The Gulp

by Alan Baxter

  “This’ll do fine,” he muttered and went back to close the unit door. He locked it and hung the chain up inside. An immense sense of relief fell over him once he felt enclosed and safe in his own space. George had been right, this was a weird town. But it was only isolated country people, nothing more than that. He went to the big front window and drew the curtains across. A large white van drove slowly up the hill outside, exhaust sputtering dark and smoky behind it.

  A small TV was mounted on the wall above the desk. He turned it on and was pleased to see it did get reception, albeit it grainy with a slight hiss to the sound. He tried other channels, but only the one working was ABC2, showing a British cosy mystery.

  “Good enough,” he said.

  He kicked his shoes off and sat on the bed. He opened the chips and a beer, leaning back against piled pillows that were ever so slightly damp to the touch, and watched the village drama unfold on the small screen.

  Five out of six beers and a couple more shows later and Rich was pleasantly drunk and overcome with fatigue. He staggered to use the bathroom, wishing he could brush his teeth. His breath would fell cattle in the morning. He stripped down to his boxer shorts and t-shirt and climbed into the bed. When he turned out the light, the room plunged into pitch darkness, the heavy curtains almost entirely blocking the watery glow of the streetlight and motel sign outside. It was wholly quiet. Alcohol helped sleep overcome him in no time.

  He walked along a dark street, gentle rain misting the air. Shadows moved across a green area where a swing set creaked, the seats penduluming with no one on them. A dog barked and a man with no nose leaned in close and whispered something. His breath reeked of fish but his words were unclear.

  “What did you say?”

  The noseless man spoke again, his voice a stinking hiss, the words still unintelligible.

  “I don’t understand!”

  A dog barked again, something cold and slippery pressed up into his palm. Why was the dog slimy? He looked down but there was no dog. The noseless man had gone. No one at all shared the street with him, all the buildings along one side were dark, the park on the other side empty. The swings went back and forth, back and forth, creaking. The rain became heavier, it hissed like the noseless man’s voice. A bell rang, repeatedly like a ship rocking on a rough sea, its brass clanging against the mast. He slipped and looked down to see slick seaweed underfoot, black and greasy. It smelled like rotten flesh and stuck to his shoes. The rain became heavier, soaking him, plastering his hair flat. He looked up and saw the ocean roiling, waves tumbling over each other, spray carried on a strong wind that blew the rain into his face. He turned and there was nothing but ocean and beach, littered with rotten weed, and seemingly endless bush behind. Tall gum trees, twisted banksia, thick undergrowth. He tried to move along the beach but slipped and slid on the fetid weed. He went down, landing heavily on his hands and knees. The stink of rotten flesh grew stronger as wetness splashed up into his face. He cried out, staggered to his feet, hands slicked with foul blackness that dripped from his fingertips. The smell made him gag and he turned, saw something huge rise and shift far back in the trees. It seemed to unfurl, arching up above the tree line like a whale’s back in the ocean, then sank away again out of sight. He turned a full circle, nothing but a rocky beach rising into high cliffs at either end, the impenetrable bush behind. “Where am I?” he yelled, but his voice came out like a seal’s bark, whipped away by the wind, lost in the rain and sea spray. Thick black clouds hung low and pendulous over the water, a deep crimson glow across the far distance like a giant wound in the sky. Things with wavering limbs tumbled from clouds, splashing into the waves, from nearby to far away on the horizon.

  “Got to be home,” a voice said. The noseless man stood there, looking up at him from under the brim of his trilby hat. His dog ran and jumped in the waves, barking at the falling creatures. “Got to be home!” the man said again, urgency in his voice. “I want to go home!” he suddenly yelled up at the night sky.

  Rich jerked awake in the motel bed, heart racing, gasping like he’d sprinted a mile.

  “Fuck me dead,” he muttered, trembles setting in throughout his body. He was damp with sweat, the sheets clinging to him. A desperate urge to piss became suddenly evident and he lurched up.

  As he came back from the bathroom, the dream fading, he saw a weak orange light behind the microwave. He frowned. That hadn’t been there when he went to bed, he remembered noticing how dark it was. His head was thick with the beer, that halfway state between still drunk and the possibility of a hangover. He went back to the bathroom and downed a tumbler of water. Then another. He came back and the light was still there, a soft glow. He moved nearer, leaned over the microwave to see, wondering if perhaps some light had activated on the back of the thing. Maybe he could unplug it.

  The light came through a small hole in the wall, a centimetre or so in diameter. Did that mean there was something in the wall or someone in the room next door? Rich stared for a moment, then curiosity overcame him. He pulled the plug out and lifted the microwave aside as quietly as he could, placed it gently on the floor. Then he crouched to peek through. There was a corner of white linen obscuring about a third of the hole. He realised that was a pillow on the bed next door. A similar bar fridge with a microwave on it sat against the far wall, the entire room an exact replica of his. He assumed all the rooms were largely identical. A man walked past the end of the bed and Rich startled backwards, then slowly looked again. The man headed to bathroom, a tap ran, the clink of a glass, sounds of drinking. The walls were thin, sound carried clearly. The man returned and sat heavily on the end of the bed. He was not especially tall, but he was broad, a blue King Gee work shirt stretched taut across his back and rounded shoulders. He sat there, elbows on his knees, unmoving. Was he waiting for something?

  Rich crept back to his bedside table and checked his phone. 2.10 a.m. Maybe the man had just got off a long shift and was doing that thing where the mind flatlines and you have to sit motionless, too tired to even go to bed. He wished the man well and started to climb back into bed when car tyres scrunched on the gravel of the drive outside and a bead of light briefly lit the edge of his curtains, then winked out. Car doors opened and slammed, several footsteps sounded, then the door to the next room opened and shut. Muffled voices came through the thin walls, talking low and somehow menacing. Then one cut through, louder, panicked.

  “I wouldn’t, Mr Carter! You know I wouldn’t!”

  There was a sharp slap and Rich immediately saw an open palm meeting a cheek in his mind’s eye. That sound couldn’t be anything else.

  Go to bed, Rich, he told himself. Leave the light off, get into bed, ignore everything.

  “Mr Carter, please!” Another slap, this one meatier followed by a rush of exhalation. Gasping sobs, more menacing voices, too muffled by the walls to make out clearly.

  Despite himself, Rich crept forward on hands and knees, then straightened enough to lean against the fridge and look through the small hole.

  “Get a chair for Daniel, please, Stephen.”

  The broad man in the King Gee dragged out the chair from under the desk and a young man, surely not older than 20, was sat heavily into it. He had shoulder-length dark hair and wild eyes, his cheeks wet with tears. He looked up in terror at someone Rich couldn’t see.

  “Mr Carter, please!”

  “Please what, Daniel?”

  The man moved into view. He was probably somewhere in his late-forties, maybe fifty, heavyset, but not bulky, black hair slicked back like a 50s rocker. He wore jeans and a black shirt with mother-of-pearl press stud buttons and metal tips on the collar. His face was hard, icy blue eyes over a lantern jaw. He held an old, stained Akubra in one hand. He leaned down to stare hard at Daniel.

  “Please what?” he asked again.

  “Please don’t hurt me, Mr Carter, I done nothing wrong, I promise.”

  “That so? Then why were you seen drinking with the Stinson
brothers?”

  Stephen pulled the young man’s arms back and used zip ties around his wrists, securing them behind the chair. Are they going to rough him up? Rich wondered. I shouldn’t watch. Go to bed. But he kept looking.

  “Not drinking with them, Mr Carter. Same pub is all. I don’t usually go in the Vic, but Sal wanted a steak and says Clooney’s steaks are shithouse and insisted on the Vic and I thought it meant no harm so said yeah. We had dinner there and the Stinsons was in there, yeah, sure, they were, and I said hello, of course I did. Just courtesy. But I wasn’t with them, not drinking with them.”

  “But you stayed after your steak, didn’t you? You and Sal.”

  “Yeah, a little while, had a couple more beers, usual thing, you know same as Clooney’s only Sal insisted on the Vic this time.”

  “You’re beginning to repeat yourself, mate.”

  Daniel dragged in a ragged breath, staring up at Mr Carter, seemingly lost for words. Carter stared back. Stephen moved around the other side of Daniel’s chair and Rich saw his face. Eyes too wide apart, broken nose, flattened like a career boxer’s, dark stubble up almost under his eyes. He lifted the King Gee work shirt and unbuckled his belt. Daniel became suddenly aware of his presence and turned to look as the big man slid his belt from the loops on his waistband.

  Carter grabbed Daniel’s chin, twisted his face back, his fingertips making white circles, he was gripping so hard. “Never mind Stephen, son.”

  Rich grimaced, swallowing hard. What was Stephen going to do? Rich leaned back, started to turn away, but couldn’t tear his eyes from the scene. He slowly drifted close again as Carter said, “Those Stinson cunts have cost me dear, more than once. You know that.”

  “I do, Mr Carter, of course–”

  “Shut the fuck up. The thing is, I have reason not to trust you. I haven’t forgotten New Year’s before last. No, I said shut the fuck up, we’re not talking about that now, I’m simply illustrating a point. I wanted to trust you, Daniel, I really did. You seemed to be doing so well. Then you’re drinking with the fucking Stinsons in the Vic like you’re a wet-behind-the-ears fucking teenager. You should know better.”

  “I wasn’t drinking with them, Mr. Carter, just in the same pub. I told Sal we shouldn’t but she kept on about the Clooney’s steaks being crap.”

  “I suggest you stop bad-mouthing Clooney’s, Daniel.”

  The steak was pretty good, Rich thought absently. Maybe this Sal wanted to get Daniel into trouble. He half-smiled. This was better than the British cosy mystery he’d watched earlier. Was that big fella, Stephen, going to whip Daniel with his belt?

  Carter put his hat on the desk and pulled out a knife. Daniel stiffened. All good humour drained from Rich in an icy torrent. Stephen stepped behind the chair and his belt went over Daniel’s forehead. He pulled it taut above Daniel’s eyebrows and hauled back, the young man’s head pressed into Stephen’s large but incredibly solid-looking belly.

  “I suggest you hold very still,” Carter said, leaning forward.

  “No, no, no, please, Mr Carter!”

  The knife had a 10cm or so blade, sharpened on one side, and a bright green plastic handle.

  “I said hold still!”

  Carter put his free hand to Daniel’s throat and squeezed. Daniel gasped and gagged, eyes bugging. Carter put the point of the knife to Daniel’s left eye, just below the brow, and drove it in. Bile shot up into Rich’s throat, sour, as he watched. Daniel screamed, high and shrill. Carter dug with the knife, his expression one of concentration as blood sluiced down Daniel’s cheek. He thrashed and writhed in the chair, heels drumming against the tiled floor, as Carter drew the knife around, the young man’s head the only still part of him, locked into place as it was, his arms secured to the back of the chair.

  Carter popped Daniel’s eye out onto the palm of his hand, released the young man’s throat, and stood up, smiling. Stephen stepped back, began threading his belt back into his waistband. Daniel wailed, whipping his head left and right as blood poured from his ruined eye socket.

  “Let’s have a look then,” Carter said.

  With Daniel’s eyeball resting on one palm, he handed the knife to Stephen and then stuck the thumb of his free hand into Daniel’s empty, gore-soaked socket. As Daniel screamed, Carter tossed the young man’s eye into his mouth. He tipped his head back, chewing, swilling the contents around his mouth like a sommelier experiencing a particularly decent vintage. Daniel howled, Stephen held his head steady with one meaty palm, Carter’s thumb buried to the second knuckle. Rich shook all over, his skin wet and cold with sweat, bile burning his throat, threatening to burst forth.

  “I see,” Carter said, slurred slightly by his mouthful. Jelly leaked over his bottom lip. His head was still tipped back, eyes closed, thumb shifting about in Daniel’s face. “You went out into the courtyard for a cigarette and that’s where you had your conversation. A shame there’s no sound with this show, eh? But I see it all. I see you taking the money from Craig Stinson.” He shifted the chewed eye in his mouth, sucking it back and forth across his front teeth. “I see the younger Stinson cunt, William. What’s he giving you there, eh? Wrapped up pretty well, isn’t it. Looks interesting, Daniel. Very interesting.”

  Carter smacked his lips and swallowed, opened his eyes to look down at the bloody-faced youth. He pulled his thumb free with a wet slurp. “What was in the parcel, Daniel?”

  Daniel shuddered and tipped sideways, taking the chair over with him.

  “Out cold,” Carter said. “Not to worry, we’ll bring him to the farm anyway. I’ll put him in the car.” He turned and pointed straight at Rich. “You go and get that one.”

  Rich stumbled back from the hole with a gasp, heart hammering. He turned to one side and vomited, but was already up and moving, the puke catching along his arm and left foot. He grabbed his cargo pants off the back of the chair. An identical chair to the one he’d just watched Daniel tortured in. Surely that fucking guy couldn’t see what Daniel had seen, what the fuck? Doesn’t matter, pants on, grab the phone and fucking run!

  He got both legs into his pants and snatched his phone off the bedside table. He jammed it into his pocket as his unit door crashed inwards, splitting right through the middle and breaking in half. The top half swung hectically from a bent hinge.

  “Fuck!” Rich yelled.

  The big silhouette of Stephen filled the doorway. He was a similar height to Rich, but twice as wide. Rich turned, ran to the back of the room, but it was just a wall. He pushed into the bathroom. There was a tiny window with sliding panes of frosted glass. He wasn’t sure he could fit through, but he was going to try. He stood up on the toilet and hauled back a fist to punch the window out, heedless of any cuts he might get, but Stephen was already there. One thick arm went around Rich’s waist and pulled him back.

  Rich slammed left and right with his elbows and fists, fighting like a man possessed. Every glancing blow he got to Stephen’s blocky head was like hitting a rock. Stephen planted him on his feet, spun him around, and slapped him hard across the face. Blackness whined in from the edges of Rich’s vision, stars sparkled all around. The world tilted sideways as Stephen picked him up. He tried to struggle, but his body was loose, unresponsive. His head throbbed. He smelled oil and dirt a moment before something hard slammed into him and he realised he’d been thrown into the boot of a car. The lid slammed down, plunging him into darkness.

  George twisted around in the front seat of the truck cab, trying to align his dick with the neck of the two-litre plastic bottle. Why did something so simple in principle prove to be so difficult in practice? He’d put it off as long as possible, but the need was too great to ignore any longer. He finally managed to get things lined up, using the wrist of the hand holding his dick to press his gut out of the way so he could see the bottle he held in the other hand. It took a few seconds to relax enough for the flow to start and his knob immediately skipped in his hand as it did so, the firehose stream of piss shoo
ting right over the neck of the bottle and soaking hand, his pants leg, the floor of the cab.

  “Fucken shit and fucken!”

  He clamped tight inside, wincing as he held back the flow. With an incoherent curse, he unlocked and opened the door and half fell out to the cement below, damp trousers around his ankles. Regardless of spying eyes, he turned his back to the road and pissed with abandon, head tipped back, sighing as he painted the road of the loading dock.

  When he finished, relief a warm glow through his abdomen, he pulled his pants back up. They were wet, but not as soaked as he’d feared, mainly one patch the size of his palm. He looked into the truck and the puddle on the vinyl matting was already spreading out and he decided to ignore that. He held up his wet hand and looked at it. There should be a service tap somewhere around, but he couldn’t see one. And he wasn’t about to go searching around in the dark. He already felt vulnerable, simply being out of the cab. He had some baby wipes in the glove box and he climbed back in, found them, wiped his hands, had a half-arsed go at the floor, then threw the handful of wipes out the window.

  Once everything was closed and locked up again, he felt secure once more. His watch said two-forty a.m. and he was fairly sure he was yet to sleep a wink. Fatigue hung off him like weights, though, and perhaps if he lay down again... At least he wasn’t busting for a piss any more.

  He had a bad feeling about the kid, imagined Rich somewhere out there in The Gulp. Where was he? What was he doing? George didn’t hold much truck with psychics or any of that malarkey, but he felt deep in his gut that something was wrong.

  He curled on his side across the seats and dragged the coat back over himself, praying for unconsciousness until dawn.

  Rich blinked as the boot was opened, a porch light of some kind directly above him. His head swam. Stephen reached in, grabbed his upper arm in an iron grip and hauled him out. The man’s strength was insane, made Rich feel like a child.