Tales of Sin and Madness (30 page)

After doing those bothersome jobs, Hartford settled down to the real work. He hacked off their heads and sawed off the tops (Dave had a real big head, which was perfect for Hartford’s needs). Then he opened up their chests and stomachs and tore out all their organs. He didn’t mind the mess and smell anymore. And he didn’t even vomit once. Finally he had Dave and Rochelle’s spinal cords. He held one up and tested its elasticity. It bent nicely.

“Sensational,” Hartford muttered and felt a warm tingle surge through his naked body.

He washed himself off in the shower, just to cool off, then took a long drink of Sprite.

Next he sliced off the skin. And as with all the other times, he only cut the skin from the torso: this had the most surface area, therefore was the most useful. When he had four gory slabs of skin (one complete with two saggy breasts), Hartford scrubbed them free of all flesh, tendons and blood, then dried them using the hair dryer. He took the two spines, the slabs of yellow, wrinkled skin and the two skull tops into his work shed. In there he also had hordes of leg and arm bones, three more skull tops and two spines he got from the hooker and purple fedora. He spent the rest of the night and early morning making the final parts of his project.

* * *

By seven o’clock he was finished. Done hammering the final nail into the leg bone, he fell back into his chair and cried. They were tears of exhaustion, but mostly they were tears of happiness, because he was finally going to have one. All he had to do was put all the pieces together, and then it would be over. Well, not quite. He still had one more thing to do. But that could wait.

So, wiping the tears from his blood-streaked face, he gathered all the parts and took them into the house, into his special room. Afterwards he got dressed, stuffed all the remains of Dave and Rochelle into a garbage bag and carted them outside. Along with all the other remains, which he had kept in his shed, he built a huge fire in his backyard.

He stood and watched the blaze for about an hour, transfixed by the glorious and soothing motions of the flames. And to him, the rancid odour of cooking flesh was the nicest smell in the world.

Finally, after stacking more wood on the fire, Hartford headed inside. He took a shower, cleaned the bathroom thoroughly, and with a can of Sprite in his hand, sat down in the chair by the phone.

* * *

Frank Wainwright stepped out of his car, slammed the door then turned and gazed at the house. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered and coughed. “This is freakin’ nuts.”

He threw his cigar to the pavement, hitched up his pants and headed for the front door.

Ten years
, he thought.
It’s been ten damn years and then what? A damn phone call. Son-of-a-bitch wants to see me.

He shuffled up the steps and stood by the door. And waited. And coughed. Was he really ready for this? Did he really want to see him after all this time?

Then why did you drive all the way over here? You’re curious, that’s why. Haven’t seen your boy in ten years.

He took a shallow, phlegm-filled breath then rapped on the door.

Maybe he’s broke. Needs some cash. Yeah, that’s probably it. Got no friends, so who does he call? His dear old dad.

The door opened and Hartford smiled out at him. “Dad! It’s good to see you.”

Frank nodded. He wanted to say:
Jesus Christ
, but held back. His son looked terrible. Sagging eyes, pale complexion and a gaunt face. He was barely recognisable.

“Come in, Dad.”

Frank stepped inside the darkened house. The door shut behind him. “You could use some light in here, Hartford. A bit of fresh air, too.”

Frank’s senses weren’t exactly in tiptop form, but even his crusty old nose could detect some strange smell underneath the thin layer of pine-scented cleaner.

Christ, he’s really let himself go
, Frank thought.

“So I was surprised when you called me. I was watching the game. Didn’t even know who it was for a moment.”

“Yeah, it has been a while, hasn’t it Dad.”

“Please, call me Frank.” He coughed.

“You sick? Because you look well, Dad. I’m sorry, Frank.”

“Ah, you know. Just the perks of getting old. You’re looking well, too. Keeping busy and all that?”

Hell this is awkward
, Frank thought. He would much rather be at home, getting drunk, watching the tube. He didn’t even know why Hartford wanted to see him. To catch up? To try and mend broken ties?

“Yeah. I’ve got things to keep me busy. But my life isn’t all work. Matter of fact, I had Dave and Rochelle over last night for some drinks.”

“Dave and Rochelle? You mean your cousin Dave and his wife?”

Hartford nodded.

What the fuck
? Frank thought. He knew that Hartford had been fired from that tailoring place a month ago. Apparently Dave and Rochelle fired him for constantly being late and not working hard enough. Well at least that’s what Charlene had told him. It was the last time he had spoken with her before she died.

Why would he want to have them over for drinks?
Frank wondered, but he found he didn’t care. There were more pressing matters that needed to be dealt with.

“Ah, I don’t mean to be rude, Hartford. But why did you call me? Why did you want to see me after all this time?”

Hartford grinned. Frank was reminded of a skeleton.

“I’m glad you asked. There’s something I want to show you.”

Hartford led Frank down the gloomy house, to some double doors. He stopped. He turned and faced Frank. His face had suddenly become hard and distant, a remarkable change from the sickly skeleton of just a few moments ago. “You remember when I wanted that drum kit, and you wouldn’t let me? How I asked and pleaded, but you refused?”

Frank nodded.

“How I cried and cried? Mom wanted me to have one, told me I could. But you refused and said no.”

“You were only ten,” Frank said and coughed. “That was twenty years ago. Why are you bringing it up now?”

Hartford smiled, turned and flung open the doors. “Well I have one now, Daddy.”

Frank stepped into the room. And in that room, lighted by reds and yellows and blues, he saw pictures covering the wall – all photos, and of a woman at different ages. It didn’t sink into Frank’s head straightaway, but when it did, it felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Every picture was of Charlene.

“Jesus Christ,” Frank muttered and turned away from the shrine to Hartford’s mother, to the exhibit that sat in the middle of the room. Garish lights at the back lit its grotesque form. “Jesus Christ,” he said again, this time in a soft, high voice.

Hartford came around and sat behind the –

What the fuck is that!

 - and grinned. “Do you like it? I made it all by myself. You see, Daddy, I finally have a drum kit.”

Frank took one look at the cymbals made from shards of skull, mounted on leg bones; drums that were made from human skins, pulled tight over laughing skulls; and the large bass drum that had two dried, wrinkled breasts hanging at the front, and vomited. He staggered to the doors, but they were locked.

“You’re not leaving. I need an audience for my maiden performance,” Hartford called.

Frank wiped the spittle from his mouth, turned and looked at his son through bleary eyes. Hartford picked up two whittled arm bones, twirled them between his fingers and began to play.

NOTES:

This is one of my early stories, written years ago as a tribute to three of my favourite subjects (for lack of a better term): serial killers (in this case, specifically Ed Gein), seedy New York movies (like
Taxi Driver
and
Driller Killer
), and, of course, drumming (I have a degree in music, majoring in drums/percussion).

And no, in case you’re wondering, I’ve never been tempted to make a drum kit like the one in the story, but I do wonder how it would sound like when played…

THE SCARY PLACE

“Hey kiddo, wanna help me mow the lawn?”

This was the day I had been waiting for.

“Really? You mean it?” I said, gazing up at Dad wide-eyed.

Dad, standing by my bedroom door, smiled, then nodded. He was wearing his usual weekend gardening clothes: old ripped jeans, faded blue flannelette shirt, and his thinning silver hair was concealed under a much loved Collingwood Magpies football hat.

I tossed aside the computer magazine I had been lazily flicking through, jumped off the bed and followed Dad through the house, down to the back door. Mum was out food shopping, so there was an air of mischief, of naughty boys doing naughty things. I knew this wasn’t true, I knew Dad would have discussed me helping him mow with Mum, but it was far more fun to pretend that we were doing this behind her back, that we were carrying out some important secret mission.

Outside, the morning was humid, sticky from a night of on-again, off-again rain. The lawn looked like a lush sea of green, just begging to be cut.

I followed Dad up to the Victa mower, which was sitting on the garden path beside the back lawn like an obedient dog waiting for instruction.

My belly tingled with excitement and anticipation.

For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to help Dad with the mowing. When I was little I would sit by the back kitchen window, gazing out at Dad pushing the lawnmower, chopped grass and pulverised twigs and leaves spewing out from the underbelly of the beast, wishing I could be out there, helping. When I was a bit older and allowed to go outside (“But don’t stand too close, or you’ll get hit by a flying twig,” Mum would caution), I would stand on the path watching Dad, sun blasting down, the earthy aroma of freshly cut grass – the best smell in the world. Sometimes, I would pretend to help Dad by pushing my toy lawnmower over the soon-to-be-cut grass.

But I was always too young to use the real lawnmower. “When you’re older,” Dad would say. “The lawnmower’s not a toy, you know.”

As if I needed to be told that. I knew the lawnmower wasn’t a toy. I knew the difference between the blunt plastic blades on my beloved (and now gone, long ago given away to charity) toy mower and the very real and very sharp blades on Dad’s Victa.

The day I turned thirteen and Dad said, ruffling my hair in a gesture of fatherly affection, “You’re growing up, Son. Soon you’ll be chasing after girls,” I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was allowed to help him mow the lawn – for real this time.

Because I wasn’t a child any more. I
was
growing up and deserved to be treated as such. Long gone were the hours spent playing cowboys and Indians in the backyard (me playing both sides), or playing with my toy dinosaurs in my own version of
The Land That Time Forgot
among the gum trees and hydrangea bushes. And I no longer believed that the narrow stretch of untamed wilderness between the neighbour’s fence and our garage, with its towering weeds, was a dark forest fortress, home to razor-toothed dragons and mean, smelly trolls.

I had moved beyond such childhood games and fears. I was ready to tackle grown-up things.

“Okay kiddo, grab some goggles and a pair of gloves.”

I noticed two sets of goggles on the ground next to the mower, along with two pairs of gloves, and Dad’s old petrol-powered Whipper Snipper.

I reached down and picked up the goggles and gloves, and once they were on, I waited for further instruction.

“Good, now grab the Whipper Snipper and follow me.”

I hesitated. Frowning, I said, “What about the lawnmower?”

“Later. First, I want you to cut some weeds. It’ll help you get used to handling a bladed tool. Then, you can help me with the mower.”

My shoulders slumped as my excitement deflated.

The Whipper Snipper, while it looked cool enough, was a poor substitute for the lawnmower. It was a growling pussycat, whereas the mower was a roaring tiger.

I was growing into a young man, and young men mowed lawns, not snipped weeds.

Still, I picked up the Whipper Snipper, which was heavy and cumbersome to hold, and shuffled behind Dad, down to the back of the garden.

I didn’t know where he was taking me, until he turned and led me to the back of the garage.

“I want you to cut the weeds down this side area.”

I stared down the narrow stretch of wilderness between the fence and the garage. The weeds were so tall they almost concealed the timber panelling and the metal wall, and the high brick divider at the far end was no longer visible.

“Now, this Whipper Snipper is no toy, so there are rules and safety precautions. You’re to wear the goggles and gloves at all times, and never, and I mean never, stick your hands into the end of the Whipper Snipper while it’s still turned on. That goes with the mower, too. The blades on both machines will slice your hand until all you’re left with is a bloody stump. Understand?”