’s house. Chocolate chip. Matthew’s favourite. It’s homely and strangely comforting. At the front door, Emma gives Aunty Louise a big hug while Matthew runs past them and straight into the kitchen compelled by the promise of sugary goodness.