by Alan Baxter
“Went out where?”
“I don’t fucken know, mate. I’m not a cop.”
“What?”
The woman hauled herself up out of the chair and staggered off towards the front door. She let herself out. Patrick turned back to the others in the room and they were all getting up, some casting suspicious glances his way.
“Do any of you know where the band went?” Patrick asked. “Or my friends? Ciara, Torsten and Simone?”
“What are you, their fucken dad?” one tall, long-haired young dude asked. He laughed and left the house.
The others followed and in moments Patrick stood alone in the lounge room, surrounded by the litter of the night before. Bottles and glasses, ashtrays with spliff butts, someone’s shoes. Who had left without their shoes?
Patrick turned a slow circle. Alone in the house. His gaze drifted upwards. Well, not entirely alone...
The man who made me, shall we say.
Patrick began to tremble as thoughts that had been orbiting his mind at a distance began to coalesce. He remembered one of his favourite films, The Lost Boys. Grandpa, right at the end, casually taking a drink from the refrigerator. One thing about living in Santa Carla I never could stomach: all the damn vampires.
Blind Eye Moon weren’t vampires, not exactly, but they were something similar, weren’t they? A week ago, Patrick would have scoffed at the idea, but the things he’d seen the last few days, the realisations he’d made. And they protected that old man upstairs.
The man who made me, shall we say.
Patrick could end all this, if that old man did hold the key to the power the band wielded. Ciara had said she’d talk in the morning with Torsten and Simone and they would leave. So where was she? She’d gone out with the band instead. Didn’t even wake him to invite him along. She’d said they would talk. She didn’t mean it, or didn’t remember. Either way, Edgar and his friends had a hold over her.
Patrick realised he was already heading towards the stairs. He stopped and went to the kitchen instead. He took the biggest carving knife from the wooden block by the stove and returned to the stairs, went up and headed along the hallway. His hand shook as it fell on the door handle but he clenched his teeth and pushed on. It was insane, but he had made a decision. Everything about this was insane. Even the fact that a band as good as Blind Eye Moon would play shitbox gigs like Monkton. From the moment they had struck those first chords, they had been putting spells on Patrick and his friends. But he saw through them. And he had a way out.
He mounted the narrow staircase leading up to the attic, breathing hard through his nose. Though his hands shook, his grip on the knife was unbreakable. The attic was lit from the large window at the end, the old man a collection of sticks under the covers of his bed. Bram, Patrick remembered. Edgar had called him Bram. Patrick braced himself, crept forward. He didn’t know what kind of strength to expect, but thought if he moved fast enough, it wouldn’t be an issue.
He was halfway across the large space when the old man stirred, turned to sit up. “Edgar? That you, boy?”
Bram was skeletally thin, long white hair in greasy tails around his skull-like head. His eyes were dark pools, those same black filament capillaries lost in the wrinkles of his cadaver-pale skin. His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils clouded over, but red like the band. In his shock before, Patrick hadn’t taken much in, beyond that flash of recognition. Now he saw it was indeed the man from the portrait, but so much older. He’d seemed elderly in the painting, now he was ancient.
Bram squinted as the covers fell from his bony shoulders. He wore stripy pyjamas. As Patrick got within a few metres, Bram said, “You again?”
The old man’s eyes widened and he hissed, opening his mouth wide to reveal half a dozen blackened teeth in red and bleeding gums. He lifted clawed hands up like he was about to cast a spell even as he surged from the bed with unnatural speed and agility. Patrick felt a harsh dragging on his chest. He remembered the dream when the creature had seemed to draw something out of him. He imagined the band drawing from his friends like that every night.
Let’s feed.
His breath left him and his vision blurred at the edges, like he was about to pass out. Bram continued to hiss, striding towards him, eyes flickering with red light like a fire burned in them.
Patrick hauled the knife up and it thunked into the old man’s toast rack chest as the distance between them closed. Bram coughed and wailed a high, thin sound. The sensation of drag eased so suddenly that Patrick nearly fell. He drove forward, pushed the old man back onto the bed. He pulled the knife out and slammed it down again. And again. Something warm spattered his face and the bed clothes blossomed with red stains. Bram’s pyjama top was soaked, the blood dark crimson, and he collapsed back.
The thin, keening wail faded and the old man lay still, head tipped back, red eyes staring sightlessly at the headboard. His mouth remained open in a silent scream.
Patrick staggered back, leaving the knife sticking up from Bram’s chest. He looked at his hands, saw them soaked in blood. “I did it!” he laughed, a thrill rushing through him. “I fucking did it!”
He staggered through the curtain into the old man’s bathroom and turned the taps on, washed his hands in the sink. A small mirror hung from the sloping roof above and he saw a scarlet spray of freckles across his face, even over his lips. He gagged and washed his face, again and again. Eventually he felt clean and thought for a moment he might vomit but swallowed it down.
Had Edgar and his friends just crumbled to dust out there in The Gulp, wherever they’d gone? Or had they lost their powers and aged in an instant. Were they older than they looked or not? Edgar had said something about them being around a long time. Patrick grinned. What did it matter? He had destroyed the man who made them. He needed to find his friends. They’d listen now, and they could leave.
He went back into his room thinking about how much other stuff he could take and decided to let his friends decide. They could pack if they wanted, or simply go. He had the most important stuff for himself and Ciara.
He went downstairs, headed for the kitchen and fixed himself a feed. An hour later he began to wonder if he should go out and look for Ciara, but The Gulp was a fairly big town. He could easily miss her. She would have to come back to the Manor at some point. If Edgar and the others had come to some horrible grief when old Bram had died, perhaps Ciara, Torsten and Simone had run into problems. If only their damn phones worked in this gods forsaken corner of Australia. Then again, Ciara’s phone was in the bag at his waist.
What if he was too late? What if Edgar had taken his friends somewhere and done away with them?
The days were short and it began to get dark a little after five. Patrick was beside himself with nerves, alone in the big house for hours, mind churning with possibilities. Just before six he heard voices outside. He jumped up and ran into the hall as the front door opened. The first person he saw was Edgar, looking hale and hearty. Behind him were his bandmates, and Ciara, and Torsten and Simone. His girlfriend and the Germans all looked thinner and paler than ever. He was reminded of his uncle, who had died from cancer in his fifties. The poor bastard had looked like Ciara looked now only days before his death. Patrick suddenly wished he still had the knife.
“We have to leave, right now!” he said.
Ciara frowned at him, again with the pitying look. Edgar half-smiled. “What have you done, Patrick?”
Patrick stood trembling as the group came into the hallway and Howard closed the front door.
“Where have you all been?” Patrick managed at last.
“Just into town, showing these guys around,” Shirley said.
“We saw the museum,” Ciara said. “Patrick, what is wrong with you?”
Edgar began to chuckle, shaking his head. He turned slightly, looked up the stairs, then back at Patrick. “You fucken killed him?”
Shirley, Howard and Clarke all seemed to still a moment, eyes turning up, then they lo
oked back at Patrick too, all smiling. They were all healthy, all completely unbothered.
“Killed?” Ciara said, looking from Patrick to Edgar and back again. “Killed who?”
“You killed Bram?” Edgar said with a laugh. “Wow, fuck me dead, you mad bastard!”
“Fuck you!” Patrick shouted. “Ciara, we have to go!”
“The fuck is wrong with you, dude?” Edgar said, still laughing. “You murdered an old man!”
Patrick shook his head, felt tears sting his eyes.
“He was so old,” Shirley said. “Too old to even feed any more. Couldn’t hold himself together in the dreams, but he was happy up there.”
“He liked his books,” Clarke said. “You fucking dickhead. What did you think that would achieve?”
“Patrick, did you really?” Ciara asked. Her face showed her dismay, despite her obvious weakness.
How was Patrick the bad guy in all this? He didn’t understand. What should he do? “Ciara, please, leave with me now! Torsten, Simone, you too, yeah?”
“Your friends are feeding us well, every night,” Edgar said. “There’s a bit left in them still. A few more nightmares.”
“You see!” Patrick said, triumph in his tone. But Ciara didn’t react, like she hadn’t even heard what Edgar had said.
“Hey, we can finally convert the attic in to a practice space,” Howard said. “No more rehearsals in the cold garage.”
Edgar laughed. “Good point.”
Patrick snapped. He ran over, grabbed Ciara’s arm and tried to drag her back to the front door. He had the bumbags, all they needed.
She cried out, managed to shake him off, though she staggered with the effort. “Get off me, Pat! What is wrong with you?”
“Ciara, please, I love you. It’s not safe here!”
She shook her head, those pitying eyes again. “You’re so weak. Why did you have to be weak about this?”
“What?”
“What they give us, Patrick. You could have it too.”
He was incredulous. “They’re not giving you anything. They’re taking everything from you. Didn’t you hear him? There’s a bit left in them still, he just said. A few more nightmares. They’re going to kill you soon.”
“Oh, Pat. I really wish you’d been stronger about this.” She stepped back from him, reached out and Howard took her hand. “I’m staying. For the same reason as Simone.”
“What?” He felt numb, and stupid, saying the same word over and over.
“I’m fucking Howard, Patrick. He’s good! You go to bed early like a child every night and Howard is still here. And Torsten is with Shirley. It’s worked out really well. For us anyway. We’re staying, Pat.”
“Ciara!” His stomach roared, bile rose in his throat. “I want to marry you! I was going to ask you, after... When we got back home.”
She laughed and leaned into Howard. “It’s too late, Pat.”
“Too late for them,” Edgar said. “But remember what I told you? Sometimes The Gulp spits one out, mate.”
“You’re going to die!” Patrick shouted, staring hard at Ciara, trying to make her understand. “And you two are as well!” he said to Torsten and Simone. “Any day now, you’ll be dead and these fucking freaks, these monsters, they’ll probably bring other people home from their next gig. Fuck them and feed on them too.”
Edgar grinned, nodded enthusiastically. Ciara, Torsten and Simone seemed oblivious, just stared blankly back at him like he was speaking a language they couldn’t understand.
Patrick choked back a sob. He took off Ciara’s bag and threw it at her, and then he ran. He pushed out the front door, scrabbling in the bag still at his waist as he went for the campervan keys. He climbed in and it started on the first try. The tyres skidded on the gravel, then he was driving hard down the hill, away from the Manor. He turned left, past the bright white and green Woolworths supermarket, and onto the dark and straight Gulpepper Road.
What the hell would he tell people? That he and Ciara had a fight? They broke up? He last saw her in Monkton with their German friends after a gig? He knew damn well there was no point in trying to tell anything like the truth. No point in trying to send authorities into Gulpepper.
His vision blurred with tears as he drove. He reached the T-junction and turned right towards Enden. He sobbed, gripped the wheel hard, and didn’t dare look in the mirror again, planning to drive all night.
48 To Go
Blind Eye Moon pounded from a JBL Bluetooth speaker as Dace Claringbold guided the small boat through darkness close to shore. He threw a grin at Sasha in the passenger chair beside him, feeling good. She smiled back, long brown hair streaming in the wind, nodding subtly with the music.
“Hey, wanna stop for a spliff?” Dace said, loud enough to be heard over the music and the wind.
“Stop?”
“Sure. It’s relaxing out here, especially at night. No one around. We’re about halfway to Enden, the whole trip takes less than forty minutes. Got plenty of time.”
She shrugged. “Sure, why not? Didn’t know you had any weed.”
“I’ve always got weed.”
He hoped that was cool in Sasha’s eyes, not lame. Her smile stayed put, so he figured she was into it. He throttled off until they were drifting, then killed the engine. The large outboard dropped into silence and Blind Eye Moon was suddenly beltingly loud as they bobbed gently in the night. He grabbed his phone from beside the wheel and tapped it down a few notches. Still loud, but not so much they’d have to shout over it. BEM needed to be loud, after all. He couldn’t wait for the gig later that night. The spring evening was mild and clear, not yet the close heat of summer, but warm enough so they were comfortable in t-shirts.
He swivelled in the driver’s seat to better face her and pulled out the leather pouch he kept his tobacco, papers, and weed in, and began to roll one up.
“I can’t believe you have this sweet boat,” Sasha said.
I can’t believe you finally agreed to go out with me, after I told you this was mine, Dace thought, but didn’t say it. It wasn’t his, after all. But he would get laid before admitting that. He had the use of it whenever he needed, one of the perks of the job, so it amounted to pretty much the same thing.
“Almost brand new Quintrex 530 Cruiseabout,” he said instead. “Got an upgraded 115 horse power Evinrude Etec on the back there. Not too shabby.” He grinned and licked the oversized cigarette paper, stuck it down. He turned the joint and lit it, took a big draw and held it in.
“You have to deliver something before the gig, you said?”
Dace blew out a plume of smoke towards the stars and nodded. He took another draw, then handed Sasha the joint. This was fine weed. He blew out again, then said, “We’ll be met at the wharf in Enden. Once we’ve given over the box we can head into town. Easy as. Get a couple of drinks in before the gig, yeah?”
“Sounds good.” She coughed slightly, grinned sheepishly, but took another toke. “What’s in the box?”
Dace waved a hand. “It’s just work stuff.”
“On a Friday night?”
“Yep.”
He wasn’t about to tell her any more than that and she seemed happy to let it go. Preferable all around, really. At least until he knew her better. He thought about leaning in for a kiss but didn’t want to push things too fast. The boat moved slightly with the current and they were turned to face the cliffs. Tumbled sandstone, striped like cake, led up to thick bush on top. As the weed kicked in, they both leaned back in their seats, mellowed with it. The myriad stars above the silhouetted gum trees made for a stunning outlook, the wide sweep of the Milky Way a river of distant diamonds.
Dace took the joint back from Sasha. Something in the bush high above them moved. He paused, halfway through inhaling, and watched as a dark shadow rose briefly higher than the treetops. It was curved, lumpy. It reminded him of a whale breaching the surface of the ocean, that slick curve of massive beast briefly rising then sinking away.
Except this was on a cliff top. And the trees had to be at least ten metres high up there, maybe more.
“You see that?”
Sasha looked at him. “See what?”
He pointed with the spliff. “Watch, up there. Dead ahead of us. Something huge moved in the bush.”
Sasha frowned. “You’re stoned, man.”
“Yeah, that’s true. But I definitely saw something.”
They both stared at the high vegetation, passing the joint back and forth. But saw nothing more.
“I definitely saw something,” Dace said at last, annoyed.
Sasha laughed softly. “I believe it. There is weird shit in the bush around here. Wouldn’t get me in there for quids. I stay on the road every time, and never stop the car.”
“I hear that.”
“Better yet, we do this. Going by boat to Enden is way smarter.”
“No chance of some kingshit cop in town trying to RBT you either.”
“You heard the McFarland story?” Sasha asked.
Dace laughed. “Everyone knows the McFarlands. Weird fuckers.”
“Weird even by Gulp standards, yeah. But you know the story about their land?”
“I guess not. What about it?”
“They have over a hundred acres out on the Gulp Road, yeah? South side. Theirs is the last property before it’s thick bush all the way to the Enden-Monkton Road.”
Dace took the joint. It was getting short, hot. “Yeah.”
“One of the earliest farms, cleared and settled by John McFarland’s great-great-grandad. It’s been there over a hundred years, ticking along. So back before the McFarland kids were born, John McFarland inherited the farm from his dad. He’d always said they should expand, but his dad said no way. My dad and John McFarland are mates, right, which is how I know all this. Now apparently, McFarland wanted to clear more land, but his dad always said they should never disturb what was out there, beyond the creek.” Sasha smacked her lips. “My mouth is dry as Gandhi’s sandal. Got a drink?”
Dace handed her a plastic water bottle he had in a cup holder by the steering wheel. He always came prepared. He was enjoying her stoned rambling. “What’s out beyond the creek?” he asked.
