"Greetings From Down Under," by John Patrick Robbins

 

Cover Art Designed by John Patrick Robbins

Billy played as usual on the kitchen floor; oblivious to everything, as a child should be. He simply was lost in his own little world as he occasionally stared up at his mother, who was dead silent.

“Mommy? What happened to your face?”

Sara ignored the question, hoping her son would simply lose interest.

“Mommy?”

“Billy, just—”

“Hey, champ,” Tom interrupted as he placed his hands on Sara’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, Mommy just had a fall and got an owie is all, buddy.”

His grip was strong as the pain was searing. It let Sara know who was ultimately in control; it was always about power when it came to her husband, Tom. And if she dared to break that false facade of perfection, she knew the consequences.

But unlike most abusers, Tom was never apologetic, and made no qualms about his actions.

And as he sat across from his wife, looking into her eyes, Sara swore she knew the devil lived on the other side of those eyes.

“Marry, please get Billy,” Tom called out to their nanny. “Me and Miss Fowler need to talk.”

He could always flip that switch so easily. Sara guessed that’s what made him such a great lawyer; he was the greatest actor she had ever met.

“Okay Mister Fowler. Come on, Billy, let’s watch some cartoons.”

And as Marry got their son out of the kitchen, Sara could not help but feel the urge to go running out the room behind her.

There was dead silence as Tom simply glared at Sara as he waited for Marry and their son to be out of earshot.

“Tom, please, I—”

Tom clasped down on Sara’s hand with a vice-like grip that felt as though he was going to break every bone in her hand.

“You fucking scream, bitch, and I will strangle your ass to death right here in this kitchen! Do you understand me?”

Tears rolled down Sara's cheeks as she simply nodded her head.

“Now, I get you’re fucking brain dead, being I’ve seen that cesspool from which you emerged. But if you ever mention trying to take my son away from me, I will put you in a fucking coma.”

Tom released Sara’s hand.

“I swear to fucking God, I don’t get you. You have everything and do absolutely nothing to deserve it, you stupid bitch! I swear, sometimes I think I should have just married your lard-ass sister. I mean, even though she’s dead, she still probably has more life to her in the sack than you do.”

Tom cracked himself up on that one as he again turned that anger off. He stood up, grabbing his briefcase, and paused before leaving for work.

“For fuck sake, Sara! Go get some makeup and clean yourself up. It’s bad enough I have to pay someone to watch our son and clean this house. What next? Am I going to have to buy a nurse to wipe your lazy ass?”

Sara sat frozen until she heard Tom’s car leave the driveway. Although her hand throbbed in pain, still she texted Heather:

I can’t take it anymore. Today has to be the day.

Heather Bishop was Sara’s only true friend, and the only one that knew just how vicious her husband truly was. Heather’s husband was partners with Tom at the firm, although a drunk Marty was nothing like Tom.

Sara’s phone vibrated like clockwork:

Get Billy and meet me at the park. We are going to do this. I know it’s scary but there really is no other way, sweetie.

As Sara went through the motions, she felt on auto pilot. She got what cash she could from the safe in the house, and even though she knew it was simply paranoia, she still felt at any second Tom would come crashing through the door and likely beat her to death.

Everything felt off; from every motion, to that October air in Jersey.

As she stopped by the bank to withdraw the cash, Sara just could not shake the feeling.

Billy, as always, was oblivious. She truly envied that quality in children, as it soon died with the harsh realities of this wicked society, killing all innocence with the blink of an eye.

As Sara pulled into Terrence Pond, she quickly caught sight of Heather and some man standing beside her. And as she parked the car, she was alarmed at just how quickly he was in her front seat as Heather took Billy out of the car.

“Sara, just listen and do as he says, please,” Heather said as she just as quickly led Billy away to walk around the parking lot.

“Hello, Sara.”

“Hi.”

The man in sunglasses shook his head. “That's your first mistake. Sara dies today. You cannot afford to make that mistake again.”

“I’m sorry, but I—”

“Look, sweetheart, I’m going to need the money and your cell phone. We don’t have time here. And make no mistake, every second you waste is a second that your husband can realize your’re missing. I got one job here. Making you and your son vanish. Now we have to move, do you understand?”

“Yes, of course.” Sara again flew into what seemed like auto-pilot; handing this imposing man her money and her cellphone.

Sara was a bit shocked when he didn’t even bother to count the money. Five grand was no easy feat in collecting, and here this guy didn’t seem to even concern himself with it.

“Leave the keys in the car. We got to move.”

“Aren’t you even going to count the money?”

The man paused as he opened the door, not showing an ounce of emotion.

“I find people desperate enough to deal with people like myself seldom dishonest. Considering it’s my job to make things vanish.”

The man made his point, and had no interest in any small talk as he slammed the car door behind him. And as they sped down Clinton Road, the gaze, although masked by sunglasses, looking at Sara from the rearview mirror was almost as terrifying as her husband’s.

“Pass these back to her,” the man said to Heather, who seemed as scared of him as Sara was.

Sara looked in the envelope that had been passed back. Its contents where two fake passports and two tickets to Australia. Sydney, to be exact.

“What the hell is this? I don’t know anyone in Australia!”

“And neither does your husband. Now look, we’re heading down to Norfolk, Virginia, so I suggest you relax, Beth. It’s going to be a long trip.”

Sara knew it was pointless to reply, and she also knew that from the fake identification her name from now on was “Beth.” It was all so surreal. None of it made sense.

Sara looked to her son. He was asleep, which puzzled her. Billy was never this relaxed.

She shook him.

“Sweetie, are you okay?”

Billy was deep asleep. So deep, in fact, that Sara began to panic.

“Baby! Hey, something’s wrong with my son! Stop the car!”

“He is drugged. We cannot afford to have a screaming kid driving me fucking insane. This isn’t a vacation, after all.”

“You bastard! Stop this car!”

“And what? Take you back to your old man? I mean, after looking at your face I can tell he seems like the real understanding type. He tried to bash your head in for screwing up dinner. Can’t imagine what he’d do once he finds out you tried to take his kid from him.”

“Hey,” that's enough,” Heather said. “You’re being too rough.”

The man never took his eyes off the road.

“Look, both of you shut the fuck up! If you think you know Tom Fowler, you’re highly mistaken. What, you think people like him act above the law for no reason? Newsflash! The Easter bunny isn’t fucking real and both your husbands got just as much dirt on their hands as any gangster in Atlantic City. But you want to roll the dice with fuckers that own the table? Go ahead, be my guest. Because, ladies, I hate to tell you this, but the house always fucking wins in their case.”

Sara and Heather both went silent. And as they sailed down this notorious stretch of road, it seemed fitting to speak of treacherous people. It’s said that this very road was a dumping ground for the Iceman himself.

Sara was lost in thought when she noticed the man slow the car and start pulling onto the shoulder.

There was another black car parked by the road.

“What’s going on?”

“Got to switch cars. Sorry, we have to cover our tracks .” The man looked at Heather. “Put the boy in the car.” He didn’t even bother looking at Sara

“Becky, we got to go over just a few more details. I’m sorry, but they’re extremely important.”

Sara didn’t understand what the hell was going on as she walked to the back of the car. As he opened the trunk, she still felt as though this was some odd dream.

The man pulled a pistol from his jacket, looking at her dead cold.

“Get in the trunk, Sara.”

“What the hell is going on?”

It was then that she felt a force far more fearsome than Tom’s as this stranger struck her over the head, pushing her into the trunk.

“Please don’t!” Sara screamed. “HEATHER!”

The man simply raised the gun to her face. “Don’t call out for that bitch! She set you up, along with your husband!”

“But I paid you!” Sara cried out as she began to sob.

“Yeah, and your scumbag husband paid me more! I’m sorry, this is only business to me.”

The shots rang out as Sara was erased from this plane of existence and a tow truck arrived to haul off the seemingly nonexistent crime scene.

In life, no matter the hopes of the good and less fortunate, the house always wins.

The man behind the wheel’s job was to make people vanish.

He never said to where.

 

John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of The Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine. His work has been published in Schlock Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Punk Noir Magazine, Fixator Press, Fearless Poetry Zine, Piker Press, and The Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is always unfiltered.

Check out John's prose-poetry collection: Death Rattle & Roll @ https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/john-patrick-robbins/death-rattle-roll/paperback/product-q46ej8.html?page=1&pageSize=4

Check out John's various e-zines:

The Rye Whiskey Review @  https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com/

The Abyss E-zine of Horror @ https://theabyssmag.blogspot.com/

Crossroads Literary Magazine @ https://thecrossroadlitmagazine.blogspot.com/

Mignight Magazine @ https://midnightmagazinepoetry.blogspot.com/

Under The Bleachers Humor Magazine @ https://underthebleachersmag.blogspot.com/