A simple farmer receives a horse from the gods, a man sells ice creams named after missing schoolkids, the demolition of a hotel brings an old horror to light, a wounded soldier finds the real enemy is in his own camp, a family inherits a peculiar r...
David Wheeler stood at the corner of William and Flinders and squinted up into the rain. People under dark umbrellas scurried past the trunks of buildings, and traffic lights glowed like lights beneath the sea. A truck snored by, spraying the pavement behind him with water. He could smell the nearby river.
Like many of Melbourne's colonial buildings, and the streets themselves, the hotel was built of bluestone. It had dark inset windows. All the windows on the ground floor were barred, which gave it the appearance of a prison. The first floor windows were uniform rectangles, except for the one furthest from the street corner. This was circular, like a porthole. It was the only first floor window that was barred. David wondered if it had been a later addition. Perhaps the builders had salvaged it from somewhere else. David made a mental note to have it removed prior to demolition. It was unusual. It might be worth something.
The year was 1977. Few people cared enough about these buildings to oppose their demolition; this wouldn't change until the passing of the Heritage Act in 1995. For now, David's business was secure.
He looked back down Flinders Street and saw a black cloud shaped like a horsehead rolling in from the bay. Hail, he thought. There had been none forecast. He stepped into the hotel's narrow doorway and under a filthy awning. He removed his raincoat and shook beads of water from it; they bounced off the oiled surface of the cable knit jumper underneath. Then he pushed the door open.
The interior of the hotel was dim. An old man huddled over the bar. He didn't look up when David entered, and the only sign he was alive was the hand that crept out to a pot of beer and lifted it shakingly to his blue lips. A woman emerged from a back room, wiping her hands on her apron. She was in her fifties, her hair red and her skin pale. She forced a smile at David, then reached out and put a hand over one of the old man's. It was an oddly tender gesture. She whispered something to him. He glanced suspiciously at David.
The woman removed her hand from the old man's and looked up at David. "Mr. Wheeler?"
He nodded.
"Let's get this over with then."
"Can we start upstairs?"
She paused. In that moment David heard the hail start up outside. The old man looked up at the distant roar, as if unsure what it was.
"If you like," she said, raising her voice over the drumming hail.
David followed her to the back of the building, where there was a staircase and a door and a window. She flicked a switch and a dim light blinked on above their heads. He could smell the wet laneway outside the window.
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I briefly considered calling this story Demolition Man.
