The Courier's New Bicycle by Kim Westwood Page B

centres were struck off the register and hospital payrolls. Not that this particular part of the hospital is busy these days, and at the far end it’s imbued with an almost suffocating quiet. No babies here.
    We stand at the door of the share room, looking in. A woman — not ours — is asleep under the covers in thefirst bed. The privacy curtains have been pulled around the second.
    Inez calls a tentative ‘Hello?’
    On a low answer, I open a gap in the curtain and together we step into the sanitised white space. The woman in the bed is propped up by pillows. Her long hair, now neatly plaited, snakes past her breast over the hospital gown. One thin brown arm lies above the bedcovers, the contents of a drip bag feeding into it. She won’t look at us, and it’s clear it wasn’t she who spoke. Her expression, and that on the face of the woman sitting beside her, tells it all.
    Short and capable-looking, the latter rises from her seat and extends a hand. A firm, no-nonsense shake. I’m guessing sensible shoes too.
    Inez and I say our names, and she nods. ‘The nurse unit manager phoned me. I got your details from Admissions,’ she says. ‘I’m Tallis Dankner, from SANE.’
    The Surrogate Advocacy, Networking and Emergency team works out of the Red Quarter, and is another of the madams’ innovations.
    She sits again. ‘This is Roshani. She’s doing fine, but she lost the baby.’
    â€˜We’re so sorry,’ I say, Inez silent beside me.
    Tallis leans close to the semi-prone woman. ‘Roshani?’ Her voice is gentle, soothing. ‘These are the people who helped you last night.’
    No response. Roshani’s focus stays on some invisiblepoint on the powder-blue bedspread. One slow tear leaks below a lash.
    I find Inez’s hand and we stand there miserably.
    â€˜We appreciate what you both did,’ Tallis says, adjusting Roshani’s hospital gown to cover a bare shoulder.
    She nods towards the door. As we walk out together, she hands me a business card.
    â€˜I made a few enquiries. Your name came up connected to Gail Alvarez,’ she says quietly.
    Makes sense my boss would be well-known to SANE.
    â€˜I’m hoping you might pay a visit to my office in the next couple of days.’
    â€˜Absolutely,’ I say, and look to Inez not included in the invitation. ‘But I’m not sure I have anything useful to offer. I don’t know how she got targeted like that.’
    Tallis glances from us to the curtains obscuring her diminutive charge. Roshani had showed no sign of wanting to speak, and may not for a while. I suspect SANE’s rep has seen this all too often before.
    â€˜Leave that with me,’ she says. ‘In the meantime, she’ll be taken good care of.’
    I don’t doubt it. Surrogacy is big business, and SANE protects its own. But how they manage it amid the roving Neighbourhood Values Brigades and now attack prayer groups, I have no idea.
    Â 
    Outside my flat, Inez and I kiss a quick goodbye in the ute, aware of multiple eyes looking from the public high-rises.We’ll be seeing each other again in a few hours at the usual Monday APV meeting, which I expect to be a debrief on Friday’s rescue and some discussion over what project we might tackle next.
    Nitro greets me at the door, miaowing his disapproval at my many absences. I take him into the yard for a circumnavigation of the tundra before feeding him, then leave him stretched on his rather-too-ample side, washing his paws in a square of morning sun.
    I wheel out my bike. Swinging a leg over the frame, I scoot from the back alley onto the main road, my sights set for Cute’n’Cuddly Pty Ltd. Along with a swag of rescheduled deliveries waiting to be couriered, I’ve some debriefing of my own to do. The ride, however, feels heavy, not the usual pleasure to be had in the smooth motion of muscles and steady pump of blood. I