The Gulp: Five Tales of Horror

48 to Go

Blind Eye Moon pounded from a JBL Bluetooth speaker as Dace Claringbold guided the small boat through darkness close to shore. He threw a grin at Sasha in the passenger chair beside him, feeling good. She smiled back, long brown hair streaming in the wind, nodding subtly with the music.

“Hey, wanna stop for a spliff?” Dace said, loud enough to be heard over the music and the wind.

“Stop?”

“Sure. It’s relaxing out here, especially at night. No one around. We’re about halfway to Enden, the whole trip takes less than forty minutes. Got plenty of time.”

She shrugged. “Sure, why not? Didn’t know you had any weed.”

“I’ve always got weed.”

He hoped that was cool in Sasha’s eyes, not lame. Her smile stayed put, so he figured she was into it. He throttled off until they were drifting, then killed the engine. The large outboard dropped into silence and Blind Eye Moon was suddenly beltingly loud as they bobbed gently in the night. He grabbed his phone from beside the wheel and tapped it down a few notches. Still loud, but not so much they’d have to shout over it. BEM needed to be loud, after all. He couldn’t wait for the gig later that night. The spring evening was mild and clear, not yet the close heat of summer, but warm enough so they were comfortable in t-shirts.

He swivelled in the driver’s seat to better face her and pulled out the leather pouch he kept his tobacco, papers, and weed in, and began to roll one up.

“I can’t believe you have this sweet boat,” Sasha said.

I can’t believe you finally agreed to go out with me, after I told you this was mine, Dace thought, but didn’t say it. It wasn’t his, after all. But he would get laid before admitting that. He had the use of it whenever he needed, one of the perks of the job, so it amounted to pretty much the same thing.

“Almost brand new Quintrex 530 Cruiseabout,” he said instead. “Got an upgraded 115 horse power Evinrude Etec on the back there. Not too shabby.” He grinned and licked the oversized cigarette paper, stuck it down. He turned the joint and lit it, took a big draw and held it in.

“You have to deliver something before the gig, you said?”

Dace blew out a plume of smoke towards the stars and nodded. He took another draw, then handed Sasha the joint. This was fine weed. He blew out again, then said, “We’ll be met at the wharf in Enden. Once we’ve given over the box we can head into town. Easy as. Get a couple of drinks in before the gig, yeah?”

“Sounds good.” She coughed slightly, grinned sheepishly, but took another toke. “What’s in the box?”

Dace waved a hand. “It’s just work stuff.”

“On a Friday night?”

“Yep.”

He wasn’t about to tell her any more than that and she seemed happy to let it go. Preferable all around, really. At least until he knew her better. He thought about leaning in for a kiss but didn’t want to push things too fast. The boat moved slightly with the current and they were turned to face the cliffs. Tumbled sandstone, striped like cake, led up to thick bush on top. As the weed kicked in, they both leaned back in their seats, mellowed with it. The myriad stars above the silhouetted gum trees made for a stunning outlook, the wide sweep of the Milky Way a river of distant diamonds.

Dace took the joint back from Sasha. Something in the bush high above them moved. He paused, halfway through inhaling, and watched as a dark shadow rose briefly higher than the treetops. It was curved, lumpy. It reminded him of a whale breaching the surface of the ocean, that slick curve of massive beast briefly rising then sinking away. Except this was on a cliff top. And the trees had to be at least ten metres high up there, maybe more.

“You see that?”

Sasha looked at him. “See what?”

He pointed with the spliff. “Watch, up there. Dead ahead of us. Something huge moved in the bush.”

Sasha frowned. “You’re stoned, man.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But I definitely saw something.”

They both stared at the high vegetation, passing the joint back and forth. But saw nothing more.

“I definitely saw something,” Dace said at last, annoyed.

Sasha laughed softly. “I believe it. There is weird shit in the bush around here. Wouldn’t get me in there for quids. I stay on the road every time, and never stop the car.”

“I hear that.”

“Better yet, we do this. Going by boat to Enden is way smarter.”

“No chance of some kingshit cop in town trying to RBT you either.”

“You heard the McFarland story?” Sasha asked.

Dace laughed. “Everyone knows the McFarlands. Weird fuckers.”

“Weird even by Gulp standards, yeah. But you know the story about their land?”

“I guess not. What about it?”

“They have over a hundred acres out on the Gulp Road, yeah? South side. Theirs is the last property before it’s thick bush all the way to the Enden-Monkton Road.”

Dace took the joint. It was getting short, hot. “Yeah.”

“One of the earliest farms, cleared and settled by John McFarland’s great-great-grandad. It’s been there over a hundred years, ticking along. So back before the McFarland kids were born, John McFarland inherited the farm from his dad. He’d always said they should expand, but his dad said no way. My dad and John McFarland are mates, right, which is how I know all this. Now apparently, McFarland wanted to clear more land, but his dad always said they should never disturb what was out there, beyond the creek.” Sasha smacked her lips. “My mouth is dry as Gandhi’s sandal. Got a drink?”

Dace handed her a plastic water bottle he had in a cup holder by the steering wheel. He always came prepared. He was enjoying her stoned rambling. “What’s out beyond the creek?” he asked.

Sasha gulped some water down. “That’s better. I’m getting to that. Now, John McFarland would have been about twenty-five or so, his dad died young and he inherited the farm young. Gung ho, is what my dad called him. He decided fuck what the old man said, he was going to strip out a few more acres past the creek.

“So this creek runs right along the far side of the McFarland back paddock, marking the boundary of their land on that side. John McFarland decided to take down the fencing on his side of the creek, drop a couple of cement culverts in to make bridges, and then start clearing bush the other side.

“He had some help with him, a local teenage pair, brothers from one of the families in town. They were fifteen or sixteen, something like that, earning pittance bucks for back-breaking work on the farm. He still does that to this day, hires teenagers, pays them next to fuck all. Anyway, they get out there and start stripping down the fencing and one of these teenagers goes over to the creek and says, ‘The water is black.’”

“The water is black?” Dace echoed.

“That’s what he said. ‘What do you mean, black?’ John McFarland asked him, and the kid says, ‘The water is black, like oil.’ All this my dad told me. Apparently, McFarland got drunk one night at Clooney’s and told him the story.

“So this kid puts his hands in the creek and cups them together to get some water. Sure enough, it’s black. Not like oil, McFarland said, but dark like a glass of stout. ‘Probably just peat or coal or something in the ground hereabouts,’ McFarland says to the boy. ‘Stop fucking about, there’s work to do.’ Apparently the kid shrugged and said, ‘Well, I’m thirsty,’ and drank what was cupped in his hands.”

“So this won’t end well,” Dace said with a grin.

“Does anything in this fucked up town? The kid screamed in agony and collapsed to the ground. Began gibbering and rolling his eyes. They all freaked out, and McFarland rushed him home. He settled down a bit on the way, but the kid has never been the same. All his teeth fell out and his skin went white, like fucking chalk. You’ll have seen him around town, right? Everything about him is long and weird and floppy, he always wears overalls with that massive baggy jumper underneath, even in the height of summer.”

Dace frowned, nodded. “Yeah, I know who you mean. That’s how he got that way?”

“Fucked up his mind too, he’s not all there, so they say. I wouldn’t know, I won’t go near the freak.”

“This is a wind up, right?” Dace said, grinning.

Sasha shook her head. “Nah. Unless my dad was winding me up. He told me it was all true, John McFarland got drunk that night and spilled it. Says he still feels guilty for how that kid got fucked up. I mean, he’s a grown man now, must be around forty or something, but he is fucked up.”

“Did he ever extend the land?”

Sasha laughed. “Nope. Said he went back the next day and put all the fence back up. Said no way he wanted that creek on his land, it could stay in the bush. And that’s not even counting for whatever his dad said was out there beyond the creek.”

They nodded along to Blind Eye Moon for a moment. Dace thought maybe he didn’t want to consider too deeply what lay beyond the McFarland’s creek. Or what he might have seen up on the cliff top.

“No sudden moves, you two!” snapped a gruff voice somewhere behind them.

Dace spun his chair around to see another boat not five metres from theirs. Two men were in it, one at the wheel, the other standing on the prow pointing a shotgun at him. Both wore balaclavas concealing their whole face except the eyes. They must have cut their engine and coasted in under cover of the music.

“What the fuck?” Dace said.

“Who are they?” Sasha asked, eyes wide.

“Turn that shit off,” said the man with the gun. “Slow and easy as, yeah?”

Dace nodded, reaching cautiously for his phone. Blind Eye Moon stopped mid-riff and the night was heavy with silence but for the slap of low waves against the hulls of the boats.

“Give it to us then,” the man with the gun said.

Dace swallowed, stomach cold, legs shaking. He was glad he was sitting down. He felt as though his bladder would let go any moment. This was bad. Really bad. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t fuck with me, son!” the gunman said.

Son? Dace was thirty-four next year and the guy pointing a shotgun at him didn’t look old. What did that matter? His mind was rambling.

“Give us the fucken shipment!” the man yelled.

“Jesus, Dace, whatever it is, just give it to them!” Sasha said.

“Whatever it is?” the other boat driver said, his voice strangely high. Then he laughed. “You don’t know what your boyfriend here is doing?”

“He’s not my–”

“Just give us Carter’s weed, you fucking loser,” the gunman said.

Sasha turned a shocked expression to Dace. “Carter’s fucking weed?” she exclaimed. “You idiot, why do you have anything to do with that guy?”

The gunman laughed, loud and deep. “S’a good fucken question, dickhead! But don’t answer it now. The stuff, quickly.”

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Dace muttered, trying desperately to think of a way out.

The shotgun boomed into the air and he flinched. Sasha screamed and dropped to the floor behind the dash and low windscreen, curled up tight.

“All right, all right!” Dace shouted. He moved to the back and pulled out a 30-litre plastic storage tub with a clip-on lid. It was lined with newspaper, concealing the contents. But Dace knew it held around seven and half kilos of high-quality bud, grown on Carter’s farm above the south side of The Gulp.

“Just put it on the front,” the gunman said, gesturing.

Dace hefted the tub over the windscreen, shoved it forward. The driver of the other boat started his motor and nudged in. The one with the shotgun hopped over and grabbed the tub, the shotgun held one-handed, but trained on them the whole time. If he fired it like that, Dace thought, he was liable to lose it from the recoil. But he’d still have fired it and no way would a shotgun miss at this range.

“Can’t believe you made it so easy for us,” the gunman said. “We were going to run you down before you got to Enden, then here you are floating about like a pair of complete fuckwits.” He dropped the tub into his boat and jumped down behind it, the shotgun still aimed right at Dace.

The driver lifted a hand in a wave as he gunned the motor. “Don’t you fucken follow us,” he said. “You let this end here and no one gets hurt.”

No way does this end here, Dace thought. He had to go back and tell Carter he’d lost the shipment. Carter would kill him. He needed something, some clue to give over so they might make this right.

But before he could say or do more, the other driver carved a tight turn, spraying Dace as he roared away, back towards The Gulp. There wasn’t a single identifying mark on the boat, the whole thing plain white with a Yamaha outboard like a hundred others. He might recognise it again, but it was entirely likely he wouldn’t.

They bobbed in the wake of the thieves and Dace stared, dumbfounded. Then he tipped his head back and yelled, “FUCK!” at the indifferent stars.

Sasha got up from the floor of the boat, looking daggers at him. “You can take me the fuck home right now.”

Dace nodded and sat down on the driver’s seat, started the engine. He had to go right back to Carter anyway. No way he could put off telling the man. He pointed the boat back towards The Gulp wondering what the hell he was going to say when he got there.

Twenty minutes later he tied up at Carter’s point on the harbour. Sasha hopped straight off the boat, glared down at him.

“I was looking forward to the gig tonight,” she said. “Thought you’d be fun to hang out with.”

“I would be. Still can if Carter doesn’t kill me.” The dick wants what the dick wants, he thought to himself.

Sasha shook her head. “No way, man. I’m having nothing to do with anyone connected to Carter. You’re fucking mental to think it’s worth dealing with that psycho.”

“You were happy to come out with me in his boat.”

“I thought it was your boat, you fucking moron.”

Dace stopped, stood up to yell at her. “Yeah, so you only looked twice at me when you thought I had money, that it?”

Her mouth fell open. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t be after my money, you cunt. Half the blokes ’round here see a girl with a job and expect to mooch off her. I thought maybe you wouldn’t be like that.”

“Well, I’m not. I’ve got my own money.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Nah, you take Carter’s money. That’s entirely different. Anyway, best of luck. I’ll keep my eye open for the ‘Have You Seen Dace’ posters to start going up.”

She turned away and stalked off before he could reply. He hoped to hell she wasn’t right. He needed to get in the car and up to Carter’s place right away. Come clean and figure out a way to make it right. He wouldn’t say the bit about stopping for a joint and getting snuck up on. Those arseholes had said they intended to run him down. And they had a shotgun. That’s the story he’d tell Carter.

Once he was sure the boat was secure, he walked across the small car park to his battered old Mitsubishi and climbed in. It started first time, something it never usually did. Dace decided to look on that as a good omen.

He drove south out of town, up the hill where the houses got a little bigger and spaced further apart. He passed the industrial area where big aluminium sheds housed mechanics, a metal machine shop, half a dozen other blue-collar industries, then he turned onto a narrow road with a No Through Road sign at the start. A couple of larger properties had their drives left and right, then the road climbed even steeper, switching back on itself, and became a dirt track. Carter’s battered post box stood on a weathered wooden post beside a cattle grid, his name stencilled on the side. Dace’s hands shook as he gripped the wheel and pointed the car up the track. It doubled back on itself a couple times as it rose through thin bush, The Gulp falling away behind. Then it levelled off onto a natural geological shelf that housed the Carter property. Some two hundred acres, if he recalled correctly, cleared and farmed right when The Gulp was first settled, before it even had its name. Ostensibly a cattle farm, Carter kept cows and horses, but made his money in variety of other ways.

As Dace drove through the night towards the house, his mouth became dry. He’d left the water bottle on the boat and lamented that oversight. Then he shook his head. He’d worked for Carter for more than ten years, they knew each other well. As well as anyone could know Carter anyway. He would explain, the man would give him a glass of water, they’d figure it out.

He parked behind Carter’s Toyota Hilux and sat in the quiet car for a moment, gathering himself. Then he took a deep breath and climbed out. Carter stood on the veranda, hands on his hips.

“Trouble tonight, hey?”

Dace jumped, not expecting the man to be there. How did he always seem to know stuff? “Yeah. I’m sorry, Mr Carter, it’s not good.”

“In you come, son.”

Dace followed Carter inside and into the large kitchen. Chrissy sat at the kitchen bench, sipping a drink. It looked like a gin and tonic. She smiled and nodded at Dace.

“Hey, how are you?” he said.

“I’m good. You wanna talk privately, Daddy?”

Carter kissed her soft and long on the lips, then nodded. “You don’t need to worry about this.”

She stood and strolled off towards the lounge. Dace heard the TV click on.

“You want a drink, Dace?”

He turned to Carter, determined to be chill. “Sure, got a beer?”

Carter pulled a couple of bottles from the fridge, opened both and handed one to Dace. “So what happened? You should be in Enden by now, and I should have had a call about a successful transfer of merchandise.”

Of course, that’s how he knew stuff. Dace turning up here, no call from the contact. “I was robbed, Mr Carter.”

“Fucken robbed?”

“Yes, sir. They must have known and followed me. About halfway to Enden they ran around me in their boat and held me up. With a fucking shotgun! Two of ’em and one yelled, ‘Give me the fucken shipment!’ They knew what I had.”

“So you gave it to them?”

“Yeah, they were gonna shoot me, Mr Carter. They both wore balaclavas, but they were white, I saw their hands and eyes. Both men, I guess about middle-age, the guy with the gun had a beer gut, the boat driver was kinda skinny. It was a plain white boat, no name or numbers, with a Yamaha outboard.”

Carter drew a long breath in through his nose, lips pursed. He wore jeans and a collared shirt, his black hair slicked back like always. His cold blue eyes were hard, unblinking. He sipped beer. “You gave it to them,” he said again.

“Y-yes.”

“You really think they’d have shot you?”

Dace hadn’t considered this angle. “I do, yeah. I mean, out there, middle of nowhere. They could have killed me, sunk your boat, nothing would ever be found, right?”

“You’ve been thinking about this, have you?”

“Thought about nothing else all the way here. I’m really sorry, Mr Carter, I don’t know what to say. What to do. I want to make this right.”

“Who was with you?”

Dace paused, licked his lips. He took a sip of beer to buy himself another moment. Carter would know if he lied. Carter always knew. “Sasha. Just this chick I was planning to… you know. I invited her to a gig in Enden tonight. Once the delivery was made, we were going to see Blind Eye Moon, head back home afterwards.”

“You made it easy for them.”

Dace’s heart raced. “What?”

“Distracted by a fucking woman!” Carter yelled, and Dace flinched back.

“I wasn’t distracted! I–”

“They snuck up on you, don’t lie to me, shitcunt. If you’d been on your own, actually motoring towards Enden, and they tried to run you down, you could have run. You could have tried to not get caught. But they sailed right up and caught you without even fucking trying!”

How did he know this stuff? “Mr Carter, I–”

Carter held up one forefinger and it silenced Dace immediately. “What’s done is done, Dace. You’re a fucking idiot, but what’s done is done.”

Dace took a long breath, nodded, lips pressed together. He knew when to hold his tongue.

“A long time you’ve been with me, eh?”

“Yes, Mr Carter.”

“So I’m going to be generous.”

Relief began to seep through Dace. He nodded. “Thank you.”

“That shipment was worth, give or take, about eighty grand on the street. My contact paid me a flat sixty for it. So here’s my generous offer. You have forty-eight hours to pay me back the sixty grand I will have to return to my buyer.”

Dace’s stomach turned to ice. “Sixty grand?”

“I will also have to smooth things over with the buyer, all that extra hassle. But like I said, we go back, you and I. So I’m generously only holding you accountable for the actual monetary loss.”

“Mr Carter, I don’t have sixty grand!”

Carter’s eyes didn’t soften at all. He sipped beer again. “Isn’t that unfortunate. You were going to earn five hundred bucks for tonight’s delivery, so let’s say you owe me fifty-nine thousand five hundred.”

“I don’t have it! I have, like, eight hundred bucks in the bank. My rent is due on Monday.”

Carter smiled, lifted his shoulders. “How is any of that my concern?” He walked past Dace and took the half-finished beer from his hand, stood both bottles on the counter where Chrissy had been sitting. Then he carried on, towards the front door.

“Mr Carter, please. I just don’t have that kind of money.”

Carter opened the front door, then looked at his watch. It was gold, with diamonds around the face that glittered in the soft light of the hallway. Dace thought that watch alone was probably worth sixty grand.

“It’s just before nine,” Carter said. “You have until 9pm Sunday night to bring me my money.”

Dace stared. Carter smiled, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Dace wanted to ask what would happen if he didn’t make the deadline, but he knew already. People often went missing around The Gulp, and often the gossip led back to Carter. Maybe he could just run away.

“I would remind you,” Carter said amiably, “that I know your parents well, and where they live on the north side of town. And your sister visits often, even though she lives in Sydney now. Something to keep in mind.”

If you run, I’ll kill your family. The message was clear. Dace nodded. Carter gestured out the door. Dace left. The door clicked shut behind him and Dace’s body was wracked with tremors. Holding back tears of panic, he went to his car and drove slowly away. Sixty grand in forty-eight hours? How the hell was he supposed to manage that?

As he drove, he went through a mental check list of everyone he knew and how much money they had. His parents were okay, but retired now. They had a pension, but nothing much in savings. His sister worked for a media company in Sydney, and no doubt had money put away, but probably not much. And there was no way she’d give it to him anyway. They were civil these days, but after a falling out in their early twenties, they were distant. Maybe if it really came down to the wire, he could ask, but he doubted she had anything like sixty grand in savings. Every other friend he could think of was like him. Scraping by or on some kind of benefits. After all, sixty grand was the kind of money that could get a person out of The Gulp, so why would anyone still here have that kind of cash?

His mind switched gears. Where could he steal that sort of money? Hold up the drive-through bottle shop around the back of Clooney’s? Well, no, that would be mental. For one, they probably had nothing like that much to hand. For two, it was part of Clooney’s and the pub belonged to Chrissy, which meant it was really Carter’s. That whole daughter-lover thing they had going on was creepy as fuck, but everyone ignored it or gossiped about it privately. Either way, it meant he’d be stealing from Carter.

He drove back into town, heading towards the harbour. Nine o’clock on Friday night. Being part of Carter’s retinue meant he usually drank at Clooney’s, but he knew a couple of mates were planning to go to The Vic this weekend. Maybe he should drop into The Gulp’s other pub and talk to them. His head was spinning and he needed help. Just someone to talk it out with.

He parked by the Victorian Hotel, sat in the car gathering himself for a moment, then headed in. It was heaving, music on the jukebox blaring, people talking and laughing. He saw Justin and Ahmed right away, beers in hand chatting to each other. He got himself a cold one and went over to them.

“I thought you were going to a gig in Enden,” Ahmed said as all three clinked glasses in greeting.

“Yeah, kinda fell through.”

They made small talk for a while, Dace’s mind spinning with disconnected thoughts. If he could raise sixty grand in two days, he’d have done it before, that much was obvious. So the only way to do it was to take risks he would never have entertained before. But what risks?

“Hey guys, answer me a riddle,” he said when their conversation lulled. “Say you need a lot of money in a very short time. How would get it?”

Justin and Ahmed both narrowed their eyes.

“In trouble with the boss?” Justin asked.

They both knew he worked for Carter. They both knew Carter’s reputation. Everyone in The Gulp did. They also stayed well clear of the man. Justin worked in his dad’s accountants office and Ahmed was a mechanic. “Nah, just a hypothetical,” Dace said.

“Take out a loan,” Justin said.

“What if there was no time for that, like it was a weekend and you needed money fast. And couldn’t afford a loan anyway. I’m talking about a real chunk of change. Say fifty grand.”

Ahmed whistled. “If I could raise fifty grand I’d be long gone.”

The echo of his own thoughts made Dace nervous all over again. “Me too. But for the sake of argument…”

Justin laughed, shook his head. “There’s no legitimate way to make fifty grand fast short of luck. Like a lottery ticket or something.”

“Right.”

Justin frowned. “So you’d have to fucking steal it or something, dickhead.”

“Or you could, you know,” Ahmed said, nodding past Dace.

He turned to see the Stinson brothers walk in and head out into the enclosed courtyard, where they always spent their evenings. Craig, the younger sibling, was stocky, shorter than his brother, William by a few inches. Both well-muscled, lean and mean-looking. Both with straight brown hair cut short and sharp chins. They ran all kinds of rackets around The Gulp, hardcore bastards according to some, petty criminals according to Carter. But the rivalry between the Stinsons and Carter was well-known.

“What do you mean?” Dace asked.

Ahmed raised an eyebrow. “Use your noggin, mate. They fucking hate Carter. If you owe Carter fifty grand – and that is a deep well of shit, by the way – maybe you can offer them something. Tell them something for the money, maybe, or give them shit to use against Carter.”

Dace shook his head, waved one finger. “For one thing, I didn’t say I owe Carter fifty grand. For another, it would be suicide to deal with those two! What do you think I would have to give them for that kind of money, and how would that ever help me?”

“Guess you’re fucked then,” Ahmed said. “You’ll have to think of somewhere that holds that sort of cash and rob them. You any good at bank heists? The banks are open Saturday mornings.”

“Jesus fuck, you’re worse than useless.”

Ahmed shrugged, Justin laughed. Dace’s stomach curdled.

“What about the Nikolovs?” Justin said after a while.

“The who?”

“Nah, that’s a band. The Nikolovs.”

Dace sighed. “Mate, you’re going to have to be more forthcoming.”

Ahmed nodded. “Yeah, what the fuck are you on about?”

Justin took a swig of beer, then said, “Okay, this must be one of The Gulp legends that’s slipped by both of you. Honestly, I’m a little disappointed. Anyway, the Nikolovs are this weird ass old Macedonian couple here in town. Proper eccentric nutters. But rich eccentric nutters. Rumour has it they don’t trust banks and sit on a fortune in cash they keep at home. Thousands under the mattress kinda thing.”

Dace grimaced. “Yeah, but this town is full of bullshit rumours.”

“I reckon this one’s true though.”

“Why?”

“Lots of little things, but here’s an example. When I was going out with Tracy Briggs, her dad’s a plumber, yeah. She told me about how he had to install a new hot water heater outside their place. While he was at it, he had to replace a bunch of pipes in the back yard to cope with their roof runoff or something. Anyway, the bill ended up being nearly three grand. Old man Nikolov asks Briggs how much, and Briggs writes up the invoice, expecting a bank transfer or something in a few days like normal. Except Nikolov looks at the bill, tells him to wait and goes inside. He comes back a few minutes later with the full amount in cash.”

“That is a bit strange,” Dace said quietly.

“We hear stuff at the accountancy office too,” Justin went on. “I don’t give much of a fuck, but Dad keeps an ear to the ground. He said they’ve never used a bank in town, never used any of the local area accountants for their taxes or anything like that. Dad’s convinced they’re loaded and hoarding cash.”

“Why are they so eccentric anyway?” Ahmed asked. “I mean, not using banks doesn’t make someone a complete weirdo.”

Justin laughed. “That’s barely the surface of it. You know that house halfway up Tanning Street with all the guinea pigs in cages all around the front yard.”

Ahmed frowned and shook his head, but Dace said, “Yeah, I’ve seen that place. That is fucking strange.”

Justin smiled and nodded. “That’s them. Old man Nikolov is sometimes in Woollies, but all he ever buys is milk, white bread, and tinned sardines. He apparently has a deal with one of the farmers out on the Gulp Road for bales of hay once a month or so. To feed all the fucking guinea pigs, I expect.”

Dace’s mind began to race. He knew the house Justin was talking about. An old couple sitting on a pile of cash. It might not be sixty grand, but it might be a good start towards it. Maybe enough to show good will and buy more time with Carter. And he could go tonight, just an hour or two to plan. But he needed to change the subject. No one would have overheard them in the busy pub, but even his two mates thinking too hard on it was risky.

“Robbing a weird old Macedonian couple,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m glad you two aren’t in any crime syndicate. Honestly. Another beer?”

They grinned and raised almost empty glasses, and Dace went for another round. After taking his time with that one, he said, “Well, the gig tonight was a blow out, and much as I love your company, gents, I think I might take an early night.”

“On a Friday?” Ahmed asked.

“It’s been a long week. And I can’t really afford to get drunk, so no point staying here.”

Justin looked at his phone. “It’s only ten.”

Forty-seven to go, Dace thought, but kept his expression as neutral as he could. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Outside, the spring night was warm and fragrant. The salt of the ocean and sweet, cloying night pollens filled the air. Several people were about, a short queue at the noodle shop a few doors down grabbing a last-minute feed. The place stayed open until ten on Fridays and Saturdays. Times like this The Gulp seemed almost normal, not such a bad place to live. Usually. Right now, Dace felt as though he stood on a precipice, his toes over the edge and the rock beneath his heels beginning to crack and crumble.

“Fuck,” he spat softly, and got in his car to drive home and prepare.

Forty-five minutes later he was beginning to buzz with a combination of stress and adrenaline. Underlying it all was a building fatigue. It wasn’t yet eleven pm, but he felt as though it were the early hours of the morning and he’d been out all night. He stood in the lounge of his small one-bedroom flat on Kurrajong Street and stared at the stuff laid out on the sofa. Leather gloves, thin for driving, which had been a gift from his grandmother years before and were still tagged together as they had been in whatever shop she bought them from. He’d never imagined using them, but also never thrown them out. He was thankful for that now. Next to them lay a rubber Freddy Kruger mask that went right over his head and neck with a skirt of rubber to tuck into a shirt or jumper. It was part of a Halloween costume from a couple of years before. He had no balaclava like the arseholes who’d robbed him, so this was the best anonymity he could manage. Once he’d decided on that, he felt like keeping the theme, so next to the mask was a baggy red and green striped jumper. The Freddy mask had come with an oversized glove with plastic finger blades, so he’d asked his mother to knit the jumper for him. He’d shown her stills from the movie and she had been thoroughly horrified, but like any good mother, she’d indulged him. The jumper was exactly like the one in the film, right down to the ragged neck and cuffs. The combination of mask, glove and sweater with a pair of dark brown cargo pants with big pockets and black work boots was perfect for Halloween. The pants and boots sat on the sofa too, but the Freddie blades would stay home in favour of the driving gloves.

“One, two, Freddie’s coming for you,” Dace muttered, and a slightly deranged giggle escaped. “Three, four, hope you haven’t locked your door.”

He had no idea how to break into houses. If they’d left the back door unlocked and he could sneak in while they slept, he would be happy.

Beside his outfit – disguise? – was a large carving knife from his kitchen. It terrified him to look at it. He’d done some less than savoury things for Carter over the years, but nothing explicitly violent. Carter preferred a personal hands-on approach to any violence that needed doling out, thankfully. Dace had once joined in with a beating, but even then he’d only thrown in a couple of half-arsed punches while Carter and Stephen did the large proportion of the work. But if the Nikolovs weren’t asleep, or if he woke them, he would need something to enforce his authority. And he might need to wake them and force them to tell him where the money was, but he hoped not. With any luck, waving the knife around would be as violent as he needed to get.

He also had a small Maglight torch, one of the six-inch models, and he’d put fresh batteries in it. Perfect for snooping around quietly in a house at night. The last item was a plain black backpack. He hoped to fill it with the cash the Nikolovs apparently had stashed away, but he could also take other stuff if there wasn’t enough money. If they had laptops or something, maybe he could sell them at the pub on Saturday night. He’d be hard pressed to raise sixty grand with stolen household items, but desperation drove his thinking.

“They’ve got the money,” he said to himself, willing it to be true. “They’ve got more than I need stashed somewhere, and I’ll sneak in while they’re asleep, I’ll find it without waking them, and I’ll sneak out again. Easy as.”

He swallowed down a rill of panic, nodded to himself. Let that be true. He changed into the Freddie outfit, cut the tag from the driver’s gloves and slipped them on. They were good quality, thin leather like a second skin, and fitted well. He put the mask, torch and kitchen knife into the backpack and sat on the sofa. His phone said 11.15pm. How long should he wait? An old eccentric couple were likely to be early to bed, early to rise sort of people, right? 1am, he decided. He’d leave at 1am and be back by 2 with all his problems solved.

He turned on the TV, poured a generous shot of Wild Turkey to steady his nerves, and stared at Friday night bullshit programming while he waited.

At 12.20 nervous energy drove him up from the couch. He didn’t dare drink any more, and he could wait no longer. It was only about a five-minute walk to the end of Kurrajong Street where it met Tanning at a T-junction. About another five minutes south along Tanning would take him to the house with the guinea pigs in the yard. The spring night was cooling but he didn’t need the sweater. It also occurred to him that he would look obvious in it if anyone drove by and saw him. He pulled it off and stuffed it into the backpack, then peeled off the gloves and put them in his hip pocket. He’d put it all back on, and the mask, when he got to the house.

What the hell was he doing? For a moment, he nearly bolted back inside. Then Carter’s voice echoed through his thoughts again. I know your parents well, and where they live on the north side of town. And your sister visits often, even though she lives in Sydney now. Something to keep in mind.

He couldn’t be responsible for the death of his whole family. The idea had floated through a couple of times in the hours since Carter’s ultimatum. Once or twice he’d thought maybe he could live with it. His parents were in their late 60s, retired. Not old by any means, but not young. His sister was a pain in the arse most of the time. But then he would quickly shake off the thought. He loved them, even his fucking sister if he was honest. He couldn’t let them die, much less be responsible for their deaths. He had to at least try to save them.

With the bag slung over one shoulder, he set off along Kurrajong, downhill towards the junction. He crossed the road before he passed The Vic at the end, kept his head down and hurried right onto Tanning and walked quickly up hill, past the medical centre, past Carlton Beach on the other side of the road. A group of four people stood in the park behind Carlton Beach, not far from the play area. An old man, a middle-aged man and woman, and a young girl he recognised from Woollies. Strange bunch to be there so late at night, he thought. They all looked pale in the light of the moon, standing still, staring out at the ocean. But Dace was too distracted to think much on it and kept walking.

He crossed onto the east side of Tanning Street as he passed St Augustine’s Primary. He didn’t remember exactly where the guinea pig house was, only that it was somewhere between the school and the Ocean Blue Motel.

Most of the houses were single storey, 60s and 70s homes like his parents’ house on the north side of town. Some weatherboard, some brick, most with metal roofs. He glanced into each low-walled front yard, looking for the stacks of chicken wire cages. He heard the whiffling and caught a scent of hay right before he came to the place. Cages three deep along both wooden side fences and up against the brick house. A single storey row sat along the front garden wall, brick only a metre or so high that had been plastered over, but the whitewashed plaster was crumbling away in places. The house was run down, certainly not the sort of place a rich person would inhabit. But it did look like the sort of place that might belong to people who hoarded their money. The window frames were painted pale yellow, but the paint was peeling. The corrugated steel roof had more patches of rust than clear metal. Half a hay bale sat on the scrubby grass in the centre of the small front yard. Guinea pigs by the dozen scratched and whistled plaintively in the cages.

Dace ducked back and saw that the house next door, entirely clean and well-maintained, had a large frangipani tree in their front yard, casting a pool of shadow. He hopped over their wall and scurried into that darkness and crouched down, heart beating hard. For a couple of minutes, he watched the footpath and the street, kept glancing back at the house behind him. Nothing. No one about, not even cars passing.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, then blew it out slowly, his cheeks filling. “All right, Dace. You got this. Let’s go.”

He pulled out the Freddie sweater and put it on, then the thin leather gloves. He slipped the kitchen knife into the large thigh pocket of his cargoes, careful to wedge the point into one corner so it didn’t stick his leg, and put the torch into his hip pocket. Then he put the backpack on properly over both shoulders and took another deep breath as he held the rubber mask in both hands.

“You got this,” he said again, and pulled the mask over his head. It was well-detailed with all Freddie’s burn scars. He tucked the skirt of it into the ragged neck of the sweater. It smelled of rubber and old sweat, rough and a little tacky on the inside. The fit was fairly good, lining up well with his eyes, but he still lost at least fifty per cent of his peripheral vision. His breath was suddenly hot and close, despite the small mouth hole.

He checked the road out front again, making sure there were no cars or pedestrians, then hopped over the wall to the footpath and immediately ran along two metres and jumped back over Nikolov’s wall. There was a path down the side of the house, deep in shadow, and he hurried into it. As soon as the darkness covered him, he slowed to a creep, heart racing. Committed to the course of action now, he tried not to think. When he got to their back yard, four times the size of the small patch out front, he paused in surprise.

There were more cages here, dozens of them, row upon row like supermarket shelves, cages stacked four deep. They were all weathered wood and half-rusted wire, had obviously been here for years. They were as packed with guinea pigs as the ones out front, there had to be hundreds of the small rodents, all kinds of size and colour. Most were still or sleeping, but some scuffled and nosed around. Another hay bale sat in one corner of the yard, and a large wooden shed filled the far back corner, its door slightly ajar.

Dace looked long and hard at the shed and wondered if maybe the Nikolovs would keep their money hidden in there. It would make things so much easier. He stayed in the shadows of the rows of cages and crept up to the shed. The last third or so of the garden, it turned out, was given over to vegie beds. He saw carrots and parsley and tomatoes and a variety of other things growing there. He slipped into the shed and stood in darkness, holding his breath, listening. Nothing except the scratching and whistling of the guinea pigs outside.

He took the Maglight from his pocket and twisted it on. The shed was crammed with tools for gardening, sacks and barrels of food. Some had vegetables no doubt harvested from the garden outside. A couple had pale brown cylindrical pellets, presumably a kind of feed for the animals. He dug an arm into each, carefully feeling around in case anything had been concealed under the food. Nothing. The shed smelled earthy and rich, paradoxically both enticing and slightly sickening. It only took a few minutes of searching to learn there was nothing for him there. He sighed, twisted off the Maglight, and moved cautiously back outside.

In moments he was standing on a cement step by the Nikolovs’ back door. Before he could second guess himself, he reached out and turned the doorknob. The door popped open with a soft scrape.

Dace jumped, hands up front of his chest as the door stood three inches open. He froze there, amazed it had been unlocked after all. Old school, he thought. Again, no sound but the animals behind him, so he pushed the door open a little wider. Just enough to slip through, then he closed it silently, twisted on his torch again.

He stood in a kitchen. Black and white vinyl flooring. Ancient Formica counters and table, the latter surrounded by three rickety wooden chairs. An electric cooker, shelves of crockery, drawers and cupboards under the counters. A bread bin and several storage jars stood against the wall on the counter beside the cooker, and an old Crosley Shelvador refrigerator filled one corner, all rounded edges and large chromed handle. The chrome had gone matt and grey. It whirred noisily.

But all that paled as his torchlight lit up a wooden rack against the far wall. The rack had dozens of little bodies hung on it. Guinea pigs, skinned and clearly roasted, all four limbs stretched out into a star on small metal braces presumably crafted for the purpose. Dace held his breath in disgust. There was a tub of thick metal wire pieces, a pair of pliers with orange rubber grips, a couple of half-finished frames, the metal twisted expertly together.

On the counter beside the rack was a plastic tub full of guinea pig corpses, pink and raw where they’d been skinned but not yet cooked. Piled beside the tub were twenty or so more dead animals, these still with their fur, half of them looking like they were simply sleeping there. A large plastic bin stood on the other side of the rack, a plastic liner in it and a rank smell rising up as Dace approached. He leaned over and gagged as the sight of animal guts half filling the bin.

“What the fuck?” he whispered. They bred the things to cook and then dry them out? Did they live on nothing but guinea pig meat and jerky? Maybe a few of the vegies they didn’t feed to the animals first? If the number they kept in their garden didn’t seal the eccentric label, this sight certainly did. He thought they had a crazy passion for pets, but this? Dace swallowed, desperate to be out of the place as quickly as possible.

“Okay,” he said under his breath, barely louder than an exhalation. He got right to work, checked every cupboard, drawer and vessel he could find, even looked in the oven and fridge. In the fridge he found some butter and milk, but more disturbing were dozens of small bottles of dark, purplish liquid. Each only about 50ml, every one had a label with a number, dates from the next day onwards. Future doses of something? Did one or other of the old couple need this medicine? There had to be fifty doses crammed onto the top shelf, maybe more.

On the lower shelves were plastic tubs, some containing young octopuses of a strange colour, with purple and yellow markings. He’d never seen any quite like them before. Other tubs contained muddy-coloured, feathery fronds. They appeared fleshy. Dace stared, trying to remember where he’d seen such things before. Then it came to him. The bit of the local Gulpepper Bug people said was poisonous. You had to make sure to remove them before cooking the Bug, but Dace would never know. He’d never eat one. The thought of them always gave him the creeps, but some locals loved them. He shook his head and closed the fridge. It wasn’t money, so it didn’t matter.

He was tempted to fish around under the rodent guts in the bin, but surely that wasn’t necessary. It took a good ten minutes, but he exhausted every possibility and hadn’t found a cent. Not really a surprise, he supposed. Time to move on.

One door led from the kitchen and he approached it cautiously, shining his Maglight ahead. The beam illuminated a room with polished wooden floorboards, a threadbare rug under a coffee table, a TV on a wooden cabinet beside a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks. A window with the curtains closed, a kind of roll-top dresser beside it. That was promising, the kind of place people might stash their money. A long, tatty sofa, black plastic faux-leather back and arms with rough textured orange seat cushions. Dace stepped into the room and shone his light around further. An armchair that matched the sofa, a plate on the wide plastic arm, piled with tiny bones, sucked clean. An old woman sat in the armchair in the dark, staring at him, the whites of her eyes huge in fear.

Dace sucked in a shocked breath as the woman’s mouth fell open, a toothless, wet O in the saggy, wrinkled skin of her emaciated face. Even covered by a blanket, feet raised on a leather ottoman, she was clearly skeletally thin, grey hair in wispy tufts on her pale, patchy head.

For a moment Dace stood frozen, then the woman screamed. Splittingly loud, an ululating wail like an air-raid siren. Dace tensed, danced foot to foot in panic. “No, stop! Quiet! Please, I won’t hurt you!” He realised his face, his mask, would be terrifying to her, the burn-scarred Freddie Kruger visage.

The scream seemed endless. A man’s voice, thick with sleep, from down the hall. “Elena? Dreams again?” He had a heavy accent.

“Stop, please!” Dace said, approaching the woman, one hand palm out, the other causing torchlight to dance hectically over her wailing face.

And the scream went on. She didn’t pause for breath, how could she scream continuously, so loud?

“Elena, enough. I’m coming, I’m coming!”

“Please!” Dace said, almost crying with the horror of it. “Stop it! Stop that noise!”

It got, impossibly, louder.

“No!” Dace shouted and struck out with his free hand to slap her cheek, desperate to stop that scream from drilling into his brain.

The woman’s face whipped to one side and a loud snap stopped the scream dead. She stilled, her head on her shoulder at an angle that made Dace’s stomach clench. No neck should allow that. No unbroken neck. Her wide, white eyes with pale grey irises stared ahead, seeing nothing.

“No no no!” Dace said breathlessly, looking around himself. He’d hardly touched her, it wasn’t a hard slap at all. Barely a tap.

Footsteps behind him. He grabbed the knife from his thigh pocket and spun around. An old man, tall and thin, iron grey hair in disarray, stood there. He wore blue and white striped pyjamas, his face hard, eyes narrowed.

“You hurt her,” he said. Not a question, an accusation.

“I didn’t mean to!”

Dace took a step back, the knife held in front of his chest, pointing at the old man, but he made space. Nikolov approached his wife, crouched before the armchair. Tears rolled over his high cheekbones, into his hollow cheeks.

“Elena,” he said plaintively. “Elena.” He turned, looked up at Dace with haunted eyes. “Why?”

“I’m so sorry! It was an accident!” Dace’s mind raced. He couldn’t be responsible, it would be even more trouble. “A heart attack,” he said, voice desperate. “I surprised her? It must have been a shock!”

Nikolov stared, mouth half open, lips as wet as his cheeks. He shook his head. “I saw you hit her.”

Dace’s heart rushed, hammered in his ears. “Fuck fuck fuck.” He brandished the knife. “Okay, sorry about this, but get up. Get away from her.”

“You want to rob us, yes?” Nikolov said. He rose slowly, grimacing, one hand to his lower back.

These two were ancient, they had to be in their nineties at least. Dace licked his lips, dry-mouthed despite the sweaty confines of the rubber. His breath was hotter than ever. “Over there.” He pointed at the sofa with the knife. “Over there, come on. Sit down.”

Nikolov complied, without taking his eyes from Dace. He sat on the centre cushion of the three, back straight, hands on his knees. Dace moved to the door and turned on the light, put away his torch, then stood staring at the old man. His hand shook holding the knife, his knees knocked. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Think. Think!

The woman was dead, that was done. Couldn’t be changed. He needed Carter’s money, that was still his priority. Old man Nikolov had no idea who Dace was. Get the money, leave the old man to call the police. They never came to The Gulp quickly, if they ever came at all. He’d be away and gone, he’d burn the Freddie costume, or maybe put it in the bag with a load of rocks and take it out in Carter’s boat, drop it far out to sea where it would never be found. Just get the money and get out. Easy as.

Fuck.

“Yes,” he said, trying to make his voice strong. “I want to rob you.”

“Good luck. We have nothing.”

“Bullshit!” Dace shouted. “Everyone knows you have money. This… this fucking guinea pig bullshit circus, the fuck are you even doing here?” He was ranting, rambling. Panicking. He killed that old woman. Was that murder? It was an accident. But no, he’d hit her. “You’ve got money!” he said again. “Where is it? Give me the money and I’ll be gone. Simple.”

“No money.” Nikolov’s face was hard, expressionless. But his eyes burned. The lower lids were loose, wet and red, but his gaze was iron.

Dace stepped closer, waved the knife under the old man’s wattled chin. “The fucking money!”

Nikolov lifted his chin, exposed his throat, like a dare.

“Don’t fucking move!” Dace said.

He searched the room, starting with the roll-top desk. Every few seconds he glanced back at Nikolov, but the old man sat stock still. Dace rummaged everywhere, found nothing. He saw a jacket hanging on a hook on the door and went to it, found the old man’s wallet. Inside was $240 in fifties and twenties. He pocketed it with a sob of disappointment. Next to nothing compared to the sixty K he needed.

“Where is it?” he yelled, rounding on Nikolov.

The old man sat still, staring.

He would have to tie the bastard up and search the rest of the house. Or could he convince the man to tell him? He might search for hours and find nothing. He might miss it. But this fucker knew where his money was. Dace’s mind flicked back to the kitchen. The guinea pigs on their little metal stretchers. The pile of wire pieces. He was all in now, the old woman’s corpse was proof of that.

“Don’t move!”

He ducked around the door, grabbed the pliers. Nikolov’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of his tool in Dace’s hand.

“We have nothing,” Nikolov said. His voice was steady, but was there a trace of fear under it now? “You should go. Just go now.”

“Can’t do that. I’m in a world of grief and your money is my only way out.”

“No money.”

“Bullshit.”

Dace grimaced. These people were virtually cadavers already, eating roast fucking guinea pigs, living in a house where no single item of décor was less than thirty years old. Maybe the old man was scared because he was telling the truth. Maybe they really had nothing. But he had to be sure. Because he had no other ideas if this one didn’t work.

He sucked in a deep breath, blinked, his eyes gritty with tiredness. Then he moved towards Nikolov. The old man shifted back in alarm. Dace crouched, put the knife on the ground beside him and grabbed one scrawny ankle. The man’s bare foot was long and thin, the bones standing up in ridges to his knobbly toes, the nails thick and yellowed.

“No!” Nikolov said.

“Where’s the money?”

“No money.”

“Bullshit!”

Dace opened the pliers and put the toothed metal grips over and under Nikolov’s pinkie toe. The man struggled, stronger than Dace had expected, but no match for him. Dace squeezed, enough to whiten the skin, and Nikolov stilled. “Where’s the money?”

“No money!”

Dace blew out an exasperated breath. Fuck it. He gripped the plier handles hard. Nikolov howled as his toe burst, the bone crunched, blood spurted from under the nail, then the nail skidded sideways and came away. The pliers slipped off and Nikolov stamped his free foot up and down, gasping and sobbing with pain. Blood sprayed, Dace heard some spatter against the rubber face of his mask. His breath was short and shallow, furnace hot in the confines. It felt tight against the back of his head, thick and heavy around his neck and over his shoulders.

Nikolov stilled, his chest heaving, a huh huh huh of pain and shock punctuating his breath.

Dace sat back on his heels, looked at the old man. Nikolov stared back.

“Just tell me where your money is,” Dace said. “I’ll take it and be gone, and all this will be over.”

“Nema da zemeš ništo od mene,” Nikolov said through clenched teeth.

“What? What the fuck did you say?”

“Kopile!”

Dace frowned. He thought maybe he understood that from the delivery alone. “Speak English, old man. And in English, tell me where the fucking money is! I don’t want to do this.” He swallowed bile, refusing to look at the stark white bone sticking sideways from Nikolov’s rent flesh.

“Then don’t! Just go!”

“I need the money, man! You can’t understand how badly I need the money. My whole family!”

Nikolov stuck out one bony arm, one long finger trembling as it pointed at Elena. “And what about my family?” The strength of his anger was surprising.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t supposed to happen.” Dace gestured at Nikolov’s foot. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Any of this. But here we are.”

A surprising amount of blood still pulsed from Nikolov’s little toe. Dace didn’t want to do it again, but he would. He was committed now. If the man truly believed Dace wouldn’t stop until he had the money, Nikolov would tell him where it was. But he couldn’t bear to look at that mangled toe. He grabbed the other foot.

“Ne Ne Ne!” Nikolov said, thrashing harder this time. He leaned forward and rained blows with his bony fists and forearms onto Dace’s head. They were incredibly strong strikes, the mask slipped and shifted on his sweat, the eyeholes moving down, blinding him. Nikolov kicked his leg, hammered at Dace, even kicked at him with his other foot, heedless of his ruined toe.

Dace didn’t let go of the skinny ankle, thrashed blindly above his head with his other hand, still gripping the heavy metal pliers. He struck into something, maybe a hand, and Nikolov yelped. Dace rose onto his knees and swung his arm forward, felt a sudden and jarring impact, a crunch, a grunt from Nikolov, then the old man stopped fighting.

Dace shifted the mask back into place, looked up to see Nikolov sat back on the sofa, eyes swimming a little, blood flooding from his crushed nose. It sluiced over his mouth, stained blackly into his pyjama jacket.

Nikolov blinked, brought his attention back to Dace. Dace gripped the old man’s uninjured pinkie toe in the pliers. “Where’s the money!”

“No… fucking… money…” Nikolov panted. Hate emanated from his gaze like steam.

Dace gripped hard, the toe crunched, blood sprayed.

Nikolov yelled, a formless roar of pain and anger as he sat bolt upright. Dace hoped desperately none of this was loud enough to alert any neighbours. Nikolov leaned forward, gasped quick, short breaths. His eyes widened, he clamped a hand against his chest. His already pale face went grey, his lips blue. He shuddered. His breath hitched, like he had something stuck in his throat. Dace stared. What the fuck?

Nikolov tipped forward and sideways and thumped onto the floor.

Dace jumped up, dropped the pliers and stumbled back. “Oh, fuck, no!”

Nikolov lay on his side, eyes as wide and staring as his wife’s. And equally devoid of life.

Dace turned a slow circle. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” He staggered back further and sat against the roll-top desk, leaned forward, hands on his knees. He gasped for breath, dizzy, like he might pass out at any moment. He’d killed them both. He forced himself to suck in long, deep breaths. His face was slick with sweat, so hot in the damned mask. But they were dead! He grabbed it by the top and pulled it off. It slid away and cool air flooded over his skin. His vision widened to take in all the murder he’d done, but his head cooled and his breath came easier.

“Okay, this is fucked, but it is what it is.” What did that even mean? It meant he had to search the rest of the house, that’s what. Simple.

The house was long and narrow. He saw the front door dead ahead, the frosted glass in it glowing orange from a street lamp outside. A short hallway led from the front door to the lounge where he stood, and that led back to the kitchen. Either side of the hallway were four doors, two on each side. Three bedrooms and a bathroom, he presumed. The first stood open, from where the old man had emerged.

Dace walked to it and looked in. He couldn’t see much. He felt around the walls until he found the light switch. The room was simply furnished. A wooden double bed, a dresser with a variety of creams and brushes, a tallboy with six drawers, and an old-fashioned freestanding wardrobe with arched doors, mirrors on each. He went to the dresser and searched it, and the two drawers underneath. No money. He pulled every drawer from the tallboy and upended each one. Nikolov’s clothes fell out, but no money.

The wardrobe was crammed with dresses and coats, he felt in all the pockets. He crouched and moved aside a variety of shoes. There was a shoe box shoved right to the back. His heart fluttered. He pulled it out and sat on the floor, put the box on his lap. He opened it and saw bundles of cash.

“Yes!”

It was all fifties and twenties, little wads held together with pale tan elastic bands. He started counting it. He hadn’t got far before he knew it wasn’t going to be enough. After a couple of minutes he sat staring at the notes on the carpet. Eleven thousand, six hundred bucks. Shit, that was a lot of money, but not even a quarter of what he needed. Though it was something. Would it be enough to buy him more time from Carter? Could he give Carter ten grand and beg for longer to get the rest? Maybe. But was it worth two lives? And did he dare take the risk that Carter would be mollified by less than a quarter of what he was owed?

Dace frowned, shook his head. No way. Definitely no way Carter would accept anything less than what he’d asked for. But if old man Nikolov had eleven grand stashed in the bottom of the wardrobe, he would surely have more stashed elsewhere, right? He needed to keep looking. He put the money he’d found in his backpack, slung it back on, and stood up.

Directly across the hall was a bathroom and Dace checked in there. The medicine cabinet, a laundry basket, he even took the lid off the cistern. Nothing. He stepped back out into the hall, pausing for a moment, dizzy with fatigue.

“Daddy?”

Dace’s heart thumped.

“Hello? Daddy?”

The voice was female, plaintive and nervous. Then a light tapping from the other door on the same side as Nikolov’s bedroom. Dace saw it had a sliding bolt on it, locked closed. On the outside. Locking someone in.

“What the fuck?” he breathed.

Pictures hung on the wall between the two rooms. Old, faded black and whites, they showed a handsome young couple, no doubt Nikolov and Elena. Several shots, different locations, but just the two of them. There had been no photos in the lounge that he recalled. Just the two of them lived here, he had thought. Daddy?

“Don’t be angry, Daddy, but are you there?” Tap tap tap. “Is everything okay?”

No, Dace thought. Everything is most definitely not okay. He had eleven thousand, six hundred in his pack. Maybe he should quit while he was ahead, just leave, try somewhere else for the rest. He looked at the locked door. Nikolov and Elena wouldn’t be letting her out any time soon, that was certain. She might starve to death in there. But what the hell was he supposed to do with her? Maybe just let her out and run? But he needed more money and he was sure Nikolov had more hidden somewhere. Maybe she would know.

He went to the door and slid the bolt open. He sensed the person on the other side still themselves. He turned the handle and gently pushed the door in. A young girl stood there, maybe fifteen or sixteen, wearing a long, white cotton nightdress, barefoot. Her hair was sandy brown and straight, long to her waist. She smiled widely, too wide, guileless. Her eyes were a little too open, shifting hectically as she looked him over with strange intensity. As Dace realised with a pulse of adrenaline that he hadn’t put his mask back on first, she said, “Hello! Are you a friend of Mummy and Daddy? What was all the noise about? I like your jumper.”

“Who are you?” Dace asked.

The room beyond her was less than simple. It was empty but for a single bed mattress on the floor, a ratty, stained doona piled on top of it and a thin pillow. Everything else was bare walls and floorboards. The light was off and Dace saw the fitting had no shade or bulb.

“I’m Baby.”

“Your name is Baby?”

“That’s what Daddy calls me.”

How could that ancient old relic out there – dead now, you killed him! – possibly have fathered this teenager? Even if he could, the woman was certainly decades past child-bearing age.

“The Nikolovs are your parents?”

“They are now. They have been for… well, for such a long time. I remember… others… a different Mummy and Daddy… sometimes… when I’m sleeping. Maybe a before family? Daddy says it’s nightmares, that’s all. I’m always so confused, but I take my medicine like Daddy asks.”

Dace stared, horrified. Was this simple-minded child kidnapped and brainwashed? Why? Her pupils were large, he noticed, even in the brightness of the hall light he’d turned on. She was drugged, obviously. He remembered all the bottles in the fridge. “What do you do here?” he asked, and it sounded like a stupid question.

“Do? Nothing. Try to please Daddy. Mummy sometimes sings to me. They give me the medicine, insist I sleep enough. I have to be… ready, yes. Daddy says I have to be ready.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know!” She giggled like a child a fraction of her age and turned a slow circle on the balls of her feet, arms out to the sides. “I like it in the between times. I feel tingly!”

“Between times?”

She stopped and turned to look at him, head tipped to one side. “Between my medicines. When my head tingles and my body feels… stronger.”

“Why do you need the medicine?”

“Daddy says it’s so I sleep properly. And sleep is how I get ready. I have to watch it every time.” Her voice turned both stern and singsong. “Don’t look away, Baby! Watch it closely, let it in!”

“Watch what?”

She smiled. “The fall, silly. When the sky splits, dark red like blood, and the broken things tumble down. Look into the abyss, Daddy says. Look and let it in. It prepares me, he says. Daddy’s drugs make my dreams so much clearer. I feel the… the abyss, he calls it. I feel… beyond.” She burst out a tiny bubble of giggles again and started turning circles.

When the sky splits and the broken things tumble down. Dace had vague memories of a dream like that from time to time. What the fuck was this poor kid on about?

“You need anything right now?” he asked.

“Not really. Are you going to lock the door again?”

He licked his lips, concerned. He couldn’t let her out, not yet at least. “Just for a while.”

“I’m hungry.”

She was so thin under the billowing nightdress. “Wait there.”

He closed the door and slid the bolt then hurried back to the kitchen. He grabbed two of the roasted guinea pigs off the rack and took them back to her. Her eyes widened when he opened the door and she saw them. He paused, held them back a moment.

“I have a question for you first, okay?”

She nodded, not taking her eyes from the tiny, cooked bodies.

“Where does your Daddy keep his money? Do you know?”

“Daddy’s money is running out. Not much left, I heard him telling Mummy. I hear more than they realise through my door, when the medicine isn’t so new inside me.”

“Running out?”

“He said so. Sometime… before. I don’t know… time.” She frowned, looked down a moment, then back at the food. “But the other girls will be taken soon. The ready girls. Money!” She giggled. “It’s all so strange.”

“The ready girls?” Fatigue pulled on Dace’s mind and, combined with the horrors of the night so far, and the bizarre situation before him, it was all becoming too much.

“Daddy says there’s no need to worry. Money comes when the girls provide. And two are ready now!”

“Ready for what?”

“I don’t know!” She sighed and giggled at the same time. “But Daddy told Mummy more money soon. He said so last time he came back down.”

“Back down?”

Baby pointed at the ceiling of the hallway. Dace turned and saw the access hatch to the attic. The attic! He hadn’t thought of checking in there. Maybe that’s where the bigger stash of cash was.

“Thank you!” he said and handed her the two roast rodents.

She snatched them from him and sat directly on the floor. She dropped one into her lap and expertly pulled the metal cross wire out of the other. She dropped the little frame and bit into the animal, crunching up the tiny bones along with the meagre meat.

Dace grimaced and slowly closed the door. As he slid the lock back into place he heard her biting and chewing, a soft noise of desperate appreciation in her throat as she ate. He turned again and looked up at the attic hatch. How to get up there? He went back into the lounge, planning to head through to the kitchen, but paused at the sight of the Nikolovs, pale and still in death. He’d killed them both!

He dragged the coffee table off the rug, which he noticed had caught most of the blood from Nikolov’s toes. He pushed Nikolov straight and rolled him up in the rug, then half-carried, half-dragged it to the old man’s bedroom. He dumped the corpse alongside the bed, then went back and picked up Elena. She couldn’t weigh more than forty kilos, he thought, like a loose bag of bones. He didn’t look as her head flopped back off her neck. He put her on the bed and quickly left, closing the door. There was a bit of blood left on the floorboards and sprayed over the surface of the coffee table, but that was all. Otherwise no evidence of the double murder. More importantly, he didn’t have to look at the victims of his crimes any more.

He went into the kitchen and took one of the chairs from the table, carried it back to the hallway. Standing on it, he was just able to reach the high ceiling and unlatch the attic door. A folding ladder was tucked up inside, a rope swinging down as the door opened. He hopped off the chair and moved it, then pulled the ladder down. It rattled open and sat against the hallway runner rug.

“Please keep your money up here!” he said softly as he climbed. If he could find what he needed, he’d take it and run. Leave Baby where she was. Then tomorrow he’d make an anonymous call to the cops, say he’d heard terrible noises from this address. Let them find everything once he was long gone.

The attic was pitch dark. He felt around the edges of the hatch and sure enough his thinly gloved fingers found a plastic switch casing. He flicked it on. A bare bulb in the apex of the rafters flooded everything in harsh yellow light. Dace began to shake from head to toes.

Along both long sides were shelves of books and papers, a desk with a reading lamp, a filing cabinet. In the centre, evenly spaced, were four long, low tables, made of dark wood. The short legs of the tables were carved into twisted and disconcerting shapes, like bodily organs piled atop one another. The tabletops had similar looping, twisting designs around their thick edges, and on two of the four tables was a body.

Two young girls, of an age with Baby locked downstairs, similar in appearance. Naked, their skin so white it seemed made of chalk, and looked dry as paper. They were emaciated, hip bones poking up higher than their hollow stomachs, their ribs made rippled ridges on both sides. There were things written on their too-white skin.

He climbed into the attic and cautiously approached the two girls. The designs on them were almost identical. Strange symbols, some that looked almost like writing, but no language he’d ever seen before. The positioning seemed to match the girls anatomy in some way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. If he looked too hard at any one design, nausea began to stir in his gut. The sight of desiccated, preserved corpses made him feel sick, but he realised with some dismay the effect of the things drawn on them made his nausea deeper. The designs seemed to push against his eyes, make his head swim.

He leaned a little closer. No. Not drawn. Cut into their alabaster skin with expert strokes of what must be the finest scalpel. And then something had been pressed or rubbed into the written wounds, to blacken them. Maybe a kind of ink. Bile rose as he looked, and he turned his face away.

“Fuck me dead,” Dace whispered, stepping away from the bodies.

Were these two the ones Nikolov had declared ready? And Baby next in line? How were they not rotting?

This was how the old man made his money? Money comes when the girls provide. And two are ready now! Dace swallowed. Was the eleven grand he’d found all Nikolov had left until these two were… what? Sold? Who the fuck bought bodies done like this? And why?

But no. Maybe downstairs was just a store of ready cash. There had to be more, and this was the obvious place to keep it, Nikolov’s hideous attic study or laboratory or whatever the fuck it was. Dace started searching.

It took more than an hour, doing all he could to ignore the bodies behind him. Two teenage girls, murdered after who knew how long trapped in that room downstairs. Another there being tortured and medicated now. How many before them? Where did he get them? They were somebody’s children.

He stopped thinking about it, kept looking. He found a large jar of black ink, presumably what the old man used to stain the wounds in the bodies of the girls. There was a small label on the jar, a stylised design of an octopus drawn, perhaps, with the ink the jar contained. Dace glanced back at the girls, the black designs on them, imagined underwater denizens off the coast of The Gulp. He saw the sky, open and red, creatures tumbling. He rocked on his feet, staggered a little, and gasped. He put down the ink, blinked hard a few times. He was so tired.

Keep looking.

He found nothing. Not a single dollar.

All the paperwork was in Macedonian, or some other language like the designs on the girls. Some of the books on the shelves were clearly very old, leatherbound, their pages thin, almost translucent parchment of some kind. In some the ink was a deep brown, almost red. He stopped looking too closely, just shook all the books out in case money was stashed inside. Some fell apart as he did so. By the time he’d finished it looked like a hurricane had blown through the attic.

Close to tears with tiredness and need, he clambered back down. No sound came from Baby’s room. His stomach clenched. He realised he was starving. As he went back through to the kitchen, he saw the pale pink of dawn smudging the windows.

So hungry.

He looked at the guinea pigs, roasted and stretched out on their rack, and shuddered. He wasn’t that hungry yet. He searched the kitchen and found half a loaf of Wonder White bread. He opened it, sniffed. It seemed fresh. Then again, this stuff never seemed to go off. He grabbed several slices, forced himself to go slowly and ate them dry, one after another. He’d devoured almost the entire half-loaf before he felt as though he’d had enough. He put his head under the tap of the kitchen sink and drank water. He felt better. Still dog-tired, but clearer headed. He went into the lounge room and sat down on the couch, as far from where Nikolov had died as he could get.

What the hell to do? He was fast running out of time. His eyes grew heavy. He began to doze off then jerked awake, adrenaline coursing through him again. There was a room he hadn’t checked. The one opposite Baby’s room, the third bedroom. Distracted by the attic, he hadn’t been in there.

He ran to it and opened the door, images of piles of cash swimming through his mind in the worst case ever of wishful thinking. He pictured Scrooge McDuck diving into a pile of gold, doing backstrokes through it.

Inside were piles of plywood sheeting, power tools, a toolbox and another box full of screws and nails. Leaning against one wall were two long, rectangular wooden boxes, neatly made. They looked like simple coffins. But they were more than that, of course. Delivery cases for the girls upstairs who were ready now.

Dace sagged. “Fuck!”

Had Baby overheard more? Would she know a way to contact whoever bought the girls once they were ready? What the hell was such a thing worth anyway? He was sure the poor girl had no idea beyond what she’d already said, but he had to ask. His options were running out. If she didn’t know, maybe he needed to take the eleven grand and go, come up with a new plan. His time was nearly a quarter gone already.

He slid the bolt and opened Baby’s door. She lay on her back on the floor, blood all around her head, the wire from the roast guinea pig jammed deep into her eye. Her mouth was open, the other eye staring blankly at the bulbless light fitting.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Dace wailed. His knees knocked and he sank down onto them before he could fall on his face in a dead faint. He sank his head into his hands and sobbed, the dam finally bursting. Crying he fell over onto his side and gave in for a while to all his despair. After some time, he drifted into a restless, fitful sleep.

He dreamed of the sky opening red, of thunder and roiling clouds, of things falling.

Something drilled into his sleep, dragged him awake. Dace sat up gasping, he couldn’t sleep! He didn’t have time. He noticed the window of the room was boarded up, covered with the same plywood used to make the boxes.

The telephone was ringing.

He stood, staggered out into the hallway and saw sunshine streaming through the frosted glass of the front door. How long had he slept? He went through into the lounge, looked at a clock on the wall. It said 1.20pm. He’d slept for hours.

“Shit shit shit!”

The telephone rang on, but he couldn’t find it. Following the sound, he finally tracked it to the kitchen wall, an old plastic landline with black rubber buttons. As he reached it, it stopped ringing.

What was he planning to do anyway? Answer it?

He jumped when it rang again. He stared at it for three rings, then snatched up the receiver. In his best impersonation of Nikolov’s Macedonian accent he said, “Yes, hello?”

“Mr Nikolov?” A man’s voice, a little gravelly.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t answer the first time.”

“I vas… in ze garden, feeding ze animals. Sorry, old and slow.” Dace grimaced. He was hamming the accent up far too much.

“Well, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m calling on behalf of Mrs Ingrid Blumenthal. Just checking that all is ready for the order we placed?”

Dace licked his lips, grinned. “Yes, yes. All ready.”

“Good. Well, we’ll come along to collect the item next Sunday as agreed. Around eleven okay?”

Next Sunday? Dace would be dead by then. His mind raced. “I’m glad you called,” he said, trying to maintain the accent. “I was going to call you, in fact. All is ready with your order, but there is a slight problem with timing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, we haf a family situation. Small emergency. I haf to leave very soon, can’t be here next weekend. You can come today, yes?”

“What? Oh. I don’t think so. This isn’t much notice at all, Mr Nikolov.”

“I know, I’m very sorry.”

“Well, maybe we could wait one more week. When do you expect to be back?”

“Ah, not for several weeks. Maybe months. Very bad situation.”

The man on the other end was silent but for breathing. Dace could hear the frustration in it. “This is most irregular, Mr Nikolov. We need the item.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. I’m very sorry. So you haf to come today.”

“I can’t get forty thousand in cash today.”

Forty thousand? Dace’s mind raced again. He had eleven, he needed sixty. Another forty would get him close, but still nine short. So close, but close wasn’t good enough for Carter. An idea bloomed. “Sir, I am truly sorry for this irregular situation, and you are of course a valued client. I make you a special offer. Instead of forty, how about two for sixty? To make up for the inconvenience. But it must be this weekend, yes?”

“Two?”

“They will keep indefinitely,” Dace said, grimacing. What were the bodies even for? Would anyone need more than one?

The caller was silent again for a moment, then he said, “I’ll have to call you back.”

He hung up without waiting for a reply and Dace held the inert phone for several seconds, breathing hard. Eventually he hung it up and went into the lounge, sat heavily on the couch, and waited.

It was an hour later when the phone rang again. Dace jumped up to answer it. “Hello?” In his excitement, he forgot to use the Macedonian accent.

“Mr Nikolov?” That same gravelly voice again.

Dace sucked in a breath. Don’t blow it. He could use this. “Just a sec.”

He took the phone away from his ear, half-covered it with a palm and called out, “Grandpa! Phone.”

He paused another few seconds, rubbed the handset like one person was passing it to another, then put it back to his ear. “Hello, is Nikolov here,” he said in his terrible accent. He thought he sounded like an Arnold Schwarzenegger parody, more like bad German than anything. He needed it to dial it back.

“Mrs Blumenthal has considered your offer. You say it’ll keep? After all, it’s potentially a long time between rituals.”

“Of course. Stay in the box, keep somewhere cool and dry, no problem.”

“How long will it keep?”

“Indefinitely.”

“And sixty for both, you say?”

“Yes, yes. Special, for your inconvenience. To show I’m so sorry.”

“Very well,” the man said. “I will come at noon tomorrow.”

“Thank you for your understanding. One other thing.”

“Another thing?”

“A small thing, nothing to worry about. The young man who answered the phone, my grandson. He will be here to complete the transaction. I will be organising trip, for our emergency. So sorry, but everything will be ready for you to collect. You give him the money, he gives you both, yes? All okay?”

“What’s your grandson’s name?”

“D… David.”

“David Nikolov?”

“In English, yes. He prefers David. That’s it. He’s a good boy. Well, a man now, I always think of the boy he vas.” Jesus, keep it simple, dickhead!

“Very well. We’ll see David tomorrow.”

Dace went and sat back in the lounge, almost vibrating. He’d done it! He would have sixty grand by noon tomorrow, nine hours before Carter’s deadline. No, better than that. He’d found eleven grand already and he’d get to keep that. He would be out of trouble with Carter and eleven grand up on the whole debacle. That made it all worthwhile.

Killing two people? Was it worth that?

And Baby, driving that wire through her eye in suicide. Was it worth that?

He took a deep breath. He couldn’t change anything that had already happened. He could only keep moving forward. He needed to pay Carter to save himself and his family, simple as that. And he had a little less than twenty-four hours to get organised. He needed to get those bodies down from the attic and put them in the boxes Nikolov had prepared. He looked down at his baggy Freddie Kruger jumper, saw it had brown stains on it, no doubt Nikolov’s blood. He needed to change. But he also couldn’t risk being seen coming and going from this place. He would need to stay until everything was taken care of, then slip away with the money, never to return. Let anyone find it later, or not. He didn’t care.

Bracing himself, he went back into Nikolov’s room. Already the stink of death was beginning to rise from the two bodies he’d stashed there. He lifted the old man, still rolled in the rug, up onto the bed next to his wife. Then he dragged the doona out from under them and laid it on top, then added a blanket he found in the wardrobe, covering them both as thoroughly as possible. He only needed to mask the smell of their decay until after the pick-up had been made the next day, then he’d be gone.

“You two got what you fucking deserved,” he said to the lumpen bed, and turned away.

Nikolov was taller than him, but not by much. His pants and boots were okay, and if there was blood on either, he couldn’t see it. He pulled off the Freddie jumper and stuffed it into his backpack with the rubber mask, then rummaged in Nikolov’s stuff until he found a black woollen pullover. He put it on. It was a little long in the body and the sleeves, but not ridiculous. It made him look smart enough.

He went to the bathroom, stripped everything off and had a hot shower, trying to feel vaguely normal again, then redressed. In the spare room, he lay the two boxes on the floor side by side and found their matching lids. Then he put aside a drill and screws to secure the lids on. He looked at his hands as he moved these things around and realised he’d need to take off the gloves when the buyer arrived, or he’d look suspicious. He’d have to be careful not to touch anything, or remember what he touched, when that time came.

He went back up into the attic and stood beside the corpses. He didn’t want to handle them but had no choice. He glanced back at the attic hatch and wondered how the hell to get them down. The hatch was large, but not huge. Maybe a fireman’s carry over his shoulder? They were young, and rail thin. Swallowing, he slipped his hands under the first one and carefully lifted her. She weighed very little and seemed stiff, rising in his arms like a plank of wood. As he turned, she sloshed gently. Dace froze, bile rising in his throat. He tipped the body left and right and felt some liquid shifting back and forth inside her.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, but tried not to think too hard on it.

She was too stiff to lay over his shoulder, but he managed to hold around the hips with one arm, pressing her against his body, and use his free hand to carefully descend the ladder. He kept his face away, though her cold, white flesh pressed against his cheek. She smelled musty, but spicy. Some almost enticing odour. He hurried to the spare room, laid her in a box, then returned for the other. In a few minutes he had them both down, the ladder folded back up and the attic hatch closed.

He stood with the drill in his hand, about to secure the lids, when he imagined the buyer asking to see the merchandise. It wouldn’t be an unreasonable request. He put the lids on loosely, and left, closed the door behind him. Now there were bodies in all three bedrooms of the house. What an absolute fucking nightmare.

It was a little after three in the afternoon and he was finished. All he could do was wait until noon the next day, in a house with five corpses. He desperately wanted to leave, go home, go anywhere. But he didn’t dare. So he went into the kitchen, found cleaning products and took care of the last bit of Nikolov’s blood on the floor and coffee table. He saw his kitchen knife just under the edge of the couch, forgotten where it must have been knocked in his struggle with the old man. He took it to the kitchen and put it on the table with his backpack, so he wouldn’t forget to take it when he left by the back door again after all this was over. He thought about going outside to feed the numerous guinea pigs, just for something to do, but even being spotted in the garden was too much of a risk.

He watched TV instead. As his hunger grew, he searched the kitchen again. He found some frozen fish fingers in the freezer compartment of the old Crosley Shelvador and grilled them, ate them with the last of the Wonder White bread. Time rolled on and he watched more TV. He discovered some half-decent whiskey, a Glenlivet 15, that was a little more than half full and he made the most of that. By a little after ten he was asleep on the couch.

He dreamed of the fall again, bodies twisting as they tumbled down, some thrashing their many limbs, some inert, seemingly already dead. He stood on a slick beach, watched the red hole in the sky vomit forth multitudes. He turned, saw more falling over the thick vegetation of gum trees. He saw a large curved back rise and fall in the trees, like a whale cruising the ocean. Sasha, his dream-self cried weakly.

He woke with a hangover a little after eight. The dream was gossamer, fleeting as consciousness returned. How could Baby have the same dream? Why did Nikolov want her to open herself to it? He shook his head. Some questions didn’t need answers. Maybe the answers would be more disturbing.

He found coffee grounds and a stove-top percolator in the kitchen and made strong coffee. He drank the whole pot, felt jittery but better for it. He was hungry again, but there was nothing else in the house except the guinea pigs. He didn’t feel like boiling up vegetables for breakfast, the only other option. He stood before the rack of roasted rodents, grimacing. They ate these in South America, didn’t they? Was it really so weird?

He reached out and plucked a chunk of meat from one small, rounded thigh. It was a little grey in colour, more oily than he had anticipated. The skin and the texture of the meat reminded him of Cantonese duck dishes he’d had on a trip to Sydney years ago. The taste wasn’t dissimilar to duck either, rich and slick, but chewy. So little meat to the thing, all close to the small bones. Despite his distaste, he ate about half of one, left its denuded bones on the rack and turned away. Appallingly, it had settled his stomach from the previous night’s excess of whisky. He supposed any greasy breakfast sufficed as a good hangover cure.

He killed more time watching television, made another pot of coffee. As the time drifted around towards noon, he became more agitated, more nervous. At twelve on the button, there was a rapid knock at the door.

Dace sucked in a breath and jumped up, turned off the TV. A mirror on the wall in the hall showed his pale, stressed face as he glanced at it in passing. He took another moment, composed himself, forced his shoulders and jaw to relax. A shadow outside the frosted glass remained motionless. Broad shouldered, similar in height to Dace.

He slipped off his gloves and opened the door and smiled. The man was maybe in his fifties, close-cropped grey hair, receding a little from a high forehead. He had a square face, strong jaw, brown eyes. He wore a neat suit, shirt but no tie, shiny shoes, and carried a smart leather attaché case. He smiled and seemed immediately harmless and friendly. “David Nikolov?”

“That’s right. Grandpa said to expect you. Everything’s in order.” Dace stepped back, gestured inside, eager to close the door.

“I’m Talbot, Mrs Blumenthal’s representative.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr Talbot.”

“Just Talbot, thanks.”

“Sure, okay.” Dace closed the door and stood a little awkwardly.

“Nikolov has never mentioned you before,” Talbot said, the smile fading.

“No, he wouldn’t have. He keeps his business entirely to himself, even though me and my father are always around to help out. These are unusual circumstances for us.”

“The family emergency.”

“Yes. Grandpa asked me to offer his heartfelt apologies.”

“Your father is here too?”

“No, just me.” Don’t say too much, Dace told himself. The best lies were simple. If you loaded a lie with details, you made obstacles that were liable to trip you up.

Talbot stared, unblinking. Dace became uncomfortable again.

He swallowed. “Grandpa said you’d agreed on two for sixty?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, cool. You want to see them? I didn’t seal the lids yet.”

“Of course.”

Dace nodded, forced a smile. He gestured into the spare room and followed Talbot in. The man crouched, put his case on the floor beside himself, and looked carefully at each girl’s body. Appallingly, he reached between their legs, forced his hand in and leaned close to look. Dace grimaced but held his tongue. Who knew what the fuck the man was checking for.

Talbot nodded, picked up his case again and stood. “Your grandfather is offering us a very good price here.”

“He feels terrible about the change of plans and the position he’s put you in. He’s a proud man, values professionalism, and wants to make it up to you.”

“Hmm.” Talbot stepped aside and gestured at the boxes.

Dace took up the drill, reminding himself to take it with him when he left, as he’d removed his gloves. He set the lids, quickly drilled screws into each corner, a couple more evenly spaced along each long side. Then he stood and smiled. “I’ll help you out with them?” This was the part he’d dreaded, where he might be seen outside, even recognised.

“Not necessary, thank you. My driver will help me.”

Dace nodded, tried to keep the smile from his face. He could stay indoors, after all.

“But in a moment,” Talbot said. “The paperwork first.”

Dace paused. “The… paperwork.”

“Yes. They’re useless without the incantations.”

Dace laughed, heart hammering. His mind raced. “Of course, sorry. Grandpa left that stuff in the kitchen. This way.”

Talbot frowned, but followed him from the room. Dace’s head spun, the jitteriness from the coffee redoubled, he was lightheaded, dizzy. What the hell could he do? This close, there was no other choice. He had mentioned the kitchen before his conscious mind even registered the plan.

He walked directly up to the kitchen table and closed his hand around the handle of the knife. Without pausing to think further, he turned. Talbot was a few paces behind, paused in the doorway.

Talbot frowned, looked down at the knife in Dace’s hand and said, “What–” then Dace slammed the blade into his chest, right to the hilt.

Talbot managed to get one hand half up to block the blow, but it wasn’t enough. He cried out, blood bubbling over his lips, but his eyes went wild, his expression feral. He thrashed Dace with both hands, the blows battering into Dace’s face and head. A whistling whine curled in through Dace’s left ear and his vision crossed, darkening from the edges, as one of Talbot’s hands cracked into his jaw.

“Fuck!” Dace yelled, and his voice was slurred.

Talbot pushed away from him, the knife sliding free with a wet suck. Dace staggered back as Talbot made a burbling cough then came at him again. The man swung large, strong arms, raining blows again.

“Fucken die already!” Dace screamed, raising the knife and plunging it down again and again. He felt it hit Talbot’s arms, the blade grate along bone. The man roared in pain and anger, but still fought.

Dace backed into a chair and it folded the back of his knees. He went over, the chair tipping with him, grinding painfully into his arse and the back of one thigh. Talbot fell on him, slamming elbow strikes with one blood-soaked arm into the side of Dace’s head. Something cracked like a gunshot near his eye. Consciousness was fleeing, the blackness closing in on Dace’s vision like twin tunnels of night. The man’s blood was hot all over his face, his hands were slick with it. But he still held the knife. He raised it and stabbed it down into Talbot’s back. The man arched away with a roar and Dace stabbed again and again.

Finally, Talbot fell still, collapsed limp on top of Dace as he lay bent awkwardly over the chair. He gasped for breath, desperately trying to stay conscious. His head rang from Talbot’s blows, from the exertion.

He heaved, the chair grinding into his lower back as he forced the dead man off him.

“Fucking hell!” Dace said, though the words were mostly sobs.

He was soaked in Talbot’s blood, and more spread in a rapidly widening pool across the black and white kitchen floor.

Dace staggered to the sink and ran the taps hard, washed his face and hands. He pulled off the jumper and shirt, left them in the sink as he rinsed his neck and shoulders. His head ached, all around one eye and cheekbone hurt like hell, made him hiss at the slightest pressure. His vision was blurred that side.

“Broke my fucken face,” he said. He wondered if it was his cheekbone or the orbit of his eye that had fractured. It felt like both. But a kind of elation coursed through him. That was some fight, and he’d won. It felt good.

He found a black plastic bin liner under the sink and put his blood-soaked clothes in it. He’d worn them, there might be DNA evidence, so he had to take everything with him. He rolled the kitchen knife up in them too, then stripped naked right there at the sink. He put all the clothes in the bin liner, left it on the kitchen table.

Talbot had dropped his attaché case in the kitchen doorway during the fight. Dace crouched, grimacing at a stab of pain in his butt and upper leg from the bruises the chair had left, and popped open the clasps. It was crammed with neat wads of bright green one hundred dollar bills. A quick count confirmed there was exactly sixty thousand dollars. He whooped. “I fucking did it!” he yelled, then winced at his throbbing face.

An icy pulse in his chest accompanied a sudden memory.

Not necessary, thank you, my driver will help me.

Dace licked his lips, mind racing once more. He hadn’t noticed a car or anything when he’d let Talbot in. He took the case with him and limped into Nikolov’s bedroom, found shirt, trousers and shoes. They were all a little too big, but they’d do. He jammed Nikolov’s drill into his backpack, took out the eleven grand he’d found and stuffed that into his pockets. He pulled out the Freddie mask and striped jumper, put them aside. Then he jammed the pack into the bin liner. He put his gloves back on and wiped the front door handle, the bedroom door, the wooden caskets, then the taps in the kitchen. Sure he’d covered all his tracks, he went into the bedroom with the caskets and cautiously lifted the edge of the curtain, peeking out into the bright daylight.

A large white van was parked at the kerb right outside. In the driver’s seat was a tall, thin man, skin white as toothpaste. His face was long, his toothless mouth slack as he stared directly ahead. He wore overalls with a huge baggy jumper underneath. The sleeves stopped before his thin wrists, his strangely long-fingered hands resting on the steering wheel. He sat stock still, waiting.

“You have to be kidding me,” Dace whispered.

Sasha’s story, in the boat before everything turned to shit.

The water is black, the young boy had said about the creek at the McFarland place.

Fucked up his mind too, he’s not all there, so they say, Sasha had said. I wouldn’t know, I won’t go near the freak.

Dace smiled. He wouldn’t need to go near the freak either. From the position of the van, the weird bastard wouldn’t have been able to see into the front door. He hadn’t seen anything. All that mattered was keeping it that way.

Dace headed back to the kitchen, slipped on the Freddie mask and jumper. Making sure he had everything he’d brought with him or touched in the bin liner, he left the house by the back door, bin liner in one hand, Talbot’s case in the other.

As he came down the side of the house he paused, checking the street outside. No pedestrians, but a few cars. He leaned forward, caught a glimpse of the white van, the pale weirdo still motionless inside. He ducked back, dragged over a battered metal bucket as quietly as he could, and put it up against the side fence. He stood on it, dropped the bin liner over into the shadow of the house next door. Keeping the attaché case in one hand, he awkwardly clambered over and dropped to the ground, then froze in place. After a moment he crept forward, staying low as he moved into the shade of the large frangipani tree in their front yard.

He glanced to the house, saw nothing but the front window reflecting sky. He hoped no one was home, or at least, hoped they weren’t looking. Concealing Talbot’s case with the bin liner, he moved along behind the tree, then stood and strolled confidently down the garden path to the front gate, like he was simply heading out from the house next door. Dressed like Freddie Kruger. He stifled a giggle at the absurdity of it.

From the corner of his eye, as much as the mask would allow, he glanced sidelong at the van as he made the footpath. The thin, pale man’s eye’s widened at the sight of him, but he otherwise didn’t move. Dace turned his back and walked down the hill as quickly as his battered arse and leg would allow. When he’d put a couple of hundred yards between himself and the van, he crossed the street and quickly pulled off the mask and jumper, stuffed them into the black bin bag. His face and head throbbed in time with the rapid beat of his heart, but he was out. Elation churned inside him.

He went home, showered again, and changed into his own clothes. He stashed the eleven grand in his bedroom then put Nikolov’s clean clothes in the bin liner with everything else. He crammed the bagged stuff into a plastic storage tub like the one that had been stolen at the start of this whole debacle, only bigger. He added a couple of five-kilogram weight plates from a dumbbell set. Then he drilled holes in the tub with Nikolov’s drill, put the drill inside the tub, put the lid on and tied the thing securely shut with strong nylon rope, looping it around and around, knot after knot. He drove to the harbour, carried the tub to Carter’s boat, and motored out to sea.

The wind in his hair, the fresh briny breeze, was like a benediction. His face throbbed painfully and his butt ached, but some ibuprofen seemed to take the edge off. He went around the heads, well out from shore into bigger swell. When he was a good kilometre offshore, he leaned over the side and held the tub in the water while the holes he’d drilled let the ocean in. As it became too heavy to hold onto he let go and watched it sink away, trailing bubbles back up to the surface. He went back home for the attaché case.

When he drove up to Carter’s place he saw Rich working on something in the car port. The young man had come to work for Carter a few months ago. He always seemed a little distracted, Dace thought, acting like he was trying to remember something. But he was a nice guy, fitted in well with Carter’s operation.

“Hey, mate” Dace said, getting out of his old Mitsubishi.

“What happened to you?” Rich asked.

Dace’s eye had swollen almost shut, black and yellow bruising spread from his chin to his forehead on that side. It hurt like hell. “Walked into a door.”

Rich gave a laugh, shook his head. “Sure you did.”

“Not even five o’clock yet,” Carter said from his doorstep. “I knew I kept you in my employ for a reason. Assuming you’re here to settle your little problem, of course. If you’re after more time, I’ll be mad as a cut snake about it, son.”

“No, all good,” Dace said with a smile. He walked over and handed Carter the case.

Carter took it with one raised eyebrow. “So what the fuck really happened to your face?”

“Walked into a cupboard door.”

“Looks like a cupboard jumped off the wall and beat the shit out of you, mate.” Carter turned, carried the case back inside. He put it on the kitchen bench and counted the money. “Well, fuck me dead with a rusty crowbar,” he said, closing the case again. “You did it.”

“I’m really sorry for everything, Mr Carter.”

“I know you are, mate. I know. But business is business.”

“Yes, sir.”

Carter handed him five hundred dollars. “Remember I said we’d allow your fee. A deal’s a deal. How the fuck did you raise sixty grand in less than forty-eight hours?”

Seventy-one grand actually, Dace thought, but wasn’t about to admit that. With the money in his bank and this five hundred, which he had forgotten about, he had over twelve grand of his own now. More than he’d ever had at once. He drew breath to make some excuse then Carter raised one palm.

“Actually, maybe I don’t need to know. Is it better if I don’t?”

Dace nodded. “Probably, yeah. Maybe burn that case too.”

“Right-o.” Carter looked hard at him, his gaze seeming to dig beneath Dace’s skin. “You’re not the same.”

Dace smiled. “No. I’m not.” He felt stronger, more accomplished than ever before. He’d been a mess of nerves and panic through the whole debacle, but he had done it. He’d faced things he would never have imagined and he’d triumphed. Damn right he wasn’t the same. “In truth, Mr Carter, perhaps you’ve under-utilised me in the past. I’m capable of a lot more than you might think.”

Carter laughed. “Good on you, mate. I do like to see a man realise his potential. All things happen for a reason, hey? You’ll go far, you keep up this level of work.”

Dace smiled, thinking about two dead elderly Macedonians. Fuck those twisted freaks, he’d done a service ending them. And a young girl with a wire through her eye, maybe that had been a mercy. There was nothing he could have done for the two dead teenagers that sloshed, with disconcerting symbols carved into their flesh. He thought about the blood flooding from Talbot as he thrashed in his death throes and enjoyed a tingle of victory. There was a thrill in winning a life or death scrap like that.

“Thanks, Mr Carter.”

“I have a job for you, but I’ll need to organise some stuff first. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay, cool.” Dace turned and headed back for his car, trying not to limp. He wondered what the job might be. And if he didn’t like it, well, maybe twelve grand was Get Out of Gulp money.