He woke with a killer headache and instinctively felt between his legs. Satisfied, he opened his eyes. They focussed finally and unfortunately at a television screen, high in the corner of the room, a room that turned out to be a shop, a shop that turned out to be a burger bar. An all-night one at that.

He rubbed his eyes, then checked his ears; no, they were working fine — it was just the music-video was crap. It didn’t surprise him.

Donnie Penfolde pushed back from the red formica bar and almost fell off of the stool which was fortunately nailed to the floor. Well, embedded into the cement floor. At least it was stable, which was the last thing he could think of as something resembling his life.

A glance out the window behind him revealed it was night, and his watch confirmed it — 11.33pm. The sign over the door declared this was Danny’s burgers. He asked for a coffee and it was delivered in a paper cup. He wasn’t surprised.

The music on the TV disappeared for a moment, only to be replaced by something featuring a lot of wailing which turned-out to be what the Americans called Gospel and Blues, and which he called crap. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d swum against the flow of popular culture though; his attire attested to this simple fact, for while the other people at the bar (could he call this a bar if they didn’t serve alcohol? He decided to try and see how it felt), were dressed in a mixture of artificial fabrics, blends, company logos and jeans, he wore a pinstripe suit and trilby. This seemed odd even to him, so he took the hat off and left it on the bar where it attested to his dress-sense being a left-over from the 1940s. Could he help it if the Private Investigator’s Union had decided on a Phillip Marlowe uniform? Would be a bit difficult for the females of the profession, and he felt their pain.

Donnie wondered why he was here. The coffee was hotter than a high fire-risk day (no naked flames, no outdoor barbeques), and he had yet to receive any sustenance of an edible form. His burger arrived. By the look it was a Chicken Breast Fillet Burger, hold the chicken breast. He couldn’t work-out why he’d ordered lettuce and mayo in a bun, but decided to live in the now, and took his first bite. He needed the coffee to wash the taste from his mouth. What was the bun made of, sugar and more sugar? It was only the sesame seeds on top that made it anywhere near a savoury item rather than belonging squarely with the ice-cream sundaes and whipped-cream he would have ordered for dessert if Danny’s served that sort of thing. They didn’t, so he ordered another coffee and a Chicken Breast Fillet Burger, hold the lettuce and bun. He got a look from the man behind the counter which could have been a stomach complaint.

A man sat down next to Donnie, and he coughed heartily into his handkerchief, checking it for spots of blood.

‘Is there blood on this,’ asked the man. Donnie was surprised to say the least, but it was late and he had nothing better to do.

‘Yes,’ said Donnie, reading the message on the handkerchief.

Five minutes later, the fillet arrived. Donnie had left a ten dollar note as payment but wouldn’t be able to take advantage of the protein. It was a pity because he’d need it.

There was an alleyway behind Danny’s. One end was the British sector and Danny’s burgers. Halfway down was a checkpoint and beyond was the French sector. The sign declared that he was leaving the British Sector for the French. Someone had spraypainted a cheery “Bonjour” beneath it.

The guards at the checkpoint were bored and heavily armed and wouldn’t be questioned too much if they shot someone. Donnie made his presence known from quite a distance away so they wouldn’t take a pot-shot to see how well he could scream.

They told him to stop and put his hands up. The first he did, he’d pre-empted their other demand by a few minutes which annoyed them a little. They didn’t like smart-arses.

‘No offence fellahs,’ said Donnie in a voice most-likely to annoy them, and started walking again.

The guards raised their weapons, then fell to the ground, an acupuncture needle inserted, by way of high-pressure air-pistol, into a special point at the back of their necks. They writhed momentarily on the ground before Donnie put the boot-in and relieved them of their conscious-state for at least a few minutes.

She wore a vivid pink skirt and jacket with matching hat. She looked like Grace Kelly but only if Grace Kelly had been an albino Goth.

‘Nice outfit,’ said Donnie. He was lying.

‘A pleasure as always Monsieur Penfolde,’ she said, her French voice unusual to Donnie’s ears. He wondered if she was one of those mad Quebeqois, or just simply mad.

‘Good shot,’ he said kicking the nearest guard once again; he’d begun to stir and really should have just accepted unconsciousness. It was, after all, late at night.

‘I thank you for coming so promptly,’ she said.

‘I cleared the decks when I got your summons. A few people will be pissed-off that I’ve dropped their cases, but you’re more important.’

‘Another lie, Monsieur,’ Madame Pink smiled but only with the corners of her mouth. ‘I am glad you have not lost your defining aspect with all this tension.’

She was right, of course. With the Allied invasion and subsequent drop in crime (unsurprising given the Limey’s were Judge, Jury and Executioners and didn’t have any qualms about doing the executing), Donnie had been rather bored of late.

‘How can I be of service this time around,’ he asked, resting a foot on the head of the guard he was closest to.

‘Allow me,’ said Madame Pink and fired another couple of needles into the men for good measure. The man nearest began to groan, but it wasn’t from pain.

‘We are seeking the fugitive Monsieur McWarwickson,’ said Madame Pink, slightly mis-pronouncing the name. Donnie couldn’t blame her, it was a mouthfull. ‘I believe you made his aquaintance.’

Donnie nodded. Freddy McWarwickson, ex-pope and scourge of the Western Suburbs was the British number fourteen most-wanted. They were making a point of letting McWarwickson piss as many people off as possible so that finding him would be made easier. It was only the hunt for Pink and Bleu that allowed him to remain at large. That and they hadn’t found a jailer who wouldn’t just punch McWarwickson repeatedly on first sight. He was certainly yesterday’s Pope.

‘I have a hunch where he is.’ He didn’t. ‘Same rate as before?’

The guard began to writhe in ecstacy and a wet patch blossomed at his crotch as Donnie watched.

‘Effective,’ he said, glancing up. Madame Pink had disappeared. There was only one place she could have gone, so he stepped over the line and into the French sector, then around the corner.

‘You should not have followed me,’ said Madame Pink and the air-pistol rose in her hand.

‘Wait, please,’ said Donnie raising his outstretched hands in — he hoped — a placatory way. She shot him anyway and he ducked back behind the bend while pulling needles from his hands. Little drops of blood leaked from the tiny holes they left. He thought Acupuncture wasn’t supposed to draw blood and as he looked up, stared into the cold albino eyes of Madame Pink who had stepped around the corner and poked the pistol into his hip.

‘Oh! That tickles,’ Donnie jerked away, slapping down instinctively at where the pistol had pushed at his skin. The gun clattered down onto the bitumen and bounced once before going off again on auto-fire. The hapless guards shins were shot full of needles which caused an explosive evacuation of their bowels. The smell was appalling.

Donnie decided that the checkpoint was definitely off tonight’s menu, despite there being a rapidly cooling chicken breast burger sitting on the bar waiting for his return. He would have to disappoint it this time around and stood toe-to-toe with Madame Pink instead.

‘I need to ask you some more questions,’ he said.

‘You do not,’ she replied. ‘Questions are a sign of an enquiring mind of which you do not possess.’

‘Payment then,’ said Donnie getting to the point.

‘Already deposited into your account. You can check.’ She lifted a slim black internet phone for him to take and witin moments he had confirmed the existence of a sizeable sum of money in his account. He decided at once to get one of these phones with some of the cash, even if it meant he had to mortgage his soul for two years. It wasn’t like he was using it for anything in particular.

‘McWarickson then,’ said Donnie, glancing up at the TV monitor in the window opposite the other end of the alleyway. A stone buddha came to life and sipped at a can of fizzy drink. Was nothing sacred wondered Donnie. He used to drink that stuff goddamn it.

‘You are wondering why?’

‘The thought crossed my mind,’ said Donnie in defference to the fact that it hadn’t.

‘We need to question him as to the effects of the reality merge,’ answered Pink. ‘To confirm his memory corresponds with other samples we have taken.’

‘Samples?’

‘An increase in mass can be detected only by dissection Monsieur Penfolde.’

‘That’s horrible.’

‘The price of knowledge,’ said Madame Pink, her French accent lending further to her dismissive tone. ‘We are scientists Monsieur Penfolde.’

‘Where is Bleu then,’ asked Donnie.

‘Not here Monsieur Penfolde,’ she replied, stating the obvious in a highly attractive manner. She turned on her heel and disappeared into the night.

For want of anything better to do, Donnie found himself watching TV. It was all he could do until the checkpoint was cleaned-up. The men had lost quite a bit of weight which would probably do their colons the world of good in the long-term.

On one TV, behind the glass window, music videos raged on. A woman laughed theatrically, her black check dress swirling around her. Surrealism had never been Donnie’s favourite art-form. The woman transformed into a man with goatee, still wearing the dress. Transvestism wasn’t high on Donnie’s list of artforms either. Not lately anyway.

The next TV was a news report with swirling graphics and pounding music; Donnie could tell by the way the window vibrated in time with the TV logo. A still photo of Freddy McWarwickson appeared on the screen, with an “Ex Pope Perilous Seen” heading below. Donnie wished he’d been the other side of the glass to hear the report, but didn’t need to wait long for some more useful information. The TV logo changed, by way of zooming arrows over a CAD rendered landscape to a street-view of Freddy’s last known whereabouts: 45 St. George’s Road, Fitzroy North.

Just around the corner, thought Donnie walking back the way he had come. He was challenged at the checkpoint and wished he’d grabbed the air-pistol so he could repeat the weight-loss regimen by way of a dozen needles to the guards shins.

‘Donnie Penfolde, PI,’ he said, with hands held up parallel to his head.

‘ID.’ said Guard one menacingly. He had the gun to back it up. Donnie didn’t like things pointed at him, but gingerly reached inside his jacket pocket to retrieve his wallet. He held it up and it flipped open showing his court-appointed ID and badge of office: Fitzroy North Investegatore du Private. The guards checked the badge and reluctantly let him through with merely a touch-up as he stepped over the line.

A motorbike and sidecar thundered by, its rider helmetless but looking fine with long red hair stretching out behind them. Donnie kept walking, trying in the darkness to adjust himself after the minor violation.

The car that pulled-up by the kerb was large and menacing. The men that got out of it were large and menacing. It didn’t take a court-appointed Private Investigator to work-out what they wanted. They walked into Danny’s and ordered three Lamb Burgers and a Bacon & Egg sandwich with a coffee.

Donnie wasn’t surprised.

Freddy McWarwickson walked in. Donnie was stunned. He stepped-up behind the several-barrel-shaped man with fingers extended and poked them in McWarwickson’s back.

‘Stick them up, fatso,’ said Donnie in his best Marlowe impression. Another rule of the union. He felt for the women of the profession.

‘Fuck,’ said McWarwickson, extending his arms. The forearm flab slapped him in the side of the face.

‘Turn around slowly,’ said Donnie, then stuck his fingers in his jacket pocket.

‘Is that a gun,’ said McWarwickson, ‘or are you just sticking your fingers in your jacket pocket?’

Donnie punched McWarwickson by way of reply. He would have admitted this wasn’t exactly according to the official rulebook, but there was a clause in there for instinctive behaviour that he’d take advantage of later. McWarwickson fell onto the three menacing men, who set-about him with gusto; they liked a bit of exercise before a meal.

The Freddy McWarwickson that woke ten minutes later was dazed and bloodied. Donnie had to admit it made him look all the more attractive, in the same way that a piece of roadkill was attractive to a swarm of flies. Donnie swallowed the last chunk of his Chicken Breast Fillet Burger (hold nothing) and picked up his coffee. He tipped the top layer onto McWarwickson’s crotch to see how fast the man could rise. Donnie wasn’t surprised.

Two Land Rovers pulled-up, severely denting the large and menacing car that was double-parked outside. The large and menacing men stepped outside to explain to the soldiers why it was parked in a no-standing zone, and were summarily kneed in their collective groins for their infraction and told to bugger off. The soldiers walked into Dannys and ordered the chicken-burger and a large chips. They stepped past Freddy McWarwickson with nary a backward glance. Fourteenth on the most-wanted list, decided Donnie, wasn’t a superstar role. He decided to exit stage-left and grabbed McWarwickson’s ear in a twist The Cobbler had taught him that she called the Thumbscrew. He’d need to disinfect his thumb later, but as a way of getting McWarwickson to stand up, it worked a treat. They left the cafe, with Donnie still sipping his coffee-to-go and hopped into one of the Land Rovers. Donnie decided it would be McWarwickson that copped any punishment so had him do the driving.

‘Left at the lights,’ said Donnie. ‘And past the barbed-wire.’

McWarwickson grunted: I heard you. Donnie slapped him on the back of the head: Shut up and drive, arsehole.

The barbed-wire now behind them, they followed the crescent around to another set of lights, by way of the speed-humps graveyard — the most speed-humps per capita anywhere in the country — where the Land Rover was left to idle.

‘Out here fatso,’ said Donnie then tackled McWarwickson as he tried to escape, glad of the man’s morbid obesity when they fell to the hard concrete pavement. Luck was with them for a bank alarm began to scream, and gunshots were fired overhead as Gandhi’s Saffron Gang held-up their fifteenth Manned Teller Machine this month. The teller didn’t stand a chance.

Grabbing at a couple of stray twenties as they floated down to the ground after the gang had made their escape with the booty, Donnie and McWarwickson pushed their way up to their feet and heard sirens fast approaching. The sirens weren’t alone: Four Land Rovers pulled-up at the scene, armed soldiers slipping from the doorways like well-oiled machines.

Donnie wasn’t surprised.

It was bright in the interview room that Donnie was seated in and he was, oddly enough, dying for something to eat. He should have waited for that first chicken breast before leaving to meet with Madame Pink. It wasn’t the first time Donnie hadn’t eaten enough before a job.

Donnie stared at the walls. Nice paint job. Shame about the ways out; there were none he could see. He considered what they might be doing with McWarwickson; they wouldn’t be pleased to have picked him up at this early stage because it meant more paperwork. They’d been hoping the community would deal with him instead.

Could be worse, thought Donnie as a panel in the wall slid aside and unsealed the room. It left a doorway in which a man stood.

Major Smith stepped into the room, a folder under one arm and an officer’s hat on his head.

‘I believe this is yours, Herr Penfolde,’ he said in faultless English accent. Quite easy given he was born and bred in London, England.

‘Just Donnie,’ said Donnie, accepting the Trilby from Smith. ‘Any chance of something to eat?’

‘I’ll just have the waiter bring us a menu,’ Smith replied sardonically as he sat down.  ‘I want you to tell me what you know about these people.’

Smith opened the folder and pulled three photographs from it.

One photograph was of Madame Pink. Another, Monsieur Bleu. The last was Elvis Presley. Donnie read their names from the back of the photographs, and denied knowing any of them.

‘Do you think I’m stupid Penfolde?’ bellowed Smith.

When the echoes died down, Donnie replied: ‘Don’t know you well enough to have an opinion.’

‘Good,’ said Smith in a more even tone.  ‘A woman was seen on surveillance tonight at 23:50 EST by Checkpoint Barry. She seemed to resemble this woman.’ He pointed to Madame Pink. ‘And you were seen with her.’

‘The woman I was with was wearing a pink skirt and jacket,’ said Donnie. ‘Pink wears nothing but black if I recall.’

He needed the cash he’d get from the completed case which meant he had to lie somewhat. It wasn’t a big lie, he’d been as surprised as anyone to see Pink wear anything other than slimming black.

‘I do remember,’ said Smith. ‘How about these others. Met any of them recently?’

‘Haven’t met any of them,’ said Donnie, sensing a trap. ‘Not recently in any case. Elvis is dead isn’t he?’

‘Not last time I looked,’ said Smith.’I’d be annoyed if he died in detention. The paperwork is a nightmare.’

Donnie was surprised. Two in one night was hard to deal with, but he did his best to mask his feeling by coughing into his hand. He decided to get himself some mouthwash once he was out of here, his breath wasn’t quite the boquet. That’s what a diet of peanut butter and vegemite on toast did to a person. Well, at least now he knew.

‘Pink and Bleu,’ said Smith. ‘Think of when you last saw them. And remember that I’m not a patient man. People to do. Things to see. You know how it is.’

Donnie didn’t.

‘So why work for them then?’

Donnie had to think fast. Those words meant McWarwickson had sung like an overwound tin parrot and had given the British the details of his capture and Smith, bastard that he was, had intelligently put the story together with some rather nice footage of the meeting with Madame Pink. All Smith needed now was a tune to play and he’d have Donnie singing soprano.

‘I need the money.’

‘No you don’t,’ said Smith, and pushed another document across the stainless-steel table toward Donnie. It was Donnie’s bank account detail: one deposit of $2500 from Universal Promotions PLC. This was another setback to Donnie’s plans to get out of here sooner rather than later. ‘So who are Universal Promotions then?’

‘Music promoters,’ said Donnie. ‘I’ve been asked to hire some muscle for a gig that’s going to happen soonish. I ended up with flab.’

‘The man you were with?’

‘Yeah. You can’t have been happy to see him.’

The Major shrugged. ‘Just another idiot out of an evening. Back to Universal Promotions. They’re recruiting bouncers for a gig? Do you know when it is because I’ve heard nothing about it.’

‘They didn’t say. Soonish,’ said Donnie, the mad extrapolator. He was making it up as he went along and hoped the Major hadn’t realised.

‘If they get the permits.’

‘If they get the permits,’ agreed Donnie.

‘I don’t like offering permits,’ said Smith in a measured voice. ‘Makes managing the city more difficult than it needs to be.’

‘Fair point,’ said Donnie. ‘Well, that’s the end of that idea then.’

The Major leaned forward and brushed his blonde moustache with a fingertip, then started talking again.

‘Penfolde, as much as I enjoy our little chats, I’m a busy man. Do you understand?’

‘Oh, sure. Sorry. I’ll be going then?’

‘No. Unless you start talking straight to me Penfolde, I’m walking out of here and not coming back in until Democracy is restored to the country. And I don’t intend to have the scourge of Democracy anywhere near me, if you get my drift.’

Donnie wasn’t surprised…

Danny’s burgers, Fitzroy North

October 2009