There are major changes to the story, but this time I have a plan so hopefully I can get more than two chapters done. However with University starting up this week, we'll have to wait and see how much writing I can get done. I may have to break up the chapters and only post a few hundred words a week.
- 1 -
The doors to the King's Arms Hotel flew open allowing the midday sun and country dust to enter, settling over the weathered patrons hugging their pints of draught. Ray Douglas moved towards the bar with the determination of a veteran, reaching the first port on the journey back into alcoholism, before the heavy wooden doors could swing closed.
“Scotch.” Ray hadn't uttered the word in just over six months now.
He sat in a booth along the back wall of the Pub, surrounded by wooden embellishments that looked out of place in a small country town. He rested on worn maroon leather, the kind that left a waft of smoky smelling dust when you sat down. The stifling heat, shifting against the creaky yellowed ceiling fan, left his scotch glass beading with condensation.
The cool golden liquor, ice cubes floating in the centre, was deceptive in its still, calm appearance. Ray Douglas knew the truth behind those refreshing drops of liquid. Ray knew the violent storm that brewed just out of sight, underneath the chill of the ice.
Blocking memories of past failures and relapses from his mind, Ray threw his head back and poured the liquid down his throat. The warmth of the scotch was the first sign of the violence and power that it held. Ray shook his head, placing the glass back on the table.
No, he thought, the liquid wasn't violent. It was just a key, a key to unlock the violence inside people. The rage floating around in his mind had been unleashed before, Ray thought, too many times.
He sighed, a heavy tired breath, harsh and dusty. Unfortunately he needed a drink, and that was the long and short of it. Right now, he thought, I just need a drink.
Ray reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a crumpled blood-spattered envelope. It had been delivered this morning, before he woke up. My last clear-headed morning for a while, he thought and sighed again.
The envelope was small and simple, uncomplicated, and unlike the alcohol; the envelope was not deceptive. Ray knew what it meant already before even opening it. The front simply had 'Ray Douglas' written in black marker, and on the reverse; 'Rachel Douglas.' Ray knew his sister would be in trouble sooner or later. He tried to remember the last time he had seen her, just under a year ago, but his memory of that night was foggy at best. Had he done something to cause Rachel to be in trouble? He couldn't answer that question despite the sinking feeling that it probably was his fault. For the last year he hadn't been able to shake the terrible premonition of Rachel getting hurt.
Ray slid a finger under the envelope flap and withdrew the note inside. The crumpled paper held the same distinctive specks of dried blood as the envelope that contained it. His eyes shifted across the handwritten text;
'Ray. I regret to inform you that Rachel may be in a bit of a tricky situation. If you want to enjoy her company again, you might want to be present at the following address by Friday night. All the best.'
Ray recognised the address as an abandoned warehouse at the port, back in Adelaide. The place had a reputation as a local hotspot for drug activity. Even the police were afraid of the fiendish night life at this warehouse, fearful of the violence that swelled in the fragile minds of its inhabitants. Ray hadn't been there personally but a good friend had told him to stay away, he had left that life a long time ago and there was no way he was going back.
But Rachel needs me, he felt a strong urge to jump in his car and drive back to Adelaide as fast as his battered Kingswood would take him. Ray sipped a fresh scotch as he imagined flying down the highway towards his sister, avoiding cops and sucking on cigarettes. But Ray wasn't that man, he never had been really.
Ray's mind flicked through scenes from his past; flashes of fists and flying bottles of bourbon. He saw his father's nose pissing blood, a gash across the bridge, and a matching gash across his seventeen year-old knuckles. Ray watched in horror as he saw, between flashes of blackness, images of himself being dragged across the ground in handcuffs. He swallowed a large gulp of the scotch as he saw himself surrounded by a wafting cloud of toxic, mind raping smoke, his lips covered in scratches from the broken light bulb he was using to torch the ice.
Ray closed his eyes and threw the last of the scotch down his throat, he hadn't thought about these things for at least a year but now he needed the alcohol to make them go away. It must have been the note that brought these images back, he thought.
In the darkness of his mind Ray pictured one last scene; he saw his sister Rachel, only eleven years-old, standing at the foot of his bed. He wondered what she was doing when he noticed the tube protruding from his mouth. She had a pained expression on her face and he realised he was in the hospital. This was a memory he always tried to forget, although the act of trying always caused it to become fresh in his mind. He saw a tear run down Rachel's cheek as their mother led her away. The doctors approached, stern yet indifferent in their demeanour. Ray's mind collapsed as they began to pump a litre of vodka from his stomach. He had turned sixteen only a few hours before.
Ray felt a wave of nausea rise up into his throat. He opened his eyes to see the shadow of the setting sun sweeping across his table, causing the empty scotch glasses to glisten violently. Ray closed his eyes and swallowed hard, leaving the nausea subdued in the bottom of his stomach. He quickly folded the note and shoved in into his pocket, gazing, glassy eyed around the room.
He was caught off balance when he stood, watching the front bar begin to crowd with local oil and gas workers who had just clocked off. The air in the hotel had become thick with heat and sweat, which caused Ray to gag. He made a step towards the restrooms and stopped, there was a pint of beer sitting on the corner of his table. Ray knew the pint wasn't his, he knew whoever owned it was probably just checking on his mates.
Before thinking too hard about it, Ray took the pint in his hand and sculled the entire beer. He knew the act would probably make him feel worse and he knew that somebody would be owed a beer. Ray felt a strange urge inside of him, something that he had forgotten. Something that he never quite understood. He felt the urge to see what would happen. He needed to know how far his actions could take him.
His stomach ached and throbbed and he saw a wiry man look over at him from the crowd. Ray realised, through blurred vision, that the whole bar was watching him. His head dropped until his chin hit his chest and he smiled.
“Who left this on my table?” Ray said, louder than he expected, as he held the empty glass in the air.
The wiry man stepped over to where Ray was standing. He wore a cap to hold back his lank brown and grey hair. His build matched his long goatee beard that stood off his chin like steel wool. The tank top that the man wore revealed his thick tanned skin. An inked snake ran up his left arm, the head resting in the man's neck, it's jaw hanging open.
“This yours?” Ray slurred at the man.
“Yeah, mate. You look like you've had enough already, eh?” The man replied, his thick accent revealed to Ray that he wasn't a South Australian native. Probably from Queensland, Ray thought.
“I don't think so,” Ray mumbled, smiling. “You shouldn't leave your mess on my table, mate.” Ray's imitation of the word 'mate' caused the wiry man to shift his weight.
“Orright mate, next rounds on you then.” The man stood his ground, but Ray sensed that he wasn't a bad person. Ray could tell by the man's attitude that he didn't want any trouble.
Ray sighed before swinging his hand at the man's face.
The pint glass grasped in Ray's fingers cracked and shattered against the wiry man's cheekbone causing him to clutch his face and stagger away from Ray.
The quiet crowd became suddenly silent and Ray locked eyes with every man who looked like he might want to step in.
The gasps and moans from the wiry man echoed through the main bar of the King's Arms Hotel and Ray dropped the fractured base of the pint glass to the floor.
“Shit,” the wiry man gasped from between his blood-coated fingers.
A large man emerged from the rear of the crowd and made his way over to the wiry man who had staggered away from Ray, clutching his mutilated face.
Ray noticed the crowd had thinned significantly and he had the sudden realisation that most people probably wouldn't want to be in this situation. He breathed heavily as he watched the crowd, remaining still and silent.
Ray watched as the large man inspected the face of the wiry man. When he took his hands from his cheek, Ray could see a large gash across his face, going from his brow down to his nose.
As the wiry man tilted his head back for the large man to inspect the wound, his eyes connected with Ray's. There was a flash of fear and confusion before he broke eye contact with Ray, who continued to stare.
“Okay, mate,” the words shot through Ray's head like a bullet. Ray noticed that a wiry man with blood on his face was sitting at the bar being tended to by a waitress, and that he had lost track of what had just happened.
Ray saw that a large man was standing very close to him but his hands were raised, as if he didn't want any trouble.
“Okay, mate,” the large man repeated. “The cops are on their way, so we're gonna need you to take a seat here. You okay with that, mate?”
Ray stood still, his eyes fixed on the wiry man at the bar. He had done that before to a man. Not with the pint glass, but he had snapped like that before. There was no cause, no catalyst that Ray could identify. One moment he was drinking a beer, and the next he was watching a man stagger away from him, his hands clutching his face, covered in blood.
“Orright, mate. I'm gonna need you to take a seat here.” The large man held his arm out to guide Ray to a seat. Ray didn't move, his eyes were glazed and staring in the direction of the exit.
Ray took a step towards the doors and felt a large hand softly pressed against his chest.
“I'm going home.” Ray said, his dull eyes still gazing at the doors.
“No you're not, mate.”
Ray took the hand by the wrist and twisted it around until it was upside down. He then took two steps until he stood behind the large man, still holding onto his arm. Ray pressed the man's arm up along his back smoothly, but firmly, until he heard a loud crack and a sudden pop. His eyes fixed glumly on the door the entire time.
Ray didn't hear the screams as he opened the heavy wooden doors and left the pub.
As he approached his car, Ray managed to hear a rushed shuffling coming from behind him. He turned his head, but before he could see who was there, his face was rocked back in the opposite direction by a seemingly unstoppable force.
Ray used the momentum to turn his body around the opposite way, where he came face to face with another man from the pub.
The man threw a punch which struck Ray across the side of the head, causing his drunken legs to buckle.
After collapsing to his knees, Ray was shoved onto his back by a firm boot to the chest.
“Ya don't get away that easy, mate.” A thin nasal voice came from somewhere above Ray.
“Go away.” Ray mumbled the words, his jaw tingled and he felt warm blood rolling down his brow.
“Whassat, mate? I ain't goin' away.” The man tried to punctuate his point by dropping his heel onto Ray's chest, but Ray reached out and grabbed the man's other leg, tripping him up.
The man lay stunned alongside Ray, who rolled on top of him and began throwing fists.
A few minutes later Ray stood up and walked over to his car. Unlike before, Ray could hear the gurgling moans of the man behind him. Also unlike before, this man didn't have the strength to hold his hands to his damaged face. Ray looked over his shoulder to see the man's body rocking slightly, his legs arching up and sliding back down, causing his heels to carve lines in the dry earth.
Ray thought he saw fragments of bone protruding from deep incisions in the man's cheeks and eye sockets, but it could have just been the light reflecting off the blood.
He got into his car, turned the engine on, backed out of the car park and began to drive home.
Rachel doesn't deserve this, Ray thought as he drove through the night. Rachel doesn't deserve this.
He decided to call the police in Adelaide about the kidnapping note and then stay as far away from Rachel, and alcohol, as possible. If he went near her in this state, he would only ruin everything.
Ray got a flash of Rachel yelling at him. She wanted him out of her life, he recalled. He could see her red face, her forehead beaded with sweat. Ray could see the tears welling in her confused and scared eyes as he approached her that night. That was just under a year ago now, the last time he saw Rachel.
Ray opened his eyes and jammed his foot onto the brake pedal.
The Kingswood went into a slide and Ray narrowly avoided the tree that the car was set to hit if he didn't react.
When the car had come to a smoking halt, Ray took a deep breath and imagined what his world would be like if he had hit the tree. Would Rachel be better off without me, he asked himself.
Ray looked at the note he had received and decided that as long as he was around her, Rachel would be in danger. Going to help her would be the worst mistake he could make. Sure, he could probably help her, but who knew what consequences his actions would have. Who knew who would come after her a year down the line. Five years later, ten? Ray couldn't account for his actions in the past few hours, and he had no idea what the consequences would be, but he didn't care.
He didn't care what happened to himself, but he couldn't let his actions affect Rachel, not any more.
Ray crumpled the note up and dropped it in the centre console.
He started the engine, that had stalled in the slide, and made his way home.
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