Parasite

Dorothy Cormack

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Dorothy Cormack

License Notes:

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This ebook is a work of fiction. All names, characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Punishment is justice for the unjust..... Saint Augustine

ONE

A hand or part of a hand, as the day dawned a trouser leg appeared with a boot attached, covered with blobs of flesh. Pieces of pink, fatty skin and bone scattered everywhere.

A woman gasped at the sight. Another man ran from the scene and Sasha saw him dry retching over by the chain mesh fence.

'You need to tell the train driver when it gets here,' said a voice, from somewhere in the crowd.

'No, call the police now, use your mobile Derek,' said a fat woman, in the forefront of the mob.

Sasha edged his way back through the people and if he could've made himself invisible he would've.

With the collar of his jacket up in an effort to hide his noble face he walked determinedly to the bus stop and sat on a wet cement seat, oblivious to an icy breeze. The quiet of the street in Seacombe, far removed from the event at the train station which was two streets away. A magpie pecked at a half-eaten Aussie footy pie and the sky started to sprinkle rain as he waited for a bus.

Usually he sat and admired the quaint houses but in his jacket pocket Sasha clenched his fist tighter and tighter. A finger nail dug into his thumb, digging away at the flesh was a pleasant distraction from the revulsion of the incident.

A yellow bus came out of nowhere and its screeching brakes alerted him to its arrival, he climbed aboard and settled into a red vinyl seat at the back. An elderly woman with a round face came and sat next to him.

As he gazed out the scratched window at a shopping centre they passed, Sasha tugged his sparse goatee on his chin.

'Your hand is bleeding, here let me lend you a tissue you'll get blood on yourself,' said an old woman. She handed him a white, neatly ironed hankie and he sensed the pity in her eyes nestled in their bed of wrinkles.

Handkerchief in his hand he said nothing and wrapped it round his thumb. The woman had similar features to his mother and he didn't want to spend a ride on the bus sitting next to a person like her.

'I'm going to the supermarket because I've run out of milk again my fridge is old and food doesn't keep long. Even worse in summer,' she prattled on.

With little interest in her shopping or the old fridge and the outcome of a long night taking effect, he felt the urge to say shut up you old bag but said nothing.

Oblivious to his lack of attention to her talk, she went on to tell him her eyes were poor, short sighted being the problem. 'Do you know the stop to get off for Foodland Blind Cove,' she removed a smudge of pink lipstick from a corner of her mouth?

'Yes this one coming up,' said Sasha.

The bus sped on past modern houses and lush green paddocks with a view of the grey sea in the distance. Flecks of rain appeared on windows and the bus slowed to a halt. 'Here's your stop you'd better get out quickly the bus doesn't stay long,' his thin lips smiled and velvet brown eyes twinkled.

'Thank you dear. Thank you for helping an old woman. May the dear Lord bless you.'

The old women quickly limped down the narrow aisle to the doors and got off the bus. Sasha scrambled to the back of the bus and viewed her as she walked in the rain, down a bitumen road towards the scrap metal yard in the distance.

He returned to his seat and laughed aloud at first, a chuckle and a smirk displayed a set of perfect teeth. There'd be no supermarket and he guessed as the woman kept walking she'd eventually find out.

The bus motor purred and door beeps were in-dispersed by an occasional bell chime. Empty seats mostly with very few passengers at that time of the day after the morning peak hour rush.

Sasha tried to concentrate on playing a Zombie game on his shabby mobile but his mind kept wandering back to the scene at the train stop. What would Larry his brother say, should he tell him? Perhaps it was better not to. He undid the clasp on his ponytail which secured a bunch of long, dark locks. Ran his fingers through them, bundled the tresses together once more and reapplied the brass clasp.

The bus slowed a few feet from stop 40A under the shade of ghost gums which lined the frontage of red brick, bungalow style homes. He adjusted a strap of his leather shoulder bag, went to the door and waited for glass panels to open.

As he stepped off the bus a gust of cold air hit him in the face but at least the rain had stopped. Sasha trudged methodically along the paved footpath towards their unit. He'd walked this path many times since Larry and him moved there in the year 2000 and it'd been two years now. Sasha examine his cottage style garden because Larry being intellectually challenged didn't give a rat's arse about the garden, he had an infatuation with matchbox toys. A 39 year old man obsessed with matchbox toys but it was part of his disability. Sasha pinched off a head of a rose that was past its bloom and chucked the crumbling remains in the green wheelie bin as he passed.

The key slid in the worn lock, he opened a carved wooden front door and stepped through into the dimly lit entrance hall. He could hear sounds of pots and pans coming from the kitchen. As he proceeded along the narrow passage the aroma of curry filled the air.

Larry was at the kitchen stove with his back to Sasha when he walked in. His obese frame wobbling slightly with the motion of stirring the pot of curry and the meaty arm with the bung hand hung at his side. The usual striped trucker's cap and dark sunglasses perched on his head.

'Where ... where...you been? Call ... call... call tell me where you are,' his brother didn't turn around as he spoke.

The chrome clock showed ten o'clock as Sasha put his bag on a bench and reflected he should've let him know where he'd been or at least given him some excuse. 'My phone is out of power,' he explained, and plugged in the cord to recharge his mobile phone.

'Where ... where were you?'

'At this girl's place,' Sasha regarded him triumphantly because he knew this would shut him up. Girls were never attracted to Larry but Sasha was his opposite. Most women were attracted to Sasha like he was the last and only male left on the earth.

'Sleep the ... night ... night,' he put the stainless steel pot of curry on a wooden table and faced Sasha?

'Yeah well we don't have to talk about my night out now. I want to eat and go to bed. I'm not well.'

'What's ...what's wrong?' Larry spooned a generous helping of steaming rice on a plate, curry for breakfast another oddity of his.

'My head hurts real bad I have to rest,' said Sasha.

Larry squinted through his beady blue eyes and a dribble of curry scurried down his double chin and dripped on his grey white jumper. He raised a chunky hand and wiped the curry off. Sasha continued his meal of cereal in silence ever conscious of his brother's judgmental gaze and wondered how long he could go without telling him. Sasha had the desire to tell all, the whole story, the whole horrible turn of events but not now later, sort it out later, he had to sleep first and soothe his aching head.

TWO

The late afternoon sun shone through a sheer window curtain and a chook cackled nearby. Sasha blinked twice and tried to gather up his thoughts. He'd a vague memory of a dream: a huge cold lumbering thing coming out of the dark and terror, horror in all its purest form then nothing. The dream memory ended and no matter how hard he thought he couldn't find the vision again.

Sasha swung his long legs over the side of his double bed and surveyed his neat little bedroom for a few clothes to put on, picked up a pair of faded jeans, a sepia brown shirt and tugged them on. The old bed creaked as he eased himself off and strode to his bedroom door through to the shadowy passage.

The television blared as he entered their large lounge room not unusual as Larry was a tad deaf. The five o'clock channel ten news programme had started and Sasha needed a cold beer. The bar fridge was near Larry's display of matchbox toys and Sasha carefully took a bottle of Cooper's Pale Ale out so as not to disturb the toys, his brother would get upset if he did.

Sasha sat on the beige brown leather couch, rested a beer on the arm of his seat and Larry sat at the other end.

'Missed ... missed the news again,' his brother took a mouthful of wine from a glass after he spoke.

'That's a crime? I had to rest after being out all night,' Sasha's mischievous eyes glinted in the flickering light of a wood fire. Larry let out a belch both loud and ponderous.

'Don't know ... know what they see in you? You're ... a ... a prick.'

'Yeah well women love them,' Sasha took a mouthful of beer and snatched a black remote control off the couch.

'Slept with you ... you did she,' Larry tugged at his moustache, picked a morsel of dried food off and flicked it into a plastic bin beside him?

'Well no she wanted my company, scared of the dark,' he knew Larry wouldn't believe him. 'What's on the channel ten news,' he didn't want to talk about last night? Not to anyone least of all Larry.

'Young girl threw ... threw herself under a train at Seacombe you ... you hear of train accidents, suicides. What ... what a way to go, Jesus Christ,' Larry took a large gulp of red wine and kicked a burning coal back into the fire.

Sasha's thoughts raced and he thanked God Larry's favourite crime programme screened.

The phone rang loudly several times. 'Don't just sit ... sit ... sit on your arse. You know ... I don't like answering the phone, answer ... answer the ... the damn thing,' his brother crunched a mouthful of chips as he watched CSI on television hence his speech was dispersed with munching sounds. Sasha lurched out of his seat in the direction of the hallway.

When Sasha reached the portable phone he sat down wearily at the decoupage hall table and proceeded to doodle on a large pad of paper kept next to the phone, 'Hello.'

'Hello, hello its Aunty Betty is that you Sasha? Is it Larry? I've got some terrible news to tell you mind you we're not surprised, not surprised at all. Are you Sasha or is it Larry?'

'Sasha.'

'Kate is the girl who threw herself in front of a train. Kate Landers who was involved with that druggy crowd for years, depressed every time I met the girl.' Sasha's hand clutched the phone tight as his Aunty Betty went on. 'Her mother threw her out when she was fifth-teen. Take your drugs and get out of my house, she told her,' Aunty Betty's voice came dispersed with small gasps due to her throat problem from cancer.

'Somebody is at the door Aunty Betty I'll have to go.'

'Yes but Kate, aren't you shocked about Kate?'

'Yes, yes. Of course I am tell me when the funeral is I can hear a knock at the door, goodbye.'

Sasha punched the end call button seated at the phone table and his head ached. Sweat formed on his palms and he rubbed them dry on his black jeans.

'Who was ... was on the phone,' Larry's voice came from the lounge?

'Aunty Betty,' Sasha braced himself, walked slowly back to the lounge and took a mouthful of beer on the way.

'What did she want? Interfering old ... old...bitch.'

'Kate Landers she's the girl who threw herself in front of a train at Seacombe.'

'Jesus Christ.... no....no ... not our Kate,' Larry appeared notably upset.

'I'm going out I've got to get out here,' beer in his hand Sasha strode to their kitchen to find a couple of Panadol, downed two, grabbed his warm woollen jacket and left the house.

Suicide they thought Kate's death was suicide. Sasha pulled his collar up around his chin as the evening air had a bite. He'd have to go to her funeral with all her grieving relatives and his family but he'd buy an expensive wreath even if it cost him more than he had.

Sasha stopped at the traffic lights on Range road, smelt a whiff of seaweed which told him he was near the beach. The beach, the sea, where people come from and where they return, Kate would be there. She believed cousins shouldn't have relationships with each other and didn't find him attractive anyway, too wimpy for her liking.

The wind was cold, stimulating and smelt of salt. A lone seagull came out of a pencil pine tree and screeched. It made him jump, Sasha thought of the train track that morning and questioned would he ever stop thinking about the incident with Kate, poor Kate.

THREE

'The funeral's at two thirty Saturday... Century Park Cemetery, the big one on the hill,' Aunty Betty sneezed loudly.

'Okay we'll be there,' Sasha put down the phone piece. They'd look at him, they'd see it in his face and they'd be suspicious. How was he going to keep his cool but suicide the news said suicide and everyone expected her to kill herself? He went to his bedroom and pulled out his black leather wallet from his shoulder bag and checked the contents. Two fifty dollar bills crisp and new came out; enough for a large wreath and everyone would think he was generous buying expensive flowers.

He ran his slim hand round the back of his neck and caught a glance of himself in a mirror. A flash of remorse flickered in his eyes and he turned away tugged his jumper over his head and chucked it on a wooden chair, ripped the front of his shirt apart tearing off small green buttons and threw it on the chair. She'd been depressed most times and maybe suicide was in her mind a lot anyway. Her mother threw her out Kate was a problem for years, maybe they won't be upset she's gone and they'd appreciate his generous wreath. The funeral would be a necessary part of what happens when people go and everyone would be pleased to see her gone. He heard Larry crashing pots together out in the kitchen as he made a start on tea preparation. Curry again he'd have to speak to him, always curry.

Sasha put on his old, blue dressing gown and tightened a cord as he walked through the kitchen to get to the shower. 'What about pasta one night or a roast chicken,' he said, as Sasha entered their small cramped kitchen with barely enough room to get past Larry's bulking frame?

'Roast chicken what about our pet ... pet ...pet chickens and then you're going to eat roast chicken,' he straightened his back, turned to face Sasha with a saucepan filled with rice and water in his hand.

'What does it matter they're not from our place,' Sasha continued on to the shower and kicked a pinewood chair out of his way as he passed.

'I'm cooking and curry is what you ... you ...get. You eat chicken on a night I'm not home,' he turned back to the red veneer kitchen bench and went on chopping up onion as sweat dripped off his wrinkled brow on the chopping board. 'Eat chook at the hospital canteen that's the best ... best ... best place if you need chicken so much,' Larry scooped up a handful of onion and threw it in a saucepan.

Sasha pulled aside a blue checked plastic curtain, turned on the taps and examined his cut thumb which had now stopped bleeding. He thought about the old woman looking for a supermarket and imagined her frustration on not being able to find the place. Somebody would tell her probably a person at the scrap metal yard. He presumed if she met him on the bus again she'd have a few words to say to him. It