by Stephen Orr
The next photo showed the kids eating spaghetti, their faces covered in pasta sauce. Avril stood beside them, trying to wipe their faces with a flannel, as I (I suppose) just stood laughing, reaching for my camera and telling Avril to let them go.
Avril—growling at the world at the front of her own Bluebeard float, forming fibreglass skin, donning an eye-patch and shaking her hook at every potential enemy. Which made me the Jolly Swagman, my felt hat down over my eyes as I snored, waiting for a fish that would never bite.
But that’s life, I guess. You make your own happiness, or misery.
Christ, I thought. That’s what the budgie meant.
I looked at Avril’s eyes and decided I didn’t need her anymore. I took the spaghetti photo and threw it in the bin beside the float.
She picked up the phone when I rang. ‘Are the kids doing anything this morning?’
‘Sarah’s got netball.’
‘Ah.’ A long pause, as I took a deep breath. ‘I was gonna take them to the pageant.’ I could almost hear her thinking.
‘Hold on, I’ll ask them.’ But she stopped to think. ‘How’s Daisy going?’
‘Still in the desert with the black fellas.’
‘Like you?’
‘Me? I am a black fella, eh?’
‘Hold on.’
So I reached into the bin, retrieved the photo and put it on the bottom of the pile. I couldn’t edit her out of my life, or back in, yet, perhaps. But photos are good like that: they compress time, showing you what’s happened, what’s happening and perhaps what’s to come. Flesh and fantasy in a snapshot.
I turned and saw the big beast. Hippo’s Hot consisted of a giant purple hippopotamus sitting in a cooking pot. I assumed that soon the natives would arrive to paint their bodies, don their grass skirts and gather their spears. Then they could tend the fire under the pot as Hippo, thinking they were giving him a bath, continued cleaning himself with a scrubbing brush, sponging his red-hot face, popping the bubbles and laughing as though this was the best day of his life.
Akdal Ghost
DH LORINS WAS BEST KNOWN for his music videos. Ken had seen one: three bearded men strumming their guitars as they sank into a swamp, as seagulls with streamers on their legs landed on their heads, as fireworks went off, lip-synch, baby-baby, no life without you, and Greek grandmas ate yoghurt in the background. Silly stuff, but that’s what the kids watched, apparently. DH was bell-and-whistle: mutton-chop whiskers and a nose ring, but … no, stop, Ken Fletcher told himself. What did it matter? As long as the kids learned about the End. The seconds, minutes and hours when He’d walk from His own swamp, extend His hands and say, Come with me, Ken, we have work to do. And smile. Cos that’s what He’d do. Telling him: Let’s gather the followers, Pastor Fletcher.
That’s all that mattered. Lorins’ badged-up beret. So what? His eye shadow, even (although what did it mean—was he bum happy?).
Lorins had tried a few takes, but wasn’t happy. He approached the young man, Charlie Clarke, and showed him (again) how to hold the Akdal Ghost. Tight, but not trembling. Raise it like this, and look down the sight, into the camera. Cock it. The viewer has to think you’re gonna pull the trigger. You wanna kill them. Or, if not, you’re so angry you could be persuaded. Like this. Camera. Raise. Cock. Find you mark. Let’s see your finger tightening on the trigger, then, don’t worry about then—then we’ll cut to black, and the words …
‘Which words?’ Charlie asked.
Lorins turned to Ken. ‘What did you want?’
‘“If he’s given up on God, who’s next?”’
Charlie thought about it; he still didn’t understand. ‘Who’s next?’
Ken wouldn’t be drawn. ‘Just do what Mr Lorins says, Charlie.’
But Lorins was curious, too. ‘So, what you’re saying is, if he’s given up on God, then this is the result?’
‘Not at all,’ Ken explained, slowly. ‘If this boy doesn’t find God … we’re all lost.’
Lorins didn’t really care. It was a quick job, in and out, one day, thirty seconds. None of the major networks we’re likely to run it, no matter how much they were offered. But, he supposed, Fletcher would put it on the net and millions of apologists would see it, and agree with him, and feel satisfied that they were the ones chosen (for that’s what they’d get out of it, somehow—a sixteen-year-old in a singlet, walking along a country road, raising his gun, angry face, cold eyes, the sound of gravel under his bare feet; that’s what the old prick wanted; why he was willing to pay fifty thousand).
Ken stepped forward, lifted Charlie’s arm and said, ‘Hold it like that, strong, like you’ve already decided.’
‘What?’ Charlie asked. He had no idea what he was doing, but the old man had offered him two grand for a day’s work. The old man who’d approached him in the supermarket as he’d stacked sauce. Who’d said, ‘You have a serious face.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Square. Solid. No-nonsense.’
‘Are you after something?’
‘I’m making a short film, for my church, to promote our views.’
Two thousand? ‘How long?’ (as he’d thought, weeks, a month …)
‘Should be done in a day.’
‘For your church?’
Lorins waited for Ken to finish. Then: ‘Mr Fletcher, if you want me to make the film …’
Ken studied the holes the seven or eight earrings had made. ‘I was just suggesting …’
‘You need to leave it to me. That’s why you’re paying me, isn’t it?’
Ken stepped back, watching the young man. He put his hand in his coat pocket and felt the nine millimetre lumps of lead and copper. From where he’d removed them from his Akdal Ghost. Handed the pistol to Lorins, who’d given it to Charlie Clarke. Charlie had smiled and said, ‘It’s heavy, isn’t it?’
Ken had thought, It’s got a lot of killing to do. Not actual killing, but killing of sin. Removing it from the world. Via these few images. Not that he agreed with guns. In fact, hated them. But he’d wanted his film to look authentic, and he wasn’t about to risk someone recognising a prop gun. So he’d gone into Wembley’s Shop, and persuaded a friend to lend him a pistol, and the father and son had produced the Ghost and showed him and said, ‘This was a good idea of yours, Ken. Get the young ones thinking, eh?’
‘Absolutely, John.’
‘Scare the shit out of them. Get them back to church, eh?’
‘Correct.’
‘So, you just want it for the day?’
‘I’ll give it back after we finish filming.’
And then he’d given him the Ghost, but he’d forgotten to remove the Parabellum bullets, so Ken had done this himself, and he was feeling them now, cold, in his pocket.
Charlie tried again. Walked up the road. Stopped, raised his hand.
Lorins shook his head. ‘No, nothing threatening on your face. Remember? Angry, but cold, calm, like you’ve decided.’
‘What?’
‘To wipe away the sin,’ Ken said.
Lorins turned to him. ‘Ken, you gotta let me do it.’
‘But that’s the point. People have got to know, they won’t find the answers in Coke, and teeny-bopper music. They’ll find them in Genesis, and Revelation.’
‘Leave it to me.’
‘They’ve got to feel it, DH.’
‘They will.’
Ken just looked at this boy-man, full of an ungodly arrogance, the three necklaces, the shirt open to his bellybutton to show his chest hair. He might’ve been Satan himself, with horns somewhere in his mop, nails growing from his fingertips, goat horn equipment, ready to pop up and spread his swampy seed to the kids, over them, fertilising evil with his repeated bass riffs and hi-hat tingles. He wondered if he should’ve got Alf, after all. Alf from the church band (Ascensiones in Corde). With his hand-held and computer software for editing. The whole thing (he’d promised) for five grand. Easy. On the web by Monday. He wondered. This fella had some other agenda.
Lorins called for a break. Ken watched as his cameraman, and soundman, and the girl who’d done the makeup and costumes (not that there was anything to do, the boy had brought his own singlet) sat on canvas chairs and talked. Looked at him, smiled, and laughed. Wasted the time he was paying for. The time he’d borrowed (in the form of money) from the Bank (in the form of Evil as bricks and mortar). From the church account (truth be known). Although the online ads would soon take care of that.
Lorins approached him and said, ‘Apologists?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Is that what they call you guys? Apologists?’
‘No.’
‘But you think people like me are done for?’
Ken noticed how the cuff on Lorins’ jeans was worn, how he was wearing sandals, like Jesus, gathering the Faithful, which is what he was doing, maybe, but not really. Just working some technical magic. A means to an end. To an End. ‘You’re not done for, if you believe.’
Lorins smiled. ‘In what?’
‘The same stuff they taught you in Sunday school.’
Lorins almost laughed. ‘You don’t really believe …’ But stopped. After all, it was good money. Jesus or not, it’d pay a few bills. Although, he worried, he might get a reputation. And it wasn’t like you could put a disclaimer on it: The director wishes it known that Sinners will not be shot in the head by a sixteen-year-old in a singlet walking along a country road. Yes, that was a worry. But it was so much money. ‘I still don’t get it,’ he said to Ken. ‘“If he’s given up on God, who’s next?” I mean, the meaning’s not clear. You go to all this effort, and people still don’t understand.’
‘They will.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I do.’
‘I’ve been doing this a few years. One thing I’ve found, you gotta keep it simple, the message clear. You got thirty seconds to get in and out, why fuck around?’
Ken didn’t like his potty mouth either. But all of these things would have to be ignored, for now. He noticed Charlie sitting on a log beside the road, playing with the gun. ‘Careful of that,’ he called.
Charlie looked up, but then continued.
‘The point is, DH, people will be left to think about it.’
‘What?
‘Not mattering, which comes from not believing, and how this makes love, and grace, impossible.’
Lorins had no idea what this meant, but he suspected Ken didn’t either. What a load of shit, he thought. Ken could see that this is what he was thinking. He said, ‘You think I’m simple?’
‘Believe what you want. You’re paying me to get a professional film. You’ll get it. I’ve got a few ideas for a neat edit. You still set on the no music idea?’
‘All the focus on the sound of gravel, feet moving, the gun cocking, the boy’s breath.’
‘Some violins, perhaps, soft at first—’
‘No.’
‘Or synth? Not enough that anyone would even notice.’
‘No.’
Lorins examined Fletcher’s whiskers, and the few nasal hairs that whistled as he breathed. Nothing passed between them. No sound. Not even the rub of a rag on the lens cap, as the director planned his next move. He looked at Charlie again. He was drinking Coke, wiping his mouth, playing with the torn knees on his jeans. Then he asked Ken, ‘Why him?’
‘That’s the future, Mr Lorins.’
‘DH.’
‘Look at his eyes. Vacant. Nothing going on. How can there be, without God?’ He looked into the young man’s eyes, almost pleadingly.
‘That’s such bullshit. There’s plenty going on. He was telling me about his girlfriend …’
Ken walked away, uninterested.
‘And his results for _’
Turned, and said, ‘Shall we get on with it?’
Again, stationary camera, Charlie walking towards it, looking into the lens, raising his arm, waiting.
‘No!’ Ken called.
Everyone looked at him.
‘He’s walking like he’s taking a stroll down Commercial Road. Listen, Charlie.’ He came forward, and held his arms. ‘You gotta walk with determination. You know who you’re pointing that gun at, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Does God matter?’
‘I dunno. Does he?’
Ken knew the boy was lost; but not the cause.
‘You gotta—’
‘Mr Fletcher!’ Lorins half-shouted. ‘You either want me to direct this, or you don’t.’
‘But you’ve got to make him walk like he means it.’
‘Means what? You won’t tell me.’
‘Like he wants to shoot someone in the head.’
‘Who?’
‘His mother, his father—they didn’t tell him about Christ. But now he’s found out, and he’s angry.’
Lorins took a deep breath, and indicated for Ken to stand back.
Ken moved. He felt in his pocket. Parabellum. And was pleased with the feel of them. Their density. Their refusal to compromise their view of the world. All soft things, that could easily be penetrated, destroyed, made to not exist. Like Evil. Washed away with a hose of gun smoke, like dog turds on a driveway. How beautiful was that? Gone. If only people could see this. How easily it was done. They might sit up and take notice. Yes—the graphic example. Like Jesus on his cross. Inspiring thousands of followers for thousands of years. Cos of a simple, single image. All visual. For the visual age.
They tried again, and again, and Lorins still wasn’t happy: with the walk, the way Charlie’s shoulders moved, with how fast he cocked the gun, the way he licked his lips. With a million things.
Ken was silent; deep in thought. He’d been put in his place. But it didn’t matter. He knew DH was a good director, and the kids loved him, and the film would end brilliantly, and have millions of hits, and viewers, and media beyond anything he could’ve hoped for as he stood at the front of the Westridge Church preaching Proverbs and Daniel and the End of Days and give generously for our new Creation Museum. It would end beautifully. Fifty thousand well spent. As the world looked on, as Charlie in his singlet became famous, a star, more films, several wives, children who drifted on and off of drugs.
All because of the power of the image. A girl running along a napalmed road. King. Hitler. Little John Kennedy saluting his dead dad. Man on the moon. Lennon in bed with Yoko. OJ live on the highway. The events that defined.
‘My feet are getting sore,’ Charlie said.
It wasn’t fine gravel. Big lumps. And they were cutting into him.
‘Last time,’ Lorins said.
Ken watched his director as he finished rolling a cigarette. Why couldn’t he just use a bought one? The way he lit it, spat out a bit of tobacco, and started smoking. All the fires of hell. There was probably a girlfriend. Loose. Telling him he was a genius. Clawing at his pants. Working him up. Drugs. Injected. Although he wore long sleeves, so you couldn’t tell. But all this, when it came out, would make it even more poetic, and meaningful. He could see his film. How, like a little Bible of his own times, it would change the world. How, like Jesus, someone would have to star, become a symbol, feature on T-shirts and animations, be remembered for generations to come. Charlie? With his tight lips and flaring nostrils.
Fifty thousand well spent.
‘Charlie?’
‘Yes, Mr Fletcher?’
He motioned for him to approach. ‘Quick word.’
Lorins said, ‘I wanna finish, Ken. We’ve got plenty of takes to choose from.’
‘One more.’
‘His feet are bleeding.’
‘Like Christ.’
‘Screw Christ. His feet are bleeding!’
But even this didn’t worry Ken.
The boy stood in front of Ken and said, ‘I can barely walk, Mr Fletcher.’
‘I know, son. One more, please?’
Charlie took a deep breath, and released it slowly. Ken felt in his pocket. Nine millimetres. Took one. Took the gun fr
om the boy’s hand. Said, ‘I’ve had this idea. Instead of pointing the gun at the camera, cocking, firing, you point it at Mr Lorins’ head.’
‘His head?’
‘Off camera, you see? I think it’ll be a lot more effective.’
‘How?’
‘Just do.’
Charlie was confused, but not concerned. He just thought of the money, again, and how he was here to do as he was told. ‘So, same thing, but …?’
‘Yes.’
Charlie called out. ‘DH?’
‘No,’ Ken said. ‘You can’t tell him. It’s gotta be a surprise. He reacts, you react, we see your face, see … whole different feel. I think it’ll work.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘If you reckon.’
Ken handed him the Akdal Ghost. ‘I know your feet are hurting, but this one last time. Then it’ll be perfect. We can go home. Everyone can watch you on the net.’
Charlie smiled. ‘And you reckon the television will screen it?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘And it might lead to something?’
‘Yes.’
‘I reckon I could act. For a living. If I got lucky.’
‘Lucky. Exactly. Now, one last time.’
Charlie returned to his spot, further up the road. Lorins called action and the boy-man-Christ started walking towards the camera, with its little red light.
The Barmera Drive-in
TREVOR ROPER UNLOCKED THE GATE. It swung on a single hinge, so he lifted it. He pushed it against the waist-high grass growing around the entrance to the old Barmera Drive-in. He got back in his car and drove down the side road that led to the parking bays, the old projection room (covered in graffiti, its windows smashed in, its walls kicked out) and, at the back, the cafeteria. It hadn’t sold anything for years. Since its closure in 1987, when the owner looked out of his office, across the drive-in (at the two cars that had come) and decided enough was enough. The following week there was a ‘FOR SALE’ sign on the fence, but although he’d built the drive-in, no one had come. Not one single offer. He’d dropped the price, again and again, but it had done no good. No one wanted a Riverland drive-in.
Trevor drove back to the cafeteria. It still promised Choc-tops and Pluto Pups, cold Coke and hot chips, but like everything else, it was a ruin. He got out and looked around his cafeteria (since he’d signed the contract to buy the old Barmera Drive-in). Since he’d walked into Oranges and Lemons Real Estate the previous week and asked, ‘The old drive-in?’ Since the old fella had looked at him. ‘The drive-in?’
