by Simon King
10.
It was a little after one when my father finally stumbled through the back door. Like me, he’d also cut across the fields behind our house, tripping through the trees and finally staggering into the kitchen. I heard the door slam shut behind him, then listened as his footfalls only took him as far as the kitchen table.
All I needed to do was wait long enough for him to get comfortable wherever he was going to settle, then make our move. Or should I say, let Loui make his move. I heard a chair slide out from the table, creak as he dropped his weight into it, then slowly begin to hum to himself as the three of us remained perfectly still upstairs.
11.
We waited for him to fall asleep in his drunken stupor, the humming continuing for what felt like forever. He remained sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, its timber joins creaking with every sway of its intoxicated passenger. I thought we might fall asleep before him and thus miss giving Loui his opportunity for pay-back. But slowly, the humming became quieter and quieter, the rocking slowing with each tick of the old clock. I heard crickets chirping out in the yard, and then, as I was about to ask whether he was going to do it, I felt Loui come forward, carefully nudging me aside and taking control of our body.
It wasn’t the first time I had experienced him taking me over, but this time it felt much more familiar, probably because I wanted him to. There had been a couple of occasions where I had asked Eddie to step in while Royce Packard did his thing to us, but it was more of a “shared” experience, me still very much a part of the ride. I don’t know how else to explain it. When Loui came forward this time, relinquishing me of any ability to move my muscles, I felt more like a willing passenger. It was like I was inside my body yet outside of it, watching someone else moving around.
The other thing I remember clearly was when he pushed me aside that time, there was an overwhelming sense of rage. My heart began to beat with such an increased tempo that I felt it in my eyeballs, almost as if they were moving with each beat.
Loui began to take us slowly down the stairs, never taking his eyes off his prey. When he reached the fourth step, knowing it creaked, he stepped over it with such grace that it felt like he was making us dance. The other thing I noticed was that I couldn’t hear his thoughts. Unlike Eddie, who spoke to me with thoughts sometimes, Loui was silent. It was like I was a passenger in a driverless car. Does that make sense, James? I hope it does, ‘because it felt fucking weird.
When he finally reached the kitchen, Loui first walked to my father and stood directly in front of him. He had moved the chair sideways, one elbow resting on the table beside him. He was leaning back in the chair, his head rolled back far enough that I could see up his nostrils, both hairier than a cat’s arsehole.
At first, I thought Loui was just going to hit him or something. He had us standing there a long time, just staring at him, almost as if he was contemplating something. But then he walked around the table and went to the kitchen bench. He opened the second drawer down and peered inside, a collection of mixed utensils scattered in the bottom of it. The usual ones were all there, whisks, egg flips, a rolling pin, you get the idea. There was also an assortment of knives; some long, some short, some serrated, some small, some sharp, some dull. Again, Loui just stood there, staring as if contemplating, the kitchen filled with the sounds of loud snoring.
There was a sudden rasp from my father’s throat, a cough, then he lifted a leg and farted. It sounded so wet that I thought he’d shit himself. The smell that filled the room certainly said he did. Loui turned back to the drawer and reached in, his fingers grabbing the handle of a short and pointy knife, the blade maybe three inches long. To be honest, I was a little disappointed with it. I’d been expecting a big fat Christmas-turkey carver, but what he had chosen was more like a Christmas quail-picker. I tried to voice my objection but was unable to. For the time being, I was locked out, still just a passenger in my own skin.
He held the knife up and looked at the gleaming blade for a moment, then turned back toward my father. Grasping the handle tight, we made our way, or should I say, Loui made his way back around the table until he was standing in front of my father again, our feet almost touching.
“Slice his fucking throat,” I wanted to shout, but of course, I was unable to say anything, by voice or thought. It turns out, I didn’t need to because what happened next, happened so quick that if I hadn’t been watching with Loui’s eyes, I would have missed it.
With a swing of his arm, Loui brought the knife down so fast, I swear I heard it whistle. It missed his face, his throat, even his chest. What it did pierce was the thin fabric of his pants that sat between his legs, skewering his dick and nailing it to the chair with a dull thunk. His eyes shot open in an instant and the scream of pain and horror that came from him sounded like a Christmas carol to me. I felt such an overwhelming sense of vengeful joy that I tried to dance. But of course, couldn’t.
He just sat there, stuck to the chair, his mouth wide open in a scream that seemed to go on forever, gingerly trying not to move. And then, without warning, Loui punched his fist into my father’s face. Or at least, that’s what I thought.
Instead of connecting with his face, Loui’s fist was directed downwards, into my father’s mouth and down his throat. The momentum alone took us up to the elbow. It cut off his scream, the prick coughing and choking, but it was too late.
If he tried to bite Loui’s arm, it would have done no good. He may have tried, but the pain must have been too intense, because he just continued to try and scream, something nearly impossible. Loui’s fingers were grabbing and tearing anything they could grasp. I could feel his heartbeat through the walls of meat down there and then realised, with each clawing rip, what Loui was doing.
He began to push his hand further forward, his other hand pushing my father’s chest back, scraping and slicing through more and more flesh. Then, after what seemed like minutes, I felt his hand, our hand, finally wrap tightly around the beating muscle. My father’s eyes rolled back into his head, a deep retching sound coming from deep within him. The hand squeezed tighter and tighter, my father beginning to thrash about on the chair. He was unable to stand as his legs frantically kicked this way and that, the table pushed away with a madly-waving arm.
Loui finally screamed, a loud and victorious yell of anger, hatred and pure bloodlust as he gave one last almighty heave and tore my father’s heart out through his mouth, stringy veins dangling between his fingers. My father’s eyes rolled back to normal one final time; spoke one last unintelligible word as Loui brought the still convulsing heart to his mouth and tore a huge chunk from it with his teeth. As he spat it into my father’s face, the body went limp, his head rolling back into the same position as it had been when we first came down the stairs. Loui dropped the heart into his lap and retreated back to whatever corner of my mind he lived in. As he disappeared from my mind again, I heard him speak softly.
“No one fucks with us, boys. No one.”
Chapter 4
1.
There was only one thing to do when it came to disposing my father’s body and that was burying him close to his friend, Royce. While it took me most of the night to carry out, I was throwing the last of the dirt back into the hole just as the sun began to rise.
There were a few trees around the spot and although some of the roots had made digging more difficult, it was easier to hide the freshly-dug mound with leaves and shrubbery.
After an hour of spreading vegetation over the grave, there was no way to tell that spot apart from anywhere else nearby. He’d been laid to rest face-down at the bottom of the pit, his good friend just a few metres beside him.
Once I was sure there was little chance of the grave being found, I cleaned the kitchen as best I could. There was quite a bit of blood, so I set about meticulously cleaning every inch of that floor better than ever before.
But after a few minutes, there was another issue that was growing with each wipe of the cloth. I
was creating a clean spot, the floor not cleaned since my mother was around. This led me to scrubbing the entire room from top to bottom. It took well into the day, but I knew that no-one would be around to disturb me. My father wasn’t on the top of anyone’s visits list, hence why I cleaned with little interruption.
As I cleaned, I began to wonder how I would proceed. Without my father around, there were bound to be questions about why I was all alone. Although not exactly a popular fellow, there were still people around that would look for him, the first being the mill foreman, who my father worked for.
He’d taken me to the mill a couple of times, but each time was when the place was closed, my father showing me around while men cleaned their machines. I remember the boss, a man named John Sadler. His son Richard was also helping clean and he showed me around the place while my father did what he needed to.
There was another man who helped my father. Darren ‘Keg’ Fermaner was a huge man, his belly poking out from under his work shirt. He was completely bald and his thick arms were corded with worker’s muscles, the kind that bulged under his sleeves. He was a huge drinker and was one of the usual Tuesday-night poker crew my father drank with.
As I cleaned, a plan began to form in my mind, one that would hopefully see me avoid any suspicion in the disappearance of my father, Royce and the murder of a used-up whore.
2.
I waited to initiate my plan until the following morning. It was important for me to get the timing right, otherwise there might be questions to answer that I didn’t want to. My father wasn’t exactly one of the town’s most punctual, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to miss a day here or there. But I figured not showing up at work for a day and a half should be enough time.
At around 11 that Thursday morning, I walked to Jackson Street, making sure to take the road so enough passing traffic saw me. It was a sunny day and that made the journey more pleasant, listening to the noise of the countryside as the wildlife went about its morning. There was the distinct smell of freshly mowed grass as I passed one farm house and a man waved a quick hello at me.
I waved back but didn’t pause, the mill less than 10 minutes further along. I was hoping that the place would be in full swing, making the feasibility of my plan more convincing.
But as I topped the final hill, a car suddenly shot up from the opposite side, swerved a little when I came into view, then slowed, doing a U-turn about 50 yards past me. As the car swung around and pulled up beside me, Keg Fermaner’s bald head popped out of the open window.
“You’re Harry, aren’t ya?” he asked, his cheeks looking flushed, either from the heat, anger or exertion. “You’re Will Lightman’s kid, yeah?” he asked again. I nodded slowly, thought about my plan and figured this was the best it was going to get.
“I’m just heading to the mill to see if my father is there. He hasn’t been home since Tuesday morning.” I tried to sound as concerned as possible. It must have worked, because Keg waved me around to the other side of the car.
“Hop in, kid. I’ll take you.” I did as he wanted, climbing into the cabin, the thick cigarette haze almost choking me. He had one sticking out of the corner of his mouth, sucked on it a few times and let the smoke drift from the side of his lips.
Once the door was closed, Keg threw the car into gear and shot off towards the mill. He took up more than half the seat, the steering wheel looking like a kid’s toy in his huge paws.
“Your Pa isn’t exactly the reliable kind, kid. Hasn’t been to work at all this week. Doubt Sadler will keep him on much longer. Foreman or no foreman, the mill can’t afford to be a man short with the amount of work it has.” I just nodded, unsure if he was looking for a response.
3.
The drive to the mill took all of 2 minutes, the sounds of the machinery echoing across the parking lot. Several men were loading planks onto a flatbed near the far gate, while the rest of the crew were in the main shed, sounds of saws squealing into the midday sky.
“Keg! Back already?” someone called out through a window and I looked to see John Sadler sticking his half-bald head out through the window. He wore thick-rimmed glasses and the sun glinted brightly off one of the lenses.
“One sec,” Keg called back and waved for me to follow.
Keg led me through one of the side doors, into a cool office where a lady sat at a desk and John Sadler sat on the edge of it.
“Where is he?” he asked Keg.
“I don’t know, but this is his kid. Apparently, he hasn’t shown around home, either.” They both looked down at me and I wondered whether they could see right through my deception. John Sadler’s accusatory glance seemed to peer into the darkest reaches of my mind, the place where only secrets lived.
I felt my cheeks begin to heat up, expecting the old man to point his finger at me, telling me that it was I who must have caused my father’s disappearance. Sadler and Keg exchanged a brief look, the woman behind the desk continuing to bang away on her typewriter.
After what felt like enough time to boil a kettle, Sadler finally turned his eyes away from me and spoke to his secretary.
“Gloria, would you call Larry for me?” he said, rising up and walking to his own desk.
“Right away,” Gloria replied, picking the phone up and spinning the lever. Keg looked back at me then waved for me to go and sit at Sadler’s desk.
“Go on, kid. He won’t bite.” I did as he asked, watching as Sadler ruffled through some paperwork. He looked up and saw me sit, pausing for a moment. There was something playing out behind his calm façade and I could feel my anxiety rise, expecting him to begin questioning me.
But my fear was just in my mind, Sadler suddenly turning to Keg.
“Darren, in light of these latest indiscretions, I’d like you to take over the foreman position from today onwards. We’ll discuss payrates and things a bit later, if that’s OK?” He looked at Keg with a blank question on his face, waiting for an answer but not expecting one different than the one he anticipated.
The request made Keg uncomfortable, having the previous foreman’s son sitting in the same room. I could feel the tension in the man rise. He simply nodded, looked at me and slowly walked out, leaving me with the boss now eyeing me up and down.
“How old are you, son?” he asked, popping a cigarette into his mouth. He chased the tip of it with a match, then blew a thick cloud of smoke above my head.
“15,” I said, lying.
“Ever worked before?” I must admit, I was a little immature for the question, having only spent time either around our home or at school for years. I didn’t get out much, so the chances of me ever having worked before were slim to none. Not unless you counted digging a new hole for the outhouse as active employment.
“No, Sir,” I replied.
“Think you can handle an honest day’s work?” The question again soared over my head, as if following the hazy blue smoke he kept ejecting towards me.
“Yes.”
“I’m sure we can find some odd jobs for you to do. Keen to start today?”
I hadn’t figured on gaining full-time employment when I set out that morning, but now that it presented itself, was relieved that I found it.
“Can start right now,” I said confidently.
“Good. Go out and see Darren. Tell him to start you off with Nancy. She’ll keep you busy for a while.” Without waiting for a reply his attention shifted to a pile of papers sitting in front of him and just like that, I became a regular employee of the mill.
4.
It turns out Nancy wasn’t as appealing as I’d hoped. She was the mill’s broom, Darren offering me a slight grin as he handed it to me. There were around a dozen men working the mill’s machinery, my ears straining to hear anything other than the constant whirring of saws.
There was so much sawdust littered around the floor that by the time the final whistle hooted its shrill call of “tools down”, I hadn’t cleared half of it. Darren found me a few minutes after th
e machines were switched off, sweeping behind the central area where the bulk of the logs were fed in through the main chute and cut up into boards.
I’m sorry if I’m vague with my description of the mill. It was never something that overly interested me. Especially that day. My mind kept going back to the previous night, Loui’s handywork playing in my mind on permanent repeat.
“Hey, kid. Day’s over. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”
5.
There were 2 others in the car with us. They both kept eyeing me off as Darren drove, but they weren’t mean about it. Darren was telling them about a whore that had been found dead in one of the houses behind Rita’s.
“They caught a bloke this morning. He was with Sade and tried to bite her nipple off. He was pissed as a fart and trying to feast on her fuckin tit.” I figured they all knew who Sade was because none of them asked about her.
Bill, the guy sitting next to me lived in the house almost directly behind my own, although it was almost a mile between us. The thick trees that separated our properties acted like a curtain and there was a creek that represented the boundary. He had a young son, Clancy, that I saw a few times, but we hadn’t spoken at that point.
“Anyone we know?” Bill asked.
“Who, the guy with Sade? Nah, just some drifter.”
“Guess his drifting days are over,” Newton, the guy riding shotgun said as he fired up a cigarette.
They’d pinned the whore’s murder on some poor sap who just happened to be passing through town. Can you believe that, James? The trial never actually happened because the guy topped himself a few days beforehand. There was a rumour that the cops had strung him up in his cell, but of course it was never proven.
What’s even funnier, for me anyway, was the reason behind the cops supposedly murdering this innocent citizen. The drifter, I wish I could remember his name but unfortunately it wasn’t one that stuck in my mind, had been in possession of a distinctive pocket watch at the time of his arrest.
