Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  Nick glanced down to the floor, a bottle cap. Must be a hundred of them. His head felt a bit light; his face and neck were burning. A long day out in the sun working on a hot metal roof had been taxing. Days like today made the quenching of a hard-earned thirst difficult. An ice cold beer was the only thing Nick could think about. So he had taken a beeline to the club early. It sounded like a great idea a few hours ago, aware of his light sway from drinking half a dozen schooners.

  “Hey dude, you got a light?” Rafe asked, and Nick jerked back around.

  “Mate, fancy running into you.” Nick play-acted in full surprise. “Didn’t see you at the Club.”

  “Was picking up a new board.” Rafe responded shrugging off any hint of guilt.

  “Don’t you have enough surf boards? You must be made of money.” Nick teased and elbowed his friend’s arm.

  “No, Nick. No to both questions. I like collecting boards. This one was too good to pass up.” Rafe could tell his friend was searching for another tease.

  “I can see you dressed up for the occasion,” Nick remarked while giving his friend a once over. “What. No sandals?” As Nick looked down at Rafe’s loafers he inspected his baggy light trousers and nodded approvingly at his friend’s signature iridescent short-sleeved ‘Hawaiian’ shirt. “Wow, you are on the hunt!,” Nick finished the last half of his beer, relishing the cool liquid flowing down his throat. Rafe ignored his comment.

  “Well, did you try out your new board?” Nick prodded.

  “Only got out of the water an hour ago.” Rafe replied, as he flicked his sun-bleached fringe followed by a light snort. With his free hand he rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

  “Sore eyes, mate? Stoned already? Night’s only young.” Nick continued his taunt.

  “Hey piss off. My eyes are always sore after a surf.”

  Despite entertaining his friend with constant jibs and taunts, Nick thought highly of Rafe. Seeing Rafe stick an unlit cigarette between his lips reminded him of his friend’s request. “Ah, yes, you wanted a light. Sorry, I got carried away,” he apologised as Rafe shook his head in mild despair.

  A tap to the back of his head interrupted his fumble for the lighter in his pocket. He saw the empty bottle drop to the carpet near his shoes. Did someone chuck a bottle at him? Surely not. It was a disturbing invitation to react. Anxious, but without the courage to turn around Nick pretended to ignore it.

  Rafe saw it as well, he shook his head and rolled his eyes, “Just forget it, dude.”

  Nick pulled out his lighter flicked it a few times to get a flame and lit Rafe’s smoke.

  “Thanks”, Rafe took a deep drag of his tailor-made and exhaled. What is up with this dude? “Strange looking dude, Nick. He’s just staring at you. Do you know this guy?” Creepy looking skinhead. “Turn around and check him out.” Rafe urged.

  “Fucked if I know,” Nick moved closer to Rafe.

  “Turn around and check him out.” Rafe flicked a peep past Nick’s head. “He’s coming.”

  “You’re kidding?” Nick panicked and swung around to face the advancing skinhead.

  “Remember me arsehole?” The scrawny skinhead said provoking and inching close to Nick.

  Rafe appraised the skinny runt who stood nose-to-chin breathing into Nick’s face. Rafe felt his heart skip a few beats as he saw Nick back up a step. What the fuck now? Rafe scrambled for ideas, he dropped the durry on the carpet and stepped on it to put it out.

  “No. No mate. I don’t know you.” Nick stammered.

  “Yes, you fuckin’ do. The name is Martin and I want what’s owing to me,” the skinhead hissed.

  “Owing to you? Owe you for what?”

  “I got pay coming. Or maybe you got payback coming.” Martin hissed inching closer to Nick’s chin.

  Rafe glared at the accuser’s white face, while Nick’s expression grew in frustration. Nick started flicking his eyes around the room as if looking for an exit. Rafe had enough of the harassment.

  “Hey dude, why don’t you fuck off? There’s two of us here plus a few mates. Dead set, it’s not worth it. Go on, scram.” Rafe weighed in on the scuffle, but the aggressive skinhead was undeterred.

  “You was a supervisor on a job in the city. I got the arse, and I didn’t get paid,” Martin hissed.

  “For a start I’ve never been a supervisor. And I’ve never worked in the city. So you must have me confused with someone else,” Nick defended.

  “I reckon you’re lying.”

  Rafe pushed his way in between Nick and the skinhead. “Okay, let’s cool it. He’s not the dude you’re looking for,” Rafe put his hand on Nick’s shoulder and whispered, “Come on just move away. Ignore this dude.”

  “You’re a moron, mate.” Nick mumbled under his breath as he turned to walk away from the confrontation.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I said nothing,” Nick replied as he felt Rafe’s push.

  Relieved, that the scuffle didn’t turn into a drama Rafe suggested they both have another beer. The throng of the crowd and the loud music filling the room soon took Nick’s mind off the encounter. Fucking weirdo.

  “Anyway, some nice chickie babes here,” Rafe nodded approvingly.

  “Coming?” Rafe disappeared towards the back of the room.

  Nick stayed behind. He was still chewing over the events of the last five minutes. Overwhelmed by the crowd, he felt claustrophobic and anxious. A warm tight glow overcame him. His shirt-collar started to strangle him. He had to get out, get some fresh air.

  At the back of the auditorium Rafe caught a glimpse of the skinhead as he squeezed through the crowd towards the exit doors. Where the fuck has Nick gone?

  Pittwater Road, 11.23 pm. Not far from Mona Vale. It had been a pretty ordinary shift so far. Not normal for a Friday. Darren had started very late today, 5 o’clock in the arvo. Pete had wanted to get the cab checked. Alright for Pete, because he would still get the same rent. Fucking Pete. Darren mumbled a complaint about the taxi’s owner. The broad-shouldered Queenslander-turned-taxi-driver had missed out on his usual Friday afternoon, easy fares; small legions of little old ladies going to the clubs for Keno. Although Darren was relieved that the traffic was light he was unhappy with the lack of decent fares this evening. Don’t know why I do this job, he grumbled.

  The two-way radio crackled, “… number 9, pick up at Mona Vale Hotel, one passenger…going to Avalon…”

  Darren picked up the handset mike and responded. “Yeah, copy…four or five minutes.” Not long after, Darren steered the red and white Ford Falcon around the carpark behind the hotel. Observing a commotion near the stairs, he shook his head while watching the idiots on the stairs, pushing and squeezing past each other trying to get closer to the action down below. The beat of the music coming from the building droned in his ears. Darren’s eyes were drawn to the balcony upstairs; he squinted at the lights flashing like dry lightning through the open doors. He pulled up near the stairs keeping his distance from the louts hoping his passenger could see his ride was here.

  Darren watched a sturdy looking bloke in his early twenties come over from the side of the building not far away from the stairs. Not appearing in a great hurry, not staggering, but with a bit of sway as if determined not to trip. The passenger waved to him. Darren acknowledged by raising two fingers from the steering wheel; he waited patiently for his fare to approach.

  Out of nowhere, like an apparition from the dark a scrawny figure with a shaved head raced up to Darren’s fare. The ambush unfolded like a scene change in a movie. Darren watched the skinhead as he lunged with a balled up fist and smashed it into the back of his passenger’s head. He winced as he imagined the hard knuckles connecting with the soft tissue just below on the edge of the man’s skull. The scrawny attacker jumped around in a rage swinging his arms wildly.

  “No one calls me a moron!” the attacker bellowed.

  Darren reached for the doorhandle and pushed the heavy car door open with his elbow.
As he swung out of the driver’s seat he saw his passenger trip forward and only partially recover. Unsuccessful, he faltered and his head speared towards the tarmac. Darren cringed as the man’s face hit the concrete surface. The skinhead continued laying into the man on the ground. Darren was horrified to see the skinhead’s jack-boots connecting with the passenger’s abdomen. I’ve got to put a stop to this! He was hampered by a gathering crowd and had to push a couple of blokes aside to get to the assailant. Darren reached the scrawny mugger and grabbed him by neck. He felt the bony collarbone as he clasped his fingers around and squeezed hard; he jerked the skinhead away to stop him. It was easy for Darren to restrain the scrawny skinhead.

  “Get the fuck off me! Let me go. You’re hurting me shoulder!” Martin protested and tried to recover from the violent jerk, but to his dismay his opponent was a lot taller than him. Martin found himself staring at a slim, bony and broad-shouldered man with a menacing face. Biceps, hard as steel popped from under the man’s short-sleeved shirt. Martin felt outgunned.

  “Hey, calm down,…that’s enough, he’s down,” Darren stretched his arm clasping his large hand on the smaller bloke’s shoulder to keep him at bay, in case he wanted to have another go.

  “Fuck off, I’m not finished,” Martin screamed.

  “Yes, you are, mate, he’s finished. And you’re done. So fuckin’ chill before I lose my temper,” Darren snarled.

  The skinhead was darting his beady black eyes from left to right. Darren sensed the runt sizing him up. They staredeach other down waiting for the next move. Darren did not release his grip, determined that this upstart was not going anywhere near his fare.

  A crowd had started to circle. The beat from music was unrelenting. pumping and, echoing throughout the carpark. The people from the bottom of the stairs had moved like some slow dance company towards the melee, waiting for the next scene to unfold.

  “Mango, mate, what’s going on here?!” A hulking figure wearing a black shirt with ‘security’ printed boldly in white yelled out.

  “Johnno. Just in time. I’m here to pick up a fare. And this little shithead pounded the crap out of him.” Darren answered without taking his eyes off his detainee.

  “Who’s the bloke on the ground?” the burly bouncer asked Darren, “He looks pretty crook.”

  “I know him.” Rafe appeared from the crowd after pushing his way past. He rushed to his fallen friend’s side. “Oh, dude. Fuck, look at you.” Rafe turned his anger towards the skinhead being restrained, “You’ll pay for this you filthy coward.”

  “Yeah, sure. But not today, my friend.” The bouncer stepped towards Rafe who was seething with rage, ready to leap.

  “Oh, fuck me.” Nick groaned, as he tried to lift his head. “I can taste blood.”

  Rafe’s attention was drawn back to Nick and he dropped to his knees, “Oh, dude. You look pretty fucked up.”

  “My head is pounding. I think my lip is cut.” Nick moved his arm and pushed to roll himself over onto his back.

  “Easy, dude. Let me help you. Just slowly.” Rafe supported Nick’s head and helped him up. Rafe clenched his jaw as he watched his friend’s face squeeze in pain. As the attention shifted to Nick, the scrawny skinhead shook himself from Darren’s loosened grip; did a sudden bolt and ran through the carpark into the distance. It was easy to disappear from here and run into the unlit super-market carpark across the road; once in the back-streets it was easy to lose any followers. But no one was going to chase him. No one really cared. It was just another Friday night blue.

  Darren’s eyes followed the fleeing attacker darting through the cars until he reached the edge of the carpark, where he disappeared into the darkness. Darren would remember those beady black eyes set against that ghostly white face. Something very bad about you. Darren decided.

  “At least we don’t have to deal with him any longer.” Johnno said.

  “Yeah, too right.” Darren replied, as he massaged his hand and fingers to ease the muscle strain from gripping the skinhead.

  “See you on Thursday? Five in the arvo good for you?” Johnno asked.

  “Yeah, good as gold, mate.” Darren confirmed with a nod.

  “Better get him to emergency. Jesus, his face is a mess,” were Johnno’s last words as he fanned out both arms to shoo the last gawking flock of patrons back to the pub. His colleague had already herded one group towards the stairs.

  “Hey, dude. Can you help me here? My mate needs a hospital pronto.” Rafe pleaded as he cradled Nick’s shoulders and his head. “Please, dude, he’s in a bad way.” Rafe begged the taxi-driver.

  “Righto. Let’s get him on his feet.” Darren came closer and knelt beside Nick opposite Rafe.

  “At least he hasn’t spewed yet. Might be a good sign,” Darren mumbled.

  Both men carefully rolled Nick onto his side. They winced as the injured passenger protested and screamed in pain.

  And who is paying for this ride? Thought Darren, as he shut the rear door of the cab.

  CHAPTER 3

  A NAUGHTY BOY

  Martin left the noise from the pub behind, thankful that his skinny legs were able to propel him along quickly. The lighting behind the supermarket was turned off. He crouched behind a concrete ramp wall desperately trying to regain his normal breathing. This escape wasn’t like kicking Mrs Old Bag’s Chihuahua and running like hell, laughing as he listened to the yelping dog and its distraught owner. It was the first time he felt like he was running for his life. The adrenaline rush was beautiful, and he let it overcome him. Martin breathed heavily with relief.

  In the distance he could still hear some muffled music, but nothing else to indicate that they were looking for him. He sniffed his runny nose and decided it was safe enough to leave his hiding spot. Martin hopped up and slunk off towards the streetlights of Pittwater Road.

  There were no lights on in the unit, as he turned the key to the front door and pushed the heavy door open. No, she wasn’t likely to be home, he thought. He switched on the kitchen fluoro and grabbed a can of Coke out of the fridge. His shoulder was bruised, he could feel it throbbing. The knuckle on his right hand was sore too. Although pleased with himself, Martin was angry he was thwarted from finishing the job. Kicking that cunt while he was on the ground was good. And the cunt was right, he wasn’t the bloke from the job. But he wasn’t going to admit that. No. Shouldna called me a moron.

  Mornings were not announced by roosters in this part of town, but by car-horns and clanging noises from the hallway. Martin opened his eyes to the predictable sound of the front door key. He rose from his bed, surrounded by a stale odour as he threw the covers off; the bedsheets hadn’t been washed in a month.

  “Hi, Dee.” He greeted her from his bedroom door.

  “I’m your mother, you know,” The bedraggled woman corrected him as she clacked her high-heeled shoes on the tiled floor.

  “Looks like you had a rough night.” Martin remarked with no sympathy.

  “Get fucked, you little shit.” She went off to her bedroom.

  Her bedroom door was ajar, the four-inch opening was enough for Martin to spy through. Quietly he observed his mother as she inspected her bruised face in the mirror. She brushed her long brown hair to one side. Her body was slender and desirable to men; the purple mini-skirt hugged neatly around her arse. She unbuttoned her black top and let it drop to the floor, leaving her back naked. Her pale skin was very freckled. Martin waited for her to drop her skirt. Suddenly Deanne swung around, her small breasts wiggled as she pointed her finger at the door.

  “Piss off, you pervert,” she hissed at him.

  Martin chuckled, shut the door and trundled off to his bedroom.

  At three-thirty that afternoon, Martin heard the shower from where he was sitting in the lounge-room. He decided to try again. Dee’s bedroom door was open again, and this time he snuck in and tip-toed to the bathroom door, which was ajar, because it wasn’t possible to shut it completely. She had her back to him behind t
he glass shower-screen. He could clearly make out the outlines of her body and the slit of her tight arse. His right hand clenched around his hardened penis.

  His mother suddenly turned around, and Martin backed up out of view. He quickly zipped up his pants and returned to the lounge.

  “What are you doing tonight?” He called out a question to which he already knew the answer. “How about you give me some money for food? You make shitloads of money.”

  She came out from the bedroom vigorously rubbing her hair dry with a bright-red towel, “Get your own. You’re old enough to look after yourself.”

  “So why am I paying you board?” Martin slouched back in the two-seater couch. No answer. His mother slammed the bedroom shut instead. Five minutes later Deanne emerged wearing only a G-string and a bra.

  The twenty-inch television set was showing a documentary about African wildlife. Martin divided his attention between his scantily dressed mother and the unfolding drama on the screen. Two lions had run down a baby elephant. Fascinated, Martin was drawn to the scene. The lionesses were clawing at their prey, trying to bring the unlucky animal down with their weight and claws sunk deeply into its hide. Suddenly the filming of the poor animal being mauled was cut short. Martin was disappointed. But before being interrupted by his whinging mother carrying on in the background, he overheard the narrator saying, …” sadly, it took many hours before the baby elephant succumbed to its wounds, as the lions continued devouring their prey…”

  “You don’t do shit around here. You’re as fucking useless as those limp cock punters I gotta put up with every fucking day!” She threw the red-towel at him, falling well short of the mark.