6. From your red lips warm and wet

I never saw Millie after she left the pub that time, with that pathetic bloke in tow. At least that’s what I told the Preacher when he came snooping around. Some bloke found her beaten and strangled to death lying on her bed on filthy sheets, dried black blood all over, and a beer bottle shoved up her you-know-what.

Mr. Counter came over and called me out of the bar. We went out back to the tap room were the Preacher was waiting. He had a fresh beer in his hand and took a sip, licking the foam from his lips with great satisfaction. I’m all dressed up in my uniform, just like Mr. Counter wanted, nicely pressed Fletchers that Mrs. Counter had ironed, and nice shirt with a thin tie.

“Young man,” says the Preacher, looking down at me over his long nose, “I want you to be honest and tell me exactly what happened.”

“What happened when?” I ask, belligerent as usual.

“Millie. You heard about her?”

“Nah, but I hope it’s bad.”

“She was found lying in her filthy bed, beaten and strangled...”

“Fuckn great!”

“…and a beer bottle shoved up her vaginal orifice.”

“Even fuckn better!” I say with a scowl and a smirk.

“This is no joke young man. This is an individual woman’s life that’s been violently and indeed consequentially taken away by a murderer doing the devil’s work!”

“Hooray for the devil!” I laugh, putting my hands on my hips.

Mr. Counter steps close to me and gives me a nudge. “Take it easy, son,” he whispers.

“Young man, this is no laughing matter. It is the devil’s work and I very much hope he is not in consequence working through you!”

“Me? Doing the devil’s work? That’s a good one. The fuckn devil has done me over, I can tell you that.”

“You were heard threatening to kill Millie.” The Preacher leans forward imposing his great height over me.

“Bull shit! I never did that! Who’s telling you that?”

“You were overheard in the waiting room at Geelong Hospital.”

“It’s bull shit. I never said that. They’re fuckn lying.”

“Young man. It is no secret that you have a violent temper. Where did you go after you left the hospital that night?”

“I bet I know who killed her.”

“That’s not what I asked you. Where were you after you left the hospital?”

“I walked all around Geelong and then I walked home.”

“Your walked all the way from Geelong to Norlane?”

“Yes. I was upset and angry. I wanted to think things over.”

“Can any person verify that you were with them on your walk?”

“I walked on my own. I wanted to think. I was confused.”

“Confused? So, you do not know exactly where you went?”

“I remember being at the Criterion pub at opening time that morning.”

“You walked all around Geelong that night?”

“I suppose I must have.”

“And did you booze on at the Criterion?”

“I don’t drink.”

The Preacher looks at Mr. Counter who says, “that’s right, officer. He’s on the wagon.”

“Then you walked all the way to Norlane from the Criterion?”

“Yes. All the way.”

“And you went nowhere else of consequence?”

“Nowhere else.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I think I remember mucking around a bit on the site of me old house that’s been pulled down.”

“And nowhere else of consequence?”

“Nowhere.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I might have gone someplace else, but I might not.”

“Young man, this is unusual and of consequence. Is it not that you went somewhere else or is it so?”

“I was confused and I woke up having this dream or maybe it wasn’t a dream, and I was lying on my back when Spuds helped me up and I looked around and I was outside the Migrant Hostel.”

“At the back of the pub?”

“Yair. Spuds helped me up and we talked a bit and then I came straight back to the pub and I think I even got into me bedroom through the back window.”

“And the kitbag?”

“What about it?”

“You had it all the time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thank you young man. Do not leave town, as I may need to speak to you again. Did you get all that Dopey?”

Dopey, sitting on a beer barrel across the other side of the tap room, has been furiously taking notes.

“Yes sir, got it all. Anything else sir?”

“Yes. Get off your ass.”

With difficulty, Dopey slid off the barrel and as he did so, he dropped his notebook and pencil. I darted down and picked them up for him, because there was no way he could do it himself with his belly getting bigger and bigger every time I saw him.

“It is that I thank you on Dopey’s behalf and also in my capacity as one of the Queen’s constabulary,” pronounced the Preacher.

“No worries,” I said.

The cops helped themselves to another beer and left.

On our way back to the bar, Mr. Counter touched me on the arm. “You know who killed her?” he asked.

“Yair, for sure.”

“Who then?”

“I’m not saying because he did me a great service and saved me the bother.”

“Did you go there, then?”

“Where?”

“That night, to Millie’s.”

“Don’t think so. I don’t know.”

*

Abbie was very happy these days. Every morning I got up on the dot of seven and was in the kitchen by 7.30, eating her eggs and bacon and munching the burnt toast. Then I sat and drank a couple of cups of tea and smoked a Craven ‘A’. That’s right, after all that boozing, I never had a cigarette. But now, still on the wagon, I’d taken up the smokes.

Mr. Counter was happy too. It seemed like I had fulfilled his dream, or something like that. He had saved me from my father’s destiny, and that was enough for him. And something else he did was to move me across to work in the New Bar, away from the Old Bar that served the Snake Pit, so I wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Tank, Linda or the rest of them.

As for me, I was lost. For a few days after they took Iris to Melbourne, I carried around the crumpled piece of paper that had the number for me to phone. I’d roll it around in my hand, and put it back in my pocket. Pretty soon the numbers that the stuck-up matron had written down would be illegible. Nobody in the pub, all my old drinking mates, Mr. and Mrs. Counter and the rest, none of them asked me about Iris.

I began to spend a lot of time in “cell 4” as I called my bedroom, just lying on my bed, and moping around the room.

*

This old quack’s sitting at his desk, his fluffy grey hair sticking up from a long head that’s got too many brains crammed inside it. He doesn’t even look up when I come in—too busy writing something. It’s a long narrow office with a window at the end that’s really bright and I’m squinting to see the quack at all.

“Clothes off,” he says without looking up.

“What’d you say?”

“I said take off your clothes, and show some respect. I’m Doctor Robinson.”

“Pleased to meet you, doctor. So I take them all off?”

“That’s what I said.”

There aren’t many clothes to take off and they’re pretty smelly as well. With Dad just dying and me only now getting settled into the pub, I don’t know who’s going to wash my clothes. And I don’t really want to take off me underpants because they could be really filthy.

“Me underpants too?”

“Yes. And it’s my not me. You need to speak properly if you’re going to be a teacher.”

“Fuck you, you stuck-up pommie bastard,” I’m thinking. But I drop them anyway and I’m thinking if I stink, it’ll serve him right.

He keeps writing away and I’m standing there, feeling stupid. I give a little cough. Maybe he’s forgotten I’m even there! But doesn’t even look like getting up out of his chair. I’m dazzled by the light streaming in through the window so I close me eyes and I start to day-dream. It was only a week or so after I did me Latin exam, so you can guess where the dreaming took me. Yair, Ovid of course, and then I’m doing Iris all over again! And shit! You know what that means! I’m trying not to think of her, but me body won’t listen. I’m looking down there, and sure enough, there’s action. Shit! The quack’ll think I’m a poofda or something.

“Er, doctor, sir?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says without looking up.

“I have to go to the toilet.”

“It’s in there. And do a specimen for me while you’re there. Take a jar from my desk.” He points to a bunch of little vegemite jars.

I prance over to his desk, trying not to let him see what’s going on, trying to approach his desk ass-first. Don’t know if he saw anything, but he didn’t look up.

“Mr. Henderson, I have a tight schedule, We need to get on with the exam.”

“Be there in a jiffy,” I say, my voice kind of faint and shaky. I turn on a tap and run a bit of water, make a bit of noise.

“Mr. Henderson? Get out here please.”

“OK. I’m coming. Took me a while to get it flowing if you see what I mean.”

I come out, all red and embarrassed, carrying the little jar filled to the brim and I offer it to him, spilling some of it as I extend my hand.

“What happened to the lid?” the quack asks, really annoyed, “go back and pour some out and put the lid on.”

I’m happy to turn my back on him and gain a bit more time, and by the time I’ve done what he asked, I’m pretty much back to normal and I stand there, starkers, before him. He looks me up and down, then runs his hands down me sides, then says, “turn around, son.” I turn around and he runs his hands over me shoulders then down me sides again. “OK. Turn around again,” he says, then as soon as I’m facing him, his fingers feel around me balls and I jump a bit because I’m still a bit sensitive there, but at least I knew what to expect because me mates who’d already been in, told me that’s what he did. “Look away and cough please,” he says. And I do, and he says, “again,” and I do. He goes back to his desk and starts writing again. “You can get dressed,” he says, without looking up, “you’re in good shape.”

I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and what feeling me up has to do with teaching little kids. Yair, that’s right. Just before me Latin exam I put in my application to Geelong Teachers College just in case I changed my mind and decided to go. I never went because I was supposed to show up first of February and I forgot to, or to put it another way, I was too busy getting into the booze. But you wouldn’t believe what happened.

*

It was Sunday and I was in cell 4 thinking of going to church because I was all depressed and fingering the piece a paper with the number that now I could hardly read. I decided to copy the number on to another piece of paper, so I rummaged through my kitbag in the corner of the room looking for an exercise book with a blank page. I pulled one out and flipped through the pages and out fell an envelope addressed to me. It was from Melbourne University. Grecko must have grabbed it with a lot of other stuff lying around the old house. I turned it over in my hand. The address on the envelope was written in very small and neat handwriting sloping backwards, blue ink and made with a fountain pen. I wrote down the Iris phone number on the back of the envelope. It was a long-distance number and I didn’t know how to do a long-distance phone call, and I was too embarrassed to ask Mr. Counter how to do it, and as well, it would cost a lot more money.

I opened the letter and inside was a brief hand-written note that said:

Dear Mr. Henderson

I read with interest your translation of Ovid in the recent matric Latin exam. Your paper displayed a raw talent quite exceptional for one so young. It seems that you have not applied for admission to Melbourne University but instead applied to Geelong Teachers College. I think your talents will be wasted there, so please come by and see me when you are in Melbourne next. I may be able to arrange for you to begin studies here, possibly even with a scholarship.

Sincerely,

Professor Claude Pulcher

Chair, Department of Classics and Antiquity

University of Melbourne

*

I was wiping down the bar when all of a sudden, a big hand grabbed mine. I looked up and it was Tank. He was wearing his big slouch hat and had it pulled down nearly over his eyes. He leaned over and muttered, “I know what you fuckn did and don’t you forget it.”

My ears went red and I felt my cheeks burn. I ducked down so I could look at him straight in the eye, under the brim of his hat.

“And I know what you did, so now we’re mates, aren’t we?” I reply.

“What do ya mean? You little shit!”

“I’m not little. And you know what I mean.”

He reaches over to grab my collar, but I was ready for it and ducked away.

“You was there, weren’t you?”

“There where?”

“Don’t be a fuckn smart-ass, you little shit. Just because you went to school too long.”

“I don’t know what you’re fuckn talking about.”

“Yair you do. You was there. I saw you.”

“You were fuckn drunk. You wouldn’t know what you saw.”

“How do you know I was drunk?”

“You’re always fuckn drunk, you fuckn dummy bastard.”

“I’ll break your fuckn neck you little shit.”

“The cops were here, you know.”

“So, what?”

“I could have told them”

“Tell ’em what?”

“That you were there. That’s what you told me, isn’t it?”

“You’ve killed me daughter and now you’ve killed me favourite root. You’re a real asshole. And now you’re trying to pin it all on me.”

“Yair, well, I know about your daughter, you filthy fuckn piece of scum.”

“What’s that? Yer mean Iris?”

“Yair. She’s a freak, isn’t she? Her mum and dad, you’re brother and sister, you disgusting piece of shit.”

“Fuckn Flo, that bitch. She told you?”

“Yair. At the hospital. So fuck off and leave me alone.”

“She’s not a freak.”

“Not to me she isn’t. But Flo thinks she is because the two of you conceived her in sin so there’s no hope for her. She deserves to die, that’s what Flo thinks.”

“You talk too much, you fuckn asshole.”

“Yair. I do, but not to the cops. As for you. You’ve been beating the shit out of both of them, haven’t you? Ever since Iris was born. You’re a fuckn bully, and frankly, you’re a piece of the devil’s asshole, that’s what.”

“Where’d yer learn all that fancy talk? Been going to church with Flo?”

“Fuck off and keep your mouth shut, and so will I.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“And neither did I.”

“So who did then?

“I don’t care. Whoever it was deserves a medal. She killed Iris.”

“Yair, I suppose you’re right.”

We look at each other and suddenly discover that we’re mates. I reach for a glass and pour Tank a beer. And I see out of the corner of my eye Mr. Counter watching us. He calls out, “that’s all right. Go around the bar and have one with him. It’s on the house.”

“But I’m on the wagon, Mr. Counter.”

“Oh yes, I forgot. Then have a dry ginger.”

I go around and Tank and me lean our elbows on the counter and we clink our glasses. “To the fuckn good bastard that did her in,” I say, and we both say “Cheers!” Tank downs the beer then bangs the glass on the bar. “You’re all right, mate,” he says. And for the first time ever, I see him smile.

*

Flo lit up a Garrick while she stood across from the post office waiting for the Benders bus back home. Her eyes were red and watering from the coughing fit she’d just got over. It was so bad, people came up and asked her if she was all right. She’d had one in the Deacon’s office as well. He just sat there and looked at her as though she was scratching her ass and he was annoyed having to wait till she finished. The Deacon was a stern man, tall even sitting on his chair, a mop of silvery hair well oiled, combed back without a part, and a well-scrubbed pink complexion.

“Have a seat Mrs. Devlin. I expect you’re here for the usual thing. We’ve been through this many times. You must bring your husband to church. There is little I can do without my getting to know him. You have to help him find Jesus. You know that.”

“Deacon, I’m not here about me husband.”

The Deacon sits up straight. “No kidding?” he says, surprised.

“I gave up on him years ago. You know that too.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Does there have to be a reason?” Flo searches for a window to look out of.

“You are not well, Mrs. Devlin, I can see that.”

“I never slept all last night. Don’t know when I last slept. I want to die, I think.”

“Mrs. Devlin, you must not talk like that! Jesus is with you. Jesus is always with you. Dying is not of your choosing. It is up to God.”

Flo looked over his shoulder at a photo on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. It was a group of happy smiling people all arranged around the Deacon standing tall and imposing. The photo had been touched up with colour to make the grass look green and the sky blue and all the people have pink faces.

“I pray to Jesus all the time. It’s all I do except take abuse from my husband. But instead of comforting me, Jesus has forsaken me. He has taken my daughter from me.”

“You have a daughter? You never told me that before.”

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you, Deacon.”

“Then tell me about her. How old is she?”

“She was seventeen, and she’d been kissed too much.”

“And what has happened?”

Flo stood up suddenly and fell against the Deacon’s desk. There was an awful wheezing sound as she tried in vain to find her voice. The Deacon pushed himself back from the desk.

“Mrs. Devlin! Are you all right? What has happened?”

“I can’t tell you, except that she’s dead, I know it. And it’s all my fault.”

“What do you mean? Where is she?”

“With Jesus by now.”

“She died?”

“I killed her, that’s what. I killed her.”

“Mrs. Devlin, I can’t believe that you’d do such a thing. But in any case, we must pray to God for salvation.

The Deacon came quickly around his desk, took Flo tightly by the arm, pulled her down to her knees beside him and they knelt together as he prayed:

“Heavenly Father, hear our pleas for forgiveness. Your world is so vast we tiny inhabitants cannot comprehend your great design. Have pity on Mrs. Devlin who comes to you with an open heart. She has stayed with Jesus all her suffering life. If it is her time to go, please let her know that her daughter sits with your Son in Heaven, awaiting the happy reconciliation with her mother. For Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory. Amen.”

Flo remained there, her hands clasped together, her grey head bent down, sobs choking her rasping throat. The Deacon stood and tried with difficulty to pull Flo up. But she remained there, coughing and sobbing.

“Mrs. Devlin. Are you all right? Shall I call a doctor?”

Flo coughed more and lost her balance, falling backwards on to the carpeted floor and she lay there, choking.

The Deacon rushed to the door and called out to his secretary. “Phone an ambulance! Mrs. Devlin’s having a fit. I think she’s choking.” He turned back, leaned over to peer into Flo’s face. It was grey, gaunt, her eyes red and glazed over. He pulled at her arms to get her sitting. She pointed to her hand bag that had fallen to the floor. He handed it to her and steadied her while she opened it. She grasped her green packet of Garricks and with a shaking hand managed to pull out a cigarette.

“Mrs. Devlin. For God’s sake—excuse me Lord—you can’t have a smoke now. You’ll kill yourself.” The words came out too soon as he realized that it was exactly what she was trying to do.

“Take me Jesus, take me,” she said weakly.

The Deacon snatched the cigarettes from her. “Mrs. Devlin! Shame on you! How dare you tempt Jesus like that! It’s a grave sin for you to smoke cigarettes in your condition!”

And with that, Flo shook her head in a spasm and blinked her eyes. She had awoken as if from a terrible nightmare. She snatched back her cigarettes, put them in her handbag and struggled to stand. The Deacon helped her up, but it was now with a feeling of distaste, even disgust. “You seem to have recovered,” he said, almost dis¬appointed. She took out a cigarette, struck a match and lit up right in front of him.

“Thanks a lot, Deacon. God has heard us both and I know Jesus is beside me still.”

“Cancel the ambulance!” called the Deacon.

*

It was Sunday and I was in the old bar polishing up the glasses and trying to clean the mould from the lino counter top. I was into cleaning stuff. It made me feel a lot better. Mr. Counter was tink¬ering with the old cash register. One of the keys was jammed.

“Looks like Sugar’s coming back,” he said.

“Yair? He’s all right, then?”

“I think so. Depends on how he holds up. He’s got a walking stick now, you know.”

“Yair. It’s too bad.” But I didn’t feel all that sorry. He deserved what he got. And besides, now that everyone knew what he was like, he wasn’t going to last long in the pub. Somebody else will do him over and the next time will be his last.

“Mr. Counter?” I said.

“Yes, Chooka, what?”

They called me Chooka now because these letters kept coming and they had my name on them, James Henderson. At first it was just “Hens” but then some of the smart bastards started saying I wasn’t a hen but a chook, and so it stuck.

“Can I make a long-distance call? I’ve got this number they said to call to find out if Iris was OK.”

“You mean, you haven’t called yet?”

“I just couldn’t get myself to do it. Might be bad news.”

“Chooka, my boy. You have to learn to face up to bad news. Be a man, young fella!”

“Gees, Mr. Counter. Leave me alone, will you?”

“Use the phone in my office and I’ll deduct the cost from your next pay packet.”

“So, how do I do it?”

“You just dial zero and the operator comes on and you tell her what number you want in Melbourne.”

Mr. Counter led the way into his little office. “By the way, Chooka,” he said, “there’s another letter here from the Education Department. They’re coming every couple of weeks. Are they still trying to get you to go to Teachers College?”

“Yair,” I lied, “but I’m not going.”

*

That night I heard noises coming from the room next to mine. Sugar was back. I knew, then, it was time for me to go. I dragged the old kit bag from under my bed. It was squashed flat, but would do. I tried to clean the dried blood off it, then I put my exercise books inside and a few clothes. In the morning, Abbie knocked on my door as usual but I was already dressed. I’d showered early to avoid running into Sugar.

“Morning, Abbie,” I said with a smile.

“My! Aren’t we bright and early this morning,” she laughed.

“Yair. I’m leaving today.”

“What? Mr. Counter didn’t say anything.”

“He doesn’t know yet.”

“Has something happened with Iris?” she asked, trying not to pry.

“Not exactly. I’m going to find her.”

“So she’s OK then?”

“I don’t know.”

“So, she’s out of hospital?”

“I don’t know, Abbie. I phoned yesterday but couldn’t get any answers. They’d never heard of her at the Royal Melbourne Hospital.”

“So where are you going then?”

“To Melbourne to find her.”

She looked at me, very serious. “I’ve never been there,” she said with a frown, “but I’ve heard it’s a very big place.”

“Yair. But I’ve got to find her.”

“I knowya do luv. And I wish you all the best of luck.”

“I’ll miss your bacon and eggs.”

“Come on then, I’ll cook up the best ones you’ve ever had.”

She gave me a big hug and then stood back, holding my shoulders in her big hands and giving me her huge toothy smile. It was the charge I needed to face the world, least of all Mr. Counter.

*

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

“I have to do it, Mr. Counter.”

“But you could have warned me.”

“I only decided last night when I heard Sugar was back.”

“But you don’t know where she is. She could even be back home here.”

“I’d have heard if she was back here. Tank would have told me.”

“Are you sure you want to take all your money with you?”

“Yair. I want it all. Just in case.”

“Well, it’s your money. Come into the office and I’ll make out a check.”

“Mr. Counter, it has to be cash.”

“But you might get robbed.”

“What bank will cash a check from a homeless bloke like me?”

“You’re not homeless. You’ve got a home here, you know that.”

“I’m talking about Melbourne.”

“Well, all right. But there’s one condition.”

“Yair, what’s that?”

“That you go and look up your mum.”

“No way.”

“Then I’m not giving it to you.”

“I’ll do without it. I’ve got other money anyway.”

“Bull shit.”

“I mean it, Mr. Counter.”

Mr. Counter looked away. He was upset I could see it. Gees. After all he’s done for me, I felt like an asshole. He looked past me to the door and I turned to see who was there. It was Mrs. Counter.

“You’re an ungrateful little bugger, aren’t you?” she said, her hands on her hips like always, and boobs kind of pointing at me like she was about to stab me with them.

“I want to do this on my own,” I said.

“So what’s going to see your mum got to do with that?” she says. “Your mum was good to you. It was your dad that made her life so miserable that she left. You know that, or if you don’t you’ve had your head in the sand all along.”

My ears were red already and me fist was clenched. I gritted my teeth trying to keep it all in. I looked at Mrs. Counter, then to Mr. Counter.

“Yair, well. You had a little bit to do with that, didn’t you, Mr. Counter?” I bit my lip as soon as I said it. Mrs. Counter turned and left without a word.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, son,” says Mr. Counter,. “Here’s your money.” He hands me an envelope fat with cash. “All your money’s there and there’s an extra tenner for good luck and a note that has your mum’s address in Yarraville.”

“Gees, Mr. Counter. I didn’t mean to…”

“There’s lots you didn’t mean to do,” says Mr. Counter, his mouth pulled tight like he’d just sucked a lemon. “I keep hoping that one day you’ll come to your senses. Your father was a good bloke till the grog got him. And you can’t blame your mum for any of that.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Counter, I know you’ve been good to me and one day I’ll make it up to you.”

“There’s nothing to make up. All I’ve done was for your dad, my best mate.”

“I will, I promise.”

“It’s best not to make promises, ever. It’s inevitable they’ll be broken.”

“Not for me.”

“Yes, you.” He held out his hand and I took it. His grip was tight and I know mine was limp. Truth is I hadn’t shaken hands with someone older than me hardly ever before. I opened my kit bag and dropped the money in it. “How are you getting to Melbourne?” he asks.

“I’m taking the train.”

“I’ll drive you to the North Shore Station, then.”

“Nah, don’t bother. I got plenty of time. I’ll walk.”

“And those letters that keep coming from the Education Department. Will I throw them out?”

“Shit no! Just keep them and one day I’ll come back and pick them up.”

“And when will that be?”

“Who knows? But please don’t destroy them.”

“I might mail them to your mum, then,” he says with a glint in his eye.

*

I never went to the North Shore station. I took the bus into Geelong and went to the Bank of New South Wales where Mr. Counter had opened up my bank account a while ago when he was keeping my money from me. I had six checks to deposit. Every two weeks the Education Department sent me a check for fourteen pounds and eleven pence. I don’t know why they’re doing it. There must have been some kind of mix-up and they think I’m going to Geelong Teachers College and nobody’s told them I didn’t show up. Either that or they must want me really badly, and that’s not likely, is it, given what I wrote on my Latin exam, although I did pass all my other subjects. Yair, that was a turn-up. Me and me mates got drunk that night when we waited at the Geelong Addy office for the results.

The Geelong Station was a bit scary. It had those imposing brick walls and arches, and wide embellished eaves hanging out over the platform, very Victorian, as they say, and hell, Queen Victoria was scary enough, wasn’t she? And there were people running around all over the place, all busy going wherever they were going. I admit that all those people, although they were taking no notice of me, made me feel like I was no-one, like I was all alone and nobody cared about me. I thought I was used to crowds, given that the old pub at peak hour was so crowded you couldn’t move without rubbing against someone. But here, it was different. There were many more people but they couldn’t give a shit about you because they were hell bent on going someplace, who knows where. I nearly turned around and caught the bus back to the old pub. My old room didn’t seem so bad now. And everyone knew me at the pub. I pulled out the envelope from the professor. There was a garbage can on the station platform and I went to throw it in. And I would have too, except that I bumped into this gorgeous woman dressed in a mini-skirt.

“Gees, sorry!” I say, pocketing my envelope. My ears are already red, but I’m not angry at all.

“Oh! No worries,” she says, and reaches in front of me to toss in an apple core.

I’m standing there, speechless. She’s carrying this leather satchel, a deep brown and all polished up. Her nails are lightly painted and she’s wearing a light shade of pink lipstick that matches her nails. I never saw any girl like this before. When she said “worries” her pale pink lips came together, ready for kissing. Her eyes were unbelievably dark, painted with eye shadow and her lashes, they were so long. And her deep ebony hair, mounds of it, long and fashioned to just touch her shoulders, shifting gracefully as she turned her head and caught the light breeze of an approaching train. Only trouble is, she’s a lot older than me. Must be at least thirty or even a bit more.

The train pulls in and I’m still standing there, rooted to the spot.

“Are you going to Melbourne?” she asks.

I make a small, pathetic little step towards the train. My mouth is frozen shut.

“Come on!” she says, and holds the carriage door open for me. I’m thinking, what the hell. I’m supposed to be holding the door open for her, aren’t I?

We climb into the carriage. It’s an old steam train. Can’t believe they’re still running them. I sit there, got my old kit bag on the floor between my legs. Another bloke gets in, he’s a few years older than me, I’m guessing. He gives her the up and down too. He’s wearing these old looking jeans, and t-shirt. Me, I’m wearing my usual—my old school pants and shirt. I left behind all the new shirts and Fletchers that Mrs. Counter bought me. I wanted a new start.

*

“I’m Katherine Hardy,” she says, and holds out her hand. The bloke next to me grabs it. I’m rummaging around in my kit bag looking for one of me exercise books that I can pretend to read.

“G’day,” he says with a big grin, “I’m Paul Grimes, pleased to meet you Kate—is that right? You look like a Kate.”

She lightly licks her lips. “Not sure what a Kate looks like, but anyway, you got it right,” she says with an amazing smile that just transforms her whole face. “I expect you’re on your way to Uni?”

“Yes. I travel up most days. Mum and Dad wanted me to live in a College, but I like Geelong better and most of my friends are here. What about you? You look like you’re a tutor or something at the Uni.”

“You got that right too. You must have ESP!”

“What department are you in?” he asks, but she has already turned to me. I’m flipping the pages of my exercise book. She holds out her hand to me.

“I’m Kate, and you are?”

“Jimmy.” I take her hand and squeeze it much too hard and she winces. I was trying to make up for my limp handshake.

“And are you going to uni too?”

“Yair. Going to meet with some Professor of Classics about my Matric Latin exam.”

“Oh, so you’re not a student there yet?”

“He wants me to be, but I haven’t made up my mind.”

I turn back to leafing through my exercise book. I’m comparing her to Iris. They’re on opposite poles, they are. Iris, small, skinny, lithe, mischievous. This Kate, she’s firm solid but not fat, and I’m guessing a little taller than me. The mini skirt she’s wearing shows off legs with curves like the Great Ocean Road. In spite of myself I admit that she’s incredible, and I’m on fire. I feel my cheeks redden, and I’m for the first time imagining doing someone other than Iris.

The uni student pokes out his hand at me. “I’m Paul,” he says, “if you like I’ll show you around the uni when we get in.”

I don’t like this bloke. He reminds me of the toffs in the saloon bar where they pay more for their beer just to show off how good they are.

“I’m Jimmy, but me mates call me Chooka,” I say, not looking straight at him as I squeeze his hand softly. He and Kate give each other a look. They think my nickname is a joke.

“So what high school did you go to?” he asks.

“Geelong High,” I say, “what about you?”

“Geelong Grammar,” he says, and immediately he appears to me to have grown six inches with an overbearing look. I should have known. His blonde hair was combed most carefully, a perfect right side part, and flattened down with oil. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I could smell the hair oil and whatever else it was he’d put on himself.

“Oh yair? You’re the first grammar school bloke I’ve met. What was it like out there?” Blokes in the pub had talked about it, stuck in the middle of nowhere on the edge of Corio Bay, half way to Melbourne. Mr. Counter used to go rabbiting and mushroom picking out there.

Kate’s eyes flash and her long lashes send me a signal. Or at least that’s what I hoped. Dad, I thought I didn’t need you anymore, but I’d really like to know if you ever knew a woman like this one?

“Well now, Jimmy,” she says with a grin and a glance across to Paul, “or should I call you Chooka?”

“Nah. Jimmy’s OK,” I say, not sure whether they’re making fun of me or not, and I’ve got my head buried in my exercise book, “but I like James the best.

“Then James, I’m very pleased to meet you and maybe if you decide to go to uni you can stop by and see me. I may be able to help you settle in.”

Paul shifts in his seat. “Oh, what do you tutor in?” he asks.

Without looking at him, and looking right into my eyes, she says, “psychopathology.”

“Oh! Interesting,” says Paul, “I’m doing an LLB.”

“What’s that?” I ask, then feel stupid yet again.

“It’s law.”

“What year are you in?” asks Kate.

“This is my third year, so I’ve done most of my subjects. Even did Latin,” he says with a grin, turning to me.

“You have to do Latin to do law?”

“Everyone who does arts has to do a language, don’t you know?”

I can feel Kate looking at me, so I finally raise my head from my exercise book.

“So where’s your office, then,” I blurt out.

“It’s in the old arts building. Probably right by your professor’s office. What’s his name?”

I rummage through my kit bag for the envelope. “Wait a minute. Can’t remember. He’s chair of the classics and antiquity department, I think.”

“Oh, that’s Claude. Claude Pulcher. You’ll like him, and I can tell he’ll like you too.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, absolutely. But please do drop in and see me once you’ve met up with Claude. My office is in the same building on the opposite side. It’s only temporary. Next year they’re opening the new psychology building on the other side of the uni and all the psych tutors are moving there.”

“Gee thanks.”

I go back to leafing through my exercise book. But I see out of the corner of my eye Paul leafing through a big fat book he’s carrying. The spine says, Cases and Materials in Criminal Law and Procedure and the author’s someone called Chappell. I know he’s also eyeing me off. I feel under scrutiny like never before. Like traveling with your mother.

*

I found Geelong Station scary enough, but Flinders Street station was so overwhelming I wanted to run away and hide somewhere. To make things worse, Paul was trying to help me. “Watch your bag” he says, and I clutch it like I’d never done before. “Watch out for pick-pockets!” And I’m trying to keep hold of my bag, thinking of the big wad of money I’ve got in my bag. I’m a bit vague on how we got to Uni. I think it was a tram up Swanston Street. Kate had gone off shopping on her way to uni, so left us at the station, I think Flinders street. Paul, very nice, showed me the way, even insisted on paying for my tram ride.

I don’t know quite what I was expecting the uni to look like. Getting there had already rattled me. Paul took me to the Law building which was scary enough, but then he pointed out the old arts building with its big imposing tower. And all that yellow sand stone, I didn’t like it at all.

“Are you going back to Geelong today?” Paul asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, so where are you staying?”

“Er, I’ve got relatives in Yarraville.”

“Oh, that’s not too bad. We pretty much passed it on the train this morning.”

We had stopped under the arches, called “The Cloisters” he said. They reminded me of the Geelong Station. “This is the Law School where I spend most of my time.” He pointed across the green grass of the quadrangle. “You see that clock tower? That’s the Old Arts building where you’ll find your professor.”

After a few mistakes, I found my way into the Old arts building and walked round and round the passageways trying to find Professor Pulcher’s office. I opened one door and was horrified to find myself looking into a huge lecture theatre crammed full of students and a lecturer way down the bottom. There was nothing to like about this place. Nothing! I stepped back and ran down the stairs, reaching the bottom, then turning right looking for an exit, and there right in front of me was a door —all the doors were always closed—that said Department of Classics and Antiquity, so of course, that was where I had to go.

But I didn’t. There’s no way I’d stay here. What kind of people work and study in a place like this? All stuffed shirts and shit-heads prancing around like they were royalty. They’d even made the doors hard to pull or push open, it was like they didn’t want you there. Not like the pub where everyone was welcome. I lunged at the door and nearly knocked someone over as I rushed out and immediately glimpsed a splash of green grass. It was the only thing in the whole university so far that attracted me. And there I went, and I lay down on the cool grass, on my belly, my arm over my kit bag, the other cradling my face. And my Dad spoke to me, “what kind of people lived and worked in the old Pub?”

“Shut up, you old bastard!” I said.

*

I must have fallen asleep because next thing I felt was this foot pushing down on my bum. I rolled over and opened my eyes, my arm held up trying to keep the bright sky at arm’s length. But I immediately knew who it was. Those legs I had studied all the way from Geelong.

“I thought it was you,” she said, “I’d recognize that kit bag anywhere. There must be something very important in it, you’re clinging to it for dear life.”

“It’s got all my life in it,” I said, trying to smile.

“So did you call on your professor Pulcher?” asked Kate.

“No. I couldn’t find his office,” I said lamely.

Kate squatted down beside me. She laughed and tossed back her head, her deep ebony hair flowing round her shoulders. “Well, it’s a bit late now to find him anyway. Are you staying here, then? It’ll get a bit cold here after the sun goes down and that won’t be long.”

“I should get going. I’m supposed to go to my auntie’s house in Yarraville,” I lied.

“You’ll have to go back to Flinders Street station.”

“Yair, that’s what Paul said.” I sat up, grabbing my kit bag. My eyes were on her legs. “But I have to visit a friend of mine who’s in the Royal Melbourne Hospital. Don’t suppose you know where that is?”

“You see that tall building over there?” She points across the lawn in the direction of what I now know was the new Baillieu library. “That’s it. Just five minutes’ walk.”

I was kind of caught off guard. I hadn’t really decided whether I wanted to go there or not, because, well, it was Iris and I was scared to find out what happened. I didn’t know what to do because I couldn’t go back to the pub, now I’d come this far and I didn’t want to go to Yarraville, did I, Dad? I pulled my legs up and leaned forward, my head between my knees.

“James,” said Kate, as she gently placed her fingers under my chin to which my head all on its own, responded, and I found myself staring at those voluptuous pink lips pursed together making a faint smile. “You are a very handsome boy, you know.”

I blinked several times. No-one, including Iris had ever said anything like that to me. My mouth moved, but I was unable to speak. Had anyone else called me a boy, I would have clobbered them. But with Kate it was so very different. The sun had gone down behind the hospital and a long shadow crept over the lawn. My whole body shivered. She grasped my hand that was still holding the handle of my kit bag.

“I think you’d better come home with me,’ she said, “you don’t have anywhere to go, do you?”

“I’m not going back to Geelong,” I said.

“Nor am I. I only go down there to visit my parents every now and again. I have a little place in Parkville.”

“Where’s that?”

“Actually, it’s not far from the Royal Melbourne Hospital.” Kate stood up, grabbing my hand, pulling me up. She was surprisingly strong and I easily complied.

*

The Royal Melbourne Hospital was about as scary as the uni. It was like they didn’t want you there too and the doctors and secretaries or whatever they were, maybe nurses or something, treated you like they was doing you a big favour matrons strutted around like cockatoos on heat.

It had taken me a couple of weeks to get up the courage to go there. In the end, it was Kate who made me do it, but that was after we had got to know each other. She could see I was out of control. From the lawn in front of the Cloisters she guided me to her little flat tucked away in a big block of flats on Royal Parade. Right from that very first night she started in on me. As soon as we got inside her flat, she had me on her bed, all my clothes ripped off, and going at it. She kept telling me what a wonderful boy I was. And I loved her for it. We’d take a break at the local pub for a few beers, come home and she’d cook spaghetti, something I’d never heard of, let alone eaten. And pretty soon she had me cooking it. Then it was to bed again, until morning, and I’d get up and cook eggs on toast, make a pot of tea, and she’d kiss me good-bye and I’d go back to bed, then I’d shower, go out for a counter lunch at the local pub and do the shopping for dinner. Within days, she had trained me. And I was happy, waiting for her to come home from work, and we’d start all over again. Dad, if you’re in Heaven, I hope it’s like this!

After a couple of weeks, though, when I’d go back to bed after she left, I started thinking of Iris again. I even walked down to the hospital after my counter lunch, but I wasn’t game enough to go in the door. It was so big, and there was glass everywhere, and people, really important looking people rushing in and out. So that night, after we’d been at it as usual, and I’m lying back dragging on my Craven A, she’s running her fingers over my belly, and says, “have you been to the hospital?”

“You mean the Royal Melbourne?”

“Yair. I went down there today.”

“To look for your friend?”

I never told her who it was.

“Sort of. I got down there, but I didn’t go in.”

“I go there occasionally. Dr. Franks sometimes has lectures there and I have to be there to help get the students into the right room.”

“He’s probably not there anymore, anyway. I should have gone sooner, I know.”

“What happened, may I ask?”

“He was beaten up pretty badly in a bar brawl. This bloke in the bar thought he was a homo and socked him one right on the jaw, then the rest of the bar just pummelled the poor bastard senseless.”

“You’re best friends with a poofda?” she says, incredulous.

“Yair, why not?” I say, and for the first time I feel like I’m speaking up for myself like we were equals.

“I’m very proud of you,” she says, and she starts in on me, her hand moving down my belly.

“So where should I go to find out if he’s been there?”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“Nah, it’s something I have to do by myself. I just need to get in the door and find the right person to ask.”

“You just go right in the main doors and follow the signs to Reception. Go there and give them the name of your friend and tell them when you think he was admitted.”

Her hand has found the right place, and I’m ready to go. But would you believe it? I’m thinking of Iris, Iris all the way.

*

This old lady, her face all wrinkled and powder plastered all over her, a thin line of bright red lipstick smudged a bit at the corners, her silver hair puffed all up like fairy floss, is looking at me from behind her big desk. She’s smiling really nice at me and I give her my best smile back.

“Iris is her name, and she was brought here from Geelong hospital about three weeks ago,” I say. “She’s my sister and I’m worried about her. Is she OK?”

“What’s her last name, dear?”

“Devlin. Iris Devlin.”

“That’s quite some time ago. I don’t think she would still be here.”

“I just want to know if she’s all right. She was nearly dying when they sent her here.”

“That’s Devlin, D-E-V-L-I-N?” she asks.

“Yair. That’s right. She’d lost a lot of blood.”

She starts flipping through a huge book that’s got lists and lists of names.

“Was it exactly three weeks ago? It would help me if I had an actual date, love,” she says looking at me with a glint in her eye.

“I’m not sure, but I think it might have been exactly three weeks, or maybe one day less, because she came here late in the night so she might have got here after midnight.”

“Well, I don’t think she’s in this hospital. There’s no one of that name registered. So that means she either was discharged or…”

The nice old thing, she looks up at me, her mouth hanging open.

“Or what?” I ask.

“Just a minute. She might have been sent back to the Geelong hospital.”

“You know she was actually brought here then?” I phoned up weeks ago and they said she never came here. But I know she did.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yair. I watched the ambulance leave the hospital and they said she was going to Royal Melbourne, and they wouldn’t let me ride in the ambulance.”

“You know, Mr. Devlin, sometimes when it’s a matter of life or death, the ambulance gets diverted to another hospital. Have you tried Prince Alfred?”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s over in St. Kilda. You could go there. But makes sure you phone first.”

*

Living in Heaven with Kate, I’d lost track of time. I wasn’t sure what day it was, but I soon found out it was Friday. I’d gone straight from the hospital to the grocery shop and bought up spaghetti and stuff to make a big pot of Bolognese for Kate when she got home. I had decided to tell her all about Iris. I had also decided that Iris had probably kicked it, and the very nice old lady at the hospital didn’t want to tell me. But Kate didn’t show up at her usual time and the spaghetti sat there, getting cold. I opened a beer and quaffed it down. I lit up a smoke and fingered the Craven ‘A’ packet, took a deep drag. I opened another beer, then found myself rummaging through Kate’s cupboards looking for booze, stronger booze. And I had another beer.

I know what you’re thinking. He’s fallen off the wagon. That’s not quite right. The fact is, I’d been having a few beers with Kate ever since that first unbelievable night. I never got drunk (not drunk like at the old pub) at all when I was with her, and I never felt like I couldn’t stop. So now, I’m at the crossroads. I was just about to open another beer when the door flew open and in walked Kate followed closely by Paul Grimes.

“G’day, Chooka!” says Grimes, and he puts his hand out. I shake it, but I’m annoyed. Kate never called me Chooka, and I don’t like this bastard calling me that. It’s my pub name.

“G’day yourself,” I say, slapping his hand away.

“Now Sweetie,” says Kate, and she comes up and lightly pecks me on my cheek that’s bright red already. She sees all the cup¬boards open. “Don’t tell me. You’ve been searching for the hard stuff.”

I pull her roughly to me and plant a big kiss on her marvellous voluptuous lips. “You’re a better substitute,” I say, one eye on Grimes. He’s standing back, trying not to look.

“So what’s going on?” I ask.

“I have to go visit my parents in Geelong. My mum is sick. Paul happened to drive up today, so I’m hitching a lift with him. We thought you might like to come along and visit your mates at the old pub. Just for the weekend.”

I push away. Buggered if I knew what to do. I thought I had left it all behind now that I’d found Kate, and she’s trying to get me to go back to it all. I’m not game.

“Nah. Don’t think so. Nice of you blokes to ask me. But I’ve had enough of the old pub.”

“Why’s that?” asks Paul.

“It’s a long story,” says Kate.

“Hey, you can stay with me and my parents,” says Grimes.

“Gees, that’s nice of you. But I think I might drop in and visit my auntie. I haven’t seen her in several years.”

“Really?” says Kate, “are you sure you want to do that?” She’s acting like a psychologist or something.

“No, I’m not. But it was a good thought, wasn’t it?” I tried to joke.

“Where does she live?” asks Kate.

“I told you. Yarraville.”

“I can drop you off, then,” says Grimes, “no worries. It’s right on the way.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I need to think about it.”

“I’m sorry we have to leave you,” says Kate as she playfully runs her fingers through my hair. “Maybe you should have a hair¬cut and shave while I’m gone,” she jokes.

“Ha! Ha!”

“Well,” says Grimes, “we should be going, it’s Friday after¬noon and the traffic’s going to be heavy.”

“Yair, that’s OK. You blokes get going. I’ll be all right.”

When they get to the door, Kate turns and comes back to me. She gives me a light kiss, then presses a piece of paper into my hand. “I got that professor Pulcher’s phone number for you. It’s his direct line. Phone him. It’s not too late.”

She runs to the door and calls out over her shoulder, “be a good boy, now! And it would be a good idea if you had a haircut and shave before you go to meet Doctor Pulcher.”

“Yes, mum,” I say.

“And buy some new pants and shirt. You look like a tramp.”

*

Gees, Iris, what can I tell you? I don’t know where you are, but I’ll find you one day. And when I do, we’ll have such a great time, because I’ve learnt everything from Kate. Oh, sorry, I shouldn’t have told you about her, should I? It’s just something that happened. I didn’t have anywhere to go. Anyway, she’s too old for me. She could be my mother, for Christ sake. And lately she’s been acting like she was.

It’s Monday morning and I’ve been lying in bed all weekend, just smoking my Craven ‘A’s and feeling sorry for myself. I thought Kate would be back Sunday, but she didn’t show up. She’s probably fucking that stuck-up asshole Grimes. I felt under the bed, a funny feeling, like I was looking for a bottle of plonk, but I wasn’t. I told myself after Kate left that I wasn’t going to fall off the wagon, and I haven’t. I didn’t go outside the flat once all weekend. I’m feeling around for my old kit bag and some money. I’m going out for a haircut and a shave. I have to get cleaned up for Dr. Pulcher. Kate’s right about that. It’s an oppor¬tunity I can’t pass up, can I, Iris? You’d understand, wouldn’t you? No, I suppose not. I don’t think that you even finished Form 2 at high school. And I don’t remember you ever being at Geelong High. Where else could you have gone? Maybe to the Flinders Girls School? Gees, Iris, I don’t know anything about you.

You know what? I’ve hardly touched any of my money all this time. Lived off Kate. She pretty much pays for everything. Amazing, don’t you think? But who knows how long she’ll keep me here. Her going off with Grimes, and all that mother talk. I think she’s getting ready to kick me out. I’ll have to start thinking up things to do with her. But I can’t think of anything she wouldn’t have already. I tell you, she knows everything. And seems like she’s done everything. Maybe Grimes knows stuff I don’t know, stuff he learnt in Grammar school. Yes, I know what you’re think¬ing Iris, my love. Your guess is as good as mine.

Don’t worry Iris. I’ll come and get you at Alfred Hospital soon as I can. I got to go and see this professor. It’s my only chance. Besides, Kate will cross her legs on me if she gets home and I haven’t phoned the bloke. Gees, Iris. Sorry. I keep forgetting. But I tell you, Iris. You’re the only one for me, I know.

And you, Dad, for Christ sake, shut up.

*

I’m in this flat on Beaconsfield Parade, right down from a big old pub. I’m dying to go there, but I’m not game. Professor Pulcher’s letting me stay here for a while until I find my own place. He’s a really good bloke, and I think he’s going to get me a scholarship. Kate didn’t want me to leave her, believe it or not. It took a couple of weeks for her to let me go and she kept saying nasty things about Dr. Pulcher, none of it true, as far as I could see.

The very first day I met him, he came right out of his office and welcomed me, even though the secretary woman or whoever she was, had told me he wasn’t available. Only thing was, I pegged him right away as a pommie. He had this funny English accent and a high-pitched voice, a bit like Mickey Mouse, and he had one of those speech defects, I think you call it a lisp. And he was wearing this dark grey suit pulled tight and buttoned with just one button, and a tartan vest underneath. And he had this thing—I found out later from Kate, it was called a cravat—bunched around his neck. Gees, Iris, imagine him showing up at the old pub! They’d tear him to pieces.

He ushered me into his office and sat me down on a low chair with curvaceous legs and a very soft, embroidered, fanciest chair I’d ever seen. He went to a cupboard wedged in the middle of a wall of books and took out a bottle of something and two tiny glasses. I never saw any so small, and I worked in a pub, for Christ sake. He brought them over to a matching curvaceous coffee table and sat down on the chair beside me.

“Sherry?” he asked, his lisping lips fluttering like the waves at Eastern Beach.

“Thank you,” I replied, “is it sweet or dry?” I knew all about sherry because we had a customer in the Snake Pit who drank nothing but dry sherry. Mr. Counter told me it was very high in alcohol content.

“It’s sweet. I hope that’s all right? It’s all I have at the moment. I asked Ruth to get some in, but she hasn’t had a chance. We’ve been very busy preparing for the incoming class.”

“Thank you. That’s good,” I said.

Dr. Pulcher sat back, raised his glass and said, “cheers” and I followed and took the tiniest of sips. Dad was into this in his last days. I’d rather not drink it. But little sips were what you were supposed to take, anyway. “Welcome James,” he said, “I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Gees, Professor Pulcher, thanks for inviting me and for your letter. I was all set to go to Teachers College.”

“Well, I’m glad you thought it over. I don’t mind telling you that I was most amused by your forthright translation of Ovid.”

“Gees, thanks Dr. Pulcher. I was getting pretty tired and I kind of lost my temper with him.”

“That’s perfectly fine. It shows you were personally engaged with that marvellous poet. It wasn’t just an examination exercise for you. It was personal. You put yourself right into the works. I could see it in other parts of your translation too. You are a courageous young man. You took a great risk doing what you did on your exam. My congratulations and I hope we can move forward and make a great classics scholar of you.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I didn’t have any idea what a great classics scholar does. If he meant that I would spend the rest of my life sitting at a desk translating Ovid, fucking hell! Iris! Can you imagine that? Shit! What a boring life! “Gees, Dr. Pulcher, I, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing, James, say nothing. Oh, it’s OK calling you James, I take it?”

“Oh, well some people call me, I mean, yes, everyone calls me James. I like that better than Jimmy. There’s too many Jimmies, aren’t there?”

“Indeed, there are, but only one James Henderson,” he smiled a big, big smile, his lips stretching from ear to ear. Iris, he looked so funny I nearly burst out laughing. But I managed to keep my mouth shut and so there was an awkward silence, or at least it seemed so.

“So now, to business,” he said as he returned to his desk, carefully straightening his wavy hair in the full-length mirror across the room that was behind my shoulder. He was very proud of his hair, dark brown, thick and wavy, starting well down his forehead, combed back with a part dead centre of his scalp, streaks of grey here and there. He rummaged around his desk and finally called out to his secretary through the open door.

“Ruth! Do you have that admission form please? Ruth?”

There was a rustling noise from outside and a muffled “just a minute” and I was feeling like I should do something, so I started to get up but Dr. Pulcher put his hand on my shoulder and said, “stay there James, Ruth will bring the form any minute.” Right then, I opened my mouth and I knew I was going to say something stupid, but my mouth wouldn’t stop.

“Dr. Pulcher, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Of course not. Fire away.”

“You’re a doctor, right?”

“That’s what they call me.”

“So why don’t you work in a hospital or something?”

“Well, I’m a different kind of doctor,” he says, his mouth flinch¬ing, I know he was holding back a laugh, “in academics, the best students go on to a post graduate degree past their B.A. and get their doctorate, called a Ph.D.”

“P-H what?”

“It stands for Doctor of Philosophy.”

“Yair?”

“Yes, only mine is in classics. Other people can get them in science, education, economics and so on.”

“Gees, Doctor Pulcher, I feel stupid. I should have known that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing. Once you get enrolled here, you’ll quickly learn the ropes. I can see you’re not stupid at all. You’re a very bright young man.” He put his hand on my shoulder again, and this time squeezed it very gently.

“Thanks Doctor Pulcher. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing. Just promise me that you will put all your time and work into your studies.”

“I will, I promise.”

Ruth showed up at last with a very long form. She handed it to me and I looked at it dumbfounded. I could fill in maybe a couple of questions—my first and last name, although I wasn’t sure what a Christian name was. Dr. Pulcher leaned down and took the form. “You know what?” he said, “I think it would be best if I filled in some of it with you, especially the subjects you will do for your first year—there’s not a lot of choice anyway—and then Ruth can help you fill in the administrative questions, especially those that help to decide whether you qualify for a scholarship.”

“What do I have to do for that?” I asked.

“Basically nothing. Just give Ruth some family details and how much money you have.”

“That’s easy,” I said, “none on both counts.”

“What do you mean?” He gives Ruth a look.

“Well I don’t have any money, or at least none to speak of. I was working in a pub till a few weeks ago and that doesn’t pay much. My mum took off somewhere and I don’t know where she is and my father died last year. So I’m on my own.”

“OK. That’s good news, I mean, not good of course for you, but it will make it easier to justify a late scholarship for you.”

“Gee, thanks Dr. Pulcher.”

“Ruth, besides Latin 1 and English 1, he’ll have to sign up for a history or economics class and a science, perhaps psychology. I think they have to do four subjects the first year, is that right?”

“Yes, Dr. Pulcher. Don’t worry, I’ll help him get everything set up and I’ll walk him over to the registrar. There is one thing, though,” she turns to me, “if you’re on your own, do you have a place to stay?”

My ears went red and she looked at me as though she was trying to tell me something but didn’t want to say it. “I’m staying with a friend for a few weeks, but I have to move out soon.” Ruth looks over to Professor Pulcher.

“Ruth, could he get into one of the colleges on campus?”

“There’s no way. You know how it goes. They’re filled up long before the year starts with kids from the private schools.”

“Of course, you’re right. You know what?” he says, “I have a small flat in St. Kilda, or South Melbourne it is really. You’re welcome to stay there until you find a place of your own.”

“Gee, Dr. Pulcher, you’re so kind. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

“Well it’s just a small place. And I’m afraid not especially handy to the university. You’re welcome to stay as long as it takes you to get settled into the university. I’ll drop by from time to time to make sure everything is OK.”

“Gee, thanks Dr. Pulcher. Will I be in your Latin class?”

“No, I lecture only to advanced students. But who knows, you may be an advanced student very soon. I will make sure you get a really good tutor and I will also work with you from time to time. I try to keep up with all the students in our department.”

“You must be really busy, Dr. Pulcher. Thanks again.”

“Come into my office,” says Ruth, “and we’ll fill in the form and get you registered so you will be able to attend classes. They’ve been going now for a couple of weeks already.”

“Excellent,” says Dr. Pulcher, “and when that’s done, come back to me and I’ll arrange for you to move into the flat.”

Ruth reminded me a bit of Mrs. Counter. She was a pretty scary lady, taller than me, and top-heavy just like Mrs. Counter. We filled in the form, or at least she did, and she got me enrolled in four classes, so now I was all of a sudden, a uni student. Gees, Dad. You must be rolling around laughing your head off.

*

Fact is, I had a lot of mates at high school and could have gone on with most of them to Teachers College. But here I am, sitting alone in a little flat owned by this big-time professor. Maybe I should phone up my old mates and they could come up to Melbourne for the weekend or something. I mean, what am I supposed to do all on my own, especially as now I’ve left Kate, and Grimes doesn’t seem to want to know me. I told him he could stay with me any time he wanted to. The flat is small, but it’s close to all the action (or so they say) in St. Kilda. I haven’t even walked down there yet. In fact, I haven’t left the flat except to go to the little milk bar on the corner and get something to eat. And I haven’t even been back to the uni and I have to buy the books that are on the lists Ruth got for me for each subject. It’s too much. And I have to go to the classes and find the lecture halls and there’s these tutors I’m supposed to meet and go to their little rooms and act like I’m all smart and clever.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Grimes.

“G’day, Chooka. Don’t s’pose you have room for the night?”

“Shit, Grimesy, I never thought you’d show up. Come right in.”

“Thanks. All right if I stay for a few nights? I know I won’t be as entertaining as Kate,” he says with a big grin, “but I’ll try hard,” he joked.

“Yair, I bet you could.” And we laugh together.

“I have an early crim tute in the morning.”

“Crim? What?”

“Criminal law tutorial.”

“I s’pose I have a tute tomorrow too. I haven’t got around to finding out where and when they are.”

Grimes starts to unpack his bag. “You know,” he says, “you should make sure you go to the tutes. Pulcher will be looking to see whether you show up. And he could do you in easily. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”

“He seems like a good bloke,” I say, “and he’s been great to me. Got me a scholarship and everything.”

“He did that?” asked Grimes incredulously.

“Yair. He did. And he’s letting me have this flat until I get somewhere of my own.”

“Why didn’t they put you in a college?”

“They said there wasn’t room. The private school kids get first dibs.”

“Yes, of course. I forgot that. I could have got in last year. Sorry they wouldn’t let you in. It’s not right.

“No worries. I’m much happier being on my own. I don’t think I’d fit in too well in one of those colleges, whatever they are.”

“You’re probably right.”

“So why didn’t you go into a college, then?”

“I just liked all my old mates in Geelong. I played footy with them every week, and we went to the pub together. I’d miss all that if I was in a college. And besides in a college you can’t pick your friends. You’re stuck with whoever happens to be there.”

“My thoughts exactly.” I was beginning to think that Grimesy wasn’t a bad bloke after all.

“What have you got lined up for me tonight?” he asks with a grin.

“Let’s go down to the pub,” I say, “and I’ll shout, but you have to promise me you’ll take me shopping to the uni bookstore tomorrow. I couldn’t even find the place today.”

“Deal!”

*

Caesar’s The Gallic Wars Book 1 was the topic of the tutorial. Thanks to Grimesy, I’d bought my books and he’d shown me where the tute was going to be. He’s a good bloke. Not like the others.

I pulled open the door and nearly collapsed in fear and trem¬bling. There were just eight or nine students sitting around in a horseshoe on old wooden chairs and the tutor at the end sitting in the gap. I took a dislike to him before I even sat down on the one chair that was left. They all looked at me as though I was late, and I wasn’t. I thought I was early, but I suppose not.

“Salve!” he says.

And I say, “G’day.”

“Et tu es?”

“What?” The bastard was trying to make me look a fool, that’s what. I plopped down on the chair and the other students started to snigger. Bastards all of them too.

“Et tu es?”

“Ego Brutus, ille est qui.” I answered with a sneer.

“Very funny. You must be Mr. Henderson?”

“Ego sum, quis podex,” I muttered, and couldn’t help a big grin. A couple of the other students gaped at me. I looked the tutor in the eye and I could see he didn’t know what to say. These stuck-up bastards, they think they’re so fuckn good. And who would wear a corduroy jacket with the leather sewn into the elbows, but a poofda of the highest order.

“Thank you, Mr. Henderson. We do not use vulgarities in this tutorial. If you want to indulge, Dr. Pulcher holds a small seminar on latina vulgaris every month in his home.”

He shifts in his chair and crosses his legs. They’re long and spindly. He’s wearing Fletchers for sure, with big cuffs at the bottom. And I bet they’re worn shiny in the ass. He’s even paler than Grimesy, his hair a sandy white but clipped to a crew cut that definitely doesn’t match his corduroy jacket. He doesn’t look much older than me. He makes a small cough.

“Now that we are all here. Let me introduce myself. I am Gregory Lepidus, your tutor for this year in Latin 1. We meet in this room every week at this time. I know some of you have only now just been enrolled, so you have missed three weeks. See me at the end of the tute and I will help you catch up. Now, I hope you all studied the first book of Caesar’s great classic. Let us begin with the very first, and perhaps the most famous, sentence. We will go around clockwise, starting on my left. First read the Latin, then translate the sentence.”

I look around and they’re all hunched up poring over their little books. Me, I don’t have to because I’ve learnt the translation off by heart, although I didn’t have to do much because I learnt some of this in high school. It’s too easy.

“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres…”

The tutor interrupts. “Before you go on, translate just those seven words.”

“Gaul is divided into three parts,” says this student obediently. She’s a little thing with curly blonde hair. I imagine it cropped like Iris’s.

“Indeed!” he says, “what do those words tell us about Caesar?”

Nobody answers, so he decides to pick on someone. It’s the bloke next to me. He’s sweating like buggery, I can smell it.

Just then, the door opens behind me and I twist around and see that it’s Dr. Pulcher.

“Don’t mind me,” he says, “I’m just visiting.”

The bloke next to me just about faints.

“Well?” says the tutor. He’s a bit red in the face himself.

“Excuse me,” I say, “but what the hell are we supposed to say about seven words? If we want to know about Caesar, what about the time he was Nicomedes’ bum boy? Didn’t futuatque cum ad summum Caesar ?” The tutor was struck dumb and the other students just stared at me like I was crazy. Dr. Pulcher sat stock still, his rippling lips fighting a smile. The tutor wasn’t too pleased. And he poured out a whole lot of Latin, none of which I could understand. My spoken Latin was confined to swearing, but I think that this was what he was saying:

“Mr. Henderson, that is the most disgusting thing ever said in any tutorial I have supervised. For your information, it is only speculation that Caesar had any sexual relationship with Nico¬medes, though it is true that he slept with many women, some of them the wives of his friends and colleagues. But all of that is irrelevant to today’s text. We are here concerned with the brill¬iance and clarity of Caesar’s writing, of which these seven words are a prime example. I would appreciate it, Mr. Henderson, if you would confine your interventions to the topic under discussion, not to fanciful digressions to your own obsessions.”

“Futete!” I muttered. And I got up to leave. I never saw a bloke so red in the face. I thought his round cheeks were going to burst.

“One moment, now” called Dr. Pulcher.

I stopped, half standing, half sitting. To be honest, I didn’t know what I was doing. If I’d been in the pub, I would have grabbed the shit-head tutor and bashed his head in. The tutor squirmed in his seat. The others were agog, staring down at their books, trying not to laugh.

“Mr. Henderson, thank you for your interesting digression and providing us with practice in using Latin profanities. Mr. Lepidus is following the lesson plans agreed upon by our classics com¬mittee. If you are interested in Caesar’s fascinating sex life, that’s fine. And in my small seminar on Latina vulgaris, we do look closely at that and the many other sexual activities—perhaps depravities, more accurately,” a smile broke through his fluttering lips, “indulged in by our Roman and Greek ancestors. But now is not the time. Do please sit down. Mr. Lepidus is a foremost authority on Julius Caesar. You can learn a lot from him.”

I wanted to get out of there. All the other students were gawking at me. I’d fucked up, that’s what. And I couldn’t believe I did it all in front of Dr. Pulcher. I stood, frozen in motion. The tutor decided to move on.

“Let’s continue with the translation,” he said, and nodded to the student to complete the first sentence. She droned on. Obviously, she had studied the stuff all night.

“…quarum unam incolunt Belgae, aliam Aquitani, tertiam qui ipsorum lingua Celtae…”

Dr. Pulcher quietly left the room, but I’m sure he winked at me ever so slightly as he passed. I sat back in my chair and started fingering the first page and counting up the sentences to figure out what one I’d have to do. I think I was sweating more than the bloke next to me. But I wasn’t wearing hair oil. It made my hair go flat, and I liked my waves too much.

*

Flo started going to the pub with Tank. They even went with Little Linda and put up with her little savage brat running around. And Flo kept up her chain smoking, and only drank lemon squash, no booze. It was enough for her to get some sugar, that’s what they said in the Snake Pit. I know all this because I asked my mate Grimesy to drop in at the pub on his way back to Geelong one weekend. He had started to stay with me for most of the weekdays now, and then go home weekends. I hadn’t told Dr. Pulcher who dropped by and saw some of Grimesy’s stuff.

“You have a visitor?” he asked.

“Just a friend from Geelong who drives up most days.”

“Oh, were you friends before uni?”

“No. We met on the train. He’s helped me find my way round the uni a lot.”

“What is he studying?”

“He’s third year law, I think.”

“Well, that’s nice. You understand that you can’t have a perm¬anent other person staying with you here. The local ordinance doesn’t allow it.”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Pulcher. And I promise I’ll find somewhere of my own pretty soon. I just haven’t had time trying to catch up with all the classes I missed.”

“Of course, James, no problem. You can stay here for as long as it takes you.”

“Gee, thanks Dr. Pulcher. And, I, I’m sorry I blurted out those things in Mr. Lepidus’s tute. It was my first tute ever. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“I’m sure he understands, I know I do.” He came over to me and gave me a kind of hug. “Is there anything you need? Is every¬thing going OK?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m catching up with my work and I hope I can come to your special seminar next week, if that’s OK.”

“Of course. You can get my address from Ruth. As a matter of fact, though, I was thinking that I could maybe hold it here, as it’s more convenient for students. My place is way out past Eltham.”

“Gees, I dunno where that is.”

“Well, no worries. I’ll see you next week, then.”

*

I met Grimesy as planned in the student union cafeteria. The coffee had a taste all of its own, which I didn’t mind, except that it didn’t taste like any coffee I ever had. But it was cheap, even cheaper than tea. I was trying to finish off a lab report for psych one when I found Grimesy at my elbow.

“Late with your lab report, huh?” he says with a grin.

“Yair, fuckn thing. I dunno what I’m doing. The lecturer, he’s a fuckn Nazi, that’s what he is.”

“Oh, you’ve got Knappenberger?”

“Yair.”

I reach under the table and pull up my kitbag. “So, did you get them?” I asked.

“Yes. Your Mr. Counter had lots of questions, though. He didn’t want to give them up, but I finally convinced him I was on the up and up. I told him that I stayed with you occasionally and he seemed to like that, although there was this bald-headed bloke who was listening in, he had this smirk on his face that I didn’t like.”

“Did he have a walking stick?”

“Yes. Greasy bastard if ever there was one.”

“Yair. That’s Sugar. He has fits. I beat him up once.”

“You did? What for?”

“Let’s just say that he got on my nerves.”

“O.K. so here’s the letters.”

“Great. Let’s go to the pub and I’ll buy you a beer and lunch as well.”

“I’ve got a criminal procedure tute. Gotta go.”

“OK. Thanks again. See you tonight?”

“Maybe. Depends if Kate invites me in—you know what I mean.”

“Sure. But remember, I’m on tomorrow.”

“Fair enough. Aren’t you going to ask me about Iris?”

My heart sank. How could I have forgotten? It was the main reason I asked him to drop in at the pub.

“Shit! Don’t know what’s wrong with me. Did you find out anything?”

“Mr. Counter said he had no news. He was real surprised, because he said he expected you to have found her by now and that’s why you went to Melbourne. Is that right?”

“Mostly.”

“He took me into the Snake Pit—a horrible place—and he talked with a big bloke, scary as hell, who was her father, I think.

“Yair, Tank, the bastard.”

“And he was with this woman, Flo, I think it was, who just sat there staring into space, puffing on a cigarette. Said absolutely nothing.”

“That’s Flo.”

“Was she her mother?”

“That’s her. And why are you saying ‘was,’ like Iris was dead?”

“Shit, Chooka, I didn’t mean to imply that.”

“Yair I know. I’m beginning to think she is.”

“When are you going to check out the Alfred Hospital?”

“As soon as I’m caught up with all this work. I didn’t know being a uni student was so much hard work. Tending bar was much easier.”

“No doubt. I’ll see you around.”

I tucked the letters in my kitbag and scribbled in the discussion part of the lab report.

*

By the time I made it to Kate’s flat, I was out of breath. I ran full steam from Knappenberger’s office that was way over the other side of the uni. The fuckn Nazi bastard. He sent me this letter that ordered me to show up in his office to discuss my lab report. I showed up, kitbag in hand because I was on my way to Kate’s. He’s this pudgy old bloke with pasty, dirty white skin, looking like he’s on the verge of a heart attack. He’s got these tiny little glasses sitting at the end of his nose, and he’s slumped back in his big chair, smoking a pipe, sucking on it, then chewing it. What the hell!

“Mr. Henderson?” he says, through his teeth.

I’m standing kind of at attention in front of his desk. Reminded me of high school when that pommie bastard called me up ready to give me the cuts.

“Yair,” I say, my ears all red.

“Sit down.”

I sit down. We’re face to face. He picks up my lab report, which I recognize from the coffee stains on the cover. He throws it across his desk and I catch it as it falls off the edge. He’s got more to say.

“This is drivel. It is the worst lab report I have ever had the misfortune to read.” He’s got a thick German accent that I can barely understand.

“You didn’t like it?” I say, mischievously.

“You think you are funny. It is not funny. It is disgusting. What high school did you attend?”

“Geelong High.”

“You should not be here.”

“I could try to rewrite it…”

“It iss not fixable. It iss beyond anything. I do not know how you got into this university. You do not belong here. Now get out off my office!”

It was all I could do not to lunge across his fuckn desk and ram those pip-squeak glasses down his fuckn throat. But I didn’t. Kate would be proud of me. She’d shown me how to get control of myself, to make my body do what I (and she) wanted. I rose slowly from my chair and I gently placed my lab report on his desk. Then I snapped to attention and gave him a “Seig Heil” and left, slamming the door behind me.

Except that I left my kitbag behind. I went to open the door but thought that maybe I should knock first. Hearing no answer, I carefully turned the handle and slipped inside. He was still sitting there, slumped in his chair looking like he’d kicked it. I tip toed to the desk and grabbed my kitbag. He just stared at me, the pipe hanging from his teeth. Maybe he really is dead, I thought. Now that would be a good one.

*

I had to wait for Kate to show up, and I forgot to bring some beer, I’d come here in such a rush. So I sat at her kitchen table doing the translation for my next Latin tute. It was almost dark by the time she got in.

I met her at the door and planted full kisses on those wonderful lips. But she held her head back and pushed me away.

“What’s going on?” I asked, my body raging for more.

“I just had a big argument over you,” she said.

“Me? Not with Grimesy?”

“Oh no, he’s great, you know that.”

I took her hand by the fingers, long and adventurous, and led her into the bedroom. She complied, hanging back just a little to make me pull harder. We fell on to the bed, and I got started.

“So, who?” I said, with difficulty.

“That prick Lepidus, your Latin tutor.”

“Oh, shit! You didn’t?”

“I did.”

“That corduroy cunt. I give him hell in the tutes.”

“I know and that’s what we were arguing about.”

“So, who cares? He’s just a stupid pommie bastard.”

“I think he’s jealous,” she says with a grin.

“Jealous? Of me with you? But how would he know you and me are doing each other?” By now I’ve got most of her clothes off, and I’ve shed mine long ago.”

“It’s not me,” she says, rolling away, exposing my body fully on heat, “it’s Dr. Pulcher!” She tosses her head back and laughs, her mouth so wide open I want to fill it to the brim.

“No shit! That’s really funny.”

But now I’m on top of her and we’re rolling around, she on top of me. No more talking. No more laughing. Just the two of us, completely bound together.

*

We lay on our backs drawing on our smokes. Kate was a bit annoyed I hadn’t brought any beer. She always liked to suck down a beer after we exhausted ourselves. But I had a good excuse. I told her about my meeting with Knappenberger and she laughed.

“They’ll be knocking on my door to arrest you,” she said.

“What for?”

“Well if he’s really dead, it’ll be manslaughter or maybe even murder,” she joked.

“He’s not dead. That’s the way he looks all the time, the fucking creep.”

“Tut! Tut! Mind that language. You know what I told you. You swear too much.”

“Too fuckn bad.”

“No, really. I mean it. People get upset, especially if they don’t know you.”

“They should be broad minded like all the people I know back home.”

“You mean the old pub.”

“Yair.”

“But there’s a time and place for everything,” she says, taking a big drag on her smoke, then blowing it out over my bare belly, blowing hard enough to tickle my mound of hair down there, my prick feeling like it’s about to jump out of the jungle.

“You’re right.” And I’m on to her.

But she holds back. “You know, she says, “I promised Grimesy last night that I’d talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Iris. He told me all about it. You have to get past it. You have to find out what happened to her.”

“He shouldn’t have told you.”

“Hey, the three of us, we’re all great lovers, aren’t we? Isn’t that what we agreed? There’s no secrets.”

“He hasn’t told me what you’re like in bed with him,” I say, a devilish grin, and my fingers creeping to places she taught me.

“Well, that’s a bit different. Besides, we don’t have to talk about that. We find that out when we’re in bed with each other. So what about it?”

“What?”

“Iris. Promise me you’ll go to the Alfred tomorrow.”

“I’ll promise only after we’re done. You have to make it worth my while.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“Yair, I know. And so are you.”

*

You wouldn’t believe it. I phoned up the Alfred Hospital and asked them if Iris was there and they said someone called Iris had been there, but they weren’t sure what happened to her. They remembered her because her card didn’t have her last name on it, so they’d made one up. They called her Iris Grey. I knew right away that it had to be her. It was the colour of her eyes, and those of Swampy’s sheep.

They told me it was an easy walk to The Alfred. I just needed to walk across Albert Park from my flat. So I grabbed my kitbag and walked out to Beaconsfield Parade—just in time to see Dr. Pulcher pull up in his red mini minor.

“James,” he said, “looks like you are on your way out.”

“Yes, Dr. Pulcher. I’m on my way to the Alfred hospital to see my sister.”

“Oh. I hope it’s not too serious.”

“No. Just a little accident she had. Do you want to come in?”

“Well, I wanted to arrange a time for my Latina Vulgaris seminar.”

“OK. That should be fun,” I said, “come inside and I’ll get you a beer or something. Don’t have any sherry, I’m sorry.”

To tell you the truth, he didn’t look like Dr. Pulcher. I was used to him being all buttoned up with his suit and vest, open collar and cravat. Instead, he was in very short shorts like the footballers wear, and they were really tight, and a thin sleeveless t-shirt that was as tight as skin. It was a cool day. He must have been cold.

“Yes,” he said, seeing I was eyeing him off, “the jolly forecast said a hot day, but as usual in Melbourne you never know what it’s going to be like.”

I turned and we went into the flat. I did have some whiskey, or at least, Grimesy did. He was partial to the stuff.

“Would you like a glass of scotch?”

“That would be excellent. And Johnny Walker too, I see.”

“Well, a mate of mine brought it. I only drink beer myself,” I lied. “I don’t have any ice, I’m sorry.”

“No problem James. I prefer it that way.”

I handed him the scotch and I opened a bottle of beer for myself. We clinked glasses and we stood there in the middle of the room looking at each other. His lips were fluttering again. Things were a bit awkward. He downed the scotch in one gulp, and I’d made him a big one too, then he grabbed my arm, the one without the beer of course, and gently pulled me towards him.

“You know, James,” he said, “when I read your exam that time, on Ovid, I knew we would be kindred spirits. It was the kind of translation I’d often thought of writing but wasn’t game.”

“Gees, thanks Dr. Pulcher.” I took a nervous sip of my beer, “but I think you already told me that a couple of times.”

“Well, that’s because I really mean it. And your comments in Lepidus’s class were hilarious.” He slid his hand from my arm to the side of my belly and started rubbing it.

“Gees, I think I really upset him. I shouldn’t have done it, but I can’t help myself.”

“I can see that,” he said, “yes I can see it.” And now he was stroking me more, his hand moving downwards, following Kate’s path. I moved quickly away to the kitchen and he followed.

“Let’s have another drink.” I poured him another scotch.

“Salut!” he said and downed the scotch. “I’ll have another,” he said.

So I gave him the bottle. He took a big swig and slammed it down on the kitchen counter. I took a swig of my beer, a pretty big swig, because it had at last dawned on me what was going on. Dr. Pulcher came up close, his fluttering lips forming words I didn’t want to hear. He stroked the side of my face, caressed me down below, and to my horror, my body started thinking he was Kate! I’d beaten Sugar up for less than this.

“Dr. Pulcher!” I muttered, “Please!”

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” he said as he grabbed me and licked his rippling lips

“Gees, the bed’s not made,” was all I could say.

*

I showed Grimesy the almost empty bottle of scotch and told him about Pulcher. Because of Kate, there were no secrets be-tween us.

“Shit!” said Grimesy with a big grin, “you’ve turned into a frigging male prostitute!”

“Yair, well. I thought you were a homo when I first met you,” I said.

“Shit, Chooka. How could you think that?”

“It’s obvious. Didn’t the blokes in the bar at the old pub call out ‘poofda’ when you walked in?”

“They did look at me funny. I was scared most of the time.”

“Grammar school boys all look like homos to us,” I said with a grin.

“But no more,” said Grimesy with satisfaction.

“I’m not a homo, fuck you!” I complained.

“Of course, you’re not. You’re just earning a decent living. So, what are you going to do?”

“It was only one time, and fuckn awful. I can’t stand his breath. It smells like old socks. What can I do?”

“You could get out of his flat for a start.”

“Yair, but where will I go? Kate doesn’t want me there all the time—and nor do you, naturally.”

“You’re right, there,” said Grimesy with satisfaction.

“Besides, if I say ‘no’ I’ll never pass Latin and I’ll be done for.”

“Are you going to tell Kate?”

“Shit no! And don’t you tell her either! She’d tell me to fuck off if she knew.”

“Yes, you’re right. Then I’d have her all to myself,” he mused, teasing me.

“Asshole. You know you could never satisfy her. She’d dump you too.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Then you’re going to service your good professor?”

“Trouble is, I’m scared I’ll pummel him to death.”

“But you don’t mind the sex?” says Grimesy, teasing again.

“Smart ass! Don’t be an asshole.”

“You’d really beat him up?”

“I’ve done it before.” I looked at Grimesy hard.

Grimesy frowned. “You don’t seem like that kind of person,” he said, pensively.

*

Thank God for Kate, that’s all I can say. She had a relative, her auntie, I think, at Prince Alfred hospital who agreed to help me out. She was a nurse and a real nice one at that, but pretty old, probably should have been retired. She used to work the emer¬gency room, said Kate, but it got too much for her so now she works on helping out with lost files and other kinds of stuff that go wrong in the huge place with lots of patients and nurses and doctors strutting around the place. It took me a while to find her office, but I eventually found it, tucked away in the basement, right next to the morgue.

“G’day. I’m James,” I said poking my head in the door.

“G’day James,” she said with a big smile. She was one of those people who’s smiling all the time, no matter what. I liked her a lot right away. “I’m Frieda. Kate’s told me all about you.”

“Everything?” I said with a grin.

“Well, not quite, I’m sure,” she laughed. “Now let’s get down to it.”

“So you’ve found her?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not. It just gets more mysterious the more I look into it.”

“But she was here, though, right?”

“Right, it seems she was, under the name of Iris Grey, but you know that already. Now the trail’s run cold. If she were in this building, I’d have found her by now. I’ve searched all the usual places and nothing. I even asked my friend next door who is the admitting officer for the morgue if she remembered anyone of Iris’s description coming in, but she didn’t. And there was nothing in her records either. I phoned the Geelong Hospital and there was no record of Iris’s parents being there the night she was admitted. There were medical procedures for which her parents’ signature would be required. There would be a record of that if either of them were there.”

“But I was there on that night and I talked with them right there.”

“As I said, strange.”

“But her last name is Devlin, right? They had that down, didn’t they?”

“No. Her card was blank on that score. It simply read, ‘Iris’ and that was it. It was the name that the ambulance driver had put down in the log.”

“Didn’t anyone check with the record of births and deaths somewhere?”

“That’s kept in the Victorian Archives on Collins Street. They won’t give out information over the phone and we don’t have staff to run around Melbourne looking for a name.”

“Wouldn’t she have been born at Geelong hospital? It’s the only one in Geelong.”

“I asked them that too. There was no record of her birth at the hospital. They estimated she was between 15 and 17 years old. They looked over all the records covering those years. Nothing.”

“She was born somewhere else then?”

“I’d say so.”

I sat down on an old wooden chair by Frieda’s little desk, hoping in a silly way that if I stayed there long enough Frieda would suddenly find something out. “I don’t know what to do next. I’ve got to find her.” Unbelievably, there were tears in my eyes, tears that I didn’t think I had in me anymore.

“You need to go to the Victorian Archives. That’s the only way you will find out who she really is.”

Iris, you could really help me here, my love, love of my life, I thought to myself. Where the hell are you? And now, a question I’d never thought of before, who the hell are you? I looked away, and dear old Frieda—I felt I’d known her forever—came around and put one hand on my shoulder.

“Here’s a copy of her file,” she said, “at least you have that.” She handed me a one page photocopy, you know, the old white on black copy on real thin paper. “It doesn’t say much, but it does say when she was admitted at least. The mystery is that the discharge date isn’t filled in. It’s as if she just disappeared.”

“Run away!” I said, “that’s what she did! That’s what she always did and I bet she slipped through the window of her ward.!”

“Well, she probably couldn’t have done that because hardly any of them open. If she did run away, then she would have to steal someone’s clothes and simply walk out the front door.”

I sprang up, excited by my discovery. To my amazement, I gently gave Frieda a little kiss on her wrinkly old cheek and said, “thanks luv! You’re the best!”

“Good luck!” she called, touching her cheek.

I bounded out of the Alfred and headed straight for the Victorian Archives on Collins Street. A kind of frenzy came over me. I spent three days searching the registry of births for 1935 through 1945. I missed all my lectures and tutorials. I never went back to the flat. I just found some doorway where I could sleep, wake up, get a cup of tea first thing, and then back to work. By the third day the stuffy officials were getting suspicious. They looked at me like I was mad. And maybe I was. I certainly must have smelled something awful. But I was determined to find out who Iris was, or I should say, is. In the end, at closing time, an important looking bloke came up to me and told me I could not come back any more. He made the mistake of grabbing my hand while I was turning the crank in the microfilm machine. I tensed up, and he immediately got the message and let go. He’s lucky I didn’t clock him one. But thanks to Kate, I held it back. It was then that I finally came to my senses. There was only one possible conclusion: that Iris hadn’t been born! At least not officially.

It was getting dark outside, the sky bearing down, dense, wet Melbourne clouds. I was last out the door and the official loudly locked it after me. I tried to pull my old school blazer around my shoulders to keep out the chill. I’d slept in it the last three nights. I slid down the wall, in the corner of the doorway, squatting, feeling like a beggar. I wasn’t sure I could make the walk across Albert Park to the flat. A light drizzle set in. Cars were honking, splashing through puddles, sending up sheets of water that landed on the old white tiles of the entrance. Gees Iris, I don’t know why I’m doing this. I could just as easily forget all about you. I’m having a good time at uni and I can’t imagine you being there with me. I don’t know how you’d fit in. But I just can’t feel right without you and I know I should have tried harder to be with you after you got sick. But truly, the bastards wouldn’t let me get near you and besides I only found out all about your shit-head mother and father after you were taken into Geelong hospital and then sent away without me. Tank and Flo. What shits they’ve been to you. I’m going to keep talking to you, Iris, and maybe if I talk enough you’ll talk to me too and tell me where you are.

5. Drums of all that’s right and wrong

I’m half out to it, lying in the back of the ute. The spuds are digging into me and the onions pong something awful. My tongue’s nearly stuck to the top a me mouth. I need a drink.

“Hey you bastards! Where’s the booze?” I yell as I struggle off the truck. We’re parked outside an old ramshackle shed, half covered with rusty corrugated iron and rotten wood planks. It’s big, though, and I can hear the bleating of sheep so I suppose it’s a shearing shed or something. I dunno. I wander in where there’s a tractor parked inside and there’s Swampy and Spuds sitting on a bale a straw drinking plonk. There’s a bunch of sheep penned up over in the corner and they’re bleating away like they were crying for their mothers.

“Haw! Haw! Ya know how to shear a sheep?” asks Swampy.

“I need a drink, ya bastard.” And I see a flagon of red sitting there. I go to pick it up and fall ass-over-tit. I’m still boozed up.

“Haw! Haw! How ya gunna hold the sheep while you’re pissed as a cricket?” laughs Swampy.

“Yair. Sober up, ya silly bastardo,” says Spuds, as he hands me an old tin mug.

I grab the mug and crawl to the flagon and pour myself a drink. Right there, Dad flashes into my head. It’s what he drank the last few years of his life. My hand starts to shake as I pour. The flagon is nearly full so it’s pretty heavy.

“Poor bugger’s got-a the shakes,” says Spuds.

Swampy stirs off his bale and starts to dance, if that’s what you could call it. And then he’s singing “Old Adelooooine! Old Adelooooine!” and makes like he’s dancing with her. I’m squatting on me haunches sipping away and my mouth’s feeling better already. I stand up and I’m dancing with him. Spuds tries to pull me back down, but I shake him off. “Old Adelooine,” I cry, spit and dribble flying out of my mouth. I go to grab Swampy like I’m his dance partner and he yells, “ya fuckn poofda! Get the fuck away from me!” He swings a wild punch that just grazes my chin. And my knees buckle as if he’d hit me and as I go down, I hear a faint woman’s voice.

“What’s going on in here?”

I’m on all fours, looking over to the bright outdoors. There’s a silhouette of someone standing there, and I feel Swampy plop down beside me. He wants to ride me like I was a horse!

“Get the fuck off me!” I yell.

“Haw! Haw! Watch ya fuckn language in front of moi sister!” Swampy chortles.

His sister prances across the barn. She’s wearing jodhpurs, big brown leather boots and she’s got a riding whip. She gets within arm’s length and she starts whipping Swampy like buggery. He pretends to be hurt, cries out “Waah! Waah! Haw! Haw!” and tries to shield the lashes with his arm. But she’s not stopping, and she sees me gawking at her and she starts after me and I get up and run away across to the sheep. But I’m staggering and she catches me and starts whipping me too.

“Who’s this little bastard?” she yells, “what are you doing bringing a young boy on the farm? And what are you doing giving him booze? He’s just a kid.”

This is too much for me and I stop right at the little fence holding the sheep in and I turn to her and I say, “I’m eighteen, ya silly fuckn bitch!”

Gees, Dad. I was half pissed, so I didn’t know what I was saying. She rears back, hands on hips, and I’m squinting, staring at her little eyes tucked down behind her cheeks. They’re as black as buggery and her face is white as a pommie’s back side.

“Get out of here young man! Get out of here this minute. This is no place for a boy like you!”

She starts her whipping again and I’m taking lashes over me arms and me back as I turn and jump over the railing into the sheep. They start wailing and bleating like I was going to slaughter them. They rush in all directions and knock over the railings and then they run off all over the barn. Swampy and Spuds suddenly sober up and start running trying to round them up, but it’s hopeless. And big sister chases Swampy and Spuds and lays some pretty good strokes on. I find my way back to the flagon and take a deep swig and pretty soon I’m rolling around on the straw, having a good laugh at the silly bastards running around in circles, big sister chasing them and the sheep gone off into the paddocks. Spuds, though, managed to grab one and bring her down. And by this time, big sister has pissed off back to the farm house.

*

Holding a sheep isn’t easy. I got my left hand under its chin and I’m pushing it up while I’m grabbing it around the waist and pulling it into me knees. Swampy’s going “Haw! Haw!” and rubbing his big moustache with his bony fingers. But the wriggly bastard thing is struggling like I’m going to slit its throat. I lean over and I look into its grey eyes and it doesn’t look anything like it’s alive, its face says nothing to me. I mean, it’s a thing, you know? Dad? Did you ever do this? Shit! The fuckn thing just kicked me in the shins.

Spuds is dancing around clapping his hands, yelling, “Go! Go! Pull! Pull! Ya silly bugger!” So I give it a yank and it gives a huge kick with its back legs and I lose my balance and fall backwards but I don’t let go so the stupid thing rolls twisting on top of me, and I lose my grip and it flips around and its horrible mouth bangs into mine and I smell its horrible rotten breath and Swampy and Spuds are dancing around laughing their heads off, and then the stinking thing leaps off me and runs straight into Swampy and trips him up and it bleats and takes off out of the shed and into the paddock. And the other sheep that’s corralled in the corner getting ready for shearing, they all go crazy and they rush at the railing and knock the rest of it down and they all take off into the paddock too, knocking Spuds and Swampy over as they’re laughing their heads off, and then Spuds scrambles up and goes for another flagon of red.

“Fuckn-a shit-a!” he yells, “let’s get-a the rifle and we’ll kill these bastardi, that will-a teach ’em!”

“Haw Haw, like hell ya will! Don’t want to bloody their wool, ya dope. You better get back to your veggies and leave the sheep to me. Gimme a drink!”

“Me too!” I says as I stagger over and put my hand out.

“You-a haven’t earned it,” grins Spuds.

“Get stuffed,” I says, “look at me poor legs, all scratched and bloodied by that shit of a sheep.”

Swampy comes over to me. He’s rubbing his moustache and he’s looking kind of funny. “I’m taking ya back to the pub. You’ve done enough damage for today.”

And I think right then he’s going to touch me or something. But he doesn’t. He puts out a tin cup and Spuds fills it and then he hands it to me.

“You’ve been a fuckn good sport. I’m taking ya back to Eddie. He needs ya more than me.”

I down the cup of plonk in one gulp. I don’t even know what time it is. I don’t want to go back now because I’m having such a good time.

“But ya better sober up first. Haw! Haw!”

And I says, “yair, gimme another plonk.”

Spuds tops up my cup and he looks at Swampy and then to me. “Hey, I need-a some help digging up me spuds. What about coming with-a me and you can sober up while we work.”

“Haw! Haw!” goes Swampy. “Take me truck then. I have to tell me sister we can’t dag the sheep today. She’s gunna be shitty. Haw! Haw!” And he starts rubbing his leg with his other, and stroking his moustache and twisting around into all kinds of contortions. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t care. I got me grog, the plonk’s keeping me going, so I can dig a few spuds.

Spuds shepherds me into Swampy’s ute. Swampy goes over to talk to the sheep hoping they’ll come back, but they’ve run off far away across the paddock. Spuds revs the ute and red dust flies out the back as we zoom across the paddocks along an old track. I’m trying not to slip off the seat, because I’m pretty well gone, and the track’s got furrows in it as deep as the Werribee gorge.

“Where the fuck are we going?” I mutter and just then we come over a rise, and I see this beautiful green paddock running all the way down, and there’s rows and rows of veggies, green as green, and the rows are straighter than a horse’s dick.

“Gees! This is yours?”

“Yair. Not too bad-a for a Dago, non e vero?”

“Fuckn what? Speak Australian, bugger ya!”

“Stuff you! I am-a for Christ-a-sake-a,” and he crosses himself and I can’t help staring at him. It’s the first time I ever sat close to someone who did that.

“You’re a fuckn mick?” I ask in disbelief.

“What ya expect? I’m a Dago, for Christ-a-sake-a,” and he crosses himself again just as we go over a big bump that causes him to nearly poke his eye out. We pull up half way down the paddock and he goes to get out.

“Did ya bring the grog?” I ask, seriously.

“Nah, got me own. Come on, the spuds are right-a here and they gotta be dug up or they’ll be no good in a couple-a days.”

“I need a drink first.”

“Yair, of course. I tell ya, I got something-a special. It’s in-a me little tool shed over there.”

Spuds runs over and comes back with a shovel and a greasy looking bottle that was once a lemonade bottle and it’s got this murky looking stuff in it.

“What the fuck is that?” I ask, swaying a bit and eyeing off the shovel. I’m not really up to digging.

“It’s-a my brother’s grappa. He makes it himself up at-a Mildura where they grow all the grapes. It’s the fuckn best, I tell ya. Here, take a swig.”

I’m always game when it comes to trying out grog. I grab the bottle and pop it straight in me mouth and take a big swig like it was any old plonk. And it tastes really like strong wine, and then I swallow it and shit! It’s like I imagine it must be like drinking metho! I drop the bottle and the grappa starts pouring out of it and Spuds starts yelling and screaming like it was liquid gold running out all over his potato patch.

“Affunculo! Ya useless little piece of-a shit!” he screams and he grabs up the bottle that’s half empty. He looks at me and I know he wants to beat the shit out of me.

“Gees, I’m sorry. It was fuckn good stuff. I just wasn’t expecting it to burn me guts out.” Spuds is hugging the bottle to his chest with both arms. Gees! Dad! Is that stuff so good? “Shit, Spuds. I’m sorry. Come on, I’ll dig up all your spuds for ya.”

I grab the shovel and I ram it into the ground, but the ground’s hard and cracked because there hasn’t been much rain for a while. I stand on the shovel trying to jiggle it down, and then I step off and pull on the handle to dig up a shovel full of potatoes and dirt, except that the ground’s so hard I have to really force the handle down, and then there’s a loud “crack” and the handle of the shovel snaps and I fall down on top of it. Shit, Dad. Maybe Swampy’s right. I’m fuckn useless out here. I look over at Spuds who hasn’t seen what happened. He’s too busy sipping at his grappa and muttering away to himself in Dago. I stagger over to him and ask for a swig. He looks up, and hands me the bottle. I take it, and with me other hand I give him the handle of the shovel. He takes it and then looks at me and at the grappa. If he socks me one, the grappa will go to the ground and there’ll be none left. So he stands there looking at the handle, trying not to smack me with it. I’m about to take a swig, but as it just gets to me mouth I can’t do it, because I burst out laughing. I hand him back the bottle and he drops the handle and grasps the bottle in both hands and hugs it to his chest again. And then I see him shaking all over and I think he’s crying, but it can’t be true because he’s a real tough bloke. But I’m having a laughing fit and then he bursts out laughing too and takes a swig. He hands me the bottle and I have another swig and this time I’m ready for it, and now I really like the stuff. Only thing is that I felt like the blood was running out of me head, it was so strong. I hand him back the bottle and I start yelping and dancing around and pretty soon we’re both so drunk we can’t stand up and we’re rolling around in the potato patch every now and then trying to pull them up by hand, but it’s impossible.

The sun has dipped below the rise and the sky is red. I’m listening to the veggies talk to each other, their leaves are rustling, I put my ear to the ground and I can hear it murmur. I’m fuckn paralytic.

*

This big fat koala’s sitting on my chest, and it’s pushing the air out of my lungs and I can’t breathe. Dad! Help! It’s a monster and it’s suffocating me to death. Dad, how’d I end up like this? It’s huge head’s in my face and its paws are grabbing my ears and shaking my head so hard it will rip my ears off. Dad! Help me! Please Dad! I’m going to die! Die I tell you! And the monster animal pulls me head up and I open my eyes and it’s Mr. Counter leaning over me and I feel the damp of the leaves around me. I’m still in the potato patch. I look around for Spuds, but he’s gone and so is Swampy’s ute. Mr. Counter’s holding the empty grappa bottle.

“You been drinking this?” he asks the obvious.

“Yair, I s’pose so.”

“You stupid little bugger. You’re getting more like your father every day.”

“Shit. It’s not my fault Mr. Counter. You made me go with Swampy. I just did what you told me.”

“I thought you’d handle yourself better than this. Getting drunk on Dago grappa. That stuff’s like metho, you know. It’s dangerous.”

“I didn’t know.”

Mr. Counter’s pulling at my old school shirt, trying to get me to sit up.

“Look at you. You’re a disgusting mess.”

“Shit, Mr. Counter. It’s not my fault. Those blokes are crazy!”

“That’s what they say about you!”

“And Swampy’s sister, she’s just as mad!”

I struggle to get up, and with Mr. Counter’s hand under my arm, I manage to get nearly upright. He let’s go of me and picks up the handle of the shovel.

“I see you’ve been working,” he says.

“Yair. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a roustabout on a farm. And I hate sheep anyway.”

“Well, it was worth a try.”

“I just want to work at the pub and be your best barman, Mr. Counter.”

Mr. Counter looks at me. He’s such a good bloke and he was such a good mate to me Dad. I don’t know what I’d do without him. I’d do anything for him, I would. He’s smiling.

“Come on,” he says, and he gives me a nice tap on the shoulder, “let’s get back to the pub. There’s a lot to do.”

We walk to his new Humber and he drives as slow as a tractor over the great holes and furrows in the track, and at long last on to the Melbourne Road. I’m already looking forward to cleaning the bar counter, pouring the beers with just the right amount of head, having a few beers with the mates after closing time. And how good it’ll be to get in my own soft bed.

*

I’ve been trying out all the booze. Went back to the gin. It was the first booze I ever drank, out there in the paddock among the thistles. Seems like years ago. But it’s awful, I have to admit. I tried it like the women do in the Snake Pit, having a gin squash, but it’s so sweet with the lemon cordial and then the lemonade as well, I just couldn’t drink much of it because it filled me guts up. Besides, gin stinks even in squash so I wouldn’t get away with drinking it during the day while I was working. So I tried the vodka. And holy shit, that was the drink for me! When nobody was looking I first tried it neat, and I nearly choked like the day I drank Spuds’s grappa. But I got it down and phew! What a hit! At first I tried it in lemon squash, but the stuff filled up me guts and I couldn’t drink enough of it to keep me buzzing all day. Then a woman comes up and orders a vodka tonic, and I reckoned I’d try that. And it worked! I could drink as much as I wanted all day and soon I managed to pretty much fill the glass half vodka and half tonic, and the best thing was the vodka didn’t smell like gin did. So I’d just keep telling people that I loved the tonic water and it was good for my digestion.

Then after closing time when we had our few drinks and the mates told stories and we sucked down the beers, on my shout—although it was really Mr. Counter that gave us all our beer free —I’d sneak a couple of whiskeys behind the bar while I was filling the glasses. Sugar, though, he was watching me like a hawk. He never liked me. He was jealous because Mr. Counter treated me like one of his family, and Sugar was just another barman. I couldn’t help that, Dad, now could I? But he liked scotch and didn’t really drink much beer because he said it had too much sugar, so I’d pour him a couple of scotches and while I was doing it, I’d turn my back and take a quick swig out of the bottle.

By the time all the blokes went home, I was blotto as usual and I’d wander into the kitchen and look through the fridge for something to eat, but really, I wasn’t ever much hungry, so I’d chew a piece of bread and have a glass (well a few glasses) of plonk to go with it and then I’d stagger down the passage and flop on my bed. And I’d feel around under me bed for the bottle of plonk I kept there, yair, just like me dear old Dad, and have a few swigs before I dropped off.

I don’t know how long all this went on for. They were my happiest times for a long while until I started to notice that the blokes would look at me and say nothing but I knew there was something wrong. I thought this was because I had the shakes a bit, especially in the morning when I sat down for breakfast in the kitchen and Abbie would plonk down a plate of bacon and eggs and I’d try to scoop up the bacon with my fork but me hand shook too much, so I’d just end up eating the toast and that was all. Once I got a few grogs into me, though, the shakes went away, and I was right as rain. So then I started sneaking a small flask of scotch and kept it in my room and as soon as I woke up, I’d take a swig or two and that steadied me down so I never had the shakes in the kitchen and Abbie stopped looking at me like I was a criminal. But I could never swallow those eggs. She’d keep making them in all different ways. But they just turned me off. And she’d stand there with her hands on her hips, big toothy grin telling me I had to eat them because I needed to keep up my strength.

*

This day I’m serving the Snake Pit and Little Linda shows up and she’s chasing her little brat kid around the Lounge and finally catches her and drags her up to the bar.

“Whiskey and beer,” she says as usual.

“G’day, Linda,” I says.

“Where ya fuckn been?” she asks.

“Here, of course. Where d’you fuckn think?”

“Don’t ya like Iris any more or what, ya bastard?”

“Course I like her. I been busy working me fuckn ass off in the pub.”

“And ya had no fuckn time to come and see her?”

“Why couldn’t she come and see me?”

“Because I dunno where she is, that’s why.”

“What do you fuckn mean?”

“She’s gone again. Hurry with the scotch, will ya? I’m fuckn sick.”

“Shit and hell! When?”

“The drinks, ya bastard. Get the fuckn drinks.”

The kid brat pulls away from her hand and starts running and screaming up and down the passage. I get the drinks and she grabs them off me.

“That’s one-and-thruppence.”

“Fuck you! I’m broke.”

She walks away and I’m left standing there so I have to feel around in my pocket for the money and make up the till, because if I don’t Sugar, when he does the money tonight, will find out the till is short. But I’m shaking too. I reach for my tonic water and it steadies me. God in hell! Iris, Dad. I forgot all about her. Well, didn’t really forget, always I’m thinking of her when I’m down there in my bedroom on me own, getting into the plonk wishing I was with her, you know what I mean Dad? I suppose this hap¬pened to you too? I just can’t seem to get myself to leave this place and the booze.

Little Linda. She buggered up my day, and I had to hit the booze more than usual. Sugar was watching me like never before, and I had a good idea that Mr. Counter was too. So after closing time, instead of staying with the mates for our usual few beers, I went down to my room to have a drink on my own. Even then, though, I was having trouble walking a straight line, but the blokes wouldn’t be able to see me because the passage was so dark. And when I opened the door to my bedroom and the sun pierced me eyes like a frigging dagger slicing through the slit in the blind, I put up my hands to shade them and then I saw lying on my bed, little Iris all curled up and there were tears on her cheeks, those lovely white cheeks.

I close the door softly behind me, but I’m so unsteady it bangs shut and Iris wakes up. She doesn’t do more than just open her eyes. I’m down on my knees and I’m nuzzling my nose into her face. I’m looking already for one of her wet kisses. But she just lies there and curls up even tighter in a ball.

“Gees Iris! What the hell? Are you all right?”

“Bugger you,” she says in a little mousey voice.

“Gees, Iris! What’d I do?”

“You’re a fuckn hopeless shit.”

“What’d I do?”

“And you’re a fuckn drunk.”

“I’m fuckn not!”

She sits on the edge of the bed. She’s looking down at me. And I know she wants to ruffle me hair. But she’s not. And I’m waiting for one of her wet kisses. But her lips are dry and she’s licking them. My knees are getting sore from kneeling and I’m having trouble staying up straight anyway. I try to grab her hands but she pulls them away. She didn’t say it, but I know what she’s saying. “Don’t touch me.” Shit Dad. What have I done? All I done really is have a few drinks. That’s all. And every bloke does it, all me mates in the bar. They all have their few beers. That’s all. Yair, Dad. And if our women would have a few beers that would make it a lot easier.

“You’re talking to your father again, you fuckn weirdo,” she says.

“Shut the fuck up.” I’m getting angry, my ears are red and I think I’m falling sideways.

“Stand up ya fuckn drunk. You can’t can ya?”

I grab the bed and I push myself up and I fall over on to the bed and I knock her backwards and end up lying across her lap.

“Get off, you’re hurting me.” She’s going to howl, I know she is. I’m feeling around under my bed for a drop a plonk.

“Get off me!” she cries and then I find the plonk and I pull it out and I sit up all proud.

“There, you see, I found it! We’re set for the night. Here, I’ve got a spare glass somewhere in the drawer.”

I try to stand up and fall back on the bed. Iris dodges me and stands up, her back against the torn blind. She’s got her hands on her hips and she looks like Swampy’s sister. I think I’m stuffed. She doesn’t have a whip, though, so I’m lying on the bed on my back, holding the bottle of plonk on my chest. I’m trying to pour a glass but I can’t get the bottle to go to the glass. She sniffs and snivels and then she takes a step forward, and Dad, I knew I was in for it. She grabs the bottle of plonk out of me hand and throws it against the wall and it bounces off, and sprays plonk all over everything, me included. I’m madly thinking that I must look like I just came out of the Nile the day it ran red. Then she sits on top of me and for a fleeting moment my body says, “this is going to be good” except she doesn’t stop there. She leans back and grabs me dick and everything. Gees Dad! Is this what they do when they get mad? My ears aren’t red any more. I’m getting ready for one of the best. But then she squeezes and squeezes and before I know it I’m calling out, “Stop! Stop! What the fuck are you doing?” And she leans back on to her hand and puts even more weight on me and I’m doing all I can not to scream. “Fuckn shit and hell, Iris. I might have been a bastard, but this, this… aahhh!” I cry and I try to roll away from under her, but I’m too drunk to do it. She lets go a little and I’m lying there, I can’t talk. I might even throw up with her sitting on me guts. What a mess it would make. Then she leans forward and I think she’s going to kiss me. I see her lips are really nice and wet like they always were. “Yair, Iris,” I say, “that’s the girl.” She gets even closer and pushes her nose against mine.

“You know what?” she says.

I don’t want to answer. I’m waiting for her kiss. I move my lips like I was saying “what.”

“I’m pregnant.”

So now, you got to understand, Dad. I heard the words but I didn’t have a clue what they meant. I mean it was just like someone told me I forgot their birthday or that they had the mumps or something. So I say, “gees, I’m sorry.”

“Did ya fuckn hear what I said, ya dopey fuckn drunk?”

“Yair. You’re pregnant. So that’s all right, isn’t it?”

She lets go of me dick and gets off me. Trouble is, even in my drunken state, I’ve got a hard on and of course she knows it. She looks down at it.

“Your brains are swollen again,” she says.

And I’m about to laugh but I see she’s not laughing.

“I’m pregnant, don’t you understand? And you did it.”

So now it’s beginning to sink in. Even though she raped me—that’s what she really did—she’s blaming me.

“Me? What about your old man? You said he does you all the time.”

“I told you. I made that up.”

“Then who else, then?”

“You’re the only one. I thought I loved you.”

She sits on the edge of the bed again and puts her hand into my hair and it calms me down a lot.

“So, you can get rid of it, can’t you?”

“What a shit you are,” she says, and gets up and walks to the door.

“Where you going?”

“Don’t know. I’m not going back home.”

“That’s what you said last time.” I think I’m sobering up.

“Yair. But I mean it this time. If I went home Tank would beat me senseless and try to knock it out of me belly.”

“He’s that kind of bastard?”

“Yair.”

“Me drinking mates talk. They know where you can get fixed. Their sheilas do it all the time.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a real fuckn dumb shit, that’s what you are. Didn’t you learn anything besides Latin at high school?”

“Thanks. I’m only trying to help.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re its father, ya fuckn drunken wombat!”

“Well, what do ya want to do then?”

“What do you want to do?”

“Fuck you right now,” me body says, but I lie there looking her up and down. Those white cheeks, the red sloppy lips. I can’t stop drooling.

“Well? What do you want to do about it?” she nags. “What?”

“I don’t know. I mean it’s yours, isn’t it?”

“So… It’s nothing to do with you? You’ll just keep on drinking with your mates and forget all about me, so you don’t fuckn care what I do?”

“No, I won’t, I mean, course I care, but I’m not giving up drink¬ing with me mates, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m three months, you know.”

“Yair? It’s been that long since I did me Latin exam?”

“Shit. That’s what you remember, is it?”

“No, course not. That time in the commission house. Oh, gees, it was the best.” And now I’m going off again and I want to get into her. So I start to sit up and get a bit closer to her.

“Fuckn stay right there,” she says, sounding like Swampy’s sister again.

“Gees, Iris. I’ll marry you if that would fix things. Is that what you want?”

Dad, you gotta listen to me. She stood there staring at me like I had said something really awful, the worst. And I haven’t a clue what I said, not really. I said it hoping it would make her feel better, but I meant it too. I mean “meant it” without a clue of what it meant. Gees. Dad. I’m all fucked up.

I start looking around the room. I pick up my old towel and try to wipe off the red splashes of plonk on the walls and closets. She follows me with her eyes as I move around the room, and I gradually inch closer to her. I wipe her eyes with the clean tip of the towel. And I see the water in her eyes, and gees, Dad, tears start pushing at the back of my eyes as well. It just all of a sudden happened. And Iris sees the tears, and she raises her finger and lightly touches the corner of me eye and follows a tear down the side of my nose. I drop the towel and I gently slide my arms around her and we draw close. And at last she plonks one of her sloppy kisses on me dry lips. And I think everything’s back to what they were after my Latin exam. To my amazement, I pick her up in my arms and gently place her on the bed. And I lie down beside her and we cuddle together and even though I’m ready to do her over and over again, we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

*

Gees Dad. I have to be honest. When I woke up, I was kind of hoping she’d be gone like last time. But she wasn’t. She was right there, her lily-white eyelids closed tight, her eyes rolling around behind them. Dreaming of me, I hope. My hand’s shaking a lot, but I try hard to lightly run my fingers through her cropped hair that I’ve always loved, and gradually down her neck. I plant a kiss on her eyelid, and I see a flicker of her mouth. She’s in there, Dad. I know what it’s like, don’t I?

Iris opens her eyes and I see that she’s kind of shocked to find me there, staring into her gorgeous blue-grey eyes. Not that different, I say to myself, to the colour of Swampy’s sheep. But hers are full of life. She sighs and stretches out her arms and I lean into her hoping she’ll pull me in. And she does. But I’m shaking like buggery and she pushes me back. I start feeling around under the bed for a bottle of booze. Should be some scotch there somewhere. It always stops the shakes. Then out of the blue, she says with a cheeky grin,

“I’m going to call it Ovid.”

At last, I find a little flask of scotch and I have to hold it with two hands to steady myself so I can get it up to my mouth. I’m not listening to her.

“Did you hear me? Ya bastard, all you think of is your booze. Me mum’s been right all along.”

“Gees! Hang on! I’m just trying to steady myself. I’m just try¬ing to calm myself down. I mean, you scared the shit out of me getting pregnant.”

“What a shit you are! I’m getting out of here.”

“What’d I do now? I can’t help it if you got yourself pregnant!”

“You’re a useless asshole, that’s what you are. I’m leaving and I never want to see you again!”

“Iris! For Christ sake! You’re going off your rocker!”

And she runs to the door and just as she grabs the doorknob, it flies open and there’s Abbie standing there her mouth gaping open. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, no pants on, holding a flask of whiskey over my crown jewels.

“What the hell’s going on here?” she says, trying to sound real bossy, but she’s holding back a laugh, putting her hand up to her big white teeth.

Iris looks like a little primary school kid next to her and she backs away like her teacher had just told her to ‘sit down right this minute.’ So she sits down on the edge of the bed right next to me.

The scotch is working its magic and my hands are getting steady.

“Abbie, this is my girlfriend Iris,” I say, waiting for Abbie to say something, but she doesn’t, and then I blurt out, “we’re getting married.”

I feel Iris stiffen up and she puts her hand on me leg and digs her nails right into me.

“Really?” smiles Abbie like she’s going along with a fairy tale, “and when are you going to get up and get ready for work?”

“Get stuffed. You’re not my mother.”

“Thank goodness. But Mrs. Counter asked me to watch out for you, and that’s what I’m doing even if it’s not my job.”

“Pleased to meet you,” says Iris and she holds out her hand.

“Hello love. Welcome to the pub. Now tell your silly boyfriend here to get himself cleaned up. She looks me up and down. “He looks like a… don’t know what.”

She backs out of the room and pulls the door slowly shut. I take another swig of the scotch and drain the bottle, and slide it under the bed.

“It’s a him?” I say, making like everything’s back the way they were. She’s starting to snivel and sob. “Gees, Iris love,” I say, putting my arm around her and giving her a little hug, “don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Why did you tell her we’re getting married?

“Gees, I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Marry a drunken bastard like you?”

“I’m not a drunk. I’m just having fun at the pub with me mates.”

“Yair. OK. That’s what all me mum’s blokes told her, and my sister’s too.”

“So, what do you want to do then?” I’m getting angry. I feel the blood in my ears and I start to finger them.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” She sobs and she puts her arms around my neck and cries into my chest that’s all sweaty and smelly. And then she keeps rubbing her lovely white cheek against my chest that’s tight and smooth as well, and her cropped hair is tickling my tits. I put my arms around her too, the least I could do, Dad. And we sit there, rocking backwards and forwards. And after a long time when her sobs have stopped, I ask, “are we gunna get married then?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t,” she whimpers.

“Well I’ll marry you, if you want. I don’t care.”

“You don’t care? Shit! You bastard!”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that.”

“It’s your drinking, you know that.”

I look down at her belly.

“You could get rid of it you know.”

“You mean we, don’t you?”

She looks at me like I’m a criminal.

“Shit, Iris. What are you talking about?”

“I told you. Tank will beat it out of me.”

“I’m not Tank, for Christ sake.”

“Yair. But I don’t know how to do it either.”

“I could talk to me mates. There’s places you can go. They talk about it all the time.”

“Yair, but then everyone would know.”

“Nah. They keep it quiet. Because you’re not supposed to do it, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I could ask Mrs. Counter. The trouble is she doesn’t like me.”

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Counter then?”

“Because he told me I had to get rid of you. Remember?”

“But that was before.”

“Shit, Iris. I got to get cleaned up and get to the bar. Sugar will be knocking at the door any minute.”

“So you’re just leaving me here, then, just like last time”?

“Shit, Iris. What the hell can I do? I got to go to work. And if we’re going to have a baby, we need money, don’t we?”

“All right. Go then. I don’t know what I’m going to do all day in here.”

“Maybe you could help Abbie or something.”

“Bugger off then!”

I grab my towel and I’m about to open the door when I see the handle turn. I grab it and pull it open, and there, sure enough is Sugar. He’s smirking away, and he’s got his eyebrows in that frown of his like they nearly meet each other at his nose and I find myself staring at them. I’m sure he plucks them and trims them too.

“Fuck off, Sugar!” I scowl and wrap the towel around my waist. He stares at the towel and sticks his tongue out to wet his lips.

“Mr. Counter wants to see you right away.”

“I’m having a shower.” I push past him and walk none too steady down to the bathroom.

“I know what you’re doing, you smart ass,” he calls.

Then I remember I never shut the bedroom door. I turn back and start running. Sugar thinks I’m after him and when I get close, I stamp my foot and go like I’m about to punch him. He steps back and bangs his head against the wall, and I brush past him saying, “gees, I forgot me underpants.”

*

I’m in the shower and I’m thinking what I’m going to do. I’ll tell Mr. Counter that Iris and me are getting married and I want my money that I’ve earned fair and square and can we stay in the pub. Maybe Iris could do some work for Mrs. Counter or something. I’m standing there, letting the water run over my throbbing head and down over my face. I need another drink. There’s a bang on the door and someone comes in. I must have forgot to lock it. But I can see through the old plastic shower curtain that it’s Sugar.

“Get going you little fuck! Eddie’s got a big shitty on you,” he says.

“Get the fuck out of here you asshole!”

“Well, don’t say I never told you.”

I cup my hands and fill them with water, toss back the curtain and throw it on his bald head.

“Fuck off!” I say.

“You bastard. You’ll be sorry for all this. You’re getting too big for your frigging boots.”

“You want fuckn more? Get the fuck out!” He stands there staring at the shower curtain. “You hear me? Fuck off!”

*

Gees, Dad. Flo and Tank, are they really married? Shit! Will me and Iris be like that when we’re old like they are? Gees, Dad, I never thought about getting married. Sweet Iris, Dad, she made it look like we had to and that was that, don’t you think? And I didn’t think much of it. For Christ sake, the people that come into the pub that’s supposed to be married. If they can do it, so can we, don’t you think? I just never thought about it. It’s like having a birthday or something. It’s just something that happens. It comes along and you have a big party, and then you wait for the next one. Right?

I was trying to figure out who was who in that hell-house anyway. Iris, she lies half the damned time about who’s who and who does what. Linda’s supposed to be her big sister, but is she a half-sister or what? And she really looks like Iris’s little sister, and that’s weird because Iris is little herself. And whose kid is the brat? Can you imagine Tank and Flo going at it? Shit and hell! He’s so big and Flo’s tiny. It’s the smoking, that’s what Iris says. She smokes and doesn’t eat much. She lives on toast and Vegemite. And she’s got no money because the Seventh Day Adventists took it all, that’s what Iris said. Anyway, Flo never had any money. Iris says she grew up in a traveling circus and her bedroom was an open trailer with a mattress plonked down in it. I don’t believe that, do you Dad? Shit. Iris keeps telling me stuff, I wish she wouldn’t.

*

Flo was lying on her water bed flat on her back, drawing on her cigarette, looking up at the ceiling. She knew every little crack and smudge on that ceiling, she’d been on her back so much in this room. The daddy longlegs left their marks all over and so did the flies, little black spots of crap. She heard the kitchen screen door open and slam shut so she rolled over and stubbed out her Garrick. Tank was on his way. She heard the fridge door open and slam shut. He was getting a beer. And now he was pacing up and down the kitchen while he drank it. The house was quiet. Linda and the brat must have gone to the pub. She lit another cigarette and drew deeply. Death sticks Iris called them. What did she know? The sin of her life was such a weight and Iris was the sin she had hidden from the church. They would kick her out if they knew. But that wouldn’t be so bad, except that Jesus surely knew. Of course, Tank was her partner in sin. He stopped beating her long ago and the truth is she missed it. She deserved it, that’s what. When he beat her it made it easier to live with herself. But now, every time she saw Iris, the heavy weight fell on her back like a huge stone crushing the life out of her. Tank came to the bedroom door.

“I’ll throttle that little shit when I catch him, I tell ya,” he growled.

Flo lay there expressionless. She closed her eyes and said a prayer. “Dear Jesus, I know that what I’ve done is too bad to be forgiven,” she said, her lips moving without noise, “take me, Jesus, I’m ready!”

Now Tank paced up and down the bedroom, sipping his beer.

“You hear me Flo? Ya silly old bitch!” he said.

Flo remained motionless except for her lips.

“I’ll yank his fuckn head off and then I’ll deal with Iris, the little whore!”

Flo flinched. She took a draw of her Garrick and began to cough, but managed to speak. “Don’t you fuckn touch her,” she said, her face still flat and expressionless, “you and me made her like that, it’s not her fault.”

“She’s a silly little fuckn bitch.”

“Jesus told me she’s pure, pure as snow.”

“Yair? While she’s fuckn that little prick?”

“Because we made her like it.”

“Your stupid fuckn minister’s feeding you bullshit.”

“I never told him nothing. I only told Jesus.”

“You always was a stupid bitch.”

“You must have been stupid to marry me then.”

“Fuck you.”

Flo rolled over to stub out her cigarette and added it to the mound of buts in the ashtray. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Tank who stopped his pacing and stood there, draining the last drop of beer from the bottle.

“Go on,” said Flo, “hit me with the bottle like you always do.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya? So you could call the cops.”

“Go on then.”

Flo brushed past him and went to the bathroom. She looked briefly in the mirror, then walked to the kitchen where Tank was getting another beer. “I’m going to church, “she said, “and so should you.”

“This is my church,” said Tank, raising the bottle to his lips. It was Saturday. He was going to the pub. And if he caught that little bastard he would break his fuckn neck.

*

Mr. Counter put me on pie duty. He had a not-so-friendly talk with me. I didn’t make it to the bar until nearly eleven o’clock. I only ate a round of toast for breakfast and left most of that any¬way, even though Abbie had made eggs for me as usual. She wasn’t too pleased this morning. And she kept giving me looks like I should talk with her in private or something. I didn’t, though, because I was scared what I might say. Then Mr. Counter came into the kitchen and he stood at the old table and Mrs. Counter came up and stood next to him. Abbie took my plate away and put some fresh toast with the eggs I left, and then she gave me a look again, and took the plate away and left the kitchen.

“This is my last warning, to you,” said Mr. Counter. His missus was standing there with her hands on her huge hips. “I’ve done everything and more to help you get over your Dad’s passing. Now you have to help yourself. This is your last chance.”

“Mr. Counter. I’m sorry. I’ll give up the booze. But I want my money.”

“You what?”

“My money that you said you put away for me. I need it.”

“What for? More grog?”

“Young man…” began Mrs. Counter.

“It’s something urgent. I can’t tell you what.”

“Well, the answer’s no. Not until you show me that you can give up the grog.”

“But I need the dough now.”

“It can’t be that urgent. Go on the wagon for the rest of the week and we can then talk about you getting more of your money.”

I’m sitting there sullen, and scratching at the table top. “Mr. Counter, please. It’s really important.”

“How important?” asks Mrs. Counter.

“Well, I can’t tell you. I really can’t.”

“Are you in trouble?” asks Mr. Counter.

“Nah, I wouldn’t say that. But a mate of mine needs help urgently.” I surprised myself saying this.

“Well, tell us what it is.”

“I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t say. He’s an old mate. I have to help him.”

“How much do you need?” asks Mr. Counter.

“All my money.”

“It’s not much anyway, because you haven’t been doing your work properly, have you?”

I’d said enough. Didn’t want to risk saying any more or I might bugger myself up. I just sat there, head throbbing in my hands.

“Well, let’s see how you do today and then we’ll talk again to¬night. I’m putting you on pie duty this morning. You can run the pie shop yourself. All right?”

“OK Mr. Counter.”

So here I am now, putting the pies in the warmer and they smell really mouth-watering, and I’m wanting to eat one, but the shakes have come back and I’m having trouble handling the pies and pasties, my hands banging against the warmer and burning me. The pie shop is at the back of the new bar, so I have to sneak out and into the storeroom behind. There’s boxes and boxes of booze and I find a case of whiskey flasks, rip it open and grab a flask and pull at the cap, which is hard because of my shakes. But I get it off and take a few quick swigs, then I’m right as rain, and I do my job in the pie shop, no worries.

*

There’s this hell of a noise and I know it’s the brat right away. She comes running into the pie shop and little Linda’s chasing after her. She grabs her and lifts her up on to the counter.

“She wants a sausage roll,” she says.

“Roll! Roll!” the brat screams.

I get her a sausage roll and she snatches it out of my hand before I can put it in a bag. Linda grabs the brat and walks off carrying her on her hip.

“Hey! You forgot to pay,” I yell.

“No, I didn’t,” she yells.

“Fuckn bitch!” I yell. My ears are red and I’m off after her, I’m going to squeeze the money out of her. I don’t want to, but I haven’t got any money of my own anymore, so I can’t make it up to the till. Sugar will find out tonight that it’s short and he’ll tell Mr. Counter I’ve been fingering the till.

Linda stops and turns as the brat squirms free of her clutches and runs away. “You better watch yourself,” she says, “me old man’s after you, says he’ll break your fuckn neck. And he’s on his way to do it, right now.”

I stop in my tracks. I grab a stray beer glass and run out of the pie shop and into the storeroom. If he comes after me, I can smash the glass and cut him with it. There’s a trap door down to the beer cellar where all the barrels of beer are hooked up to the pipes going to the bars. I grab a flask of whiskey and down I go. It’s cold down there, so I don’t know how long I can stay put.

Not very long. What am I fuckn doing? I climb back out of the cellar and back to the pie shop. It’s time for me to close it down anyway. And then I hear a lot of shouting and this time I’m sure Tank is coming for me, so I start for the storeroom, but this time Sugar’s standing there waiting for me, a big smirk on his face, practically undressed, and he’s got only his underpants on and nothing else. He locks the storeroom door and just stands there smirking. Me, I’m clueless.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask, breathless, looking to the door expecting Tank to smash his way in any minute.

“What are you doing here is more like it,” he says with a grin.

“Tank’s coming to kill me, that’s why. I have to get away.”

“He’s not coming. I told Grecko to watch out for him.”

Sugar comes up to me and stands up close. He’s got this horrible sweet breath like he’s been eating Steamrollers for breakfast. And I look at his eyebrows again, they’re plucked for sure.

“You’re not having a fit again are you?”

“Not that kind of fit,” he says, and he licks his creepy mouth like he was a kid licking an ice-cream.

I step away and he follows me until I’m up against a stack of beer boxes, my back arched over and he’s up against me. I’m still clutching the beer glass.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I say, “you’re breaking my back, for Christ sake.”

He doesn’t say nothing but he steps back a little, and then I see it plain and clear. Dumb bastard you are, I say to myself. Dad, if you could have seen us right then. I suppose it was funny. But real quick I smash the glass on the edge of a barrel, my ears are red and I’m ready to let him have it. I push him away and I swipe the glass across his body aiming for one thing, a thin stalk like a carrot, not much bigger than Nipper’s. I miss my mark and the glass gets caught in his pants and he’s panicking so I jab the glass into his crown jewels and he yells and there’s blood seeping through his underpants. I’m about to finish him off with a jab to the face when the storeroom door bursts open and in comes Tank with Grecko hard on his heels. They both stop in their tracks when they see us, but Grecko quickly grabs the glass from my hand, and Tank, he’s just standing there, puffing and panting trying to decide which one of us to hit first.

“He’s a fuckn poofda!” I yell, pointing at Sugar, “a fuckn stinking poofda!”

Sugar starts moaning and drops to the floor. There’s blood trickling down his legs. Grecko’s holding me back with one hand. Then Tank starts forward and Grecko stiffens. But instead a going after me, Tank looks at Sugar and laughs, “I always fuckn thought you were, ya little fuckn shit!” He turns around and goes off laughing his head off. Grecko gives me a shove towards the door and says, “better call an ambulance.” I look down at Sugar and there’s blood everywhere. He’s dropped to his knees, about to pass out.

*

With Sugar out of the way for a while, my life was a bit easier. I was expecting to get a visit from the cops because the job I did on Sugar was pretty horrendous. He had to have a lot of surgery to get fixed, it was touch and go and he nearly died. But the cops never came and nobody ever said anything to me. I don’t know if Mr. Counter will have Sugar back, now that everybody knows he’s a poofda. There’ll be blokes going after him as soon as they get a bit of grog in them. Trouble was, Mr. Counter blamed me for it all, even though it was not my fault, was it Dad? He said I had a bad temper and it would get me into big trouble if I didn’t do something about it and that it was made worse by me being on the booze all the time, so I better show him I could give it up or he would fire me. And there was no way he’d give me any of my money until I showed him I was on the wagon, and he didn’t care what I wanted the money for, I wasn’t going to get it.

“Mr. Counter,” I pleaded, “if I don’t have my morning grog, I can’t work properly. I have the shakes so bad, I can’t pour a beer.”

“Yes, I know. And you’ll steal the booze from me so you can keep drinking even when you don’t have any money. And I’ve seen you drinking the dregs from the beer glasses.”

“Gees, Mr. Counter, don’t embarrass me, I can’t help it.”

“You’ve turned into your father,” he says, looking at me and looking really sad.

For the first time since that day Dad died, there’s water coming to my eyes and I’m going to cry. I gulp a few times and my face is all red from my embarrassment.

“Mr. Counter, you don’t know what trouble I’m trying to fix. I really do need the money.”

“Then go on the wagon.”

“I’ve tried, you know that. I can’t, and do me job at the same time.”

“Is Iris still living in your room?”

The question came like a bolt of lightning.

“How’d you know?”

“Abbie hinted to the missus, and when I saw Tank after you, I put two and two together.”

“Unless she’s gone off again, she’s still in my room,” I confessed.

“Maybe she can help you get on the wagon.”

“She mightn’t be there. I don’t know where she is half the time.”

“The only way to fix you is to lock yourself in your room and not come out till it’s over.”

“How long will it take?”

“A few days.”

“I, I don’t know, Mr. Counter.”

“It’s easier if you have someone with you.”

“Maybe Abbie could?”

“She’s got work to do… Iris… you need Iris.”

*

Iris was still there! She was still lying on my bed, all curled up. She looked so beautiful, I stripped off and slid into bed beside her. She turned and faced away from me and I cuddled into her, snuggling me nose into the back of her neck, rubbing it into her hair. And then I started to shake. Not just my hands, but my whole body. I felt under the bed for my flask but couldn’t find it. I leaned over to look and there was nothing there. And the shakes were so bad I fell out of bed. I went through all my drawers but there was nothing there either. My room was bare. And I’m hugging myself shivering and shaking and Iris opens an eye and then the other. She starts to laugh.

“Ya silly bugger, get back in here,” she says.

“It’s not funny!” And I’m trying to put some clothes on to get warm.

“Come on. Get in and I’ll keep ya warm,”

And the tears just gushed up and burst out of me, I couldn’t hold them back no more. I collapsed into bed and the shakes got me in convulsions and Iris, my dear little Iris, tries to hold me as tight as she can and I’m trying not to hurt her with me convulsions. She lies on top-a me and her weight is nearly enough to hold me down and she fights to keep there and I gradually feel the warmth of her sweet little body coming through to me and I’m trying to stop my arms from flailing around and she’s dodging them and she’s trying to plant a sloppy kiss on my cheek but my head’s whizzing side to side and my nose bangs her lips but she doesn’t stop trying to kiss me because she knows that’s what I love most. Gees, Dad, I love her so much, is this how it was with you and mum? Iris stays there still, and slowly my body gives in, tired and aching, my arms and legs at last slowing down and going limp. Sleep was coming, thank God Dad, and Iris was just lying there on top of me and I’m getting warm and I’m waiting for sleep.

I saw a movie once about a bloke with the DT’s. He thought there were spiders crawling all over him and he yelled and screamed and thrashed about like he was crazy, trying to brush the spiders away. Didn’t happen to me. How could it, when I had the most beautiful girl in the world lying on top of me? I had a kind of nightmare though. It started out like my usual one where I’m on the Melbourne Road, but this time instead of standing there waiting for the truck to run me over, I was lying across the road, don’t know how I got there like that, but I was lying there and I look up and see a big truck, Bomber’s truck it was I reckon, boring down the Melbourne Road coming right at me. I’m trying desperately to get up and run away, but there’s this big weight on me that keeps pressing me into the concrete pavement. “It’s coming at me, mum! It’s coming at me!” And I see my mum way across the side of the road standing there and she’s calling out to me but I can’t understand what she’s saying. And the truck’s almost on me, I can hear its old engine roaring, and I’m calling out, “Mum! Mum! Come and get me!” And then me Dad pushes past her and he’s coming but he falls down and can’t get up and he’s crawling but not to me. He’s getting off the road. “Dad! Dad! I’m over here!” but it’s too late, the truck’s right on me and I see Bomber’s face staring at me through the dirty windshield, his glaring white teeth bared like a Tasmanian devil. And then all of a sudden, I feel someone grab my leg and fling me across the road and the truck just evaporates. And I see Sugar standing over me, his big smirk as usual. I’m staring at him, I don’t know what to say. Shit, Dad. What have I done? Did he die? My eyes jerk open and I look for Iris. She’s not on top of me and I can’t see her anywhere. I feel like I’m done for. Without her, I feel like nothing. I curl up and try to sleep but I can’t. I want Iris. And I feel like shit. Need a drink. But I can’t get out of bed, and I feel under the bed but there’s nothing. My mind’s gone bung. I’m thinking it’s the end. I scream into the old blanket I’m holding over my head. It makes me feel a bit better, so I go on screaming until I’m hoarse. And then at last sleep comes.

*

The window’s open and Iris is gone again. My door opens and in comes Abbie with a glass of soda water and an aspirin.

“And how are we this morning?” she says, a bigger than usual smile on her face.

“What time is it?”

“What day is it? You mean.”

She hands me the soda water and aspro and I take them like I’m her patient.

“Where’s Iris?”

“Who knows? She was here yesterday, when I came in.”

“Yesterday? You mean…?”

“Yep. You’ve been out to it for a couple of days and your little Iris stayed with you all that time.”

“Gees, Abbie. Do you know where she is then?”

“Nope. She keeps to herself. Comes and goes through the window. I brought her some breakfast yesterday, though, and she ate it. She’s a good little girl. You’re very lucky to have her.”

“Yair. I know. You got something a bit stronger to go with the soda water?”

“Now! Now! Don’t muck things up after all you’ve been through. You’re on the wagon now. You know what Mr. Counter said.”

I’m sitting up, my legs pulled up under my chin and I’m holding them tight.

“Abbie?” I say.

“Yair?” she answers and bustles around the room like she’s doing the dusting.

“Do you know people…?”

“What people?”

“That can fix up a girl.”

“Talk straight, ya little bugger. What are you asking?”

“Iris is pregnant and we don’t know what to do, and please don’t tell Mr. Counter.”

It just all blurted out and I’m hiding my face behind me knees. Iris saved me the last couple of days and now I’ve gone and told Abbie, the biggest loud mouth in the pub. Abbie moves to the door.

“Don’t go! Don’t go! And please don’t tell anyone, especially Mr. Counter.”

“Why not? He might be able to help you.”

“Do you know anyone?”

“Mr. Counter told me you were getting married, that’s what you told him, isn’t it?”

“Yair, I did. But I didn’t know what I was saying and I don’t know if Iris wants to, although I think she does, but we don’t know what to do, Abbie.”

“Then I don’t know what fix you’re asking me about.”

“Abbie, please. You do. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Well me answer is I don’t. But I know someone who does.”

“You do? Who?”

“Well, I don’t know if she’s the right person. She’s not, er, she’s…”

“Yair? What? Who? Gees, Abbie, say it.”

“Well she’s had a lot of experience with getting fixed. You know her, she’s in the Snake Pit all the time.”

“Gees, Abbie. You mean Millie?”

“Yair. Everyone knows it.”

“But me Dad…”

“Yair. And everyone else.”

“Gees, I don’t know, Abbie.”

“You should tell Mr. Counter. You should.”

“I just can’t. And please, don’t tell anyone.”

“The poor little kid. You need to take care of her, you poor thing.”

“I will, I really will. I just need a drink.”

“That’s the last thing you need!”

And Abbie left.

*

Sitting in a bedroom that’s not much bigger than a prison cell, with no booze, what’s a bloke to do? Gees, Dad, I could really do with a drink. I’m getting a pretty good idea of what you went through. And without Iris to take care of me, what can I do? I suppose I could go and find her but I’m scared her old man will beat me up.

Then there’s a faint knock on my door and I jump up and open it. It’s Mrs. Counter, her boobs hanging like a bull’s balls, but she’s smiling and I think that maybe she does like me. She holds out a big parcel and I take it.

“Young man,” she says, “It’s time you looked the part, so I got you some new clothes. There’s some Fletcher Jones pants and a couple of nice white shirts for you to wear in the bar. Them old school clothes are fit for the bin. We can’t have our barmen look¬ing like runaways, now can we?”

“Gees, thanks Mrs. Counter. I can’t wait to try them on.”

“That’s a good lad. Very good to see you smiling again. You must be feeling better?”

“Yair, Mrs. Counter. Thanks a lot for asking.”

I’m wishing she’d go away and I’m holding the door ready to close it.

“Well, keep it up. Mr. Counter has been very worried about you.”

“I will Mrs. Counter, thank you.”

She stepped away and I shut the door as quick as I could. I threw the parcel on the bed and then I noticed there was a box in the corner. I suppose it must have been sitting there for who knows how long. Grecko must have left it there when he brought my stuff over from the old house. I rummage through the box and find my old exercise books with my class notes in them, and I pull them out and I start ripping out all the notes till there’s a big pile on the floor and I thumb through the pages that’s left in the books and there’s a lot of them. I search around for a pen or pencil and find a ball point pen and I lie down on my bed, flat on me belly, the pillow under my chin and I start writing:

Dear sweet, gorgeous Iris.

I want you, I want you.

Please come back and we’ll make everything right.

I love you I love you.

Please come to me.

I need you I need you.

I can’t wait for your wet kisses.

They’re all I live for.

Please, please come back.

I had to stop right there. I was getting worked up and my hands were starting to shake again. I look under the bed, but of course any booze that was there was long gone. I rolled off the bed and I ripped out the page and threw it on the pile. Then just as quick, I grabbed it back and put it under my pillow. I opened the parcel of clothes and tried on the Fletchers and shirt. They fitted me OK, so I rushed out of the room because I couldn’t take staying there a moment longer and went down to the kitchen for some breakfast. And everybody was being so nice to me, I felt like I was some kind of horrible person that everyone had been told they had to be nice to. Abbie even put her arm around me and showed me to a seat at the old table, and she set up a boiled egg in an egg cup and some overdone toast how I like it. Everyone was making themselves busy pretending they wasn’t taking any notice of me. So I cracked open the egg and cut off its head just like I used to when I was little and me mum cooked googie eggs for me. And I covered it in salt and spooned it into my mouth, managing to control my shakes to just a little tremor.

I showed up at the old bar and Mr. Counter gave me my jobs to do, and so my day on the wagon at work began, and it went on and on like it would never end, and there was someone right beside me, spying on me all the time. They weren’t going to let me have one sip of booze. It was driving me mad. I asked Mr. Counter if I could have some time off to go and find Iris and he said no of course because he didn’t trust me to stay on the wagon.

*

Saturday came and I was doing my forced labour and I heard a familiar voice coming from the Snake Pit. I sneaked up there and sure enough, it was Millie holding court and hanging all over some bloke. She was plastered as usual, but then you couldn’t really tell if she was drunk or sober. I was hoping Iris would be with her, but she wasn’t.

“G’day Millie,” I said.

“Well if it isn’t me former husband’s little kid all grown up!” she joked.

“Yair, Millie. Have ya seen Iris?”

“Why would I?”

“I just thought you might.”

“Why? Have you been a bastard to her again?”

“Fuck no, Millie. I love her.”

“Ya do, do ya?”

“You know where she is?”

“Me glass is empty. Get me another one, will ya? Gin and tonic and make it a double.”

The fuckn bitch, she knows something. I take her glass and make her another gin and tonic. Mr. Counter is standing at the door of the old bar watching me like a hawk. “She’s pissed as usual,” I say to him. He walks back to the Snake Pit with me.

“Millie,” he says, “I think you’ve had enough today. This one is on the house, so drink it up and go home.”

“Eddie, me old mate. Don’t ya like me anymore?” She leans over to the bloke she’s with and strokes his leg and squeezes his thigh. He’s about as drunk as she is.

“Now Millie. Do the right thing. All right?”

“Yair, all right. Are ya taking care of me boy here?” she says, nodding to me.

“I’m not your boy,” I complain. And Mr. Counter nudges me.

“He’s doing all right. Now off you go home.”

Millie downs the gin and tonic and tramps off, her bloke trailing after her. I follow them to the door and I get a glimpse of Iris across the road. I grab Millie and say, “Millie, is that Iris over there? She’s with you, is she?”

“Yair, she is. Wouldn’t come in though. Says she hates the booze. She always was a strange little thing.”

“I’m coming with you,” I say, but I feel the grip of Mr. Counter’s hand on my arm.

“She says she doesn’t want anything to do with ya cos you’re a drunk like your old man,” says Millie.

“I’m not! I’m not! I’m on the wagon.”

“Yair, that’s what they all say.”

“No! No! It’s not like that!”

“You’ll fall off it and it’s a long way down, that’s what I told Iris.”

I shake my arm away from Mr. Counter. “You fuckn bitch! Who are you to talk? Stay away from Iris, get it?”

“Shit Eddie, this kid’s just like his father, ain’t he?”

“I’m not! I’m fuckn not like him!”

Mr. Counter grabbed my arm again. I was angry. Angry at my¬self. How could I say that about me Dad? What’s happened to me? “Millie, please. I have to see her,” I pleaded.

Millie bangs her bloke in the back and says, “Come on! Let’s get away from here,” then turns to me and says, “she’ll come and see you when she’s ready.”

“What does that mean, you stupid fuckn bitch?”

“Easy, son, easy,” mutters Mr. Counter.

Millie staggers off with her bloke and they make their way across the Melbourne road, the cars screeching and swerving to miss them. I put my arm up to shade my eyes from the sun, but I can’t see Iris. She’s gone.

*

I know I said that the day my Dad died was the worst day of my life. But I didn’t know then what was gunna happen. This horrible day was the worst day, the day Iris came back.

I was sitting in my bedroom writing in one of my notebooks when there was a tap on the window and I peeped through the rip in the blind and there was Iris. I threw the window open and pulled her in and we fell down heavy on to my bed and before you knew it we was going at it, like never before, even better than the first time across from the Baptist church, it was that good. At least I thought so. I was completely out of my mind and she was on top of me dropping those lovely wet kisses all over me, and I mean all over me. My eyes are shut tight and she kisses them both. Oh gees! This is the best! Worth waiting for, and me sober too! Shit! Oh Ovid you beauty! I’m in Heaven, that’s what it is. She does something and I open my eyes and she’s on top, sitting back and her hair has grown a fair bit and I realize how much I missed running my fingers through her stubble. But it’s not short any more. I put my hands to her breast and they’re gorgeously curved and firm and, gees, they’re a lot bigger! I try to reach the nipples with me tongue but she’s too heavy and I can’t get my head up high enough. She’s looking at me with those sheepy eyes of hers, and I’m wondering what’s there. She’s looking serious, not like she’s going at it like Ovid says they do. But it’s working on me, and she knows it. God! Ovid you bastard! Oh gees! And I make a super human effort to lift me head up to kiss her nipples but she stays back, taunting me I think. I give up and drop back on to the pillow and that’s when I saw it.

And she saw me looking too. We stop. We look and stare at each other.

“Well, whatcha looking at?” she says, no smile, nothing.

“Your belly. It’s getting bigger.”

“Shit, ya bastard. Are ya telling me I’m getting fat?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m well past three months, you know.”

“Yair. What’s happening then?”

“You’re not going to be a father,” she says, leaning down, touching the tip of me nose with her tongue.

“So we’re not getting married then?”

“God in hell! Is that what you want? You don’t want me fixed up? Millie told me that’s what you wanted.”

“I never told Millie anything. She’s a stupid fuckn liar.”

“Someone did then, because that’s what she told me you wanted.”

“But you’re not fixed up, then? It’s still in there?”

“Yair. But not for long.”

“Are you really going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know what. Get rid of it.”

“Millie said they can put me in gaol if I do.”

“Then what are you up to?”

“Like you care, you’re just a fuckn drunk.”

“Shit, Iris! Don’t you know? I’m on the wagon. Haven’t touched a drop for a whole week!”

“Yair? Well, I’m getting rid of it.”

“I’m getting all me money from Mr. Counter tomorrow. You can move in with me here, Mr. and Mrs. Counter said it would be OK.”

“How nice of them.”

“Shit Iris, they’ve been really good to me.”

“Well where was they when you were having those DTs?”

“Shit, Iris. You were here! You saved me!”

“They didn’t like me here then, and that fuckn Sugar, the twisted bastard, he hated me.”

“I suppose you heard. Him and me had a big row. I cut him pretty bad.”

“Yair, I heard. Me old man told me. He thinks you’re all right, now.”

“Yair? So he didn’t beat the kid out of you?”

“Nah. Reckons you’re all right because he saw you beat up that poofda Sugar.”

“Then we’re gunna get married?”

“Shit, what is it with you? I told you I’m getting rid of it.”

“I can pay for the doctor when I get me money.”

“You stupid shit. Doctors won’t do it. They go to gaol if they do, Millie told me. I’m too far gone, don’t you see? Are you that fuckn stupid?”

I felt my ears get red. Boy I needed a drink right then! “I’m not stupid, Iris. I love you, unless you think that’s why I’m stupid.”

“I already got it fixed, anyway.”

“But it’s still in there.”

“Not for long.”

“Now I am stupid. What have you gone and done then?”

“Millie gave me a special potion to drink. She swears by it. She’s done it stacks of times.”

“Shit, Iris. Are you sure she knows what she’s doing?”

“She has to, don’t you think?”

“She’s fucked half the pub’s customers, I know that.”

“Well you think she could do that without getting pregnant all the time?”

“Shit, Iris. Are you sure it’s safe? What did she give you?”

“Some stuff she mixes up from a jar she keeps in the top cup¬board of her kitchen. Tastes like rotten carrots. She made it into soup. Wasn’t too bad with a lot of salt.”

“So, when did you take it?”

“Just before I came here. I wanted to see you before it dropped, just in case something…”

“Iris! Something could go wrong?”

“Course it could. That’s what Millie said. She warned me not to take it if I didn’t think I could go through with it.”

“Can’t you change your mind?”

“Too late for that. Anyway, there’s no other way. Like me mum says. We’re both too young to have kids.”

“We are not. I’ve got a steady job now, and I’m on the wagon.”

“And where are we going to live and raise the kid? In this shit of a place? Stuck in this fuckn prison cell?”

“We can save up and go somewhere else.”

“Like where? Line up for a commission house?”

“We could live with your mum.”

“And you’ll become a Seventh Day Adventist?”

“If it takes that, yes, Iris. I’d do it for ya.”

“And what about me fuckn asshole step father?”

“You said he likes me.”

“Yair, likes ya like everyone else he likes, which means he can beat you whenever he wants to.”

I grab Iris and hug her to me and I roll over so she’s on her back, and I kneel astride her, me crown jewels just tickling her belly at the hairline.

“I love ya, Iris. I’ll do anything for you.”

“Yair, I can see that.”

“I mean it, Iris. I do!”

“Well, there’s one thing you can do.”

“Yair?”

“I’m staying here till it drops and you can call the doctor just before it does, just so they can’t say I killed it.”

“When’s it going to drop?”

“Twenty-four hours, Millie said.”

“Gees, Iris. I’ll be here. I’ll be with you all the way.”

“Won’t you have to work?”

“It’s Sunday tomorrow. And I’m finished in the pub for today. I don’t drink with the mates after hours any more. I’d fall off the wagon as quick as a wink if I did.”

“You’re a sweetie, you know that? I love you too, you know.”

Gees, that was the first time she ever said she loved me and if I wasn’t already on my knees I’d have fallen on them. I’m looking at her and she knows what I want. I climb off her and lay down beside her, pressing into her, caressing her hips, fingering her longish hair, wishing it was short. We weren’t frantic any more. It was a long, juicy drawn out affair after which we gently fell asleep in each other’s arms.

*

“Sweetheart,” she says.

“Yair?”

“I’m feeling sick. Could you get me a glass of water?”

I jump out of bed, grab a towel around me and head for the bathroom with the old glass I keep under the bed.

I get back and she’s clutching at her belly and she’s breathing fast, almost puffing. I switch on the light and we’re both blinded and then I look down and I see a pool of bright red blood on the bed. She’s looking white as white. I’m about to lose it.

“Shit, Iris. I better call for the quack. Are you all right?”

“I’m OK I think. Just a bit of wind.”

She’s dreamy kind of, her eyes more like Swampy’s sheep. It’s scaring me to buggery.

“There’s blood all around you,” I say, “can’t you feel it?”

“Gees, I thought I wet the bed or something.”

“I’m getting the quack.”

“Please don’t leave me. I’ll be all right. A little bit of blood is normal, that’s what Millie said.”

“Millie, the fuckn bitch. What would she know?”

“She’s done it. Never had any problems,” she said.

I’m sitting there and the bloody patch is getting bigger and bigger. I don’t know how to ring the doctor because I’ve never done it before and I don’t even know how to look up the number. I know there’s a phone book in the old bar that we loan out to the customers. But it will take me ages to look it up and then choose which one. So there was nothing for it but to get Mrs. Counter. Only I didn’t know what time it was, because I don’t have a watch. I get up to go and knock on their door. But Iris grabs a hold of me hand and pulls it hard.

“I’m scared, I’m scared. Please don’t leave me.”

This scares me all the more and I shake her off and rush out the door and down the other end of the passage and knock on Mr. and Mrs. Counter’s door. I’m knocking so hard the door’s shaking on its hinges. I give up and turn the knob and its open so I rush in. Mrs. Counter screams and Mr. Counter pulls out a cricket bat from under his bed.

“Mrs. Counter! It’s me! Come quick! Iris is sick. She needs a doctor. She’s bleeding to death.”

“What? What’s wrong? Who?”

“Iris. She’s bleeding to death, I tell you.”

“You better go and look,” Mr. Counter says to his missus.

Mrs. Counter struggles out of bed, she’s so top heavy it’s really hard for her to do it in a hurry. “Call doctor Staples, he’s the only one that’ll come at this hour,” she says.

I’m running back to me room, worried sick that Iris will be dead already. I get there and she’s crying in pain and sobbing and she’s as white as a ghost.

“Don’t worry, love, the doc’s coming, and Mrs. Counter’s on her way.” And she sure is. She barges in and she pretty much fills the room. She pulls me away from Iris who doesn’t want to let go of my hand.

“All right luv, “she says, “let him go so I can get a close look at you. Is what’s happened what I think has happened?” Iris doesn’t answer. She’s nearly out to it.

“Yair, I think so,” I say, looking at Iris, hoping she’ll forgive me. “Millie gave her some medicine which is supposed to fix her problem.”

“Oh my God in Heaven!” she calls out when she pulls back the blanket and sees the blood and the big swollen belly above it. “That dreadful Millie! Why didn’t you come to me? Oh Father which art in Heaven,” she looks up, “please for Heaven’s sake save her!”

I’m standing in the corner, speechless, frozen with fear and trembling. Mrs. Counter looks down and places her hand on Iris’s belly. “Are you in pain, luv?” she asks. Iris shakes her head a little. But her eyes are staring into space.

“What are we going to do?” I ask Mrs. Counter, “can’t we stop her bleeding?”

“I don’t know. Get me some towels from the linen closet at the end of the hall. I’ll try to block it up. But we need the doctor really quick. “Eddie! Eddie! Quick! This is an emergency,” she bellows, “call the ambulance! She’s bleeding to death!”

I arrive with the towels.

“And you!” she says to me, “make yourself useful and get to the kitchen and bring back a dish of cold water and a small cloth. She’s burning up.”

So I do what I’m told and I’m on my way to the kitchen when there’s a loud banging at the front door so I rush there and let them in. It’s the ambulance bloke, the same one I recognize that came that night we had a dead body in the car park. I pull him inside and he and his mate run down the dark passage to me bedroom. I’m just about to slam the door shut when I see the quack pulling up. Gees, thank goodness for that. I stand there yelling, “Hurry up doc, she’s bleeding to death!”

He hurries over, not fast enough in my opinion, and shakes me hand, “How do you do,” young man, “I’m doctor Staples.”

“This way doc. Please save her!”

“Calm down. Everything’s going to be all right, you’ll see. It’s probably a simple matter of a little bit of bleeding. It often looks worse than it is.”

We get into the little room and immediately the doc orders everyone out except the one ambulance bloke who has all the badges sewn on his sleeve. But I say, “I’m not going out, doc. I love her and I will not leave her.”

“You two are married, then?” he asks while he’s scanning the length of Iris’s body, stripped right down.

“Not yet but we will be,” I say, kind of angry.

He stands up, he’s all of six feet and lean, grey hair what’s left of it. He ought to be retired, I think to myself.

“Only next of kin can be here. Was that her parents that were here just then?”

“No.”

“Then please leave so I can get on treating your girlfriend.”

“I’m not going.”

Iris seems to hear. She feebly raises her hand and calls for me. “Ovid,” she calls, “Ovid,” and there’s a faint smile on her face. I push forward and grab her hand.

“That’s your name?” asks the doc, incredulous.

“No. It’s a little joke we have between us.”

The quack rummages through his little case and retrieves a syringe and a vial of something. He prepares the injection and then jams it into her arm. She doesn’t feel it at all.

“What’s that for?” I ask, trying to be as big a nuisance as I can to keep him on his toes. He and the ambulance bloke talk some medical mumbo jumbo.

“She’s going into shock. The injection will calm her down.”

But all of a sudden, Iris’s whole body stiffens and she lets out an awful scream like she’d been stabbed or something. The doc looks down and we all see some movement in her belly. She lets go me hand and starts clawing at it and the doc starts to feel around there as well. He looks serious.

“She needs a blood transfusion.”

“That’s OK,” I say, “she can have some of mine.”

The quack smiles and says, “it’s not that simple.”

“But she’s dying doc, isn’t she?”

“If we get her to the hospital in time and they have the right blood there, we may save her.”

The ambulance bloke has gone out and I can hear him talking to Mr. Counter. He comes back and looks at the doc and nods. The quack pulls out a pair of forceps from his bag. He looks at them, then at Iris. Then at me.

“I know you love her, but what I have to do next you don’t want to see. So please leave me alone so I can get on with saving your girlfriend’s life.”

My ears are the reddest they’ve ever been, I bet. I really want to punch the pompous bastard on the nose. But I clench both my fists and back out like I’m backing away from a big red kangaroo. And the doc closes the door behind me.

I hear screams and other gurgling noises through the door. I want to go in, but Mrs. Counter is standing in the way. And I can’t push past her, can I? Soon the ambulance blokes are back with the stretcher and they knock on the door. We wait.

“What’s he doing in there?” I ask the ambulance bloke.

“I think he’s trying to extract the fetus,” he says like he’s the doc’s apprentice.

“Extract the what?”

“He means the baby,” says Mrs. Counter.

“You mean it might be a baby?”

“Well what else would it be, a joey?” says the bloke.

I grab him by his sleeve that’s got all the badges and pull him up to me and say, “you fuckn asshole! I ought to knock your fuckn teeth in.”

Mr. Counter comes over and he puts his arm around my shoul¬der. “Take it easy,” he says, “we know you’re sick with worry. It’ll be all right. We just have to hope and pray the doc can work his magic.”

With that, the door opens and the doc steps out. He beats out some instructions to the ambulance blokes and they go in and quickly have Iris on their stretcher and they’re wheeling her away down the passage. I start to follow them.

“You can’t go, I’m sorry,” says the quack, “you’re not immediate family so you won’t be allowed to travel with her or sit with her in the emergency room.”

“But I’m all she’s got, don’t you understand?”

“I do. But the rules are there for a purpose. You can’t be with her.”

“And what about the, uh, fetus thing, baby or whatever it’s called. What about it?”

I look down and see the doc has something wrapped up in a blood-stained towel.

“I’m afraid it didn’t make it.”

“And Iris?”

“If we can get enough blood into her in time and there’s no infection.”

“If I’m not with her, she’ll die, you know. She’s got nothing else to live for, you fuckn bastards.”

Mr. Counter draws the doc aside. They talk a bit and then the doc says, “all right, if you hurry up and catch the blokes before they leave you can ride in the ambulance. But I can’t be respon¬sible for what happens once you get to the hospital. They have their rules.”

I ran down the passageway and out the front door, leaving it open and just made it to the ambulance. They said I couldn’t go with them and I told them the doc said it was all right.

“You’re holding us up. Wasting minutes that could mean the difference between life or death,” they said.

“Open the fuckn door or I’ll pull you outa that fuckn wagon and drive her there myself!” I screamed.

The doc came to the door and told them to let me in. So they did.

And I wish I’d never gone.

*

“In an old bark hut, in an old bark hut,” I’m singing softly to Iris, holding her limp hand, the ambulance bloke with the badges staring at me. “When you get better, you know what Iris, me luv? I was thinking. We could go off to Swampy’s and we could build ourselves a bark hut and live in the woods together, just you and me. And we could have a little veggie garden and a road side stand and sell the veggies and we’d have enough money to live in the bush, just you and I, you and me, and to hell with the rest of them. Bugger the old pub. I know you must hate it, and now, I think I’ve fallen out of love with it. The whole fuckn lot is rotten. I have to get away from it. If I stay there, I’ll die pretty quick, just like me Dad. It’s a death house, Iris, don’t you think? Gees, Iris, you’re going to be all right, aren’t you? I couldn’t make it without you.”

I can hear the siren and the ambulance sways a bit. We must be getting close to Geelong.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“About five,” says Badges.

“Five what?”

“Morning, you silly bastard, what do you think?”

“We got far to go?”

“Five minutes.” Badges acts like he’s taking Iris’s pulse. Mister importance, that’s what he is. “They won’t let you in, you know.”

“How d’you know that?”

“Because I’ve been doing this a long time and I can tell you, the hospital has its rules and it doesn’t change them for anyone.”

“Yair, I bet they jump if a doctor tells them to.”

Badges leans forward and looks hard into Iris’s white face. Her cheeks are even sunk in, her eyes, gees, I can’t bear to look at them.

“She’ll make it,” says Badges.

Maybe he’s a good bloke after all.

“Yair. Thanks. She’s a great fighter.”

*

They wouldn’t let me go with her. I was going to hit the bastard that grabbed me and pushed me down into the waiting room seat. But when I fell into the seat, my body just wouldn’t do anything more. I just flopped down, and leaned forward, my head in me hands. The waiting room was full of people and there was a big circular desk in the middle of it and this bitch of a matron was strutting around like she was Queen Elizabeth. The place smelled like a morgue, sprayed with some insecticide and the chair I was sitting on had that greasy feeling, just like everything in the old pub. I crossed my arms and I leaned back, exhausted, and I fell asleep.

*

Somebody’s got me by the scruff of the neck, shaking me so hard my head’s going to fall off. It’s got to be one of my dreams. I’m waiting for the truck to come and run me down. But the shaking’s getting worse, and I’m trying to open my eyes but they won’t and I’m trying to breathe but I can’t. This must be what it’s like to die, I think. Then I’m pushed back into the chair and I bang my elbow and I think I’m yelling, then I wake up, my eyes are hurting in the florescent lights. I’m still in the waiting room, and there’s this big hulk standing over me. I blink some more, and for Christ sake, it’s Tank.

“You fuckn little shit,” he mutters, “wake up! Whatcha done to me little girl?”

“Fuck you!” was all I could think of to say. I feel someone sitting next to me and then I smell the smoke. It’s Flo. They’re both here! Iris must have died, then, I think. “Is, is she all right?” I ask Flo. She’s sitting there, puffing on her Garrick, staring into space like always. “Flo?”

“It’s up to Jesus,” she says, hardly moving her lips.

“Don’t listen to the stupid bitch,” growls Tank.

“Yair, don’t listen,” says Flo, “because what I tell you is what this big shit doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Fuckn shut up, bitch!” Tank’s got his fist clenched and he’s shaking it in front of Flo’s nose.

“How’d you know Iris was here?” I ask, ignoring the bullshit.

“Millie, that filthy bitch, she told me,” said Tank.

“I’m gunna kill her when I get a hold of that fuckn piece of shit. It’s all her fault,” I say, looking up at Tank.

“Yair, I know,” Tank growls again.

“How’d you find out?”

Tank looks me straight in the eye. “I was paying her a visit,” he grins, licking his lips. “She told me Iris paid her a visit and I wasn’t paying much attention, because I gave up on Iris a long time ago. She was going the same way as Millie as far as I could see.”

Flo looks up at Tank and then to me. “He’ll rot in hell for what he’s done,” she says, “the devil’s waiting for him and he’ll gobble him up and spit out his innards.”

“Yair, that’s right, and you along with me. Truth is you’re to blame for all this fuckn mess. You’re the one that fuckn did it. She should never have been born.”

I go to stand up, I don’t know what the shit they’re talking about, but Tank pushes me back.

“Go on then, tell him,” says Flo.

“Fuck you!” yells Tank and he heads out the door, the matron just starting to come out from behind her desk to give him a dressing down.

“I’m going to the toilet,” I say to Flo and I go to get up. She grabs my hand.

“I’m tellingya because Jesus told me I have to. You and Iris…”

“Me and Iris what?” I ask, belligerently. “What did he mean that Iris shouldn’t have been born? Did you try to get rid of her?” My ears were getting red, I really had to go to the toilet.

“Nah. We made her, we didn’t try to get rid of her. Though we should have.”

“So, he really is her dad, then?”

“Yair, but…”

“But what? You’re not her mother?”

“I am her mother and I deserve it!”

Flo was getting all worked up. She stubbed out her Garrick and lit another. That was the other thing about this waiting room. There were ashtrays full of cigarette butts everywhere.

“I’m going to the toilet. I don’t know what you mean that you deserved to be Iris’s mother.”

“You have to know this,” she says, pulling me back, “only Jesus knows it… and Tank of course…”

“Flo, for Christ sake, knows what? What in hell does fuckn Jesus know?”

“Talking like that about Jesus won’t help you. Take it back!” growls Flo.

“Gees, Flo, I’m sorry. But for Christ sake, tell me want I have to know.”

“Me and Tank--”

“Yair? What?”

“We’re brother and sister.”

*

The matron’s coming towards us. Flo gets up and leaves. Who knows why. I still haven’t been to the toilet and I’m getting jumpy. I could really do with a drink. The matron’s looking serious.

“Are you Iris’s relative?” she asks.”

“Yair. I’m her brother. That’s her mum just leaving. How is she?”

“She’s still in critical condition. We’re moving her to Royal Melbourne Hospital where they have more facilities.”

“I’ll go with her then.”

“You cannot. No room in the special ambulance, besides it’s against the rules.”

“Thank you, Matron, bitch.” I go to walk out but she steps in front of me. She can’t believe I called her a bitch. She pulls a notepad from her white starched tunic.

“You won’t get anywhere talking like that, young man.” I want to grab her tunic and rip it off her. I step up close and push my face right in front of hers. We’re about the same height.

“Is she gunna make it then?” I say, like it’s all her fault that Iris is dying. She steps back, scared shitless.

“She’s lost a lot of blood. It will take time. It’s impossible to tell.” I step up close again. So am I going with her or not?

“Is there a phone number where I can phone you?”

“Don’t have a phone.”

She looks lost for words, then pulls out a pencil. “You can phone this number to find out where she is and her condition.” She writes the number on her notepad and hands it to me and I take it, crumple it up and stuff it in my pocket. She goes on, “I need some details about her. Do you know whether she has any health insurance?”

“What’s that?” I ask. She looks at me like I’m rubbish, and that’s how I feel too.

“The hospital bill’s going to be quite expensive.”

“Yair. You need her mum for that.”

*

I left that hospital with its filthy waiting room and walked out past the old brick veneer hospital entrance and around the corner to the alley. I stood in the middle of the road and had a good, long piss as I looked up at the soft light of a full moon glistening on the T and G tower. I walked and I walked enjoying the heavy odour of bitumen as it cooled in the night air. I must have walked for a couple of hours or more, because when I finally came to my senses, I found myself standing at the side door of the Criterion Pub. I knocked a sharp short knock and a little latch opened up.

“Yair? Whatcha want?” comes a gravelly voice through the latch.

“You got a cuppa tea?”

“You’re fuckn joking, right? You’re at a pub, you silly bastard.”

“Yair, I know. I’m an old customer. Used to buy a lot of me after hours booze here.”

“Yair? Yair, I think I remember you. Last time you was here you was on a bender of all benders, right?”

“Yair, probably.”

“You want a flask a whiskey then? Corio, you liked, didn’t you?”

“Maybe”

“Maybe? What the fuck do you want?”

“I said I just want a cuppa tea.”

“For Christ sake. What do you think this is a fuckn restaurant? We don’t do tea you fuckn idiot. Are you a poofda or something?”

“Fuck you!” I say, and I walk off.

*

I walked all the way from the Criterion to Norlane, about five or six miles. I walked along the road a lot of the way, ignoring the few speeding cars and trucks zooming by, they could have run me down and I wouldn’t have cared. Well, that’s the way I felt. I suppose I would have jumped out of the way if a car had come at me, just like in my nightmare. Can’t say I walked all that fast, because I was in a kind of daze. I stopped on the top of the Separation Street bridge and peered down at the railway lines and I wondered where they all went. Well, no I didn’t. I just stared at them, watched a train come and go, a freight train pull into the wheat silos. I looked across at the old Telegraph pub, made my way towards it, but turned at the last minute and kept on going to the Ford factory, lingering at the dump where I used to play when I was little, then up the hill to where my old house was on North Shore road, right beside Fords and across from the pub. And I found myself standing in the debris that was my old house, still in piles, waiting for a front-end loader to come and take it away. But I never looked it over. Just stood in it all, like I was standing in the shallows of the beach, the soggy seaweed swishing around my legs, down on Corio Bay. There was nothing to do but to let it just ebb away from around my feet. I nudged an old wine bottle out of the way as I turned to look across the Melbourne road at the pub. It was right then that the pub dawned on me in a whole new light, like someone inside me let go a blind and it zapped right up behind my eyes. I saw the pub like I’d never seen it before. The sun had risen and I felt its heat already. The old pub shimmered behind the heat of the fresh bitumen of the Melbourne Road, the yellow of the painted stone dissolving into the air above. The grubby men, stick-figures clinging to their beers, lounging about in sweat-soaked singlets. And that deep blue sky, an enormous chasm that swallowed the pub and all its entrails, enveloped me and I felt myself carried forward, out of the ruins of my house, across the road, past the pub and its magpies perched on its chimneys, and I looked down on the Quonset huts and the barbed wire fence that enclosed them, and they grew bigger and the fence loomed higher until I felt myself fall so fast that I screamed, “Save me! Save me!”

*

And saved I was. Spuds was standing over me, looking down, offering his hand to pull me up. I was lying on my back, thrashing about, trying to fly or something who knows what. I don’t know how I got here. But I was very happy to grab his hand and he pulled me up.

“What are ya doing-a here ya silly bugger? Ya been in-a the slaughter yards? You’ve got blood all down ya.”

“What, Spuds, what?” I look down me and he’s right. There’s blood all over my shirt and new Fletchers that Mrs. Counter gave me.

“Did ya get pissed down at-a the meat-a packing plant? I’ve done that a few times. They’re half crazy-a down there.”

“Yair, maybe I did.” Truth is, I couldn’t remember anything at all. I felt dizzy. I grabbed a hold of Spuds to steady myself.

“Looks-a like ya need a sip of me grappa, mate,” says Spuds as he tries to steady me.

“Nah, I’m on the wagon. I’m all fuckd up.”

“Yair, rightee-o. If you are, then you-a come to the right place because this is the fuckn mad-house, mate, sens altro.”

I looked around and saw that I was standing outside the main gate to the New Aussies hostel. There were people bustling about and talking in all sorts of strange languages. They were all so busy.

“This is where you live?” I ask.

“For the moment,” answers Spuds. “You want-a come in for a drink?”

“Nah. I really am on the wagon. I got to get back to the pub. Got work to do.”

“Yair, I betcha do.”

“Thanks for the help.”

“Are you OK? You’re looking-a bit-a wobbly on your legs. Sure ya don’t want a grappa?”

I wasn’t sure at all. I put out my hand, to shake, and Spuds took it in his rough hand, squeezed it tight.

“Don’t forget-a your kitbag,” he said, with a grin, “it’s got blood all over it too. You must have a horse’s prick in it.” But I didn’t laugh like I might have done before. Embarrassed, he dropped my hand and walked away without another word. I looked across to the pub, and I saw the old dunny leaning over ready to fall down on itself any day. There were tears in my eyes. I was thinking about Iris and me growing veggies on Spuds’ plot, and us living in a bark hut. I backed away and it was all I could do to drag my legs to stagger across the burnt paddock, now with patches of green from the Easter rains, scraping past the thistles, and up to my bedroom window, always open, threw in my kitbag and climbed in just like Iris used to.

Abbie had made the bed with fresh sheets and cleaned the place up a lot. You wouldn’t know anything had happened. And that made me cry. It was as though Iris was dead, as though she’d never lived, as though it were all a dream. And I sat on the edge of the bed, just like I had done with Iris, and I put my head in my hands and I sobbed, sobbed just like she used to.

I awoke lying on my belly, the tears still on my cheeks. I buried my head in the pillow, wanting to stay asleep. But the spell was broken and I rolled off the bed and stood, wiping my tears with my sleeve. I looked around me and knew that I was at an end. The room was my cell, the pub my prison.

4. While passion and pride are strong

I’m working in the old bar, wiping down the counter and this bloke comes in and he comes right up to me. He’s this stocky bloke, muscly arms sticking through a dirty white singlet. He bangs money down on the counter and says, his head pushing forward like he’s trying to scare me, “what’s a young bloke like you doing pouring beer? You should be in the army fightn the fuckn commies.”

“Didn’t ya hear?” I say, and I feel a nudge from Sugar. He’s trying to tell me something. “There’s no national service any more. I don’t have to go.”

“You yellow little shit. What’s wrong with young kids these days? They got no guts! Gimme a beer!”

“I’m not yellow” I bristle as I pour him a beer and push it slowly toward him.

“Then why aren’t ya fuckn fightn, then?”

“Because I haven’t been asked.”

He takes a gulp of his beer, and I see four other blokes all looking a bit like him, coming up to the bar. This bloke, he’s got hardly no hair except a bit of blonde curls growing out around his ears and a kind of light fuzz growing from the back of his neck to half way up his head. Then he’s bald as a bandicoot and there’s this big dint in his head right above his right eye that’s looking sideways. And when he gulps his beer down, the dint comes to life and pulsates. He knows I’m staring at it, but he turns to his mates and says, “you all have pots?” and they all nod or grunt.

“Four more pots,” he says, “and stop staring at me war wounds. I’m fuckn proud of them, proud I wasn’t a fuckn coward like all you young blokes these days, not to mention your boss.”

I’m busy pouring four beers at the tap. The beer is a bit lively so I’m waiting for a lot of the foam to settle down. Sugar comes up to me and whispers in my ear, “watch it. He’s got a plate in his head. He’s half fuckn mad.”

Like I always do, I ignore Sugar, and I push the beers forward and say, “here you go. That’s six and five-pence-ha’penny “

“Tell your boss that it’s on the house, and if he doesn’t like it, I’m paying him with this,” and he hands me a white feather.

Dad. I bet you’d remember this bloke, because he had it in for you too, so the blokes in the bar said. He has a real fierce look about him and there was always a bit of dried spit in the corners of his mouth and when he smiles it isn’t a smile, it’s more like Nipper baring his teeth, and this bloke’s teeth are sparkling white, the ones that’s there, that is, with a lot of gaps and a big gold filling on the bottom. And when he talks he has this funny way of sliding his tongue to lick the corner of his gob. You had to keep clear of him because he couldn’t talk without spraying his spit everywhere. They called him Bomber because he reckoned he was a pilot in World War 2, but none of us believed it. He was a Banana Bender after all, he couldn’t fly a kite! That’s what the blokes reckoned anyway.

I opened my big mouth and said, “so what’s Mr. Counter done, then?

“He hasn’t told ya? Course not. He’s yellow, that’s why. You see this? You see this hole in me fuckn head? I got that saving him and the rest of ya.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Like fuckn hell. Where’s your boss? Go and ask him.”

“Six and five-pence-ha’penny, please,” I say.

“You see these four blokes drinking with me?”

“Yair, so what?”

“They’re me brothers. We all went to the war. There was six of us, one never came back.”

Immediately, the five a them go, “Shhhsh!” then raise their glasses all together and say, “to baby Ted!” and they down their beers.

This seemed to quiet them down, so I asked again for the money, “Six and five-pence-ha’penny.”

“You know,” says Bomber, “you’ll get called up for Vietnam, I’m telling you.”

“Nah. I’m always lucky. If they do a lottery call-up, I’ll win. Anyway, I haven’t registered. Never had time.”

“You fuckn what? You never registered for the draft? You fuckn little yeller weasel.” He reaches across the counter and grabs me by the collar. Fortunately, I’m not wearing a tie, much to Mr. Counter’s disgust. “Fuckn little shits like you should have their balls cut off. That’s what! Give us another round of pots and make it quick!”

I feel Sugar breathing over my shoulder. He’s pulling at my shirt trying to move me away. But of course, I don’t do what he wants.

“I can’t give you more beer till you’ve paid for the first round. Mr. Counter wouldn’t like it, you know.”

“You know what? Fuck Eddie Counter that worm of a fuckn coward. Give him that fuckn feather and tell him we’ll be back!”

They banged their empty glasses on the counter and marched out, Bomber yelling, “Left! Right! Left! Right!”

Yair, Dad. Poor Mr. Counter, he copped it. I went and gave him the feather and said it was Bomber who wouldn’t pay for the beers. He took the feather and threw it in the bin. I lingered in his office, expecting Mr. Counter would tell me what had happened. But he just went on counting the day’s take. I started to back out and just as I got near the door, he swivelled around on his stool and said, “he was after your Dad too. Your Dad had a really good job down at the Phossie, he was an engineer so he was in an essential trade that didn’t have to go to war, and what he did for a lot of blokes was he signed them on so they wouldn’t have to go to war too, and one of them was me.”

I opened my mouth to ask what was so awful about helping your mates, but Mr. Counter cut me off and said, “now I’ve told you. I’m not talking about it ever again.”

*

We were just closing up and all the drunks were pretty much gone. For some reason, the Preacher and Dopey never showed up, they must have had the day off. Easter was coming up. We were sitting in the passageway settling in to the grog and we just sucked down our first round when we heard this big smash and Nipper was yelping his head off. Mr. Counter comes out of his office and he’s holding this white feather squashed up in his hand.

“It’s Bomber and those bastard brothers of his,” he mutters.

And we all look at each other and I’m wondering what’s the big deal. But me mates, they’re looking like there’s a war about to start. Mr. Counter runs out the front door and Grecko follows, then the rest of my drinking mates struggle up and start running out. I get up to follow, but Bulla holds me back and says, “it’s not your war, son. Better you stay here.”

But I couldn’t stay behind, could I Dad? It’d mean I was yellow. And I’m not a coward, Dad. So I downed me beer and I sneaked into the night cupboard and poured myself a whiskey and downed that too and in no time I was ready to get out there.

I ran out the front door and nearly tripped over Grecko rolling round in agony on the gravel. Bomber’s blokes must have been waiting for him, because he had blood coming out of his nose and you could see bruises and cuts on his legs where they’d kicked him while he was down. Disgusting. Hitting a bloke while he was down, that was the worst. My mates were running around in all directions and Bomber and his brothers were armed with cricket bats and the broken stubs of beer glasses.

Bulla calls out to me. “Son! Get away.! Those glasses will cut you so bad you’ll be ugly as shit the rest of your life. Run in and get Mrs. Counter to call the cops.” And while he’s yelling that, he’s got this bloke by the scruff of the neck and he’s banging him against the cream-colored wall of the pub. There’s blood pouring down the bloke’s head. One of his brothers comes up behind Bulla and gets in a whack on his shoulder with a cricket bat. Bulla has to let go and turn to face his enemy. I’m frozen, staring at the war, because that’s what it was. Bulla yells at me, “ya heard what I said? Call the cops!” Bulla’s getting out of breath. He’s such a big bloke, but he’s so top heavy that it’s only a matter of time before he trips up and goes down, and once that happens, he won’t be able to get up. I run over and I’m pleased with myself because I’ve still got my beer glass. I smash it against the pub wall and I’m left with a nice sharp base. I come up behind the bloke that’s got Bulla cornered with the cricket bat and I ram the glass into the back a his head, or that’s what I tried to do. He was moving a lot, so I it ended up missing most of his neck and slicing into the side of his head and then I see half his ear’s hanging off.

“Fuckn assholes!” I scream.

“For Christ sake, boy!” yells Bulla, “call the cops!”

I look around for more victims. I grab the bloke’s cricket bat and bash him again over the head, where he’s trying to put his ear back together. He goes down like a sack of spuds.

“Watch out!” Bulla yells, and I turn around just in time to duck Bomber himself swinging at me with a broken glass. He’s a short, stocky bloke, all muscle I can see, and I know immediately that I’m done for, so I fling the bat at him and make off inside the pub and lock the door behind me. I call out for Mrs. Counter, and she’s running up from the kitchen. “Call the cops!” I yell.

“I already did!” she says, her head sticking out further like a stalk than ever before. “Is Mr. Counter all right?”

“I dunno. It’s pretty fierce out there.” And we hear a lot of glass smashing and loud bangs as rocks are tossed through the windows. And I run into the old bar and see this bloke banging at the big plate glass window with a cricket bat, but the bat’s bouncing off it. I’m looking for something heavy I can take back out with me. Then Sugar appears out of the office. He’s got an iron bar. Mr. Counter always kept it in there because it was where they counted the day’s takings.

“You looking for this?” he says with his familiar smirk. “You know I can’t go out there. I’d like to, but I can’t. I’ve called the cops a lot of times. They’re not answering. The bastards have gone off for Easter is my bet.”

“Thanks Sugar. Just what I wanted. The bastards aren’t getting away with this!”

I run out the front door again, banging it shut behind me. There’s a few blokes lying on the ground, moaning. I can’t tell whether they’re my blokes or not. But Grecko is starting to get up, so I go over and give him a hand, not that I’m hardly any use to such a big bloke. He sees the iron bar in me hand. “You better give me that,” he says.

But I skip past him because I see the Bomber bastard and I’m going to be the one that gets him. “I got no beef against ya,” Bomber says, “you was hardly born when the war was on. It’s the yellow bastard that didn’t go that we’re giving it to. And that bastard was Counter.”

“And my Dad,” I say, though I shouldn’t have.

“And who might that be?” asks Bomber, walking up to me, still carrying a broken beer glass and his cricket bat.

“Mr. Counter’s best mate, Harry Henderson.”

“Yair, I know that yellow bastard. I’ll get him too. Where the fuck is he? I s’pose he’s hiding out somewhere.”

“He’s dead,” I say.

“Well, fuckn good riddance. Saves me having to help him on his way.”

“Fuckn asshole!” I scream.

I can’t believe it but Bomber, the stupid bastard, turns his back on me and goes after someone else. I’m looking for Mr. Counter but can’t find him anywhere. I’m after blood, so I start to run after Bomber. Grecko sees what I’m up to and he starts after me. But I got a head start so he won’t reach me in time. And I’m right up behind Bomber and I’m about to swing the iron bar at the back of his head, when one of his brothers calls out, “behind ya! Behind ya!” Bomber tries to stop in his tracks and turns around just as I’m swinging the iron bar at his head. He puts his arm up, the one with the glass, to fend off me strike, but the bar is way too heavy for him and smashes into his arm. The broken glass drops to the ground and Bomber screams out in agony. I’ve busted the bastard’s arm and it hangs limply as he holds it against his body. I’m about to finish him off, when Grecko grabs my swinging arm—gees, he’s done that so often to me – and he says, “better leave it. Don’t want to kill him now do we?” He calmly releases the bar from my grip and I’m all worked up, my ears throbbing and my mouth’s dry. Grecko holds me tight. “Better go inside and have a beer,” he says as he pushes me a little towards the pub entrance. I look up and I see broken windows everywhere and Bomber’s brothers are helping each other get back into their big truck. Bomber’s sitting in the front seat holding his arm. One of his brothers starts up the old truck with a crank handle, then climbs in the truck and they drive off. Our blokes start to file into the pub, but we still haven’t found Mr. Counter. Mrs. Counter has come to the front and she’s asking where he is. So we all fan out looking for him. We’re all scared of what we might find. I walk around the back of the pub, and I see that just about all the windows have been broken, including mine in me bedroom. And I keep on walking and get to the dunny and I hear someone moaning. There’s no¬body in the dunny, gees, you’d have to be in bad shape to hide in there, and then I see Mr. Counter lying in the green grass behind the dunny. He’s got some blood on his face, but otherwise he looks OK.

“Are you all right Mr. Counter?” I go over and help him up. He looks real upset, but except for a few scratches on his face that look worse than they really are, I’m guessing that he’s OK.

“I think I’m OK. I don’t know how I ended up here.”

“Yair, dunno what could of happened. We gave them what-o anyway, Mr. Counter.”

“You did?”

“Yair. Gave them a good hiding.”

“Didn’t the cops come, then?”

“Nah. Who needs the cops anyway?”

I’m feeling good with myself. I played my part and I know the blokes won’t call me “son” any more, and Mrs. Counter better not call me “boy” either.

*

Mr. Counter’s called me into his office. It’s lunch time so I know there’s something up. I wonder what it could be, because I’ve been doing my job pretty good. Been doing just what the other full-time barmen do, work hard all day then get plastered at night. And on my day off which was Mondays, I go off into town and get plastered there too at the Criterion pub near the Kardinia Park footy oval, my favourite pub where I used to hang out with me Dad when I was a kid and followed the footy. So I wonder what could be up. Mrs. Counter’s been kind of hovering over me too, giving me looks when we’re sitting in the passage boozing on after we’ve finished up. I go into his office and Mr. Counter’s sitting there counting out his money like he always is. I stand there waiting for him to finish. He doesn’t tell me to sit. There isn’t anywhere anyway because he’s sitting on the only stool in the office.

“You wanted to see me Mr. Counter?”

“Yes. Be with you in a tick. It was your day off yesterday, you remember that?”

“Course I do. So what?” Something’s up I know, because my ears are getting red already.

“A mate of mine is the licensee at the Criterion.”

“Yair?”

“Yes. He says you had to be thrown out of the pub and that from now on you’re barred from going there.”

“Shit! What for? I didn’t do nothing!”

“Yes, no doubt. So why would he bar you then?”

“I don’t remember nothing.” And that was the truth.

“I’m not surprised, you were so drunk, as I heard it.”

“Well I had a few.”

“Yes. Well it was a few too many.”

“Why, what’d I do?”

“You got into a big brawl, that’s what, and it was you who started it.”

“Not me. I just do what me Dad used to do. I sit in the corner and drink on me own and mind my own business.”

“Not this time. Though you really were doing what your Dad did, you were drinking plonk.”

“Yair, I remember that bit.”

“And whiskey.”

“Yair.”

“And beer chasers.”

“Yair. So? I paid for it all didn’t I? Can’t I have a few drinks on me own?”

“Not if you’re starting to go the way your old man did.”

“Well I’m not. I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t think you do. You beat up an old pensioner just because he said you shouldn’t be drinking the whiskey with beer chasers.

“Nah, not me. I just scared him a little bit, that’s all.”

“No. You beat him up really bad and he’s now in hospital. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Mr. Counter. I don’t remember doing that. Mr. Counter, that’s not me. You know me. I wouldn’t beat up a poor defenceless old man.”

“Well you did. I couldn’t believe it either, but my mate says you really did, and I believe him. He’s got no reason to make it up.”

“I don’t remember.” I’m starting to plead.

“Well you did. And I feel a bit responsible for you because I haven’t stopped you from getting on the booze. And it’s all you do. I pay you a good wage and you just spend it all on booze. You’re going to finish up like your old man. You’ve got to stop.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Counter. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“I know what blokes like you are like. I watched this happen to your dad. The grog’s got you and I have to do something about it.”

“Gees, Mr. Counter. I’m all right. I can knock it off.”

“Your dad used to say that all the time and he ended up on the metho. Even you’d remember that.”

I stood there, my face red, ears throbbing. My mind was blank. I didn’t want to think about it. I remembered my Dad. I’d promised myself lots of times I’d never end up like he did. I just stood there, looking at the floor, feeling like a little kid being yelled at by his teacher.

Mr. Counter swivelled around on his stool. Then he said, “here’s what I’m going to do. From now on I’m only giving you a few bob a week to buy a few smokes and things. The rest of your wages I’m putting in a bank account that you can’t get at. And when the time comes you want some money to spend on some¬thing important, you’ll have to come to me to get it. Understand?”

I kept looking at the floor and I shifted from one foot to the other. I hadn’t felt like this since high school, which wasn’t that long ago anyway.

“You understand?” says Mr. Counter again.

“It’s not fair. I did the right thing by you. When Bomber’s blokes were going to do you in, I saved you. And this is what I get for saving your life?” I couldn’t believe I said all that.

“And I’m saving your life right now. I’m stopping you from going down your father’s track. You don’t want to end up like him, do you?”

I looked up from the floor, my ears redder than ever, me mouth as dry as it was the night I beat the shit out of Bomber.

“Who are you to talk, you bastard? You’re the one that helped Dad on his way. It was your booze he drank and you gave it to him.”

“I made a mistake. And I’m not going to make it twice.”

“You’re a… a hypocrite!”

“Maybe so. Say what you like. But I’m doing what I’m doing.”

“Fuckn asshole!”

“Get back to work.”

“Get stuffed!”

I turn to leave, and then Mr. Counter says, “oh and by the way. I think you need to get away from the pub life for a while, so I’ve loaned you out to Swampy for the next couple of weeks, like we agreed a few months ago.”

I stopped in my tracks. “You can’t do that!”

“I just did. Swampy’s coming in this afternoon. And after he’s had a few beers, he and Spuds will take you back with them. You can stay there if you want, or he said he’d bring you back here to sleep in your own bed. Up to you, but it’d be easier for you to stay out there. He’s got a sister, you know.”

“Yair. Old enough to be my grandmother. I’m not staying out there with that filthy old bastard.”

“Please yourself. But you’ll have to be out there at five every morning. That’s when these farmers start their day.”

“I’m not going.”

“We’ll see about that.”

*

Swampy and Spuds showed up and I was behind the bar washing up glasses.

“Haw! Haw!” laughs Swampy, “gimme a couple of beers, nah, make it three, one for yourself.”

I look around and pour three beers and then I walk around to the other side of the bar. Mr. Counter had a rule that if you ever felt you had to accept a customer’s offer of a beer, you had to go around the other side of the bar, so it looked like you weren’t drinking on the job. We raise our glasses together and cry, “bottoms up!” I take a big sip. I’d been longing for a drop all day, especially after my run-in with Mr. Counter.

“So you-a come-a with us?” asks Spuds.

“That’s what Mr. Counter said.”

“Haw! Haw!” laughs Swampy, “the kid’s got the sulks!”

“I fuckn don’t, and I’m not a kid.”

“After the next-a few weeks, ya won’t-a be,” says Spuds.

“Anyway. I’m not going. He can’t make me.”

“But we can,” grins Spuds. He chuckles away and Swampy slaps him on the back.

“We can, we can!” crows Swampy, and with that he orders a round of whiskeys and beer chasers. Sugar’s serving, and I’m expecting him to refuse to serve a drink for me. But he goes right on filling them all up. And when he’s done, Swampy puts up the dough, but Sugar pushes it back and says, “nah. This one’s on the house.”

“Haw! Haw!” says Swampy and he picks up his whiskey and cries, “dags up!” and downs the whiskey, bangs the empty glass on the counter, then downs in one gulp the beer chaser. I have no choice, not that I was even bothering to think about it. I follow suit with Spuds and we down ours too.

“We better go,” says Spuds with a grin, “we got all them sheep to round up and dag.”

“Can’t,” says Swampy. “Haw! Haw! It’s blowing a gale outside. Can’t dag sheep in wind like this. Have to wait for the wind to die down.”

“Mr. Sugar!” calls Spuds, “another round!” He pushes forward a crumpled ten-bob note.

“Coming up!” and he refills the glasses and pushes the money back to Spuds. “On the house. Compliments of Mr. Counter.”

“Dags up!” we all cry and soon the whole bar is watching us.

The wind gets stronger, and we can hear it whistling through the old cypress tree and rattling the old iron roof. Spuds walks outside and comes back again, a silly grin on his face. “Fuckn wind!”

And so, the afternoon passed, with many “dags up” toasts and Sugar pushing back the money and refilling the glasses. It must have taken a couple of hours or more. I can’t remember much of what happened after that. They tell me I was drunk out of me mind, staggering round the bar, trying to shake blokes’s hands, telling them what a good bloke Mr. Counter was, and chattering away till Grecko had to grab me and tell me to stop yapping because I might say something that would upset someone. Then Swampy, hardly able to stand up straight himself, anyway he couldn’t stand up straight when he was sober, staggers outside, the comes back waving his arms, steps up to the bar and stands on the only stool in the whole bar, Spuds holding him so he doesn’t fall and announces, “haw! Haw! The wind has ceased. We are free to go!”

Dad, I wish you’d been with us. Swampy was in his element. The three of us stagger out and pile into Spuds’ old truck. But the wind’s blowing like buggery, and I keep slipping on the step up to the back of the truck. Spuds gives me a whopping lift and I land in a truck full of potatoes, onions and fertilizer. Swampy slips off the front seat on to the floor as Spuds revs up the old ute, and guns her round in a mad U-turn and up the Melbourne Road. I thrash around throwing onions at anything we pass, but pretty soon I snuggle in amongst the veggies, and I’m sound a sleep

3. Where loves roses grow

That horrible day. The day my Dad was carted off to the cemetery with me auntie sitting up like a cockie in the back of the black limo.

Mr. Counter’s at my side, and he hands me a beer. I walk back outside and watch the limo disappear up the Melbourne road and I down the beer in one big gulp. I push aside the greasy canvas hanging in the doorway and walk back into the bar. There’s a bounce to my step. I bang the empty glass on the bar and yell at the barman, “gimme a whiskey,” and he looks at Mr. Counter who nods. I grab it, and swill it down. “Gimme another,” I yell. My voice, it was screeching like a cockie’s. The blokes in the bar. They all was gone quiet. Mr. Counter mutters, “one more and that’s it.” I grab it and rush outside to see the hearse, but it’s gone, and I picture it rolling over the flat hills, up past the burnt fields of thistles, going somewhere, I dunno where. They were going to stick my Dad in a hole. Bastards, that’s what they were going to do. I go back in and I down the whiskey, neat again. Nearly choked, and the other blokes, they begin to laugh. And the hecklers start.

“Hey Eddie, give him another. Nah, give the little shit a brandy next. He’s gotta learn the hard way.”

I look at this bloke and I rush at him. He was a little bloke, pretty old. A few silvery whiskers sticking out of his cheeks. I grab him by the neck with my spare hand and I’m going to pummel him with my beer glass, right in his fuckn face, that’s what I’ll do. And he’s coughing, dribbling beer and spit out of the corners of his mouth that’s wide open, and I can see his rotten teeth.

“This fuckn glass is going right down your throat, ya cunt!”

I’ve got my arm up and the glass pointed right at him and it’s coming down so hard it’ll come out of the other side of his neck. Except that an iron clamp grabs my wrist and before I know it, I’m down on my knees and Grecko the bouncer’s got my arm twisted up me back and I’m screaming in agony and there’s real tears coming down my face.

Then the blokes turn on Grecko.

“Give him a go. He’s just a kid.”

“I’m no fuckn kid!” I call out in between sobs.

Mr. Counter comes up and takes the glass out of my hand.

“You need to sober up, son,” he says quietly so the other blokes won’t hear.

“I’m all right. I just need another beer to calm me down.”

“Give him a drop a plonk like his dad used to drink. That’ll fix him. Poor little bugger,” some bloke says.

Mr. Counter looks at Grecko who loosens his grip just a little. I can stand up, and now I’m licking the tears round my lips, and trying to wipe them off my face with me free hand. Gees, I’m crying and all the bar’s looking at me. Mr. Counter grips me on the shoulder and squeezes hard and I wince and nearly start crying again. It’s the worst moment of my life. All these blokes looking on. And me crying, trying like hell to hold it back. A bloke comes over. It’s Bossie, one of Dad’s old drinking mates from before he got into the booze and started drinking by himself. Everyone said the grog had got him then. He hands me a glass of the red stuff. I look at Mr. Counter. He doesn’t say nothing, just stares at me like there’s a pimple on my nose or something. So I grab it and take a big mouthful. Me eyes tear up again, and my mouth and cheeks, I dunno, shrink or something, it was so bitter.

“Hey!” calls one of the blokes, “put some sugar in it for him.”

Everyone laughs, so I down the rest of it and smack my lips.

“Not a bad drop,” I says, “I can see why me Dad kept it under his bed.”

I smiled and the rest of the blokes in the bar burst out laughing and then there was the loud din of the blokes talking and jabbering about nothing. I felt really like I was back home though I didn’t really have a home as of now. But I just felt OK. Right in my place.

I looked at Mr. Counter and he smiled back. He gently patted me on the back and said, “all right. I can see you’re going on a bender. Probably best to get it over with, and tomorrow we’ll talk about what you’re going to do with yourself. You better stay with the beer though, or you’ll get real sick.”

Mr. Counter handed me another beer and a fiver to spend the rest of the afternoon.

So, Dad. There you have it. That’s how I ended up the day you left us. I knew you were going to kick it, I knew, OK? It’s not your fault. You were just like the blokes in the bar said. You was got by the booze and there was nothing you could do about it. You did your best, Dad. I know. Don’t feel like you could have done anything else. I knew what was coming and I was ready for it. I just had a few second thoughts or something. Don’t know what it was. But Mr. Counter, your best mate, was right there for me. And the blokes in the bar, they were great too. We had a great time that day and well into the night. I nearly saw it through. I did pretty good.

*

I’m out to it on the bed in my clothes. I don’t know where I am. I lick my lips, they’re dry as a bone. I’m poking me finger into my mouth, scraping off the dried stuff caked to its roof. I don’t know where I am because I can’t bear to open my eyes. I feel the sun streaming in through the window like one of those laser beams in a Flash Gordon comic. I’m looking at my eyelids from the inside, they’re bright red and I’m squeezing them tight. Someone’s poking me in the ribs, poking real hard.

“Fuckn go away. Leave me alone!” I growl.

“Don’t you swear like that to me, ya little bugger!”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Abbie, and Mr. Counter said you have to get up and go to school.”

I roll over to get away from the poking and fall off the other side of the bed.

“Ya silly little bugger. Whatchya trying to do? Get up and into the shower. There’s a towel on the dresser. Now go on. Get!”

“Fuck you!”

She’s pulling my hair. “Just cos you’ve got those lovely brown curls doesn’t mean you can swear at me! Now get up or I’ll get Grecko to come and throw you into a cold shower!”

I sit up and open my eyes a bit, shade them with my arm. The sun’s glare is awful and me head’s throbbing like I never knew. It’s the maid or whatever they call them. She’s got this dark oily skin and big round face and huge teeth. Gotta be an abo.

“Fuck you, you black bitch. You’re not my mother!”

“Lucky for you I’m not. And I’m not a bitch either!”

She pulls me up by my hair and pushes a towel into my face. “Now get going. I’m telling Mr. Counter. I’m supposed to make the beds. I’m not your babysitter!”

“I’m not a baby!”

“Then don’t act like it!”

I climb back on to the bed and lie flat on my belly. My head’s going round and round, and the bed feels like it’s going to tip me out. She pulls me over on to me back and slaps me face. Then she grabs me by the nose and pulls me up, helpless, out of the bed¬room and down the passage to the shower.

“Now getcha self ready. Mr. Counter said you have to go to school.”

She throws the towel in after me and slams the door shut. I take my clothes off and they stink of beer and smoke. I dare not look in the mirror. I showered until the hot water run cold. I put the towel around me and walk back to the room, carrying my clothes. “Hey Abbie,” I call, “I can’t wear these shitty clothes to school, so I’m not going.”

She comes to the door and eyes me up and down. I give her a little smile. She’s not that bad, too bad she’s so old. She’s got an armful of clothes.

“Mr. Counter sent Grecko over to your old house to get your clothes. He says you’re staying here for a while.”

“Yair? So who’s he to tell me what to do?”

She chucks the clothes at me and I have to drop the towel to catch them.

“You better behave yourself,” she says as she looks me up and down again. I stand there starkers, and she steps back real quick.

I got dressed, then sank back on the bed. My head ached like never before. I suppose it was my first real hangover. I put my head between me hands and rubbed me fingers through my hair. Shit! What the hell am I going to do, Dad? I got to talk to Mr. Counter. So I follow the smells of the kitchen, feeling like I’m going to throw up, and step out of the gloom of the passage into the kitchen, full of people working away and Mr. Counter’s sitting at an old wooden table that had been scrubbed so much the top was furry.

“You’ve got time for some bacon—very good for you in your condition,” he says without looking up, chewing on his own bacon and grinning at the same time.

“Time for what?” I says.

“Before the bus comes and you go to school.”

“I’m not going to school.”

“Yes you are. Your dad said so, because you’re doing matric and going to Teachers College aren’t you?”

“Everything’s finished anyway.”

“What do you mean? I saw all the kids going off to school this morning.”

“I’m doing matric. The exams are in a couple of weeks. All we do is study. There’s no classes. There’s only a few of us anyway.”

Abbie drops a plate of bacon and eggs on the table and pushes me on to a chair.

“I’ll throw up if I eat eggs,” I say.

“Then leave ’em. Now listen to Mr. Counter.”

“All right. So here’s the rub. You can stay here at the pub until you figure out what you want to do. If you don’t want to go to Teachers College, that’s up to you and your Dad. But you can’t stay here unless you go and do those matric exams or whatever they’re called.”

“I want to stay in my old house where me and my Dad were.”

“I know you do and so would I if I were in your shoes. But you can’t. They’re pulling the place down this week. Besides, it’ll make it a lot harder to get over losing your dad if you stay there even one day more.”

“I don’t want to get over it.” I’m chewing a really nice piece of bacon, having a lot of trouble listening to Mr. Counter.

“Yes, sure. But you have to stay here. You can study in that back bedroom we put you in last night. It’s nice and quiet.”

“I don’t like it quiet.”

“Yes, you do. You like it that way so you can have your talks with your dad.”

“That’s none of your business.” I felt my ears go all red and my cheeks flushed. I swallowed me bacon, and sat, sullen.

“Agreed? You can go over there after you get back from school and clear out everything and bring what you want over here. I’ll send Grecko over with you to help.”

I stood up and grabbed my cup of tea, gulped it down and looked sideways at Mr. Counter and then looked right at Abbie. She was grinning and showing all her big teeth.

“And you can earn your keep by working around the pub and in the bar when you’re not studying. Fair enough?” said Mr. Counter.

Well, what was I going to say? I love the pub life and yesterday, gees, I felt like I really belonged here. It did feel like home, and it was Dad’s home most of his life anyway. So why not me too?

“Mr. Counter. Thanks, mate. But after yesterday…”

“Yesterday was a special day. We don’t need to talk about it. Abbie put you to bed. You were out to it. But you were OK. Except for the bloke you were going to smash in the face. But Grecko and I talked with him. It’s all OK.”

“I really like working in the bar. Can’t I just do that? Why bother with school?”

“Because your dad wanted it. And so do I. Just do the exams and everything will be all right.”

“But I’m going to fail. They’re not easy you know.”

“You’re a smart fella. I know you can do them.”

I swallow really hard and rub the back of my neck. Truth is, I was about to start sobbing again. “Seeyas,” I mutter as I turn away and run out straight to the loo way down the end of the passage near my bedroom.

“Yair, my bedroom, Dad. Doing it all for you. Hope you’re happy.”

*

“Stop muttering, laddie!”

“Stuff you, I’ll talk to me Dad any time I want.”

“Show consideration for others. And enough of that language.”

“I have to go to the toilet.”

“This way then.”

He might as well handcuff me, the pommie bastard. Calls me “laddie” all the time.

“This way and keep your eyes straight ahead, laddie. I’m on to people like you.”

I’ve been sitting in this tin-can church hall for a couple of hours trying to do my Latin exam. I’m trying to translate this paragraph from Ovid. I can’t believe they chose this of all poems. I hate the fuckn poetry, can’t understand a word of it. Have to memorize the translations then I just write them down in the exam. I’m staring at this sentence:

Odi concubitus, qui non utrumque resolvunt. Hoc est, cur pueri tangar amore minus.

Shit! Is it saying what I think it is? Struth! It’s my last exam. I have to give it a fair go. I thought I did pretty good in my English exam. I wrote about my Dad kicking it. A real tear jerker and all those sentences with very correct grammar that I learned from my Latin. Why don’t the shit-heads write like they talk? All the words have to be exactly right and the verbs have to be in the right place and match the subjects and on and on. By the time the words are on the paper, who would want to read them, Dad?

“Dad?”

He’s not answering. Probably into the plonk again, Bet they have it in heaven too. Good old Dad will sniff it out if it’s there.

“Laddie!”

There’s a hand pulling my ear. I stand up to relieve the pulling and knock over my chair and make an awful noise. The other couple of kids, from the grammar school probably, keep writing away, don’t even look up.

“This is your last warning. Now stop your muttering or you will be sent out. You hear me laddie?”

He let’s go me ear and I pick up my chair and bang it down. I stare at the sentence. I know what it says. I’m going to translate it my way, so I write:

Simultaneous orgasms are best which is why I don’t fuck young boys.

How’s that Dad? Gees, dad, I dunno. It’s what this bloke is saying, I know it, so why shouldn’t I write it down just like we all talk?

*

You gotta understand, Dad. Those exams they nearly killed me. So when I ran into Iris just as I came out of the Baptist Hall, and I’d written “fuck” in my Ovid translation, I was kind of crazy. I stopped at the bottom step, almost bumping into her..

“Fancy seeing you here!”

She smiles and wiggles her little thin body.

“Whatcha doing here?” she says.

“Done me last exam.”

“Exams in a church? What silly exam is that? You going to be a preacher?” She looks flabbergasted and she stands back eyeing me off, suspicious.

“Nah. Doing my matric exams. Me dad made me do them.”

“Yair? So you do everything he tells you?”

“Yair, mostly.” Fact is, I wanted her body right then and there. I was all worked up over that Latin exam, feeling crazy, and free, free of everything. Free as a bird, like they say.

“So wanna do something?” She comes up to me and I think of Ovid, the dirty old bastard. She strokes my hair – they all seem to like my hair – and then gives me a nice wet kiss on my cheek.

“Yair, let’s go for a walk.” I take her hand and look at her. She looks thirteen to me. Well, maybe fourteen.

“Where to?”

“We can have a look at the new houses,” I say slyly.

“You mean all those commission houses like mine?”

“Yair, if that’s what you live in.”

I pull her along and we run down Spruhan avenue, then stop and kiss. Her sloppy kisses, they just drive me out of my mind. Then she breaks away and I chase her. She runs into a house that’s half finished, the roof is on and some of the walls, and half the floor is done. She leaps inside and lightly dances across the open beams in the floor and then leaps to what’s probably the bedroom. I leap over several beams and fall gently into her. She grabs me and then we’re at it. I never felt so free. We’re down and we roll on the half-made floor, roll over loose nails and don’t feel a thing. Everything in my life that’s gone before, it’s given up for a few seconds. “Ovid!” I call, “Ovid, you bastard, take this!”

We never had time to completely undress, so we’re lying there half naked. And I’m exhausted. All that study and that three-hour exam, and now this. I’m completely fucked, lying flat out on my back. But she’s not. She’s running her hand through me hair. And I turn to her. She’s lying on her side, her super short tartan dress bunched up above her hips and her panties completely gone I dunno where. She runs her hand down to my legs. They’re bare, dunno where me pants are. I roll towards her and unbutton her little white blouse. And pretty soon we’re both naked and this time we’re at it again. Dad, I tell ya, you never told me how good this is. And to think that I once even was tempted to have a go at your Millie.

“Who’s Ovid?” she asks.

“Never you mind.” I rub my cheek on her belly so she can’t see me grin.

“So why aren’t you at school?” She grabs my hair and gives it a bit of a tug.

“Why aren’t you?”

“I asked first.”

“I’m a sixth former, that’s why. I’m done with school as of today.”

“Think you’re smart, don’tcha?”

“Nah. I just did it because they all made me.”

“Who did?”

“Me Dad.”

“Who’s he to tell ya what to do? And just because he says so, ya do it?”

“Well he can’t now, but Mr. Counter does it for him.”

“What are ya fuckn talking about?” Mister who?”

She pulls my head around by my hair and plops one of her wet kisses on me forehead. I roll back and then I start looking at her body all over again. Gees Dad, I’m out of control.

“You’re so piss-weak you just do whatever your dad tells ya?”

“Mind your own fuckn business,” I says, big smile, trying to be kind of dreamy like Dean Martin. I want more. I’m moving in on her again.

“So tell me,” I grin and she grabs my hand and chews my fingers, “what about your mum and dad? I s’pose you asked them could you come here? Why aren’t you in school?”

“None of your fuckn business either!”

“So now we’re even!” She rolls me over and suddenly she’s on top of me. And then we’re into it yet again. Dad, what’s she doing? Oh gees! Oh Dad!

*

She’s asleep. I must have dozed off for a while, and I wake up with a shiver. A cool breeze has come in off the Corio bay. I get a familiar whiff of sulphur as it drifts in from the Phossie plant. I can’t stop staring at her body. I force myself to look out through the open walls of the house and I see bare beams and half-finished roofs everywhere. I look up through the open roof and squint at the deep blue of the late November sky. I hear the distant banging of hammers and shouts of the builders as my eyes settle on her white, glistening body. She’s gotta be more than fourteen. But her tits are small and I suppose still growing. I put my hands on them and rub each one gently. They’re nice and firm. What more could a bloke ask for? Thank goodness I took the Latin exam, Dad, or I wouldn’t have run into her! Dad, I know it was your doing. Thank you Dad! Thank you!

I must have rubbed her a bit hard. She wriggles then wakes up with a bit of a start.

“Shit!” she says. “What time is it?”

“Five o’clock. I better be going. Gotta work in the bar till six. What about you?”

“I’m staying here.”

“What? You can’t! What if someone comes? And it’ll get cold.”

“I can’t go home.”

“Why not?”

“None of your business. I’m never going back to that shit hole.”

“But you can’t stay here. If they find you they’ll call the cops.”

“Do what you like. I’m staying here.”

I want to grab her and fling her over my shoulders and carry her away with me, just like that picture in my Latin book of the Romans carrying off the Sabine women.

“You’re coming with me, then.”

“We can go to your house?”

“No, there’s workers in there, pulling it down.”

“What for?”

“They’re building a new pub. I’ll think of something on the way. Come on!”

“Nah! I’m staying here.”

I grab her and pull her close to me. We’re still stark naked and I’m getting ready to go again. Oh God!! Then I feel her shivering. She’s cold, I guess. But then she starts sobbing something awful.

“Gees, Iris, what’s the matter?” I look around for my school pants and shirt. They’re pretty filthy. Only ones I’ve got anyway. Now Iris is holding me tight, her fingernails digging in to my back. “Ouch, Iris, what’s going on? It fuckn hurts!”

“Fuck you. You got what you want and now you’re running off. Me mum said they all do that.”

“Shit Iris, I want you to come with me.” I kind of push her away and she clings even tighter. “Iris, let me go! I gotta go to work.”

“Fuck off then!” She pushes me away and then drops down and curls up on the floor.

“Shit Iris. You’re all fucked up. Come back with me. You can stay in my room.”

“What room?”

“At the pub.”

“They won’t let me in there. I’m too young.”

“They don’t care. There’s kids running around the Ladies Lounge all the time.”

I pull up my pants and tuck in my shirt. I take her clothes to her and say, trying to be funny, “you want me to dress you?”

She throws her clothes back at me and calls me all the shits you ever heard of. She jumps across the beams to the corner of the room and squats down hugging her knees. I lean forward with her clothes and hold them out, just like I was feeding a croc at the zoo. I dunno what’s going on Dad. I mean, we were going at it just a while ago. And now…

“Stop muttering,” she growls, “who are you talking to?”

“You’re the only one here.”

“I’m not your dad, then,” she says with a smirk. Baiting me I think she was. I squint at her. She’s a lot older than she looks, I say to myself yet again.

“I wasn’t talking to me dad. I told you, he’s dead and gone.”

“Yair, sure.”

“Get your clothes and let’s go.” She squats down straddling the open beams and has a piss. I look away, can’t bear to watch her. Gees, I dunno, Dad.

*

That fuckn dog. They called it Nipper. Mr. Counter kept it tied up on a ten-foot chain hooked on to the tap at the gully trap just out¬side the kitchen door. There was no one in the kitchen at half past five, peak hour in the bar. We’d come in the side gate. So we had to pass by Nipper, a vicious little shit of a thing, a foxy with a full tail. I tried to pat it and talk to it but it wouldn’t stop yelping. And it bit at my pants and tore them with its razor teeth, but had to let go to bark. And it just wouldn’t shut up. Then it runs up and down, straining at the end of the chain, getting it wrapped around me feet.

“Nipper, you little shit,” I say trying to be nice, “shut the fuck up!”

It barked even more and rushed so fast to the end of the chain it was jerked back by the throat and launched into the air.

“Why don’tcha be nice to it?” says Iris. I was keeping her behind me so she wouldn’t get bitten.

“I’m trying. What’s it fuckn look like?”

Iris pulls me away and laughs. “You silly bugger,” she says. Then she gets down on all fours and crawls up to the dog. Nipper stops in his tracks. I’m frozen shitless. I can see it all before me. The fuckn dog’s going to leap at Iris and tear a piece of flesh right off her lovely little face.

“You silly bitch,” I mutter, “get away for Christ sake. He’ll bite your fuckn head off!”

Iris squats, just like when she had a piss at the Commission house. She puts her hand out and beckons with her fingers. Nipper’s fucked up. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He starts walking around in circles. And the chain’s getting all tangled up. And bugger me, he stops barking. He starts whimpering instead. Iris’s fingers just touch the back of his neck and she manages to wiggle them into his fur. And now she’s patting him with smooth slow strokes, starting at the top of his head, then right down his back.

“There, there Nipper,” she says in her thin little voice, “we’re going to be good friends, aren’t we?”

I’m starting to edge back out of Nipper’s range. I don’t trust the little shit of a dog.

“Iris,” I whisper, “we gotta get away from here. He’ll turn on you, I tell ya.”

She ignores me. She’s got Nipper in her sights and she won’t let go. Nipper whimpers more and more, then for shit sake, he starts to rub his head against Iris’s leg and she responds by twiddling with his ear. I’m feeling fuckn jealous! I step back, a big step back, and I see Nipper’s other ear twitch and I know he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye.

“There, there,” says Iris, “there’s nothing to be upset about. We’re friends you and me.”

I take another step back, and Iris gives me a look, as if to say, “you fuckn idiot.”

Then all hell breaks loose. Nipper jerks his head back then snaps at Iris’s hand. She loses her balance and falls over back¬wards. Nipper grabs the closest thing to him, Iris’s foot. And he won’t let go, all the time snarling and baring his teeth. I grab Iris by her armpit and pull her away. Her sandshoe comes off in Nipper’s teeth and he rushes in the other direction until the chain jerks him into the air by the neck. And the barking starts all over, Iris’s shoe sits chomped up out of reach. I’m waiting for Iris to cuddle into me, make herself feel safe in my arms.

“You fuckn shit. Why didn’t you stay still? You nearly got me bit!” she growls.

“You’re the fuckn shit. Trying to show off. I told you the fuckn dog’s mad.”

“Now he’s got me shoe, thanks to you!”

“Soon fix that!”

I step forward, right within Nipper’s reach. The shoe’s in easy reach, but I know if I put my hand down, the fuckn mad dog will bite it off.

“Here, Nipper, come here old fella,” I call.

Nipper couldn’t care less what I’m saying. He lunges at me and I’m ready. I give him my best kick in the ribs and he screams, yelping as the force of the kick sends him flying across the other side of the gulley trap. I grab the shoe and retreat to Iris.

“Your shoe!” I say, all proud of myself. She looks at me like I was her father or something.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, looking scared.

“I gotcha shoe. Fuck you.”

She looks at me like she’s going to slap me or something. She’s a silly little fuckn bitch. This is all fucked up. “Come on, I’m taking you home. You can’t stay here.”

“You said I fuckn could!”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

“I have to work.”

“You said that before.”

“I know.” My mouth is moving, saying things I don’t want to say. “It’s not gunna work out.”

“Then why’d you bring me here?”

“Because I couldn’t leave you in that half-built commission house, you silly shit.”

“Me mum was right. You’re sick of me. I don’t need you anyway.”

“All right then. Fuck off!”

Now she’s crying. Works all the time. I look over at Nipper. He’s eyeing me off, but he hasn’t left off barking. If he could get loose, I know what he’d do. I stamp my foot at him and he goes nuts. The chain practically pulls his head off when he leaps at me. Iris is squatting down again. Like she’s having a piss. Dad? Dad? Are you watching this? Was mum like this? I dunno what’s going on.

Iris looks up, her lips twitching. “I’m going,” she says.

“OK. Go then, fuck you.”

“You don’t have to talk like that. Just because I let you fuck me.”

“Yair, right! You fucked me, that’s what you did!”

Dad, I think I just said the wrong thing. Dad! Dad, are you there? I need you.

She’s snivelling now. It’s like she’s been smacked by her old man and she’s feeling like she did something bad. “I can’t go home,” she says and looks up at me. And now I’m going to pieces. Gees, Dad. What am I going to do? I don’t really want her here all the time, but I do want her.

“Why can’t you go home? You never told me yet.”

“It’s me dad.”

“So what, he’ll give you a back-hander?”

“Nope, probably not. Not at first.”

“Then what’s wrong then?”

“He’ll fuck me…” There’s that snivel again. I dunno what to say. I mean, she’s got to be lying, hasn’t she, Dad? I’m just frozen speechless. Don’t know what to say.

“What about your mum?”

“She won’t be home.”

“So have you told her?”

“I don’t have to.”

“What the fuck are you saying? Course you have to.”

“She watches us.”

“Shit!”

“Yair. She watches us. While she prays to Jesus.”

She snivels again and there’s lots more tears. I grab her in my arms and she whimpers, just like Nipper. I give her a squeeze and she clings to me. I look across at Nipper, fucking stupid dog. I want to kick him really hard. I mean really hard. I’d like to kick every fuckn bark out of him. I take Iris’s hand and pull her along to the kitchen door. We slip through the kitchen then run down the passage to my room. The noise of the bar fades as we slip inside. I give her my nicest sweetest kiss on her always wet lips. I take her gently to the bed and she plops down, sitting on the edge. She can see what I’m thinking and it’s not good. Dad, I can’t hide it. I just can’t. And I can’t help it.

“Got to go to work. They’ll be running out of glasses. Mr. Counter will be cheesed off.”

And I’m gone.

*

Iris fell back on the bed and rolled on to her side, facing the little window. The old blind was closed, a narrow rip down its middle letting in a red shaft of light from the setting sun. She rolled off the bed and stood at the window, peering through the rip. The curved silhouettes of the Quonset huts that housed all the New Aussies hovered over the dark outlines of drunks staggering around to piss at the back fence. She fell back on to the little narrow bed and hugged the pillow. It smelled of him.

“I could love you,” she murmured, “but I could hate you too.” She buried her face in the pillow, still snivelling. She dreamed of strolling in the bush, hand in hand, smelling the gum trees, frolicking in lush green grass by a billabong.

*

A huge roar rises up from the crowded bar. I’m trying to squeeze my way through the pack to bring in the dirty glasses. The barmen have run out of glasses. I’m holding handfuls of them above my head.

“Get ’em down, I can’t see,” someone yells above the roar. They’re watching the Olympic games on the new TV that Mr. Counter put up specially for the Games. It was the first TV any of us had ever seen. I reached the counter, put down the glasses and struggled out to get more. Outside there was a bloke taking bets. They were all giving him money on John Landy to win the gold 1500. “Paying gold or nothing!” calls the bookie, and they can’t give him their money quick enough.

“When’s the race?” I ask the bloke next to me.

“Stuffed if I know.”

I don’t recognize the bookie. He’s not Skeeter who I usually ran for back behind the fence near the dunny. He spies me looking at him.

“Piss off, sonny, you’re too young to bet,” he yells in between calling out, “Landy to win, c’mon, place your bets!”

“Two bob to place!”

“No, nothing doing. Win or nothing! It’s five to one to win! Place your bets!”

“Two bob for him to lose,” I says, without knowing what I’m doing. I don’t even have two bob on me.

“Piss off you little shit,” the bookie scowls, “go home to your mother.”

My ears go red and me eyes are burning. I’m gonna blow. I leap over the blokes crowded around him and grab his nose. He’s only a little bloke, and his nose is all puffy and red, not that different from my old man’s.

“You leave my mother out of it!” I shout.

The bookie shrieks and grabs my wrist. He’s got these big hands and in no time, I’m down on my knees, his hand bending back my wrist.

“Next time pick on someone your own size, sonny,” and he knees me on the chin and I go sprawling backwards, and my face bangs against the blokes’ legs and boots. They take no notice. I crawl away, and they’re still betting like nothing happened. I stand up feeling stupid. Now I’m flushed all over and I’m going to rush back into the mob and have another go. I feel a bit of blood dripping off my chin and pull out my hanky to wipe it off. Then I see Grecko standing on the other side of the mob, his arms crossed. He’s eyeing me off. I start collecting glasses.

I make my way back into the bar. There’s a hush and low mutters all round.

“What’s going on?” I ask a bloke.

“It’s the Landy race.”

And they’re off! I turn to see where the bookie is, but he’s nowhere in sight. The runners are all spread out, but Landy’s keeping up. By now, though, we can all see that he’s not going to win. Poor bastard. Everyone had a lot riding on him. The blokes in the bar start yelling.

“C’mon, ya tired shit! Run, you fuckn idiot!”

Poor bugger ran his heart out, but it wasn’t good enough. The blokes start calling out for more drinks. I look for the bookie again. He’s gone. No wonder he wouldn’t take bets on a place. Landy gets the bronze. Poor bugger.

The six o’clock bell goes and the barmen start filling up the glasses for the final swill. I’m running around grabbing up glasses. There’s a lot of drunks staggering around outside. I’m laughing and joking with the barmen. I’m looking forward to a beer with them once we get the bar cleaned up and the last of the customers out the doors.

*

It’s Saturday night and we’re all sitting on the floor in the passage outside the old bar back door, leaning against the wall, legs stretched out in front of us, our beers sitting on the floor next to us. It’s half past six and the cops have left already, each of them carrying a couple of bottles of beer under their arms. Mr. Counter is in his little office counting the money with Sugar, the head barman. We’re talking about the race.

“Landy should have won.”

“Bull shit. Never had a chance.”

“The Argus put too much pressure on him.”

“Either he could do it or he couldn’t.”

“Did ya have anything on him?”

“Yair, just a couple of bob.”

“I tried to bet on him losing,” I say, “but the fuckn bookie wouldn’t take the bet.”

“Watch your language, young fella!”

As if anybody cared. It was old Bulla talking – had a big name for himself because nobody ever heard him swear. A big bloke, as wide as he was tall and big beefy hands that made a beer glass look like a toy. He was the size a Mount Bulla, so that’s what they called him.

“Get stuffed!” I say, a cheeky look at the other blokes.

“Hey Bulla, you gunna take that from a cheeky little kid?”

“I’m not a little kid,” I says.

Bulla is the only one of us still standing. We all knew why. Because if he sat down on the floor he couldn’t get up!

“You see this?” says Bulla, looking very serious, his eyes just little slits sitting behind a round puffy face. He puts the glass of beer to his lips and gulps the beer down, then holds out the glass. “Think of this as your neck,” he says with a smirk. Then his fist starts to tighten around the slender little glass and you can see his face going red like he’s trying to lift a big weight. His whole arm is shaking with the pressure, and we all start clapping, “Go! Go! Go!” and he clenches his teeth and then, “Pop!” the glass shatters in his hand and bits fly across the room and he drops what’s left of it on the floor.

We’re all cheering.

“You beauty! G’donya mate! Give him another beer!”

There’s blood on his hand, but he just licks it off. Mr. Counter comes out of his office. He’s got a shitty on.

“You better clean it up. Then piss off home. No more free beer tonight.” He looks across to me and calls me to his office. He sends Sugar out and pulls me in, closing the door.

“So, who you got in your room?”

“What do you mean?”

“The girl, I know you got her in your room.”

“Girl in me room? Gees, wish I did!”

“Don’t bull shit me. And did you do your matric exams?”

“Yair, I said I would.”

“And did you pass?”

“I dunno. Did the best I could.”

“And the girl?”

I look down, decide to come clean, almost. “I met her when I came out of the exam at the Baptist hall.”

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“What’s she doing in your room, then? I’m not running a brothel here, you know.”

“It’s just that…”

“What?”

“Well she didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“What do you mean? Doesn’t she live around here?”

“Yair, down on Spruhan Avenue, I think.”

“So why isn’t she there?”

“Because she hates her father and mother and they kicked her out.”

“She can’t stay here. If the cops found out they’d close me down.”

“I’ll take care of her.”

“I bet you will.”

“I don’t mean like that.”

“Oh sure. You’ve got yourself a nice little piece and you think that’s perfect.”

“I’ll take care of her, I promise. I love her!”

“How old is she anyway?”

“Fifteen.”

“She didn’t look that old to me.”

“You saw her?”

“Yes, when you were mucking around with Nipper outside the kitchen.”

“Please, Mr. Counter, can’t I keep her?”

“No, she’s got to go. What if her parents come down here looking for her?”

“They won’t. They don’t care about her. Anyway, they probably both drink here. Could’ve been here even tonight.”

“What’s their name?”

“Dunno.”

“What’s her name?”

“Iris.”

“Take her home. Now!”

“But Mr. Counter. Just tonight, Let her stay just tonight and I promise I’ll take her home first thing tomorrow.”

“And what about school? Doesn’t she go to school?”

“It’s Sunday tomorrow.”

“She goes now! Go down to your room and take her out. Not through the front door, out the way you brought her in. I don’t want to see her. She’s never been here as far as I’m concerned.”

“But…”

“No buts!”

I said nothing more. I was getting all worked up again. Dad! I dunno Dad. He’s your best friend, and here I am seriously think¬ing of hitting him. And I know if I say anything more, he’ll call me a little shit and kick me out along with Iris. And what the hell would I do then? I’d have to go to Teachers College or something, because I wouldn’t have anywhere else to live. Dad! I need another beer. I’m starting to see why you hit the booze like you did.

The other barmen had left. Only Sugar stayed. He lived in anyway, had the room next to mine. We called him Sugar because he was diabetic. He gave me a smirk as I pushed my empty glass to him and he filled it up. I gulped it down and banged the empty glass on the counter. My fists were clenched tight, the nails digging into my palms. I was all set to knock that smirk off his face. But Mr. Counter was standing up close, watching my face, drumming his fingers on the counter.

“You better go,” he says quietly, looking at Sugar. There were beads of sweat on Sugar’s bald head and he stared right at me too. I don’t think he liked me.

*

It’s Monday, and it’s my first real day at work. I suppose you’d call me the rouse-about. I spent all my time sweeping, wiping down counters and window sills, mopping up floors, chit-chatting the customers, gathering up the glasses and pouring a few beers when the lunch time crowd from Fords showed up.

The worst part of the job was cleaning the dunny. I had to fortify myself, like they say, with a couple of beers before I went out back and tried to clean the ramshackle piece of crap. It was beyond cleaning. I’d just hose it down with lots of water and sprinkle some horrible smelling disinfectant all over. And I did the same to the rotten old back fence with its green mould on it and stench from the piss of a thousand cocks.

This day there was this bunch of blokes squatting down behind the dunny. They were yelling and screaming then all of a sudden they’d jump up.

“Ya fuckn bastard!” yells one. He picks up something, I couldn’t see what it was, a green lump of a thing and flings it out into the paddock and it caught on one of the big scotch thistles and hung there like a wet rag. The other blokes turn and laugh, except for one of them who screams and screeches at them.

“That’s me fuckn favourite!” he screams, “ya fuckn bastards!”

So I go over, and there, sitting quietly are five big green frogs, I never saw any so big, sitting there very still.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

“What’s it fuckn look like?”

“Here, sonny, here’s ten bob. Go and get us a few beers, and one for yourself.”

“Give me your old glasses then.”

I run off to the bar. I get up to the tap and start pouring and I see Sugar eyeing me off.

“Where you going with that?”

“The blokes out back want their glasses filled,” I says, “what’s it fuckn look like?”

“You cheeky little shit. Where’s the money? Are you paying for it?”

“They gave me ten bob. Here, see?” I have to put the glasses down on the counter and stop pouring the beer while I reach into my pocket. “Satisfied now?”

I give him a smirk just like he smirks. He licks his lips. There’s those beads of sweat coming out on his bald head again. He’s a skinny narrow shit, even smaller than me. I turn to face the till and ring up the sale, but just as I do, Sugar snatches the note out of my hand.

“I’ll do that,” he says, “you’re not ready to be handling the money.”

“What do you mean?” My ears are already flaming red, I know it. I look at him and grin in a nasty way. I’m looking at his tie. Yair, that’s right. He wears a tie all the time, even in the public bar. I grab his hand with the ten bob note and snatch it back. And then I grab him by his tie and pull it tight. His eyes start to go wide like they were going to pop out. And the sweat is really pouring out of his bare head and down his cheeks and into his eyes. I let him go and ring up the money in the till and scoop out the change. But he’s still standing there, looking like he’s choking to death. Then he starts swinging his arms around and yelling all kinds of nonsense. He swipes his arms across the bar counter and knocks all the glasses, the ones I just filled, right off the bar and they go smashing to the floor. I’m just standing, my mouth open, and I know I’ve got a silly grin on my face, but I can’t help it. Grecko comes up out of nowhere and gathers Sugar into his arms. He looks across at me.

“Run to the kitchen and get a biscuit, some sugar or something.”

I stand there, rooted to the spot. What the hell is he talking about, Dad?

“Go on, you little shit. He’s having a fit!”

“So what?”

“So, if you don’t move yourself I’ll knock your fuckn head off. Now go! He’s going into a coma.”

Gees, Dad. I didn’t know, did I? But Grecko looked like he was really going to do me in, so I took off like you wouldn’t believe and came back with a biscuit. Sugar’s down on the floor, his tongue rolling around in his mouth, spit and dribble all over the place. Grecko rams his fist in Sugar’s mouth so he can’t bite his tongue. Gees Dad! He looks like he’s gunna kick it!

“The biscuit! Stick a bit in his mouth! Go on!”

I push nearly the whole biscuit into Sugar’s mouth and Grecko cries out, “not the whole fuckn biscuit, you idiot, you’ll choke the poor bugger!”

“Gees, Dad! I didn’t know!”

“Gees who? Are you going off the deep end too, are you?”

I’ve got my finger wedged into Sugar’s mouth, between his teeth, trying to scoop out some of the biscuit. I don’t need to, though, because Sugar’s coughing it all up. It’s so disgusting I let go and jump back.

“You fuckn little weasel, you’re a useless shit. That’s what hap¬pens when you stay at school as long as you have,” jokes Grecko.

Some of the bickie must have got down him because Sugar’s gone quiet and he’s not thrashing around anymore. Grecko takes his fist out of Sugar’s mouth and he swallows a bit, and I hand over the few bits of biscuit I have left. He swallows that down too.

“He’s gunna be OK,” says Grecko as he lifts Sugar up onto his wobbly legs. Sugar leans against the bar and Grecko grabs a wet cloth from the sink under the bar counter to mop up the sweat on Sugar’s face and bald head.

“I’m all right! I’m all right!” says Sugar, “leave me, I got work to do.” He staggers off around the bar and starts to arrange the glasses and bottles. It’s just then I remember the four beers I had to deliver round by the dunny. The blokes will be getting worked up. I pour the beers then off I go, proud of my being able to carry four glasses of beer without a tray and without spilling them.

I just turned the corner at the back fence on the track to the dunny, when one of the blokes nearly runs into me.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“Sugar threw a fit. Grecko made me help.”

The mention of Grecko slowed the bloke down. I think he would have hit me. “Gimme the beers,” he says, and he takes two and turns back to his mates. They’re still squatting behind the dunny. I get closer and see the frogs are still where they were when I left. I hand over the other beers and the bloke that gave me the ten-bob note says, “well, where’s the change?” I had to feel around in me pockets because I couldn’t remember what I did with it in all the mucking about with Sugar. “I’ve got it here some place.”

“Come on! Come on! You little shit. I’m putting it all on Toes.”

“Who?”

“Toes. The one on the left, taking big gulps of air. He’s Toes. Can’t you see how big his feet are?”

I find the money in the bottom of my pocket. I hand it to him and he looks it over. I’m not sure if it’s all there.

“All right, I’m putting two bob on Toes,” he calls, standing up to swill his beer, then back down to squat. There’s a bunch of money sitting on the side. “Sonny, you can be the umpire When you call ’go!’ we all set our jumpers to go for it.”

This is fun. I could do with a beer myself. “On your marks!” I says, raising my hand like I’ve seen them do, “go!” and I drop me arm. Then I burst out laughing because nothing happens. The blokes are tickling the asses of the jumpers, but they take no notice. They’re just sitting there like frogs, gulping a bit, but like they were stones.

I just can’t help it. I lean down close within inches of Toes and in my loudest voice I yell, “go you bastards, go!” I saw him flinch and I swear his toes waggled a bit. The other blokes saw it too and they jumped up screaming, “asshole, you can’t do that. It’s against the rules!”

“What rules?” screams Toes’s handler, “there aren’t no rules. Anyway, he hasn’t jumped!”

And then Toes jumped. He went a good couple of feet. Trouble was he didn’t stop there. He kept going. His handler ran after him, struggling through the thistles, getting pricked right and left, falling over, screaming at the thistles calling them every shitty word you could think of. The other blokes started tickling their frogs’ asses. One frog made a little step forward and that seemed to set the others off. They leaped in all directions and kept going. But the one that took the little step stayed put. His handler quickly claimed victory, saying that the frogs that didn’t stay on the course were disqualified! He leaned over and grabbed the pile of money and took off around the dunny and back to the pub. The other blokes were still running in the thistles, getting pricked. I nearly felt sorry for them, because I’ve told you how I hate those damn prickles too. I squatted down and finished off their beers then quietly sneaked away to the pub to do my next jobs. If my job was going to be like this every day, it was going to be great! Couldn’t beat it, could ya dad?

*

Dad I remember you liked the dago. The two of you joked all the time and you called him Spuds, because like lots of new Aussies from Italy, he had a market garden, growing veggies, and he’d bring spuds in to sell in the bar. I thought you were bar mates but you told me that you never bought him a drink and neither did he for you, because you always drank alone.

Swampy shows up this morning and has Spuds in tow. They were waiting at the door right on nine o’clock when we opened up the old bar. I was polishing the counter, trying to look busy, but the truth was I had a hangover from the night before, a biggest night of many nights before, because me and my school mates waited up all night for the blokes in the back room of the Addy to give us our matric results that would be in the newspaper next morning. All but one of us scraped through, and I was proud to introduce most of them to their first serious boozing session. We did a crawl of all the back doors of the pubs in Geelong. Them were the days, I tell you! But now I was paying for it. I was still half asleep and had a sledge hammer in my head. Nearly slept in, I did, and if it wasn’t for Abbie I’d still be sound asleep in me room.

“G’day Swampy,” I say, “how’s the veggies going Spuds?”

“Don’t-a say this is the little shit that was Harry’s-a kid?” says Spuds like a real Aussie. He nudges Swampy with his elbow and grins at me. He’s the only I-tie I know. Solid scrawny bloke, dark greasy looking skin, nearly as dark as an abo, and with lots of black hair. Wavy, a bit like mine, and combed right back, not like mine, because I always had a straight part on the left. He’s got these big hands though, and real thick fingers, I suppose from all that digging in his veggie garden. He ruffles my hair with his big fingers.

“Get out you bastard,” I cry.

“Haw, haw,” growls Swampy, rubbing his stubbly cheek with the back of his grimy hand, “he’s poor Harry’s kid. Hey, you want a beer, kid? It’s on us.”

I’m about to say “you bet” when Mr. Counter comes out from behind the bar and gives me a look. “All right Swampy, none of that leading my men astray.”

“Haw! Haw! We could use a bloke like him today. Canya rent him out? Haw! Haw!”

I’m thinking what the hell’s going on. Rent me out? On a farm? Digging up potatoes?

Mr. Counter pours them a couple of beers. “He’s pretty useless,” he jokes, or at least I hope so.

“We’ll whip him into shape for ya. Won’t we Spuds?”

“Yair,” he says with his big grin, and tries to ruffle my hair but I duck away.

“Fuck off, you bastards,” I say with me own grin.

“Shit! Haw! Haw!” says Swampy, “the little bugger can swear too. That’ll go a long way!”

I look at Mr. Counter. I don’t really want to go with Swampy. I’m looking forward to the next few days. It’s school holidays and Christmas has been and gone. I’m getting the hang of the bar and getting pretty good at pouring beers using the old taps, with just the right amount of head. And I can ring the money up at the old till and do the change quick as lightning. I reckon I’m faster than the other barmen now. A pot of beer is one-and-thruppence-hap-peny—I know, it’s spelled all wrong, but it’s how we say it, isn’t it—so it takes a while to count out the change of a ten-bob note, even a two bob coin. New Year’s Day is a few days away, and on that day I’ll be eighteen so I’m looking forward to a big cele-bration, old enough to drink and drive! But I’m real busy working for Mr. Counter because the old pub’s bursting at its seams with customers. Gees, they put away some grog! Please Mr. Counter, don’t rent me out!

“I’ll tell you what,” says Mr. Counter, a bit of a smirk on his face, looking at me sideways, “you can have him after New Year’s Day. I need him here up to then. Anyway, you two blokes aren’t going anywhere but here the next few days, are you? It’s New Years’ after all.”

“Haw! Haw!” Swampy licks his moustache and rubs his leg with his toe and leans all over the bar counter. “Whatcha think, Spuds old mate?”

“I think we oughta have another beer and-a think on it.”

“Haw! Haw! Yair! Two more beers Eddie, old mate. And one for the young’n here,” and he tries to grab me, but I duck out of his way.

“So who’s paying for this round?” asks Mr. Counter.

“Shit! I forgot me wallet!” says Swampy.

“Poor bugger. He’s got no money,” says Spuds, “hey sonny, ya gonna pay for this-a round?”

“Get stuffed!” I grin.

“Eddie, for Christ sake, when ya gunna teach your barmen some manners? Haw! Haw!” And with that, Swampy plonks down a tenner. Mr. Counter grabs it up and rings up the beers. He looks to me and nods towards the new bar, “You better go across and get it ready to open. The beer pipes need flushing.”

So I took off.

*

What happened to Iris? I know you’re thinking I fucked her over. Well, I kind of did, but not like you think. I mean, she wanted me, didn’t she? She came on to me and just got me at the right time. OK. Any time’s the right time. Shit Dad. What was I going to do? I did the right thing, didn’t I? Poor bitch she was in trouble with her old man, and what the hell, with her mum watching them. I dunno, Dad. I mean, I asked her back to my room at the pub, and she came there and what else could I do? I took care of her as best I could, didn’t I? I even gave up my bed.

That night. I had a few grogs with the blokes after we finished up and the customers were gone and the cops had their fill too. We got into a drinking game and they all ganged up on me and got me to mix my drinks, beer and red plonk and Corio whiskey. We were sitting in the passageway, leaning against the wall, our legs out straight like we always did. They’re all half-pissed, and I’m well and truly gone. I try to stand up so I can shout the round—and it cost a lot because there was at least eight of us, so that’s eight shouts minimum for everyone to do his bit. I’m trying to roll over and put my hands down to push myself up and one of the blokes kicks my foot away from under me and I go ass-over-tit on to the floor and the blokes are laughing their heads off, and then I’m crawling to the little cupboard where I serve the beer for the Snake Pit, and I dig my nails into the old wallpaper on the wall and claw my way up.

“OK mateys. Watchya having?” I don’t wait for an answer, I just call out to whoever is behind the bar in the cupboard, I think it was Sugar, “eight whiskeys and sixteen pots!”

“You’re drunk you silly little bugger,” says Sugar, treating me like he was me big brother or something, his smirk bigger than usual.

“Get stuffed Sugar, you skinny bald shit, or I’ll ram a biscuit down your throat.”

“Yair, you and who else?”

I push myself away from the wall and take a step towards him. He’s holding a beer gun in his hand and he’s got eight pots lined up ready to fill them. He points the gun at me face and I go, “yair, all right,” and I point my finger in me wide open mouth, “fill ’er up right here!” And Sugar’s smirk changes into a big laugh and I can see his yellow teeth.

“OK then. The customer’s always right,” says Sugar and he lets fly with the gun and a big stream of beer hits me in the face and then finds its way into my mouth. I can’t swallow it quick enough and it goes down the wrong way and I cough and choke and stagger back to the wall, beer dripping all down my front.

“You fuckn cunt!” I scream, “gimme more!”

But Mr. Counter shows up out of his office from counting his money and stands there, his hands on his hips, glaring at Sugar.

“For Christ sake, Sugar. He’s just a kid,” he says. And he looks at all the other blokes who are in stitches, but then they see that Mr. Counter is going to tell them to get the shit out. “All right boys,” he says, all formal, “beer’s off. Get home to your wives and kids. And Sugar, shut down the cupboard and clean the place up.” Mr. Counter turns to me. I’m stooped over like a chimp, and I feel like my eyes are going to pop out of me face. “As for you,” he says, “get the hell out of here.” I’m trying to move me feet but they won’t move. I lean against the wall with both hands and I’m stooped over, and then I’m barfing all over the old wall, and the vomit dribbles in big dollops down to the floor. I look around to Mr. Counter, nearly losing my balance and I’ve got a stupid grin on me face.

“You know where the bucket and mop are,” he says, being too calm about it. “Clean it up.” And he goes back in his office.

I wipe my mouth on the back of my bare arm and I stagger off towards the kitchen and out the door to the gully trap and the bucket and mop. Nipper starts sniping at me and I fall over and bang my elbow. Nipper’s got my foot and I swear at him but can’t shake it loose. I reach for the mop and I manage to stand up and I lift it up with both hands then jab it down hard right on Nipper’s head. But he still won’t let go. So I turn the mop upside down and this time jab the handle down hard into his ribs. Lucky for him I was so drunk because the handle wasn’t on centre, otherwise I would have skewered him for sure. But it was enough to make him yelp and I got me foot loose and grabbed the bucket and hose to fill it with water. Nipper’s going crazy and doing that high-pitched bark that drives everyone nuts. I get tangled up in Nipper’s chain and I’m going around and round and don’t know what I’m doing. I fall down, the bucket and mop with me and I’m all wet, lying on my back, Nipper on top a me. He’s going for the juggler, I reckon. I’m slapping at his mouth and he’s baring his teeth and his nose is nearly touching mine. I hear Dad telling me to get up, but I can’t move and I see Nipper coming down on me. I’m going to have a big bite mark on my neck or face. I’m done for, I reckon. I close my eyes and clench my teeth, getting ready for the end and then all of a sudden, I feel someone grab my leg and I open my eyes just in time to see Nipper hanging upside down, Grecko holding him up by the tail. Nipper’s so startled he’s stopped barking for once. And I’m rolling away, spewing my guts out as Grecko’s holding Nipper at arm’s length while he unravels me from the chain. He gently drops Nipper down, and Nipper scurries away and tries to hide behind the gully trap. And I’m now sitting up, feeling sober almost, shaking like you wouldn’t believe. Grecko picks up the bucket that’s still half full of water and he sloshes it into my face.

“Fuck you!” I say, and he laughs.

“You better get yourself cleaned up. You can’t get in bed with your pussy smelling and looking like that.”

And it was then I remembered Iris was still in my room and that I promised Mr. Counter I’d get rid of her. Gees, Dad. I dunno. What am I going do?

“What did you say?” says Grecko looking at me like I was Nipper.

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

“Tell you what. I’ll clean up your spew and you get yourself into the bathroom and clean yourself up. You can’t go to bed looking and smelling like that. You won’t get no pussy.” He grins. I look up at him.

“Grecko, me mate. You’re a bloody good bloke, but I tell ya, there’s no pussy in me room.”

“Yair, yair. Now get to the bathroom.”

I’m still looking up at him. I want to thank him for saving my life. I go to shake hands and he slaps my hand lightly and says, “go on! Get the hell out of here!”

I stagger into the bathroom and do what all the blokes say you have to do to sober up. Get into a cold shower with your clothes on. That’s what they say, Dad, you said it yourself enough times, didn’t you? So I did, and it made me as cold as buggery and I dashed out and hit my shins on the bath getting over the lip, and then I look all round and there’s no towel, so I start rubbing myself down with my old pants but they had spew on them and were wet as well, so I got into a panic and rushed out of the bathroom and down the passage to my room and turned the handle only to find that it was locked and I never had a key because I never locked the door. I’m standing there naked, shivering like buggery when Sugar comes sauntering down to go to his room.

“What the hell are you doing!” he asks, his whole body shaking like mine, only he’s laughing and I’m shivering.

I look at him and I can’t say anything because I think I’m going to cry, that’s what! Gees, Dad. I can’t do that. They’ll think I’m a little kid! And I’m so cold! And what will Iris say? Dad! Help me!

“You poor little bugger,” says Sugar. Let me open it. And he uses his key to open my door. I didn’t think to ask him how come he had a key, but I found out later that all the doors opened with the same key!

So he opened the door for me and he tried to peak in to see if it was true I had a sheila in there. But I was sober enough by now to bump him out of the way and push me way into my room and slam the door shut behind me. Then it was pitch black and I didn’t want to turn on the light because I might wake Iris up. So I thought I’d get in my bed nice and gentle and snuggle up to her to get warm, so I did.

Only trouble was, she wasn’t there. Then I saw that the torn blind was gone, and the window was open. She’d pissed off!

*

It’s New Year’s eve and I’m working in the night cupboard next to the old bar pouring the drinks for the Snake Pit. The hags there are enough to turn anybody off sex for life! Then Millie comes up. Yair, remember her Dad? I heard later that she went to your funeral. Can you believe that? You must have turned over in your grave, even if you had a hard-on as well! Gees, sorry Dad. I didn’t mean that. Don’t know what I’m thinking these days. I’ve had a few drinks, I admit. Yair, I know I’m not supposed to when I’m working.

“G’day darlin’,” she says, giving me a sneaky look, “what’s with your little friend?”

“You want a beer or what?” I ask, treating her like the silly bitch she was.

“You got what you wanted then you kicked her out!” she says, looking at me like she was my Latin teacher.

“A beer or what?”

“A beer and a lemon squash for me little friend.” She tries to get up close to me. I pull back like any bloke would. She reeks of brandy. “You can sneak a little gin in the squash if you like. Me little friend would like that.”

“The gin will cost you.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t do that to your little friend would ya?” She grins and licks the corners of her lips like she always does when she’s either coming on to you or she’s making trouble.

I put up the drinks and say, very business-like and ignoring her bullshit, “that’s one and tuppence.”

“You want me to tell her you spiked her drink for her?” Millie asks, full of mischief.

“I gave you what you asked for, Millie.”

“Yair, and so did she, didn’t she?” Millie grabs the drinks and swaggers off down the passage.

“Next please,” and I go on filling glasses. I’m too busy doing my job, but in the back of my mind, I know what she’s up to and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve been having such a good time in me job, been so busy too, working for Mr. Counter, and having a lot of fun drinking with me mates, I just never thought much about Iris because she up and pissed off. It wasn’t my fault, was it? I did the right thing. I just didn’t get around to bothering about her after that. I had too much drinking to do.

The six o’clock bell goes and the cops are helping clear the bar and settle themselves in for a drinking session to bring in the New Year. It’s going be a great night! I can see Dopey across the other side of the bar, and the Preacher has just walked into the Snake Pit.

“Good evening Ladies!” he says, standing tall, his bible in hand raised above his head, “may the Lord be with you, and now get the buggery out of here!”

They all snarl at him and call him all the assholes they can think of and someone turns off the lights and it’s pitch black for a few seconds, but they come on again.

“The Lord God has sent you a signal. Time to get out, or you will be stuck in the valley of the shadow of death!” He walks further into the Snake Pit and using his bible as a kind of fly swatter, shoos the women and their men out the door. I’m busy but I’m trying to see who my supposed little friend was, but I don’t see anyone with Millie. And Millie grabs the Preacher by the balls and says, “see ya later darling” as he swats her hand, ever so lightly, with his bible.

“May God be with you my dear!”

*

About half a mile up the Melbourne road from the pub there was an old saw mill. They were pulling it down getting ready for the new double lane highway to come through. I used to visit it when I was little and me mum was still at home. She had a friend there who sometimes took care of me. I was scared shitless of the mill because of the whirring noise of the giant saws. I imagined falling into one and me being sawed in half. Just behind the mill there was an old shack that was hardly even a shack because they’d started to smash it down too, in fact it was a charred wreck because some delinquents (not me!) had set fire to it a few months ago. But like often happens, they’d put the fire out with a lot of water and some nice green grass had grown up in amongst the charred ruins. So when I woke up here, lying on the nice soft grass, I felt like I’d sort of come home, except that who was beside me was none other than Iris, asleep, curled up cuddling into my back. I had no idea how I got here because I got well and truly plastered that night, the night of New Year’s Eve

I twist me head around to look at her. We’re both naked under an old blanket that looked like it had come off my bed back at the pub. My head’s pounding away at me and each time I turn it I think it’s going to explode. I need a drink! A bloody Mary with a heavy drop of bitters the blokes at the pub reckon will fix it. The pain is really bad as I struggle to turn around and face her. I twiddle my finger lightly around one of her nipples and she doesn’t budge. But I can’t get up the energy to keep at it so I fall back and close my eyes waiting for the pounding to stop. My back’s getting cold because the blanket isn’t heavy enough to keep out the chill of the early morning. I can feel the dew on the grass beside me, and the chill coming up from the ground beneath, which is as hard as a rock. I start stroking the contours of her body, at first lightly, then followed by a tickle around her nipples. I don’t know what it’s doing to her, but I know I’m starting to feel it and the trouble is that my head’s feeling it too and the throbbing ache is unbearable.

She’s awake, I know, I can see her eyelids flinch. She’s a pretty nice piece of work, I’m thinking to myself. Can’t believe my luck having run into her outside the Baptist church after my Latin exam. I really like her thick blonde hair that’s cut almost short enough to be a boy’s. But it’s kind of sexy when it resists my fingers as I run them through it, kind of like ruffling Nipper’s fur. And her skin, it’s got a gorgeous light tan, smooth and oily. I love to run my hand over it and rub my leg against hers. She’s a doll, that what she is, Dad. If only you could see me now, Dad. But then again, maybe you can.

“This ground’s getting hard,” I whisper to her. But her eyes stay closed.

“Where the hell are we?” she says, still eyes closed.

“Open your eyes and you’ll see.”

“Shit no. It’s too nice just snuggling here.” She pulls the blanket around her and it slides off my back.

I start to get into her. To hell with my pounding head. I gotta do what I gotta do what I have to do what I wanna do what I…

“Hey, leave me alone. It’s too early.” She tries to push me away and I’m having none of it.

“Come on little nipper!” I cry, and I fling my head back and the pounding nearly knocks me out and she rubs her knee into my groin and I cry out “Oh God!! Oh Ovid!” and I jerk off all over her leg.

“Shit! You dirty bastard!” Iris cries, now her eyes are wide open.

I roll on to my back and my ears are all flushed. There’s a stone digging into the bottom of my spine and I push myself up. The pounding has stopped and in its place I have a dull heavy ache just above my eyes.

“What the fuck are we doing here?” I look down at her.

“We ran away!”

“We what? Ran away from what?”

“We just ran away!”

“Why?”

“Don’t you remember? Of course you don’t. You was drunk as a shit and going on about your Dad. And I got sick of it and told you to shut the fuck up. And you started screaming at me and I started screaming back, and that bloke in the room next to yours started banging on the wall telling us to shut up.”

“You were in my room?”

“Yair. I was.”

“But how did you get there?”

“Sneaked in when you were all swilling it down celebrating New Year’s Eve.”

“Through my window? You sneaked in through my window?”

“Nah. Down that dark passage while you were all boozing. You remember the lights went out in the Snake Pit?”

“Yair.”

“Well I popped out and down the passage to the bathroom, and then later to your room.”

And now it all began to sink in. “So it was you with Millie?”

“Yair.”

“How do you know her? She’s a fuckn witch and the pub bike.”

“Yair, I know. But she’s me sister’s best friend, and I don’t care what you call her, she’s me best friend too because when I have a fight with me Mum and Dad I go to her. And she understands.”

“Shit! Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’ve seen Millie do a few things. Once with my Dad.”

“You’re kidding?”

“It’s true. I could have done her myself…”

“Just like me mum says. You’re a fuckn animal like them all.”

“Being an animal is fuckn good, as long as I don’t get kicked around like Nipper.”

“It’s you does the kicking.”

“Yair, I know. It’s when I lose my temper.”

“Yair, I know.”

I’m on my knees now, kneeling over her. She looks into my face. Her lovely pale blue-grey eyes are so big but I just wonder what’s behind them. I know what’s behind mine, a horrible awful pain. But hers? She didn’t drink much, I don’t think, though how would I know because I was plastered all the time. “You got a hangover like I have?” I ask.

“Nah. Not me. I don’t drink much. Makes me sick.”

“Well, I’ll just have to make up for you and drink your share.” I joke.

“Yair.”

I look at her eyes again, trying to see what’s behind them. They don’t let me in. She doesn’t smile much.

“Where did you go all that time anyway? You took off that night through my window. I was so relieved.”

“You what? You wanted to get rid of me?”

“No, of course not. Mr. Counter told me you couldn’t stay and I had to get rid of you that very night. And when I got into my room, half sobered up after a bit of a run-in with Mr. Counter, you were gone.”

“Yair. I took off because I didn’t want to be your sex slave.”

“Fuckn what?”

“Your sex slave.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“I stay locked in your room until you’re ready and you come in full of booze and root me whenever you want. Me mum warned me about it lots of times.”

“And your dad? Him fucking you and your mum looking on, and you’re worried you’re gunna be my sex slave? Shit!”

“I made that up.”

“Made up what? About your mum or about your dad or all of it?” My ears are getting red, and she can see it.

“I was just trying to get you to let me stay with you. I didn’t want to go home that night.”

“Well, I wanted you to come home with me and you said no and then you said yes. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“And by the way. Where the hell were you all that time I was gone? You never even came looking for me, did you?”

“I had to work. I never had time. Mr. Counter worked me to death.”

“Bull shit. You never even thought about me, did you? All you blokes want to do is booze, booze, booze. It’s what me mum always said.”

“I thought of you every night and every morning I woke up…”

“Yair, and taking care of things on your own. Men. You’re a bunch of bastards.”

“Your mum’s filling your head with bull shit. Just because your old man’s an asshole.”

“He’s not me father.”

“But you said…”

“Yair well he’s not.”

“But you said he was doing you at home with your mum watching.”

“Yair well I told you I was lying.”

“Lying like how?”

“Me real father’s dead, that’s what.”

“So who’s the bloke at home you didn’t want to go home to?”

“God killed me real father.”

“You’re a fuckn crazy bitch, Iris. What are you going on about?””

“I’m cold. We need to get out of here.”

Iris stands up and looks around for her clothes. She’s got the same ones she had after me Latin exam. I look for my pants and I see they’re the same ones I had too, me old school pants, and I remember that I don’t go to school anymore, and I have a job and I suddenly feel free, at least for a few seconds. Then I remember that I have to work today, New Year’s Day, a big day at the pub. Mr. Counter will be looking for me. “What you gunna do?” I ask her.

“Go home, I s’pose.”

“All right, then. See ya.”

“That’s it? No kiss good-bye?” she says, half grinning and I’m not sure if she’s joking or not.

“Gees, Iris. What the hell!” And I lean over to her and awkwardly give her a peck on the cheek. She grabs me and gives me her unbe¬lievable wet kiss and I just feel like collapsing, my legs buckle and she can see it. She smiles a big smile.

“See ya,” she says, and runs off, picking her way through the charred ruins of the old shack.

“Hey, wait! I’ll come with you!” I’m running, my head throbbing with every step, trying to miss the giant thistles and the charred ruins, but she keeps running. And I don’t know what I’m doing. because I really like my job at the pub and drinking with the blokes. Dad! Are you there? I really need you. She stops at the edge of the Melbourne Road, and there’s cars speeding past both ways, the dust flies up and gets in my mouth that was already dry. I pull up, out a breath. “Iris! Wait for me! I’m coming with you!”

She turns, her little skinny body, got no shape at all really, but it’s the way she stands with her hands on her hips, smiling bigger than I ever saw her, and she’s not puffing at all like me. She’s standing, her hips pushed forward. And she waits. I take her hand and I wait for another one of those sloppy kisses, but she squeezes my hand tight and drags me across the Melbourne road, a car nearly hitting us as we dart across, the car horn blaring out and the bloke behind the wheel screaming at us.

Now we’re making our way down the newly paved footpath on Spruhan Avenue. Most of the commission houses are finished on this street. Some of them even have gardens and a bit of a lawn.

“Which one’s yours?” I ask, and she let’s go my hand and starts to run again, and my head’s throbbing like buggery. She’s darting around like a little kid. “Gees, Iris, me fuckn head’s killing me.” I’m holding my head and I’m slouching along.

She stops in front of a commission house that must have been one of the first to be built, because it looks all old and worn, and there’s massive weeds in the garden, well not really a garden because I don’t think anything had ever been planted, and of course there’s those damn thistles. There’s weeds growing out of the gutters, even the roof, and all along the front of the house—a double fronted house too, done with that stuff, stucco they call it, a dirty yellow—there’s rows and rows of empty beer bottles stacked up with a few whiskey and wine bottles poking out. There’s a broken front gate that’s hanging off its hinge, all rusted. She steps over it and I stop right at the gate. I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here.

“Well, are you coming in or aren’t ya?”

“So whose empties are they?” I grin, pointing at the bottles.

“Me big sister and her mates.”

“Nah, women couldn’t drink that much beer!”

“I said her mates, and there’s also me stepfather.”

“Do I have to come in?”

“Well, why’d ya follow me here if you’re not gunna come in?”

“Who’s in there, then?”

“I dunno. Mightn’t be anyone. It was New Year’s Eve last night, remember?”

“Oh, yair. Look Iris, I gotta go to work. I don’t want to get fired after just a few weeks on the job.”

“You’re fuckn scared to come in?”

“I’m already late. I’m s’posed to be getting the bars ready for the big day today.”

“You’re piss-weak, aren’t ya?”

Iris grabs my hand and pulls me over the gate. Just the light touch of her hand buggers me up. My knees are like jelly. She starts rubbing my cheek with her finger.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ve got charcoal on your cheeks.”

I look down and I see I have charcoal all over myself. And so does she. “Shit, Iris, we look like tramps! I can’t go in there look¬ing like this!”

Iris looks across at the stacks of empties. “You think they’ll notice?” And she tugs me some more and I give a little, but then I stop. Dad, thank you Dad. I’ve come to my senses.

“I’m not coming in Iris. I gotta go to work.” I pull my hand away from hers.

“You don’t care about the work. I know you blokes. All you care about is the boozing with your mates.”

“Shit! Iris! That’s not true!”

“Yair? So where were you all this time since we was outside the Baptist church? Bastard!”

She starts off down the drive nearly tripping on the long weeds, and just then the front door opens and a little filthy kid runs out followed by her mum chasing her. And I squint at her, because the sun’s now really bright and it hurts my poor aching eyes to see, but there’s no mistake Dad! It’s Little Linda!

Iris has stopped, and comes back, standing next to the bottle stack. I look at her. She’s nervous, licking her lips. I know she’s wishing I wasn’t here. Even though she made me come. Gees, Dad. Can you believe this?

Little Linda stops in her tracks too when she sees me. “What the shit are ya doing here?” she says. And she’s right, what the fuck am I doing here? My place is at the old pub. This is foreign land to me, Dad. I’m like a fish out of water, like they say, Dad!

Anyway, I ignore Little Linda like she shouldn’t be there and I turn to Iris and I say, “So this is your mum?” She bursts out laughing.

“Me mum? You’re a fuckn hopeless bugger. Does she look old enough to be me mum? She’s me sister, you dope.”

My ears are getting red, and I’d really like to step over to those bottles and smash a few of them. “How am I s’posed to know? She looks old enough to be your grandma!” Gees. Dad. It just popped out! Little Linda would have thrown one of the bottles at me if she wasn’t chasing her brat around. The little kid starts screaming for no reason, and Linda runs after her and grabs her and drags her inside. The kid’s kicking and swearing at her until Linda pulls her inside and slams the door. I look back at Iris.

“I know her, she’s at the pub all the time. And I saw her have that kid in the Snake Pit a few years ago. And I know her dad’s called Tank, right? So he’s your dad, then? The bastard that--”

“He’s me step father, I s’pose. And Linda’s me step-sister. And no, he didn’t…”

“I’m going to the pub.”

“Me mum’s inside, I s’pose.”

“I’ll see ya.”

I’m turning to leave, and Iris is standing there looking kind of lost. “You can come in and see me mum if you want,” she says.

I stop, and my ears are still red. I can hear screaming coming from inside.

“Don’t s’pose you know what time it is?” I ask.

“Nah.”

“I better be going then.”

Iris comes to me. I’m going to get one of her sloppy kisses, I know. I hope. She grabs one of my fingers and pulls me a little to her. And as I go to her she turns her back on me and pulls me behind her. We go around the back of the house and there’s more stacks of empty beer bottles against the house and against the garage, and they even lie beside the few steps going up to the back door. “Come on,” she says, and she pulls open the old screen door that squeaks and there doesn’t seem to be a back door there at all. And then there’s the smell of the kitchen and smoke. It’s not like the smell in the old pub, the stale beer and smoke and decay¬ing lino and wood of the bar counter. I like that smell. I suppose it’s what you get used to. It smells like home to me. But this kitchen, it makes me want to throw up. And there’s this old lady sitting at a green laminex table with chrome legs and chair to match. There’s a big ashtray with mounds of butts and an open packet of Garrick cigarettes. And this old hag sits there, sipping a cup of tea, and drawing on her cigarette. She’s not doing nothing else. Just sitting there and smoking, looking at nothing, except I sup¬pose the old laminated tabletop. Her fingers are yellow from the nicotine, and even around her lips it’s all yellow, and the deep lines in her face, all thin and wrinkles, loose skin hanging from her chin and cheeks, eyes set deep into dark holes, and a nose that’s red where she keeps wiping it and wiping it with an old grey hanky. She doesn’t even look up when we come in. And there’s in the background the screams of the little kid and Linda chasing her around the house.

“This is me mum,” says Iris.

“Hello Mrs…er,” I mumble. For a moment, I think she’s not going to move or say anything and I’m already thinking of leaving. Then she takes a big draw on her cigarette and turns her head, long strands of thin grey hair dangling across her shoulder and says, “leave me daughter alone and get the buggery out.”

I should have left right then. But Iris was standing right there and was squeezing me hand really tight.

“Me mum’s a silly bitch,” says Iris, “that’s her way of saying hello.” But Iris is looking away out the smoky window while she’s talking.

“Get me another cuppa tea,” says the mum. And Iris tops up the old aluminium teapot from the kettle that’s always sitting on the gas stove, then tops up her cup of tea. I’m saying to myself. This is the Iris that made fun of me because I did everything I was told. Shit, Dad! I dunno.

“So what’s her name!” I say to Iris, “Missus what?”

Iris gives me a really dirty look. “It’s not Missus anything. It’s Flo.”

“Flo?”

“Yair.”

“How come I never see her at the pub? Little Linda’s there every day almost.”

“She doesn’t drink. Hates it.”

Flo blinks slowly and turns to look me straight in me eyes. I stare back at hers. They’re grey the colour of her wispy hair. Her Garrick cigarette is hanging on her lip.

“Turn to Jesus, son,” she says, “it’s your only hope.”

There’s this silence, like we’re frozen in time. My mouth is open and I can’t think of anything to say. She’s staring right at me and her face is dead and lifeless. I want to get up and run out of there but I see Iris shifting on her feet. I want to turn to her to see her face, but I’m glued to Flo. Then all of a sudden, Flo takes a big draw of her Garrick and starts this horrible racking cough, like a car that won’t start. I jump back and knock over the chair and I see that she’s got this silly grin on her face but it’s hidden by her awful cough. Then she starts laughing and coughing, you can’t tell which is which. Iris picks up the chair and starts banging Flo on the back.

“Shit, mum!” she says, “when are you gunna give up those death sticks?”

“Mind your own business,” says Flo, “you’re a daughter from hell, that’s what you are!” She looks at me as though it’s my fault. But Iris seems to have calmed her down, because her coughing stops and she settles back into her chair to stare at me again.

“Go to buggery, ya silly old bitch. You’re the devil’s mistress, that’s what you are!” snarls Iris.

“Don’t you dare speak to your mother like that, you little shit from hell!”

Flo starts her rasping cough again and reaches for the packet of Garricks. She stubs out her cigarette, only half smoked, and lights another one with the matches sitting on the table. Iris reaches forward and snatches the lighted match from her hand and smacks the cigarette away from her mouth.

“Ya little bugger!” growls Flo, “I never should of had ya! And you,” she points her yellow finger at me, “get out of here and don’t come back until you’ve gone to Jesus, ya little prick!”

I move towards the back door and it squeaks as I push it open.

“And I mean little prick,” she says, coughing and laughing. And that makes my ears go red, and I feel my fists tighten. Dad, I don’t want to do it, but she can’t talk to me and Iris like that! I turn back and I hear the old wire door creak shut. Flo, she’s stop¬ped coughing. She knows I’m going to clobber her. It’s like she wants me to do it. But Iris gets in the way.

“Don’t you fuckn touch her!” she warns. I grab her by her skinny little arm and I’m going to push her away.

“Go on then!” says Flo, “show Iris your true colours.”

Dad, I’m standing here, can’t help myself. I’m going to clobber her. I know I shouldn’t but I just can’t take that sort of shit from anyone. I push Iris aside and she falls down, grabbing the chair she’d just picked up.

“Leave her alone, you bully. She’s just a stupid old bitch!” pleads Iris.

And I’m there, grabbing Flo by the collar of her old cardigan that’s got tea stains all down it.

“Go on, then, hit me! It’s all you bastards know what to do!” she cries.

And I’m gunna hit her, I’ve got me fist up, clenched tight. And just as I’m about to do her, Little Linda rushes in chasing her little kid, and behind her is Tank. I stop like I’m in mid-flight and fall across the table, pushing myself away and then I’m out of that kitchen door like you wouldn’t believe. Tank chases me, yelling that he’ll break my neck, but he’s too big and lumbering, can’t catch a nimble bloke like me. And I run and I run, till I’m breathless. And I at last look around and he’s gone. He’s probably in there beating them all up.

I stand there, my hands on my hips, my head throbbing like buggery. I walk and I walk, not thinking where I’m going, till I find myself in the rubble of my old house, looking across the road at the old pub. There’s a bulldozer cleaning up the block, pushing the rubble into a pile. I can see bits of the old cot Dad slept on and I pick my way through the rubble trying to figure out where the cot used to be, where I spent my time with him while we talked, right up to the end. Dad, I miss you, I really do. And now I don’t know what’s going on. But then I feel a dig in my ribs and for a moment I think it’s Tank and I jump, scared shitless. But I feel that steady grip on my arm and I know it’s not Tank. It’s Grecko.

“What the hell are yer doing here?” he asks.

“I dunno.”

“Mr. Counter sent me over. You should have been at work a couple of hours ago.”

“Yair.”

“Yair what?”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

“Well you better hurry. Mr. Counter’s waiting for you.”

I pull my arm away from his grip.

“All right. I know.”

We walk across the road and Mr. Counter’s standing at the entrance to the old bar, the greasy canvas curtain still hanging there, still streaked with black grime of the workers. I feel the sun coming down on me. My head’s exploding, my hangover’s come back. I put my arm up to cover me eyes. I squint at Mr. Counter standing there. He’s angry.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I, I don’t know.”

“You look like a tramp. Soot all over your face, rips in your pants and shirt, black soot or whatever it is all over your clothes. And you’re two hours late for work!”

“I’m sorry. I got stuck with my girlfriend and her silly bitch of a mother.”

“With your girlfriend? That’s your excuse?”

“I said, and her mother.”

“And that’s it? And that’s how you got all that black over you? And tore up your clothes?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You don’t even know what you’ve done. This is a real job I gave you. You turn up to work no matter what and on time, and looking respectable. What are my customers going think?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Counter. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“It better not. I know what you’ve been doing, don’t think you can go on doing it.”

“What do you mean? I’m not doing nothing wrong.”

“Oh? It’s that little piece a fluff that’s got you in, and the grog too. I won’t stand for your boozing all the time. That’s what made you late, isn’t it?”

“No, no. I’m not like that. Besides, it was New Year’s Eve last night.”

“That’s no excuse for not showing up to work on time. You know full well that today is a big day for the pub.”

“Yair. I’m really sorry, Mr. Counter. I dunno what’s wrong with me.”

“I do. You’re getting like your Dad. You’re hitting the booze too much. So lay off it.”

“OK, no more booze.”

“Now get in there and get yourself cleaned up. I’m docking you half a day’s pay for this.”

I’m looking down, can’t look Mr. Counter in the face. Truth is, I haven’t listened to hardly anything he’s said, my head hurts so much, and I can’t help thinking of Iris.

*

Iris sat in the kitchen staring at her mum. Tank came back puffing, out of breath and he was going do something, at least that’s what Iris told me. And he looked around and the little kid is running around and round the kitchen table yelling and screaming and banging anything she could with an empty beer can – and they were big ones in those days. She rushes past Tank and bangs the can against Tank’s shin. It was just what Tank wanted, an excuse to go at it. He lifted the little kid up first by one leg and he’s got her hanging there like he caught a rabbit and was gunna gut it. Linda starts screaming for him to put her kid down and leave her alone. And Iris starts yelling too and grabs his arm trying to get him to let go. But he laughs crazily and lifts the poor little kid up high then turns her back up the right way and sets her down on the floor. The kid thinks this is great fun and asks for more. Tank then does his favourite trick. Using both hands, he grabs the her by the head and lifts her clean up above his head. Flo looks up but she says nothing, takes a draw of her Garrick. The kid starts to go red in the face and she’s decided that she doesn’t like this anymore. She starts wriggling but it means twisting her head on her neck that’s taking all the weight of her body. Iris yells to Linda to save her kid before her neck snaps and her head comes off. Linda, though, has run away into the next room, crying like a little baby. Then Flo gets up, grabs her smokes and matches and walks out after her. “You’re all fuckn mad,” she mumbles.

Tank lowers the kid down and holds her until they’re face-to-face. “Ya learnt your lesson, you little shit?” he says, pushing his nose against her nose, and that scares her more than anything. But what he doesn’t realize is that the kid’s feet are hanging down level with his balls. The kid starts kicking and screaming. Of course, she didn’t know what was there. And all of a sudden, Tank drops the kid like a ton of bricks and yelps, holding himself and limping out the kitchen door. “You’re fuckn shits all of you!” he cries.

Iris grabs up the little kid but she’s already trying to copy Tank. She grabs Iris by the neck and tries to pick her up.

I could have guessed what she did next. Yair, Dad, that’s right. Iris pulls her close and she slops one of her wet kisses right on her lips. Can you believe that? The little bugger giggles and so she gives her another and then guess what? The bugger bites Iris’s lip, and Iris leaps back and she wants to slap her, but stops herself just in time and turns and runs out the kitchen door. That fuckn house. No wonder Iris won’t live there. It’s a fuckn zoo I tell you Dad. And I would have given that little kid a beating she’d remember. Dad, you remember the time you did it to me? I’ve still got the scar on me ass, I think. At least that’s what Iris told me. But I never told her how I got it.

*

New Year’s Day turned out to be a day to forget. My hangover stayed with me right through the day, but at about four o’clock, I couldn’t stand it anymore so I sneaked a couple of beers out the back in the tap room. They were just enough to give me a bit of a buzz and lighten my head a bit. Every now and again one of the customers would want to buy me a drink and of course Mr. Counter had told me I wasn’t allowed to drink on the job, so I always said no, except this day when my hangover was really getting to me. Now, I started having a few as I wandered around the bar gathering up glasses. And it wasn’t long till I started having a sip of the dregs that were left in the glasses. You’d be surprised how much beer the drunks leave behind. So by closing time I was pretty well on, laughing and joking with the regulars who always stayed till the very last minute before closing. I was staying next to Grecko as we herded them out of the bar and they hit the street outside, and the cars were revving up as they all took off home or wherever they were going. We all came inside and lined up in our favourite place in the passageway leading to the Snake Pit, sitting on the floor leaning against the wall, ready for a few more sips. Trouble is, by this time I was pretty well on, plastered really, and when I get plastered, I get loud and my ears go red. Then Sugar clips my ear as he hands me a beer, the first of many, I hoped. Mr. Counter always turned on free beer for us barmen, and we knew we’d get a lot more because it was New Year’s Day.

“What you think you’re doing?” I say to Sugar.

“Take your fuckn beer and shut up if you know what’s good for you,” he says like he’s joking, but I now he’s not.

Just then, Mrs. Counter comes out of the Snake Pit. She’s been tidying up the place, because. as Mr. Counter says, it’s always the women that make the biggest mess. She gives Sugar a look, then looks down at me. I reckon she’s staring at my red ears and I don’t like it.

“I think the boy has had enough,” she says. Sugar quickly passes out the beers he’s got in his hands and goes back into Mr. Counter’s office. The rest of the barmen start sniggering. They’re waiting for me to lose my temper like I always do, and I can see Grecko getting up off the floor, just in case. But I’ve got my beer and I’m happy, and I look back up at Mrs. Counter, her little round face sitting on top of a big hanging bosom, her long skinny neck draped in a gold chain several times round. From where I’m sit¬ting she looks like a rose that’s lost its petals, sticking up out of a big round flower pot. So Dad, I’m trying to hold back a laugh and this big snort comes out of me and the blokes all look at me and they’re not sure if it’s a fart or what.

Mrs. Counter leans back on her heels, she’s upset but she’s trying to hold back a laugh too. I take a big sip of my beer, hoping it will help me and then I see out of the corner of my eye Grecko looking like he’s coming over to me. I’ve got my hand to me nose, squeez¬ing hard, hoping I can stop myself from doing it again. So now my whole face is red as well as my ears, and I’m looking around and everyone’s laughing, so in the end, I down the rest of my beer while I’m still holding my nose. And I thump down the empty glass and let go my nose and look up at Mrs. Counter, a big grin on my face as I suck in a whole lot of air. Mrs. Counter, not to be outdone, leans right over and I press back against the wall. Her gold chains are touching my face and I’m scared her huge cow’s tits will smother me! But a grin is stitched into my face and I can’t move. She looks at me with her little beady eyes and says, “you’re just a boy. Now go to your room!”

Of course, now my ears are on fire and the blokes are waiting to see if I’m going to hit her. But what I don’t realize until it’s too late is that I’m sitting there with my legs spread apart and she’s standing between them. “Didn’t you hear me?” she says, “go to your room!” But I’m frozen to the floor, both my hands pressing down hard. Then she puts one foot forward, a foot clad in an old sand-shoe, and steadying herself with a hand on her knee, slowly presses her foot down on me, right between my legs, and repeats, “just a boy.” And then she pushes herself away from the wall and struts off to the kitchen. And I’m so embarrassed I just sit there, my gob hanging open like a panting dog. The blokes are all gaping at me and they start to laugh because without thinking about it, I’ve got my hand down there, cradling me cock and balls. “I think I need another drink,” I say, and I manage to stand up and I reach out to collect the other blokes’ glasses. I go to the cupboard to fill them and I’m expecting Mrs. Counter or Mr. Counter to come out and stop me. But they don’t. “You better go to your room this minute,” the blokes say, but they’re joking and sniggering. I don’t remember how it ended up, except that I woke up next morning in bed, Abbie shaking me to get me up in time for work. Dunno what I’d do without her, Dad.

2. Your path through the future and mine

Dad, I have to take a snooze. Been up with you all day and all night, you know. I don’t mind. But I just can’t stay awake any more. And I don’t know if you’re in there still, even if you’re breathing, know what I mean? Are you there? I’m just going to sit back here in the old lounge chair I brought in. Gees, Dad, have to tell you, I’m running out of stuff to talk about. It’s bloody hard. Wish you could talk, Dad. Really, I do. There’s sweat or something on your forehead Dad. I’ll get a damp cloth and pat you down. Don’t know if it means anything. Are you hot or something? There’s that white stuff get¬ting stuck on your lips. Don’t worry. I’ll wipe it off.

*

I’m sort of snoozing in the old lounge chair, dreaming—Dad’s breathing fast now—there’s this girl, I can’t get her out of my head. Can’t be a dream, though, because I’m not asleep, least I don’t think so. You know the one, Dad, the one I told you about. We went to the movies. I mean, she was, well I told you Dad, hotter than you could imagine. I just, I mean, it can’t be OK, me thinking like this, sitting beside my Dad watching him die. And here I am getting all worked up, I’m going to have to run to the toilet. Shit, I could do it right here. I lean over the cot, rubbing myself on the edge, to see if Dad’s still breathing. The little huffs and puffs remind me he’s not dead yet. She’s driving me crazy and she’s not even here! I mean, it can’t be right, can it? Dad? Dad! Dad!

*

I dunno what’s going on Dad. You didn’t always hit the booze, did you? I can remember you taking me to the Pivot phosphate company, I think it was. We all called it the Phossie like you did. I was really little, I know that. Mum was happier then I suppose, or am I just making it up? I don’t know any more. Don’t suppose it matters. I remember only bits of it. There was a huge shed with a mountain of fertilizer, you said it was. I could hardly breathe for the stink that you said was sulphur. And there was this conveyor belt that went to the top of the mountain, that you built, you said. The blokes there, they all told me how smart you were Dad. Gees, Dad. How did you lose it all and end up over at the pub?

OK. I’ll stop asking questions. I know it’s not fair, cos I really know the answers, don’t I? The way everyone looks at me when I go down to the shops or go over to the pub to pick up your booze. They even tell me I should get out of here and go live with my auntie Connie and me mum. What would I do? I’m still going to school so why should I leave you? I don’t wag it much, except to earn a few bob on a good day at the pub. They tell me you’re an alky. The grog got you and you lost your job at the phosphate company years ago. So what? None of their business. Mr. Counter took you on as a barman, they say. But I don’t remember that. Never started going over there till I was a lot older. You were well and truly gone by then. I mean, you got too sick to do the bar work. You did odd jobs, and then Mr. Counter put his foot down and wouldn’t give you work anymore. Something about when you were doing the paint jobs he caught you drinking metho. That’s what burnt all your lips, Dad. That’s why they’re all red and swollen. You know that? Course you do. You couldn’t help it, I know. We all know that. Can’t blame you for that, can we? The grog got you and there’s nothing anybody could do about it. If I was older I might have been able to get you off it. I suppose mum tried, and couldn’t and that’s why she left. Wish I knew what she was like. Can’t remember much of her at all. Dad, me mouth’s all dry. I’m getting sleepy again. I’m going to make a cuppa tea. Don’t go away, now, will you? Stay there. Wish you could talk Dad. I do really.

*

I’ve been going over my history notebook, trying to get ready for the matric exam. But I don’t know what I’m doing and can’t con¬centrate because of Dad. He’s breathing in fits and starts. He’s going to die any minute. Dad, I can’t hold your hand right now. Got a cuppa in me hands. While I was waiting for the kettle to boil I was thinking about what’s going to happen to you Dad. And then I remembered the Salvoes. I don’t know about them. They tried to help you, didn’t they? That Captain Billington, he was always nagging you. I never liked him. He tried to grab me once. I kicked him in the shins and he never tried it again. I never told you of course.

I put my cuppa down and grab Dad’s hand in both mine.

Remember Captain Billington, Dad? I feel a tiny squeeze from his hand. Or maybe I imagined it. He’s still in there, I reckon, but not for long. Dad, I’m going to leave you for just a little while. It’s Saturday night. The Salvoes will be at the pub in full swing, revving up Onward Christian Soldiers, your favourite. I remember last New Year’s Eve you stood next to Billington and sang it so loud, and I couldn’t believe you could do it. I never heard you speak in a loud voice ever, let alone sing. I never thought you had it in you. I’m going over there, Dad. I’ll be back real quick, you won’t know I was gone.

I let his hand go, and I run out quick, not looking back. He’ll still be there when I get back. I just had to get out of there. Dunno why. I get these things into my head and I have to do them.

*

These Salvoes, they’re a bunch of shits. They squeeze their way through the blokes in the bar, jingling their little box, selling their newspaper, putting on this fake smile, like they was Jesus him¬self. And they all look the same. Got these pale faces and bright red cheeks. And after they’ve done their rounds collecting money, they go outside and start singing hymns, trying to drown out the drunks’ swearing.

“I wouldn’t give you mob a bloody penny!” says a drunk, one of many.

“My Jesus loves you sir!”

“Y’know why? Yer shits! Stopped ten o’clock closing, now you’re taking money off us that wanted it. Bastards!”

“Jesus loves you, my friend.” The Salvo puts on this big smile like Jesus loves him more than the drunk.

“Huh. Wouldn’t be bothered with your bull shit. You don’t even know what you’re preaching, do ya? Huh? What’s God like more ’bout you than me? Huh? Why don’t He stop wars, then?”

“Sir, join us in song, worship the Lord!”

“Ya don’t fuckn know, do ya? All you mob want is our money to waste on those shit-house instruments of yours.”

“Well, sir, come down to our citadel tomorrow and I’ll try to help you.”

“All you want to do is get me bloody money. Can’t answer me questions, can you? You care as much for God as me fuckn ass!”

The blokes start sniggering and crowding round because they think the drunk’s going to belt him one. Then up comes the biggest hypocrite of them all, the righteous Captain Billington. He’s waving his stubby arms, and his navy Salvoes coat is too small to button up round his beer belly. He keeps coughing and his watery eyes look like they’re going to pop out each time he coughs. He rubs his beer belly against the drunk.

“Who the fuck are you?” snarls the drunk.

“I, sir, am Captain Billington, the Salvation Army’s leading member. Also the most broadminded. And you, bloody sir, are a blasphemous bastard.”

“Whatdja say?”

“I said that you’re a blasphemous bastard.”

“Didja say you’re broad-minded ?”

“Yair, I did.”

“Then why don’tcha have a beer?”

“I have already bought myself and you one.”

“Shit! You mean you booze up?”

“Only on special occasions, and this is one of them.”

“Well, bottoms up mate and I’ll buy you one!”

A bloke yells out, “A fuckn Salvo boozing! Didn’t think I’d ever see the day!”

“Sir,” says Billington as he slurps his beer, “you don’t know what you fu—ahem—pardon, are talking about.”

“Fuckn Christ!” mumbles the drunk.

“Blasphemous bastard!” proclaims Billington.

The bloke was about to hit him, but right then Billington plop¬ped down on the ground.

“Shit! He’s out to it!” A few of the blokes grab him under the arms and sit him down on the gutter at the edge of the Melbourne road, and he stays asleep sitting there.

Then comes the band.

“Onward...Chris...chun...sol...BOOM...djers…BOOM…March..UMPAH...ing… BOOM....to war...!”

There’s these two girls, shit, I imagine them out of their uniforms, pretty nice, banging on tambourines, a half-pissed bloke playing the accordion, and a little bloke humping the tuba. And this other kid, about my age, stands up real straight and belts out something on a cornet. And this drunk stands up on a beer box and starts conducting. All of a sudden, Captain Billington, rears up and taps the conductor on the shoulder then pushes him off the box.

“My dear friends,” he says, “it is with great joy that I pass God’s divine message to you this lovely evening!”

“Givvus anuver song! Anuver song!”

“Gentlemen! Brethren!”

“Yair! Anuver bloody song. Lesh sing the sholdjers one again!”

“Silence! Shut up you bastards!”

“Onward...Chris...chun...BOOM!...BOOM!...soldjers! March¬ing...UMPAH...to war!”

That’s as far as Billington got. He slipped off the box and sat on the ground, looking down at his bare belly that had popped out over his belt. The band plays on, and Billington staggers up and starts to cross the road. There’s cars coming, so I grab him and help him cross the road.

Dad, I’m gunna get the quack in again. I think you’ve kicked it. I can’t see you breathing and your grip is kind of shallow. Hands still warm though. And now you’ve started to smell. Don’t know what it is. It’s not piss and shit. I don’t know what to think. I’m going to get you another blanket to keep you warm. Dad I dunno what to do next. Can’t you just keep going a bit longer? I’ll get you a brandy. You always used to get that for mum when she had her fainting spells. Back in a jiffy.

*

I’m in the bar. It’s about half past five, I think. I dunno. Haven’t got me watch. There’s no clock on the bar wall. Everyone’s watching the new TV Mr. Counter put up. The Olympic games are on. Mr. Counter isn’t too pleased with it but he can’t take it down. “They watch the TV and don’t drink their beer,” he complains.

I start picking up glasses and bringing them to the bar. It’s hard to get through the crush. Everyone’s packed in to see the TV. It’s the first TV most of us have seen. Sugar sees me and says, “g’day. How’s your old man?”

“He’s all right,” I lie.

I’m in a kind of daze. I don’t know what to do except what I’m doing, picking up glasses. I stay there until the 6 o’clock bell and the bar’s empty. I go to leave with them all, but Mr. Counter grabs me and asks, “is your old man OK? I didn’t think I’d see you here tonight. I heard he was pretty bad. On his last legs, they say.”

I turn and look at him right in the face. “He’s good,” I say. “I got to get back to him. You want to come see him?”

“I’d like to young fella, but you know what it’s like around here this time of night.”

“Yair, OK. Might see you tomorrow if he’s doing all right.”

“Son, if there’s anything I can do, just say so. Your dad was a great friend of mine and I want to make sure you do OK too.”

“I know. Mr. Counter. I know. Thank you. I got to go now.”

I was going to cry, that’s why I had to get going quick. But I didn’t go straight home. I walked around to the back fence where Skeeter used to take bets. And I had a piss in the old out-house, and I walked out into the bare paddock, scratching myself on those damn thistles. I peered at the horizon beyond the burnt fields, the red glow of the early summer sun. I wondered what was over there, remembering when I was a kid, about twelve I was, when I took off into this paddock and reckoned I was going away and never coming back. But I was too scared even to go as far as the next paddock. My hands in me pockets, I kept walking, and walking.

I must have gone a long way. By the time I got back home, I saw an ambulance and people going in and out of the house. I kept away and waited till the ambulance drove off and there was nobody left going in and out. I went into the house, and my Dad was gone. I hope they were good to you, Dad, I say, looking at his empty cot. And I went to my bedroom and I flopped down on me bed and I grabbed my pillow and I hugged it. And I slept.

I’m standing in the middle of the Melbourne Road, facing Melbourne. There’s this big truck coming at me. I’m trying to get out of the way, but I can’t. I’m rooted to the spot. I’m waving my arms, yelling at the top of my voice. But it just keeps coming at me. And just as it hits me, I wake up, all sweaty and gasping for breath. It’s my nightmare I’ve had for as long as I can remember. I’d call out in the middle of the night, “It’s coming at me Dad! It’s coming at me!” And me Dad would be there shaking me and yelling at me, “wake up! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare!” And I’d wake up and I’d turn over and go back to sleep. I must have been real little though. Dad wasn’t into the booze then.

I roll out of bed with my pillow and drift out to me Dad’s cot in the sleep-out and I plop down in the lounge chair. I don’t know how long I sat there, hugging the pillow, dreaming, wondering what I was going to do. Then I get up and go across to the pub. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. And I collect glasses for Mr. Counter, I laugh and joke with the customers and I pretend nothing’s happened.

*

There was a big send-off for Dad. I knew there would be. Mr. Counter told me the funeral was set for three o’clock and most of the mourners took the day off work so they could pay their respects, as they put it. My auntie Connie had tried to get me to go with her and get all dressed up and sit in a black car but I wouldn’t talk to her and I wouldn’t even look at her. I hid away in the pub. It was the best place I knew to get away from her. She wouldn’t dare come into the bar. All those blokes would scare the shit out of her.

Lots of blokes started to show up at the pub at half past nine, because they reckoned they needed an early start. I was amazed to see lots of them dressed up in black suits and ties. Shows just how much respect they had for dear old Dad. And I hung around, picking up glasses like I always did, listening to the blokes talk about him.

“G’day mate. Bad luck, wasn’t it?”

“Could see it coming all the way, though, don’tcha think?”

“Yair. I tried to tell him. I tried.”

“By Christ he drank some grog the last couple of years!”

“I’m buggered if I know why he did himself in. The grog just got him I suppose.”

“It must have been something in his blood.”

“Yair, too much blood in his alcohol stream.”

“That’s for sure.”

Mr. Counter banged a glass on the old counter and stood up on the bar.

“Mates…” he says.

“Geddown ya mug!”

“Mates!” he cries, “listen you bastards!”

“Calls us bastards. Who the hell’s he think he is?”

“Please! Quiet! He was a really good bloke!”

Someone shouts, “give him a go!” And I couldn’t believe it, everyone went stone silent. Imagine it! The bar was always loud, always. The silence was, like I’ve heard them say, deafening. And at that very moment, I kind of grew up. “Now here’s something im¬portant that’s just happened,” I thought. I was thinking to myself! For a moment, I felt I kind of knew who I was. I’m looking at all these blokes, and wondering what made them be here, what were their homes like, what were they trying to do in their lives.

The blokes around me are holding their glasses like there’s going to be a toast or something. They’re all looking like I never saw before. The silence, it’s spooky. A restless quiet I’d call it. They’re kind of looking into space, except there’s no space in the bar. They’re looking like they’re trying to make out the shimmer of a rider in the distance like you see in the movies of the wild, wild west or something.

I give Mr. Counter a look. He sees me out of the corner of his eye. I know he thinks I’m going to cry or something. And I think I am too. My face is starting to flinch, I’m holding back a gush of tears. It’s agony. It’s been quiet for so long, or seems like it. And just as I was about to burst into tears, Mr. Counter saves me and he makes a loud cough and starts his speech.

“Ahem! Mates. It is now nearly three o’clock and the funeral is about to start. It’s too late for us to get there now, but I know it for a fact our old mate Harry Henderson wouldn’t have wanted us mucking round his grave, he’d be more than happy knowing we were in here having a few beers on his behalf. He was a great mate of mine, you know. He never did a bad turn to anyone and by Christ he could drink.”

“Here! Here!”

“He had a great sense of humour and could take a joke. He was a top-notch bloke you know, and he never said a crook thing about anyone.”

“Yer said that before, Eddie!”

“Yair. Finish it up, and let’s get back to the booze. He was a good bloke, now he’s six foot under pushing up daisies, so let’s forget about it and have a few beers.”

“Yair. Here! Here!”

“Okay fellers,” says Mr. Counter, “here’s to good old Harry and the next round is on me!”

And here I am, standing back, my tears all swallowed, and I start thinking again. What am I doing here? All these buggers in the bar, who cares about them? And why should they care about me? Course, right now they don’t. Loud cheers fill the bar, and it’s back to serious drinking. “The old pub’s back to normal,” I say to myself, then im¬mediately wonder, “did I say that?” And I feel pleasantly lost in the noisy din, the arguments, the smell of cigarette smoke and sweating bodies, the warm and stuffy atmosphere, the jostling shoulders and elbows, the clinking of glasses and the steady beat of the cash register bell. Is this me thinking all this?

And outside, the air’s full of the noises of life, the cars on the busy Melbourne road, the throbbing noise of the Ford factory, the shouts of workers as they make their way to the pub.

And across the road, there’s builders’ sheds beside my own house where the others have been demolished. Workmen are busy laying new foundations, and there’s spectators gathered around, because they’re going to build a new pub, the biggest for a hundred miles around, and one of which we’ll be so proud.

*

I got drunk. Someone came to get me into the black car that followed the hearse, that pulled up outside of the pub. Buy a bloke comes up to me and says, “here young fella, a beer will help you get over it. Sorry about your old man.” I look back at him. I was after all old enough, only a month short of seventeen, to have a few drinks, I thought. And I’d mucked around before. Wasn’t like I didn’t know what was going on. I had one beer and then I had a few more, and I wasn’t sure what was happening to me. I started to gather up the glasses as usual, and somebody grabs my arm and says the hearse was here and asks didn’t I want to say good-bye to my old man. So I go out with this bloke and I see my auntie Connie sitting in the car behind the hearse and I just stop dead in my tracks and shake my arm free.

“I want to stay with me Dad. He’s not there, he’s in the bar with his mates.”

“But it’s your father’s funeral.”

“His funeral’s inside here. You’re just getting rid of him at the cemetery. I’m not going.”

And I turn around and go back in the bar and I collect more glasses and put them on the counter. And Mr. Counter comes over to me and he touches me lightly on the shoulder and hands me a beer and says, “we know how you feel, mate. Here, have another beer.”

1. The blackguard who drinks alone

I’m sitting here holding my Dad’s hand. It’s all rough and there’s a big bump where he broke it punching his old man in the jaw, a story he loved to tell when he had a few in. Now it’s limp. He’s breathing in bits-and-pieces. His face is all bloated and dark purple like the cheap plonk he’s been drinking. He’s in a coma. They say he’s going to kick it any day.

It’s six in the morning and I’m supposed to be getting ready for school but I’m not going. My matric exams are coming up pretty soon, so I’m staying home to study. I’m the only one left with me dad. Mum took off a few years ago. She was fed up with his drinking, my auntie said. I can’t blame her. But I didn’t go. I liked it here because I could do anything I wanted, and nobody cared.

This isn’t fun though. Watching my Dad die. They want me to blame him for it, I know they do. They reckon he’s disgusting, and me—I dunno—they think I’m a poor little shit that’s got to be saved from his Dad. They try to stroke my hair, even hug me. I push them away. They should mind their own business. The old pub was Dad’s life. I don’t blame him for that. The booze is killing him. So what? He had a lot of fun, and a lot of good mates. Cut short by the booze, but shit, anyone’s life can be cut short, even mine, can’t it? I’ve nearly been killed a couple of times just crossing the Melbourne Road.

Dad’s wheezing now. I let go his hand. I think he’s coming to. Dad? Dad? Are you in there, Dad?

*

I’m doing barman’s work in the night cupboard, filling up the glasses on Mrs. Counter’s tray for her customers in the Ladies Lounge, the Snake Pit as they call it. Mr. Counter will pay me good tonight. I’m going to live it up, have a few, then do that little sheila I saw come in here with her old man last week. Saved up and bought a new sports coat and pants. Can hardly wait.

A bloke comes up.

“Gimme a flask of Corio,” he says.

I reach up to the shelf and dust one down.

“Five and ten,” I says. He gives me a ten-shilling note. I ring up the money and give him his change minus a shilling. He doesn’t look at it. I look back up at the shelf. There’s a flask of Gilbey’s gin there. I’m going to swipe it for tonight. I dust off all the bottles and rearrange them. Mr. Counter will be pleased. It might throw him off when he counts the stock. He doesn’t do it every day anyway.

*

Today I’m fourteen and I’m going to get screwed tonight. I’m in the paddock behind the old pub. The back fence leans right over like it’ll fall on me. It stinks of piss and beer. It’s getting dark and there’s a red glow all over the paddocks. The stubble of burnt grass crunches under my feet. I squat, trying to hide in the giant scotch thistles, bastards of things, without getting pricked. I’m in my best clothes, white sports coat, navy pants, blue suede shoes. Hair slicked back. My ass grazes a thistle as I drop down. The flask of gin slips out of my pocket and clanks on a rock. It’s the one I stole last night.

It’s dark. The cops cruise up and down, sitting in their car like pervs at a keyhole. They shine a spotlight and it hits the old pub fence. I freeze, scared shitless, not of the cops, but my old man if he found out. Got no idea why they’re cruising round here. The pub’s been closed for over three hours. All the drunks are well gone. The spotlight strays by my hand that’s gripping a rock to keep me steady. I stop breathing, thinking they could hear me. It’s the Preacher! I think to myself. Then suddenly it’s really dark. The cop car drifts away. I struggle to stand up, my hand slips off the rock, and I fall back into the thistles. I roll over on to my elbow, right on the burnt grass so now I’ve got black all over the sleeve of my white sports coat. Shit-head cops! I take a swig of the gin. I have to force it down. How anyone can drink this stuff I don’t know. But I’m making myself do it. I’ll get laid tonight no matter what.

*

This crazy bitch, she says she’s fourteen. I’d say she was thirteen at the very most. She comes up to me out of nowhere just as I turn the corner on Sparks Road. The church hall’s lit up and the rest of my gang’s hanging around the door.

“Going to the flicks?” she asks.

It’s Iris. I can barely make her out in the dark. She comes up real close, nose grazing my cheek.

“Dunno. What’s on?”

“Dunno.”

There’s hardly anything of her, skinny as a rake, a little bulge at her breast, but a soft face, pale in the dark. She pushes her lips up to my ear. I imagine they’re full, lush, like a rose sprayed with water.

“Let’s go anyway,” she whispers.

Blood rushes to my cheeks and elsewhere.

“Yair, OK.”

I stick my arm around her waist and plant a kiss right where I think her lips are. She’s on to me. We kiss like buggery. It’s like kissing a serpent with a beautiful soft face. Her lips are wet and slippery. I’m half out of my mind.

The movies have started. We get to the church hall door and stop by the mums selling the tickets and the lollies. I buy a box of Jaffas. One of the mothers looks at me with a I-know-what you’re-up-to look. I say, “Thank you Mrs. Lester,” and take my change. We head straight for the middle of the fourth row from the back. That way, the sticky-beaks can’t see us. The Movietone news is still running. I see the Beatles getting off a plane somewhere in America. Then we’re into it.

She’s got a hold of me. I pull back. Don’t want to mess my underpants.

“Wanna swig?” I ask, sliding the bottle of gin out of my pocket.

“Nah, hate the stuff. What is it?

“Gin.”

The movie’s half way through. The lights go on while some kid’s father puts on the second reel. We start eating our Jaffas. Iris drops one and it bounces like a ping-pong ball on the wooden floor. My mates look back to find me, grinning. They see I’m busy.

*

That was two years ago. Now I’m here with me Dad across the road from the old pub where he spent most of his life. We’re in the old sleep-out on the back veranda that Dad added on to our commission house when I was little. I’m holding his hand trying to keep him going, jabbering to him, saying whatever comes into my head. I get up and go to the front room to look at the old pub, the walls, once red brick, painted a sickly cream, flaking away; the rusted gutters clinging to the veranda over a cracked concrete path; the big window with LADIES LOUNGE painted on it in fancy gold letters, the tall red chimneys, magpies perched on wires, white spots beneath.

They say the pub won’t be there in a year or two. What will I do then? I’m only seventeen, well, nearly seventeen. I’m still at high school. My last year’s about done. My mates around here think I’m crazy. They all got jobs a couple of years ago. My Dad always said I had to get a good education. He was telling me that right up until his coma. I should be studying right now, doing my one hour a day that I promised myself I’d do. Only I hate sitting in my bedroom at the desk he made me. I used to study right here where he’s out to it, on the little cot. But Dad took it over when he got home from the pub and flopped down here after he’d had a piss in the toilet that was right next to the sleep-out. Anyway, I’ve read my economics, history and geography notebooks over and over, I know them off by heart. What else is there to do? What the hell are those smart kids at school doing when they’re studying all day? Of course, there’s English, but you can’t really study that, can you Dad? You either can do it or you can’t. And then there’s my favourite subject Latin that I muck around with and I’m really good at, but none of the other kids at school know that, not even that I got my funny old Latin teacher to loan me a book that was what he called vulgar. I spent a lot of time copying out the whole book, all the rude words. A lot of fun that was, Dad. And you’d come up to me at my desk and say, “what the bloody hell are you doing all this time studying?” And I’d close the book and say, “nothing, Dad. Just my Latin.”

Remember telling me about high school, Dad? I was in sixth grade and I asked you where was I going next, to the tech school like you did? And you went red in the face and said you’d go and talk to the teacher because he shouldn’t be putting stupid ideas like that into my head. Next thing at school, my teacher, Snozzle we called him because of his big nose, draws two columns on the blackboard, one called “High School” the other “Tech School.” He writes in the high school column, “4-6 years, then “Latin or French,” and in the tech school, “4 years” and that’s it.

“Raise your hands all those going to high school,” he says.

I raised my hand along with one other kid.

“You going to do French or Latin?” he asks.

“Latin,” I reply.

“Why not French?”

“My father said only the smart kids do Latin.”

Snozzle wrinkled his nose a bit and the girls in the back row started giggling. “You’ll all be going to girls’ tech to learn how to cook,” he told them.

And when I came home and told you what happened, remember what you did? You took me to Geelong and bought me a kitbag for when I went to high school. And I’ve still got it, Dad. It’s right under my bed. I never take it to school though, because it’s too big to fit in my locker.

Thanks to you Dad, I’m doing my matric exams in a few weeks, and then, like you wanted, I’m going to Teachers College next year. Yes, I know. Don’t need matric to go to Teachers College, but I know you wanted me to do the whole six years and that’s what I’m doing. I’ll have lots of money, so my mates say. The Education Department pays us. Pretty good wicket, like you said Dad. I feel his hand twitch. His chest rises. He even licks his lips. I’ve made him happy, I have. I squeeze his hand and I’m sure I see his eyelids flutter just a little. “Don’t worry, Dad, I love ya, truly I do.”

*

They call the old pub the “blood house” but its official name is the Corio Shire Hotel, and I love the place. There’s bloody fights on the street outside every Friday and Saturday nights. Only fist fights though. There’s rules. No knives. No broken glasses. If ever that happens, the blokes grab the bastard and let the other bloke pummel him.

My Dad was easily the pub’s best customer. He never liked me hanging around the place, but I did odd jobs for Mr. Counter, the publican. I ran errands, learned how to joke with the customers, and on race days carried bets to the back of the pub and placed them with Skeeter the bookie. I made some good dough, especially if I carried a bet that paid off. And Skeeter paid me as his spotter. I only had to tip him off a couple of times though. Mr. Counter had a deal with the cops.

Dad had his own place in the corner of what was called the “old bar” of the pub. He’d go on and on about how the old stone walls were a hundred years old. And he’d say how much better it was than the “new bar” that was built a few years ago showing off its u-shaped bar, with lots of space and fancy beer taps. The old bar was always crowded, shoulder-to-shoulder. Dad liked it. Reckoned he felt close to his mates that way, even though he always drank alone. And it was where most of the brawls broke out when a bloke’s elbow spilled another bloke’s beer. That’s all it took. Mr. Counter’s bouncer, Grecko, a champion heavyweight boxer, wouldn’t stop the brawl. He’d just grab them all and push them out to the street. And all the blokes would cheer them on.

I kept out of Dad’s way because he looked embarrassed when I showed up. But later, when things were not so good, he was happy to borrow a few bob from me.

*

I was thirteen when we moved into the commission house across the road from the pub. I took the bus to high school in Geelong every morning and it dropped me off at five o’clock every day in front of the pub. I was really scared. The tipsy blokes would come up to me and start chattering away about nothing. You couldn’t be sure whether they were friendly or would hit you. And they’d breathe their fumes right in my face, grab my shirt or my loose tie, just as I was trying to cross the road. And the road was the Melbourne Road, a big strip of concrete with cars speeding up and down it all the time.

It took a few weeks before I was game enough to step into the pub. Then I nearly pissed myself! I put my foot on the old bluestone step, the greasy green and white striped canvas in the doorway rubbed my cheek, then a wall of stale beer and smoke hit me in the face. I turned and ran home straight across the Melbourne road, without looking, cars screeching to miss me.

The next day, though, I was back. This time I stepped past the old canvas and sidled up to the bar, but I slipped on the slime-covered floor and before I knew it, I’d called out “shit!” and all the blokes in the bar laughed at me. A bloke called out:

“You shouldn’t be in ’ere ya little shit! Get the buggery out!”

Panicked, I ran out and across the road and nearly got run over again.

The next day I once more put my foot on the old bluestone step. It was about five o-clock. I heard the siren at the Ford factory. There’d soon be a crowd of blokes crossing the road and fronting up to the bar. I turned and saw them coming at me. I jumped away. I’ll come back tomorrow, a Saturday, no school, and see it all up close.

*

Me mum, she was still home then, made me eat a German sausage sandwich with lots of butter. I loved those sandwiches, but all I could think of was getting across the road to see what was going on in the pub. I chomped down the sandwich and took off, mum calling out where was I going, but I was gone.

It was well after five and a hot night. The pub was packed, and it was hard to work my way through the big crowd outside. Being small, I slipped through the gaps between drinking schools and made it through the old bar entrance. Shit! The blood rushed to my face. I came out in a hot sweat; my ears went numb with the blokes yelling to each other. A bloke grabbed me by the arm.

“What ya bloody doing in ’ere?” he says with a big grin. He’s a red-faced bloke dressed in oily overalls, no shirt or even singlet. I was scared shitless and couldn’t talk. He didn’t wait for me to answer. I pulled back, but couldn’t see the doorway, only the windows and the iron bars that stopped drunks from falling through. Hot sweaty bodies closed in on me. I crawled along the filthy floor and bumped into a stool. A hand grabbed me by the hair and pulled me up. It was my Dad.

Remember that, Dad? And you know what you did? You grab¬bed me by the scruff of the neck and shoved me through the crowd and growled, “get back home and don’t let me see you here again!” We got to the door and you gave me a push and I ran straight across the road. A car screeched. I was nearly run over again Dad! You must remember that. Nearly killed by my own father! Nah, Dad. No worries. I’m only joking. I’m squeezing the old man’s hand. His knuckles are white, his fingers thin and bony. I lean over and look into his puffy face. His eyes are nearly closed, but there’s a flicker. My nose is nearly touching his. It’s OK Dad. You did a good job. Look at me. Going to Teachers’ College next year. Just what you wanted. Pretty good deal, you always said, didn’t you?

*

I’ve been moping round the house, stretching my legs, talking to myself all this time. It’s kind of easier talking to myself than to Dad, because I don’t know what he hears and I don’t want to upset him. Who knows what’s going on inside his head?

“You silly old bastard, look what you’ve done to yourself,” I say, sitting in the old lounge chair beside his cot, grasping his hand in mine. Shit, you’re drinking yourself to death all your mates reckon. I don’t care what they say. I’ll give you another glass of plonk if you wake up. You know who I saw yesterday? Yarra the chunderer. Re¬member him? They called him Yarra because his puke looked like the water in the Yarra. I was on this bottle drive, collecting beer bottles for the church. We went to his house. I didn’t know it was his till I went around the back. There’s a huge pile of empties stacked against the fence. A great find! And then I look across to the back door and he’s sitting on the step. I go over to say hello. I couldn’t believe it was him. You know how funny he is. I tell you Dad, I never saw such a sorry sight in my life. His eyes were all big and puffy and watery and red rimmed, just like a cocker spaniel’s. Poor bugger. He looked at me. I pretended I never knew him. I didn’t know what to say. He cadged a shilling off me. I couldn’t say no, taking all his bottles away, you know. His little kid wanted to come with us. We couldn’t let him of course. I thought he was going to cry, not the kid, Yarra himself. A grown man, for heaven’s sake! What do you think Dad?”

Mum wouldn’t go to the pub. I used to think it was because of Dad, but he said it was because she reckoned it was a disgusting place. Who knows? Like I said, my first time in the bar the smell of stale beer and sweat knocked me over. But now I don’t even notice it. Of course, I’m not talking about the shit-house. If mum had seen it, she’d have wanted to move to a house a mile away!

Dad’s coughing a bit. His eyes are half closed. I have to keep talking to him to keep him going. I’m starting to say the same stuff over and over. Dad, did you know I once sneaked in the pub after hours? Found an open window in one of the guest rooms and climbed through. I told mum I was at C of E boys club. A couple of years ago I suppose it was. It was creepy. I no sooner got in, I heard voices, loud voices and laughing and I peeked down the passage and you know what? There were cops boozing. Would you believe it? I got back out. I wasn’t scared. I had to pee. I wanted to go bad, and I knew there was a toilet down the passage, but I wasn’t game to go there. And to get to the shit-house out back–you must have done it a thousand times—to get there you had to walk down the side of the pub past the old cypress tree. As soon as I got that far I knew it was close because of the stink! Dad, I don’t how you put up with it! It just stunk so awful, and every-thing round it and inside was all green and slimy. I stood up to the urinal, aimed high, but I couldn’t go! It was awful! Thank goodness it was after hours and there was nobody there! I turned and ran back out. Forgot to button myself up even. I get to the cypress tree and there’s a bloke there, drunk as a nut pissing full bore right under the tree, which happens to be right outside the pub kitchen. The cook’s yelling at him and banging on the window. He turns full on to her and says, “sorry missus, didn’t know ya wanted to see the bloody lot.” I ran across the road and got home just in time. Nearly pissed my pants!

There’s a little twitch at the corner of Dad’s mouth. I’m sure he’s trying to smile.

*

I’m in the bar, doing my job collecting empty glasses. I catch my foot in the lino that’s worn through and turned up at the ends. I bang into a bloke’s elbow and spill his beer. I’m scared shitless. My face turns red. “Gees. Sorry mate!” I say, “here, let me shout you another one.”

I don’t have the money but I know if I don’t make the offer I’ll get bashed up. He’s a big brawny bloke with bare arms, bulging muscles, sun-burnt skin and wearing one of those white singlets that’s gone yellow under the arms. He’s looking down at me. I’m staring at his lips, waiting to be clobbered. I squeeze my way past his mates and make it to the bar. The barman looks down at me. He knows I’m in a spot. I shove the empties over to him, and push one forward and say, in a squeaky voice, “can you fill this one?” I nod towards the bloke. The barman, a good bloke if ever there was one, puts up two new glasses and fills them and pushes them across. The bloke pushes them back and gives me a fierce look. I’m done for, I reckon. He grabs my arm and I wince. Then just as quick, he lets go and roars laughing and his mates join in. He pats me on the head and says, “didn’t I see you down at the old Clarendon pub?” I see my Dad out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring straight ahead. Hope he’s not listening.

“Me? Nah, never been there,” I lie. I was there all right. It’s the pub just across from the Geelong footy oval. He’s lost interest though. He grabs his two free beers and he and his mates get down to it. I slink away. My Dad never said nothing.

*

Dad’s breathing stops and starts again. I think he’s going to kick it soon. I suppose someone should tell mum. She went and stayed with my auntie in Yarraville, Mr. Counter told me. She’s been gone for a while now. She was only going to be there till she found a job then she’d get a place of her own. I don’t know. I don’t remember much about her to tell the truth. She never hardly spoke up, was always in the kitchen cooking. I’d light the stove for her each morning. She’d cut my lunch and I’d run off to school. She ought to know that Dad’s going to kick it pretty soon. She probably does. Don’t think she’d care, though. Not that Dad beat her up or anything. He wasn’t that sort. He was, like they say over at the pub, a quiet drunk. Just sat on his stool in his corner and drank from nine when the pub opened till five minutes before it closed at six. Then he’d buy a flagon of plonk and take it home. And the next day he’d start all over again. Mum just stayed in the kitchen and cooked and didn’t say nothing. Except on Thursdays, she’d run out of money and ask him how she was going to feed us. I was about eleven or twelve then, I think. Somehow, she always put something on the table. I was never hungry. She must have been a good Mum, I s’pose. Then one day, she just wasn’t there. She’d gone. My Dad never told me nothing. I had to scrounge for myself. Lived on bread, butter and Vegemite. Good old Mr. Counter at the pub let me into the kitchen and the cook gave me leftovers, so I did all right. Then one day my auntie Connie showed up and tried to get me to go away with her. But I wouldn’t. Dad just stood there, sipping his plonk, looked at her, like she was some kind of dog that strayed into the kitchen.

Dad? Are you in there, Dad? Are you all right? Take a deep breath, Dad. That’ll make you feel better. Would you like a sip of plonk?

I’m feeling under his cot. There’s always booze under there.

*

Hey Dad! Do you remember that night we were round at Millie’s? Remember her? I bet you do. She really liked you, I know. She liked me too! A bit too much, to tell the truth. I could have done her, but you were there. Well, sort of. She tried to do me, but I just couldn’t do it with someone three times my age. Anyway, she was yours, wasn’t she? Don’t think you’re hearing this, are you, Dad? And just as well. I told my mates at school all about that night. They couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t drive, remember? I wanted to drive you. There were cars all down the street. Millie’s place was right across from the police station. Unbelievable! I already knew Millie from the pub. I’d go into the Snake Pit, what they called the Ladies Lounge, and all the women would go crazy over me. I loved that. Trouble was they were ugly as shit and too old! Anyway, we get in there…

What’s up Dad? Squeezing my fingers? You’re in there, are you? Oh, that’s right. She wanted you to be best man at her wedding! That was a riot! I left that out, didn’t I? So, I’m in the Snake Pit and you walk in. And Millie latches on to you—hey Dad, do I see a little smile on your face? Are you coming good?— and she says, “I wantcha to be best man at me wedding tonight.” And you look at her and say, “I’d be honoured, Millie me love.” And she grabs your arm and drags you over to her table.

“You see here?” she says, pointing to an old leather case, “it’s me going away case. Packed all ready for me honeymoon.”

And you say, “shit Millie, that’s great.”

And she says, “don’tcha believe me? Here, look inside,” and she opens the case and tips everything out!

She was really something, Dad, wasn’t she?

So we get to her party that night. We go in the door and you trip over this drunk passed out in the hall, and you’re lying on your back.

Millie calls out, “hey! Whatcha doing lookn up me dress?”

And you say, “gimme a beer, Millie.”

“It’s me wedding night,” she says, “‘and all you bloody think of is beer!”

You struggle up—I think I helped you—and you give her a peck on the cheek. Don’t know how you could do it, Dad.

“Now can I get my beer?” you say.

“Somebody get me best man a beer,” she yells, “and get me another brandy you pack of bastards!”

The smoke and the drunks are killing me. I grab myself a lemonade and take off out the back door. Then I’m gawking at the back yard. It’s a circus. One of the cops from the police station across the road is driving round and round the rotary clothes line on his motorbike with a red-faced drunk sitting in the side-car singing Round and Round the Mulberry Bush and sucking on a bottle of plonk.

Remember that Dad? And they tie the bike to the clothes line and the cop revs up the bike and makes it go faster and faster. Crazy bastards! Then wham! The bike breaks free of the line and smashes into the fence and the silly buggers go flying in the air. Were you there for that, Dad? I saw you, I think. Millie was hang¬ing all over you, crying because the bike ran over her veggie garden.

I did see you, Dad. I never let on to you, or anyone else, except my mates at school, that is. Can you hear me this time Dad? Squeeze my hand, Dad. That’s right. I know you’re in there. So I was there that time at Millie’s. I was standing right there in the bedroom doorway. You and Millie were going at it. I dunno what I was thinking. It was a horrible sight, but it got me all worked up. The two of you were on the bed. You tore off her dress. You were starkers. And Dad, I hate to say it, but you were so drunk, you were dribbling all over her tits. And she was lolling around, her tongue hanging out of her mouth like a thirsty dog’s. A shit-awful sight, I tell you! Oops, sorry Dad, didn’t mean to swear, hope you’re not upset. I mean it was so bad I couldn’t look any more. I couldn’t last it out to the end. It’s my big regret. I never saw you finish her off. I had to go to the toilet, you know?

The ride home that night was pretty scary Dad. But then you probably can’t remember. You and Mr. Counter were both drunk and I wanted to drive, and you wouldn’t let me because I never had a license. We were going to get more beer, remember?

Mr. Counter drove all over the place and you egged him on, reckoned he was doing a great job! Shit, Dad. I was scared and I was huddled up in the back seat. Then there’s this sudden swerve and screech and I look up and there’s this lamp post coming at us. And Mr. Counter lets go the steering wheel and out comes this huge burp, and Dad you slide off the seat on to the floor. And there’s a big jolt as the car hits the curb and bounces up on to the footpath. I feel like I’m floating and I see a shadow or something, arms flung up in the air and then there’s a thump and I sees this bloke’s face squashed against the windscreen, then slide back as the car stops, and the body rolls off. Shit, Dad. It was really awful. You were swearing and trying to kick open the door, and Mr. Counter was slumped over the steering wheel, snoring.

Someone peeks in and yells, “are you blokes all right?”

Dad, you were the most violent I ever saw. You kicked open the door and fell out and grumbled, “where’s the bloody beer?”

I climbed out and a bloke tries to help me and I shake him off. Then I saw the body slumped across the gutter and the blood coming out of his mouth. He was one of the regulars from the pub. And he was drunk too of course. Did you know him Dad? I think you did. What happened about that, Dad? Do you know? Was it Mr. Counter’s fault? Should have been. But nothing happened to him, did it?

*

I got knocked out this day over at the pub. It was just before mum walked out. I was helping out in the beer cellar and one of the extractors blew out of the barrel and banged me right between the eyes. I was walking round in a daze with blood coming down my face and someone called out for Mr. Counter. The cook cleaned me up then Mr. Counter brought me home. Mum opened the door and Mr. Counter handed me over and he hugged my mum and said, “he’ll be OK.” And mum just looked at me and I went straight to my room and went to bed. And as I lay down I tried to convince myself that they were just being very friendly and mum was thanking him for taking care of me. She asked him in. Do you think something was going on, Dad? Gees, Dad, did you know? Don’t suppose you cared anyway. I know it’s none of my business. But I can’t help wondering.

I’ve got your hand, Dad. Do I feel you squeezing me again? I don’t think so. You’re too far gone, that’s what I think. I found a little flask of brandy under the cot. Here, taste it. I put my finger into the bottle then tip it up. Brandy runs down my finger and I lick it off. Then I put my finger in Dad’s mouth. I have to force it in. How’s that Dad? Bring back old memories?

*

I know the quack can’t do anything. He was useless yesterday, wasn’t he, Dad? He might be able to make you more comfortable. I phoned him. He says he’s coming. Just a minute till I have a sip of my cuppa tea. Here, try this. Found the eye dropper. Filled it with a bit of whiskey so I can slip it in your mouth. There, that good? Ok, Ok, not too much. That’s right. Calmed you down, didn’t it? I’ve got your hand again. You can still squeeze it, can’t you?

When I was boiling the kettle I was thinking about Little Linda. Remember that time in the Snake Pit? Who could forget it? I was picking up glasses and I runs into this thing, woman or girl standing at the bar cupboard where they got their drinks for the Snake Pit. She’s this short skinny little thing. Looks about the size of a kid in grade six except she’s got this big swollen belly, pregnant like you wouldn’t believe. And she’s got this wrinkly face. You know Dad? And the wrinkles are full of dirt, something awful, Dad! She’s got these thin glasses that’s stuck together with sticky plaster. Everyone called her Little Linda because she was real little, not like her dad who they called Tank because he was the size of a tank and he barged around like one, and everyone was scared shitless of him.

Mr. Counter says, “what can I do for you, Linda my love?”

And she laughs and says, “don’t come at that fuckn luv business with me! Gimme two whiskeys and a beer, and make it quick. I feel bloody crook.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?” says Mr. Counter.

“Go to the shit-house, you bastard!” she cackles.

“How long to go, Lin?”

“Shit, I dunno! The way I feel, it could be any minute. It’s a fuckn nuisance. The sooner the better, that’s what I say.”

She gets her grog and off she goes to the Snake Pit.

I’m back in the bar collecting glasses when there’s these terrible screams. I remember you sitting on your favourite stool in the corner, staring at your beer. But the screams even made you look up, and you say, “what the hell’s that coming from the Snake Pit?”

I run around to the Snake Pit and there’s Tank standing at the door, slapping and banging anyone that comes near the place. Mr. Counter comes up and yells, “Tank! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Keep out of it Eddie, or you’ll get it too. I warn youse all. No bastard’s going in there while me daughter’s like that.”

“Like what? Oh no! You don’t mean she’s dropping it right in there, do you?”

And she has the baby right on that greasy lino floor in the Snake Pit. Could you believe it Dad? I sneaked in under Tank’s arm, and there she was! And I saw it all! Wish I hadn’t. It was disgusting! I could’ve thrown up. Nearly did.

And then, you remember this Dad? The next day, she shows up like nothing happened, asks for a beer and two whiskeys. She looks just the same, haggard and filthy. And she’s got this old pram.

“The new one?” asks Mr. Counter, pointing at the pram.

“Yair. Struth! Am I glad it’s there and not in me guts! Don’t just stand there gawking! Get me drinks! I’m bloody crook!”

She downs the whiskeys and takes her beer and pram to the Snake Pit. I follow her in. The women in there, they all go up and gawk at the baby and it gets lifted out and passed round. It’s making a feeble cry. I dunno, Dad. I felt sorry for it, I really did. But what can you do?

Dad? You OK? The whiskey help you? Yes, that’s it. A bit of the old dog, right? You’re smiling inside, aren’t you? I know you are.

*

Dad, I’ve got to keep talking. I can’t just sit here saying nothing, watching you die. Remember that New Year’s Eve when the corpse got lost? After the six o’clock bell went and all the customers were gone, and the barmen were having an after-hours drinking session with Mr. Counter? There was this banging on the front door. Grecko the bouncer opens it. And that big round copper they call Dopey pushes past him half waddling, half running down the passage, his fat gut bouncing up and down over his belt.

“Quick, Eddie,” he calls, “ring for an ambulance!”

“Why, what’s the matter, been an accident?”

“There’s a corpse out in the car park! Dead as a doornail he is! I’ll have a whiskey while you’re ringing the ambulance if you don’t mind.”

“You don’t want an ambulance, you want a hearse!”

“No jokes you bastards, this is serious. Ring for that ambulance before I run you all in!”

“Hey, Grecko, ring for an ambulance will you? Dopey, you sure he’s dead?”

“Of course. He’s not breathing, I tell you. And he’s as white as a ghost! And I reckon he’s going stiff already! Another whiskey, make it double.”

“Hey, Dopey, will I call the police as well?” jokes one of the blokes and Dopey spills some of the whiskey as his hand shakes bringing the glass up to his big huge mouth with its bulging lips.

“We better go out and have a look,” somebody says.

“There’s no need,” says Dopey, “I’ve seen it. You all better stay away. You never know, might be foul play! I think I’ll have a beer now if you don’t mind. This sort of thing’s a bit hard on the nerves you know.”

Of course, Dopey never pays for nothing. He sips his beer and licks the foam from his lips, and everyone starts quaffing it down waiting for the ambulance.

“And how’s your good wife, constable?” asks Mr. Counter.

“Huh, how should I know? Came home late the other night from the police boys club and just because I smelt of a bit of grog, she slapped me face and pissed off! I’ll have another beer if you don’t mind.” Dopey holds out his glass.

“She’s run out again?” asks Mr. Counter, amused.

“Yair.”

“This must be about the fourth time in six months.”

“I’m getting used to it. Getting to like it really. Married men don’t get as much freedom as I do with her out of the way.”

“I never thought of it like that,” says Mr. Counter and the other blokes nod wisely.

“I’ll have another beer, if you don’t mind,” says Dopey as he dabs his watery eyes with a hanky.

There’s a banging on the front door and Grecko let’s in the ambulance man. He’s a little bloke all dressed in a grey dust coat like my fourth-grade teacher used to wear.

“Er... you got a corpse here I think?”

“That’s what our constable here reports,” Mr. Counter says. He’s trying real hard not to grin. “It’s out in the car park.”

“That’s right,” says Dopey, being all official. “Come on and I’ll show you.”

Big Dopey waddles off, the ambulance man at his elbow, and the rest of us tag along.

“How do you know it was a corpse? I mean, how did you know it was dead?” asks the ambulance bloke.

“Now really sir. He’s stiffer than a board. I’ve been a cop long enough to know whether a bloke’s dead or not,” says Dopey all put out. “It’s just around here, beneath the cypress tree. You can see his boot sticking out just under that lower branch.”

The ambulance bloke runs forward.

“Here! Over here!” cries Dopey.

It was very dark, Dad, don’t you remember? We were all pretty much breathing down Dopey’s neck and he yells at us, “orright! Orright! Keep back there! Wait till I turn on me torch!”

We’re all sniggering and joking and Dopey flicks the torch on and then we see it! A shoe, a crumpled-up tie, and a bit of vomit.

“Ahem! Are you sure it was here?” asks the ambulance bloke, a big smirk on his face.

“It was here, I tell you! Somebody must have swiped it!”

“Now, really Dopey, who’d want to swipe a spew covered corpse?”

“But I tell you. The fuckn corpse was dead!”

“And how else could a corpse be?”

“Cut the fuckn jokes,” Dopey whines, “this is serious!”

“I’ll say it is,” snarls the ambulance bloke. “It looks like you’ve got us out here on a wild goose chase. Somebody really sick might have needed us right now. I might have to report this, constable.”

“But I tell you…”

Things didn’t look too good. Then Mr. Counter steps in to save the day. Gees, what a good bloke Mr. Counter is, Dad, isn’t he? I don’t even have to ask you, Dad, do I? He’s been your best mate forever.

“It looks to me,” says Mr. Counter, “that this corpse was prob¬ably well and truly flaked with too much grog. Then it got up and walked away. Really flaked alkies often seem like they’re dead you know.”

“Yes, that’s right Eddie. That’s what happened,” gabbles Dopey. “He’s probably still around.”

“What I want to know is who’s going to pay for the ambulance? I’m not going away from here with fuckn nothing,” complains the ambulance bloke.

Poor Dopey. He looks around us all, and we’re sniggering and nudging each other. Then Mr. Counter takes Dopey aside and whispers to him, but we can hear it all.

“Look Dopey. There’s still plenty of drunks staggering around the place. All we have to do is grab one, sock him one if he makes too much noise, and chuck him in the ambulance. And he pays the fee.”

“Do you think it would work?”

“Of course! Come on.” So Mr. Counter tells us to spread out and look for the corpse, and he goes off with Dopey and they pretty soon find a drunk staggering around and Mr. Counter says, “here’s one Dopey. I’ll grab him from behind and when he swings his arms, you step up to him, tell him he’s drunk and disorderly, then thump him one. Got it?”

“Well…”

“Good. Let’s go.”

So they grabbed the bloke. He never knew what hit him, and they stuck him on a stretcher and chucked him in the ambulance.

Dopey calls out to the ambulance bloke, “we found him flaked out in the gutter. You better be careful with him. Drunks get wild when they wake up you know.”

The ambulance bloke closes up the ambulance and locks it tight.

“Rightee-o” he says, “let’s go inside and do the paperwork.”

We all go back in the pub, and Mr. Counter lets them all have a few more beers until the ambulance driver gets tipsy, and then Dopey informs everyone that it’s past closing time and they all have to leave or he’ll book Mr. Counter for trading after hours!

*

Are you getting sick of me Dad? I’m doing all the talking I know, and I must be repeating myself. I wish you could talk to me Dad. There’s probably lots I’ve left out. What about the other yarn about Dopey and his boss, the Preacher. They’re a funny couple of cops, aren’t they Dad?

The Preacher called himself an “individualist” whatever that was supposed to mean. I couldn’t understand a word he said, could you? He always had a bible and read bits out to blokes he reckoned were too drunk. And he’d even give lectures in a booming voice, about duty to God, Queen, and the law. And he’d walk round the bar, slapping drinkers on the back, sometimes even buying someone a beer. And if a bloke wanted to buy him one back, he’d say, “fellow citizen, it’s against the law to drink in uniform, but, I shall accept because it’s necessary for a policeman to be on good terms with the populace.” Then he’d take off his cap so he wouldn’t be in full uniform. And he’d gulp down his beer, and slap his hand on the counter and announce, “well, I must away and do my duty.”

This night, the Preacher came in and as the last customers were leaving the bar, he raised his right hand holding his bible above his head and said, “the peace of God be with you.”

Remember that Dad? You were sitting on your stool, and you called out “Amen!” and then he and Dopey go around to the night cupboard for a few free drinks. And the Preacher says, “now, Dopey, my boy, how’s the wife? Is she with you, or is she with you not?”

“She came back yesterday. I’ll have another beer if you don’t mind,” he says to Mr. Counter.

“It is with great pleasure that I am pleased to hear it,” says the Preacher, “I am glad that you are present here tonight Dopey. Your assistance will be essential.”

“So, what’s the trouble?”

“You know Fred’s in hospital? Got run off the road on his motorbike.”

“Yair.”

“He is getting much better now that he is almost well, and being thirsty he requires something of the kind that you and I are drinking tonight. I consider it to be our duty as fellow policemen to see that this state of affairs is corrected.”

“So, you think…”

“Do not interrupt. It is my personal and individual opinion that the far too officious staff of the hospital will not allow said refreshments on said premises. We shall thus be required to put into action a plan for smuggling in same. Do you understand sir?”

“Well, I s’pose so, but…”

“Good, then it is that we shall proceed. We’ll do it tonight. I have already cased the joint, as the criminals say, and know exactly what we must do.”

“But Preacher, my wife’s home tonight, I promised her I’d go straight home. You know she’s not there too often.”

“Shame on you constable. Do you not recognize your duty to Queen and country when it is pointed out to you? The plan will not operate without you. It is beholden for you to come.”

“I’ll have another beer, if you don’t mind,” Dopey asks in his whiny voice. He makes this big sigh and his eyes go all watery. Gees, Dad, poor old Dopey, the poor bugger. And then Mr. Counter says, “inspector…”

And the Preacher bristles, “I am not an inspector, I am a first constable. We are the ones who do all the hard work.”

“Oh, sorry, Reverend. I was just going to offer you a hand, then Dopey could go home to his missus.”

“Well, of that I am unsure. It should be a member of Her Majesty’s constabulary. But I suppose it could be done. I am not an unreas¬onable man. You are able in body, I presume?”

“Never been better.”

The Preacher stands up straight, like he’s king George.

“Then it is exactly correct,” he says. “So shall it be. Peace be with you. Now we must fortify ourselves for the mission. I’ll have a double whiskey as well as the beer this time.”

Mr. Counter —what a good bloke he is, Dad—fills his glass, and Dopey pushes his forward too, and the Preacher gives him a really shitty look and says, “young man, you have had enough. Run along home to your wife immediately. You have an individual responsibility to her.”

Gees, Dad, the two of them, they were a funny couple, weren’t they? This big lanky Preacher, over six feet tall, and Dopey shorter and round like a giant pear. The Preacher looks down on him over his pointy nose that just about touches his chin. And Dopey doesn’t say a word, he just kind of nods at Mr. Counter, and plods away.

“Well now Mr. Counter, are we ready?”

“What grog do you want for your mate? I’ll get it while you fortify yourself,” says Mr. Counter with a smirk.

“Oh. Let me see. Nothing much at all. What about, I should consider, a bottle of whiskey—Corio is fine, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of rum, and let me see. Yes, a bottle of port thrown in for good luck. Port is an excellent invalid’s drink. It used to be drunk in the year of our Lord, you know.”

You were there then, weren’t you, Dad? It was the time when you were still doing a few odd jobs for Mr. Counter.

They sped off to the hospital in the police wagon, siren screaming.

“Well, what’s your plan Reverend?” asks Mr. Counter.

“My good sir. It is that I have tried to smuggle these goods past the nurses at the entrance without success, and so I have been unable to do so. I have therefore surveyed the situation with the utmost scrutiny that a man in my position and individual respon¬sibility is able to do, and have decided that you must climb up a large creeper that leads to the second-floor window where our beloved comrade lies. That is why I asked you to bring the string bag to carry the grog.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit early to do that yet? I mean, it’s only eight o’clock. We should do it when nobody’s around.”

The Preacher looks at him for a moment and says, “you are correct. Good thinking. I like the way you plan the method and execution of your attack. We shall delay some hours. I have also just realized that this parcel of alcohol is too heavy on the long climb as we intend. Therefore, I suggest to you that you open the whiskey. We shall pull up here while I phone the station and tell them I’m on patrol.” They pull up beside a telephone booth, but the Preacher stays in the wagon. They knock over the bottle of whiskey and then the Preacher advises the utmost caution and suggests a further delay until the very early hours of the morning. Then he opens the bottle of port.

“Now Reverend!” says Mr. Counter, “we should keep the port for a special occasion. You should have it after a meal or something.”

“Again, you are exactly correct, Mr. Counter. So it shall be. We’ll catch a meal to have with the port.”

“We’ll what?”

“We’ll go rabbiting my boy. The spotlight on my police wagon is very excellent for night shooting. And I have a rifle, a shotgun and my police revolver if needed. Away! Away we shall go!”

The Preacher speeds off to the paddocks just outside of Bannockburn. He turns on to a dirt track, and then into a paddock full of rabbit burrows and mounds of dirt. And every bump they hit, the Preacher calls out, “may the Lord have mercy on our souls!” and Mr. Counter thanks him for it.

They took turns driving and shooting, both of them drunk as lords, too drunk to drive and they couldn’t hold the spotlight still, let alone the gun, so they kept missing the rabbits, even with a shotgun! Then there’s this huge thump.

“Shit! We’ve hit a kangaroo!” cries Mr. Counter.

“Rubbish, sir! We have merely run into a tree.”

“Thank Christ for that!”

“I am pleased to hear you thank the Lord for small mercies, but really this must mean the end of our festivities here. We must make for the hospital immediately. Away!”

So they get back to town and they’re getting close to the hospital when the Preacher stops the wagon right near a crossroads. They sit there until a car rolls through a stop sign. The Preacher darts out in front of him and the poor bloke smashes into the wagon. The Preacher gives him a lecture on individual respon¬sibility and tells him he better have good insurance because he’ll have to pay for the crumpled fender on the police wagon. He gives the bloke a ticket as well. And then they go off to the hospital.

“Now, in consequence, Mr. Counter, up you go!” The Preacher points to the creeper running up the wall.

“Who, me?”

“Well, of course. You could not expect me to do it. It is against the law, and I’m a uniformed policeman.”

“Bugger you. I’m not going up there. I’ll fall and kill myself. Besides, someone might see me.”

“Who, the police?”

“Very funny reverend. But I’m not going up. And that’s it.”

“As an official member of the Victorian Police force thereby representative of the Queen, I hereby order you to do it.”

“And I order you to go and get stuffed!”

“Mr. Counter. You are using indecent language. I’ve a good mind to book you. But I’ll let you off only this once. Now, run along and do your job.”

“It is not my job!” Mr. Counter goes to get out of the wagon, but he hears a click as the Preacher grips his arm. The Preacher has handcuffed him to the steering wheel!

“Now, sir, I must ask you to do as I tell you.”

“Look, you stupid bastard, I’m not going up that wall for you or anyone else!”

“Then that settles it. I’ll have to take you down to the station for questioning. I am charging you with being drunk and disorderly, and for using indecent language to a police officer, a senior con¬stable no less.”

“And stuff you again!”

“I am an officer of the law, in Her Majesty’s service. I do not play games with law enforcement.”

The Preacher drives off, Mr. Counter still cuffed to the steering wheel, they pull up at the police station, and the Preacher takes him in and locks him up! Next morning a cop comes and lets him out, and to this day, Dad, so Mr. Counter says, the Preacher’s never said anything to him. Like it never happened!

I’m shutting up for a while, Dad. Going over my economics notes for the matric exams. I’ll make another cup of tea.

*

Remember Swampy, Dad? Remember him? He was one of the funniest blokes, wasn’t he? He always reminded me of Robert Menzies, you know? The prime minister? It was those big bushy eyebrows, that’s what it was. He had a roll of fat under his chin too. And his voice, it was really deep and gruff.

Dad, I bet you remember this one. I know you seen it. I must have been about fourteen at the time, doing my job for Mr. Counter collecting all the empty glasses. Then I heard this loud bark. It was Swampy.

“Woof! Woof! Woof!” he yelps.

“Baa! Baa! Baa!” A little crumpled up bloke answers from over the other side of the bar.

“Woof! Ruff! Ruff! Woof! Haw! Haw!” barks Swampy.

“Go-on-ya bloody dag-arsed ewe!” calls the other bloke.

“Haw! Yer bloody mongrel dog-catcher!”

So, this crumpled up bloke, his head sunk into his shoulders, goes on bleating like a sheep, and he’s wearing this tweed double breasted coat with the collar turned up over his ears. And get this Dad, when he talks, his tongue shoots out like a lizard’s and licks the tip of his nose. You must have seen him Dad. He and Swampy were always fighting. Remember what happened, Dad? Yair, gees it was funny.

Yair, that’s right, Dad. I see you’re trying to smile.

One day, Swampy shows up at the pub riding his old draft horse, his mongrel dog in tow, the best shepherd dog in Victoria, he boasted. So he hitches his horse to the bike rack and gets stuck into the booze the rest of the afternoon. His dog follows him into the bar and sits by the door. Mr. Counter tells him, as he does every time, that the health inspector said no dogs allowed in the bar. Swampy orders the dog to go home. Instead, the dog wags its tail and goes over to Mr. Counter and licks his hand. Swampy curls his leg round the other, wipes his nose on his sleeve and yells at the dog some more and it just wags its tail harder. Mr. Counter gets sick of the dog slobbering on his hand, so he walks away, mumbling to Swampy something about he’ll call the dog catcher. Swampy swallows his beer, slams the glass down and then gives his dog such a kick in the ribs it runs yelping straight out the door, its tail between its legs, like they say.

About an hour later, the dog catcher comes into the bar and stands at Swampy’s elbow. He swills a beer down then nudges Swampy in the ribs and says, “Aye, y’own a mongrel with a black spot over its eye, cross between a collie and a foxie ?”

“Yair, so wot?”

“I just picked ’im up.”

“Aye? Haw! Wot? Yer picked up me bloody dawg?”

“Yair.”

“You bloody, haw, bloody dawg-catchn bastard!”

“What’s the matter with you? I’m doin’ the right bloody thing by tell’n ya.”

“Haw! Shit! Who ya think y’are, ya crossbred bastard! Where’s me bloody dawg? Aye? Aye?”

“Givvus another beer,” says the catcher to Sugar, the head barman.

“Where’s me bloody dawg?”

“Well,” sniffs the catcher, as he licks the tip of his nose, “he’s in at the council shelter. I took ’im in half an hour ago. Had no tag on him. Poor bloody dog was starving anyway.”

“Shit! Haw! Haw!” cries Swampy as he gulps his beer, curls his leg, “you can just fuckn go and get ’im back.”

“Get ’im yer bloody self.”

“You get ’im. You took ’im!”

“He’s your dog, you get ’im!”

“You bloody Haw! Haw! Shit-house thief!”

“I told yer, I done me duty. You can do wot ya bloody like.”

The catcher walks round the other side of the bar and ignores Swampy who’s swearing at him and making all kinds of weird noises.

After a few more beers, Swampy goes quiet. He says he’s going for a piss, and goes out to the dog catcher’s cart and grabs the dogs from the back of the truck and locks them in the cabin.

The dog catcher knows something’s going on, so he runs out. Swampy’s nowhere in sight because he’s gone for a piss. The catcher opens the door of his truck, and the dogs leap out, baring their teeth and biting anything that moves and then they run in all directions. By this time, Swampy’s back in the bar, boozing on.

Later, a bloke comes in and says, “hey, Swampy, yer ’orse is gone.” Swampy lets go a huge donkey-like noise and he staggers out of the pub.

“Me bloody ’orse!” he croaks.

His dog is sitting on its haunches, whining, tied to the bike rack where his horse was.

“That fuckn shit of a dog catcher! He’s pinched me bloody ’orse!”

Just then the dog cart pulls up, his horse peering out from the back of the truck. The catcher struts around the truck, twitching and licking his nose.

“This your ’orse ?”

“Yair. Wot you bloody doin’ wiv it, you fuckn mongrel bastard dog catcher?”

“It was shitting on the footpath. Can’t allow that, against health regewlations!”

“Haw! Haw! There’s no fuckn footpath, yer shit! I want ’im back!”

“You can’t ’ave ’im!”

“Haw! Gimme me ’orse!”

“Get stuffed!” The catcher’s tongue darts out.

“Hey, Bessy!” drawls Swampy to his horse, “the bastard’s locked yer in ’is cart. Why don’tcha kick yer way out luv?”

“You’ll ’ave to come an’ collect ’er at the shelter.”

“Like buggery I will!”

Swampy picks up a stick and pokes Bessy. She’s not too happy.

“Come on Bessy luv! You can make it!”

He pokes her some more, and she moves away but doesn’t kick or anything. So he slides his arm through the rails and jabs the stick hard up her rear end. Poor old Bessy neighs as hard as she can, jumps and kicks, shaking the truck until the trailer gate pops open and she ends up on the road and gallops away up the Melbourne road as fast as she can go, with Swampy chasing her.

Ever since that day, Swampy’s always barked at the catcher whenever he came in to the bar, and the catcher always bleated back.

18. Loose Ends

In November, Larry MacIver was awarded the Stockholm prize in criminology in recognition of his contributions to the science of criminology and his brave acts that saved the lives of many. MacIver declined the award and did so publicly by doing the rounds of all the talk shows. This was not a good experience for him because he had great difficulty explaining his decision to his interviewers, all of whom thirsted for public adoration and recognition, and did not hide their obvious resentment and scorn of one who rejected the acclamation of his peers. How could he explain to them that he did not need the adoration of his peers to tell him how good he was? That he himself was the only judge of that. It sounded so arrogant.

Unfortunately, the future was not all roses for MacIver. His knees had given out on him, so he could no longer run his five miles a day. His right knee was so painful he had to get around with a walking stick. What with that and the depression he suffered from not being able to run, he turned into an insufferable oaf, becoming more like the obnoxious TV personality

‘House’ every day. To make things worse, in order to fend off his depression he had taken to working in his office and attending all faculty meetings assiduously. He drove his colleagues half-crazy with his outlandish behavior and one rather plain looking female colleague lodged a sexual harassment complaint against him. Around that time, MacIver decided to renew contact with his two kids. His daughter would be in college and his son still in high school. There’s another long story here and quite frankly a pretty boring one. So we will not go there.

Manish Das, the true hero of our story, at MacIver’s urging, turned himself into the University health center to see if anything could be done about his Asperger’s disorder, a disorder that someone at that very same health center had diagnosed. The trouble had been -- at least as far as MacIver could fathom -- that Das was unable to get down to writing his dissertation because his disorder kept him collecting data and tinkering with his gadgetry. So MacIver was a bit miffed when Das returned from the health center all smiles, to report that that they had misdiagnosed his Asperger’s and that in fact he really had ADD or perhaps OCD, or maybe a bit of both. Whatever it was, this seemed to please Das, and he soon settled down to write his dissertation and to defend it that summer. He returned to Mumbai the following fall to marry as arranged, and MacIver, who made a practice of never attending social occasions when invited by his students, made an exception and went to the wedding. It was a lavish affair, the photos taken at the gate of India, the food on one of the days of celebration consumed in the Taj Mahal Hotel. The following year, Manish brought his bride to the United States and took up his new position as assistant professor at Texas Christian University, where he taught criminology in the department of religious studies.

The following year, Mayor Newberg was re-elected to a second term in a very close contest. Although the campaign was down and dirty as any proper New York City campaign should be, this one was particularly nasty because the deputy police commissioner for crime prevention, Askanazy, ran against her. This was unexpected, since all had assumed that her estranged Police Chief Ryan would run. And he was poised to run too, but unfortunately on the day he announced he was running, he choked to death on a piece of ice he swallowed while drinking a 16 ounce soda.

Mayor Newberg used Askanazy’s Russian sounding name against him, reminding New Yorkers that it was Russians who fired the missile at the Freedom Tower, which was now completed. She also cleverly played with the pronunciation of his name, suggesting that it was an appropriate one for a police chief of his overbearing demeanor.

She was also successful in garnering the Islamic vote, even managing to arrange for a mosque to be built, inconspicuously around the corner from the Freedom Tower. Pundits enjoyed insinuating that it was the Islamic vote that tipped the scales in her favor.

Within three months of Mayor Newberg’s re-election, the following legislation was issued by the New York City Council, bowing to her demands: all tea and coffee sold in restaurants and fast food outlets was to be decaffeinated; the caffeine in all sodas was to be replaced by the equivalent amounts of Demerol; sugar was banned in all supermarkets and restaurants; cameras were installed in all restrooms that were open to the public and those not washing their hands after they went were issued a “dirty ticket” as it became known; the smoking of cigarettes was now only permitted on Staten Island. She tried, unsuccessfully, to have subway tokens reintroduced so that her likeness could be etched on both sides, but on this the City Council would not budge. Instead, she had to settle for all Metro Cards used for mass transit to be printed with a touched up photograph of Mayor Newberg on one side and on the obverse a statue of a boy from Brooklyn wearing the Roman cap of Liberty.

Buck Buick was placed on paid leave while a special prosecutor appointed by the Mayor of Newark, who was pretty pissed off at having been left in the dark, investigated the charge of his having used excessive force in killing all the terrorists, including torturing and burning one of them to death. He turned to Mayor Newberg for help in finding a good defense lawyer, but she of course did not respond. Help came from an unexpected source. Fred Lee, Director of the Newark Branch of the FBI was promoted to the position of Director of the FBI national counter terrorism special branch, a position that gave him considerable power. He moved quickly to classify all evidence and documents related to the attack on the Staten Island dump as crucial to national security so the special prosecutor was unable to proceed with the case. During his forced paid leave, Buick started watching movies and came across Hurt Locker. The very next day he re-enlisted in the marines and went back to defusing bombs and killing terrorists.

The local Newark mosque sued the Newark Police Department and the City of Newark for unspecified damages, for false arrest of its constituents, invasion of privacy of its worshippers, and infringement of their First amendment rights. The mayor settled for an undisclosed amount and to pay for it legalized marijuana in the city, allowing only city owned distribution centers to sell it. This business became so successful that the Newark city council passed a resolution to reduce the property tax by 5% a year until the levy was reduced to zero.

Agent Fred Lee’s appointment as director of the FBI Special Counter Terrorism Branch caused Agent Crosby considerable distress. Lee insisted that Crosby move with him to be his assistant in his office that was located at the FBI special training center in Quantico, Virginia. Crosby’s wife was pregnant with their third child and did not want to move. Lee could not see the difficulty. “It’s a simple choice,” he said to Crosby. “You come with me or you stay with your wife.” Crosby stayed with his wife and got a job as the security boss at the local supermarket chain. Lee was very upset with Crosby’s choice, so he made sure that the Honda Fit went with him to Virginia. Crosby did OK though. He got a company car with his new position, a 2001 black Ford Lincoln town car.

Monica Silenzio’s role in orchestrating the rendition of the FBI sting suspects could have come under scrutiny but thanks to Lee’s classification of all the documents as top security, nothing ever came to light. In fact, she went on secret assignment for CIA operations in Beijing where she met her current husband, multi billionaire real estate developer, Li Wan Lei. Silenzio quickly learned how to spend huge amounts of money, tastefully, and became a frequent visitor to Sotheby’s in New York and London. They celebrated their wedding in the stylish Tribecca Tower in Manhattan, just around the corner from Freedom Tower. She invited both Buick and MacIver to the wedding and both showed up, surprising her, but nevertheless she was most flattered that they bothered. Unfortunately, she had only a few moments with them and was whisked away to meet the many other rich and fawning guests. It ended up rather badly for Buick and MacIver who, seeing an open bar with endless drinks and fabulous appetizers, made pigs of themselves while they regaled each other with stories of adventure and bravery. They stayed by the bar and never quite made it into the wedding ceremony. A large security person, dressed to look like a waiter, white jacket, black bow tie and the rest, hovered around them, and when it became apparent that they were unable to stand up without each other’s support, he guided them firmly to the elevator and saw them down to a taxi.

The dental profession lost an outstanding practitioner when Dr. Kumar Jamal decided to retire from the profession and moved to Mumbai to become a Bollywood actor. He had played so many different roles as an ISI double agent, he reasoned, that acting would come naturally to him.

With the considerable stash of money he had reaped from the Newark caper, he still had enough to support him for life and even longer, and perhaps, even to bribe whoever it was necessary to work his way into the Bollywood elite. Maybe even invest in his own movie! So he packed his belongings, sold off his dental practice, and took a train, top first class air conditioned of course, to Mumbai. It was during a brief stop at an out of the way station where one of his informers told him that the Americans had droned Shalah Muhammad. He had heard that the Newark adventure was an incomplete success, and should have been relieved by the news of Muhammad’s demise. But he knew that Iranian bigots would pick up where he left off, and track him down to extract a portion of their revenge, even though he had done everything on his side perfectly. He gave his informer a much bigger tip than usual and chose to ignore, for the time being, the worrying fact that his extremely reliable network of informers was his Achilles heel. The train slowly pulled out of the station and chugged towards its final destination. Kumar reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieved his ticket for the Enoma International Film Festival. He looked forward to sitting back in one of the plush theater seats, ordering samosas, sipping on fresh lemonade.

Halid the Handler took early retirement. He explained to his wife and ten year old that they were in danger of being targeted by a drone, so it would be best to go where the Americans could not find him, which was the United States. His wife, in full compliance, did not ask where they would get the money to make the trip, but she could not help but notice that suddenly they had a lot more money to spend. They packed up all their worldly belongings and shipped them to an address in Nogales, Texas where they arrived some months later after a leisurely trip sightseeing in Greece, Italy and France. The Handler even had a job waiting for him, working as a customs and immigration officer at the border entry to Mexico. His son had much trouble adjusting to his new life, and took to yelling abuse at his father who had to constantly remind him that he had a new name, in fact the whole family had new names.

After his brother Nicholas showed up at his house unannounced, Uncle Sergey gave up the terrorism business and joined him in a lucrative trade selling women from Eastern Europe and the more impoverished parts of Russia, which was most of it. At first they began kidnapping these women, but then quickly found that most of them wanted to migrate to America or various parts of the West, so all they had to do was to arrange their forged documents and travel and charge a heavy price. The ones who couldn’t raise the money, if they still wanted to migrate, Sergey arranged to send off to brothels or to sell them directly to men who were looking for wives. The business was so successful that they planned to expand into China where there was a well-known shortage of women.

The droning of Shalah Muhammad was the true beginning of his misfortunes. It turned out that Heaven was divided into sectors just like Jerusalem and because of a bureaucratic snafu, or perhaps it was Divine Providence, we will never know, Shalah turned up at the gate to the Christian sector. There he was confronted by St. Peter, who sat before the pearly gates, flanked on each side by two huge muscle bound eunuchs, each with their arms crossed. St. Peter shone so brightly that Shalah had to squint to see past him through the bars of the gates. And the more he squinted, the larger the eunuchs grew because St. Peter knew what he was up to, trying to get a glimpse of any virgin that he reckoned was his due.

Most unimpressed by this lasciviousness St. Peter scolded him severely, and, when Shalah argued that he was not a Christian but a Muslim, St. Peter got really mad, checked his ledger, and accused him of being a communist and an atheist. The eunuchs edged forward, the muscles in their arms bulging in anticipation, their huge hands ready to grab him. St. Peter, his long white beard flowing like clouds, his white robes reflecting the glow of the wings of angels, pointed a gnarled finger, its nail uncut for eons, forcing Shalah to cringe at its point. You are sentenced to the deepest circle of hell, said St. Peter–well he didn’t say it, he didn’t have to, because up there everyone knows what everyone else is thinking–and the eunuchs leaped forward, grabbed him by the throat and testicles and threw him down to hell. There, nasty little demons with pointy tails and pitch forks implemented the specifics of the sentence which were that he must, for all eternity, keep his beard beautifully groomed by clipping it with red hot nail scissors. This may not seem like a punishment that was bad enough, except that in this circle of hell, his beard grew at the rate of an earth-month in one day.

If only Sarah Kohmsky, through some amazing miracle, did not really die at the hands of Shalah Muhammad! But she did die that violent death, even though it seemed unfair that she should meet such a horrible end. Is there not a way that she could live on? The mystery of her life will one day be known. In our story there was a gap of some eight years in her life about which we were told very little. Maybe something really did happen that night she got drunk and woke up in Shalah’s bed? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if poor Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky had a grandchild living somewhere, even if it was in Cairo?

Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky after repeated requests to the U.S. State Department to investigate the whereabouts of their missing daughter, migrated back to Russia. With the money they had received from Nicholas

— they were convinced that it was he who sent it — they bought a modest but pleasant apartment in Tulgovichi, the town they had left so many years ago. Mr. Kohmsky, in celebration of his change in life circumstance, gave up reading 19th century Russian literature, and began a systematic reading of the Russian authors of the 20th century, including those who had migrated from Russia to other countries. Mrs. Kohmsky saw no reason to change. She just wanted her daughter back. She sent letters to the return address that was on the envelope they were certain came from Nicholas, but the letters were returned, address unknown. There was just one small matter that kept her busy, though, and that added a little adventure to her life. The CIA had recruited her to collect all kinds of information from the local Russian newspapers and to send it to them on a regular basis. For this, money showed up in their account at the Promsvyazbank in Tulgovichi.

Then one day a small, unmarked package appeared at the door of her apartment. It was rather heavy and at first she was a little apprehensive about opening it. She consulted with Mr. Kohmsky who lifted it slowly up and down and pronounced it safe. So she opened it and found a small burial urn. Inside the urn were ashes, or more accurately a substance that looked like a mixture of sand, small bits of rock, and ashes of some kind.

She knew that it was Sarah.

In spite of political wrangling within Israel and condemnation by the United Nations, the fences in Israel and the Palestinian territories continued to be built and thwarted many suicide bombings every year.

Unfortunately an astute politician noticed that some of his neighbors were sporting chicken coops that were far more elegant than the chickens they contained. He happened to joke about this during an interview with a journalist for Haaretz who instantly smelled corruption. Upon investigation he exposed an extensive network in stolen fencing wire that looked suspiciously like that used in the fences erected in the Palestinian territories. The government defended its actions by pointing to the fact that there were a number of Palestinian houses that also had similar chicken coops, which proved that, contrary to the naysayers, Israel and Palestine were able to achieve much when working together.

THE END

17. Droned

The Hamas section leader droned on. The dozen or so operatives sat on the floor, impatient to have their say. Shalah Muhammad was in a foul mood. He always was after meeting with Hamas, an organization run by a verbally aggressive people who never listened, who spoke to others as if delivering a lecture on every topic, whether something simple or pedestrian such as brushing one’s teeth, or something dreadful like sending a teenage suicide bomber into a coffee shop. Their bodies and their minds, were infected by what Shalah Muhammad called a psychosis of liberation theology that was transmitted from generation to generation of peoples who had known no other reality but one of repeated rape and plunder of their property and their loved ones. Certainly an understandable psychosis, but that didn’t make dealing with them any easier, especially with their top strategists and leaders. It narrowed their outlook. As he had always argued, they were no different than the PLO, except that they were much smarter.

But, as they demonstrated even after he got rid of Arafat for them, they were unable to examine all options as he could, to do it dispassionately, to anticipate the outcomes of terrorist attacks; to plan the long range strategies needed to establish an independent Palestinian state. No matter what they said, and they said a lot, they could not exist without the financial and ideological support of the West. Talk about false consciousness! This was it! The result was that they brought on themselves the ire of the Israelis that simply added to their consternation and suffering. They clung to old ways of doing things, and their enemies benefited by it. Their persistence with suicide bombing was a good example. The Israelis were on to them, had been for a few years now. Yet, in the face of repeated failure, they kept at it, wasting lives and money.

Several people were now talking at once. He looked at his watch and was relieved to see that it was time to leave. He grasped Sarah’s hand and nodded to the door. They quietly let themselves out, unnoticed by the speakers or their audience.

*

Sarah held Shalah Muhammad’s hand, stroking it lightly, as they sat in the back of the BMW. She could see that Shalah was fed up. She would calm him. They had just departed what was left of the town of Abed Rabbo in Gaza. Their Hamas contacts had insisted on meeting with them there, again, Shalah was sure, in order to make an obvious point: it was the town that was bombed out of existence by Israel’s ‘Operation Cast Lead’ in 2009. Hamas had driven Israel to distraction and the destruction of Abed Rabbo was the predictable result. So he was seething with anger.

Anger at what the Israelis had done to the men, women and children of Abed Rabbo, anger at the Hamas operatives and their insufferable psychoses, and now, anger at Sarah, whose stroking of his hand was really annoying him. She was like a leech, he thought to himself. A blood sucking leech. Shalah pulled his hand free from Sarah’s caresses to look at his watch again. It was getting late in the day. He leaned forward to tell the driver to go faster. He did not want to be late. Seeing the spectacle of the second bombing of Ground Zero would make up for the annoyances of the day.

Sarah remained silent. She had learned from her parents that this was the way to deal with the anger of others. Well, not exactly, since her dad remained silent regardless. And her mom, poor old mom, had learned to cope with the silence and so replicated it, if that was the right word. Sarah allowed herself to drift back to those times. She thought now that her mom had tried very hard to communicate with her, but she had not responded.

Why did I do that? She asked herself. There just seemed to be something missing inside her. Maybe she was born without something that made her want to get attached to her mom and dad. The very strange thing was that she felt ‘closer’ relatively speaking, to her dad than to her mom. People used to say that she was like him. And it was obvious that he had no feelings at all for anyone. Or if he did, he didn’t show them. It had been a long time. Maybe she should try contacting them, just to let them know she was all right. The idea had been floating around in her head for the past month or so. Actually, since she met up with Uncle Sergey. It was why she disobeyed him and tried to call Nicholas. She found herself biting at her lower lip. What would Shalah say if she said she wanted to go home? Or even just call home? If only he would return her affections. She loved him so. A feeling of grief or maybe loneliness, she was not sure what it was, welled up within, her eyes watering up. And just as a small tear was forming at the edge of her eye, the driver swore and stamped on the brakes.

“Checkpoint! Where in Allah did that come from? There has never been one on this road before.” They stopped some forty yards from the checkpoint. Two officers appeared, Uzis raised at the ready, one came cautiously forward.

“This is suspicious. They’re acting like they knew we were coming and that they know who is inside. Have to assume they may be looking for me,” said Shalah.

“And me?” asked Sarah.

“Of course not,” said Shalah, “why would they be looking for you? You’re a good American Jew.”

“You better get into the trunk,” warned the driver.

“How can I without them seeing me?”

“They think BMWs don’t have access to the trunk through the back seat, and they’re right. Except for this one. Pull the lever at the top of the seat back.”

“This is really humiliating. They will pay for this, whoever it was who fingered us,” growled Shalah. He quickly lowered the back half of the seat, roughly pushing Sarah out of the way, then crawled into the trunk. “Close it!” he called to Sarah.

Sarah closed the seat back and without difficulty spread herself out across the entire back seat. “OK. Go!” she called to the driver.

The driver approached the officer slowly, and lowered his window. He could see there would be no conversation. The officer had his Uzi at the ready, pointing at him and ready to fire at anyone else in the car.

Sarah lowered her window. “Is there a problem officer?” she asked in as broad an American accent as she could.

The officer moved to her window as she lowered it; he could see that she was the only occupant, and a large one at that. He asked for her ID and she gave him her American passport. He looked at it carefully and scanned it into his iPhone. There was no match. “OK, looks good,” he said and passed it back. “I just need to check the trunk. Could you flip it for me please driver?”

Sarah did all she could to hold back a gasp. She was terrified and hoped he could not see it in her face.

“This model does not flip from the cabin. It’s not locked, though. You can open it from the outside,” said the driver trying his best not to offend.

The officer moved to the rear of the car and lowered his Uzi to the side while with the other hand he felt for the pressure latch. The lid did not pop right open as do the Mercedes trunks, but remained just a few inches open. He began to lift it when Shalah Muhammad swiftly thrust it full open, knocking the officer momentarily off balance, giving Shalah time to grab him by his collar and pull him down to the trunk, banging his head on the way down, then in a well-practiced flash of his right hand, he slit the officer’s carotid artery with his box cutter.

“Go! Go!” he yelled and fell back into the trunk, trying to pull the lid closed behind him. But the driver took off with great speed, the BMW 328xi sport responding beautifully. The car hurtled forward, speeding past the remaining officer who managed to get off a few rounds of his Uzi, most of which missed, though some ricocheted loudly off the wildly flapping trunk lid. With Sarah’s help Shalah struggled into the back seat. But the car began to swerve crazily and only then did Shalah notice the blood streaming out of the driver’s ear as he fell forward either unconscious or dead. Shalah quickly reach over to steer the car.

“Kommie! Grab his leg, pull it off the accelerator!” he yelled.

Sarah struggled forward, her bulk making it very difficult to reach the driver’s leg. She managed to get a handful of his trousers and pull it up. The car slowed. She shoved the gear stick into ONE and it lurched drunkenly to a halt. Shalah climbed into the front seat and steered the car to the side of the road. There was no vehicle chasing them, but it would not be long before there was. He grabbed the driver’s cell phone and brought up its GPS. They were on the edge of Jerusalem, an area where there were few houses and light traffic, and quite a few pedestrians who were keeping well away from them.

“Are you OK?” he asked Sarah.

“Just. Not hit or anything.”

“We need to get away from here. It’s not that far to the safe house. I’ll call for a car.” Shalah was about to make the call with the driver’s cell phone when Sarah leaned over and snatched it from him.

“This phone. The IDF is tracking us with it. That’s how they knew we were approaching,” she said.

“You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”

They got out of the car and hurried across the street and into an alleyway. Sarah hurled the phone as far away as she could. Shalah was already calling for a car and it arrived in no time, an old 1979 Peugeot diesel 504 in poor condition. Trouble was that it was such an exceptional car that people stared at it, which is not what Shalah and Sarah wanted right now.

“Did you have to bring this car?” Shalah asked.

“Only one we had. Sorry.”

They climbed in and Shalah issued directions. They would go by a circuitous route and get dropped off a few streets away from their destination. Later, the driver would bring their luggage, always shipped separately in case something like this happened.

*

At last they arrived at the safe house. Sarah had been looking forward to this visit for some weeks now. Maybe Shalah would let go just this once, and give himself to her. Despite their recent adventure, he was in good spirits, bounded up the steps to the house and thrust open the door. Halid the handler had left it unlocked and had pinned a note on the door bidding them welcome, saying he was attending the celebration of his son’s tenth birthday. He had done well. There was a big screen TV in the video area, just as Shalah had requested. He walked immediately to the kitchen and saw that the refrigerator was well stocked, then checked the bedroom to find that Halid had installed a bed, not much of a bed, but a bed just the same. He returned to the kitchen and called to Sarah to turn on the TV.

Then his eyes lit up when he saw the bottle of Johnny Walker blue label on the bench. The Handler had done well! He would try to find him a new job in Iraq. Pouring himself a double shot, he returned to the front room to watch the TV.

“Naughty, naughty! Allah is watching,” kidded Sarah as she sidled up behind him, put her arms around his waist, and planted little kisses on the back of his neck. He’s even handsome from behind, she thought. Shalah tossed down the shot and strained forward against her weight to grab the remote.

“It’s a special occasion,” he replied.

Sarah convinced herself that she heard a gentle purr in his voice.

“Allah will be elated when He sees what’s coming,” he said.

“Shouldn’t He already know what’s going to happen?” quipped Sarah.

Shalah ignored the remark.

The TV came to life with CNN World News. A newscaster prattled on, against the amateur video showing a missile hitting a huge rubbish dump, the news ticker at bottom identifying the place as New York’s Staten Island. Shalah Muhammad’s eyes widened and he roughly shook himself free from Sarah’s hug. The commentator, clearly with a smirk on his face as far as Muhammad was concerned, revealed the awful details:

“At approximately 7.00 AM. Sept. 10, a missile of some kind struck New York’s Staten Island. At this time, five people are reported killed, but the number could go higher. There are reports that it came from the direction of Northern New Jersey —”

“We hit them! There’ll be dancing in the streets again!” cried Sarah.

“Shut up! Listen!” growled Muhammad. “It’s a day too early! Idiots!”

The Newscaster continued:

“There are unconfirmed reports that traces of the bio weapon ricin have been found.”

Muhammad threw his arms up, furious. “No nuclear! Those assholes!

They dumped ricin in my missiles!” He turned to look at Sarah. His anger was beyond furious.

“What do you mean Shali?” asked Sarah solicitously.

“I mean that your Russian uncle has fucked us over. What did you pay them?”

“Ten million, and promise of five million after the target is hit with both missiles.”

Muhammad looked into her eyes, his carefully clipped beard bristling. Little twitches appeared in his cheeks. He smiled grimly, coldly. He reached forward with a hooked finger and pulled at the V of her shirt where her football sized breasts strained at the buttons. He was repulsed by her fatness yet at the same time found her disgustingly ripe. “They’re not getting the five million,” he said as he drew her towards him.

Sarah could hardly believe what was happening. She allowed him, no, helped him, draw her to him. She had at last found the way in! The key was anger! Make him angry and he wants her! She had dreamed that he would give himself to her. Dreamed of it so often she responded as if the dream were reality. She pecked his cheeks with kisses and quickly they became big sloppy kisses. And now, to her surprise, the dream came true: he voraciously returned the kisses, right on her lips, almost biting them, his tongue looking for more. He pulled her towards the bedroom, and they struggled as if in a one-legged race to get there. The bed stood high, a solitary mattress on a box spring, American style. They propelled themselves as one on to the bed. Ecstasy was near. Sarah ripped open her shirt and pants with tugs and tears, helped by the violent thrusts of Muhammad. Now she was naked and now Muhammad wanted to insert himself in her body as though he were diving into a huge open wound. He allowed her to open his pants and push them down. She was frantic. He was full of the most disgusting lust one could imagine. With great effort, he managed, by grabbing and pulling handfuls of fatty flesh to communicate to her that he wanted her turned over and finally, when this contortion was accomplished, he pushed her forward and had her bent over the edge of the bed. He thrust himself into her, and, feeling for his jacket, peeled it off and threw it across the bed. With his left hand, he clasped her chin from behind and pulled her head back and kissed the nape of her neck. He felt a noise rise up from deep inside of him, a barbaric cry of ecstasy, or a cry of anger, no matter which. Then in a flash, his right hand shot forward and, pulling her chin even higher, he slashed at her throat with his box cutter and swiftly leapt back. He did not want to get blood on his carefully tailored pants.

“She got what she wanted,” Muhammad muttered to himself with satisfaction, “she died in total fulfillment. What more could anyone want?”

Sarah’s limp body slid off the bed and onto the floor, parts of her flinching like jelly. Muhammad rearranged his trousers and walked to the other side of the bed to get his jacket. He coughed to clear his throat and spat on the body.

“White trash!” he snarled and walked to the bathroom to wash up and clean his box cutter.

*

Shalah Muhammad too was fulfilled. Even though the mission was a failure, a terrible failure in his eyes, he felt greatly satisfied with himself. The feeling of failure had been partly erased by his brief outpouring of rage, the spilling of Sarah’s blood, his deep satisfaction that she met her death in ecstasy. Surely that moment was her time in Heaven, he smiled to himself. And he had let himself go for just a few minutes and now he felt that a huge weight had been lifted from his body and his mind. He went back to the bedroom and looked at the scene with satisfaction. He rummaged through Sarah’s clothes for her cell phone and flipped it open to her contacts list. He would enjoy dispatching them all, especially her uncle. He returned to the kitchen and poured himself another shot of Johnny Walker. “Allahu Akbar!” he said as he raised his glass and tossed down the shot. He sat down in front of the TV and lit one of his special cigarillos.

The newscaster was still at it:

“This report just handed to me. There were apparently two missiles, one of which was not fired. All the terrorists were killed when a special counter terrorist team, orchestrated by Mayor Newberg of New York, raided their headquarters in a suburban house in northern New Jersey. We go now to one of the counter terrorism team that caught the terrorists red handed.”

MacIver appeared on the screen.

“So it was he,” muttered Muhammad to himself, “who would have thought?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said MacIver, responding to the interviewer, “the forensic scientist tries to prevent crime or terrorism from happening. Prevention is better than cure, as they say.”

“And it was this approach that led to the killing of these terrorists?” asked the interviewer.

“Not completely, but it certainly helped us find their operational HQ. We used cutting edge techniques originally developed by my student Manish Das for preventing car theft.”

“You killed the terrorists rather than captured them. One of them was pretty burned up I’m told. Is this part of the forensic science approach?”

“It was a team effort,” answered MacIver, annoyed.

“Some criminologists say you do science with a gun. Is that a fair observation?”

“It’s completely wrong.”

“But you do carry a gun, I hear?”

The newscast cut back to the commentator who announced, “We have to leave it there. And in other news —”

Shalah Muhammad switched off the TV, looked around the room as though he had forgotten something, and then stepped out of the safe house. He stood at the top of the steps and took a deep draw of his cigarillo, enjoying the crisp evening air.

*

Across the street and around the corner from the safe house, Halid the Handler sat on his moped. His smart phone was open and as soon as he saw Shalah Muhammad appear at the door of the safe house he began tapping out a quick text message. He pressed SEND, waited for confirmation that the text had been sent, then started his moped and sped away down the alley.

Shalah Muhammad looked at his watch. He had not sent for a car, preferring this time to take an evening stroll. He took a deep draw of his cigarillo and looked up at the deepening sky with considerable satisfaction. It was then that he heard a faint, familiar sound. The sound of a drone, and just as he realized what it was, the safe house exploded and Shalah Muhammad was first transformed into fire and brimstone, then all that was left of him on this earth was a very big hole in the ground.

16. Countdown

Turgo was barking orders. They had the missiles at the ready and were in their final countdown phase. The technician and one of the guards were having difficulty pulling down the tarpaulin from the inside. In the end they cut it around the edges of the hole they had made in the roof, revealing the dim light of a fresh dawn sky.

“We are ready? Must get away from the launcher, or we may be incinerated. When I say to, run for the garage outside.” Turgo placed his lap top on the kitchen bench. He tapped one button. “OK! Go!” he barked. The launcher clock began counting down from 60 seconds.

Buick and his force burst through both doors and side windows. The earsplitting crash and din of Buick’s men as they broke in stunned Turgo and his technician. They froze.

“Not the old guy!” shouted Buick.

The two guards, however, were at the ready. The main guard had waited just inside the front door and when Buick broke through, he grabbed him in a vice-like neck hold, forcing him to drop his weapon. The other guard was killed by Buick’s men, along with the unarmed technician. But now there was a stand-off. Buick eyed Turgo, who stood, poised over his lap top at the kitchen counter, a superior smile on his face.

Buick tried to point at Turgo. “Kill him! Kill him!” he commanded.

“I kill you!” threatened the guard, jamming the barrel of his weapon into Buick’s back. Buick’s men hesitated.

“Too late anyway!” said Turgo mockingly.

“Kill them, kill them all, including this asshole! We are minutes away from the destruction of New York!” cried Buick.

Suddenly, MacIver appeared at the doorway, his revolver raised in both hands. The guard was surprised, just enough to make him pause for a fraction of a second. That was all MacIver needed. Buick saw the gun recoil in MacIver’s hand, and immediately his captor’s body slumped to the floor. MacIver had shot him clean through the temple, the bullet coming out the other side of his head and grazing Buick’s cheek, spattering it with bits of bone, blood and brain. Without a ‘thank you’ to MacIver, Buick reached for his weapon and leaped towards Turgo.

“This one’s mine!” shouted Buick, pushing Turgo with the butt of his weapon.

“You are too late. When will you Americans ever learn?” mocked Turgo.

“Is that right?” retorted Buick as he casually shot Turgo in the foot.

Turgo screamed.

“Stop the fucking launch!” yelled Buick.

Turgo groaned, but did not answer. The counter was at ten seconds.

Buick yelled again. “OK. Asshole. Maybe this will help.” He shot Turgo again, this time in the upper leg.

More screams of agony, but Turgo refused to answer. Instead, he glanced quickly over at his laptop on the kitchen bench. MacIver followed his gaze and stepped over to the bench, grabbed the lap top and ran towards the door. Das may be able to use it, he hoped, and then almost collided with him at the door.

“Watch out!” Das cried. “The first missile was programmed to launch in 60 seconds, which must be nearly up!”

The orange LED counted down relentlessly. Five, four, three, two, one, zero!

No launch!

MacIver breathed a sigh of relief. “You picked it Manish! You’re a genius! You saved us!”

Das was happy that he had pleased his boss. But he had bad news.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “I haven’t been able to crack the code for the second missile.”

“Here’s his lap top. Will that help you?” asked MacIver.

“It would take me more than 60 seconds to learn how the laptop is set up. Besides, it’s probably in Russian,” answered Das, “I’ll keep trying with my own.”

The launch counter started again at 60 seconds.

“Officer. Cuff the suspect,” ordered Buick, “no, not like that. To the bottom of the launcher.”

“Buick! You can’t!” said MacIver with consternation.

“It’s him, or several million innocent people dead. An easy choice, don’t you think?” retorted Buick.

The counter reached 30.

“You mean it’s nuclear?” asked MacIver.

“Come on you Russian asshole. What’s the code?” Buick bashed Turgo’s bleeding leg with the butt of his weapon. Turgo responded with the desired scream of agony. “Give it up, or you’ll be with Allah in just a few seconds.”

Counter reached 15.

“Allah? Who cares about Allah?” mocked Turgo, still convinced of his own superiority. “If you paid me a million dollars, then I’d give it up —”

“Sure, I can get you a million. But I don’t have any money on me right now. The code or burn!”

Counter is at 10.

Das shouted hysterically, “I think I did it!”

“You stopped it?” asked his boss.

“Not exactly. I diverted it.”

Counter is at 5, 4 —

“Get out of here all of you, or we’ll be badly burned!” ordered Buick.

The countdown continued relentlessly: 3, 2, 1, zero!

Lift off!

The missile launched and the heat from its propulsion incinerated the screaming Turgo.

*

Hearing such awful screams, Silenzio ran from the van to find MacIver.

Everyone shaded their eyes, trying to follow the streak of the missile as it flashed across the dawn sky. But it had already disappeared from view.

“God! If it’s nuclear,” cried MacIver squeezing Silenzio’s hand.

“Manish, where is it going? This is a catastrophe!”

“Sir, I’m sorry sir. But I think that it’s going to hit the biggest —” Das stopped in mid-sentence. There was a muffled explosion and a huge black cloud appeared over the New York City skyline in the direction of Ground Zero. Later, he would tell others that he felt the ground shake beneath him.

“It’s not a mushroom cloud,” observed Silenzio. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“No, it wasn’t nuclear,” said Buick, “at least it didn’t register on any of our instruments.”

“Thank goodness. But it was a huge bomb, that’s for sure. God knows where it has hit,” said MacIver.

“Sir, as I was saying, sir. I think I diverted it to the biggest rubbish dump in the world, even bigger than the one in Mumbai!”

“What? Where?” interrupted MacIver.

“The Staten Island dump, sir!”

*

Police sirens sounded and a host of cars descended on the site.

“You saved us all, Manish. I’m so proud of you!” said MacIver as he made an attempt to put his arm around Das’s shoulders and to hug him.

“Oh no sir! It is thanks to your excellence. You are my Guru, sir!” replied a proud Das, wriggling away from the hug as politely as he could.

Buick finished giving orders to his men and sidled up to MacIver.

“You saved my life,” he said, “thank you.”

“Just a scientist doing what he had to do,” replied MacIver, “you also saved our lives.”

“Still, I have to hand it to you. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“At my gun club.”

“I told him it would be harder for him killing real people,” said Silenzio who was standing by, listening in, “boy, was I wrong!”

“I have to admit,” said MacIver with some hesitation, “I found it pretty easy and very satisfying. It gets a bit boring shooting clay pigeons, especially when you hardly ever miss.”

Buick turned to him and grinned. “We’ll make a real cop out of you yet!” Then, as though this had reminded him of who he was, he said, “I better call my chief.” He had suddenly realized that his own position was a little precarious. “He’s not going to be pleased. I never told him anything.”

A helicopter appeared and landed right in the middle of Skyline Drive.

Mayor Newberg stepped down, followed by Foster. They hurried forward, bent over by the noise and wind of the helicopter. The Mayor was obviously very pleased.

“I can’t stay long,” she said, “just wanted to thank you all. You saved many lives.

“Was anyone killed at the dump?” asked MacIver.

“None reported so far.”

The Mayor called to Buick who was again issuing instructions to his men for clean-up and securing the site. “Captain Buick. I want you to know that I will do what I can to protect you. There’s going to be fallout from this, and you will be an easy target.”

“No problem Madam Mayor,” replied Buick, smiling and clearly unperturbed. “You forget. I used to defuse bombs. Politicians don’t scare me.”

“No doubt,” she said, “trouble is, though, that politicians can sometimes be more destructive than bombs.”

A TV crew approached. Foster tugged at Mayor Newberg’s arm and whispered to Buick, “watch your back.”

Avoiding the cameras, Mayor Newberg darted back to her helicopter, just as another appeared a few houses away.

Silenzio tugged at MacIver’s arm. “I need to hide,” she said, “coming?”

Das intervened. “Yes, please. Come and I will drive you both in my van.

Or if you would prefer, sir, my Guru, why don’t you and Agent Silenzio take my van, and I’ll find my way back with captain Buick, sir.”

MacIver had already walked towards the TV crew. Das turned to Silenzio and shrugged.

“Could you give me a lift, Manish?” asked Silenzio. Manish opened the door with a flourish and a bow. Silenzio was about to enter, when she heard Buck Buick shouting orders again. She stopped to listen. He came bounding across the lawn.

“I need to hide real quick. I expect you feel the same. Want a lift in a sexy not-so-undercover police car?” asked Buick.

Silenzio looked across to MacIver then back to Buick.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

*

It’s hard to believe, but Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky had their truly first and only big argument the day Mrs. Kohmsky returned from the bank with the incredible news that the debit card had an account of $100,000. They had never had a real argument. It was in fact impossible, or so thought Mrs.

Kohmsky, to have an argument with her husband for the simple reason that he did not talk, or talked hardly at all. Having an argument with him was like having an argument with oneself. But this time Mr. Kohmsky spoke up, not only that, he kicked the furniture a couple of times too. The argument was over what to do with the money. Mrs. Kohmsky wanted to go to the FBI and give them the card and access to the account so they could use the information to track the origin of the account, and maybe that would lead them to Sarah. Mr. Kohmsky was adamantly opposed. The FBI would take the money and do nothing, he insisted, and could not be shaken from this position. Mrs. Kohmsky persisted, and every day at breakfast raised the issue. And every day for some days, Mr. Kohmsky had either ignored her, or grunted out through those pursed lips of his that they were not going to hand the money over to those liars. Mrs. Kohmsky cried, at first putting it on in an attempt to soften him up, but of course after so many years, she should have known better. There was no softness there. So the breakfasts soon became more authentic — she was crying because she really was upset. And through the tears she tried to get her immovable husband to just give a bit. Didn’t he care about finding their daughter? The money had to have something to do with Sarah. What about the password that spelled her name? And it was evidence, wasn’t it, that she was not dead? They both agreed about that, didn’t they?” Finally, at the last breakfast they had together, Mr. Kohmsky could stand it no longer.

He threw his book across the room, jumped up, his tall frame almost reaching to the ceiling, and kicked the chair over. Mrs. Kohmsky cringed and sank into her chair. He then righted his chair, sat down, pulled off his shoe and, yelling obscenities, he banged it on the table, just like Khrushchev did.

Sobbing, Mrs. Kohmsky ran to the bedroom and sobbed some more.

She heard Mr. Kohmsky walking back and forth, back and forth like a caged animal. “He must have put his shoe back on,” she mused as she fell into a fitful sleep.

*

It was still light when Mrs. Kohmsky woke. She had no idea what time it was, and the apartment was silent. Her eyes stung from the salt of her tears. She slipped into her old slippers and shuffled out to the kitchen intending to make herself a cup of Russian tea. Maybe that would perk her up.

Mr. Kohmsky was seated at the kitchen table, reading his book. He never looked up as she passed him on her way to fill the electric kettle. Things were normal as far as he was concerned. She clanged the cups and saucers while she waited for the water to boil. Finally, she asked querulously, “Want a cup of tea?”

“Good,” he said, not looking up from his book.

She poured the tea and brought the cups to the table, and as a special offering, added a couple of plain sugar cookies, the one indulgence that he accepted. She sat across from him and sipped her tea. It was too hot so she had to slurp it to cool it down as she sipped. Then Mr. Kohmsky reached for a cookie, dipped it lightly in his tea and took the soaked part into his mouth, slipping it between his tight lips. After he swallowed — the movement of his Adam’s apple that Mrs. Kohmsky had come to loathe —he spoke, not looking up from his book.

“We will go to the State Department,” he said.

“What is that?” asked Mrs. Kohmsky.

“The United States Embassy. The State Department.”

“Do you mean the CIA again?”

“Perhaps. But we should try the State Department. Tell them that our daughter disappeared from Oxford and we suspect she is held hostage somewhere, probably in Russia since that is where the previous packets of money came from.”

“But how would we explain the money? Hostage takers ask for money.”

“They don’t give it away to the victims,” Mrs. Kohmsky argued, forcing Mr. Kohmsky to acknowledge the absurdity of his position.

“Of course you are right. Then we will not show them the debit card. Just the envelope it came in.”

“But the debit card with its bank account is the first time there is a chance of following the trail of the money. Someone had to open that bank account and put the money in it.” Mrs. Kohmsky was on the verge of tears again. She realized that their conversation was beginning to escalate into a repeat of their last argument.

Mr. Kohmsky sat, still looking at his book, silent. Mrs. Kohmsky dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. Minutes went by. Mrs. Kohmsky could see that he was staring at his book, but was not reading it. She shifted on her seat.

“We will go to the State Department and tell them everything we know,” he said.

Mrs. Kohmsky looked up, a small glint in her eye. “We could spend the money first,” she said, almost apologetically.

“On a trip to Russia,” answered Mr. Kohmsky.

Mrs. Kohmsky thought she detected just a tiny hint of a smile. It made her happy. And then he continued:

“Go back for good.”

15. Transponder

The journey up Skyline Drive was dark and quiet. The road wound through nature reserves that covered most of the roadway, so the only source of light was that provided by the old Dodge van. MacIver kept the lights on dim. Occasionally they passed through commercial districts or residential enclaves whose spotty lights broke open the darkness, but not enough to stimulate MacIver or Silenzio to speak. Das muttered to himself as he worked feverishly at his lap top. As time went by, MacIver started driving more and more slowly, trying to guess at what point he would need to stop. Das looked up and said, “Keep going, keep going. It’s about another five miles, I think. You’ll see it on your right, back from the road, an open lot surrounded by forest. And there’s a small commercial center just the other side of it. So you should see those lights in time for you to turn off your lights and pull up in front of the house.” Das enjoyed giving instructions to his boss. He turned back to his lap top and reached to the roof to adjust an antenna.

*

MacIver allowed the van to roll slowly to a stop, lights and engine switched off. They could just make out the tarpaulin flapping lightly in the breeze. There were lights on inside, the shades pulled well down. “I’m going to knock on the door,” said MacIver.

“I wouldn’t do that,” whispered Silenzio.

“Wait, sir. I’m getting signals,” said Das, “several signals. Probably several parts inside the missiles have ID chips.”

“Probably a TV or stereo system,” said MacIver with a hint of “I told you so.”

“No, sir, there is a match at least with one of the chips with an ID in my lost or stolen data base.”

“I’m going in!” announced MacIver in a loud whisper.

“No you’re not!” commanded Silenzio.

“I’ll just knock on the door. That’s harmless enough.”

“At five in the morning? And a black van out front bristling with antennae? Better to wait for Buick.”

“That’s why I want to go in now. To avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”

“You’re so sweet, but really naive. If you knock on their door, they’ll welcome you with a bullet.”

“I’ll be ready. I’ve got my own, you know.” MacIver patted a bulge under his jacket.

Das noted the pat. “Sir! You pack a gun, sir? You’re a Rambo sir!”

“And you need to come with me. Can you disarm the missiles?”

“Sir! I’m no Rambo sir! I can do what I need to do from here.”

“And you can disarm the missiles?”

“Sir, I don’t know sir! Reading the ID Wi-Fi chips was easy. Getting into the device manager is very hard.”

“I’m going in. They are most likely preparing the attack right now. The original nine eleven was at exactly 8.46 AM.”

“So that gives us 24 hours at least,” said Silenzio as she gripped MacIver’s hand. “You’re no Buick. Keep that trigger finger in your pants!”

“You underestimate me. I’m one of the best in my gun club, you know.”

“Shooting clay pigeons, or whatever, is different from shooting terrorists. Besides, there’s nobody shooting at you in your club.”

MacIver pulled his hand away from Silenzio. “I know what I’m doing,” he said.

“No you don‘t!” Silenzio used all her considerable strength to restrain him. “Look,” she said, “let’s call Buick to see where he is.”

“Sir, it would be helpful if we knew what the payloads were, sir,” said Das.

Silenzio answered, “I am assuming the worst. Nuclear.” She was about to open her phone when it rang. “Buick?” she asked, “where are you?”

“Had a hard time rounding up enough guys this time of night. There are six of us. That should be enough to take on these Al Qaeda animals.”

“Can you get a hold of a Geiger counter and any other equipment that could detect payloads, including bio-toxins like anthrax or ricin?”

“Already thought of that. We have a remote nuclear detector. But there’s nothing for anthrax or ricin. Have to physically collect samples. But we’re bringing what we have.”

“Better bring protective gear too.”

“Will bring a few for you guys. My guys don’t wear that stuff. We draw the line at bullet proof vests.”

“And you call me Rambo!” whispered MacIver to Das.

“So where are you?” asked Silenzio.

“Be there in ten minutes.”

“Tell him no sirens!” pleaded MacIver.

“Buick? No sirens!” She looked at her phone. There was no response. “Don’t know if he got it,” she said, closing the phone.

*

Turgo had achieved everything he wanted on that day. Now, he lay on a cot in the corner of the room, napping, his eyes covered by a sleep mask, Shostakovich playing quietly in the background. The near dead Russian had been dragged to the opposite corner. The technicians had already placed the two missiles on the launcher. Two technicians were tinkering with the missiles, painting labels in roughly drawn letters. One had so far written, IN LOVING MEMORY, BIN — and still had the payload door open. The other was just putting the finishing touches to, HAPPY

BIRTHDAY FROM AL QAEDA.

Two guards, dressed in old jeans and jackets, stood by the front and back doors respectively, handling their automatic weapons. “Getting light outside,” said one. “Should check.”

“Not open curtains! Stay away from window,” called the one remaining technician.

“But heard car pull up.”

“You want let know we here?”

“But if raining not pull back tarp.”

“You’re paid to guard. Not give advice. Take up posts by the two doors.

We’ll hear the rain anyway, fool,” said the technician derisively. Turgo stirred. “Look now, you woke him up.”

“Could slip out back while still dark. Check for spies,” persisted the guard.

Turgo removed his eye mask.

“Spies? What spies, you fool. The Americans have no idea we are here!

How could they know?” mocked the technician.

Turgo sat up on the cot. “They know nothing!” he said, clearing his throat, hoarse from sleeping with his mouth open. “They fear everything.

But we not take chances. Go out, take trash can to front.”

The guard went to the back door.

“Leave your gun, fool!” ordered the technician.

“But, what if spies there?”

“You as bad as Americans. Go on, get out there! Trash can just outside door. Must get all that ricin and crap out anyway,” said the technician as he pointed to a large black trash bag in the kitchen. The guard grabbed the trash bag and pulled it through the doorway. He heaved it into the bin and wheeled it to street. It was then that he noticed the Das van. Being without his weapon, he began to retreat, but then changed his mind. He would find out who they were.

MacIver was the first to see him. “Someone’s coming! I’ll talk to him,” he said excitedly.

“And say what?” asked Silenzio.

“You’d rather I shot him?”

“I’m beginning to doubt your reputation as a cool, rational scientist.”

Suddenly, Das climbed out of the van, holding up a magnetic sign in one hand and an ID in the other.

“Das! What the —” exclaimed MacIver.

Das slapped the sign on the car door as he climbed out. He waved to the “hypothesized terrorist,” a term MacIver had insisted on, who walked cautiously towards him. Das remained standing by the van, waiting until the hypothesized terrorist was close enough to see the sign, which read GOOGLE STREET. “Good morning sir!” said Das politely, “sorry to disturb you. I am the Google man, recording video for Google’s wonderful Street View web service.” He flashed his Google ID. “I’m sure you have seen the Google van driving around. Have you tried Google Street view on the web?”

“Yes. No. Don’t like this here,” said the hypothesized terrorist. “You go soon?”

“In no more than twenty minutes. We’re having some trouble with one of our hard drives.”

“You invade privacy, no?”

“Oh no sir! We video only public streets.”

“You go soon please.”

The hypothesized terrorist walked slowly backwards, stumbling near the trash can. He then turned and walked briskly to the back of the house.

“So who’s Rambo now?” asked MacIver as Das climbed back into the van.

“No big deal, sir. In my car theft research a lot of people ask me what I am doing. I just tell them I’m the Google man, show my ID, and they go away.”

“Where’d you get the Google ID?”

“Best you don’t know, sir.”

Silenzio’s phone rang. “Buck?” she answered.

“Five minutes away. Sirens off. Tell MacIver and Das to stay in the van. You too.”

*

The guard tramped into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

“A van, antennas all over it. Indian, say he Google man.”

“What color is the van?” asked Turgo.

“Black, all black, windows all.”

“It’s not Google. It’s CIA!”

“We take care of them. Just one surveillance van, not many inside.”

“Yes, better you take gun this time,” said the technician.

“No, not yet” ordered Turgo, “we must bring forward the launch. We do it now! Just one payload to finish.”

“But can easily kill them!”

“Yes, Yes. But we don’t know what backup they have. And once we start shooting, we have to launch immediately. I will get both missiles at the ready first. Better keep guns at the ready though.”

“You want the payload for the other missile?”

Turgo detached the open payload door. “Yes, ready now. Careful!”

“Is small bomb, no?” asked the technician.

“Looks small, but very big explosion. Will be felt for twenty miles around. Even here.” Turgo deftly placed the payload in the missile, attached different colored wires and flicked switches to set the launch code. Then he went to his lap top and began programming.

“How long?” asked the technician.

“About three minutes. I set to launch one minute apart.

*

“Patience and perseverance,” said Silenzio, once again holding MacIver back, “those are the most desirable characteristics of the scientist, aren’t they?"

“Where the hell is Buick?” asked MacIver pulling himself away from her. “If these terrorists have any sense at all, they will figure out that this is not a Google van. It looks more like a CIA or FBI van. We need to be ready. They could attack us any time. In fact, I think we should get out of this van. It’s a death trap.”

“But sir,” pleaded Das as he worked feverishly at his lap top, “I have all my computers here and the databases too. I’m making headway into the missile launch manager. Someone in there is programming the launch right now. I’m monitoring his keystrokes. I just need a minute or two.”

“I’m going in there,” announced MacIver as he opened the van door.

“No you’re not!” Silenzio lunged at MacIver and grabbed him tightly around the waist, hugging him to her.

“Feels like high school,” quipped MacIver as he allowed himself to fall back into Silenzio’s lap. At the same moment, the lights of an approaching car appeared in the distance, and as they came closer, they suddenly switched off. It had to be Buick.

In the glimmer of dawn, MacIver could just make out two police vans pulling up about fifty yards down the road. Darkly clad strike force officers slipped out, crouching, coming towards him. Buick was signaling orders.

The squad split up, some creeping to the back of the safe house, the others dispersing to the front and sides.

Silenzio slackened her bear hug as MacIver stepped down from the van. She followed him out.

“You guys, stay in the car. This is man’s work,” whispered Buick very much the commander.

“Don’t kill! Capture!” called MacIver in defiance. “We have to be able to stop the launch. We can’t do it without their help.”

“What do you mean? We just shoot up the missiles and that will stop the launch.”

“And risk blowing us and everyone around here to smithereens,” said MacIver derisively. “Manish is trying to crack the code so he can switch off the launcher.”

Das poked his head out the van window. “I think I disarmed one,” he said with satisfaction. “Trouble is they are set to fire one minute apart. And I don’t know which one I have disarmed!”

“We’re going in! Now get back in the van,” ordered Buick, but MacIver had already darted up to the front window of the house. Buick sprinted up to him. “OK. Professor,” he whispered, “if you must play Rambo. Let me do the assault. There’s always a chance something unexpected will happen. You stay out by the door ready to save me if I’m cornered, right?”

MacIver nodded.

14. Ricin

Nicholas had kept in touch with his brother Sergey over the years. He had tried to get him to migrate to the USA but he wouldn’t hear of it. He was making too much money where he was, he said, and could not imagine that there could possibly be more opportunities in America than in Kyrgyzstan, what with the Afghan war, the Middle East loaded with money, drug and arms smuggling galore, you name it. Nicholas had migrated to America when he was fifteen. He got a job on a Russian freighter and jumped ship when it docked in Newark. That was in 1980.

And he had stayed there ever since. In those days it wasn’t hard to get the right documentation. In fact the people he met in the Salvation Army hostel where he stayed until he found a job helped him apply for a social security card, and he had it in a couple of weeks. Otherwise he had no documentation, no birth certificate, nothing. It didn’t matter. There was plenty for a young teenager looking for adventure to do. He hung around the bars and street corners across from the Newark railway station and in no time had found work in a chop shop that received stolen cars and chopped them up for parts. He started out doing the mechanical stuff and learned a lot, but it was too boring for him. He wanted excitement and pretty soon he was stealing cars on his own and bringing them into the shop for processing.

Now, he owned several chop shops, though he preferred to call them remanufacturing facilities. His clients came to him for specific car models and he had his gangs steal them off the Newark streets, bring them to one of his shops, where he would replace the Vehicle Identification Number (VIN) and re-register it with the New Jersey DMV. He paid his operative inside the DMV to process the registration papers and also to supply him with old VIN numbers he could use on his remanufactured cars. These days he rarely sold them for parts. His best clients were in Eastern Europe and Saudi Arabia. And the Port of Newark was very convenient, again, with willing contacts, who, for a little extra money, would make sure his cars had a smooth passage through the port. So importing the package from Mumbai that Sergey sent him was a simple matter, though his contacts were a bit surprised that he was importing rather than exporting.

But the problem was the ricin and Sergey had called him about it. He did not like Sergey to call him at all, even on a stolen or supposedly secure phone. He had never once been picked up by the cops in his thirty years in the business. This was because he was very careful, but also because he had many good friends in the Newark PD. There were times he had to close down operations for a period when he was tipped off that the FBI was sniffing around. Usually, that only lasted for a few months when they lost interest. This was especially so since nine eleven, now that they were obsessed with the terrorism thing and had little interest in stolen cars.

The money Sergey offered him to smooth the way for the missiles from Mumbai through the Port of Newark, to find a safe house and install a ricin lab in it was just too good to pass up. But he was apprehensive. It did mean that he had to do things right under the nose of the FBI and he knew they were running a sting operation. He had decided to take the risk when he discovered that the FBI and the NYPD were conducting a combined sting operation but it was focused entirely on the Muslim community around the local mosque. So as long as he kept away from Muslims, which he did anyway, he was probably OK.

When he complained to Sergey that he knew nothing about the manufacture of ricin, Sergey passed it off saying that it was a simple process, and said he’d have his nuclear wizard Turgo call him with the instructions. “Anyway, you can get the recipe off the web,” Sergey said. Trouble was, when Turgo called as promised, his knowledge was not much better. “You get it from the beans of the castor plant,” Turgo said. When Nicholas complained that this was not much help, Turgo responded haughtily, “I’m a nuclear scientist, not a chemist who mixes up witches’ potions.”

So there he was, searching the web for ricin recipes. There were lots of them and as soon as he saw them, he knew he had a problem. It was not so simple a recipe, at least not good enough to produce enough for a missile payload. The first recipe he found on the web was at http://www.zoklet.net. It advised as follows: 1. Get some castor beans from a garden supply store.

2. Put about 2 ounces of hot water into a glass jar and add a teaspoon full of lye. Mix it thoroughly.

3. Wait for the lye/water mixture to cool

4. Place 2 ounces of the beans into the liquid and let them soak for one hour.

5. Pour out the liquid being careful not to get any on exposed skin.

6. Rinse the beans off with cool water and then remove the outer husks with tweezers.

7. Put the bean pulp into a blender or coffee grinder with 4 ounces of acetone for every 1 oz. of beans.

8. Blend the pulp until it looks like milk.

9. Place the milky substance in a glass jar with an airtight lid for three days.

10. At the end of three days shake the jar to remix everything that’s started to settle then pour it into a coffee filter. Discard the liquid.

11. When no more liquid is dripping through the filter, squeeze the last of the acetone out of it without losing any of the bean pulp.

12. Spread the filter out on a pan covered with newspaper and let it stand until it is dry.

13. The final product must be as free of acetone and other contaminants as possible. If it is not powdery but still moist and pulpy it must be combined with the appropriate amount of acetone again and let sit for one day.

14. Then repeat steps 9-12 again until a nice dry powder is produced.

Given the dire warnings of ricin’s toxicity, there was no way Nicholas was going to attempt any of this and he could see that there was no way that Turgo and his pals would be able to manufacture enough powder in time, even if he supplied them with the beans and other ingredients. So he switched his web search to manufacturing plants that made cosmetics and pharmaceutical products including castor oil and its derivatives. And he found one right in Fairfield New Jersey, just around the corner! It was an easy matter to purchase a large quantity of castor mash and then to purchase a chromatographic lab which he installed in the kitchen of the safe house on Skyline Drive. According to the instructions, he’d need enough mash which, once processed would produce 10% of its initial weight in ricin paste. He made a quick call to Turgo and described his purchases. Turgo this time was more amenable and seemed to understand what was needed.

Just one last item was necessary: a dehydrator to dry out the paste from which the lethal powder could be produced. Nicholas ended the call, and immediately saw that he had a new voicemail. It must have come while he was talking to Turgo. He immediately checked the message. It was from someone who said, “Hi, this is Sarah, your niece.” He was perplexed and disturbed, not that it was she, but how she had got his number. He knew of her existence of course, but had never met or spoken to her. He did not return the call.

*

Turgo had rearranged the chromatographic equipment on the kitchen counter and placed the dehydrator on top of the oven. After a few trials, Turgo had figured out the process and began manufacture of the ricin. He had made three batches so far and figured that one more batch would be enough. The dehydrator was hard at work on the last batch. It was the dehydration stage that took all the time.

Turgo stepped back from one of the missiles. He and his collaborators were encased in anti-bio toxin suits, helmets and the works. Nicholas had overlooked nothing. He was certainly very good. “OK, careful now. Bring ricin,” he ordered, “You need syringe to insert toxin in the tube container in the tip right here.” Turgo pointed to the spot inside the bare insides of the missile. His assistant stepped forward carefully, syringe in gloved hand. He could not insert the syringe into the opening of the container.

“Visor foggy. Cannot see properly, gloves too big,” complained the assistant. He opened the visor of his helmet, but the gloved hand holding the syringe got caught on one of the wires inside the missile. The syringe slipped from his gloved fingers and in his effort to grasp it before it fell through into the internal workings of the payload, pressed the syringe plunger and ricin powder squirted out into his face as he leaned over the missile.

“Watch out you fool! Don’t breathe!” yelled Turgo as he stepped quickly away from the missile. But it was too late. The assistant choked, had spectacular convulsions and dropped down, writhing like a beetle on its back. In minutes, the movement stopped and he lay there in a coma.

Turgo was pleased. His manufacture of the ricin had been successful. It worked! He proceeded, unperturbed and inserted the ricin into the payload, and closed down the door, giving it a friendly tap. “You’re all set, my beauty! You will spread your wings over New York!”

“What do we do about him? Do we have to clean up the ricin? What about the nuclear tip?” asked the other assistant, also suited up.

“I have already taken care of the nuclear. It’s ready to go, just needs the navigation to be set to the target,” said Turgo ignoring the question.

“But the ricin?”

“There is one last batch cooking in the dehydrator. We’ll add that tomorrow.”

“I mean the ricin he spilled.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Just spray everything with ordinary soap detergent and water. Detergent under sink, in kitchen.”

“That is all?”

“Conditions have to be exactly right for it to spread and to attach itself to humans. Here, spray my bio toxin suit so I can get out of it.”

*

Das had entered his enclave in the back of the old Dodge Caravan, while Buick kneeled looking over the back of the front seat. Das was suddenly transformed from the meek student sitting in the corner of the meeting room, to some kind of animated robot, moving swiftly from one apparatus to another, tweaking dials, pressing buttons, using voice activation with others. “This kid’s a little mad,” Buick thought.

“You see, I have a revolving camera on the roof, and it is all recorded on this computer. And unlike Google, I don’t have to block out the license plate numbers,” said Das with pride as he darted to and fro.

“Impressive. But I’m more impressed by the well-used mattress. This hi-tech stuff attracts the babes?”

Das was shocked. “Oh, no Captain Buick. I told you, I am pledged to be married in Mumbai.”

“Yeh, right. So why the mattress?”

“Well, Captain Buick, you see —”

“Oh no. Don’t tell me. You live here?”

Das did not answer immediately. He was too busy. Then he said, “you know, if I were a terrorist I would choose a place somewhere near where we are right now and use a short range missile. There are many available.”

“Your boss has already told you not to go that way. You’re already in trouble. He’ll send you back to Mumbai, if you’re not careful.

“Not if I am right. And I will prove I am right if I have to work all day and all night to do so.” He stopped briefly and turned to face Buick.

“Please Captain, stay with me a while and I will show you what I can do with my video data bases. You know, the database of stolen cars that the Newark PD uses owes its existence to me,” he boasted.

“You’re kidding. Really?”

“Not kidding. I merged the police reports with my video databases and produced a very useful source for you. That’s why when you check out a license plate, if the car was stolen, or the plate was stolen, you get back not only the information of the car, but a video of it wherever it was last seen in my database. Pretty amazing, if I may say so, captain.”

“I haven’t used it much, I have to admit. Anyway, car theft doesn’t have much to do with terrorist attacks.”

“Really, captain? I am surprised, since it is a very effective way for a terrorist to use a vehicle without divulging his identity.”

“They usually rent them, don’t they?”

“I don’t know much about terrorists, but if I were one I would not rent because it leaves a trail and requires that I produce some identification which exposes me to risk, even if the document ID itself is stolen or forged. Stealing is much cleaner.”

“So have you searched your database for a stolen truck that would carry missiles?”

“Not yet. But I am about to.”

“But your boss is right, isn’t he? I mean you’re obsessed with this missile idea because you’re in love with your database. You don’t have any evidence.”

“It’s a hunch, sir,” Das answered, reverting to his submissive role. “You know what the U.S. Nine Eleven Commission said in 2004, when it criticized America’s failure to anticipate the attack?”

“No, what?”

Das turned to face Buick squarely, and he recited, taking on the demeanor of a kid spelling the winning word in a spelling contest, “The most important failure was one of imagination."

*

“Don’t know what I am doing here,” said Silenzio, “it’s late at night. In fact, it looks like even you hardly come here.” She surveyed MacIver’s office. It was sparse, lined with book cases that contained few books. There was one computer, obviously never used. In fact the whole office looked hardly used. There was a shiny leather couch placed opposite the desk. MacIver stood beside her, just inside the door. He made no effort to sit down at his desk. “I try to stay away from the school," he said, “most of what they do here is useless, in my opinion.”

“And that goes for the books you don’t have on your shelves?”

“Pretty much.”

“Interesting. So you are unappreciated and unloved?”

“Pretty much.”

“So there’s no one back home who loves you?”

“What is this, enhanced interrogation?”

“Pretty much.”

“So far, I think I can cope with it. And no, I’m divorced for quite a while. Never felt like subjecting myself to it again. Let me guess. You’re a career girl. Always single.”

“Hmm. He can do enhanced interrogation too, except that he answers the questions he doesn’t ask.”

“Yeh. I guess it’s Jeopardy all round.”

Silenzio turned to face MacIver, looking in amusement and anticipation. She elicited the desired response.

“You are a very beautiful woman,” observed MacIver, almost embarrassed.

“From a professor I was expecting something a bit more poetic,” answered Silenzio grinning.

“As a scientist, best I can do is mumble something about birds and bees.”

“And a shy scientist at that, even though you love the spotlight of TV cameras.”

“I see it as career advancement, in contrast to this,” said MacIver as he waved his hand at his desk and bookshelves, “which is career interference.”

He slid his arm softly around Silenzio’s waist and guided her to the couch. But she was already moving towards it. He kicked the door closed behind him.

*

The door to MacIver’s office burst open. Das and Buick rushed in. MacIver and Silenzio were straightening their clothes, MacIver behind his desk, Silenzio standing by the couch.

"Sir! Sir! We know where the terrorists are! You wouldn’t believe it!” yelled Das, oblivious to everything around him.

“No I wouldn’t,” replied MacIver, staring at Das with annoyance.

“Listen to him MacIver. I made him come to you. He didn’t want to,”

said Buick looking over Das’s shoulder.

MacIver looked to Silenzio.

“Larry?” she said.

“OK. This better be good. What do you have?” said MacIver trying to stand tall and unruffled.

“You see,” said Buick, “he was showing me Google Street view and comparing it to the street surveillance he does and —”

MacIver interrupted. “Das, you tell it please.”

“Well, as he said sir, I was doing my street view —”

“OK. OK. We know that. Where are the freaking terrorists?”

“They’re on Skyline Drive, sir. Not far from the restaurant.”

“So you drove right by the terrorists to come and tell me that? Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because we can’t be absolutely certain it is them. Captain Buick is having his men run the license plate of the truck.”

“What truck?”

“The truck they used to pick up the missiles from the warehouse at Port of Newark, sir.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because, sir, with my street surveillance I do for my car theft research, I noticed it show up in several places between the warehouse and Skyline drive. And trucks aren’t allowed on Skyline Drive.”

“That’s it?”

“Sir, well sir, we also noticed when we drove past the house where the truck was parked, that there was a big blue tarpaulin spread over the roof of the house that faces the NYC skyline.

“And?”

“Sir, I know sir, it’s just supposition. But I just know that the terrorists are in there. And there is a way —”

Buick cut in. “Once we find the truck, we’ll have a better idea.”

“And?” asked the skeptical MacIver.

“It didn’t come up stolen. I’m guessing it’s a rental. I should get a call any minute on what company. Trouble is it’s too early, no one in their offices yet.”

“It’s not enough. And it’s all suspect because Das, here, having thrown science out the window, ‘just knows’ the terrorists are there.”

“Of course there is another way,” suggested Buick.

“Your way?” said Silenzio.

“Right. I get my boys together, form a strike force, and we go in there and take them out.”

“Sure. And we kill a bunch of innocent suburban citizens who are renovating their house.”

"Sir, I was going to say, sir, that there might be a way to verify that the missiles, sorry, the hypothesized missiles, are in there, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it’s thanks to you sir.”

“Das, get on with it!”

“Long ago, sir, you advocated the installation of Wi-Fi ID chips on all new weapons. Many armories have adopted that, including the U.S. Military which uses it to track weapons for logistical purposes. I may have a transponder that can read the Wi-Fi signals. All we need to do is drive by the house and see if we get any signals. Also, sir, I do have in my office a data base of stolen or missing weapons, worldwide. There are thousands lost every year. I’ll search for anything that would be ideal for firing at NYC from New Jersey. That’s why we came back to my office, sir, but then we saw the light on in your office.”

Das started to back out of the office. Silenzio suddenly felt she had to explain why she was there. “Professor MacIver was teaching me about hardening targets,” she blurted. Das did not hear. He was already running to his office. And at that moment, Buick got a phone call.

“Hey, what’s up?” said Buick. “No kidding? Great, thanks a lot.” He closed the phone. “It was a rental truck. Whoever rented it paid cash up front. The guy who rented it had a heavy accent, probably Russian. Used a false address and ID. That’s enough for me. I’m getting my strike force together. There’s too much at stake here.”

“Buck, take it easy,” cautioned Silenzio. "Let’s wait and see what Das comes up with. Can we find out where the shipment that they picked up at the warehouse came from? Customs is supposed to keep a detailed database of incoming and outgoing cargo.”

“I don’t know any of the feds,” said Buick, looking for help.

“Let me make a couple of calls,” responded Silenzio, “I may be able to get access to the customs database.” Silenzio opened her phone.

“Come to Das’s office,” said MacIver, “he will access the database.”

MacIver and Silenzio pushed past Buick who muttered, “while you’re screwing around, me and my team will take them out,” then left without waiting for a response.

*

In any ordinary student’s office, there would have been enough room for MacIver and Silenzio. But Das had so much equipment crammed in there, a plethora of computers, video screens, cables and other hi-tech paraphernalia that Silenzio had to remain at the door, peering in. Besides, Das needed to be able to scoot around on his desk chair from one terminal to another.

“It’s amazing how many weapons are reported lost or stolen here and around the world!” said Das as he crouched over his computer.

“I’d be amazed if you found anything,” said MacIver, excited in spite of himself.

“What date do you think the truck was at the warehouse?” asked Silenzio.

“Up to three weeks ago,” came the answer.

“OK. Then here’s the password to the U.S. Customs data base of incoming cargo.” Silenzio passed her phone to Das.

“Trouble is I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for,” said Das as he scooted to another computer, almost running over MacIver’s toes. “Come on! Come on! Do your work,” he said affectionately to his computer. He quickly scooted back to the Customs database. A few more key strokes, then, “hey, what do you know! A shipment from Mumbai was picked up on the day in question. Says they are cooling pumps bound for Indian Point nuclear power plant.” Back to the other computer. “That gives me an idea! You know the perfect missiles for this job? The brand new Indian mini Nags! Just a minute, let me search the missing weapons data base.”

MacIver and Silenzio watched, amused and captivated. The genius was at work!

“Here it is! Two mini Nags reported lost around the time of the shipment. There are two mini Nag missiles in that house!”

It was time for MacIver to pour cold water on the speculation. “It’s just supposition, Das.”

“But sir, enough to justify at least knocking on their door. Sir?”

“If you could fit your laptop with a transponder we could sit outside the house and see what ID chips responded to our signal, I suppose,” said MacIver without enthusiasm.

“Sir, as a matter of fact, sir. I have one. I use it at the supermarket.”

“At the supermarket? What on earth for?”

“Sir, you don’t want to know, sir.”

Das rummaged through the drawers of one of his desks, looking for the transponder.

“Don’t tell me,” said MacIver amused, still thinking about the supermarket, “you were changing the prices on the items that had Wi-Fi ID chips.”

“Sir, here it is! I will need to install it on my laptop. May have to write some quick code to allow it to access the missile IDs. With some luck, I could even find a gateway into their control systems. Sir, would that be OK, sir?”

“What do you think, Agent Silenzio?” asked MacIver with a smile.

“Entirely justified. But we have to hurry, get there before Buick and his big guns.”

“Sir, if you can drive my Google van while I work on the code, sir? I know it’s a bit unusual.”

“I can manage. Used to have one in another life, to drive my kids around.”

“You have kids?” asked Silenzio, surprised.

“Now’s not the time. Let’s get out to Skyline drive.”

*

Rage, it’s all in the hands, thought Buick as he rode the elevator down from MacIver’s fifth floor office. It was a slow elevator and as it moved in response to his way too hard hit on the LOBBY button, he stood impatiently, pushing the fist of his left hand into the open palm of his right. He pulled his phone out and started to thumb through his contact list to pick his team. But his thumb wasn’t ready for it. It wanted to stay clenched. He could squash the little phone in his hand.

He reached Washington Street and got into his cop car, which he had left idling in a no standing zone. He sat trying to calm down. He thought of those movies and comic books he used to read in the seventies. It wasn’t the super heroes who fascinated him. It was the bad, really evil guys, who used their super powers to destroy any object or person at will. That scene in one of the Star Wars movies. The old guy who was obviously full of rage, pointed his finger at Luke and caused him all sorts of pain. He nearly killed the poor kid! Buick never had a rage problem until that horrible day of the nine eleven attack. One of his mates from NYPD whom he knew from police academy, was killed. But it wasn’t only that. He just got so mad watching the TV channels, all of them, show the plane hitting the tower over and over again that he got up and — with his hands — picked up the whole TV, carried it outside into the little front yard of his little house in Hoboken, and beat the hell out of it with a snow shovel. Now that was rage, he smiled to himself.

The very next day he had enlisted in the services, with the ambition to become a Navy SEAL. And that is how he ended up in Iraq where he saw more violence, but up close and personal. Not like the nine eleven disaster which was horrendous enough to look at over and over again on TV, but in Iraq he saw it up close and in full color, as they say. It was possible, using the mind control techniques his navy counselor taught him, to close off the nine eleven imagery, get it out of his mind. But he couldn’t close off the scenes of carnage he saw in Iraq. There it was different. Besides, he had to admit that he caused some of the carnage, most times coincidentally, but sometimes intentionally. He had to watch while his buddies were maimed. What would they do when they had their hands blown off, he would ask himself. How would the rage find its way out?

Buick wheeled the car out into the traffic. He was thinking of his little two year old nephew. He knew how to express his rage and he didn’t need his hands to do it. He just opened his mouth wide like an opera singer and bellowed. It had an immediate effect. Anyone within earshot would stop as if to say, “Shut that kid up!” And once he learned to shut up, his rage would quickly find another way out, through his hands. That’s why, for his last birthday, Buck had bought him a hammering set so he could bang wooden pegs with a wooden hammer. It took him forever to find it. He’d had one when he was a little kid. They didn’t make them anymore, but he found one in a specialty toy shop in Ridgewood. Buick looked at his watch.

Maybe he could pay a visit since his nephew and his single mom lived just around the corner on Central Avenue. A visit there would work wonders. But it was too late. Way past midnight. He had calmed down. Now he could call his guys and put together an awesome strike force and take those bastards out.

13. Barriers

Ruth Newberg, first ever woman mayor of New York City, was a very determined woman. To have become mayor was clear evidence of that. Her inherited wealth, on its own, was of little use in getting her elected, and to a considerable extent, a liability. Now, after three years in office, with the media pretty much turned against her, and daily, street protests of one sort or another, any other person would have been rattled. As she walked under the fabulous rotunda of City Hall, where Abraham Lincoln had lain in state, where all manner of historic events had occurred, she steeled herself for the press conference she was about to hold on the City Hall steps. She would stay the course, would not be jostled by the media or anyone else into a panic response just for the sake of media satisfaction. The media didn’t give two hoots about public safety. They thirsted for ‘news,’ that is spectacle and sensation. The media obviously stood to benefit a great deal from a terrorist attack in New York City. She would have to be careful not to say that to them this morning.

Trouble was, the traffic snarls caused by the proliferation of street closures, barriers and altered street patterns that MacIver had engineered, had pushed the people of Manhattan to breaking point. She had to admit it. To herself, that is. Not to them.

Foster led the way out to the steps and guided Mayor Newberg over to the rostrum that was crowded with microphones. He ushered MacIver to her side.

“Professor, are you sure you want to do this?” Madam Mayor asked MacIver.

“You need my support.”

“Just be careful what you say. You know what they are like.” She tapped the microphone and looked out over a small group of reporters and a noisy mob of protestors. There were signs saying UNCLOG OUR STREETS, TEAR DOWN THE WALLS, and SURVEILLANCE NO! She addressed the audience.

“Let me begin by saying that I greatly appreciate your concerns and thank you for coming here today. I know we have created some inconvenience for you, what with the street closures and barriers and so forth, but I assure you that our best researchers think that hardening targets is the wise thing to do.”

A reporter interjected. “Madam Mayor, why isn’t your Police Department involved in this? Is it true that you fired the Assistant Police Commissioner for crime prevention?”

“No it is not true. We just thought that the traffic division had more expertise in handling street closures and traffic, obviously.”

“Could have fooled us! You’ve made life hell for New Yorkers,” yelled a protestor.

“To explain in more detail why we are doing what we are, I’d like to introduce you to Professor MacIver from Rutgers University, world expert on terrorism and crime prevention. Prof. MacIver?”

There were boos, cat-calls a-plenty. But MacIver stepped up, undaunted.

“We are faced with the prospect of another attack on the scale of nine eleven.” The crowd shuffled nervously, then went silent. MacIver continued, “I hasten to add. Such an attack is very unlikely, but we must be prepared for it, just in case.”

“Can’t you do it without making our lives so miserable? It takes me two hours to make a half hour commute these days!” called another protestor.

“We are only hardening those targets we assess as most likely to be attacked.”

“But it’s so unpredictable,” responded a reporter, “streets are closed, barriers appear almost magically overnight.”

“But that’s the point,” MacIver responded, “they must be unpredictable, that’s how we stopped suicide bombing in Israel.”

Another reporter saw an opportunity, “But this isn’t Israel,” she called.

“Not yet. But our borders are just as porous as Israel’s used to be before they built their fences.”

“Build your freaking fences in Texas, not here!” yelled another protestor.

“We have to control our borders. The problem goes beyond NYC!” replied MacIver.

The crowd became restless, people calling out, loud arguments starting among various factions.

Madam Mayor intervened. “Of course, Professor MacIver is not advocating that we close our borders. That’s a discussion for another day. We are not planning a ‘ring of steel’ around New York. This is not Belfast. We are just taking small, cautious steps.”

“Are you expecting another nine eleven style attack any time soon —on nine eleven maybe?” asked another reporter.

“We’ve heard some vague chatter but nothing specific. We just want to make sure."

"Is it true you have Islamic community centers, including in Newark, under twenty four hour surveillance?”

“The NYPD as far as I know does not put innocent people under surveillance. If they are, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“But didn’t the FBI just arrest two Al Qaeda suspects at the Newark mosque?”

“I know nothing about that. You had better ask the Mayor of Newark.”

At that moment, Foster received a phone call. He listened attentively, then moved to get attention from the Mayor, whispering something to her. In response, the Mayor stepped back and Foster stepped forward. “Thank you all. This news conference is now over,” he announced.

Mayor Newberg, turning to Foster, asked, “You’re sure of this?”

“That’s what Buick said.”

“Uh Oh. What’s he done now?” asked MacIver.

“It seems they sent the two Al Qaeda suspects for rendition to Saudi Arabia. And they talked.”

“Said what?” asked MacIver.

“There’s a plan to attack Ground Zero. That’s all he would tell me. Says Silenzio wants a meeting of our task force.”

“She arranged the rendition?” Mayor Newberg asked.

“Yes, she did. Or at least, I guessed she would when we confronted Buick at the Newark PD lock-up,” said MacIver.

“Seems I’m the last to know what’s going on,” said the mayor.

“If you don’t mind a political neophyte saying so, you’re better off not knowing, and certainly better off not knowing what Buick was up to,” said MacIver with a smile.

Foster’s phone rang again. “It’s Silenzio,” he said.

“Foster, can you put me on to the mayor?” Foster handed the phone to Mayor Newberg.

“Monica?

“Yes, Ruth. We have full confessions. They are part of an Al Qaeda cell that is planning to use a drone to bomb Ground Zero. Supposedly, launched from the roof top of a Newark Hotel. I think we need another meeting of our task force.”

“I’m not sure what can be accomplished by such a meeting. We have put a lot of protections in place.”

“But not in anticipation of a drone attack.”

The mayor looked at MacIver. “Can you make it to a meeting of our task force, Skyline Restaurant, in two hours?”

“I doubt it will achieve anything. But if it’s so urgent, OK. I’ll need to pick up Das on the way.”

“Agent Silenzio, you got that?

“Good, Skyline Restaurant in two hours,” replied Silenzio.

“May I speak with Silenzio? asked MacIver. The mayor passed the phone.

“Monica?”

“Yes, Larry.”

“This rendition. You made it happen? Were you there?”

“Yes, and no. Couldn’t stand to watch one of those.”

“They don’t produce reliable information.”

“I know. But as I said before, we have to cover all bases. Got to go.”

“See you soon.”

MacIver handed the phone back to Foster, then called Das on his own phone. Manish answered immediately. “Hello sir! What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’ll pick you up in an hour. There’s an urgent meeting of our counter terrorism task force. I’d like you to do a brief presentation on how you have hardened targets in NYC.”

“Yes sir! No problem sir! There’s no need to pick me up. I will meet you at the restaurant, sir. It will give me more time to prepare, sir.”

“OK. That’s fine.”

“You should see my Google data, sir!”

“Yes, yes. We’ll get to that.”

*

One hundred and nine Skyline Drive, Ringwood New Jersey was a rare find, a single-story suburban house on the edge of a commercial development, a few hundred yards down the road from Wells Fargo bank.

For a single-story New Jersey house, its roof was unusually high, built to mimic an old English house with big timber beams and white stucco walls.

Viewed from Google Earth, the house sat square in the middle of a large lot of about an acre, all trees completely removed. On the commercial side the lot was lined with elms planted in orderly rows and on the other two sides by a dense forest of the heavy leafed trees of New Jersey: maples and oaks, with a sprinkling of dogwoods, silver bell, serviceberry and spicebush. Nicholas had done well to find a house close enough to the road with a drive wide enough to allow a large truck to enter, one that was not buried in one of the occasional suburban enclaves that were slotted in between the several nature reserves and parks along this Passaic county road. The large blue tarpaulin now stretched over the complete eastern side of the roof. Nicholas had even gone to the trouble to erect a small contractor’s sign to allay any suspicions the neighbors might have. They were converting a residential house into some kind of commercial establishment. The large expanse of lawn at front was freshly mowed and the remains of an English garden lining the front of the lawn just back from the road showed signs of neglect. The house had been empty for some time, but by at least mowing the lawn, the new owners were showing that they were going to take care of their property.

Inside, Turgo and his assistants were hard at work. The walls had been knocked out to make room for tools, the launcher and a bench for the missiles while they were being assembled. The two missiles, about five feet in length and a diameter of a foot tapering down to about six inches at each end sat open on the work bench set up in the dining room. They were mostly reassembled, the covers at the nose open revealing a maze of wires and switches and computer chips and circuit boards. LED lights flashed intermittently, accompanied by occasional beeps in response to Turgo’s manipulations. The scene was not unlike that of a hospital emergency room, Turgo’s assistants running back and forth, providing him with various instruments and parts.

“Cannot fit payload in tip. Have to remove some fuel to make room,”

Turgo muttered in half English and half Russian.

“Why we not use drone? Much better and easier,” asked an assistant.

“Agree. But have to work with what they give us,” answered Turgo, then after some thought added, “need much bigger space to launch drone with this size payload.”

“We make deadline?”

“Nine-eleven is one week away. Have plenty time. Only problem is payloads. Not enough explosive for two missiles.”

"Where you get explosive?”

“Sergey’s little brother arranged it.”

“What you do?”

“What Sergey and I planned from the beginning. We put ricin in one missile which will weigh much less than explosive so will use less fuel.”

“Where you get ricin?

“We make it right here in kitchen.”

“But how?”

“Have equipment in kitchen. Basic ingredient is protein from the waste left over from castor oil manufacture. That in garage. We start make it now and let it dry overnight.”

“How deliver payload?”

“I program detonate one hundred meters up from ground. Will spray toxin over many kilometers,” said Turgo with confidence and considerable satisfaction.

“How it kill?”

“Ingestion, breathing, or through skin. Will be first major use of bio toxin terrorist attack. Spectacular!”

*

Time was running out for the task force. It was obvious that the members could not work together. They just did their own thing. Days had slipped by, MacIver had managed with Das’s assistance to harden most of the likely targets in New York City. The mayor had managed so far to fend off protests and attacks from the media. MacIver had kept out of the way there, though he did give a long interview for ‘60 Minutes’ which had not aired as yet, but he suspected would air tonight, the eve of the nine eleven anniversary. The task force had, in the end, not met in response to the last so-called emergency precipitated by the rendition of the two suspects. But as the anniversary of nine eleven loomed, the mayor had insisted that they should meet and review the situation. Some had already charged that she had not responded to the information obtained from the rendition, even though those same critics complained about their lives being messed up by street closures and unpredictably changed traffic patterns.

They met in the Skyline restaurant, same room as before. Foster, alone, arrived early to place pads and pencils around the table. Mayor Ruth Newberg entered. “We need water, could you see to it?” she asked.

“Haven’t been able to find the waiters. Their supervisor says they called in sick. I’ll see what I can do,” replied Foster.

MacIver and Das entered. “Where is the projector?” asked Das.

“Sorry, I couldn’t find their I-T guy,” answered Foster, a little frustrated.

“Don’t bother with slides Das.” said MacIver, “anyway, you brought handouts, didn’t you?”

“Sir, yes sir.” Das busily trotted around the table leaving copies of notes and graphics, carefully straightening everything up at each place.

Mayor Newberg, turned from a pensive moment gazing at the view of New York City, and asked MacIver, “What are you planning to do?”

“Das will present an overview of how we predict targets most likely to be attacked, the talk he was going to do before. He’ll outline the method of identifying attractive targets, how to harden them, and briefly show the results of our efforts to stop suicide terrorism in Israel.”

“Is that really necessary?” asked the mayor.

“From the events of the last weeks, I think that people do not really understand what we are trying to do.”

At this moment, the door opened and Monica Silenzio quietly entered.

MacIver nodded.

“I think they do,” observed Silenzio as she sat down, “but they don’t appreciate the cost to the comfort of their daily routines that it entails.”

“Good afternoon Agent Silenzio,” smiled MacIver.

“Fact is, they want us to do everything unseen, unnoticed,” Silenzio continued.

Mayor Newberg quickly added, “and when something happens, they blame us for not having done anything.”

Manish Das, sitting in his corner seat raised his hand. “Sir, Professor, shall I start? Or should we wait for Captain Buick?”

“It’s Buick who needs to be made to understand it all. But I’ve really given up on him as a hopeless case,” answered MacIver.

Right then, the door flew open and in walked Buick. “Who’s a hopeless case?” he grinned.

Silenzio spoke up quickly. “I think we should really get down to deciding what to do about the information we got from the rendition.”

“That’s what the meeting’s for, isn’t it? Or have I missed something?” said Buick.

“I think Agent Silenzio is right,” said Mayor Newberg, “let’s get the rendition business out of the way first.”

“I give up,” sighed MacIver.

“Perhaps you can take the materials I have put out, and we can discuss them at a later time?” offered Das helpfully.

Silenzio answered, “OK. Let’s get on with it. The suspects have talked under rendition. They say there is a plan by an Al Qaeda cell to launch a drone from the top of a Newark hotel with a payload of ricin.”

“What’s ricin?” asked Buick.

“It’s a bio toxin that attacks the nerves, a small speck can kill in a few seconds. It’s cheap and easy to make from the widely available castor plant.”

“And how is it spread?” asked Mayor Newberg.

“We can go into all that later. For now, we have to decide what to do,” said Silenzio, one eye on MacIver.

Buick spoke up. “Are the two suspects part of the Al Qaeda cell?”

“They say not. But it doesn’t matter.” Silenzio looked around the table, puzzled. “Where’s Agent Lee?” she asked Foster.

“I think I forgot to invite him,” he answered with a slight smirk.

“It doesn’t matter. Once it goes to CIA, the FBI washes it hands of the case,” said Silenzio.

MacIver got up from his chair and looked out the window.

“We have to search every Newark Hotel," continued Silenzio, “you must clear a wide space around Ground Zero. At least a radius of one mile, and that may not even be enough. We don’t know how they will deliver the ricin, should it turn out to be a ricin tipped payload.”

MacIver turned from the window, cheeks flushed under his closely cropped beard. “This is ridiculous,” he complained, his voice a little too loud for the room, “we have no evidence — zero — that there is going to be any kind of attack, let alone a bio attack. Besides, how do you launch a drone with a payload big enough to drop on Ground Zero from a hotel roof top? It's all fantasy. You people watch too many movies.”

Mayor Newberg responded quickly. “The professor is right. Anyway, I’m not going to act upon information that was obtained under torture. I can’t justify it morally, let alone politically.”

Buick fidgeted with his pencil, snapping it into pieces, then pushed his hands against the table, pushing back on his chair.

Silenzio, in a measured voice turned to the mayor and said, “Madam Mayor. That’s a foolish policy. You have to act to protect the people of New York. You may or may not approve of so-called torture, but if it has produced information, you are duty bound to act on it.”

“She is acting on it. I am acting on it. ‘It’ being the scientific estimate of the probability of when and where an attack may occur. That’s why we are putting up barriers and closures,” countered MacIver.

Buck Buick could contain himself no longer. “You pointy headed idiot!” he yelled, breaking his pencil into even more pieces and throwing them across the table at MacIver.

“Careful now!” warned MacIver, adopting a superior tone, at the same time, grabbing up the pieces of pencil and squeezing them tightly into his fist which he then raised as if to retaliate.

“Captain Buick. Control yourself. You’re not in Iraq now!” lectured the mayor, looking first to Buick then to MacIver.

“Control myself ? You puny bastard!” growled Buick in consternation.

“An attack is imminent, and the professor’s got you putting up fences and barriers around city hall, stopping people from visiting the statue of Liberty, causing massive traffic snarls, protestors amassing in front of city hall. And you just want us to wait around until we are attacked!”

Silenzio firmly gripped Buick’s arm. “Buck, this isn’t helping!”

“Can’t you see?” he pleaded. “If we don’t act now, take out the animals, people are going to get hurt, and you, Madam Mayor, will be blamed!”

Das, squirming in his corner, timidly raised his hand, looking across to MacIver. “Sir, er, Madam Mayor, Madam, I’ve been thinking about drones, Madam. I mean, it might not be a drone, but surely it’s obvious that the easiest, perhaps the only way, to reach a well-protected stationary target like Ground Zero, is from the air.”

They all fell silent, awaiting MacIver’s reaction. He did not disappoint.

“For the last time Das, I've had enough of this. You’re either on board with target hardening or you can pack up and go back to Mumbai.” Das cringed in his seat, staring hard at the floor.

Buick grabbed the opportunity. “You see, even your own bum-boy thinks you’re wrong!”

“Sir!’ cried Das in consternation and embarrassment.

MacIver threw the pieces of pencil in Buick’s face. Buick laughed, stood up quickly, knocking his chair backwards, hands on his hips. “Now Professor. My fist is bigger than yours,” he grinned as he frowned.

“Boys! Please!” pleaded Silenzio.

MacIver, embarrassed, but certainly not sorry, sat down, head in hands.

“We’re leaving. Come on Das.”

Das remained in his seat, still cringing. “Sir, I’m sorry, sir. I was just trying to find a compromise. Sir?”

“Perhaps we should disband the meeting, Madam Mayor,” suggested Silenzio.

Mayor Newberg said, “Captain Buick. If you want to go after them —

whoever ‘them’ are — I can’t stop whatever you do in Newark. That’s for you to work out with your Chief and the Mayor of Newark. But I’m sticking with MacIver’s strategy.”

“The blood, and there will be blood, will be on your hands,” warned Buick.

All were about to rise when Foster, his phone in hand, turned to the Mayor, then whispered something. He then turned on the TV. “Before you leave, I think we had better watch this,” he said.

The TV flickered and Foster tuned to Fox News. The news commentator spoke:

“Exclusive to Fox news, this just in. The FBI has arrested six individuals it says are members of a terrorist cell that is planning to attack Ground Zero on nine eleven. The FBI made this announcement at a press conference a half hour ago. I think we have some video of that now.”

Agent Fred Lee stands center screen, flanked on one side by the NYPD Police Commissioner John Ryan and on the other by Agent Crosby. Lee addresses the group of journalists who hang on his every word:

“I know that many of you have been very concerned about the rumors of these past few weeks of an impending attack by Al Qaeda on Ground Zero on nine eleven. That rumor was true. But, thanks to the close coordination between the FBI and the NYPD, we have had the Al Qaeda cell that was working out of the Newark Community Mosque under surveillance for some time. Earlier this evening, we arrested all six of them, and they are even now on their way to Guantanamo Bay where they will be held and processed, in anticipation of trial by a military tribunal. I will now take a few quick questions.”

“What kind of attack was it?”

“It was to be a drone set off from somewhere in Newark, we still don’t know where, carrying a nuclear tip.”

A buzz of excitement ran through the crowd.

“Just to be sure. You said nuclear???!!”

“That’s right. But we believe that part of the rumor to be false. In fact we believe that the drone does not exist either.”

“Wait a minute. How do you know?”

“From our preliminary questioning.”

“But how do you know they’re telling the truth?”

Agent Lee turned to Commissioner Ryan.

“Because we’ve had the Islamic community under surveillance for over a year and are certain that if drones or bombs, especially nuclear bombs were present, we would know about it," answered Ryan confidently.

“NYPD has had the local Newark Islamic community under surveillance for over a year?” asked a reporter.

“That’s right.”

9/11 TWO 139

“Does Mayor Newberg know about this?”

“She probably does now.”

“And the Newark mayor?”

Agent Lee interjects. “We had to do this completely under cover. Could not let either of the mayors know.” The reporters murmured their surprise.

Lee continued, “Thank you for your attendance. You can rest easily that we have this operation entirely under control and that there is no threat of a nuclear or any other type of attack from Al Qaeda.”

The reporters pushed forward, hands raised, calling out questions. Lee waved his hand as he turned away and said, “I’m sorry, but as you can imagine, we are very busy and have no time for any more questions.”

The Fox News Announcer returned to the screen and continued:

“There you have it. We understand that Governor Christie will be making an announcement soon in response to this incredible news conference.”

Foster turned off the TV. The Mayor was flabbergasted. “I guess I am estranged from my Commissioner, rather than he from me,” she said, "hopefully, as far as our task force is concerned, this changes nothing.”

“Buick, you didn’t even know about this?” asked MacIver, having calmed down.

“Got to hand it to the assholes. They pulled it off right under my nose. I’m as stunned as the mayor.”

Foster’s phone rang again. It was the sound of ‘I Love New York.’ “It’s the Governor,” he said, passing the phone to his boss.

“Which one?” she asked.

“Yours.”

“Governor?”

“What the blazes is going on?”

“You tell me! I’ve been broad-sided.”

“I want you in my office in one hour. I want to know everything.”

“Pardon me, Governor. But I answer to the people of New York City first, and it is to them that I will speak just as soon as I am in Manhattan which will be in a half hour.”

“Where are you now?”

“I am consulting with my special counter terrorism task force.”

She handed the phone back to Foster who looked at the phone, then said to it, “Governor Cuomo, er, the mayor had to rush to her helicopter.

Good-bye, and thank you for your concern, Governor.”

Mayor Newberg rose to leave just as Foster received another call. He looked for the TV remote, and switched the TV on again, waving to his boss to watch it. The old TV flickered once again, and Governor Christie came into view, speaking to an animated group of reporters:

“It has come to my knowledge that the New York City Police Department has been conducting undercover surveillance of our fellow citizens of the Islamic community of Newark. This has been going on for an extended period of time. This was done without authorization or consultation with either the Mayor of Newark, or my own Justice Department. I apologize to our Muslim friends for this unconstitutional invasion of their privacy rights as free citizens of New Jersey. I promise a full investigation to get to the bottom of this travesty, both at the federal and state levels. Thank you. That’s all I have to say at this time.”

Foster switched off the TV. Mayor Newberg turned to the group and said, “We should continue on our current strategy. Looks like MacIver has been right all along.”

“No it doesn’t!” countered Buick.

“Captain Buick. This makes you look even sillier than me. You’re the one who is supposed to be protecting Newark. You’ll do well to bow to MacIver’s strategy.” And then she left, Foster right behind her, talking on his cell phone.

But just as they reached the door, Das called out, “Madam, if I may say so Madam Mayor! I am still not convinced there’s no attack. One from the air, a missile or two, would demolish Ground Zero and the Freedom Tower.”

Mayor Newberg hesitated, then resignedly gesticulated to MacIver, and left.

“Das, that’s enough,” scorned MacIver, “get out of here and get back to your work.”

“Sorry, sir! But, OK. Sorry sir, Sorree! Sorree!” Das rushed out of the room, followed by Buick.

“Perhaps I can drive the professor to his office?” offered Silenzio solicitously. MacIver said nothing, but followed her to the parking lot.

*

Manish Das slowly walked to his van, deeply chastened. Buick caught up with him. “You upset your boss, not a good idea!” he said, trying to make light of it.

“So did you!” said Das.

“But he’s not my boss!”

“Can I show you my van?” asked Das with a faint smile.

“What?

“My van, my surveillance van. I call it my Google van.”

“You have a surveillance van?”

“Yes, captain. I use it to study car theft in Newark and Northern New Jersey. It’s for my dissertation.”

“Car theft?”

“Yes, I monitor the coming and going of parked cars. Do you use Google Street?”

“What’s that?”

“You must have seen the Google vans patrolling the streets, taking video.”

“So that’s what they’re doing.”

“It’s a kind of surveillance, except that they only update theirs once a year. I do mine weekly, sometimes even more frequently.”

“You do that? Don’t you have anything else to do?”

“Er, I suppose not. It’s for my dissertation. I must get finished, so I can go back to Mumbai and get married.”

“You have time for a girlfriend?”

“Oh, no. I haven’t met her yet. My parents are arranging the marriage. A very good one too.”

Buick was lost for words. He grinned and frowned at the same time.

“Come, let me show you,” said Das.

12. Mafia Imports

Uncle Sergey first got into the mafia business through his brother Nicholas who operated a thriving business smuggling stolen cars out of the U.S. to Russia and Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Nicholas appointed him as his manager of the Eastern Division, as he called it. They operated a mostly legitimate export business, but its main purpose was to provide the cover for smuggling high end vehicles to the black market in Russia, Eastern Europe and the Middle East. It was a relatively simple business model. They stole the cars right off the streets of Newark, then reprocessed their documentation and shipped them out. They gave the cars a new identity, vehicle ID number and the works. Forging the new identities of cars was not difficult and not even risky. The authorities had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure the identities of individuals and organizations were authentic, so forging them was risky. But they remained pretty much ignorant of the process of falsifying the identities of cars. Besides, if there was a problem, the people working for the New Jersey Department of Motor Vehicles were poorly paid and easy to buy off.

So on this early September morning, a white box truck with the name “GREAT IMPORTS” in small black letters on a vinyl strip adhered to its side approached the Port of Newark container terminal on Calcutta Street. Turgo sat beside the truck driver. He was wishing they had used a forwarding agency, but uncle Sergey had warned against it because they would lose time and they did not want the container sitting for any time within the terminal. Turgo had followed the progress of the Maple Leaf on the web, and knew that it had arrived and that the container had been unloaded. Since nine eleven, trucker and Sea Link IDs were hard to come by and forgeries were risky, so Nicholas had insisted that they both get legitimate ones. As it was, because they both had Green Cards, getting the IDs was not that difficult, especially as Nicholas with his contacts was able to get the applications on a fast track. Even so, Turgo was nervous as the truck pulled up to the entry gate and they were both asked to step out of the truck and show their IDs.

The officer on duty examined the documents carefully. “Looks OK.

You’re here for container C12?”

“Yes, that is right,” said Turgo. “These the papers you need?”

“Let me see. Yeh, looks OK. Picking up a Mercedes are you?” he asked, joking.

“Oh, yes officer. They bring such good price here.”

“Really? I wouldn’t buy one myself. I’d rather have a Chevy.”

“Ah! Good American car!” exclaimed Turgo.

The officer handed the papers back and raised the boom. “OK. It’s Lot C, second on left. Pull up there and they’ll help you load.”

“We don’t want the whole container, just the crate inside. Can we do that here?”

“Don’t see why not. Better ask the boys down there. They have the forklifts to do it.”

The truck rolled forward and Turgo smiled as they passed by. They found Lot C and were directed to container C12. “Can we open it?” Turgo asked the dock worker. “We just want to pick up the crate that’s inside.”

“No problem. This is from the Maple Leaf, just in from Mumbai, right?”

“Right.”

“Our biggest fork lift should do it.” The worker whistled loudly and received a whistle back. “He’s on his way.”

The container was opened and they loaded the crate, the only item in the container, into the truck. They drove slowly to the exit of the lot and once again had to get out to show their IDs, and as well, the officer on duty briefly looked inside the truck.

“You’re taking this to Indian Point? So they’re finally upgrading it huh?”

“Cooling pumps, I think, officer,” said Turgo.

They left the facility and joined the permanent traffic jam of trucks and cars as they slowly inched their way towards the New Jersey turnpike north, from which they eventually exited and found their way to Skyline Drive.

Nicholas had even gone to the trouble to get them a permit to drive the truck on Skyline Drive, because it was illegal to do it without one. Turgo had thought that was unnecessary until they were pulled over soon after they entered Skyline Drive and asked for their permit. The narrow curving road was dangerous for trucks, the officer said, so they should drive carefully and keep well within the speed limit. The truck passed through beautiful parks and pricey suburbs and every now and again offered a glimpse of the fabulous skyline of New York City.

“It would be a shame to destroy it,” mused Turgo. It took a good half hour to get to the safe house, now identifiable by a blue tarpaulin draped over its roof. They had difficulty maneuvering the truck on the narrow road, and blocked traffic as they tried to back it into the driveway. The garage door of the house opened, and a large fork lift emerged. The crate was deposited in the garage.

*

Another envelope had arrived. This time postmarked in Newark, New Jersey. It did not contain money, but what appeared to be a debit card issued by HSBC. Shouldn’t they take it to the New York State Police? Mrs. Kohmsky asked herself. She knew immediately Mr. Kohmsky would not want to, especially as it had one small post-it note attached, which simply said “Nicholas.” They left it sit on the kitchen table for several days until finally Mrs. Kohmsky could not contain herself any longer and snatched it up right after they had breakfast one morning and went off to the nearest HSBC ATM.

She pushed the card into the slot and withdrew it as directed. But then it asked for her pin and of course she did not have it. She stepped back, embarrassed, to let the person behind her use the machine. She immediately thought of Nicholas as the PIN, but it was too many letters. And the PIN had to be a number anyway. She walked home, feeling rather silly. She had just put the key in her door when it dawned on her. It must be Sarah! She turned and hurried back to the bank, got half way, then stopped. S-A-R-A-H are letters, which was no good. What numbers could SARAH stand for? She turned around again and went back home. Mr. Kohmsky sat in his usual place in the corner of the living room, reading and took no notice of her. She went straight to their telephone and looked at the dial. This had to be it! With a shaking hand she wrote down the letters and their numbers from the phone key pad: 7-2-7-2-4.

Excited, Mrs. Kohmsky rushed out the door and back to the bank. She pushed in the card, retrieved it, punched in 7-2-7-2-4 and it worked! She selected BALANCE and it showed $100,000! Stunned, she stepped back, then stepped forward again to log out of the machine. Could Sarah have sent this money? And why, if she did? Or was Nicholas, from whom they had heard nothing for some thirty years, trying to establish contact? And if so, why use money instead of a letter or even a phone call? And more puzzling, what was he doing in Newark?

11. Enhanced Interrogation

The Special Operations Division of the Newark Police Department on 472 Orange Street looked more like an auto body shop than a police bureau. It was a low box of a building, sitting on a small block that was concreted over like many such blocks in Newark, weeds, some of them thriving, growing up through cracks. A bunch of black trash bags bulging with who knows what contents leaned against one side of the building.

Monica Silenzio parked her 2012 Volvo wagon across the street from the PD in a lot encircled, in excellent security style, by an eight foot chain link fence, barbed wire at the top. Her Volvo looked out of place among the other Ford and Chevy SUVs and the occasional motor bike. She knew that for a single woman of her age, people disapproved of her driving such a vehicle. Only married women with the regulation two kids and a husband who drove a Toyota Camry were supposed to have one of those. “It’s no wonder you’re single when you drive a car like that,” her women friends would say. “You should get a brightly colored sports car. The guys will be buzzing around you like bees to a honey pot,” imagery she did not appreciate. She had been surprised that MacIver had not made such a comment. He didn’t seem to notice her car at all. Not that it mattered. In any case, she liked her car because it showed what she was about, safe, secure and comfortable. Given her meager beginnings, growing up in Coalwood, West Virginia, the chances of her becoming who she was today were incredibly slim. Her dad, a wizened, always exhausted coal miner, who died before he was fifty, wanted nothing more than for her to marry a coal miner and have a bunch of kids. She left home as soon as she could and worked her way first through community college then transferred to John Jay College. Occasionally she saw her mom, now in her eighties, still living in Coalwood, now pretty much a ghost town. Her mom was happy enough.

She had a few friends her age who had stayed in the small row of company town houses built for miners back in the fifties. “I probably should go see her more often,” Silenzio thought as she crossed the street to the Special Operations Division. She looked back at her Volvo and clicked the remote to lock it. It took her some time to locate the interrogation room, such as it was. In fact, she had trouble finding the front door since the whole place seemed to be composed of garage doors, behind which, she presumed, were garages. When she finally did find her way in through one of the garages that was open, she found an empty holding cell. She asked a duty officer for directions to the interrogation room. There wasn’t a permanent one, he said, they were using a makeshift section of one of the garages. Silenzio understood. So there would be no cameras, no one-way mirrors. It was through the next door to the right. Captain Buick was there with two suspects, the duty officer said.

Silenzio opened the door quietly and slipped in. The place smelled oily like a garage and there were tools and other vehicle paraphernalia pushed into one corner. The rocket launcher was lying among the tools. There were two chairs on which the suspects, Abdul One and Abdul Two sat, cuffed and chained, whimpering, looking pathetic. Buck Buick strutted around and around them. He barely noticed Silenzio enter.

“I know, I know. You want your lawyer. You already had her,” he said in a sing-song voice.

“Please officer. We know nothing. We are just ordinary guys with jobs and a family,” whimpered Abdul Two.

“Yeh, and a few extra wives to boot!”

“No, officer, no! We are just ordinary Americans, just like you!”

exclaimed Abdul One.

“Oh, no you’re not. Now, I’m going to give you a chance to get through this easily and friendly-like.”

“Our lawyer said we should not say anything,” said Abdul Two.

“Bad advice! Has your lawyer ever represented terrorists before?”

“She said say nothing. We have rights!” answered Abdul One.

“Rights? You say rights?”

Buick grabbed a large chain from the pile of tools and swung it so hard at the steel wall that the whole building shook and the noise was frightening.

“These are my rights! And you’ll feel them if you don’t cooperate!” he yelled as he held up the chain and passed it from hand to hand.

“But we have nothing to say. We know nothing!” complained Abdul One.

“You were going to hit Ground Zero on nine eleven, right?”

“No! No!”

“We meant nothing!” whimpered Abdul One.

“So you had a plan but didn’t mean it?”

“We had no plan. It was the undercover guy’s plan.”

Buick strode behind the chairs and grabbed each of them by their copious black hair. They screamed in pain. “What Al Qaeda cell are you with? Come on! Come on!”

“We don’t know any Al Qaeda!”

Buick wrenched them up and they fell backwards over their chairs.

“Stand up animals! Stand up!” They groveled and cried at his feet. He grabbed them by the hair again and was about to drag them around the garage when Silenzio intervened.

“Captain Buick, what are you doing? Are you crazy?

Buick paused, then let them go. “Oops, sorry. Just doing a bit of enhanced interrogation. Unfortunately, we don’t have any water boarding equipment. At least not yet.”

“Come on! They don’t know anything. They were set up by the FBI,” she said firmly.

“They already admitted that they planned something, but ‘they didn’t mean it.’ I tell you, with thorough interrogation we’ll find out what Al Qaeda cell is planning the attack, and whether it’s on Ground Zero on nine eleven.”

“Does anyone else know you are doing this interrogation?” asked Silenzio.

“Well, not exactly, though it was Lee who asked me to take them over.”

There was a silence, broken only by the muttering and whimpering of the suspects. Silenzio was about to speak when the door opened and MacIver entered accompanied by the suspects’ lawyer.

“You idiots!” screamed MacIver.

“Hey, I only just got here!” Silenzio complained.

The lawyer looked stern “OK. This is over. You had no right to do this. If there is anything on them, you have just ruined the case. And there’s no need, in a local jail, to keep them in cuffs and leg chains.”

Buick looked the lawyer up and down. “Just what the country needs. Another liberal lawyer.”

And the lawyer retorted, “Just what the country needs, another cop who tramples on the constitution!”

MacIver looked to Silenzio. “Apologies Monica. I expected this would happen. I told the mayor it would. Can you call Lee and get him to release these two poor guys?”

“Not going to happen. Once the FBI gets its teeth into a sting, they won’t let go.”

“Well I’m going to the mayor about this. And I’m quitting this task force. I don’t approve of torture and I’ll bet neither does she.”

“I haven’t tortured anyone and have no plans to. It was just a tough interrogation. Gees, we do this pretty much every day!” complained Buick.

“Let’s get these guys back to their cell, and then we can talk about your quitting, Larry,” said Silenzio smoothly.

Buick looked at them both, puzzled, annoyed that they were on a first name basis.

MacIver looked back at him. “Maybe it’s Buick who should quit.”

“Say or do what you like. I’m no pansy quitter,” pronounced Buick.

The lawyer stepped forward. “If you don’t mind paying attention to the pitiable condition of my clients. Please take them back to their cell, and please gently un-cuff and un-chain them,” she demanded.

All looked to Buick. He shrugged and shouted through the open door, “duty officer! Undo these cuffs and chains, and then help the darlings to their cell.”

“Can’t you get them out?” the lawyer asked Silenzio.

“Not a chance. They’re suspect terrorists.”

Buick accompanied the duty officer and suspects out the door.

“Trouble is,” said Silenzio, “if they do know something — and I admit it’s very unlikely — then we’ll never forgive ourselves if we could have stopped an attack.”

“It’s unscientific. It’s not rational,” said MacIver. “The probability is very tiny that they know something, even tinier that what they might know would be of any use to us.”

“Look, I’ll talk to some people I know in the state department. They’re very experienced with terrorism cases. And they know how to stand up to the FBI,” said Silenzio.

“You’re talking rendition?”

“It will only take a few weeks, if that. It’s mostly logistics and rule-following that takes the time.”

“Say no more. I want nothing to do with it.” MacIver turned to leave, hesitated at the door, then left.

Silenzio picked up one of the upturned chairs and sat on it, then made a phone call.

*

MacIver made his way out to Orange Street and was standing on the corner pondering the last several minutes. How could he have been so stupid to agree to this task force? Not noticing the traffic, he stepped on to the road, intending to walk back to his office. There was a slight screech of brakes and an old Dodge Caravan, dark black with black tinted windows pulled up within inches of him. It was Manish Das, driving his “Google van” as he called it. The van bristled with antennae, including a revolving camera on the roof. Das beeped the horn and lowered the window.

“Sir, hello sir, is everything all right sir?” he called.

“Das, that’s you?”

“Yes sir. Just back from NYC sir. Can I give you a lift to the school?”

“Well, OK. I was going to walk to let off steam.” MacIver climbed into the front seat, looking around the interior, amused. The van was chock full of computers, cameras and recording devices. There was a mattress on the floor at back.

“Welcome to my humble little retreat, sir.”

“Wow! Even better than the FBI!”

“It’s better than Google, sir!”

“Phew! So you’re using this for your car theft dissertation?”

“Yes, sir. So what happened sir?”

“It’s impossible, hopeless. Why can’t they make decisions based on scientific data?”

“Sir?”

“They have all assumed that the attack is going to be on Ground Zero, by Al Qaeda, and on Nine Eleven. They’re simply grasping at anything, in fact Buick will do anything to support his knee-jerk assumptions.”

“Sir?”

“Sir what?”

“Maybe it’s not a bad hunch? I mean, Ground Zero is an attractive target, especially given the spectacle of the last attack.”

“Et tu, Das?”

“Ha! Ha! Like Caesar, sir!”

“What? Speak up Das.”

“I mean, one thing we learned from nine eleven is how easy it was to hit a stationary target from the air.”

“Are you serious?”

“Specially a target that stuck right out there. I mean it was only matched by the Statue of Liberty. And now there’s the Freedom Tower, sticking out, just the same.”

“You just defeated your own argument, didn’t you? Why not the Statue of Liberty? That’s why we have to assess all the attractive targets in NYC and assign risk values to each of them, and harden the targets accordingly. You should know better, Das.”

“Very sorry sir. Very sorry. It’s just that a missile fired from somewhere outside NYC could destroy it.”

“All sorts of terrible things could happen, but it’s very unlikely that they will. How would they get the missiles? Where would they hide them? I’m beginning to wonder whether you’re really on board with forensic crime prevention.”

“You’re right sir, I am not thinking straight.”

Das stopped in front of the Rutgers University School of Criminal Justice.

“I have a faculty meeting. I’ll see you tomorrow, and by the way, we need to review where you are with your dissertation.”

“Sir. That’s very threatening sir!”

“And your data collection?”

“Google Street is great sir! But my humble van is even better! I know where most cars are stolen from —”

“OK, OK. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Thanks for the ride.”

Das pulled into the car park on Washington Street and climbed into the back. He activated a number of switches, as well as laptop computers and three screens. He sat glued to his computer, watching Google Street in action on one screen and video footage that he had taken from his own patrols on another screen. And on yet another, there was live video of the car park and surrounding streets. He typed in a message to Google Street asking when the street views were last updated in Newark and all along the Hudson through Northern New Jersey.

10. Extraction

The front end of the Bangalore Five Star weapons factory didn’t look like a factory at all. It rose to four stories, a gleaming glass and steel structure, with geometric shapes protruding here and there, set in an expanse of cleared fields ploughed and flattened, ready to plant a huge lawn. In contrast there were, nestled around the structure, a higgledy-piggledy array of shanties and makeshift tents of local workers and their families. Dr. Jamal squatted under a lean-to that was strung to the branch of the one sole tree left standing. Squatting next to him was a very dark skinned South Indian. They spoke in Telugu.

“And how are things in Vizag,?” asked Jamal.

“They are well. My father sends his regards. And I will be married late next month, if the planets are aligned properly, but everything looks good.

You will come to the wedding?”

“Of course. And with the money you are getting, I expect a very big wedding!”

“It will be the greatest wedding ever held in Vizag.”

“Your bride is also from Vizag?”

“Yes, but I don’t think you would know her. Her family moved to Vizag after you went away to Oxford.”

“Ah, my times in Vizag. We had such a fun time. Got up to lots of mischief!”

“Yes, we did, Jamal. But now we must be serious,” he said half joking.

“All right then. So let’s get down to business. The Nags are already disassembled?” asked Jamal.

“Yes, and packed in one compact crate.”

“How big?”

“About the size of a Tata Nano.”

“And the truck? Where is it?”

“We will use a Five Star truck.”

“Really? But how?”

“It’s easy. With the money you pay, it’s easy.”

“I am pleased to hear it. You must have paid out a lot?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do need another $500,000.”

“What? But I already gave you a million for expenses, plus a million each for the missiles and launcher.”

“I know, I know. But I had to reach the executive director — the top dog, you know — to smooth out the operation.”

“But it’s half a million more than we agreed!”

“The top dog drove a hard bargain. He could blow the whistle on the whole thing. He wants half a million to look the other way.”

Jamal’s legs were cramped. He was not used to squatting like this anymore. He stood, turned to face the factory and stretched his arms and legs. “The truck rolls out tonight?” he asked.

“Yes, for sure.”

“It will be in Mumbai in two days max?”

“With a Five Star truck, it will be a smooth drive. No questions.”

“OK. You win.” Jamal handed over his cell phone. “Call this number for the money. Code name Zero.”

The South Indian grinned broadly. “Thank you, thank you! You are a Sahib, a perfect gentleman!”

“Here is the paperwork for delivery to the ship in Mumbai. It’s a freighter called the Maple Leaf, sailing under a Greek flag. Indian customs should already be taken care of.”

“No worries Sahib. No worries!”

“If there’s a problem at the Port, call the other number in the cell phone contact list.”

“Yes, Sahib. Anything else?”

“When you’re done with the job, you must destroy the phone,” he said,

“and that’s enough of the Sahib. It’s not funny anymore.”

The South Indian turned towards the Five Star factory and walked towards the rear of the building, picking his way across the ploughed field. Jamal opened another cell phone and made a call.

*

Shalah Muhammad sat at his favorite table at his favorite hotel in the world, the Mumbai Taj Mahal. He sat outdoors, eating a large English breakfast of eggs and bacon, even though it was well into afternoon. He gazed at the Gate of India which threw a long shadow across the pavement over which tourists wandered here and there, taking photos of each other, trying to frame photos that caught everything, the languid cerulean sea lapping at the stone embankment, the arched Gate of India, the white frilled Taj. This was his idea of bliss.

He gulped down a mouthful of egg, licking the yellow yoke from the corners of his mouth, followed by a slurp of coffee. He looked around the restaurant and mused how awful it was that such an idyllic spot was recently the scene of an horrific terrorist attack. There was no sign of it now. Had he been in charge, this place would not have been a target. Anyway, he knew nothing of it. It was the stupid Pakistani ISI that did it. You couldn’t trust them. He tried to have as little to do with them as possible. And he chose his Pakistani operatives with great care, making sure as far as possible that they had no links to the ISI. He had just lit a cigarette when his phone rang. It was Sarah.

“Kommie! Right on time! Where are you?”

“I’m out walking in this beautiful place overlooking a waterfall in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan.”

“And how is your uncle?”

“He is fine, everything is fine, but I suspect that uncle does not want to do nuclear.”

“What do you mean?” Muhammad was annoyed.

“He hasn’t said no, but he and his scientist Turgo say that ricin would be a much more startling attack.”

“I said I want nuclear.”

“I know, I know. And he’ll still do nuclear. It’s just that he says that they can make it cheaply and easily in the U.S. Uncle says Turgo is an expert on ricin.”

“And the delivery mechanism?” asked Muhammad aggressively.

“We didn’t talk about that.”

“This is bad. In fact I’ve a good mind to go elsewhere.”

“Darling, that would not be wise, now that they know what we are planning.”

“I’ve told you not to call me Darling.”

“Sorry — Shali — is that all right?”

“It’s better than Darling.”

“They don’t know what they are talking about. It’s never been used successfully before. The Japs botched it on their subway.”

“Uncle says he will do it for half the price of nuclear.”

“I’m beginning not to trust your relatives.”

“He also says that Turgo already has nuclear components stashed away in the U.S. So transporting would not be a problem.”

“Then why are we talking about ricin?”

“Uncle thought, and I do too, that you should understand what options were available. Like buying an energy efficient car, you know?”

“I have another call. We shouldn’t be talking about this by phone anyway. I hope you’re using the scrambler phone. Tell him it must be nuclear, or no deal.” Muhammad abruptly closed his phone and took a deep draw of his cigarette. His phone rang immediately, playing the first measure of “Stars and Stripes.”

“Yes?”

“Is this Mr. Zero?” It was the dentist Dr. Jamal.

“Who is this?”

“You know who this is.”

“OK. OK. I told you not to call me,” answered Muhammad with considerable annoyance.

“I know. But I wanted to let you know that the extractions have gone very well and the X-rays revealed nothing out of place. However, you will be billed another $500,000 for additional X-rays that were required.”

“My insurance paid you more than that amount up front,” replied Muhammad clearly conveying a threat.

“Oh, there has been a misunderstanding. In the interest of customer satisfaction, I will not charge you for the additional amount.”

“I should think so.”

“I have made arrangements for Dr. Maple Leaf to contact you upon arrival in America for a follow-up appointment.”

“Excellent. I am feeling much better already.” Muhammad closed his phone and leaned back with satisfaction. The sun was inching towards the horizon. Soon the sea would take on its evening luminescence.

*

The large crane swung a container on to the deck of the freighter. Though it was late afternoon at the Port of Mumbai, the sun baked its heat into the pier. Dr. Jamal, standing in the shadow of the crane, watched nervously as a customs officer shouted to the crane operator to stop the loading and began to return the container to the pier. Jamal had thought everything was covered, but he knew from experience that last minute games to extract more bribes were likely. His dock worker through whom he had funneled his initial bribes gesticulated widely, and delivered a torrent of abuse at the customs officer. Jamal reached into his pocket and counted out five $100 notes. He signaled to the dock worker. An incident like this could draw in other officers whom he had not paid off. It could kill the whole project which Jamal knew full well would mean his demise. Shalah Muhammad took personal pleasure in punishing failure.

At last the dock worker saw his signal and let up with his abuse. Jamal’s policy was never to hand a bribe directly to a government official. He always had others do it for him. Multiple layers of corruption were more difficult for investigators to uncover. And it made it easier to ensnare the investigators themselves into the web of corruption. It was not so much the fear of getting caught that concerned Jamal, but the delay it would cause, which would upset the finely organized plan of attack he knew Shalah Muhammad always had in motion.

The dock worker came across. The crane had stopped moving the cargo, and the container hung in midair, half way from the dock, half way to the freighter. Keeping his back to the customs officer, Jamal counted out five $100 bills to the dock worker, plus another for the worker himself who smiled broadly. The customs officer continued to order the container be returned to the dock, but not so forcefully. In fact, he struck up a friendly conversation with the crane operator. With a subtly cowed demeanor the dock worker approached the officer who immediately saw that a resolution was in the offing. He clicked his heels and came to attention. “May I be of service?” He asked politely.

“I just want to thank you for all your help,” said the dock worker as he proffered a hand shake, “thank you very much for your excellent service.”

They shook hands and in the dock worker’s palm was $300 folded into the size of a strip of chewing gum.

“The Government of India at your service sir!” answered the officer as he saluted and clicked his heels once again.

As if on cue, the crane sprang to life and the container was reloaded on to the freighter. In no time at all, the freighter sounded its horn and Jamal watched with great satisfaction and relief as it slowly inched away from the pier.

*

After a brief diversion for an Asian breakfast, which he had missed greatly since leaving Mumbai, Manish Das approached 1 Police Plaza, NYPD HQ via the pedestrian walkway. He was nervous and uncertain about doing this because his boss Professor MacIver had told him that it would be a waste of time, though he had not forbade him from trying. The entire approach to 1 Police Plaza was a stark example of the effects of Nine Eleven. Park Row, once a four lane artery that linked the financial district to Chinatown had been closed off because NYPD feared a terrorist attack on its HQ. It was the direct outcome of his professor’s campaign to get New York to harden its targets.

Das looked up at the squat thirteen story building. It seemed too small a building to house the nerve center of the NYPD, the largest police force in the world. After several checks of his ID, he made it into the lobby and was directed up to the sixth floor where he had an appointment to meet with the Assistant Commissioner in charge of crime prevention. He was immediately confronted by a desk sergeant. She sat bolt upright behind a large, elevated desk. Das showed his ID and was immediately directed to sit as if in a doctor’s waiting room.

An hour went by. Das played with his cell phone. Finally, he lost patience and approached the desk.

“My appointment was for 8.00 AM. It’s now 9.00 AM.”

“Superintendent Askanazy is very busy. There’s a lot of crime to prevent in this city, you know,” she answered officiously.

“I’m here on behalf of Distinguished Professor MacIver. It is urgent. There is a lot to do and very little time left to do it.”

“In this country we patiently wait our turn. Sit down and the commissioner will be here shortly.”

Das paced back and forth in front of the window which looked out on lower Manhattan. He jangled the keys in his pocket, played with his iPhone, doing Google street view of the streets he saw below. At last, he was called.

“Mr. What’s-your-name?” called the desk sergeant.

“Das. Manish Das.”

“The commissioner will see you now.”

Das entered the assistant commissioner’s office, which was but a larger version of the desk sergeant’s. Assistant commissioner Askanazy, a tall, overweight fellow with flushed puffy cheeks, stood in front of his desk, his sizeable rear end leaning against it, arms folded. “So what do you want now?” he asked.

“Professor MacIver asked me to personally hand you the risk assessment protocols that will help you decide what places need protection and what kind of target hardening would be appropriate.”

“I already know the targets at risk. Everyone knows that.”

“This is scientific sir. Not based on whimsy.”

“Whims-what? Speak English for Christ sake!”

“Apologies commissioner. Risk assessment is a scientific way of doing it. Eliminates personal bias or anything else.”

“It’s bull shit, that’s what it is.”

“Science isn’t bull, sir.”

“Look, I don’t need any professor, least of all his student lackey to tell me how to do my job.”

“Commissioner, we must act quickly. There could be an attack any day.

We must know what to protect and how to mitigate the fallout of any attack.”

“We do that by arresting terrorists and criminals and getting them off the streets. That’s how we prevent crime around here.”

“But sir, the mayor!”

“I work for the Commissioner, not the mayor, that hand-wringing liberal progressive!”

“Sir! This has nothing to do with politics! As my professor says, ‘this is science, not politics’!”

“Yeh, sure. Just shows how you pointy headed academics know nothing of the real world.”

“Here are the protocols, commissioner. I am available any time and as much as you want, to help in implementing them.” Das dug into his briefcase and thrust a handful of papers towards Askanazy.

“Just leave them with the sergeant on your way out.”

Das took out his iPhone and began dialing. “Maybe you would like to speak directly with Professor MacIver?”

Askanazy stared over Das’s shoulder.

“Sir? This is Das, sir. I’m in assistant commissioner Askanazy’s office.

He says it’s unnecessary to do a risk assessment, sir.”

“I warned you not to go to him,” answered MacIver.

“Would you speak with him sir?”

“No point. I’ll speak with the mayor.”

“OK, sir. OK. Bye, sir.” Das looked to Askanazy. “He says he will speak with the mayor, sir.”

Askanazy’s face reddened. “Don’t forget to leave the protocols with the sergeant on your way out,” he directed, then turned his back, walked behind his desk and stood, looking out the window.

Das stumbled backwards, then turned and hurried out, stopping briefly to leave the protocol papers with the desk Sergeant.

“Thank you so much!” she said.

Das’s iPhone rang loudly with the sound of Jai Ho, the Slumdog Millionaire hit.

“Hello Professor, sir.”

“The mayor will do it with her people. She’s moving officers on to it from the traffic division. It will be better, anyway.”

“Should I go to City Hall now sir?”

“Yes. Take the protocols and training materials. Do as much as you can.”

Das reached on to the sergeant’s desk and retrieved the protocols.

“Changed your mind?” asked the sergeant sarcastically.

Das left without a word.

9. The Sting

All was not well for would-be terrorists in Newark. Agent Fred Lee had seen to that. Immediately after nine eleven he sent agents to hang out around the mosque and he put aside a special slush fund to pay off Arabic speaking immigrants to inform him of any new arrivals from Saudi Arabia or elsewhere in the Middle East. It didn’t take long for him to discover that some of these “pee-ays” (petty agents) as he called them, were taking money from the NYPD as well. So he paid a visit to the NYPD police commissioner and they came to an understanding of sorts. He wanted to do a sting operation and the commissioner was against it. But since the NYPD had no jurisdiction over anything that happened in Newark, the commissioner had no choice but to go along with it or his cover would be blown and that would be a disaster. They parted cordially, both agreeing to share all intelligence they collected, both having no intention of doing so.

Lee was determined to carry out his sting operation. These stings never failed, always resulted in lots of arrests, the juries always convicted in spite of the usual entrapment defense put up by the government paid defense lawyers. Most important, though, a successful sting operation would get him noticed in D.C. and set him on a sure path out of this rat-hole they called Newark.

The day before, he picked up his vintage FBI style dark gray suit from the dry cleaners run by immigrants from Libya, or so they said. He gave them extra good tips and they gave him excellent service and any information they thought he might be able to use. In fact, he first met his future quarries in the dry cleaners. They had heavy accents and said they were from Iraq. They laughed and joked around and seemed like regular guys. But Fred Lee knew better. The dry cleaners gave him their addresses and he sent a couple of his agents to pal up with them. One of them worked as a security guard for a local private security outfit, the other drove a taxi. They went to the local mosque regularly so their heads were sure to be filled with the hate-America drivel spewed forth by the local mullah. It didn’t take long for his agents to rope them in. The hardest part of the operation was to get a hold of an old non-functioning shoulder-fired grenade launcher. He had contacts at the armory in Hoboken. It took several weeks, but finally they were able to smuggle one out of the armory and get it to him.

*

This morning, Fred Lee shaved with his best razor that he saved for special occasions. After each stroke, he ran his fingers over his skin behind the razor. It was beautifully smooth, as smooth as, well, let’s not say it. He combed his short cropped sandy hair and admired his figure in the mirror, naked except for a tightly fitting undershirt and bikini style briefs. He carefully slid into his tailored white shirt perfectly pressed by his Libyans; each button he meticulously pressed through its button hole. He followed with his suit pants, slipping the elastic suspenders over his shoulders. Next was his gun holster, which fitted snuggly over his shoulder, the gun nestling close to his arm pit. The jacket fitted nicely over all, leaving just a slight bulge where his gun was. Exactly as he wanted it. He patted himself down.

It was hard for him to leave the mirror. He released his phone from the charger and bounded down the stairs to the front door and out to the leafy streets of Ridgewood, his haven from Newark. Just around the corner he would stop off for his usual donut and coffee at Donut Queen where Agent Crosby would be waiting for him.

*

Take President Obama, add about a foot and, with a tweak or two, you have Agent Danforth Crosby. The tweaks are significant, though, mainly because of director Lee’s insistence that Agent Crosby have his hair done in dread locks so he would look more authentic African American and blend in with the local culture. Crosby offered to grow a bushy beard as well, but for the director that would have been too much. “We blend, we don’t become,” the director liked to repeat in his most superior tone. Crosby pointed out that if he were Islamic, it would be part of his religion so he would be within his rights to have a bushy beard.

“But you’re not Islamic, Crosby,” said the director shaking his finger at him, “who do you think you are, the ACLU?” At which he simply turned away as if there were no possibility for Crosby to counter that perfect truth.

At 5.00 a.m. Agent Crosby was up feeding his one-year old. Now this was fortunate because it was the morning when he had to be out at Ridgewood to pick up his boss in time to get back to Newark to conduct surveillance of the Newark mosque, monitor the crowds as they left after dawn prayer. This time of the morning it would be about a twenty minute drive and he would pick him up at the Donut Queen as usual. He got really annoyed with his boss because he had insisted that they had to do this operation for the dawn prayer session. There was no good reason that it be then. The midday Dhuhr, about 1.00 pm. in Newark, would do just as well. It was especially annoying given that his boss would oversleep as usual and he’d be left double parked outside the Donut Queen. He usually dropped the kids off at daycare on his way to pick up the director, but this morning he could not, so he had made a deal with his wife that she would take the kids to day care and that he would pick them up.

Agent Crosby managed to quiet the baby and as soon as he heard his wife moving about upstairs, he stepped out into the dirty street of Newark. The place was basically a slum, but again it was not his choice to live there. Director Lee had told him that he must live “in the hood” as he insultingly called it, as part of his blending into the culture. Then Lee added insult to injury by making him pick him up every morning in the company car, and some company car it was, a Honda Fit into which it was a miracle to be observed every morning that a person so tall, with limbs like Spiderman’s, managed to get every part of himself inside that tiny car, let alone drive it.

Agent Crosby arrived at the Donut Queen at exactly 6.10 am, but as expected, the director was nowhere to be seen. So he double parked as usual and bought himself a long black coffee and three jelly donuts. He had read the entire local paper that lay on the counter by the time his boss showed up.

“Good morning, sir,” Crosby said.

“I suppose that’s your third?” remarked Lee, pointing to the donut.

“Well, I’ve been waiting for a while.”

“You’ll get fat and have a heart attack,” he said and continued without waiting for Crosby to respond, “I’ll take a large coffee, with three fingers of half-and-half, three sugars and a glazed donut.”

“Hey let me get it, sir,” offered Crosby.

“How many times have I told you, Crosby, that it’s not ethical? We each pay for our own, no matter where or when. Are you eating jelly-filled again?”

“I am. I can’t give them up,” smiled Crosby.

“Danforth, how many times have I told you that the jelly will spurt out and drip down on your suit?”

“It’s worth the risk, sir. And please don’t call me Danforth. Only my wife calls me that, and I don’t like her calling me that either.”

“In any case, Crosby, listen to me. FBI men never take risks, not even with jelly donuts.”

“OK. I’ll try sir.”

“We’re doing a pickup today. How will it look if you show up and put cuffs on the suspects and there’s red jelly all down your jacket?”

“Not too good, I guess.’

“Then don’t do it again, or next time I will put it in your evaluation.”

Crosby tried changing the topic. “So how are we doing for time? Will the men be in place?”

“We’re running a bit late, but I called up the mosque to find out when this morning’s session ended. Won’t be until 7.00 AM. They have some visiting mullah from Texas or somewhere. The ATF guys have been told.

They’ll be in their positions by the time we get there.”

They both looked out the window to the street just in time to see a parking attendant about to write a ticket for double parking. Director Lee was by her side in a flash. He looked around, then showed his FBI badge and said, in his most serious tone, “Officer, FBI. We’re on special assignment.”

“So I see,” replied the attendant, eyeing his donut. She put her docket book away and moved on. “Have a nice day,” she called over her shoulder.

*

Most likely, Director Lee had misunderstood the prayer times he had been told over the phone. In any case, their quarries had still not appeared in front of the mosque, in spite of many comings and goings. Crosby had finally found a parking spot just across from the mosque, thanks to the little Honda that could fit in just about any little gap. Director Lee had long ago told the ATF guys to step down and be on call, await his signal. Midday prayer had come and should have been gone. Director Lee had settled down for a nap, having ordered Crosby to remain vigilant. Crosby, chronically short of sleep because of his kids not sleeping through, slept soundly too. It was only thanks to a sharp pain in both his legs, pins and needles of the most excruciating kind, that awoke him and he noticed a stream of people exiting the mosque. He combated his pins and needles by opening a power bar to munch. And just as he took the first bite, Director Lee awoke suddenly with a shiver.

“What’s this? Crosby, you’re eating on duty! You know that’s against the rules! Only allowed when you are working undercover.”

“We are undercover, aren’t we?”

“Get rid of it or I’ll write you up! This is the second time today!”

“Sorry, sir. It’s gone.” He crammed the entire bar into his mouth and chewed ferociously.

“They’re coming out.” Lee opened his phone and tapped out his instructions to the ATF. Agent Crosby stirred and opened his door. His legs would not move. “Aahh, my legs,” he winced.

“Come on Crosby. Let’s go. I think I see them.”

“Sir, couldn’t we use a larger car? This is really hard for me.”

“I’ve told you many times. It’s FBI policy to blend in with our communities. We don’t want to turn them off by sporting a fancy big car. Hearts and minds, remember. Hearts and minds.”

Lee sprinted across the road followed by Agent Crosby, limping badly. Suddenly Lee stopped almost in the center of the road and pointedly surveyed the rooftops above. He raised his hand with thumb thrust upwards. He rushed forward just in time to confront two men in western dress, wearing telltale black and white checkered scarves.

Director Lee stood tall, all five foot five inches of him, holding up his badge. “FBI! You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit a terrorist act. Cuff them Agent!”

A crowd of onlookers exiting the mosque began to gather as it watched Agent Crosby efficiently handcuff the suspects.

“Very good, Agent. At least they taught you something useful at Quantico. Read them their rights.”

Agent Crosby pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and began to read them their rights.

“You can’t say them by memory?” asked Lee incredulously.

“I don’t want to mess up sir,” Crosby responded.

The suspects stood petrified. The crowd of onlookers was getting larger and some were inching closer. Someone called out, “What did they do?” and another, “Leave them alone you bullies!”

Director Lee was trying to find his phone. “I’ll call for the pickup,” he said, “and you better pat them down. They might have knives or guns.”

Crosby, however, had messed up reading their rights and had started over so now was trying to pat them down at the same time.

“You have the right to remain silent…”

“OK. Bring the van around. We’ve got them,” ordered director Lee.

A black Escalade pulled up and the rear doors opened. The suspects still had not spoken. Now the small crowd was becoming an angry mob. Onlookers began to jeer and they were closing in. One spat at the feet of Director Lee and moved as if to attack him, or at least that is what Lee later testified. Said he thought he had a knife. So he looked up to one of his spotters and gave the signal. There was a loud crack and a bullet whistled past Lee’s ear, or so he thought. He dropped to the ground yelling,

“Down! Down! We’re under attack!” The bullet crashed harmlessly into the pavement, spraying small shards of concrete into the crowd which quickly dispersed, people running frantically in every direction.

Crosby, either unaware of events or completely calm, ushered the suspects into the Escalade. “Where are we taking them, sir?” he asked.

Lee struggled to his feet, brushing down his best suit. “To my office of course!” he answered.

“But we can’t hold them there sir. We don’t have enough room.”

“My office! I’ll follow in the Honda.” But Lee didn’t follow, he led. He placed the blue flashing light on top of the Honda Fit and zipped forward, speeding through the traffic, squeezing through tight spaces, like a roller derby player. Of course, he went through the ten red lights between the mosque and the FBI headquarters which were located on Washington Street. He arrived well before the van which had been held up in the traffic snarls mostly caused by Lee running the red lights. He screeched to a halt right in front of the Grand Old Liberty Insurance building and parked illegally. He flashed his badge to the parking officer who stood, hands on hips, not at all pleased.

“FBI! Counter terrorism operation in progress! Make way! Make Way!” ordered Lee.

The Escalade pulled in. Agent Crosby stepped out, grinning. “Now this is my kind of car,” he said to the director. The back doors opened and Crosby awkwardly grabbed at the suspects trying to help them down. They were now in leg chains so they half fell out of the van as Crosby pulled at them. He then prodded them towards the entrance.

The FBI office was on the top, fifteenth floor of the Old Liberty Insurance building, the oldest multi-story building in Newark, complete with beehive turret on the top. The suspects shuffled towards the grand brassy entrance, the revolving doors spinning as people came out. Agent Crosby pushed the suspects towards the doors and they fell down, unable to cope with the speed of the doors because of the chains on their legs. The door was jammed and someone else was trapped on the other side. Crosby tried to push the door around, but it would not budge. The person on the other side was yelling obscenities. Crosby looked to his boss for help.

“Pull them out Agent! Pull them out! Didn’t they teach you anything at Quantico?”

The suspects were panic stricken. One began to scream. Director Lee ignored it all and continued with his orders. “And what about the rocket launcher? Bring it too!”

Agent Crosby left the suspects to their plight and returned to the Escalade, pulled out a large shoulder firing grenade launcher and carried it towards the revolving door. The crowd of onlookers reeled back in horror when they saw it. One of the onlookers, rather frightened, opened the side door and beckoned to Crosby. At that moment, a loud police siren sounded, immediately followed by the arrival of a Newark Police vehicle.

It was Captain Buck Buick.

“You guys need a regular cop, that’s what you need,” called Buick. “Hey, Freddy! Why didn’t you tell me you were doing your pick-up?”

Crosby, Lee, the crowd, all watched Buick in silence. “Just a minute,” he said as he strode forward and wrenched the door back, dragging the suspects out. They cried out as their limbs were twisted and squashed against the door. “OK animals. Let’s go!” Buick pulled them upright then roughly pushed them forward to the open side door. The suspects were traumatized. The helpful citizen kept the door open, but tried to stand back as far as he could as though he were about to be infected with vermin.

“Are you gonna keep ‘em over night?" asked Buick.

“We’ll need longer than that.”

“Then why didn’t you call me? We can use the Newark lock-up. You don’t have one, do you?”

“We don’t. But rules are that I have to question them at official FBI headquarters. There’s the U.S. flag and everything. You don’t have one in your lock-up do you?”

“You guys are really dopey.”

“What was that?”

“Hope it’s gonna work. Reckon you’ve got a good case?”

“Watertight. We never lose with these stings. Juries always convict.”

Buick and Lee stepped into the now functioning revolving door. They entered the old marble lobby which was laced with lots of shiny brass and indiscernible sculptures set into the ceiling and walls. Agent Crosby finally entered through the side door and placed the rocket launcher against the wall, beside the elevator, which he then held open. Buick roughly pushed the suspects in. “Come on animals!” he growled. They all piled in and rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor.

“Captain Buick. They’re suspects. Innocent until proved guilty. Treat them with respect,” cautioned Lee.

“You want help with the interrogation?”

“Not from you. The FBI knows best how to question a terrorist suspect, especially when it’s been a sting operation. Don’t want to mess up our case.”

“As you wish. But they won’t break for you softies. Call me when you need me. It’s more than just this one case, you know. We have to find out when it will be.”

“When what will be?”

“You know, our special mission with the mayor.”

“But that’s the point. We have the terrorists. We’ve foiled the plot.”

The elevator reached the fifteenth floor. As Buick pushed the suspects out the door he called, “yeh, right! I’ll await your call.” He looked with amusement at Lee. The elevator doors closed and he hit the button for the lobby as and he chuckled to himself all the way down.

*

The FBI office took up a small corner of the fifteenth floor. It was one room in which were crammed a very large desk with an exotically leather padded desk chair, a very large U.S. flag standing to the side, a small student sized desk with wooden chair in one corner for Agent Crosby, and one chair for visitors placed squarely in front of the Director’s desk. Director Lee slipped quickly behind his desk. Agent Crosby, unsure what to do, left the suspects standing and went to sit at his desk.

“Agent Crosby, another chair for the suspects,” ordered Lee, as he leafed through a folder on his desk. Crosby brought his chair to the suspects and they struggled to sit, unused to managing their chains and hand cuffs.

“Now gentlemen, let’s talk civilly, shall we? Our undercover agent has you on video buying a rocket launcher. Before we picked you up, we paid a visit to your home and retrieved it.”

Lee looked around the room. “Agent, where’s the launcher?” he said with annoyance.

“Oh. I left it in the elevator,” Crosby apologized. He made to leave but stopped, worried that he was leaving his boss alone with two terrorists.

“Go on, go get it!” ordered Lee, and Crosby obeyed.

Lee continued to address the suspects. “Of course, the launcher is non-functioning. You couldn’t have done any damage.” He looked at each of the suspects trying to make eye contact. They looked at the floor. “What are your names?” he asked. They did not answer. Of course, he had their names in the folder right in front of him, but he had to admit that he did not know which was which. They were both about the same height and build, both had lots of black wavy hair, both had black bushy beards, both had checkered scarves. “Your names?” he repeated, this time in a much louder voice. Still they remained silent. Lee drummed his fingers on his prized cherry wood desk that he had personally picked out at Raymore and Flannigan. “Alright, then, if that’s the way you want it. I’ll call you both Abdul. You,” he pointed to the one on his left, “you’re Abdul One, and your pal is Abdul Two.”

“We are innocent. You tricked us!” blurted out Abdul One.

“We want a lawyer,” complained Abdul Two, “this is America. We have a right to our lawyer.”

“Of course you do. It’s only right. Do you want to call one now?”

“Yes,” replied Abdul Two, “this is wrong.”

“We were just fooling around,” said Abdul One.

“Buying a launcher isn’t just fooling around.”

Agent Crosby returned with the launcher.

“Is this the launcher?” asked Lee, pointing to the weapon.

“Might be,” shrugged Abdul One.

“You were planning a terrorist attack. When were you planning to carry it out? Nine eleven?”

“We had no plans,” said Abdul One. “We were just fooling around!

Please, you must believe us!”

“You’ll get for certain life in prison without parole, maybe the death penalty,” Lee said, looking at them very seriously, but still getting no eye contact. “If you cooperate, I can try to get the U.S. Prosecutor to go easy on you.”

“But there’s nothing more to tell,” complained Abdul Two with a whimper, “you know everything. You have it all on video, you said.”

“We want to confirm the planned date of the attack, and the names of others involved. Just two people can’t carry out an attack of this magnitude. Especially if the target is Ground Zero, and it is, right?”

Abdul One looked alarmed. “No! No! We know nothing of this.”

“There are no others!” added Abdul Two.

“I want names and target confirmation,” demanded Lee.

The suspects began to sob. They bowed their heads as far as they could.

“Please believe us. We are just ordinary men with families and jobs. I am a taxi driver. He is a security guard,” pleaded Abdul One.

“We know,” answered Lee calmly.

“We want our lawyer please,” said Abdul Two, daring to lift his eyes just a little.

“As you wish. But I could make it much easier for you.” Lee signaled to Crosby to hand Abdul Two the telephone.

“I want to call my wife,” said Abdul Two.

“Wife or lawyer. Your choice,” said Lee.

Abdul Two made his call and began an hysterical conversation with his wife. It was all in Arabic. Abdul One sat hunched rocking back and forth on the chair. He muttered to himself in Arabic.

Agent Crosby then leaned over the director’s desk to speak to his boss.

“Sir, this is the day I have to pick up my kids from day care. I have to leave in ten minutes.”

Lee pushed back into his chair, and cranked the handle to raise the chair to its highest position. He shook his finger at Crosby. “God, Country, then Family. Wait till we’re done,” he lectured.

“But sir, we had an agreement.”

“We’re dealing with terrorism here, Agent Crosby! It’s not just some common crime!”

“Please, sir! Let’s call in Captain Buick then, to take my place. My wife’s away. I can’t put my kids at risk.”

Director Lee stared at his underling and then at the suspects who were now conversing rapidly in Arabic. Suddenly, they appeared to him as impenetrable, hostile Al Qaeda operatives. But he had made an agreement.

And it would be a good excuse to call in Buick. “All right. Then before you go, call Buick and arrange for him to pick up our friends here and transfer them to the Newark PD lock-up.”

“Thank you. I won’t forget this, sir.”

Agent Crosby snatched the phone from the suspects and called Captain Buick.

8. Family Visit

Sarah was full of apprehension as she slid into the back seat of the well-polished black Mercedes C240. The driver closed the door softly behind her and gave a slight nod of his head. He spoke no English.

“How long till we get there?” she asked in her excellent Russian, even if with a quaint Ukrainian accent.

“Ah, you are from Ukraine?”

“Sort of. I was born there but my parents migrated to America when I was five. How long till we get there?”

“It will be about two hours.”

“That long?”

“The last hour is through mountains. Very beautiful though. Best in the world.”

Sarah Kohmsky had never met her uncle Sergey, even though when she spoke with him on the phone, he behaved as though he saw her every day and had watched her grow up. “And what of my other uncle?” she had asked. Uncle Sergey had simply replied, “Oh, he’s gone. Been gone a long time.” She had not followed up. She wasn’t sure what “gone” meant.

The car glided through the dull streets of Bishtek. These former Soviet towns — that’s all this was, really, hardly a city — seemed to embody her father’s personality, depressed, dull and gray, never quite coming alive, people looking vacantly in front of them as though there was nothing to look for, or look at. It was a terrible atmosphere of emptiness, or maybe better described as loneliness. Her father was always alone. That’s what had made her so alone herself. No, detached, maybe that was a better way to put it. He was disconnected from people and didn’t seem to know why, didn’t seem to even realize the extent of his loneliness. She could not remember feeling close to him; in fact she could not remember ever being hugged by him, or even touched by him. He must have surely. But she couldn’t remember one instance. He never spoke, he never touched. He just thought. Or at least, that’s what she assumed he was doing in all that silence.

Her uncle Sergey didn’t sound that way at all on the phone. In fact, just the opposite. He talked and talked like it was just yesterday. How he and her dad had played soccer and ice hockey together. How they had explored the streams and hills of the Ukraine. It sounded like just one happy childhood. Was he really her uncle? But Shalah had assured her that he was indeed her uncle, and Shalah would know. His network of spies discovered this fact by accident when they were searching for a reliable Russian mafia group with whom they could contract to do the new nine eleven attack.

Shalah was convinced that the Americans would not be looking for Russians, but for Islamic militants. In fact, he knew that was their mindset from his spies in New Jersey. It was a nice surprise when an old photograph of Sarah turned up in uncle Sergey’s dossier put together by one of his operatives. He had recognized her immediately, even though she must have been just a teenager when it was taken. And Sarah had later confirmed it when he showed it to her. She couldn’t understand how her uncle could have got the photograph because she thought that her father never communicated with him, never heard from him again, once they left Chernobyl. Her mom had told her that uncle Sergey had worked at the power plant, but was not there at the time of the disaster. In fact she did not know where he was. She never mentioned the other brother. Her mom must have secretly sent the photo, though how she knew where to send it was a mystery. Unless, unless it had to do with those strange envelopes stuffed with money that would come from the Soviet, with the Chernobyl postmark. Sarah wondered, now, how the money could have gotten through the corrupt and penniless postal workers of the USSR, and even later under the Ukraine when after the collapse of the Soviet Union, nobody had any money, food, or anything. Was it uncle Sergey who sent the money?

*

Her driver had switched on the radio which, Sarah was pleasantly surprised, was playing Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto. Trouble was the driver hummed along with it, out of tune. Classical music was never meant to be hummed to, she thought, even if the hummer were in tune.

They were in the mountains now. It was high summer and they were just beginning to leave behind the rich greens of the oaks and maples and elms, climbing higher into the firs and pines. The snow covered peaks could be glimpsed if she pushed her face against the window, or looked up through the moon roof. The narrow but well-made road curved graciously through the mountains and valleys. She saw waterfalls, whitewater, precipices and deer. Her driver was right. This was a beautiful place, perhaps the most beautiful and unspoiled scenery she had seen.

“Are we getting close?” she asked.

“In a few minutes. You will be happy to see your uncle again, eh?”

“Quite,” she answered.

Sarah saw the road rise steeply ahead, and the driver shifted down a cog. The Mercedes responded and gave a throaty hum as it surged forward. At the very top of the steep rise, the forest cleared and a large wrought iron gate slowly opened ahead of them. The car slowed, rolled into an immense cobblestone courtyard and pulled up in front of a huge stone villa, where uncle Sergey stood waiting at the bottom of a large flight of heavy stone steps. Her driver jumped out and hurried round to her door.

Uncle Sergey put out his hand. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he smiled.

“Hello uncle Sergey.”

“My dear, how beautiful you have grown!”

“But we’ve never met. How do you know that?” quipped Sarah.

“Ah, just like your dad. No time for formalities! Of course I have seen your photographs.”

“How? My dad never communicated with anyone, least of all you.”

“Men, Russian men. What can I say? Of course your mom kept in touch from time to time.”

“She never said anything to me.”

“Probably, she did not want your dad to know.”

“Well, whatever. Nice place you have here.”

“Wait till you see the view!”

Sergey leaned forward and tried to complete his welcome by gently kissing Sarah on each cheek. She allowed him, but did not really respond. He stood back and said, looking into her round and almost smiling face, “My dear, welcome, welcome. It’s a terrible thing that our families have been broken up for so long. Family. When you come right down to it, that’s all we have, you know.”

Now Sarah did smile, not happily, but at her uncle’s lame attempt at wisdom. “Yes, uncle Sergey, at last we are together,” she said, almost mocking him.

“Ah, your father all over again. It’s amazing, but very reassuring,” said Sergey, grasping her hands affectionately. “Come, let’s get you settled.”

Three men dressed in black suits descended the stairs to retrieve her luggage. Uncle Sergey took Sarah’s arm and guided her up the steps. They spoke Russian.

“I didn’t know you lived so well, uncle Sergey.”

“And would you believe, on no income!”

“You Chechens always were resourceful.”

“When you have a government that can’t pay you, you must look for other means.”

“You are Chechen, right?”

“If you say so, my dear.”

Sarah laughed and went as if to kiss uncle Sergey on the cheek, but did not quite do so. She had to resist getting too close to him. It could interfere with business. She turned to look out across the valley.”

“Yes, Sarah, that is all mine, or more or less mine. It’s the government’s of course, but I take care of it for them. The great waterfall you see down there,” he pointed across to the right of the villa, “runs a hydroelectric station that produces enough power to supply most of Bishtek.”

“Amazing!”

“Come inside my dear, I hear we have big business to discuss.”

They entered the huge lobby, large enough for a hotel, which it actually was, since uncle Sergey employed “many men doing many things,” as he described them, and he liked to keep them close to him. The lobby was over furnished with very large items hewn from natural logs. There were stuffed animals and animal heads on the walls, giving the impression of a well-used hunting lodge. Sarah looked down and saw that she was standing on a thick rug of a black bear, complete with head.

“I’d like to freshen up a little before we get started, if that’s OK.”

“Yes of course. How inconsiderate of me. Petrovka will show you to your room.” He signaled to a maid standing in a far off corner of the lobby.

*

Uncle Sergey stepped out of the lobby on to the top of the landing overlooking the steps and the view of the waterfall. He opened his phone and began to text, but then changed his mind and made a call instead.

“Turgo?”

“What is it?”

“I just want to be sure you’re on board with this.”

“She’s here?”

“Yes. Now this is what I’m going to do. No, wait a minute. I don’t want to do this on the phone. Meet me down at the observation tower. I’m going there now.”

“Down gravel path?”

“Yes.”

“I come.”

The observation tower jutted out from the villa and was entered from the outside. It literally hung out over a precipice, giving an unnerving view of the waterfall and the hydroelectric generating plant. Sergey entered the glass enclosed deck and looked back up the path to see Turgo shuffling along. He cut a pathetic figure, hunched over in his disheveled gray suit, too big for him, looking like he had slept in it, and probably he had. Poor Turgo, thought Sergey, he’s fallen on hard times, but soon all that will change.

*

Turgo had been his boss at the Chernobyl power station. But neither of them was there for the disaster. In fact, they were far away in Bishtek selling nuclear waste to one of Khadafy’s henchmen. Turgo had reluctantly joined Sergey on his first adventure. And it was an adventure, since they had done the deal, and got half the money, when news of the Chernobyl disaster reached them and the Libyan had demanded his money back because, he said, obviously they could not produce the goods. It was then that Sergey decided that he was a Chechen, and disposed of the Libyan right there in front of Turgo.

“These Libyans are no good anyway,” he said as he pocketed his revolver.

Turgo was mortified. He was such a worrier. He stood there shivering and shaking and whining. “I’m going back to the plant in Chernobyl. I can’t do this kind of work,” he whimpered.

“It’s not work. It’s adventure! Besides you can’t go back to Chernobyl.

It’s radioactive.”

”I’ve got to. What about my family?”

“Forget about your family. Worry about yourself.” Sergey realized he said the wrong thing. That’s all he does is worry, he mused. He fiddled with his revolver in his pocket. Turgo watched him and became frightened.

“Don’t worry. I won’t do anything to you. Go on. Go off wherever you want. But my advice is to stay away from Chernobyl,” said Sergey.

Of course, Turgo went back to Chernobyl, or at least he tried to. He could not get within fifty miles of the place and ended up on the streets of little towns begging for money or a bit of food. It was a few years later when Sergey encountered Turgo working at the counter of the Tulgovichi post office. He couldn’t believe it. Turgo at first pretended not to recognize him, but soon, weak as he was, he gave in.

“How did you end up here?” Sergey asked.

“It’s a long story. My wife and daughter. They are both dead. Radioactive poisoning they said. I got a pension, or used to until the Union collapsed. Then I managed to find a job here when the worker and his family also died.”

“Your good fortune, huh?” observed Sergey, insensitive as usual. Turgo did not answer. “I need you to do me a favor,” continued Sergey. Turgo looked apprehensive and said nothing. “Can you mail this small package and make it look like it came from Chernobyl?”

“What’s in it?”

“Money. And I know how much is there. So don’t try swiping it. I’ll give you $100 to take care of it.”

Turgo looked at him puzzled, but too timid to ask him why he was doing this. He looked at the address and recognized the name. “Oh, I see.

I’d be very pleased to do it. And the return address?”

“Make it this post office, and to you or any name you want to make up.

But not mine.”

*

Turgo, lost in thought, entered the observation tower, leaving the door open behind him.

“Turgo!” yelled Sergey. “Close the door. The noise of the waterfall is deafening. We need to talk.”

Turgo pushed the door shut. He looked at Sergey, a mixture of apprehension and longing in his eyes.

“OK. Now, are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Of course,” said Turgo, “I am nuclear scientist, I was top of class in my heyday.”

“It looks like this is all going to happen. I’ll provide you with four assistants, two of them bodyguards and the other two technical assistants.

Some of them are already in the USA.”

“What must I do?”

“When you get there, take delivery of two disassembled Nag missiles and assemble them.”

“Ah yes, those are the new Indian short range ones. Very good! And the payloads?”

“Here’s the challenge. Our clients want nuclear tips. But frankly, I think they’re crazy, or at least don’t fully comprehend the technical challenge of installing nuclear tips and further, we don’t have anything nuclear that we could adapt to these missiles, do we?”

“You are right. Nuclear tips have never been installed or tested on these short range missiles. The stuff we have either here or stashed away in the USA will not work. Or at least would take a year or more to adapt.”

“Here’s my strategy. I’ll try to talk my niece into doing a bio toxin payload. Ricin. That hasn’t been tried either, but at least it's easier to do, isn’t it?

“And the ricin?”

“You will have to manufacture it over there. It’s easy to do. My young brother Nicholas, an American, will get the castor oil from which you can make it and he’ll set up a manufacturing lab in the kitchen of the safe house which he has acquired already.”

“I have never made ricin before, but I hear it’s not difficult. However, it’s the delivery that is the challenge.”

“So innovate. I suggest some common explosive payload laced with ricin.

“I can do that. This is for both missiles?”

“We do one with ricin and the other we do with high explosive to make as big a bang as possible. Has to look good, you know. That’s what our clients like most of all.”

“And the explosives? Where are they?”

“They are already in the safe house. Nicholas acquired it. He can get anything.”

“What type of explosive?”

“That I don’t know. I just told Nicholas we wanted high explosives that can be packed into a small space. Now we come to the most important part. We cannot, repeat, cannot, tell our clients any of this. And this applies especially to my niece. She’s very sharp I can see, and she also works for one of Iran’s most ruthless terrorists, or maybe it’s Al Qaeda. Who knows? I don’t really care. So you say nothing. You push your role as the nuclear scientist. Got it?”

“I do understand.”

“I will tell her that we already have the nuclear materials stashed away in our safe house in New Jersey.”

“New where?”

“New Jersey, idiot! America! It’s a state that is right next to New York. You don’t know that and you even have a Green Card?”

“Whatever you say, Sergey. I can do whatever you want. But —”

“But what?”

“What about the money?”

“It’s going to be a lot of money, more than you will be able to spend in your lifetime. Sarah’s outfit has money coming out of its eyeballs. I don’t know where they get it, although I have my suspicions. Anyway, I don’t care, so long as we get our share of it.”

“And how much is that?”

“We’ll know after we have talked with my beautiful and smart long lost niece. You just be sure you make no slip-ups. She’ll catch on if you do. Then she’ll report to her boss, and we’ll be done for. And I mean done for.”

*

Uncle Sergey walked across the lobby to meet Sarah as she followed the maid into the room. Turgo followed, haltingly, not sure whether he should follow or not. Uncle Sergey grasped Sarah’s hand with great joy and turned to Turgo.

“Turgo! Come meet my beautiful niece!”

Sara strutted forward and vigorously shook Turgo’s limp hand.

“I am the nuclear scientist,” blurted Turgo, “pleased to meet you, miss?””

“I’m Sarah, Sarah Kohmsky. Call me Sarah. Pleased to meet you.”

“Ah yes, Kohmsky. Pleased I meet you. Think I knew your father years ago, even before you born,” replied Turgo, trying hard to be enthusiastic but not to make any slips.

Uncle Sergey led them to the large coffee table that sat not far from the lobby entrance, surrounded by deep overstuffed couches and chairs, upholstered in rich off-black leather. They sat towards one corner of the table, Sarah sitting separate on a chair, the other two on a couch.

“Now, my dear, tell us what you want. My best wishes by the way to your mom and dad,” Uncle Sergey added.

“I come from my colleague Shalah Muhammad, who I think you know, uncle Sergey.”

“A shit-head, that much we know. But he is a very good operator.” He immediately noted that his remark upset Sarah. Was there a spark there? He wondered.

“We are planning,” Sarah looked around the room.

“It’s OK. You are among loyal friends. Nothing will go beyond these walls.”

At this moment Petrovka appeared with a tray of Russian tea and placed it on the table. Sarah waited for her to leave. “We need a scientist who can reassemble two mini Nag missiles and attach nuclear tips.”

“Of course, I am scientist,” said Turgo, “but missiles, they very new, no?”

“Yes, the very latest model. And they should be on the way to the port of Mumbai as we speak.”

“That Muhammad, he’s good all right,” mused Sergey.

“It’s who you know, and he knows everyone.”

“I bet he does,” said uncle Sergey, convinced that he saw a very slight reddening of Sarah’s cheeks. “And what do you want from us? More importantly, how much will you pay?”

“We’d like you to arrange shipment of the missiles out of Mumbai through the Port of Newark. Then provide technicians to reassemble them and add nuclear tips. Shalah tells me that you already have safe houses in the New Jersey area.”

“And then?”

“Fire them of course, and hit the target.”

“This Newark, it’s close to New York City, right?” asked Turgo.

“Right. About sixteen kilometers, but the launch will be North of Newark, more like thirty kilometers away from Manhattan.”

“So what is the target?”

“The target is Ground Zero. Or, as they are starting to call it, now that the tower is near completion, Freedom Tower.”

“Ground What? What is that?” asked Turgo.

“What was left after Bin Laden destroyed the twin towers on nine eleven.” Sarah turned to Sergey. “Can you do it?” she asked.

“For how much?”

“Ten million dollars now, another five million when you hit the target,” she paused, “with both missiles of course.”

Uncle Sergey looked over at Turgo who smiled nervously. Sergey could almost see the dollar signs in his retinas.

“How much time?” asked Turgo.

“It must be right on the anniversary of the Bin Laden attack. September 11, 8.34 AM. U.S. eastern standard time.”

“That gives us roughly two months,” observed Uncle Sergey.

“Can you do it?”

“It is too little time, unless we get the missiles there within two weeks,” complained Turgo with his characteristic negativity that attracted a disapproving glance from Sergey.

“For that amount of money, we can do it,” said Sergey.

“Excellent!”

“And now the down payment?”

“Do you have an Hawala?”

“Of course. He is my nephew.”

“Tell him to call this number in Dubai, code word zero.” Sarah handed over a cell phone, but then pulled it back. She had forgotten Shalah’s exhortation:

We must, absolutely must, have the nuclear tips. The operation is nothing without them.

Holding on to the phone, she looked hard into uncle Sergey’s face, examining every line on it, watching his eyelids flutter, nostrils pulled down, his bottom teeth, stained with nicotine, pressing on his upper lip.

“You understand,” she warned, “that we must have the nuclear tips. Without them the operation is nothing.”

“No problem my dear. We already have a store of nuclear materials tucked away in the USA. We saved them for just this purpose. My brother in America has it all set up.”

“That’s very good to know,” said Sarah, then, suddenly realizing what Sergey had said, looking very puzzled, she asked, “wait a minute, you said your brother in America? My father is part of your operation? Surely not!”

Uncle Sergey coughed a little to clear his throat. He had made a slip.

“Did I say that?” he asked with feigned surprise, “no, of course, not your dad. Good heavens, could you imagine that? The poor old man is stuck in the 19th century and will never get out of it, you know that.”

“I do,” said Sarah suspiciously, “so who do you mean?”

“It was no one. Just an operative. I don’t know how I could have said that. Naturally, I think of all my operatives as family,” he said unconvincingly.

Sarah leaned across to her uncle sticking her chin out just like her mother did when she was upset and determined to get her way, which wasn’t often. “Uncle Sergey, or whoever you are, you need to come clean with me. I can’t do business with someone who is holding back on me, who I can’t trust.”

There was a long silence, broken only by Sergey clearing his throat, and Turgo strangely beginning to hum, almost under his breath. Sergey had to reveal the truth. “All right. But I tell you it’s not a good idea to know too many names of those who you are dealing with in such a big operation as this one. Anyway, your boss probably already knows who it is.

“Well?”

“It is my little brother Nicholas, your uncle. He is fourteen years younger than me, sixteen younger than your dad.”

“But why is he in America? Is he actually American?”

“He left Russia when he was just fifteen years old, just around the Chernobyl disaster and never came back. Then some years later I heard through my other contacts that he was involved in exporting cars out of Newark, and we have done business ever since.”

“I don’t believe you. I’ll ask my dad.”

“There’s no point. Your mom and dad know nothing of him, least of all that he has been in Newark all the time you have been in New York.”

“I want his phone number.”

“That’s not a good idea, Sarah. It puts him at risk; you and me as well.”

“Give it to me, or our deal stops right now.”

Uncle Sergey got up and paced up and down the bear rug, looking at the bear’s face staring up at him. Then he sat down again. “You promise not to call him until after the successful completion of our operation?”

“Fair enough. Give it to me.”

Uncle Sergey opened his phone and scrolled down his contact list. He tapped the contact and showed the phone to Sarah, who copied it into her own phone.

“Thank you uncle Sergey,” she said with a sweet smile, “now where were we?”

“I said we had nuclear materials all ready at our safe house in Newark.”

“Oh, yes. I was about to say again that Shalah will be really pissed off if the attack is not nuclear. He has heard that you were pushing for a bio toxin attack with ricin.”

“Ricin? No, not at all. We can do it of course, and it would be very spectacular if I may say so. A real first in terrorism!”

“Yes, very good. And I could do it too!” added Turgo, trying to be helpful.

“Uncle, no! There will be hell to pay if you do ricin. No bio toxins of any kind, understand? We want nuclear tips.”

“Of course, of course. We are well prepared for nuclear. All that is required is for Turgo to meet up with the nuclear components. ”

Turgo smiled and wriggled in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Sarah handed over a phone showing the text of the Hawala number which uncle Sergey began to copy. But Sarah stopped him. “No, you must make the calls from this phone. Make sure you destroy it after you’ve made the calls.”

Uncle Sergey raised his tea cup and Sarah and Turgo joined him. “To nine eleven two!” he said with great satisfaction.

7. Dental Work

It was incredibly hot and incredibly humid. Shalah Muhammad’s shirt was already soaked in sweat and the day had only just begun. Yet he still wore his jacket. He felt undressed without it. Hyderabad was his favorite city, especially Old City. He called to the auto rickshaw driver to let him off at Charminar, and he strolled down to the Laad bazaar, then turned off into a side street which was crammed full of pedestrians rushing to and fro, as people do only in India’s crowded downtown streets and alleys.

He resisted visiting the Gulzar House where the famous Hyderbadi pearls were brokered and sold. He might go there on the way back and buy some loose pearls for his wives who enjoyed stringing them or working them into their garments. He knew a place where he could buy them at bargain prices. But, business came before pleasure, he said to himself, smiling as he remembered his old teacher at the Harrow boarding school in England. It was his favorite saying. “Business before pleasure, young man,” he would say. And it had stuck. He never deviated from that rule.

The street narrowed into an alley, where the shops were more like stalls at an open market. It was hard to find one’s way through the crush of busy people. To make it worse, young men, mostly bearded, strained on their bicycles carrying enormous loads of cloth, cotton, and other wares. They were totally bent on going forward. Too bad for you if you got in the way. Dentists’ row came up suddenly. He had visited here often when he had a tooth ache, and enjoyed watching the dentists sitting in their own chairs, calling out, offering the best painless services, special deals on two for one extractions. At last he found the booth he was looking for, decorated in gaudy colors, a sign in bright red saying, SMILEY HOUSE and beneath it the slogan, HEALTHY TEETH, HEALTHY MIND. And on a brass plate at the entrance, tacked on to the wobbly pole that held up a canvas awning to shield the dentist chair from the sun, was written in a careful but amateurish hand, DR. KUMAR JAMAL. DDS. OXFORD.

Shalah approached the dentist who was dressed carefully in a bright white open neck shirt, slim tight fitting gabardine pants, and of course, had a sparkling white smile to match his shirt. His beard was almost non-existent. It had been carefully cropped and groomed to be as short as possible but clearly visible.

“Do you have a cleaning special today?” asked Shalah Muhammad.

“I’m sorry sir, but the special ended yesterday. But I do have a special on extractions if you have a coupon,” replied the dentist in almost perfect Farsi.

“You speak Farsi?” asked Shalah, surprised.

“Of course. I am from Western Punjab, the best and most beautiful part of Pakistan,” the dentist said proudly, “but of course, I have my DDS from Oxford.”

“I have a coupon for two extractions.”

“I’m sorry sir, the coupon to which I am referring allows only for one extraction. Are you sure you need two extractions?”

“I’m sure.”

“Perhaps you had better step in and I’ll take a look.” Dr. Jamal slid out of the chair and beckoned for Shalah to take his place, and he did so.

“Open wide, now. Ah, yes, I think you’re right. It’s two. You’re sure you want to do two extractions? It will of course cost much more than one.”

“I will pay for two.”

“Very good, sir. But by the look of it, it will be too much for you if I do both today. Besides my assistant is not here, and he speaks only Urdu.”

“Then when? I can go to someone else, you know, and probably get a better price.”

“Price is important, but when it comes to extractions, quality is much more important, wouldn’t you say sir? Besides I have the best equipment and I guarantee the extractions will be totally painless.”

“And how expensive?”

“You understand that doing two costs a lot more than one.”

“I thought two was always cheaper than one.”

“No, much more, but guaranteed for a lifetime.”

“That’s not very long.”

“Very funny, sir! Would you like to make an appointment for the extractions? I have a very special comfortable chair in the back. And you can watch TV as well.”

Dr. Jamal slid a curtain back exposing an empty space surrounded by more curtains. Shalah followed him and Jamal closed the curtain behind him. They stood close to each other, almost touching.

“We can do it whenever you want,” whispered Jamal in Farsi. “I have it all set up. It will be easy.”

“So, they will be disassembled, or will we have to do that?” asked Shalah Muhammad.

“We will do it. I take it they don’t have to be completely disassembled?”

“Just enough to allow packing into a crate that doesn’t look like a missile.”

“And the money?”

“Ten million U.S. dollars now, ten million on receipt of shipment.”

“Thirty million, half now. I meant it when I said two is a lot more than one.”

“Twelve and twelve.”

“Deal. And where do we ship to?”

“The Port of Newark, USA. I will send you details later. Actually, I will not. My Russian colleagues will be receiving the shipment. They will contact you.”

“Excellent! And the down payment?”

“We need to find an Hawala.”

“No problem. There’s one in the next street, behind Gulzar House.”

“OK. So let’s be clear. These are two short range mini Nag missiles, right?”

“Right. Fifty miles max range. We have already located them in Bangalore. The security is minimal. Shipment from there through Mumbai port a breeze.”

Dr. Jamal opened the curtain and led Shalah Muhammad out, placing a “back in 5 minutes” sign on the dentist chair. As they wound their way through the crowd of shoppers and vendors, Shalah sought additional assurance.

“Your boys can do this, right?”

“Of course. No problem. This is easy. No violence. We have people inside.”

“You understand the consequences of failure?”

“Really. This attitude is insulting. We never fail. Never!”

“OK! OK! Just so we both understand.”

They made their way through the Gulzar house, through a back door and into a small alleyway which was nevertheless crowded with seemingly too many people trying to get through too small a space. Dr. Jamal waved to an old wizened man, dirty turban on his head, sitting in a doorway on a low stool, cell phone in hand. “I have a customer for you!” he announced in Telugu, as he and Shalah Muhammad squatted down beside him.

Shalah had to guess what he had said. “I don’t like this. What language is that? I thought it would be Urdu,” he said with a hint of suspicion.

“Oh, Sorry. It’s Telugu. The Hawala does not speak Urdu. He’s from Vizag which is about 360 miles south of here where Telugu is mainly spoken. My cousin lives there, that’s how I know him.”

“How much? Where to?” grunted the Hawala.

“It’s from Dubai and it’s twelve million U.S. Dollars.”

“Ah! My friends in Dubai. They have so much money there! Your contact should call this number.” The Hawala indicated a name and number on a grubby hand written list. Shalah Muhammad opened his cell phone and made a call.

“This is nine-one-one. Yes, the amount is twelve million U.S. Dollars.

Call Hawala Felix, in Dubai. I am texting you the number now.”

“Have him send the money to this number,” said Jamal as he handed the Hawala a piece of paper.

“To Bengaluru?” asked the Hawala.

“Right, Bangalore,” he said.

“It will be a few moments, depending on how efficient your man is in Dubai. May I offer you some chai?” He signaled a boy who immediately ran off and returned quickly with three small cups, passing them out carefully. The Hawala raised a cup as if proposing a toast. “To money, praise be to God!” They all raised their cups just as the Hawala’s cell phone rang. He answered, “Yeh, good. OK.” He tapped END, then dialed another number. “Hello? Yeh. Good. Twelve million,” and closed his phone.

“It is done. My fee is one thousand U.S. Dollars. The boy will take it.”

Shalah Muhammad pulled out a wad of bills from the inside pocket of his jacket and counted out ten $100 bills.

*

Monica Silenzio guided her pure dark green 2012 Volvo wagon with tinted windows into the parking lot. They were somewhere in Hoboken, New Jersey, a run-down industrial park, so typical of the back streets of New Jersey. The lot was covered with old decaying bitumen. New Jersey weeds, far more powerful here than in any other state, thrust their way through the bitumen making cracks and holes, and even where parts of the lot were concreted over, it was no match for New Jersey’s weeds. They just forced their way right through it. At the far corner of the large lot which contained few cars for its size, was an old warehouse, a long low steel structure, covered with unpainted corrugated iron, a glass and brick front stuck on to the warehouse, as though it were an afterthought, and probably was. The Volvo rolled to a halt. Silenzio jumped out and darted around to the passenger side just in time to open the door for MacIver.

“Gees, you’re an accomplished chauffeur too!” he joked. “Where are we?” He had bantered and joked with her all the way, but she would not tell him where they were going. “You spies,” he joked, “you just can’t help holding everything back.”

Silenzio took a small bow, smiling vivaciously, her wavy blonde hair blowing in the Hudson River breeze. Her smile was a complicated smile that kept MacIver guessing. It was not a seductive smile. It was more a smile that told him she was just playing around with him. It conveyed an air of superiority and confidence. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said, “but you’re so well-known and respected, this time I think it’s OK.”

“You mean, it’s OK to open the car door for me?”

“No, silly! Letting you into this place.”

“And what exactly is this place? It doesn’t look all that secret. Not even any barbed wire around the property. Very bad security, I might say as an expert in the field.”

Silenzio walked up to a blank wall beside the glass lobby door and spoke to it. The wall slid open. “Come on,” she said.

MacIver, amused at the security antics, followed. They entered the lobby and were faced with another plain wall, this time with a mirrored glass panel, a hole in the middle, chest high. Silenzio inserted her bare ring finger with difficulty. A light blinked. She straightened up and spoke in a deep monotone, “Agent 33 Monica Silenzio with one guest, Larry MacIver.”

“That’s it? We’re in?” asked MacIver

“Not quite. Put your finger in.”

“I could say something.”

“Don’t.”

“Which one?”

“Your favorite.”

MacIver inserted the middle finger of his right hand. He couldn’t help running his tongue against his upper lip. The action was reflected in the mirror. A sliding door opened and Silenzio grabbed his arm to guide him in. MacIver found himself in a cavernous warehouse with rows and rows of filing cabinets. Behind a large glass panel there were workers, some wearing headphones, seated by computer consoles, tape recorders, mountains of books and papers. MacIver stared at the sight in amazement.

“The cabinets?” he asked.

“Data from wiretaps, and whatever, collected since nine eleven.”

“The CIA collected all this?”

“And the National Intelligence Agency. We share information just like the Nine Eleven Commission said we should.”

“Admirable. And the workers over there?” MacIver pointed to the people behind the glass partition.

“Translators.”

“But how could they ever do all this?”

“They can’t. They’re only up to 2003.”

“Ridiculous!”

Silenzio raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry, it’s terrific you have shown me this, but —”

“But what?”

“Well it’s just a terrible waste of scarce resources.”

“Who says they’re scarce?”

“The current chatter you quoted at the meeting.”

“There’s a rating system. Some chatter can be put on fast track. Has to be approved by someone with gold security clearance. There’s a protocol.”

“Say no more. I understand. So it’s basically useless, and probably not timely either, even the ‘fast track’ chatter.” MacIver stepped towards the work room.

Silenzio grabbed his arm. “You can’t talk to them. You don’t have clearance,” she said.

“But what could they possibly know that would risk national security?”

“That’s not the point. It’s protocol. Come on, let’s get you back to the university where you belong.”

MacIver shook his head in despair, derision, or both. But he looked sideways at Silenzio. He liked the feel of her touch on his arm. He tried to get a whiff of her gorgeous hair. She guided him out through the security rigmarole, then to the car. She opened the door for him and MacIver gently touched her hand as she gripped the door handle.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked, “it obviously supports what I said at the meeting.”

“It’s my way of saying what I can’t say in public. Besides, I trust you.”

Taken aback MacIver released her hand. In truth, he wanted to hug her really hard.

*

Mr. Kohmsky sat still, staring at the wall. Mrs. Kohmsky sat beside him, fidgeting in her handbag. It was the one that Sarah had refused when offered to her. She said she had no use for it.

Mrs. Kohmsky had nagged her husband until he gave in. She knew he would. He didn’t believe the FBI nonsense about Sarah being dead. They were lying. They both knew that. They had a lot of experience listening to government officials lie. The rule of thumb was to assume everything was a lie until proved otherwise. So she had convinced Mr. Kohmsky that they should try going to the New York State Police. They were supposed to be better trained than the NYPD. Maybe they could help track her down, or at least give them some lead they could follow up themselves. Now here they sat in the Manhattan Office of the New York State Police, hoping someone could give them some answers. The small waiting room was comfortable and the chairs soft. The entire office was quiet, very different from the NYPD offices that always bustled with activity. It gave the impression that this branch of the New York State Police was not at all busy.

Deputy commissioner Sylvia Celer emerged from her office. The Kohmskys stood immediately to greet her. She cut an imposing figure, a very tall slender woman in her fifties, her dark gray uniform perfectly pressed, the creases accentuating her angled features. Instead of ushering them into her office, she sat with them in the anteroom right where they were.

“Please remain seated, Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky. Now what can I do to help you?”

“Our daughter Sarah,” Mrs. Kohmsky stuttered as she sat back in the soft chair, “we don’t know where she is, haven’t seen her for more than eight years. We’ve tried everywhere, NYPD, FBI, but they say we should assume she is dead.”

“And why do they say that?”

“They won’t say. But we know in our hearts that she is alive somewhere.”

“They are lying to us,” muttered Mr. Kohmsky gruffly, still staring at the wall. “They are keeping information from us. They know something.”

“I can’t imagine that they would keep information about your daughter away from you. What evidence do they report that suggests to them that she is dead?”

“They checked their missing-persons data base and found her there, but we don’t think that means anything. The photo they have is the one we gave NYPD years ago. Besides, we have given them evidence that she is still alive, but they just ignore it.”

“Evidence? What evidence, Mrs. Kohmsky?”

“The money we received from Chernobyl.”

“From where?”

“Chernobyl, Russia.”

“And you think it comes from your daughter?”

“Not exactly. In fact we received some just last week. We decided this time to come to you because we have heard that the New York State police are the most professional police and that you specialize in finding missing persons. We saw it on your web site.”

“I have to agree with you on that, Mrs. Kohmsky. Do you still have the money?”

"It’s here.” Mr. Kohmsky shifted slightly, dug his hand into his old denim pants and produced a small brown envelope that was covered with stamps and certainly looked like it had traveled all the way from Russia.

“May I open it?” asked Commissioner Celer.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Kohmsky, “the money is all there. We haven’t touched it yet. There was no note at all. Nothing.”

Commissioner Celer opened the packet and retrieved a thick wad of 100 Euro notes. “And you think this money is coming from your daughter?”

“Who else?”

“But why would she send you money? You’re not poor are you?”

“Well, we’re comfortable. We’ve always done our best to make sure Sarah was not wanting for anything. So we don’t really know why she’s sending us money.”

“She’s guilty, that’s why,” growled Mr. Kohmsky.

“Guilty?” asked the Commissioner.

“Guilty that she hasn’t got in touch with us for so many years. What did we do to her to deserve this? We gave her a good home and good education. And then she just runs away.”

“So you think she ran away? That nothing foul has happened?”

“As we’ve told all the others. We haven’t seen her since she went to do her Master’s Degree in Oxford. Not one word from her ever again.”

“Was there a disagreement between you before she left? Bad words?”

“No, nothing in particular. We never argued, actually,” said Mrs.

Kohmsky.

“She never said anything?” asked the Commissioner.

“Well, we are – were - a pretty quiet family. We didn’t ever say much to each other,” offered Mrs. Kohmsky.

“This money. Do you mind if I keep it for a little while? I’ll have our people at the State Crime Lab examine it. There may be some clues there. May also be a clue as to where the envelope came from?”

“Well it’s from Chernobyl, of course.”

“You came from there, right?” asked the Commissioner.

“Yes, but we have lost contact with everyone who lived there. Mr. Kohmsky had two brothers, but they left there years ago, at the same time we came to America.”

“And do you know where they are now?”

“We never heard from them again,” said Mr. Kohmsky, “never.”

“Have you ever tried to contact them?”

“No,” answered Mr. Kohmsky abruptly.

“I see.” The commissioner carefully replaced the money into the envelope.

“Please help us,” pleaded Mrs. Kohmsky.

“I will put my people on to it right away. I can’t promise you anything, of course. But we will give it a try.

“Thank you, commissioner,” said Mrs. Kohmsky, dabbing at a little tear at the corner of her eye, “you are most kind.”

The Commissioner stood as if to end the conversation, and Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky stood with her. “One thing puzzles me,” said the Commissioner, “how come these envelopes come from Chernobyl? I thought no one lived there since it was destroyed in the nuclear disaster way back when.”

“We thought so too. We don’t know exactly, except that we think that some people have moved back into the general area. But that’s only very recent. We’ve been getting these packages for years.”

“Before Sarah disappeared?”

“At least since she was a teenager.”

“So why then would you conclude that the money was coming from her?”

“We know it doesn’t make sense. But it’s our only hope. Maybe she has gone back to Russia and met up with her uncles or something.”

“And the money you’ve received before. Always from Chernobyl, always Euros?”

“Yes. Although of course it was not Euros before there were Euros.”

“What was it?”

“U.S. dollars.”

“Did you tell the FBI and NYPD about the money?

“Of course,” said Mr. Kohmsky, “they said it had nothing to do with the case. They’re lying.”

“I see. Mr. and Mrs. Chomsky, I mean Kohmsky, I’ll be in touch. But don’t get your hopes up. The NYPD and FBI are very good at their work. They have a worldwide network of operatives. If she were alive, they would have found her by now.”

Mr. Kohmsky, unusual for him, offered his hand, which the Commissioner received, and they said their good-byes.

6. Skyline

Das insisted on taking the long way to the restaurant, the scenic route along the six mile long Skyline Drive that for the most part hugs the side of the steep hilly terrain of the Ramapo mountains, crossing the Ringwood State Park. It was the end of summer and the narrow windy road was enclosed intermittently by the leafy foliage of oaks and maples and occasionally opened out to residential or commercial complexes. Das pushed the car, taking the curves as fast as he thought he could without his boss yelling at him, switching on the hi-tech GPS system, though it was not as hi-tech as the one he had installed in his old Dodge Caravan. He glanced quickly at the rear vision mirror to make sure Silenzio was still following. She was, with difficulty.

“If you slow down a bit, Das, not only will Monica be able to keep up with us, but we could also discuss the progress you’re making with your dissertation,” said MacIver who enjoyed needling Das just enough to keep him focused on his work.

“A good idea, sir. I will slow down, though it’s not as much fun driving your fantastic car, sir. She is doing all right in any case sir. She’s a pretty good driver.”

“OK. Then what about your dissertation. Have you completed collecting data yet?”

“Sir, I’m sorry sir, but my borderline Asperger condition does not permit me to do two complex things at once. I can’t drive the car and talk about my dissertation at the same time. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll try sir.”

“Asperger’s? You’ve got that?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. That’s what they said at the student health center.

Don’t you remember? You made me go there.”

“Well I have to confess I don’t know what it is, but frankly, I doubt very much whether it’s a real illness. These psychiatrists, they keep inventing new diseases. It’s how they make their money.”

“I hope you’re right, sir, because they say there’s no cure for it sir.

Anyway, sir, my data collection will never be complete. Maybe that’s a sign of my Asperger’s. I just can’t stop collecting the data, sir.”

“You can’t stop?”

“That’s right sir. There’s just no end to it, sir. It’s like I collected bottle tops.”

“How big is the database now? How many cars are in it?”

“I don’t know exactly. Several hundred thousand, I’d guess.”

“Then maybe you should stop now? How many of them are stolen?”

“Depends what you mean by ‘stolen’ sir, doesn’t it? Sir please, sir, I must concentrate on my driving. Don’t want to smash up your beautiful car, sir.”

“OK. Then we’ll meet later this week in your office and you can show me all you’ve done. Is Monica still with us?”

“Yes, sir. Still with us. Around the next curve and up the steep hill and we come to the restaurant. Shall I drop you off and then park, sir?”

“You think I’m too old to walk, Das? Go straight to the parking lot.”

“There it is, sir!” The Maxima emerged from the woods into a wide open expanse and in the distance, some twenty miles away, was the most stunning view of the New York City skyline. “Wow! Sir! Isn’t that amazing?”

“It certainly is. It’s not often that cities can be said to be beautiful in themselves. But I guess they are, at a distance.”

“A very nice view for a terrorist, sir,” mused Das, having just stopped the car in the parking lot, facing the view.

“A very nice view for anyone, Das. What are you suggesting?”

“Oh, nothing sir. I was just wondering if seeing such a view, a terrorist might get some ideas. Looking at a bomb drop on it from this distance would be pretty spectacular.”

“A mushroom cloud, you’re thinking?”

“Yes, sir. Scary.”

“A totally silly, idea. I can’t imagine how a terrorist organization could pull off such a caper. Far too complex.”

Silenzio pulled in beside them, and they walked together to the restaurant entrance, silent, overwhelmed by the glowing beauty of New York City. Mindful of his father’s advice, Das kept five steps behind.

*

Foster was waiting for them at the entrance. “Professor MacIver, Doctor Silenzio. This way please.”

“You’re a doctor?” MacIver turned to Silenzio.

“P-H-D, John Jay College of Criminal Justice, and Agent 33, CIA.”

“And CIA?”

“At your service!”

Foster ushered them upstairs to a small secluded conference room from which they admired once again the famous view of the New York City Skyline. “The mayor will be here shortly. She’s just wound up a news conference back at City Hall.”

“Who else is coming?” asked MacIver.

“FBI Agent Lee, director of the Newark branch office and, I think, Captain Buck Buick, head of the Newark PD counter terrorism task force.”

“Buick? But he’s an idiot! He’s out of control! Why did your boss choose him?”

“The mayor, she likes to have everything balanced, Professor.”

“Balanced? You can’t balance him, he’s an outlier! And Lee is useless too, just like the rest of the FBI!”

“I’m sure the mayor has her reasons, Professor.”

MacIver gazed out the window, then tried to make eye contact with Silenzio, who instead was carefully leafing through the materials Foster had deposited at each place on the table. It would be hard concentrating with Silenzio in the room, thought MacIver. Maybe when Madam Mayor arrived the ecosphere in the room would truly be balanced.

“If you will excuse me a moment. I will get the mayor,” said Foster.

“She is hiding out in another room. We arrived some time ago. She doesn’t want to be seen. This is a top secret meeting. We don’t want the media to get wind of it.”

Just as Foster departed, a waiter entered and placed a water pitcher and glasses on the table as well as writing pads and pencils. He bowed obsequiously to no one in particular. “I bring anything else?” he asked in a thick Russian accent.

“No thank you. That’s fine. More glasses perhaps,” answered Silenzio.

The waiter left, and as he did so Fred Lee entered. Silenzio rose to shake hands.

“Fred Lee, FBI, Newark Office. Hi nice to see you again Agent Silenzio.”

“Likewise. And you know Professor MacIver?”

“We’ve met.”

MacIver remained seated. “And this is Manish Das, my research assistant,” he said.

“Very pleased to meet you sir,” said Das as he jumped up from his place in the corner of the room and extended his hand, half bowing at the same time. Lee nodded and shook Das’s hand, squeezing it so hard Das struggled to hold back a grimace.

“So what’s the big secret?” asked Lee.

“I thought the FBI owned all the secrets,” responded MacIver.

“An attack on Ground Zero perhaps?”

“Where did you hear that?” asked Silenzio, fully engaged.

“Like the professor said, we own all the secrets — those worth knowing, anyway.”

“You spies are pathetic. Secrecy is just a cover against accountability.

That’s the only reason you put such store in secret information,” lectured MacIver.

The door opened and Mayor Newberg entered, closely followed by the Russian waiter, then Foster. All rose in unison, muttering “good afternoon Madam Mayor” and such like. Ruth Newberg, looking every bit her age of 62, projected a warlike image, as though she was about to preside over the war room planning the invasion of North Korea. Her face had a lined, battered look, though well covered by copious makeup. She walked directly to the head of the table and plopped down. She was not that much over weight, but enough for people to make unkind comments. She was currently on a diet of salad and boiled eggs, the latter only because her dietician had told her she must eat protein if she insisted on being a vegetarian and didn’t like cooked vegetables. Her dark gray business suit fitted snuggly accentuating what her figure used to be. She wore her usual blue silk scarf tied loosely around her neck.

MacIver looked from the mayor to Silenzio who had seated herself across from him and realized that he had not taken the slightest notice of what Silenzio was wearing. The room was well balanced all right, he mused.

Then he noticed that Fred Lee had taken up the position across the table from the mayor.

“OK. Let’s get down to business,” said Madam Mayor as she signaled to Foster to send the waiter from the room. “Wait,” she said, “where’s Buick?”

“Should be here any time soon,” Foster answered, “I’m sure he received our message.”

Mayor Newberg began. “Agent Silenzio, could you bring us up to date please?”

“Sure, Madam Mayor. Fact is, we have picked up quite a bit of chatter that Al Qaeda is planning an attack on Ground Zero.”

“When?” interjected Lee.

“We’re guessing it will be next month, the forthcoming anniversary of nine eleven.”

MacIver shifted in his seat. “So you actually have no idea.”

“That’s a bit strong. There is some indication.”

“What is the statistical probability?” asked MacIver.

“We don’t have that kind of data.”

“Then without hard evidence we should assume that there may be an attack some day in the future and plan carefully, without getting into a panic.”

“There’s going to be an attack, and it’s going to be soon.” Silenzio was annoyed but remained calm.

“We will know very soon, in fact in a few days. And it will be certain,”

Lee said with an air of confidence.

“What do you know that we do not?” asked Silenzio.

“I’m not at liberty to share that information just yet. But I can tell you for sure that it’s Al Qaeda. I will be able to tell you more in a few days.”

MacIver laughed. “You guys. It’s all you know what to do, sting operations. All they achieve is the entrapment of otherwise innocent Islamic immigrants.”

“I did not mention a sting operation. And you liberal progressive professors have no idea how the real world works.”

Mayor Newberg coughed gently to regain attention. “OK. OK. Now let’s keep an open mind.”

At this point, the door flew open so hard it banged the wall, and Buck Buick entered, uniformed, hand on revolver holster. He was yelling over his shoulder to the waiter to bring him a pizza. He quickly surveyed the occupants and sat himself beside Silenzio.

“You all know Captain Buick?” said Madam Mayor, “he has graciously agreed to join our little group — and I want to emphasize that his boss does not know it. So please let’s keep it that way.”

“Why the secrecy?” asked MacIver impatiently.

“I have my reasons, but they mainly concern the press. I want to thank Buck for agreeing to join us at considerable risk to his position at Newark PD.”

“What a hero.”

“Professor MacIver, please!” scorned Newberg. “You all understand I can’t ignore Silenzio’s report. However low the probability, I must take action.”

“To cover your ass.” muttered Buick.

“At least we agree on one point,” quipped MacIver.

Mayor Newberg continued. “Call it what you like. But Professor MacIver, isn’t prevention your thing?”

“It certainly is. I’d be very happy to help you. The solution is simple.”

“Really?” said Buick.

“Yes, really. We harden all likely targets. Make them inaccessible. Make them impenetrable.”

“That’s it?” Buick was fed up already.

“Well, it’s quite a lot.”

“You mean we sit around and wait to be attacked? It’s pathetic.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that.”

“I would! We need to infiltrate them, and take the animals out.”

“That’s really stupid. You don’t know who or what to infiltrate,” argued MacIver, he too annoyed and losing patience.

“Al Qaeda of course, who else?”

Fred Lee grabbed the opportunity to enlighten the group. “The FBI knows who they are. And we are about to bring them in. And of course it’s Al Qaeda.”

MacIver sighed. “Madam Mayor, I don’t think I can work with these fools.”

“You could start by not calling them fools!” Mayor Newberg straightened up as if to begin a formal speech. “I’d like to thank you all for agreeing to meet with me. Our city, our country, is in danger. I must take every step I can to prevent another attack occurring, whatever the target.

I understand what you say, Professor, and we have already gone quite some way in identifying those targets most attractive to terrorists. But we also must at least make all effort to find out who may attack us, and, to use Buck’s words, take them out if we can. I know this is the traditional, not very innovative approach, but it’s the most common approach of law enforcement and I can’t ignore it for that reason. Otherwise, if another attack occurs, I’ll be accused of inaction, or worse dereliction of my duty to protect the city.”

MacIver stared at the table while Buick smirked and winked at Silenzio. Foster looked to the Mayor; there was an awkward silence. He took the opportunity to say something neutral. “If I may, Madam Mayor, just make a quick bureaucratic announcement to our participants. The city will be paying you at the maximum rate allowed, for your time, plus reasonable expenses. Please take the forms I have left in front of you at the end of our meeting, fill them out and get them back to me as soon as possible.”

Mayor Newberg continued. “Now let’s move on. Do you have anything more to add, Agent Silenzio?”

“Only that we are reasonably certain that the target will be Ground Zero, and we think it’s fair to assume that the attack will occur on the anniversary of nine eleven.”

MacIver quickly responded. “But you don’t know at all, and it’s an unwarranted assumption given the very poor quality of your data. We must act based on hard evidence, facts, not speculation based on some vague report of ‘chatter’.”

Das half-raised his hand several times, waiting to be recognized.

At last, MacIver noticed and said to the mayor, “My apologies Madam Mayor, I failed to introduce my much trusted research assistant, Manish Das. I think he wants to say something.”

“Pleased to meet you Mr. Das. Welcome to America. And where are you from originally?”

“Mumbai, Madam Mayor,” Das replied as he half stood, then sat again, raising his hand in a series of nervous twitches.

“What is it you wanted to say, Mr. Das?”

“Just that, if sir allows, if it’s Al Qaeda, surely they will pick Ground Zero because it’s their style, sir, sorry sir.”

MacIver frowned and shot Das a piercing look. “We know nothing of the sort. It’s mere speculation. We are scientists, not soothsayers!”

Das sank into his seat, for the moment, crushed. “Yes, sir, of course sir. I was getting carried away, sir.”

Buick couldn’t resist entering the fray. “You see professor. Even your own student disagrees with you. This sitting back and waiting to be hit. It’s, it’s, un-American!” He jumped up from his chair as if to emphasize how right he was. At this moment the waiter arrived with his pizza.

“Anyone want any? Silenzio?” Buick asked, smiling broadly.

Silenzio smiled and shook her head. The others aggressively ignored him. Fred Lee leaned forward in his seat and took a deep breath.

“I think I can put this to rest,” he said smugly. “I can reveal, on the understanding that we are all in this together and that you can all keep a secret — and that especially applies to the Professor — we do have a sting operation in progress, and we’ll be bringing in the terrorists any day now.”

“I knew it,” said MacIver, also smug.

Mayor Newberg responded, clearly pleased. “That’s an excellent first step. Perhaps you could include Captain Buick in the questioning once you bring them in? We all need to share information here. You remember the report of the nine eleven commission. This was their biggest criticism of law enforcement.”

MacIver was unimpressed. “It’s a waste of time, money and worse, fritters away much needed trust we might be able to get from the Islamic community. If they think they’re potential FBI suspects, why would they share information?”

Mayor Newberg, exuding an air of tolerance responded, “Professor MacIver, we will multiply our efforts, with your assistance, to identify targets at risk and make them harder for terrorists to reach. Anything more? Oh, and one more thing, we will assume that the attack will occur on nine eleven. So we have just one month to get all this done.” She rose, indicating that the meeting was over, and left without another word. Foster followed her quickly, calling out over his shoulder to remind them all to fill in the forms. Buck Buick and Fred Lee departed also in silence.

MacIver remained seated, as did Silenzio who turned to him and said, “do you have time to come for a short ride? I’d like to show you something you’ll find interesting.”

“Depends what and where.” MacIver eyed Das wriggling around in his corner.

“I can drive your car back, sir. Why don’t you go back with Dr. Silenzio?

“I don’t really have the time. But if it’s on the way back.”

“Besides, sir, if it’s OK, sir, I’d like to take the time to survey the streets around here for my car theft project.”

“Good idea Das. OK, Monica, if I may call you that, let’s go.”

“If I can call you Larry,” she said with a grin.

5. Sir

Manish Das was very proud of his office. His Professor and Guru, Dr. Larry MacIver had fought very hard to get it for him, so he said. At Rutgers University, like all universities, space was at a premium, as his professor was always saying, so it was over space that the most acrimonious battles were fought. He had heard from student chatter that Dr. MacIver had even threatened to quit if he did not get the office space for him, but he didn’t really believe that. His Guru was too smart to make direct threats to anyone. He manipulated things behind the scenes. Anyway, he was so famous, any Dean in his right mind would do anything to keep him happy.

The strange thing was that Dr. MacIver hardly used his own office at all, yet it was arguably the nicest office in the whole building. He had fought a big battle to get it when they were moving into the new building, built for the Law School. He wanted it, he said, because it was the only office that had a view of the World Trade Center. Little was he to know that in the following year, the World Trade center would be no more. The contrast between the Guru’s office and his own was huge. Of course his own had no windows, but that was usual for student offices. Dr. MacIver’s office had a resplendent polished cherry wood desk that took up half the space of the room. A massive computer with two displays, a keyboard and mouse, were carefully placed on it and nothing else. There was one nicely crafted oak bookshelf, with a total of two books on its second shelf, and the top of the bookshelf was covered with various manuscripts and papers.

Das’s office was of course much smaller than his Guru’s, but it was crammed full of an incredible amount of stuff. There were four small student desks for a start, lined up against two sides of the room, the other walls lined with book cases. There were three laptops, all running, sitting on the desks, and several displays on the shelves, also running. He was most proud of the bookshelf that went from floor to ceiling because he had salvaged it from a dumpster down near the parking lot. He had fixed it up and managed to attach it to the wall so it would not fall forward, and in it he had placed all his techno knick-knacks. USB drives and cables, transponders of different kinds, bar code readers, a thumb print reader, cameras of various kinds, five different cases for DVDs and CDs that contained an enormous collection of software, some of it of questionable origin, and six two-terabyte hard drives linked in a chain. The drives’ LED lights blinked continuously as they kept a close eye on all his files, doing automatic backups. Most important they contained all the video he had collected for his dissertation. Last but not least, there were various printers, all of them constantly running, LED lights continuously blinking as well.

Cables ran under the desks and across the floor, covered roughly with tape so that he or his visitors — he tried not to have any — would not trip over them. The most important units in his office though, considered Das, were the two wireless modems sitting high up on one of the book shelves. They were the nerve center of his whole operation. They were his link to the world’s databases. Through them, he could find anything he needed, retrieve anything he wanted. The things he could get through them were incredible, so incredible that he was careful not to mention to anyone what he was able to do. Not even his Guru knew what he could do.

Manish glanced at the time on one of his computer screens. His professor would be coming to him soon to make sure he had prepared all the PowerPoint slides. He rarely went to his Guru’s office. He always felt uncomfortable there, always felt that his professor not only did not want him in there, but that the professor himself did not like being there. So he always waited for his professor to come to his office, making sure that he had everything, and he meant everything, at the ready. Besides, it was obvious that Dr. MacIver liked coming to his office, or at least standing at the doorway looking in and barking orders. He had been very lucky the professor had chosen him as his own research assistant out of many others. Why he was chosen he was not sure. No, actually he knew why. It was because he was Indian. Not in a negative or racial sense, though if one wanted to dig deeply into the history of western civilization, one might find a racial component. It was simply that he had been trained by his father, a consummate and high achieving bureaucrat in the Indian public service (he never quite understood which department, but in India that didn’t especially matter), how to behave as a subordinate. His father had been schooled in the English public schools, learning most correct English grammar and most correct English manners. Most of all he had learned to always remain five steps behind his master, always attentive, but never obtrusive. These were the lessons his father drummed into him when he was a boy, and still reminded him every time they spoke over Skype.

Now, Manish had a well-practiced very slight bow, a nod really, or slight tilt forward of his slender frame when his Guru appeared at the door. He stood quickly, smiled profusely, and always said something like, “At your service, sir!”

His father always told him, “You cannot say ‘sir’ often enough. Supervisors never tire of being treated as superior.”

And Manish implemented his father’s instructions to the letter. He was always surprised, and got great pleasure out of it, that Dr. MacIver appreciated him, no, more than that, he really liked being treated in this way, even though he himself joked with Manish and told him to stop behaving like a Rudyard Kipling character (if so, was Dr. MacIver the Sahib?). Never mind that Das’s Indian friends kidded him, called him the “colonial boy.” He truly did look up to Dr. MacIver, a famous man after all. His friends — actually, he did not have any real friends, they were just fellow students — were simply jealous and would have jumped at the chance to work for Professor MacIver.

Manish went through the PowerPoint presentation one last time to make sure everything was there and worked, just as Dr. MacIver had directed. What an exotic research project, how exciting it must have been for his Guru to visit Israel and collect data in the Palestinian territories. He so wished he could have been there, though the description of disarming the young suicide bomber was pretty scary. So maybe it was lucky he wasn’t there. He was not the Rambo his professor was, he thought. He heard the door close down the hallway. “Here he comes,” he said to himself. Unlike his professor, Manish’s door was always open. His Guru would appear at the doorway any minute.

“All right Das. Everything set?”

Das jumped out of his seat and stepped backwards to the extent that there was room. “Sir, here’s the PowerPoint, sir. Very exciting project, sir.”

Das leaned forward and handed MacIver a tiny USB drive. “It’s all on this sir. I tried it out down in the lecture center. Everything’s good.”

“Yes, it was an exciting time. But more important, I now have the data to demonstrate beyond a doubt that hardening targets reduces terrorist attacks.”

“That’s great, sir. Would you like me to come and install the slide show, sir?”

“Excellent, Das. I’d like you there anyway, just in case something goes wrong. This high tech stuff, it’s great, but there’s always the worry that it will not work properly.”

“Yes-sir, that’s right sir. That’s why there are people like me, sir!”

“Indeed, thank goodness, Das. I don’t know what I, or the world for that matter, would do without you. Let’s go, don’t want to be late. There will be a lot of people there, I think. Unfortunately, many for the wrong reasons, the ideologues who demonstrate against the wall thinking that it’s the product of Zionism and all sorts of political nonsense.”

“Yes sir. Unfortunate sir.”

The Professor walked ahead to the elevators, Das following five steps behind.

*

MacIver entered the lecture center and looked up at the rapidly filling rows of seats. There would be at least a couple of hundred people. He saw a few signs “Stop Zionist land grab” and others, but so far no rowdy demonstrators. He looked to Manish who was busily installing the slide show, the opening slide now filling the screen behind the lectern. MacIver’s dark business suit and tie made him look like a conservative administrator, which maybe was not a good image to project to a critical audience. But he had dressed this way because he anticipated that there would be media people there and he would be doing a TV interview or two. He waited for a few more stragglers to enter, then indicated to Das to close the door. He felt under the lectern for the laser pointer, thinking that it had been removed, and was relieved when Das appeared at his elbow and handed it to him. Das found a seat at the door. MacIver stood ready at the lectern, then seemed to change his mind, and walked across to Das.

“The Dean was supposed to come and introduce me. Did you hear anything?”

Das jumped to his feet. “I am a poor student sir. Deans do not speak to me,” he grinned.

“OK. I know, you poor thing. I just thought you might have heard some student gossip or something.”

“Gossip? Oh no sir! I don’t listen to gossip!”

At that moment the Dean entered. He shook hands with MacIver and they both went over to the lectern.

“Fellow students, faculty and visitors, I am pleased to introduce to you our eminent forensic scientist Dr. Larry MacIver who has just come back from an exciting trip to Israel —”

“Palestine, you mean,” interjected a student, who was ignored.

“—where he has been collecting data concerning the effectiveness of the fences built in Israel with the purpose of stopping suicide bombing.”

There was a rustling at the back of the lecture center as demonstrators held up signs and chanted “Land grab! Land grab!”

The Dean continued, unruffled. “This is a scientific study with no political purpose. I encourage you to quietly hear him out. Dr. MacIver is a world expert on crime prevention and is now, quite simply and brilliantly, applying his considerable knowledge and expertise to solving the problem of terrorism. This is surely a worthy endeavor and I congratulate him on his courageous scientific effort. I present to you, Dr. Larry MacIver.”

Students chanted, “tear down the wall! Tear down the wall!”

The Dean quickly moved away from the lectern and departed, Das opening the door for him.

MacIver stood tall at the lectern. “About the wall,” he said, “I hope you will hear me out. My interests are only in science. Not politics. Please fight your battles outside and let us get on with our scientific work.”

The door at the back of the lecture center opened and security guards entered. There was a scuffle and soon the students sat quietly holding their signs aloft. MacIver resumed his lecture.

“First of all, it is mistaken to think that there is one monolithic wall. In fact, there is only one small section about two hundred yards long where there is a wall, and that is so because it is an area overlooking a busy freeway that would be vulnerable to snipers if the wall were not there. For the rest, there are a series of fences, electronic fences, a deep ditch on each side, an access road running beside them and at its edge twelve foot high rolls of barbed wire. All of this is quite evident in the slide now before you. The history of the first fence is very interesting. It was not, as is often portrayed in the American media, an idea dreamed up by Netanyahu or other so-called Zionists.”

“The origin of the fence depends on how far back in history one goes, which is a problem typical of that part of the world. Let’s say that the history of the modern fences is comparatively recent, and began with the actions of a small district in South Jerusalem bordering on Bethlehem. The local community leaders got fed up with suicide bombers coming across from the West bank and killing their citizens. They thought, ‘let’s build a fence to stop them from getting to our village.’ They had few resources and built just a temporary fence at first. And it worked. Only later did politicians pick up on it so that it became what it is today, a well-funded, very controversial national enterprise.”

“My research is designed to establish whether or to what extent the fences reduced or prevented terrorist attacks, but it also investigates whether there were any side benefits such as reducing or preventing international car theft, smuggling and other crimes that involve crossing borders. So my interest is purely scientific, though I would say that, should my research show that the fences do not significantly reduce terrorist attacks, then the political trouble surrounding them would be justified. If they are shown to be effective, then it is up to the politicians and policy makers to decide whether the political cost of erecting them is worth the lives saved. That is an issue that I, as a scientist, am not qualified to assess, since I am decidedly not a politician and do not want to be. Now, let’s get to the study and most important, the data.”

A student raised her hand. “Dr. MacIver?” she called and continued without waiting for a response, “I saw you on Al Jazeera. Is it true that you disarmed a suicide bomber who was only fourteen years old?”

“Well, I’d really like to get on with presenting my project. But to answer your question, while in Israel this last trip, I visited a movable checkpoint operated by the IDF, and it happened that a suicide bomber approached a checkpoint in a taxi while I was there. I did help them disarm the boy, since my early training as a psychologist was useful in getting him to understand the implications of his actions and making it possible for him to avoid feelings of humiliation if he did not complete his mission. But I did not disarm him. That I left to the experts. There’s no doubt that I would have blown us all up if I had tried to remove the boy’s bomb vest. Now, the data.”

*

Manish looked down at his phone. He figured there were probably just ten minutes of the talk left, then questions. Thank goodness! He had heard all this before over and over again. He found it hugely difficult to sit still for any length of time, so he fought it by fidgeting with his fingers, picking his nails, and trying to think of something else — daydreaming, to be precise. Lately, his thoughts kept going off to Delhi, imagining his wedding, an incredible match arranged by his father and mother, anticipating a lavish three day affair. Garlands of flowers around their necks. Ravi Shankar music playing quietly in the background, hopefully played by a group distantly related to him on his mother’s side, the sitar player, his mother claimed, the daughter of the second cousin of Ravi Shankar himself. He longed to be with her, having met her only on one very brief and heavily controlled occasion, when she was brought to say hello to him just as he was leaving for America at the Delhi airport last summer. He looked down at his iPhone again, surreptitiously thumbing through his photos till hers came up. “Beautiful, beautiful Niki,” he said to himself. “I love you and soon we will be together forever.” But he was jolted from his reverie by a little ding informing him that a text had arrived.

He had thought he had the phone on silent, but must have checked the wrong box. He noticed his Guru quickly glance across. But he was wound up and really into his presentation. The text was, could you believe it, purportedly from the New York City mayor’s office, from her assistant, someone called Foster. It was marked URGENT and read:

“Dr. MacIver is requested to join the Mayor and a TOP SECRET

group of counter terrorist professionals at the Skyline Drive restaurant at 1.00 pm. today for an URGENT meeting to plan a response to a credible terrorist threat to New York City. Please respond immediately. For Madam Mayor Newberg, Foster.”

Manish quickly pounded his iPhone with lightning fast fingers. “Dr. MacIver pleased to attend. For Dr. MacIver, Manish Das, top research assistant.” He looked across to the lectern. MacIver was winding up, had turned to face the screen and, pointer in hand, highlighted the line graph that clearly sloped downward.

“So in sum, using my target hardening approach of street closures, barrier arrangements and movable checkpoints, last year we reduced suicide bombings on Israel’s West Bank by 95%. And I guess that’s it. I have time for a few questions.”

A student immediately raised her hand. “You said there was no need for infiltration of the terrorist cells?”

“Assuming there are any. But that’s right. Electronic surveillance is safer and provides more accurate data than do spies.”

“But surely spies understand the context better?”

“They might. But their problem is they rarely know what information is important and what is not.”

“But surely context is the key to understanding,” interjected a professor.

“Spies collect everything and end up with enormous amounts of information that is impossible to analyze. I bet you that the CIA has warehouses full of information that they have never looked at.”

MacIver was about to say thank you for attending and move away from the lectern, when his eye was caught by the most beautiful woman he had seen in many years. She raised her hand, smiling broadly, her voluptuous mouth accentuated by bright red lipstick. “So spies are obsolete?” she said, provocatively.

“Let’s just say that spies are not scientists and don’t know how to form hypotheses or how to collect data to test them.” MacIver was bedazzled and could hardly think straight.

She grinned some more. “But —”

Das was at his elbow. “Sir, sorry to interrupt, sir.” He held up his iPhone for MacIver to read the text he had received from the Mayor. “Sir, the mayor of NYC wants to meet with you, sir.”

“Now?”

“Sir, seems very hush-hush and urgent, sir.”

“Good time to stop anyway.” MacIver looked out to the audience. “My apologies, but I’ve been called away. Something urgent it seems. Thank you all very much for coming.”

The audience applauded lightly. MacIver’s eye was still on the gorgeous blonde beauty who asked that pesky question. She made her way down to the podium, but he had already begun to move to the door, having noticed a TV reporter just outside. Das had also noticed his professor’s admirer and waited up for her. She smiled and brushed past him, intent on catching her quarry.

Manish called to his professor. “Sir, I think this young lady wants to speak with you.”

MacIver turned just as she was upon him.

“I think we’re going to the same meeting,” she said, “allow me to introduce myself. I’m Monica Silenzio, Director, New York-New Jersey Counter Terrorism Fusion Center. We’re going to the same meeting, with the Mayor of NYC?”

MacIver’s eyes were on her lips. “I believe so. It’s very urgent and super-secret, at the mayor’s request, I’m told.”

The reporter came towards MacIver who looked briefly in his direction.

“Excuse me a moment,” said MacIver, “I promised this reporter an interview.” He stepped briskly away and Silenzio was left standing with Das.

“Is your boss always that rude?” she asked.

“My apologies, er, Madam, Miss, er Doctor Silenzio. I think he’s a bit flustered. I think maybe you caused it, if it’s OK for me to say so, my apologies.”

“What did I do?”

“Not what you did, doctor, what you are, if you will excuse my saying so, doctor.”

Silenzio looked at Das with great amusement. “You know your boss pretty well, huh?”

“It is my job,” answered Das, relishing this opportunity to speak not only to a beautiful woman, but to a chief of the Terrorism Fusion Center.

She must be a high up mucky-muck, he thought to himself. “He won’t be that long. He always likes to speak to the media. Considers it part of his duty as a responsible scientist. It will only take five minutes or so. Maybe we can wait, and possibly go to the meeting together.”

“That does sound like a good idea,” she smiled. Das ushered her back into the lecture center and seated her in the front row while he busied himself at the lectern, removing MacIver’s presentation from the system, switching off the projector.

*

MacIver, with one eye on Silenzio, tried to direct his attention to the reporter. “If you look at my list of questions here, you can ask me any one of those. Should make it easier for you, saves you having to come up with the questions yourself, which I know must be hard, since this is not your field, so how would you know what to ask?”

“Frank Brown, Nine News,” said the reporter as he took the list of questions and looked at them briefly. “The wall the Israelis built has all but stopped suicide bombing?”

“If you were at my talk, you would know that it is not a monolithic wall, but a series of wire fences —”

“OK. Fences, then. So they really do work?”

“Indeed they do, along with a lot of other things that the Israeli Defense Forces do, especially moving their checkpoints around, monitoring suicide bombers’ movements.”

“They can actually do that, they know who the bombers are?”

“Well I can’t go into that in detail of course. They have a very hi-tech operation.”

“I heard that you yourself disarmed a suicide bomber?”

“I don’t know how this story got about. I was one of a team that intercepted the bomber, a young teenager. We managed to talk him out of it.”

“The anti-Zionists who came to your talk say that the wall, er excuse me, fences, have been built right along the Green Line, splitting communities in half, separating Jews from Arabs, an apartheid line, the protestors called it.”

“There are places where this has happened, but I have to say, the Israelis have been very responsive to local communities and have actually shifted the fences where it was obvious that they damaged communities. I do not believe that the construction of the fences is essentially for political reasons, that is, to define a de facto border on the West Bank. I am convinced that, because my research has shown that they save lives, the true justification is for security of local communities. They were politicized after they were built, not before. But as I said in my talk. I am not a politician. I bow to the political decisions that are made. All I ask of politicians is that the decisions they make are informed by data, that they be evidence driven. And in that case, they have to factor in the numbers of lives saved by the fences against whatever the political gains would be from taking them down.”

“So do you think suicide bombing is likely to happen in the USA, just like in Israel? Is that why you are doing research there, because you think it might come over here?”

“Well, strictly speaking, it already has come here, hasn’t it? The Nine Eleven attack was a suicide bombing, wasn’t it? It’s just that the bombers used a different means of getting to their targets and didn’t have to wear bomb vests.”

“What I meant was, do you think we should be building a fence like the Israelis, along our open borders to Mexico and Canada?”

“I do. I know it’s politically toxic to say so, but it’s the only way we can make sure that terrorists cannot first of all get themselves into our country, and second, transport the equipment and materials they need to use in their attacks.”

“But a fence would not have stopped the nine eleven terrorists.”

“Quite right. But carefully controlled border entry, including careful screening and document verification which I have been advocating for many years, long before the nine eleven attack, would have. It’s a whole package. We do many things, a fence is just one part of it.”

“One last question, Professor. You seem much more practical than your academic colleagues. What do they think of your work?”

“I have excellent colleagues whom I respect greatly.”

The reporter looked at MacIver quizzically, but decided to leave it go.

MacIver knew that the question and the answer would be edited out of the interview.

“Thank you for your time professor. It will be on the local evening news. That’s Nine-Prime at 6.00.”

*

They were heady days for Ruth Newberg, daughter of the media tycoon Rupert Newberg, when she won election as New York’s very first female mayor. But now, it had to be acknowledged, she was an embattled Mayor, mercilessly attacked for several months — some of her supporters would argue ever since she got into office — by the mainstream media and the huge cohort of bloggers who relentlessly reported on and criticized her every move and every statement. The New York Post called her a walking-politically-correct-senior-Barbie Doll. The New York Times called her just plain incompetent. There was garbage on the streets, citizens were constantly harassed by freeloaders, beggars and muggers. The murder rate had never been so high and hate crime was endemic. There were demonstrations almost daily about one cause or another. Traffic was at a standstill. The subways were snarled by demonstrators and even small-time fire bombers. Her police department had become a kind of renegade operation under police commissioner John Ryan who had given up on her long ago. She had even increased the size of his force by some 25%, but he still just went ahead and did what he wanted. She threatened to fire him and he openly challenged her to do so. He was immensely popular and to fire him would bring down her mayoralty. Their yelling matches in her office and his were the talk of the town. He wanted her job, it was pretty clear. It reminded her of when Rizzo was the police chief of Philadelphia where she grew up in the 1960s and through his cunning antics and policies, “a policeman on every corner,” became Philadelphia’s most popular mayor ever. There was still a huge mural of him in South Philadelphia.

The supposed imminent threat of a terrorist attack was an opportunity. The intelligence had not come from NYPD but the CIA. Her own police commissioner Ryan had insisted that there was no impending threat because if there was, his counter terrorism force, now with agents in many parts of the world as well as Brooklyn, would have heard about it. That was another thing that annoyed her. He was trying to be the FBI or CIA, claiming that he could do the job much better than could they. So her administration was pretty much cut off from all the significant players in counter terrorism, except for one avenue: the New York-New Jersey counter terrorism fusion center, headed by her good friend Monica Silenzio. It was thanks to her that she felt confident enough to go ahead with this press conference and make public the threat.

“It’s time,” said Foster, her tireless young assistant, “surprisingly, there are hardly any protestors, and just the usual gang of reporters.” He led the way down the small flight of worn marble steps of City Hall and out the door where he had arranged for a podium and the usual audio paraphernalia. It was set to the side of the main door, just at the head of the steps so she could look down on the rabble, as she called them. She stood at the podium and took a deep breath, Foster at her side.

“People of the Great City of New York,” she announced, “this will be a very brief statement. You have probably heard that the threat level of terrorism has been raised for this city. I can affirm that a credible threat from the CIA that a group, unknown as yet, plans to attack Ground Zero — now known of course as the Freedom Tower — on the anniversary of the nine eleven attack. I should add that the exact day and time is supposition on our part, since the chatter only indicated an imminent attack, not mentioning the day. My advisers tell me that it’s pretty much a sure thing that the terrorists will choose the anniversary date in order to garner the publicity that they crave. While some have pressed me to keep silent and not divulge this information to the people of New York, I consider it your right to know what is going on so that you may take the necessary precautions. I urge the citizens of New York to be vigilant in the coming months prior to the anniversary of nine eleven, and to report anything suspicious to the terrorism hotline of the New York State Police. I also ask you to be patient with the preventive actions we will be taking, in fact have already begun to take, as we harden targets, close various streets and alleys and increase surveillance at certain venues and on public transport. Now, I will take a few quick questions.”

“Madam Mayor, Tyler Simkin, New York Times.”

“Yes Mr. Simkin. I think I remember you,” Newberg responded with a faint hint of sarcasm.

“Is this really a credible threat? Your own police commissioner just yesterday in an interview with the New Yorker stated that there were no current threats, because his undercover counter terrorism task force would hear about it if there were.”

“When it comes to counter terrorism intelligence, we in the mayor’s office prefer to listen to the experts, and the experts are the CIA and FBI. The FBI, by the way, concurs with the CIA assessment.”

“But the commissioner insists that he has already thwarted several potential terrorist attacks, because his own counter terrorism task force has infiltrated local Islamic communities in New York City and Brooklyn.”

“I have not heard him say that. To my knowledge we are not doing it and never will do it.” She pointed to another reporter with raised hand.

“Todd Sloan, New York Post. If I could pick up on that. The FBI has also charged that NYPD has interfered with their outreach to Islamic communities in Newark.”

“My office never has and never will condone police infiltration, spying or surveillance of Islamic communities whether in New York, Newark or anywhere else.”

“So you will demand that the police commissioner cease his spying on innocent Muslim communities?”

“To repeat. We do not spy on the good citizens of New York. I do not condone it anywhere, least of all in Newark where our police have no right being there anyway.”

“Abdul-al-Kahmar, Newark Times. Madam Mayor, will you ask the Police Commissioner to resign?”

“This conference is over. Thank you for your attention.” Foster guided his boss into City Hall and out the back door to a waiting helicopter.

*

Manish Das felt a little awkward and embarrassed to be alone with Monica Silenzio, such a beautiful woman, as they sat in the lecture center. In the interest of his boss, he decided to retrieve him from the media interview, so he turned to Silenzio and said, “Excuse me, I think I'd better find out where he is,” and was about to open the door when it opened, and in walked MacIver.

“Sorry about that,” he said, “you know how it is. The media are like a pack of dogs. They won’t let you go once they get a hold of you. Shall we depart? He smiled at Silenzio. “Where are you parked?”

“Just a few blocks away,” she answered.

Das held the door open and led the way out to the old parking lot across Washington Street. Newark was full of such lots that looked like what they were, places where old houses had been bulldozed away, leaving crumbling rubble, and in the better lots, crumbling black top. He led them past the old bar that had been left on the corner of the lot, to MacIver’s gleaming, deep black Nissan Maxima. MacIver and Silenzio followed, walking in awkward silence.

“May I offer you a lift?” asked MacIver

“That’s OK. My car’s just a block away.”

“Sir, throw me the keys, sir,” grinned Das. He unlocked the car and stood grinning at Silenzio. She scrutinized the car and couldn’t help noticing the two stickers attached to the back passenger window, a position suggesting that the car’s owner did not really want anyone to see them. One read, LOVE LIMBAUGH and the other, now old and peeling, OBAMA 2008.

“We’ll drop you at your car then,” said MacIver, “Do you know the best way to the Skyline Restaurant?

“Never been there. But I’ve heard of it.”

“It will take us a good thirty minutes.”

Das joyfully played chauffeur and opened the back door. Silenzio climbed in as he half saluted her.

MacIver walked to the other side. “You better not salute me!” he said to Das, half joking. He winked at Das who held the door open and carefully closed it shut after his boss slid into the back seat next to this most beautiful woman. “To the parking lot,” he ordered, and, turning to Silenzio, asked, “are you sure you won’t go all the way with me?”

“Not even to the restaurant,” she quipped. “I have things I have to do after the meeting. It’s just easier to have my own car there.”

Das loved driving this car. He gave a quick look in the rear view mirror and saw that his couple was well placed.

*

Buck Buick, Captain Buck Buick since last week, sat in his patrol car, parked behind the Newark Performing Arts Center. His iPad glowed in the shadow of the building, so ugly from the rear, not unlike the lady mayor he was watching on the local TV news. The mayor had just finished her news conference, and parts of it that related to Newark were being played over and over again by the local Newark TV news and various web sites. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Didn’t want to run afoul of her police commissioner, a nasty piece of work if ever there was one. If his own chief knew what he was about to do, he’d be dead meat. But the fact was, life in the Newark PD was pretty boring, even heading up the new counter terrorism task force, which amounted to zilch, his eager beaver new recruits clamoring to dress up like Muslims and infiltrate the mosque.

Really idiotic. Besides, there were enough people doing that, what with the NYPD and the FBI as well! What a bunch of jokers they all were. He yearned to be back in the bomb disposal unit in Iraq. At least there, everyone knew what each had to do. You knew that your life was on the line as was your buddy’s. One misstep, and you or your comrades were blown into a thousand pieces, or worse, reduced to a couple of smaller pieces that couldn’t walk or talk. But the juice ran high! It was living to the max! He had tried lots of other ways to sample life to the full. “Get married and have kids,” that’s how to live life to the fullest, people said, especially those who had kids. He had watched his fellow marines who were married with little kids. They suffered, oh how they suffered. None of them would do it over, he was sure, and some had said so. And what happened when they came back from active duty? Life sucked. Sitting around wiping the kids’ runny noses, the wives, maybe without meaning to, belittling their military lives by making them change dirty diapers, play mindless kiddie games with one or two year olds. What sort of life was that? True, he’d tried marriage a couple of times. It was great for a few months. But then he yearned to be back in action, back where there was adventure and the high possibility of being blown to hell. The best solution would be to have a new wife waiting for him each time he rotated back from the front. Now there’s an idea! But no wife, no kid, better to have a really well trained and experienced prostitute waiting for him. Now there’s an even better idea!

The text had come from Foster, the mayor’s trusty assistant. “Meeting set for 1.00 pm. Today, Skyline Drive restaurant. Please confirm attendance.” He began to text an answer, but then stopped. Better they’re left worrying. Anyway, he was not at all sure whether to get mixed up in this crazy venture. When Foster had called him yesterday and asked him to join the secret task force he had said, without a moment’s hesitation, “No way!” He did not want the NYPD to become his enemy, and he was sure that was what would happen if the mayor’s police commissioner found out about it. And the police commissioner was an ex-marine himself. So no way. Foster did not let up, though. Next thing the mayor herself came on the line. “Look,” she said, “I know I’m asking a lot. And I know I’m putting you in a difficult position asking you to do this without Okaying it with either your own chief or mayor. But I really need a forceful, practical man like you who is used to pressure. It will be a very diverse team, CIA, FBI and a forensic scientist. I know with the right blend of action and expertise, we can do this. I have chosen the members of this task force very carefully. Each one of you is essential for its success. That means that without you, Buck, I have no task force. Simple as that.”

“You said, forensic scientist?” he asked. “You don’t mean Larry MacIver, do you?”

“You guessed it!”

“Then count me out. He’s a pointy headed pompous SOB. No way can I work with him. Besides, he thinks I’m an idiot.” He tapped END and the call ended. Immediately, the phone rang again. “Foster, I said no!” he said yelling into the small device.

“Look. Just give it some thought. I’m in the process of setting up the first meeting and inviting members of the task force to join. Anyway, there’s a very good reason for you to join us.”

“That’s impossible. There is no reason that it would make sense for me to join you.”

“If I told you that Monica Silenzio was going to chair the task force, would that make a difference?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You win the argument, at least for now. I’ll think about it.”

“Terrific. I’ll text you tomorrow to confirm the time and day. It will be tomorrow if we can manage it.”

And with that, Buick had put his career on the line, for it would be on the line if any of this got out. And knowing New York, it surely would eventually leak out, especially if there was any serious action involved. Buick was about to drive off when a car drove through a light that had just changed to red. Reflexively, he switched on his siren and gave chase. It was a new white Audi A6, the sort he really enjoyed pulling over. The driver quickly stopped. Buick pulled up behind him, lights still flashing. He ran the number through the Newark PD database of stolen cars. It was not stolen. Too bad! He climbed out of his car and slowly swaggered to the vehicle. The driver sat inside, petrified. Buick cast a large shadow on the car as he approached, hand resting lightly on his holster.

“License and registration please driver,” he asked officiously.