The Last Motel

by Brett McBean

  It didn’t matter to her, though. Tonight she needed something stronger than herbal tea. Placing the cup in the sink, she headed back into the lounge, where she slid open her liquor cabinet, and pulled out her long-time friend – Black Douglas.

  He would see her through tonight, which she knew wasn’t over yet. Unfortunately this night was bound to get weirder. Just like the rain, she knew when to spot it. That came from experience as well.

  From outside, somebody rang the doorbell.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Wayne turned off the shower then went about untying the boy. He had hurriedly bound the boy’s hands to the sink pipe, and had shoved a small hand towel into his mouth. He untied his hands, and they flopped to the floor. A sticky bit of phlegm was joined to the towel as Wayne took it out.

  The boy fought for air.

  “Get up,” Wayne said.

  The boy did as he was told.

  “Remember what I said. If you scream again, or try to run, I will not only kill all of these people, including you, but also hunt down your family. Understand?”

  The boy, naked and shivering, nodded his head. His eyes were puffy from crying.

  Wayne turned and saw himself in the mirror.

  That was a close one, he thought, shaking his head.

  He was proud of himself for remaining calm, though. His face was still slightly flushed, but his wig had looked good and convincing. He knew no one would be able...

  He drew in a sharp breath. “Fuck!” he snapped.

  The boy flinched with fright. He watched Wayne from the corners of his eyes.

  “The moustache,” Wayne sighed. He could not believe he had forgotten to put it on.

  Had she noticed? he wondered. He had been in such a mad rush when she knocked, having just finished cleaning the mess in his underpants, that the black moustache lying on the bedside table had completely slipped his mind.

  How could I have remembered the wig but not the moustache?

  The woman didn’t let on that she had noticed, but what if she had?

  “Get back on the bed,” Wayne growled.

  The boy hurried over to the bed, a slight limp in his walk. Wayne followed close behind, glancing at the moustache as he went past.

  “Lie back down on the bed,” Wayne told him. “You know the drill.”

  The boy placed his skinny arms above his head and then Wayne tied them securely with the pillowcases. When the boy was again bound to the bedposts, Wayne took the small towel he had brought from the bathroom and gagged his mouth. The boy gave no resistance.

  “Remember, you spit that out and scream, you’re dead.”

  The boy stared up at Wayne with frightened eyes. Sweat dripped from Wayne’s forehead onto the boy’s chest.

  He wandered over to the door and clicked the lock. “Just in case,” he said. “We don’t want any more interruptions, do we?”

  The boy continued to stare at Wayne, his nostrils flaring in and out, which made a loud hissing sound. His entire body quivered.

  “Now, where were we?” Wayne said as he approached the boy. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the knife. He saw the boy’s eyes grow wide with fear.

  Wayne decided to turn on the radio. Some light, fluffy jazz tune that Wayne had never heard was playing. He turned the volume up enough so it wasn’t a disturbance to the other guests, but loud enough to cover some of the noise.

  “You like this music?”

  The boy didn’t respond.

  Wayne thought about the boy kicking at him again. He was certain that he wouldn’t try it, but it was best to make sure. He was about to go over and take the cases off his pillows, when suddenly a better idea came to him. He grinned.

  With the knife in his right hand, Wayne ventured to the boy’s legs. The boy watched with a terrified frown.

  Wayne swung his right arm downwards at the boy’s left leg. The knife struck him just beside the kneecap, into a bony part. The knife remained imbedded stiffly inside the leg as he worked the blade deeper. Wayne laughed at the boy’s unbridled cries, and laughed even harder when the sheet underneath turned a pale yellow.

  He must’ve hit a part that also had some muscle, since the knife was burrowing deeper into the knee. There were loud crunching sounds as Wayne jabbed and ground the knife hard. The muffled roars of the boy weren’t even loud enough to drown them out. Blood poured from the wound and onto Wayne’s hand. There was now a sizeable gap in the boy’s knee, where bone, muscle and cartilage were grotesquely exposed. Wayne pulled the switchblade out with a gravelly tear. He went around to the other side of the bed, then lifted the boy’s right leg. This time he slipped the knife under his knee, and with a sawing motion, cut his tendons and muscles.

  He immediately felt warm sticky blood pour onto his hand, and instead of a grinding bony sound, he heard the sickening snap of sinew.

  The boy’s body jerked in a series of sharp jolts.

  By the time Wayne had finished cutting the underside of the boy’s knee, he had stopped shouting and crying. Wayne straightened up and gazed at the boy. His eyes were closed and his body ceased to twitch. It seemed he had fainted.

  Wayne checked his pulse, just to make sure he hadn’t died of shock. He was glad to find it still pulsating.

  The boy’s legs were now a useless pair of dead weights. They were covered with shiny blood, as were the sheets and carpet.

  He won’t be doing any more kicking, Wayne thought. Or escaping, he added. That part had never entered his mind. Now there were two reasons to be proud of himself. He had the boy all to himself.

  Wayne headed into the bathroom to wash the knife and his hands, and also to find some bandages. He hoped that a seedy place like this kept some sort of first aid kit. Sure enough, after his knife and hands were clean, he found some bandages and antiseptic cream in the cabinet under the sink. He didn’t want the boy to bleed to death. He didn’t want him dead.

  Not yet, anyway.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Thank you,” Morrie said as Madge handed him a glass of whisky. He took a long drink. “Ah, my favourite.”

  Madge sat down beside him.

  “Are you positive I’m not intruding?”

  “No, not at all,” Madge said. “It’s nice to have the company.” She sipped her drink.

  “The fire’s lovely,” Morrie commented.

  Madge gazed over at the open fire that was set in the wall next to the TV, and nodded. The TV was on low volume, so the relaxing sounds of red gum burning filled the small residence. Intermixed with the sweet smell of whisky, Madge breathed in the woody aroma of smoking wood.

  “Magnificent smell,” Morrie said.

  Madge smiled. “I’ve been meaning to fit the cabins with open fires, but I just haven’t gotten around to it. I’m sorry.”

  Morrie chuckled. “Let me know when you do and the wife and I will have to come back.”

  “I hope she won’t panic if she wakes up to find you gone.”

  “I left her a note,” Morrie said. “But she was extremely tired. I don’t think she’ll wake till morning.”

  There was a comfortable silence as they both enjoyed their drinks and the sounds of the fire.

  “Did you hear the news?” Morrie asked.

  “I heard a broadcast earlier on the radio. Other than that, I’ve been in here, watching the idiot box.”

  Morrie smiled, nodding.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Morrie shrugged. “Conversation.”

  Madge looked at his pudgy face, and smiled. She liked Morrie. He was honest and down to earth. A real man’s man. She felt safe knowing he was staying tonight.

  “It was the usual depressing stuff, wasn’t it?” Madge said.

  Morrie chuckled. “That it was.”

  “From what I can remember, there was a shooting and a quick update, if that’s what you’d call it, that police are no closer in catching the serial killer.”

  “That was about it,” Morrie said.<
br />
  “Melbourne really is becoming the serial killer capital of Australia, isn’t it? The one running around now has killed, how many, six?”

  “Seven, I believe,” Morrie said.

  “Seven, really? And then there was that business last year. The murders of five women.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember that,” Morrie said, tipping the last of the whisky down his throat. “The killer was never caught, was he? The murders just stopped.”

  “I believe so,” Madge said. “Another drink?”

  “Please. I’ll get it though.” Morrie stood up and headed into the kitchen.

  “Just bring out the bottle,” Madge called.

  Morrie strode back into the lounge carrying the bottle of Black Douglas. He topped up Madge’s glass then poured himself another. He sat back down in the tan leather chair with the glass in his hand.

  “I heard a scream earlier,” Morrie said. “What was that all about?”

  Madge shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Oh that. I’ve had quite a night so far. Those two guys in cabin three make me nervous. They’re acting very suspicious.”

  “I met one of them earlier. Eddy, I think. Seemed like a nice enough guy. Wanted to buy some smokes off me.”

  “Eddy?” Madge said.

  “Yeah, average height, short scruffy hair. Quite a good-looking guy, apparently. Well, that’s what my wife said.”

  She chuckled. “He told me his name was Michael.”

  “Really? Maybe they do have something to hide. Why else would you park your car around the back?”

  “Have they?” Madge said. She hadn’t noticed it when she went to visit Wayne. “I wonder why that is.”

  “Who knows?” Morrie said.

  “I’ll be glad when they’re gone, let me tell you. Not to mention the father and son in cabin four. The father’s also a bit weird.”

  Morrie chuckled. “You’ve really got a colourful bunch tonight.”

  “I know. That scream earlier, that was the son. He got frightened by a spider in the shower.”

  “A spider?” Morrie chortled.

  She didn’t bother bringing up the moustache. She kept that to herself.

  “I suppose you get all types working at a motel.”

  Madge nodded slowly, reflecting back to some of the more memorable customers.

  “I’ve seen some very important people slink in here, with disguises on of course, with ladies who didn’t exactly look like their wives.”

  “Oh, tell me more,” Morrie said.

  “I can’t say any names, I’m afraid. But let me just say that some of the most important members of government, prime members let’s say, have been here.”

  Morrie lowered his glass and gaped at Madge. “Really? You have to tell me who, come on?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. Believe me, I would love to expose some of those men.”

  “Any hints?”

  “They’re still alive.”

  “They? You mean there’s been more than one?”

  Madge shrugged. “I just keep my mouth shut, and try not to laugh at their pitiful disguises.”

  “Wow,” Morrie said. “What else have you seen?”

  “Oh, you’d be utterly disgusted by what I have found in the mornings over the years. One time, and this is probably the most heartbreaking and awful thing I’ve ever found…” Madge found that even after all these years she was still affected by the memory. Tears flooded her eyes. “I’m sorry, I usually don’t cry in front of strangers. Not that you’re a stranger.”

  “I know what you mean,” Morrie said.

  She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. She took a drink then a deep breath. “One morning, about five years ago, I was cleaning one of the rooms that a young woman, must’ve been about eighteen, had stayed in. She had left very early that morning. When I went into the bathroom to clean up, there was blood all over the floor. I was shocked. I couldn’t imagine why there would be so much blood, until I saw it lying in the corner. It was a newborn baby. It was sheathed in blood. I quickly picked it up and brought it into the shower to wash off all the blood and gunk. It still had the umbilical cord attached. I don’t know, I guess I felt like I had to do something, but I already knew it was dead. I’m not sure if the poor thing had been born dead, or if it died from exposure. I like to think the former.” Madge rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put a downer on things.”

  “I can’t believe somebody would do that.”

  “I know, but think of the teenager. She obviously was so scared and had no one to turn to. To have the baby in a small motel in the middle of nowhere and then to leave it, well, you have to feel a bit sorry for her.”

  “I don’t know,” Morrie said softly. “It’s still wrong.”

  “I never said it wasn’t wrong, just that she must’ve had a terrible home life. No support, no love. The boyfriend or whatever, the bastard, obviously wasn’t around.”

  Morrie barely shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Well, anyway, that’s in the past. It is probably the most awful thing that has happened. Mostly there have been a lot of affairs and the like. I can always spot a disguise.”

  Well, most of the time.

  “A lot of gay men that are married?” Morrie asked.

  “You bet. They always forget to take their wedding ring off. And you can see it in their eyes. The shame, the humiliation. They know it’s wrong to be cheating on their wives, but they’re even more ashamed that they prefer men. I’ve seen a lot of respectful businessmen, doctors, lawyers, police officers. I’ve even seen TV stars.”

  “Having homosexual affairs?”

  “Yep. Some very well known celebrities.”

  “Wow, you have seen it all,” Morrie said. “I suppose you won’t tell me any names?”

  “Sorry. Confidential.”

  An image suddenly flashed in Madge’s mind of one important member of Parliament. This had been during summer, so she always kept the office door open for the fresh air. He had waited in the car while the other man had booked in. But she had gotten a good look at him while the door was open. She could picture it now; head down, ashamed, not wanting to be seen, wearing a badly fitted wig and glasses. She had smiled politely when the other man had come in, but continued to stare at the important member...

  Oh my God! she thought, sitting up fast.

  Morrie was drinking contentedly, watching the fire. He didn’t seem to notice her sudden movements, or her expression. She relaxed back into the chair, a smile on her face.

  That’s where she had seen Wayne before. Booking into her motel while the other man sat hiding in the car.

  “Yeah,” Madge sighed. “A lot of them are husbands, fathers. It’s sad, really.”

  Morrie finished off his second glass. He checked his watch in the dim light of the lounge. “I’d better be going soon. Don’t want to keep you up. Besides, I’m getting a wee bit tired.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Madge said, putting up her free hand. “I’ll be staying up very late tonight.”

  “Ah, if you don’t mind me asking, is that your husband?”

  Madge followed his gaze to the photo that sat on top of the TV. The picture was a bit hard to see, but there was enough light from the fire and the screen to make out a middle-aged man, proudly wearing a police uniform, an open smile on his thin, angular face.

  “Yes, that’s my husband, Jack.”

  “Nice looking man,” Morrie said. “How long was he a policeman?”

  “Thirty years. Detective Inspector by the time he was killed.”

  “Oh,” Morrie said.

  “He was killed while in the bathroom of the police station. Stabbed to death by the brother of a guy my husband arrested. The killer was a nutcase, much like his brother.” Madge took a sip of whisky.

  “I’m sorry,” Morrie said. “Your husband sounded like a good man.”

  “A great man, Morrie.”

  Too good for somebody like m
e, she thought. He deserved better. What I did to him...

  No, she wasn’t going to think about the past. It was too painful.

  “He was only fifty-four years old,” she continued. “Too young. After he was killed, that’s when I decided to build this motel. That was twenty years ago.”

  She glanced over at the big man and smiled. “I’m being quite morbid and depressing, aren’t I?”

  “Not at all. I, ah, thank you for sharing your personal life. That takes a lot of trust.”

  “Well, you seem like a trust-worthy person. It feels good to have somebody like you to talk to.”

  “Thank you,” Morrie said. He sounded rather embarrassed. He finished his drink quickly and stood up. “I’d really better get going. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “You mean the whisky.”

  Morrie smiled. “And the company. That was good too. Need help with the dishes?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Madge said. She got up out of the chair slowly. Morrie passed her the empty glass. She shuffled into the kitchen and placed the two glasses on the bench.

  When she ventured back into the lounge, Morrie was in the midst of a large yawn.

  “My, my, you really do need to get some rest.”

  “It’s been a long day,” Morrie sighed.

  “Come, I’ll walk you to the front door.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Judy sat on the edge of the bed, her quaking hand gripping a half-smoked cigarette. She placed it to her lips, took a long drag, then blew out a cloud of smoke. Her eyes darted back and forth between the front door and the bags on the floor. She wanted to leave. After what the news broadcast had said, she did not want to stick around. Why Morrie wanted to go over there...

  Where is he?

  She glanced at the clock radio. He had been gone for almost half an hour.

  “Come on,” she muttered, her legs jittering from anxiety. She stood up fast and hurried over to the sink, where she threw in the cigarette butt. She opened the fridge door and gazed into the whiteness. She wasn’t even thirsty. She had just opened the door out of habit.