Behind Closed Doors in Blackwood

The heat sat on the workshop like a wet blanket. Keith Nicholls lay on his back under a black German sedan that had no business being in Blackwood, and the metal above him ticked as it cooled. Sweat ran into his beard. His hi-vis shirt was soaked through at the chest and under the arms, the yellow fabric stuck to him in patches. The green bamboo socks had gone black with dust at the ankles. He had been at the same lug nut for ten minutes.

He set the tire iron, felt for bite, and hauled. The nut did not move. He swore, low and filthy, and hauled again. His knuckles whitened. The iron slipped a fraction and rang against the rim.

“You’re a stubborn bastard, Nicholls.”

Keith turned his head. Shane from safety stood at the edge of the hoist, clipboard in one hand, a look on his face that said he had been waiting to say that all afternoon. He wore a clean polo and shoes that had never seen grease.

“Love you too, sweetheart,” Keith said. “You here to help or to breathe on me?”

“I’m here because your last inspection sheet is missing a date. Again.”

Keith rammed the iron back onto the nut. “Put today’s date on it. I’ll sign it when I get out from under this German prick.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“That’s how it works if you want me to still be here when the next one comes in.” He put his weight into it. The nut gave a fraction, then another, then broke free with a sound that made his shoulders drop. “There. Happy?”

Shane did not look happy. “Gloves, Keith. Eye protection. The hoist lock is—”

“The hoist lock is on. I’ve been doing this since you were in high school. If I wanted a lecture I’d go home.” He spun the nut off, dropped it into the magnetic tray, and started on the next. “You going to stand there all day, or can I finish this before the owner comes back and cries about his alloy rims?”

Shane wrote something on the clipboard. “I’ll come back.”

“Don’t.”

The sedan belonged to a man from the Adelaide Hills who had driven too fast on a country road and shredded a sidewall. Keith did not care about the man. He cared about the job being done right, because a job done wrong came back, and he hated work that came back. He rolled the wrecked tire aside with his boot and sat up. The workshop smelled of rubber, oil, and hot metal. A radio muttered cricket scores from a shelf that had not been dusted in years. Fan blades chopped the air and did nothing useful.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He wiped his hands on his shorts and answered without looking.

“Nicholls.”

“I know who you are,” Chloe said. “I married you, remember?”

He grinned despite himself. “How could I forget. You still at the hospital?”

“Just finished. Patricia called me an angel again. I nearly told her to shove it.” Her voice was dry, tired, and fond. “You still under that car?”

“Just got the last nut. Safety prick was in here waving paper at me.”

“You’re a stubborn bastard, Nicholls.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

She laughed once. “Don’t forget the steaks. The ones from the butcher, not the supermarket rubbish. And if you come home looking like you rolled in a pit, you’re showering before you touch anything in my kitchen.”

“Your kitchen.”

“Our kitchen. You know what I mean.”

“I’ll get the steaks. I’ll even wash my hands.”

“Miracles.” She paused. Traffic noise sat behind her, the hospital lot, someone calling a name. “I’ll be twenty minutes. Don’t start anything without me.”

He knew what she meant. He also knew she was talking about dinner if anyone overheard. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar.” She hung up.

Keith shoved the phone away, fitted the new tire, and torqued the nuts in a star pattern because that was how you did it if you were not an idiot. Shane did not come back. The Hills man paid in cash and talked too much about German engineering. Keith nodded, took the money, and watched him leave. Then he locked the roller door, killed the radio, and stood in the sudden quiet with the tire iron still in his hand. He hung it on the hook by the bench. It belonged there. It also belonged somewhere else, later.

The drive home cut through Blackwood’s main street. Heat shimmered off the bitumen. The pub already had cars out front. The chemist had its faded sunshade down. He knew every shopfront and most of the people who used them. That was the point of a town like this. Everyone knew your name. Nobody knew the rest.

He stopped at the butcher, bought the steaks Chloe wanted, and put them on the passenger seat. The plastic stuck to his greasy fingers. He swore at that too, because swearing was cheaper than air-conditioning.

Their house sat on a quiet road with a high fence and a backyard that looked ordinary from the street. The locked outbuilding at the back did not look ordinary if you knew what to look for, and nobody did. Keith parked, killed the engine, and sat for a second with the steaks in his lap. The afternoon still had heat in it. Cicadas screamed in the gums.

Inside, the kitchen was cooler. He dropped the meat in the fridge, toed off his boots, and left black prints on the mat. Chloe’s car pulled in before he had the beer open. She came through the door in scrubs, hair in a ponytail, wedding ring catching the light. She looked at his shirt, his shorts, the socks, and then at his face.

“You promised you’d shower.”

“I promised I’d wash my hands.” He held them up. They were not clean. “Close enough.”

“It is not close enough. You smell like a workshop threw up on you.” She dumped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and came close enough to poke his chest. “This shirt is disgusting. Get it off the kitchen.”

“It’s my kitchen too.”

“Then treat it like one, dickhead.”

He caught her wrist, not hard, just enough. She did not pull away. Up close she smelled like hospital soap and the mint she chewed on the drive. He liked that she still looked like the woman everyone trusted and still talked to him like this.

“You’re in a mood,” he said.

“I spent eight hours being nice to people who cough on me. You spent eight hours being rude to a safety officer. We are not the same.”

“Love you too.”

“Get the shirt off. Then you can help me cook. Then you can be useful.”

He peeled the hi-vis over his head and dropped it toward the laundry, missed, and left it on the tiles. Chloe made a noise that was half laugh, half threat, and picked it up with two fingers. Her eyes went over his chest the way they always did when he was half dressed and greasy. He knew that look. He used it.

“Steaks first,” she said, but her mouth had already gone soft at the corner. “I’m starving. If you start something now I’ll bite you.”

“That’s not a threat.”

“Keith.”

He let her go. They cooked. She seasoned the meat. He burned the first side because he was watching her instead of the pan, and she swore at him with real heat and then bumped his hip with hers when he flipped it in time. They argued about whether the salad needed more salt. They argued about the shirt on the floor even after it was gone. The plates went down. They ate standing up because sitting felt like work. Outside, the light went gold and then thin.

After, she poured wine. He had another beer. The kitchen smelled of seared beef and grease. She leaned against the counter in her scrubs, one hip cocked, and watched him like she was deciding whether to stay angry.

“Shower,” she said.

“In a minute.”

“Now.”

He crowded her against the counter anyway. She let him, for a few seconds, then shoved his chest with the heel of her hand. “I mean it. You’re not putting those hands on me until you’ve washed the day off. I am not joking.”

“You’re a bit joking.”

“I’m a bit considering divorce.” She kissed him once, short, tasting of wine, and pointed down the hall. “Go. I’ll clean this. Then we deal with the rest.”

The rest. He thought about the outbuilding while the water ran. He thought about Graham Voss, who had been in there since last night, who had started the evening loud and had gotten quieter as the hours stacked. Keith liked the quiet that came after the loud. He liked knowing a man was still breathing because Keith allowed it.

He dressed in a clean T-shirt and old shorts, left the work socks in the basket, and came back barefoot. Chloe had stacked the plates. The wineglass was still in her hand, half full. She raised an eyebrow.

“Better.”

“I’m a prince.”

“You’re a tyre fitter who finally used soap.” She sipped. “I’m going to finish this. Then I’ll come out. Don’t you dare start without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You said that on the phone.”

He kissed the side of her neck, where the ponytail left skin, and went out the back door before she could make him swear it again.

The yard was still warm. The outbuilding sat behind the clothesline, timber, no windows that mattered, a padlock that looked cheaper than it was. Keith unlocked it, stepped in, and shut the door behind him. The air inside was hotter, still, and sour with sweat and fear. A single bulb hung from a cord. Graham Voss sat on the concrete where they had left him, wrists bound, ankles tied to the bracket in the floor. His expensive shirt was ruined. His thinning hair stuck to his forehead. He had wet himself at some point in the night. He looked up and started talking at once.

“Please. I can pay. I told you last night I can pay. Ronald will—”

Keith pulled a chair from the wall, set it down in front of him, and sat. He did not rush. He rested his forearms on his knees and looked at Graham until the man’s mouth ran out of easy words.

“You said Ronald a lot last night,” Keith said. “You said money. You said you were important. None of that got you out of here.”

“I know things. About Hayes. About the books. About people who go missing.” Graham’s voice cracked. “You don’t understand who you’re dealing with.”

“I understand you’re in my shed.” Keith’s tone stayed even. “I understand you spent years putting your hands on people who couldn’t stop you. I understand you thought a town like this would never look at a fat man in a nice watch.”

“That’s not— I have a family.”

“So do I.”

Graham swallowed. His eyes flicked to the door, to the tire iron Keith had brought in without thinking, the same one from the workshop, leaning now against the chair leg. Keith had not planned to bring it. His hand had taken it off the hook on the way out of the kitchen because it felt like part of him. He left it there. He did not pick it up. Not yet.

“Please don’t,” Graham whispered. “I’ll tell you whatever you want. Names. Addresses. Ronald’s places. Just don’t— I can’t do another night of this. I can’t.”

Keith leaned back. The chair creaked. “Another night is the point. You don’t get to rush me. You don’t get to bargain like we’re at a meeting. You sit there. You think about why you’re here. When I ask you something, you answer. When I don’t, you shut up.”

“I answered last night.”

“You lied last night. Then you cried. Then you lied again.” Keith smiled, small and unfriendly. “We’re going to go slower this time. I want you to feel how long an hour is when nobody’s coming.”

Graham started to shake. It was not theatrical. It was the kind of shaking that came when a man finally believed the room. “Chloe— your wife— she’s a nurse. She’s decent. She wouldn’t want this. If she knew—”

“She knows.”

That landed. Graham’s mouth opened and closed. “She can’t. She was kind when she— when she checked my pulse. She said I should stay calm.”

“She was keeping you alive,” Keith said. “That’s different from kind.”

Silence stretched in the hot little room. A moth beat against the bulb. Somewhere in the house a tap ran. Keith watched Graham’s face work through the options and find none.

“What do you want from me?” Graham asked at last.

“I want you frightened. I want you honest. I want you to understand that money does not walk in here and undo last night.” Keith tipped his head. “Start with Ronald. Not the speech. The part you were saving.”

Graham talked. He talked about properties, about men who collected debts, about a contractor who moved cash. He talked until spit gathered at the corners of his mouth. Keith let him. He asked a question when the story got smooth, and Graham stumbled, and Keith waited through the stumble without filling it. That was the part he liked. The waiting. The way a man’s hope tried to climb and then slipped.

He did not hit him. He did not need to. The tire iron sat in the light like a promise. Graham’s eyes kept going to it and bouncing away.

“You’re enjoying this,” Graham said, suddenly sharp, the old arrogance flickering. “You’re sick. Both of you. When they find me—”

“They won’t.”

“Someone always finds—”

Keith stood. He did not raise his voice. He picked up the iron and rested it across his palm, testing the weight the way he tested a wheel. Graham shut up so fast his teeth clicked.

“That’s better,” Keith said. “You can have the rest of your voice later. Right now you listen. You are going to sit there until my wife is ready. You are going to think about every person you hurt and whether they felt like this. And if you scream, I’ll give you a reason.”

He sat again. He laid the iron across his knees. Graham breathed in wet little pulls. Minutes passed. Keith counted them without looking at a clock. He could do this for hours. He had. Chloe knew that about him. She did not love him in spite of it. She loved him with it, which was a different thing, and rarer.

The door opened behind him. Light from the yard cut across the concrete. Chloe stood in the doorway in her scrubs, wineglass still in her hand, dark hair still tied back. She took in the chair, the iron, Graham’s face, and Keith’s posture. Annoyance crossed her mouth first. Then something like partnership, tired and sharp.

Graham made a small sound, almost a laugh, almost a sob. “Please. Talk to him. You’re a nurse. You can’t—”

Chloe did not look at Graham when she spoke. She looked at Keith.

“Seriously, Keith? You couldn’t wait until I’d finished my wine?”