Alan Baxter is a multi-award-winning author of horror and weird fiction who This Is Horror podcast called “Australia’s master of literary darkness” and the Talking Scared podcast dubbed “The Lord of Weird Australia.” He’s also a martial artist, a whisky-soaked swear monkey, and dog lover. Find him online at www.alanbaxter.com.au
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Dad pulls up behind the firewood trailer and kills the engine. “Let’s go.”
He’s out before we have a chance to answer, so Andrew and I follow, our breath immediately clouding in the frigid air. Dad goes up to the door and looks for a bell or a knocker, but nothing is apparent so he raps lightly with his knuckles.
Nothing happens. He raps a little harder. Still nothing. He makes a noise of annoyance.
“Maybe no one’s home,” Andrew says quietly, but we all saw the light and the chimney smoke.
Dad turns his fist sideways and bangs on the door, makes it shudder a little in the frame. Then something ice cold presses into the back of my neck and a gravelly voice says, “No sudden moves, fuckers.”
My gut is as icy as the air outside. Dad and Andrew turn quickly, I follow a little more slowly. A man is standing behind us with a shotgun levelled at my face, its double barrels staring like two giant eyes. The man is tall and skinny, rough-shaven under a mop of sandy hair. He wears stained jeans and a denim jacket, work boots on his feet. His face is thin to the point of being gaunt, cheekbones standing out, eyes sunken and dark underneath. I can smell sweat and cigarettes drifting off him. The hand supporting the shotgun barrels is rough and gnarled, the fingertips stained a dirty yellow-brown.
“All right, let’s calm down here,” Dad says. “We just want to talk, that’s all.”
“What about?”
“Can you please lower the gun?”
“Eli said some city fucken weirdoes were looking for me. You them? What do you want?”
“Eli is the barman at Hamer’s Hotel?”
“What do you want!” the man yells and we all flinch.
Dad holds up both hands, palms out. “Please, my daughter is missing and we’re trying to find her, that’s all.”
“I don’t know shit about any missing daughters. Why would I? Now fuck off!” He gestures with the shotgun, indicating our car.
“Please, we just want—”
“I said fuck off!”
My dad snarls and moves faster than I thought possible. In his yelling, the man has shifted the gun so it’s pointing between us instead of at me and Dad grabs the barrels with one hand, driving them up into the air, and lashes out with his other hand, clenched tight into a fist. The shotgun booms, deafening at such close quarters, but Dad’s fist connects with the man’s chin and his eyes glaze and he staggers backwards.
Dad twists the gun from his grasp and throws it away from us as the man staggers, stiff-kneed like he’s drunk, but refuses to go down.
“Dad!” I shout, but my father’s face is set in grim determination.
He takes three long steps to bring him up to the man and grabs him by his grubby jacket and hauls him back to standing. He slaps the man’s cheek once, hard. “Point a fucking gun at us, will you?” he yells, spittle flying from his lips. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father this angry, this rage-fuelled.
Then Andrew is beside them and he grabs the thin man’s arm and puts it up behind his back and guides him away from Dad over to a large tree stump beside the house. A rusty log-splitter leans against it, wood chips and broken bark scattered all around. Clearly this is where the man chops his firewood. Andrew throws the heavy splitter aside, sits the man down on the stump and steps back, puts himself between Dad and the source of all his fury.
“Are you Justin Kirby?” Andrew says.
“The fuck are you lot about?” the man slurs, his eyes still not quite settled. Dad gave him quite the knock. I’m secretly a little proud of my old man.
“Are you Justin Kirby?” Andrew yells it this time and the man flinches.
“Yes! What the fuck do you want?” He tries to stand and Andrew pushes him back down.
My dad is standing still, head lowered like he’s ready to fight more. He’s breathing hard, in and out through his nose as his teeth are clenched. I put a hand on his arm, say quietly, “Dad, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
We all wait a moment, let the adrenaline begin to subside. Justin looks from one of us to the next, fear in his eyes, but the dazedness is clearly passing. He doesn’t try to stand up again. “What do you want?” he says once more, plaintive this time more than angry.
“You need to talk to us,” I say. “Tell us what we need to know and we’re gone. There’s no need for any more of this. Okay?”
Justin’s mood change is extreme. From the aggro determination of when he had the shotgun to the trembling fearful whip before us now, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
“Why did you point a gun at us, dude?” I ask.
“Eli said people were looking for me.”
“We just want to talk.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Did you think the people looking for you meant you harm?” my dad asks him.
Justin nods, looks down. There’s a deep purple bruise forming on one side of his chin where the flesh is swelling, stretching his grey and blond stubble. I’m still impressed with my dad’s outburst of violence, I never knew he had it in him.
“I’ve had dealings with unsavoury people,” Justin says. “Thought maybe . . .” He lets the sentence trail away.
Andrew and I spare each other a glance and I can tell he’s thinking the same as me. What kind of people would a guy like Justin Kirby consider unsavoury? Then again, that’s pretty judgemental. We really know nothing about this man.
I crouch before him so he doesn’t have to look up to answer me.
“Listen, Justin. My sister is missing. Has been for months, and we’re trying to track her down. We know she got mixed up with a bunch of people including Jonathan Drake, Peter Franks, and your boy, Matthew Kirby.” I see Justin wince at the names. “You know the group of people I’m talking about, right? Obviously you know your son, but Jonathan and Peter too. Yeah?”
Justin sniffs, shakes his head slightly as he rubs at his bruised chin, but it’s a rueful movement, not a negative. “Children are arrows and we’re the bow, mate.” He looks up at me, his eyes defiant. “We try to give ’em a good start, send ’em in the right direction, but once they’re in flight where they land has nothing to do with us. We have no control over it.”
“That’s bullshit,” my dad says. “That’s called abdication of responsibility. You can have as much or as little influence on your children as they’ll let you, but there’s always something. And that attitude of yours is sure to alienate any kid.”
“So maybe I never fucken wanted kids!” Justin spits. “You ever consider that? The fucken wife insists on kids then fucks off with some fucken SCUBA instructor and leaves me with two bastard fucken teenagers who hate me. They was both gone by the time they was sixteen.”
“Matt has a sibling?” I ask.
(C) Alan Baxter 2023