by Nick Place
Standish muttered under his breath, but Laver was already pedalling towards the café.
***
Stig slouched on the couch, smoking and watching the Wild Man play Xbox. It had pretty much been like this for two days.
‘Have you even been to the toilet since we got here?’
Wildie’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. ‘Yeah. Why? You want to watch? Didn’t think you were like that.’
‘You haven’t stopped playing that thing for hours.’
‘Haven’t seen this game before. It’s good. You can shoot soldiers in the head from close range. Watch … boom.’
‘Wildie, we’ve got things to do.’
‘In a bit. She’ll be right. I want to take this al-Qaeda base first.’
Stig contemplated the Wild Man, orange hair everywhere, beard untamed, powerful shoulders revealed by his blue wife-beater singlet. Thinking of how they’d met, as drug mules for an Asian syndicate between Bali and Rockhampton – home to the airport with the laxest and most easily bought security in Queensland. After they got through, they’d driven the long way south to the Gold Coast, pumped up on adrenalin, laughing stupidly with relief that they’d made it. Everything the Wild Man did then seemed hilarious: whether he was throwing full beer cans at road signs at speed, listening behind the car for the explosion if he managed a hit; or whether he was groping and occasionally managing to even screw one of the bored young waitresses in a small-town café in exchange for a tiny packet of the product they were trucking, yelling through the bathroom door to Stig, mid-fuck, if he wanted a go once he was finished. No morals at all. Or whether he was wiping a sandwich he wasn’t happy with on the glass windows of a roadhouse, daring even the truckies to take him on. The Wild Man was psycho and fucking fearless, but was also surprisingly smart. Somewhere in his dubious past he had managed an education. When it came to doing business, he could be sharp. Which made him a good guy to have along on this trip.
But shit, he could be lazy – happy to coast and let Stig lead.
‘Mate, I organised this house. I did the shopping. I got rid of the car.’
‘You want a fucking medal, Stig? Keep your shirt on.’
‘We need a car. We need to go see people about the merchandise.’
‘That’s what we’re calling it now? “Merchandise”?’
‘Well, I find it’s better than saying “stolen drugs”, in case people are listening or a room happens to be bugged.’
The Wild Man flinched as his on-screen self took a hit. ‘How can this place be bugged? You say your mate hasn’t even lived here for a few months.’
‘No, well, he hasn’t had much choice about that. Good behaviour might see him out in a year.’
‘Crap house too, just quietly.’
Stig sighed. ‘Well, excuse me for not putting you up at the Hilton.’
‘Good pub on the corner though.’
‘Wildie, we have things to do.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, you old woman. Chill. Take a tiny percentage off the merchandise and help your brain party for a few minutes, instead of fucking worrying all the time.’
‘We didn’t take it to use, Wildie. I need to think straight to get this done.’
‘Well, then think straight somewhere else. This is your home town, isn’t it? Haven’t you got any old girlfriends you can annoy or something?’
Actually, thought Stig, that wasn’t a bad idea.
***
Laver and Standish returned to the garage for lunch and Laver quietly pulled Slatts aside and suggested that, for their deal to stand, it might be best if he and Standish – or ‘Nazi Bob’, as Laver called him – were separated.
Slatts grinned. ‘Yep, Standish is one of the reasons it was felt best that you weren’t allowed to carry a gun.’
So in the afternoon, Laver rode with a kid, Ollerton, who he had pegged as Standish Lite. Ollerton looked at his reflection in shop windows far too often and took himself and the job far too seriously – but otherwise, he was not actually offensive. So far.
Laver tried to play nice as they pedalled along. To his credit, Ollerton actually did the job, directing tourists, moving along double-parked cars, phoning in an abandoned and almost certainly stolen car in a lane behind Brunswick Street. At one stage, he pulled up a bike courier, a big guy with a massive gingerish beard, for riding on the tram tracks on Swanston Street, which Laver thought was a little harsh, given they had also been riding along the tram tracks at the time.
‘We’re cops, he’s not. For him, it’s an offence,’ Ollerton shrugged. ‘He didn’t have a bell on his bike either. Another fine. You let those bastards get away with one thing, and they take the piss forever.’ Laver was unconvinced, watching the courier curse and mutter as he rode away, but decided it was his second day and he should just concentrate on enjoying the sunshine.
Otherwise, things went well until about 4 pm. Laver and Ollerton were riding along Lygon Street, Carlton, when their radios burst into life.
During his career, Laver’s police radio had sent him flying to murder scenes, crazed gunmen, sieges, interrupted burglaries – known as ‘hot burgs’ – rapes and attempted rapes, arsons, desperate suicides trying to take others with them and political demonstrations turned ugly. Today, as a dutiful member of the Mobile Public Interaction Squad, he listened to the tiny speaker hanging on his chest squawk: ‘MPI 5, MPI 17, please attend domestic disturbance at 129 Station Street, Carlton. That’s 129 Station. Copy?’
Ollerton, all business, already had his microphone in his hand. ‘MPI 5 reads you. Situation update?’
Laver had to hide his grin.
Slattery sounded tired over the speaker. ‘Domestic disturbance, Wayne. An old lady’s had a fall and hurt her arm. She’s a bit spun out and she won’t get in the ambulance. She’s screaming assault and wants the police to arrest the ambulance drivers. Can you guys just humour her until they can lock her in the back? Copy?’
‘Roger that, Sergeant Slattery. MPI 5 and MPI 17 acknowledge and are actioning that request now,’ Ollerton said, already starting to ride.
Laver pressed his transmitter and added, ‘This is MPI 17, Laver, responding. I can confirm that action and add that we’re decamping in a northerly direction now, Sergeant Slattery, sir.’
‘Thanks Tony,’ said Slatts drily. ‘Remember our deal.’
Laver caught up to his partner and yelled, ‘Vamoose! We ride!’
Ollerton didn’t laugh. In fact, he rode straight back past Laver, legs like pistons, pumping remorselessly as he pedalled hard. He turned to look back at Laver, who was struggling to keep pace, and there was no mistaking the note of contempt in his voice as he said, ‘It’s not my fault you didn’t cut it in the Major Crime Squad, Senior Constable Laver.’
Laver rode a few moments in silence, wondering whether it was worth it, but finally couldn’t help himself. ‘I did cut it, mate. I cut it a little too well. That was my problem.’
‘You’ve got more problems than that,’ Ollerton said, confident that the older cop couldn’t catch him if he tried. They rode in silence for the rest of the trip, Laver thinking his generation at the police academy would have shot themselves before showing such obvious disrespect to senior police. Damn youths.
The scene at Station Street was chaos. Laver could hear the woman’s shrieks before he and Ollerton had finished leaning their bikes on the wrought-iron fence outside the sagging Victorian terrace house. Two other cop bikes were already there, along with a gathering of neighbours and passers-by standing around outside.
‘Don’t you use that tone with me, young lady! I’ll give you more than you bargained for if you try to give me any more of your lip!’ a shrill voice carried through the open door of the house out into the street, the hint of an English accent.
A young, exasperated female voice responded, slowly and loudly for greater clarity: ‘Mrs Davies. We’re just trying to help you. C’mon, love, let us pick you up off the floor.’
A scre
am pierced the air, startling the gathered onlookers.
‘Don’t you lay a hand on me, you little slut! I want the police! This is assault! I know my rights!’
‘C’mon Mary,’ pleaded another voice.
‘You won’t get nowhere being that way. I’m not putting up with your insolence. I want the police!’
‘Mary, I AM the police.’
‘Like hell you are, you little tramp.’
The crowd parted so Ollerton and Laver could pass. Laver spotted a kid, maybe eleven years old, leaning on a Razor scooter, school bag over his shoulder. Laver pulled him aside. ‘Keep an eye on my bike and I’ll let you blow the siren after.’
‘Your bike has a siren?’
‘Don’t touch it while I’m inside or I’ll have to arrest you.’
The kid’s eyes went wide like saucers.
The interior of the house had clearly gone unchanged for fifty years.
‘God, the smell,’ said Ollerton, gagging.
Laver sniffed, unconcerned. ‘You ever been in a house with a decom?’
‘A what?’
‘A dead body, decomposing. Usually they’re an oldie who’s keeled over and nobody has noticed for days or weeks. Or a lonely suicide. During the height of summer is the worst. Trust me, you smell that and this is like perfume.’
‘Jesus.’
They walked down a dark, badly wallpapered corridor, past a couple of bedrooms, into the main lounge room. There was another door on the opposite side of the room, promising access to the back of the house where Laver could bet there was a basic bathroom, a kitchen with a dangerously old gas burner and a back door leading to the outhouse.
The lounge room was crowded. Two ambulance officers stood near the door, hands behind their backs so there could be no chance of an accidental blow, while one of the other bike cops, McGregor, watched on.
‘We were only a block away,’ he explained, eyes on Laver. ‘We heard your call but didn’t have anything on and we were closer.’
Laver shrugged. ‘Mate, is this a turf war? Relax.’
McGregor’s partner, Constable Aimee Ratten, a cute twentysomething Laver had only met briefly on his first day, was crouching beside the old lady who was on the floor, her back supported by the timber legs of a lounge chair. The old lady was holding her arm and rocking slightly, her eyes flying wildly around the room, looking up at all the uniformed youths.
‘There are two sides to every story,’ the old lady was yelling. ‘Come in, all of you outside. Come in and see what they’re doing to me. It’s assault. Police!’
‘We are the police, Mary,’ Ratten said. ‘We’re trying to help you. Calm down and let us get you to the ambulance.’
‘Don’t you touch me, you little bitch,’ Mary hissed, waving her good arm at Ratten. ‘I know what you’re planning, and you won’t get me that easy. I won’t stand for it, you hear!’ Her voice suddenly escalated. ‘Don’t touch me!’
Ratten stood and saw Laver and Ollerton. She rolled her eyes and came over.
‘What’s the situation, Constable?’ Ollerton asked.
‘Apparently she’s been like this for almost an hour,’ Ratten said quietly. ‘A neighbour found her on the floor about 3 pm and called an ambulance. They tried to move her for about half an hour before they called us. She hasn’t shut up ever since, screaming assault and that she wants police protection the whole time.’
One of the ambulance officers bent down, getting on the old woman’s level but keeping his distance. He smiled and she recoiled. ‘Demon! You stay away! Don’t you touch me!’
Ollerton shook his head with contempt. ‘She should be in a bloody home.’
‘She is, mate. Hers,’ said Laver.
Ollerton barely even glanced at him. ‘This is hardly the time to get fucking soppy. McGregor, you get ready to grab her good arm and I’ll try to get her around the waist on the side with the broken arm.’
Ratten said, ‘You can’t—’
‘Well, how else are we going to move her?’ Ollerton cut her off. ‘It’s for her own good. She’ll be doped up, in hospital, at the taxpayer’s expense, before she knows it.’
Laver, reassessing the ‘Lite’ part of ‘Standish Lite’, took one short step forward to stand directly in front of Ollerton and leaned in close.
‘Listen carefully, Moose. I want you to understand the situation exactly. If you lay one finger on her, she’s going to scream assault and I’m going to ride straight back to Slattery and tell him that her charge is justified. You go near her broken arm and I’ll ride my fucking bike to Darwin and back if necessary to appear as a witness for the prosecution. You’ll be a car-parking attendant before the year is out. What do you think, Constable Ratten?’
She took a moment to look at Ollerton and Laver, toe to toe even though Ollerton was half a head taller than the older man and about twice as broad, all muscle.
She made a choice. ‘Yeah, I reckon you’ve got no right to go near her if she doesn’t want you to, Wayne.’
Ollerton gave Laver a long look. Laver stared straight back, his eyes dull. The two ambulance men stood and stared. Even old Mary seemed to have gone quiet.
Finally, Ollerton turned his head and bumped Laver hard with his shoulder as he headed for the door. ‘Fine. You deal with it, smartarse. You’re probably fucking the old bitch on the side.’
Laver watched him go, then shot a grin at Ratten. ‘He’s a keeper! I don’t know how Slattery finds them.’
He brushed past the ambulance duo to the opposite side of the room to Mary and sat down, cross-legged, facing the old woman. They gazed at one another over the stained floral rug and he gave her his most disarming smile.
‘G’day, Mary. You having a bad day, love?’
She eyed him warily. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a police officer. My name’s Tony Laver.’
She eyed his shorts. ‘You’re not dressed like a police officer.’
‘No, that’s true. They make us dress like this so we look as stupid as possible in other people’s lounge rooms.’
Ratten giggled. Mary shot her a glance.
‘Are you with that young hussy?’
‘Yeah, I’m afraid so, but don’t you worry. I’ll make sure the Chief Inspector knows exactly what she’s been putting you through. She won’t know what’s hit her.’
‘Good. Finally, somebody who sees my side of it.’ She nodded at the ambulance officers. ‘Don’t forget to mention those two, either.’
‘Ah, they’re okay. They were just following orders, Mary. It’s all her fault.’ He jerked his head backwards towards Ratten, who stared open-mouthed. ‘So what’s going on with you, Mary? What are you doing on the floor?’
‘I’ve been here since seven o’clock this morning,’ the old woman confided.
‘Since seven! That’s terrible.’
‘Oh, I know,’ she agreed. ‘It’s been a terrible day.’
‘You look like you could do with a cuppa. I know I could. You going to offer me one?’
She looked down at her arm, which she was still holding tight with her good hand. ‘I can’t offer you anything, love. I’m afraid I’ve done something to my arm.’
Laver appeared to notice her arm for the first time. ‘Yeah? What do you reckon’s wrong?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s gone kind of numb, around the elbow.’
‘Oh dear. Anywhere else hurting? How’s your hip?’
‘That’s sore as buggery too, love. That’s why I haven’t been able to get up.’
Laver crossed his arms and rocked slightly. ‘You poor thing. What do you reckon we should do?’
‘I—I’m not sure.’
‘Well, I think you should probably see a doctor, Mary. That arm could be nasty.’
She looked down at it, looking tired and old, all her fight gone. ‘I don’t want to leave my house. They’ll put me in one of them homes where I’ll be stuck in a bed. That’ll be the end of me.’
‘Mary, look at me.
’
She lifted her head to meet Laver’s eyes.
‘Mary, I guarantee that unless there’s something really wrong with you, you’ll be home within a couple of days. The doctors’ll want you to remain independent. They’ll fix you up and maybe keep you in hospital for a night or so to make sure you’re okay. That’s it.’ He noticed Mary was sweating. ‘Are you in pain, love?’
She nodded, starting to cry. ‘My arm’s not so numb anymore. It’s killing me.’
Laver unfolded his legs, crawled over to her and put his arm carefully around her shoulders. ‘C’mon, Mary, let’s get you into the ambulance and on your way.’
‘I can’t get up.’
Laver jerked his head at the ambulance pair. ‘I’ll help you. So will these two. They’re going to be nice to you from now on. Look how handsome they are, Mary. All these young men sweeping you to your feet. You got any children, Mary?’
‘I’ve got a daughter. She’s married. She lives in Geelong.’
‘Where’s her number, Mary? We’ll give her a call so she can meet you at the hospital.’
‘On the wall by the fridge. Thank you.’ The ambos helped Mary lie down and started moving a stretcher into place. Laver stood back to give them some room but stayed within her sight.
‘So I’m the bad guy, huh?’ muttered Ratten quietly from alongside.
‘It’s okay,’ Laver said under his breath, ‘I won’t really tell Slatts you were trying to beat Mary up.’
She gave him a look and decided he was joking.
When they got outside, Ollerton and his bike were gone.
‘You sure know how to make friends in the squad, Tony,’ McGregor said.
‘At least you’re still talking to me. What is it with Ollerton? And Standish? It’s like the Hitler Youth reborn.’
McGregor smiled. ‘You know what they say about drugs in the Tour de France. Standish and Ollerton act like they’ve got roid rage. They ride Beach Road with the Hell Riders every weekend and pump iron like you can’t believe.’
‘And I got them both on my first day in the saddle. So much for Slatts giving me an easy ride.’
Ratten gave him a look but Laver beat her to it, saying, ‘Pun intended.’