Manic Streets of Perth

Chapter One

Ted Adams looked at the one and a half-metre snake.

Fondly named after a particularly supple hooker, Delilah was coiled in a loose ball, enjoying the feel of the furry car seat cover and remarkably unfazed by the job ahead. A bit too unfazed, actually. He stroked her golden brown head, frowning.

‘Yooze better come good,’ he murmured as she flicked out her tongue. ‘Don’t wanno piss weak piker.’

Tracing the chunky outline of a rabbit in her belly, he wondered if he’d messed up by giving her the whole animal. He’d nicked the pet from a back garden hutch a few days ago and she still seemed to be digesting it. Just as well he hadn’t bothered with the pair of budgies flitting about in an aviary nearby. The last thing he wanted was to whip out a limp python that could do little but burp.

Maybe he should’ve gone with the blood-filled syringe. That was all the rage these days. It’s not as if you really needed some infected blood — a bit of tomato sauce mixed with water looked just as good.

Nah, he’d been itching to send Delilah into battle, and a sheila on her tod was perfect. Could always use a blood-filled syringe next time.

Guess it’d depend on Delilah.

****

Kim Jones scratched her itchy crotch and flicked the page of the Perth Chronicle to a story about a hang glider who’d crashed into a power pole. The resulting surge of God knows how many thousand volts had fused his right hand into a permanent claw that — as he was happy to tell everyone — now fitted perfectly around a VB stubby. The photo showed him giving an OK sign with his left mitt and clutching a stubby in his right while a bunch of bogans roared approval in the background.

‘I’m so lucky,’ he blathered. ‘I could be dead, but here I am in the pub with all my mates and a hand that won’t let go of my favourite beer — even when I fall over blind drunk!’

She snorted, trying to ignore the paper’s dateline while intermittently humming along to The Rolling Stones’ Miss You on the radio in the back room. She glanced around at the sagging wooden shelves filled with small tins of meat stew, frankfurters and baby carrots, the badly scuffed black and white lino, and the dangling rolls of brown flypaper, encrusted with their feebly struggling victims. For the last half an hour a large moth had been noisily trying to escape its sticky doom, occasionally finding a burst of energy that would make the flypaper swing like a pendulum.

She sighed. It was like working beneath an insect abattoir.

Her eyes were drawn back to the paper’s dateline — January the thirty-first, 2003. Exactly four years since swallowing that bloody toothbrush. Maybe she should’ve gone out and got drunk instead of volunteering to do a shift. The dearth of customers sure as hell wasn’t taking her mind off the anniversary but dad needed a break. He already spent far too much time here, rarely asking for help.

Tonight had seemed like a good chance to kill two birds with one stone.

She grabbed a sausage roll from the pie warmer, wiggling her hips in a bid to ease the discomfort between her thighs. She took a bite while getting some natural yoghurt from the refrigerated section and a plastic spoon from the hot drinks dispenser.

She was about to go to the loo when she noticed a small news item about a missing rabbit. It revealed how a little girl had been left heartbroken by the nocturnal theft of Snowflake, with her mum offering a fifty-dollar reward for its return.

Kim tapped the page.

A pensioner had recently rung her at West Australia’s Animal Protection League about the mysterious night-time disappearance of a guinea pig, while another rabbit had vanished from a backyard hutch a couple of months ago. The article’s author was Paul Lewis — a sarky bastard if ever there were one. Called himself the Welsh Rainbow for reasons unbeknown.

Mind you, he did have a bit of flair. Four months ago she’d put out a seasonal story about abandoned baby birds, warning potential rescuers that feeding unsuitable foods, such as bread or milk, might kill them. Lewis had happily written up the story — except he’d extended the list of no-nos to include pasties and pizza, particularly the deep pan type.

It was small potatoes, though, next to the ‘Mutilated Moggies’ episode Perth’s Cat Shelter had endured. They’d contacted him about their mildly quirky competition that centred on the cat’s personality, rather than pedigree or looks. They’d even found a puss with half a tail to go in the pic, having high hopes for a bright piece of PR in the local rag but failing to take into account the Welsh Rainbow’s obvious fondness for piss taking. She could still remember his intro: ‘If you’ve got a mutilated moggy, a carved-up cat or a perforated pussy then you could be in for the purr-fect time at Perth’s Cat Shelter.’

No one had known what to make of it but there was little doubting its effect — the shelter was swamped with cats that had been run over, savaged by dogs or tortured by sadists. One cat that had had its cancerous leg removed only a week earlier actually died during the judging, leaving two of the judges (not to mention its former owner) in floods of tears.

Kim glanced again at the Chronicle’s missing rabbit story, wondering if there were something odd going on. Maybe it was time to put out a media release. In the meantime, she had more pressing matters. She grabbed the pot of yoghurt, flicked the automatic door’s off switch and headed for the toilet.

****

The dank summer air hummed with the relentless pulse of cicadas. Ted turned the Corolla’s shonky air-con toward his face, the tepid jets offering little relief. He wiped his wet forehead, swearing softly as he retrieved a cloth bag from the back seat. He coiled Delilah into it and took another gander along the street. A bald middle-aged bloke was pushing a racing bike, warbling nonsense to a tame pink and grey galah sat on the handlebars in the same reassuring way a mum would to a baby in a pram. Ted ducked across the seat, pretending to get something from the passenger foot well.

He sat up when the cyclist passed. He’d had his eye on this service station after noting its basic security and location away from the main drag. The likes of Shell and Caltex might have more cash but the risks were greater too — hi-tech surveillance, trained staff and more customers. Why make life hard for yourself?

He watched the pony-tailed girl in the short-sleeved blouse get some munchies and settle down to read the paper.

Time to do it.

He stuffed a can of spray paint and a roll of masking tape into his bomber jacket. Next he put on dark sunnies and a purple baseball cap.

He took a final look in the rear-view mirror. Gawd, he was no fan of the beard he’d grown for the job. Bloody thing itched like hell and he couldn’t wait to get shot. Taking a few deep breaths, he watched the girl leave the counter and disappear from view. He stuffed the cloth bag in his jacket and jumped out, striding toward the garage.

Still no one about.

He reached the forecourt, passed the pumps and walked straight into an uncooperative automatic door. Grunting, he readjusted his cap and stepped back to try again.

Same result.

‘Strewth,’ he muttered, poking the bell by the side of the door.

****

Kim heard the bell as she pulled up her knickers.

‘Bloody customers...’

She washed her hands, grabbed the half-empty pot of yoghurt and returned to the shop. A man in a dark green jacket and baseball cap stood with his back to the door. She reached below the counter to flick the switch.

****

Ted spun and covered the few metres of floor space, delving into the cloth bag with his right hand.

‘Open the till! Now!’

The girl remained frozen until Delilah was thrust at her. Repelled by the swaying python, she backed against the pie warmer and seemed to bounce off it as the hot glass burnt her bare arms. Delilah struck as quick as lightning, briefly clamping onto her chin. The girl gave a little sigh, her eyes rolled white and she slumped to the ground.

He stopped dead, gaping at the blank space behind the counter.

‘Er...’ Scratching his head, he turned to Delilah. ‘Fair go, girl. What’s your game?’

He stuffed the snake into the cloth bag and leant across the counter, staring at the crumpled girl.

‘Shit!’ He vaulted over, sprayed paint on the camera lens and jabbed open the till. There couldn’t have been much more than a couple of hundred bucks.

Scanning Kim’s nametag, he pulled her upright and dragged her into a back room. He sat her against a wall, glancing at the two puncture marks on her chin. Less than forty seconds had passed since the automatic door had reluctantly let him in. He was sweating heavily.

‘Oi! Kim! Warezer rest?’

He waved a fistful of notes in her face.

Nothing.

He shook her shoulders until she groaned and screwed up her eyes.

‘Hey! Wakey wakey! Warezer rest?’

‘Till’s emptied twice a day,’ she said groggily. ‘They only came half an hour ago.’ Her hand went to her perforated chin, eyes widening. ‘The snake bit me!’

‘You’ll be all right. Ain’t venomus.’ He studied her sad eyes, wondering if she were telling the truth about the till. ‘Warezer tape?’

‘Tape...?’

‘Yeah, tape.’ He pointed away. ‘For the camra.’

‘No tape.’ She shook her head. ‘No tape.’

‘Itzer fake?’

She nodded. He drew back, picked up the cloth bag and dangled the softly pulsating material in front of her bleached white face.

‘Kim?’

She swallowed. ‘...Yes?’

‘If yooze ain’t being dinky-di, I’m gonna shove this snake right up yer skirt!’

****

From the moment the bearded guy had stormed in, she’d been trying to work out a response. She’d known instantly he was going to rob the place but the only thing her brain seemed to have fixed on was the Quarantine Matters! logo on his baseball cap. What the hell was that about?

And now, as she cowered against the wall, she did her best to recall the article in last week’s Chronicle. The one about WA’s increase in armed robberies and what to do if you got caught up in one. She closed her eyes as the angry man demanded more cash. What had the bloody paper said? Something about remaining calm, obeying the criminal, avoiding direct eye contact and trying to remember specific details without staring. A load of guff, really. Where was the bit about a snake taking a chunk out of your face while you had a clacker full of yoghurt?

She was bathed in a cold sweat, a quiet shaking at her core threatening to engulf her. She felt like puking when something far away and yet very close started to call. Reaching out, almost. Strangely comforted, she tried to pin down the source of the warmth.

Music from the radio broke through.

James Dean Bradfield’s plaintive voice floated above a steel string acoustic guitar and an occasional flourish of harp. Triple J was playing Manic Street Preachers’ Small Black Flowers That Grow In The Sky.

Oh, Richey, my poor baby darling, have you come to me now?

****

Ted pulled the cloth bag from her face, recognising the first symptoms of shock. Her mouth had fallen open, her eyes were glassy and her brain was obviously struggling to get to grips with the information it was being sent. Well, fair enough, Delilah did just try to have her for pudding.

He paced back and forth, rubbing his beard. This was turning into a right lemon. He didn’t think she was lying about the cash. He considered legging it with the few bucks he had, scared stiff a customer would walk in.

That was it! Customers.

He turned back, noticing she somehow looked a bit more relaxed. His vision dropped to her nametag: Kim Jones. That could be a bloke’s name, couldn’t it? She wasn’t much smaller, either.

He smiled as he crouched beside her, took out a paper tissue and dabbed the beads of blood threatening to run down her neck.

****

The connection with Richey gently severed as the bearded robber filled her vision again. Her state of near panic passed and she knew she’d be all right. Any moment now this ocker yobbo was simply going to walk out of the shop and out of her life. Even Mr Quarantine Matters! sensed it. He’d stopped shouting, had put that bloody awful snake away and was giving her first aid.

And then he spoke.

‘Get yer shirt off, darlin’.’ He tugged on her blouse. ‘Ain’t finished wiv yer.’

‘What?’ She knocked his hand away with one arm, using the other to protect her breasts.

He drew back, feral eyes missing nothing. ‘Get yer shirt off. Come on, chop chop!’

‘Please, no, not that,’ she whimpered, clenching her blouse. ‘Please don’t...’

He frowned. ‘What yooze onner ’bout? Just givvus yer bloody shirt.’ By now he’d undone four buttons.

‘Please don’t rape me.’

‘Eh...?’ He let go but quickly recovered. ‘I’m on the job. Ain’t got no time furrer root!’ He pushed his face up close, leering. ‘But don’t yer go giving me ideas, girl. Now for the last fuckin’ time, get yer shirt off!’

She complied, eyes never wandering far from the wriggling cloth bag on the floor. She wrapped her arms around herself, goose bumps prickling her upper body as her bare back touched the cold wall. He tore off the baseball cap, bomber jacket and sweat-streaked T-shirt, revealing a badly faded tattoo on his right upper arm.

‘Now ’old still while I tie yer up.’

He retrieved a roll of tape from his jacket and bound her arms, legs and mouth, securing her to a vertical water pipe. He put on the blouse, did up the buttons and flexed his shoulders a couple of times. She stared at the nametag as he straightened it, her new name supposedly signifying a new start.

‘Keep yer trap shut and I’ll let yooze go.’ He punched the radio off and pointed at her. ‘Don’t make me go troppo, Kim. Orright? Won’t be long.’

****

Ted walked into the shop as a bloke chomping on an extinguished cigar came in. He was wearing a T-shirt, shorts, knee socks and sandals. Almost every centimetre of his unclothed flesh appeared covered in wiry grey hair — it bristled out of his V-neck polo shirt and stuck out horizontally from his legs. Ted swallowed and took off his sunnies just before the guy caught his eye. Then the man picked up a copy of The West Australian and a five-litre bottle of oil, heading for the counter.

No backing out now.

The oversized Ewok nodded, removing the cigar from his mouth. ‘How are ya?’

‘Bonzer.’

Sweat broke out on Ted’s forehead, the blouse suddenly feeling way too small. He ran the electronic eye over the bar codes, trying to think back to the time he’d worked in the pub before he got sacked for stealing. The bill came to less than twenty-five bucks. Sure as hell wasn’t going to get rich this way. Maybe he should just bail. All the time his ears were straining to hear whether Kim was trying any funny stuff.

‘That it, mate?’

The man stroked his horrendous bouffant-mullet, looking round the shop. ‘Huh?’

Ted consciously made an effort to be polite, a practice he didn’t find easy at the best of times. An odd buzzing noise caused him to glance up at a big moth dementedly trying to free itself from flypaper.

‘Um, yooze want sumfin else?’

‘No,’ the man replied, handing over a fifty. ‘I’m fine.’

Ted sorted out the change, popped the items into a plastic bag and waited for him to go. The man did nothing of the sort, studying his surroundings instead.

‘Er... that it, mate?’

‘Tell me...’ He glanced at the nametag. ‘Tell me, Kim, how long have you worked here?’

Maybe the guy was a regular customer and had simply never seen him. Some sort of sticky beak. Or worse, a family friend.

‘O, er... I just ’elp out now ‘n’ again.’

He nodded slowly. ‘I see. It’s a family business, is it?’

‘Yeah... An yooze ar?’

This time he smiled. ‘Rob. Rob Bundy.’

They shook, Ted half-convinced he could feel hair on the palm of his paw.

‘It’s just I’m thinking of buying a place like this up the road. Pretty similar set-up, you know? These places can be little gold mines in the right location, with the right management and ideas.’ He pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit his cigar. ‘Don’t you reckon?’

Ted pointed at him. ‘Oi! Yooze can’t smoke in ’ere! This izzer bastard petrol station!’

Rob frowned, contemplating the cigar as if a turd had just appeared in his hand.

‘Right, right. Course. I wasn’t thinking.’ He smiled uneasily, hunting for an ashtray. ‘Yer know, the missus is always going on that I never think where I’m lighting up. Did it in church the other day.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe I should listen to her more.’

‘Well, I don’t givva rat’s ’bout that, but what happens if the boss walks in and finds yer smokin’? I’d be fired on the spot.’

‘Yeah, yeah, OK, mate. Calm down. No harm done. You, er, got something I can...?’

Ted looked round, spotting a green mug beneath the counter. He bent to retrieve it, hearing the blouse rip under the right armpit. He closed his eyes, swore silently and grabbed the mug. He straightened to find Rob staring.

‘Use this.’ The cigar was stubbed out. ‘See ya, then.’

‘Yeah... Thanks for the chat.’

Rob trundled out of the shop, no doubt heading for the woods to pull off his hateful clothes and bay at the moon. Ted exhaled heavily and slumped on the counter, examining the torn blouse. It felt like he hadn’t taken a breath for a couple of minutes but he’d served his first customer and figured it could only get easier.

He smiled, feeling peckish as his eyes settled on Kim’s unfinished tucker. He polished off the sausage roll in three bites and picked up the pot, stepping into the back room to check on his captive.

‘How yer goin’, Kim?’

He spooned yoghurt into his mouth as she tried to raise her arms across her breasts. She looked foxy, all tied up, half-naked and helpless but before he could develop the thought he heard activity outside. He dipped into the shop and saw two men on the forecourt having a bit of a yarn while filling up the tanks of their four wheel drives.

‘Bewdee.’ He rubbed his hands together, waiting for them to come in and pay. ‘That’s a bit more like it.’

Half an hour later, he was still smiling and still serving.

Chapter Two

Paul Lewis sat half-naked on his nasty little red couch watching the start of the commercial news. A blonde dolly bird was breathlessly revealing that the mercury had earlier hit forty-one degrees. Queue footage of toddlers playing in the gentle surf, dogs panting and pensioners eating ice cream as she trotted out statistics for peak power consumption.

‘Blimey,’ Paul muttered. ‘It gets hot in Perth during summer. Who would’ve thunk it?’

He brushed dust off the couch’s arm. A couple of mates had just been over from Wales on a whistle stop tour of Oz, quietly sniggering as they viewed the evidence of his brave new world.

‘You’re just as bloody miserable,’ Jim had crowed, ‘except this time round, it’s a bit warmer. And now you’re living in a doorway.’

A doorway? He