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  The Devil’s Confession

  The Lawson Chronicles Book 2

  By Simon King

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 1

  1.

  Before you get all teary-eyed, thinking I wrote this as a keepsake, a memento to break out on rainy days and reminisce over with the family, I didn’t. The pages I write here are for the eyes of only one man. You see, I think we all have our very own archenemy in this world, someone that makes you see instant red at the mere mention of their name. For me, that person is Jim Lawson, the man they say captured the Daylesford Devil. More on that subject a little later, but for now, I’d like to say hello to the man of the moment. James, thanks for reading. I truly hope you get a little kick out of this little memoir I put together for you.

  I also believe that everyone deserves to know a little bit about their number one adversary and so, I have thrown together a few notes that will hopefully give you an inside view of just what happened to us, and why we are who we are.

  2.

  A loving man is not something I have ever really been called. But my brother Eddie? Now he’s more of the Casanova kind. Me? Never. But then, love isn’t something that has been in my life with much abundance now, has it? The anger, though? The hatred and the rage? Now there is a subject we could talk about. My brother Loui is someone that could chew your ear off about the crap that’s surrounded us since childhood. And he would enjoy chewing your ear off. You see, Loui likes using his teeth. He uses them in a very satisfying way, he does. One that will definitely let you know that you are in the presence of someone…hmmm, how can I put it? Not, quite right? Yeah, not quite right, that’s Loui.

  The three of us have been close ever since we were kids. Very close, you could say. We share everything together. But when Loui gets angry, he kind of takes over. Tells us not to interfere so he can, well, do his thing. I try not to watch when Loui does his thing and I know Eddie closes his eyes tight so he can’t see. We learnt a long time ago that when Loui is angry, it’s best for us to just stay out of his way.

  But I should start at the beginning. Tell you where it all began so you know why he’s so angry; why he’s the one of us you have to watch.

  3.

  What’s your earliest memory from childhood? I bet you’ve got a nice one. Maybe it’s one of your Mum taking you out for ice cream, spending the day at the beach with you or her reading you a bedtime story. Or maybe it’s one of your good old Daddyo taking you to work with him, or sitting on his knee as he listens to a football match on the radio or some other damn memory. Not for me.

  The earliest memory I have, is of my father raping my mother across the kitchen table on my third or fourth birthday. I can’t remember which and I doubt it matters much, but I remember it just the same. I can still hear her screams, her arms flailing about as she tried to break free. My birthday cake had been sitting on that table, a chocolate one with a nice candle on it, only the candle had been sent flying into the corner by her waving arms, the cake squashed flat beneath her bust as he forced her down.

  The bastard had given me a backhander first though, sending me sprawling onto the floor, then left me where I sat, wide-eyed, as he fucked her bloody. I still remember the blood, too. It may shock you to hear that but it’s the way I remember it. My father had what you’d call a mean streak, one that became monstrous after he’d indulged in the drink. And he did a lot of drinking; almost on a daily basis, ‘specially if work was slow.

  I never had any brothers or sisters when I was little, but I do remember my Mum telling me that I would have a brother or sister to play with soon. I remember her showing me her belly, letting me feel it, as something moved around in there. But then, I found my Mum out behind the shed one day, lying on the ground and blood covering her dress. Her face was bruised and her mouth all bloody.

  I cried when I saw her but she hugged me and told me not to be scared, not to cry too loud as Daddy would be back soon. He had a special errand to run, she said, out back in the woods. It wouldn’t surprise me if that bastard hadn’t ripped her baby from the womb and buried it somewhere in those woods. Yup, he had a mean streak.

  I don’t know why my Mum stayed. Why she didn’t just pack her things and run, taking me with her. Maybe she wasn’t strong enough. Maybe she was just too darn scared of my father. Whatever the reason she had for staying, it betrayed her on my 6th birthday, when two substantial things happened. That’s the day my father killed my mother, and I gained a brother.

  4.

  It’s funny how you can remember some things but not others. For instance, I can still remember the look on my mother’s face as she fell down the flight of stairs in our home, but not the final words she spoke to me.

  My father had come home early that morning, after an all-night binge. He had come home and went to the bedroom. From all the screaming that I heard, I’m sure he had his way with her again.

  When he had finished his thing, he yelled at her to fix him breakfast. They had come out of their bedroom and were standing at the top of the stairs. I was already downstairs, mostly just to get away from the panting noises she would make when he did his thing to her. Anyway, I could see them standing there, my father screaming in her face. And then, for the only time I could remember, my mother turned to him and spoke the only word I ever heard her speak in defiance.

  “No.” I can still see his face contort in a kind of shock and surprise that people only have when they’ve discovered a roach floating in their soup bowl. For a brief second, they just stood there, almost facing off to each other. Then the cunt swung a fist so hard at her that she flew across the first half a dozen or so steps, cart-wheeled the next few and flew head-first into the wall below. Her neck must have snapped on the way down because she lay there completely still, her eyes wide open and glaring out with raw horror. They were staring at me, as if seeking me out; as if trying to tell me some final message.

  But what I remember next is something that makes no sense now but did at the time. My brother Eddie spoke to me for the very first time. And when he spoke to me, it was as if I had known he was there all along. He wasn’t a stranger, didn’t sound like a stranger, but rather like an old friend. You see, Jim, Eddie lives in my head. He was then, and is now, as much a part of this body, this consciousness, as me.

  “That fucker just killed her,” was what he said to me. It didn’t scare me hearing that voice, didn’t shock me either. Hell, it didn’t even surprise me. It was like it belonged, had been there forever but had only decided to speak out at that particular moment. My father kinda just stood there for a moment, looking down at her. His eyes looked tired, weary with drink. Then he began to speak her name, over and over, as if demanding her to answer him. When she refused to, he half stumbled down the stairs and tried to pick her up by her arms, dragging her across the floor.

  When the prick realized that my mother’s dancing days were done, he dropped her to the floor like a dirty mop and just stood there again. He was staring at me now, looking at me with those dark lifeless eyes he had when he was angry. I believe now that what my father was pondering was whether or not to kill me. I did, after all, just witness him murder my mother.

  I’m not sure whether I did actually piss my pants or just imagine it, but the next thing I knew, his face was only inches away from mine and he was screaming. His words were coming out in a slew of spittle and dank breath that reeked of beer. I don’t remember much else, only that he dragged me to my bedroom, shrieked at me to keep my mouth shut, then slammed the door
, locking it with finality.

  5.

  The next time I saw my father, Royce Packard was with him. Royce had gone to school with my father and they’d been mates for years. They would catch up regularly to sink the drink at the pub and relive the good old days. Royce was also a police constable and now stood in my bedroom in his uniform, his policeman’s cap almost touching the roof. He was so dam tall, easily towering over my father. He also had a strange look in his eyes as he asked me questions.

  I don’t remember what he asked, only that he never stopped staring at me with those strange eyes, black as death itself. I remember feeling scared, but not in the way I was scared of my father. That fear was trying to avoid his fists on a Friday night. No, this fear, the fear I felt when Royce Packard stared at me? That fear ran all the way down into my boots. He was a scary fucker. There was something about him that just seemed to run into your veins then freeze them into icicles.

  They both stood in my room, my father a little behind Royce. He lent forward, raising himself onto his toes, then whispered something into Royce’s ear. The policeman listened with interest and nervousness washed over me as his face began to grin, his lips pursing tight, exposing his blackened teeth.

  When he began to nod, I felt the pit of my stomach begin to churn uncomfortably, like when you know something bad is about to happen. But to my surprise, both men simply turned and walked out of my room. I remember feeling relief as Royce began to close the door, then felt a ghost reach into my chest as he turned to look at me over his shoulder. He shot me a final wink and a grin. I’m not quite positive, but I’m pretty sure that’s when I pissed my pants again.

  6.

  Life for my father, Eddie and I became a kind of routine. He would go to work when he could, if he was sober enough, and I would go to school. My mother was never mentioned again. The few friends I did have, had begun to slowly dwindle away as the whispers around me increased. I could feel the eyes watching me whenever I walked down a school corridor or walked around the school yard. I couldn’t work out why my friends no longer wanted to play with me but then, one day during our lunch break, Reedy Thompson the school bully, decided to educate me.

  This happened a few years after my mother died. I was 9-years old by then and time was about to tap me on the shoulder. I’d been walking across the oval carrying my lunch bag. My father wasn’t the nurturing type and so, after my mother’s demise, I had to fend pretty much for myself, which included making my own lunch. It usually consisted of a peanut butter sandwich, but sometimes if I was lucky enough, I could find a leftover cookie from my father’s stash he kept hidden.

  So, there I was, minding my own business with Eddie telling me about his hopes for Christmas that year, when I hear a voice from behind me.

  “Hey Stinker, whatcha got in the bag?” At first, I didn’t realise the comment had been aimed at us, but when I heard it a second time, followed by a cackle of jeers and snickers, I knew something bad was headed our way. “Hey, you, Stinker. I’m talkin to ya!”

  I turned to look over my shoulder and saw not just Reedy or a small group, but what looked like the whole damn school. There must have been 70 kids following Reedy, easily the tallest kid in school, and also the fattest. He was trudging toward me at the head of his army of supporters, a shirt tail untucked and rubbing one fist into his other palm.

  “This don’t look good, Eddie,” I said.

  “Whatcha say, Stinker?” Reedy said, now just a few feet away and still advancing. His crew had stopped a good distance back and now began to form a circle around us

  “Nothin,” I said, trying to sound composed, but I won’t lie; I was shitting bricks. He didn’t stop until his gut had reached my chest, his face glaring down at me. I could smell his sweat, and grinned a little at the irony of the name he called me. I guess he saw the grin and took it as some sort of insubordination, because the next thing I saw was a bunch of stars floating in front of my eyes as pain exploded in my left ear.

  He had swung his mallet of a fist at me and it sent me sprawling. My lunch bag went toppling end over end in the dirt and was then pulverized out of existence by Reedy’s right boot heel, his leg twisting this way and that, like one of those rock ‘n roll dances the kids do nowadays.

  Anyway, so there I was, face first in the dirt, grit between my teeth and heat pulsating in my ear when he charges in for another go. He must have put his whole weight behind the kick he was now prepping for, because when I rolled to one side at the last second, his boot whistling past my right ear, he lost his balance and crumpled to the ground beside me.

  The kids knew better than to laugh at him and all we heard was a communal ‘aaahhh’ from the crowd. He sat up wide eyed, the anger forming deep wrinkles on his forehead and he swung a fist sideways at me.

  “YOU STINK LIKE YOUR DEAD MOTHER!” he screamed as he swung, the crowd shocked into united silence.

  Have you ever had a moment in your life where you knew that there was no coming back once you crossed its threshold? Well, Jim, that was mine. When I heard the words that came out of that fucker’s mouth, I didn’t just hear one scream of rage; I heard two.

  It was my scream that pierced the lunchtime air of the schoolyard, and it was my brother Eddie’s scream that filled my mind. It was like my head was so full of rage that it felt as if it was about to explode. I sat up, turned and took one final look into his eyes.

  In the split second before I crossed the threshold, our eyes met. His turned to terror when he saw the look in mine. The pain in my head had all but disappeared as I sprung to my feet then catapulted onto him, my hands groping wildly for anything to hang onto. One hand dug deep into his thick mane of blond curls, while the other grabbed the front of his throat.

  He strained to shake me off, his hands trying to pry my hand from his hair. But that was when it happened; a small window opening up and giving me a tiny snapshot of what was to come. I looked at his face, still angry and yelling at me. Then, as if driven by pure instinct, I put my head down and bit down on his ear.

  I could feel almost all of it in my mouth; felt the body that I was clinging to temporarily pause, as if trying to decipher what would happen next. My rage was building again as his words repeated themselves over and over and over again, as if being screamed by Eddie.

  My teeth came together tighter and tighter as I began to feel a warm trickle of blood on my tongue. His screams went from loud objections to high-pitched screeching that seemed to drill into my ears. More and more blood began to run into my mouth and then I felt it shooting onto my cheeks, up my nostrils and run down into my shirt in warm rivers of satisfaction.

  Kids in the crowd now also began to scream as the fat tub of guts began to spin wildly from side to side, desperate to get the monster off him. But I clung on tight, driven by anger and hate and pure rage. Eddie was screaming in my head to keep going, to make him sorry for what he said and I just kept biting, grinding my teeth together.

  There was a hard thump as I felt us hit the ground, the arms now limp, the screams no longer coming from beneath me but instead, high above me. I could still feel my own screams through my bloodied mouth as I continued to clamp, grind and twist. Then I felt a massive bolt of pain in my back as something struck me. Powerful hands pulled my head up by the hair and then more hands ripped my hands free. There was a lot of shouting above me now, but my teeth continued their thing until my head finally jolted back.

  But it wasn’t the hands that had forced my head back. What had made my head bounce back in a catapulting spring was his ear finally torn from the side of his head. As I was pulled away from him, I could see what little remained of it, a small indented piece with the earhole and a bloodied lobe beneath it, bits of stained cartilage looking like they’d been taken to by a saw blade.

  He was passed out and lying on his gut, blood seeping out in a small torrent that was forming a puddle in the dirt beside his head, dust and bits of grass floating on its surface. I was being carried away by two
men who I had never seen before and as I turned to look at the crowd, I saw a couple of girls also passed out on the grass. The ones still standing were all staring at me with wide eyes that were vacant, their faces flushed and sick.

  I saw another kid who had given me shit a couple of days prior, Tim or Tom or whatever his fucken name was. He was just staring at me, looking like he was about to puke. Then, I remembered the piece of Reedy still warm in my mouth and spat it at him, the chunk of ear bouncing in the grass just in front of his feet. He saw it with horror then held a hand to his mouth as his breakfast let go, the vomit streaming between his fingers.

  It was enough to make me giggle a little, although it only lasted a few seconds as a fist struck me on the side of the head, sending me into dreamland.

  That was the first time I had ever tasted blood. It was also the first time I saw how it affected people around me. From that day on, everyone stayed out of my way. It didn’t bother me too much as I had Eddie to talk to. And he was always close by.

  But what I did remember, remember very clearly, were the faces in the crowd that day. The jeers, snarls and insults that they spat at me. I took inventory of every person who stood on the side of Reedy Thompson. The day would come where I would repay each of them for the shit they put me through.

  7.

  They made me sit in one of the toilet cubicles while the principal called for the police, the doctor and my father. The first arrived and just happened to be Royce Packard. He came into the toilet and just stood by the door, staring at me. My face felt sticky with blood and my shirt was covered in it. I tried to wash it from my hands but it had congealed beneath my fingernails, which I was staring at while he watched me. When I was sure he would never go, he finally spoke.

  “Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”