This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  Hands grabbed the man from behind and he was escorted out of the room, and then out of the barn. The cold chill removed the haze that the stifling barn of sweat, booze and body odour had held upon the man. He rubbed his hands through the thick grass, trying to remove the traces of teen still lingering from his fight. Up the hill he saw a house with a dim light on, and a body paced back and forth alone. The man walked in that direction in hope of finding a road back to his new abode, and beneath a thick oak he saw Tom Pritchard slumped against the trunk, heaving. Wiggles was slapping his face.

  “He okay?” asked the man, trying to get a better look at Tom.

  “Fuck off,” said Wiggles, tapping harder and harder. “Leave us the fuck alone before Kane gets here.”

  “Kane knows?” asked the man, but Wiggles spat in his direction and continued to keep Tom conscious. The teen’s face had expanded, blood covered his white t-shirt and his wheezing signified broken ribs.

  “I can help,” said the man, leaning down. Tom shook his head.

  “If Kane sees you, he’ll kill you. But if he sees you in the morning, he’ll accept it.”

  Tom’s words were soft, yet the man understood more here than in any other conversation held in Sulley Ridge. He patted Tom on the shoulder and left the Pritchard pair to wait for their older brother. They were the whipping boys, the opponents to newcomers, and they understood the laws of the land even if they rebelled. The man reached the top of the hill and could see Billy Corden seated in a rocking chair on the porch, his foot bandaged and a pair of crutches by his side. Within, Jane continued to pace the house. Events in their barn were felt, even if they were removed from the torment.

  The man began his hike into town and towards his Falcon. And the walk was more sobering than any other since the night at Barron Tower. The birds slept, the trees swayed with a light breeze and the stars pondered Sulley Ridge like the troubled youth in a prestigious school. The captive woman’s eyes had borne a hole into his mind. She had been playing cards at a small table with two other women. Now she was chained to a heater in a small barn office, metres from a score of unruly punters with shirts off and pockets bulging.

  This town needed change, and the man planned on providing.

  They seared with heat, these lawless grounds.

  A Fatal Choice

  She entered The Ginger Bastard in jeans and a flannelette t-shirt, the formal wear of a farmer’s wife. With a spray of her husband’s old cologne and some product in her hair, Charlene made an effort to not look as though she had shovelled horse shit and worked on her tractor all morning. She sat at her usual table and Jerry placed a pint of local ale on a coaster, foam spilling down the sides.

  “Maybe a…bottle of wine today?” she asked, self-conscious.

  “Ex…cuse me?” responded Jerry, as though he’d pulled down his pants for a morning piss and spotted a vagina in place of his manhood.

  “Karen’s birthday,” she said. He winked and nodded, reaching for the beer.

  “Oh, leave it. Can’t waste good ale.”

  Charlene chugged from the glass and watched the door, waiting for Karen to arrive. When her husband had left due to the pressures of Siphon and co, Karen brought meals over to Charlene to ensure she was eating and keeping a tidy home. A qualified nurse and cousin of Mick, Karen had operated out of a small clinic two doors down from The Ginger Bastard before Siphon’s crew staked a claim on the town. When they arrived, business suffered despite the rise in beatings and in ‘illness’; codeword for drug-induced sickness. Karen and Lilly, became the only two people capable of healing the wounded when Siphon’s slaughter of Max stamped his takeover of Sulley Ridge. The murder caused the only doctor in town to leave without a word or a trace. They tried for months, but Siphon wanted ‘help’ to only go through him. Karen now used her training for animals and saved James when Charlene thought a snake bite had killed him. She loved Karen, and the pit of her stomach tingled before every meeting. But Karen was never late.

  Jerry placed the bottle of frosted Sauvignon Blanc on the table with two dusty wine glasses. He removed the cork awkwardly and started to pour, unsure of what to do with his spare hand. Charlene chuckled at the sight.

  “Have you seen Karen today?” she asked, as the substance went well above the line.

  “Not since a few days ago. She was going to Billy’s farm to put down a horse, last I heard. If it were me, I wouldn’t want to go anywhere near there.”

  Billy’s farm was safe. Billy’s shed, on the other hand…

  “It was morn, I think. Trouble doesn’t happen in the morn.”

  Charlene remembered Hayes and Killer stationed outside her home when daylight still reigned. They were moon dwellers, but they were not nocturnal.

  Only two other patrons were in the pub, truck drivers crossing through for a meal and an ale. They wore hi-vis orange jackets and remained silent as they ate. On the big screen Charlene saw a traffic report from Melbourne. Carnage on the roads. She couldn’t imagine what that felt like. In the top left corner they were still showing that man’s face, the bastard who had torched Barron Tower. It was too much for Charlene to wrap her head around. She wondered if her husband now lived in Melbourne.

  Minutes passed. Her first sip of the wine caused a scrunch of the face, to which Jerry was smiling. Soon enough she had finished her glass, and there was no sign of Karen.

  “It’s her birthday,” said Jerry, wiping a stubborn blood stain off the wall. “Maybe she’s ‘round at her cousin’s store.”

  Mick Thomas. Before Siphon filtered in to Sulley Ridge, Mick was the unofficial heavy in this town. His language was a punch to the face followed by a friendly ale to ensure no hard feelings. Siphon and Hayes quickly saw to that. One Saturday night, Mick wasn’t in his usual spot in front of the television watching football. His team was playing too. Next day, he’s opening his store bleeding from a dozen wounds. If not for Karen, he may not have seen the sun go down.

  Charlene couldn’t wait any longer. Forty-five minutes late, she wondered if Karen had forgotten. She waved goodbye to Jerry and made her way to Mick’s hardware store. Sammy and Wiggles Pritchard were sucking on icy poles, orange liquid dripping down their hands and onto the pavement. Sammy smiled.

  “Here’s trouble.”

  “No trouble, Missus Wells. We swear it,” said Sammy, holding up his arms as more drips covered his skin.

  “Haven’t seen Karen, have you?” she asked, to which Sammy shook his head. Wiggles appeared to be on an inner journey to the centre of his mind. His eyes were baggy, skin pale, and there were grazes on his knee. He looked up to Charlene and dashed into Jane’s store for more sugar hits.

  “He alright?” she asked, pointing a thumb at the youngest Pritchard.

  “Too much PlayStation, not enough sleep.”

  The Pritchard boys. Four of them. A mother who smoked eighty cigarettes a day and never left the house, and a father who one day just disappeared. Rumours pointed to Siphon. All rumours pointed to Siphon.

  “Sammy, can you look out for Karen?”

  He smiled, tilted his head and waited. She withdrew a twenty, and he was all ears.

  “Of course, Missus Wells. Eyes are on it.”

  As she went to walk away, another question formed in her mind.

  “What do you know of that new guy, that Greg guy?”

  Sammy straightened, tossed away the remains of his icy pole and tucked the sticky note into his shorts.

  “Gave me a fifty, first time I saw him. I’m making coin.”

  This direct reference to money made Charlene cringe. This was the talk used by Siphon’s crew, not the townsfolk of Sulley Ridge. She cursed herself for enabling this with her own funds towards their sugar addiction. The new generation.

  “Anything else?” she asked, lowering to his level. Charlene realised that Sammy was quickly catching her in height.

  “Nobody likes him I’d say. He looks strange.”

  Wiggles ran out of the store with a
bundle of newly purchased sugar treats. A pack of Maltesers hit the pavement, which was nothing in comparison to his bounty. Wide-eyed, Sammy chased after his youngest brother. They ran like thieves. Still no sign of Karen.

  Up ahead, Mick Thomas and Sharon were arguing outside Mick’s Hardware Store. He was covered in thick black grime and wearing an eye guard, likely to protect himself from Sharon’s wrath. Charlene approached, wishing there was an alternative.

  “Sorry guys, but have you seen Karen?”

  Mick glanced at Charlene, resumed his argument with Sharon, and then turned again to assess her new look. He suppressed a laugh. Even Sharon, red in the face from yelling, smiled.

  “Off to the barn dance?” asked Mick, smoothing his hands over his overalls.

  “Give her a go, Mick. Don’t change the fucking subject. You broke my window, you owe me money.”

  “I didn’t fucking break your window!” he yelled, throwing his arms in the air. “Are you blind, woman? It was Billy, it’s always fucking Billy.”

  “You started it,” she said, folding her thick arms against her thicker breasts.

  “What are we, eleven years old? His body went through your glass.”

  Sharon spat at his feet and kicked a stone.

  “The dumb fuck was shot in the foot. I feel bad asking Jane for coin.”

  “Why ask Jane? Ask him!”

  They continued like this for another five minutes. Charlene bided her time, waiting for an opportunity to mention Mick’s missing cousin and to ask two of the town’s most aware citizens if they had seen her on her birthday.

  “Look,” announced Sharon, huffing and puffing from all the screaming. “Until one of you bastards pays for that window, it ain’t gunna get fixed. And if it ain’t fixed, there’s no weekend Pub Tub to the farmers’ market. And if there’s no adventure out of Sulley Ridge, you’ll have to go tell Jerry to order an extra few kegs because your arse will be glued to his god damn stool every weekend!”

  Charlene was sick of the squabbling.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “For what?”

  “For the window.”

  Sharon looked at her feet, embarrassed now.

  “Few hundred,” she muttered.

  Charlene withdrew three hundred and handed the notes to Mick.

  “Give the woman her money,” said Charlene. Stubborn, Mick snatched the notes and handed them to Sharon. Now they all looked like children being forced to make up after a schoolyard tussle. Sharon walked away without another word, tucking the notes into her bra.

  “Fucking dragon,” said Mick. He picked up an axe and walked over to a thick log of wood. He began slashing the recently fallen pine with such power that Charlene felt the ground beneath vibrate.

  “You seen Karen?” she asked, hands now in pockets.

  “That who you’re dressed up for?”

  “It’s her birthday.”

  He stopped cutting, wiping his eye guard and looking dumbfounded.

  “You’re kidding. Fuck. Forgot to get her a present. Ah well, she’ll keep.”

  He re-commenced cutting. Small chips ricocheted in all directions, a shower of bark.

  “Nobody has seen her since she went to Billy’s farm. Asked Jerry, the Pritchard boys, nothing. We had a lunch planned. Not like her to be late.”

  Finally, Mick tired of the chop. He tossed his axe into the shed beside the store and locked it.

  “Definitely not. When’s the last time Jerry saw her?”

  “A few days I think, early, to put down one of Billy’s horses.”

  The mention of Billy caused Mick’s back to straighten ever so slightly; not from mention of the man, but from what existed not three hundred metres from his house.

  “Siphon wouldn’t—”

  “I’m not saying he would,” she continued. “But something is up.”

  “Come to think of it,” said Mick, starting to worry, “she didn’t answer my calls last night. Thought she must have been asleep.”

  He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled. The tone rang out.

  “Fuck…”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, but let’s go to Billy’s just to check, hey?”

  Mick put up a sign in his shop window that said “BACK IN 10” and they rattled down the road in his ute. Charlene felt a growling in the pit of her stomach, and it wasn’t from hunger. The tall trees were still, and the sky was blue. Perfect weather. A tell-tale sign of danger in the Ridge. The ute barrelled over Billy’s self-installed hump and parked in the middle of the dirt driveway. He was sitting on the porch, nursing a freshly opened brew, reading the newspaper.

  “What do I owe the pleasure, badger?” he asked, his damaged foot resting on a beanbag. “I’m not paying for the damn window, don’t even start. I’m already down this month.”

  “We’re looking for Karen,” said Mick, closing the distance. “Heard she came here to put something down.”

  Billy shook his head.

  “I haven’t seen her, and I’ve been glued to this damn chair.”

  Charlene wanted to be sick. This just wasn’t Karen. Not her Karen…

  Mick walked across the porch and grabbed Billy by the collar.

  “Don’t you fucking lie to me. Where is she?”

  “She was never here, I swear.”

  Mick turned to Charlene and shrugged his shoulders. No point beating down a coward for information, for he would’ve spilled already. Horses and cows grazed in the expansive fields surroundings Billy’s house. He had the most land of anyone in Sulley Ridge, and had the biggest barn; all of which was nowhere near the main road.

  “Can we check the barn?” asked Charlene, surprised the words had escaped her mind and entered her throat. Even Mick squinted.

  “Have you had too many sherries this morning, Charlene? Are you fucking high?”

  Mick said nothing but let go of the collar.

  “If Siphon’s taken her, that’s where she’ll be.”

  Billy rose, awkwardly, and grabbed his crutches. He limped himself over to Charlene, smelling of beer and the slight hint of piss.

  “Why would he take her? We pay the prick, we don’t get used in his games.”

  Mick created a triangle and joined the huddle.

  “Hayes was at my house, during the day, with that dog of his,” she said, trying to keep herself together. “I opened the mail and there was this envelope with pictures of Karen. The first few were harmless, just of her in The Ginger Bastard and walking home. But the last one…someone was taking photos of her while she slept, from inside her house.”

  Mick slammed his hands on his ute. The sound sent a flock of birds skyward. Charlene was looking at the barn, its great red gloss now a giant stain of blood. There were patches burnt into the grass where Hayes had conducted his tortures, out in the open air with nobody to stop him.

  “Give me the keys to the barn, Billy.”

  He glanced from Charlene to Mick multiple times.

  “She’s got fucking rocks in her head. Tell her Mick, tell her she’s got rocks. You’re going to get me killed, you hear? Fucking killed. Nobody is allowed down there.”

  She opened her hand and waited. Mick said nothing.

  “Nope,” he announced, turning his back.

  “How would you feel if Jane was down there? Would you look, or would you just sit on your porch sinking piss and reading about towers burning?”

  Billy shook his head, withdrew the keys and tossed them to Charlene. He began hobbling off, but Mick placed a big paw on his shoulder.

  “You’re coming with us, Bill. I don’t trust you as far as I could drop punt you.”

  The trio walked down the hill towards the barn. As they neared, goose bumps rose on their skin. They were aware of what went on here. Fights, rape, torture and death. Charlene knew Mick had been in there once, and he still bore mental and physical scars. Even the animals kept their distance.

  Charlene unlocked the three padlocks and placed them on a b
ench to not leave marks in the ground. The barn door creaked open, a siren to alert all ears. A foul smell smacked them in the nose, and it took all of Charlene’s power not to lean over and let go of that foul wine.

  “Jesus, doesn’t anyone clean this joint?” asked Mick, covering his nose with his elbow. Billy seemed undeterred by the scent.

  “Jane does, but she had work. I’m guessing they went all night.”

  Hay was everywhere. Dried blood covered the stacks in the corners and stained the mess in the middle. Rays of light managed to find a way in from the open door, illuminating floating dust that tried to escape. In the far-right corner there was a dead lamb, its throat slit, and the blood smeared on the walls. Flies circled. Stairs led up to Siphon’s office, and to the left was the tunnel to the cages.

  “Pigs,” said Mick, looking to the lamb and picking up a tooth. He flicked it at Billy, who recoiled. Charlene scanned the lower level for signs of Karen, but nothing living was stored in the cages. Billy remained at the door, and she knew that if his foot wasn’t compromised he would have bolted for the house and dialled Siphon the second they turned their backs.

  “Did you hear that?” said Mick, looking up to the roof.

  “Bird probably,” said Billy. “I’d hate to see the top of this barn. Reckon there’d be enough shit to cover the farm.”

  Charlene held up a hand, hearing a rattle. A voice broke their stupor.

  “HELP! HELP ME!”

  Charlene and Mick charged up the stairs, and even Billy hobbled after them. The door had a lock.

  “Got a key?” asked Charlene, but this was a numbered lock. As she pondered how to enter the room, Mick pushed the door open; the combination hadn’t been set. She barged in to see a figure writhing on the ground in pain, the slender body blotched and bruised on naked legs. A dark mop of hair draped over her face. It wasn’t Karen.