

Evil in the City

Author Reece Pocock

Text Copyright © 2016 Reece Pocock

# All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing Reece Pocock, the author.

More books written by Reece Pocock for you to enjoy

Love and War, Refugee, The Killing Men.

And Children's book, Sarah Loves Ice Cream.

#

# The Girl in the Red Beret

Winner of the Burnside Library short story contest.

My office in the Deputy Public Prosecutor's Department has a large window through which I like to stare. I imagine it's my flat window where the girl in the red beret walks past every morning. But, today was different; I had a premonition of danger.

My secretary entered. 'Mister Whybrow, your father's on line two. Detective Sergeant Raven is waiting to see you.'

The last person I wanted to talk to was Quinten Whybrow QC. I'd avoided him ever since he'd refused to employ me at Whybrow, Hart, and Hunt. My father told me, nine years ago that I didn't cut the mustard, I was too timid, and I wasn't forceful enough.

'Put my father through and send Raven in after the call,' I said, 'Father!'

'James, your mother wants you to come to dinner Saturday night; we've invited a few colleagues and their ladies.'

His defence lawyer cronies would make it a dreary evening for the only prosecutor in the room, me! Furthermore, he did say my mother wanted me to come; it followed my father didn't.

'No thanks, Father, things to do.'

'Like what, sitting in your bloody flat daydreaming.'

'I'm busy, Father, work-related.'

'On another matter, my partners suggested it might be time for you to join the family firm.'

I never wanted to work for Quinten Whybrow. He made it clear his partners, and not he wanted me.

'Heard you've been aggressive in court. Are your troubles back?' He continued. My troubles, I felt like yelling, I wouldn't have had any troubles if you hadn't ridiculed my achievements.

Bitter experience told me not to put myself through an argument with Quinten Whybrow QC. 'No, Father, I'm happy here, I'll talk to you later. Someone's here to see me,' I said to escape.

The door opened, and Detective Sergeant Harry Raven entered. The murder of four attractive women would be what he wanted to discuss with me. He'd arrested a man, but the charges wouldn't stick.

'Let him go, Harry,' I said. 'His alibi stands up.'

'Yeah,' said Harry, 'Pity. The superintendent's involved and wants to know when we'll arrest the killer.'

'Where to, now?' I inquired.

'The murderer takes souvenirs from all the girls,' said Raven as he carefully arranged his bottom into my guest chair.

'What things?'

'Oh, brooches, rings, clothing. Anything that takes his fancy.'

'He's a collector—that's all you have?'

This was a new development, and I wondered if it could be a breakthrough.

''Afraid so. We need a break before he kills again.'

Harry left. The premonition of murder close to me would not go away. I shuddered.

Some innate compulsion forced me to stand at my flat window every morning to watch as a girl walked down the street. Nothing made me miss the moment, not even the phone going crazy. I was often late for work. I couldn't have cared less. I had to watch as she walked down a decline to disappear around the corner.

A few times, I watched at the end of her day's work. She trudged uphill, whereas, in the morning, she floated down the footpath to meet the day. It's a sight I thought about at work as well as alone in my flat.

I didn't even know the girl's name or where she worked. She answered all those age-old questions of what makes a woman beautiful. Ah! Now she's a woman. You see, I'm in a quandary of whether she's a girl or a woman; maybe on the cusp is more accurate. It's an indefinable point when girls become women. Not biologically or any mundane definition. This girl had zest and attitude as she confronted life head-on.

For women to be gorgeous, they should radiate inner confidence. Cosmetics or hairdos don't define it. It's the whole package. Skinny supermodels with flawless skin and made up eyes were not necessarily attractive. They don't radiate inner beauty. My girl had those qualities. Referring to her as the girl on the street has unfortunate connotations. She must have a name.

Last week, a perky red beret clung to the side of her head in a French style. Consequently, I named her Giselle. However, I later found out it's a German name meaning pledge or hostage. Too late—my girl would always be Giselle to me.

I watched the street through binoculars. Her beauty could stand scrutiny: long dark hair but not charcoal, but lighter with touches of brown; the only makeup red lipstick and light mascara.

She looked towards me; I put the binoculars away ashamed of myself.

I'd think about Giselle at inappropriate times. In court—I'd question a witness and completely forget what to ask. My mind watched my girl walk down the street. I'd think about how to approach and ask her to go out with me.

A few days ago, I positioned myself on the footpath. When Giselle approached, she ignored my smile. I kept walking. What I thought about saying sounded ridiculous? Back to watching her; how pathetic, like a lovesick boy without the courage to talk to a girl. Every fibre in my body wanted to be with Giselle. At the same time, afraid I would disappoint her. Still, I always had my window, my dreams, and above all, my imagination.

I'm not some sick pervert with inappropriate thoughts. I want to make love to Giselle but only with her enthusiastic agreement. The relationship still had a long way to go. Okay, there hasn't been a courtship because I didn't have enough courage to ask her out. Nevertheless, in my imagination, we're a couple.

I imagined we went on a date. In my BMW, I drove up to her front door on a sunny day. Giselle, wearing her red beret, almost skipped out carrying a picnic basket. She pecked my cheek and placed the basket in the back seat. We waved to her Mother and Father, who stood near their front door. Giselle kissed me on the cheek again.

'Where are we going?' she whispered in my ear.

'Botanical Gardens.'

'Didn't know you were interested in plants.'

'It's a nice park.'

The garden's huge trees laid a welcome shadow across the green clipped green grass. They kept the sun off Giselle's picnic lunch, spread out on a striped blanket. She offered me a plate of selected cold meats, salad, coleslaw, and dressing. It looked delicious. She poured me a glass of wine.

'This is amazing.' I said. 'You're a clever girl.'

Giselle beamed at me; I wanted to kiss her. She held the plate in front of her; my kiss landed on her cheek. My hand caressed the bare leg above her knee. I felt a shiver of desire and I thought about forcing her to have sex with me. Then I felt ashamed.

Giselle pushed my hand away, 'Now, now, James, don't be naughty,' she said.

My fantasy always ended there, bringing me back to reality. Even in my thoughts, I am pathetic.

Giselle had vitality and ran through life while I spent my days in dingy offices and courtrooms mixing with criminals, dull lawyers, and judges with little of interest to say. It's not surprising I watched her in the mornings and thought about her during the day.

I cursed myself, so shy and inadequate for not rushing onto the street to meet the girl of my dreams. But I didn't know what to talk about. I even looked up pick-up lines on the Internet. Is that the sun coming up—or is it you lighting up my life? Another one: my love for you is like the Universe—never ending. Ugh! They're false and would never work. Maybe they did, but I could never use them. Instead, I stared at Giselle, dreamt about her, and cursed myself at the same time.

I've thought I'd sit beside her on the bus. We could talk and walk down the hill together. I would have stuffed it up. So, back to the window, let my imagination take over. I was too afraid and scared to approach for fear of losing her.

Jack Jones stood in the doorway to the same block of flats where James Whybrow lived. He glanced up at the first floor flat of the big city prosecuting lawyer with his fancy BMW. The poor sod had no idea how to talk to women. Jack knew the lovesick idiot stood at his window and gazed at the girl. He hadn't made a move in months. It was too late for him. His opportunity had passed him by. It was his turn.

Jack waited for the red beret to appear up the hill. Her name was Giselle McKay. He'd learned her name when he followed her to work and asked the receptionist. He went to her house during the day. He told Giselle's mother, he was from the council and had to check the premises for white ants. The telephone rang, and Mrs McKay had to leave him alone in Giselle's bedroom. He went through her drawers and wardrobe. A girl's bedroom can tell you much about the person who lives there.

As Giselle approached, Jack made his move. He stepped onto the street and crossed. She drew closer and looked expectantly at him. Jack flashed a smile, 'Is this a public footpath, or do I need your permission to walk with you?'

Giselle looked away with the semblance of a smile. He dropped in beside her as they strolled for a short distance. 'Did you make the beret yourself?'

She shook her head.

'It suits you,' he continued. 'Bet it's a designer label. Sass and Bide, Country Road, Les Nerides.'

Her smile broadened into a laugh. 'Try Tarjay', she said, a giggle in her voice, meaning Target.

'No!'

'Twenty-four ninety-nine, it was on special.'

'Looks great on you.'

'You know a lot about fashion,' said Giselle.

'My name is Jack Jones. Saw you yesterday. I wanted to talk to you.' Jack and Giselle were now walking side by side.

'I don't bite.'

'Will you tell me your name?'

'Giselle McKay.'

'I'm a paralegal in a lawyer's office. Dull job, but someone has to do it,' explained Jack. 'I have to run after all the stuck-up lawyers.'

'I write a column for Single Girl magazine.'

'It's around the corner. What's the slogan? Single Girl the...

'Single Girl—the magazine for girls who don't want to be single.' She flashed Jack an encouraging smile.

'That's it. Do you want to be single?'

Giselle glanced at Jack. 'I write about discos and gigs and where to find good guys. Nothing exciting.'

'Have you found a good guy?'

'Looking, they're hard to find.' Jack almost sighed in relief. Giselle smiled. 'Where do you work?'

'Whybrow, Hart and Hunt, unless I can get a better job.'

Time to try it, Jack decided. 'Does your boss let you go out to lunch?'

Giselle gazed at him.

Late that night, Jack lay alongside Giselle in a double bed with just a sheet covering their naked bodies. He gazed at the curtains where he'd hidden a camera to record their sex and what he planned for afterwards. His lovemaking was vigorous, but Giselle sighed in appreciation. He dominated her.

Jack remembered when he was a child, Quinten Whybrow opening the door to his room with an erection and a jar of lubricant. Fear still coursed through Jack's body. He had to drive it away. Jack would never let anyone dominate him again.

He straddled Giselle, leant down and kissed her nipples. His hands found her neck; she struggled—the more, the better. All Jack's muscles were pumping; strength raced through his body. Now no-one would ever dominate him again. He was the dominator. Soon she lay still. He kissed Giselle's dead body. It was still warm.

Jack switched the camera off. He carried it into the bathroom and switched it on again. He ran a bath and checked the temperature. He carried the body into the bathroom and placed it in the bath water. Jack manipulated the removable showerhead into her vagina. He turned the water on full to flush her out. He shampooed the dead girl's hair with gentle strokes and soaped every part of her body with a sponge.

Jack entered the bath with the body fondling her breasts and every part of Giselle while cuddling and speaking to her as if she were still alive. Half an hour later, the water cooled, so he pulled the plug. He dried the body and himself with a towel. He dressed, sat Giselle on the floor, dried her hair with a dryer, and brushed it until it shone.

He retrieved Giselle's clothes and carefully dressed her.

'When they find you, you will be beautiful, like you've just stepped out of a salon,' he said. 'Your makeup and hair will be perfect; I won't let you down. Everyone will admire you. You'll be on television.'

Her eyes gaped. Jack pulled a length of tape off a dispenser and taped her eyes open, but she had a look of horror. It wouldn't do, so Jack massaged her mouth until she appeared to be smiling.

Over the next half an hour he prepared Giselle's body. He dressed, groomed himself until he felt satisfied, they both looked perfect. Then he flushed the used condom down the toilet and cleaned the hotel room, so no one would know they had been there. He removed a sheet from the bed, wrapped the body, and carried it into the deserted passage.

In the Botanical Gardens, Jack carried Giselle's body until he found a tree where she could face the sunrise. He taped a video camera to a tree to film Giselle and sat her against another tree. Now he arranged the body. He tied her head to the tree with a cord so that it wouldn't flop forward. However, her lips had formed a grimace. He massaged her lips until a smile returned.

The camera rolled with its inbuilt light while Jack walked in front smiling into the lens and shifting it to several positions for different views. Satisfied, he switched the camera off and walked back to the displayed body to check everything was perfect. Giselle's lips were grimacing again. He massaged them a second time and stood back. Now everything was perfect.

The cops would flounder around at this latest display; they were too dumb to figure it out. They would never catch him; he was elated. Even if they knew his name, he would hide in the best hiding place in the world. No one would ever find him. He laughed. He should thank James Whybrow but didn't think he'd bother.

Later, in his flat, Jack watched the tape of Giselle. He reached over, picked up his digital still camera and flicked through images until Quinten Whybrow's picture appeared.

'You're next. You'll never dominate me again, you sick paedophile,' he said. 'You don't scare me anymore. You should fear me. I'm going to cut you up so no-one will recognise you.'

The phone ringing in my flat woke me. I was surprised to be still in my clothes.

'James,' said Harry Raven. 'There's been another murder. A walker found her body tied to a tree in the Botanical Gardens. The victim is Giselle McKay. She was with a guy named Jack Jones. He doesn't have a driver's licence or credit cards. No birth certificate, nothing! It's like he doesn't exist.'

No, it couldn't be, not my Giselle, I made the name up, how could I guess it? No! If it was, how could anyone kill such a gorgeous creature?

It was time to look out the window. 'Keep me informed,' I said and hung up. I waited, but Giselle didn't arrive. I hung my head in my hands and sobbed. It took me at least five minutes to look up again. Every time I watched a girl through my window, someone murdered her. Then it hit me; I must know the murderer. Otherwise, why does he target the women I admire? No, that's paranoid, I decided. Forget it. It's a coincidence.

A beautiful blonde girl sauntered down the street. My melancholy mood vanished. I felt the urge to run out and talk to her, but it would be ridiculous—I had nothing to say.

I felt a bulky object in my coat pocket. I pulled out a red beret, the same as the one Giselle wore. I stared at it and wondered where it came from. I crossed to the drawer in the cupboard and pulled it open. It contained brooches, rings, jewellery, and items of women's clothing. The beret went in with them. Where did these things come from? They sounded like the list Harry Raven told me about, but they couldn't be. I felt dominant for a moment; I was choking Giselle. No—impossible. I'll figure it out one day.

The sun shone through the window. The blonde girl disappeared around the corner. Not to worry, I had plenty of time to watch her.

#

# What a Dirty Little Town

The day they sent me to prison, the handcuffs cut into my wrist as Sergeant Bull Revel pulled my arm and dumped me on the train seat. I looked up at him to object, but the revulsion in his eyes stopped me. A crowd had gathered on the Hunter River platform. I could feel hate emanating from them as if the air carried it like a disease. One man yelled, 'Get out of town, you bastard, and don't come back. I hope they hang you.'

My father watched from the crowd. His bewildered face made me feel I'd betrayed him.

'I didn't do it, Dad,' I yelled. Bull's fist slamming into my head shut me up.

How did I come to be in this predicament? Three words—stupidity, booze, and sex.

I'd slipped away from the dance with my mate, Ian Flynn. We sat in the park and drank six cans of beer each. I was drunk when Tiffany Saunders sauntered up to me.

'Hi Luke,' she said. I clung to her as I staggered along the river to the big oak tree. I glanced back at Ian; he'd rolled over and gone to sleep.

'Are you too drunk to do it?' she asked.

In answer, I grabbed her and kissed her. She lay down, hooked up her dress up and removed her underwear. Tiffany straddled me. Afterwards, I felt sick. I stumbled away and vomited under another tree and passed out. The next thing I remember, Bull Revel dragged me out and arrested me for Tiffany's murder.

At the Remand Centre in the city, they threw me in a cell with, Clint Yaris, who was awaiting trial for assault. My trial blurred from one day to another. The prosecutor told the court about my semen in Tiffany. Bull told how I was a known womaniser and would rape if I couldn't have my way. More lies became facts as witnesses filed in and out. The clincher came as Clint Yaris told the court; I had confessed to him, I killed Tiffany. The result—twenty-one years, with no parole for fifteen, I wondered what it took to make Clint lie. Whatever it was, it kept him out of jail. Unfortunately, I was never able to confront him. Someone murdered him two years later.

The train sped through the green countryside as I stared out the window at scenes, I hadn't seen for fifteen years. Oh, how I've dreamed of this moment. I was going home.

My fears surfaced when I neared Hunter River town. I wanted to jump off and disappear. But I had to confront the real killer and expose the town's dirty secrets. No yellow ribbon around the old oak tree would welcome me home. I had hated, schemed, and planned. The real culprit would pay. Despite my misgivings, I had to be ready for whatever the cops and the townspeople threw at me.

When the train pulled into the station, my resolve had returned. I was ready to take on this whole bloody town if I had to. I jumped onto the platform and hurried out the gate. My instructions were to report to the police station as soon as I arrived, but I needed time to think. I walked along the river bank. The sun was at its zenith. Light reflected off gum leaves on the way towards the lawns along the river. The river current dawdled as if it had no place to go. It set the mood for a slow, lazy day. I headed towards the oak tree where someone had killed Tiffany. I stared at the trunk. Maybe, some revelation would give me an insight into who murdered her.

'Luke Griffin returns to the crime scene,' said a voice.

I spun around and saw a cop in uniform. It took me a few moments to recognise him. He was stout and thin on top, but Ian Flynn, my best mate before I went to jail, gazed back at me. 'Been a few changes,' I said.

'The prison emailed us. You were supposed to report to the station.'

'I'm on the way. Never saw this tree after Tiff was killed. You blokes kept me locked up.' Ian didn't reply. 'You've come up in the world,' I said. 'They're sergeant's stripes? Where's old Bull Revel?'

'Retired,' answered Ian.

'This bloody tree saw what happened. If I stare at it long enough, maybe I can figure out who killed Tiff.'

'We know already.'

'No, you don't.'

'You're still carrying on. Give it up,' said Ian. 'Your old man needs you on the farm not back in bloody jail.'

I glared at the man who was my best mate all those years ago. He had known my innermost secrets. I wondered how he could think I was a murderer. 'Mate, you know I would never hurt, Tiff.' Ian shrugged and looked away. I gave up trying to convince him I wasn't the killer.

'How's my old man?'

'Still in the old place, doesn't he write to you?'

'Never written a letter in his life. He still hitting the booze?'

'Comes into town and picks up his whisky and takes it back to the farm. Since they took you away, I've kept my eye on him and helped him a few times. Doesn't stop him from farming, had a good crop of barley last year.'

'Christine Fisher still around?' I asked. Christine and I thought about marriage until we argued; before someone murdered Tiffany Saunders. She and I had been together for a month, right up until Bull Revel arrested me, but she never came to see me or contacted me in jail. I figured she wanted nothing to do with me.

'She's Christine Flynn now. We married about a year after the trial. We have three kids,' said Ian. I'd always thought Christine didn't like Ian. She told me he was a dork. She must have changed her mind.

'How is she?'

For a moment he sighed, I had the impression the marriage was in trouble, but he soon collected himself. 'Keep away from her. I don't want you to upset the apple cart. You were always chasing skirt.'

'Not a chance mate, all I want is to check on my old man and find out who killed Tiff.'

I filled in the forms at the police station and walked through the Hunter River town. Some people recognised me, but I kept going. New buildings were mixed in amongst the old ones as if the town planner was drunk. The cars parked at the curb were new models I'd never seen before. Music blared from a record shop. Several shops sold computers, and a new Woolworths' supermarket sat where a huge reserve once was. The car-park was almost full.

Our farm was five kilometres out of town. When I topped the rise and stared down at it, I felt a pang of regret at how the world had treated my Dad. My Mother had shot through soon after she had me. It had always been Dad and me, or should I say, Dad, me, and a bottle of booze. The townspeople reckoned when Mum left; Dad hit the bottle. Nevertheless, the run down and dilapidated farm still looked functional.

The farm gate consisted of three pieces of wire wound around steel posts. I climbed through and headed for the house. About twenty sheep grazed in the yard. Hundreds of empty bottles made the place untidy. Paint peeled off the house; rotten timber surrounded the veranda.

I knocked. No answer. I yelled, 'Dad, it's Luke.'

I pushed the door; it swung open; the lock was busted. I saw Dad slumped on the kitchen table; an empty whisky bottle lay on the floor. The room had dirty dishes and food scraps lying around. The floor looked as if it hadn't been washed for years. I shook him, no response. I carried him to his bed, removed his dirty clothes, and covered him.

I cleaned up the kitchen and a few rooms in the house, opened the refrigerator and understood what my absence had done to my father. Besides a carton of milk, it was filled with meat pies in plastic wrappers. My father lived on them. My stomach growled. It reminded me I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I took two pies and heated them in the oven. They were delicious, but I shuddered at the knowledge my father ate nothing else.

Nightfall came. I tidied the house and put the soiled sheets from my old bedroom in the washing machine. I heard a knock at the door.

Christine Flynn grinned at me in the open doorway. She wore a mini skirt, plus a thin shirt pressed against her breasts. She flew into my arms, and I felt dormant passions rise in me. Fifteen years is a long time without a woman's touch.

'I've missed you,' she whispered.

I led her to the kitchen. We sat at the table. From the look on her face, I had the impression she wasn't impressed with the messy house. 'You never wrote or came to see me,' I said.

She smiled and reached for my hand. 'Not my thing, Sweetheart.'

'Ian told me you two are married.'

'We are, Darling.'

'Why come here?'

'I will always want you, darling. It doesn't matter who I'm married to.'

She stood and pulled me to my feet. Her arms grabbed me tight, and her legs encircled me. I carried her to my bed. We crashed onto it. We ripped our clothes off. I felt as if I had arisen from the dead. My excitement boiled over as I touched her body and kissed her all over. But it finished too soon—I never wanted to stop. Sex after abstaining for fifteen years was a huge high. But I couldn't help feeling something was missing.

'You were sexy. You've been saving yourself for me for fifteen years. I wanted to be the first. I am the first, aren't I, darling?'

Her attitude disgusted me. It was the same stupid outlook she had before I went to jail. But, now, fifteen years older; I looked for more from a relationship than sex. Christine's still the same silly teenager she always was.

'Don't you dare fuck anybody else; Darling. You can have me anytime. I don't care about Ian.' She jumped off the bed and dressed. 'You screwed Tiffany and spent fifteen years in jail. You won't go to jail if you fuck me.'

She waved and walked out the door. I heard the front door slam. A car started.

The more I thought about Christine, the more I thought what a dirty little town Hunter River was. This town had a filthy secret. Who killed Tiffany Saunders? I felt soiled. Christine didn't care for me—the sex was to mark her territory. She was drawing me into this stinking town. But, I'll never be a part of their murderous tricks.

Next morning, my father stared at me in bed.

'How long you here?' he asked.

'Looks like you can use some help. The place is a pigsty.'

'Can't pay you much.'

'I qualified as an accountant in jail. Might get work in town.'

'Don't bet on it. The townies hate you. The farm accounts are a mess; you can start there.'

'Heard anything about who killed Tiffany?'

Dad sat on the bed and touched my arm. 'The townspeople clam up when I'm around.'

I swung my legs onto the floor. Dad's breath made me gag. 'You're still pissed!' I exclaimed. 'Booze will kill you.' He shrugged. 'We'll send the bottles to the salvage yard,' I said.

'Phone don't work. No one to talk to. Had it cut off,' said Dad.

'My motor-bike still in the shed?'

'Yeah, covered in rust. Be a miracle if it starts.

It took me four hours to clean the bike and make it work. I called at the salvage yard, and they agreed to collect the bottles.

At the police station, Ian greeted me. I put the expired disk from my motorbike together with my out of date licence on the counter. 'Can you renew these?'

'Did you ride the bike here?' asked Ian.

'Dad was pissed. I couldn't push the bloody motor-bike all the way.'

Ian shook his head in disgust but took the expired disk and licence. He handed them to a constable. 'Fix this up. The bike's outside; it will have to pass a roadworthy test.' He signalled for me to follow him to his office and closed the door.

'Christine told me she went to see you last night,' said Ian.

'Yeah, she did.'

Ian sighed. 'I suppose she came on to you? Don't worry; I'm used to it. I stick to her for the kids. Stay away from her.' I gazed at him in surprise. I'd fucked his wife; he seemed remarkably calm about it. He was accustomed to Christine's behaviour.

I changed the subject. 'Let me see the file on Tiffany's murder.'

'No way,' said Ian. He crossed to a filing cabinet and brought out a large folder marked Tiffany Saunders. 'I read it again. Old Bull didn't like you.'

'I didn't like him.'

'You liked his daughter.'

I nodded, 'Old bull sent her away.'

Ian showed me the front page. 'It's restricted. You can't see it.' He laid the file on his desk in front of me. 'I'd better check on your disk and licence; it could take me a while.'

Ian walked out of his office and locked the door behind him. I stared after him and tried to figure out what was on his mind. In the end, I couldn't. I opened the file. Sergeant Gregory Revel, everyone called him Bull because of his thick neck, had investigated the murder. It must be unusual for the local sergeant to be the chief investigator. The city homicide squad handled murder cases. I wondered how Bull arranged it. His reports were neat and thorough. I read them all. Bull's venom when he mentioned me surprised me.

I shouldn't have been surprised. Sheree, Bull's daughter, and I had the hots for each other. No, more than the hots—I loved her, and she loved me. We talked about marriage. Bull opposed it. He sent her away to the city to live with his sister. She never spoke to him again. I went to the city to look for her. Bull's sister told me she'd gone to Melbourne to get married and didn't want to see me. Bull's wife left him soon after; I guessed to join her daughter in Melbourne. Bull told me Sheree had met a good man. Not a loser like me. It was the only time he spoke to me about her. But, from the lies and half-truths he put in his reports, I could see he blamed me for the loss of his family.

The files told me nothing I didn't know. In frustration, I grabbed up the pile of papers and dropped them on the desk. A piece of paper fluttered out. I picked up a note, written in a bold cursive script: Bull, Charlie Walker, wants to see you. He reckons Luke Griffen didn't do it. This note wasn't supposed to be in the file. It must have stuck between the pages.

Charlie Walker, I remembered the kid. His father ran the saw-mill on the outskirts of town.

Charlie took me into his office and offered me a beer. 'I thought you were a prick,' he said. 'You had all the chicks.'

My reputation as a womaniser embarrassed me. Someone had been spreading rumours.

'You went to the cops about Tiff.'

'Old Bull told me to forget it. It had no bearing on the case.'

'What did you see?'

Charlie ran his hands through his hair and stroked his moustache. 'I wanted Tiff to be my girlfriend. I followed her when she left the dance. I saw you two banging away. When you finished, you threw up and left her sitting under the tree.'

'I flaked out,' I said.

'I watched her for a while; she was upset. You were too pissed to be the great lover. I saw a shadow in the trees; someone else was watching you. I decided to approach but stopped when the person went up to Tiff. They argued. It was Christine Fisher. You know she's married to a cop. That's when I left.'

I wasn't surprised; it explained her unusual behaviour the night before. What stuck in my guts was Old Bull had known who killed Tiffany all along. He suppressed the evidence. It would have been easy for Christine to make the murder scene look like a rape. Christine could get angry. She saw us having sex and worked out how to punish us both.

Charlie agreed to travel to Adelaide and tell the cops what he had told me. I thought it would be better if Ian didn't have to arrest his wife.

I found Dad's old rifle—a Winchester hornet—behind some tractor parts in the shed. I cleaned, oiled, tested, and test fired it.

Next morning, I woke at three AM, took the rifle with a box of ammunition, and walked to Old Bull's house. I kept off the roads and travelled across paddocks to keep out of sight. His house was located on a one-acre block a long way from other dwellings on the outskirts of town. He lived alone. I pounded on his door. The porch light came on. I lifted the rifle to my shoulder. The door opened, and Bull stopped dead when he saw me.

'What do you want?' he demanded.

'You knew I didn't kill Tiffany. Why did you railroad me?'

'You took Sheree away from me, you bastard. She never spoke to me again after you got through with her. I had to fix the evidence to get you in jail, so you couldn't kill anyone. It won't do you any good. No-one will know. I'll never tell anyone.'

'Sheree ran away from you. Not me.'

'You're just a sick murderer. You'll never change. I saw it in your eyes as soon as Sheree brought you home. You're a killer, and you'll never change—you can't—the evil is in you.'

'More lies, I don't think you know the truth anymore. I've served fifteen years for a murder I didn't commit. The state owes me fifteen years. Or, it owes me a murder. When I kill you, it's all even? If they catch me, I've served my time for killing you.'

'You haven't got the guts.'

He lunged. I squeezed the trigger. He staggered and hit the ground. The second shot made his head jump as the bullet entered his brain.

I collected the spent shells and lifted Bull's body into the back of his utility. A few specs of blood had spilt on the path. I cleaned them.

I buried old Bull in the pine forest.

I drove Bull's utility into Hunter River and left it parked at the railway station and walked back to Dad's farm. I put the rifle barrel in the vice and bent it. I figured it would make it difficult to test fire if the police found it. I went back to bed.

Next day, the news broke about Christine's arrest and Bull's role in framing me. Ian came to see me. He walked into the kitchen and flopped into a chair. 'Sorry, mate,' he said. 'I should have believed you. The homicide boys are crawling over the station.'

'Did you have any idea?'

'No, although I had a feeling, especially after you came back.'

'What did she tell you?'

'She admitted it to the homicide boys. She was proud she paid you back because you were unfaithful to her. And, she said, that bitch Tiffany would never fuck any of her boyfriends again. It was sad. Oh! She was difficult to live with; but, I had no idea what she'd done.'

'How did she persuade Bull to go along with it?' I asked.

'Sex! Bull's wife had left him. She said it went on until she figured out Bull had as much to lose as she did. She found out Bull wanted you in jail because Sheree ran away.'

'Have they arrested Bull yet?' I asked.

'He shot through. We found his ute at the railway station. We reckon he figured we'd be after him. He didn't buy a ticket, but it doesn't mean much. He could have jumped on the train and hid. Don't worry; we'll get him.'

Ian leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. He avoided eye contact with me. The events of the last few hours had defeated him. I wondered how he would cope. He had three kids to think about.

'The homicide boys reckon Christine was mentally unbalanced,' said Ian. He stood as if he was lifting the world on his shoulders and pushed the chair back under the table, he looked older, 'They're going to get her checked by a physiatrist. Jesus, what a bloody mess,' said Ian.

I patted him on the back, 'Forget it,' I said. 'We've lives to put back together. It's time to put the past behind. We have to cope.'

The Government had declared an amnesty on all unregistered weapons.

I walked into the Poe Hill Police Station with the rifle. It was a big station close to the capital. I laid the weapon on the counter. A female officer approached.

'It's been on the farm for years. The thing won't work, the barrels bent,' I said.

She smiled at me and pushed a form towards me. 'Fill this in.' She took the rifle and put in on a table with about ten weapons with tags on them. She tore off a receipt and handed it to me.

'That's it. Thank you.'

Outside, I kicked my motor-bike into life and smiled. Was there a better place to hide a murder weapon than with the cops; I thought. I understood they put them in a furnace and melted them down.

Over the next few months, a lawyer negotiated with the Government on my behalf for compensation for my wrongful imprisonment. I opened an accountant's office in Hunter River. The townspeople used me, and business was good. I think they felt sorry for how they had treated me. Dad and I worked until the farm is in shape.

I sat at my desk and looked up when the shop door opened; I still didn't have enough business to have a receptionist. Sheree stared at me from inside the door. A boy of about sixteen and girl of about eleven was with her.

She smiled, 'Hello Luke. Read about you in the papers.'

I wanted her all over again. Nothing had changed; she was the girl for me. I jumped up from my desk and found chairs for them. She had changed, more mature, but beautiful.

'I've moved back to Hunter River,' she said.

At first, I was elated at the thought of being with Sheree again, but my thoughts went to a grave in a pine forest. The bloated body would take on a greenish discolouration over time. The skin marbled and autolysis advanced. The body fed on itself. Soon, the putrefaction stage occurred when the cadaver's bacteria made the corpse break down. Maybe tree roots had invaded old Bull's body.

'You've been in my thoughts,' she continued.

I focused on her. 'Sorry about your father,' I said.

She blushed, 'I have to tell you something. Meet Albert and Victoria. I already had Albert when I met my ex-husband.'

I desperately wanted to know if she had married again, but I was too frightened to ask.

'Albert is your son,' Sheree said. She turned to the boy who gazed at me as if he'd waited all his life for this moment. 'This is your father, darling. He's the one I told you about.'

'Mum's been crying since she found out Grandpa framed you,' said Albert.

The world paused, or at least something skipped a beat in the next few moments as I stared at my son. Questions bounced around in my brain. I was elated. But, I was angry too at being denied the knowledge I had a son. Suddenly, I realised Bull must have known I'd got Sheree pregnant. He'd sent me to jail for fifteen years as payback. I think my eyes must be staring because they were all watching me. My emotions kicked in, and I rushed forward and took Albert, Victoria, and Sheree in my arms. We cried.

We broke up, and I had no idea what to do. Sheree came to the rescue.

'Mum died, and now Dad has disappeared, I'm now a single mum. If I can get a job, it would be cheaper if I moved back to Hunter River and lived in Dad's house.'

'I need a receptionist,' I blurted out, even though I knew I couldn't afford it.

'Would you give me a job?'

'Of course.'

Two months later we were married. Sheree and the kids joined me at Dad's farm. He slowed his drinking and relished his role as an instant grandfather.

The grave in the forest still haunted me. The body would swell and break open like an overripe tomato. Bacterial species in the intestines decayed first. The liver followed lungs, brain, and then the kidneys. I wondered how long it would take before everything of Bull disappeared, leaving only his bones.

I was terrified the woman I loved would discover I had murdered her father. Maybe it had to happen to be a part of this town with its dirty little secrets. I'd joined them, but I had a big dirty secret.

I worked on the hole in the fence where six sheep had escaped onto the road. The sun shone as the police car pulled up and Sergeant Ian Flynn approached.

'G'day, Luke. I've figured it out,' he said. He leaned on a post and stared at me.

'Old Bull didn't disappear. You killed him.'

I hung the wire cutters on the fence and stared back at him. Ian went on, 'You must have killed him the night you found out he framed you, there's been no trace of him anywhere. He's dead, isn't he? You must have buried him somewhere. It's the only explanation.'

'You're talking out of your arse,' I said.

'I sent his ute down to forensics. They found his blood in the back. I reckon you killed him and put his body in the tray.'

'His blood could have dropped onto ute if he cut his finger. Do you think that's evidence?'

'You don't get it, Luke. You came back here and went after my wife like some avenging angel. She's thrown into prison. I must bring up three kids. She was a terrible wife but a good mother. You killed old Bull, now you've settled down with his daughter. Everything's rosy. But now you could lose the lot. I'm after you. I'll prove you killed Bull.'

He turned on his heel, returned to his car, and sped off down the road. I watched the police car disappear in the distance. Ian was right—I had too much to lose. Sheree must never discover I killed her father. It's time for me to bury another body in the forest. This one will be more difficult, but I'll figure it out.

Maybe I should offer to look after his kids after I kill him.

# End of the World

In a land coloured red by the fiery sun, the vehicle sped down the track at the head of the dust cloud, like it was a ship forming a surging wake on a calm sea. The brown smudge rose into the light breeze spreading out over the landscape lingering like it was more at home levitating than on the ground. Two men sat in the dirty police vehicle, but it was difficult to see their colouring under the dirt.

Constable James McLean (Jimmy) of the Western Australian Police slipped his hat onto the back of his head as he drove the Toyota Land Cruiser. The rumble of the wheels drummed into the cabin like muted thunder. The whirr of the fully turned up air-conditioner mixed with the vehicle noises making Jimmy hope he could stop soon. Sweat streaked his part aboriginal brown face.

'What time is it?' He reached down and turned the air down. 'I'm sick of that bloody noise.'

Dust was entering the supposedly airtight vehicle, floating around the cabin, spreading over the interior including the two men. Various weapons, camping gear, and police equipment fixed to the walls of the cruiser as well as spread over the back seat.

Senior Constable Brian Cross examined his watch, 'Four o'clock. Look for a campsite. Don't your people come from out this way?'

'Nar, there's bugger all out here. It's a lot better further north nearer to the Kimberley's. That's where my people come from,' said Jimmy.

'This is the arse end of the world,' said Brian.

'Why are we here?'

Brian pushed his sunglasses onto the tip of his nose attempting to wipe the grit out of his eyes. Sweat smudged his tanned face. 'The Sarge reckons there's some crims hiding out here in the gold and nickel mines.'

'Let the bastards stay out here they won't do any harm. I've got more to do than drive around in this dust bucket.'

'Like what?'

'Go and see my brother in Adelaide. He's asked me to go to the footy with him.'

Brian placed his glasses back in place. 'How's he going?'

'That's what I want to find out.'

They drove for another hour through some low sun-scorched hills covered in small patches of saltbush and bluebush with an occasional small tree or scrub. The dusty track took them near a dry creek bed as they followed it for a few miles. The sand in the creek looked pristine in contrast to the hard-pebbly ground surrounding it. The dry watercourse turned sharply where the water had carved out an overhanging bank that provided shelter from the sun. Brian pointed, Jimmy drove down onto the sand stopping near the overhang.

He gazed at an old mine that rose on a hill about five kilometres away. He took the binoculars from the cruiser to examine the area. The mine was about two hundred metres from the top of the hill. Fresh earthworks were showing, it looked like the entrance to the mine had been made larger. Two men were erecting a high post near the entrance. A road ran from the entrance to where the men were working. 'Looks like someone's mucking about on that mine; there's tyre tracks in front of it. It's the biggest mine I've seen in these parts.'

'Have a look tomorrow.'

'They're putting up a big post. What would that be for?'

'Probably a radio aerial.'

They both tried to remove as much dust as they could by vigorously brushing their clothes. There was no chance of using their precious drinking water other than to lightly wash their faces. Brian unpacked the camp stove adding water to a pre-cooked pasta dish. Soon he had the meal ready. They laid back as they ate while leaning on their swags. 'You reckon we need to mount a guard?' asked Jimmy.

'Naa. We'll sleep tonight. Long way to go tomorrow.'

'You're the boss.' Jimmy looked towards the mine he had seen earlier. He felt a little uneasy. It was no longer visible in the darkening light. He shrugged his shoulders before laying back on his swag.

The sun put on a display of orange light in the western sky. It seemed reluctant to disappear and bring the night with it. Jimmy looked at the stars breaking out as darkness descended. He was thinking of his trip to Adelaide. It would be good to see his brother, his wife, and their twelve-year-old son.

Jimmy checked his watch, one AM. Then he heard the noise that must have woken him. What was it? He listened, hearing a kind of gentle whooshing like a large displacement of air with the faint sound of an engine driving it. He noticed Brian was awake too. 'What the hell's that?' said Jimmy.

'Dunno, it looked like a moving cloud. It's going too fast but.'

Jimmy watched the dim outline sail overhead. The black shape blotted out the stars where it travelled. The moon was just a thin crescent but showing some light. 'What the hell would it be doin' out here?'

'It must be one of them weather balloons. It's a big son of a bitch. Don't worry about it.'

The dark shape was soon out of sight, with the silence of the night returning. They went back to sleep.

Two hours later, Jimmy felt rather than saw a presence. He opened his eyes thinking he was still dreaming because a strange apparition was looking at him. It took him a few seconds to realise it was a face covered in night vision goggles sighting down a rifle at him. Then there was nothing, as a blast blew Jimmy's brains out.

'Reckon they saw the airship,' asked one of the apparitions with an American accent as he stood up from killing Brian.

'Yeah! They won't tell anyone now. No one will know we're burying nuclear waste out here,' said the other in a mid-European accent.

'Someone will come looking for them.'

'We'll just have to kill them too,' said the European accent.'

# Disposal

The man with the black hair and beard paused at the front door of the beach house. He looked back along the esplanade and checked his watch–3.10 am. The black Saab sat with its interior light shining out of the yawning open boot. Further along, the dirt road moonlight reflected on the dust stirred up by the car. Nothing else moved. The man was alone. He had a lot to do. It would be hard, messy work.

He placed the chainsaw on the porch while he extracted his keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. There were no other houses near, and he could hear the waves breaking against the beach on the other side of the building. Pausing in the doorway, he picked up the chainsaw and carried it into the house where he placed it near the stairs that dropped to the cellar. He switched the lights on. Returning to the car he picked up a container of large black garbage bags, and a staple gun, locked the car, took the bags and gun to the house and secured the door firmly. He laid the lot on top of the chainsaw.

He placed his keys on the counter near the kitchen. He emptied his pockets. His wallet, watch, mobile phone, and change added to the keys on the counter. Then he continued to the bedroom where he stripped off all his clothes except for his underpants and laid them neatly on the bed. He paused, thought for a moment and then decided it was easier to wash his body than his briefs. He slipped them off and put his underpants carefully with his other clothes. The man contemplated his naked body in the full-length mirror. He touched his black hair, removed the wig revealing dark hair tied into a ponytail and placed it with his clothes. The false black beard came away too. He gazed approvingly at his changed reflection and walked out of the room.

On the way past the kitchen, he took a sharp serrated knife from the knife rack, picked up the chainsaw, black garbage bags and staple gun. He switched on the light and descended the basement stairs.

His nose picked up the smell of a naked body lying on the floor with his hands and feet tied. For a moment, he was disgusted with the untidy appearance and the mess in his cellar. The man always liked things neat and tidy, but he decided he had to put up with it. Soon there would be a bigger mess in his cellar, and he'd have to scrub it. He was good at cleaning up.

Blood from the tied man's anus had stopped flowing but congealed in an ugly mess around his posterior. The man placed what he was carrying on the floor near the victim. He felt for a pulse and smiled when there wasn't any.

He walked around the dead man and examined his posterior. He pulled at the bottle protruding from the anus, but it wouldn't budge. The bottle was slippery with blood, and he couldn't get a grip.

Taking the knife, the man opened the bags, took out four of them, cut them open laying the first one on the stairs and part of the second one. At the top of the stairs, he laid a cut open bag on the landing smiling when the last one reached the bathroom. He looked back and was satisfied he wouldn't foul the house if his body were covered in blood on the way to cleaning himself in the bathtub.

He cut open more bags and taking the staple gun fixed them to the wall of the cellar. Eventually, he was satisfied they would stop most of the blood and flesh from splashing on the wall. With another cut open bag, he laid it alongside the body and maneuvered it onto the plastic sheet.

Now he prepared a face-washer, towel, and a basin of warm water in the bathroom.

In the basement, he washed the blood off around the bottle and dried it with a towel. When he grabbed it this time, he could grip it. It wouldn't budge until he twisted and with a gush of blood, it came away from the body. Some of the blood splashed onto his body and hands. He carefully washed and dried them thoroughly so that he could grip the chainsaw. The knife was lying on the floor, so he picked it up and cut the ties.

The man turned the cadaver onto its back. He had to push with considerable force down on the knees to flatten them to the position he wanted. He stood and checked that everything was in place.

He picked up the chainsaw and started it. The noise was deafening in the small room. The man smiled, he thought it sounded like the Devil was ascending from Hell. He liked the thought and held it. The police and the people of Adelaide would soon think evil was walking amongst them.

The teenage boy pedalled fast through the parklands. His wet brown hair was sticking to his face, and his tight jeans showed his strong legs. A Country Road jacket flapped open revealing a printed tee shirt. Brown sneakers pushed hard against the bike pedals as he tried to beat the rain. He bent his head over the handlebars and watched the dirt track. It was raining hard, and his jacket wasn't waterproof. Rain dripped down his face and into his eyes making the path hard to see. He slowed. It was no use he had to stop.

He skidded to a halt, laid the bike on the path and dashed under a tree for shelter. The tree provided some cover, but he was still getting wet. Low down there was a branch with a lot of foliage, so he crawled on his hands and knees. His hand touched something soft he squeezed and lifted it. When his eyes adjusted, he found he was holding a female leg. He dropped it and gazed at the woman dressed in a floral dress, but she wasn't moving. 'You, all right?' He asked. There was no answer. Then he caught sight of her lifeless eyes and knew she was dead.

He crawled out from under the branch as quickly as he could, grabbed his bike and cycled away as if the body was chasing him. It was still raining hard, but he didn't care how wet he got.

The man from the beach house watched him and walked away. He was satisfied the cops would not know he had killed the woman.

# Last Number Redial

Susan put the phone down after talking to her husband. She lifted her daughter onto her lap and said, 'Kelly, you're over two now. You mustn't play with the phone.' When Susan was on the phone in the kitchen, Kelly loved to pick up the extension in her father's office and join in the conversation.

Kelly waved her hand and said, 'Bye.'

Susan hugged Kelly tightly and put her on the floor. 'Oh, bye. You're too cute to growl at. C'mon, I've got work to do.'

Susan walked into the TV room and gazed at the curtain rod. Some of the hooks were out of the curtains. She found a chair and climbed up to the rod. She proceeded to replace the hooks. Her attention was taken by Kelly pointing to her and saying loudly, 'Who's that?'

Suddenly, Susan's foot caught in the back of the chair, and she found herself falling. She crashed onto the glass top coffee table smashing it. She felt the glass enter her leg just before her head slammed into the TV set knocking her unconscious.

Kelly watched her mother crash to the floor and raised her hands and giggled. She thought it was a game. She approached her mother and tried to push her up. When she could not move her, she became angry and started to cry. Then she noticed the blood on Susan's head.

Kelly put her hand in the air and said, 'Sore.' She remembered when she hurt her hand on the hot bottle warmer. She knew what sore was. Some of the glass was near her hand and cut her slightly. She withdrew her hand quickly then noticed a small amount of blood. She went near to her mother's mouth so that she could kiss it better. Her mother did not move.

A small ginger cat ran past the door, and Kelly jumped up and ran after the cat as she yelled, 'Max. Max.' Kelly loved Max. Max ran into the bedroom and hid amongst the shoes in the walk-in robe. Max did not return the affection. He escaped from her whenever he could. She went into the robe but was unable to find him.

She called, 'Max, Max.' When there was no response, she sat down in the robe and found some of her mother's shoes. Kelly placed them on her feet and tried to stand up. She lost her balance and plopped down on her bottom. She started to cry then ran back to her mother.

By this time, the blood from Susan's leg was running down onto the floor. There was a sliver of glass protruding from the wound. Susan's head was resting on the floor, and blood from her head wound was staining the carpet. Kelly felt frightened. She knew something was wrong. She was not sure what to do. Kelly approached her mother and tried to lift her. 'Erhh. Erhh,' she called out with the effort. 'Sore,' when she noticed the blood. She started to cry again.

She ran from the room and wandered down to her father's study. She pushed the buttons on the computer. She knew how to make it work because her Daddy had shown her when he lifted her onto his knee then let her push the buttons. There was nothing on the screen, so she became bored. Kelly picked up the phone from the desk. 'Bye,' she said and giggled as she pressed the buttons. 'Bye.' She laid the phone on the desk―not in the cradle.

Then she thought about her Mummy and went into the TV room again. She tried to push her up. Kelly's hand dropped into some blood. Her Mummy always took her into the bathroom to wash the dirt off.

She had to walk past her Daddy's office to reach the bathroom. She noticed the phone off the hook. She went in and picked up the phone and placed it on its cradle. Then she picked it up and said, 'Bye,' then giggled into the phone. She reached up and pushed the buttons. The sound changed, and she listened.

'Hello,' the familiar voice on the phone said.

'Bye,' she said and giggled.

'Kelly is that you. Are you playing with the phone again? Where's Mummy? Tell her Daddy wants to speak to her.'

Kelly said, 'Bye,' and giggled again.

'Did you get the phone to ring? You must have pressed last number redial. Kelly put Mummy on. She must be with you. Put Mummy on.'

'Sore.'

'You're sore, are you? Where's Mummy?'

'Mummy sore.'

'Is Mummy sore? Put Mummy on.'

'Mummy sore.'

'What do you mean?' Her Daddy's voice was becoming more urgent. 'How is Mummy sore?'

'Mummy sore.'

'Is she hurt.'

'Sore.'

'You hang up the phone. I'm coming home.' The line went dead.

She went to her mother and tried to push her up again. She knew something was wrong. She started to cry. This time she did not stop until about fifteen minutes later when she heard a car screech to a stop, and her Daddy came racing through the door.

Later in the hospital, the doctor told Daddy that his wife would recover. It was lucky that she was found so quickly because she was losing blood and would have died.

Kelly was swept up into her Daddy's arms as he squeezed her tightly. She had never heard her Daddy cry before.

# My Father

I watched the spider weave a web in the wattle tree. It tested the wind as the web slowly formed into an intricate construction entirely symmetrical and perfect. The sun filtered through the web showing exquisite silvery strands that looked more beautiful than any painting I had ever seen. I imagined the spider was saying, 'Ben, watch me, I'll show you how to live your life.' The experience made me think of my father.

My father was like a spider. He had to weave a mythical web probing and testing to form complex relationships with all family members. He had a different relationship with my mother, younger brother, sister, and me. I only realised this yesterday. I was too wrapped up in my little world until it threatened to consume me.

Why would I want to watch a spider in my backyard? I just felt like sitting and watching this wonderful thing of nature. I wanted to feel one with the world, to understand the beauty of this earth because I had just experienced the ugliness. I hoped this little spider would drive the evil away.

I remember when my father was my hero. I was five years old and would wait by the window for him to return from work. When his car stopped in the drive, my mother opened the door of our house, and I rushed into his arms. He would swing me up in the air and carry me inside while I babbled about my day at kindergarten. It was like Christmas every night when my father came home.

The weekends were the best time; we played football and cricket in the backyard or went on outings to the Zoo or drives and picnics in country parks. The Adelaide Crows were our football team. My dad, my mate Perry and I would watch the games together on television. My father was the fun part of my life; I loved him and wanted to be with him.

I was eleven years old when I discovered that it was not cool to like your father. He became "the old man". It was more important to please my friends than my parents. I also learnt that other kids didn't see their fathers as much as I did because their fathers and mothers were always working. My mother worked part-time and was home by four o'clock; my father arrived by five-thirty, so we had our evening meal together.

My friends told me that my father couldn't have a good job if he spent so much time at home. I knew he was the Managing Director of a national company and earned a very good salary, but that failed to impress them, so I was soon criticising my father as much as my friends condemned their fathers.

One time my mother took me to my father's shop in a large building in the city. The sales staff were all busy, and I wandered around, not wanting to touch the richly gleaming furniture in case I left finger marks on the polish. My father was like a stranger that day, a different man, pre-occupied and busy, not the pie and footy man who wrestled with me at the park and feigned dropping the ball so that I could win a couple of extra runs in the backyard. It was like there were two men, my father the managing director and my father the father.

It was hard to understand the different forces at work, my father the Crows supporter, my father the man who laughed and played with me. I could see that his staff feared him. I had learnt that we must resist what we fear, teachers, bullies, vampires, and now my father.

I put up a barrier between us. I was always careful around Dad and practised saying only what he wanted to hear. My parents allowed me to go on the Internet, but unlike most of my friends, my father was a better computer operator than I was. I couldn't go into websites without him knowing what I was doing. My friends at school were going to the pornographic sites and looking up how to make bombs and where to buy firearms. Not that I wanted to know these things, except for the pornographic sites, I was now twelve years old, and like all boys my age, I had an enormous curiosity for anything sexual.

My mid-teens arrived, and I resisted my father's attempt to communicate with me. I went to my friends for advice. I think deep down I still admired my father, but it wasn't cool to admit it, especially to my friends. My mother became my point of contact in the family.

It's funny when I look back that I didn't see the dynamics taking place within my family. My sister had a close and trustworthy relationship with my father. She didn't have the intense peer pressure that I had to deal with. For girls, it was trendy to like their fathers. Where I discussed things with my mother, she went to my father. She loved films, literature, the arts and they would discuss them endlessly in a light-hearted effortless way that made me envious.

At seventeen, I started to loosen up with my father; our common ground was a sport. We discussed the selections each week of the Crows and whether we would have a chance of winning the game. It was the same with the Australian Cricket Team, who was playing well and who wasn't was our communication.

My father seemed to understand that I didn't want the relationship to be closer. We would discuss or argue about anything sporting. As I reached my later teens, we expanded into talking about computers. I often secretly lamented why he was not like other fathers and didn't know as much as their sons.

My friend Perry and I had met when we were at primary school. We were always together. We went out on double dates with girls and did all the stupid things boys do as they grow up. I was better at sport, and he would come and watch me play. He was better at the arts, and I would watch him when he appeared in the University productions.

Perry said he wanted to be an actor and his father wanted him to be a lawyer. Perry was doing well at law school, so I told him to graduate then become an actor. We were good friends, and then everything changed.

What Perry told me made my brain churn around like a merry-go-round; I couldn't get my head around it. Something was wrong with the whole thing, and I didn't know why I couldn't let it go.

I drove home from University, parked my car then quietly went in the front door and slipped into my bedroom. I didn't want my mother nagging me because I had to think, my mind was in overdrive; I couldn't stop thinking about Perry and lost in constant turmoil. At first, I was feeling anger, then realised I was grieving for Perry. Our friendship would never be the same again.

Mostly Perry and I just joked around as blokes do. Everything changed when he said, 'Ben, you do know that I love you?'

At first, I didn't grasp it; I mean it was a shock; what was he saying? Then I thought I didn't hear properly. 'Yeah, we're good mates,' I said.

'Ben!' The tone of his voice made me look at his dark, brooding face. 'I love you; I'm gay, I have been for years, I've loved you for years.' Tears were forming in his eyes, and I realised how hard it was for him to tell me. At first, I was sorry for him then I didn't want to believe it.

'Nar, you're joking. I've seen you shaggin' sheilas. You're not gay; you can't be.'

'I haven't done that for years. I'm gay, and I love you, I've been building up to tell you for a long time. I've been dreaming of you and me becoming lovers. There was no chance of that unless I told you.'

'I'm straight Perry; there's no way I could do that.'

'I think you would like it.'

'No way. I'm not gay when I think of sex all I ever think about are girls.'

Perry rose from the seat under the shady tree where we were sitting. 'Ben, I'm sorry this is such a shock to you. I thought you might have known, I put out signals, but obviously, you didn't have your antenna up.'

'I had no idea.'

'You need time to take all this in,' said Perry. 'I'll leave you to think about it. I have some thinking too now I know there is no chance that you could love me.' Perry turned and walked back along the campus. His shoulders slumped as I watched him. I felt sadness descend that I couldn't shake off. I left the University and came home. Somehow, I had to make sense of what Perry had told me.

I was so sad for him that I wondered whether I did love him. As I lay on my bed, I finally realised that in a way I did. I loved him as a friend but not as a lover. I knew what I had to tell him would not make him happy, but I know that's all I could do. I could only tell him how I felt.

I was angry with myself. I thought of the terrible anguish I caused Perry because I was too thick to pick up his subtle signals. Why is it that the only message I understand is when some beats me over the head with it? I lamented my insensitivity and felt I had to apologise for it.

I rose from the bed and looked in the mirror. Tears were running down my cheeks. I had to speak to him because he might think I hated him. He was still my mate and always would be.

I knocked on his door, and his mother said he was in the garage. I opened the garage door and felt a shadow pass over me that filled me with dread. Perry formed the shadow as he swung from a cross-member in the roof with a noose around his neck. He was dead. I watched in stunned silence as his words screamed in my head, 'I'll leave you to think about it. I have some thinking too; now I know there is no chance that you could love me.' Was he trying to tell me he would kill himself when he said that?

The next two hours were a blur of ambulances, police, and people milling about, Perry's mother crying in grief. The police are interviewing me. I wanted to get out of there, but the cops said they might have a few more questions.

I sat with bedlam around me, and I let disgust overwhelm me. How could I say I was Perry's best friend if I didn't know he was gay and then not know he wanted to commit suicide? In a way, my disgust was like a comforting cloak that allowed me to draw into myself and shut the world out. I wanted the rest of the world out of my life, so I could try to understand Perry. I thought of joining him in death. How could my best friend get so lonely and despairing that he would take his life?

Then anger joined the disgust. I was angry with Perry, and in my mind, I shouted at him to tell me why. Why didn't he talk to me about it like we had talked about things in the past? I knew why, I wasn't listening, I was off in my world, and I didn't hear his cries for help. The shock returned as the tears streamed down my face.

Into this sorry scene strode my father, he came to me and put his arm around my shoulders and said quietly, 'Come on son. I'm taking you home.'

A police officer said, 'He can't go yet.'

My father said angrily, 'I'm taking my son home. He needs his family. Ask your questions later.' I was glad my father knew how to use his authority.

He drove me home and walked with me to my bedroom. 'Son, we need to talk.' I nodded my head.

'What are you feeling now?' he enquired.

'I'm angry Dad; I can't believe that Perry would do that. I can't believe he would feel like killing himself and I wouldn't know.'

'Why should you know how he felt?'

'We were close. I feel like I've let my friend down. I should have stopped him.'

'How could you have stopped him?'

'I don't know. There were signals. Perry fought with his father and struggling with being gay. He wanted to be an actor; his father wanted him to practise law. I should have listened to him instead of being angry, I should have known.'

'He was gay?'

'Yes, I only found out two days ago.'

'How did you feel about that?' said my father. I realised he wanted me to say I was straight.

'I felt sorry for him. I don't understand gay people. They are a mystery to me.'

My father expressed a sigh of relief. 'Did he tell you he wanted to kill himself?'

'No, not in so many words, there were hints, oblique statements, if I were listening, I would have picked them up.'

My father moved closer and put his arm around my shoulders; I felt comforted. 'There was nothing you could have done. How could you have known?'

'I should have known.'

My father told me how no one knows another person because we only present to others what we want them to see. I looked at a photo on my dressing table of a cricket team of young boys. Perry and I were together; we were smiling at the camera. The happy image made me burst into tears as I realised, I would never see him again. I wanted my father to tell me why it happened, but he couldn't, no one could.

'What do I do Dad?'

'You have to deal with your loss. I think a part of that is to honour Perry's decision and accept it. Don't try to understand it, accept it was Perry's choice. Don't blame yourself.'

I wanted Perry alive. I was to blame, but how could I have known if Perry didn't want to tell me? We think we know our friends, but we don't. We are like ships on the sea; self-contained with a façade we show the world, but deep down in the bilge, there are unreachable places that no one knows about.

My father's love reached out to me, and I felt relieved, I knew his love was unconditional and given no matter how I had treated him. I was pleased that I was sensitive enough to realise it and I knew I had to reach out and show him how much I loved him.

A fly became entangled in the web; the spider rushed and caught the insect and carried it away. My thing of beauty became ugly. Why must beauty become ugly? Then I knew what the spider was trying to tell me. From the ugliness of Perry's death came the beauty of my relationship with my father. My father, my friend.

# Awakening

After nothingness, he entered a world of eternal darkness, and gradually inhabited a misty existence of shadow and light.

The pain in his head was agony as he tried to lift his hands, but nothing moved.

Fear descended like a thick cloud of despair and engulfed him. His heart raced.

Think. What is my name?

Faint images and sounds entered his consciousness.

A shadow passed his eyes. Something irritated his throat. He breathed easier and felt a warm hand pressing his.

He woke to bright light that made him close his eyes. He listened to a rhythmic noise as his chest rose and fell in time to the tempo.

He heard someone speaking but did not understand the words. Then the face of a woman entered his vision.

The nurses turned him over and washed him her hands on his body, and human contact felt good.

Tiredness overtook him. He slept.

Noise pounded in his ears. The bright light assaulted him.

He closed his eyes. He wished for darkness and silence to return.

A voice.

'Shane, you're awake. It's Mum, can you squeeze my hand?' He did so; glad to learn his name. She leaned over and kissed him. He saw a smartly dressed woman in her fifties with bright red lipstick.

'You're in the hospital after a motorbike accident. You've been in a coma for three weeks.'

He tried to speak but choked at the effort. 'You can't talk. A tube in your trachea interferes with your voice box.'

A ventilator continued to breathe for Shane.

On the other side of the bed, a pretty young nurse said, 'You're doing well Shane,' as she removed the connection from his neck.

'You must breathe by yourself for a while. We've been weaning you off the ventilator. You won't need it soon.'

Keep me on the breathing machine; I might die.

A week later a much-improved Shane dozed in a reclining chair next to his bed. A mirror was fixed to a wall, and he was shocked by his appearance. His head had been shaved, and his sandy hair was growing back except over the scar on his forehead that extended to the middle of his head. His hospital gown and covers hid the scars on his arms and legs.

The dream he had every day reoccurred, a woman's face covered in blood.

He woke.

He no longer needed the ventilator, but still had a tracheotomy tube to assist physiotherapists to clear his lungs with suction. His cough response had almost returned.

The changes were remarkable; he moved his arms. He watched people moving in the room.

His fear disappeared when he imagined his mother cradling him.

She massaged his hands to stop his fingers deforming and kissed them, leaving a red mark from her lipstick.

'Can you recall anything about the accident?' Shane squeezed her hand twice. They had worked out a code—one squeeze for yes twice for no.

'Do you remember me?' Shane squeezed twice.

'Your wife?' No, he signalled.

He had a wife. He remembered a lady in a white wedding dress.

Why doesn't she visit me?

Two days later the doctor removed the tracheotomy tube.

His dreams had tormented him since his mother mentioned his wife. What did she look like?

Frustration made him wave his arms at his therapists because his body would not respond. He wanted to scream. Tell me about the girl dressed in white.

No one did. The reasoning part of his brain now worked perfectly except he had no memory. He could not communicate other than by grasping his mother's hand.

Shane's anger caused him to lash out. He was imprisoned in a deep dungeon, no; worse—his intelligence remained sharp, but his body would not co-operate. He tried to scream. All he managed was a few grunts.

Where is my wife? Shane put his hand up and touched his face.

The nurse came to him, 'I don't blame you for being upset,' she said. 'If you can understand me, I am sorry you are in this situation.'

The silly bitch; thought Shane as he lashed out with his arm and hit her.

Serve her bloody right. Tell me about my wife for Christ's sake.

The nurse called for assistance.

He had to find a way to extract the information from his brain. Concentrate.

A nurse came to change his urine catheter. He liked her touch on his penis and remembered the pleasure of another soft hand, and naked bodies rolling on the bed. He was with the woman in his dreams.

His mother entered the room followed by two men. She was crying and struggling to regain composure.

'Shane. Meet Detective Sergeant Daly from the Homicide Squad, and John Mason, our lawyer. The Sergeant wants to ask you a few questions.'

Shane wondered why the cops had upset his mother.

Daly was tall; broad-shouldered, and surprised Shane with his gentle voice.

'Mister Hewitt, I understand you can communicate by squeezing your mother's hand?'

Shane signalled yes. His mother nodded.

'I advise you not to answer,' said the lawyer.

'Are you aware your wife Christine was murdered in a house in Henry Street?'

Shane gripped twice as numbness entered his body and sadness tugged at his eyes. He rubbed his face and hoped his mother would tell him it was not true.

She remained grim.

Daly hesitated, 'We have a witness named Leon Oliver who claims you murdered her. He said you stabbed him too. Do you wish to comment?'

Shane squeezed, and his mother shook her head.

He was stunned. They must be mistaken.

'You don't have to answer,' said John Mason.

'He doesn't remember,' Mother snapped.

'Oliver claims he was having sex with your wife when you caught them,' said Daly. 'Have you anything to say?'

Mother shook her head.

Shane wanted the cop to leave.

'Did you see Leon Oliver kill your wife?'

Shane delayed answering and thought for a moment before signalling no.

'Thank you, Mister Hewitt. I hope you get better soon,' Daly exited the room with the lawyer.

Mother leaned over and whispered, 'You're not guilty. Leon Oliver killed her. He's lying to the cops.'

Shane tried to make sense of what the police had said. Oliver must have stabbed her. He would never harm his beautiful wife. He was devastated to learn Christine was having an affair? The circumstances overwhelmed him. His mind raced as he tried to remember.

He thought about his Christine and the pleasure of their lovemaking. They had argued. She accused him of working too hard and did not come home enough. He shouted they needed the money as he stormed out the door.

A frenzied man with a knife entered his memory. Shane knew fear.

Blood covered the bed.

Christine yelled, 'No, no, no.'

A man was slumped on the floor holding his stomach as blood oozed through his fingers as the killer stabbed Christine many times.

Then the man glanced into the dressing table mirror. Shane was shocked to see his face there.

He was the killer.

He remembered riding fast along the highway and glimpsed a bridge in the distance.

He had decided to kill himself because of what he had done.

The motorcycle crashed through the railing and landed on the railway line.

As he lay in the hospital bed, he wondered if his memory had played tricks on him. He must be a crazy murderer? Why did the doctors save a butcher like him if they were aware, he had murdered Christine?

He whispered the first words he had spoken since the accident, 'I... couldn't... even... kill... myself.'

Shane watched his heart rate shoot up in the monitor. He had to calm himself, or the alarm would sound. He was relieved when his pulse came down.

He found a way out. The nurse had left adhesive tape with scissors on the side table.

Stretching his damaged limbs, he clasped the scissors. He held them poised above his arm.

His heart rate increased again.

He thought about Christine. The frenzied killer returned. She screamed, 'No, no, no.'

The crazed man kept stabbing Christine. He looked up. It was Oliver and Shane is not the killer after all.

He tackled the murderer to the floor and plunged the knife into Oliver's stomach.

Was that the truth and he saw the vision because he wanted it to be true?

He threw the scissors away.

The heart rate monitor's alarm sounded, and the nurse rushed in and told Shane to calm down and laid the chair back further. She found the scissors and put them in her pocket.

Did Oliver or I kill Christine? Shane questioned.

He would never know.

Detective Sergeant Daly sat behind his desk as Detective Senior Constable James Temple entered and occupied a guest chair. His long legs stretched out in front of him as his intelligent eyes examined his superior.

'Did you arrest Leon Oliver,' asked Daly.

'Yeah, he reckons he's innocent, and Shane Hewitt killed her,' said Temple.

'What do you reckon?'

'Hewitt did it.'

'If you're right, we have nobody,' said Daly.

'Sure, we do.'

'Use your brains. Can you imagine a jury convicting a man who was comatose for three weeks and is unable to talk or walk? He'd get off with an insanity plea with no penalty if found guilty. I doubt we have enough evidence for a conviction. Like I said we convict Oliver or nobody.'

'How do we do that?'

'Oliver has drug connections, and he was Christine's boyfriend before she married Shane Hewitt. She had a drug problem, maybe she threatened to expose him, and he killed her. This is our chance to nail this guy. Find the evidence and put him away.'

A year later at Leon Oliver's trial, the jury foreman stood and announced, 'Guilty.'

The prisoner leapt from the dock and screamed, 'You lying bastard, I'll kill you.'

He ran to Shane in his wheelchair and tried to strangle him.

Sergeant Daly pulled Oliver off and handcuffed him.

Shane wondered. Did I get away with murder? I will never know. The whore had an affair with Oliver, so she deserved to die.

# The Classy Dame

I stared at her bare legs as the classy dame perched on my guest chair in the only way her mini-skirt would allow. My eyes made their way up her body, cleavage and finally to her face.

She was beautiful, nervous, vulnerable, and sexy.

Her silk-gloved fingers held a long cigarette holder. She finished her smoke and placed the holder in her bag.

Reluctantly, I turned my attention to the guy with her. The grease in his hair could keep Shell in business; dressed in a black suit with pointed lapels looking as if they'd poke his eyes out. The bulge under his arm left no doubt; he packed a gun.

The grease glared at me, so I shook a Camel from the pack to show the scum he didn't scare me. My lighter threw a flame. I lit up.

'What's with the sleazy boyfriend, lady?' I said.

'My body-guard goes where I go.' She had one of those Marilyn Monroe voices that made you think of doing things to her you couldn't tell your mother.

'Not in here, lady—tell him to wait in the outer office. He makes me nervous. If he blinks, I'll kill him.'

The grease jumped forward. I stood and reached behind my neck and touched the handle of my knife.

'Get out, Luigy,' she demanded.

'But you said...'

'Leave,' she shouted in a voice a long way from Marilyn Monroe's. The grease gave me a look—it said next time you're dead. He swaggered out the door and slammed it behind him.

I put my feet up on my desk and gazed at her through cigarette smoke.

Everything about her said money, from her mousy blond hair to her diamond necklace and rings that would have solved all my financial problems. And, despite her mini-skirt and lowcut top, I figured her for a classy dame.

I swung my feet off the desk and leaned forward.

'What can I do for you, lady?'

'Mister Mallet can you find people?'

'I find people all the time. What's your name?' If the babe was who I thought she was, I felt sorry for her, and we wouldn't be talking long.

She hesitated, 'Candy Bacchus.'

My face must have shown my disgust—she gave me a look that said, so what. 'Papa Costanza's...?' I looked for the right description.

'Partner, I think is correct.' she offered as if she was proud of it.

Papa Costanza was low pond scum. He should be scooped up and flushed down the sewer. He was in anything crooked, and he hated me because I put his brother, Sonny, in the slammer. I nearly had the dirty little microbe in jail with his brother. But the slippery eel got off. He sent some of his grease balls to work me over, but they went back to him busted up so bad they couldn't work for a year.

'He knows you're here?'

'Doesn't know everything I do.'

'What about the grease-ball?'

'He does what I tell him.'

I didn't believe her. Papa wouldn't let her out of his sight without keeping tabs. I decided to let her think I bought the story.

'Who do you want me to find?' I silently cursed myself for asking the question instead of kicking her cute arse out, but I was curious. Let's face it; I'm a sucker for a classy dame. My head said kick her out, but the rest of me said find out more. Then the final notices in my drawer reminded me I needed the dough. Plus, I'd have great pleasure in slapping the money down in front of the leech who repossessed my car.

'My sister.'

'Does she want to be found?'

'She ran away.'

'Let me get this straight. You want me to find your sister who ran away and doesn't want to be found. Where does your sleaze of a husband fit in this? No way, I don't do dirty work for Papa Costanza. Why can't he find her?'

'Mister Mallet!'

'Call me Spike.'

'Spike, she ran away because she's scared.'

I decided to kick her out. 'No way, you can go. I want nothing to do with it.'

She rummaged through her bag and laid a photo on the desk. I picked it up.

Nice, I thought. The sister was the dame's younger copy, but more innocent looking.

'Evie Bacchus,' she added.

'What's the real story, and don't give me bullshit?'

Her eyes gazed at me, and for a few seconds, I saw the hard lady behind the veneer, then she softened, and Marilyn Monroe came back, 'She's scared of Papa.'

'Half the city's scared of Papa, what makes her so different?'

'Papa thinks she set up a guy to kill Sonny in prison, but she didn't.'

'Why?' I wondered who killed Sonny, not that I cared. There had to be a reason the scum thought Evie set it up. But I didn't buy the dame's story.

'He's mad with rage. He's vowed to kill you as well as Evie because you put Sonny in jail. Someone knifed Sonny while he took a shower.'

The good news—Sonny was dead. Papa wanting to kill me was nothing new. But, I couldn't figure out what the babe was up to.

Candy uncrossed her legs and leaned over giving me a view down her cleavage.

Her voice got, even more, Marilyn Monroe breathy, 'Please get her back. She's my only sister.' She slipped her bottom onto the desk, 'I'll be very very grateful. I'll give you a lot of money, and anything else you want.'

My hormones raced around and sat up and then went into a frenzy. I noticed the dame's legs went right up to where things got interesting. I thought about taking her on the desk. Then a neon sign went off in my head—it said danger. I might be a sucker for a classy dame, but I know when I'm being played. I had to think straight and not be a sucker.

I looked away and butted out my smoke, then took another to recover my sanity. I lit it to give me time to think.

When I looked back, she waved a wad of hundred-dollar notes in my face and tossed them on the desk. I guess she'd figured, if sex doesn't do it, money will. The trouble was, she was right.

'Thirty grand to take the job, and another thirty when you find her,' this time she was all business.

Suddenly, all those final notices in my draw would all disappear. I could reach out and take the dough and save the agency. No, I'll manage without their dirty money, but I had no idea how.

I'll only feel the money, I thought. I let my hand rest on it and then considered the dame's eyes. She smiled. She knew she had me, and I did too. I grabbed the thirty thou, opened the drawer, and shoved it on the final notices—I figured they should get to know each other.

The classy dame threw a knowing look over her shoulder as she walked out of the office.

After the babe left, I couldn't figure out what went on in my office. There had to be another agenda.

I gave up and gazed at the money. I couldn't remember the last time I saw thirty-grand altogether.

Kathy looked up from her desk as I entered the outer office. She'd told me if I ever called her my secretary, she'd kick me where it would hurt a lot.

She had a point—last year the Spike Mallet private detective agency needed cash, and she provided it. Now we were partners in the business as well as a home in the fancy flat her rich old man provided for her. The agency desperately needed the cash the classy dame gave me.

Kathy stood and walked around her desk dressed in a black skin-tight shirt and pants with a holstered Glock 17 swinging from her shapely hip—she looked like Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft in Tomb Raider. And, she lost nothing in the looks department. She adopted an aggressive stance with her hand on her hip, in a look at me, attitude. I tried to ignore her, but juices running around my body made it impossible.

'Like the look,' I said, 'it's what every partner should wear.' I avoided the secretary word, 'does this mean you have plans for us tonight? Or do you have Brad Pitt in mind?'

'Glad you noticed.'

I couldn't understand why she'd bother with a broken-down PI who's only a bad cheque away from losing the agency. She didn't know it was so critical. I hid the evidence in my drawer. I guess, deep down, I wanted her to think of me as a big-time PI. She'd only have to ask her rich old man, and he'd reluctantly bail me out while telling her what a loser she was mixed up with.

'I notice you every day, baby,' I said. I meant it—she was the only good thing in my life, and fantastic for the agency as well as for me. I couldn't understand it, but I'll take all I the good times I can get.

'What did the tart want?' Kathy didn't share my views on the dame being classy.

'You mean our new client.'

'Make sure she pays you with money and nothing else.'

'Of course, whatever else could she possibly pay me with?'

Kathy slipped her Glock out, 'Anywhere near it; and I'll shoot it off.'

As I entered the downstairs car park, the grease-ball came at me from the shadows. I sidestepped as the blade went for my throat. My knee caught him in the groin; he went down. I took the knife from his hand and the Glock from his holster. I shoved the knife-point at his throat. Blood started to trickle.

'Answers grease-ball,' I yelled in his ear. 'What's this all about?'

'The sleaze's voice dripped venom, 'I'm gonna kill you slowly. My blade will cut you up into little bits. Papa will pay me plenty.'

'Money's no good when you're dead, sleaze-bag.'

I jumped on his gun-hand with the heel of my shoe and heard a crunch. When he yelled, I kicked him in the jaw several times until it broke. This grease-ball won't kill anyone for a long time.

Then I slammed my foot into his balls again. He made painful noises while I walked away with his knife and gun.

He thought he'd kill me for Papa. Now, he'll eat through a straw and won't use his right hand for a long time, not to mention a certain organ between his legs.

Kathy finished the phone call and gazed at me. She wrote an address on a notepad and handed it over.

'Evie's lived in the same house for a year, but no-one's seen her for a week.'

'They're trying to make it look like she's missing,' I suggested.

'There's thirty grand in my desk drawer on top of a bunch of final notices. Pay everyone. I'll take some dough and get my car back. We have sleaze bags to catch.'

Kathy looked at me, 'What did you have to do to get the money?'

'Find the sister, baby—nothing else. But you know me—I'd do anything for sixty grand.'

'I'm warning you. You know how good I am with a gun.'

I knew; I'd seen her in action. She was the only dame who scared me.

Sergeant Trent Watson waved his hand at my cigarette smoke. 'If I get cancer I'm suing,' he said.

Trent and I went way back to our days in the police. We caught the same crooks, had the same women, and pissed off the same senior officers. We've been mates for a long time. He sat in my guest chair trying to avoid inhaling my smoke.

'What makes you think it's a setup?' That's Trent, straight to the point, no messing about; maybe it's why he's still a cop—no imagination.

'Papa Costanza wants me dead. He sent his sexed-up dame to set me up.'

'Candy? I'm not surprised you took the gig. Papa's not doing so well. A Lebanese gang is moving in on his patch. His dead brother had more to do with his drug syndicate than we knew. Papa has transferred ownership to Candy to protect his assets if he goes down.'

'I'm surprised,' I said. 'It was too easy to put Sonny in jail. I thought someone set him up.'

'Rumour is someone from the Costanza gang organised the Sonny hit,' said Trent.

'Candy told me, Papa thinks Evie set Sonny up. I didn't buy it.'

'Should let him set you up—might get the scum,' Trent suggested.

Did I say Trent had no imagination? It kicks in when it's my neck on the line.

I didn't look for Evie. It had to be a Papa Costanza scheme to kill me. But how? I couldn't figure it out; so, I waited for him to make his move.

Suddenly, the phone rang—a rare occurrence these days. I signalled Kathy to let me answer.

'Spike, it's Evie,' she sounded scared. 'I haven't got much time. Papa has me locked in a warehouse on the waterfront, the one on pier thirteen.'

'I know it.'

'He's going to kill me. I stole Luigi's mobile to make the call. Someone's coming.' She broke the connection.

Papa would know I'd still front, even if it were a setup. However, it suited me if he thought I was short in the brains department.

I knew what to expect when I entered the warehouse. Papa Costanza stood facing me, and Luigi was to the side with his hand in plaster and a sling over his shoulder. A wire pierced his face holding his jaw together.

Candy stood near an old office, while a girl, I guessed to be Evie, was tied up at her feet. Two goons stood behind Papa and Luigi.

I had to make myself appear vulnerable to provoke them. I laid my Glock on the floor at my feet. 'Don't want any trouble, Papa,' I said, 'Now you lay your guns down to show good faith. Let Evie go.'

'She can go anytime.'

Evie stood, and the ropes dropped to the floor.

'You've always been trouble, Mallet. You put Sonny in jail, and someone killed him. Now, I'm gonna kill you.'

'You don't care about Sonny; you had him killed. You made it easy to put him in jail because you planted the evidence on him,' I shouted.

I wanted Papa angry at me to distract him.

It worked. He shouted, produced a gun, and pointed it at me.

'Jees, you're dumb to come here alone. Now you're unarmed. Evie's not kidnapped. Candy said she could get you here, and she did. Now I'm going to kill you.'

They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I'm not sure if it's true, but Papa's eyes telegraphed when he decided to fire.

I flattened myself on the floor as the bullet screamed over me. I reached behind my neck for my long-bladed knife and threw it at Papa. It entered his throat, and the point came out the other side. His eyes bulged as he collapsed.

I grabbed my Glock as the goons went for their guns. But I didn't need it. The two goons died from a bullet to the head before their guns cleared their holsters. Liugy had more time but was still too slow with his left hand and died before he could fire his weapon.

I looked up to where Kathy and Trent had hidden on top of an old office before, I entered the warehouse.

An eerie silence replaced the mayhem.

Except for blood oozing from the dead bodies nothing moved.

Papa's dead eyes stared at me. I wondered if he realised, before he died, I'd set him up rather than the other way around.

Kathy and Trent walked into the warehouse. She carried her machine carbine. I had to admit she was a dangerous lady with a firearm in her hands.

'Took your time,' I said.

'Thanks for saving my life would be more appropriate. I had to wait until he went for his gun and fired.'

About six uniformed cops entered the warehouse.

I removed my bulletproof vest and the listening device from under my shirt.

Candy smiled when I looked at her,' you didn't need the wire, Spike, you've got two witnesses to testify you acted in self-defence.'

'I couldn't figure you out.'

'You've made me rich; there's a bonus. I'm grateful.'

Finally, I got it. What a sucker. It's wasn't about Papa killing me. It was about me killing Papa. The dame had me fooled. What an idiot, she played me for a sucker. Papa was in danger from the moment he placed his assets in Candy's name. She was too smart. If she'd put a hit order on him, she risked arrest. This way, I killed Papa legally.

I had a feeling Candy would make the Costanza gang bigger and deadlier than ever.

Candy smiled as she handed me the bag, 'There's sixty grand in there.'

Her voice sounded sharp. I preferred Marilyn Monroe.

I was wrong. Candy was no classy dame.

#

# The Escape

The Melbourne train rumbled into the station and stopped at the platform. Jason emerged from the shadows, produced his ticket, and found a seat at the rear of the train. He stowed his luggage then looked at his hands. There was no trace of blood.

Earlier, the blood was everywhere. Jason couldn't believe it. It was all over the bed, the walls, him, his wife, and the bastard that was fucking her. The bastard won't fuck her again. He hoped he had killed them both.

He had ducked in from work and found them hard at it. They sprang apart as he entered the room and yelled, "What the hell is this?"

"What's it look like mate. You blind or somethin'." First surprise then rage was taking hold of Jason. "The little women here reckon you're not too flash in the sex department, can't get it up, she says." The man was unknown to Jason, much bigger but going to fat.

The shame hit Jason like a sledgehammer as he pictured his wife trying to coax his penis into an erection without success. He screamed and ran from the room. "Don't worry about it mate. I'll do it for yuh. Jus' make yourself a cup of coffee. I won't be long. I'll tell yuh how to do it," taunted the man.

Jason grabbed a large knife from the kitchen and ran to the bedroom. The lover had mounted Jason's wife again. Jason plunged the knife into his back. The man grunted and turned as Jason stabbed him again in the stomach. The man screamed then rolled off the bed. Jason's wife screamed as her husband attacked her repeatedly in his frenzied rage.

Exhaustion was the only thing that made him stop. He wondered what the noise was. It was him screaming. He stopped and looked around the room; the lover and his wife lay still. He lay back in the gore until his breathing returned to normal. "Good God! What have I done?" he said softly. He put his hands to his face. He still had the knife. He threw it away. The sobbing started and racked his body as he realised, he had destroyed his world. "Why did the bitch do it?" he yelled through the sobs.

Ten minutes later, he calmed down. He looked at himself in the mirror. Dirty. He was dirty. He had to get clean. He ripped his clothes off and left them to lie where they fell on his way to the bathroom. He showered and found some clean clothes.

Escape. Jason had to escape before the cops found him. They might find the bodies soon. Then they would be watching the airport, trains, and buses. They would be watching the roads. He would risk the drive to Murray Bridge and get on the train to Melbourne.

He smiled as the train left the station and he thought about the frenzied killer in his house.

# Watch in Silence

Gunther Mueller—a Polish Immigrant—rode his bouncing motorcycle around the potholes as he travelled in the rain along the country road near Saddleworth.

He found the turnoff to Staggers' farm.

It had been five years since he had last been in South Australia—this time he sought Merilyn—now Norm Staggers' wife. Gunther also wanted to see the daughter he had conceived with Merilyn. He hoped they had found happiness after he had deserted them. They deserved better than a man who ran away. He couldn't stay with them after Merilyn's brother tried to kill him.

The thought of Michael Flynn made him reach behind him and touch the shotgun strapped to his rear carrier. He had sawn off the barrel to make it easier to carry. The shooter would solve all his problems.

A picture of Michael aiming a rifle at him invaded his thoughts, and he remembered his fear. He had debated with himself many times about going back to Merilyn and his daughter.

The war ruined many men, Michael was one of them who hated Germans. Gunther made the mistake of telling his future brother-in-law he'd been forced to fight in the German Army during the war.

Michael screamed at him, 'You're no better than the Germans who killed five of my mates. No one who fought for the Germans can be a part of this family. Get out―never come back, or I'll kill you.' He picked up his rifle, loaded it, and pointed it at Gunther. A bullet screamed past his head as he kicked his motorcycle into life and sped away.

He was afraid the paranoid Michael Flynn would kill him. He could still see hatred on the twisted face coming at him. He would have lived through the war only to be killed by a crazed gunman. What was it all for? His life was a farce, like in a bad play with the audience laughing, and walking out on the performance.

He rented a room in Melbourne and obtained employment as a carpenter.

He led a quiet life, going to the pictures or an occasional soccer match. He moved in with a woman who was often drunk. He put up with it because he had regular sex and they liked to visit nightclubs.

Then a week ago, he found her with another man in their flat. He bashed the man while the woman screamed at him. He'd climbed on his motorcycle and headed back to South Australia. After four years, it was time to sort out his life.

He knew Merilyn had married and moved to Saddleworth. He wrote to Merilyn to explain why he had left. However, her mother had intercepted the letter and wrote to him via the post office box he had provided as a return address. She sent a clipping from the local newspaper about the wedding of Merilyn to a prosperous farmer. The letter gloated about how much better she had done than that of a Polish immigrant who had no prospects.

He found the turnoff to the farm and stopped. It was still light, so he rode further down the main road into a clump of trees and sheltered from the rain. What he wanted to achieve on the farm would be easier in the dark.

When darkness descended, he left his motorcycle in the trees and walked towards the farmhouse. The graded dirt road was visible despite the dark.

Two houses appeared in the gloom. The man at the Post Office told him Norm Staggers' parents occupied the main house. The light illuminated the big house window as he walked past and headed towards the smaller house about a hundred metres away. He settled into the shadows in the barn that stood close to the house and watched.

Several lights showed, and from one room he saw a woman combing a young girl's hair. The woman leaned forward into the light—he felt tears form when he saw Merilyn. The girl looked about the right age to be his daughter. He watched his ex-fiancé—who he still loved— and daughter in a beautiful tranquil scene. The moment's emotion made his heart jump. He wanted to rush forward, take Merilyn in his arms, learn his daughter's name, pick her up, whirl her around, and tell her he was her father.

He thought about his wasted life. Why would they want him back? Their life appeared better without him. He felt helpless. Even if she wanted him back, Michael Flynn stood like a colossus behind his sister with his rifle poised. She wouldn't want to leave her family and hide away from Michael like an escaped convict.

His fantasy of persuading Merilyn to run away with him was just that, a fantasy. He had imagined her rushing into his arms many times and forgiving him for deserting her and their daughter. He was a waste to the world. Why did he survive the war? He decided he wouldn't survive the shotgun. The barn was ideal. It would be easy for someone to clean up the mess afterwards; he wouldn't cause more trouble than he had to. Merilyn would know he was dead and wouldn't complicate her life. Maybe the dramatic gesture would tell her he still loved her. He readied the shotgun.

A shout from the house made him stop.

'Have you ironed my shirt for tomorrow? Stop stuffin' about with the little Polish bitch an' iron my shirt. I'm sick of supporting her; she's not even my kid.'

'I'll do it in a minute,' said Merilyn, 'I'm nearly finished.'

'Do it now.'

Gunther watched as the man entered the room, he heard the blow and saw Merilyn fall across the room. The man kicked her while she lay on the floor. He felt disgusted at the treatment and had to stop himself rushing to her aid—unsure whether she would welcome his help.

'I'm goin' into town termorra. Do the shirt now. Jesus, you're useless.' The man left the room, and Gunther heard his daughter and Merilyn crying. Slowly, their heads appeared in the window. Merilyn took a large breath and stopped crying. Red welts showed on her face.

Gunther hefted the shotgun and thought about shooting Norm Staggers. Merilyn came away from the window, and he heard noises he thought were associated with ironing a shirt.

He decided to wait. He wanted to know more about Merilyn's life. She couldn't be happy with a brute like Staggers. About an hour later, the bedroom light went out, but the kitchen light stayed on. His daughter's light went out.

Half an hour later, Gunther saw the glow of a cigarette come around from behind the house. He backed into the shadows and watched the person walking towards him. The light from the kitchen framed the figure—it was Merilyn. He ached to hold her but was afraid he'd frighten her. He waited—she entered the barn and sat on tractor wheel.

He whispered, 'Merilyn.'

She stood up quickly. 'Who's there?'

'Don't be frightened,' he used the name she always called him.' It's Fred.' He walked up to her. She was apprehensive. 'Don't be frightened; it's only me. It's Fred.'

She recognised him. 'Fred!' she exclaimed and flew into his arms. Gunther felt the wet tears against his cheek. 'I've prayed for you to come back.' They stood for a minute. Gunther felt his dreams coming true. Finally, she asked, 'What are you doing here?'

'To see you and the girl. Only wanted to watch you through the window. Didn't want to bother you. You walked in, couldn't help speaking.'

'Will you take us away with you? Away from him.'

'Of course, are you sure?'

'Yes, why did you leave me? You broke my heart.'

'It had nothing to do with you. Michael tried to kill me.'

'How, why? What did he do?'

'The war—it's a long story.'

'Tell me.' He told her.

'I've always been in love with you,' he concluded. 'I was a coward to run away.'

'We could leave tonight and go where no one could find us. You'll never have to see Michael again,' she said.

'What about your family? How could you leave them?'

'Easy, Mum made me marry that excuse for a man because I was pregnant, and he was a farmer with money. She said she couldn't bear the shame I'd bring on the family. I think she meant on her. She didn't care he was a brute. All my relatives can go to Hell. They left me to be raped and beaten.'

'I feel responsible for what happened to you. I let you down. Are you sure you can trust me? '

'I still love you even though you broke my heart. We could get away, start a new life somewhere.'

'When will we leave?'

'Now, I'll get Barbara and a few things and go. How did you get here?'

'I left my motorbike out on the road.'

She came into his arms and kissed him longingly.

'There you are.' Norm Staggers stood in his pyjamas. 'Who's this?'

'I'm taking her away,' said Gunther.

'Like hell you are. She's my wife. She's mine.'

'Not when you beat and rape her. I'm taking her and the girl.'

'You can have the kid, reckon she's yours anyhow. But I need someone to fuck and do the work.'

Gunther handed the shotgun to Merilyn. Staggers rushed at his opponent. Gunther grabbed him around the waist and headbutted him on the nose.

Staggers yelled, 'You bastard.'

Gunther pushed the farmer away and punched him on the nose again. Blood flowed down his face.

Staggers rushed, his arms flailing only to be hit again. He staggered then collapsed. Merilyn hit him over the head with the shotgun.

'Come on, we have to hurry before he comes around,' she exclaimed.

They rushed to the house where mother and daughter packed essential belongings.

Merilyn said, 'This is Barbara, your daughter.' He stopped and smiled, apprehensive, but she only stared. 'Come on, time to get to know each other later,' said Merilyn.

They hurried down the road and found the motorcycle in the trees. Gunther wheeled it onto the road, 'How are we going to do this? asked Merilyn.

'Barbara can sit in front of me on the petrol tank, you on the pillion seat. Put the things in the saddlebags.'

Merilyn placed her arms around him, and he felt her body against him, he felt his daughter between his arms. He let the clutch out and the heavily laden motorcycle staggered down the road towards the turnoff to Murray Bridge.

'Hope we don't see any cops. I don't think this is legal,' said Gunther.

The next day he sold the motorcycle and bought a car. They travelled to Melbourne and on to Morwell where they found temporary accommodation under an assumed name.

A week later, Gunther found work and their new life started.

Ten years later, Merilyn contacted the Birth Deaths and Marriages in Adelaide. She discovered Norm Staggers had divorced her five years previously.

Two weeks later, Gunther bundled the family into his car, they now had four children and drove to Melbourne.

Merilyn and Gunther were married in the registrar office while their children watched.

# After the Affair

The television was on as the weather girl set out the innocuous weather information at the end of the news. Rosemary glanced at her husband as he sat in his chair reading the newspaper. The kids were off their hands these days, and there was only the two of them at home.

Suddenly, a face appeared on the screen that made her sit up and gasp slightly. Richard Nathan's face smiled out as the announcer proclaimed an exclusive interview with one of Australia's richest men.

Rosemary's mind went back thirty years as she remembered the seminar in Melbourne called, 'Don't dream of selling. Just do it.' The cosmetic company she worked for, still works for, sent her to the three-day seminar. Mike, her husband, was having a terrible time in the architectural firm he worked for. His boss would not accept his designs for a major building they were designing. Every night he would come home with another complaint about his treatment. They went around in circles discussing whether he should resign. The pressure on Mike was affecting their marriage. Rosemary was sure they were heading for divorce. She remembered feeling happy to get away.

The first day of the seminar went according to plan with nothing she hadn't heard before, except for an impressive young man called Richard Nathan. His address was in communications, and he knew his subject. Rosemary returned to her hotel and dressed for dinner. She rang Mike and found out the situation was worse; she told him to resign.

Rosemary arrived early for dinner and sat in the foyer and thought about her advice to Mike. Perhaps she was too harsh. But she was sick of it. "You look sad. Can I sit here?"

Rosemary looked up and saw a smiling Richard Nathan. "I've had some bad news from home."

"Not too bad I hope?"

"My husband is thinking of resigning his job."

"Does he have another one to go to?"

'No. He is having such a tough time with his boss. Mike's a very good architect. For some reason, his boss is rejecting all his designs.'

'Tell him not to take it. Tell him to quit. If he's good, he'll get another job.'

'I did that. The problem is I'm not sure I can take it. He seems to be impossible to live with. I'm not sure I want to go on. Oh! Why am I telling you all this, It must be so boring?'

"Not at all. It helps to talk about it."

"I feel like I'm letting him down. As soon as trouble starts I want to back out." The tears formed, and Richard took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and leant over to brush them away and took her hand.

"The problem will be resolved," he said quietly. "You are worrying too much."

"I know I am silly. Please forgive me. It's just got on top of me. Thank you for listening."

"Rosemary,' he said quietly. He read her name from her name tag. "It's so good to hear about home in this place of false optimism. It somehow brings home to us that this is not the real world. At home with all our problems is the real world."

"You would not have any problems," she said, "You're so confident."

"I have had some bad news from home. My wife and I have been trying to have a family. She was two weeks over. I have just got off the phone. Not this time I'm afraid. I don't think we can have children." The sadness in his eyes told Rosemary that Richard was very depressed. The mask had slipped.

"There a lot of things they can do now. Don't worry," she said as she squeezed his hand in comfort.

"I know. But do you know what worries me the most? I don't think I will ever have children. That is a terrible curse to put on a man. I think that curse is on me."

Rosemary slid over on her seat and put her arm around him. "Don't say that. Oh, you poor dear."

Richard sat up. "Oh, I am sorry. You must think I'm terrible. I'd like to get away from that crowd in there. I know a nice little place where they serve great spaghetti. I know it's hard to eat, but I won't look at you if you don't look at me."

The meal was wonderful, and they comforted each other that night and the next day and night as they both forgot about the seminar. The next day they knew they had to say goodbye.

"Rosemary I love you," said Richard as he held her in his arms. "I love you, but I also love my wife. Please understand that I will never forget you. I needed you so much, and you were there for me. I would be afraid to meet you again. I hope you understand."

"I love you too," said Rosemary. "I understand. In a way, you have made me realise I must support Mike through his problems. I needed you. You were there. I will never forget you."

Rosemary was not sorry. Richard had made her forget her problems with Mike for a little while. She felt guilty, but she was not sorry.

She returned home and found Mike was still having terrible problems at work. She threw herself into support for him. Two weeks later Mike rang her at work and told her to meet him at a restaurant. He was there when she arrived and rose and was smiling with a mischievous look on his face. "What's going on?" she asked.

"I've had the most incredible day. I can't believe what's happened."

"Tell me."

'You know how we discussed if the crap got too much I'd resign. This morning it did. I went up to the Manager's office. I decided to go over the Supervisor's head. I told the Manager that I was resigning. He wanted to know why, so I told him. He asked me to show him my designs. He liked them.

'He told me that the client of the building we are working on is most disappointed with the designs we have shown him to date. He phoned and took my designs to show the client. He loved them.

"We drove back to the office, and he sent me back to my workstation. A few hours later I noticed the supervising architect clearing out his desk. The manager called me into his office and offered me the job as supervising Architect at an increase in salary. So, you are looking at a happy architect with a happy boss and a happy client."

"Oh Mike," she said as she moved around the table and kissed him. "I am so happy for you. You deserve it."

"Yeah, I think I do. I don't know if I deserve you though. I must have been terrible. I spoke to my father about it. He told me not to worry about my job. He was very angry with me. Never neglect your marriage. Your marriage and your family is far more important especially with a wonderful wife like you, I'm so sorry Darling. Please forgive me."

Rosemary smiled and squeezed Mike's hand. "I wish I had given you more support. You needed me, and I am not sure I did all I could."

"It's all over now. We got through it," said Mike.

Two weeks later, Rosemary knew she was pregnant. She was almost sure it was Richard's. She now wanted her marriage to Mike more than anything in the world. She would pass the child off as Mike's. It had worked. Even though Martin, her son, was so different from the rest of her children Mike had never said a word. He and Martin were close as father and son.

The interview with Richard Nathan was going well with the interviewer discussing Richard's communication network and the planned expansion into South East Asia. Richard was relaxed and answered the questions with an easy style.

"I would like to ask you a few personal questions if you don't mind?"

The camera panned onto a close up of Richard as he said, "As long as they are not too personal. If they are, I'll tell you to mind your own business."

"You've been married to Yoland your wife for thirty-two years. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Richard tentatively.

"You have no children. Is there a reason why? Is it because you don't want to have them? Or, is there some other reason?"

The camera panned in for a close up of Richard, "That is far too personal. It is far too painful for me to answer."

"I am sorry. But many of our viewers are interested in Richard Nathan the man. I take it from your answer that you would like to have children."

"Of course, we would like to have children. But we can't." Richard's eyes watered as he wiped his eyes.

Rosemary burst out, "Leave the poor man alone. He's upset. Leave him alone."

The interviewer knew when he was onto a good story. "Is there a reason you can't have children?"

"This has gone far enough," said Richard. "I will not answer any more questions."

"Thank you, Mister Nathan," said the interviewer as the television cut to an advertisement.

"That poor man," said Rosemary. "Why do they do that? They could see how upset he was. They should leave him alone."

Mike switched the television off with the remote control and walked over and sat next to Rosemary. "Do you think you should tell that poor man that he has a son?" he said.

Rosemary's heart seemed to stop as she stared into Mike's eyes. "What are you talking about?" she said slowly.

'We both know that Martin is his son. I think you should tell him he has a son."

Rosemary felt the tears rush. Then Mike took her in his arms as she cried on his shoulder.

"How did you know?" she sobbed.

"I've always known. I received a phone call from one of your workmates. She told me about how you skipped most of the seminar to be with Richard."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I nearly did. I was going to race home from work to confront you when my father rang. You know how close I was to my father before he died. He persuaded me to go and see him first. We discussed it for two hours. He reminded me of my stupid behaviour when I was having trouble at work. He told me that I had almost driven you away from me. He said that if I did confront you I did would risk losing you."

"It must have been terrible for you."

'It was in the beginning. I decided not to say anything to you. I thought I would wait and see how it all went. Then as the years went on Martin turned out to be the sort of son every man dreams about, then the girls came along, and it all seemed to be so irrelevant."

"Oh! Mike. I should have known better. I thought when you found out our marriage would be over. I thought I had got away with the deception. I knew as soon as I came home that I loved you and wanted to be with you."

"Our marriage might have been over if my father had not intervened. I was upset."

"You had a right to be."

"What now? Richard has the right to know that he has a son. Martin should know who his real father is."

"You will always be Martin's real father," said Rosemary quickly. "We have dealt with it. How will it help Richard and Martin to know the truth?"

"I always thought it didn't make any difference until I saw Richard's face on TV tonight. I think he should know. I felt sorry for him."

"What about Martin?"

"I think he would like to know. He's twenty-nine now and should be able to handle it. You know Martin is very like Richard. His Internet service company is going well. It's strange that they are both in communications."

Rosemary crossed to the telephone and looked up Richard's telephone number and picked up the phone.

# The Old Man.

The summer sun scorched all it touched as the grey-haired man walked slowly along the dirt road after collecting his pension in the opal town of Andamooka. Old Sid had a sugar bag thrown over his shoulder. He adjusted his battered army hat to keep out the sun.

Stopping in the shade of a shop front to rest, he rolled a smoke from his tobacco pouch. Nothing moved in the town except rising wisps of dust, and heat haze sheeting into the air like fairy mist.

The townspeople huddled in their houses like mice in their holes as they waited for the heat to subside. They talked about Sid and made up lies to scare their children. Let them slur him; he didn't care. He had his life, and they had theirs if they left him alone.

He lit his smoke and noticed two boys riding towards him on their bikes. These boys were trouble—he'd encountered them before. They yelled at him in unison, 'Dirty, dirty. Sid's a dirty old man.'

He ignored them and tried to walk away. The boys moved closer, and one of them yelled. 'Dirty, dirty. Sid's a dirty old man and a liar.'

Sid ran out onto the track and swung his sugar bag filled with shopping at the boys. 'Go away,' he yelled. The boys quickly moved out of Sid's reach laughing at his feeble efforts.

The old man felt relief when he heard a yell. 'Leave him alone.' A group of children walked down the street; he'd seen them before but had never spoken to them. The lead boy had a stone in his hand. 'Leave him alone, or you'll cop this rock.'

'Only having fun, Brett.'

'The poor bugger's scared. Leave him alone.'

'You'll keep. I'll get you at school tomorrow.'

'Yeah, you and what army,' said Brett as the children gathered around.

The boys on the bikes, rode off yelling, 'Brett likes dirty old men.'

'A girl yelled, 'Wash your mouth out with soap.'

'You okay, Sid? Did they hurt ya?'

'No. Thank you for your help. How did you know my name?'

'Everyone knows your name. We'd better walk ya home, in case they come back.'

'That's kind of you. I've coke in the fridge. Would you all like a drink?'

'Yeah, reckon we would,' said Brett. The children followed as Sid moved off into the blazing sun.

'What are your names?' asked Sid.

Brett looked about ten and older than the rest, he said, 'I'm Brett, this ere's Colin, that's Tracy and Julie. The little bugger on the end is me, brother. 'Is name's Gerald, but we call 'im Shorty.'

'I'm going to tell Mum,' said Gerald. 'You're not allowed to call me Shorty.'

'Are you all one family?' asked Sid.

'Colin an' Julie are brother and sister. Tracy lives near us.'

'You all walk to school together?'

'Yeah. We're all friends,' said Brett.

'It's nice to have friends,' said Sid.

They fell silent as they battled the heat and the hill leading to Sid's small asbestos shack with an iron roof, like other houses in the town. The yard was bare earth, and it was a relief to enter the neat and tidy house out of the direct sunlight. It was not much cooler inside. The open door to a room revealed books and papers.

Sid led them into the kitchen, took a bottle of coke from the fridge, and poured them a drink. Gerald looked up and said, 'Are you a hunard years old?'

'No Gerald. I'm about twenty years short. That's old enough.'

'Why do you speak with such a toffy voice,' asked Tracy.

'That's the way I was taught.'

'Are yuh a miner?' asked Colin.

'I've done some noodling, but mostly I write.'

'My Mum told me to stay away from you,' said Julie.

'That's a pity,' said Sid. 'I love to have company. You're welcome here any time.'

He remembered the crying little-lost girl. She couldn't find her mother. Sid took her hand and calmed her as he led her towards the police station. Then the screams as the mother accused him of kidnapping her. The policeman interviewed him. Sid felt the copper didn't believe him. Let them believe what they wanted. He couldn't care less. Except now, he wanted the children to like him.

'Were yuh in the war?' asked Brett.

'I was at Tobruk, El Alamein and later in New Guinea.'

'Did ya like it?'

'Hated it—the worst time of my life.'

'Did ya kill anyone?'

Sid ignored the question. 'Tell me—what do they teach you at school?'

'Same old stuff,' said Brett, 'English, maths, history, geography.'

'That's important. Do you know what the lessons of history show us?'

The children stayed silent.

'Revenge has started most of the wars in the world. Someone does something to someone they don't like. The wronged person takes revenge. Then the original person responds to the revenge, and it goes on until there is hatred and no one knows why. It all escalates into utter madness, leading to a killing spree.'

'But if someone throws a rock at me, I have to throw one back an' get 'him,' said Brett.

'You have to defend yourself from the attack. However, don't take it any further, or it's revenge.'

'You reckon, there wouldn't be any wars.'

'You can teach the world. If you did, you'd be the greatest hero the world has ever known.'

'Jees, yuh reckon,' said Colin.

"We 'ave to go,' said Brett. 'Mum will wonder where we are.'

'Come back anytime,' said Sid. 'I always have a coke in the fridge.'

'Can we come back tomorrow?' Gerald blurted out.

'Of course.'

The children chattered as they left, and Sid closed the door and cleared away the glasses. He smiled as he remembered little Gerald.

He wondered what his grandchildren were like. He would love to see him. If he contacted them, their parents would put him in a home for old people. Perhaps he would have more grandchildren. It had been ten years since he had contact with his family. He had a son and two daughters and had argued with them after his wife died. After drawing all his money from the bank, he left Melbourne and ended up in Andamooka. They probably thought he was dead.

The next day the children came back and knocked on his door. 'Come in,' said Sid. 'The coke's in the fridge: the glasses are on the table. Brett, you and Tracy pour the drinks.'

'Tell us about the war?' asked Colin.

'There's not much to tell. I was sick with malaria after the war. I don't like to think about it.'

'Were you brave? Were you a hero? Did you get medals?'

'No heroes in the war. Just men who did what they had to. Too many died.'

Colin looked disappointed. 'That's all in the past,' said Sid. 'I want to talk about the future. You kids will be going into new exciting times. Do you know where most improvements will come from?'

'Computers and stuff,' said Tracy.

'They will improve. The most important improvements will be in interpersonal relationships.'

'What's that?' asked Tracy.

'How we get on with each other. If the twentieth century were about improvement in technology, the twenty-first century would be about how we all get along. How will the blacks get on with the whites? How will the rich get on with the poor? How will the Catholics, Jews, Protestants, Hindus, Moslems, Buddhists and all the world's religions get on with each other? How will all the different cultures in the world get on with each other? How will all the world's countries get on together? How will men get on with women?'

'None of that stuff happens now,' said Brett. 'How will we make it work in the future?'

'A lot of it will happen if man learns to deal with revenge. That's the starting point. From there, they will deal with the other things. I think they will, and you kids will be a part of it.'

'You a teacher or somethin'? asked Brett.

'A journalist, now I'm an unpublished writer.'

'What's that?' asked Colin.

'I've written two books about the futility of revenge. I've never shown them to a publisher.'

'Are yuh gunna?'

'One day. What do you think kids? Has old Sid told you things you didn't know?'

'Yeah. Thanks, Sid,' said Brett.

'You'd better go now. I need to lie down for a while.'

Next day, a worried Brett knocked on Sid's door—the boys who tormented Sid were teasing Brett. He didn't want to take revenge—he wanted to knock their blocks off because they deserved it. He knocked again—no answer.

The following day, Brett knocked at Sid's door again—still no answer. Brett was worried. The blinds were down so he couldn't see through the windows. He left and told the policeman something might have happened to old Sid. Reluctantly, the policeman drove to Sid's house with Brett and forced the door making sure the boy stayed outside. A few minutes later, the policeman summoned Brett inside and told him Sid had died. He'd covered him with a blanket and left him on the bed. Brett covered his nose against the smell.

'I have to contact the next of kin. Do you know anything about him?'

'No—he was a nice old man.'

'A depraved, dirty old man you mean. I wanted to run him out of town.'

'He was nice,' Brett defended.

'Looks like a trunk here,' said the officer. The top was stuck, but he forced it open. 'Jees will you look at this.'

The trunk contained medals and letters and old army paraphernalia. 'Holly Hell! Will you look at that,' exclaimed the police officer. 'Do you know what that medal is son?'

'No.'

'It's the Victoria Cross. It's the highest award for bravery in the Army.' He held the medal reverently in his hands. 'I didn't know we had a war hero living in our midst. The town's going to go mad with pride. Reckon he'll have the biggest funeral ever. The Prime Minister always attends funerals of Victoria Cross winners.'

# Vincent Jones

To call Charity Beaumont, beautiful doesn't do her justice. The word that comes to my mind is exquisite. I watch and wonder at what miracle it would take for her to go out with me. She dresses like a lady and stands out from the university students with their torn jeans and inappropriate tee shirts.

I can see her coming towards me, and I tell myself not to stare.

'Hello, Vincent,' she says. 'Congratulations, on winning the science prize again.'

I couldn't believe it. Charity Beaumont is speaking to me. I wanted to tell her how much I admired her and now was the perfect opportunity to ask her out on a date. But all I said was, 'Thank you.'

'Vincent, what will you do when you finish university? 'She smiled at me as if she was interested. However, I knew she was making conversation.

'I'm on a BHP-Billiton scholarship. That means I'll have to work for them.'

'That's exciting; you will be well paid.'

'I worked in their laboratories, in the holidays. I didn't get much, but they said I'd get a lot more when I graduate. '

'I'm doing law, and most of it is boring. My father made me do it, but I can't see me making a career out of it.' I thought if she let me look after her she wouldn't need a career.

'What will you do? '

'I'd like to use my law degree to work with children. Make sure underprivileged kids get a fair go. I don't expect to be well paid, but it would be better than fighting for some repulsive company director in court.'

'I hope it works out for you. '

She turned to go and looked back over her shoulder, 'we should have a drink sometime.'

I almost ran after her and shouted when what about now? But she was gone.

Then, reality kicked in. Enquiries about my future job prospects told me Charity wanted to know about me. No, it wasn't me she was interested in, but my capacity to earn a high salary.

Then I almost kicked myself for being so stupid. Charity wasn't interested in me, high salary or low salary. That's my trouble – I let my imagination run away. But at least I had her in my imagination and had to be content. It was the only way I'd ever have her.

I saw Don Roland as he sat at the table nursing a beer. I wondered why he asked me to meet him at the Green Dragon hotel because he was not what I would call a friend. In fact, I had no one who I would call a friend, although some classmates were acquaintances. I bought a beer at the bar and sat down at the table with Don.

'Hi Don,' I said. 'What's on your mind? '

He stared at me for some time and took a sip of his beer as if he was trying to find the words to my query. He placed his beer back on the table and leaned back and searched my face. 'You're a dark horse. '

I never considered myself to be other than open, so it surprised me when he suggested I kept secrets. Don was what I would consider the tall, handsome type, who appealed to women. I was skinny, wore glasses, nerdy, and the opposite to Don Roland. I racked my brain and couldn't remember Don speaking to me before. I was curious when I received his text to meet me at the hotel.

'You, busy tonight? 'Don asked.

'Not really, but I should study. '

'From what I hear you don't need to. You're the smartest guy at the university.'

'Don, I hardly know you, and suddenly I get a request to meet you at the pub. Now, you want us to do something this evening. What's happening?'

'Tiffany Beaumont wants us to meet at her house. Her parents are away.'

'Why? '

'I don't know; I guess it's not to watch television. '

'I guess not. '

'Meet me here at 10 o'clock tonight. '

I nodded and walked to the bar and finished my drink. I had no idea why Tiffany wanted to see us. I mean, Don was such a block-head. I know he was barely passing his exams. Perhaps she wanted me to tutor her? But then why would Don be there? I didn't like it when I couldn't understand something, and I guess the only way to know was to turn up tonight.

The meeting earlier today with Tiffany reminded me she wanted to meet for coffee. But, if that were the case, we would surely go to a fancy coffee shop for the best caffeine hit. Something was strange, and maybe Don was setting me up, and Tiffany had no idea what was happening. But Don wasn't to know Tiffany had spoken with me earlier today. So maybe it was all above board. The only way to find out was to go along.

Don Roland's car was a clapped-out old Nissan, with faded red Duco and the front seats covered in a kind of blue towelling. I was confused why I was sitting in this car with a man I hardly knew. If we were going to meet Tiffany, then I was pleased. I guess that's why I went along with it. What else could I do? I was in love with her, and no decent prospect of ever making her my girlfriend. I knew it was a weakness in my character, but sometimes you must go with your weaknesses and hope they turn out for the best.

'What is this all about? 'I blurted out.

Don turned and looked at me, 'It's simple, we're going to fuck Tiffany Beaumont.'

He must have thought I was an imbecile. I stared into his face. His eyes constricted in hatred. I found myself disgusted. 'How...?'

'I hope I don't have to explain it. We take her clothes off and then take ours off. I hope I don't have to go any further?'

I pictured ripping off her clothes and taking it in turns in a vicious rape. I hated the thought of how it would affect Tiffany.

'We can't.'

'She'll love it,' he said.

It was then I knew I had to stop him. I couldn't imagine anyone violating Tiffany in that way. I reached over and grabbed the steering wheel.

'What the hell, 'Don yelled. 'You'll get us killed. '

The car veered off the road, and I felt the bumps as it careered across the verge and headed for the cliff with a 50-metre drop to the reservoir. My instincts told me to get out the car. I rolled out onto the ground, luckily landing on grass. I felt the pain of the impact on my shoulder and felt skin ripping from my face.

I heard the car crash through the cliff fence and a splash as it entered the water.

I sat up and felt my sore shoulder. It took the impact of my fall. I climbed to my feet and crossed to the cliff. I couldn't see anything except ripples on the surface in the moonlight.

It took me almost a minute, to understand what had happened. The accident happened because I pulled the steering wheel in response to my anger at what Don said about raping Tiffany. It meant I was responsible for Don Roland's death. Of course, I knew it was my duty to report it to the police. However, logic kicked in and I realised I was the only one who knew what happened.

I would report it but leave out the part where I grabbed the steering wheel. No one would know I caused the accident.

A car pulled up, a man and a woman ran to me, 'Jesus mate, you okay? What happened?' the man inquired.

I stared at them but couldn't say anything for a moment. 'Don drove off the road.'

'Oh! You're hurt,' the woman said.

My hand went to my face and came away bloody.

'We'll get you to a hospital, come on get in,' said the man. 'We'll ring the police on the way.'

The doctor checked me over, and nurses attended to the wound in my cheek, and an x-ray on my shoulder showed no damage. The police interviewed me, and I told them my version of what happened. They were sorry to inconvenience me.

A taxi dropped me off at Tiffany's house. I knocked on the door. She opened it and took my hand as she escorted me inside. 'Your face, what happened? Where is Don? '

I told her.

'I'm sorry for Don, but at least you're all right.' For a moment, I wondered where the tears were for the death of someone who was at least her friend—even if he was going to rape her, but she wouldn't know that.

'I was lucky to get out; Don was driving fast and didn't get time to get out before the car went into the reservoir.'

She moved towards me and took me in her arms, from the way she hugged me to her body, I had the feeling of more than a comforting gesture. I tried to stop my carnal thoughts from intruding. However, it was a lost cause.

She kissed me on the lips, and we lingered in an embrace. She broke contact, took my hand, and let me up the stairs and entered her bedroom. 'Take your clothes off,' she whispered. I complied as she did the same.

I worried about my performance. It's true to say my experience was minimal. However, I felt as if all my dreams had come true. She took my hand and led me to the bed. I had the impression; she had experience in lovemaking. I wondered whether I had elevated her on to too high a pedestal. However, I didn't care.

Afterwards, she kissed me and proceeded to the bathroom, where I heard the shower commence. Soon, she returned and dressed in her nightgown as she signalled me to have a shower.

When I returned, she was sitting on her bed.

I dressed and sat beside her. We kissed. 'I love having sex, 'she said. 'Don was my partner for about six months. It was only about sex.'

I stared at her, and she smiled. 'Yes, I thought that would surprise you. I like to give the impression of being a goody two shoes. But I can't help my passion, and I must fulfil it and have sex sometimes. Don was discreet; it suited me.'

So much for rape, I decided. Don died for nothing.

I didn't know what to think; she fooled most of the people at the University and me. I wondered whether I had been selected to fulfil her desires as a replacement for Don. I didn't see myself as a sex object. I was confused.

'I knew it was time to think about the future, 'she explained. 'I selected you to become my husband in the future because you will give me financial security. Also, you'll get better in bed after I show you what I want.'

'Isn't marriage supposed to be about love?' I managed to say.

'I'll make all your dreams come true, we will have a successful marriage, and I will be by your side as you climb the corporate ladder. I will be the ideal wife, and you're every sexual desire will be fulfilled. I'm not the kind of person that needs to love someone. Although, I know you love me. I must have my desires fulfilled, and if you can't do it, I will seek others but be discrete. '

I was appalled, my Anglo-Saxon Christian values had always instilled in me that marriage was about love. Now, this gorgeous creature, who I adored, had spilled out another agenda. It felt more like a business arrangement, than a proposal of marriage.

'As of today, we will become engaged and be a couple at the University. We will have sex at every opportunity. Do you agree?'

I knew it wouldn't work. She would not be faithful to me. But I didn't care.

# Rain

'We need bloody rain, Mate,' said Ben.

'How much brain power did you need to figure that out?' said Mick.

'Open your eyes. The crops'll die if it doesn't rain soon.'

'You have a talent for stating the bleedin' obvious. The TV, the papers, and everyone you meet are talking about this bloody drought. Reckon you could come up with something a bit more original.'

Ben bends down and runs his hand through the dirt on his side of the farm fence. The small shoots of wheat are struggling to survive. He stands then looks out at the paddocks. They stretch out towards the horizon with farmhouses breaking the view of brown earth interspersed with small shoots of green trying to survive.

'We shouldn't have planted,' said Mick. 'If we didn't get some rain early in the season, I wouldn't have borrowed two hundred grand for seed.'

'You're no bloody orphan mate. Like I said we need some bloody rain.'

'Yeah, you're right. We need some bloody rain.'

'River's drying up. Been into town lately,' said Ben. 'Can't even go fishing.'

'This is the part that pisses me off. Waiting for it to rain. I've fixed everything around the farm. Maintenance fences the lot, Nothin' to bloody do but wait.'

'Come with me,' said Mick. 'Got a part-time job working for the council. They got one of them federal grants to clean up the river—doing our bit for the environment.'

'Nar, not me. Still got some things to do to get ready for harvest.'

'If you have a bloody harvest, you reckon it'll ever rain again?'

'Yeah, Mate. 'It'll rain again. It's just a matter of when.'

Mick shrugged his shoulders. 'Hope you're right, Mate. Hope you're bloody right.'

'I'm right. You'll see, I'm right.'

Mick and Ben walked back to their motorbikes and rode back towards their respective farmhouses.

It took three weeks to prove Ben right. Something changed, and the Weather Gods decreed El Nino would affect the oceans off Australia's coast.

It rained. It kept raining. At first, the farmers were pleased as they watched the brown earth turn to a darker colour. The wheat turned a darker green, and they were satisfied.

But the rain kept coming. Ben walked outside and shouted at the heavens,' It's enough. Stop it. You'll wash the bloody crop away.'

When Ben entered his house the phone was ringing, it was the frantic voice of someone from the council. 'The river's rising, the town is flooding. We need all the help we can get.'

Ben ran to his utility and drove away. On the way, he noticed Mick was heading to town too.

They parked their vehicles and ran to where people were desperately filling sandbags. But it was too late. The river had burst its banks. The insidious water was filling every low-lying area and rising until it ran down the main street.

There was nothing to do. The water rose until some of the townspeople sailed a boat down the street. They went from house to house rescuing town's people and taking them to higher ground. Ben and Mick stood in the water that came up to their knees. Still, it rained.

'What were you saying about the rain?' asked Mick.

'It will always rain. Just a matter of when,' said Ben

'How do you bloody stop it?'

'Can't! We just have to wait.'

'It'll wash our bloody crops away.'

'Could do?'

'Think it's time we went home. No one's going to drown now. The town's flooded. Nothing we can do here. Time, we looked after ourselves,' said Mick.

'Yeah.'

As the farmers drove, they noticed their windscreen wipers weren't needed. The rain had stopped.

They both stopped at Mick's farm fence and looked out at his land. Some of his crops in lower reaches had washed away where the rain had formed in rushing streams, but except for minor damage, eighty per cent of his crop was undamaged.

On Ben's farm, there was minor damage. 'What about rust?' asked Mick.

'Could be a problem. Everything got wet. Not much we can do about this crop. We'll have to watch it for next year. Have to get all the rust out of the soil.'

'Reckon I should try to replant the damaged areas?' asked Mick.

'I wouldn't. You should concentrate on the crop you have. Pump out any areas with water pooling around the wheat. At least we'll have a harvest. Should be able to pay the bills.'

'Yeah,' said Mick.

Eleven months later Ben and Mick stood by the same fence they had before. The crop was in the same state green shoots on the farms as far as the eye could see.

'Need some bloody rain, mate,' said Ben.

'You're stating the bloody obvious again,' said Mick.

'Just have to open your eyes. The crops'll die if it doesn't rain soon.'

### I hope you enjoyed 'Evil in the City' and like all authors we need support to continue what we do. Please rate and perhaps write a review on Amazon and Goodreads to tell everyone what you think.

### Short stories are only a part of Reece's writing and please try his other stories, check them out.

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