more Wally’s fault. I’ve been staunch.
I’m sullen on the way home, sluggish and silent.
The pill press shifts with a clunk as we swing onto Punt Road; a blind corner, as it happens. We’re deep into the turn, committed, when we both see the lights. A dozen cops with witches hats and a queue of cars.
Breath-testing station.
I look at Craigo, who’s looking at the road, assessing options. He appears shrewder and harder than I’ve ever known him. He rolls conservatively into the queue and we wait in silence, until a young officer approaches his window with the breatho in his hand.
‘Had any alcoholic drinks tonight sir?’
‘I have,’ smiles Craigo. ‘Had a couple an hour or two ago.’
‘One continuous breath until I say stop, thanks.’
Craig blows. The cop holds the device and he’s looking. Looking in the back. The device buzzes, but the cop’s not looking at it. He’s still looking in the back. Craigo’s got a hand on the transmission. The cop returns his attention to the breatho.
‘Do you have far to go?’
He’s a junior conny, this bloke, trying to muster a senior voice. The queue ahead’s inching forward.
‘No, no, couple of hundred metres. Why?’
The car in front is clear to go but it hasn’t left.
‘You’re just under. What’s your address? I…er…’ He shoots one more look in the back. ‘You better give me a look at your licence, mate.’
The car’s cleared the breatho station and it’s just us now. Us, with a dozen cars queued behind and I’m pressed into the seat as Craigo punches the accelerator. In a second, we’ve cleared out and left the roadblock in a cloud of smoke. My heart’s hammering.
Out the back window, past that fucking press, there’s cops running all over the place. Car doors opening and closing. Suddenly I’m in Craig’s lap because he’s thrown the car left and raced up a side street. Cult on the stereo, very fucking loud. ‘She Sells Sanctuary’. Icrash into the passenger window as he swings right down an alleyway.
‘Will you do up your fucking belt?’ he yells. ‘You’ll get us both in trouble.’
I can hear sirens now but there’s no sign of lights. They’re well behind, and Craigo’s still snaking through the narrow lanes of Richmond, bottoming the Skyline out in the bluestone dips at the crossroads.
The streets again become familiar to me and he slows, crawling to a stop in our drive. In seconds he’s out and the roller door’s closed, the car completely concealed. I wonder now at what a goose I’ve been—is this why he chose the place?
We jump out and he’s straight round the back, hauling the pill press out. As we heave the thing onto the front step, I can’t help myself.
‘Craigo you dumb fuck, you’ve gotta go back. They’re gonna have your plates.’
He looks at me, looks back at the car.
‘No, mate. They’re gonna have that guy’s plates.’
I look back at the Skyline, at the rego it didn’t have yesterday.
Stolen.
It’s a restless night, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.
I leave Craigo banging and crashing in his room and try to catch a couple of hours before dawn. I’m normally okay doing this. In fact, I’ve scored big runs doing this. But this time I’m just chasing sleep and I wake up foggy and depressed. Craigo tells me it’s the hydroponic dope. Skunk, he says, nasty herbover. I’ll get us some good bush stuff.
In the middle of this exchange the phone rings: Wally, saying a letter turned up at Mum’s yesterday, and it’s a VCA envelope.
Over at Mum’s place, I see the familiar Nissan parked in the drive. Louise, Wally’s girlfriend of six months, perhaps even more morallyconstipated than he is. Louise is studying community development at the Footscray Institute. Wants to be an aid worker in Tibet. I trust they’re having sex—Christ I hope for his sake they’re having sex—but she won’t move in with him because she thinks it wouldn’t be special then. I’ve never heard her
I’m sullen on the way home, sluggish and silent.
The pill press shifts with a clunk as we swing onto Punt Road; a blind corner, as it happens. We’re deep into the turn, committed, when we both see the lights. A dozen cops with witches hats and a queue of cars.
Breath-testing station.
I look at Craigo, who’s looking at the road, assessing options. He appears shrewder and harder than I’ve ever known him. He rolls conservatively into the queue and we wait in silence, until a young officer approaches his window with the breatho in his hand.
‘Had any alcoholic drinks tonight sir?’
‘I have,’ smiles Craigo. ‘Had a couple an hour or two ago.’
‘One continuous breath until I say stop, thanks.’
Craig blows. The cop holds the device and he’s looking. Looking in the back. The device buzzes, but the cop’s not looking at it. He’s still looking in the back. Craigo’s got a hand on the transmission. The cop returns his attention to the breatho.
‘Do you have far to go?’
He’s a junior conny, this bloke, trying to muster a senior voice. The queue ahead’s inching forward.
‘No, no, couple of hundred metres. Why?’
The car in front is clear to go but it hasn’t left.
‘You’re just under. What’s your address? I…er…’ He shoots one more look in the back. ‘You better give me a look at your licence, mate.’
The car’s cleared the breatho station and it’s just us now. Us, with a dozen cars queued behind and I’m pressed into the seat as Craigo punches the accelerator. In a second, we’ve cleared out and left the roadblock in a cloud of smoke. My heart’s hammering.
Out the back window, past that fucking press, there’s cops running all over the place. Car doors opening and closing. Suddenly I’m in Craig’s lap because he’s thrown the car left and raced up a side street. Cult on the stereo, very fucking loud. ‘She Sells Sanctuary’. Icrash into the passenger window as he swings right down an alleyway.
‘Will you do up your fucking belt?’ he yells. ‘You’ll get us both in trouble.’
I can hear sirens now but there’s no sign of lights. They’re well behind, and Craigo’s still snaking through the narrow lanes of Richmond, bottoming the Skyline out in the bluestone dips at the crossroads.
The streets again become familiar to me and he slows, crawling to a stop in our drive. In seconds he’s out and the roller door’s closed, the car completely concealed. I wonder now at what a goose I’ve been—is this why he chose the place?
We jump out and he’s straight round the back, hauling the pill press out. As we heave the thing onto the front step, I can’t help myself.
‘Craigo you dumb fuck, you’ve gotta go back. They’re gonna have your plates.’
He looks at me, looks back at the car.
‘No, mate. They’re gonna have that guy’s plates.’
I look back at the Skyline, at the rego it didn’t have yesterday.
Stolen.
It’s a restless night, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.
I leave Craigo banging and crashing in his room and try to catch a couple of hours before dawn. I’m normally okay doing this. In fact, I’ve scored big runs doing this. But this time I’m just chasing sleep and I wake up foggy and depressed. Craigo tells me it’s the hydroponic dope. Skunk, he says, nasty herbover. I’ll get us some good bush stuff.
In the middle of this exchange the phone rings: Wally, saying a letter turned up at Mum’s yesterday, and it’s a VCA envelope.
Over at Mum’s place, I see the familiar Nissan parked in the drive. Louise, Wally’s girlfriend of six months, perhaps even more morallyconstipated than he is. Louise is studying community development at the Footscray Institute. Wants to be an aid worker in Tibet. I trust they’re having sex—Christ I hope for his sake they’re having sex—but she won’t move in with him because she thinks it wouldn’t be special then. I’ve never heard her
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