Turning The Knives 5

Michael’s tires screeched as he rounded the corner and hit bitumen. The stereo was up on full. That moment of joy at his family’s survival was swallowed up by fear now, and he was coming to a clear conclusion that his father had doomed them all.

“...With your empty smile, and your hungry heart, feel the bile rising from your guilty past...”

The white noise of the two-way managed to make itself heard, and Michael turned the volume down.

“You ‘kay Mike?” said Nigel.

“Not exactly,” said Michael. “But I’ll live. Maybe.” There was no reply for a while. Michael kept his eye on the ute and his foot on the pedal, and did his best to marshal his thoughts toward calmness.

“I’m sorry Mike,” said Nigel. “I never meant for my past actions to harm you.”

Silence.

“Michael,” said Annabelle’s voice. “It isn’t dad’s fault.”

“Isn’t it?” he said with cruel sarcasm.

The two-way went silent. Michael focused his attention on the road. He wished he hadn’t made that last remark. But he already had, and that was that.

The wet trees glistened in the headlights as they sped along the winding road, well above the 80kmh speed limit. Michael glanced down at his dashboard. Amongst the array of orange LED’s was the fuel gage, and the pointer was on empty. He looked apprehensively at the transceiver, not wanting to contact his father, but at the same time knowing he’d have to.

Five minutes later they were on the outskirts of town. Derelict houses sprawled out into what used to be farmland in a poor attempt to accommodate the rapidly growing population. The other traffic made them reduce their speed to the posted limit. Michael sighed and picked up the transceiver.

“Dad, I’m running on empty.”

“Your car?” came the reply.

“What do you think?” said Michael. “Of course my car.”

Michael waited, half expecting to be shouted at. Nigel usually wouldn’t tolerate him speaking like that, but guilt had sucked away his pride. “We’ll go to the fuel station then,” said Nigel in a subdued tone. “Can’t afford to waste what’s in those jerry cans.”

They reached the town’s main intersection, and stopped on the red light. Across the road, a gaudy neon sign flashed on and off. A bunch of teenagers sat underneath it, lost and directionless.

The light went green, and Michael let his car crawl forward, and then turned up the hill. Ahead and to the right was a sign which read, Western Fuel.

“You got cash?” said Nigel.

“Yeah, plenty,” said Michael. The ute veered into a parking spot across the road from the service station. Michael pulled across and stopped next to the bowser marked unleaded. He stepped out of his car. The cold fluorescent lights glared down from the ceiling, and reflected up from the wet concrete. In all directions, he was surrounded by lights, and it hurt his eyes.

Michael opened the fuel cap, and began filling the car. The pump hummed as it sucked up the petrol from underground. Michael glanced across the road to the supermarket. People came and went, eyes downcast, umbrellas held up to shield them from the steady drizzle. Their backs arched from the weight of modern life.

There were footsteps behind him, and Michael turned around to see a policeman walking towards him. He jolted, and spilt petrol on the cracked cement floor.

“Can I see your ID,” said the policeman.

What to do? Michael felt the fuel nozzle become slippery with sweat.

“You are a suspect in a crime. If you don’t give me ID you’ll be presumed guilty.”

Thoughts flashed through Michael’s mind as he stammered. “I... I...” He could douse the policeman in petrol and burn him... But he didn’t have matches. Or shove the nozzle in his mouth and squirt the stuff down his throat... No, The policeman could easily overpower him. Think, think.

“ID,” the policeman shouted. Droplets of spit hit Michael in the face.

Of course. Kick him in the nuts. Oldest trick in the book.

But the thought came too late. The policeman already had his pistol out and pointing at Michael’s face. Michael jammed his eyes shut and cowered against his car door.

And the gun went off.