Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

“I’m glad you asked. There’s something I want to show you.”

Hartford led Frank down the gloomy house, to some double doors. He stopped. He turned and faced Frank. His face had suddenly become hard and distant, a remarkable change from the sickly skeleton of just a few moments ago. “You remember when I wanted that drum kit, and you wouldn’t let me? How I asked and pleaded, but you refused?”

Frank nodded.

“How I cried and cried? Mom wanted me to have one, told me I could. But you refused and said no.”

“You were only ten,” Frank said and coughed. “That was twenty years ago. Why are you bringing it up now?”

Hartford smiled, turned and flung open the doors. “Well I have one now, Daddy.”

Frank stepped into the room. And in that room, lighted by reds and yellows and blues, he saw pictures covering the wall — all photos, and of a woman at different ages. It didn’t sink into Frank’s head straightaway, but when it did, it felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Every picture was of Charlene.

“Jesus Christ,” Frank muttered and turned away from the shrine to Hartford’s mother, to the exhibit that sat in the middle of the room. Garish lights at the back lit its grotesque form. “Jesus Christ,” he said again, this time in a soft, high voice.

Hartford came around and sat behind the—

What the fuck is that!

—and grinned. “Do you like it? I made it all by myself. You see, Daddy, I finally have a drum kit.”

Frank took one look at the cymbals made from shards of skull, mounted on leg bones; drums that were made from human skins, pulled tight over laughing skulls; and the large bass drum that had two dried, wrinkled breasts hanging at the front, and vomited. He staggered to the doors, but they were locked.

“You’re not leaving. I need an audience for my maiden performance,” Hartford called.

Frank wiped the spittle from his mouth, turned and looked at his son through bleary eyes. Hartford picked up two whittled arm bones, twirled them between his fingers and began to play.

This is one of my early stories, written years ago as a tribute to three of my favourite subjects (for lack of a better term): serial killers (in this case, specifically Ed Gein), seedy New York movies (like Taxi Driver and Driller Killer ), and, of course, drumming (I have a degree in music, majoring in drums/percussion).

And no, in case you’re wondering, I’ve never been tempted to make a drum kit like the one in the story, but I do wonder how it would sound like when played…

“Hey kiddo, wanna help me mow the lawn?”

This was the day I had been waiting for.

“Really? You mean it?” I said, gazing up at Dad wide-eyed.

Dad, standing by my bedroom door, smiled, then nodded. He was wearing his usual weekend gardening clothes: old ripped jeans, faded blue flannelette shirt, and his thinning silver hair was concealed under a much loved Collingwood Magpies football hat.

I tossed aside the computer magazine I had been lazily flicking through, jumped off the bed and followed Dad through the house, down to the back door. Mum was out food shopping, so there was an air of mischief, of naughty boys doing naughty things. I knew this wasn’t true, I knew Dad would have discussed me helping him mow with Mum, but it was far more fun to pretend that we were doing this behind her back, that we were carrying out some important secret mission.

Outside, the morning was humid, sticky from a night of on-again, off-again rain. The lawn looked like a lush sea of green, just begging to be cut.

I followed Dad up to the Victa mower, which was sitting on the garden path beside the back lawn like an obedient dog waiting for instruction.

My belly tingled with excitement and anticipation.

For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to help Dad with the mowing. When I was little I would sit by the back kitchen window, gazing out at Dad pushing the lawnmower, chopped grass and pulverised twigs and leaves spewing out from the underbelly of the beast, wishing I could be out there, helping. When I was a bit older and allowed to go outside (“But don’t stand too close, or you’ll get hit by a flying twig,” Mum would caution), I would stand on the path watching Dad, sun blasting down, the earthy aroma of freshly cut grass — the best smell in the world. Sometimes, I would pretend to help Dad by pushing my toy lawnmower over the soon-to-be-cut grass.

But I was always too young to use the real lawnmower. “When you’re older,” Dad would say. “The lawnmower’s not a toy, you know.”

As if I needed to be told that. I knew the lawnmower wasn’t a toy. I knew the difference between the blunt plastic blades on my beloved (and now gone, long ago given away to charity) toy mower and the very real and very sharp blades on Dad’s Victa.

The day I turned thirteen and Dad said, ruffling my hair in a gesture of fatherly affection, “You’re growing up, Son. Soon you’ll be chasing after girls,” I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was allowed to help him mow the lawn — for real this time.

Because I wasn’t a child any more. I was growing up and deserved to be treated as such. Long gone were the hours spent playing cowboys and Indians in the backyard (me playing both sides), or playing with my toy dinosaurs in my own version of The Land That Time Forgot among the gum trees and hydrangea bushes. And I no longer believed that the narrow stretch of untamed wilderness between the neighbour’s fence and our garage, with its towering weeds, was a dark forest fortress, home to razor-toothed dragons and mean, smelly trolls.

I had moved beyond such childhood games and fears. I was ready to tackle grown-up things.

“Okay kiddo, grab some goggles and a pair of gloves.”

I noticed two sets of goggles on the ground next to the mower, along with two pairs of gloves, and Dad’s old petrol-powered Whipper Snipper.

I reached down and picked up the goggles and gloves, and once they were on, I waited for further instruction.

“Good, now grab the Whipper Snipper and follow me.”

I hesitated. Frowning, I said, “What about the lawnmower?”

“Later. First, I want you to cut some weeds. It’ll help you get used to handling a bladed tool. Then, you can help me with the mower.”

My shoulders slumped as my excitement deflated.

The Whipper Snipper, while it looked cool enough, was a poor substitute for the lawnmower. It was a growling pussycat, whereas the mower was a roaring tiger.

I was growing into a young man, and young men mowed lawns, not snipped weeds.

Still, I picked up the Whipper Snipper, which was heavy and cumbersome to hold, and shuffled behind Dad, down to the back of the garden.

I didn’t know where he was taking me, until he turned and led me to the back of the garage.

“I want you to cut the weeds down this side area.”

I stared down the narrow stretch of wilderness between the fence and the garage. The weeds were so tall they almost concealed the timber panelling and the metal wall, and the high brick divider at the far end was no longer visible.

“Now, this Whipper Snipper is no toy, so there are rules and safety precautions. You’re to wear the goggles and gloves at all times, and never, and I mean never, stick your hands into the end of the Whipper Snipper while it’s still turned on. That goes with the mower, too. The blades on both machines will slice your hand until all you’re left with is a bloody stump. Understand?”

I nodded, pretending to listen, but in truth my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of trolls and dragons.

“If something gets caught in the blades, always turn off the power first, wait until the blades have stopped spinning, and then, with gloves on, pull out whatever it is that’s obstructing the blades.”