The Courier's New Bicycle

by Kim Westwood

  She’s unabashed.

  ‘Why Albee?’ I ask, voice tight. She has the capacity to crawl under my skin like a tick.

  ‘It was fun. He was willing.’

  ‘You nearly killed him!’

  I can’t believe that a couple of minutes ago I was almost feeling sorry for her about the infertility business.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault Doug’s supplier spiked the kit,’ she retorts. ‘Albee was payback: you stole Gail from me, so I seduced your special friend.’

  A look of triumph steals across her features. Savannah squashes it in one deft move.

  ‘Since Salisbury didn’t in fact “steal” Gail from you, we could balance up the issue of payback by starting you on your first shot of T straightaway,’ she suggests, and Marlene recoils from her as if she already has the needle in her hand.

  It’s such a neat ploy, I almost laugh. Testosterone is the very antithesis of femininity to someone like Marlene.

  Savannah capitalises on the shock. ‘Doug never intended to negotiate the donor permission on your behalf. You must know that by now. He used you to get to Gail then ditched you,’ she says flatly. ‘You’ve no protection from him, or us. The only way out of this without punishment is to persuade him to hand her over.’

  Marlene looks at her as if she’s mad. ‘Like he’ll do it just because I ask.’

  Anwar casually delivers his bombshell. ‘It might help you to know we’ve located the hormone farm where Doug got his supply.’

  I blink at him in surprise. Does he mean the results have come back from the soil-science lab?

  ‘How could you?’ Marlene asks, suspicious.

  ‘What you distributed as EHg product had so many contaminants, a forensic analysis could pinpoint its place of origin,’ he answers.

  She’s silent, digesting the news.

  ‘You said yourself the poisoning wasn’t in Doug’s plan,’ he reminds her. ‘What will happen when that farm is outed anonymously by us as the source? Hormone farms may be endemic, but they’re still illegal and their operators are punishable by law. The police will be required to investigate, no matter how influential the shareholders are. The shareholders, meanwhile, will come after the perpetrators. When they track down Doug — as they surely will — he’ll throw you in their way to save himself.’

  It’s a scenario not hard to imagine, but leads me to another question Marlene can’t answer. Why would Doug’s supplier want to put an OP in the kit and bring their grand scheme crashing down?

  ‘We’re offering you the services of Gail’s relocation network in return for your cooperation,’ Anwar urges. ‘Or do you want to live the rest of your life afraid, always looking over your shoulder?’

  Marlene’s gaze stays on the table, but I can see her wavering. How ironic if she ends up a client of Harry Tong, being the last to deserve his meticulous attention.

  She looks up at Anwar. ‘I won’t be relocated to some outback shithole. My terms are a guaranteed supply of my hormones: regular deliveries, gratis.’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ he replies. ‘If you help us now.’

  She smirks at the protection duo, thinking she’s turned the tables on them and Savannah. ‘Then I’ll do whatever you want.’

  ‘Deal,’ says Anwar. ‘If there’s anything else you’ve neglected to tell us, this is your chance.’ He waits expectantly.

  She brings two scarlet-tipped talons to her forehead in mock salute, and instantly I flash to the street seller in the Shangri-La’s kitchen. The realisation drops. She was his nightmare, the one with ‘bleeding’ fingers. She gave him the kit to sell in the Red Quarter, but he remembered only her luridly painted nails.

  ‘Nothing more to report, sir, Guide’s honour,’ our new recruit tells Anwar, and in my guts I know — we all know — she’s lying.

  27

  A light wind has picked up and is hurrying the leaves from the trees along Madams Row. A cyclist scoots past: such a smooth, economical way to travel. Compared to that, walking is tedious. Next stop for me is the speakeasy and my bike locked in its storeroom. Even a day without it is too long.

  ‘We don’t think Doug’s in it for the next generation of Smegs, do we?’ I say to Anwar.

  ‘That’s assuming he can sire another generation,’ he answers. ‘The fear of ending up the last one in the family tree would be a powerful motivator for some. But no, I think Marlene wants a baby, and Doug is after an empire.’

  The Doug Smeg Distribution empire. We know he got the idea from Marlene and the kit from a farm worker, but whose interests apart from his own was he representing when he came to Gail with the offer on C&C?

  I shoot Anwar a quick look. ‘And the proof we have identifying the hormone farm?’

  ‘None. The tests came back inconclusive. It just had to sound plausible for Marlene, to keep her from doing any more damage.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘A proposition that Doug will go for — or information from someone that circumvents the need.’

  Marlene’s cooperation may be secured, but we still don’t have the leverage we need to persuade Doug to give up Gail. Pity Miss Snooty isn’t valuable enough to him to offer a prisoner exchange.

  ‘What if Gail’s been forced to sign over C&C already?’ I ask.

  ‘She’ll hold out,’ he replies quietly.

  We part company just beyond the street’s bollarded exit. It’s a carryover from the pandemic days when the whole area was cordoned off as a plague zone. These days the barriers are left there to keep things out, not in, it suiting the Red Quarter’s current residents to control the type of traffic moving through the enclave.

  Anwar makes north for a pedal-taxi stop on Temperance, an empire to keep from the brink. I continue east, and ten minutes later am heading down Wickerslack Alley.

  If Madams Row seemed worn out, then this laneway is exhausted. The brick is dingy, its graffiti old and uninspired, and every alcove exudes an unpleasant backstreet mix of body fluids. I pass someone sleeping under cardboard, a pair of bright yellow runners sticking out. A lucky find in a city bin? More likely a gift from the Salvos.

  I round the corner to the hidden stretch of alleyway and the entrance to the Glory Hole. It’s unlatched and unattended. I’m a bit surprised. Their security measures aren’t usually so slack, the city rife with roving gangs looking for ways to express their surfeit of anger and disappointment.

  There’s no one in the coat-check nook. I take a quick look down the steps past the dance floor to Meg’s alcove. The curtains are drawn back and it’s empty. Lucky me.

  Rosie is over at the bar, no sign of Trin. I stand at the entrance to the storeroom behind Rosie’s usual doorkeeper’s position — where my bike was and isn’t now.

  Rosie glances my way. I gesture to her and she hops off her stool. ‘Sal!’

  As she comes hurrying up, I look at her, heart in mouth.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Sal —’ she starts, then her eyes flick over my shoulder as both my arms are seized in an unfriendly grip.

  ‘You took your time,’ Merlyn says in my ear.

  ‘Where’s my bike, Rosie?’ I ask.

  ‘In our truck, like where you’ll be next,’ Sandy says as they haul me out the speakeasy door, my feet pedalling air.

  ‘Help would be good,’ I call to the Glory Hole’s pierced and tattooed doorkeeper, who seems rooted to the spot.

  ‘Don’t go blaming her,’ Sandy admonishes. ‘We told her if she tried to help, we’d come back and break her Harley.’

  The ride is super cosy, squeezed between my taciturn abductors in the cab of their sleek black cruiser. I manage to crane around and look through the window behind to check they weren’t telling fibs. Three stars for honesty. My bike is there.

  We don’t ride far, gliding down Pilgrim Lane then into Scots Alley, pulling up outside the unmarked entrance of the Rob Roy. I’m surprised it’s not the barrel vaults of Prestige Couriers. Then I remember who owns the pub.

/>   We enter to stale air and dim lighting, no help to be had through windows thick with grime. There’s a scatter of punters slumped in various stages of alcoholic decline. If I spent my daylight hours in this place, I’d end up that way too.

  Cam polishes glasses behind the bar. If he sees the three of us enter, he doesn’t acknowledge it. The Rob Roy is strictly a mind-your-own-business place. I wonder how many deals made under duress he’s turned a blind eye to.

  Prestige Couriers’ head girl sits in the same booth as last time, dressed in a navy blue blazer and matching skirt and doing business with two trucker types. We wait while Meg wraps up and they shake hands. As the two heft by me to the door, I spy an Australia Post insignia on their shirts.

  Meg motions to us. Merlyn slides first into the bench seat opposite her, then Sandy inserts me before seating her own bulk.

  ‘A rose between two thorns,’ I say chattily.

  No one smiles.

  ‘Not at work this morning, Salisbury,’ Meg says. ‘Problem with the alarm clock? Or a sudden change of heart?’

  ‘My heart was never in it,’ I answer. ‘And now my probationary period has expired, I’ve decided not to take the job.’

  ‘You forget: you’re mine already.’ Her voice is hard as flint. ‘I bought you. You work for Prestige Couriers and BioPharm now.’

  ‘I’m nobody’s,’ I say angrily. ‘I chose to work for you, even though you made it rather hard to refuse. And you can have the advance you foisted on me back in full — the money’s still in the envelope.’

  I no longer care about Crusher and Snarl making origami of my limbs, or Meg, piranha-like, devouring what’s left of my tattered reputation. She’s been swapping kit for information with Marlene, happy to sit back and watch Gail go down.

  Meg looks like thunder. I’m saved by her mobile buzzing on the tabletop. She answers it, her expression going from angry to incredulous. After a few curt words, the phone disappears into her navy blazer.

  She regards me for an overly long moment. ‘Anwar Mustafa has just told me some extremely interesting news, which I believe you’re aware of already.’

  It’s just a tiny bit satisfying to see that the Mistress of the Compendium doesn’t know everything, after all.

  ‘If he can get your other party to bring his prize to the table, I’ve agreed to the Glory Hole being the location of proceedings. Of course, Mr Mustafa will owe me. Nothing for nothing. I’m sure he’s eminently capable of handling the situation without a fuss, but I have it in mind to keep you with me as surety against losses.’

  No way! My body’s electrics begin to fire off distress signals like scattershot, every fibre in me clamouring for escape, but with Meg’s heavyweights placed each side, there’s nowhere to go — except under the table.

  My captors grab at me, but get a handful of my jacket instead, which I manage to Houdini out of. Then I’m crawling cockroach-like from the booth and bolting for the exit.

  Outside, I dash to the rear of the truck and wrench on the doorhandle. It opens. I thrill with relief. My abductors were so preoccupied with me that they forgot to lock their vehicle. I drag out my bike, praying it hasn’t been damaged, and look to the Rob Roy’s entrance. Why aren’t they snapping at my heels? It’s too good to be true. Meg must have told them not to bother.

  I start running triathlon style, sticking one foot in the toe strap nearest and swinging the other leg over the frame. My hands glove to the fit of the handlebars and I assume racing position, swishing down the alley then left onto Pilgrim Street. Dodging pedal cars and slow-lane cyclists, I speed east, the wind a cleansing cool on my face, thoughts rushing through me like water in a sluice gate.

  Meg and Marlene’s quid pro quo — hormones for information — has to be how Meg got wind of the insider sabotaging Gail’s business. She saw Marlene’s obsession had taken a nasty turn, and suspected her of deeper involvement, then used that to try to sway me into throwing my lot in with Prestige Couriers and spilling the beans on C&C’s buyers list.

  Barrelling left into a laneway, I begin to dogleg north.

  So why now offer up the Glory Hole as the venue for our hoped-for exchange with Doug? Maybe because she likes to know everything about everyone, and this way she’s assured a box seat.

  I ride into my street — and a brawl outside my house. The team of two organised by Gail to watch the property are hustling someone in a prayer shawl to their vehicle. A hysterical someone.

  ‘Sal!’ she cries when she sees me.

  I tell them it’s my sister and they stop, nonplussed.

  One holds up a rock. ‘She was about to lob this through your front window, this on it.’ In his other hand is a piece of paper. I don’t need to read what’s printed there.

  ‘You did that?’ I say to Helen. ‘And the other ones?’

  She looks at me beseechingly. ‘I need to talk to you — in private.’

  With reticence the pair release Helen, and tell me they’ll be outside if I need them.

  Key turned in the lock, I push on my front door. This will be the first time my sister has stepped into my home. Nitro cruises up, his tail wafting like a lure, but she hardly notices. I don’t bother to introduce them.

  I confront her in the living room.

  ‘So you put that note under my door the other day. What about before that? Did the prayer group just happen on me at the Good Bean, or have you had them follow me around?’

  ‘You’re not hard to predict,’ she replies. ‘You’ve been going to that café every Saturday for years. You even tried to take me there once.’

  I think back to my failed delivery in Cutters Lane. ‘And the attack in the Red Quarter?’

  ‘The Red Quarter?’ She frowns. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  I feel like my head is going to explode. ‘Just tell me. Why the rocks and cryptic messages?’

  ‘I couldn’t think of any other way to scare you,’ she replies simply. ‘I thought if you knew the prayer groups were targeting you, you’d stop couriering and lie low for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  She doesn’t answer, just stares, unseeing, at the cat. Then she says, ‘If Michael finds out I’ve come here, he’ll kill me.’

  Her face crumples. I lead her to my couch while Nitro heads for the safety of the bedroom, a doona to commandeer.

  She bends forward and grips her knees. ‘I lost my baby, Sal,’ she blurts.

  ‘You were pregnant?’ I ask, incredulous, and she shakes her head. I’m afraid she’s going to clam up again.

  I sit by her. ‘Helen, if ever there was a time to talk to me, now is it.’

  She gathers herself to speak, not looking at me.

  ‘After the vaccination drive, when we were both still fertile, Michael and I made deposits in the Family Health cryo-banks. Preserving sperm or ova was frowned on by Saviour Nation’s worship leaders, but it wasn’t forbidden.’ She fingers the rough fibres of the prayer shawl fallen from her shoulders. ‘I would never have considered going against the NF edicts once it was denounced as an unnatural practice, but Michael discovered how attractive politicians who have children are to the voting public. It was his suggestion we enter a surrogacy arrangement and I fake my pregnancy. I’m ashamed to say I leapt at it. I’ve wanted this for so long …’

  The tears begin to flow. I find a box of tissues and place it by her, then go lean on the wall beside my bookshelf. I’ve never seen her like this.

  ‘We were about to announce our miracle, and how I’d be going somewhere quiet for my confinement — pregnancies are so risky these days — when the surrogate miscarried and I lost my little girl.’ She breaks into another round of sobs. ‘Now Michael thinks he’ll lose his seat to his running mate who’s a fertile with three kids.’

  ‘When was this?’ I ask.

  ‘A week ago.’

  A week ago I was hauling Geeta off the pavement.

  I stare at her.

  ‘Was it you crying on Madams Row last Thursda
y?’

  She nods. ‘I’d just been given the news by the broker.’ She pulls a tissue from the box and blows her nose. ‘For you of all people to come past on your bike …’

  The eerie wailing in the Shangri-La comes back to me. ‘Your broker is Savannah Rose,’ I say quietly.

  She gives me a quick, surprised look then nods. We’re both silent.

  ‘So why try to stop me from couriering?’ I ask again.

  ‘To get you away from Gail Alvarez before it was too late.’

  I jolt. I’ve never hidden the fact I bike courier, but how does she know I work for Gail?

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘You think I’m closeted from the real world, as if being a politician’s wife is all tea and scones,’ she accuses. ‘But you don’t know anything about my life, or what Michael’s been involved in outside the church and Nation First. His baby is a syndicate called Gateway Enterprises. He calls it his retirement fund.’

  I search my memory banks for where I’ve heard the name before.

  ‘They specialise in company buy-outs: driving the target company down, then stepping in while it’s in freefall and offering the owners a quick exit, cash upfront. Then they repackage it and sell it at a profit. Cute’n’Cuddly was their latest target, but something went wrong. Then Michael had a big argument early yesterday with his go-to guy, a disgusting man called Doug Smeg.’

  I come off the wall so hard I shake the bookshelf.

  ‘You’ve met him then,’ Helen says drily. ‘He did something — I don’t know what — that puts everything at risk. Whatever bad things you think about Michael, Doug’s the one you should watch out for.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘The phone calls and meetings were held in Michael’s den at home. I’m not a snoop, but I heard things — like, for instance, that you work for Gail Alvarez’s distribution business. You have to understand, Michael will do whatever it takes to protect himself and his position in the party, and he’s going to use its full force to go after Doug. It’ll end up a massive exposé to make Nation First look good and Michael squeaky clean. Doug and Gail will be set up as collaborating in some greedy scam linked to the products of a hormone farm.’ She pauses. ‘Whatever else you do apart from deliver soft toys, I don’t care, but I don’t want you rounded up like a criminal with the rest. Our family has been through enough.’