Johnny

      Garry Porter struggled to his feet, wobbled and flopped back down onto the thin, stained mattress that lay stuffed into the corner of his dingy one-roomed flat. He groaned and held his head in his hands. “I’ve gotta get my shit together,” he said as he made another feeble attempt to get out of bed. “Later…,” he moaned, as he rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into something that probably was once a pillow.

      Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt. Gary groaned at the sound of the doorbell.  He seized the ends of the pillow and tried to cover his ears. Bzzzzt, bzzzzt.  “Garry Porter! This is the police. Open up.”  Garry sprang to his feet and searched the room for signs of anything incriminating. Thump! Thump! Thump! “Open the door Garry. We know you are in there."

      He grabbed hold of the top of his thread bare pyjama pants to hold them on his emaciated body and stumbled towards the door, kicking aside several empty beer bottles as he picked his way through dirty dishes and soiled clothes. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Open up Garry or we’ll kick it in!”
“Yeah! Yeah! Don’t get yer knickers in a twist.” He said patting down his matted hair. “I’m comin’.”
 
      As he turned the lock, the door burst open, sending him sprawling across the floor. Two men dressed in police uniforms barged in. One proceeded to shuffle around the room turning furniture over and scattering old porn magazines. The other seized Garry by the hair and dragged him to his feet. “What ever it is… I…I… didn’t do it,” Garry cowered.

“Now, now Gazza,” said the policeman as he tidied up Garry’s hair. “We are not going to mess up that pretty, baby face of yours, are we Sergeant?”

“If course not,” the second policeman replied as he picked up a magazine and opened it at the centrefold. “We just wanted to see if you are ok.” Garry grinned a nervous toothless grin. “Are you OK?” The Policeman rolled the magazine into a cylinder and thumped it against his leg.

“Sure! Sure I am,” said Garry fidgeting modestly with the fly on his pyjamas with one hand as he gathered up the overstretched waistband with the other.

“Good! Then you won’t want this. Garry tilted his head backwards so he could see the tiny plastic sachet that law officer was holding close to his face.

“I…I…I’m not that good” he stuttered.

“Need some… ‘medicine’ then?”

“Could use some for my chest…” Garry suddenly developed a hacking cough.

“Doesn’t sound too well!” said the second policeman.

“Nah! He’s ok. He looked worse the last time we saw him.”

“After you were finished with me,” Garry mumbled.

“We weren’t finished with you. We will never be finished with you!” Garry backed away. “You need us for your ‘medicine’ and we need you to tell us what’s going on around here.”

         The second policeman whacked Garry across the back of his head with the magazine. “Got any news for us then, Gazza?”

“Ahhh! Why’d ya have to do that?”

“You look like you need a little ‘tenderising’. You need softening up.”

“You forgot something, didn’t you, Gazza?” said the first policeman. “You forgot our date!”
The second officer hit him again. “You forgot to meet us at the race track.” Whack! The magazine pounded again against Garry’s cheek.

“Ow!” Garry rubbed his face as a small swelling began to form at the corner of his eye. “W… was that t’day?” he whined.

“This morning to be precise.” Whack! Another blow from the magazine sent Garry reeling, covering his head with his arms. “Five hours ago!”

“You don’t even know what day it is, do you? The first policeman said as he pushed Garry backwards. The second placed a chair in the perfect position. Garry fell clumsily. Guided by the man behind him he landed, skewed across the seat. As he up righted himself, the first policeman walked up and stood in front of him. Bending down, looking him square in the eyes he placed a hand on each of Garry’s thighs and squeezed. Garry held his breath and grimaced.

“Who’s cuttin’ in on our dance?”

“Ain’t anybody I know about.” Garry drew a deep breath against the pain.

“Sure. We believe you Gaz.” He said patting him almost tenderly on his bruised cheek as his partner walked out into the hall.  “See ya.” He tossed him the sachet as he left closing the door quietly behind him.

         Garry sat for a moment while his pulse settled.  He stood up, walked over and picked up the sachet. He carefully drew himself a line, tore a piece of the magazine and rolled it into a tube, bent forward and snorted the white powder. As he leant back in the chair he felt the first rush.

         Detective Marcus Stoodley opened the door of the unmarked police car and slipped in behind the wheel. As Sergent Michael McHugh climbed in the passenger seat, Gary Porter, alone in the drab second storey flat struggled to his feet. With white foam oozing from his mouth and nose he clutched at his chest, staggered several steps towards the door and collapsed. “Bad medicine…” he gurgled.

      As night fell all that could be heard in the dingy room was the persistent buzz of a blowfly against the smudgy windowpane and the muffled roar of the traffic in the street below as the lights changed.

                                                        Chapter Two

      Johnny unclipped his seatbelt and watched as all the other passengers stood up, opened their overhead lockers and rummaged around for their belongings. It had been a long flight and he was as eager to get off the plane as anyone else, but he knew, from experience, that it was just as easy to stay put and wait until the aisles cleared before he made his move.

      He followed the stream of passengers along the concourse to where his luggage was waiting for him, lost in a jumble of bags, suitcases and backpacks as it rumbled along on the conveyor belt. He spotted the first of them easily but had to wait for the second to come around again. It meant that he was one of the last of the passengers to leave the area but he didn’t mind.

      Johnny was never one to stress too much about anything and even now at the end of a long journey he wasn’t in a hurry. He had only to take the train to Newtown Station and, from what he could see on the Internet, it was a just short walk to the flat in Station Street. It had barely gone three o’clock and he had arranged to meet the caretaker at the flat at four.

      Like everyone else born after the technological revolution, Johnny accepted the rapid development of technology as the natural evolution of the modern era. He had used ‘Google Earth’ to pinpoint not only his building but also the floor and his flat (or at least its window.) He had taken a ‘snapshot” and printed it out. As he sat on the train he took out his wallet and unfolded the photo. He studied the street and noticed a blue car parked outside the front door. “Looks like those two policemen just had some business in there,” he thought as he studied the two uniformed men. One was just opening the door of the car while the other was making his way towards the passenger side.

      Johnny was no stranger to trouble. He had had a couple of convictions relating to drug possession and drug use, but he left all that behind when he went to Japan. Now after five years working in Nagasaki he was glad to be home.

      He had grown up in Western Australia. He was the son of a miner but his parents had split when he was nine, so he spent most of his early life in Perth. He had studied music and played in a couple of bands but it wasn’t until he saw an advertisement for teachers of english in Japan that he thought about travel. After a series of interviews and a bit of training he flew off into a new life.

      His visa had been renewed several times but with the year 2012 quickly approaching he realised that the time had come for him to get back into the world he knew and understood. He applied for several courses and had been accepted as a ‘mature age’ student into Sydney University to begin an arts degree. At twenty-seven he felt maturity was still something he had yet to achieve. Taking life seriously he felt, was an acquired taste, one that he was still developing.

      Orientation week was little more than a month away. He needed to settle in and find himself a part time job to help fund the new life. Finding the flat had been easy. A friend of an acquaintance in Japan lived in the building and after a few phone calls it was all organised. “It’s not much but it is furnished,” his contact had said in an email.

      “Next stop, Newtown,” brought most people in the carriage to their feet. Johnny had placed himself with his luggage near the door for a quick exit and was the first to step onto the platform.
He made his way down the crowded street past coffee shops, a hotel with music pumping out of its doorways and windows and colourful knick-knack shops. He crossed at the lights and stopped and looked around him. The people were friendly and relaxed. He could hear laughter coming from the sidewalk café behind him. “I think I’m going to like it here,” he thought as he started to walk down a back alley.

      It was narrow and littered with signs of ‘No Parking’ and ‘Resident’s Parking Only’.  Down each side of the gravel lane were high fences built from a variety of materials and in various states of repair with layers of graffiti covering all available space.

      About half way down, he spotted the two-storey block of flats. In the middle of it’s part of the fence, was a bright red, wooden door on which, roughly painted in white, was the number 666. Johnny opened it and went in. He found himself in a small courtyard overgrown by ivy and weeds. A black and white cat yawned and stretched in a small patch of sun that peeped in through a gap in the canopy of leaves that swamped a trellis. Johnny lowered his head to walk under it.

      At the end of a cracked path that led alongside the building was a weathered door. He knocked and waited. After the third attempt he heard a window slide open on the floor above. “Yeah, what do you want?”

“I’m the new tenant in 12a. I was supposed to meet Wayne. He’s got my keys.”

“Yeah. That’s me. I’ll be down in a minute.”

         Johnny put his bags down and stretched. The combination of the flight, and the weight of his bags, had begun to take their toll and he couldn’t wait to have a shower and turn in.  Just as he turned to try to find something to sit on, he heard the thumping of hurried footsteps coming down stairs and the lock turn. The door opened. Johnny smiled and held out his hand but the man just stood there staring. “Bloody hell!” he said. “You look just like him!”

“Who?” asked Johnny feeling quite taken aback by the stranger’s outburst.

“Oh. Gee, sorry mate. Wayne’s the name an’ havin’ a good time an’ not gettin’ caught, is the game!”

“Yeah. Ok,” Johnny replied cautiously as he watched the stranger shake his head.

“Bloody hell! The likeness is scary.”

“What are you talking about?” Johnny picked up his bags and followed Wayne into a small room. He waited as he closed the door and locked it.

“You! You are the spitting image of the dude who used to live in your flat.”

“Oh. I guess that is a bit weird.”

“Yeah. I’d swear you was him ‘cept for one thing… Well two things really. The first is you’ve got teeth and the second and probably the most important…he’s dead!”

“Well that proves it then,” said Johnny beginning to see a bit of humour in the strange behaviour of the man he just met.


         The stairs led up to the second floor.  Johnny followed struggling with the bags, as the stair well was narrow and the stairs very steep. “Yeah! They had a bit of trouble getting’ him outta here.” Wayne said as if he had read Johnny’s thoughts. “In the end they hadda lower him out the window on a rope.”

“What did he die of?”

“Dunno. Natural causes I suppose. Seems to me that death, being natural, it makes sense.” Johnny scratched his head as he waited for Wayne to shuffle through dozens of keys until he tried one. “Now if he’d disappeared in a puff of smoke that could be considered ‘unnatural causes’.”  He held up the bunch of keys and carefully selected one. “Nope. Not that one either.” Johnny put his bags down. “Nope…and nope.” Wayne frowned. “Oh! That’s right,” he said stuffing his hand in his pocket. “I took ‘em off the ring this mornin’ to make it easier to give 'em to ya.” He grinned. Johnny could see a perfect white smile under the scruffy moustache. “That sure didn’t work did it?” he added as he opened the door.

         The room was dark and musty smelling. Wayne walked over and drew back the curtain. It didn’t seem to make much difference. “You’re lucky. They put new furniture in here on account that he died in here and it was a week before they found him.” Johnny looked around the room. The bed was single with a faded blue chenille bedspread. Beside it was a white laminated bedside table on which stood a small lamp. The dining table was wooden and the chairs were made of steel and vinyl. “Well it’s new for this place.” Wayne added.

      In the corner, on top of a wooden box was a small television. “It ain’t Buckin’ham Palace but it gets good TV reception,” he said as he switched on the television and sat down on the only lounge chair. “Look! It’s a recliner rocker,” he said. Enthusiastically. Johnny detected a genuine sense of pride in that last fact and realised that Wayne had furnished the flat himself.

“So who owns these flats?” Johnny asked as he placed his bags on the bed.

“Um… not sure.” Wayne replied vaguely as he concentrated on changing the channels. “Some bloke in Japan I think.”  He put the remote on the arm of the lounge chair and settled in to watch the show. “Never met him. The guy in number four has though. He’s Japanese.”

         Johnny stretched and yawned. “Well I think I’ll have a shower and get some sleep,” he said and waited for Wayne to take the hint.

“OK. Don’t mind me. I’ll close the door when I go.”


                                                    Chapter Three.

         Johnny spent the first couple of days in Australia sleeping and doing some chores. He bought some food to stock the cupboards but before he could bring himself to pack them away he had to clean the shelves. It wasn’t that he was a ‘clean freak’. The cupboards were nothing short of grimy.

         “I don’t know how people live like this,” he said. As he reached into wipe the top shelf, a small envelope caught on the cloth. It wasn’t addressed to anyone so he opened it. Inside he found a faded picture of a skinny, fair-haired boy holding a cricket bat. He was standing in a yard that was surrounded by a paling fence. When he turned it over he found the words “My Brother. 1981”. Just then he heard a soft knock on the door. “Who is it?” he called as he placed the photo on the table.

“Shaylie. Shaylie Johnson. I live down the hall in number seven”. Johnny opened the door to find a small woman, dressed in ‘goth’ with heavy black makeup. “I heard you were here,” she said in a husky, child-like voice as she fidgeted with her fingers, twisting them around at painful looking angles while she stared coyly into Johnny’s eyes. “I thought I would say hello and um, check you out,” she said as she slowly walked towards him. Johnny put his arm across the door to bar her way but she ducked under it. He felt her push against him as she entered the room. As she turned around to face him she pulled a half empty bottle of rum out of the fold of the heavy black lace overlay in her skirt. “I thought you might like to celebrate. You know sort of a ‘house warming’.

         Johnny wasn’t sure of how old she was. She was small and slender and had a child-like manner but the lines around her eyes told a different story. “Why not,” he said as he found a glass and a jar and gave them a rinse. “These will have to do.”  He watched her pour the drinks.

      Shaylie moved constantly, nodding her head and moving her shoulders as though she were dancing. It wasn’t until he caught sight of a thin wire under her hair that he realised why. “What are you listening to,” he asked half out of a need to make conversation and half out of curiosity.

“Led Zepplin.”

“Wow! My mum used to listen to his music. She was a wild fan of his.”

“Actually. It’s not mine,” she said pulling the earplug out of her ear. It belonged to Gazza.  I borrowed it off him a while back.”

“Gazza?”

“The guy who… you know… died,” she said as she handed him the ‘walkman’.  Johnny turned it over in his hands.

“I haven’t seen one of these for years,” he said.  “Was he a friend of yours?” Johnny asked trying to be sensitive.

“We got stoned together a bit,” she giggled.  “You want a smoke, maybe?”

“No thanks,” I used to but I don’t anymore.” Shaylie put the leather pouch back into the pocket of he jacket and stared at him.

“My God!” she squeaked. “Wayne was right. You really do look like him.” She wriggled a little and wet her lips with her tongue. “Maybe you just want to ‘play’,” she said as she danced her way towards him. “Gazza liked to get stoned and ‘play’.

      Johnny stepped aside. “I really have a lot to do,” he said holding out the 'walkman'. Shaylie looked disappointed and then pouted.

“No. It’s yours!” she said as he turned to open the door. “You should listen to it sometime. Maybe it will put you in a better mood.”