Anthony Darey(2)Streets of Babylon (Novel excerpt—crime thriller; futuristic)
July 5th 2007 00:42
Stanton abruptly ceased his tapping, as muffled voices were heard in the outer office: the high-pitched tone of his new secretary, the vivacious, young redhead Elana Miles, followed by Sam Jones’ gruff drawl. Not long after, the Commissioner’s portly bulk burst through his door. “About time, mate,” the Premier barked, tossing the pencil onto the desk.
“Sorry John,” offered Jones, immediately plonking down in the chair opposite and swiping a meaty palm at the dots of sweat lining his brow. He was an unusual-looking man, cat-like green eyes peered suspiciously from a round, fleshy face, oily black hair worn plastered-down over an elongated skull.
“Well, any word?” Stanton asked, leaning forward and folding his arms on the desk. He was referring to the latest murder that had the media in-frenzy. Not that he cared much about the victim—another street gang no-hoper. No, this was bad press, and of the sort that disturbed constituents: some crazy preacher had allegedly thrown petrol over a member of a gang called The Lebs then set him alight. Media were saying was that if police couldn’t apprehend a hapless preacher, what hope is there of controlling the gang violence that has the State under a blanket of fear.
“He’s gone to ground, ” said Jones, “someone in his church no doubt hiding him.”
“Do we know this maniac’s name?”
“Michael Frederik Johns. He was born and raised in North Sydney, and worked as an electrician up until about three years ago, when he suddenly started shouting Bible verses from street corners. He’s had a couple of ‘move ons’ from uniforms, but apart from that, the guy is clean as a whistle, no record, not even D.U.I.”
Stanton sat back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. “Well then, do you mind telling me why an electrician turned Pastor, a veritable saint by all accounts, suddenly ends up hurling petrol over another person and setting them alight?”
“Ah,” Jones rubbed his neck; “we do know there was no accelerant, and according to an eyewitness, who’ll no doubt be deemed unreliable due to their state of inebriation at the time, said the preacher did nothing but bless the man. Then the gang member supposedly burst into flames!” ©
“Sorry John,” offered Jones, immediately plonking down in the chair opposite and swiping a meaty palm at the dots of sweat lining his brow. He was an unusual-looking man, cat-like green eyes peered suspiciously from a round, fleshy face, oily black hair worn plastered-down over an elongated skull.
“He’s gone to ground, ” said Jones, “someone in his church no doubt hiding him.”
“Do we know this maniac’s name?”
“Michael Frederik Johns. He was born and raised in North Sydney, and worked as an electrician up until about three years ago, when he suddenly started shouting Bible verses from street corners. He’s had a couple of ‘move ons’ from uniforms, but apart from that, the guy is clean as a whistle, no record, not even D.U.I.”
Stanton sat back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. “Well then, do you mind telling me why an electrician turned Pastor, a veritable saint by all accounts, suddenly ends up hurling petrol over another person and setting them alight?”
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