by Kathryn Hore
The girl rings a second time. Maybe she’s a little older, twenty even. What’s she got? The box must contain chocolates for a fundraiser. Doesn’t make her a good person, but perhaps she’s more humane than the rest. I could open up and get a better look at her. And I’m really craving sugar. Worst case scenario, I get new files for the wank bank.
I unlock the deadbolt and open the door to look at her through the mesh of the screen. She can’t see me clearly, smiling vaguely in the direction she thinks my head might be. I push the screen door open.
As she steps back, my consciousness pivots from my body to hers, and I see myself as she must see me. Towering two heads above her, ghoulish features glow from the dimmed interior of the hall, brow so low over beady eyes I look permanently enraged. No wonder people hate me; people hate what they fear.
The girl glances at the box she’s holding and then back at me.
‘Yes?’ I say.
‘I think,’ she says at last, ‘I've got the wrong house.’
‘Aren’t you just selling chocolate?’ I keep my eyes dead on hers.
She clutches the box to her chest. ‘No, I’m not. Sorry to bother you.’
She turns. That little fucking over-sized girl scout is about to walk away. Because I’m too ugly to be sold chocolates. Too ugly to be treated like a fucking human being going about their life in the most unobtrusive way, holed up in this fucking shoebox so as not to cause a nuisance to the world with my hatefulness. No human contact for thirteen fucking days and now this. I get a flashback to Marie's grin, the lift. My blood percolates and rage takes over.
I grab Girl Scout by the arm. She screams.
I yank her toward me. She trips, slamming her head on the door frame. For a second, she staggers, keeling over at a right angle. I grab her head and smash it into the brick wall. She crumples to the floor.
The car park is empty. I drag her and the box inside. Shut the door.
Blood beats in my throat and roars in my ears. I’m so angry I can’t even think. I only want to destroy her, recompense for everyone who’s laughed at me. I kick her. She moans and my cock throbs. I stand there for a moment wondering if I want to kill her or fuck her. I decide that first I’m gonna eat some goddamn chocolate. I pick up the box and get a surprise. Instead of bars of Cadbury Dairy Milk and stupid cancer pins: jars. I take one out. ‘Natural moisturiser’. Shit, she was right. The little twat was telling the truth after all.
I panic.
She’s limp on the carpet, face veiled by loosened hair. I’m in deep shit for this. No matter what I do, I’ll get jail time for assault. Maybe I can get rid of her, get away with it. I’ll chop her up and put her into the garbage disposal piece by piece before the cops show up to question me. My life’s turned to rot regardless, so what have I got to lose?
I drag the cunt into the bathroom and lug her into the tub. Her head falls back, eyes rolling around like marbles. I rush blindly to the kitchen for a knife. This is it. I have to act now before she comes to. I press the blade to her throat and look away. Blood sprays out like water from a partially clogged faucet. She spasms in the tub, back and limbs drumming against the enamel.
What have I done? My hands are brown with blood. I turn the tap on to scrub them clean and realise that I’ve left the plug in the basin. Red water rises around her thighs. It stinks like wet coins, so strong I can taste it. Can’t get the blood off my hands. It’s everywhere. I turn the tap off. My vision blurs, but when I try to wipe the tears away, I get blood in my eyes. Shit. I've finally fucked up, really fucked up. I’m never going to get away with this. Beast Slays Beauty in Suburban Horror. I’m going to spend the rest of my life in jail.
How did I end up here? Why couldn’t I have been born normal like everyone else? I’d give anything to look like them. Like the kiddies who’d had the luxury of ostracising me as a child, and the perfect couples on trains who gawk at me and whisper and giggle. Like the people at Bella Cosmetics, and that King-dick Louis Labelle, CEO and managing director, that arrogant prick who built his fortune on ideals of beauty that I can never live up to. It’s those ideals that cause others to hate me and laugh at me and treat me like shit. What would the world be like without people like him? There would be no beauty, and there would be no misery for me.
I can either sit around with the dead girl, watching maggots eat her out while I wait for the cops to bust me. Or I can spend my last few hours of freedom on reprisal. I may as well go out with a bang.
I take a shower and put on my best suit. I empty the jars of moisturiser over Sleeping Beauty’s face and then dunk each one into the pool of blood, watching them fill with a gulp.
As I lock the front door, I realise it probably isn’t necessary — they’re going to catch me by the time this is through. I’m struggling to pull this dodgy key out when Rocket’s car pulls up in the driveway. Shit. She’s going to ask me where I’m going. Why is she always sticking her face into my business? Oh, Rocket. I know you’re not like the rest of them, but I hate everyone and I’m going to do this.
Pretending like I haven’t seen her, I walk toward my car.
‘Damien,’ she calls out. I don’t know if I can make it to my car before she intercepts. Keep my head down.
‘Hey, where are you going?’
A few more paces and I’ll be there.
‘Damien, stop.’ Her voice changes from that smooth husk into a whining plea. ‘Why are you ignoring me?’
Her hand reaches out. I snatch it and throw it back at her, sending her body shuddering away. The frailty of her movement reminds me of the dead girl. Guilt pierces my chest.
I get into my car.
Rocket’s gawking where I left her. ‘Fuck you then!’
In my rear view mirror, her face is contorted with tears, partly masked by one hand, the other cradled around her chest.
#
These offices are so stylish it makes me sick. The fleur-de-lis carpet and purple walls radiate hostility. I never belonged here. I treat the people like video game obstacles, and imagine myself in a first-person shooter, knocking them off as I make my way though. Maybe I’ll try that on my way out, after killing the prize target.
I haven’t been here for two weeks and everyone’s staring at me. Someone laughs and says, ‘Come to beg for your job back, ey?’
I raise my head and see a man about a foot shorter than me. His eyes widen and lips seal up when he sees my face. I continue through.
Labelle’s office is empty. Once inside, I pull the blinds closed and wait at his desk, propping my briefcase on the polished wood. I rub nervous track marks into the rug.
The door clicks and Labelle strides in. I feel a gust of air as he zips past me.
‘Yes?’ he says. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
He knows me. I see the recognition in his face. He just never cared to learn my name.
I stand up, wanting to seem confident, important. He looks up at me without craning his neck, defiant. I mutter an introduction, shaking so badly I’m afraid to hold my hand out.
‘I’ve got a new product that may interest you,’ I say. ‘I’ve come to discuss business prospects.’
Labelle skims my suit and says, ‘Look, I’m really sorry but we can’t think about new products right now. We’re busy trying to launch the new range we’ve spent the past two years developing. I appreciate your time but maybe you can get in touch with another company to manufacture your... product for you.’
My knife is in my briefcase. If I can just get him to sit down and look at the jars, then I can pull it out and slash his throat.
‘But you don’t understand,’ I say.
He squints, tacking me to the wall.
‘My product is special,’ I say. ‘Mr Labelle, you’re the CEO of this prestigious company and a true connoisseur of cosmetics. Why not take a seat and have a look for yourself? If after seeing my product you’re still not interested, I’ll trust your judgment. But please, don’t say no before you try it.’<
br />
He can see me trembling. He’s going to throw me out.
He exhales and sits down. ‘Okay.’
I sit opposite and open the briefcase. Slowly, I retrieve one of the blood jars, and pass it to him with two hands. He takes the brown-red jar, twisting it around to read the label. The label’s stained and peeling but still reads Natural Moisturiser.
He looks at me as if to ask, What the hell is this?
‘Please.’ I gesture for him to go ahead.
His fingers tighten around the lid and it pops open. That tinny smell envelops us. Nose twitching, he brings it in for closer scrutiny and sniffs.
I lift the knife with two fingers and ease it into my grip.
Labelle looks at me again — surely he must recognise that it’s full of blood. But instead of looking horrified, he seems puzzled.
I’m trembling so bad that the knife rattles against the briefcase.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
I’m delirious with nerves. I suddenly have the urge to tell him. I want to see his reaction.
‘Virgin’s blood,’ I say. Screaming inside, Now! Do it now! but I’m paralysed.
His eyebrows crease. Labelle leans forward. I think he’s going to puke. He whispers, ‘Is it pure?’
I drop the knife, making a tiny thud.
I croak. He stares.
I say the first thing that comes to mind. ‘It’s mixed with water.’ He’s still staring, so I quickly add, ‘A precise ratio of about one part blood to four parts distilled water — the recommended ratio for a truly lavish and nourishing virgin blood bath.’
He nods and taps the desk with a pen. ‘I’m certainly interested in this exquisite moisturiser. Here I was thinking ‘bloody Bathory’ products were a myth. Listen, we are not secure discussing business here.’
He presses a button on his phone and speaks into the receiver. ‘Jenny. Cancel my three-thirty and make sure I have no interruptions. I’m in a very important meeting.’
The world’s swirling all around me yet I’m completely still inside. I don’t know if my heart’s stopped working or if I’ve finally reached nirvana.
Labelle says, ‘Please, sir. Come this way.’
I creak out of the seat, knees untrustworthy. He leads me to another room, which I’m guessing none but the highest company management know about. In the middle, two velvet armchairs bookend a marble coffee table, behind them a mantelpiece runs along the wall space. Labelle offers me a seat while he stands by the mantel.
‘At Bella,’ he says, ‘we supply first class cosmetics to boutiques and high-end department stores worldwide. We provide makeup for films and fashion shows, and we have the most glamorous supermodels associated with our brand. But we also have a line of products far removed from the public eye. Handcrafted, secret innovations that have unparalleled powers to beautify, polish and preserve. We eschew the ethical and legal confines that hinder innovation. We employ uninhibited scientists and give them the resources to test, torture and invent, to channel the real powers behind effective cosmetic treatment. Here, just behind these walls, is a lab where genius is limitless.’
He turns to the shelf and takes a parcel wrapped in brown paper.
‘These soaps have been made from the finest tallow. Can you guess which animal it comes from? For a long time, we believed seal cubs had the most luxurious fatty tissue. That was until a Peruvian entrepreneur slaughtered a mass of choice native girls to produce this. We’ve gone into business with him to expand this line to include shaving foam and body gel.’
He holds the package out to me but I can’t take it. I have to use all my willpower not to scream. Labelle, still holding the product out to me, hesitates, then places it on the table.
He returns to the shelf and takes a porcelain cylinder.
‘Please, try some of this anti-aging serum. You’ll find it is rapidly absorbed into the skin, leaving a light and wonderful fragrance. It was formulated with the most potent elastins known to modern science — from infant foreskins.’
I’m thinking, You are a monster. You are Hell on Earth.
He puts the foreskin oil next to the package. ‘Please accept these as gifts.’ All of a sudden staring at me, piercing me. Why’s he looking at me like that?
‘I think you'll find, sir,’ he continues, ‘that these products are much more than just skincare.’
Labelle’s thick hand pats my back. I try not to let my shoulders tense but they’re crawling with insects.
‘Let me fix us a drink,’ he says. ‘Do you appreciate good bourbon?’
While he’s gone, I browse the items on the mantel. I pick up a canister styled as a Japanese temple. Does this crap actually work? I feel weak. I’ve lost my energy to kill Labelle though I despise him more than ever. What if I make a deal with Bella and get some money? I could spend it on a hooker and mounds of cocaine then blow my brains out and die with my balls empty. Or I could flee the country. Apologise to Rocket, ask her to come with me.
Labelle returns holding a pair of crystal glasses. I agree to provide Bella with virgin’s blood at a price of $3999.99 per litre, which they will package and distribute to an underground market of trusted clientele. Labelle sets me up at a luxury villa at the Casino, covering all my expenses. I’ve never been treated like this. It makes me ashamed, guilty that I enjoy it.
He holds out his hand for me to shake. And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like a hideous freak.
#
This fluffy queen-sized bed is so clean and crisp it reminds me of Rocket’s underwear fresh off the clothes line. Last night, I drank a bottle of room-service cognac and lathered myself in every complimentary product given to me by Labelle. Expensive wrapping paper and potion-like bottles make a trail from bed to bathroom. Someone is banging on the door and I realise what has woken me.
‘Damien Elgar? Open up. Police.’
I rise like a corpse from a coffin. Directly ahead of me, I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My eyes don’t seem to be working. I wonder what else I consumed other than alcohol. The fist hammers at the door again, but I ignore it.
Feet on cold tiles, I look at myself up close. Everything’s changed. My once protruding forehead seems to have receded to a gentle brow. I grope my face and find that my skin, which has always been thick and porous, is now supple and smooth. And I don’t even remember what my lips looked like before, because now they’re smiling at me, handsome.
The cops are banging on the door. But I don’t care. Whoever they are after, it is no longer me.
THE GRINNING TIDE
Stuart Olver
The land shuddered, floundered in its shallow grave between ancient granite ridges, its barrel-chested hills choking on white crystalline dust. Like a corpse, not knowing its own death, trying to rise while the gravedigger sprinkles salt and pounds with his spade. The mallees, brown and hunched, overtaken by the creeping white tide, and the ghosts of fluted gums raising stripped branches from the brine-scarred earth, like furious fingers clawing at the salt-scoured sky. And Gary’s lone, red Camry on the highway, lost in the vastness of the landscape, little more than a drop of blood oozing slowly along a dead, black vein.
The arrow-straight stretch of road would probably have claimed Gary’s life that day if the girl hadn’t made a run at him. Some beers at lunch (he couldn’t remember if he’d stopped at two, as he’d promised himself he would) and a warm and stuffy car had conspired to bring him to the brink of unconsciousness. So too, the unremarkable plains of the wheatbelt unfolding flat as a map twenty kilometres out from Kellerberrin. The girl was a sudden flash of white, agitating the edges of his vision, causing him to step on the brake too hard.
The car shimmied to a stop in the gravel. Gary glanced back, not at all convinced he hadn’t clipped the slim figure. But there she was, a few metres back, hurrying toward the passenger door. Gary lowered the electric window as her face, pink-cheeked and grime-smudged, drew level with it.
‘You gotta he
lp me, mister. My pop… he’s very sick.’
Gary stared at the girl. She was about eleven or twelve; her white dress, though clean, bore the frayed marks of continual use.
‘Your grandfather?’
‘Yeah. He’s gonna die for sure. Please come.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At the house. Down the road.’
She pointed backwards to a narrow bitumen track, lined with rickety fence posts and slack lengths of wire that led off to the left from the main road. Gary was briefly surprised he had not noticed it before, but then again, he’d barely been aware of the road he was travelling on until a few seconds ago.
‘At a farmhouse?’
‘Yeah, mister. Hurry!’
Gary frowned and leaned over to open the passenger door for the girl.
Lucy would have been about the same age…
‘Get in. I’ll drive us down.’
The girl shuffled into the seat, and Gary did a U-turn and steered the car down the secondary road.
‘Where are your parents?’ he asked.
‘They went away.’
‘What do you mean ‘they went away’?’
‘That’s it. They went down the fields, and they didn’t come back yet.’
‘Who’s looking after you?’
‘My pop, of course. Jeez, you ask a lot of questions, mister.’
The car rumbled along the road, and the twisting wire and rotting fence posts framed vast salt pans in the dying wheat stubble, like spreading white mould sneezed onto a thousand-acre Petri dish. The sun threw its rays, hot and thick, through the left side windows, though Gary noticed a line of cumulus clouds forming up on the horizon ahead, merging like a creamy breaking wave getting ready to rush forward onto the sand.
‘Looks like we could get a storm,’ he said, because the silence made him anxious. He nervously rubbed the ring finger on his left hand, a habit he still could not break after all this time.
