Straitjacket Blues: Stories of Unease: Straitjacket Blues, #1

Straitjacket Blues

Stories of Unease

Published by Baby Ice Dog Press

© Dave Franklin, 2013

Cover design by James at Go On Write

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Table of Contents

Shelter

Camaraderie

Straitjacket Blues

Dead Man’s Fall

The Goodreads Killer (Part One)

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Shelter

‘Tell me you love me.’

Liz turned in the bed, propped her chin on a palm and reached across to stroke his hair.

‘I know you won’t mean it but I just wanna hear you say it.’

Nick stared at the ceiling fan, massaging his temples. He breathed slowly as the wind picked up again and started buffeting the house. Liz had stolen into the spare bedroom almost an hour ago and he’d watched her remove her clothes as if a shop mannequin were undressing itself.

Then she’d slipped into bed alongside him and tried her best before he’d batted her hands away. For a good thirty minutes no words had passed, sleep eluding both of them, as the ear-popping weather and a weird sense of foreboding grew.

He removed her hand from his chest and patted it. ‘I’m gonna make a toasted sandwich.’ He threw off the damp sheet as she groaned and collapsed onto the mattress. He put on some shorts and turned. ‘Want one?’

When she pulled the sheet over her face he padded down the long hallway, pausing to touch the crucifix on the wall. Last week he’d turned it upside down, her response suggesting she’d well and truly caught her parents’ disease. He entered the kitchen, listening to the wind moaning strangely as it whipped round the open laundry and storage room beneath his feet.

Through the huge horseshoe-shaped window he was confronted by a solid bank of black cloud towering over the port as people scurried to and fro securing boats on the churning sea. Suddenly he was back on board the Pearl Queen, lashed to the gunwale to prevent him from being washed overboard after a routine fourteen-hour trip back from Port Essington had disintegrated into the worst twenty-four hours of his life. So dark it had been impossible to judge the distance between the swells, the skipper had steered down and across the massive waves in a bid to keep the bow out of the troughs.

A real rollercoaster ride from hell that had left him so seasick he’d sometimes wished for death.

Amazingly they’d managed to return to Darwin without any loss of crew or major damage but in the month he’d been ‘home’ he hadn’t even considered putting his name down for another deckhand stint. Sure, the money was great, he loved the carefree life and his sea legs were better than most but that voyage had just... broken something.

For weeks he hadn’t mentioned it to Liz but after sinking a few cold ones and actually feeling like sex it had all come out one night in bed. She’d fussed over him as he did his best to get annoyed with her delight that he’d finally started to ‘open up’, but in truth being cocooned within her arms had seemed like the safest place on Earth, as if she had some sort of power of protection.

Nick’s eyes flicked down from the malevolent sky as a rubbish bin toppled over and spilled a pizza box onto the garden’s immaculate lawn. It had contained last night’s meatball special which Liz, of course, had turned her vegetarian nose up at. Then a gust whisked the box out of sight. Trees were starting to strain under the weight of their unseen assailant. Large, heavy drops of rain spattered the diamond-shaped panes of glass.

He looked at his watch. Five pm. It was getting dark a good hour earlier.

Unease slithered down his spine. Beforehand in town he’d heard people talking of a cyclone as he wandered through the sticky drizzle but he’d pushed the scenario away. He’d just survived one mother of a storm and the chances of getting caught in another surely bordered on the non-existent.

Then he snorted. What did he care? He was on land. In a fucking house.

He turned from the big window to use the sandwich toaster, irked by the telltale bare space alongside the kettle. Less than four hours ago he’d used the thing but Liz’s ever vigilant hands had already spirited it away. Everything in its right place, she liked to say. He yanked open a lower cupboard, pulled the toaster out once again and plugged it in.

En route to the fridge her cockatiel Ozzie whistled and hopped around. He stared at it, still surprised the bird was allowed into the kitchen – the epicentre of her neuroses – but her desire to give it a sea view apparently outweighed her otherwise obsessive hygiene standards. The hateful thing had never warmed to him, always snapping at his fingers through the bars of its cage as if he were some sort of intruder.

Then again, it didn’t seem any keener on Liz and he was always amused by the way it bit and struggled whenever she handled it as if trying to get a bit of payback for being cooped up all the time.

He lowered his face to the beloved pet, causing it to hiss and flatten its crest. ‘One day, little birdie, one day...’

Nick turned to the fridge and hunted through a mini-mountain of veggies for the tomatoes and cheese. He buttered the bread, sliced a tomato and tossed on chunks of Cheddar as his vision drifted back to the port cowering beneath the sullen clouds. He stared at a navy patrol boat berthed inside Stokes Hill Wharf while idly scratching his groin rash, the third attack he’d suffered this year since the onslaught of The Wet. He placed the crudely assembled sandwich onto the hot plate and slumped over the sink. As he splashed cold water on his face he knew he should’ve run for the hills weeks ago or at least checked into a hotel.

But how could he have done that with no cash to hand? Boredom up in Port Essington had resulted in his poker getting a bit out of control and he’d lost most of his wages to the other deckhands. He’d returned with pockets almost as empty as his stomach.

If only he hadn’t had that stupid bust-up with Rod during a drunken all-nighter just before that bloody trip. Could’ve been there right now sinking piss and laughing about old times...

Instead he’d been forced to accept Liz’s longstanding offer of shelter, a girl who’d been barking up the wrong tree for more than three years despite their complete lack of things in common and his long absences. The truth was he didn’t really fancy her, having only ever slept with her because he could, but there was no denying her usefulness. Her devotion remained a source of great puzzlement though, especially whenever she twittered some guff about opposites attracting. She might get turned on by his rough hands, weather-beaten face and seafaring ways but he most definitely wasn’t into her safe indoors life at the estate agents and familial cosiness.

Sure, he’d half-known before moving in that she wanted marriage, kids and the whole shebang but he’d figured that once she grasped there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of that happening they’d be able to settle down into cordial housemates. He’d sized her up as a nice, predictable girl who’d let him stay rent-free and provide some easygoing warmth while he worked out his next move.

Jesus, how wrong had he been?

Up close she was a petty controlling monster hell-bent on provoking a reaction, her latest one being to drop none-too-subtle hints about a well-built guy at work. Too late Nick had grasped his unspoken insistence on separate bedrooms was his biggest mistake – living under the same roof but failing to do the business had seemingly sent her a bit nuts. He should’ve just got on with it; it’s not as if she were some old dog but it was such an effort. A couple of weeks ago she’d asked if he’d wanted an ice tea and had brought it to him wearing a French Maid’s outfit and high heels before retreating with a pronounced wiggle to the bedroom. He’d sat on the living room sofa in silence, sipping the drink and relishing his inertia, until she’d cried out a few minutes later: ‘I can’t believe you’re drinking your tea!’

He now knew such denials weren’t helping anyone but despite his belated attempts to improve bedroom relations, they still hadn’t managed more than one night in a row together. The last time she’d insisted on him showering after sex, even though it was gone three in the morning. Now he was completely out of ideas. He’d become stuck, a lack of money and options effectively placing him under Liz’s control, like a fly in a jam jar.

He unplugged the toaster and bit into the hot sandwich, the wild weather intensifying as a dull pressure grew between his eyes. If he weren’t returning to sea, what the hell was he going to do? A few days ago he’d seen a Darwin Times ad for an abattoir worker. He might lack qualifications but he had plenty of experience hacking up roos after a night’s spotlighting with Rod.

Whatever the case, he needed some cash fast and a fresh start away from Liz. Having to smile and make polite chat every day was becoming insufferable. Christ, he hated her conservative opinions borne from never leaving the town, her relentless trips to the Hills Hoist to peg out her padded bras and her stupid fondness for making hats. Her idea of excitement was saving up for a colour TV.

The aggravation always deepened with her attempts to get him into church on Sunday mornings or the way she’d start vacuuming the moment he put on a bit of Led Zep or Sabbath to liven the place up. (‘Will you please turn that down? I don’t want the neighbours complaining. This is a very nice house and a very nice area.’) And then there were the weekly get-togethers with her unbearably silly younger sister as they gabbed about fashion over buttered scones or the vegetarian dinners with her gay high school friend who wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

But it was her behaviour in the kitchen, especially around the dishwasher, which really made him want to scream. She’d only just bought the thing and couldn’t have been any prouder. Every pan, utensil, piece of crockery and sliver of cutlery now had to be put through it because using a cloth and a bit of elbow grease apparently left an invisible layer of filth.

The nadir was reached yesterday afternoon when he’d made a coffee and she’d accused him of bypassing the wretched machine after no doubt counting the number of cups within it. The missing one had quickly been located on his bedroom table, prompting a little ‘oh’ as her hand fell from a hip in a deeply satisfying moment when even she must have understood the depth of her irrationality.

And to top everything off a stilted Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve with her full-on Christian parents loomed. They were loaded, causing him to occasionally fantasise about sticking the course with Liz, but he knew it was only a fantasy. One Christmas would be too much, let alone a string of them. Much better to call Rod, sort things out, fill up the 4WD with snags and VB and head off into Arnhem Land for a spot of camping and barra fishing.

He finished the sandwich, his stomach tightening as he heard Liz coming down the hallway. Another volley of rain pellets rattled the window.

She switched on the light. ‘Did you tie down all those things in the garden?’

He watched the trees bend as debris rolled across the lawn. No bloody way was he going out there. It wasn’t even his stuff.

‘Did you hear me? I asked if you’d tied down all those things.’

A hot, heavy feeling of electricity filled the air. She knew he’d just spent the last few hours in bed. ‘No.’

‘Well, will you please do it now? I asked you hours ago. I’m going to take down the pictures, tape the windows and put some water in the bath. We’re clearly in for bit of a blow.’

He kept his back to her, hating how she’d come to say ‘please’. It wasn’t quite a full-on pur-leese but she always seemed to stress the word and place it in the middle of the sentence. Coppers and bouncers tended to talk the same way – polite but with that undercurrent of contempt that dared you to up the ante.

‘And you didn’t make your bed yesterday morning.’

‘What?’ He spun to see her leaning against the kitchen’s doorframe with reddened eyes, arms folded across her turquoise Kimono bathrobe. She was still modelling the Olivia Newton-John hairdo that he said he’d liked after seeing a Countdown performance.

‘You heard me. I had to make your bed. Are you trying to rebel or something?’

He glanced at her mouth to see if she were taking the piss, only to find it downturned. No point looking for a twinkle in her eye, either. Nick opened the dishwasher and bundled in the plate, wincing as it slipped and clattered against a casserole dish.

‘And will you please take care with that? That casserole dish was a present from mummy.’

He didn’t reply, one hand holding the knife as he shut the dishwasher and began wiping the sandwich toaster clean with firm strokes from a damp dishcloth. Liz tutted loudly, grabbed the washing up liquid and squirted it onto the hot plate. The thick green liquid writhed and bubbled as if in pain. His grip on the knife tightened. The temperature suddenly dropped and he shivered.

‘And when you use the sandwich toaster, will you please clean – ’

‘SHUT UP! JUST FUCKING SHUT UP!’ Rain erupted onto the corrugated iron roof as he slammed her against a cupboard and drove the knife into her midriff. He stepped away, allowing her to stagger into the table and slump onto the floor, taking the tablecloth and a vase of yellow flowers with her. He stood over her, knife poised.

‘Now you’ve got a reaction. Are you happy? Huh? Are you fucking happy now?’

Her mouth moved and she might have moaned but the noise from the hammering rain blotted everything out. A frantic Ozzie flapped around as she held her hands across her stomach and curled up on her side, eyes level with his bare feet. He stepped back and took a few deep breaths, running the blood-streaked knife under the cold tap. He placed it on the drainage rack. The afternoon’s remaining light was being sucked into a black sky as the wind beat hard against the walls and began talking under the house.

He turned and looked at Ozzie. The bird was a puffed-up shivering bundle of feathers with eyes like saucers.

On the floor, one of Liz’s hands reached slowly for something, coming to rest against the overturned vase in a small pool. Blood mingled with the water, turning it pink. Her robe had fallen open, revealing a boyish tit. He pulled out a chair and sat looking at her but she didn’t move again. After a while he glanced at the knife drying on the rack.

He turned back to Liz, not quite knowing what to do. He felt cold, twitchy and a bit feverish, as if he were about to start floating around the kitchen. Surely he hadn’t just killed her? Maybe he should call an ambulance.

‘Hey, Liz.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Hey, what about this weather, eh?’

He scratched his head, bent down on one knee and wriggled both hands under her. She wasn’t that heavy and he only gave a small grunt as he straightened. She dangled limply in his arms, her pop star hairdo all askew. He was amazed by how quickly she’d died; he must have pierced her liver or something. As he moved toward the bathroom her lolling head smacked into Ozzie’s cage and sent it to the floor. Amid the rain’s relentless din a savage peel of thunder seemed to explode right over the house, causing him to duck and swear. Then he grinned and turned to see a sustained flash of such bright sheet lightning that he was struck by the oddest notion God was taking a photo of the port and open sea.

He carried Liz into the bathroom and tipped her face down into the tub. Her left arm half-hung over the rim. He studied the silver butterfly-shaped ring on her hand, a gift he’d brought back from Port Essington to ease his way into her house. He sat beside the splayed arm, trying to think things through. The next few hours would be crucial. Liz had to disappear without a trace while he covered his tracks.

But how?

He propped his chin on his hands, trying to blot out the storm’s growing din as he considered one possibility after another and rejected them all. Then the answer hit him. Chop her up. Sure, it’d be grim but it had to be the best solution. Just pretend she