Overkill : Pure Venom

by Lawrie Jordan

“Too right it is. In fact…” he said, reaching out and opening the door, “it’s as tight as Barbie’s box.”

  There staring him in the face at eye level was a real live box, behind dusty creased khaki shorts. He looked up, his eyes popping as he saw the leggy young blonde looking down at him, right hand poised ready to knock on the door. Red-faced, he shot to his feet, muttering an apology.

  “Ah shit. Sorry, Miss…just a figure of speech…didn’t know you were there…” he blurted.

  “Quite obviously, Detective,” she said glaring at him, “Or else you wouldn’t be making blatant sexist remarks like that. Sounds a bit pedophilic too, talking about little girl’s toys the way you were.”

  Not quite knowing whether to be confused, embarrassed or angry, Marr chose the latter.

  “Hang on a goddam minute here. Who the hell are you anyway,” he asked, “and what do you think you’re doing? This is a crime scene, girly, it’s off-limits to…”

  “Girly?” she spat, distaste written all over her face. “My God, you really are a sexist pig, aren’t you?”

  Mike had been cool, calm and collected before, but now he was anything but.

  “I repeat,” he fumed, folding his arms across his chest, “who the bloody hell are you, miss, and what are you frigging doing barging in on my crime scene?”

  “Ms Ronda Hartley,” she said thrusting out a strong tanned hand. “I’m the herpetologist. They told me at the police station you’d be here. The young native copper, Dave I think his name was, showed me up. Now are you going to let me get on with my job, or are you just going to stand there perving at me? Seriously, some men.”

  Marr shook her surprisingly firm hand and realised he may well have been perving. Like many outback women, she was a mess of contradictions; outwardly feminine but also quite a tomboy; seemingly dumb but obviously very intelligent. Tall, blonde, green eyed, maybe 30, tops, and with the hint of nice tits under her baggy navy-blue shirt to match her long brown legs. Who am I kidding? he admitted to himself, Yeah, I was perving…she’s stunning!

  “I was not perving…merely observing. I was just expecting someone… different,” he said, giving the sarge a reproachful look as if to say ‘thanks for the heads up, mate’. A 60-year-old scientist nerd, eh?

  “Anyway, sorry for the confusion and the misunderstanding. And thanks for coming on such short notice. Pleased to meet you.” he said. “This is Sergeant Gordon McPhee who you spoke to on the phone.”

  He gave them just enough time to say g’day and shake hands, then brought Ronda’s attention back to the business at hand. With a bit of luck, they could push past this shaky start. They were both mature professionals.

  “So we’re right, aren’t we?” he asked. “A snake couldn’t slip and slide under this door, could it?”

  She squatted down, causing the hem of her shorts to ride up past the tan-line, the top of her taut thighs like the cream on a cappuccino. From this angle he could look down past her beaded Peace sign necklace to some very serious cleavage.

  .

  “Nothing over a foot or two,” she said, straightening and not bothering to tug her hems back down. “The rule of thumb is around the width of your thumb. How big do you reckon it was, Sergeant McPhee?”

  “Well, the fang marks are a bit under an inch apart,” McPhee responded, conferring with his notes. “Around 25 mill.”

  “25 millimetres?! Are you sure? Holy shit, that would make it over two-and-a-half metres long!” Ronda replied, her eyes lighting up. “Maybe bigger, depending on the species. Very impressive. I’d love to see it.”

  “Any ideas about what sort of snake it was?” Marr asked, thinking he’d love to see it too, as long as it was as dead as a doornail, or safely behind 25-mill of glass.

  “Impossible to say. I’d guess a Taipan in some form or other, but I won’t know for sure till I’ve seen the bite and taken a swab.”

  The sergeant shut and locked the door, then turned to his superior.

  “Well, what are we waiting for? Lead on MacBeth.”

  Chapter 4

  True Confessions

  “Bless me father, for I have sinned…”

  Christ, how I’ve fucken sinned!

  Chris O’Connor sat in the back pew of St Mary’s Roman Catholic Church in suburban Adelaide rehearsing his confession. He’d had to Google what to say; apart from Theo Stomann’s recent funeral, he hadn’t been to church since he was an altar boy over 25 years ago. Told his late parents they could stick their religion fair up their arse and never went back, and yet here he was, desperate for forgiveness before the very real chance of going to meet his maker. Funny how impending death changes one’s perspective.

  He still lived in the family home where he’d grown up, still with the bloody crucifix on the wall in the spare room, but this wasn’t his local parish church. St Patrick’s was way over the other side of town, but he couldn’t bring himself to face old Father Vincent who might still remember him, especially after that infamous altar wine incident. No, what he had to say was best heard by a total stranger.

  These days Catholics don’t need to have their confessions heard individually. They can receive absolution en masse – hell, maybe even online for all he knew – but for O’Connor, it was far more serious than “Say 3 Hail Mary’s and an act of contrition.” That’s why he’d also Googled Adelaide…Catholic churches…live confessions and discovered that St Mary’s was old school; they still held them from four to five on Saturday afternoons. He’d got off his laptop, not bothering to close the screen. A bad mistake with all those hackers around…

  ***

  It had only been 3.30pm when he parked his yellow HSV outside the neat, 100-year old red brick building, but he had needed time to sit and think and get his thoughts together. At 3.45 he’d almost lost his ‘bottle’, as Dickinson called it, and driven off, no doubt laying rubber in the big V8 as he did so. He probably would have if the massive storm that had been brewing all afternoon hadn’t hit just then and the heavens hadn’t opened up. Besides, it was definitely now or never. It had been over three weeks. The guilt wasn’t going away; if anything it was getting worse. Still, the best part of being a Mick was that if you were sorry for your sins, you’d be forgiven. Great little ‘out’ that.

  Too nervous to sit any longer, and bored with watching the raindrops race each other down the window panes and lightning bolts flash across the dark grey sky, he himself bolted for St Mary’s door, getting soaked to the skin in the process. Lucky skin’s waterproof.

  Once inside, he began to slowly pace around the modest church. Built in the early 20’s, it was a far cry from the grandeur of St Patricks with its solid oak vaulted arches, magnificent murals and entire walls of stained-glass windows.

  Yet O’Connor discovered that St Mary’s did have one unique claim to fame. A gold-plated plaque near the altar proudly proclaimed that this had been the former altar of one Father Karol Wojtyla from Warsaw, Poland who 30 years later had become “the people’s Pope”. Pope John Paul the last.

  Staring at the highly polished plaque, O’Connor spied his own reflection and, as always, was shocked by how old he looked. With his prematurely grey, closely-cropped hair, the crow’s feet under his sunken blue eyes and semi-permanent frown, he could be mistaken for someone years older and often was. Especially since he’d started mixing with all those young blokes, most in their late teens and early twenties, and rock hard. He used to be like that too, until he’d given the karate training up. The men’s sized T-shirt he tried on in Ayers Rock was too small, he’d had to go to a large. Even so, it was still it was taut across his guts. Damn you, middle age spread!

  The recently acquired scar down his right cheek, the result of a deep scratch almost a month ago, hadn’t added to his good looks either. Made him look tougher though, so that was something. At just 175 centimetres, he was also quite short, not much taller than the painted plaster statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary directly opposite the dreaded confessional.
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br />   He moved over to them now, past the rows of spartan pews, and genuflected self-consciously as he approached his saviour. Can I be saved? Or is it too late for that? Both statues were in the traditional style. The statue of Christ had shoulder length curly dark hair and a ring-curly beard; he was wearing a crimson and gold shawl over a robe that was as implausibly white as his skin. The sculptor had obviously been a man after his own heart. White lives matter, baby! The Messiah held his palms out, so you could see the nail marks from the cross, and stood serenely on a blue and white hemisphere symbolic of the heavens. At His feet was an ornate vase filled with fresh white flowers, garnished by sprigs of blood red leaves.

  Mary, dressed similarly with a sky-blue cape over a pure white robe tied off at the waist with a braided gold cord, also had her palms out in the classic peace pose. She stood on a green and blue hemisphere that was obviously meant to represent the earth. To add to the symbolism, the Virgin’s shoeless right foot was firmly planted on the neck of a writhing black serpent – the Devil himself, fangs flared in a fit of fury – coiled right around the base of the statue.

  O’Conner felt the gooseflesh creep up and down his arms. That’d be bloody right…yet another goddamn snake! For the past few weeks, he had seen them everywhere, real and imagined, in books, magazines, the sides of buses, on wildlife programs, in his dreams and of course on the news.

  Mesmerised, O’Connor stared at the snake for God knows how long, marvelling at how lifelike it looked. You could sense the hatred in its eyes, and almost feel the raw tension in its powerful body, like a tightly coiled spring. And although the colours on the rest of the statue had faded over time, the snake itself was a deep jet black with a vibrant red belly. Like it was only painted yesterday.

  A piercing fork of lightning lit up a side doorway and finally broke the spell. He shuddered, looked away and glanced at his watch as the thunder soon answered the lightning’s call. 3.55pm. Only five minutes to go before he bared his soul. When he looked back, he went as stiff as the statue itself, his pupils zooming in on the snake.

  It had moved!

  Not by much, a slight twist of its evil head, its mouth open marginally wider exposing its tongue, its body flatter, its tail now turned up, not down. It may have been a trick of the light, but he was almost certain it had moved. Or had it? It’s a statue, dickhead. Statues don’t move.

  Suddenly he felt a weight on his left shoulder and out of the corner of his eye, saw a flash of black. He jumped back and spun around in full karate stance, weight on his backfoot, fists tightly clenched, to see – of all things – a young aborigine, dressed from neck to knees in a priest’s black cotton smock, tapping him on the shoulder.

  Oblivious to O’Connor’s shocked expression, and expressionless himself, the aborigine simply asked, “Are you here to confess your sins, brother?”

  O’Connor looked at the young man with thinly veiled distain, rapidly bordering on contempt. Aside from the fact that the man was as black as the ace of spades – a goddam coon of all things – he couldn’t have been more than 22 years old. You’ve got to be kidding!

  “Not if you’re hearing it, brother” he replied, his voice rising to be heard over the din of the rain, his face turning red. There was no way he was going to have his confession heard by one of them.

  “Me?” came the shouted reply. “Heavens no. I’m only a novice priest. No, Father Dominic will take care of you. I believe he’s ready for you now,” he said nodding towards the 3-door confessional.

  O’Connor turned around just in time to see the centre door of the confessional click shut. He looked back down at the snake at the feet of the Virgin Mary, now slightly less convinced that it had moved, and decided to make a move himself. Just as the novice priest had done. He was nowhere to be seen. Christ on a bike, he’d moved fast.

  He walked the short distance across to the ceiling-high timber alcove and, after a moment’s hesitation, chose the door on the left. He walked in, slid the door close and knelt down on the thin foam mat in the darkened room, his wet jeans squelching. Almost immediately the screen slid across and he could vaguely see the silhouette of the priest in the adjoining cubicle.

  “B-bless me f-father, for I have sinned,” he began nervously, remembering how Google had told him to word things. “It has been over 20 years since my last confession, and I have committed many sins in thought, word and deed.”

  There was no response from the priest, so he pushed on, eager to fill the void of silence.

  “I have not kept holy the Sabbath day, I have taken the Lord’s name in vain, I have had thoughts of lust and malice, I have lied and cheated people, I have stolen money from my employers, I have smashed people’s faces, kicked their teeth in, stomped on their hands and broken their bones (no need to add that they were only Asians, Jews, Towel-Heads and Blacks), I have also masturbated frequently…”

  He started slowly, building up to the big one, but still there was no reply from his confessor, which began to worry him.

  Maybe he can’t hear me over the storm. If he’s anything like Father Vincent, he’ll be in his late 70’s or early 80’s and as deaf as a post.

  Deciding to bring it to a head, he took a deep breath and, in a voice just short of a shout said: “I HAVE ALSO COMMITTED SOME MORTAL SINS.”

  He waited, determined not to be the next to speak, but still nothing. Surely the priest would be curious as to what these sins were. He was only human. Wasn’t he?

  Five seconds.

  Ten. The worry turned to alarm.

  “FATHER?” This time he did shout.

  The response he got was not the one he expected. The screen slid across with a resounding thud, making the booth even darker than it already was. Seconds later, he heard an external latch click shut on the door beside him, and the alarm turned to panic.

  He listened hard, but the only sound he could hear was his pounding heart. Even his blood was panicking, trying to escape.

  He desperately tried to open the door, then to rattle the screen across, but both were shut fast and refused to budge.

  “FATHER! YOUNG ABO GUY? SOMEBODY? ANYBODY?”

  He thumped on the door till his knuckles bled, but to no avail.

  HEY, WHAT’S GOING ON? LET ME OUT OF HERE…

  FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, FUCKING WELL LET ME OUT…OR SO HELP ME, I’LL KILL…”

  He sprang to his feet and was just about to start kicking the door down with his trusty old steel-caps, when a sixth sense told him he was no longer alone inside the pitch-black booth.

  He froze.

  His wet skin crawled.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Above the clash of thunder and his own heavy breathing, he heard the faintest scrape of something sliding up the wall behind him, starting low and getting higher.

  Smelt the vaguest whiff of rotting flesh.

  And felt the confessional suddenly turn many degrees colder.

  He knew what it was even before a dazzling crack of lightning revealed it in all its stark, scaly glory…the snake from the statue.

  There it was slowly uncurling. Its eyes piercing. Its jaws opening wider and wider. Its long curved fangs dripping with venom. Moving in, ever-so-slowly, for the kill.

  Backing into a corner, shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down his cheeks, piss pouring down his leg, O’Connor started praying. “Our Father who art in heaven…”

  He never made it to “Thy kingdom come”.

  Chapter 5

  Strike three!

  Detective Marr was sitting at his unusually tidy desk at the Alice Springs C.I.B. going through his “unsolved files” for want of something better to do. After a particularly frantic month or two, things had eased right down in a typical “feast or famine” way. He’d cracked most of his recent cases, with one notable exception: the Stomann case. Although foul play was strongly suspected, without a motive, or suspects, or witnesses, or clues, or any goddamn thing, he had eventually reached a disa
ppointing dead end. Even the “murder weapon” had never been found.

  Marr opened the file, as he’d done every working day for a month. There was the colour photocopy of the silver serving tray with the lab report paperclipped to it. The state-of-the-art Vacuum Gleaner had come up empty handed, so to speak. The only prints found belonged to the deceased and no one else, not even the person who made the cursed thing in the first place, which was absolutely baffling. The person in charge of housekeeping at the Desert Gardens Hotel did a quick inventory and discovered that they had one tray too many, so that made Stomann’s death even more suspicious.

  What? He brought his own tray from home???

  The next document was Ms Ronda Hartley’s lab report. In it she stated that swabs proved the snake to be an oxyuranus microlepidotus, commonly called a Fierce Snake. What was uncommon was the fact that it was anywhere near Central Australia. As Ms Hartley pointed out, the Fierce Snake had only ever been found in an isolated pocket at Cameron Corner, where the South Australian, New South Wales and Queensland borders met. The probability of it being almost 1500 kilometres away from home was “extremely remote” according to Ronda (who’d finally relented to being addressed by her first name), however stranger things had happened. If one of the world’s most deadly reptiles wanted to move on to browner pastures, who was going to stop it?