Free Jill Jackson - 04 - Watch the World Burn by Leah Giarratano Page A

Instead, he and Jonno hadn’t even stopped their detailed analysis of the last Rabbitohs game; they’d just wandered over to the brick toilet block and circled the small building, announcing that they were police.
    Troy stumbled, negotiating a gutter crossing McEvoy Street. He righted himself, kept running, still trapped in his memories. What had emerged from that dark, dank doorway was a slow-motion nightmare he’d had most nights since. But back then it was real.
    A two-metre monster in a full-length duffle coat stepped out, the parts of his face not hidden by a wild beard distorted by insanity. But the shotgun he held seemed the biggest thing in the space, and the only thing Troy wanted to do was to get the fuck away from there. Spinning simultaneously with Jonno, left hand scrabbling for his firearm, the other in the middle of Jonno’s back, pushing him faster, Troy and his partner had gone flying with the force of the blast. The blast that ripped right through two fingers of his hand, and then through Jonno’s thoracic spine.
    Troy gripped his right hand with his left as he ran, flat-out now, trying to stop the burning. He didn’t notice a woman yank her son off the pavement and out of his path when she saw him coming.
    He remembered rolling on the grass in the park, coming up with his gun. The monster in black standing over them. Firing madly, single-handed, into its face, knowing he’d miss, knowing he was dead. And then the monster’s hair had flown off, and it had swayed, crashed to the ground.
    This part of the tape usually stopped here, thank Christ. Troy thought of that section as the horror movie. Later, he’d get the sob story show, followed by the bitter and twisted drama. The screening order was never predictable, but the basic program and session times remained the same.
    But now he had a new addition to the library. Miriam Caine. His memories of her death were more frustrating than frightening. As Troy wound his way up Wyndham Street, he slowed to a jog, his breathing ragged. Why was she killed? How was she killed? He knew what had killed her, but he had no fucking clue how it was done. He tried again to remember the couple as they entered the restaurant. Dominique must have seated them. When was accelerant put onto her clothing? Who lit her up?
    How on earth did this happen? And why?

13
    Saturday, 27 November, 12.03pm
    ‘Good girl, back you go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Jill hefted her favourite new thing – her shiny blue Dyson vacuum cleaner – into the cupboard in the hall. ‘Well, maybe not tomorrow,’ she muttered, padding back to the kitchen. She told herself she’d been a bit slack with the cleaning lately. Well, hardly slack, she realised. Dusting, vacuuming and mopping every day was not ‘normal’, according to ‘people’. ‘But I’ve been a bit more normal with cleaning,’ she said aloud. ‘Yessiree, Jackson. Walking around naked, talking to yourself ... You are so normal.’
    She stuck her head in the fridge, rifled around, trying to salvage something for lunch from her Scotty-plundered kitchen. God, it’s good to be home, she thought, immediately noting the absence of the cask of wine, as she did every time she opened the fridge door. Undercover, three months ago in a rundown housing-commission flat, she’d had to have the wine waiting when her neighbours came to call, or they’d have thought her some kind of freak. Either that or a born-again Christian. Either way, that meant victim out there. The cask had seemed to squat there, malevolently, blighting everything else. And it had mocked her, taunted her, called to her at night. Come and get pissed. I’m in here – might as well drink me. Who’s gonna know? You know you want to.
    She grabbed a heavy head of iceberg lettuce from the crisper and what was left of the block of tasty cheese she’d bought on Monday. How he isn’t fat, I’ll never know, she thought, shaking her head and kicking the door closed. She