Walking On Hot Sand

Walking On Hot Sand.

Written by Anthony Gee. Copyright, 2003.

You can't go east here. Not unless you want to go swimming.
The boats won't help you get away anyway. They're for sport only. Like
the cars and the money and the bodies. The bodies are marinated,
trussed and cured with sun and salt.
You won't go west. There's nothing to see, not unless you're into
waterfalls and rainforests. And you're not. Because nature is boring
unless it's the human kind. The kind that lusts, envies, lies, steals,
has no regard for anyone, and at it's very worst- sinks to
murder.
And you won't go north or south.
You ask me how I can be so presumptuous, especially since I've only
known you for four paragraphs. Well, it's simple.
You're never going to go anywhere. You'll die as the same person in
the same place.

I look better than I should after a year spent working out of a
dungeon of an office in the CBD of Melbourne.
Don't get me wrong; I look after myself. My skin is the hue of smooth
ivory. It's carved soap- a clean holdover from the thin European blood
that runs in my blue veins.
My waist is petite and my legs are long. My breasts are just right in
that 'meat and potatoes' male fantasy kind of way. I train every day
for an hour, six days a week. Every time I look in the mirror I'm
always very happy with myself.
You should want me because I would be your type. No- you would want me
because I should be your type.
But I'm flying north for the summer to do some business and while I'm
there I'm going get myself some colour.
Paris has his face buried in my neck and when I move his moustache
tickles me like the legs of a little insect. I elbow him away from me
and his cold body is stiff with hours of lifelessness. It reluctantly
shoves over. We were never close, even if he thought we were.
I can close my eyes and see his face suspended over me in the darkness
like a blue moon. It was blue before he even died. Before we even
finished. He told me he loved me but the words came out of his body
with everything else. It was nothing but a moment. When it passed,
there was nothing to lose. I put him under with chloroform and then
permanently muffled his snoring with a pillow.
His wife won't miss him for a few days. She doesn't even know where he
is but it's not for lack of trying to find out. I mean, she hired a
private investigator because she's long suspected that Paris has been
getting extra-marital. So she hired me. Professionally- I knew, that
her fears would be confirmed.
I wasn't his first affair. And I could tell by the way that he sniffed
and yapped around his molls that I would have no problem insinuating
myself into the picture. I have more class than anything he could have
afforded with his small time connections and low rent
racketeering.
And he knew it. That's why he said he loved me.
I will take the countless photos, the video footage and the audio
tapes that have chronicled the infidelities of Mister Paris Dawson. I
shall present them to his widow. I shall watch her face as she sees,
hears and feels the sins of his adulteries.
She will indulge in all of it to feed her hatred. She will not cry.
She will hate him and she will wish him dead. She will pay me and
curtly shake my hand and look into my eyes, wondering if I hate him
just as much, because, I too, am a woman.
But she will have had enough truth for one day.
The truth about me is that I don't hate anyone. I just don't love
anybody except for my myself.

You practically grew up on the beach. You have always lived within a
five kilometre radius of where you were born. There are grains of sand
in your ears that have penetrated so deep that they've been there since
you were a very young boy. Twenty-two years of sun has terminally
darkened your skin and lightened your hair.
You have successfully evolved to the point of being able to thrive in
your natural habitat- a professional rider of waves and women with few
equals. And you know it more than anyone else does. It's in your walk
and your talk and your cocksure demeanour.
You've seen boats, big ones, when you've been sitting on your board
waiting for a wave but you've never imagined where they might be from
or where they might be going. For all you care, the earth is
flat.
I'm coming to you across the land like a tidal wave. I will pick you
up and allow you to rise to the crest. Then I'll throw you down on to
the rocks.
Then I'll suck back out and take everything with me.

Paris dances in the deep currents at the bottom of the Yarra river.
There's a red herring down there with him, a couple actually- two
shots, execution style in the back of his head. They're there to help
the cops draw some conclusions. Paris had more enemies than lovers. To
be precise, there were eight that were serious enough to murder him, if
you're counting me. Not that the cops will.
One that the cops will count is Marty Conlon, and with good reason.
Marty is a slime ball like Paris, the only difference being that Marty
is a thug with a reputation built on muscle.
That's a big difference in the highly competitive field of
bootlegging.
Sure brains count for a lot, but business smarts are only relevant in
a controlled environment. Violence is the natural selector in the
absence of law. Look what happened when Paris started cheating on his
common law wife. He may have been a greasy eel of a man, a wimp and a
tasteless prick, but one thing you can say about him is that he always
paid his dues. Every Tuesday night in a brown paper bag, out the back
of The Grande Hotel. And that's why the police will be especially eager
to catch up with Marty Conlon. His contempt for Paris is well known to
them.
You see, Marty and Paris started out together as partners in importing
and dealing illicit booze. Tax free and mostly from the Middle East or
the impoverished backblocks of Europe. Paris was the left hand that
took the cash and shook on all the deals. Marty was the right hand,
clenched into a fist. The left hand didn't like to let the right hand
know what it was doing. By the time that Paris had decided to bow out
of the partnership, he had amassed a few status symbols that were
visible to even the dull insights of his cohort.
A brand new BMW. Gold chains and expensive man bangles. A trip to the
Gold Coast Indy. These things did conjure up suspicion from the
sluggish wits of Mister Conlon.
Paris had told him that business had been dwindling to the point of a
trickle and that they should just cut their losses and move on.
Marty decided to reach out to their clientele and look into it
himself.
What he found out from their clients left him in no doubt whatsoever
that Paris Dawson had been screwing him over.
There were twelve strip joints that they supplied to. Paris had told
him that eight of them were under pressure to buy through legitimate
channels. A complete lie.
Little Davie Frantelle from The Sugar Teat actually wrote Marty up an
advance cheque for three and a half grand when he went in to ask. He
started to make it out in Dawson's name. Marty ripped it up and, trying
to control his rage, told Little Davie that if he didn't want a
bunghole poked in his throat, then he would take the pen and make the
cheque out to Mister Conlon- not negotiable.
Little Davie conceded that it was a great idea.
Marty called on another three venues as well as a gay club that bought
from them. Over all, business had actually increased four-fold! And all
in the time that Paris had been telling him they were going into
liquidation.
That night, Marty accosted Paris as he arrived at the factory building
that they leased. The one for which they apparently hadn't been able to
afford rent for the last three months.
He smashed out some of Dawson's teeth with the butt of a revolver and
then pointed the other end at his face. Paris spewed a dozen barely
chewed oysters in a gush of champagne and blood and howled for
Mother.
Marty's right hand trembled in an attempt to stave off the urge to
shoot. He somehow remained calm enough to reason that shooting Paris
would incur more trouble than the man was worth. Marty ordered him off
the premises and told him that the next time he saw him he'd expect
full restitution in arrears.
Paris panicked and went straight to the cops .
They laughed at his ragged mouth and his hysterical weeping, but for
two hundred dollars a week, they promised to serve and protect.
Marty Conlon got his first visit from two of Melbourne's finest that
week.
Detective Bryce informed him in no uncertain terms that "if you even
so much as touch that faggy little greaseball, we'll make your guts
into Guccis."
Detective Turner, his partner, loved it when Detective Bryce talked
like that.
Marty thought it was corny hogwash. He also intuitively knew that
violence would catch up with Paris Dawson. The fool may have bought
himself protection, but in doing so he had paid his admission to the
next circle of hell. In shoes too big, it was only a matter of time
before he trod on the wrong toes.

Marty certainly didn't think it would only take a couple of days for
Paris to get what was coming to him. If he did then he would have made
some distance between the both of them.
As it turned out, the first thing he knew of it was Detective Turner's
size twelve booting into his kidney. Bryce stood behind his big
partner, ready to put some poetry to his motion.
"What'd we tell you, Conlon? Didn't we say that if you even so much as
looked at Paris Dawson, we'd... we'd... use your balls for
badminton."
Turner stood over Marty who was doubled up on the floor of his own
living room. The big cop grinned like a barracuda and nodded
enthusiastically as his partner rattled off the threats. Marty wasn't
trying to be smart when he croaked out:
"You... never... said that."
Bryce opened his mouth with amazement and gestured to the prone felon
in front of him.
"What's that noise? Did you hear something, Detective Turner?"
Turner cocked his ear as though he were listening for something
distant.
"I don't hear nothing."
Bryce looked thoughtful. In reality he was summoning all his reserves
of cruelty.
"We're getting bad transmission here. What we need to do is tune this
damn thing in."
As if on cue, the big bully Turner took a solid punt at Marty's
crotch. It was a practised move- all reflex, zero effort.
A nova of pain exploded through the lower half of Marty's body. As it
started to subside, he was left floating in unbreathable space. Bryce's
voice, low and vindictive, drifted into his suffering universe.
"What'd you do to him, you mutt? If he's dead then so are you."
The pain crept up to Marty's head. He struggled to deny any charges.
All he could do was make an 'o' with his mouth and try to force a groan
out of it.
Detective Bryce bent down and talked almost tenderly into his
ear.
"Are you trying to say something, Marty? Because if I was you, and I
had nothing to do with Mister Dawson's disappearance, then I'd be doing
my best to talk about it. If I was you, then I reckon I'd at least know
something."
Marty knew that unless he came up with that something quickly, he was
going to be in for a whole season of brutality. Turner faked a kick at
him and a name spilled out as he flinched
"Lena! Lena Schwarz!"
"See," said Bryce smugly to his partner, "all you've got to do is
twist the knob, bash on it a bit. Now the signal's coming through
crystal clear."
Turner nodded in agreement as he smoothly broke a rib with the steel
toe of his shoe.

There was no break in my stride when I heard my name mentioned on the
tape. I'll admit that I didn't see it coming, but who would've? Marty
fluked it.
I was hoping that in forty eight hours of surveillance, he might
mention something about the ticket that Paris had booked to fly up to
the Gold Coast. The one that he held before me as a tight-fisted
secret. The one that he held over me as a paper aeroplane after we had
just finished another low-down meeting of the 'Mile Deep Club.'
"Brrrummm! I'm coming in to land, baby. Right in the sand
dunes."
I see it's a ticket even before he parks it between the generous
spread of my exposed breasts. I'm flat on my back like most of the time
he's around.
"Oh, Paris!" I say in the best bimbo I can muster. "Where are we
going?"
"We are not going anywhere, babe. I am going to the Gold Coast. You
are going to Paris."
He tries to persuade my head to get under the sheets. I lose my cool
for a second and yank a tuft of hair out of his chest. He screams like
a little girl.
"Aaieeee! Oooh! Easy?"
Whoops. A little too hard. Don't want him to get distracted,
now.
"Sorry, lover?" I coo in his ear, "? sometimes you're too fast. All I
can do is hold on."
I see his bewilderment ooze into a look of self satisfaction. Good.
It's not like he's going to stray too far from his favourite topic of
conversation. Himself.
"Hey? you know where the handles are."
I retrieve the ticket from the mess of sheets and fly it over
him.
"Brrrrrr! Emergency landing. Looks like we're going to have to crash
in the wild jungles of Tigerland."
I bring it in to land on the patch torn out of his woolly chest.
"Grrr. Rarrr!" he playfully snarls.
It's at this moment that I think I might kill him.
"So why can't I come, Paris? You know I'm going to miss you. Can't we
stay together this weekend?"
He's loving this. He puts up a finger to show off his
seriousness.
"It's all business, baby. And when I get back, that's going to be the
real holiday. Daddy Paris is goin' for the big payoff. After this one,
I'm going into semi-retirement. No, screw that? total
retirement."
"Ooooh?" I gush, disappointed that torturing him for the details will
be too noisy. Whatever it is sounds like something I need to know
about, which is lucky for Paris because it may just have bought him
more time. "? it sounds big? and exciting." I add vacuously.
He knows that I'm fishing for particulars.
He thinks it's because I'm impressed by his foreseeable fortune. He
waggles his damn finger again and admonishes me like I'm one of his
simple little pop tarts.
"It's business, Jo. Men's stuff. Rough play."
He doesn't know my real name. He doesn't know that it's at this moment
that I know I'll kill him and take his fast, fancy retirement
fund.

The smoke that curls around your head is blue. Narcotic bliss creeps
over your body like a soft blanket. The music in the room is textured.
Minutes hang and drip like cold honey. You giggle and grin like an
ecstatic baboon and poke a stick through the eye of the cone. Your eyes
feel like they've been replaced by fishing sinkers.
Chook says it's time for a wave.
You can feel his joyous anticipation- filth sets of pumpin'
right-handers are out there awaiting you on this day, the most
sumptuous of dreams.
Everything whites out when you pull back the curtain. The sun is an
epiphany too holy to look upon.
After what must be a minute, your beloved ocean emerges from the
brightness like a developing snapshot of heaven. You grab your board,
walk down the backyard and step on to the glowing sand.
Chook duck-dives the first wave and you strive to catch up with him.
Your exuberance is stirred by the ocean. You catch up to Chook and
playfully splash him. The kinship you feel with him is deep, as deep as
the primordial soup in which you both frolic. That's what it is. Both
of you were formed of the salt and froth of this mystical expanse, the
source of life's twisting river. Rivers move inland, away from the
ocean but unlike the others that submit to it's fateful currents, you
and Chook have stayed close to the source.
Chook does a poo in the surf and it bobs to the surface like a dead
fish. He sweeps it toward you. The euphoric buzz from the three cones
of Hydro make it the funniest thing you've ever seen.
"Choo-hoo-hoo-hoo-ooo-hoo?" you can't catch your breath for laughing
so much.
That's when you see the huge dark shape out of the corner of your eye.
It's five feet away, moving stealthily over the ocean floor. It's
blotting out the pale sand beneath you like a total eclipse.
"Oooo."
There's no time to paddle. You somehow pull all your limbs up on to
the your board and roll yourself into a ball. The board teeters
precariously on the rolling, glassy surface.
When you look at your comrade, all you manage to catch is the look of
realised terror contorting his face.
The shark rams his board from underneath and he disappears in an
explosion of water and screams. You seize the moment and frantically
propel yourself for the shore.
Even when you start to coast in on the wash, your arms are clawing
away at the water.
You're crying as you crawl away from the water's edge. Your legs
collapse beneath you when you try to stand up. A jogger jogs to you. He
grabs you by the arm.
All you can do is shrug him off and point at the ocean and howl.
"Choooook! CHOOOOOOOOK!"
Another man runs down from the top of the dunes and covers you with a
towel large enough to be a blanket. You hear his excited voice.
"A bloody shark ate his mate!"
The jogger looks you in the eyes and repeats it to you with greater
emphasis.
"A bloody shark just ate your mate!"
People cluster around like flies, seemingly out of nowhere.
You bury your head in the towel and scream into it. Then- the jogger
again.
"Bloody hell! There he is."
You don't want to look but you have to. You dread that you're going to
see the monster languishing in waves tinted crimson with the blood of
your friend. You look up and all you see are some filth sets of pumpin'
right handers.
Then you notice you're alone. Because they're all running, running to
Chook, who is swaggering victoriously toward them up the beach. His
hands are outstretched, indicating size.
"WHOO! IT WAS THIS F****'N BIG!"
Cameras come out. The front page of the paper is created there and
then. He's laughing and hamming it up. You feel glad, but it's an edgy
kind of gladness. Like things haven't worked the way that they should.
You realise how ridiculous that is and you fight to suppress it but
enough of it stays alive in you.
It's not that you hate him. It's just that you don't love anyone but
yourself.

I think you're gutless. But you don't need me to think that for you.
You think you're gutless too.
I'm coming for you. Cruising up the Pacific Highway to the
source.
I'm no grey nurse or black widow. I'm no white witch or scarlet women.
I'm a business lady and I can smell your blood on my money. It's all
about self preservation and that's something we both know about.
There's one difference between you and I.
I'm happy with my selfish nature. It gets me what I want.
But you- you have this notion of honour, this abstract condition that
tugs at your conscience.
It tells you: "I should've tried to help Chooky. That's what mates
do." It makes you sorry that you're not the man you thought you were.
And isn't that funny. I haven't met you yet but I know you better than
you know yourself.
You'll know me when the moment comes.
I'm the last test you'll fail.

You drink deep from the chalice. The smoke fills you up and pushes
thoughts into your head that you were smoking to forget. Chook still
seems to be riding the crest of his massive adrenalin rush.
Karen and Tamara pack his cones, open his beers and fawn over him
shamelessly. He's become a bloody rock star.
"I remember reading that if you punch a shark in the nose it'll leave
you alone, but I didn't think it was true," says Karen.
"Show me your hand again," says Tamara.
Chook holds up his glorious right hand with the lighter in it as he
pulls on the bong. His knuckles bear the scuffs of the battle of which
one headline declared:

LUNCH PACKS A PUNCH
"No Heroics, "Says Local Hero- "Just Common Sense."

PALM BEACH- A rogue shark bit off more than he could chew when it made
the mistake of attacking local surfer Brad 'Chook' Sutherland. He and a
friend were surfing off Eleventh Avenue early yesterday morning when he
was knocked from his surfboard. However, Chook was no chicken when the
man-eater tried to maul him. Left in the water to fend off the shark by
himself, the seasoned twenty-two year old board rider kept his cool and
single-handedly repelled it.

"It just came out of nowhere. One minute me and my friend were paddling
around, laughing. The next- I was by myself, in the water," he
said.

The hysterical screams of his friend alerted early beach-goers to the
emergency. Frank Singer, 42, was on the scene when he heard the cries
for help.

"I came down to get some bloodworms when I heard this awful sound. I
was afraid that maybe a woman was getting raped, it's happened here in
the past. Then I saw this guy really carrying on, screaming "A shark
just ate Chooky!". This other bloke was with him and he looked like he
was trying to calm the poor fellow down. I've done first aid before, so
I ran down and covered him with a towel- it was obvious he was in
shock."

That's when Chook reappeared. His Aussie fighting spirit impressed
grandmother, Dot Poker, 68.

"He marched up the beach like a bloody Anzac, let me tell you.
Everybody was clapping and he looked like he was ready to go another
nine rounds. Bloody marvellous."

When asked about his shark fighting style, Chook said that everything
he knows is common knowledge.

"You just bash 'em in the nose. It makes sense, really. It's where all
the nervous systems are. Same with dogs. People too," he added with a
larrikin laugh.

But will this deter the plucky Chook from surfing in the future?

"No way, mate. I've surfed around here most of my life and this is the
first time anything like this has happened. I've been hit by cars three
times and I still walk on the road. I'm not scared of nothing," said
the happy-go-lucky local.

However, when asked about his friend that he was surfing with at the
time, Chook became quite serious.

"If anything had happened to my mate, I don't know what I would've
done. Because he's my mate."

A council spokesman for beaches has said that while sharks have been
appearing in numbers off the Gold Coast, it's a cause for caution
rather than concern.

"Salt water is the shark's habitat. When people go into the shark's
habitat, they run the risk of getting bitten or even eaten. Swimming at
night is foolish. We recommend that people swim in large groups during
the day so as to minimise the risk of individual attack."

"You are soooo lucky to have a friend like Chook," Tamara solemnly
tells you while running her hand up his leg.
Chook looks at you and rolls his red, half-lidded eyes.
You feel like kicking these two wenches out of your house. Then you
get the recurring guilt of being jealous and vindictive. Let him have
his moment in the sun. It's not his fault anyway that they're all
stroking his ego instead of yours. It's theirs.
What a shallow bunch of people. You're surrounded by 'yes men' and
easy chicks. It's not as if you haven't slept with Karen and you
undoubtedly had that chance with Tamara.
And Johnno and Cridgey and Powelly and the rest of the crew- they'll
always eat out of your hand. This is just a phase.
In the morphing thoughts of your stoned haze, you're content with the
wisdom. But only for a moment. Then the disquiet settles on you
again.
The thoughts are like waves that are too close together. They crash on
each other. There's no space to get between. Every time you get under
one, there's another one there. All you can do is sink beneath their
solid charge and immerse yourself in what is so horribly true.
Chook deserves this.
No, it's not like he threw himself in front of the shark for you. It's
that you turned tail and fled in that moment and you know what that
means. It means that you wouldn't have stuck your neck out for
him.
Cowardice has a way of rearing it's ugly head and fixing you in it's
ugly gaze. You have faith in him but none in yourself. Woeful.
The picture of Chook holding his board with the three foot bite mark
out of it is sitting in front of you. He's gone from his chair. The
bong sits on the coffee table- a smoking gun. Murmurs and giggles
burble through his bedroom wall and in the face of that, you realise
you don't owe him. You feel a release when it occurs that he would have
died for you.

Some anal motorbike policeman has tracked me going thirty K's over the
speed limit. He's quick with everything but writing a ticket.
"Lena Schwarz!" I spit at the traffic cop. "S-C-H-W-A-R-Z!"
I bark each letter out for the stupid pig. He's untouched by the
contempt, insulated by his stupidity. Everything's thrown back at me in
the reflection of his mirrored sunglasses.
"German name, hey love?" he drawls with half interest.
If he's trying to be a smartarse, then I can't detect it in his voice.
Not that it infuriates me any less.
"That's right. My grandad was a Nazi war criminal. Used to be a
traffic cop in the secret police. His mission was to interrogate
suspects on the side of the road with really stupid questions."
He doesn't detect the sarcasm.
"Is that a fact?" he says.
I feel like I could die from the frustration.
"That's a fact! And you know what else? I've got a boot full of
nuclear secrets that I'm on my way to sell to terrorists."
This elicits a response, though it's a bit more dramatic than the one
I was hoping for.
He pulls his .38 out of his holster, takes three steps back and aims
at me while adopting a shooter's stance.
"Put your hands on the roof of the car, Miss. Now!"
It occurs to me that this guy is thicker than whipped shit. The upside
is that it's that fact that will make it easy to get out of this
predicament.
"Okay, okay. Don't get excited, honey." I put my hands at shoulder
length apart on the roof of my car. He pats me down and looks at me as
though I'm about to change form.
"The selling of nuclear secrets is a violation of section C, paragraph
32b of the Anti-Terrorism Bill of 2002 as well as section F, paragraph
18a of the Treasons Act. Your going away for a very long time."
I can't believe this is actually happening. He keeps me covered with
his gun while he gets my keys out of the ignition. My annoyance is
giving way to fury.
"What's wrong with this picture, dickhead? Is this the first time
you've ever had a confession before an arrest?"
The fool looks baffled for only a second.
"You have the right to remain silent, anything you wish?"
"I have the right to make a joke and not get arrested for it, you
try-hard!" I scream over the top of him.
This shuts him up and makes him look a little doubtful. Even a little
hurt. I hope. Then he pops the boot open and whistles, no doubt
impressed by the box of videotapes that I keep stashed in there.
Surveillance footage. Secret, none the less. Discretion is the hallmark
of my profession.
"Think about it, Sherlock!" I taunt. "You can run a check on me. I'm
clean. I'm a private investigator, you moron."
His mouth stretches into a false smile.
"I'll run a check on you, don't worry about that. You say you're a
private investigator, pretty lady?"
"Yes!" There's hope for this idiot yet.
"And I'm the head of the FBI." He's happy with his new-found sarcastic
wit.
"That's very good?" I say, "?very funny. Now let me go."
"Oh, I'll let you go," he says. "And maybe I'll give you a police
escort to CHAOS headquarters! I tell you what. I'll buy those nuclear
secrets off you. FOR FIFTY CENTS!" He slaps his thigh and chortles.
"Maybe I'll? hold the entire world as ransom. Ha ha!"
I'm infuriated by the look he gives me. His eyebrows are raised high
over his big, stupid sunglasses as if to say "what do you
reckon?"
I'm going to kill him. I can't help myself.
"Aaaaarrrgh!" I scream, and explode into action. "DIE!"
I spin like a saw blade and chop him right in the throat. There's the
sound of his conceited little laugh choking off into a sick gurgle. My
keys drop straight into my right hand. It's the one that I use to give
him a right uppercut to the mouth and his Aviator glasses take flight,
along with a few teeth.
I'm already half in my car as he falls to the ground. Dust from my
spinning wheels engulfs him as he lies there, bobbing for his Adam's
apple, trying to get one more breath.

****

You're in the water and it's boiling with blood.
Chook is riding that big shark around bareback, like it's a
jet-ski.
"Yeeha!" he screams. "Giddy up!"
Parts of your body float around you along with broken bits of
surfboard. You're nothing but a head drifting around in the red slick.
As Chook passes through your scattered anatomy on his menacing steed,
he raises a trident victoriously into the air like Neptune presiding
over his domain.
He's ploughing through the water at chest height but then the shark
starts to surface. Higher and higher rises Chook on the back of the
great predator, until he looms majestically over your vulnerable little
head. The shark zeroes in on you with it's mouth agape.
You scream out to your friend as the cavernous maw engulfs you and the
sound of your terror echoes in the deep darkness.
"CHOOOOOOK!"
The first thing you notice are the arms around you. They're strong-
almost fatherly- and you instantly feel safe. You peek over the
shoulder in front of your face and you see Tamara and Karen wrapped in
sheets, gawking at you. They roll their eyes and smile at each other.
What are they so amused about?
"There, there, mate. It was just a nightmare. It's okay."
Chook's voice placates you for only a heartbeat. Then you're assailed
with shame. The shame of being in the arms of a man, especially in the
presence of women. If you knew what the word 'emasculating' meant, it
would be the word you would use to describe how you feel.
You push your friend violently away.
"Gerroff, you poof!"
Chook raises his arms to fend off your attack.
"Hey! Hey? okay, mate! Just trying to help. Settle down."
You're confused- embarrassed for yourself, angry at those bitches
looking at you like you're some sort of freak. You're also instantly
regretful of your outburst.
"Uh? okay."
He packs the crumbs of pot left in the bowl into a cone and tries to
push the bong into your hand. You wave it off.
"Naaa. You have it, mate. I've gotta clear out my friggin'
head."
Tamara reaches for it. Chook snatches it away from her. She looks at
him dejectedly. Stupid mull pig.
Chook torches it, pulls half and hands it to you. This time you accept
it. Reality shifts in a welcoming way.
"Feel better, mate?" he asks.
"Heaps. Let's go for a surf."
You feel fortitude within yourself. Chook's eyes glance away for a
moment as he considers something. Then they lock back on to
yours.
"You sure you want to do that, mate?"
You've never been more sure of anything in your life. Everyone knows
you've got gills.
"Straight back on the horse, Chook. No fear."
You leave the two skanks to scratch around for remnants of weed and
head out the back door. The sound of crashing waves that used to be so
inviting causes a rip of dread through your gut. You close your eyes
and try to block everything out.
It's when your toes touch the water that you open your eyes and see
the surface of an ocean that surely was never that dark. Anything could
hide beneath it. You're already too far over the threshold. This is not
your world any more. Panic drives you back three steps.
Chook looks over his shoulder at you just before he starts paddling.
You look at your feet and desperate tears push at the back of your
eyes. Just the look of sympathy on your friend's face is enough to
start them rolling. He comes in and slaps you on the back as you drop
your bundle.
"It's okay, mate. It's going to take a little time," he says
softly.
You feel as though you've lost every reason to live.

My black Lexus cruises like a shiny shadow. It's thirty one degrees
outside in the town of Grafton. In here, with me, it's fifteen.
I smoke with the windows up. The air is thick with smog and sound.
'Hootie and the Blowfish' blare through it. I'm going a hundred and
thirty K's. But in here, under the tinted glass, I'm suspended in my
element.
I harmonise and sympathise with every word from Hootie, and my heart
soars with the warm tones of his magnificent Blowfish. Like many
psychopathic types that have blighted this earth, my humanity can only
be touched by music. For sure, H &; the B make me quiver but I would
hesitate to say their effect on me is an emotional one. It's more
spiritual.
It touches me in the place that I speak to you, my stompy wompy real
gone surfer boy.
I've never seen your face but I have seen your bleeding little heart
that yearns to be filled with courage. It rides you like a parasite.
Never content. Twisting your emotions. Making you perform for those
around you.
I don't blame you for selling out to it. After all, it's not as if you
have much of a brain in your head any more, pickled in all that brine
and beer.
Don't worry. I'm coming to save you. But not the way that your big
hero Chook saved you.
I'm going to pluck out your heart like an apple, smash it between my
teeth and kill the worm inside. I'm going to save you from yourself.
Because in the food chain there is no room for a heart. Especially a
wanting and insipid one like your own.
I should know because I'm standing at the top.

****

You and Chook both sit on the balcony- the front one facing the
highway. You're on your sixth beer, enough to have you well on the way.
The morning's unpleasantness is so far away that you can no longer see
it. Good. You hope it will stay there.
What you and Chook can see are the people that pass by your house.
Everyone gets a serve of your cheeky wit as you show off. Especially
the young ladies.
You make loud bird calls like a seagull. You don't know why. A man
doesn't need a reason to act like a dick.
Still, neither of you can understand why people get offended like they
do. Your behaviour seems natural. And you know it is. It's not like you
want to hurt anyone.
A short guy comes loping up the footpath. He's looking right at you
and Chook as though he's expecting what's coming. It almost throws you
off your timing.
Almost.
"Caww! Caww!" Greet him with the seagull.
He points straight up at you.
"Hey, aren't you clever?" he snarls. "And pretty. Look at those golden
curls. You look just like Shirley Temple! Aren't you cute?"
You don't quite know what to say. You don't have a backup for the
seagull.
"What?" you say angrily, stalling for time. You can hear Chook
wheezing with the laughter that he's trying to hold in. Your cheeks
start to burn with embarrassment.
"I said you're dumb and pretty. But I guess blondes have more fun,
hey?"
He shows you all his teeth. He seems really angry. It's making you
angry. Why does this jerk have to come along and ruin all your
fun?
"Why don't you come up here, mate? We'll sort you out."
The guy just stands there, scanning you with his judging eyes. You can
feel them poking around inside you. You imagine that they're looking
for something incriminating.
And then you know what that thing is. Your shame.
Chooks voice is faint. His words don't register.
"Don't, mate. He's not worth worrying about."
But you're at the bottom of the stairs before you're even aware of it,
driven by fear and spite.
The guy sees you coming but he doesn't waver at your approach. He
squares up to your intended onslaught. As the distance between you and
him close, you drive your right fist forward and it crunches into the
side of his face. Something gives. He drops straight away and for the
briefest moment you feel a release. A scream- unmistakably a woman's,
drives it away instantly.
"What have you done, you bastard? What have you done to him?"
She shoves you in the stomach and kneels beside your enemy. His
smashed cheek is already filling with blood. He's out cold- at least
that's all you hope it is because he's not moving. The young woman is
crying and saying his name over and over.
"Craig! Craig! Craig!"
A guy on a bicycle stops and rushes over. Two other people arrive. The
word 'murder' floats around in the dread that fills you like sickness.
Pathetic words stutter from your mouth:
"I- I didn't mean it. I did- didn't mean to hurt him."
Chook kneels down beside the woman and puts his ear to Craig's chest.
He stays that way for a long time. Then he looks back up at the mob and
sweeps them with a concerned look.
"Craig's gonna be alright."
You empty yourself of the biggest sigh that's ever been trapped in
your body.
Chook's trying to rouse the unconscious Craig. After about half a
minute, he succeeds and the man opens his eyes and blinks at everyone
around him. You start gushing.
"Craig, I'm sorry, mate. Craig?"
"You get away from him!" shrieks his lady friend.
You recoil as one of her hands slap at you.
"How do you know he's not brain damaged? If he's retarded then I'm
calling the cops! Shit! I'm going to call the cops anyway."
Craig continues to blink at everyone.
"I can only see out of one eye," he says.
"It's alright. It's because the other one's filling up with blood,"
points out Chook, "you're going to be alright."
He helps Craig to his feet. You want to shake the man's hand- be civil
and make up but you don't know what to say. There's no chance with his
girlfriend around, anyway. She spins around on you.
"You're the little bastard that was yelling at me before. What's your
name, dickhead? Hey?"
"Look, I didn't mean to hurt him," you mumble. You feel so low that it
makes you want to cry.
"I don't care! Now Craig's probably half blind, all because you had to
sit up there acting like a twit. I'm going to the cops!"
Craig taps on the side of his head like it's a faulty
television.
Chook puts an arm around her but she shrugs it off. He tries to pacify
her with a firm, even voice and some limited jargon. They walk away
from you.
"Look- Craig's going to be okay. He's probably just got a slight
fracture in the facial area. My mate there has been through a really
rough time lately, and I'd really appreciate it if you didn't call the
pigs."
She regards him with renewed malice.
"You may not have been the guy that hit him, but you were up there
with that idiot, yelling at me before when I was walking past. Give me
a good reason."
"Uh, look, this might be a little hard to believe. The other day, me
and my mate got attacked by a shark when we were out in the surf. I've
got no excuse, but I think he's pretty shaken up at the moment. We were
just having a few beers?"
You see Chook's thumb jerk over in your direction. He seems to be
working his charm on her. You hear her tone change instantly, softening
into friendliness.
"Yeah! I know you. You're that guy! The one that beat up the
shark."
"Uh, yeah."
His shoulders are rounded with humility. He's ashamed at having to
play his ace.
"Lucky it wasn't you that hit Craig."
"Uh, yeah."
Their muted voices waft over to you. She's getting louder, excited.
You're not sure, but you suspect they're talking about the legend that
Chook has become. Surely not.
"That would've been terrifying! How big was it?"
You can't believe it. She's actually got a hand on his elbow while she
listens. She's flirting while her boyfriend's staggering about like
he's about to haemorrhage.
All you can do is move for the open door at the top of the balcony.
You need to be alone.

****

Detective Bryce passes the joint to Detective Turner.
"Y'know, Jock? we serve a public that demands integrity. The
tax-payers of this state scream that their dollar should buy them more
peace of mind every time the bloody budget rolls around. But it's been
a very long time since any of us have had a pay rise. Do you feel, as a
dedicated policeman, that you earn what you are worth, Jock
Turner?"
Turner gazes at Bryce through eyes that are look like two lazy clams
with gingivitis. He snorts on the hit he's just taken, then brays with
laughter.
"Hehehehehehe! Every? time? the budgie rolls round?"
Bryce shoots him a look of disdain.
"What should I expect from the oaf?" he asks himself.
"Look, the point I'm trying to make, Jock, is that the thin blue line
is torn- torn- between the union and Misses Polly bloody Pensioner.
What are we doing about the thieves and bloody murderers? That's all
you ever hear. We, Jock? we sell a product like every other bloody
business. They think they're buying peace of mind? Bullshit! They're
buying our lives! I've been shot at twice in the last year. And what's
that worth?"
Turner is still caught up in his giggling spasm.
"What's it?. worth? He- He- Henry?.."
Henry Bryce concedes that he ranting to himself. He doesn't know why
pot makes him so impassioned. When he replies, his voice is low and
brooding.
"More than they can bloody afford."
He snatches the joint back out of Turner's hand and takes a deep pull
on it.
"And you know, Jock- if they could see us right now, smoking some
dole-bludger's weed, they'd say that we're corrupt. Well, here's your
bloody GST right here, Mister taxpayer?"
He crushes what's left of the joint beneath his shoe. Turner composes
himself and nods in agreement, trying to understand.
"Right on, Henry. Right on."
"My partner's got muscles in his head," Bryce mentally gripes.
It takes him a few minutes to snap out of his sulking.
"Damn, why do I smoke that crap?" he says out loud. Then a bit softer-
"We've got to get our hands on that Schwarz bitch, Jock. We've got to
make this our business. Did you see the way that Dawson pratt had cars
and chicks falling out of his pockets. With change left over!"
Turner nods his head with exaggeration. If there's one thing he knows,
then that's it.
It became obvious when they ran Marty Conlon in on a misdemeanour
charge. He opened up about all sorts of things- some things that he
knew about and other things that he didn't.
He knew all about Paris and I. He knew all about the big deal that
Paris has lined up in Surfers with the Movers and Shakers nightclub.
And as I mentioned, there was that moment of spinelessness when he
stumbled on the fact that I knocked Paris off.
Marty wouldn't have seriously thought that I had the motivation or
capability to do it.
The man is a supreme chauvinist pig, right down there with Paris. The
difference is that he's impotent. It makes him bitter. I should know, I
tried to get him to open up, share some secrets. As it turns out,
Turner and Bryce had the right idea.
But Ol' Droopy Dick thought that I was dangerous because I have long
legs that would distract a weaker man.
Just thinking about it makes me certain that I'm going to kill that
eunuch some day as well.
Bryce and Turner were impressed with Marty when they found out that
I'd skipped town. He'd won their favour and the two blue bottom feeders
were on their way to a paid murder investigation vacation.
By the time they had completed one whole side of a ninety minute
interview tape, Marty had signed up for no more that three months at
the pen and convinced them well and truly that I am the murderer of
Paris Dawson.
More power to you, Marty.
Bryce and Turner hung on his every word because they know the smell of
big money nearly as well as I do. The thing is that now they've got a
better idea of where to sniff.
But that's alright. What I lack in leads, I make up for in good, old
fashioned detective work.
Not like cops. Everything has to be obvious to them. Just look at that
blunt-headed buffoon that I had to deck in Grafton. The dynamic duo
here are of the same breed. It's inevitable that we're going to cross
paths but they'll be left in my wake like road kill.

They already have been as far as I'm concerned. As I roll on to the
main drag of Surfers Paradise, I put down the windows and sample the
air.
There's something that I connect with here. It's definitely not the
salt in the breeze. And it's not the rabble of holiday makers and
school leavers that flap around with their cash and bad manners. It's
something in the heart of the place itself.
No it's not. It's nothing.
I know all about nothing because it's what I've got inside of
me.
There's no sentimental attachment to the past here, to any sort of
heritage or history. The identity of this place exists in the two week
intervals for those that briefly stay. The streets and shopfronts
constantly change because the foundations of this city? er, town?..
destination are shaped from the shifting sands of the tourist whim.
There's nothing here that the National Trust is ever going to want to
save.
I see a group of Japanese people taking photos of anything- it doesn't
matter if it doesn't move. I can't work out why they do that. When they
open up the photo album, what do they see? A bus stop. An oversized
stuffed koala. Another Hard Rock Caf?. It's empty.
The place doesn't ask for your money because if it did you wouldn't
pay for what it has. So it takes it. It sells you drinks and when you
wake up, your wallet's gone, there's sand in your face and you're
wearing an obscene T-shirt.
Don't tell me what you think it means to the Japanese. Don't tell me
what you think it means to you. I don't care if it is your first root
and a bunch of fireworks. Big deal, it's nothing but an industry. And
industry always goes forward.
I cruise the Lexus along the Esplanade. An unseasonably cold breeze
rises off the great empty ocean and is channelled inland through the
bastardised Corinthian architecture.

You pull your first cone of the morning. It grates at the back of your
throat and you do your best to hold it down but the smoke fights it's
way out. Splutters turn into booming coughs that turn into a huge wad
of tarry lung butter that you have to eject outside.
You've been filling in your time by smoking too much. Last night you
sat in your room and smoked until you passed out. The state of the
living room seems to adequately reflect the shambles that is your state
of mind.
"Today is the day to do something positive," you decide.
As you're filling the kettle with water, Chook sits down on the couch.
He mumbles something at you that you suppose is 'good morning.'
"Want a coffee Chook? I don't think we've got any milk?"
"Uh? yeah."
Scissors start clicking.
"I'm going to clean up today."
He gives you a strange look.
"What for?"
"Look at the place, mate. It's a pigsty."
Chook groggily looks around but he doesn't seem to notice anything. He
shrugs and starts gurgling on the bong. You can't remember if the
little red button on the kettle has to be switched up or down to make
it boil. You switch it down and go back to the living room.
Chook exhales a long plume of white smoke. It keeps coming out of him.
You suddenly remember- the guy you knocked out.
"How was he?"
Chook looks at you blankly.
"How was who?"
The name starts with a C. What was his name again?
"Um? Chris?"
"Craig"
"Yeah, Craig. Did he call the cops?"
"Naaa. He's not gonna call the cops. He's okay. Tanya took him
home."
Tanya? You can't work out who Tanya is.
"Oh. You mean the chick that was with him. How was she about it
all?"
"Yeah? yeah, she was good."
You see her walk out of Chook's room. She stumbles out of the hallway
with one of his sheets wrapped around her.
You try to think of the last time you saw Chook wash his sheets.
There's no memory forthcoming. The kettle starts to shriek. It tears
your mind away from the pervading filth, living and inanimate, that's
filling the house.
"Coffee," says Tanya. "I'll go one of those."
You don't like the frank and familiar way she talks to you. Animosity
starts brewing as you stir the three black coffees.
What gives her the right? Bitch.
You're locked in your stoned silence, unable to break out and express
your anger. It just as suddenly turns to fear. You return with only two
coffees and hand one to her.
"We don't have any milk," you manage to drone. It keeps playing back
in your head at a higher pitch. You sound like a girl.
What's she doing here? She's looking at me like I'm a fool. Where's
that guy? Craig? What sort of evil bitch is this? I've got to get back
to my room.
You make it back there. You slam the door, but you don't mean
to.
Damn, now they're going to know. She's going to know that she got to
me. Damn. Weed's never made me paranoid before. Not like this!
You sit down on your mattress and gulp down your whole coffee in one
go and take some deep breaths. Then there's a knock at your door. You
grab a surfing magazine off the floor and open it up at random. Chook's
voice calls through the door.
"Hey? mate. Can I come in? Mate?"
You try to sound perky.
"Yeah. Come on in."
Chook opens the door and sheepishly comes into the room. His eyes are
downcast.
"Um? you okay?" he asks.
You feel sheepish.
"Yeah, wise at, mate?"
"I just? I know how that must look out there. It's just? I wasn't
really in a position to say no."
"That's alright, mate," you cheerfully quip. "She wanted it. I
would've done the same thing."
That seems to make Chook even more depressed.
"Yeah? um, look I know everything's been really rough lately? ahh, but
you can't just lock yourself away from the rest of the world, mate.
You've got to get out there and start enjoying life again. It's only a
matter of time before your're back in the surf. How about you and me go
up to Surfers this weekend? You know, go out on the town. Get
laid?"
You don't know what to say.
"Okay, mate."
"So does that mean that your gonna come out and make me a
coffee"
You suddenly remember that you left his on the kitchen bench. He must
have thought that you did that on purpose.
"No worries, mate."
As you walk into the living room, you see Tanya, reclining and at home
on the couch. Chook yells out as he heads for the kitchen.
"Another coffee, guys? My shout."
She looks at you like and smugly purrs like a cat:
"I'm glad you guys had a little talk. You are sooo lucky to have a
friend like Chook."

Bryce and Turner have tried fifteen hotels. They walk into the lobby
of the sixteenth and Bryce goes through the motions.
"Hello, love. We're after a business colleague of ours, she said to
meet us here.."
The clerk looks up. Her smile is long practised.
"Certainly, sir. What's her name?"
"Lena Schwarz. I think you spell it L-I-N-A?"
She goes through the list of bookings, moving the end of her pen down
the page. It would be easier if they could just pull out their badges
and find out what they need to know. Bryce would rather keep it low
key.
"Um? I don't think so, sir."
Something catches Bryce's eye for a second. It's a long shot, but he's
got one of those famous 'police hunches.'
"That name there," he stabs his finger into the page, "Lisa White.
That's the one we're looking for."
The girl looks up at him. Her eyes go a little bit beady. Bryce knows
that he has crossed the line of 'policy.'
"Are you sure that's the one , sir?" she asks with suspicion.
He turns to his partner, very pleased with himself.
"Stupid woman doesn't know I did German in grade eight. Schwarz means
black. I'll bet you any money that's the one. She'll have to try a
little harder than that."
Turner clicks his tongue and nods. The girl behind the desk looks
offended.
"Excuse me, sir. Who are you calling a stupid woman?"
He can tell that he's already attracted enough attention. There's
nothing to lose, maybe even something to gain. He pulls out his CIB
badge and gives her a nice long look over.
"I'm Detective Henry Bryce and this is Detective Jock Turner. We're
investigating a homicide and we would appreciate your
cooperation."
The girls eyes go large and shiny and she looks at the badge like it's
the most impressive thing in the world.
"Ooooh. Who got murdered?"
"Never you mind, sweetie." He's quite enjoying this. He feels very
big.
"Do you think that lady did it? She went out about ten minute ago."
she whispers, intrigued.
Bryce decides to put this girl to use in more ways than one. Not a bad
little piece of tail, he decides.
"I'll tell you what, sweetie. Detective Turner and I are going to go
down the beach for a while. But we'd like you to do a little bit of
police work. If you see Miss White, could you please pass her a
message."
"I could make a citizen's arrest, " she breathes.
"Here's my number if you should want me Maybe later you can arrest a
corrupt copper," leers Bryce, now feeling really big.
He scribbles something on some notepaper, folds it and hands it to the
girl. She puts it on the desk and slides it under the booking
sheets.
"Don't worry, Detective Bryce. I'll make sure she gets this," she
assures him, still whispering.
"Good girl. We'll be back in a couple of hours."

Look at those two idiots. Bryce in his Hawaiian shirt and
Sunday-at-the-Yacht-Club moccasins. And Turner!
Jock Turner is going to be shooting the breeze this summer in a retro
little number that we call Miami Vice for the New Millennium. The heat
may be on but Jock's looking nautical and nice in this casual cream
dinner jacket offset nicely with aqua T-shirt and sandals- all
available at Lowes for an affordable price that won't leave you high
and dry.
Twits.
I see them leave the lobby and strut across the road.
You're going to need that badge if you're trying to pick up, fellas. A
head full of Daquiris is just going to make those duds more offensive
to any woman, no matter how trashy.
I think I'll have to have some fun with the princess in
reception.
I stick another fifty cents in the meter and walk back over to Ivory
Towers.
The look on princess' face is value as I saunter up to the desk. She
seizes up as soon as she sees me. My eyes are boring holes right
through my sunglasses and into her. My heels clack on the tiles and my
big, white smile looms at her like impending headlights.
"Hiya, honey. Could I get you to send up some prawns in about half an
hour?"
"I have a message for you," she says in an icy tone.
"Thankyou, sweetheart." I take it out of her hand. I slide my glasses
down the bridge of my nose and give her a long probing look. The one I
call 'the lie detector.'
"Did you read it?" I probe suspiciously.
That shakes her up. Very quickly she says: "No!"
"You know those two guys- Bryce and Turner- are cops, don't
you?"
Her eyes shoot left, searching for the right answer.
"Pardon? Uh? I think? yeah, they said something about it."
I read the message. Out loud.
"You were easy to find, woman. Marty blames you for everything. It's
time to talk. Movers and Shakers. Ask for Benny. Eleven thirty."
Princess looks like she just heard the voice of God.
"What's your name, honey?" I pleasantly patronise.
"Um? m-my name is Kelly."
"I used to have a best friend named Kelly. I like you already. Now,
Kelly, I'm going to tell you something very, very important, okay? You
need to listen very carefully."
Princess Kelly nods her head like it's loose on her neck. I flip a
laminated card out of my purse and put it down on the desk. It's my
private investigator's licence.
"I'm a private investigator, my name is Lena Schwarz," I say with
gravity. "I've been hired by Internal Affairs to investigate corruption
in the police force. Those two guys you spoke to are very bad men. I've
been tailing them for the last two months and we believe that they're
up here to pick up a very substantial amount of GHB."
"GBH." She seems to know what she's talking about.
"Yeah. The stuff that makes you fall down dead in nightclubs?"
Princess Kelly hasn't stopped nodding and she's not about to.
"We already got one named Marty. We put him away for fifty years for
selling snuff movies. And pirating software. Now Bryce and Turner want
to cut a deal. This may surprise you Kelly, I mean, I know you kids see
a lot these days before you even turn twenty-one, but I want to assure
you that some things cannot be bought. I am in this line of work
because I believe in truth. It takes only one bad apple to ruin the
whole? pie, but believe me when I say, as a strong and independent
woman, that I shall not rest until these miscreants are behind
bars."
The national anthem playing in the background would have been a nice
touch. But it wasn't necessary. Princess Kelly is smiling, her heart
all aglow with the statutes of a perfect world. How I would love to
take a hammer to that innocence and shatter it like a porcelain
doll.
"Can I help you?" she blurts out. "I want to help."
"Would I be correct in assuming that Movers and Shakers is a
nightclub?"
"Yeah. I don't go there much, but once, on Schoolies?"
"I want you to do something for me, Kelly."
Her eyes sparkle.
"Sure. Just say it."
"You would have spoken to Bryce? He's the smooth talker."
"That's the one. He was sleazy."
"Uh huh. I bet he left a number with you."
"Sure did. Do you want it?"
"Yeah I do. But I also want you to call the dirtbag at ten-thirty and
tell him that I'm leaving town. Tell him I freaked out when I read the
message and left straight away. Could you do that for me, honey?"
Of course she will. I'm her instant role model.
"Sure thing, Misses Schwarz. No problem. Are you leaving town?"
"No way. We're gonna bury this scum. Oh, and honey, it's Miss Schwarz.
I've got too many nasty men around me. I don't want to end up marrying
one."
That makes her giggle. It makes me giggle too.
I have the element of surprise.

You're moving toward me. I sense your heart as heat. Let me smother
it. Let me wring it out. You're wasting it. It doesn't taste good to
anyone but me. You won't be missed. Gone in the blink of a strobe
light. Cut to ribbons with it's rhythm.

Turner slaps at his arm. The breeze has dropped down with the lateness
of the afternoon and the sandflies are around.
He and Bryce look over the beach and appraise the bikini clad bodies
that are still milling about. Bryce's upper lip pulls up to one side as
he sneers with studied lechery.
"Bloody hell! Give her one?"
Turner grunts in agreement.
"Tell you what," says Bryce. "Sure bloody well beats Melbourne
weather. I bet it's pissing down at home."
He spies a blonde with ninety five percent of honey hued flesh
showing.
"Ooooooh!" he growls. "Corrrr. Down boy!"
Turner speaks and his voice is somnambulant. Far away.
"It's like seeing the longest catwalk in the world."
It's the most eloquent thing he will ever say in his life.
The sun is starting to go down and the sky is turning flames and gold.
All Bryce can hear are his own loud, vulgar thoughts.

****
The crew's over. They theorise about what kind of shark it was that
attacked Chook.
He's had to recount his brush with the jaws of death at least five
times. You don't mind. It's one of those nights where you can drink and
drink and you still can't get drunk. That's cool, too. You feel
peaceful. Mellow.
The bong circumnavigates the clean living room. The water in it hasn't
been changed for a long time. It's sludgy. You're glad that you've
decided to stop smoking.
You mind's on the ocean, it unfurls for miles. You walk out on to the
rear balcony and watch the shimmering waves crash. What's on the other
side of the expanse? There are abstract places- just names and
symbols.
Africa. Africa has jungles with lions in it. France. France has got a
big tower. America. America has Americans in it. They make
movies.
Life out there is unreal. Life in here is even more so. You look back
through the door at Johnno, trying to open a beer with his eye socket.
Then his ear. Working his way down his body. A great explorer like
yourself, never venturing further than his own skin but always looking
for something. Both of you chasing your own tails.
You want to discover something for once, not just hear about it. It's
something that only you can do yourself. It's anti-social. Friends
don't like it when you discover something. They worry that you're going
to start speaking a different language. They worry that you're never
going to return. They wonder if the place you've discovered is better
than where they're at and it disturbs them to think that you may have
to change to get there. And that's something that everyone has to do
themselves. Exploring is a group activity. But discovery is something
else.
Chook and Cridgey appear at the door with their arms around each
other.
"You ready to go, mate? Johnno's the least pissed so he's driving.
Cridgey's gonna leave his car up there."
Cridgey is drunk and excited.
"We're goin' to Movers and Shakers, mate. The place is full of
nectaaar!"
You force a weak smile. It's all the enthusiasm you can muster.
"Lets do it."

****

It's twenty five past ten and Bryce and Turner have already had ten
beers between them and a tab of ecstasy each. The booze is on the house
so they feel obliged. The ecstasy is from their own stash and both men
feel optimistic about the meeting with Benny Marinoupolos in an
hour.
Bryce knows he could talk his way into heaven. In fact that's what
he's counting on doing when he dies. We'll soon see.
He figures he will try and smooth this whole "Lena Schwarz issue' out
with Benny before they start talking business. He's not going to want
to make a scene in front of his new business prospect so I'll get some
shonky proposition, maybe even just some hush money. And the chances of
seeing it before I have some sort of 'accident' are pretty slim. I
don't want a cut. I want all.
Turner points out a ditzy blonde teetering around on the dance floor.
She's quite obviously top heavy from carrying two swollen sacks of
plastic in her chest. Bryce and Turner are the kind of guys that would
call it 'enhancement.' Bryce' s eyes are riveted as he sucks the bottom
out of his beer.
"Phwooooar! Get a load of that. Bloody marvellous what doctors can do
these days," he declares. "That's sculpture."
He feels something vibrate against his thigh and realises that his
mobile is ringing. He pulls it out.
"Thought I'd lost control for a minute there, Jock. Bit
excited."
Jock doesn't notice his partner's vulgar quips. The ecstasy they both
took was very strong and Turner seems to be on an unbreakable train of
thought that runs right into Silicone Valley. Bryce answers his
phone.
"Yup?"
He can barely hear anything over the music.
"Mister Bryce?"
"Hello?" yells Bryce.
"It's me, Officer Bryce. It's Kelly from Ivory Towers?"
"Ivory Towers? Oh, right! Just give me a minute, love. I can't hear
you, I'll have to go outside!"
I see him walk out the exit and into the street. I can hear him. He's
still talking very loud.
"Young lady, I think I'm going to have to call you in for
questioning."
He doesn't see me slip in through the main door. His sleazy laughter
follows me. It's quickly lost in the pumping of bass and the din of
punters.
I see Turner standing conspicuously half way between the bar and the
dance floor. He looks wasted. Drool is around the corners of his mouth
and his large brawny frame sags towards Bazooka Boobs He's
mesmerised.
Turner will be easy, even if he were straight and sober. This is going
to be a cinch.
I impose myself between him and his fantasy. At first he doesn't seem
to notice that my smile is right in his face. Then he pulls himself up
a bit and tries to focus so he can size me up.
With sheer sex appeal, I materialise out of the distorted flurry of
sound and colour.
I'm wearing slutty nightclub camouflage that leaves very little to the
imagination, which is useful- considering Turner doesn't have one. His
eyes are just one pair in a hundred that try and drink me in.
I don't say a thing. I just take his hand and lead him away. He's like
a big, stupid bull with a ring in it's nose. Oblivious to the
slaughter.
I tow him into The Ladys.
There are a trio of girls having a little cosmetics party in front of
the mirror. They stop talking as soon as they see the big mess
stumbling behind me. Turner's trying to say something but all he can
make are vowel sounds. I smile mischievously.
"This is as private as it gets around here. Don't mind us."
I lead him into one of the cubicles and as I lock the door I hear one
of the girls.
"You are bold. We were just leaving anyway. Right, girls?"
The clacking of their heels on the tiled floor recedes. Then I hear a
blast of music as they open the door to exit.
I reach into my handbag and pull Turner to me, then I spin his bulk
around so it's in front of the door. I blow a hole through his heart
with my nine millimetre. It's a smaller hole than the one that blows
out of his back. The sound is magnificent in the confined acoustics of
the toilet. He drops. He's too heavy to catch so I direct his head into
the toilet bowl as he goes down. I put his hands on either side of the
toilet and he looks just like he's throwing up. He'll be left alone for
quite a while, even though I'm leaving the door open to hide the grey
matter and crimson spatter all over the back of it..
I walk back out into the club and make a line for the bar. I realise
that one of the girls that just left the toilet is walking towards me.
The way she smiles and dresses tells me she's an immoral little sexual
predator. Very low on the food chain. I'm already stepping around her
when she speaks.
"Wow, you were quick. Bit of a flash in the pan, was he?"
I've got to move fast. Keep a tab on Bryce.
"Let's just say that I know one little boy that couldn't handle his
booze. When he wakes up tomorrow, he won't even know what he
missed."
She says something but I don't hear it. I'm too busy scanning the
crowd.
Suddenly I see Bryce. He's back at the bar, wondering where his
partner is.
I can just imagine the triumph he must have felt when Princess Kelly
told him that I'd taken off. He would have come back in here to gloat
with his buddy. Bryce looks over to where Chesty Implants was earlier
and does the math.
One very lucrative scam, minus one Turner, minus two huge plastic
boobs, equals? that lucky idiot! Bryce is envious and annoyed all at
once. It's noticeable from where I stand. I see him mouth the
words.
There's a voice in my ear.
"He looks like a live one. He's cute."
I remember the toilet dweller next to me. Her judgement must be
seriously impaired.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. I know that guy. He thinks he's something special
because he's loaded. Knocked me back once?"
Determination sets on her face. This kind of challenge is her
hobby.
"I'll be back in fifteen minutes with fifty bucks. What do you
drink?"
"I'll have a Bloody Mary. I don't like your chances, honey."
She spins on a spiked heel and homes in on her target.

You're walking through the mall with the crew. They're running amok as
usual. They haven't yet noticed your reluctance to join in their
loutish behaviour. Good.
It's the first time you've ever felt put off by their antics. As
usual, they catcall the girls and throw insults at guys. You have no
doubt that the first fight will go down within an hour. Actually, you'd
be surprised if you don't get kicked out of the venue before an hour is
up.
As usual, you'll be expected by that unsaid male code of ethics to get
involved in any scuffle that takes place. But tonight you're just not
into it. You're thinking of slinking away without telling any of the
guys. Nobody will remember, come tomorrow.
You hear Cridgey's high nasal voice bleat through the mall:
"Oi! How'd ya like ta shee me dude? What are ya? Frigid?"
The girl looks scared. And beautiful. You ask yourself how many
beautiful girls you've burnt while you've been trashed. More than
you've ended up slobbering on, that's for sure.
Cridgey's fired up now. So are Chook and Johnno and the other guys.
They're all thoroughly enjoying themselves.
"I can tell you're keen. Keen for peen!"
You feel sick.
"Shut up Cridgey! Leave her alone."
The voice doesn't sound like your own. Cridgey's one of those
aggressive drunks that doesn't handle his booze too well. You know
what's going to happen.
"Shcrew you?" he starts, "? you little girl! I know how you bail on
your mates when the sshit hits the fan. Isn't that right,
Schook?"
"Shut up, Cridgey," says Chook quietly.
Johnno and the other fellas are looking uneasy. Chook carries weight
with all of them.
"Shcrew you, Schook!"
It's a pathetic comeback, all the more so because of his slurring. He
stumbles off to vomit on himself in a garden.
The girl's looking at you with a strange expression. Her eyes are big
and pale. You're hoping it's not contempt. Everything's frozen. It's
awkward. You become aware that Chook's watching you. He breaks the
silence.
"We'll? ah? meet you there? if you want, mate."
"No worries, mate," you mutter self consciously low.
The crew walks off into the mall. You awkwardly clear your throat and
sit on the end of the ledge on which she's perched. Her hair is the
same colour as yours.
"Ahem? are you okay?" It's corny enough to make you wince.
"I'm okay," she replies. She is. There's something about her that's
hungry and for some reason that makes her even more composed..
She keeps glancing at the time on her mobile phone. It prompts you to
ask:
"What is the time?"
"It's quarter past eleven. I've got to get out of here."
She stands up and your mind races, looking for some way you can hang
around. You wish you could be smooth like Chook.
"Um, where are you going?" You sound desperate.
"Movers and Shakers. I've got to be there by eleven thirty."
There is a God. You just received divine proof. But let's find out
whether He's kind or malevolent-
"Are you meeting someone there?"
She doesn't sound angry when she replies. She sounds playful.
Teasing.
"That's none of your business."
You have to make it your business.

In the five minutes that it takes to walk to Movers and Shakers you
find out that her name is Kelly, she works at Ivory Towers but she
would eventually like to get into law enforcement.
All you can think to tell her is that you really want to travel.

I see the tart talking to Bryce. I see her point down to where I was
standing. Then I see him jump to his feet and run straight for the
little girl's room.
I saunter up to the bar and give her a razor thin smile.
"Aren't you meant to be going in there with him?" I ask sweetly.
"I don't know what happened," she says. "I was telling him about you
and that drunk guy in the toilets. He started asking all these
questions. What'd he look like? What'd he been wearing? Then he took
off like someone lit a firecracker under his arse."
"He's just very concerned for a wasted friend," I assure her.
I leave her dejected and make my way to 'The Ladys.'

You both walk into the club. You show the bouncer some ID and pay
seven bucks admission.
You're both absorbed into the lights and music. All you can see is
her. She's distracted, looking this way and that for whoever it is
she's meant to meet. The swell of punters threaten to pull her away
from you.
"Can I buy you a drink?" you yell in competition with the noise.
"Huh?"
"Can I buy you a drink?"
She keeps craning her head around. After about five seconds she nods.
You walk toward the bar and glance back twice to make sure she's still
following.
"What can I get you?" you ask.
"I'll just have a vodka and lemonade please."
You smile at her and wedge yourself in at the bar.
Chook sidles up through the masses and puts his hand on your
shoulder.
"Go for it, mate! She's a nice piece of work. You deserve it."
"Thanks, mate." You feel an overwhelming sense of privilege at having
a friend like him. "I'm just hoping she doesn't have a
boyfriend."
He chuckles.
"He may as well kiss her goodbye if she has."
You throw an arm around him and look back over your shoulder.
She's gone.

I'm about to push open the door when Bryce comes bursting through. His
eyes are crazy and he's panting like a sick dog. As soon as he sees me
he stops dead in his tracks. I can hear his hard breath whistling in
and out through his teeth. He's never met me before but he knows who I
am. Just like I know who you are.
"Hello, Henry!" I greet him like an old friend.
He says something. I think it's meant to be: "You're dead, bitch." It
sounds more like: "Your ed itch."
"You want to make a deal do you, Henry?" I ask suavely. I feel very
big and my retreat is nothing more than lazy. Careless.
He stands there and twitches. See, this is what happens when you don't
take care of yourself. High blood pressure.
His hand starts to move for the inside of his jacket.
As I casually turn around I say:
"No hard feelings, Henry. You can always get another partner. Maybe
even one that can count. Let me buy you a drink."
He roars like a beast. I throw myself behind a guy with a pony-tail.
So 'nineties grunge." I feel him jerk as three bullets rip into his
body. It sags forward but I manage to keep it shielding me by holding
it up by it's pony-tail. I drag it with me to the dance floor and pull
out my piece.
Some people seem to know what's going on. Others are too far gone. The
deejay works it out. He cuts the music and ducks down in his box. As
soon as the music stops, people start hitting the deck and running out
the door.
Bryce is walking toward me with his gun straight out in front of him.
I cast 'Mister Nineties' aside and make it up to the bar in four good
leaps. I hear a gunshot, a scream and a glass explode on the way. Then
I vault over the bar, nimble as a spider.
That's when I hear my name.
"Lena! It's me. Kelly! I'll get help."
Her whisper is urgent. Loud in the still darkness. Here's a pleasant
surprise.
I stand up. She's close. I reach out and get my arm around her neck. I
put my nine millimetre up to her head.
"It would help more if you stay right here, Princess."
I drag her out, away from the bar and on to the dance floor. I can
make out Bryce, feeling his way through the darkness with his gun
pointed in my general direction. He stumbles over a body huddled on the
floor. There's a scream. Then a shot. Then nothing.
Princess is stiff with terror. She lets out a whimper.
"Henry!" I yell. "Henry, I've got a hostage. Now remember what it is
to be a cop. To serve and to protect, right?"
My words are complimented by the wailing of approaching sirens. Blue
lights mingle with the wash of colours that drift through the
nightclub.
For the first time in a long time, Bryce is lost for words. He's
running on pure, all consuming hatred. He squeezes off a shot and I
hear it crack a window somewhere behind me. The Princess is still warm
in my grasp.
Someone steps between Bryce and I. I don't know whether I should shoot
them. Maybe I should leave it to Bryce.
What the heck.
I take aim over the shoulder of my little hostage.
Something cracks me across the bridge of the nose and my shot goes
wild.
Well, what do you know. This kitten's got claws.
I stumble and the Princess shakes her way out of my grip. Enough
games.
But at the moment that I hear Bryce's gun let rip, I blink back the
tears in my eyes and I see you.

You swoop down with a grace that I thought was beyond you. You're a
radiant blur in the darkness. A white flame burning out my eyes. Your
arms spread like the wings of a dove and you shove Bryce's target out
of his aim. A bullet catches you and you drop.
I see this before the three bullets puncture my body. One goes through
my neck. One goes through my stomach. And the other goes through my
perfect left breast.
I'm on my back. And I can see you lighting up the entire room. You're
very much alive, I can see you burning white like magnesium and I
shrink away.
Your friend is on his knees on one side of you. The Princess is on the
other. The light gets brighter. It swallows you up. Then it swallows up
the room and I fall away into darkness.
"Oh well," I think to myself. "At least I'm not going to jail."
It's the last thing that goes through my mind as Hell opens up it's
arms to welcome me.

****

.