by Rob Ashman
She could remember being at the post office, collecting the package and leaving it on the worktop. She could remember feeling thirsty and the hiss of the gas escaping from the bottle, then taking a hot shower.
The picture of the skewer changing colour in the blue gas flame filled her mind.
‘Fuck,’ she said under her breath. The realisation jolted her body.
She could remember Daddy’s voice booming in her head telling her to kill the family who lived on her street. She could remember the gun.
Shit. she could remember the gun.
She had it in her hand when she left the apartment.
‘Fuck,’ she said again.
She snapped her eyes open and looked around. A cop was talking to two female medical staff outside in the corridor. The urge to fight or flight surged through her. Mechanic tried to raise herself up but her limbs felt like lead. She needed to get away.
Then her brain kicked in.
The cop is not here for me.
If I had been caught with a gun, or worse, I would be in a room on my own, handcuffed to the bed. The uniformed officer would be in the room with me not flirting with the nurses.
A nurse passing the door clocked that Mechanic was awake and bustled into the room. She was small and pretty, dressed in green scrubs. She had the bubbly air of someone who had not worked in the healthcare profession for long.
‘Hello, my name is Sara.’
Mechanic nodded in return.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘A little groggy.’
Sara picked the chart from the bottom of the bed and scribbled on it.
‘Do you hurt anywhere?’
‘No, I’m in no pain.’
‘What’s your name?’
Mechanic stopped. It was a strange question to ask. She knew cognitive questions were used when patients had suffered a head injury, questions such as what day is it, what year is it, or who is the president? But never what is your name?
She toyed with the question.
Maybe she’s asking because they don’t know my name. If I didn’t have ID with me when I was brought in, how would they know?
‘I don’t know,’ answered Mechanic.
Sara scribbled more onto the chart.
‘Are you a diabetic?’
‘No.’ Mechanic kicked herself for answering quickly.
‘Are you on any medication?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Sara made more notes. Mechanic remained silent hoping it would prompt Sara into filling in the gaps.
‘You’re in Fairfield Memorial Hospital. A man found you unconscious in a car park and called 911. They brought you in and you’ve been out cold for six hours. You have a graze on your left hand, probably from when you fell, but other than that you have no other injuries as far as we can tell. Do you remember anything?’
Mechanic shrugged her shoulders.
Sara walked around the bed and poured water into a plastic cup. She handed it to Mechanic who took a sip.
‘Do you have a history of blackouts?’ Sara continued.
Mechanic shook her head.
‘We noticed burn marks on your stomach. Do you recall how they got there?’
Mechanic shrugged her shoulders.
‘So, you know you are not a diabetic, you don’t suffer from blackouts, but you don’t remember your own name?’
Mechanic shook her head. Sara looked sceptical.
‘Okay, I will inform the doctor you’re awake, he will want to see you.’
Mechanic watched her leave.
What the fuck happened to the gun? The thought raced around in her head.
What did I do to the family?
Mechanic had to get out of there fast.
She hoisted herself up on her elbows and turned on her side. From there she swung her feet off the bed and onto the floor. The room melted away into a spinning soup and she gripped the bed frame. Slowly the room stopped moving and came to a halt.
Mechanic looked down at the locker beside her bed to find her clothes in a plastic bag. She pulled on the jeans and wrestled the sweatshirt over her head.
When the hell had I got changed into these?
Mechanic slid her feet into her shoes and checked the top drawer of the cabinet. It was empty, she had no personal effects. She staggered around the foot of the bed pulling the chart from its holder.
She took a deep breath and wandered out. As she passed through the doorway into the corridor she held the paperwork up to her face and walked past the cop. She scanned around for exit signs, found one and headed for the elevators. Ten minutes later she was outside hailing a cab.
‘Can you take me home, please. I have no money on me because I came in the ambulance with my son. I can pay you when I reach home.’
‘Sure thing, lady. You wouldn’t believe how many times I get asked that.’
She folded herself deep into the seat in the back of the taxi and tried to think.
The guy found her in a parking lot, no the nurse said car park. Which car park and what the hell was she doing there?
The only one she knew was where she parked her own car. It was a private space, beneath the apartment block, for tenants only.
Maybe I went to the car to get something.
Then realisation dawned on her.
I needed my car to drive to the family’s house.
Shit, did I collapse on the way there or the way back?
They arrived at her home and Mechanic let herself in with a spare key she left with the neighbours. The gas ring was still hissing away, the air in the apartment was hot and dry. She switched it off and returned to pay the driver. She waited for him to leave then ran to the underground car park. Her car was in its allocated space. Mechanic scouted on her hands and knees, looking under the car. Sure enough behind the front wheel was the gun and against the fence were her keys. They must have spilled onto the floor when she fell. She retrieved the gun and checked the magazine, it was full.
Thank God.
Mechanic went back to her apartment, made coffee and fixed herself a sandwich. She was feeling more lucid and her body was returning to normal. The padded envelope lay on the worktop, unopened.
It would have to wait.
Mechanic took a shower and changed. She threw a few clothes into a backpack and looped it over her shoulder. She checked the gun and slid it into the front pocket. The car keys were in her hand as she slammed the front door behind her.
She was heading to Prescott.
33
Mechanic got out of the car, it was a little after 10pm. The journey had taken forever because she kept having to stop. Her stomach churned at the thought of seeing her father again but she had no choice.
She parked two blocks away and walked to Pavilion Park. The warmth had gone from the day and the night air was cool. The sky was clear with the half-moon throwing silver light onto the red-brick houses. She skirted around the wrought-iron gates and turned left along the road circling the complex. After fifty yards the high brick wall gave way to a wooden fence with bushes growing at its base. Mechanic kept walking.
The plot of land stretched back for another two hundred yards, and then the fence ran out. The back to the estate was wide open. The only security was three bands of galvanised wire strung between posts driven into the ground. The land leading up to the properties was an obstacle course of rubble, mounds of earth and scattered pallets of building materials. Either there hadn’t been enough money to complete the development or the projected demand was nothing like what had been forecast. Mechanic lightly tapped the wire to see if it had an electric current running through it. She slipped through the gap and headed towards the bungalows.
She figured that after their last encounter her father wouldn’t agree to see her. At this time he was probably out, so a different approach was in order.
She found Simpson Place and scouted around the back of the properties. Each one had a small open-plan garden at the rear, wit
h a paved area and a tiny piece of grass, a line of low bushes marking out the perimeter. Stewart Sells’ bungalow was the one at the end. It was in darkness, as was the rest of the street.
Mechanic walked up to the patio door, pulled on a pair of gloves and tried the handle. It was locked. She peered across and allowed herself a brief smile. The living room window was on the latch. She rifled through her bag and brought out a hunting knife. The thick blade made short work of lifting the catch and Mechanic was in.
The smell of fresh paint had been replaced with the smell of dirty clothes and stale food. She checked the rooms, Stewart Sells was not at home. Mechanic sat on the sofa in the dark and waited. The churning in her stomach had gone, replaced with cold resolve.
On the stroke of eleven she heard a movement outside. There was lots of cursing and the noise of scuffling feet, and then the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. After much scraping of metal on metal her father fell into the house, his hand still holding onto the key. Or to be more accurate, he had one foot planted in the living room with the other stuck on the front path. He swayed back and forth suspended from his front door trying to regain his balance.
‘Fucking lock,’ he scowled, tugging at the key.
With a herculean effort, he took an enormous stride forward and launched himself into the house. He slammed the door shut with the keys still jangling in the lock. He turned back and reached for the light switch, his index finger prodding and stabbing at the wall until it hit the button.
He turned and jumped out of his sagging yellow skin.
‘What the f—’
‘Hello, Dad.’
‘How did you … When did you … What the …’ The whisky had robbed him of his ability to complete a sentence.
‘We need to talk.’
‘But how did you …’ He swivelled at the hips and pointed at the door, toppling back against the wall.
‘You left it open, so I let myself in.’
He stomped through to the kitchen and pulled a mug from the pile of dirty crockery in the sink.
‘You want to talk?’ he called over his shoulder as he dragged items from the cupboards onto the floor. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
He moved into the bathroom and Mechanic could again hear the sound of cupboards being ransacked.
‘Fuck it,’ he said returning to the living room. He banged the empty cup on the table and flopped into the armchair.
‘We need to talk.’
‘You said that already.’
‘I need to talk about what you did.’
‘What did I do?’
‘When I was young. I need to talk about what you did when I was young.’
‘What did I do?’
‘What do you mean, what did you do?’ Mechanic’s cold resolve was starting to melt.
‘You come in here uninvited and say you want to talk about what I did? What about what you did?’
‘Dad, this is about you.’
‘The fuck it is. If it’s about anything it’s about you stabbing a knife into a table. That’s what it’s about.’
‘No, this is about you and what you did to me.’
‘Go on then. What did I do?’
‘You abused me when I was young and it’s damaged me all my life.’
‘Damaged? What damage? You wanted for nothing. You ungrateful bitch.’
Tears welled in Mechanic’s eyes and her bottom lip trembled.
‘You starved us. We had no food in the house. I went to school in dirty clothes.’
‘I did the best I could.’
Mechanic leaned forward and clasped her hands in front of her as though she was praying.
‘No, you didn’t. I want you to acknowledge what you did to me. I want you to take responsibility.’
‘Take responsibility for what?’
She slid from the sofa and knelt in front of him.
‘You raped me. I was a child, for God’s sake.’
‘Don’t give me that shit. You wanted it every bit as much as me. There you were, with your furtive looks, and your special smiles, and your skirts hanging way up to here.’ He grabbed his crotch with his hand.
‘No, it wasn’t like that.’ She threw her hands in the air.
‘That’s exactly what it was like. It was the same when I was stationed in the Far East. Those child whores. They would come around all bobby socks and pigtails, little pictures of innocence. Next they would be giving you the come-on, asking “you want fucky-fucky, mister? I blow you good, mister, ten bucks, mister”. They even wore their school uniforms, the little whores.’
Mechanic stared at her father, her mouth gaping open.
‘You made me wear my school uniform,’ she said in a whisper.
‘You were the same as them.’
‘I wasn’t the same as them, I’m your daughter.’
He leaned forward, she could smell liquor on his breath. Her senses catapulted her back to when she was twelve years old. The same stench on his breath as he pawed and penetrated her body.
‘Did you fight me off? Did you go to the police? No, and that was for one reason and one reason only. You were gagging for it.’
‘I did it so you would leave Jo alone.’
‘Jo? Jo? She had class, she wasn’t a child whore like you. I would never touch Jo, I’m her father.’
‘You’re my father too!’
‘Yes, but with you I’m the father of a child whore. And by the looks of it you grew up to be nothing more than an adult whore.’
He came out of his chair and grabbed her.
‘Child whore, child whore!’ he shouted as he grappled with her shoulders. She raised her hands and fended him off.
Child whore, child whore. The words echoed around the room.
He was doing his best to overpower her. It was like being attacked by a six-year-old boy. She held his arms to stop him. They were thin and sinewy. His skin felt like it wasn’t attached to the flesh underneath.
Child whore, child whore. The words tore holes in her brain. She looked at her father snarling with exertion. The words weren’t coming from him.
Child whore, child whore. The words were coming from inside her head. Daddy was back.
‘I’m gonna give you a good fucking to teach you a lesson.’ She could see her father mouthing the words in front of her.
‘Stop!’ she yelled as she fought him off.
I’m gonna give you a good fucking, teach you a lesson. The phrase burst in her head. Her father wheezed and blew saliva in the air.
The room spun.
Daddy’s voice was blasting away inside her head, while her father fought to take her down. A right good fucking is what you need, the voice rasped away inside her.
Mechanic screwed her eyes shut.
She could no longer figure out what was in her head and what was real.
Child whore, child whore.
‘Be quiet!’ she yelled, releasing him and clutching both hands to her ears.
He forced her back and she tumbled onto the sofa, he shoved his hand between her legs.
‘Be quiet!’ she screamed again as the voices shredded through her mind.
He was on top of her.
Mauling at her breast with one hand and trying to undo her jeans with the other.
‘Quiet!’ Her hands were clamped either side of her head trying to crush the noise.
She could feel his mouth slavering over her neck as he forced down the zip on her jeans.
She screamed to blank out the voices.
Child whore, child whore.
He slid his hand into her underwear and tore at her shirt. She felt his fingernails scraping at her skin.
Mechanic seized his shoulders and flipped him around, onto his back. His arms and legs flailed in the air like an upturned beetle.
‘Don’t you …’ he said as she grabbed his chin with one hand and the back of his head with the other.
‘You fucking child whore,’ he said writhing around, trying
to right himself.
Crack!
She rotated her hands in opposite directions and the vertebrae in his neck snapped.
There was silence.
He went limp.
Mechanic lay there for several seconds listening for any sign of breathing. She shoved him to the side. Stewart Sells fell to the floor, dead.
Mechanic got up. She looked down at her father who stared back, his mouth gaping open.
She took hold of the low table and dragged it near the sofa. Then she went on a hunt. It was unlikely her father was looking for cleaning products when he came back, there had to be whisky hidden somewhere. She turned over the furniture and scoured the cupboards and drawers. Nothing. In the bedroom she spied the pile of dirty laundry spilling out of the basket and onto the floor. She dug around inside and her hand hit something hard. She pulled out a bottle of cheap liquor two thirds full.
Mechanic went to the kitchen, picked a mug out of the sink and returned to the living room. She filled it with whisky and placed the cup on the table.
She stood astride her father, put her hands under his arms and lifted him up. His head lolled back. She positioned his body over the table then slammed him down onto the edge. His head cracked open on the corner. The cup bounced onto the carpet spilling liquor over his chest. He landed with his face buried against the sofa an ugly gash at the base of his skull.
The room was quiet. Inside Mechanic’s head was quiet.
Mechanic wasn’t sure how to feel. Her father was dead. She had killed him with her bare hands. She was expecting feelings of desperation, grief and panic. With that in mind, the feelings of pure elation were completely unexpected.
The drive back should have been exhausting and tiresome, instead Mechanic had the radio blaring out country tunes while she howled along to the ones she knew, and the ones she didn’t. She stopped to refuel and get a bite to eat. The guy at the gas station was thrown by her cheery manner and smiling face at 3am. She even caught herself flirting with him at one point. She had not slept in twenty hours but she was buzzing. The six hour journey home flew by.
She pushed open her front door and headed straight for the refrigerator, making fresh brewed coffee and a cocktail of fresh fruit. The sun was peeking over the horizon and a cool orange glow washed through the apartment. The coffee tasted amazing and the fruit zinged on her tongue.
