Fat, Fifty & F<li><li><li>ed!

by Geoffrey McGeachin

  At this point Martin decided he had more than enough information. He attacked his steak, which was incredibly tender.

  Wal leaned over to him. ‘Faith tells me you’re a bank robber on the run.’

  Martin glanced quickly at Faith. She seemed embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘it just came out, and I swore him to secrecy.’ She glared at her father. ‘Fat lot of good that did.’

  Wal ignored her. ‘And she reckons you’re heading up north to see the mad major,’ he continued.

  Jesse nearly choked on his chips. ‘Jesus, Martin, you’re a dark horse. That all true?’

  ‘I guess,’ he said sheepishly. ‘There was no plan, though, it all just sort of happened.’

  Jesse was impressed. ‘You sly dog. And here’s me thinking you made a million in cold cash by honest labour and the sweat of your brow.’ He poured the last of a bottle of red into Martin’s glass and stood up. ‘I’ll get some more plonk,’ he said. ‘You okay for white there, Faith?’

  Faith gave him the thumbs-up and Jesse ambled off to the bar. Wal got up and followed and the two men had an animated discussion while the barman was opening another bottle.

  ‘If you’re still thinking of heading up north, Martin,’ Jesse said as they sat down, ‘Wal just had a bit of a bright idea, which is pretty surprising since I thought he’d shagged himself totally senseless. Why don’t you leave the bike here and take his old campervan? You’ll be a lot more comfortable and a hell of a lot less obvious.’

  Wal nodded enthusiastically. ‘She’s a good little van, Martin. A genuine Coolibah camper/cruiser. The deluxe model. Got a chemical toilet and a shower with hot-and-cold pressurised water. Radio, microwave, gas stove, plus you got a 12/240-volt power supply. Bunk beds, unfortunately, but you can probably bodgie up a double if you get lucky with some hot hitchhiker.’ He winked.

  Faith looked at Martin. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘he used to be such a charmer.’

  ‘I still am, darlin’,’ Wal said. ‘Ask around.’

  Martin was uncertain about the van.

  ‘You should think about it, mate,’ Jesse urged. ‘We made a few modifications to the camper after Wal stopped using it, and it’s a pretty sweet ride. And there’s a compartment for your cash that’ll be safer than in that sidecar. Very safe, in fact. Almost totally impossible to detect.’ He took a sip of wine and gave a sly smile. ‘And believe me, our vehicles tend to get searched by experts on a fairly regular basis.’

  ‘I think we should take them up on it, Martin,’ Faith said.

  He looked at her. ‘We?’ he said. ‘I thought you were only coming north to catch up with your dad?’

  ‘Well, Dad’s got himself sorted out here. According to the TV news, I’m missing, and as long as Dad knows I’m okay, that’s just fine with me. In fact I think I might already be cramping his style. Apparently some poor lady missed out on her afternooner while we talked over old times.’

  Wal was winking at a woman at the next table. Faith leaned over and took Martin’s hand. He felt the now familiar electric tingle run along his spine.

  ‘The van sounds great, Martin,’ she said, ‘let’s do it. It’ll be great cover if anyone’s caught on to the motorcycle by now.’

  Martin looked around the table and raised his glass in a toast. ‘Sounds like a done deal to me,’ he said. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘You two watch your step up north,’ Wal said. ‘I looked Stark up on the Net. That psycho-wanker’s bunker is supposed to have booby traps and landmines from arsehole to breakfast. We can’t have Faith here losing any more bits, can we?’

  Faith glared at her father again. ‘Dad!’

  ‘Don’t mind him, Faith,’ Jesse laughed, ‘he doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time. All the pussy he’s getting has addled his brain.’

  ‘Bugger you, Pres,’ Wal huffed. ‘I was seventy-three before I found out about oral sex and I’m just making up for lost time.’

  ‘Whoa!’ Faith said, shaking her head and shivering. ‘Way too much information.’

  ‘Did I see a delicious-looking pavlova by that espresso machine, Faith?’ Martin asked with a fixed grin. ‘What say we go check it out?’

  fourteen

  Martin ran the campervan into a ditch at about ten o’clock in the morning. Before they left Ocean View, the bikies’ mechanic had warned them about the van’s ‘bad habits’. The problem apparently lay in the replacement of the original small diesel engine with a turbo-charged V-6.

  ‘Woulda loved to whack a V-8 in, but there wasn’t room,’ Spark Plug the mechanic explained with a sigh of regret. ‘Bugger’ll go fast and we gave her wider tyres and lowered and stabilised the suspension, but she’s still just a granny flat on wheels, so you gotta watch yourself.’

  He patted the side of the van and smiled. ‘If you gotta outrun anyone, try doing it on a straight bit of road,’ he warned them, ‘cos she’s a real bastard on turns. Old girl’s got the cornering characteristics of a slice of lemon meringue pie.’

  The ‘old girl’ was an all-white cab-over-camper conversion. She was airconditioned and as nicely fitted out as Wal had claimed. A cunningly concealed space behind another cunningly concealed space in the ceiling cabinets of the van held the loot from the bank. As Jesse explained, the logic was you should always give searchers something to find to make them feel they’d done their job. Then they’d stop looking and your second hiding place would be safe.

  Posing with Wal next to the van for a photograph before their departure, Martin and Faith looked like typical holiday-makers heading north for the sunshine. Faith had changed from her motorcycle leathers into hipster cargo pants, a white singlet and a light hooded sweatshirt. Martin was wearing an extremely colourful yellow and red flower-patterned shirt, very long shorts and white sneakers. His hair was red. Their second day at Ocean View had given Faith a chance to work this transformation, with the assistance of the local hair salon which the bikies also owned and ran.

  During the afternoon, Martin had learned more about motorcycles from Jesse than he really wanted to know, while Faith spent time catching up with her dad.

  There had been quite a send-off from the bikies and the residents of Ocean View. The van’s engine started with a throaty exhaust roar, which settled into a deep and resonating rumble on idle. Spark Plug smiled proudly.

  ‘Might look pretty fuckin’ ordinary,’ he said, ‘but there’s that huge donk hidden away for when you really need it.’

  ‘Just like the original owner,’ said Wal, who was standing with his arms around the shoulders of two women.

  ‘Jesus, Dad,’ Faith said, ‘give it a rest.’

  ‘Good idea, love,’ Wal said, ‘I think I’ll have a bit of a lie-down as soon as you’ve gone. Feeling a tad weary.’

  Both women grinned. Wal kissed them on the cheek in turn. Faith took a photograph.

  Jesse shook Martin’s hand and then grabbed Faith, kissing her full on the lips.

  On the highway, it took Martin a while to get used to the idea that the van could overtake almost everything on the road. Spark Plug had fitted cruise control, so they were travelling at a steady 85 kph, causing delays on some stretches and getting the finger on a regular basis from truckies and hoons in hotted-up sedans and utes.

  ‘The best way not to draw attention to yourself in a campervan is to keep getting in everyone’s way,’ Faith had advised him.

  Around nine a.m. Martin suggested they leave the highway for some of the less crowded rural roads.

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Faith. She poured coffee from a thermos and handed him a cup.

  The back road was in good condition, but the frequent dips and curves required a lot more concentration from the driver. There was very little other traffic.

  Faith spoke after half an hour of silence. ‘I like a man who doesn’t feel he’s got to talk.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Martin, glancing over at her.

  ‘No, I really mean it,’ she said. ‘I love jus
t sitting and watching the road go by. It’s why I like bikes. My ex always figured if you weren’t talking, you were fighting.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Martin said.

  She turned to face him. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why are you still here?’

  She turned back and watched the countryside roll past for a couple of moments before replying. ‘When you hear the cancer word, you either flip out or suddenly see everything pretty clearly. I’m here because I want to be here. Live in the moment and bugger the consequences.’

  ‘Like mouthing off in a bikie bar?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I have to admit I did go a bit over the top there,’ she said.

  ‘Not all that much. Getting involved in robbery and mayhem seems a bit more extreme.’

  ‘Hey,’ she laughed, ‘I’m a librarian. The history books are full of our outlandish escapades, erotic adventures and deeds of derring-do.’

  ‘None of the history books I’ve read.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘We keep them in a special sealed section.’

  Martin turned to her and smiled. She looked back into his eyes. She didn’t smile.

  ‘Spark Plug warned you about the over-steer, remember?’

  ‘Sorry, what?’ Martin asked. Then, ‘Oh shit!’

  ‘Better hold on tight,’ Faith said.

  Martin swung the wheel hard, trying to correct as they began sliding into the curve. He pumped the brakes. The van fishtailed another hundred metres down the bitumen before coming to a juddering stop on the side of the road, tilted at a steep angle towards a ditch. Martin turned off the engine. His hands were shaking.

  ‘Nice save,’ said Faith.

  Martin breathed a sigh of relief. ‘No damage done.’

  The van suddenly shuddered, groaned slightly, then toppled slowly over onto its side. There was a noisy clatter from the back, followed by complete silence.

  ‘Bugger,’ Faith said. ‘Mum’s priceless collection of Royal Doulton. My inheritance.’ She was lying on her side with Martin hanging above her, suspended in his seatbelt.

  ‘Shit,’ Martin said. ‘I’m sorry, Faith. I’ll replace it all, I promise.’

  ‘Joke, Martin,’ she laughed, ‘it’s all plastic. Everything my mum had was unbreakable. Even me, pretty much.’

  Martin undid his seatbelt and instantly fell on top of Faith. Their faces were pressed together, his lips on her cheek. It was the softest thing he had ever felt. He didn’t ever want to be anywhere else.

  ‘Smooth move, Martin,’ she said.

  It seemed to Martin that she didn’t much mind the situation either. After a moment he said, ‘I think we’d better get out, Faith. There could be an explosion.’

  ‘You’re right, Martin,’ she said, making no effort to move. ‘And the van might blow up too,’ she added quietly.

  Exiting the overturned van was difficult as they had to climb up to the driver’s door. Faith helped by putting her hands on Martin’s butt and pushing hard. On a scale of one to ten, he decided, this particular crash rated about a twelve.

  *

  There was no obvious damage, but the van would need to be winched back onto its wheels. Being off the main highway meant there wasn’t much passing traffic, so they got out the picnic rug and sat on the verge. Faith photographed the clouds while Martin checked out Mr Tran’s picnic basket.

  ‘Yum, meatloaf sandwiches,’ he announced.

  ‘You mean the pâté de Campagna on a baguette?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I said, meatloaf sangers,’ Martin grinned, hoeing into the baguette.

  After eating, they lay back and looked at the sky.

  ‘Why did you do it – the bank thing, I mean?’ Faith asked after a long time.

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ Martin said, ‘I really don’t know. I got up that morning and was sick of my life. Just wanted it to be over. Drank my morning coffee in the garage while wondering if I should put the rifle under my chin or between my eyes. Then I thought about playing Russian roulette with the bank’s pistol during the morning smoko.’

  ‘Revolver or automatic?’ Faith asked. ‘The bank’s pistol, I mean.’

  ‘Automatic, I guess. Why?’

  ‘Because you can’t play Russian roulette with a semiautomatic pistol, Martin. Incredibly bad odds. Every contestant loses, every time.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, rolling onto his side. ‘You know what’s funny? I just realised I had two coffees that morning and almost killed myself after each one.’

  ‘Instant coffee will do that to you,’ Faith said.

  He sat up. ‘How do you know it was instant?’

  ‘You’re a bank manager,’ she said, ‘you wear brown suede shoes and you just order coffee when you go into a cafe, without looking.’

  ‘Looking at what?’ Martin asked. ‘You usually order tea, anyway.’

  ‘I love coffee and I’d actually rather have coffee, but you have to pay attention,’ Faith insisted.

  ‘Pay attention to what?’

  Faith sat up as well. ‘Do they have a professional-quality espresso machine? You need to check out the make, the type of grinder they use, the roast of the beans. Does a waiter or the person on the cash register make the coffees, or do they have a dedicated barista? How well do they pack the ground coffee into the portafilter? Do they tamp, and if so, how hard?’

  Martin gaped at her. ‘Portafilter?’

  ‘That’s the handle part you put the ground coffee in,’ she explained. ‘It locks into the group, which is in the actual coffee machine and which ideally should be made of brass for better temperature control. Tamping is packing the ground coffee down into the portafilter, and just how hard you should do it is a matter of some debate.’

  ‘C’mon, Faith,’ Martin complained, ‘we’re just talking coffee, aren’t we?’

  ‘Good heavens, no!’ Faith said in a shocked voice. ‘We’re talking espresso. And if the boys and girls at the Istituto Nazionale Espresso Italiano could hear you, they’d be pretty cheesed off.’

  ‘There’s actually an Italian institute for coffee?’

  Faith nodded. ‘They set the standards to aim for,’ she said. ‘The perfect espresso should use seven grams of freshly ground coffee, hit by water at 90 degrees Celsius under nine atmospheres of pressure to give you twenty-five millilitres of coffee at about 67 degrees Celsius in the cup. And this should take precisely twenty-five seconds of extraction time.’

  ‘Whoa,’ Martin said, ‘you’re kidding, right?’

  Faith gave him a look that said she’d never kid about coffee.

  ‘Coffee’s a lot more complex than I realised,’ Martin said.

  ‘Sure is. And we haven’t even mentioned crema, which is a whole other debate. The Turks think coffee should be black as hell, strong as death and sweet as love. The Spanish like a carajillo in the morning, which is coffee with a dash of brandy – the size of the dash is open to interpretation – and the Italians think you have to understand the four Ms before you can fully appreciate coffee.’

  ‘The four Ms?’

  ‘Miscela, or the blending of the beans; macinatura, which is the grinding of the blend; macchina, which refers to the espresso machine; and mano, for the hand of a skilled barista.’

  ‘Instant coffee does sound a little easier, Faith,’ he said.

  ‘Martin, please, you’re a millionaire now, you have to have standards. Life’s way too short to be drinking instant coffee.’

  ‘Good point,’ he said. ‘Do you think they serve real coffee in prison?’

  Faith considered this. ‘Interesting. The one place where time is not a consideration and I bet they use instant. Now, that is a conundrum, I must admit.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘I’m not sure how I’ll cope with prison,’ Martin said.

  ‘I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with cancer,’ Faith said, ‘but you just have to keep going. No matter how you look at it, life’s a death sentence. No way round that little
fact. Just ask Jim Morrison.’ She slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, you should cheer up, mate. They have to catch us first.’

  Martin shook his head slowly. ‘I did the robbery and shot our bikie friend. You could say I held you hostage. You could just walk away, you know.’

  ‘I’m not sure that scenario will play, Martin. Imagine the headline: BANK MANAGER HOLDS LIBRARIAN HOSTAGE. Could be a hard sell to the girls at Librarian HQ. Besides, I’m enjoying this. I’m starting to like you.’

  ‘In spite of the brown suede shoes?’

  She leaned over and ruffled his hair. ‘Maybe even because of them,’ she smiled.

  The familiar tingle ran up Martin’s spine. It appeared to him that she withdrew her hand very quickly, as if she’d felt the same thing. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

  Finally he said, ‘Faith, I have decided to piss away my million dollars.’

  ‘Good for you, Martin!’

  ‘If they catch me – us – I want the headlines to read: POLICE UNABLE TO TRACE ANY OF MISSING MILLION.’

  Faith gave him the thumbs-up. ‘Now you’re cooking with gas, Martin.’

  ‘Pulling us out of this ditch should be worth about ten grand, don’t you think?’ he asked.

  ‘Easy. And no more instant coffee?’

  ‘Not a drop shall pass these lips,’ he vowed. ‘And if I want to wear brown suede shoes, I’ll wear brown suede shoes.’

  ‘Way to go, Mr Carter. Of course, not a lot of women want to have wild sex with men who wear brown suede shoes, but it’s your decision and a valid choice.’

  Martin stopped. He was suddenly confused. ‘Am I missing something here, Faith?’ he asked. ‘We were talking about coffee and now we’re talking about sex, right?’

  ‘Mmm. Wild sex. But we’re actually talking about not having it. You’ll have to try to keep up with the conversational shifts if this relationship is going to work.’

  Martin was relieved to hear the sound of an engine in the distance. ‘I think I hear a tractor,’ he said.

  ‘Ten grand to pull a van out of a ditch,’ Faith said. ‘Here comes a man whose day is going to change rather suddenly and dramatically.’