Free ThornyDevils by T. W. Lawless

Double shooting,’ Peter flung at him. ‘Ninety-two George Street, Clifton Street.’
    ‘I’ll be there in three. Just live two streets away.’ Silence. Mad Dog must have thrown down the phone.
    Peter dived into his new suit pants and a T-shirt. He flung the suit jacket over his shoulder. Out the door . He was running down the stairs towards the Stag with the image of a helicopter landing under fire in Vietnam in his head. He threw himself into the car, pulled open the choke and turned over the ignition. The Stag roared lustfully, suddenly injected with adrenaline. He pressed down the accelerator several times just to make sure. Thank God. The Stag is alive. Don’t let me down .
    He propelled the car down the street, its well-worn tyres screeching and shuddering against the bitumen as he hurtled around a corner. He peeked at the speedometer. Twice the limit, and no police, or anyone else, around. I hope they’re not at the shooting yet . He glanced at his wristwatch. No wonder. It’s five thirty. The Pulse is coming, Peter thought.
    Mad Dog’s Harley Davidson was already at the front of number ninety-two, a double storey period brick house, with a concrete driveway down the side. He noted the house’s name on a large plaque over the front door. Serenity .
    Mad Dog wasn’t in sight. He’d probably already gone into action. Peter threw open the car door and sprinted across the footpath towards the guttural sobbing of a woman emanating from the house. The sobs turned to wailing, loud and distressing. He could hear a chorus of sirens in the far distance. Groans echoed out of the garage at the end of the driveway.
    First glimpse: A grey-haired woman wearing a floral nightie is hunched over, kneeling on the ground in the entrance of the garage, her face and nightie blotched with blood.
    Second glimpse: Mad Dog standing over the woman, spooling off shot after shot of the carnage, his face blank. What the fuck? What the fuck? Mind reeling, Peter reaches the garage.
    The woman is bent over a man sprawled on the ground beside the open passenger door of a BMW, his balding head resting against the wheel. He looks to be the same age as the woman but it’s hard to tell. The garage is a slaughterhouse. Blood is smeared across the car door from the man’s hand. It’s as if a hose has been left on and it is running blood, not water, over the concrete floor. The woman is on the ground, crouching in a deep pool of claret. A thin stream of blood seeps from the man’s neck. There is so much blood it obscures the man’s face. The woman grasps the man’s neck tightly with both hands, trying to stem the flow. Peter stands frozen just outside, the open garage door framing the horror within. It is overwhelming. Mad Dog’s camera whirrs. He’s still taking photos. He is possessed. The woman screams for help. She screams at Mad Dog, who ignores her.
    ‘Get away, you scum!’ The woman picks up a bloody slipper she’s been wearing and throws it at Mad Dog. It hits him in the head leaving a gory footprint on his forehead. His camera clicks. She looks down atthe man, who is trying to talk. He’s turning a dusky blue and drifting in and out of consciousness. Again, he is trying to talk. Peter wants to walk away, but his feet are now stuck to the concrete. He shakes his head and frowns. None of this is right , he thinks, yet he can’t tear himself away.
    ‘Don’t talk, Pat,’ she begs. ‘Save your strength.’ One of the man’s red hands reaches up and pulls her head towards his mouth. He mutters to her. Peter observes the scene unfolding, edging forward to hear. A deathbed confession? A final expression of love? A dying will and testament? They both strain to listen.
    ‘Yes, yes, Pat, I can hear you,’ she says, stroking his face. ‘Save your strength. We’ll get them.’
    Peter is an eavesdropper. He feels ashamed. He can hear the cacophony of sirens now in the street. The woman looks directly at him. Her eyes are dilated