*** Trigger Warning, contains violence ***
Desert Songs
Music playing through the night.
Leonard Cohen. Thanks for the Dance.
Whose tape is this? No one speaks.
Do they still play it on the radio? Do they still play the radio?
Who is going to cut the earth? Who is going to dig the grave?
The car moves. Forward. Are we all in that car?
Four wheels disappearing into the night. Into the darkness. Into the cool desert. The wild north. The windows down, the smell of cigarettes drifting into the night. Steady, but irreversibly forward. The road wearing down from four lanes to two. Lights thinning out.
To the dirt road.
To dust.
Dark shadows rolling by.
Driver
Are we sitting up front in the driver’s seat?
Sunglasses on, drawing on that cigarette, one hand on the wheel as the car starts to bump over the dusty path.
Believing we are right.
Calling ourselves Bones. It sounds harder than Simon. Desperate to escape ourselves and bury the past.
Trying to ignore those memories: Playing on the grass. Running with his brother. Looking at the scar on his face in the mirror.
Fucking brother. Slashed him. Slashed mum. Knife cuts skin, spilled blood like it was nothing. He’ll be doing the world a favour.
That old killer, soul eater.
There is a six-foot bit of desert with his name on it.
Forward. No stopping to think about it or to consider the next move. Taking a swig from a bottle of vodka and looking down at the tattoo. He never had got it removed. He wished he had now.
It simply read: Brothers.
Passenger
Or are we in the passenger seat, watching all this unfold?
Not sure what is going on or what has happened to the person driving, but going with them. Thinking we can still turn this around.
We’re a steadying influence.
We feel the sweat begin to roll. Conscience stirring. But what can we do?
We see the gun tucked into Bones’ jeans. Running options in our head. Blade in our boot. Knuckles turning white. Options getting thinner the further we go.
Janie.
Danger had always been her thing. She thought she would have something interesting to write about after. By god she was going to be a writer whatever it took. He seemed like a bit of a hothead. She liked that.
Now it seems he is something else entirely.
Reaching into her pocket she thought to record a little voice note for later, but thought better of it.
Backseat
Or are we in the back seat, a little worse for wear. Sipping on some booze, to top up our blood alcohol level?
Too far gone to fight. Just rolling with motion. C’est la vie.
The smooth back seat. The slight smell of vomit, from when we spewed out the window. Janie’s old pal, here to make sure she doesn’t go too far, but the mission already failed. Weezy.
Inhaler in one hand and a bottle of spirits in the other. Trying not to think about how far off the plan they have got. Trying not to think about what’s in the boot.
“I didn’t know you even had family,” she slurs, drawing a look of death from Bones.
Boot
Or are we in the boot?
Tied up, taste of blood in the mouth, feeling every bump, the bruises forming? The little knife we smuggled, tight in our hands. Our last possible hope on a desperate night.
“I’ll give you more than a scar this time.”
The killer.
Same since they were kids. He ran his hand over the tattoo he had never got rid of. It simply read: Brothers.
And now, go quietly or roar one last time. The car’s momentum rolls further into the night. The knife cuts the ropes.
Desperate.
Blood spilling in the boot.
The boot breaking open as the car rolls. And out into the night. Rolling, holding tight to the knife.
The killer finding the shadows.
Weezy
We hear the car stop. Sweat. Swearing. The ground rough below.
Weezy, the worse for wear, sent stumbling by Bones. She takes a few steps. Moves into the darkness and out of sight. Pulls up the inhaler, takes a puff and then stops.
“I’ll protect her, I’m older, tougher. I’ve got this. I promised her sister.”
A step into the shadows. An arm around her but she slips away and starts running through the scrub, away from the road at first. She looks over her shoulder and sees the headlights.
There’s no sign of the person.
She shouts: Janie. Janie.
Suddenly a movement behind her. Her shouts for help cut short.
The blade tearing skin. Tearing flesh. Blood pouring. Death. In a moment, the back seat has one less passenger.
Weezy is gone.
Janie
The blood wiped from the knife.
Janie’s scream from the roadside, pleading to go back to the car. Bones, gun drawn, sends Janie forward to investigate.
The gun invites no arguments.
The ash falls from his cigarette. Her breath, deep and panicked. She tries to talk him round, smiles, “We’re good, right… Bones?”
But he sends her on.
She takes a deep breath. Looks back and, then in a moment. Feels like slow motion. She leans down, and pulls the knife from her boot.
Takes a step forward. And turns.
Running toward the driver. Sweat flying from her hair as Bones sees the eyes. Like something from another world. Bloodshot and desperate.
He hesitates, for a moment. A shot rings out.
Blood. Brain. On the desert floor.
Bones, mouth dropped open, hand shaking. The moon cutting through the clouds. The prisoner still in the shadows. Knife in hand. Bones stumbling forward.
Looks down at the blood. The brains.
“Fuck.”
Bones
It wasn’t meant to be like this. He kneels down and examines her knife. Looking around but sees just the car and the desert night. He turns back to the car. The door is still open. The boot still open. Engine running.
The music is different now.
Everybody Knows.
No-one sees the killer moving across the rough ground. Bones gets there first. He pulls himself across the seat. Fumbles with the keys.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
He slams the door. “How the fuck do you turn that music off? These aren’t my songs…” He leans back for a second, takes a deep breath before smacking the gun off of the steering wheel. There was a deafening bang and the windscreen smashing. Bones looking up in shock as it disintegrates. He sits there, suspended. Mouth dropping over.
In a moment, it changes.
A shadow moves in the back seat.
One motion, the knife along the neck. Cutting through flesh, as the blood begins to pour.
A moment.
Moments.
Panic.
As the driver looks in the rearview.
Then. It’s over.
“I told you, brother,” whispers the killer. “I fuckin’ told you.” He lights a cigarette, the ash falling on the back seat and runs his hand over Simon’s scar. Still listening to that same old shit, eh?
He takes the tape out of the player and puts it in his pocket.
Who is going to cut the earth? Who is going to dig the grave?
Out on the horizon. What’s that?
Headlights through the front window. Siren cutting the silence.
Fuck.
The desert closing in, one last time.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 