Mortal Thoughts: Unbidden Part One

UNBIDDEN PART I: MORTAL THOUGHTS

Chapter One

Doug Mulcahy always wanted another smoke before he’d finished the last one, more to feel a cigarette between his lips than nicotine in his lungs. An oral fixation, his ex-wife used to call it, usually earning herself a smack. The only oral fixation he ever admitted to suffering was how to shut her smart mouth.

Gripping the wheel with both hands, searching for the turn, he saw a black snake standing on its tail in the distance down the road, swaying like a charmer’s trick in the midday rising heat.

Getting closer, the snake became a pair of black, stretch denim jeans, long blonde hair, a backpack – and the potential for female company. But then sharper focus revealed scrawny shoulders wider than the hips, a lack of arse and an unfeminine stride.

The snake stuck out a thumb.

Good fucking luck, growled the man seated beside Doug.

The truck didn’t slow. In the rear-view Doug saw the hitchhiker hawk and spit in their direction, never breaking stride.

Enjoy the walk, smartarse.

A sign ahead showed their destination writ large in faded letters: Mirribindi Aerodrome. As Doug slowed for the turn, an oncoming white Ford Falcon hurtled past back toward town. Sporting an ostentatious bullbar and radio antennas like fishing poles, it was the kind of vehicle endemic in country areas, favoured by the landed gentry. Its tyres kicked up a stone which cracked hard against Doug’s windscreen.

Doug thought he disguised his reaction, but his passenger chuckled.

Prick.

Both knew he’d never enjoyed the loud, sudden bangs that punctuated their line of work.

***

The white Falcon passed the truck and then swung back to the centre of the road, holding its line. But as the hitchhiker came into sight, the car slowly started to drift.

The hiker glanced up briefly to register the approaching vehicle, then returned his gaze to the verge and his trudging feet. It wasn’t going his way.

He continued ignoring the car until it was almost upon him, raising his head and leaping sideways in almost the same movement. The Falcon missed him by a whisker. A flash of a gleeful, bearded man’s face in the window, trailed by uproarious laughter a second later. The hitchhiker was enveloped inside a choking whirlwind of dust, cursing holy hell between coughing and spluttering. He flipped the long-gone Falcon the finger, jabbing the air so furiously the dust cloud should have cracked.

***

Aerodrome was technically correct, albeit a touch glorified. Flat, dirt field was a better description. The main building, with its large plate-glass front windows, looked like a cross between a control tower and convenience store. The large aluminium shed adjacent was a prefabricated deal, its doors chocked open, an uneven trestle table at the entry displaying the guts of a plane. Close by, a dispirited windsock knocked against a peeling pole. Two parked cars nudged the side of the shed, hugging the shade.

Doug drove onto the crazy quilt of bitumen and cement slabs in front of the main building. He parked alongside the plate-glass windows, effectively cutting the view to the airfield. That would get their attention. He was in a hurry and was never one for waiting in line. Fetching his clipboard, he got out of the truck. His passenger – his co-worker – exited the other side.

Doug was a man of few vanities, but was conscious of his appearance in company uniform. Starched, wide in the leg, his reflection in the window looked faintly ridiculous, like an action figure wearing a jumpsuit. In a different context it could give him a military demeanour, putting people on their guard.

He removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes, adjusting to the glare off the tarmac. He blinked at the shadow that appeared alongside his own. Doug wasn’t a tall man, though he was sometimes wrongly remembered as one. He was stocky and square, like a dependable wall. Any fat on him was evenly distributed and made him look approachable, a cloak to the hard muscle carried beneath.

No-one would ever mistake the size of the man beside him. If Doug was a stone wall, here was the full brick shithouse – the kind that came in two storeys. The coarse body hair peeking from his collar and sleeves gave him the look of a circus bear wearing human clothes. The truck’s cab, built to fit three men, had felt like a squeeze.

Doug stared up at Cutter with hard eyes, if a little watery around the edges. Take off the damn sunnies. You look like you’re about to rob the place.

Cutter slid his shades off, blinking unevenly. Doug preferred him that way. He appeared slow, instead of mean.

The door to the building burst open and two men in non-matching clothes shot out with such force, Doug almost raised his hands in surrender.

Move that truck, said the taller of the two, his neck as wide as his head.

Doug was just as curt. Sure. And on behalf of Quik-Vend we apologise for the delay. Now, where do you want it?

Away from the front of the building. Over there.

Doug turned and saw the indicated parking space, a bare plot of cement poked by weeds. He turned back. No, I mean where do you want the drink dispenser?

The two other men swapped looks of confusion.

The Coke machine, Doug suggested gently.

A vending machine? asked the taller man, obviously in charge. Like, you put money in?

Doug nodded, but couldn’t hide his look of someone who smelled a cock-up.

There’s a mistake. We didn’t order any soda.

Gives me gas, the shorter man said, speaking for the first time. He sported a moustache thicker than a table ledge, trying to hide a pronounced overbite.

Doug shrugged. I just make the deliveries.

Cutter ignored the conversation altogether. He went to the back of the truck, opened the rear doors and slid the ramp planks out.

The two men pursued him, Doug following.

Hey, hang on! said the taller one, who Doug had silently christened Neck.

Cutter climbed inside, lost in the gloomy interior. The others peered at him, eyes adjusting to the dark, watching him untie furry loops of rope securing the lone piece of cargo. It could be mistaken for nothing but a vending machine, the bright logo and colours forceful even in the dark.

I think you should save yourself the trouble, said the lackey. Doug dubbed him Duckbill.

Cutter ignored them, wrestling the machine onto a trolley and down the ramps. It looked a heavy bastard to keep steady, but the only sign of strain was the jumping veins in his neck. The trolley hit the tarmac in a smart stop. But the machine kept going and tipped onto its front with a crash. Doug’s teeth rattled but he was too late to stop it.

Christ! Damn it! That’s a valuable piece of property!

Cutter did not register the reprimand, but simply bent over to right the machine. Doug went to help, the other two men slower to do so. Cutter motioned them back. In a shameless display of strength, he stood the machine upright. If he had to put his back into the effort, it didn’t show. He dusted the machine off, then gave it an amiable slap.

No harm done.

I’m more concerned with what’s inside, Doug growled.

Cutter shrugged, smiling at some private idea.

Want to open it up and take a look?

Take it inside, Doug said. Can you manage that? Or should I do it?

The other men had fallen silent to watch the tension, but mention of moving the machine brought Neck back into play. No, you’re leaving that thing right there.

It’s alright. I understand, Doug said reasonably. You’re not to know. You weren’t told. Happens all the time. Can I talk to whoever’s in charge?

I’m the one left to sort out the shit that happens around here, Neck snarled. And I didn’t order a bloody drink machine.

Hey, fine, Doug said. No drama. Sign for it and we’ll go. If you still don’t want it we can swing back in a few weeks and pick it up again. I get paid the same.

Neck was not a man easily led, despite a head that looked built for the chopping block. You can take it back now! And I’m not signing anything!

Doug resisted. That won’t do. I need a signature to prove we were here.

Duckbill inspected the machine. There’re scratches down the front of it.

I won’t tell if you don’t, Cutter winked. Even a friendly gesture from Cutter seemed to imply violence. Duckbill didn’t like it, backing away.

Maybe someone on the council ordered it? he said to Neck. You’re always telling them to do up the place.

Neck distractedly brushed at his thinning pate, now as red as his face and beading with sweat. Look, let’s see if we can sort this out inside, under some shade.

The machine shouldn’t be left in the sun, Doug said. Not good for it.

Neck was fed up. Then put it back in the truck!

Can we choose what comes out of it? Duckbill asked hopefully. Like, juice?

Neck