“Where were you all night boy?” John asked.
“At a mate’s place. We got on the piss,” Mark said.
“Did you hear about this killer offing blacks and chucking their bits into the fountain?”
“The one on Queen’s street?”
“Yeah.”
“Bloody oath!”
“This is the third one, and now they are thinking of cameras.”
The old man folded the newspaper. He stood up and spat.
“So, what if the killer throws a couple of fingers from across the road? That won’t show up on the camera, will it?” Mark said.
“Suppose they haven’t thought of that.” John sat and went back to reading.
They watched the red hills in the distance.
“If you ask me, they had it coming.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what God gives you for sitting around doing nothin.”
“And for stinking like open sores.”
They laughed.
The telephone rang. Mark went inside.
John stopped reading and listened to the muffled conversation. He watched the birds on the horizon – an arrowhead tearing the sky red.
He sighed.
It was time to switch on the lights, but he couldn’t be bothered. Ever since Emma left for her treatment, he had sought comfort in the darkness.
Mark returned and sat down on the steps.
“What did she say?” John asked.
“She said it hurt,” Mark’s voice quivered.
The old man approached Mark and put a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s going to be ok son.”
They heard the gates to the property open.
A cop car pulled up to the shed beside the large mango tree, and the cattle dog tied to it went berserk. She howled and struggled, sending saliva and dust flying into the air.
“Shut up you mongrel!” John shouted.
“Who’s that?” Mark wiped his eyes.
“It’s got to be that ugly bastard Ryan.”
“What does he want?”
“You haven’t bumped the truck, have you?
““No.”
“Noticed a few scratches on there.”
“Nah. Didn’t drive last night either. Nathan dropped me home.”
“Howdy,” Officer Ryan said walking up the path. “Some fierce mongrel you got there.”
“Bloody dog,” Mark said.
The officer lit a cigarette.
“G’day Ryan,” John said.
“Like what you’ve done with the tanks.” The officer pointed at the artwork.
“Mark’s woman draws pictures.”
“How is she going?”
“She’s getting better,” Mark said.
The officer nodded.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the killer,” the officer said.
“Yeah, what about him?” Mark asked.
“We don’t know if it’s a man.”
“Anyone capable of such crimes ain’t human.” John remarked.
“Could be a woman is what I meant?” The officer moved closer. “We have installed cameras to catch the sick fuck.”
“The cameras?” The old man grinned.
“What about the cameras?”
“Nothing, we were just wondering, if someone chucked an arm or a leg from afar…” Mark said with a smile.
The policeman looked from the son to father, trying to assess the truth of their conduct.
“Where were you last night Mark?”
“Mate’s place. Getting smashed.”
“And you John?”
“Why? You think I’m hopping around on my bad knee chopping up Abos?”
“You didn’t happen to drive up to Dead man’s creek late in the night, did you?”
“No. Why?”
“Do you mind if I have a look around?”
“Go ahead mate,” John said with a frown.
The officer inspected the backyard and the shed while the old man did the crossword. He was pondering the number 60, across, ‘some are hard to crack’, when the officer came out of the steel structure, cursing and waving the half smoked cigarette in front of him as if to ward off the heat.
“Where did your truck get those scratches from?” The officer asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Roo,” John said. Mark looked at him. “Not the first one we’ve nailed in the last few weeks.”
The officer nodded.
“Find the coon killer in the yard, mate?” John asked.
The officer crushed the cigarette under his boot.
“All right gentlemen, thanks for your time.”
“Sure,” Mark said.
“See you later aye.”
When the cop left, the old man spat. He watched the departing vehicle and said, “Fucking pigs.”
Mark nodded.
***
John grew tired of waiting. Time passed like the laborious journey of a behemoth across the red desert. He watched his son grow sadder and the silence of inevitability invaded their home. There was a hum in the air that grew louder each day.
Mark flew to Brisbane.
John stopped going to church.
He took the dog to the backyard and shot her in the head. He sat next to her body, beer in his hand, and he cried and prayed as he watched flies gather around the wound.
It was a month before the old man decided to retrieve the plastic case, from the storage in the boat. It was wrapped in tarpaulin and tied firmly with a rope from an old clothesline.
The weatherproof fishing coat had suffered damage from his last trip. He poked the damaged fabric.
“Time to get a new one,” he muttered.
He threw the coat into the back of the truck and sat in the shade of a tree to sharpen the machete.
***
John drove into town a little after midnight. He parked the truck in the darkness and watched the group seated under the streetlight.
They passed around a packet of chips and shared smokes. They bantered and clapped and thumped each other on the back. A young shirtless boy started singing and a woman stood up and danced. A few of them joined her, bottles in hand.
Sometime later a bearded man got up. He gathered his belongings, and he kissed and hugged everyone. He sang as he staggered in the direction of the vehicle. Then he turned around and screamed at the group, and they waved and laughed.
John closed his eyes and listened. He sneered at their laughter, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if it were the anchor of his faith.
The singing man passed the truck. A few moments later, John picked up the machete from the passenger seat and stepped out into the night.
He followed quietly, tracking every movement. He rolled his wrist, feeling the weight of the weapon.
The man sang, unaware of the danger that trailed him.
“This is it. This is it!” He raised the machete.
John felt something sharp burn through his back and when he looked down, a blade covered in blood and faeces, emerged from his belly. First, he didn’t register this as unusual, as if the steel had always been a part of his body. It withdrew, and before he could let out a scream, a hand covered his mouth.
The knife entered him again, this time higher.
John tasted blood and raised his hands in the air, as if to protest. He felt a weight shift in his belly and escaped its confines. His attacker slowly placed his body on the ground.
The black man’s song faded into the night as John’s eyelids grew heavily.
The last thing he felt was being dragged on the grass to a darkness where stars were forbidden.
***
The next day’s headlines: BODY PARTS IN FOUNTAIN – KILLER CLAIMS FIRST WHITE VICTIM.
The editorial blamed the police for not installing enough cameras.
Nikesh Murali's work (which includes comics, poems and short stories) has appeared in more than 80 publications worldwide. His poems have been translated into Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and French. He won the Commonwealth Short Story Prize for the Asian region in 2011. His poetry was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2007. He has completed his Masters in Journalism from Griffith University for which he was awarded the Griffith University Award for Academic Excellence in 2005, and his Masters in Teaching from James Cook University and a Bachelors degree in English Literature and World History from University of Kerala. He is working towards his Doctorate in Creative Writing at James Cook University. 
