Chapter 25
Premeditated
Bad news involving Sam’s father’s health came as bit of a shock. The
medical report was worse than expected when they learnt the official diagnosis
was malignant throat cancer. Don was saddened immensely, he knew Mr. Clay as a
caring person who always took the time to tend to those around him, but the
hardships of unemployment and the stretches of boredom accompanying his manner
of living took their toll. Always a heavy drinker and a chain smoker was a
health peril that was sure to end in devastation. Visits to the hospital became
draining for all concerned so Don took in a bit of recreation to clear his
head. One fine Saturday morning he packed a rifle and drove to an area he had
not visited for years, a place he knew the pastures fed the mammal family of Leporid
well. Rabbits and hares were plenty in this region near Wirrageen where he regularly wandered with his past, so-called
friends, Sam, Weepy and Sterge. It was ages since his last visit but he noticed
no change in the countryside. It was especially treasured for its thick bush,
surrounding sparse farm land, and lacking the masses of people and clutter;
tranquillity suited his spirit. He parked on the side of a dirt road amongst
the trees, a good walking distance from the area he was to shoot in. The idea
of the long walk to the hunting grounds was for the safety of his car, he did
not want to put a bullet through it. And the longer the track the more he
gained satisfaction from social isolation; it served to attain a healthier
peace of mind.
This neck of the woods refreshed his memory of past predilections like
the good times experienced with Mr Clay. His reminiscing encompassed many
aspects of life, all boiling around in his head, going from people to
behaviours and back again. Unfortunately it divagated to the many sad occasions
he spent with the others. Roaming aimlessly with each step offering
recollections of the pleasures, experiences, anguish and inflictions of his
experiences, his family, and his girlfriends, he thought: ‘I loved Mr Clay he always made me feel welcome and treated me like an
adult.’ Digressing again he remembered the years of other playful
encounters, such as sex with Fran, fishing with Sam and Weepy, camping, love
and the acts of juvenile mischievousness. His mind was adrift in a bubble of
self-indulged pity and took to thinking of the funny times, like the days they
would drive old cars around the bush weaving in and out of trees wearing a
track of definitive recognition. In one of the cars they fixed a vessel of
petrol on the dash of the passengers’ side with a siphon hose in it to gravity
feed the carburettor because the petrol pump was incapable of functioning; it
worked. Brakes were a luxury ill afforded and bricks were thrown under the
wheels to stop the car from rolling away or at times slow it down. Sometimes
the aid of a head-on collision with a tree was required for an emergency stop.
Another time they built a ‘billy cart’ out of scrap timber utilising a wooden
orange box for the seat and pram wheels for motional capabilities. The main ‘T’
stay at the front had a bolt through the middle to hold and let turn the
steering arm, this in itself was operated by both feet, and rope handles were
attached to each side to pull on to help the steering process. Axles were
simple in construction, thin iron rods with nails and fencing staples bent
around to fasten them onto the timber. The cart was towed behind a car with
successful but dangerous results. At first the tow was slow and careful, as
confidence grew and the car driver’s good judgement became supplemented by
stupidity the cart was broad-siding around corners and skimming trees until
speed got the better of Don’s ability to keep it safe; it drifted straight into
a tree throwing him off to one side. The bolt holding the steering split the
main timber from one end to the other. Everyone thought it a big joke and Weepy
commented on what could have been a ‘split personality’ if Don remained seated.
These thoughts and thoughts like them put a smile on his face.
The leisurely amble was now a good half a kilometre through heavy
bushland and in sight was an immense clearing, cow cocky land where warrens
with colonies of rabbits would congregate; thousands of them. In passing over
the treeless tract he continued his hike to the other side, then into the bush
again, whistling and listening to the tunes of a variety of birds, each
assisting in his thinking of those carefree days; the days of conflicting
emotions where he still had trouble separating the fun from the misery. In
nearing the rim of the tree line and ready to embark into another open paddock,
he heard a high pitched noise from afar resembling a human cry. With ears
pricked and eyes scouring the area, even louder there was the most terrifying,
pitiful wail of pain joined by agonizing calls for help; like an impending
sacrifice; he knew someone was in trouble. The wildlife went eerily silent. The
screams continued, much worse than the harsh caw of the ‘murder’ of crows
panicking his family many years ago, now it was the crows being stilled by
similar cries. His heart pumped faster and beat harder as he traversed more
ground with longer strides, getting quicker and quicker, forever circumspect
about possible problems he was moving towards. With a sixth sense warning of
endangerment to his safety he stayed alert and slowed to exercise vigilance in
approach. The closer he got the louder the screams. Slowing his pace even more
to a stealthy stalking cringe in preparation for any spur-of-the-moment threat,
he manoeuvred nearer, at times crawling on hands and knees and laying, dragging
his body, and again standing to scout and crouching to elude detection. Then,
close enough, through the gaps in the trees he could see what he could not
believe, his whole body convulsed in grief with the nightmarish reality of what
he was seeing; the shock was horrific.
He witnessed Sterge, Weepy, Sam and Fran, all four of his old friends
drinking and jittering around with fractured chortle as they stood over the
body of Kolora and encouraged each other to participate; she was their
prisoner. On a more careful look at her trembling and lying helplessly in a
horizontal position on the ground, Don noticed the evil these people were
capable of. Each hand was tied to the side of her cheeks, barbed wire
recklessly wrapped around the wrist of one arm, then around her neck and around
the other wrist; no wonder she was motionless. She was strangling herself with
every struggling expression of acute agony. Sterge and Weepy moved to hold one
foot each and stretched her legs wide apart. She was completely naked, in
dreadful pain and unable to control her fearsome crying and screaming which
continued to pierce the still air and echoed through the bush as far as
unperceivable by any saviour’s ears; Don was her only hope. Weepy grimaced at
his victim and gloat while hovering over her with diabolical intent,
incessantly wiping his wet inflamed eyelids; Sterge laughed like a madman, his
inflamed gums oozing saliva. Don could see Sam was hesitant to involve himself
completely, but coercion and pressure from the others was too strong, he had to
conform; the temptation for Sam to animadvert for her welfare was
overwhelmingly repressed. Eventually Sam’s animalistic instincts restrained
from rational witting, he positioned himself to invade her body. Fran helped
hold Kolora’s legs apart while Sam kneeled before her, denigrating her name
while shoving his dick in her and commoved by his own aspersions in response to
an erotic rush of dominance over his victim. Fran was in a state of unrestrained
excitement and enthusiasm, clearly displaying a psychopathic disorder in which
sanity became irrecoverable. After Sam committed the rape he rolled off his
trussed prey. Fran retained her lunacy, she lost all contact with realism,
making apparent a hysterical and delirious soul, molesting wildly, attacking,
grabbing and fingering Kolora’s genitalia before stomping on her pelvic area
with great force and demonstrating amusement while being encouraged by the
others.
Ever since the time Don told Sam about Kolora and Sam told Weepy, Weepy
wanted her for himself. He acted the instigator of the satanic cruelty being
forced upon her and demanded his turn. Likening himself to a rabid cur he
pushed Fran aside and satisfied his urges with multiple rapes and deviant
behaviour. Blood was running freely from the neck and wrists of Kolora. She was
semi–conscious but drained of any defensive resistance and capable only of a
sickly whimper. Don felt immense outrage and a palpable sense of hopelessness
and uncertainty for her life; yet he was unable to take action. He knew for his
own survival the need to remain reticent and cautious was crucial, because any
decision being swift or obtuse would bring their wrath upon him. He was scared
and of the opinion he was unable to oppose them without help. Rape and torture
of an innocent person was taking place right before his eyes; his own
masculinity was put on trial and poorly failed. All through the atrocious
events Sterge stood over the proceedings as a General would over his troops. Up
to now his main input was offering inspiration, but the pace of events
accelerated when he spat out his stem of paspalum and readied himself for
ranking. He had them roll her over while he sodomised her. This practice
permeated the group until they ran amuck in a state of violent mental
agitation; each played further sinister roles while humiliating, torturing,
laughing, and enjoying the power of control over their victim.
Don had not confabulated with this group for many years, he knew Sterge
possessed homicidal tendencies and was capable of anything but failed to
understand how the others could be so merciless. A presumption they were
drugged up and inherited the ‘pack’ mentality and antagonistic mannerisms from
Sterge did not rationalise their behaviour. As Don remained frozen in fright,
still processing the situation, Sterge in glee of his malign invasion spurred
Fran onwards towards a monstrous deterioration of their felony. She rolled the
limp body of Kolora over on her back, grabbed what looked like one of her
‘Pepsi’ bottles, and thrust the large end first up her vagina. The squall of
agony and torment once more pierced space, then sudden silence as consciousness
was fully lost; her trauma was unbearable to watch as the four descended into a
demoniac decent to hell. In temper and phrenetic with anger and frustration Don
held his rifle up and aimed it at Fran, but cowered and lowered it again. He
did not have the courage to pull the trigger for fear of his own life and found
himself in the most awkward quandary; well aware of his responsibility to act,
and of his cowardice in not doing so, because he knew once he gave his position
away the rest of the group would attack.
Fran exacerbated the pain on Kolora; she placed a firecracker in the
bottle she forced inside Kolora’s vagina and lit the fuse, the rest stood to
enjoy the tragic spectacle with jeering and rampant aggression; without
thought, remorse or pity. Don, now lost within his own equally unfavourable
options took aim once more and built-up the courage to pull the trigger. The
bang of the firecracker exploding inside the bottle shattered her insides and
coincided with the misfire of Don’s rifle. He took aim again and ‘click’,
‘click’, ‘click’; nothing; the firing pin jammed as did many times before, now
more than ever he wished he bought a new rifle when it first failed him. The
‘clicking’ was loud enough to alert Sterge to sounds abnormal in a bush
setting. He held up his hand as a directive for the others to remain still, and
listened diligently. Don edged backward a pace in fluster and stepped on a
branch. The sound of the misfires may have been overlooked; the cracking of the
branch was not. It was heard by the maladjusted four as they took a soundless,
stunned stance, looking straight towards his hiding place, detection was not
exact yet, but they were aware an intruder was in their midst and made an
inquisitive rush in his direction. Don jumped to attention and ran for his
life. He heard Sterge shout to his troops;
“There’s someone there,
quick get’em.” As they took flight after Don he was gripped with a sense of
angst for his own safety, and with such a bungling and hasty retreat he
stumbled and struck the stock of his rifle against a tree knocking it out of
his hand. He turned briefly and saw a huge chip in the wooden butt of the
rifle, he hesitated and deliberated its retrieval, but panic reigned supreme;
the hunters were closing-in rendering the recovery impossible so he fled to the
safety of the bush without it.
He hid behind a log in the thick undergrowth, not budging for love or
money. Even the biting of ants and crawling of spiders could not conjure a
response as he stayed in one cramped position for what he considered to be the
whole day; in fact it was about thirty minutes. Just when he pondered partial
alleviation from the danger and prepared to continue his escape, he heard a
gunshot from where the malicious act took place. He promptly ducked back into
hiding and stayed there concealed for hours, only poking his head out sporadically
to observe for savages. Instead he saw a dust trail float up above the trees
from the road heading towards the area where the shooting took place, then ten
minutes later he heard the roaring of a car engine and its tyres spinning in
the gravel. As the dust rose again it gave sign of the vehicle leaving the
grisly scene. He assumed the menacing four had now given up the foot chase and
were leaving to look for him by car, or going home, either way he used the
small window of opportunity to scarper back to his car, and remove all trace of
himself before they came searching the dirt road he was on. Driving home,
restless and incredulous to his experience, he could not understand how Sterge
and his gang got to the spot they were, there was no recollection of a car
there when he observed the horror; there was definitely one going there when he
left, and he heard one or two leave the scene of the crime. If there was a
fifth member he put it in the back of his mind because now he doubted his own
visual acuity. When he got home he sat bewildered, rejecting reality and formed
a barrier of self-deception acting as a defence mechanism: ‘Was it real or did I imagine it?’ The
truth was hard to accept, he wanted to inform his family and the police but
could not bring himself to incriminate those he labelled as guilty, because, if
what he witnessed was true and he snitched he feared reprisal and retaliation
from one of the four. He thought: ‘Besides,
those bastards have my rifle. If I involve the police they’ll find it, trace it
back to me and know I was there. Then assume I took part. What proof do I have
I wasn’t involved? If I dobbed on them they’ll say I was there and I’ll be
blamed along with them. Sam, in fact none of them know who owns the rifle, and
they can’t take it to the police or ask too many questions because they would
incriminate themselves. I wonder if the shot I heard was from my rifle or not;
did it fire? And what was the shot for?’ He reasoned, if the rifle was
handed-in it could be linked to him, or if he come forward with information,
his admission to the eye-witnessing of the crime would also link him to the
atrocity. At this stage he figured it best to keep quiet and wait to see what
injuries Kolora sustained and what story she would tell; after all even she did
not know he was there.
Considering the harsh treatment Don’s past encounters with women
sustained, the mental anguish, pain and emotional stress from seeing another
being tortured could have been of little consequence, only feigning a small impact
on his ability to lead the sad life he was accustomed to. Yet it was quite the
opposite, it influenced him deeply. Because of his indignation regarding her
treatment it turned his sentiments into spates of depression. Alas, pity and
sympathy for Kolora could have been a bold justification, a front for his own
wretched poltroonery, but the real Don always hated seeing the innocent hurt or
traumatised, and understood well the feelings associated with suffering. On
this day, at moment, he made a pledge to himself to change his life forever: ‘Somehow or someway they will be held
accountable for their actions. I assume Kolora will get well again and her
story will see them all put in jail; if not I’ll hunt them down and kill each
and every one of them; this I promise.’
Chapter 26
News
Escaping his own subjugation by the law or the four was only possible by
remaining a silent witness. This took a huge unending toll on Don’s capacity to
serve out a conventional day-to-day routine. His parents were showing an
increased concern for his still diminishing eudemonia and he could not ease his
or their pain. No matter how hard they tried to discuss his ills with him he
was afraid to confide or confess the source of his uneasiness, with them or
anyone else. Ultimately his disturbances were trapped within, and the
increasing amount of alcohol mixed with medicinal pill popping, mostly ‘Prozac’
and ‘Bex’ powders, were entertaining schizophrenic episodes; ultimately
changing his personality and affecting his work for the worse. He was cognizant
of his once friend’s hostilities to everyone, and he knew they knew there was a
witness to their premeditated inhumane persecution of Kolora. He was under the
impression the medication and alcohol minimized the inner evils and gave
solace, and in a way their ingestion did form a mechanism of defence, which in
operation actually banished a lot of the subconscious aberrant and improper
ideas, fantasies, affects and certain impulses from conscious acceptance, but
it also kept out lucid consciousness to a large degree and gave many side
effects. Hence a peculiar paradox arises; the remedial measures he was taking
to correct his psychotic moments were causing most of his irrational behaviours
and decisions.
To infuriate matters and aspirate the actions of his culpable neglect
was the weather; it took a turn for the worst and swamped the region. The
floods were a catastrophe. More rain fell than over the past fifteen years and
a rising oversupply of rainwater overflowed onto normally dry land; everything
was awash. It lasted for weeks and each day Don would scour the papers and
listen to the radio and television but there were to be no reports of Kolora’s
injuries. Incertitude’s towards the whole affair was helping absorb his caitiff
actions and cementing the acts as a figment of his imagination to totally
succeed in convincing himself it never happened, but his delusions were
misplaced. In the third week following, the newspaper headlines read;
‘LOCAL GIRL MISSING. Kolora Mac was
last seen by her parents over two weeks ago. They are concerned for her safety.
She was wearing….. If anyone has any information please contact the police
on……’
Don panicked. The reality hit home hard as he wished it was a nightmare
but knew it was real. He dearly wanted to stop dismissing the truth and come to
terms with his demons and now it had to be. Still, admitting to himself it
occurred involved combating inner denials, this was complicated because he
could legitimatize his apathy for the truth from the need to suppress his
identity from police and the murderers. Also, in spite of not allowing his
mixed deliberations to benefit from any justly concern, he was hampered
mentally with notions of himself as a timid and lamentable failure; his
scrambled, confounded state further affected a self-induced ambiguity in which
he hoped would be made intelligible when they found her and arrested the guilty
parties.
After four weeks of heavy deluge the clouds broke, the weather cleared
and the waters subsided. Shortly following there were reports and news of
tragedy. The newspaper headlines read;
‘MISSING GIRL FOUND MURDERED’.
Don’s heart stopped. He could not believe she was dead and was subjected
to a range of emotions resembling rage, sorrow, guilt and infuriation towards
his own ineptitude in what should have been the prevention of her murder. The
article went on to read;
‘Kolora Mac’s naked body was found
in the receding floodwaters four miles west of Wirrageen in an open paddock by
Tom Rob. Mr Rob was out shooting when he stumbled across Miss Mac’s mutilated
body.’
Don thought to himself; ‘This is a long way from where I was and where I
saw them raping her, and how come Weepy found her? Was this an admission of
guilt? Did he lead them to her and give himself in?’ The report went on to say;
‘There are no suspects at this stage
but the police are treating it as a murder case and undertaking relevant
investigations. Further details will be divulged as they are released. If
anyone can help or offer any information please call the crime squad on ….’
Because of the natural occurrence of unremitting torrential rain over
the past month, Don hypothesized the body washed well away from the actual
scene of her ruination. But he could not fathom why Weepy found the body and
reported it to the police. He speculated; Sam, Weepy, Sterge and Fran, somehow
devised a sort of plan to cover their movements. Don supposed: ‘Firstly, there would be no reason for the
police to suspect any of them, because as far as I’m aware it’s only Sam and me
out of the group who mixed with Kolora, and that was years ago. It would be
doubtful the police could tie the two together because she had lots of friends
at school. Secondly, luckily for them, propitious rain disguised the area in
which she was executed, and the police would never find the kill spot anyway
because the body was miles from its origin. Even if they did find it, the
waters would have washed and destroyed any evidence; and thirdly, it’s been
over a month since her disappearance, the guilty had time to conspire and
provide each other with the perfect alibi by now. When the Coroner releases the
date of death and if they are questioned as to their whereabouts, all they need
to say is, they were all together engaging in the usual mischief at home.’
Using stories of drinking and partying at the time of the murder would
not be uncommon, after all, staying home and drinking was a normal activity for
many of the poor; there was little else to do. Even Mrs Rob would testify to
their story because she was in the habit of seeing them congregate in the yard,
and getting old, her memory would easily have been manipulated by adverse
mnemonics from her own children. Their insurance against either one blabbing
the truth was obvious; if one was accused with any such reprehensible censure
then they would also be incriminating themselves and the rest would see to it
they would be dealt with harshly. As it turned out the body was found by Weepy
because the four connived by sending him shooting to find her body and expose
it to the police, this way, in their demented brains, they thought suspicion
and query would be transferred away from them to other avenues. Their intelligence
so low they reckoned no one would believe anyone to be stupid enough to lead
the police to their own murder scene; and they were right. The police did
interrogate them at great lengths as to their previous movements for which the
other three gave exculpation by solid agreement to their location and Mrs Rob
offered her concurrence to their story.
Nonplussed and irresolute over abjurations regarding his own involvement
teased Don’s muddled brain into selling his ‘Monaro’. He reasoned to himself: ‘If someone saw it parked on the day of the
murder near the scene then there may be questions asked and it would
incriminate me.’ It was an injudicious measure because he would have to
advertise the car and actually make public his own exposure to many, but he was
oblivious to his own retardation and acted out his plan anyway. The advert
would have been no more than two hours old when an interested buyer rang for
his car, and without the common questions relating to mechanical quality or the
like, the caller asked if Don could drive it to his house in Calymea Street for inspection. The
interested party hinted he would surely buy the car straightaway for the
nominated price of eleven hundred dollars and would have the cash ready when he
arrived; Don agreed. His first job was to gather his stash from the back panel
of the car and find a new hiding place. When the chores were taken care of he
drove the car to the address with his father following in his own car to give
him a ride back home after the deal was done. The gentleman buyer was a short
podgy person, with round face and a bald patch at the front of his scalp. He
was pleasant and polite and his wife sociable. One could tell they were horse
lovers by the amount of domesticated quadruped solid-hoofed herbivores roaming
around the denuded yard close by the house. They greeted Don and his father
with a handshake and he introduced himself as Tom and her as Mrs Cummings. Tom
did not want to take the car for a test drive he just wanted to do the deal
without delay and bought it on the spot. The papers were signed over and he
gave Don the cash. Don and his father thought it a bit suspicious but whatever
his reasons for urgency was of no interest to them, besides they had the money
so drove away happy. It was not until much later they were to learn of his
incongruous behaviour relating to the sale of his car and why he was as much
reticent about divulging information about himself as was Don’s reasons for
selling his car.
For now Don was pleased with his sale and purchased an ‘MKII Austin
1800’. His first task was to hide his money. Where he hid the notes in the past
proved easy to get at when he needed extra cash and seemed safe enough, so he
put the parcel in the same spot in the back panel of the new car. Still religiously
scouring newspapers for news about Kolora, he read an article linking a
notorious bank robber by the name of ‘James Edward Jockey Smith’ to his alias;
‘Tom Cummings’. It said Smith shot a police constable and killed bookmaker
‘Lloyed Tidmarsh’. The name ‘Tom Cummings’ hit Don like a brick and he lurched
backwards into a chair dismayed. ‘This is
the person who purchased my car.’ He was shocked and highly perturbed, the
reasons for selling the car in the first place was to remove any possible
publicity which may jog someone’s memory to the characteristics of the
‘Monaro’, now exactly what he was trying to avoid happened. The news
regenerated a nervous malady because he feared questions from the police were
forthcoming and it may attract attention to his own offence of leaving a crime
scene and withholding evidence. The police were bound to do a history check on
the car but his affliction coupled with mental agitation was now a trait of his
pessimism, and on this occasion unwarranted; he was never the subject of
interview.
There had been no mention, accusations or new evidence made available to
the public pertaining to Kolora’s murder for over four months. Don was grateful
this phase passed without insidious altercations. But it was only a matter of
time. At the conclusion of a succession of inquests, the police forensics
released Kolora’s autopsy report to the media. It stated;
‘Miss Mac’s cause of death was from
a heinous crime involving a gunshot wound to the head from a .22 calibre
bullet. She had been raped and attacked in a vicious manner by a degrading cult
of violence. Her whole body was battered and excoriated and her stomach
contents mutilated by the shattering of glass from what was believed to be a
‘Pepsi’ bottle rammed up her vagina. By the remnants of evidence the probable
cause was a ‘firecracker’. Both her eyes were missing and the police think they
are dealing with a person or persons who exhibit a psychopathic personality.
Due to the state of the weather conditions at the time of the murder there has
been no trace of evidence proving useful and the police intend to widen their
search to find the focal point of the crime. They say they will leave no stone
unturned in completing their investigations, and if anyone has any information
to please report to their nearest police station.’
Don was devastated and traumatised at the thought the baneful misfits
who perpetrated Kolora’s death would roam free. He was affronted by the
investigators incompetence, and distraught they did not find fingerprints on
the glass fragments or at least some ratification of proof to tie one of the
four into the murder. He assumed the blast from the exploding cracker being in
such a confined area as the vagina destroyed all the evidence, and was still
torn between telling the truth and remaining in a surreptitious state of
ignorance; he opted for the latter and chose a pernicious case of silence.
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