Kill the Possum

by James Moloney

‘Evidence,’ Kirsty says under her breath, while her eyes linger on Chloe’s camera. There was an idea there, something to think more seriously about later, but for now, red-faced and very happy, she gives way to her friends’ demands and tells them how much she likes Dylan Kane, exaggerating her feelings a little, just to see the looks on their faces.

  The plan comes together

  Dylan Kane doesn’t sleep. He’s going to murder a man.

  No, it’s ridiculous. He’ll tell Tim tomorrow that it’s off. In a sea of relief, he floats towards sleep.

  Then he’s awake again. If he doesn’t kill Ian Cartwright, someone else might die instead, Mrs Beal or Tim. He remembers seeing Tim walk away from beneath the clothes line, dead inside already because of one man. Ian Cartwright doesn’t have to raise a hand to do his killing.

  Dylan lies awake all night, rising bleary-eyed and murderous.

  When he arrives at school, Tim only wants to talk about practical things. ‘Was there anything at the Life Line bin?’

  ‘Yeah, still like I remembered. Whole bags of stuff just dumped beside it. It’s wet ’cause of the rain on Sunday night but I’m drying out what we need. Got an old tracksuit and a long-sleeved shirt. A pair of joggers for each of us. Might not fit perfectly but should do for a few hours.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘I’ll dump them in the same bin. No one’ll ever know.’

  These details are the easy part and they help to keep other things unsaid.

  Kirsty asks a favour

  ‘Chloe, you know how you videoed me and Dylan at the party,’ Kirsty asks on Friday. ‘Would I be able to borrow your camera one weekend?’

  ‘No worries. Now that Dad’s got a new one for his work, that old one I was using’s as good as mine. Come over tomorrow morning and get it if you want.’

  ‘No, I can’t, I’m working, but the weekend after would be great.’

  ‘Okay, whatever. Just let me know when you want it. What are you going to video, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, just some family stuff, that’s all,’ says Kirsty.

  17

  Dylan leads through the dark

  Dylan leaves his house just after seven-thirty on Saturday night with a bulky sports bag over his shoulder and a face he turns away from street lights. The bus takes him towards the city. The route goes past his grandparent’s place. It stops opposite the house to deposit a passenger on the footpath, giving Dylan a few seconds to look across the road. Is that Eric’s shadow moving on the curtains? Odd that you can love your grandfather more than your father. Eric wouldn’t like what he is going to do tonight, but he would approve of the preparations. The old guy is a problem solver.

  Dylan has already made this journey earlier in the week to be sure they could find a way through the bushland to Cartwright’s house. It was dark through the windows of the bus that night, just as it was now, and he’d carried the same bag. He’d become lost a couple of times and had to backtrack, worried he’d end up roaming around in the bush until morning, but at the top of the rise he’d found the tracks carved out by the trail bikes and these had taken him to within half a kilometre of Cartwright’s house, building markers from piles of sticks along the way. Tonight, he would lead Tim directly there.

  Dylan changes buses one stop short of the interchange and twenty minutes later he leaves the second bus as well on the wide highway that skirts the base of the forested hill. Cars hurry past, their drivers’ eyes greedy for the road. A crowded, busy place is the best spot to disappear. None of those eyes see him veer casually off the footpath and into the scrub.

  He waits another twenty minutes until a slim figure in dark clothing approaches tentatively along the fringe of the highway.

  ‘Tim, in here!’ Dylan calls over the swish and growl of the traffic and in the same anonymous manner Tim disappears from the world of unseeing motorists and street lights.

  Deeper in the scrub, they stop to change their clothes. Everything they’ve discarded goes into the bag which is zipped shut. Despite Dylan’s ‘recce’ during the week, progress through the trees is difficult and they have to backtrack constantly when the way forward is blocked.

  Finally, they reach level ground and stumble onto the track running along the ridge. They follow it for half an hour until Dylan spots his marker and they begin making their way down the other side. This takes longer than expected but eventually the lights of Cartwright’s street appear like nursery rhyme stars through the leaves. Twinkle, twinkle, there you are. They have to sidetrack a hundred metres before an inky silhouette stands out against the faint illumination of the night air.

  ‘Oh shit,’ says Tim when he sees the rear of Cartwright’s house and for a moment Dylan is afraid he’ll have to slap the guy on the back to make him breathe.

  ‘Lights are all off. He’s out drinking like you said.’

  ‘We have to be sure,’ says Tim.

  ‘You stay here. I’ll go check whether his car is under the house.’

  The neighbouring houses seem closer than before. The occupants are no more aware of their presence, though, and when he’s confirmed that the car is gone, Dylan rejoins Tim on the edge of the bushland.

  ‘How you doing?’

  ‘I’ll be okay. It was just when I saw the house again…’

  Dylan digs into his pocket for the rubber gloves and hands a pair to Tim. ‘Come on, Cartwright might turn up soon and we have to get that rifle out of there before he does. I’m glad we found his key,’ Dylan whispers. ‘Getting in through the roof was too much like hard work.’

  They make their way into the spare bedroom and with the curtains firmly closed, finally dare to switch on the maglite.

  ‘It’s still there,’ says Dylan. He takes the twenty-two cautiously from the back of the shelf and hands it out to Tim. ‘Hold it while I get some bullets.’

  ‘It’s heavier than I thought it would be.’

  ‘Don’t drop it, whatever you do,’ says Dylan as he gingerly unwraps the blanket from around the gun and places the blanket back in the cupboard to look like the rifle is still there.

  Back where they have left the bag, Dylan explores the bush closely until he finds the best vantage point. ‘This’ll do,’ and they settle onto a carpet of dry leaves from where they can see the driveway and the back door.

  Tim looks down at the rifle cradled across his knees. ‘Is it loaded?’

  ‘Shit, I hope not. You’ve been waving it around in the air for the last ten minutes.’ Dylan hands the torch to Tim then lifts the weapon from his companion’s lap. ‘I see what you mean. Heavier than it looks, eh?’ But the weight of it in his hands assures him that he’s holding something to be reckoned with, something lethal. The length of water pipe was the same. Life can’t be taken away by anything flimsy.

  There’s a magazine just like in the diagram Tim printed out at the library. It slides out at his second tug. Empty. Handing the rifle back to Tim for a moment, he extracts the bullets from his pocket and one by one presses them into place against the spring as the diagrams had shown. The magazine slots easily into place and Dylan takes hold of the rifle again. ‘Okay, here we go,’ he says under his breath. ‘Hope he keeps it well oiled.’

  Slowly, he slides the bolt forward again until he feels a resistance. He’s seen soldiers do this in old movies many times. Just push the bolt all the way forward and the bullet will end up ready to fire. He does just that. ‘All set.’

  He stands up and fits the wooden stock into his shoulder. His finger hooks around the trigger. He feels again the solemn weight of the gun, brings his head down until he can sight along the top of the barrel. When his eye focuses into the distance he finds he is aiming straight at one of the houses, at a bloody window for Christ’s sake. The shock makes him lower the rifle immediately.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Almost took out the neighbours, that’s all.’

  Put it down, go home, a traitorous voice says silently. But too much has been said. Too mu
ch has been done. Cartwright had to die.

  Tim holds the torch close. ‘These things have a safety switch. I saw it on the diagram.’ He feels around until he finds the tiny lever and sets it to on.

  ‘At least we won’t kill each other now,’ Dylan jokes grimly.

  As they settle back down again, Tim takes possession of the rifle and places it across his knees with the barrel facing away from Dylan.

  It’s time to tell him. Dylan’s deliberately left this until now but it has to be done before Cartwright comes home and that could be any time now.

  ‘Tim, I’ve been thinking about when we go inside.’

  ‘I can’t think about anything else.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. But all along we’ve been thinking that you’d have the rifle, right.’

  ‘Yeah, of course I’ll have the rifle,’ he says, taking a two-handed grip on stock and barrel.

  ‘No, Tim, it has to be me.’

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s my family. I have to do this.’

  ‘But what if you can’t? What if it comes time to pull the trigger and… well, you know what I’m saying.’

  ‘That I couldn’t kill the possum.’

  There’s no need to answer.

  ‘I can do it, Dylan. I can!’ But even now, he wavers. ‘How do you know you’d be any better than me, anyway? You might wimp out the way I did.’

  Tim’s raised his voice now. Any louder and the neighbours might hear.

  Dylan stays calm. He has his answer ready. ‘I killed it, Tim.’

  ‘Killed what! What are you talking about?’

  ‘The possum.’

  ‘The one in the cage? I thought you let it go.’

  ‘That’s what I told Mum and Grandad. But I killed it, Tim, with that same bit of pipe. Whack and it was dead. That’s how I know I can do Cartwright.’

  ‘You did it, you really killed the possum?’

  ‘It has to be me, Tim.’

  Tim’s still reluctant to surrender the rifle but the long pause before he speaks again shows Dylan that he has got through to him. He knew he would. He wouldn’t have led Tim through the bush if he hadn’t been certain.

  Tim lets out a long breath through his lungs, then releases his grip on the rifle and uses his freed hands to support his sagging head. ‘Do you want to know the truth?’ he says in a voice almost too low to hear. ‘I’ve been worried all week that when the time came, you know, inside the house, that it would be like the possum all over again.’

  When Dylan reaches across to take the rifle, he doesn’t resist.

  ‘Do you want to do it?’ Tim asks.

  ‘Of course not. I hope he drives off a bridge on his way home tonight. Then neither of us would have to.’

  ‘But he won’t, will he?’

  They fall silent, but there is no peace in Dylan’s mind. The wait is excruciating. Too much time to think, that’s the trouble.

  Do you want to do it? Tim’s words ring in his ears.

  He’d denied it as he had to, but in those hours while they wait for Ian Cartwright to come home Dylan wonders. Sure, he’d do anything not to have to go into that house, but the question was more basic than that. Did he want to kill Ian? He worries what truth he might find if he thinks about it too much.

  ‘Not now, not now,’ he whispers, too quietly to be heard.

  For two exhausting hours they remain in the bush and then parallel beams poke through the end of the driveway, followed soon after by the dark shape of a car. It swings in a wide arc towards the house and disappears beneath it, leaving only the reflected light to tell of its presence. Moments later this dies too, but their quarry’s progress is easy to track as he flicks on one light after another inside the house.

  ‘He’s in there, he’s really in there.’

  Dylan can hardly swallow. If Tim wasn’t beside him he’d leave the gun here in the bush and go home. But he is here and Tim’s the one he thinks of most. Cartwright was his father once and look at the way he treated him, the way he still treats him. The guy’s going to die, a little bit each Sunday, unless Cartwright dies first and he’s not the only one. Tim’s not the only reason. Fathers. How many lives have to be soured before someone cuts down the monster? He can’t be allowed to get away with it.

  Dylan’s been over this each night in bed, a week of sleeplessness that’s left his nerves on edge. Will he be able to sleep once it’s done? Oh God, he wishes he wasn’t here. He feels like a condemned prisoner with only an hour left before the firing squad takes aim.

  ‘You know in old films,’ he says suddenly to Tim, ‘how some guy is led out to be shot and the women are crying but he’s calm and steady and the guards are sort of polite because they respect his courage?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tim replies, obviously confused about why Dylan’s saying this. Does Dylan even know himself?

  ‘It’s all so… dignified. I used to imagine it was me sometimes, sort of the ultimate test of bravery. Would I be able to do that? Then I saw a movie one time where two guys were dragged out to have their heads cut off. The guards shoved them along, laughed at them, spat on them. They didn’t care that the poor bastards were terrified and begging for mercy. It made sense then, what killing someone is really like. There’s no mercy. If the executioner felt any mercy, even for a minute, he’d never be able to do it.’ And as Dylan says it he sees again the perfect circles staring at him, those possum eyes, like a little baby’s.

  He can feel his hatred of Cartwright hard inside him, as urgent as it’s ever been. Now, now’s the time to do it. He stands up, flexing his legs to work out the stiffness. The house has been dark for almost an hour, the period they’d agreed on. Can Tim see him shaking? Not in the darkness, but maybe he can sense it the way animals do. They say dogs can smell fear. Christ, they’d be yapping right now.

  When they’re free of the bush and halfway to the back door, Tim takes hold of his elbow.

  ‘I can’t do it. I can’t go inside. I’m sorry, Dylan. I’d bump into something, make a noise.’

  If this was a complete surprise Dylan might have called the whole thing off, but he’s been half-expecting it.

  ‘Go back to where we were sitting. Have the bag ready to go as soon as I come back.’

  Apart from this, there are no farewells or wishes of luck. How gross would that be? Best to get it done before he starts to think about it all over again. Dylan simply turns away from Tim, moving cautiously the rest of the way to the back door. He grips the rifle in one hand so the other can find the key. He has to do something, though, before he slots it silently into the lock. Stepping away from the house again to where the city’s reflection in the clouds offers the faintest of light, he uses his thumb to push the safety to off.

  The weapon is ready. He just has to aim it at the right place. He’s going to do it.

  The key turns, the lock releases, the door opens without a sound. Now Dylan meets the first decision he hasn’t anticipated; should he close the door (slows down any emergency escape), latch it back with the hook (risks the sharp touch of metal against metal and he would have to put the rifle down to use both hands) or leave it open but unsecured (might close in a gust of breeze)?

  There is no breeze. He moves into the kitchen without touching the door again.

  The confusion with the door makes him pause. What else hasn’t he thought of? He goes through what he’s planned a hundred times. Enter the bedroom with the gun fitted firmly into his shoulder and with his finger on the trigger. Aim at Cartwright’s head and if he moves or shows any sign of stirring, shoot immediately. If he doesn’t, go closer and then closer until the aim is sure to be lethal.

  Dylan’s whole body begins to shake as though he’s been left outside on a winter’s night. Stop, stop it, he pleads of his own flesh. He waits in the kitchen, breathing in and out, in and out, takes a breath and holds it for a moment, then another. He killed the possum. He can do this. He has to for so many reasons that lie outside in the bush or over
the hill where the rest of the world goes about its business. Evil shouldn’t triumph. A man can’t do what Cartwright does and get away with it. Dylan Kane won’t let him.

  Slowly, the shivering subsides. The delay has worked in his favour because his eyes have adjusted to the extra darkness. He sees the doorway into the lounge room now and eases through, finds a path through furniture until he sees ahead a short hallway and there it is, the open door leading into Cartwright’s bedroom. He raises the rifle to his shoulder and sights along the barrel, taking aim at a frame on the wall. The picture is no more than a darkened rectangle but he can pick out its centre, its heart. He moves on towards the bedroom.

  Everything he sees now is picked up in the v of the gun’s rear sight - the architrave, the door pressed back against the wardrobe and, as he inches further into the hall to be level with the doorway, the bed. Another step and he can see the mound of Cartwright’s body with a sheet pulled up to that powerful chest, his right arm exposed and lying straight by his side, locking the sheet in place. How odd that a monster should be so neatly tucked into bed.

  A little further still and the man’s head rests in the rifle’s sights. The safety is off. Squeeze the trigger now and he’s dead. No mercy. End a life so life can start for the Beals.

  Dylan doesn’t fire. He’s still four metres away. He’s never fired a gun before. He has to go closer to be sure. He can’t afford to miss with the first shot. Without letting his aim deviate from the man’s head, he steps into the room.

  His eye continues to stare down the barrel at his target but he has a view of the entire bed now and this is when he catches sight of a second figure asleep at Cartwright’s side. No, that’s not right, not part of the plan. Using the gun still as his eye and with his finger on the trigger, he examines the second body. It’s smaller and turned towards the window, shoulders bare except where long dark hair falls across the skin. A woman.

  Dylan switches the rifle back to Cartwright, but he lifts his cheek from the stock and looks at both bodies, side by side, like a married couple, a man and his wife, a mother asleep beside a father.