Almanac Fiction: Swifty Taylor and the Errant Husband (Episode 8)

 

Episode 8: Crocodile Creek

 

There is a story in the Book of Genesis which refers to the Pharoah dreaming of seven years of abundance followed by seven years of pestilence. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked back toward the sleeping Jess, and pulled the covers over her bare shoulders. It had only been one night of bliss, but maybe last night was – for me – the portent of the end of seven lean years. I wasn’t a religious man, and knew not much about the bible, but I was a believer in the idiom that good things happened to good people. Well, maybe sometimes.

 

 

During the night, the storm had seen to it that there would be no electricity in the town for the foreseeable future. Outside, the rain was continuing to hammer down incessantly. I walked to the window and peered out into the murky and wet early morning. It was difficult to see anything, but across the deserted car park I could just make out the shape of a man. Max McDonald must have caught sight of me at the window, because he beckoned for me to join him outside. In my life, I have done many things that I have regretted. Sometime in the future I just knew that this – leaving the company of a beautiful woman who was already in my bed, for a confrontation with a man who was decidedly unhappy with me – would rank very highly on my list of regrets. I took hold of an umbrella, looked back at Jess one last time, and set off to put things right.

 

 

He was an unworthy and undeserving opponent, but I was prepared to humour him, and perhaps even teach him a lesson. At the far end of the car park, what had been an insignificantly trickling stream when I had checked in to the hotel only two days earlier, was now a creek raging and frothing with watery anger. Max stood on the verge of the torrent, watching my every cautious step as I tentatively my made way toward him. “Swifty Taylor!” he shouted above the din. “I thought you looked familiar when I spoke to you in the bar, but I just couldn’t quite place you. But when Emma sent me all those photos, I put two and two together, and came up with four. Maths is my strong point, you see.” Hysteria was painted all over his face, and it appeared that I was the artist responsible. He was equal parts angry, remorseful, and self-incriminating.

 

 

He wasn’t done talking. “I’m ruined, Swifty. Emma will take me to the cleaners. I’ve made a few bad investments.” I let him have his say before answering: “From what I saw this week, you made one very costly investment – given that you are a married man and all.” He grimaced ruefully. “Yeah, I got lazy, I got stupid and I got careless.” But he was not ashamed. Shame often digs a hole in which a man can hide for years, but I suspected that Max was not one given to secreting himself away. He began to rant. “You’re a smart man, Swifty. Perhaps too smart for me.” I considered his words for a nano-second, but remembered there was little profit to be gained from the appreciation of strangers and cowards.

 

I considered throwing away the umbrella which, as a deterrent against the thrumming rain, was proving negligible. I was soaked through. The water from the creek was by now lapping at Max’s shoes. “But maybe, Swifty, you are not quite smart enough!” He drew a small calibre pistol from his pocket. “That’s not the answer, Max,” I said. Once again the umbrella was proving itself most inadequate. He waved the gun maniacally, then pointed it in my general direction. There was a sudden thrusting movement in the waters behind him. We both looked over his shoulder to see a crocodile of at least three metres in length suddenly surging toward him. I turned on my heel and began running for the safety of my hotel, fighting the urge to look back. The harrowing screams of a man being dragged to his death by a prehistoric creature pursued me into the building and all the way to my room. I am positive that Max McDonald’s guttural pleas for deliverance will haunt me until my dying day.

 

 

Back within the sanctuary of the room, I listened for sounds of human movement within the hotel, but there were none. I nervously peered out the window and saw a Panama hat being buffeted across the car park by the wind and rain. I was drenched. After I showered, I attempted to collect my thoughts. I worked on telling myself that there was nothing I could have done to have saved Max’s life. An umbrella versus a crocodile? In a Monty Python sketch, maybe. And after all, he had been the one pointing the gun at me.

 

I was not a man of deep faith, but just in case there was a god, I said a silent prayer as I towelled myself dry and returned to bed. I gulped down the last drop of Jameson from the glass on my bedside table. Jess was still sleeping silently, oblivious to the horrors that I had just witnessed and heard. Again, I looked at her closely. A smile somehow found my face. And in that moment I tried my best to convince myself that my seven lean years were well and truly over.

 

 

 

You can read more from Smokie (and also Swifty Taylor) HERE

 

 

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