This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  “Fuck!” yelled Mick, stomping on the wooden floor. Charlene kneeled, and sensing movement the girl rose and screamed. She could not have been older than eighteen, her face dirty yet angelic. Once she saw that a woman was hovering, the words blurted out.

  “Help me, please help me miss. Don’t leave me with them. Not again.”

  She reached out for Charlene and sobbed, tears adding to the blood on the floor of Siphon’s office. As she pleaded, the situation dawned on Charlene. They were in trouble.

  “Not Karen, let’s go,” said Mick, now trying to hide his face.

  “You fucking idiots,” muttered Billy.

  Charlene backed away from the girl. She saw their hesitation. This wasn’t a rescue party.

  “Oh no, no, don’t leave me here. Don’t you dare leave me here!”

  Mick moved to Charlene and talked in a low, deep voice.

  “We can’t take her. Siphon will kill us.”

  “Will he know it’s us?” she asked, pitying the poor teenager, an out-of-towner probably picked up from a few towns over. Billy joined them.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and pushed them towards the door. The girl noticed.

  “If you leave I’ll tell him,” she said, finding confidence. “I’ll tell him the three of you were here. The lesbian looking lady, the guy with a bandaged foot and crutches, the tall man with the scar on his neck. I’ll tell him. I will. Take me with you. Take me.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” said Mick, raising his hand. Charlene grabbed him.

  “Settle,” she said. They were caught. Save the girl and Siphon would seek vengeance on the town for meddling. Charlene may not receive his wrath, but someone would. Someone they knew well. If he had Karen somewhere else, he would harm her. Leave this girl here and she would rat them out. Siphon’s likely targets, Jane and Karen, replacing this poor girl in the shackles. The trio wouldn’t have that on their conscience.

  “We’re going to get you out,” said Charlene, trying to calm the girl. “But we just need to talk out here to decide how best to do it. Will you trust me? I’ll even show you my licence, so you know where I live and what my name is. Here, hold on to it. Okay?”

  The girl nodded, tears streaking her face. Charlene could see trauma on most parts of the skin. Siphon’s men had used and abused her, and her presence meant round two wouldn’t be very far away. Charlene, Mick and Billy left the room and closed the door.

  “Why the fuck did you give her that?” asked Billy, pale as winter’s floor.

  “She would’ve screamed the barn down. We can’t think while that’s happening.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, looking at their feet.

  “Let’s fucking burn it,” said Mick, withdrawing a lighter.

  “You’ve been watching the news too much, badger,” countered Billy. “If anything happens to this place, Jane dies. I’ve been told this every weekend for years.”

  “If we free her, he’ll kill someone. Maybe us. Maybe not,” said Mick.

  “We could blame that Greg?” said Billy, hopeful.

  “That’s still a risk. He might be with Greg right now. If Greg has an alibi, Wallace will protect him,” said Charlene.

  She felt out of control. No amount of money could compensate for their intrusion. Thinking only of Karen, she had thrown caution skyward.

  “Let’s just kill her,” said Billy, deflated. “She’s badly beat up. If he sees her dead, it won’t be a conspiracy. Move a knife within her reach once we’ve done so. Looks like suicide, y’know?”

  Charlene hated the choice, the easy way out.

  “We’re not killing anyone. We’re not becoming like them.”

  “What then?” said Mick, acknowledging the sense in Billy’s idea.

  “Stage a breakout,” she found herself say.

  “They’ll hunt her for sport.”

  “We give her the greatest chance of survival. Siphon won’t be here ‘til dark, that’s at least four hours. If that bloke who burned Barron Tower down in the city can disappear into nothing, why can’t she at least reach the safety of her home?”

  Mick nodded. Billy didn’t like the plan, but he agreed. They entered the room once more and noticed the girl hugging her legs, whispering to herself.

  “Show me your hands,” said Mick. They were cuffed to a pipe, the top slightly loose from all the jangling performed by prisoners. “Can you stand?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s your name?” he continued, helping her to her feet.

  “Jazz.”

  “Okay Jazz, I need you to lift your hands above your head. Once the chain is resting at the highest point, bring your arms down like you’re smashing a barrel.”

  She tried to mimic Mick, but a pain in her shoulder caused the effort to make her stumble.

  “Just break the fucking thing for her and let’s go,” said Billy, looking over his shoulder.

  “It needs to be possible, if Siphon is to believe it,” said Charlene.

  The girl tried again and managed to get the chain alongside the weakest part of the pipe.

  “Good,” said Mick. “Now, this is going to hurt like hell, but clasp your hands together and use all your strength. You can do it.”

  The girl took a deep breath and copied the action. The pipe strained, but it didn’t bust. The only thing that popped was the girl’s shoulder, right out of the socket. She wailed uncontrollably. Charlene rushed to the girl and caught her as she fell, and Mick busted the pipe with a forceful yank. Charlene snapped the shoulder back into place and took the girl by the hand. The four of them ran. When they reached the barn door, Mick picked up a crowbar and smashed a hole into the side of the barn. Billy reconnected the locks to the door, and Charlene escorted the girl to Mick’s ute.

  “Drive her to the freeway, let her out when nobody is around,” said Charlene. Mick and Jazz were gone in a cloud of smoke. Billy stood, puffed, and shook his head.

  “He’s going to blame me for this,” he said. “I swear, if I cop the blame for this, you’re going down with me.”

  “You were asleep. You heard nothing. She’s not the first to escape, and she won’t be the last. We couldn’t leave her there.”

  Billy shrugged his shoulders and went inside. He was just as likely to call Siphon as he was to pretend he saw nothing. Charlene walked home. It was an hour’s walk, but she needed the air in her lungs and nature in her heart. They still had no idea where Karen was. Charlene hoped she went out of town for a drive or was assisting a farmer with an animal. But optimism was not the way of the people. When seeing a beaten teenage prisoner in a barn felt like another Sunday at the market, being hopeful was a foreign feeling. When finally she reached her path lined by lilies, James and Jasper scratched at the door and whimpered for their mother. They bounded outside and pissed on the lawn, chasing the tail of one another. As Charlene settled into the couch and turned the television on, she emptied her pockets and sighed.

  Her licence was gone.

  The New Black

  The car parked outside Bun Ahoy, the sun setting against the giant skyscrapers of Melbourne to paint the bricks in falling light. The building was wedged between an apartment block and a hipster café, the neon sign flickering blue. That’s where the positives ended. The public had made their feelings known towards the creator of the restaurant. Graffiti now covered most bricks, the words KILLER and MURDERER etched with a hateful hand. The small upper windows were smashed in. Rotten eggs covered the pavement that led to the steel door. Nobody cared to remove the grime. No soul walked this path. Even the apartment block appeared dead. The neighbouring café had a sign that said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE despite the light. Bun Ahoy was not closed, light clear within.

  “I doubt he’s here,” said William, glaring out of the window from the back seat. He was comically stuck between Mason and Ren and was the least disturbed by the situation. The burned man sat in the front, and Gabe killed the engine as they assessed the restaurant.
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  “I never thought he would be,” said the burned man, opening the door. “But this is his place of work, a place he owns. One would conclude that he spent a fair amount of time here, and that would point to clues of his whereabouts.”

  William nodded, appearing childlike. He always did in the presence of the burned man. Mason shook his head at him, pointing to the graffiti.

  “There’s a wanted sign for him, just under the word FUCK. It’s like a damn Western.”

  “Sometimes the old methods are best when the new methods go to shit,” said Ren, getting out of the car and click-clacking towards the front door. Gabe remained in the driver’s seat as the other four surveyed the area. The burned man walked up to the steel door and knocked. The hollow sound echoed within, and soon a young man with bright blue tattoos opened, peering left and right as if expecting an egg to the face.

  “What?” he said, taking in the quartet. “He’s not here.”

  “Who is here then?” asked the burned man.

  “Just a couple of regulars.”

  The young waiter noticed the burns on face and arms, and soon realised another victim was ready to unleash a barrage. But nobody lost their calm.

  “Can we come in?” asked Ren, growing impatient.

  “Are you paying customers?”

  “We’re friends of Brady.”

  The young man opened his mouth, pursed his lips, and then opened it again. Rather than speak, he let the four people in and walked behind the bar to continue drinking his glass of whiskey. Within was dim, pockets of light in the far corners of the square room. There were fresh holes in the walls, broken glass on the ground and a queer stench lingering, but still there were four people eating meals at two different tables. The young man noticed the look.

  “As I said, regulars. Best dumplings in town. They weren’t going to give that up, even if the owner is a murderer or whatever.”

  “Or whatever?” said William. The burned man placed a scarred hand on his shoulder.

  “We don’t care about business, or regulars, or dumplings. We’re just here to grab Brady’s stuff, anything the cops haven’t seized.”

  The young man shrugged.

  “They looked in there but took nothing major. Not even his laptop. Something about not wanting to fuel a public hanging. But they sure did make a mess. Haven’t bothered with it, it’s his office. Doubt he’ll be using it again.”

  “If he’s gone, why are you still here?” asked Mason.

  “Well,” said the young man, rubbing at a stain on his shirt. “I’m still getting paid, somehow. And customers still come in. Better than being unemployed. I’ve got bills.”

  An elderly couple glanced towards the burned man. They did not show pity, or fear. Just a glance. Like looking at another person across the street.

  “Up the hall, to the left,” said the young man, answering another of Mason’s questions that the burned man didn’t hear. He wanted to walk up to the elderly couple and slit their dusty throats, to watch their eyes become distant and the long slumber finally take hold of their pathetic lives.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” said Ren, and they turned to their plates of dumplings, unfazed. It was as though Brady’s sanctuary made everyone impervious to the terror generally projected by the burned man, and he hated it.

  “Stay out here, Mason. Make sure all is well.”

  “Sure boss.”

  In their world, “make sure all is well” meant ensure nobody uses their phones as it may be a cop dial, and ensure nobody leaves for it may be a tip-off. It meant blend in to the environment, make light chatter with the company, guarantee that they feel at ease while illegal happenings take place a few rooms over. Ren led William and the burned man to the room. In the hall were picture frames of the Victorian countryside, of sheep in paddocks and of great landscapes with vibrant life and colour. Paperbark trees projected shadows across the fields in thick fingers, spreading their chill onto blades of sharp grass.

  “Boss, we here to find clues or admire the sunset?” asked Ren, sticking her head out of the room. Drawers had been ripped out of the desk and left upturned on the slate flooring. Papers littered the ground. Even the couch had a tear, stuffing erupting from the seams.

  “What are we looking for?” said William, scratching his head. The burned man didn’t know.

  “Plans, tickets, some sort of sign,” said Ren. She kneeled to pick up a frame. The burned man felt hot. In it he saw Brady Lockhart taking a selfie, smiling, with an arm around his wife. Behind them was a brightly lit carnival of some kind, and they were surrounded by people. Ren traced the face of Brady, snarling.

  “That smug fucking smile…” she said, ready to toss the frame. But the burned man reached out his mangled hand.

  “That’s her,” he said. “That’s my wife.”

  Her dark curls rested on Brady’s arm around her shoulders. The photo had taken her by surprise, but she still managed one of those smiles where dimples formed in her cheeks.

  “Bastard,” said William, spitting. His apprentices fell silent, unsure of how their boss would react to such a clear statement of personal defiance. He dropped the frame and let it smash against the slate.

  “Keep looking.”

  Ren handed him the laptop, while William was flicking through a notebook.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just figures and recipes and shit.”

  “We need to draw him out, like a snake from the grass.”

  “Correct, Ren. How do we do that?”

  He enjoyed questioning his underlings, making them come to conclusions and use a thought process to discover a new method. A puppeteer, pulling the strings softly.

  “Burn this place. Burn it to the ground. He burned your building, you can burn his. He’ll see it on the news. He’ll know it’s a warning. He’ll know the next act may be something much more…sinister.”

  Above the desk, the burned man saw another picture frame of Brady with another woman. They looked alike. His sister.

  “Found a key,” said William, waiting for a pat.

  “We take the laptop and the notebook. Put the key in your pocket. Once that young prick leaves, we’ll come back in and burn it. Let’s get out of this shithole.”

  The trio left with Brady’s belongings and Mason soon joined them. The burned man thanked the young man and they exited without a single act of violence. The customers were left to enjoy their dumplings for the last time. Brady’s establishment, a ghost of its former self, would not see out the night.

  The burned man watched her enter, the dark clouds blocking out the moon. All in black she graced the land like the grim reaper, eager to satisfy the roster of death. Ren’s raven hair flicked as she vanished within. William and Mason had left, not needed for this part of the show. Gabe remained in the driver’s seat, but Gabe was a wall that saw no deeds and made no comment. The apartment block remained lifeless, the café remained closed. This part of town hung itself in shame for what Brady Lockhart had brought upon it. Few cars passed by, no cyclists, not even the homeless seeking refuge from the open air when darkness assumed full reign. The picture frames interchanged in the burned man’s mind, the lush Victorian countryside combined with the face of his wife alongside Brady. Brady, that smug fuck. He wanted to burn everything. Fire was contagious. Fire was effective. Heat removed all in its path.

  The first bulbs of smoke escaped from the broken windows, soaring upward. The flickering neon sign died. Nobody would rush to save this place. No authority would care. Eventually they would make sure the fire didn’t spread, but saving this restaurant was not on the agenda. Ren walked out of the opening, click-clacking against the pavement and in no rush as the carnage followed her. A performer arriving through a smoke machine, she flicked the lighter open with a gloved hand and tossed it within, sparking an orange burst. Still she did not break stride, entering the car and folding her arms. No smile, no frown. Nothing.

  “Done boss,” she said, finding a spare lighte
r and burning the end of a cigarette. Usually he’d tell her to throw that shit away. But not tonight. Let the flame burn with them. For Brady’s days were numbered.

  The burned man would not stop. This was his sole purpose now. Find Brady Lockhart and make him beg for death. The restaurant was only the beginning, a mere structure of brick and hard work. Next, the target would scream in agony if they did not shed light on the greatest disappearing act of all.

  And that target was Brady’s sister.

  Blood Work

  The two men sat at opposite ends of the table, the older smoking cigarettes and the younger receiving treatment to the cuts on his face. Lilly dipped a cloth in cool water as her father spoke, his ignorance of the meal she had freshly cooked causing her to dab roughly.

  “This is perfect, right? He’s basically invited you in.”

  “Perfect for who?” asked the man, dodging the cloth as he tried to look at Wallace.

  “Perfect for you, perfect for me,” he said, smiling.

  “Nothing about my life is perfect. It’s constant running and deceit.”

  Lilly grabbed the man by the shoulder and held him still as she tended to his nose.

  “You’re the least suspicious person we’ve ever had, yet in any other town you will be the most suspicious. With Siphon, you’ll be hidden. Nobody here would want to touch you, even if they knew about the tower. If you decline him, you’re out. There’re cops in other towns and you’ll be tracked. Join the bastard.”

  The man had slept roughly and driven over to Wallace’s house at first light. After his ordeal at the barn he needed to debrief and talk to someone. Siphon had offered the man a shield from outer scrutiny, but within that offer there would be conditions. Harsh consequences.

  “Morris, that cop, he passes through,” said the man, remembering the confrontation before his kidnapping. “He’s onto me, I can feel it. He’ll take me in.”