The Courier's New Bicycle by Kim Westwood Page A

it’s just a little way, a few short steps. Her eyes are closed, her lips white. I’m afraid she’s passed out, or worse.
    A motorised scooter zips by on the other side of Pilgrim Lane and I wave frantically. Just when I think it’s not going to stop, the rider performs a wide, fast wheelie, daring the ire of oncoming traffic. But there are no other vehicles, and no pedestrians; no witnesses but me to cruelty.
    The rider slews to a halt beside us. He’s painfully young. He looks at me, then the woman. His forehead crinkles in confusion below his black beanie.
    â€˜She’s hurt,’ I say carefully, so as not to spook him. ‘It’s very important to get her to that bench. Can you help me?’
    I can see in his eyes that he’s afraid to let go of his scooter in case it’s some trick to filch his expensive ride.
    â€˜Look,’ I say. ‘She’s hurt very badly. She needs us to do this for her. Someone will be coming very soon to collect her.’
    Reluctantly he leans his scooter against the kerb and takes one side of the woman, and between us we get her thefifty metres to the shelter. When we have her slumped on the metal slats of the bench, I start to say thanks, but already he’s running back and flipping the scooter upright with an expert foot. Then one leg is on the kickboard and the other pushing off as the little motor buzzes up the dark street, its rear light receding like an insect’s warning eye.
    I ring Anwar.
    â€˜I’ll be by in the van,’ he says.
    â€˜No, it’s okay,’ I reply. ‘Inez’ll be here any minute.’
    He assures me he can do tonight’s shift without me, and that he’ll let Gail know what’s happened.
    As I ring off, Inez pulls up. She’s out of her ute in a heartbeat, blanket in one hand. We drape it about the woman then shuffle her to the passenger door, manoeuvring her onto the bench seat between us.
    We make the drive north up Temperance Street to the Women’s Hospital in silence. Our passenger has stopped groaning and is eyes closed, probably gone into shock. She leans heavily against me. I look anxiously at her face. Mid-twenties, maybe, with dark skin and the tiny pockmarks of a hormonal adolescence on both cheeks. Her long black hair has been pulled out of its ponytail, the elastic still clinging to a lock. I detach it gently and place it over a knob on the dash.
    I glance at Inez concentrating on the road, the question flapping like a loose sail in my mind. How had this woman’s attackers known she was a working surrogate and not a ‘happy families’ fertile, or even an infertile who’d successfully turned to the Red Quarter clinics for help?
    There are two people and a trolley waiting at Emergency when we pull up. In my call ahead, I’d said nothing of the circumstances, only that the victim of the attack was pregnant. Babies being at a premium these days, they pull out all stops to save them.
    An orderly in blue helps us ease the woman from the ute. Laid on the trolley, she’s tucked in then wheeled speedily through the automatic doors, and we’re directed to the information desk to give our details.
    We return to the ute. We couldn’t even tell them the woman’s name. I bundle up the blanket. There’s blood on it, and on the car seat.

9
    Inez and I drive back to the hospital at 8 am. Up in the lift to level four and the maternity wing, we tread squeaky linoleum to the visitors’ waiting room. We describe who we’re here to see, and are directed along a corridor by a sympathetic RN.
    Nurses are often vociferous opponents of the current government’s anti-surrogacy policy, being those most often landed with the sad results. They get to keep their jobs because they’re in such short supply, the only trained staff left to fill the skills gap that opened when a raft of medicos working in the fertility clinics and gene-research