by Nick Place
‘It’s hard to explain. You know I love the job, the rules. But it’s fascinating to see a cop with so many years on the road, knowing what’s worth pressing and what isn’t.’
‘I don’t want him to take you down with him, Cecy.’
‘Well, how about we’re partnered semi-permanently rather than permanently?’
Slatts sighed again. ‘For the nanosecond he survives here. Look, I’ll give you a few shifts together. It’ll help keep Laver away from Standish and Ollerton. They might kill him if I let them get their hands on him.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘Your funeral.’
‘I’m a big enough girl to take the risk. Either way, it won’t be boring,’ she smiled.
Slattery had to admit she was right about that.
So Cecy rode out with Laver from that afternoon, getting to watch him first hand – someone with more than a decade’s experience as a cop in the murkiest end of the criminal pool. She knew enough to give him space when his face darkened and he got silent, but loved it when he broke free of whatever was consuming him and started to talk.
He told her the story of how inhumanely tough the selection process for the Special Operations Group had been, how he’d known he was in for a hard time the moment he finished climbing one of Victoria’s steeper mountains only to find makeshift hospital tents and drips waiting for them – the day not even half over. Candidate after candidate had ended up on those drips; one was even hospitalised from being pushed far too hard for far too long. Laver had been close to delirious, not even sure how he survived it, his body operating on memory by the end. He watched a mate crumple next to him, a mate who had remorselessly trained physically for three years for this one test.
Telling her how, once he got into that squad, he’d been king of the world. Cecy open-mouthed as he sipped coffee and recalled the stories.
Like him and his mate Dolfin drinking in a King Street nightclub at about 11 pm, partying hard on a day off, when Dolfin got a call that there was a siege, a gunman in a house, and they needed to get there. Dolfin explaining to the dispatcher that they were rostered off, nowhere near the standby roster, but told firmly that there was a lot going on – multiple events requiring the SOG, a once-in-a-decade line-up of events – so get your arses to this siege.
Laver and Dolfin driving there in Laver’s car, running red lights and getting changed into their Kevlar, Laver finally saying to Dolfin: ‘Mate, I’m pissed.’
Dolfin, assembling a semi-automatic rifle, replying: ‘Me too. This is fucking nuts.’
Cecy, unable to help herself, needing clarification. ‘You’re saying you were actually carrying guns and heading to the scene, knowing you were inebriated?’
Laver shrugging. ‘Yep. That’s the point of the story. Thanks, Mum.’ Remembering the pair of them crawling along a lane behind the house, unable to stop laughing at being pissed and armed – then shocked by a shotgun blast taking out the timber over their heads. Dolfin and Laver sniggering, wide-eyed, like schoolkids, plastering themselves flat to the bluestone bricks. Laughing even more when a TV reporter, trying to climb a fence to get nearer to the scene, fell and hung upside-down by his suit pant cuffs. Only stopping laughing when they realised, from the toys strewn around the backyard, that there was a kid in the house. Hearing another gunshot. Moving fast. Bursting through the door, guns ready. But finding the gunman dead. He’d killed himself in a bedroom.
Cecy with no idea how to respond to a story like that. It was partly because of the matter-of-fact way Laver mentioned the dead gunman, like it was just a loose end in the story. Cecy thought to herself that there was no way that story could be true – but also knew instinctively that Laver wasn’t the type to big-note or lie.
Every day was a new sideshow. She liked watching public interaction, Laver-style. Here, flatly pointing puzzled tourists with maps to the information centre at Federation Square, saying, ‘What am I? A meter maid?’ Or there, telling a German guy, ‘If you take one more photo of me in this cycling gear, you’re going to be physically merged with your camera.’ Cecy thinking the police PR department would be having a fit.
Or Laver about to ride down a Richmond street but instead stopping to front a construction worker, who looked startled until it turned out Laver just wanted to ask about the Glad Wrap circling the man’s calf. The worker explaining that the new tattoo was drawn free-hand, a steampunk design. Laver enthusiastic; Cecy wondering if this was yet another thing she didn’t know about Tony Laver. That he had tattoos hidden on his body, somewhere under the bike uniform.
One day, riding through Docklands, in the wasteland of Melbourne’s shiny new Harbourtown precinct. Laver saying he hadn’t been there for years, since his uniform days when he’d stood guard at the police tape as at least five bodies were fished out of the nearby water. Organised crime along the docks and a mafia power struggle at the nearby wholesale fruit and vegetable market had kept the fish fed for years.
Now marvelling at the eclectic shopping centre and a big grey building called the Icehouse, brand new and billed as Australia’s Winter Olympic training facility.
‘Meaning what?’ Laver asked Cecy.
‘No idea,’ Cecy replied.
Laver went and fetched a brochure. ‘Figure skating, speed skating, ice hockey. Australia plays ice hockey? Hilarious.’
Or the day they had to stop for coffee with Rags, a stringy-looking guy, lined face and oily, ratty hair. Tatts on both arms, where the sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up. Rags and Laver swapping small talk, talking about the prospects for their footy teams in the coming season, bands and how the guy’s job as a chef was going. Cecy sitting quietly, trying to work out the energy.
Then after, asking Laver who the guy was. Laver explaining that Rags was one of the better cat burglars in Melbourne, able to climb anything but currently believed to be on the straight and narrow. A guy who knew pretty much everybody in Melbourne’s underworld and was worth occasionally buying a coffee for.
Cecy said, ‘You are the most interesting person I’ve ever met.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Laver.
They sat in silence for a while before he added, ‘But, if that’s true, you should get out more.’
***
For the third day straight, Jake visited Friends of the Planet at lunchtime. He’d been buying ever more bizarre groceries from Bindi at the register near the organic food section. He was seriously wishing he drank coffee because it would be much easier to loiter in the café section – he could pretend to read some of the leaflets and anarchist newspapers scattered around while he waited for the Legs to appear.
So it came as a shock when Jake walked in and there she was, sitting at the counter in Bindi’s usual position, reading a magazine article. Her hair was orange, purple and green today, and she had a black singlet on, with ‘The Alley’ scrawled on it in white lettering, at least three bra or singlet straps emerging from underneath. Jake’s breathing became ragged. He still had trouble reconciling this woman with the swimmer he broke his neck trying to watch every morning.
She looked up quickly, something like apprehension crossing her face, but then relaxed, those grey eyes looking right at him. Jake wandered to the far wall as he waited for his heart to stop pounding, feigning interest in a rack of oils until he realised with a start that the shelf’s label listed them as ‘Gentle body oils, designed for sexual lubrication’.
She called from behind the counter: ‘Can I help you?’
‘Umm, just looking around, checking things out,’ Jake stammered, moving on quickly.
The girl looked amused, then squinted. ‘Have I seen you before?’ Her voice had a kind of throaty gruffness about it.
Jake swallowed hard. ‘Umm, dunno,’ he said, staring pointlessly at the tea towel reading ‘Jabiluka Mine: All washed up’ that was pinned to the wall, cursing his inability to put words together.
He tried again. Deep breath. Sweaty palms. ‘Now you mention it, you do look k
ind of familiar. I guess you’d be hard to forget with that hair and all.’
Her brow crinkled. ‘What? The colours? You don’t like them?’
‘Yeah, yeah. I do. They look great. They, umm, really suit you.’
She looked at him sceptically. ‘You don’t look like the kind of guy that would be into this kind of hairstyle.’
He was at the counter now, reading a sticker that said, ‘No sweatshops. Global warming is bad enough.’
‘Well, you know. I’m into a lot of this … kind of stuff.’ His arm gestured pointlessly around the room. ‘I can’t go with a, umm,’ he pointed at his own head, ‘a dyed hairstyle myself because of my job but if I had half a chance, you know, I’d love to. I’ve always thought I’d love to dye my hair blue.’
‘Blue?’ She was openly laughing now. ‘Yeah, that would look good. Like Superman in the comics with that cool blue-black. Where do you work, mate?’
Jake had never been called ‘mate’ by a woman before. ‘Umm, at the Heidelberg Groc-o-Mart. I’m assistant manager there.’
‘Good for you.’
The door of interest slamming shut.
‘Yeah, it’s just a job, you know. I want to move on to bigger, better, more worthwhile things but I just think you have to start somewhere. Make a difference where you can.’
Losing her attention, if he ever had it. She opened her magazine again.
Jake watched her start to read and was on the verge of feeling completely lost when it hit him. The single greatest, most original and most timely brainwave he had ever experienced. He almost yelled in surprise.
He stared vacantly at some bottles, summing the idea up, turning it around and looking for holes in it before he tried to make it float. But it just kept getting better, looking more solid with every moment.
He turned to the counter and she glanced up, the grey eyes right there in front of him, looking doubtful.
‘Excuse me, but I’ll tell you the truth. I didn’t just wander in here by chance,’ Jake said with new confidence.
‘You didn’t?’ she said.
‘No. I actually wanted to talk to somebody who works at Friends of the Planet about an idea I’ve got which I think could be really great for the environmental cause, your organisation and my store.’
‘Is that right?’ She was a long way from hooked.
‘Yes. The thing is, the only people who come into this store are those who already believe. You’re preaching to the converted. We need to take the Friends of the Planet philosophies out to the people who need to hear them most, in the suburbs. Like Heidelberg.’
Her eyebrow was raised, almost comically. ‘We.’
‘Please, bear with me, umm … what was your name?’
‘Lou,’ she said. She was Lou. He knew her name.
‘Lou? Jake.’
He put out his hand and she shook it. They touched. Her skin was soft, her grip almost floppy, putting no effort into the awkward handshake. Her grey eyes were laughing at him.
The silence broke when she prompted, ‘An idea you said.’
‘Oh, yeah. Listen, I really want to run this idea past you. The reason I came here was to see if, together, we could set up a promotion for the Heidelberg Groc-o-Mart where we clearly label truly environmentally friendly products with Friends of the Planet stickers.’
She was listening now. Despite herself.
‘A lot of products like to say they are environmentally friendly, produced in all the right ways, but it’s not always the case. In fact, just about anybody can slap that on their label and nobody does a thing. The laws are pathetic and you have everything but CFC-riddled sulphuric acid claiming to be green all the way.’ Jake hoped with his entire soul that this was true.
‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘We’ve been campaigning for years to have the label system changed to truly reflect the environmental sympathetico of various companies and products. You’ve probably seen our slogan: “Get Real, Get Green”.’
Jake had never heard of the campaign, or the word ‘sympathetico’. ‘Well, yeah, of course. That’s why I came to you.’
‘So what’s your idea?’
‘To have you come to the store and help me define which are genuinely environmentally friendly, so we can label those products.’
‘There are books about that stuff,’ she shrugged, nodding her head towards the bookshelves.
‘But that requires people to be pro-active, to buy the books and read them. I’m talking about putting the info right in front of them when they shop. We could put some pamphlets advertising Friends of the Planet, the store and your philosophies, on the racks and actually try to reach suburbia at its very heart – which is its stomach.’
He couldn’t believe what was coming out of his mouth, or that she was staring at him with such interest.
‘It’s actually not a bad idea,’ she said, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.
‘I know. I’ve been working on it for a while.’
‘You should probably talk to Rachel about it. She’s the boss here.’
‘Umm, listen, to tell you the truth, I’d rather keep this between us at the moment, you know.’ He leaned against the counter with what he hoped was a certain nonchalant cool. ‘Even though I’ve been working on this for months, I’m a little out of my depth at your end of things and I don’t want to officially propose the plan until I’m certain of all the loose ends, so that it won’t be dismissed by somebody like – Rachel did you say?’
‘Yep, Rachel. She’s lovely. I’m sure she’d give you a good hearing, umm – what was your name again?’
‘Jake! Jake Murphy.’ He took a deep breath, hoping he wasn’t pushing it too hard. ‘Listen, I’d love to talk to Rachel, Lou, but would you mind if the two of us just had a coffee or something first? Just to swap thoughts before I go to her? I think I’d like the idea of working alongside you.’
There, he had said it. He couldn’t believe it.
She gave him a long look and said, ‘Okay. We’ll have a coffee and a talk.’
‘Great,’ he said, allowing himself to drown in those grey eyes. He lost track of time.
‘Not now,’ Lou finally clarified. ‘I’m the only one in charge of the shop.’
‘Oh right, of course. When do you finish?’
‘I have Bikram yoga after work.’
Jake looked confused.
‘Hot yoga. Forty-three-degree heat.’
‘Don’t you fry?’
‘You don’t wear much clothing.’
Jake gulped. ‘When can we meet then?’ he managed.
‘Let me think about it,’ she said.
‘Um, okay. I’ll drop by in a day or two.’
‘Sure,’ she said.
Not ‘don’t’.
Or ‘I can’t wait’.
Just ‘sure’.
Jake was smart enough to get out of there without saying another word.
***
Cecy and Laver were sitting beneath the yellow umbrellas of Retro, on Brunswick Street, next to their bikes, enjoying the sun. Laver suddenly nudged Cecy and nodded silently to an overweight girl in a green hoodie and leggings. Her hair was tied back, face obscured with sunglasses, as she walked very deliberately along the line of parked cars. Cecy was confused as to why Laver had pointed her out until the girl approached a red BMW with a tinted sunroof and pulled out what looked like a tube of indelible lip-gloss. Glanced both ways and started writing on the windscreen with it. Cecy began to move, already listing four or five criminal charges in her head, but stopped when she felt Laver’s hand on her arm. They watched as the girl stopped writing then walked off, eyes straight ahead, desperately trying not to look furtive. They walked to the car and read the damage: ‘I am a wanka’.
Laver was casual as he strolled around the corner, but picked up speed until he caught up to the girl a block away.
‘Let me guess,’ he said loudly as he was just behind her. ‘An ex-boyfriend? Didn’t end well?’
&
nbsp; The girl paled as she turned to face the two police, knowing she was gone. Suddenly she raised her chin, unrepentant. ‘He fucked my best friend and then lied to my face when I asked him straight out.’
Laver replied, ‘You misspelt “wanker”.’
The girl frowned. ‘I did?’
‘Hey wait,’ Laver said. ‘I’ve got a better one. What about this: “Penis substitute sports car”?’
The girl smiled, but still had the fear of being arrested in her eyes. ‘I like it.’
‘C’mon, that’s a great line. Go write it on his car and we’ll keep an eye out for the police,’ Laver cajoled.
The girl stared at him. ‘But you are the police!’
Laver made a dismissive gesture. ‘I mean the real cops. We’re just drinking coffee.’
Cecy crossed her arms. ‘You have got to be joking …’
Laver grinned at her. ‘You’re on his side?’
‘Of course not, but—’
‘Prick’s got it coming.’ And so they wandered in the other direction as the girl headed back to the windscreen to do the job properly.
‘You didn’t feel any need to enforce the law with regard to damage of property back there?’ Cecy said, incredulous.
‘What?’ Laver laughed. ‘Assault with lip-gloss? Bastard sounds like he got off lightly.’
Cecy shook her head. She wondered if this was just his way of coping with the boredom of his new beat.
But he couldn’t really be that bored. She’d noticed that he didn’t seem to be in such a hurry to get back to the garage at the end of a shift now. Starting to get a feel for the pedals, even if he complained endlessly about his sore legs and butt. He’d actually mentioned that he was starting to enjoy being on the bike, out and about, especially when not partnered with that prick, Standish. Once, in a particularly contemplative mood, he’d said he felt like he was re-emerging into the light after years of being locked in the hard-core dungeon of police work.
And it was true. Laver noticing things on the bike that he’d never seen before, when he was dressed in Kevlar and driving Holden Commodores around the city. Like some of the gorgeous old buildings around town – beautiful Gold Rush Victorian architecture – plus Melbourne’s alleys, weird shops, hidden bars and even the street art. Finding himself marvelling at the stencils and airbrush work in the city’s lanes, while shaking his head in disgust at the mindless tagging, saying, ‘This tagging your initials is just shit, pure vandalism, but this other stuff is really creative.’