by C. J. Sutton
“You alright?” he asked, finishing his brew.
“Yeah.”
“Did you live here?”
The old man went back into the kitchen, grabbed another pair of ales and now held a frame with a photo in it. The man saw Wallace flanked by a younger Lilly, an older woman and a strong-looking man with a powerful jawline. Two children were seated on the grass before them. They were all laughing at the person taking the photo.
“This is my family, two weeks before Siphon and his crew arrived.”
The man felt shade fall upon his new homestead and swallowed a gulp of beer as the storm of a story began. Wallace took a seat, no dust rising from this chair. A place often dwelled.
“You’ve met Lilly, my beautiful daughter,” he said, pointing to the curly-haired woman in the photo. She smiled broadly. “On the other side here is Maddy, my wife. Next to her is our son Max, and his two children Sadie and Simon on the grass.”
The house creaked with memory.
“Max’s wife died from cancer not long after the twins were born, so he relied heavily on us to raise those kids while he patrolled the area. A very proud copper, my boy. When Siphon rocked up surrounded by men with greedy grins and deep pockets, Max took it upon himself to keep the citizens of Sulley Ridge safe. But those pricks just kept coming. Men like that don’t live in a rural town like this unless there’s a chance for coin and pussy. It started off as poker games but soon folk here needed to find more valuable things to offer up. Their pockets weren’t as deep as Siphon’s. The fights started, and Max broke a few up. But they became constant, and Siphon was packing too much heat. Anyway, one night Max finds Siphon with a sixteen-year-old girl out the back of Billy Corden’s farm. One of the men, desperate, had pulled her from a local town and used her as a betting chip. Max went in there and busted Siphon up real nice. He came straight to my place, shaking and bleeding from his knuckles. I told him to stay the night…I did…but the boy was too damn proud. The next morning, I went over to have a coffee and…”
Wallace’s old eyes were welling, but he was too stubborn to cry. He swigged his beer and looked out the window.
“They’d strapped his arms by the bicep to one car and his legs by the knees to another and drove off in opposite directions. They fucking ripped my boy in two. The sight of his body…I’ll never forget it. I wake up to it every day. The other cops surely knew Siphon was responsible. But the only cop who tried to investigate soon disappeared. None of them wanted to hang around after that, and I’ve been told they were all handed thick wads to start a life elsewhere. My wife, Maddy, took the twins four towns over and never came back. I don’t visit…safer that way. This was his house, Brady. This was their house.”
Being called that name caused a strange sensation to ripple through the man, but the sensitivity of the subject kept him present. The old man drifted off to a time gone by, and the pain caused by Siphon and his men had clearly taken its toll on him and the town he lived within. With so much hurt and fear and opportunity in Sulley Ridge, the man knew it was nigh impossible for anyone to care about dialling in the police and ratting him out. They had greater concerns. He couldn’t believe his luck, but safe this place was not. The birds chirped a sombre song and waited for a call. A gust of wind shook the front door open, and Wallace lifted as though his wife had returned to him. But the man still needed assurance that he was in the clear, for now.
“Why didn’t someone just dial triple zero the next time something happened?”
Wallace shook his head, annoyed.
“Typical city-folk answer. Call triple zero and the cavalry will arrive to solve your crime and bring peace to the town. They may come, for a bit, maybe even a second or third day. But why do you think Siphon chooses small places to bleed dry? It’s different out here. People did call triple zero, and they don’t live here no more. Once you’re known as a dialler, you’re done in these parts. Nobody will use your services, and without work what do you have? The cops don’t care. The army? Hell, they won’t waste resources out here on suspicion. By the time you put your phone down and sit on the porch waiting for a response, Siphon will have a bullet in your head and you’ll be laden with bricks at the bottom of the stream. Fun, huh? I didn’t want my boy’s body taken away for examination. I buried him right.”
When the man said nothing in reply, Wallace continued. The need to explain the situation was clear, as though trying to convince the man of something.
“There are these Hill Towns I heard about, deep in America. When law enforcement leaves due to shit pay or some other reason they don’t want to discuss, a member of a local county accepts the region in their jurisdiction and drives through regularly. Our version of that is Morris, you’ll see him. Cops in surrounding towns, they know Sulley Ridge isn’t a place to set up shop. They don’t get paid enough to investigate the sort of shit Siphon causes, especially when nobody talks. Further out from that, they hear the lawless town tag and keep distance. Doubt the concept all you want; doesn’t make our situation any different. But I admit to you now that I may not have been frank.”
The car, the house, the anonymity, the lack of police; the man had thought it all worked out so easily. Too easily. And here came the truth.
“I can mount no fight to Siphon. I’m too fucking old. But I want my family to come home to Sulley Ridge. I want the school to re-open and everyone else’s family to return. I want Lilly to smile again. I want my wife in my arms again. You…you’re tough, you’re smart, you’re young enough. And you’re foreign to this land. Take this bastard down for me…for us…”
The man stood up, his face throbbing once more and in need of another painkiller.
“I’m not the man you think I am. I’ve got my own problems. The world is looking for me. I ran to escape further pain. Now I’m supposed to infiltrate a gang or some shit? I’m not an undercover agent. I owned a fucking restaurant in the city, that’s it, that’s all I am. And you want me to take on a man who has scared the tough country folk into submission? I’m a busted up, most-wanted son of a bitch. And now my sister, my family, is in trouble. I’ve got my own shit, old man.”
Wallace Randall rose, rubbed his nose and ran a hairy finger over the coffee table. His face shrivelled. Despite his age and weariness, the man took a step back from the landlord. Wallace placed all four beer bottles in the rubbish and walked to the front door.
“Come outside, boy. There’s something you still need to do. And fuck, please stop acting like you’ve never seen a fly in your life. They’re part of you now, just like Sulley Ridge.”
The Neighbourhood
Charlene Wells watched the Ford Falcon, Max’s Ford Falcon, rocket up the driveway and park alongside Wallace’s ute. The property had been vacant for years, ever since her neighbour was torn in two by Siphon. Charlene and her husband were the only people in Sulley Ridge to see the event unfold. She still had nightmares of the poor copper’s innards dropping like a sack of spuds as his upper half went left and his lower half went right. Her husband had left for work that night, and now only sent monthly cash and a note to see if Siphon still ran the town with an iron fist. Their love left the Ridge long before then.
She hoped the two men were just picking up the ute. Not having anybody live in that house was now the norm. The playful voices of the twins were replaced with nothingness, and Charlene accepted this peacefully; if nobody lived there, nobody could be ripped in two. But she watched the exchange between the man and Wallace and she knew; this was her new neighbour, a violent bloke with a busted-up face.
Charlene sat by the windowsill, her shotgun resting on the chair, ready for any foul play. She lived here alone, and alone was preferred. She waited for the men to re-appear, and twenty minutes later they did. Wallace led the man closer to Charlene, right up to the old wooden fencing that separated their land. The old man pointed to a vertical post, decaying and splintered. The man, hesitant, wrapped his hands around the post. Wallace motioned up and down as though jacki
ng off a horse with both hands. The man shook his head. Wallace barked something obscene and pointed at nothing in particular. Success. Charlene looked away as the man ran his bare hands up and down the old wood with speed, shredding his skin like cheese on a grater. He roared into the still air, dropped to his knees and breathed heavily. His curses rang out across the fields, and she saw more of his blood.
Charlene couldn’t watch any longer. She put the kettle on and grabbed the tin of Arnott’s biscuits, reminded of Max’s last day. Her Jack Russell and her Maltese Terrier, James and Jasper, jumped up onto the couch and waited for a treat. James was all white, save for the brown eye patches and the map of Australia on his torso, while Jasper was a bushy black little fellow with beady eyes and a devilish charm. They were Charlene’s children, and she handed them leftover sausages as she settled by the television. The hosts of the morning program were interviewing a survivor from the Barron Tower Burn, a young woman with her arm in a sling, a stitched-up gash across her cheek and red skin as though sunburnt. Her eyes sizzled like the tower, a rage unsolved.
“Miss, what do you remember from Friday night?”
“I was having Chinese takeaway with my boyfriend, watching a movie…I can’t remember which one, but Jennifer Lawrence was in it. We heard a bang, we’re three floors up. We ignored it, but then there was another bang and I remember feeling hot…then the smoke rose, and people were screaming. My boyfriend opened the door…”
The young woman stopped, tears streaking her face, and found another gear.
“The smoke was too thick, and the flames were rising. We couldn’t leave through the door, so we went out onto the balcony and looked down. Smoke covered everything. But I’d seen that patch of grass directly beneath my apartment each day for three years. I told him we should jump. He wasn’t sure. Smoke and flames were pouring out of the apartments both above and below us now. Others must have had the same idea…but they were jumping from greater heights. I can still hear the noises of their bones snapping on impact. Something cracking on my balcony railing. The heat probably killed them before the ground…right? But not us. This was our only chance to survive. We stood on the balcony and heard bodies whizzing by. He whispered to me, he whispered hold my hand, we jump on three…and I squeezed. I launched with him, like jumping into a black hole. We couldn’t see the bottom. We couldn’t brace for landing. I landed face first and heard my arm crack as it took the brunt of the fall. I could still feel his hand in mine…but he wasn’t squeezing. I felt the ground around me, but I couldn’t…I couldn’t locate him…and my eyes adjusted…and he was slightly elevated…and…and…we’d jumped too far…he…he was impaled…blood everywhere…right through…right through his chest…”
Charlene switched the television off. Impaling limbs was a classic move by Siphon’s crew. The dogs started barking and charged at the door, their yap an alarm to their owner. Charlene reached for the shotgun and checked the chamber; loaded. A single knock on the door caused her to brace and aim.
“Charlene, it’s Wallace. Open up.”
She relaxed her shoulders, opened the door and kept her firearm by her side. Wallace didn’t even flinch at the sight.
“You’ve got a new neighbour. Shearer from Western Oz,” he said, making no attempt to enter the house.
“Do I need to be on the lookout?” she asked, scanning over Wallace’s shoulder.
“Not from him. Siphon doesn’t know anything about him or where he lives.”
“What’s the deal here?”
Wallace looked back at Max’s house, thinking how best to word his thoughts.
“Remember when this town made us happy, Charlene?”
Charlene did not like reminiscing. Instead, she focused on change.
“That’s long gone, not much can be done about Siphon. I mean if Mick and the lads can’t fight back, not much we can do.”
“Yeah…but what if…”
Wallace broke off, unsure if to share his plan.
“Never mind,” he continued. “Just let me know if Greg gives you any trouble. Likes to pick a fight, by the looks.”
Charlene noticed a smirk at the end of the sentence and watched as Wallace left her land, entering his battered ute. Swirls of dust found the horizon as he left, and a strange sensation lingered as Charlene now had a neighbour to the right of her abode. Watching one side seemed easy, but both sides became a burden. Nothing good ever came from newcomers.
With James and Jasper charging around the veranda, Charlene used the opportunity to check the daily mail. She walked down her pebbled path, lined by lilies, as the dogs nipped at the ankles of one another and raced to the letterbox. They skidded to a halt and re-commenced their yapping symphony orchestra.
“Nice day for a stroll.”
Hayes, Akubra hanging over his face, leaned against Charlene’s white picket fence and glared at James and Jasper. Their barking stopped, for a Rottweiler five times their size and with a chain as a lead, snarled from the opposite side of the fence. Saliva wet the grass beneath.
“Easy, Killer,” said Hayes, patting the brown beast on the head. “He smells your dogs and thinks they’re rabbits. If I let go of this chain, he’d see no difference.”
Charlene tightened her grip on the shotgun, unsure why Siphon’s right hand was walking his mutt so close to her property. A loud yell of pain soared out of Max’s house, and Hayes’ head snapped up quicker than Killer’s. He smiled with yellowed teeth and leaned down to pick a lily. He twirled the flower in his hands, childlike, and breathed in the scent.
“New neighbour you’re not telling me about?” he said, eyes on the lily.
“Wallace is probably drunk.”
“The Ford is in a different spot. He hadn’t moved that for months. Tells me we have a new tenant, or Maxi-cop is back from the dead. Stitched him up real nice, did we?”
Killer was transfixed to the black ball of Jasper.
“Shearer from Western Australia, Wallace tells me,” she said, reluctantly.
“I’m guessing that’s the man from the pub on Saturday? Poor bastard is in the wars, and he hasn’t even met us yet. Why is he yelling? Doesn’t he know about the sound tax?”
Hayes moved to enter Max’s property and began chaining Killer to Charlene’s fence.
“Leave him be,” said Charlene, unsure why she was now standing up for this Greg fellow. Perhaps he had seen enough pain for one week.
“New boyfriend, huh?” he said, before lifting his Akubra to reveal sunken eyes not meant for green lands. “Oh no, that’s right, you like the muff. Isn’t that why your husband walked out?”
Charlene knew he flaunted bait with each sentence. But the words remained jagged. She wanted to lift her shotgun and blow a hole in that damn Akubra. Hayes edged closer, his boots clacking on the stray pebbles.
“Siphon says next time your payment doubles. And if you pull that stunt in front of the town again, Killer won’t stop with these little furballs.”
He pointed his finger and spat with each word.
“You’re fucking lucky, you know that. We don’t force you into anything. You get to live in peace. Can’t say the same for many. But you waltz your fat arse through town like Clint Eastwood. I told Siphon,” he said, lowering his voice, “I told him we get rid of the dyke. She sees too much. She knows too much.”
He waved his hands about his head, shooing flies.
“But here you stand, holding a shotgun with two unharmed little bitches. Just remember, Siphon is fair. If it was me, you’d all be target practice and dog meat.”
Hayes yanked the chain and ripped off part of the white picket fence, straining his arms as Killer lunged for Jasper. The yelp of fear sent both of her dogs scurrying home. Hayes cocked his hand and pretended to shoot Max’s old house.
“See ya ‘round, dyke,” he said, and proceeded to whistle to taunt his beast. Shaking, Charlene reached into the letterbox and withdrew two new letters. The first was from her husband, one thousand dollars to he
lp keep Siphon and his crew from terrorising their closest friends. The second was unmarked, and Charlene soon wished she hadn’t opened the envelope. Photographs of Karen. In the first, they were playing Blackjack, an image from Saturday night. In the second, Karen was leaving The Ginger Bastard with a smile on her face. The third was Karen driving home, clear from the make of the car and the numberplate. The fourth was Karen naked, entering her shower, taken from a vantage point outside. The fifth, which caused Charlene to curse, was of Karen asleep in her bed, the doona pulled down to reveal nipple. Taken from within Karen’s house.
Siphon and his crew knew of Charlene’s lust for Karen. He may have even known about the night they shared in this house six months ago. But he could not know the extent of her feelings. And she had to keep it that way.
For the rules of Sulley Ridge were head down, cash up.
Dead Man’s Life
The sting in his hands made the man feel ill. The sink was overflowing with warm water, which now had salt and soap infused in its heat. Blood leaked freely, thin sticks of wood stuck out at odd angles and some splinters had buried themselves deep within the skin. The man was angry at Wallace, wondering why the old bastard had made him commit to such a painful action when nobody would believe the shearer tale anyway. Perhaps a test, or an act of goodwill. Dogs barked outside as the man dipped in a seeping finger, and the pain felt like the flames had followed him from Melbourne. A burn ran up his arm and nestled in his brain, and as the water turned red he took a deep breath. Both hands were thrust into the sink. He roared. And then he passed out.
