The Knife Sharpener (12)

12.

Paul started laughing. ‘You lost the knife?’

            Everyone in the room was standing. Talking at once. Hopeless, repetitive questioning. Tinged with accusation and blame. At one another. Something nebulous.

            ‘What do you mean?’

            ‘Gone? How?’

            ‘No one knew we had it.’

            ‘Who took it?’

            ‘Nah. You’re joking, Pierre? Right? Bring it out now, mate.’

            ‘What do you mean? How do you mean?’

            ‘It was down there, last time I checked.’

            ‘They won’t get away with this.’

            One short woman fell slumped into a chair and made the explosive spluttering sound over and again.

            Helmut took a few steps back. Clearing some space. The short supply of rationality in the room was seeming to drain out in front of him. Starting to smell like shampoo washed perspiration.

            Oscar was looking to Pierre. His face pinched. Eyes congealed behind thought.

            Paul was rolling on the floor. Hysterics forcing its way out past his bruised ribs. ‘Lost the knife. You fucking lost it! You inept fun sucking arseholes. I was always telling you – shit was coming your way. The arrogance of you lot of self-centred … it’s karma, babies. All that sweet karma collecting its due. Bunch of entitled human stains. Bunch of –’

            He was cut off by Pierre who launched himself from his vigil in the doorway. He buried his fists into Paul. Wet smacking sounds and pained grunts. Helmut saw tears in Pierre’s eyes.

            ‘How? How, how, how, how? It was ours?’

            Some of the others, watching Pierre’s brutal hammering of Paul, fell back into their chairs. Hopeless. Joining in the arhythmic lip smacking explosions. A mantra. Helmut continued to gradually edge away. Sense was slipping away. Despite the dry air, sweat was forming under his arms.

            ‘Enough,’ said Oscar.

Pierre continued to limply pummel Paul. His cardiovascular system starting to fail him. The punches were becoming saggy and ineffective. Paul had curled into a protective foetal position. He was still giggling. Each weak blow elicited another chuckle.

            ‘Enough,’ said Oscar. He walked over to Pierre. Pulled him off the silver robed man. He looked at Pierre and pointed at Paul. ‘You locked the backdoor after he got out. Didn’t you?’

            ‘Huh?’

            ‘The back door? You locked it?’

            A moment passed. Fairy lights flickered. Helmut slowly crept backwards.

            ‘No,’ said Pierre. ‘I forgot.’

            ‘Forgot,’ said Oscar.

            ‘After me and John got him back in here. I didn’t think –’

            ‘You didn’t?’

            ‘Didn’t think to go back down into the cellar.’

            ‘And?’

            ‘Lock the door.’

            Oscar waited.

            ‘We didn’t need to keep him locked down there, anymore.’

            Oscar waited.

            ‘You know? Tonight, tonight – supposed to be tonight. He wasn’t going back down there again,’ said Pierre. He pulled at his hood. ‘We didn’t need to lock the door. There was no need.’

            ‘The knife?’ asked Oscar, who moved from his vigil. He turned his back to Pierre. Walked to a trestle table. Saw Helmut moving. Helmut froze.

            ‘Yeah?’ asked Pierre.

            ‘And what about the knife, Pierre?’

            ‘It was still down there – after Paul broke the lock and snuck out.’

            ‘But the backdoor wasn’t locked.’

            ‘No. The lock was broken.’

            Oscar grabbed a Tim Tam and nibbled it. Helmut’s tools felt heavy in his hands. His leg quivering to move.

            ‘So, anyone could get in?’

            ‘No one knew the knife was there, Oscar. Why would anyone get –’

            ‘You didn’t lock it.’

            ‘No. I told you. It was broken.’

            ‘Didn’t think to get another lock?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘So, Pierre, you left the knife out in the open.’

            ‘No. No. The door was closed. We’re the only ones know about the door. The knife.’

            Oscar shrugged a little. He grabbed a large handful of orange slice biscuits. Turned and rushed Pierre. He tackled the larger man to the ground. Smashed his head into the floor and rubbed his biscuit filled hands across Pierre’s face. Using the orange slices as a rough, caustic foil. Smearing them. Getting orange cream and crumbs into Pierre’s eyes, mouth, ears.

            Pierre squealed. ‘Stop! Stop! I didn’t think –’

            ‘Of course, you didn’t. I don’t believe I have to fucking tell you that,’ said Oscar, rubbing more of the rough dry biscuits and dense cream filling into Pierre’s face. Opening small lacerations. ‘What if someone saw Paul get out? Huh? What if someone decided to fucking investigate? Duck down into the gulley and see our fucking back door, Pierre? Didn’t fucking think of that did you?’

            Pierre writhed under Oscar’s rage. Helmut made a few quick steps to exit.

            ‘You’re loyal to the Church. A downright extremist, Pierre. But you lack fucking imagination. There are people who want to stop us. Take our opportunities away from us. Stop at nothing. Like thieving our knife.’ Oscar looked to the rest of the congregation. ‘Remember what I said about vigilance, yeah? Our cause is always under threat.’

            The robed people nodded. They came to lurk around the two men wrestling on the floor. Paul tried to crawl away. The tall fat man put his foot onto his lower back. Holding him still. With an audience, Oscar let the remains of the orange slice biscuits slip through his fingers. Grabbed Pierre by the ears and repeatedly slammed his head into the floor. A moist cracking sound and blood pooled with thick orange cream and crumbs. Half a biscuit lay on one of Pierre’s eyes. An offering, kind of.

            Helmut backed up to the door. The gathered congregation all made the loud whoosh bursting noise. Rapid fire, like Lamaze breathing. Helmut opened the door and quietly slipped through. His tools bumped and rattled against the velvet in the box. He held them tight.

            ‘Where is the knife sharpener?’ asked Oscar as Helmut closed the door and made for the exit.

            He was not a runner. Helmut moved at an awkward, quick shuffle. Feet dragging and dust in the air undisturbed. Wet his lips a little. Pulled his t-shirt down over his belly as it rolled up. The door behind him opened.

            ‘There!’

            ‘Helmut, wait,’ said Oscar. Helmut ignored him and kept to his stumbling, broken gallop. They were no quicker behind him. All breathing hard through lungs unused to exertion.

            Helmut reached the front door. Threw himself through it onto Chapel. Slammed it shut behind him and made for his van. The two bums who had been sharing the paper bag wine when he entered were sprawled out on the footpath. Their bottle shattered nearby. The door to the Church swung open.

            ‘Helmut!’

            Fumbled with his keys. Reached his Toyota panel van. In quick succession, Helmut managed to get the key in and door open. Into the driver’s seat. Toolbox on the passenger seat. Behind, the black and silver robed members of the Church rushed toward him. Their fists were raised. Angry, ineffectual yelling. As their robes rode up, Helmut could see in the rear-view mirror that they mostly wore suit pants and professional slacks. They were gasping for air. The van rumbled to a start. Helmut pushed hard into the accelerator and the van sedately found gear. Drove up Chapel towards St Kilda. Checked and they had stopped. A tram went the other way. Passenger heads were down. No one noticed the group of black and silver robed people doubled over out of puff.

            A breath out and Helmut slipped onto Dandenong Rd. The van climbed slowly to its tepid top speed. Helmut was drenched in sweat. The traffic was negotiable. Post-peak. Wanting a cigarette, he reached for his middle console where he kept his tobacco and papers.

            There was a hand already resting there.

            Helmut almost jerked the van into a car in the next lane. Got control. Turned around to a young woman’s face with short brown hair. Eyes wide. Alarmed. Darting. All in black. Crouched in the rear of the van and holding balance with her hand. Smell of cider on her breath.

            ‘Drive,’ she said.

            In her other hand, Helmut saw that she held a knife.