Skarzy (3 page)

7

The house stank. Skarzy registered
disgust.

The front door
was now closed, the old man dragged across the carpet and into the kitchen. The
old, fat man.

The old, fat, balding
man.

Skarzy pried
his lips apart with a pair of tongs and discovered his teeth were yellow. That
real busted up, shitty kind of yellow. His singlet had brown stains on it.

Brown and
yellow stains.

Skarzy opened
up the refrigerator to find something incriminating.

Looked pretty
average. At least his milk was in date.

Skarzy went
into the bedroom. The one with the purple drapes.

In there he
found the guy’s wallet. His name was Albert Sands.

He sat there
on the bed a while, looking at the photo. The guy looked twenty years younger.
He also had a few photos of a man in there, Skarzy presumed to be the son.

There was
forty five dollars in the cash pouch. That and a receipt.

He’d been
shopping at Coles at 2.14 today. He bought a six pack of toilet paper, some
chicken snitzels, some bread rolls, some lettuce, some tomato sauce, a bottle
of coke, and some cigarettes. He was served by a woman named Martha.

Skarzy smiled.

I’ve just
killed someone,
he
realized.

Really …
really … killed someone…

Didn’t the
Curry Muncher count?

That fuckhead
had reached for the button the moment Skarzy had turned his shoulder; a second
later he’d slit the thing’s throat and he was on the floor squirming and the
blood was –

Skarzy had run
after that.

No,
he finally
decided.
The Muncher doesn’t count.

Racism aside.

Skarzy could
walk back to that exact servo tomorrow and see the same fuck standing there –
him or his fucking sister – and Skarzy would go –

Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

And the
muncher would go:

Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Blah, blah,
bullshit.

Skarzy shook
his head and then … decided to get on with his charade.

I don’t know
you, Mr. Sands,
he
thought.
But if one day a man knocked on your front door and said come and
play with me…

Tell me, what
would you wear?

Skarzy jerked
the closet open.

Most of the plastic
coat hangers were empty, a small unattractive pile descending below them. Above
the rack he could make out a few white boxes. Skarzy pulled a stool out and
stood up to investigate.

There he
uncovered three black suits wrapped in tissue paper. He took the boxes down and
laid them out across the bed so he could compare before he made his selection.
Skarzy didn’t know suits … and wasn’t sure why he was suddenly drawn to this
man’s –  given his current appendage he should have been happy with what lay at
the bottom of the pile (or under worse circumstances, the clothes off Albert’s
back) – but then Skarzy was changing and this new man would require a new
vision. He liked the top-hat in particular. 

Tap, tap, tap.
 

Skarzy halted.

The knock had
come from the window.

Tap, tap, tap.

Skarzy touched
his lips. They were dry.

Outside, he heard
the person shuffling along, and he quickly pulled up a pair pants (no time for
undies), and grabbed one of the singlets off the pile.

Roomm, roomm,
rooomm.

They were at
the front door now.

Must be a
neighbour,
Skarzy figured.
Too soon for coppers.

He tucked the
wallet in his pocket and picked up one of the top-hats before hurrying into the
hallway. He could hear the neighbor calling.

“Where are
you, Al?”

Skarzy heard
the dreaded concern in his voice. There was no mistake about it.

 “AL! SPEAK
UP, AL!”

Skarzy’s foot
collided with the body as he stumbled on through the kitchen, the backdoor in
his sights. There wasn’t any time for a sarcastic comment or thought, though he
felt the tingling sensation of one rising.

Something metallic
slid across the kitchen floor.

Skarzy looked
back. It’d gone underneath the stove, and as he was about to turn again … a bit
of it was sticking out.

A silver,
shiny, circular…

Is that a…?

GUN???

Skarzy yanked
it out from underneath the stove, and juggled the heavy six shooter back and
forth in his hands, his face crimsoning with astonishment.

That crazy son
of a bitch could have killed me.

He’d gone out
there shooting away with his
freaking
camera, all the while carrying a
Goddamn
revolver
in his back pocket –

“I’m COMING IN
Al!”

Skarzy stepped
back to the sink and spat in it. He’d stopped bleeding.

The backdoor
was still there – stinking bloody obvious – but Skarzy was hesitating.

He heard the
sound of glass crunching in the other room, and soon the stranger would be
here. Skarzy stood still with the gun facing the archway –  ready for the more
–  the tide, the clash – ready for whatever the world was about to throw at
him.

There he
stood, an anonymous man.

8

The man who entered was tall, thin and
white. He had short dark brown hair and a moustache, wore thick black glasses
and was dressed in a blue / green sports jacket. He opened his mouth in fright
when he saw Skarzy, and quickly raised his hands into the air.

Skarzy
advanced.

“Um … sorry…”
the idiot mumbled.

Skarzy stopped
at the counter between them, and without lowering his weapon, he plucked a biro
from the jar and wrote carefully on a notepad.

I’ve lost my
voice. My name is Glen. Do what I say or I will kill you.

The man took
the note with hesitation, and read the words.

He nodded.
Skarzy wrote again.

Did you call
the cops?

“I did…”

Skarzy winced.
He wrote.

Give me your
wallet.

“I don’t have
it. It’s back at my house.”

The man did
his best to show his pockets were empty.

Skarzy wrote:

Which house do
you live in?

“I’m just
across the road.”

Are you a
family man?

The man didn’t
answer him.

I want you go
to your house, get your wallet, get your car keys, and pick me up outside this
house. If you’re not here in three minutes, I WILL FIND THAT OUT.

Skarzy circled
the word
family man
repeatedly and then turned to the microwave clock.
The man fled in panic.

It was
11.11pm.

9

 At 11.13 Skarzy was watching the man
coming out of his house. A frightened woman peered out at him through the
blinds.

Frightened?
Who says she’s frightened?

Maybe she’s
having a gay old time.

Skarzy watched
the man get in his respectable four door and back out of the driveway. The stereo
went up for a few moments before the man turned it down, Skarzy vaguely
catching the lyrics to a well known Shania Twain song.

What a priss.

Skarzy had his
revolver out, tense and alert – he was just getting into the hang of carrying
it about – as if the man might’ve gotten his golf club, or his bread knife, or
his sawn off secret weapon instead of his wallet –

But a song
like that, well…

Skarzy needn’t
worry much. In fact, he was feeling like a bit of a hard ass.

He could see
that – hear that – feel that – WOMAN trembling…

His eyes were
cold now. Distant, persistent, reflective…

He’d gotten
his taste – that he could tell you.

What he saw in
the old man’s eyes with his palms pressed against them was precious, human. It
hadn’t quite left him.

The man pulled
up the curb beside, and Skarzy, smiling, got in…

The pen and
paper ready.

“Where would
you like to go?”

Skarzy wrote:

Just drive.

And as the man
flashed his indicator and pulled away from the curb, Skarzy thought of Mark
Vostle and heard the others laughing.

You think
you’re bad Skarzy?

You think you
got it goin’ on?

Some old fuck
and a curry muncher. WOW.

Skarzy leaned
back in his seat. They were leaving Caversham Court now, and there wasn’t a cop
car in sight. He felt almost at ease. Relaxed.

These are just
baby steps, my friend.

Mark Vostle.
Indeed.

Now there was
a backstabbing cunt.

Skarzy wrote
it out for the man:

I need to
borrow your phone.

10

They parked on the other side of Mentone,
and Skarzy took the man’s car keys and phone whilst transferring to the
backseat. Twain or no Twain, Skarzy wasn’t about to take any chances. In fact
he’d just about had enough keeping an eye on this tosser – the temptation to
test out his new friend impending by the minute.

Skarzy typed 0
4 into the phone, and then tried to remember Vostle’s phone number. On days
without credit he’d often written it down, hurrying off to the pay phone to see
if the man wanted to get drunk, he must’ve written that number down a dozen
times.

Skarzy
strained his mind.

He took a
moment.

“My name is
Thomas by the way,” said the man leaning over, his mouth wide open grinning.
The gun discharged in Skarzy’s hand, and Thomas’ face exploded onto the
dashboard. 

Skarzy sat up.
He looked out the back window.

No one about.
A few cars littered in the Coles car park, but no people.

And shit.
There’s the blasted ATM. Could have solved a few problems there.

Skarzy
re-concentrated on Vostle’s phone number.

0402 321 99-?
0402 312 55-?

04 –

This wasn’t
working. They’d played him rough, alright. Dealt him the worst hand.

What was it
Lucy had said again?
Your house, 5am.

That deadline
was screwy. He wanted this situation resolved now.

Wait – was it
0402
321 55-?

Skarzy ground
his teeth together, and almost fired the gun again.

There was only
one blasted number he could remember.

And that was –

Skarzy dialed
his number.

11

Then, feeling like a fool, he hung up
quickly and sent them a text message.

Fuckheads.
This is Skarzy. Gave the blue boys the slip. Got a car if you want it. How is
life?

There was no
immediate reply. He tossed the phone in the passenger seat, and got out of the
car again. He opened the driver’s door and dragged Thomas onto the sidewalk. He
went through the glove-box and found some Kleenex to clear up the blood. Then
he put the keys in the ignition. It was time to hit the road.

Skarzy thought
ahead. Maybe sending that message wasn’t such a good idea. What image had his
mind stirred earlier? The district police sealing off the station after the
bridge, Vostle and Lucy being ID’d at 10.30, and kicked headfirst into the
interrogation room. It wasn’t a question of whether or not they’d break. As
soon as they knew they’d been had they’d blame it all on him. They’d tell the
cops where he lived, worked, ate, shat, drank – the cops would even make him as
the naked guy from the station.
The naked guy who went in which direction,
officer?

Mentone.

And have we
had any calls there?

They would
find Skarzy’s fingerprints all over Mr. Sands’ house, they would soon find
Thomas’ discarded corpse too, and if Skarzy ever made it to court they’d have
that message from Thomas’ phone like a signed confession. Three bodies and
three sets of twenty years for him to serve – back to back to back.

And he
couldn’t say a thing.

Of course …
there was no real way of knowing whether or not the gang had been caught. Perhaps
they’d slipped through the coppers’ fingers too, and somewhere out there they
were all sitting in the back of a taxi cab laughing at Skarzy’s message,
en-route to home.

5am.

If Skarzy
wasn’t there, well … they’d still find Mummy, and Daddy and little Sister
sleeping snug in their beds. And Skarzy mightn’t be much of a man
(baby
steps, friend)
but he wasn’t so deranged that he’d leave the family he’d
grown fond for these years growing up in the word, to the hands of those
madcaps.

At least … not
yet anyway.

Skarzy drove
onto the intersection between Mentone and the highway, and turned right away from
the railway and the coppers, away from the lunatics and the places of his
misdeeds.

Three grand.
5am. Your house.

Skarzy watched
the phone sitting silently beside him.

Next to it was
the gun.

Three grand.

5am.

The nighttime
roads raced along passed him.

So many
houses. So many stations.

So many
strangers.

It hardly
seemed like a deadline at all.