Floored

by Paton, Ainslie

  17: Origin

  Sean was leaning against the car boot when Cait came out of her room. This morning she was dressed more casually; dark, baggy jeans, another shapeless t-shirt and a ponytail instead of the twist that had been under her cap. But she was still undercover. A ‘don’t notice me, please let me blend into the background’ style. Maybe she didn’t care about clothes, or this was part of hiding from something, someone, the ex? It was irritating. She was a gorgeous looking woman, but she didn’t want anyone to look. What was that about?

  She lifted her head and smiled, and it didn’t matter that she was dressed for invisibility, because her lovely face lit up. He knew what that was about. He should never have let her cut his hair. She did a better job than he would’ve done himself, but he could’ve shaved his head and been done with it. Having her touch him like that. He’d enjoyed it way too much. She wasn’t his hired help, she wasn’t his obligation or his little piece of normal, she was something else. He simply wasn’t sure what that was or whether he was entitled to feel happy because her eyes without sunnies were all over him, checking him out.

  “Morning, Cait. Did you have your run?”

  “I did. Did you get a shock when you looked in the mirror this morning?”

  He laughed. He rubbed a hand over his jaw. Truth is he’d avoided the mirror. It was enough to know he felt different. He didn’t need to be confronted by it before breakfast.

  “Did you eat? I thought we might stop in town. I need new jeans since I went pyromaniac on the last pair. Should be able to get you a new phone too.”

  “Sure.” She opened the boot and they both dumped their bags in. “Why did you burn all that stuff?”

  He pushed his fingers into his scalp. “Had to get rid of everything that was Fetch. Destroy it all. Start being Sean again.”

  She closed the boot lid. “Do you feel more like him now?”

  He felt jet-lagged. That was the best way to describe the odd feeling in his head. Not quite awake, not quite anchored to the world, half of him still somewhere else in space and time. “Think I’m a work in progress.”

  She stepped around him, opened the driver’s door and got in. He opened the back door and slid in. Her head jerked up and she spun around to look at him between the seats.

  He shrugged. “I’m a versatile bloke. I can play by the rules.” But they were grinning stupid at each other and this was a game where the rules were a lot of fun to mess with.

  She played some English folk band called Mumford and Sons, a track called Little Lion Man on the way into town. He slapped the seat in amusement on the line about fucking it up. He got coffee and eggs and bacon, jeans, boots and a couple of shirts in colours Fetch would have been pounded to gristle for wearing, plus a new watch and two new phones. Then they hit the road.

  It was five hours to Mildura on the Sturt Highway. Five hours of dry and dusty with a side order of not much to look at. Five hours of nothing to do. He was going to go not so quietly mad. They had burgers and a coke at a BP service station diner for lunch. He read a left-behind newspaper, noting the story on a gang related shootout and the police spin that made it seem like a random and accidental skirmish rather than another battle for territory and supremacy in a long running war. This had Reds and Blacks inked all over it. It felt odd to be on the outside of it, not to know what went down in intimate, blood splattering detail, like he’d missed an episode of a favourite TV show and could no longer follow the story without a recap. It felt good not to be the body in the picture, laid out under the white sheet in the middle of the road, because everyday he’d been undercover that fate was on his potential places to travel list.

  Cait was a study in distance, pass the salt politeness and fleeting glances. She didn’t sit long, left to muck about with the car, refuelling, checking water and oil, wiping down windows. She’d made a point of explaining she was taking car costs out of the change from the cash he’d given her for their initial shopping trip. She had it written in a logbook with receipts clipped inside.

  This time when they set off he got in the front. All of her except the twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth pretended he wasn’t there. Let’s see how long she could keep that up.

  “So Driver, got any brothers or sisters?”

  “Do you, Sean?”

  “I’ll show you mine.” He laughed and gestured a hand towards her.

  She shook her head.

  “Is that no siblings or you’re not going to talk?”

  Slight turn of her head, a quick flash of sunnies. “I’m never showing you mine.”

  He laughed again. “Never is a long time. Bit like this stretch of road. You gotta talk to me. I don’t do sitting still, doing nothing well.”

  “I noticed. What do you do well?”

  “Shit, Driver. How’s a bloke supposed to answer that?”

  “You wanted something to do—tell me about Sean.”

  “Tell you about Sean.” He sighed. It was probably a good idea. Reacquaint himself with the life and times of Sean Kennedy. It was the ones who didn’t talk who tended not to last on undercover work. Talk was cheap and it worked.

  “I’m kid number five. My old man had given up hoping for a boy and finally there I was. I’m younger than my youngest sister by five years. I’m the spoilt baby of the family.”

  She gave him a look and a soft giggle. It was such a cool sound. It made him laugh too.

  “You think it’s funny I’m a tattooed biker but I’m the baby in an entirely female dominated home?”

  She said nothing, but her cheekbone was raised like a triumphant flag from the smile she wore.

  “You don’t know my mum. She’s tough. You did things the right way, her way, or else. There was no slacking. My oldest sister, Alana is a nurse, trauma specialist. We won’t be telling her about the staples. Then there’s Bridie, she’s a lawyer, family law. Siobhan, she’s in politics, local mayor and Kira, she’s a cop, like Dad.”

  “Like you.”

  “Uniform. Not undercover.”

  He waited for the look of triumph, the look that said, ‘finally’. She didn’t react. Too cool for school.

  “We once had a dog called Satan.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “True. You’re wondering why I became a cop.”

  “I’m just driving.”

  “Because I saw how my dad loved it. He saw it as a way to help people, to keep people safe. Keep the world a good place. That felt like a good thing to me too. Now my mum, last thing she wanted me to do. She wanted me to be a doctor or an architect or a teacher, anything but follow Kira and Dad. She thinks I left the force three years ago. She’s supposed to think I’ve been travelling around Europe and Africa. She bloody knows I’m lying to her. She’d going to belt me when she finds out.”

  “Your mother belts you?”

  “I deserve it. She hugs me too.”

  He thought about it. The loud, fierce household he’d grown up in. All the laughter, the door slamming and tears. Getting pinched and forever having his ears flicked. All the fights: for the bathroom, and the phone, and the TV, and over shared bedrooms and clothes, and washing dishes and dogs. Later over politics, and friends, and money. Being last always for everything, but being the favourite too. All the food, all the chores, the merciless teasing. It was all love, perverted by life and real and what shaped him. The slap that said be careful, the shout that said you’ll get hurt, the slyness that said learn to share, the manipulation that said this is for your own good.

  That was the childhood that grounded him, let him go out in the world and live in someone else’s skin for a while and know he’d be able to find his way back to himself in time. His memories were a breadcrumb trail. The thread of his life tied around his little finger, a reminder of all that was good and decent and right. All he had to do was follow the trail and it would all come back.

  “I did okay at school. Would’ve done better if I’d been less interested in cars and girls. Pulled
my finger out in senior school, did better. Went to uni, studied psychology. When I went to the academy Mum didn’t talk to me for twelve months. She used to tell one of the others to tell me what she wanted to say. She only gave it up because she wore everyone out. It was a long year for us all.

  “My first girlfriend was Karen Taylor. She was so frigging hot. Long blonde hair. Legs up to…well, you know. We were both fifteen. I thought we’d be forever. We were three months. She dumped me for my best friend. The usual sob story. My next girlfriend was Larissa Clermont. Another blonde. I seem to have a type. I think it’s because all us Kennedys are so dark. She was a gymnast.” He laughed. Looked down at his hands, remembering the gymnastics they’d got up to.

  “She was very flexible. We stayed together till school finished. She moved with her family to London. After that, it didn’t seem like restricting myself to one girl was the right way to approach the banquet on offer.” He shrugged, glanced across at Cait to see if she was pissed off. She gave back neutral paint tones. She might’ve been meditating, not listening to a word he said, but for the slight tilt of her body towards him—and cruise control. He wasn’t even sure if he was talking for himself or for her now.

  “I haven’t had a woman in my life for years now. A work hazard. I’ll need to start practising again. How do you think I’ll go?”

  “You’re only asking me that to see if I’m listening.”

  He grinned. “No, no. I’m interested in your opinion.”

  “I don’t have an opinion.”

  “Like hell you don’t.”

  “You’re fishing for compliments.”

  He laughed. “You say that as though there’s something wrong with it.”

  “You’re distracting the driver.”

  “I wish.” She’d proven impossible to distract. “You’re the coolest customer I’ve dealt with in a long time.”

  “What?” Quick head turn.

  “You heard me. You’re too cool for school, Caitlyn Mary Ann Murphy.”

  “And you’re…”

  Long pause, miles of road eaten up. “Yeah. I’m listening.”

  “You’re…”

  The day was fast dying. “Spit it out, it’ll choke you.”

  “Not at all shy are you?”

  He almost choked himself. Not the insult, or the veiled request that he shut up he’d expected. “But you are.”

  She ducked her chin, eyes forward.

  “Or it’s an act.”

  Up came her head. “Why would you say that?”

  “I gave you a roll of cash. You could’ve bought anything you wanted to wear. Looks like you spent next to nothing and you bought gear as close to your uniform as was possible.”

  “I was being responsible with your money.”

  “Which you thought was the proceeds of crime, so that doesn’t make much sense. Did you buy anything nice to wear?”

  “Why do I need anything nice?”

  “Because everyone deserves ordinary nice things. And you, this sexless thing you do, it’s unbecoming.”

  “‘Unbecoming’.” Another quick head turn. “What sort of a word is that? What’s it to you what I wear anyway?”

  “It’s a puzzle, that’s all. I’ve got a theory that you used to like clothes, liked feeling pretty until things went bad with your man. Now you’re punishing yourself for something he did.”

  That was a heck of a long bow and as theories go, impossible to substantiate without her help. Sean wasn’t even sure what made him think it, let alone say it, but the response he got from her was worth the limb he’d crawled out on.

  Her hands shifted on the wheel, ten and two and tense, gripping way too hard. She sat up straighter in her seat, her neck stiff, her shoulders up, the muscles in her thighs cramping to attention. Her foot went down on the accelerator, disengaging the cruise control, till they were flying well above the speed limit on the empty stretch of road.

  He didn’t check her. He watched the grim expression on her face and wondered what the hell she was running from. Fifteen minutes later she eased back on the accelerator and glanced across at him.

  “Where was the fire, Driver?”

  “Do you always get in other people’s business?”

  “People who interest me.”

  “I’m not interesting.”

  “You are to me.”

  “You’re just bored. You wouldn’t give me the time of day otherwise.”

  “I am bored.” He put his own foot down on a virtual accelerator thinking about her hands and how it felt to have them on his face and in his hair. “But you might be surprised what I’d give you.”

  She flushed, her neck, her cheeks going pink, catching her out. Showing him what she wouldn’t say. That she’d enjoyed the haircut too.

  He settled back in his seat. His body was sore, his knee complaining. He didn’t want things to be awkward between them and he’d just stupidly made it that way.

  “I surf, but not well. Not enough time in the water. I play pool. Very well. Poker better. I like music but I’m out of touch. Been listening to nothing but old rock and heavy metal crap for the last few years. I could die happy if I never had to hear another head banging riff. I used to like going to the movies, but it’s been a long time since I sat in a cinema. I don’t like hard pears. I like ice-cream. I love a good thunderstorm. I’m a dog person. Cat’s creep me out. They’re so independent. They say cockroaches will inherit the earth at the point of a nuclear explosion. I reckon it’ll be cats. I like photography, but I’m hopeless at it, other than for surveillance purposes. I’ve never been to an opera and I reckon I should try it out. I’m not keen on going to the dentist. I know that doesn’t make any sense since I’m a tough guy, but it is what it is. In my family we live a long time and keep our own teeth.”

  He glanced across at her. She’d relaxed again, curving into her seat, lowering her hands on the wheel.

  “I like women, Cait. I’ve missed them. I like you. But I get you don’t want the attention. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  More flat and dry went past out the window, though they were getting close to Mildura.

  He felt her glance before she spoke. “Is any of what you’ve said true?”

  “All of what I said now is true.” Though why should she believe any of it? What mattered is he believed it. He was shedding Fetch and coming home.

  “How dangerous are you?”

  He sighed. “Fetch is a dangerous guy. He has dangerous associates and even more dangerous enemies. There’s nothing dangerous about Sean except maybe how much coffee I drink. I’m not dangerous to you, Driver. I won’t hurt you. This whole trip was about keeping you safe, so for all the times I’ve freaked you out, I’m sorry.”

  She nodded. She looked unconvinced. So was he. Because the longer she remained ambiguous, confusing, sheltering behind those glasses and her dissolve into the background clothes, the more dangerous he was to her. Everything he’d told her was true, but he’d left out the part about being overly attracted to mystery.

  18: Heartburn

  Mildura arrived like an oasis. Gloriously green, palm trees and eucalypts—tropical after the dust of the last five hours drive. But then it showed itself for a mirage. Caitlyn drove past motel after motel flashing no vacancy signs. There was something going on in town and it was starting to look like either driving on, or having to compromise on the caravan park.

  “Mildura Country Music Festival.” Sean read the banner they passed beneath. “The Great Vanilla Slice Triumph.” He laughed. “We have to get ourselves some vanilla slice. But I’m about as fond of country music as I am of death metal.”

  “We have to get ourselves some accommodation. How do you feel about driving on?”

  “Ah. I really need out of this car. We’ll find something.”

  He found something. A two bedroom apartment. That was a rule breaker. He came back to the car with two keys to one door.

  “No, Sean.” How much clearer did she need
to be? No sharing a room meant no sharing a room.

  “Driver, we just got through establishing I’m no danger to you.”

  She shook her head. “No sharing a room.” She couldn’t be in the same room with him, it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. And what had he meant by saying he liked her. What did like mean anyway? Was it purely observational—I like dogs more than cats—or something more? There couldn’t be anything more, so there was no sharing a room. Simple. Clear. Easy.

  “We’re sharing a lounge room and a kitchen. Both the bedroom doors lock and one has an ensuite. How is that much different from having rooms next door to each other?”

  “It’s a completely different thing.”

  “It’s one night and I’ll cook.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me jump at the opportunity.”

  “Didn’t I mention I’m good in the kitchen?”

  “No.”

  “Well I am. Rusty, but I reckon I can rustle up something decent. They have a movie channel. Dinner and a movie.”

  “No.”

  “All right.” He settled back in the passenger seat but one booted foot was on cement driveway. “So your better idea is?”

  It was four hundred and seventy kilometres to Port Augusta and she had no idea what was between here and there. Her better idea was to break another rule and drive all night. It was hard to tell which option was more dangerous.

  “We can order pizza, instead of cooking,” she said.

  Not that she needed to eat with him. Now that they’d arrived, she was officially off duty. She’d go into town, hang around until it was late enough to come back and lock herself in the bedroom. She wouldn’t have to watch him moving around. It was hard enough not to want to watch him when she was supposed to be watching the road.

  “We are not ordering fucking pizza.”

  He got out of the car and slammed the door, making the car rock. Wow. He was perfectly reasonable about her objections to the apartment, but lost it over pizza. She got out too and watched him go to the room and open the door. It was one night. If he wanted to cook, why not let him. She’d go for a run and then go to bed early.