870 Express

Alan Hancock

At the end of the day what he liked most was to pour himself a double scotch, Johnnie Walker Black Label and to hell with the cost. He’d put Perry Como on the old Bang and Olufsen, then slip a new magazine into the shotgun. Remington 870 Express, best thing they ever made. He’d bought it years ago. Discontinued line – didn’t make them like that any more, bit like him. Felt nice too. Just heavy enough, so you knew you’d got a gun in your hands.

He’d brought it back from the place they’d had on the south coast. Used it for the rats and the tiger snakes. Never did get a licence but who’s counting anyway. Bremer Bay before the yuppies bought it all up. Bloody paradise but rough as old boots, before the estate agents got hold of the farmer and he subdivided the lot. When they arrived it was the whole bay all to themselves. Bought a five acre block in 79 and put a games room on it. Drove the fucker down from Perth on a low loader, then got some Vietnam vet with a tractor to drag it through the peppermints and tee trees. Water tank, kero fridge, bottle of gas for the lights. No power – no yuppies. Used to take Remington and the dogs and knock off the odd roo in the national park. No greenies – no problem.

Bit later they had a little solar panel on a pole for the phone and the hi-fi. Parrots used to shit on it and block the thing up. Place crawling with frogs and snakes, look out the window and you could see three miles to the end of the bay and not a single roof to spoil it. Those were the days. Wouldn’t go back there now if you paid him. Sold up when the developer came round and he’d seen the whole hillside pegged out all neat and nice in quarter acres ready for the bulldozer. Broke his heart but it had paid for the divorce settlement. Got Jenny off his back so he could keep the house up here. Had the gun for years but you’d have to drive all the way to Jerrimanjup to get it licenced, and once you start talking to the cops about guns it’s all just a load of trouble anyway, so why bother.

Just loved the way those cartridges slid in all clunky snap click. Just loved the way Perry did it every night. There wasn’t much else left these days. If they wanted him tonight then they’d have to come and get him. He knew they were out there alright. Kids mostly, running wild with all that drug shit and rap music addling their brains. He’d seen them out there in the shadows. One morning he’d found all that drug paraphernalia in a corner down by the back fence – syringes, coke cans they’d worked up so they could smoke whatever it was they smoked. He’d told Dallas and he said why not call the cops. Well fuck that. He’d dealt with a lot worse in his time, doing things his way. So come on, just step into range my weirdo friends, just step in a little closer and see what you get for dinner from your old uncle Mac.

None of the old crowd left round here any more – all dead or moved out. The place was going to hell in a handcart. Used to be a time when they had their own shops, real shops mind: butchers, grocers, men’s outfitter, not all that tattoo parlour and internet shit. One moment it’s families bringing up their kids and people know everyone else, the next you’ve got some dickhead pissing in your front porch then putting a brick through your car window. Everyone putting up security screens, big fences, cameras. Families gone, bunch of strangers moving in. Fucking finished, that’s what it was.

Only place he knew – been here since he got out of the army and he wasn’t going anywhere else. Why should he? Just so some prick in a flashy suit could knock the place down, subdivide and put up some concrete shithouses with those windows you couldn’t see into. Few weeks ago another of them had come round. Suit, gold watch, smooth face, all smiles and handshake. Oily bastard. Well he could fuck off with the rest of them. The last proper house left in the street and he wasn’t going anywhere until he was in a box.

Everything gone. Everyone moved out. His turn soon. But he wasn’t giving up, oh no, oh no sirree. When Jenny had left he’d taken it hard. Went off with some dickless pensioner academic to a retirement village on the coast. What the hell sort of life was that? Well she could sit there with her scrabble evenings and flower arranging classes. They could have their asses wiped by some creepy nursing assistant. He’d rather die with his boots on. If this was the way it had to be well so be it. He could handle a weapon, he’d seen action alright. Been out there on patrol when your life depended on it. Fuck ‘em.

Now you couldn’t even buy a loaf of bread or a lamb chop in the high street. Not unless you went to that foreigner bloke in the deli, the one with a funny way of looking at you. Like his expression never changed and he couldn’t smile to save his life. Couldn’t understand a joke. Family business, that’s the way they did it of course. Keep it all tight together and nothing wrong with that, but they had a funny way of doing it and it never felt right to him. Had a baseball bat behind the counter, he’d seen it. Baseball bat and one of those metal night sticks like the American cops used. What kind of shop was that supposed to be? But he didn’t blame them. You needed it these days. More the fucking pity.

Something happening - there was movement down by the fence. He eased back the safety, turned up the volume, then settled himself down into the old chair. Perry was telling him to catch a falling star and he felt like singing along. You’ll have a pocket full of starlight, or an ass full of bird shot he said to himself, and almost fell off the chair laughing. Shit, this was going to be the night, he could just tell. And he was ready. Perry Como, now wasn’t he just the best?

End.