by Gordon Reid
She signalled Bruce, who came over. Chook put money on his tray. ‘I’ll get you the change,’ he said.
‘Keep it.’
They walked out. ‘Where’s your bike?’
‘Up here a few steps.’
They strolled along the street, dodging people. At least Becker tried to do so, but he was slow because of the crutches. Chook gave way to no-one, not even women with children. As she walked, she pulled off the band holding her hair back in a tight knot. Her hair fell down in short, curling tresses. Just below the ears. She was good looking in a fiercely foreign way. The high cheekbones, the insinuating eyes, crinkling at the corners. As if daring you to smile at a freak like her.
They reached the bike.
‘So long, Harry,’ she said. And kissed him on a cheek. Passers-by laughed. One almost cheered. She put on the helmet, got on the bike, pressed a button, revved up the engine, then let it idle. And gave a smile, which was a smile and a wink and a smirk and kiss, all wrapped up in one.
He said it at last: ‘You murdered him, didn’t you?’
She was surprised, and he thought for a moment she was going to deny it, but she did not. Instead, she grinned. It was a smug grin, but not insolent or unfriendly or evasive in any way.
‘The kid? Yeah, I killed him.’
‘You deliberately killed him, didn’t you? You could have called on him to drop the weapon.’
‘Yeah, I could.’
‘That’s murder.’
‘A piece of shit like that kid? Murder? No, mate, that’s business.’
She patted him on an arm.
‘So long, Harry. Don’t wait up.’
She revved up the bike and, without a wave or another smile, rode off. Don’t wait up for me, she had said, as if they were married.
That was the nub of it. He was bound to her. If she went down, he would go with her. Most likely charged with being an accessory after the fact.
On the other hand, Chook was some sort of friend. He was not sure what kind, but she wouldn’t have told him she was going to Melbourne to kill someone if she didn’t trust him. They had something in common. It was not just that her girlfriend had been killed trying to protect his girlfriend, Evelyn. It was something to do with the way humans got tangled up with each other.
That’s how it had been with Evelyn. The more dangerous she was, the more you wanted to tangle with her. As a result, he’d been blown up twice. And he’d lost his wife. Who had done that? Someone in Sydney? Or Melbourne? Or someone much closer to home?
Harry Becker got in the BMW and drove around to Railway Street. He was going to pick up his daughter, five weeks old, and ask her: What the hell are we going to do?
You and me?