This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  “Don’t need to worry about that bloke, he passes through to make the Ridge seem safe. He’s as scared as the rest. Needs to show care, y’know?”

  Lilly brought over a tray of apple muffins, to which both men perked up.

  “He’s fucked, Wallace. Siphon is fucked. He chains up kids, women, just to make men fight for money. What will he make me do? I have enough on my conscience…”

  The man trailed off, remembering the bodies breaking open on the pavement.

  “He may make you do some sick shit,” said Wallace, snatching at a muffin as Lilly tried to dodge him. “But if it’s not you, it’s someone else. He doesn’t really prod at the townsfolk too much if they keep to themselves, other than the Pritchard boys, but soon he’ll grow bored. He’ll poke at Mick, at Charlene. He’ll poke at me again. He shot Billy in the fucking foot. Maybe he’ll take Lilly here and make her cook for him. Maybe he’ll lock her in the barn and...”

  Despite the fact Wallace Randall spoke of his own daughter, the man cringed at the thought.

  “I’ve lost a son,” said Wallace, looking to Lilly. “You don’t need to tell me how fucked he is, boy. I will not lose a daughter. She is stubborn. She won’t leave her old man. I’ve tried.”

  “And what if he realises I’m playing him, huh? He’ll snap my fucking neck, Wallace. He’ll fucking kill me. I’m not Sulley Ridge alumni. I’m a damn restaurant owner from Melbourne.”

  Wallace stood and walked over to the man.

  “A bit more than that, I feel.”

  “Sit back down and eat your eggs,” barked Lilly, arms crossed. Her apron was covered in egg remnants. She pointed at the chair.

  “Important business here,” he tried, but her gaze now controlled his mind. He sat and shoved scrambled eggs into his mouth as though it was shards of glass. Wallace was rather thin when he wasn’t wearing overalls and thick jumpers. If he’d shaved, the bones would protrude.

  “I know this world,” said the man, the sweet muffin tingling his cheeks. “They love a good story. The longer I’m gone the more interested and obsessed they’ll become. Maybe I should just leave, go to the next town. Let fate intervene.”

  He remembered the money hidden at his new home. What point was one million dollars if it could only be used to further shield him from capture?

  “If you’re caught,” said Lilly, entering the conversation, “it will be the biggest public stoning you’ve ever seen.”

  “We don’t know that,” he replied, finishing his muffin. Lilly and Wallace shared a glance.

  “What?” he asked, feeling out of the loop.

  “Show him,” said Wallace. Lilly picked up her laptop and placed the old model on the table facing the man. Wallace remained seated at the other end, watching only the man. She opened a file and pressed play, backing away. The man saw a fire burning a familiar building.

  “Fuck,” he said, putting his hand to his mouth. Bun Ahoy crumbled as firefighters blasted the front with their hoses, charred brick scattered about the pavement. They were in no hurry to douse the flames. His life’s work was placed into that establishment, and watching it break away was like witnessing a pet receive the needle of sleep.

  “This happened last night,” said Lilly, monitoring his reaction. “It’s not the most concerning part though.”

  The camera panned to a news presenter standing outside the now-destroyed restaurant, the morning light gracing the city. She was moving from person to person, asking questions. The mob was angry.

  “Why are you here, sir?” she asked a man in his twenties.

  “I’m here to make sure that BEEP doesn’t show up, because if he does I’ll BEEP him myself.”

  Another person pushed the man away, an older lady. Her eyes were teary.

  “He killed my son. That BEEP killed my son. I’m glad they burned this place down. I wish he was BEEP in it.”

  The presenter moved to a woman sitting on the pavement, hugging her legs. She had burns on her face, only light, but clear.

  “Are you alright, ma’am?”

  “No. I escaped Barron Tower with my life, and I lost nobody I love, but thousands of people have lost loved ones and friends. This man doesn’t even care. Where is he? What does he gain from this? I don’t…I don’t understand. Now people are destroying more buildings to get at him, but when does it end? When does it end?”

  The man couldn’t watch anymore. It was too much to bear. He slammed the laptop shut and handed it back to Lilly, who accepted and cleared the plates. When she was gone, Wallace spoke.

  “Look, if they find you I have no idea what they’ll do. If you surfaced the moment your name came up, you could’ve fought for innocence, whether you are innocent or not. But now…it’s been too long.”

  “It’s not that,” said the man, shaken. “It’s the people…they think I’m some monster. They think I’m…”

  He stood up.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll join Siphon’s crew. If he kills me, he kills me. I may be blamed for terrorism in Melbourne. But here…maybe here I can do some good.”

  Wallace rose with a smile. He walked over to the man and shook his hand, then placed his other hand over their embrace.

  “Play his game. Do as he says. Look for weaknesses. That bastard killed my son and caused my wife and grandchildren to flee. Every person from Sulley Ridge has their own tale of how Siphon ruined their life. They’ll hate you, for now. But if you can stop him…”

  The man nodded, still seeing Bun Ahoy burn and the faces of the people condemning him for the death of hundreds. He cared not for the town, or the people. He had his own motives, and maybe siding with Siphon could see them settled.

  The barn was a toxic mound, throbbing with the infection hidden. Night wrestled full reign from the remnants of the day, the barn indescribable from the distance to which the man found himself. Along the grassy path he listened to the warnings heeded by the cicadas. They screeched with memories of pain, with visions of fear. The cows grazed away from the barn as though the walls radiated with heat, an imaginary electric fence erected in their minds. Billy and Jane were nowhere to be seen. Their lights were off, no movement on the porch or in the windows, so the man continued down the hill to his destination. The wind whipped at the cuts on his face, stitches applied by Lilly, the pain of battle still vivid and fresh. He hoped he would not need to fight a Pritchard tonight.

  As he moved within the perimeter where the cows feared to tread, a rustle from behind the trees caused his steps to cease. He peered, the stars the only bulbs in this land. Nothing. He continued walking, and again the rustling rose. The culprit didn’t try to conceal its noise.

  “Hello?” said the man, squinting.

  “What do you want?” spat a voice, vitriol.

  “I’m here to speak to Siphon.”

  A pause.

  “Who are you?”

  Which name am I using this time?

  “Greg McDonald, the shearer. I was here last night. He told me to come back.”

  “Not sure if you’re tough or dumb.”

  Me either, he thought.

  “Very well then, off you go. Three slow knocks on the barn door.”

  The man continued, passing the tree that Wiggles had placed Tom against after the man beat him senseless. He wondered what foul acts were still to come. No noise was escaping through the cracks of the barn, even with a new hole beaten into the side wall with splinters of wood in a pile on the grass. The man avoided peeping and knocked three times on the barn door as instructed. He waited, trying to remember to breathe. There was no going back once they opened this door.

  It creaked slowly, as if swinging on its own accord. A faint light from a kerosene lamp illuminated a square in the barn. The buzz of flies took hold of the man like an air raid. In that space was a freshly slain kangaroo, its head completely removed from its body and lying in a bundle of hay. A dog was chewing on the innards like a pig in a trough, munching and slurping on the still-warm meat. The Rottweiler
looked up when the man entered, but soon continued feasting on guts and stringy muscle when his owner pointed at the carcass once more. Hayes approached the man, his Akubra tilted forward to shroud his face in darkness.

  “What can I do you for?” he asked, moving the flap of his jacket aside to reveal a well-polished pistol. The chews of Killer were a metronome, sending him into a trance as blood splashed in a puddle.

  “Siphon told me to come back if I was interested in hanging around.”

  “Just leave,” said Hayes, raising his head slightly and speaking in a hushed tone. “Jump in that Falcon and you’ll be on the other side of the state before the sun rises.”

  The man noticed that there were no crowds tonight, no cheering and gambling and fighting. The only figures were Hayes, Killer, the dead roo and the wolf-bearing bookie, who had opened the door and remained pressed against the barn wall. He heard creaks up above, craning his neck to see Siphon standing on the upper level without a shirt and a slow drip from his knuckles.

  “Come up,” he said, retreating into his office.

  “Last chance,” said Hayes, finally smiling. The man moved past him, and then carefully avoided the pre-occupied dog focused on a shin. Each step upward was an ascent into a madness he couldn’t understand. The eerie barn combated the increasing winds, which blew through the hole and caused the stray hay to spread throughout. The bookie and Hayes weren’t speaking, cautious, as if waiting for a train to take them to a foul place worse than the one constructed by their leader.

  “I see you’ve been tempted by the spoils of Sulley Ridge,” said Siphon when the man stepped into his office. Even here there were no other faces to demonstrate despair. Siphon was alone, punching a tightly-wound bale of hay with sharp uppercuts. But when he spoke, every word was even and composed. He waited for the man to continue the conversation, focused on inflicting damage on each connection.

  “I’m interested in money, and I’m keen to stay away from the world,” he said, unable to avert his gaze from the muscle in this man’s arms. “I’m not doing that from within a ring. I’m much more useful.”

  “How’s that? You’re a shearer, and I don’t have sheep. You won your fight. That’s useful.”

  The man wished he had planned this part of the day a little more before entering.

  “I’m not applying for a fucking job, Siphon. I’m here to make some coin and I don’t really care how I do it. But I’m not getting in that ring with kids. I’m not going home every night with another cut on my face. If you don’t want me, I’ll leave, but I’m here telling you I’m interested.”

  Siphon stopped and turned, heaving.

  “You know what interests me, Greg? Normality. Things staying as they are. People around here, the townsfolk, they know the rules. They know to pay their monthly rent to me, they know to speak when spoken to most of the time, they know to offer my men a drink when they enter. But most of all, they know not to come into this barn when I’m not here. This keeps them safe, you understand?”

  The man nodded. He knew all about rules and normality. Siphon approached, a foot shorter than the man, and stared deep into his eyes.

  “Tell me, then. Why has this changed?”

  “Huh?”

  “When I left here last night, someone was chained to this pipe. When I arrived tonight, she was gone. Now there’s a god damn hole in my barn!”

  He grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him down, their noses now touching.

  “Is there something you want to tell me, Greg?”

  His breath reeked of bourbon, his sweat was citrus, and the deep lines carved into his face were fiery lanes towards hell. Siphon did not blink; that was something the man hadn’t noticed until now. His glare was his power, and he did not blink. Ever.

  “Why the fuck would I free anyone, huh? Do I look stupid to you? Why would I do that and then come back to this fucking barn? Makes no sense.”

  “Coincidence, you’re claiming?”

  The man remembered Wiggles being set free, and the other woman in the far corner. The pipe had been broken. Siphon grasped the man’s windpipe and began to squeeze.

  “Yes…I guess…why would I…makes no sense…didn’t free Karen…”

  Siphon’s eyes widened, and then he released the man from his vice-like grip.

  “Karen?” he said, as if the name was foreign.

  “That’s…that’s who…I saw…I remembered hearing…her name…”

  Siphon waved his hand, allowing the man to catch his breath. He spoke, calm now.

  “Guess it wasn’t you then. She’s not the one my men are out looking for. Sorry about all that, Greg,” he said, patting the man forcefully on the back. And then, to the man’s surprise, he chuckled.

  “When I heard you were still here, I thought it was definitely you. Made me livid, but it made sense. I know multiple people were here, in my barn, conducting some freedom mission. I thought you led the campaign. You say you want to join us, hmm? Make some coin?”

  “Yes,” said the man, rubbing his throat.

  “Very well. I want to know who was here, Greg. I want to know why. You’ll help me. We’ll have some fun along the way.”

  The man didn’t want to be in this room any longer. He saw a mirror staring straight at him, and the face was like a long-lost cousin. His crew cut, the bruises and blotches, the scars, the misshaped nose, the missing teeth. But most of all, the pale skin and sunken eyes. He did not know the man looking at him, so Greg McDonald he would become.

  “Fine,” said the man, accepting a handshake that left spots of blood on his skin. “Where do we start?”

  “Oh, you don’t need worry about that, Greg. We’ve got a little show planned for the town tonight. Keep your eyes peeled, because you can learn a lot from a face.”

  The man nodded as Siphon resumed his sparring with the hay. He exited the office and saw Hayes and wolf-man looking up at him, surprised. They all thought he set someone free. Even Killer, his mouth covered in a new coat of red paint, seemed confused. Perhaps he had been promised a new meal. The man walked down the stairs, still regaining his breath, and sat on a bale of hay in wait. Hayes approached.

  “Not you? Well, well, well, this is going to get messy.”

  New World Order

  Charlene took a large gulp of beer as she watched the news telecast, now a nightly ritual to keep her mind off the happenings in her own town. James and Jasper slept on one side of the couch while the shotgun rested in reach on the other. Seeing the carnage in the city made the magnified issues in Sulley Ridge seem at once both petty and all-consuming. Leaving her licence with the girl was stupid. She did not know whether the lass had taken it with her or left the card to linger in Siphon’s office like the lead clue in a murder mystery. Each passing minute felt like a tick towards doom, with Siphon’s cars expected to roar up her driveway at any minute and deliver the same fate Max received years prior. Hayes would bring Killer and her own dogs would be torn into strips.

  Her love for Karen had clouded her judgement. How could she be so stupid?

  Charlene finished the beer and went to grab another from the fridge. The sound of an engine could be heard faintly. She ran over to the shotgun, causing James and Jasper to leap up in excitement, and checked the chamber was loaded for the fiftieth time that night.

  “Go to bed,” she growled, and they scampered off into another room. She closed the door and ran out onto the porch, ducking in shadow. This had been a position occupied many a time. But tonight, all felt different; rather than bearing witness, she may be in the direct line of danger. Her heart thumped. And then a booming megaphone blasted away doubt.

  “Town gathering! Siphon has called a town gathering! Please make your way into town! Anyone who is absent will be dealt with accordingly!”

  These words were repeated over and over as the car passed Charlene’s house. A town gathering was never a good sign. If Siphon wanted everyone in one place, he wanted to deliver a very important message.
Charlene walked back inside to grab her keys. Within minutes she was on her way to The Ginger Bastard, the town’s central point.

  Had Billy finally opened his mouth?

  Was Karen going to be there?

  So many questions formed and then disappeared, replaced by the next without an answer. When she saw the lines of people on the road, Charlene slowed and parked her car; deciding to leave the gun inside. Everyone was present, including her accomplices Mick and Billy. The Pritchard boys were up front, arguing amongst themselves. Jerry was standing on the doorstep of The Ginger Bastard. Charlene often wondered if he left the premises these days. Jane was outside her own shop as if protecting the glass from a storm. Wallace and Lilly were further off, silent. But as Charlene scanned the faces she knew so well, there was no Karen. She needed to sit down. Light chatter filled the atmosphere. All noise ceased the moment they caught a glimpse of Siphon’s crew walking towards them from the other end of the street. There were six. Many of the gamblers only arrived in Sulley Ridge when bets were on the table. The five mainstays could be spotted from a hundred metres away: Hayes with his dog Killer leashed, Wolfgang the bookie, Harvard the announcer, Brick the muscle and Siphon the leader. But tonight, there was a sixth. Charlene knew that silhouette, which belonged to her new neighbour. Gasps in the crowd meant others were seeing it too. Greg McDonald walked alongside Siphon, his gaze fixed straight ahead, and Mick turned to Wallace.

  “Doing business with the devil, old man?” he said, so everybody could hear. Mick was visibly seething despite the fear of what happened in the barn still running his thoughts. Charlene moved to his side and grabbed his wrist, but that only served to aggravate the flames.

  The mob turned to Wallace, searching for somebody to blame for this addition to Siphon’s squad. He had more men scattered across the valleys. But here were the staples, the regulars, the town’s greatest adversaries. And Greg McDonald, mysterious shearer from Western Australia, had joined their motley crew.

  “I was doin’ business, Mick. Not my fault he took that path.”