Authors: Ainslie Paton
It made her smile. She knew exactly where she stood with him.
Apart from how nervous she was standing in the bank with twelve thousand dollars in an envelope in her satchel while Fetch shopped for sunglasses, and how wonderful it was to see her account look healthy again, the rest of the morning passed surprisingly normally for everything that had gone before it. For what this arrangement actually was.
Mental
.
The sun shone, the traffic was light, she drove and Fetch slept in the back seat. Or at least he looked to be sleeping. His body was at ease, but he had new aviator style sunglasses on, so his eyes could be doing anything behind the lenses. When a P-plater did a too tight lane change in front of her deserving of an expletive and he didn’t comment she figured he was asleep. This was doable. Though he probably wouldn’t sleep every day. And she would have to be civil to him. But maybe it wasn’t too out of the box to think they might relax enough around each other to be like they’d been during his delivery boy days. They’d almost been a team.
Which made her Bonnie to his Clyde
. Okay, forget the team thing. But maybe they could be more normal.
Close enough to four hours later she slowed as Highway 31 met the Gundagai Tumut exit at Gocup Road. Still no movement from the back seat despite the loss of speed. Tumut was one of those towns that still had a pub on every corner. It also had the usual fast food standards. She pulled into the main street, a long, ruler-straight road with residential housing either side of a town centre fringed by nose to kerb parallel parking.
From the back seat came, “Man, I’m hungry.” Fetch sat forward, still belted in. “Where the hell are we?”
“Tumut—gateway to the Snowy Mountains.”
“Think they still have decent coffee here.”
“Where would you like to stop?”
“Campos.” Fetch had spied the coffee brand’s umbrellas at an outdoor cafe. “That’ll do.” Thank God he hadn’t wanted to try one of the pubs. They probably all had great bistros or counter lunches, but for all she knew he was a drinker and she’d rather not encourage that, in or out of the car.
Caitlyn parked and they walked back to the umbrellas. They ordered sandwiches to accompany with their flat whites. Sitting on the sidewalk in a NSW country cafe with her bikie, she suddenly felt silly in her driver’s cap. “Do you mind if I take this off?” She gestured to the hat. “It’s kind of a city thing.”
He smiled. “Go right ahead. You don’t need to play the chauffeur for me.”
She took the cap off and put it on the spare seat beside her. If she didn’t play the chauffeur, what was she to him? “So I’m not a chauffeur and you’re not a bikie. Who are we supposed to be?”
“We could be normal people? You could tell me your name so I don’t have to keep calling you by your occupation.”
“Will you tell me yours so I don’t have to keep calling you by yours?”
He smiled crookedly and it showed his amusement. “You first.”
There was no way he was going to give her his name. And there was no way to believe any name he gave her anyway. This was going nowhere. Might as well have some fun with it. “Carrie.”
He shifted in his seat. “Say that again.”
“My name is Carrie.”
He slapped his hand down on the table and laughed hard. The pensioner quartet at the other table gave them a cautious look. He was quick on the uptake; she had to give him that.
“You thought I’d fall for that. Fetch and Carry. It’s good. How long have you been waiting to say that?”
She inclined her head. “It just came to me.”
He laughed again. She tried to play it straight, gave a shrug but her lips wouldn’t behave; he looked so different when he laughed, all the remoteness dropped away from him, she couldn’t stop her smile.
“Geez, Driver, you’re funny. And without that hat and when you smile you’re…” he hesitated, studying her, “you’re almost likeable.”
She exhaled. “Without the hair you might be likeable too.”
He pulled at his beard. “What’s wrong with the hair?”
She shook her head.
Not getting into that
.
“What’s your real name, Driver?”
He had persistence written all over his face from the dark brows raised above his lenses to the healing graze on his cheek. She sighed. “Lilly.”
“That’s pretty. Is it short for Lillian,” he jacked his thumb over his shoulder, “or Lilly’s Gift Shop two doors up from where we parked the car?”
He was too quick. She picked up her cap and put it back on. She was his chauffeur, she didn’t need a name.
“You know, there’s no reason not to be straight with me.”
“Like you are with me, Fetch.” She emphasised his name, his handle, his cover, whatever it was.
“I have a good reason to keep things to myself. And it’s in your best interest. But there’s no reason for you to be so guarded around me.”
Was he for real? “You mean other than the fact you used me to commit a crime, had me witness a hit, got me chased, compromised my security to the point that you don’t want me to go home, paid me in drug money, and I’m here with you in Tumut. Oh and how could I forget; you traumatised me by asking me to staple you, and swapped my numberplates which I’m sure is illegal.”
“It was a shakedown, and definitely a set-up, but not a hit on me.”
“Oh that makes it all so much better.”
“You know what, Driver—you have a temper.”
“This from a man whose trade is violence and money laundering.”
There was music, a ringtone, Meatloaf,
Bat out of Hell
. Fetch said, “Hold that thought,” and went for his pocket. Then he said, “What?” in his own voice, not the hesitant stumbling voice he used last when she’d heard him on the phone. He listened, nodding once or twice, giving nothing away. He was looking out towards the post office across the street. He said, “You’re sure. Right, I’ll manage.” Then he turned to face her. “I think she’ll be pleased to hear that.” When he hung up he put the phone on the table in front of him. “Give me yours.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we’re ditching them. But there’s good news.”
There were three voicemails and a text message from Justin now. Each of them pleading with her to come home to him. Telling her she was forgiven and he loved her and needed her. It seemed drastic to ditch the whole phone but maybe it was for the best.
“What’s the good news?”
He stood. “There’s an Avis in town.”
He was out. Two years, four months, nine days. It was over.
He went to the counter to pay for their lunch. He felt punch-drunk, dazed. Fucking lost. He hadn’t even argued with Stud, because he knew it was his own fault. He’d forgotten to take her phone.
No more Fetch. No more Robinson Street. No more deliveries, no more pick-ups. No more dodging Wacker’s psycho moods or playing the bumbling idiot for Maisy to fawn over. No more being the punching bag for Toddy, Johno and Grumble. No more estimating cash by bag weight or memorising coded orders. No more hyper-vigilance and only ever being half asleep.
He could shave, have a haircut. Acid scrub the horrible tattoos off. He could burn the boots and vest and the hateful filthy t-shirts. He could forget how to drop his letters and stutter. He never had to play
Mortal Combat
or
Call of Duty
ever again. He never had to eat crap fried food or drink till he was sick to avoid shooting up. He never had to cringe or slump or make himself smaller. He never had to throw a fight, or stand by when someone was being attacked or threatened.
He could be normal.
No more tricked up, re-routed emails and fake postcards from Africa to home. He could call his mum. He could see his family. He could go for a surf, he could see a movie, eat at a nice restaurant. He could have an ordinary conversation about nothing without having to look over his shoulder to see if he was being watched.
He could get laid.
He could live his life again.
Deep down, it’s what he knew he needed. So why did he feel so fucking hollow, so emptied out? So angry? He wanted to hit something. Shout at someone. Chuck a fucking force ten tantrum.
Because he’d been undone by a seventeen dollar Supreme pizza. Made because he dropped his guard when he’d answered the door to a delivery boy, been pleasant because he’d felt some kind of warped kinship with the guy and it was raining. It was thirty seconds of carelessness. It blew two years, four months and nine days to shit.
He stood in a queue at the counter and silently cursed the two old ducks in front arguing about splitting a thirteen dollar bill. Over the top of their heads he caught the eye of the cashier. She smiled nervously. He leaned forward and snatched the disputed bill off the counter and handed it with his own and a fifty to the cashier. He ignored the stress that caused: the outraged fluttering of hands with fake nails and too many rings, the raised squeaks of half-hearted protest, and the wild eyes. He’d be the highlight of the week for those two.
He still wanted to hit something.
Because it wasn’t done. It wasn’t over. And they didn’t get the brass ring. Whoever was behind the identity theft scam was still out there. For all his time and effort, for all the warrants they could write and arrests they could make, all they’d do was fell soldiers in the army. The soldiers were replaceable and they wouldn’t win the war, only disrupt operations with a minor skirmish.
He didn’t want it to end like this. Those two years, four months and nine days of his life he’d turned over to the gang crime squad. They weren’t coming back. Just like Milo’s wife, they were dead. They had to stand for something more than a speed bump, a detour in the game.
But he was out and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He was officially on leave, pending a full psyche evaluation and a desk job.
Jesus Fucking Christ
.
From the second he stepped out onto the main drag of Tumut he was free, he was shaking loose, zeroing out and pushing normal. He felt sick to the bottom of his gut about what that meant and how to do it. Could you lose the talent to be yourself? Once you broke the habit, was it possible to get it back?
Especially when you weren’t ready.
So, unofficially he was on his way to Perth.
Driver was waiting for him on the pavement near the car, eyes down on her sensible shoes. The good thing was she was safe. No one was looking for Fetch. Fuck what Stud said, no one would believe Fetch was a cop. The gang members were too busy suspecting each other as the doublecross fell apart and retribution became the flavour of the month. No one was interested in a lady limo driver either. She could be home tonight if she hit the road now. No wiser, but way richer for the experience.
She looked up when he approached. Oddly, he was going to miss her. His one little piece of near normal. Before he’d half passed out in the back seat he’d been thinking about what it might be like to feel her cool, capable hands on his skin because she wanted them there, not because he’d coerced her into touching him, goaded her into agreeing to hurt him. He was keen to see her outside of her sexless uniform, with her hair unbound and the tension she carried in her pretty face smoothed away. He’d like to make her laugh without being self-conscious. He’d love to see her lose her temper without worrying about the consequences. And seriously, he wanted to know who hurt her and made her so closed up and cautious.
And he’d like it if pizza delivery had never been invented.
She waited till he was alongside the car then said, “Why do we need Avis?”
“
We
don’t.”
“Oh, so now you don’t like my driving.” She came to attention, folding her arms tight across her chest. “I was good enough to be your getaway driver and you slept the whole way here. And we had a deal.”
He mirrored her stance. “Yeah. Life sucks. We have a new deal now. It goes like this. I walk down the road there and hire myself a car and drive on. You get in your car and go home. When you get there, call the number on the business card. My boss Michael Studdley will tell you where to take your car to get it put back the way it was.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“That’s my best offer.”
“No.”
“Look Driver, last night you tried to bolt. This morning we agreed you’d only take me as far as Port Augusta. This is better. You’re safe. That call; it’s all over. I’m out. You’re safe; permanently safe. No one is going to be looking for you.”
“I didn’t agree to turn back in Port Augusta.”
“You were always a flight risk and I don’t care what you think you agreed on, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He threw his hands up. “Well, what the fuck else am I supposed to call you?”
“My name is Cait.”
“Is that Kate as in Katherine? Or is there a hairdresser around here somewhere by that name.”
“It’s Cait as in Caitlyn. It’s my real name. You can call me that while we’re driving to Leeton.”
“
We’re
not driving to Leeton.
You’re
going home.”
“No.”
“You get to keep the money.”
“No.”
He sighed.
Stubborn cow
. “You can keep saying ‘no’ till you grow horns, it won’t change what’s going to happen.”
“What’s wrong with you?” She was good and stroppy now. Hands fisted on her hips.
“Blood loss.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously, you want to know what’s wrong with me?”
“I just asked, didn’t I?”
He scrubbed both hands through his hair, tugging it out of his face. “I’m unemployed.”
She huffed. “I’d say that’s an improvement on the type of job that gets you slashed, and it’s no reason not to stick with the deal.”
“I was attached to that job.”
“Don’t give me that. What was that call about? You didn’t act all subservient and scared.”
Ah, so she’d copped that particular performance with Wacker in the car park. He’d tried to be quick and discreet. “That was the royal shove off, the axe, the flick, the arse. That was your signal to do as you’re told and go home.” He moved to step past her.
“Where are you going now?”
He stopped and turned back and raised his voice. “What part of need to know about our arrangement do you not get?”