by Brett McBean
He saw blood spurt out into the night; although it looked like black oil.
The Asian never made a sound.
He fell back with a dull thud. Morrie heard him gasping, then gurgle.
Then all was quiet.
Judy had stopped crying and the remnants of the blasts faded with the clouds of smoke.
Still with the rifle poised, Morrie blinked down at the dead Asian.
The only reason he looked away was that his eyes caught the movement of the other figure running towards the street.
Shoot him. Should I shoot him?
He placed his finger on the trigger, but before he could fire at the fleeing man, he had vanished.
Morrie remained in the same position for what felt like ages. When Judy touched him on the back, he gasped and turned around fast.
“It’s only me,” she said quietly. “Did you have to shoot him?”
Morrie stared at her blankly. “He was reaching for a gun.”
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “They were going to kill us? Who were they?”
Morrie felt himself shake his head. He turned around and walked over to the body. Judy remained near the door, watching.
He looked down at the lifeless body of the Asian. He had a white shirt on under the black jacket, so the two small holes in his chest stood out like shit in a flower shop. Blood dribbled from the two wounds. The grass underneath was considerably darker than the rest of the lawn.
Morrie crouched down.
“Don’t touch him,” Judy called out. Her voice sounded tearful.
Crouched by the body, Morrie realised he could now see the Asian’s eyes. Sometime, either while he was being shot, or as he fell to the ground, his sunglasses had come off, along with his hat. The Asian now lay sprawled on the damp grass with his eyes open. You could tell a lot about a person by their eyes.
The body lying on his front lawn looked no more than eighteen years old.
“Jesus,” Morrie sighed. “I shot a kid.”
Still, kid or not, he had been planning to shoot both him and Judy.
I had to, he thought. I had to shoot him.
Morrie gazed over to the boy’s right hand, to the object clutched between his fingers. “Oh no,” he moaned. He straightened and stepped over to the boy’s lifeless hand. He squatted down and peered at the bit of paper lodged between the boy’s thumb and index finger.
Even in the dim light Morrie could see what it was.
It was an invitation to a Halloween party. He could make out the time and date, but not the address. He also noticed the grinning skulls that bordered the rectangular piece of paper.
Morrie hurried back over to Judy. “We have to get out of here.”
He saw the terror in Judy’s eyes. “What! Why don’t we call the police? It was self-defence.”
Morrie shook his head. “He was just a kid, Judy. Looked about eighteen.”
“So? He was still going to kill us.” After a long pause she asked, “Wasn’t he?”
Morrie took a deep breath. “He didn’t have a gun. He was reaching for a party invitation.”
Tears fell from Judy’s eyes.
“I thought he was going for his gun,” Morrie said softly. “How was I to know...?”
“Come on,” Judy said. “Who knows how long it will take for the other boy to reach someone. He might’ve already called the police.”
They ran through the garage and back into the house, Morrie’s bathrobe flapping as he ran.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Four bags were lying on the bed: two large gym bags, and two suitcases. All were filled with their clothes and personal items. They had decided on one travel bag and one suitcase each.
“Hurry up,” Morrie called out to Judy. He was in the process of packing the rifle into the large Adidas gym bag, along with the unused cartridges, all of the spare boxes of ammunition, and the magazine. He zipped the bag, the faint smell of gunpowder still residing in the gun.
Judy was scrounging around in the bathroom. He wasn’t sure if she had heard him. He stood beside their bed of twenty years, sweat dripping from his face, and tried to clear his mind as best he could.
“Okay, have I forgotten anything?” he said aloud.
Morrie wasn’t a complicated guy. He didn’t have very many clothes – didn’t need them. He only had the very basic of personal items; razor, toothbrush, deodorant and after-shave. His most important possession was in the Adidas bag.
His suitcase held all of his clothes and personal items.
They had quickly decided, as they ran into the house, that they would make it look like they were on a holiday. Hence the need to take things they could buy anywhere like toothbrushes and deodorant, but that they would take on holiday.
He searched through the wardrobe again. Positive he had everything he needed, Morrie went over to the bed and closed the suitcase. He spotted the two packs of Benson and Hedges sitting on his bedside drawer. He grabbed them both and shoved one into his coat pocket, the other into his front jeans pocket.
Judy came shuffling into the bedroom, her hands empty. “I think I’ve got everything from the bathroom.”
“Are you all packed, then?” Morrie said.
“I’ll check the lounge one more time.”
Morrie groaned. “Make it quick.”
She rushed out of the bedroom.
Morrie grabbed his two bags and walked out of the bedroom. As he hurried towards the front door, he heard Judy in the lounge. She was crying. He put the suitcase down, opened the door, then picked it up and sped out into the night. As he ran towards the car, Morrie glanced over at the body. In his mind he pictured the Asian getting up, his eyes blankly staring at him, the holes in his chest dripping gore. With his arms dangling lifelessly by his sides, the Asian began ambling towards Morrie, his zombified brain wanting nothing more than to eat his soft, fatty body.
“Fucking movie,” he mumbled. He shook the image away and hurried over to the car.
His Ford Falcon Longreach was parked in the driveway directly in front of the garage. It was old and grimy; the way Morrie liked it. He set the bags down and opened the double doors. The tainted smell of dead animals and guns wafted out. They filled him with sorrow. It took him back to his happiest times – alone, out in the quiet woods, with his Ruger Mini-14. He wondered if he would ever get to enjoy that again.
Not behind bars, you won’t, he thought.
He threw the two bags into the back then closed the doors. He ran back into the house.
“Get your arse moving,” he shouted into the darkness. Only the hallway light and a lamp in the lounge were on. He darted down to his left and into their bedroom. He zipped up the travel bag and closed the suitcase. If Judy still has things to pack, let her do it in the car, he thought. He ran out to the hallway.
Judy came out of the lounge, turning off the lamp as she went past, holding what looked like photo albums. He could see her eyes were still teary, and she seemed to be clutching the albums tighter than was necessary.
Morrie didn’t say anything about it. He smiled quickly at her, then waited until she was outside.
“Now are you sure you have everything?”
She nodded.
He switched off the hallway light, then slammed the door shut. “Try not to look at him,” Morrie told her.
She took his advice and never turned her head. Morrie couldn’t help but look.
Do as I say, not as I do, Morrie laughed inside. But the sight of the bloody body spread out in the damp grass, out in the cold night, made him feel ill. It made him sick knowing that he was responsible, even if he was just a gook.
They hurried over to the car. Morrie opened the right back door and chucked Judy’s bags in. Judy was already waiting at the passenger door. She was looking over her shoulder at the dark road. Looking out for police car lights, Morrie guessed. After he had slammed and locked the back doors, Morrie stood for a moment and listened. Nope, he couldn’t hear any sirens.
> He rushed around to the driver’s side, opened the door and then jumped in. He leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. Judy hopped in. She reached around to the back and dropped the photo albums softly on the floor beside the bags. She then turned back around.
His hands shaking, Morrie managed to slip the key into the ignition, turned it, and the car grumbled to life. He was about to flip on the headlights, but stopped himself. He didn’t want to see the dead boy grotesquely lit up like some attraction at the circus any more than he knew Judy would.
“We’re just going to leave him there,” Judy said; though it wasn’t a question, merely a statement.
Morrie stared at their modest house for what could possibly be the last time, and felt a ping of sadness. They had spent twenty long, but happy, years there. No children had grown up in there, but he had spent all of his adulthood cooped up in that small house, out in the lonely bush land of Lilydale.
Morrie backed the car out of the driveway. He saw a car parked over on his right. He knew it had to be the boy’s car.
He didn’t drive away, Morrie thought. Wonder why?
But he didn’t give the matter too much consideration. He just wanted to be away from the house, away from the body. Morrie straightened the car, and roared away from their house.
He switched on the headlights. Judy was gazing out the window, her body wobbling from her incessant crying. “Where are we going to go?” she sobbed.
Morrie hadn’t consciously thought about it, but he had automatically headed for the Maroondah Highway. That seemed like the most sensible choice; it was the closest highway, and it led through dense bush land and mountains. And Morrie knew that there were hordes of small towns littered all along, all the way up to Mansfield. After that, the Maroondah joined to the Hume Highway and that led to New South Wales and beyond. If they could make it to another state, hide out somewhere remote, they would be safe. “The Maroondah Highway,” Morrie said.
“Are we going to drive all the way to New South Wales tonight?” Judy asked.
“We’ll see.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
10:36 p.m.
The night momentarily blackened as Morrie yawned. When he had finished he wound down the window. Icy breeze whipped at his face, and the glorious smell of forest and clean air penetrated his nostrils.
Despite their momentous predicament, Morrie felt free, almost happy for a short time. He pretended that he was driving to a secluded mountain, his beloved rifle by his side, about to spend the hours hunting, nothing but the night, the trees and the animals around for miles.
Morrie could feel his eyes begin to go heavy. He shook his head and worked the muscles in his face.
He yawned again, this time reaching down and switching on the radio. He caught the end of the weather report.
“...A cool twelve degrees, and it’s only going to get colder. Rain is forecast for tonight, in fact it looks like there’s going to be a storm, perfect weather for Halloween. That’s all for the news at the moment...”
Morrie turned down the volume. He breathed a heavy sigh. He didn’t like the sound of a storm. Especially driving through these winding roads.
Another yawn. A deep, loud yawn.
“You need rest.”
Morrie jumped at Judy’s voice.
“You really shouldn’t be driving if you’re so tired.”
“I thought you were asleep,” Morrie said. “You haven’t spoken for the past hour.”
“Sleep? How can I sleep after what happened? I’ve been thinking.”
“You must be tired as well,” Morrie said.
“Exhausted,” she sighed. “A storm is on its way.”
“Yep,” Morrie said.
“How far are we from Mansfield?”
“About half an hour.”
Judy suddenly sat up. “Hey, there’s a motel coming up in five minutes. We just passed the sign.”
“We’re not even two hours out of Lilydale,” Morrie said. “I want to put more distance between us and the...house,” he finished.
“Come on, you’re tired and there’s a storm on the way.”
Morrie tried to clear his mind and think logically. He never intended to stop at a big town like Mansfield. His plan had been to drive on past it, and if he couldn’t make it to New South Wales, either stop at a small, out of the way motel, or if it came down to it, sleep in the car. He wasn’t overly joyous at the thought of staying somewhere so close to Lilydale, but he was almost falling asleep at the wheel. And there was the storm.
“Maybe,” he said. “We’ll have a look at it. If it’s secluded and not too busy, maybe.”
“I don’t think we have a choice,” Judy said. “I don’t think you’ll last until Mansfield.”
“I don’t want to stay there, anyway.”
“Well then, we have no choice.”
Despite his reluctance, Morrie knew it was the smart thing to do. Staring out the windscreen he could barely focus his eyes on the painted lane dividers.
“Jesus,” he mumbled.
He reached over and turned up the radio. Some disco song was playing. He switched it off.
“I wonder if the police have found the body yet,” Judy said, gazing out the passenger window.
Morrie was about to respond, when Judy called out, “There it is.”
He stomped on the brakes, the tyres squealing, and turned sharply to the left. “Not very well signed,” he grumbled. “Almost missed the damn turn off.”
As he drove along the narrow dirt road, Morrie peered up at the rear view mirror. Back in the distance, hidden amongst the tall pine trees was the sign for the motel.
“Maybe this is a good place to stay after all,” he said. “It’s well hidden.”
The road became steep. He planted his foot hard on the accelerator. He gazed around at the pine trees then stuck his head out the window and breathed in deep. He quickly brought his head back in. “Ah, I love the smell of pine.”
He turned his head and saw Judy looking out the window. The steep road levelled out, and they arrived at the motel. The group of cabins were all dark, except for the large one on the right and one over to the left. Although, strangely, there was no car in front of that cabin. Figuring the larger one was the office, Morrie headed over. He stopped just in front of the door and turned off the engine. He touched Judy on the shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”
She ignored him and continued to stare out the window. He opened the door and stepped out. He was surprised at how cold the night had become.
He was about to head over to the office entrance when an old woman emerged from around the side of the building. She hugged her shawl tight around her shoulders and smiled at him as she neared. Morrie guessed that she was the manager. “Good evening,” she said, stronger than Morrie had expected. “Windy night.”
Just act like nothing has happened, Morrie told himself. Act nice and friendly. He gave her his most natural and polite smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
12:46 a.m.
They were still there. Whoever the fuck they were.
He flicked the cigarette out the window, then rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.
Three fucking hours, he sighed to himself. I’ve been here three...no, wait...over three hours. Damn!
He gazed over at the Volvo and Mercedes, and snarled. He had thought a few times of going over there with his Smith & Wesson and interrupting the party. After all, the friends might be all females. But that was just a pissed off drunk’s fantasy. He was here for Helen and Helen alone.
As he unscrewed the top of the second hip flask, and sank back the fiery whisky, his thoughts went back to another time. Another woman.
She had hurt him as well. Probably more so: he had really cared for her. Even loved her.
Not that he didn’t care for Helen. He did. He had to, or else he wouldn’t be waiting three damn hours in the car just to be with her. Show her how much he needed h
er.
But the other woman had been special. Even though it had all happened twenty years ago, his love for her had never ceased. Neither had the pain.
And now Helen, doing the exact same thing. Hurting him like he had been hurt before.
Whether it was just the drink, or perhaps the flood of memories, tears suddenly formed in his eyes.
Damn bitches. Why do they always do this to me? Damn it! Don’t they know I care for them? That I need them?
He wiped away the tears and took another drink of the whisky.
The radio, its endless crackling and distant voices, was starting to get on his nerves. But instead of turning it off, he only turned it down. Because it was like having one of those really annoying friends that you don’t like, but constantly see anyway. It was good just to have a companion. And, like an old friend, the noise of the radio had become a part of his existence. It seemed natural.
It had just gotten on his nerves because he was drunk.
There was nothing much of interest coming from it anyway, just the usual. The only serious happening tonight was a shooting. Apparently some eighteen-year-old had been gunned down on the front lawn of a house in Lilydale. They hadn’t arrested anyone yet, but they did have two suspects.
He occasionally tuned in to hear updates of that incident, but only when he wasn’t occupied with thoughts of Helen.
He rested his head back, the flask of whisky still in his grasp, and listened to the moaning wind.
How long am I gonna have to wait? he thought. Damn! Maybe I should just go over there...
He smiled to himself. Wouldn’t Helen get a surprise?
But he couldn’t do that. Even in his drunken state he knew that would be downright stupid.
But who’s in there? And when the fuck are they going to leave?
As he sat there thinking, a grin came across his face.
Could he? Should he?
Why not? he thought. It won’t do any harm.
He switched off the radio. He leaned over to the glove box, but decided not to take his Smith & Wesson. He took another swig of whisky then hopped out.
