The Courier's New Bicycle by Kim Westwood

make room for Inez, then Albee returning from his tête-à-tête. Did I catch a tone of blame in Meg’s voice? Surely she doesn’t think EHg’s troubles are the result of something Gail’s done? I have to find out who’s doing this to my boss, my friend , and stop it sliding her to destruction.
    Inez waits for my explanation, Albee beside her sipping his drink.
    â€˜A business visit,’ I say wryly.
    â€˜Anything you can talk about?’ Albee asks.
    I shake my head, and Inez, bless her, wraps her lovely arms around me in a hug.
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    Anwar and I have arranged to meet at the bottom of Benedict Street again — about fifteen minutes’ walk from the Glory Hole. I check my watch when I get outside. Still three-quarters of an hour before he swings by. Mojo Meg’s visit put such a dampener on my mood that I couldn’t enjoy my remaining time with Inez and Albee.
    Duffle coat firmly buttoned, I walk up Daisy Lane and turn left. The wind bites once I’m out of the protective dip of the alleyway, and I look up at clear sky. Another relentlessly dry summer has slowly given way to gentler days, but at night it feels like winter. I’m sure Melbourne evenings never used to get this cold this early. With each new season the temperature fluctuations have become harder to predict and more extreme.
    The avenues that grid the city are wide and impersonal and feel unshielded in comparison to the smaller streets between. I stick west on Pilgrim Lane, which leads me directly to the financial sector … such as it is. Half the buildings are empty, many businesses closed, while those remaining operate on a knife-edge between profit and insolvency. Of course, no matter how bad it gets, some professions will always be in demand. Plumbers and electricians, for instance.
    The prayer meeting two lampposts ahead of me is outrather late and huddled oddly, their heads bent over something on the ground. I hurry along the pavement towards them, my brain not yet able to interpret what it is.
    The something moves, becomes a prostrate figure. Closer, it makes strange mewling noises. A trousered leg draws back and finds its mark. There’s a muffled scream. ‘Dirty little surry,’ hisses one of the four silhouetted above, and instantly my brain decodes the image. The woman is curled on her side with the dark soles of her shoes towards me, and the group is kicking at her stomach … her pregnant stomach; kicking the blasphemy out of her.
    The realisation jolts an arc of current at my core. Adrenaline surges to my extremities and I start to run, then I’m barrelling my body’s full force into them. Those half-turned are knocked aside like skittles. Faces register their surprise, legs still in the act of kicking.
    I reach down to the woman and try to lift her, willing her to stand, but she flops back away from me like a rag doll. As I re-grip, hands grapple me, their efforts hampered by the prayer shawls. Arms rain ineffectual blows; I feel nothing except the sack weight of the woman, her ribs and breasts in my desperate clinch, her face a grimace, cheeks grubby with dirt and tears.
    I reel up, snarling, and the group backs off, this uncoiled rage not what they’d bargained for.
    â€˜Get away from her, you monsters!’ I roar as they bring their prayer shawls up over their heads to shadow their features.
    The woman is still on the ground, bent double to protect her belly. I try to move her again, but she won’t budge. I’m afraid the group is regathering to attack again, but when I look up, they’re dispersing rapidly along the street, disowning their public thuggery.
    The woman lets out a guttural groan. I press for Inez on my mobile and pray she’ll answer.
    She’s still at the speakeasy. ‘Five minutes,’ she promises.
    There’s a metal bench under a shelter about fifty metres up the street. I speak slowly to the woman, telling her how