This is what happens when I go to bed at 3.30 in the morning: I lose things; I get vague. Then I get furious with myself because I’m going to have to pay money again for things I already owned. Money that would be better spent or saved on other things. It’s like a bloody rental agreement except I don’t actually know what was being rented. Suddenly something disappears — in this case, my cherished and very cool goggles ($35) and my earmuffs (second pair lost, $1.50 or $15.00 depending on where you buy them — I’ll be going to Sydney Road for mine, the cheaper option, not the rip-off bike shop in North Carlton).

What was I saying?

I get vague. That’s the one.

I also forgot my passport today. Normally this is not something that needs to feature in my life. I’m not crossing borders all that much these days, not getting onto planes bound for foreign lands and not being asked for ID by serious people with powers to search me outside and in. That last one has never happened, thankfully.

The passport was needed for enrollment at my new course, in order to prove my Australian credentials for the government fee paying scheme I’m taking advantage of; hell, I never went to university and am now looking forward to incurring some government debt just like the rest of the population!

So I have to return to Prahran tomorrow to show my passport to the people running the course so they can say “oo, arr, a passport, and oh what an ugly photograph — that looks nothing like you. Have you lost weight?”, for which I will thank them and allow them to take a photocopy for their records.

I simply don’t understand why I can’t just take an exam to prove my credentials, thus:

1. Who was Ned Kelly?

An irishman who fought the law and went down in local history because of this top-notch effort of Sticking It To The Man. He was hanged after being found guilty of a trumped-up charge of shooting two scumbag police officers.

2. Who was Phar Lap?

A dead racehorse that has gone down in Australian history as the best piece of taxidermy in the country, and is saluted, with tears in the eyes, by all gamblers nationwide as they lose their next month’s rent.

3. Who is Don Bradman?

John Howard’s wet dream

4. Who is the Prime Minister of Australia?

What day is it?

5. Who is the Premier of Victoria?

Who cares?

6. What is the second verse of “Advance Australia Fair”

There’s a second verse?

7. You are in a bar and someone offers you a drink. Do you order VB or Fosters?

VB. Fosters is an export drink reserved for sale in Australian bars, in a multitude of European and American cities, for consumption by homesick Australian travellers to remind them of what they’re really missing by buggering off somewhere else.

8. Pick the odd one out:

• Hills Hoist
• Flymo
• Holden
• Ford
• Collingwood

Collingwood

9. What is the most appropriate response to the following question: “Got a fag, mate?”

• I’m a hetrosexual you wanker!
• Fuck off you scab and buy some yourself
• Here’s a menthol and a light

Fuck off you scab… etc.

10. Pick the odd one out:

• AFL
• NFL
• POQ
• MCG

NFL – no Victorian follows the bloody Rugby.

11. What was the best thing about the Sydney Olympics?

It was held nearly 1000 kilometers away from Melbourne

12. What is appropriate behaviour for P-plate drivers on a Saturday night?

Drive your mums car to Chapel Street with the music up full bore and scream obscenities at anyone wearing a skirt.

Riding up St. George’s road with a headwind is never a pleasant experience. Even less-so when you’re on the way to a Centrelink appointment.

I think they count on people being unwilling to deal with the complexity and the kafkaesque as shit bureaucracy (see also http://xkcd.com/798/). I have, until now been among these people and would much rather chain myself to a bike railing for a week than deal with the multitude of paperwork and bizarre half-truths that spout from the mouths of the staff.

I am, of course, exaggerating. But only just.

Silly me.

Centrelink, like Telstra and other unimaginative big corporations, has a new “voice recognition” system. And it asks you in English to tell it what you need.

The designers clearly hadn’t counted on anyone asking such questions to be outside with a wind blowing. Because every time I tried to say something, it read the wind blowing past the iPhone microphone and expressed in an apparently kind and relaxed voice that it couldn’t work out what I was saying and to please try again.

‘I–”

“I can’t work out what you’re saying. Please try again. To speak to an operator say ‘operator’…”

“Oper–”

“I can’t work out what you’re saying. Please try again. To speak to an operator say ‘operator’…”

“Op–”

“I can’t work out what you’re saying. Please try again. To speak to an operator say ‘operator’…”

Screaming bloody profanities while riding a bike one-handed in a headwind holding an iPhone to your ear possibly looks a bit odd. And if you were driving down St. George’s road this morning at the times I mentioned, I’ll say a cheery “Hello”.

I finally got through to the machine that I couldn’t remember by Centrelink code-number,  and that I was calling about Newstart appointments, and it then put me on hold. I was within 100 meters of the Centrelink office when I finally got through to an operator.

The operator was quite nice. She asked for my centrelink code number and I explained the situation. I was chaining my bike up outside the office when we got to the 3 points of ID: Name, Address, Phone number, and was walking into the office by the time she found my account. I asked if she could advise the office I was now standing in of my lateness and she tried to call them but couldn’t get through either. The call was marked on my account and I sighed relief.

Then I heard my name called and found out they usually give 10 minutes leeway anyway.

20 minutes later I was out of there. The weather had changed and there was a feeling not so much of relief but an obstacle overcome.

I need a slab of cash. Anyone want to donate to the fund?

Around Melbourne I keep seeing posters decrying Israel’s blockade against Palestine. Posters which scream in 50 point white outline black letters that Israel is an Aparteid country, and that we should break ties. These are written by students, full of fury at injustice and with a need to right the world.

I use this as an example for what I’m about to say.

It occurs to me that countries, like people, can only change themselves. Imagine your reaction if a friend, or perfect stranger stomped up to you and told you off for something you did. How would you react? If you were quiet and introverted, you’d shrink further into your shell; if extroverted and loud, you’d probably give them a two-finger salute and tell them to bugger-off.

But if you were left to stew on what you had done, you could choose whether you were going to repeat the action. You can choose, to put in in black and white, to do good, or do bad. You can choose to learn from your actions or to repeat them.

It’s this choice that lies at the heart of personal, domestic and international problems. And, like people, countries with their own problems quite often find it easier to point somewhere else and start making judgements against others.

Australia has a great weeping sore at the centre of its heart: that of the awful crimes perpetrated against the indigenous population. And the further inland you get, the more obvious the racism is. The whites that came to this country saw no signs of a parallel civilisation to their own, so called those living here “savages”. The same is true for North and South America and countless other countries.

And yet in the news we see so little about the problems facing the modern-day indigenous, but plenty about the transgressions of other countries. We spend hardly any time — apart from the gob-smackingly colonial action of the “Northern Territory Intervention” (where, surprise, surprise, only two of 97 recommendations were implemented) — looking after indigenous people; we demonise boat people, genuine refugees and refuse those running from war-torn countries like Afghanistan.

And yet, like the so-called “fall” of the Soviet Union in 1990, like South Africa’s dismantling of Apartheid, beginning in 1990 and culmunating in full and open elections in 1994, the unrest in Iran during the elections of 2009, change from within has amazing impact, because it comes from those who are able to make the change, not from bullies pushing you around.

And returning to Israel, people are leading the change in the ways they can, some ways are small, some are large. It’s not for us to decide which these are:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/sep/16/palestinian-women-smuggled-israeli-beaches

Arrived at the Job Seeker office today at about 5 past 9 — slightly late. They retaliated with badly photocopied identity paperwork for me to write-up, an apparently E-addicted reception boy who was Just Having A Great Time, and a 20 minute wait; with commerical radio on a nearby boom-box. It just doesn’t get any better than this!

I didn’t really have much else to do though.

When I was seen by a very earnest young man – not sure what the job title is, but the description appears to be data-entry, handing over paperwork, asking the odd question and explaining a couple of things — the first question out of his mouth was “so what happened?”

You see, he’d found an earlier Centrelink account on-file, and discovered I’d done Technical Writing for a number of years (he didn’t know how many and had to ask me that because it apparently wasn’t clear enough on the resume on-file to have each job over 12 years marked with the years and/or months “from” and “to”) and made an assumption.

He seemed a little flustered when I replied that I’d decided to step away from corporate IT for a while to run a web design and copywriting business, and was only here ultimately because of the sheer boredom of chasing recalcitrant clients for money.

Which was true. Also I was getting a little socially isolated working from home.

I said I’d worked in a shop for a while to “press the mental Reset button” and just needed a little bit of a hand while looking for work. And that I’d applied for several jobs this week and had a potential interview next.

This basically removed the need for any other questions. I’d even printed out my resumes (IT and Other) for him. At the point where he started showing me the photocopies he had for me, I think he might have been a bit embarassed about the pages showing “how to write a resume” and “how to write a cover letter”. Presumably he needed to show them because he had nothing else to do.

All part of the service really.

Here’s to the Centrelink interview Monday. Looking forward to it.

I wrote this email to some friends about Facebook versus a personal password-protected website for photos and personal stuff. Thought it might be of use to others

Just wanted to write some things about Facebook.

First, putting photos onto Facebook is really dangerous as it regularly changes security settings without telling anyone. In the last 5 years, Facebook security has been regularly downgraded and people have had to make serious effort to lock their profiles down again.

http://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2010/04/facebook-timeline

http://flowingdata.com/2010/05/07/evolution-of-facebook-privacy-policies/ – a graphical representation of the EFF link above

The April incident where they implemented a service called “Social Graph” meant that everyone’s profiles were open to the world. The idea from Facebook was so that you could be found anywhere easily and simply, your identity could be shared with “3rd party providers” (that they had deals with) to advertise at you. Supposedly this meant you could just log in with your FB profile information and this would make things easier. In reality it meant everyone had to scramble to lock their profiles down from prying eyes.

http://geekshuiliving.com/2010/04/23/facebook-privacy-how-to-secure-your-profile-from-the-social-graph/

http://blog.backupify.com/2010/05/17/the-problem-with-facebooks-open-graph-isnt-privacy-its-security/

Further, With Facebook, you might be able to lock your profile down, but you also have to consider the profiles of your friends — if they’re not locked down as tightly as yours, or if they’ve got apps which can see their profiles then there’s a security issue there too.

Apps are a problem. Any time you use one, you’re giving free access to your entire profile to a third party. There are no guarantees what they do with this information.

Last, Facebook owns EVERYTHING you post on their site. You can’t ask for your profile to be truly removed from their servers — you can only get it turned off.

http://news.cnet.com/8301-1009_3-20004511-83.html

The advantage you have with a website is that you can lock it completely down. No-one can see anything without the appropriate password. You own the content and you control who can go in and out. And if things go badly or something odd happens, you can take it down completely.

You can also implement a feature called “nofollow” which means the site won’t be included in search — Ultimately, however, google needs to see the site and the text on the site to index (include the site in search results) which is impossible if it’s password protected as soon as you arrive and the site won’t even display without the appropriate username and password.

The bottom line is that on the web, it being an “information superhighway”, it is actually possible to run across the road without being hit — you just have to be very wary of the way you do it, otherwise it’s all-over!

She could hear the sound of something rolling along a wooden surface; a marble, a ball, perhaps a metal sphere.

When she woke she saw him sitting at the desk, deep in thought, one of the steel balls of his Newton’s Cradle had fallen from its string; he was rolling it absent-mindedly from one hand to the other in the lamplight.

‘You are well,’ she asked.

‘Pondering.’ He stood and walked to the window, his hands clasped behind his back, ruffling his pristine white suit.

‘Will he… or won’t he?’ asked the man, apparently addressing the glass window. His eyes caught a movement on the street below and he smiled.

‘Who is he?’ asked the Angel.

‘You don’t know?’ asked the man, surprised. He turned and looked over his shoulder at her. ‘He is your saviour.’

‘I do not need to be saved,’ she stated, stepping beside him and looking down to the street. It had rained and the cobblestones glistened in the moonlight. She could see no-one down there.

‘He thinks you do.’

‘From what?’

The man shrugged. ‘Servitude, slavery.’ The man picked-up the ball and regarded it closely, seeing his eyes reflected upside-down. ‘Choice.’

‘I am where I am,’ said the Angel. ‘For this is my choice.’

‘He assumes you are not. He uses his head to think but not his heart.’

‘Then he is doomed.’

The man clasped the ball quickly in his palm. ‘Do you have no pity for him? This poor, misguided soul.’

‘He does not even know himself, but thinks he knows me.’

‘Assumes; there is a difference.’

‘He wants to save me from an imagined fate, from my own choice. The danger exists only in his mind. There is no truth to it.’

‘Oh, truth,’ said the man. ‘There is truth, just not what he has interpreted,’ to himself he murmured: ‘or imagined.’

‘He misinterprets his feelings.’

‘So what does he feel?’ asked the man carefully.

She glanced up at him slowly, unsure of the question.

‘Surely your own instincts told you. Don’t you trust your instincts?’

‘Yes.’

‘As does he,’ said the man, stepping away from the window. ‘You are alike the two of you. Both lost in your own ways. Both choosing paths by instinct and calling them something else.’

‘I choose to be here,’ she replied.

‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there nothing else that keeps you here in my company? You could fly away and be free, truly free, up there among the stars. What’s really holding you here?’

She was silent but as she stood there, another feather fell from her wings to the floor.

‘I hear you’re looking for me Penfolde,’ said Freddy McWarwickson contemptuously.

‘Does the Pope shit in the woods,’ asked Donnie by way of answer.

‘That’s not funny Penfolde,’ ex Pope Perilous the Fourth AKA Freddy McWarwickson replied.

‘No?’

‘No, what’s funny is you took the bait hook line and bloody sinker you twat!’

‘Spickle?’

‘Spickle. He was paid hard currency for the surgery to make him look like me. Bastard should have been paying me for the privilege. Look at this profile. Insured for a cool million before the insurance companies folded in the crash.’

Donnie nodded, remembering the rubble left when the US bomber, The Hon. Shirley Bassey took too low a bombing run and crashed into the casino on the other side of the river, taking the CEOs of Central du Insurance PLC with it.

‘I thought he looked like you,’ said Donnie.

‘Good diversion that. I took on Spickle’s identity and slipped across into the Russian Sector while the English were swanning around like they owned the place.’

‘They do.’

‘Those wankers couldn’t find their own arses in a paper bag,’ said McWarwickson, quoting one of his own mangled-metaphors. Were his specially-trained audience present, there would have been a thunderous applause. McWarwickson had to content himself with his own maniacal laughter. It somehow suited him.

Donnie sighed and waited for the mirth to die down.

‘Oh, you’re playing the hard-bitten detective still,’ sneered McWarwickson. ‘Hard-bitten my arse. More like mildly nibbled and spat out! Hur Hur Hur.’ He laughed like an idiot once again.

‘Are you getting near a point McWarwickson?’ Come on, come on, thought Donnie, now glad of the GPS marker. It wouldn’t take Smith long to work it out hopefully. All he had to do was keep McWarwickson talking long enough for Smith to finalise the terms and conditions of sending his forces into the Russian sector, exchange a few prisoners,come to a formal agreement on an economic exchange package and finally host the commander of the Russian sector to dinner and drinks in the British Forces HQ. Donnie checked his watch and wondered how many days he’d need.

‘I want to know why you were looking for me you wanker.’

Donnie, thoroughly bored with being asked the same questions over and over again, answered thus:

‘Madame Pink wants a word.’

Freddy went white, at least whiter than he was which surprised Donnie. McWarwickson got up from his makeshift throne and hustled around to the back door.

‘Oy! Where are you going?’

‘Fuck off Penfolde!’ cried McWarwickson and slammed the door shut. Donnie tried the handle and it fell off in his hand. The door however was deadbolted from the other side and no amount of swearing, kicking or hitting was going to shift it. Donnie gave up, giving his quarry the benefit of a few minutes of additional freedom. It was the humane thing to do.

The door above, crashed open and a Russian guard stood in the doorway, silhouetted in the light.

‘Stand aside,’ said Major Smith and walked down the stairs with his counterpart for this sector, the overfed and under-exercised Colonel Vladimir Panix.

Donnie’s jaw felt like it had hit the floor. He was very, very surprised. Panix wore a dark green greatcoat with military badges over the left breast, a large peaked hat on his head. He was the very model of a modern Russian Colonel.

‘If I may,’ said Smith to his opposite number. Panix nodded in that indulgent way that people do when they know they’re going to be owed a very great favour.

‘So where is he, Penfolde?’ Smith was wearing a beret in the same colour as his overcoat. He looked irritated, presumably because he’d been forced, as a condition of entry to the sector, to give away more than he’d have liked. Given that Smith would have liked to have conceeded no ground whatsoever, his testiness was guaranteed at this point.

‘Through that door there,’ said Donnie pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘He took-off about five minutes ago.’

Smith looked up to one of his lackeys and gave a curt command: ‘Get it down.’

‘Ah Major Smith,’ said Panix in the thickest Russian accent he could muster while still being vaguely coherent. He was taking the piss and enjoying Smith’s predicament. ‘We said nothing about property damage. I trust the British Government shall pay for all breakages.’

Smith’s eyes were still on Donnie and his expression was irritated. He sighed through clenched teeth. ‘Of course. Just keep a tally and invoice us in the usual way.’

‘Thankyou Comrade Smith,’ said Panix and nodded to his men with a not unkind smile. They went to work on the door and within a couple of minutes it was rendered useful only as firewood.

The doorway was dark and beyond was a staircase that led down to the sewers.

‘Damn,’ said Smith. ‘Follow me Penfolde.’ He stepped through the doorway with pistol drawn and started down the stairs. Panix called up and ordered his men to find any manholes and get down them. McWarwickson’s time was up.

Smith and Donnie emerged on wet bluestone in a sewer system that extended perhaps for miles. Water rushed along the channels and a sign on the wall near Donnie’s face declared this was the Queen Street stormwater drain.

‘Right Penfolde,’ said Smith, ‘Let’s find him.’ Smith paused then called loudly ‘McWarwickson! I know you’re down here. Come with us and we’ll be only marginally rough. But you’re in the Russian sector now, and they won’t be kind to you!’

‘Fuck off Smith,’ called McWarwickson in an act of machismo that would be his undoing. He ran across one of the streams and into a tunnel.

‘There!’ cried Smith and started running after him. Donnie chased Smith and soon it was like the Keystone Cops, except on foot and in a sewer. Half a dozen Russian guards emerged from another tunnel and gave chase.

McWarwickson stopped in a dark spot, gasping from the exertion. He glanced up, and saw Russian boots overhead. He glanced left and saw a British officer lighting a cigarette. He looked right and saw Smith and Donnie stalk by the mouth of the tunnel. He began to move along the wall, his back sliding along the damp stonework, his breath loud to his ears. A step at a time, heart racing, he paused by the archway and glanced back. Smith and Penfolde had walked further along. Smith was cursing politely, yet firmly. McWarwickson allowed himself a sly grin and ran across the gap to another tunnel just as Smith turned and fired. The bullet smashed into the stonework but missed McWarwickson. The chase was on once again.

Panix stood patiently by one of the exits and reflectively lit a black cigarette with a monogramed Zippo lighter, his one souvenir of his visit to the American sector. It was a reliable possession and he appreciated the design and the fact it was refillable. He was a peasant at heart and liked reusing useful instruments. He glanced up and smiled as an exhausted Freddy McWarwickson emerged from a tunnel. Here was another example of reusable resources.

‘Do not move,’ said Panix taking a puff on his cigarette. He had no weapons, and didn’t need them.

As Donnie and Major Smith sneaked up the tunnel they heard a snatch of conversation.

‘You owe me Panix,’ said McWarwickson. ‘So get out of the fuckin’ way.’

‘Our arrangement came to a close some time ago Comrade. And Major Smith has made several concessions to me regarding some of my more pressing concerns.’

‘Like what?’

‘Madame Pink and Monsieur Bleu,’ said Panix. ‘They are wanted as enemies of the people.’

‘Wait,’ hissed Smith, pulling Donnie back against the tunnel wall.

‘And you’re going to give me to Smith to get them?’ demanded McWarwickson. ‘I’ll tell them everything.’

‘You will not,’ said Panix carefully. ‘For if you co-operate, you will be given a new Reality Television show in Moscow. We were thinking “Who wants to be a Communist Dictator?” might be a good title.’

‘I’m not learning your stinking bloody language.’

‘Certainly not. The demand for capitalist television at home is at an all-time high. The show would fail if it were in the mother tongue.’

‘Fine, you’re on,’ said Freddy. He knew a good deal when he got it.

Smith stepped into the tunnel, pistol at the ready.

‘Have I interrupted anything, comrade?’ he said, testiness at an all-time high.

‘Not at all, Major,’ said Panix in a conciliatory tone. ‘We were just discussing the future.’

‘A future where my prize disappears,’ Smith demanded. ‘We had a deal Panix.’

Guards entered the tunnels behind Donnie, and each exit was covered.

‘We did indeed,’ said Panix. ‘But this is Occupied Melbourne and it is full of traitors and turncoats, don’t you agree?’

Smith cocked his pistol and held it up to be taken by the nearest guard. There was no need, or indeed chance, for unpleasantness.

‘Could you step out of the tunnel please Mister Penfolde,’ asked Panix politely.

Donnie stepped into view, his hands up. His bad feeling back in the car had been right.

‘Please escort our guests back to headquarters,’ said Panix to his guards. ‘Gently and politely please.’

Donnie and Major Smith were accompanied back the way they had come and emerged some ten minutes later in the room where Donnie had awoken; they’d covered a lot of drain in the time they’d been chasing McWarwickson. The guards gestured for them to walk up the stairs and they did, Donnie first and Smith behind.

At the top Smith pushed Donnie roughly and grabbed the door, slamming it shut.

‘Come on!’ he demanded, and together they made a run for it.

Sirens started to wail behind them and there came the shouts of the guards. Panix stood in amongst them. He wasn’t surprised, and looked the way Smith and Penfolde had run, watching their shadows extend up the walls as they made their escape. Panix turned to his men and nodded. One reached into the car, a vintage Holden Commodore left-over from the first occupation some ten years earlier, and called for backup.

Donnie and Smith reached a junction and stopped by the corner, glancing this way and that, hunting for a way out. A narrow side-street led to a short bridge across the river. They pounded along it, hoping the dogs wouldn’t be brought out. Their wishes were in vain. Barking dogs emerged from black trucks and there were sounds of running footsteps and whistles blown. It was chaos behind them.

Smith and Donnie ducked into a cafe and Smith removed his beret self-consciously. He plucked at his military insignia and dropped them under the table.

‘Coffee sir,’ asked the waiter.

‘I’ll have a tea,’ said Smith. ‘And so will he.’

‘Are you eating?’

The sound of dogs were louder now.

‘Make it a take-away,’ said Smith standing. He’d shed his greatcoat and looked a little less obvious. A man behind him got up to go to the toilet and Smith discretely lifted the black trenchcoat from his chair. They left without their cups of tea, plunging into the night once more.

Stepping from one pool of light to another, Donnie and Smith tried not to look conspicuous as they marched along the waterfront. There was a dampness to the air and it had possibly been raining while they were under the city. Their footsteps were loud on the cobblestones and just beyond the partially destroyed casino was the sound of cars drawing up and dogs and handlers milling around. Smith was annoyed with himself.

‘What did you promise him,’ asked Donnie, breaking the silence.

‘In on the capture of Pink and Bleu, tickets to Carmen, a new car and three Russian fugitives,’ said Smith curtly. ‘Obviously it wasn’t enough.’

‘What about calling home?’

‘You think I’m an idiot don’t you,’ snapped Smith halting momentarily. ‘It was a condition of entry that I left everything behind. I only managed to get the gun in by force-of-will. I was an observer, not a participant. That’s what Panix said anyway.’

‘Damn.’

‘Yes, Damn,’ said Smith walking again. ‘And now we’re fugitives in someone else’s zone.’

A guard saw them, shouted, and the chase began again. Donnie and Smith ran along the waterfront with dogs barking behind them. Smith hoped Panix wouldn’t dare order the dogs released for there would be an international incident if he were injured. He was right.

A gaggle of guards raced out of a street a hundred meters before them and lifted their rifles. Smith and Donnie skidded to a halt and turned. Behind were the dogs. Their only exits were to scale the sheer walls of the casino, or take a swim in the river, neither an inviting prospect.

‘The game’s up Penfolde,’ said Smith and raised his hands as a couple of guards bucking for promotion approached and handcuffed them both. Smith and Penfolde were led away and pushed into the back of Panix’s Commodore.

‘Are you well exercised,’ Panix asked.

Smith was unimpressed and remained silent, looking out of the car window into the night sky.

‘I shall make sure there is tea waiting for our arrival,’ said Panix, and told the driver to do his job.

They arrived at Russian Sector HQ five minutes later; honestly, they could have walked. Donnie and Smith were led out and the handcuffs removed in Panix’s damp-smelling office. The walls were full of books and there was a stylised picture of the Russian Premier  blue-tacked to the wall above the window, the corners crumpled and slightly oily. The picture had been moved around quite a bit.

Donnie and Smith sat down in uncomfortable armchairs before the mahogany desk that Panix spent much of his time behind. It was covered in papers, old cups of coffee and had a small laptop perched atop a pile of Russian language books. One gust of wind and it would topple to the floor. Fortunately there were several other piles of books in the landing-zone, so the computer wasn’t likely to be damaged.

Panix walked in and sat down. He was followed by a young man who carried a silver tray on which there was a steaming pot of tea, three cups, a small jug of milk and a sugarbowl which would turn-out to be full of ants. Fortunately no-one in the room took sugar.

‘Shall I be mother,’ asked Panix as the young man left. closing the padded door behind him.

‘By all means,’ said Smith. ‘And once you’ve done that you can explain to me what it is McWarwickson meant when he said he’d tell.’

‘A trifle,’ said Panix and began pouring the cups of tea. ‘Think nothing of it.’

‘What, cake and custard?’ asked Donnie. He got a withering look from Smith, and suddenly understood what Panix was getting at. ‘Sorry.’

‘My men found your coat, Major,’ said Panix. He was being very, very reasonable, which was slowly pissing Smith off. ‘You can pick-it up when we leave for the operation.’

‘What operation?’ asked Donnie.

‘Shut up, Penfolde. The Colonel and I have some talking to do.’

‘Oh, but Herr Penfolde is an integral part of the plan. He should know what he is in for.’

‘What am I in for?’

Smith sighed, and took his tea. ‘What time is it?’

‘Three oh three am,’ said Panix looking up at the clock above the door. The time on the clock was 3.25, and Panix liked it that way — having to constantly subtract 22 minutes kept his mind sharp. It also meant he was rarely late for meetings if he didn’t remember to perform the arithmetic.

‘Right then,’ said Smith. ‘What was the number Madame Pink gave you to call when you had found McWarwickson?’

‘She didn’t give me one. They usually contact me.’

‘I have had men working on that,’ said Panix, and retrieved a piece of paper from one of the piles. He handed it to Smith. It was a printout of Donnie’s bank account details. The reference number for the deposit from Madame Pink and Monsieur Bleu, through their company Universal Promotions, was highlighted in vivid yellow.

‘It’s a phone number,’ said Smith with a half grin. Credit where it was due, he acknowledged the good work: ‘Well done Panix.’

‘Oh, it was only with your help that we were able to access the account, so there is balance. You really need to relax some more Major, if I can say so. I’ve yet to come across an English man who wasn’t tense.’

‘I can recommend a masseur,’ said Donnie.

‘You need to call this number,’ said Smith, getting to the point, and Panix handed him an old bakelite phone from the corner of the desk.

The number rang once, twice and was picked-up.

‘This is Penfolde,’ said Donnie. ‘I’ve got him.’

‘You were to wait for us to contact you.’

‘I need the cash,’ said Donnie, lying expertly. ‘My ex girlfriend wants me to pay her or she’ll take something I need.’

Smith glanced sideways at Panix. They both knew who Donnie’s girlfriend was and that she wouldn’t think twice about a spot of surgery should she be forced to. Panix pushed a piece of paper over to Donnie. It was a map of open waste ground where they were to meet. Donnie made the time for an hour hence, which would mean they would be out in the cold at just after 4am.

Donnie wasn’t surprised. The land the casino had been on when the plane hit it had been unused for years while the bulldozers cleared the rubble. The collected construction-grade steel had, ironically enough, been used to construct bicycles for the people of all the zones, helping to cut-down on carbon emissions and keep everyone exercised (and less likely to have pent-up energy which could translate to resistance). It was the one and only show of unilateral co-operation that had occurred since the occupation had begun.

The wind was icy, coming from the south. The cold front had dumped rain in the last twenty minutes, making the night all the colder. Donnie’s ears stung and his exhaled breath looked like he’d been sucking on a pipe. He wondered momentarily what Kara was up to at this time of night; probably playing in the band. He smiled at the thought finding himself staring at a structure over by the edge of the site which was rumored to be the remains of the penthouse strongroom.

Smith and Panix were well over to one side of the blasted heath, with their forces nearby. McWarwickson sat down on a chair he’d had the forsight to bring with him and together with Donnie, he hugged his body for warmth. Donnie glanced up as a car drove slowly up to the gate.

‘Game on,’ he whispered, and McWarwickson stood as the cloud-cover cleared, and the light of the full moon illuminated everything in a strange monochrome. Over in the distance Donnie could see neon advertising attached to the bridge that linked East with West. The words were irrelevant, he ignored billboards and the like by instinct, but the colours were oddly pretty in the moonlight, even festive. Green flashed and was replaced by red, and then blue and back again.

A sound of footsteps drew him back to the here and now, and Madame Pink, dressed in characteristic slimming black approached with a suitcase which might be full of money.

‘Evening,’ said Donnie, smiling tightly.

‘I trust you are alone, Monsieur,’ she said, stopping before him. ‘For this is a bomb.’

Shit, thought Donnie. He expected Panix and Smith would be thinking much the same.

‘I will not hesitate to use it if things do not go to plan.’

‘Which is?’

‘Monsieur McWarwickson comes with me,’ she said, still having trouble with his name. ‘And you remain here. If we leave unmolested, your money shall be deposited overnight. You shall be able to pay-off your lover tomorrow morning without injury.’

Was that a smile, Donnie wondered.

‘But if something goes wrong, all I need do is let go. The handle is a trigger you see. It will detonate before it hits the ground and this will, once again, be the site of a major international incident.’

‘That’ll kill us all,’ said McWarwickson, truly astonished.

‘We shall merely reappear in the next reality Monsieur,’ Pink responded, calm as a cucumber.

‘Fuckin’ hippies,’ murmured McWarwickson.

Donnie took a deep breath, trying to relax a little; he could feel the adrenaline beginning to rush around his body. There was no need for anything bad to happen; the plan was faultless and he smiled, confident there would be no complications.

Donnie nodded aquiescence and glanced over to McWarwickson who looked unhappy and contemptuous, two emotions pretty hard to convey through that much facial fat.

‘I propose an exchange,’ said Pink. ‘To ensure my needs are met.’

‘Exchange?’

‘I take Monsieur McWarwickson, and you the case. The explosive can also be triggered from my partner.’

‘Monsieur Bleu,’ said Donnie, and tilted his head past Pink to see a man he assumed was Bleu sitting behind the wheel of the car they’d pulled-up in. He gave a little wave. It wasn’t returned.

‘Right, fine,’ said Donnie and reached out for the case as McWarwickson took two steps. Donnie got his hands on the handle just as a complication arose.

‘You Bastard!’ screamed Kara, emerging from the bank of the river.

‘No wait!’ yelled Donnie to Pink as she made to drop the case. ‘It’s her, my girlfriend. This doesn’t have to go pear-shaped.’

‘You lying, scheming bastard,’ Kara yelled as she approached, three of her men in-tow. They made Donnie look like a Doll. ‘I knew I couldn’t trust you!’

‘You have to go Kara,’ said Donnie. ‘It’s not what you think!’

‘Take the case Monsieur,’ said Pink.

‘You man-stealing slut!’ screamed Kara at Pink, who stared neutrally at the furious woman before her.

‘Kara,’ said Donnie; he reached around her waist and pulled her away. She kicked and screamed but fell silent after a moment. ‘Calm down. For pity’s sake.’

‘Keep her under control Penfolde,’ hissed McWarwickson and Pink glanced up at him, realising the trap. She dropped the case and ran for it; Donnie leapt for the handle and grasped it while Kara rushed after Madame Pink like a leopard after prey. McWarwickson dived for cover that simply didn’t exist. Donnie caught the case and rolled awkwardly, low enough to avoid being shot as Smith and Panix’s men opened-fire. He got to his feet and with all his strength hurled the case towards the river and hit the dirt, covering his head with his arms; knowing, just knowing it wouldn’t be enough to protect him from the blast.

The case went off, bathing everything in light and pieces of dirt and leather rained down on the participants.

When the dust had settled, Donnie looked up and saw Kara’s face staring back at him. Her pupils were dilated and there was a dribble of blood from the corner of her mouth, a dark read stain on her dress where one of the marksmen’s bullets, intended for Madame Pink, had torn through her body.

Smith and Panix walked slowly up to the trio, stepping over the remains of Kara’s bodyguards. Smith looked regretfully up at the gate where Monsieur Bleu and Madame Pink had reversed the car moments earlier. Mcwarwickson was who knew where at this stage. He held no hope of finding them again.

As an icy wind picked up, mournfully howling across the dead earth, Donnie knelt beside Kara. He pulled her dead body into his lap and wept, teardrops falling down and leaving rivulets in the dust on her face. He ignored the sound of sirens, the conversation going on overhead and the wind. Kara was gone; she was gone and there was nothing he could do to bring her back.

Coda

As the light began to rise in the east, Donnie kissed Kara for one last time. He released her body to the ambulance officers and stood staring into nothingness. Smith walked up and put his arm around Donnie’s shoulders in an almost paternal way, leading him to one of the waiting Land Rovers.

‘How did they get in,’ asked Donnie in a lifeless voice.

‘They came across in canoes,’ said Smith. He’d been surprised when they’d found the boats and admired Kara’s tenacity. It was a pity it had got her killed; the world needed spirited people and the sector wouldn’t be the same without her.

Panix stood back atop a small hill, tickets to Carmen in his hand. He let them fall to the ground and walked off pensively.

As the Land Rovers drove through checkpoint Nureyev and back into the British zone, Smith answered the radio and was told Elvis had left the building. Smith sighed and put the microphone down on its cradle, staring up into the sky as stormclouds gathered and rain began to fall.

Donnie wasn’t surprised.

Fitzroy North

October 2009

‘I plead the fifth,’ said Donnie.

‘That only works if you’re an American in the American sector, Donnie,’ said Major Smith, head of the British Expeditionary force, the Queen’s own arse-kickers. ‘And it only works if the sector commander has had an earfull from the president. It doesn’t work here in the British sector. Start talking Penfolde, you’re out of time.’

And luck, thought Donnie with a sigh. The Major was right and it was an irritation to Donnie that this had been the consistent part of their relationship.

‘Pink hired me to find McWarwickson,’ he said. ‘And I got lucky.’

‘Lucky?’

‘Yeah. I caught him walking into Danny’s and convinced him to come with me.’

‘McWarwickson,’ said Smith. ‘Freddy McWarwickson.’

‘What am I, speaking Cymru here?’

‘Donnie, the man we brought you in with isn’t Freddy McWarwickson.’

‘Bullshit.’

Major Smith gave Donnie a look that wasn’t a stomach complaint or even mere flatulence about to occur. ‘I really don’t think there’s any need for profanity here, do you?’

Donnie sat back, with a practised air of nonchalance. It was the “I’ll never talk, Copper” move from page 115 of the Advanced Guide to Sleuthing. Donnie was good at it.

‘The man you were with is called George Spickle, and apparently he was going into Danny’s for their triple-bypass burger.’

‘I thought they were illegal.’

‘Indeed. I’ve got a few people over at Danny’s having a word with them as we speak. It looks like wishful thinking on Spickle’s part rather than a homicidal tendency in the management. Inquiries are continuing.’ Smith wetted his lips and leaned back in his chair dismissively. He had the upper-hand. Donnie hated that in a man.

‘Can I go now?’ Now I’ve spilled my guts.

‘Not before we Geo-tag you,’ said Smith. ‘For safety you understand.’

‘How’s that?’

‘It was a joke old man,’ said Smith, then reflectively: ‘I’m told I’m a little too dry.’ Smith waited for Donnie’s response and got none. ‘Oh well, they make me laugh.’

‘Geo-Tag?’

‘It means you’ll have a GPS transmitter chip inserted somewhere on your person. Don’t bother trying to find it because you won’t.’

‘Ah,’ said Donnie.

‘And I’ll have a couple of men,’ he sighed, ‘and god knows they’ve got better things to do, but c’est la vie, watching you wherever you go. They’ll compare the signal with the video footage and we’ll know what you’re doing, when you’re doing it.’

Donnie opened his mouth to speak but was overruled.

‘You’re thinking of telecommunications I expect,’ said Smith. Donnie had intended to ask where the bathroom was. ‘We’ve got taps on everything for thirty clicks and the software to identify your voice, so any activity will be noted in the logs.’

Smith leaned back, crossed his arms and smiled.

‘How does it feel to be a marked man, Herr Penfolde?’ Smith smiled. ‘Or at least soon to be marked.’

Donnie was pushed blinking and squinting into the air outside the offices of the British Occupation. The sign on the Building said “Keep Out” and there was graffiti beneath of a reproductive nature. Donnie didn’t care for that kind of thing, but it obviously pleased someone.

He turned on his heel and began the long walk across the sector back to his apartment.

The door was unlocked when he arrived and Donnie wished he had a pistol to enable his entry to carry more weight. Fingers in pockets didn’t really do it for cred when you’re up against housebreakers. They tended to get a bit startled, then a bit violent if you couldn’t back up your end of the confrontation with something impressive.

Donnie took the more calm approach and opened the door, making sure he was on the other side of the doorway with his back up against paper-thin plaster. It seemed stupid so he poked his head around the doorway anyway, and regarded his cat, the amazing Anathema, with tired eyes.

He barely felt the kosh hit his head, and crumpled like a cheap novel to the floor. It was 9am though, and he really needed the sleep.

When he woke, he was in his favourite armchair, the one the cat spent his days on, and sneezed. His feet were warm, in a bowl of warm water. His assailants were trying a different tack this time around: softening him up with a foot massage rather than a fist one. Donnie preferred this approach and said so.

‘Need some information, bub,’ said a man on the other side of the room. Donnie blinked and tried to make-out the shape past the lamps they had trained on him like an interrogation session. That’s what it was though; lots of lights and “we know how to make you talk”. Donnie considered the possibility they were the Americans, but it wasn’t their style to come in and ask questions. They were more the blow the apartment-building sky-high and sift through the rubble kind of guys. Donnie appreciated their direct approach, it saved time, he just hoped he wouldn’t ever be on the receiving-end.

‘It seems you’ve been fraternising with the enemy,’ said another voice. A female, on the other side of the room. Her accent was French with a majority of inner-eastern suburbs Australia. Donnie queried her on this and got a slap for his trouble. Yeah, that pretty much confirmed her identity: Patricia Ferrer, AKA Prime, Queen of the Goths. Which would suggest the other participant in this mournesome foursome would be Marcus. His accent had begun to slip back into its usual proto-cockney. It suited him better to be honest. The fourth member of the posse, the massage lady, twisted his right foot a little and he felt a little crack as a bone shifted slightly. Nausea gave way to a little relief, and his foot felt better than it had since the case of the Long Eyelashes of Richmond South.

‘We’re asking the questions,’ said Prime, stepping back behind the lights. ‘And the first is what you’re doing associating with Cubists.’

‘Madame Pink,’ said the Marcus, stepping closer. ‘You understand she’s madder than a hatter in a padded cell don’t you?’

‘She pays well though,’ said Donnie. He almost asked for the nail-clippers and a pumice stone, but thought better of it. ‘And it’s a tough town for work these days.’

‘I imagine it is,’ said Marcus. ‘But working for Cubists is working for the other side, Donnie. You understand this surely?’

‘I’ll work for who I like, when I like.’

‘Ah, a captialist,’ said the small Asian woman using her knuckles on the base of his left foot. She smiled coyly at him and continued her work.

‘You’d work for the PM if you were paid enough,’ said Prime in apparent contempt.

‘The PM is Aldof Hitler’s glove puppet,’ said Donnie in response. He had principles and decided to parade them for a moment or two. ‘I won’t work in the entertainment industry, and certainly not for the Nazi sock-puppet troupe jambouree. They’re terrible.’

There was a frosty silence.

‘Well,’ Donnie conceded some ground. It seemed the chivalrous thing to do. ‘I mean, if they paid me in hard currency rather than their communal IOU’s I could consider it…’

The other cheek stung and Prime stepped back once again. The asian masseuse giggled and Donnie sighed and stretched his jaw which didn’t help.

‘What did Pink want?’ asked Marcus.

‘McWarwickson.’

‘Why did she want him?’ asked Prime

‘To dissect him,’ said Donnie in a defiant voice, which was a feat given he was becoming more and more relaxed all the time; the masseuse was good. Donnie thought she might have an interesting history and decided he would track her down after all this nonsense was over and ask her to reveal her life story to him.

‘A bit intense,’ said Prime and for a moment Donnie thought she was talking about the massage.

‘That’s what I said. Then she shot me full of needles and went on her way. She’s that kind of a woman.’

‘The French are like that,’ said Marcus. ‘Cubists more-so.’

‘Are you leaving?’

‘Have you seen Elvis?’ asked Prime.

‘Heard he was alive, but being held in the British facility.’

There was silence while this information sank in. Donnie appreciated this state-of-affairs and relaxed a little more. Anathema jumped up onto his lap and purred pleasantly as he rubbed the cat’s neck. His feet were quite warm and he had an unswerving need to wee. He resisted. This wasn’t the right audience.

‘Cute cat,’ said the massage girl.

‘Got a ciggie,’ asked Donnie. ‘I’m dying here.’

‘You will be,’ said the girl and stood, her work complete, and punched him in the face.

‘Hey!’ demanded Donnie, reeling. ‘What was that for?’

‘Pleasure is nothing without pain. The world needs balance.’

‘My face doesn’t,’ he responded, his mouth still stinging from the blow.

‘No pleasing you then,’ she said with a shrug and dropped a bill onto the table beside the door, the one with the old phone and decades-old phone books beneath. They were good for belting religious callers over the head with whenever they came calling. Those Seventh Day Witnesses were like the marine wildlife that attached themselves to the hulls of ships. What were they called, he wondered.

The others turned the lights off and Marcus, by the door, spoke and delivered a simple message.

‘We’ll see you again.’ He closed the door and the lock clicked home.

Yes they would: Saturday night for canasta and imported absinthe. Prime had a friend in the Russian sector who was good for the odd bottle. But this was a working week, he was a PI, and they were Cardinals of the Church of Elvis searching for their boss. Theirs was an odd professional relationship, Donnie was the first to admit, but work was work. Donnie made to rise but Anathema extended claws, hoping not to fall off into the water which left Donnie in a quandry: sit back in the chair with his feet in the bowl with his cat on his lap, or get up and get pissy about the bill the masseuse had left for him. He sat back and nodded off.

He woke with a killer headache and instinctively felt between his legs, finding a cat there who scratched his hand then bounded off, offended. Donnie’s feet were freezing cold and he realised they were still in the bowl of water. It was dark outside, about  7.30pm if he was right. It was 9 so he was wrong. It wasn’t the first time.

Donnie trudged into the bathroom and took a shower, watched by his cat as he cleaned himself of the crud of the previous day and got some feeling back into his feet. As he went to wash his privates, Anathema gave him a catty-frown, and Donnie drew the shower curtain. There was such a thing as modesty.

After drying himself in his loungeroom to the sounds of sirens in the near distance, hunger began to override all other considerations, so he put on his Tuesday best — pinstripe suit, white shirt and black tie — and wandered from the apartment, ducking back briefly to pour some more dry food for Anathema who got stuck-into it. Donnie left once more, plucking his hat from the hatstand on his way out.

The menacing car that pulled-up outside contained several menacing men and a Land-Rover shaped dent in the front right panel. They got out as Donnie stepped from the building and accompanied him into the car.

Donnie wasn’t surprised. Slightly put-out, certainly, but not surprised.

Peering out of the window as the car slowed, he realised he was at checkpoint Nureyev, gateway to the Russian sector. Nasty looking guards — obviously the runts of the litter — checked the ID of the driver and studiously ignored the other occupants. It had been a long day and the guards just wanted to get home to their beds. Donnie concurred, despite this being his daytime. He had a bad feeling about this.

The car drove on and turned after a couple of blocks into a cobblestone laneway where it stopped, the engine idling like a tank after a hard days blasting.

Donnie was accompanied into the bar. It was called Najinskya’s, and he knew the owner. Kara Najinskya was a woman with an attitude. And that attitude was “Fuck You”. Donnie hadn’t counted on coming across her for a while, perhaps a couple of lifetimes, after the incident with the poodle and the soldier which left him nursing some injuries of the more intimate kind. It was a story on which he’d refused to elaborate when questioned by the local authorities, and had sworn never to return.

‘Donnie,’ said Kara as he walked in. She seemed happy, chirpy even, which worried him, preferring his women introverted and dark. ‘It’s been too long!’ She extended her long sylph-like arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder briefly in a show of affection.

‘There was a reason for that,’ said Donnie. Kara knew the story and he didn’t need to explain. They hadn’t parted on good terms. In fact, he remembered her telling him that if she ever saw him again she’d perforate some organs the hard way (not that there was an easy way of course). And as a qualified BDSM instructor with honours in surgical procedures, he knew she could follow-through on the threat.

‘It was a long time ago,’ she said. It had been three weeks. ‘Water under the bridge. Have you eaten? Of course not. Here, let me feed you and we’ll talk.’

Donnie didn’t object and they walked together into her private dining room, a small circular chamber festooned with gold-tassles and red velvet with a low circular table in the middle surrounded by cushions. It looked and felt like they were in a tent, the kind erected in the middle of the desert by rich arabs after a hard day in the sand. Those guys knew how to live. She offered him a pipe connected to the hookah in the middle of the table and he accepted, inhaling heady vapours.

‘Good,’ she asked.

‘Nice,’ said Donnie, exhaling.

‘Apple and walnut tonight,’ she replied. ‘A nice blend.’ She clapped her hands and the meal was brought in by three blind waiters, who danced around the room apparently on roller-skates. They placed the dishes expertly on the table and were gone. Donnie thought it was odd, but didn’t comment.

‘Try some of the Chick-pea bake,’ she said, spooning it into his bowl and adding paprika-spiced rice to it. He’d forgotten how good her food was. After the incident, he’d lusted after it each night for a week, but the threat of holes in his manly apparatus was too much to bear, so he’d hung out at Danny’s instead. It hadn’t been the same. Moreso because he wasn’t shagging any of the guys behind the counter as he had-been Kara. They locked eyes, and looked away.

‘Donnie,’ she began.

‘Water under the bridge,’ he replied, munching on the chick-peas, baked middle-eastern bread mixed with spices, sour cream and slivers of almond. It was an amazing dish.

‘Donnie,’ she repeated more insistently while grasping his organ in a hand with five sharp points at the end of each finger. She had his attention. It was hard to eat when you think you’re about to be stabbed in the one place you couldn’t afford to lose. He put the bowl down as a placatory gesture and she released her grip, but only marginally.

‘I owe you money, Kara,’ he began with a regretful glance. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You do? You cheating bastard!’ she exclaimed. He cursed his pre-emptive conscience. If only it would learn to shut-up.

‘What do you want then?’

‘I’ve heard you’ve been seeing another woman.’ Here was the dark woman he craved. If only she was introverted too rather than violently pissed-off.

‘Another? No!’ Donnie denied it. For the first time it was the truth he was telling.

‘Last night, you were with her, The bitch Madame Pink! She even dressed-up for you!’

‘She shot me full of needles! It’s a job honey,’ Donnie tried to be dismissive.

‘I am not something spat out by a bee,’ she stated flatly. ‘I’ve told you never to call me that.’

‘Sorry, sweetheart. No? Darling? No. Ouch. Please don’t do that. Ouch. Or that. Ouch.’

Donnie was beginning to sweat. The strain of the exchange was showing. He’d have to be very personally careful over the next few weeks.

‘I want to know what she wanted. I want to know now or you may as well go out and buy a frock in the next few hours because you’re not going to have these anymore.’

He remembered — as a defense-mechanism mind you, to take his mind off the potential loss of his manhood — the first time they’d met.

It was night of course, and the dancefloor was smoky with the exhaled vapours of a dozen hookahs. Donnie remembered the smell of her signature rosemary and broccoli blend, banned for some time now, more’s the pity. Men and women danced to the sound of the band, a Gypsy five-piece (Boris on Piano-accordion, Kara on Violin, Dave on drums, Julia on trombone and a small dwarf by the name of Rasputin the third on vocals. His voice was like an angel crying, so long as the angel had a dark Russian accent borne of chain-smoking and intravenous Vodka).

Donnie had caught Kara’s eye from the other side of the room as he entered, dragged in by two men with a view to hurting him fatally before the night was over. They hadn’t appreciated what he’d found out about their mother and had brought him here for a final drink, but insisted it be Vodka. Kara had her people speak with Donnie’s people and they were dissuaded from their deadly intentions, dragged outside and left floating on the river. The men paddled away in the boat never to be seen again.

Donnie thanked Kara. They had danced holding a long-stemmed rose in their teeth and their relationship was passionate, though doomed.

Much like Donnie’s testicles, and Kara made a point of explaining thus:

‘Talk or lose them,’ she hissed, her Russian accent thickening as her anger increased. ‘Pick one.’

Kara was that kind of woman. Kind, caring, ruthless when slighted, homicidal when betrayed.

‘She wants me to find Freddy McWarwickson. That’s all. She dumped a couple of grand into my account (Donnie regretted telling her this for months afterward) and said there was more on delivery.’

‘You’re sure.’

‘Sure. Really,’ said Donnie.

‘Really sure,’ she asked, her grip twitching as she was so tense. Donnie squeaked slightly.

‘Really really sure. Honestly.’

She stared into his eyes, perhaps even believing him, then slowly, reluctantly, released her grip. She wanted to punch him and gave into the impulse, but as Donnie reeled from the blow, she put her hands on his face and kissed him passionately…

Limping slightly, Donnie stepped out into the cold night air and appreciated the fact he was still in one piece. He’d been lucky this time around; Kara wasn’t the kind of woman to cross, not if you didn’t want to be seriously hurt in the process. He wished he’d never discovered what the soldier had been doing with Kara’s favourite poodle, things had been tense after that. Donnie wondered if it was her Russian genes, but put it down, finally, to her being one of those sharp people (and he had to admit, the world was stuffed with them) that he often came across. C’est la vie, as Smith had said. Donnie looked up at the night-sky and flipped the bird at the geo-stationary satellite that was reading the signal from the GPS tag in his arse.

The signals zipped upward, past the clouds, the upper atmosphere and out into orbit, and were reflected by a mere half a degree down into the upper atmosphere, past the clouds and into a dish set on the top of the offices of the British Occupation Force.

‘Where is he now,’ asked Smith.

‘Just walked out of Najinskya’s place in the Russian sector. Heading north. He appears to have a limp.’

‘He’s lucky he doesn’t have a whole lot more crossing Kara,’ said Smith. ‘There’s a woman that doesn’t muck-around.’

‘Sir?’

‘Never mind. Keep me informed.’

As this conversation was taking place, Donnie emerged from the cobblestone alleyway and glanced left and right, trying to work-out the direction back to the checkpoint. It was right.

It was a dark and inclement night, the promise of summery warmth dashed by a cold-front from the south. It seemed somehow appropriate for the Russian sector, fitting in with their generally cynical point of view. Donnie had found the Russians easy to get along with, much less sunny-side-up than the Yanks just across the fence. The American sector had piped music playing 24-7. It drove people mad, or made them converts to Apple Pie, Fast Food and the Great American Dollar (but only the small denominations; this was an occupation, not an economic upturn after all). The mad ones tried to leave the sector by any means possible, many dying with their hands clutching the wire fences of the English and Russian sectors, poisoned by the culture, or more likely, the burgers and coffee. Donnie preferred Danny’s and had an odd craving for some greaseburgers, despite being extremely full-up from the feed at Kara’s.

Maybe he’d just have the chips and a cup of tea, a cigarette too if he could scab one from the many patrons. He had to return there anyway to continue his enquiries into the whereabouts of one Freddy McWarwickson, ex judge, ex reality TV show host, ex pope and all-round wanker. The quicker he got this job over with, the quicker he could get one of those telephones Pink had.

As the wind whipped-up, and the clouds thickened, he put his hands in his pockets and discretely probed his intimate parts, wincing slightly as he walked. He concluded there was no permanent damage and ducked into a doorway for a cigarette, remembering that he didn’t have any on him.

There was someone behind him, the footsteps contrasting with his like a mobile going off in a theatre. As the footsteps grew louder, Donnie peeled away from the shadows and spoke:  ‘Hi,’ said Donnie with a cheery grin and voice to match. ‘I think I’m lost, I just left Kara’s place and I’m looking for the checkpoint.’

‘Follow me,’ said the man leading the way. He walked down an alley and Donnie noticed three people now behind him. Two things occurred to him: he had a fan-club or they had nefarious intentions. The mental flip of the coin decided his next course of action and he broke into a sweat-inducing run, knowing this couldn’t end well.

Behind him were shouts of annoyance which died away as Donnie reached the end of the alley and realised he was trapped. He leaned back into the darkest doorway he could and tried to hide. This wasn’t the beginning of his bad luck, but it certainly wasn’t the end. He leaned back against the door and it opened suddenly. He fell backwards and down a flight of stairs, coming to a sudden stop at the bottom. Consciousness fled for a while.

He woke with a killer headache and instinctively felt between his legs, wincing as he touched his meat and two veg. Donnie Penfolde opened his eyes and shut them again, the light was far too bright. He was lying on a severe concrete floor and sat up. Then when he opened his eyes again, he laughed out loud.

‘What’s so fucking funny Penfolde,’ asked Freddy McWarwickson.

Donnie wasn’t surprised…

Fitzroy North

October 2009