This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  “Well I don’t go through Sulley Ridge, but I can drop you off a town over. How’s that?”

  The man nodded, walked around the truck and entered the passenger side. He buckled himself in and rested his backpack between his legs.

  “Bruce,” said the driver, extending his hand for a shake. The man accepted but spoke no more. He tipped the cap down over his eyes and applied the sunglasses, feigning sleep. But in his left hand he held a kitchen knife, stolen from the hotel. His jacket sleeve covered the burn mark and the weapon, and despite the dual coverage his eyes remained open. When the engine started, and Bruce roared the beast to life, the man settled into the groove of the seat and breathed steady.

  The Burned Man

  “He has burns to over forty percent of his body. His face and arms are almost completely covered, and his chest is still bruising. You need to leave.”

  “He was on the ground floor. If he wakes he may have information.”

  “Give him time, Melissa.”

  The burned man listened to the doctor and the cop squabble inches from his bed. He regained consciousness half an hour ago but found that he could learn more about his condition by keeping silent and listening to well-educated people argue over what was best. Drugs made his head swim, removing the searing pain of the burn that had almost claimed his life. Memory was a black ball bouncing on an unlit street in midnight, but he remembered enough to remain motivated.

  “Well I’m going to be stationed right outside this door. If he wakes, I’m coming in.”

  When the cop left, the burned man opened his eyes. Bandages were wrapped around every other centimetre of his now hairless head, and his arms were suspended in the air. He stared at the back of the doctor’s head, another hairless specimen. In the upper left corner of the room, a television played on silent. The burning Barron Tower flickered on the screen like a candle, with a banner at the bottom providing live updates to the public. The death toll was over one hundred.

  “Mmmm,” said the burned man, unable to speak.

  The doctor pivoted on the spot, noticed the whites of the burned man’s eyes and closed the door to the room slowly. This was a hospital, and the burned man understood one thing: many had died, but he had survived. The doctor lifted a finger to his mouth and spoke in a hushed tone.

  “Please, keep it down. I knew you were awake. But we can’t have you getting excited, and that is exactly what police attention will do to you.”

  “Mmmm,” repeated the burned man, softer this time.

  “You have a tube in your mouth, you can’t speak right now.”

  He rolled his eyes, wiggling his fingers for a pen.

  “You’ll have your time to speak. Rest, you are lucky to be alive.”

  The burned man heaved and felt an immense pain stabbing through his chest. He shook his legs, realising they contained the most power in his body, and kicked off a glass that smashed against the floor. The cop barged into the room and saw that the burned man was awake.

  The burned man knew the clock was ticking. He knew that every minute that passed was a minute in the favour of his opposition.

  “Mmmm,” he said.

  “Doc, take the tube out of his mouth. He seems quite awake to me.”

  The cop, a blonde woman in her forties with a crisp baby blue uniform and gun at her side, sat next to the burned man and pulled out a pad. She snatched a pen from the doctor’s pocket and unclipped the lid with her mouth.

  The burned man felt a tube being withdrawn from deep inside. It tickled his ribs, throat and tongue. He coughed uncontrollably when nothing blocked his speech.

  “Name,” said the cop, barely waiting for the spluttering to end.

  “Aaron…Aaron Martin.”

  The cop looked to the doctor, and the doctor shrugged.

  “Mr. Martin, do you know what happened last night?”

  “Barron Tower burned down,” he said, merely a whisper, trying to find voice.

  “Correct. Did you own an apartment there?”

  “Yes. Bottom level. Live with my wife and my son.”

  The doctor closed his eyes and moved to the window, looking out as if something sparked his interest. But he spoke.

  “Aaron, your son was found in your arms. I’m deeply sorry.”

  The burned man closed his eyes.

  “My wife?”

  “I have no news on your wife.”

  The cop bowed her head, but the questioning continued.

  “Mr. Martin, I understand that this is a troubling time. I apologise for my forwardness, but we want to know what happened. A building such as Barron Tower does not just burn down.”

  The burned man felt his own fire burning in his stomach.

  “Brady Lockhart.”

  The cop’s head shot up, the crow’s feet at the sides of her eyes deepening. Even the doctor, solemn, looked to his patient.

  “What?”

  “Brady Lockhart caused the fire.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I saw it…saw him.”

  “Who’s he to you?”

  A silence shook in the room like a winter’s chill, an ice land waiting for respite.

  “Don’t waste time. Write this down.”

  The cop found focus.

  “Long, black hair. Usually in a bun. Greenest eyes. A pretty face, no facial hair. Tall, and quite thin. Last I saw, he wore a navy suit. Brady Lockhart. Torched the foundations of the building with petrol and a pink lighter, which set off other parts of the building that he’d covered earlier that day in preparation.”

  The length of speech caused him to see purple stars, his head light, his limbs numb.

  “How do you know this?” said the doctor, in a voice of fear.

  “He…was fucking my…wife.”

  The burned man lost consciousness, but kept his eyes closed when he came back to. The doctor and the cop were speaking, their backs to him.

  “These are claims, there is no evidence,” said the cop, hushed.

  “It’s the only lead you have, and the man recalls the details perfectly.”

  “If these details reach the reporters, the name Brady Lockhart will be on every news station in the country.”

  The burned man wanted a phone.

  “Aaron is right. If this man really is the arsonist, he could be anywhere by now. You can’t wait, Melissa.”

  “Dad…this is already unprofessional. If they find out you let me in here…”

  “Just check up on this Brady guy, see what comes out.”

  The burned man coughed, and they realised their audience was awake.

  “Phone. Please.”

  Ales and Automobiles

  The man jolted awake, feeling a sharp pain in his hand where the kitchen knife had dug in. He peered to his right, checking the status of his driver; driving, the truck swerving through winding country roads lined by silver barriers. The man adjusted his cap and surveyed surroundings, plains of dry brown nothingness as far as the eye could see.

  “Where are we?” asked the man, wiping the blood from his hand on the inside of the jacket.

  “Hours from shit. Smack bang middle of fuck all, mate. Next proper town is about an hour away. The inside of your cap will be more exciting than this.”

  This trucker didn’t listen to the radio or any form of music. The sounds of the spluttering engine, the giant tyres crushing all matter of debris beneath and the occasional grunt of the driver were the sounds of the trucking life. The man was glad to not be hearing more accounts of death and destruction at Barron Tower. But then Bruce started talking.

  “Where in Western Australia ya from?” he asked, popping a mouthful of what looked like mints.

  “A small town up near Broome.”

  “Any kids?”

  The man hesitated.

  “No, no kids. Not for me. Yourself?”

  “Three,” he said, holding up his fingers. “Fat eight-year-old girl, skinny six-year-old boy and a baby with a head like a
potato. No sleep when I’m home, so I sleep in the truck before I return. Fourth child on the way.”

  “Jesus,” said the man.

  “So, a shearer huh?”

  The man couldn’t stand the chatter any longer. Each question threatened to drive a wedge between the trucker and the hitchhiker. If the man got Bruce into a suspicion of lies, he could be stranded between towns with a beating sun burning skin off his back.

  “Got some music?” he asked.

  Bruce turned a knob and a country tune came on, a woman singing about the beauty of home. They were too far away from a town to register a radio station. The man looked onto the road. Two kangaroos hopped onto the asphalt, unawares. The truck was going too fast. Without changing lanes, the truck smashed through the closest roo and a bubble of blood pelted against the windscreen. Bruce turned on the wipers and washed away the gore, unflinching. A stray leg lingered on the dash for a moment, then soared skyward.

  “Fuckers are dumb. This truck couldn’t be louder if I strapped a cannon to the roof. Still, every drive I do, I hit something. As long as it’s not people, hey?”

  “Yeah, sure mate.”

  The man saw a small host of one-storey buildings on the horizon, green shrubs and red gums replacing brown plains. A farmers’ market on the outskirts of this town had scores of people walking through erected stalls perusing vegetables, animals and trinkets created by talented townsfolk. And then, with a crackle, the local radio station announced itself in range.

  “The culprit has a name,” said the presenter, a wheezy old-timer with a chain-smoking voice. “That name is Brady Lockhart.”

  The man froze. A churning in his stomach overtook his entire body and caused two steady streams of sweat to fall from his armpits. It was too hot for the jacket now. He tried to wiggle free, and Bruce noticed the discomfort.

  “You alright, mate? Looks like you’re about to spew. You’ve gone green.”

  “Car sick,” he replied, feeling his cheeks burn. The presenter continued.

  “A victim of the Barron Tower Burn discussed the events of last night with a journalist an hour ago, and the name has gone viral. Brady Lockhart. I repeat, Brady Lockhart.”

  Each new word choked the air out of his lungs. The man reached for the handle of the truck.

  “Hey!”

  Bruce pulled in to his stop, turned off the truck’s engine and glared at the man.

  “Give me the bottle. Give me the cash. And get out. Someone else will get you to Sulley Ridge from here. And brush your damn teeth.”

  The man fell out of the truck and landed atop his backpack. The warmth of this region was stifling; no more air conditioning to lessen the heat. The name was already on the lips of a rural presenter. That meant the name would be circulating the city, the state and the country. Soon, the world. How had this happened? The worst-case scenario had begun.

  The man stumbled towards the market with numb feet and a sweltering torso. He removed the jacket and draped it strategically over his burned arm. People turned to assess the newcomer, eyes that knew a city slicker when he approached their stalls and goods. The ‘shearer’ claims had little chance here, but he would persist. The man felt dozens of eyes piercing his skin as though he was a celebrity in town for a book signing. He rummaged into the backpack for money and purchased a fresh glass of lemonade from a toothy teenager.

  “Your change, sir,” said the boy, handing back a bundle of coins.

  “Keep it,” he managed, gulping the sickly-sweet beverage as liquid cascaded down his chin.

  He reached into the sleeve of his jacket to realise the kitchen knife now lingered somewhere within the truck, traced with his blood. The sun became physical, pushing the man towards the shade of each stall. But he cared not for finely cut watermelon, or woodworks, or cartons of eggs or boiled lollies. The man needed to delve further into anonymity. He needed to find a way to Sulley Ridge.

  The man reached a caravan that had a rectangular wooden perimeter with stools lined on the inner side of the table for shade. Folk sat on the stools drinking beer from pint glasses, a fan blowing misty water on their sweaty faces. The man knew a place of drink was where the loosest lips would lie. He sat on a free stool, ordered a pint of lager and appreciated the shade afforded by a tall umbrella. Four men to his right were deep in conversation.

  “We’ve got about ten minutes before she comes back. Last trip of the day.”

  “But erm not fuckin’ done yet,” slurred a man in his fifties with an overbearing beer belly.

  “Bad luck, Baz. If you miss the tub, you’ll be spending the night out here.”

  “Straight to The Ginger Bastard then?”

  “Where the fuck else can a man get a drink?”

  They pushed one another as they spoke, spitting and blinking and struggling to keep the stool upright. These men were heading back to Sulley Ridge and were tanked with a Saturday buzz. They spoke not of family or friends, only of drink and desire. Heat rose off the tented stalls, lines that may have been a mirage to the man. But he swigged his drink and monitored his surroundings, waiting for someone to point at him and lead an angry mob.

  “Another ale?” said the wide owner, removing the empty glass soiled with froth. The man waved him away, feeling a throbbing pain in his gum where a tooth once lived free. He popped two paracetamol and watched as a mini-bus drove right up to the caravan and beeped three times. The driver, a burly middle-aged woman with the rattiest hair the man had ever seen, waved at the men still drinking at the rectangular table. They didn’t budge.

  “Alright lads, see you next week,” said the owner, removing the pipes from the beer taps and beginning his pack-up. The man guessed he made quite a living off these Saturday customers. The woman’s arrival signalled the end of his shift. One of the drinkers approached with his empty glass.

  “One for the road,” he said, slamming glass down on the bench.

  “Sorry Mick. We’re all shut off now.”

  “I wasn’t asking.”

  Mick was double the owner’s size in height and powerful in width. He glared with nostrils flared and burped so loudly that the stall vibrated. Mick’s eyes were constantly half closed, as though scrutinising every man’s word, every blade of grass.

  “C’mon you drunk motherfuckers,” announced the driver from the open window. “I’ll leave your arses right here, I don’t give a fuck. You have one minute to get in.”

  The owner re-attached the taps and poured the dregs of the keg, almost half the glass in foam.

  “Shit pour, I’m not paying for that. See you next week,” said Mick, sticking his oil-covered hand into the glass to scoop out the froth like a toddler playing with ice cream. He blew the white foam at the owner and spat on the ground. The rest of the men were stumbling into the red mini-van with glasses half full, golden goodness splashing against the grass.

  The man rose, walked around to the driver’s window and spoke.

  “Room for one more,” he said, holding out a fifty.

  “Pub Tub is free,” she said, but snatched the note and tucked colour into her bra. “I’m Sharon, I don’t give two fucks who you are. If you chunder on my van, or piss on my van, or leave a skid mark on my van, I’ll rub your fucking face in it. Got it pal.”

  “Got it,” he said, aware that this ride would have seen some grime in its time. As he entered, the eyes of the passengers narrowed; not from recognising a man from the television, but of a group not taking kindly to newcomers. He sat near the front, hugged his backpack and kept a focus on the road ahead as they started the journey to Sulley Ridge. A cheer went up.

  As the mini-van veered onto the road, a thin man with his jeans around his ankles charged forward from a port-a-loo. Toilet paper was stuck to both boots, and his white underwear had a fresh spot forming on the front. Laughter erupted. The men tossed empty pint glasses at the runner, the smash against gravel causing added danger to the charge.

  “I fucking told you, I said one minute,” said Sharo
n, her matted ponytail flicking with pride.

  “Yeah, fuck him,” said Mick, sticking a finger up at the straggler.

  The mini-van drove away from the farmers’ market, leaving the runner behind. The road ascended into a valley of tall eucalyptus trees that were fighting for dominance atop the world. After hours of dull scenery bordered by fields of grass and the occasional animal or tree, this new environment felt fresh and inviting. But the antics of those rocketing towards their home lessened any sense of safety, as barbed words and drunken fights were building behind the man.

  “Hey,” said a deep voice. “Hey, badger.”

  The man gathered this was directed at him. He didn’t know how far Sulley Ridge was from this point. Being thrown out amongst the unforgiving Australian outback was not desired, even if the eucalyptus trees now offered shelter against swelter. Something smacked the back of his head.

  “The fuck was that?” he said, more to himself, rubbing the newly shaved area.

  “A rock,” said Sharon, shaking her head.

  “Can I try on your jacket, badger?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  A moment of silence passed, followed by a grumble.

  “Let me try on your jacket. I’ll buy you a pint when we get back.”

  “You haven’t shouted a man a pint since your first wife left the Ridge,” said Mick, kicking the closest drinker.

  “Fuck off Mick, you don’t speak about that.”

  “I’ll speak about whatever I want, Billy.”

  “Not about my ex-wife.”

  “She’s gone mate.”

  “What the fuck would you know?”

  “That she’s gone. And that I fucked her too.”

  The man watched from the rear-view mirror. Billy launched onto Mike and slogged him weakly in the jaw, to which Mike used his fist as a hammer and brought it down on Billy’s temple. Others didn’t break up the fight. They joined. Fists and boots and headbutts were thrown at random as the mini-van descended into chaos. The man tried to inch forward, avoiding stray limbs. Sharon swerved the vehicle to stop the violence, and Billy soared through the air to smash an elbow into the window. It shattered, showering others in a storm of glass. The ride stopped.