Thursday, 30 April 2020

The Knife Sharpener (35)


35.

The paperwork was nearly done. Neatly stacked and ordered. Marked in all the most important places with colour-coded tags for quick reference. Perfect double spaced and Times New Roman font. A rigid adherence to proper Ministry grammar: active voice, present tense, direct, no split infinitives, consistent and simple word usage, neutral in tone, short sentences in short paragraphs. It was a well-engineered piece of official legalese, impenetrable to anyone but its authors and Officers of Ministry Law. A perfect piece of papered construction for the Ministry.
            It had taken Hadley and Carol all evening to prepare it. Not that they minded. The preparation and justification of the case was the job, after all. A not unenjoyable part, at that. Indeed, they relished the quiet echo of fingers typing and government books shuffling in eager hands.
            ‘Well, I think that is almost that,’ said Carol.
            ‘You could say that, Carol,’ said Hadley.
            ‘I did, Hadley.’
            ‘I heard it.’
            ‘We are agreed then?’
            ‘For the purpose of now, yes, we are.’
            ‘Phenomenal.’
            ‘Awesome.’
            ‘Shall we hand it in?’
            ‘We must. They have been patient.’
            They stood and brushed their impeccable suits of invisible office dust. Hadley reached out and retrieved a last piece of paper from the printer. He carefully added it to the other pages. Carol prepared a large stapler. She looked over to Hadley. He was organizing his pens in order of size and colour.
            ‘Are we certain that the Ministry position is unassailable?’ asked Carol.
            ‘Research has shown that our capability to shield the Ministry from fault is highly regarded,’ said Hadley.
            ‘I believe it has.’
            ‘It is often said.’
            ‘It should be noted then, Hadley, that based on past performance, and the frequent observations of the success of our past performances, that our work tonight is very likely to be quite judicious in its design and, therefore, a reasonable justification for future actions.’
‘Then we are ready.’
‘It would seem so.’
‘So it would seem.’
            ‘It should be noted that we have reached accord.’
            ‘Noted,’ said Hadley, who signed the top of their paperwork.
            ‘Agreed,’ said Carol, who signed under Hadley.
            Standing up from either side of the desk, they turned to stare at one another. Firmly, from the elbow, they shook hands. Then peeled back each other’s sleeves, revealing forearms crisscrossed in pale new and old scars.
            Both pulled plain switch knives from small sheafs on their hips. Flicked them with short whipped cracks.
            ‘Truth is written in blood,’ said Carol and scoured Hadley’s arm with a short, sharp cut.
            ‘Truth is written in blood,’ said Hadley and scoured Carol’s arm with a short, sharp cut.
            Blood dribbled down onto their document. Splattering over the title of their work: DMB777890: An Exhaustive Rationale for the Execution of Nichola Otwey and Helmut Iser. It sponged along the paper to the header: Department of Ministry Biffs: Sub-Department of Ministry Property, Contraband & Dangerous Artefacts.
            Carol and Hadley placed their knives down on the desk, then drew narrow glass inkwells from pockets in their jackets. They held these high and let marine blue ink dribble down onto their outstretched arms. It spilled into the blood still pumping from their cuts, dribbling over the edge onto the paper in little splots.
            ‘Truth is written in ink,’ they both said and placed their inkwells next to their knives.
            Carol stapled the pages together. Hadley rolled the sopping document into a tight roll and placed it in into a plastic tube.
            ‘Shall we?’ he asked.
            ‘It is probably best we do,’ said Carol.
            ‘Then we must.’
            ‘Indeed, we must.’
            Hadley reached out and opened a hatch on a chute next to their desk. He placed the tube within. There was a sucking noise and the tube, with all their hard, meticulous work crafted in rewarding exacting detail whistled up the chute into the ceiling.
            ‘Excellent,’ said Hadley.
            ‘Fabulous,’ said Carol.
            They went about quickly sopping their arms with a clean towel they kept in their drawers, dabbing any stray specks of blood or ink. Their work spaces were immaculate. Everything had its use and was free of clutter.
            When they were done, Carol opened a large metallic cupboard. She reached in and pulled out a grey assault rifle. Hadley took it from her and proceeded to systematically check its functioning and parts. The feeding, chambering, locking, firing, obturation, unlocking, extraction, ejection, and cocking were examined, then examined again when he handed it back to Carol. They repeated the process with another rifle and a pair of Glock 26s.
            ‘The firearms appear to be fully functional,’ said Hadley.
            ‘Arguably, they have never been in finer function,’ said Carol.
            ‘I would not argue that point.’
            ‘Nor would I.’
            ‘Fortunate, for it would seem that their use is imminent.’
            ‘I agree with this assessment.’
            ‘As do I.’
            ‘Exactly as it has been stated?’
            ‘Of course. Word for word.’
            They holstered the pistols and slung the rifles over the shoulders. Carol went to switch off the office light. Double checked that things were spick and span. In exactly the right place. Waited for confirmation. The gears of stripped bureaucracy and small government to work.
            ‘You know, I do think that we have done fine work this evening,’ said Carol.
            ‘I do, too,’ said Hadley.
            ‘It is good that we agree on this.’
            ‘Your summation is precise. I appreciate it.’
            ‘I appreciate your verbalised appreciation.’
            ‘It is good we are using the skills we learned in Positive Office Communication.’
‘It will please human relations.’
            ‘It was a worthwhile course.’
            ‘This has been said a great deal, by a great many people I know.’
            ‘They must be wise.’
            ‘They are.’
            ‘A happy office is a positive office.’
            ‘A happy worker is buoyed by the positivity of others.’
            ‘Are you happy?’
            ‘Of course. We are working.’
            ‘Working is exciting.’
            ‘Excellent.’
            ‘Fantastic.’
            There was a sudden thumping sound as a tube slammed down their chute. Hadley pulled it out and unrolled the scroll-like paper within. He read.
            ‘Happily, again, it is good news,’ said Hadley. ‘Many of our Ministry scholars have managed to find where the Traitor placed his offspring.’
            ‘This is good news.’
            ‘Terribly.’
            ‘Where is she?’
            ‘St Kilda. It isn’t far.’
            ‘It is quite close.’
            ‘I will drive.’
            ‘This is probably a good idea.’
            ‘Unity is best.’
            ‘Always.’
‘Then let us go.’
            ‘Yes. Lets. You have done well tonight. I have noticed,’ said Carol.
            ‘Thankyou,’ said Hadley. ‘I have noticed your fabulous work too. Now, let us go get the Ministry Knife back.’

Wednesday, 29 April 2020

The Knife Sharpener (34)


34.

‘Stop overthinking everything, Paul,’ his wife had said. ‘It isn’t worth it.’
            Empty words. He had gone and made himself a Star.
            After Oscar left, there was abject stillness and quiet. Paul could feel swelling around his eyes and lips. Dried blood all over his torn silver robe. His hands chained above his head. Slumped into the floor on a tangled leg. Bruised with at least one broken finger.
            Same dampness and Band-Aid stench. Distant hint of topical gel. The train thundered past intermittently, rattling the floor. And it was almost pitch black. Deep into night. Only a sliver of lamp light dribbling in from the rear of the carpark, into the gully, reflected into the cage. Oscar had switched off the single globe they usually left on for him down there.
            Candle glimmer when the Church had been an excuse. A joke no one laughed at but was familiar with. Made people feel good to privately share.
            ‘Some time to reflect, eh?’ said Oscar when he left. ‘Look within yourself. Repent. Get closer to the universe. Soon we will slice the duration, Bearer. Loose star dust everywhere. Better days for all. Like they used to be.’
             Used to evenings in the cellar. Small rodent sounds in the walls. Outside the backdoor. The dripping plumbing. The infinite boredom of it. He usually had a light, though. Something to cast shadows in the gloom. A source of vague interest for the bugs it attracted. Sometimes he could even hear the distant chatter of the denizens of Chapel St. The security guards at the 24-hour bottle shop upholding their right to serve and refuse.
            Floating on concussion and pain. They’d lost the knife though. Small victories.
            Paul had been the Star around which his friend’s orbited. The Church a play at being a cult, but with none of the extremist stuff, the freak ideology. The mass poisoning. The terrorist atrocities. The feral pet yetis. The sprite worship. Only the sense of community. Of meaning through real contact. Their singular belief had been a thin veneer concocted by Paul to be a glue to their relationship; a guideline no one had to obey. It served the purpose of giving everyone an excuse to continue to show up.
            We worship the Star and all Its potential. And from Its potential we realise our own.
            No one bowed down to him. Nor did he expect it. It was self-deprecation. A play on the self-help guru-ism that Paul had fallen for regularly in his thirties when he tried to make more of his life as a divorced, childless, middling teacher of high school English. A frustrated writer of sterile realist Raymond Carver-like fiction, with titles like: Can You Hear the Fairies, Again? Brunswick Vigil. The Muscular Electrician.
            Shivered. Tried to keep his eyes open for a bit longer.
His wife said he had all the tenacity of sieve. She was mostly right. Gonna lose a fight, here. On come the concussed dreams, sweet only because they’re better than this drab reality coated in the – how could he put it? Austere foreboding of a suburban drama, though grander. More Russian, perhaps. Like religious. Whose god, kind of shit. It was all about religion, in the end. Oscar’s religion versus Paul the Stars.
Painful cackle through, yep, a broken tooth. Long winded, that writing. Not like him.
Paul wanted to block the holes in himself that kept letting stuff go too easily. Be less the colander his wife claimed. That caught all the dirt, but let through his ambition and the students who mocked him for his nose. Of course, his wife too. And, now, the Violentiam nutters who’d done him in. Scared the others off when they saw the self-actualizing they’d been practicing, incorrectly actualized the cult that laughingly claimed as their own. Made it bona fide.
Back then, after she left and he wrote pages of straight prose about drinking and not communicating, he attended and read about all the self-help. Tried to be self-critical. Raised his eyebrows at the right time. Took notes. Cried and leapt when required. Took daring risks occasionally. Backed right out of them, too.
The Secret. A Projection of Desire. Means of Focused Meditation For Self-Betterment. Visualising Success. Grow Your Mindset. Goal Dance. Constructing A Better Self. Beginning With The End. Climbing The Summit.
They didn’t help. He missed a life he wasn’t sure he even had. It was this mirage that made him rethink things.
The fallacy of these courses and lectures – their vague verb heavy titles with a frequent lack of definite subjects – was their inability to let people see what good they already had. They always sought to make something. Build on it. Picture and strike.
Paul, though, began to see that there was power in being okay. He was okay with his status as a perfectly perfunctory educator, never a life changer, but dependable to the last exam. A writer of middling talent who would never publish yet enjoyed the pursuit. The bachelor life worked for him, too. He told himself. It was all about acceptance and repetition.
He was a Star and you’re okay with who you are. Sieve or not.
Falling further down the wall and his shoulders ached from being chained above him.
The Star made the Planets in his orbit understand that his potential was never any more or less than their own. They got together all-around Melbourne to celebrate exactly this. To drink and talk about their lives as things happily unrealised, though still just beginning. Told one another over music, through complaints about stuff they didn’t understand, conversations about politics and Ministry – it’s all alright. No better time to be alive, in fact. Ignored and left to your own devices. To figure out the bloody Medias.
Paul had them embrace their privilege. They helped him embrace his own. All the troublingly inane responsibility that comes with that. Life shouldn’t be this easy. But it really was.
It was a sarcastic play at being religious zealots, whose most cultish behaviour was the occasional key exchange swing party. A little orgy to brighten the spirits. Rub the oil in and turn the spit. Baste and start again. Maybe that was a cook-off. Paul’s addled brain. Probably, both.
Try and convince their friends to give it a go.
He moaned. Ribs creaked.
Someone invited Oscar. Paul never found out who.
Oscar didn’t get it. From the moment he waddled in. He couldn’t giggle at his own absurdity. He was too angry about his success. Too busy saying someone was trying to take it apart. The therapy of the Star and the Planets didn’t work on him.
But Oscar maintained a fascination with Paul. Called him Star reverentially.
Oscar codified everything. Wrote it down on A3 papers in thick black pen from his store.
Oscar found the building on Chapel. Mounted a convincing case for keeping the meetings consistent. At one locale. He plastered his scripture on the walls. Really emphasised the Church of it all.
Oscar started making it too serious. Dismissive. Asked people what their potential actually was.
Paul kept expecting him to crack a smile. So he kept drinking and cavorting as Oscar brought in his own people. Turned some of Paul’s. Others just left, seeing the extremism manifesting amidst the Tim Tams and cheap tea, coffee, and shiraz Oscar insisted everyone bring to the meetings. Pierre brought those awful orange cream biscuits.
It was no longer gin and chips.
It was a PTA meeting and everyone was shitty with the principal.
Oscar elevated Paul to a kind of metaphysical status, though one under constant amateurish philosophical examination.
He wondered if there were stars out on Chapel. If Oscar thought the same way about them that he did Paul. About their possibility to bring the past to now. Or now to the past. Too far away though. The nostalgic voices of Oscar’s disciples depended on something present to blame and use. Not a gaseous entity forever away.
Tthe proselytism was happening. They came for Paul at the end of what Oscar insisted was a congregation. Forced him into a silver robe and chains. His old Planets long gone.
Oscar had the knife then. He brandished it and declared the Church now named: Violentiam Movetur Sidus; or, the Church of Violence Against the Star.
            ‘Soon,’ Oscar had said then. ‘We start again.’
            Paul shivered and tried to stay warm.

Tuesday, 28 April 2020

The Knife Sharpener (33)


33.

She’d only grazed his knee. Helmut could feel blood seeping into his corduroy slacks. It burnt and hurt. He was exhausted. Clothes clinging and feet aching. He rolled another Champion cigarette as they drove. Found his hands to nearly be quivering. Steadied, sparked, and drove.
            Nichola kept her own vigil. Watched as the streets grew brighter as they neared the city. Got away from the outer limits of wind jackal territory. Crowded with actual accommodation. Business. Cheap restaurants. Ironic tributes to the Delinquency. A burger joint: Delinquicious. Wind jackal burgers with patties cross-sectioned like amplifiers. Feedback chips that were curly fries. No one out this late though. Few slow cars. A couple of homeless women in front of a TV store. Reading Melways by the light of the LED screens.
            The platinum spears of the city in the near distance. Helmut turned away from it down Victoria Parade. Towards Richmond. The north on one side. Cheap. Degraded. Still sound buffeted. But better this close. Slowly rebuilt. The princely apartments on the other side. Old Victorian era. Manhattan-lite. Doormen in bright red coats. Motoboys still out running late deliveries. Few well-heeled whiskey and cigar shops.
            ‘What next?’ asked Nichola.
            A pause. ‘I’m tired,’ said Helmut.
            ‘Yeah. Me too.’
            He turned off the tape. Thought about Jeff Buckley. Or Neal Diamond. There was nothing to orchestrate the situation. Smoked instead. Brushed off ash and picked at his t-shirt.
            ‘Maybe Chance can be trusted?’ said Nichola
            ‘Perhaps.’
            ‘He wanted to help. He helped us out of a pretty end of the road situation back there.’
            ‘He did.’
            ‘So, should we try to find him?’
            ‘How?’
            ‘I don’t know. Pull over one of the motoboys? They all have a line to him – did in that fridge, anyway. He must have a backup. He might have a way to dad.’
            Helmut looked over at her.
Nichola shifted her weight in the seat. ‘I mean, I don’t see any other way. What if your longshot chef friend doesn’t come through? Chance seemed like he had a plan. An idea. I’ve got to do whatever I can to get this knife back to dad. He’ll know what to do,’ she said. ‘I’m out of ideas. I don’t know if I even had one once I got the fucking thing.’
Let smoke dribble out his mouth. Not sure why he felt so talkative. Must be the pain. A distraction.
‘You should not trust him. Chauncey. He wants … more than what he should have.’
‘But you wanted to stay with him.’
            ‘When we were trapped.’
            ‘We could’ve helped each other.’
‘Yes. And then? Our value is limited for Chauncey,’ he said. ‘Once reached …’ Helmut let that hang.
            ‘How do you know?’
            ‘Know him. Way he sees the world.’
            ‘How does he see the world?’
            ‘Transaction. Worth. Power.’
            Chance-as-Chauncey in the Wastes. Peddling Carers. Judging their work. The middleman. Dealing in gold and kitchen utensils. Inflating prices and inciting grudges. Helmut had avoided him. Knew of his services. His control.
            ‘His – my dad’s, I dunno, “goal,” societal thread cutting, doesn’t seem too bad to me. Bit of a correction,’ said Nichola. ‘Seems pretty egalitarian, really. You make him sound capitalist. Like the old neoliberals, before Ministry unification.’
            ‘Yes.’
            ‘Which is he?’
‘Depends where the cut is made,’ said Helmut. ‘How sharp is the knife? How clean the cut?’
            ‘That’s a bit abstract, Helmut.’
            ‘So is the knife.’
            Nichola looked at it. Hefted it.
            ‘Your father wanted freedom. The end of Ministry. Money,’ said Helmut.
            ‘That’s why he – why he did those things, yeah. Later, after the north’ said Nichola.
            ‘How would Melbourne look? When he won?’
            ‘He didn’t though.’
            ‘Thought about it?’
            ‘I’m sure,’ she said. ‘Wrote about it, too.’
            ‘You read?’
            ‘He burned everything he wrote. He was never happy with it.’
            ‘What comes after, then?’
            ‘I guess, something fairer. Less fascistic. Share the load. Give people more of a chance. Education. Money. Work. Whatever. No more Ministry dictating to us. Watching us and telling what is safe, for our own good. Deliberately lying to us. Fabricating,’ said Nichola. ‘Dad used to think he understood what was best for everyone. It was proper Ministry protocol. When’d he’d Biff, it was a major part of who he was. “The only truth,” he’d say, “is the one which protects them.” He realised, though, eventually, that there is grey in black and white. And that the Ministry only sees red and blue.’
            Helmut dragged. The dregs of his Champion. ‘How would it work?’ he asked. ‘What comes next?’
            ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if he did.’
            ‘Abstract, then?’
            ‘I guess so,’ said Nichola.
            ‘And Chance’s Melbourne?’ asked Helmut.
            Nichola slouched into her seat.
            ‘A blank canvas is dangerous when given to creative men,’ said Helmut. Not sure if he believed it. Sounded right.
            ‘That sounds like an old saying, like an adage.’
            ‘A Carer thing. Later.’
            The finished cigarette went out the window. City quiet drifted into the van. Tires cruising over road. Occasional drift of wind. Sweet smelling July winter. Hint of gums. Little light smog.
            ‘If Chance is all about value, I can see your use.’ said Nichola. ‘What about me? Why allow us to have the knife – even if he can’t use it. Let me carry it.’
            ‘Rudiger.’
            Again, the name lingered there.
A different knife in Rudiger’s hand. The beard. Ferntree Gully alight in the background. Helmut had been reckless. Too many lives for a boast. For what seemed to be a trivial use.
‘Right,’ said Nichola.
            ‘There’s something Chauncey doesn’t know.’
            ‘He thinks dad does?’
            Helmut ran his fingers along his tapes. Felt tired. Knee ached. True to the theme, his eyes drawing half closed.      
‘I need to go to Messer,’ said Helmut
            ‘What?’
            ‘My cat. She needs to be fed.’
            ‘You don’t seem like a cat type.’
            ‘What type am I?’
            ‘I don’t know. Not a cat man, I thought,’ said Nichola. ‘Not the, like, magic, alchemist-blacksmith type, either. But here we are.’
            ‘It’s not like that.’
            ‘What’s it like?’
            Turned onto Hoddle St. Fish sauce and chilli floating from Victoria St. Soup. Chicken bones.
            ‘Attention to detail.’
            ‘I didn’t know there was so much “detail” possible in a knife. Any kind of tool, really. I only thought they had basic functions. I mean, you can be creative every now and again. A spoon can open a beer.  But a spoon, it’s still like a spoon, at the end of the day. A vessel for food. Ingredients. Things.’
            ‘Exactly. Attention to function,’ said Helmut. ‘A spoon carries. Digs. Measures. A Carer makes it do all these things better. A knife cuts. A Carer makes it cut better.’
            ‘And it’s all in the detail? There’s no magic to it?’
            Helmut paused. ‘Maybe,’ he said, eyes on the terrace housing around them. The tall, imposing, electrified, iron picket fencing.
            ‘Do you keep in touch with other Carers?’ asked Nichola.
            ‘No other Carers.’
            ‘Really? Chance said there may be a few –’
            ‘No. Weren’t that many to begin with.’
            ‘What happened?’
            Helmut drove. Nichola waited. Was about to speak. ‘Greed. Pride,’ said Helmut. ‘Forgot about utility. Replaced it with art no one understood.’
            Nichola thought. ‘Was it good art, though?’
            ‘Beautiful,’ said Helmut.
            It started to get too cold, airy in the van. Helmut rolled the window.
            ‘So, we’re going back to your place? To feed the cat?’ asked Nichola.
            ‘Yes.’
He heard her breathe. ‘If they know about the van, Helmut, and you, they’ll have traced it back to your place. Your cat,’ said Nichola.
‘Where else to go?’
Helmut turned and saw Nichola leaning her head against the window. She peered back at him. He worried about Messer. Knew she was alright. Tough three-legged thing. He felt lost. Pained. In need of familiarity. Escape from memory. An idea to lose the girl and the knife.
‘St Kilda,’ she said. ‘My place.’

Monday, 27 April 2020

The Knife Sharpener (32)


32.

The woman advanced on Nichola and Helmut. Her eyes flickered to the café behind them. Watching out for the wind jackals.
            ‘Odd couple,’ she said. ‘I can work with this. Lots of potential. How to best frame you both, mmm? Bring out that deep inner beauty.’
            Helmut had his hands up. Nichola held the knife out in front of her.
            ‘That the knife? Not much to look at, is it? Afraid, it won’t do you much good neither.’
They stepped away from her as she tracked them down Smith St.
‘Not too close to the jackals, now,’ she said. ‘I had this great idea of giving you all a heroic kinda pose. Like, hashtag last stand. Surround you with the freaks. True Custer at Little Bighorn sort of stuff. Maybe throw on an oil painting filter.’ With the end of her gun, she pointed them away from the café. Across the road to an alley. Within, Nichola could see a Bluetooth speaker, still blaring.
‘I wasn’t expecting such a big pack this close to the city, though. Cheese and whiskers, I must’ve lured close to thirty of them here. But they’ll grow restless soon enough and I’d honestly rather not be in the neighbourhood when they do,’ she said. Pointed Nichola and Helmut into the alley and glanced across Smith St into the café. ‘Golly, I would like a snap of the carnage in there. My followers really get a kick out of that kind of ultra-violence.’ She sighed a little. ‘It’s not really my style, though, is it? It’s a bit too flashy. Revealing. If life were that easy, where would all the adventures be, right? I’d much rather tantalise. Make a story for them to undress at their own imaginative leisure. Nice girls don’t give it all up at once, or something like that.’
Nichola followed Helmut into the alley. He had resumed his usual null character. A stoic acceptance. But maybe a tightening across the shoulder? An eye twitch? He must have a plan. She sure didn’t.
‘I think there’s been a mistake,’ said Nichola. ‘Nothing special about this knife. Him. Me.’
‘Ah, honey. There mightn’t be anything special about neither of you. Certainly not to me. But on someone else’s scale of one to ten, you’re both an eleven.’
The woman cornered them.
‘So, tonight, all things considered, I’m afraid it’s going to have be simple. Star crossed lovers sneaking a kiss? No. Not likely with you two. Maybe, uncle showing niece the ropes? Two Smith St degenerates out on a nightly prowl? I need a little hush to think.’ She bent over and turned off the Bluetooth speakers, keeping her gun fixed on them. The howls in the café suddenly sounded searching. Bewildered. The crashing momentarily ceased.
‘Oh my, it’s been such a productive night,’ said the woman.
A deep motor grumble roared. Light suddenly cast over the mouth of the alley, catching the black clad woman by surprise. Then a large motorbike flew by. The woman dived out of the way. Came quickly to her feet and pulled her gun in the direction of her assailant. The bike was faster though. Swinging back. Forcing her to move. Almost collecting her leg.
The woman was staggering. Let off a series of loose shots in the direction of the motorbike. Holding her silence. Trying to find her balance.
‘Run,’ said Helmut.
Nichola and Helmut sped out of the alley behind the woman. Saw the motorbike hit a sudden skid turn. Squealing its tires and revving the motor. The wind jackals answered with their own harmonised screams. The woman turned back to the café. Then the bike. Her gun darting back and forth. Not sure where to aim.
The motor revved low again. Nichola caught a glance of the rider. Jacket zipped up. Helmet strapped tight under his chin.
‘Chance,’ she said.
A few wind jackals leaped out of the café, disturbed by the hooligan manoeuvres on Smith St. They charged.
‘Dang it,’ said the woman and dropped to one knee. Swivelled in the direction of the carnage heading her way.
Helmut stepped in front of Nichola and pulled her in the direction of his van still parked at the front of the café. Chance pulled another sharp turn, trailing acrid smoke. Pulled into a dramatic wheelie and sped off down Smith St. The wind jackals steamed towards the woman with the gun, who fired off a handful of shots as they raged.
A couple dropped. Spasmed on the ground. Pulled themselves back up. The rest continued the charge. Seemingly blind to Helmut and Nichole, barrelling ahead to the sound of the popping gun. To where the motorbike had called them. Nichole could see their tongues flapping and poking the air. Helmut pulled her on. More wind jackals tumbled out of the café screaming and howling.
            The unmistakable whistle of a bullet brushed her ear. Another. Helmut groaned and almost lost his footing. Gathered himself and limped on. A crash as the wind jackals reached their target. The woman yelled out. Short puffed bursts from her silenced gun. Nichola didn’t turn around. She made on to the van.
            Helmut got there first. Pulled his keys and with the same calm he had shown when chased by the Church, efficiently opened the door. Through the passenger window, Nichola could see more wind jackals holding back on the sidewalk in front of the café. Bent over and breathing feedback mist into the winter evening. Helmut stepped back and let her climb over the driver’s seat. Entered and turned the ignition.
            Black eyes flipped in their direction. One wind jackal lurched back. Sprang off its heels, leading with its amplifier. Collected the van with a rust-soaked crunch. Another followed. Much closer to Nichola’s window. She recoiled back. Holding the knife out again in some display of self-defence. She realised she was drenched in sweat. Her fingers struggling to stick to the hilt of her puny weapon.
            Johnny Cash started moaning through the speakers. The wind jackals moaned back. Country met avant-garde electro. Helmut pressed down hard on the accelerator and loosed the hand break. He grunted and grabbed at his knee. The van trudged into movement. Its motor puttering and purring. The wind jackals fell back as it took off.
            The woman with the gun ran in front of them. Caught in the beams of the van. A thin black silhouette out of ammunition. Trailed by the galloping drum steps of the wind jackals. Lurching and using their hands to get balance as they tilted over forward, then onwards. Almost four legged. Springy in their movement. Strangely arrhythmic.
            She wouldn’t stop tracking them if she got away. There was relish in her voice. Excitement. The game of the hunt drove her. Nichola knew the attitude well. Had seen it in her father’s Biff friends. Her father, too – even in his rebellion, always seeking something to placate his restlessness, the unfortunate union between his physicality and brain. Thwarting her had only made it more exciting.
            Nichola didn’t doubt she’d get away from the wind jackals. People like her survived.
            Helmut held the steering wheel straight. Making to slide right past her. Off down Smith St to Johnston. Nichola reached across and yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The van veered towards the woman.
            With one hand, the knife sharpener growled and pushed Nichola back to her seat. Corrected the course of the van and stayed his course. They drifted past the woman, who turned into a dark alley and disappeared.
            ‘What –’ said Nichola.
            ‘No. I will not be responsible for that,’ said Helmut.
            ‘It was me, though.’
            ‘I was close enough,’ he said. ‘There is no excuse. There are other ways.’
            Nichola looked at him. He kept his eyes forward. Turned hard left onto Johnston St and drove back towards the city. In what little illumination there was, flickering past the window on the street, she could see pain on his face. Crinkled eyebrows. Sweat. Shallow breaths. But also, a jaw grit shut.

Saturday, 25 April 2020

The Knife Sharpener (31)


31.

Another heavy murky shape rammed into a guard outside. A spurt of dark liquid against the window. Wailing and gnashing and whip crack steel. Set to the pulsing computerized drone of a guitar echoing in Smith St.
Bohner was already rushing to lock the door, putting on his helmet. The other motoboys in the café took off to the back of the café. Disappearing into the kitchen.
            Helmut rose to stand beside Nichola. Both backed away. She held the knife up in front of her. An unsteady weapon in shivering hands. Shadows played against the windows on the path. Like the Indonesian marionettes Nichola had seen at university, jangling through the battle near the end of the story.
            Bohner reached the door. Slammed in the bolts. A hand fell against the door. Was pulled back.
‘Sorry, lads,’ said Bohner. Turned to face Helmut and Nichola. ‘Go. Out the back.’
            Something cracked into the window. Then again. A splinter grew. An enormous howl filled the evening. Buffeting the glass. Pounding footsteps on asphalt.
            Helmut grabbed Nichola by the arm and pulled her into a staggering run. Chance appeared at the top of the stairs, supported by two motoboys. Face drawn into frustrated lines. His biker’s jacket slung over his shoulders.
            ‘The fuck is this?’ he asked. ‘Who the fuck playin that shit sore racket outsi –’
            Glass shattered and a wind jackal fell into the café face first. It writhed on the ground. Struggled to find its feet. All the while, it roared and buzzed. The wiring spurting out of it sparked. Lit the dim room with baby lightning strikes.
            Nichola had never seen a wind jackal. She considered them unfortunate. The crude, unfortunate result of desperation. The hunting of them was inhuman. Basically murder. A cruel sport for a particularly cruel class of people. The biannual Culling a grotesque display of bloodlust. A Ministry sanctioned purge of violence to placate the populace. The wind jackals were strawmen. Perfect scapegoats preset to be loathed by Melbournians already conditioned to distrust and disparage the north.
            The wind jackals had were a source of continual discomforting contention between Nichola and her father. The Delinquency may have marked the end of his days as a Biff – the final moral quandary he could no longer manifest away. But his role in driving it to its chaotic, explosive end was no less significant for his attempts to try and correct it after the fact. Perhaps, find a moral redemption for the terror he instilled there. In their way, the wind jackals – their horrendous curse and terrible fate – were her father’s children as much as she was.
            But she had still never seen one. Was unprepared for the bodily horror of the former human. The wind jackal rose from the ground sluggishly. Nichola could see the amplifier in place of the its chest. Throbbing bass as though a heart vibrated there. It slouched over from the weight of it. Blank slate wide screen TV eyes were set in its head. Below lank, unwashed black hair. A tongue that flapped in two directions from its mouth. Seeming to taste the air. Long steel tendrils flowed from its fingers. The wind jackal breathed a low consistent hum. It sought them out. Swayed as it stood.
            One of the motoboys holding Chance didn’t hesitate. He rushed the wind jackal. Grabbed a heavy stool and made to swing at its head. The wind jackal made no effort to move. Instead, it screamed. A blast of sound that blew out its gaping mouth and grated chest. The motoboy staggered. Grabbed at his ears as he dropped the stool. The volume was terrific, Nichola and Helmut shied from it. Chance lost his footing, only held up by Bohner who quickened to the side of his boss. And another wind jackal stormed in through the window and dove into the motoboy from the side. Fists raised and fell. Chest bashed back and forth. The first wind jackal dove into the scrum. Distorted horrible sounds mingled with the motoboy’s helpless yelps.
            ‘Go,’ said Bohner. He and the other motoboy pulled Chance into movement. Nichola tried to shake her head free of the ringing in her ears and followed. Helmut close behind. The leftover motoboys made to try and recue their downed comrade. Smashing into the wind jackals on the ground with tables and chairs. To no avail. The two wind jackals seemed to impervious to them. Slashing and hammering.
One of the other front windows shattered. Static flicked the air. Electronic pulses. And more wind jackals blew in. Bellowing into the motoboys that were attacking members of their pack. The wooden legs of tables and chairs cracked. Steel licked and slapped into skin. Sparks flittered into the air.
            They reached the kitchen with the collision of bodies, wires, and pitch shifted growls sounding behind them. Bohner, still holding onto Chance, led them to an open steel door at the rear of the kitchen. Outside there was a little cobblestone alley, where few motoboys waited.
            A pot clattered into the wall next to Helmut. Nichola looked behind her and saw a female wind jackal in the kitchen. It crouched low to the ground. Resting its hands on a stove to support the additional weight of its amplifier. A thin, piercing whistle shot out around its tongue. Two more wind jackals appeared on the other side of the pass. They tried to clamber through the narrow space.
            Bohner pushed Chance out into the alley where he was gathered by a few motoboys. ‘Get on now to the stash,’ he said. The motoboys nodded and took off, carrying Chance between their arms.
            The wind jackal launched from its haunches in the direction of Nichola. She lashed out with the knife and sliced it along the arm. As if slamming into a shield, the wind jackal darted and spilled off her into a nearby oven. Denting the door. Loosed a long, pained howl that sought a higher and higher pitch as it exploded out. From the wind jackal’s cut black, airy dust floated upwards. Dissipating as soon as Nichola got sight of it.
            She retreated out the door. Ahead of Helmut and Bohner who both followed. The final motoboy went to leave, closing the door. A wind jackal’s grey hand grabbed him by the shoulder. The metallic split cords of its fingers wrapping into his shirt. He was dragged back into the kitchen. Cackles and giggles in short tremolo bursts. A thrown flying pan and more yelling.
            Bohner slammed the door shut. Music still played somewhere on Smith St. A reverbing anxious synth. Inside the café they could hear the wind jackals still howling and hissing.
            ‘What now?’ asked Nichola.
            ‘We gotta stash of bikes and shit just down the way,’ said Bohner, pointing to a street that ran along the side of the café up towards Smith St.
            ‘Can’t go back there,’ said Helmut.
            ‘I think most of em are in the café, but. They think we’re making that noise,’ said Bohner. The blare of guitars rung out still. ‘Should be right. They don’t see much if we quiet.’
            The door suddenly slammed. Slightly bowed. Helmut nodded.
            The three of them walked down the alley. Commotion in the café. Ethereal, sizzling music outside. The knife looked like it had an oil slick running off it. It was particularly grey and muted. Nichola held it tightly.
            They reached the corner of the building. Bohner peaked around.
            ‘Looks aright. No sign of Chance. Must’ve got through.’
            Bohner led them up the small road in the direction of Smith St. They ducked below any windows looking into the cafe. The wind jackals still crawled around in there. Throwing the corpses of motoboys around. Finishing the job. Nichola had heard that wind jackals were virtually blind. She didn’t take the risk though. None of them did. Helmut’s hand was on her shoulder. Nichola thought she could feel his beating heart through his palms. The grip was solid. A presence.
            ‘This way,’ said Bohner and led them out onto the street.
            A single surviving lamp gave dim cloudy light to the area. Music continued to wail. No one was there. The racket of furniture and kitchenware being thrown around behind them. Punctuated by laser shouts.
            They moved away from the café. Beginning to hurry. A whispered caustic pop cut into the air and Bohner’s helmet exploded in a gush of blood, brain, and fibreglass. He stood for a moment. Shocked. Then fell.
            A lean woman stepped out of a shadow near an abandoned pub. She held a pistol pointed at Helmut and Nichola. From its mouth, smoke strung out in the still night.
            She smiled and her lips were almost fluorescent dark red in the lamplight.
            ‘Let’s get you two ready for your photoshoot, shall we?’

Friday, 24 April 2020

The Knife Sharpener (30)


30.

Melbourne’s Fabulous Fauna: From Fruit Bats to Werepossums
Professor Embert Pompledong

Chapter 10: Wind Jackals


Let us now turn to the desecrated remnants of the northside. For up there, dwells one of Melbourne’s most feral and terrible creatures. The wind jackal.
            Born of the remnants of the so-called Delinquency Uprising, the wind jackal is an unforgiveable contortion of the human body, a mistake of evolution, a biological tragedy unlike any in the history of Melbourne.
            Mutated by their own desperate turn to noxious noise pollution warfare in their final failed attempts to thwart the Ministry – which succeeded only in demolishing their lands and martyring their humanity –wind jackals are nasty, vicious animals. Fiercely territorial, they roam the charred, sound scarred landscapes of the northern suburbs in packs of 20 to 50 beasts. Though rumours of larger groups in Coburg and Essendon persist.
            Anatomically speaking, the wind jackal bears passing resemblance to its homo sapiens forebearers. It is predominately bipedal and possesses roughly equivalent limb to body length ratios. They have been observed to loosely maintain and demonstrate human social and family structures within their packs. Indeed, they have been known to occasionally perform basic simulacrums of cultural milestones: birthdays, Holidays, and the like. Despite their noted aggression, wind jackals are largely vegetarian, feeding on grasses and wild flowers.[1]
However, the tenuous similarities stop here. Due to persistent overexposure to plutonium charged feedback loops, the wind jackal is marked by several peculiar physical characteristics.
Their bodies are a mess of broken wiring and cords crackling and spitting electricity. Indeed, their finger and toe nails have split into fine, steel fibres, which they use as whips in attack. They have loose, twisted knees and wide flat feet, which give them their well-known ambling gait and snare drum pounding when they work up into a gallop.
Much of their nose seems to be turned inwards, leaving only what appear to be pickups in their place. Their eyes are rectangular, almost wholly black, and distressingly reflective. There are some unfounded theories that wind jackals are largely blind. That they largely use sound to navigate. However, this seems consistent with their ears, which strongly resemble antenna. And though their mouths are filled with seemingly normal teeth, their tongues are unmissably forked. It is in fact likely that (1) they use their tongues as a form of sonar; and (2) assisting this, they can also independently control each side of their tongue, holding one taut, and the other loose, to modulate the frequencies of their awful racket which gives them their name.[2]
Contributing also to the distinctive noise of the wind jackal is perhaps their most terrifying feature; that their upper chests have warped to become the grated onyx steel of Marshall amplifiers. This malformity is linked to their vocal cords that are essentially near-shattered vacuum tubes. When wind jackals make their characteristic electro-dipped howl, it emerges not just through their mouths, but from their clavicle also. They have been recorded at nearly 120 decibels.
Internally, besides the vocal cords, their temporal lobes are overdeveloped, making them incredibly sensitive to music and noise, which in conjunction with their power charged, pitch shifted adrenal glands, can cause them to lurch into uncontrollable, violence upon the sound of a distorted guitar. Rarely, do they venture south of Collingwood or the Carlton Gardens, but when they do it is largely because they have been attracted by the blare of speakers and squeal of guitar.
Whether in defence of their commission flats in Fitzroy, or lured by the wailing drone of a guitar, when wind jackals come, they come in a horrid seething rush. Whipping their cords, screaming, barrelling with their amplified chests. Lean and quick from their low fat, vegetarian diets, they strike hard and strike brutally. They attack mostly in pairs, using their bellows to distract and disorientate, before lacerating their prey from the blind side. Driven mad by the constant hum in their heads, driven to inarticulate rage by their throbbing temporal lobes, they only stop when no one stands.
Notoriously hard to kill due to their strangely aligned organs and metallic hide, hunting wind jackals has become a popular pursuit among wealthy Melbourne citizens. Using Bluetooth speakers and careful urban blinds, Jackaleers (as they like to be called) lure the animals into enclosed spaces and proceed to slaughter. Such behaviour is indeed encouraged by the Ministry, primarily to control their numbers and keep them in the north. A biannual Culling has become something of a sporting holiday in the city.
There have been plans to retake the wind jackals’ territory and gentrify the northern suburbs. But the area is still judged unsafe for normal human habitation. Further, any ventures north of Northcote have proven to be disastrous. Research groups and local militias on fazing rituals have met their doom on such expeditions.
A black market has also grown around wind jackal tongues – an aphrodisiac – and chest pieces – a useful conductive. Ministry Biffs have largely shut them down, but they persist.
The actual number of wind jackals is unknown. Though, evidentially, they do breed.
Usually, here, is where I wax lyrical about the true beauty of these truly ugly animals. I have found great splendour in the giant platypus of the Southern Yarra. Truly magical qualities in the bothersome fairy. Given voice to the infamous tram sprites. Even seen greatness in the rocky visage of the rare nargun. All beautiful, natural organisms, in their unique ways.
However, in the opinion of this author, the wind jackals are atrocities. Little more than brutes with the stench of rebellion and the Delinquency still upon them. They cast themselves into their own hell and, though they deserve it thoroughly, the wind jackals remain a daily reminder of the lengths and depravity human beings will descend for a cause. Their penchant for extreme violence, theft, and obsessive possession render them unworthy of existence. The quicker their scant appearance of humanity is lost within their horrifying transformations, the better, for then we will no longer associate them with us; as distant cousins; as Melbournians. They are significantly less than this. Less than any animals. Less than the bunyip, fairy, and yowie. Merely vegetarian monsters with an ear for the terrible sounds of broken guitars.


[1] Wilder packs, of course, have been known to raid markets close to their borders for fruit and vegetables.
[2] After the Delinquency, the wind jackals were heard before they were seen. Imagine: a cackle caught in the breeze, bouncing between buildings, echoing. Add to this the low thrum of static and the effect of reverb. The terrifying task of trying to figure out what could have lived through the destructive, nefarious tactics employed by the northside rebels. Then seeing the abomination, releasing their distorted shriek.


Thursday, 23 April 2020

The Knife Sharpener (29)


29.

Electric pulses still twitched his hands. Helmut resisted the urge to shake it out. He sat near Nichola in the café. She was holding the knife and a plastic mug. The motoboys had given them weak black tea. Retreated to their quiet little groups. Bohner was drinking from a steaming soup bowl, cross legged on a pillowed milk crate. Helmut would have preferred burnt 7/11 coffee. A cigarette. A stimulant. His face itched through unshaved whiskers. Poor Messer at home without her food.
            Chance had dismissed them. Promised to talk in the morning about what to do next. Yes, they had to get the knife back to Rudiger. Best though to sleep on it. Nothing to be done now. Wait. Do it right. Turned back to his monitors. His motoboys. Didn’t watch them leave through the fridge door. Helmut breathing from his stomach.
Nichola fidgeted. ‘Why wouldn’t he just use it now?’ she asked. ‘He’s got you. The knife. He can have his changes – new world if he wants.’
Helmut may not have recognized the significance of the knife. Call it rust. A world he had forcefully forgotten in the pattern of his current life. He did recognize Chance – Chauncy, though. As soon as he walked into the broken fridge. Felt the stale air. His past had come back then. He couldn’t take his eyes from it.
‘He doesn’t know how,’ said Helmut.
‘Seemed pretty confident to me.’
‘Don’t trust him.’
‘Why? He was friends with dad. He wants to help find him,’ said Nichola. ‘Chance could’ve just taken the knife from us. Kept it to himself.’
‘He still has it.’
‘No. I do.’
‘We can’t get out of here.’
She looked around at the motoboys lounging in the café. The shapes of them guarding the door outside. Nodded a little. Helmut sipped at his tea. Found it warming. Stilling.
‘Why shouldn’t we trust him, then?’
‘He was Chauncey in the Wastes.’
‘That’s how he knew who – what you were?’
‘Probably. I was different back then, too.’
‘Yeah?’
‘More hair. Different name.’
‘Helmut Iser isn’t your name?’
‘It is.’
‘Not back then?’
‘No.’
‘What was it?’
Helmut shifted in his seat. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘It’s not around anymore.’
‘Wish I could change my name. Otwey is heavy around here. Rudiger even more.’
‘Lucky, you’re Nichola,’ said Helmut.
They sat in the murmur of the motoboys. A wind jackal called further north. A motor droned past on Smith St. A muted light on the move. Helmut sipped on his tea. Glad he had eaten at The Chaddy.
‘You know, I knew there was something about you,’ said Nichola. ‘A reason you were there at the Church.’
‘Holdingstock –’
‘Sure, she sent you. But, did you need to go?’
‘Needed the job,’ said Helmut.
‘Uh huh. Don’t we all,’ said Nichola.
‘You work?’
‘Student. Studied art. Bit of history. Little philosophy. Used to, anyway. Before the knife. Worked in places like this café, otherwise. Dad wanted me to study political science for a while. I didn’t care for it.’
‘Hospitality,’ said Helmut.
‘Yep. Mind numbing, servile shit. But it paid. Kinda get the motoboys, in a way. Wish we – waiters, had our own little armed cohort. Make things interesting.’
‘Yes.’
Nichola continued to roll the knife around in her hands. ‘So, you were a Carer – you didn’t even suspect that this knife was important? Like, in that way.’
‘Important, yes. Worked - Cared. Powerful. No.’
She held it up to the light. It looked plain. Old. Dark grey.
‘I left that me to back then,’ said Helmut, looking at the knife.
‘Why?’ asked Nichola.
‘Too many emotions. Too much for triviality,’ said Helmut. ‘Caring is material. Helping implements reach their potential. A rational, workmanlike job. I thought.’
Nichola was quiet. Helmut had spoken. His voice wanted to whisper after a few words.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
He kept his memories to himself. Eyes narrowed a little. Pulled at his shirt absently. Kept an eye on the knife. Bloody orange cream. Nichola sat in the absence of an answer.
‘Why shouldn’t we trust, Chance?’
‘He’s a liar,’ said Helmut.
‘About what?’
‘Most things. The Wastes. Carers.’ He pulled his Samsung flip phone from his pocket.
Nichola raised an eyebrow.
‘I’ll text Geoff.’
‘Who – that’s right. I remember. The private chef?’
‘Yes.’ He wrote, Are you around? Need to talk. Sent it off. Put the phone away.
‘Okay,’ said Nichola.
‘He cooks for Ministry,’ said Helmut. ‘Sometimes at New Parliament.’
‘Could he get us in? Know someone?’
‘Maybe.’
‘We would need to get out of here first.’
‘We will tell Chaunc - Chance, about Geoff,’ said Helmut
‘You don’t trust him.’
‘No. But he wants Rudiger, as well.’
‘Better to work together?’
‘For now.’
Nichola paused. ‘He said my dad tracked Carers, as well. Is that true?’
Helmut blew on his tea. The café felt small. The Melbourne roads. His van. The chefs and their knives. The open spaces. He wasn’t a still man. Helmut belonged out there. He worked. So did Rudiger.
‘Yes,’ he said.
Nichola sought her tea. The knife tight in her grip.
‘We met once,’ said Helmut.
‘You – you got away?’
A sip. A static drenched howl outside. ‘Mostly,’ he said.
Nichola stood up. Looked around. Made to move off to the bathroom at the rear of the café. Near the stairs. Back to Helmut.
‘Why are you helping me? If you know who I am – who my dad is?’ she asked. ‘I know you, like, had to, at first. And you were right. They are after us both. Better together. Keep an eye out kind of thing. But, now? Surely, a man like you – with your ability to change his own history, always be moving … you don’t need to keep with me. This knife any longer?’
Helmut saw Rudiger’s bearded smiling face for the first time in years. Adrift in his thoughts. Teeth bloodied. Eyes wild around the thick edge of his cricket bat. Speech perched on his lips. ‘The order of things, my man, it don’t have room for you and your ilk. I’ve thought it through.’ The cheekbones identical to his daughters. The surprisingly small, tidy face.
Shoved it away. Into reality. To Nichola.
‘I do,’ he said. ‘In this together, for now.’
They were still coming for them. He needed more time.
Outside, an enormous wind started to wail and crackle.
Bohner stood from his milk crate. ‘Fuckin hell,’ he said. ‘Get Chance!’ Two of the motoboys took off to the basement.
The wind droned. Flexed. Disappeared into distortion buzzing through loose wires. Screamed again. High pitched. Dive bombed low. Wavered. Echoed. Nearly unplugged. Banged around. Clanked and jarred. As if filling an empty carpeted bar. The sound droned on.
A broken electronic, pitch shifted cackle sounded through a broken amplifier answered.
            ‘Wind jackals!’
            Outside, a dark shape trailing sparks, running like twisted snares, shrieking an endless reverbed bend, pounded into one of the guards outside.