Read Online The Killing Hour by Paul Cleave - Free Book Online Page A

the room though I don’t think there’s much chance of it. I drive to Jo’s house. It’s surprisingly hot even though the day has been wet, and because the air-conditioning in my car is faulty I have to wind the windows partially down. The rain spits through the gaps at me. I keep my Honda below the speed limit. When I get to Jo’s house I drive past it looking for a police presence but can’t see one. I park on the road. I head inside, find her keys, back her car out and put my car in. She has a Mazda MX5, red and sporty.
    The rain eases off and blue sky starts to appear. It looks like the weatherman was right. At the start of the hour I turn on the radio to listen to the news. Nothing new has developed. Disappointed but not surprised I turn the radio off and stare out at this world I’m driving through. I know this world. I live in this world. Yet it has become a stranger to me.
    I pull into the carpark of a hardware store. It’s a large single-storey place made completely from concrete, the sort of one-piece slabs constructed on the spot. A line of wheelbarrows is parked out front, along with garden sheds and patio furniture. Nothing small enough to pick up and run away with. Nothing exciting enough to make an impulse buy.

    In the middle of a Tuesday afternoon the large store is close to empty as I make my way up and down aisles. I’m not sure what to buy. Our aim is to catch this guy, not kill him, but I prepare for each possibility. I start in the gardening section but the garden stakes are too big and would fill our hands with splinters. I move to different sections where I buy rope, duct tape, a craft knife, a chisel, a broom handle and a small saw. The last thing I select is a large wooden mallet. It feels like I’m shopping at Vampires R Us. The guy at the counter looks like he missed his calling as an undertaker. His skin is stretched tightly on his skull with black smudges of some long-suffered or soon-to-arrive illness beneath his eyes. He says ‘Raining out there, huh?’ in a tone that suggests it’s my fault. I pay in cash and he forgets to tell me to have a nice day.
    I cram everything into the boot. There’s only just enough room, and even then I have to use the small handsaw to cut the broom handle in half. I drive back to the motel and carry the purchases into the room, first making sure nobody is around. The room is stuffy. A faint taste of perfume lingers in the air. Cheap perfume. The type of perfume you find lingering in the air in cheap motels. I close the door and untie Jo, who smiles at me. She seems to have come a small way towards forgiving me. The unposted letter in the back pocket of my pants feels warm.
    We pull the tools out of the plastic bag and line them up on the floor. I didn’t buy any top-of-the-line gear, just the basics. I lay the newspaper down and put the broom handle halves on top. We cut it into four pieces, and on the last cut Jo slips on the saw handle. It twists and flexes and the blade snaps into half a dozen pieces. Turns out I shopped in the wrong place.
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘It’s not like we need it again,’ I say.
    Jo holds the first stake on the ground while I chip away at the end with the chisel and mallet. I manage a sharp but not very sculptured point. I repeat the procedure on the second and get the same result. The third and fourth don’t work out any better.
    The sawing and chiselling is hot work and soon the sawdust sticks to our wet faces and hands. I want to take a shower but I don’t want to leave Jo by herself.
    ‘Some arsenal,’ she says. ‘Can you think of anything we may be missing?’
    I look at what we have. Don’t see a gun. I point this out.
    ‘What about garlic or holy water?’
    I’m not sure if she’s joking and I start to wonder whether she’s missing the whole point here, but perhaps I’m missing it too. That’s why I’m looking at four wooden stakes and a mallet. Jo sits on the edge of her bed and watches me pack up the