1. Whatever happened to Miss Rook?

Miss Rook sat cross-legged on the wooden floorboards of a bare room deep in the Russian sector. Before her was a pile of papers she’d painstakingly flattened out.  It had taken her hours, but she’d pieced the scribbles, rants and printed email messages together to make a coherent whole.

She was shocked, and it took a lot to shock Miss Rook.

She grabbed the pile, rolled onto her side, knelt then stood, looking down at the miniature snow leopard, standing guard over a wallet full of fake IDs.

‘Come on,’ she said to the Miniature Snow Leopard, picking-up the purse without being scratched.

* * *

Donnie expected something more than the deep “Thump” he heard as the charges went off, but the men had done their job efficently: the locks were gone and the door could be opened.

Two armed soldiers pushed the door open and led the way into the dark room, the lamps on their guns like tiny spotlights. Smith turned the lights on, flicking ancient switches, and was astonished to find a circular ballroom before him.

‘Find me McWarwickson,’ said Smith.

* * *

‘I’m after something a bit unusual,’ said L walking behind the old lady in the dim light.

‘You’re in the right place, young lady.’

‘Wrestling,’ said L, guessing at the purpose of the under-library.

The librarian stopped and turned. ‘You don’t look the type.’

‘And football,’ said L with a girly smile.

‘You’ve done well with hiding your interests,’ said the old lady and led the way to another room with a low ceiling. ‘Here they are.’

‘This is amazing,’ breathed L. ‘How did you manage it?’

‘All knowledge is sacred,’ said the librarian. ‘We could see the writing on the wall so we started hiding books as quickly as we could just before the occupation began. You can leave by turning left at the doors and going down the ladder to the railway service tunnels. The books are tagged and we’ll come after you if you don’t return them in a week. You don’t want an annoyed librarian on your case, let me tell you.’

L nodded; she understood the stakes.

‘Don’t be too long, either,’ said the librarian, and shuffled off.

L poked around the room, trying to see in the dim light if anyone else was there.

A desk-lamp turned suddenly on, revealing a smug, fat face.

‘Looking for me,’ said Freddy McWarwickson.

* * *

Miss Rook ran as fast as she could up the main street with the miniature snow-leopard not far behind. She ignored the pain in her legs, her laboured breathing and the rain that was pounding down on her.

She had no way of communicating what she’d learned, no way to avoid the possibility she’d be laughed at, or to know her message would actually get through to Smith or Panix. She had to deliver it face-to-face or not at all.

She glanced at her wristwatch, and confirmed the time on the clock on the building before her. There wasn’t enough time. There just wasn’t…

* * *

‘No way out,’ asked Smith incredulously. He turned, furious, to Donnie. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

‘I don’t know. The door was locked, they told me it needed to be opened.’

‘Madmoiselle Prime, Monsieur Marcus,’ asked Smith. ‘If this is funny, best explain the punchline now.’

‘We’re as in the dark as you are,’ said Prime. ‘We found this yesterday. Didn’t know what was behind it. We’re after the same thing you are’

‘Well now we know,’ Smith turned on his heel and momentarily lost control. ‘Bloody Hell!’. He tried the radio attached to his uniform jacket pocket and got nothing but static. He gestured to one of the men closest the door. ‘Get me through to Panix now!’

* * *

‘Didn’t know you were here,’ said El, lying like a professional.

‘You look strange without your cat.’

‘Snow Leopard.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Can’t bring him in the library,’ said L. ‘What’re you doing here.’

‘Re-living the past,’ said McWarwickson, pushing aside a large-format coffee-table book on the Wrestlers of Yesteryear.

‘You?’

Freddy grinned. ‘Nearly had you. No, I’m waiting.’

‘Waiting?’

‘For some friends to arrive.’ he paused for effect, then looked up over her shoulder. ‘Hello friends.’

L turned suddenly and her heart skipped a beat. The old lady was pushed forwards into the doorway with an American officer on either side of her.

‘Clear the way,’ said the General walking in. The officers stepped aside to let him through, one with his hands firmly on the librarian’s shoulders, pulling her back with him. The General stopped, smiled and walked up to El, taking her unresisting hand and kissing it in a gentlemanly way.

‘It is nice to see you again,’ he said.

She chose to remain silent.

* * *

Miss Rook arrived at the library, gasping but still running. She scaled the steps and dashed past the elderly security guard without so much as a by-your-leave. He turned to object, and so didn’t notice the miniature snow leopard run past too.

‘Where the hell are they,’ she said, coming to a sudden halt. The snow leopard stopped, sniffed the air and ran on in another direction, with Rook following. He skidded to a halt, then sprinted across the floor, jumping on seats, tables, across trolleys to a doorway where there shouldn’t have been one. He wandered nonchalantly in, distracting the guards just inside the door long enough for Rook to take her chance and run in without being stopped. She began yelling:

‘Smith! Donnie! L! It’s a doublecross! You’ve got to let me through! Doublecross! You’re being manipulated!’

She was grabbed by the officers, still screaming and managed to elbow one of the officers before being restrained by a third and fourth.

‘Nice of you to join us,’ said Smith sharply. ‘Let her go.’

‘It’s a doublecross,’ said Rook, her breathing ragged after the run and the struggle. ‘McWarwickson’s been working with the Americans all along. I’ve got the paperwork to prove it!’

‘What?!’ demanded Smith and instinctively pushed one of his men forwards to try and prevent him being shot full of needles. It didn’t work. The officer fell unconscious to the polished wooden floor.

At the other end of the corridor was Madame Pink, picking each person off. Smith managed only to get his gun from its holster before he too, with no cover whatsoever, succumbed to the cubist acupuncture needles.

The lights went out suddenly.

* * *

‘Is it done?’ asked Freddy.

‘Is what done?’ L demanded.

‘The hostile takeover,’ said the General with a superior smile. ‘Surely you worked it out. I thought you were smart.’

L stood dumbstruck. It made no sense. With a terrible realisation, she realised it was a possibility none of them had considered.

‘You’re making a deal,’ she said. ‘A deal to sell your stake in McWarwickson industries, and so the ownership of Christianity. You’re selling-out.’

Freddy looked smug.

‘Why,’ she asked of Freddy.

‘So I could be comfortable in my retirement,’ said McWarwickson contemptuously. ‘Because none of those bastards did a thing for me. All those parasites out there who abandoned me just as the shows were getting good. 10 years we were running, then they ran like scared kids for something new just when things were getting interesting. They had the attention-span of ritalin-addicted 8 year olds.’

‘And whose fault was that,’ asked L.

‘Then Panix offered me some bullshit show to help him take Madame Pink? I risked my life for that? No, get fucked. I don’t work in cold climates. I’m looking forward to a McMansion North of Sydney and all the reality shows I want, right General?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Do you know what’s at stake,’ she repeated, more passionately.

‘My future.’

‘The whole world is at stake and all you’re thinking about is yourself?!’

‘What about them? Scabs like I said. I don’t care about them cos they don’t give a shit about me.’

‘You’re going to enforce it aren’t you,’ said L, turning suddenly to face the General. ‘Your ownership of the religions. With McWarwickson’s Christianity you have them all.’

‘You did work it out,’ said the General with a proud grin, then continued patronisingly: ‘Good girl.’

An officer walked into the room and conferred with the General in hushed tones.

‘It would seem the pieces are almost all in place,’ said the General, pulling his pistol and pointing it at L.

‘Why?’

‘Why not,’ he asked with a shrug just as the lights went out. He squeezed the trigger anyway, firing randomly into the darkness.

2. Cubist Revenge

Smith woke, groggily and wondered why his head hurt like it did. He still had his gun in his hand and reached up to find the sore-spot on his skull which had struck the floor when he fell. No blood, just a bloody-great lump.

He pushed angrily up and pushed the nearest man with his foot; he groaned and stretched his neck.

‘Get the others up,’ he said to the man, noting the absence of Miss Rook. ‘Call Panix in and tell him they’ve got McWarwickson and to go to plan “B” if he doesn’t hear from me in the next 15 minutes. Then get this place sealed up tighter than a can of beans, got it?’

The miniature snow-leopard rubbed his slacks affectionately. ‘Find your mum,’ he said to the cat and began to follow.

They reached a ladder and the snow leopard made encouraging sounds. Smith picked him up and climbed awkwardly down, only to have his hand scratched. He thought about it, and climbed up again. This removed the pain and got him some purring for his trouble.

Second level: no-one around and no light to speak of either. It was even darker up here.

‘Any chance of a light?’ he wondered, letting the snow leopard down. In answer to his request, one was passed up to him from the soldier below. ‘Thankyou.’

The corridor was long and curved around the outer perimeter of the library. As he jogged awkwardly around it, he could hear the odd sound from the other side of the wall but nothing particularly interesting. He transferred the gun to his other hand so he could fire a little easier if necessary.

* * *

Panix rubbed his shoulder reflectively; it always played up when he was tense.

‘You’re sure this is correct?’ he asked the radio operator. ‘Fifteen minutes seems a little on the short-side.’

At the confirmation from the radio-operator Panix sighed. ‘I hate plan B. Very well. Send this message and make sure it’s word-for-word.’

He paused, allowing himself a single sad smile as light emerged from behind the stormcloud, and wrote-out a coded message for transmission.

* * *

Freddy McWarwickson emerged in the stormwater drain and stepped onto the a body. He recoiled and stepped aside as the General came out of the tunnel.

The General straightened his uniform and looked over to one of his men, standing by the tunnel’s mouth.

‘Anyone comes down there, you shoot, understood?’

He turned and led the way, Freddy right behind him and flanked by four other men.

* * *

Donnie turned a corner, found a wall that moved and arrived at a ladder which he descended. The ladder stopped abruptly, and he jumped across the gap to a platform, then as he heard movement ahead, broke into a run and arrived on a wide balcony above the ballroom they’d broken into.

There on the floor below was Madame Pink, standing above the unconscious bodies of Marcus and Prime.

‘One more needle from me and they shall die,’ cautioned Pink. Somehow she’d found the single beam of light in the room through a huge leadlight window high on the ceiling. She looked like a nightmare, her face illuminated and her shape only just visible in the darkness. The clear plastic cubist needle gun, hanging from her hand, hovering above Prime and Marcus, ready to fire.

‘Pink,’ said Donnie. ‘Don’t… please don’t. We can work this out.’

Where the hell is Smith?

The door they’d opened had been closed again. He could have sworn he could hear running footsteps and hoped they had size 9 British-issue boots on.

‘You cared to try to capture my brother and I,’ she said coldly. ‘So we will extract payment for that indiscretion.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ yelled Donnie as Pink fired into Prime and Marcus’s necks and stepped backwards and disappeared into the darkness.

3. Death in the family

Smith began to run at the sound of Donnie’s yell. When he emerged on the balcony he found Donnie hanging from the rail about to jump.

Donnie leapt down to the floor, fifteen or so feet, and landed with a grunt. He half-ran, half crawled with feet slipping along the floor and felt Prime’s neck for a pulse. He tried again, didn’t find one. He yanked aside her jacket and yelled up to Smith: ‘Get down here! Get help!’

Smith jumped down, landing more elegantly than Donnie and spun around, checking for anyone else in the room. He stopped opposite a new doorway.

‘You have to get help!’ yelled Donnie, performing CPR on Prime. ‘Help Marcus! Find the needle she shot him with.’

‘You two, get down here!’ yelled Smith up to his men on the balcony. The snow leopard slid down the wall and leapt at the last minute, then dashed through the new door.

‘One of you, get that door open,’ Smith pointed to the main door. ‘Donnie, with me!’

‘I’m not leaving them!’

‘You don’t know a damn thing about CPR, I can see that just by looking at you. They do,’ he gestured to his men. ‘They’ll do what they can. Right now I need you with me! Get off your arse and follow me now!’

Smith’s tone tapped into Donnie’s reflexes in much the same way as a teacher taps into the instincts of 4 year olds. The effect was that he did what he was told and followed Smith into the darkness, turning corner after corner until finally the lights went on and revealed L, staggering slowly toward them.

‘It’s a flesh wound,’ she said, holding her arm.

Smith nodded and pushed past her. ‘You’re going the wrong way,’ he said as he plunged on. Donnie and L followed through the maze finishing at a staircase that led down to a singularly uninviting, damp tunnel.

As they walked slowly along it Donnie could have sworn he could hear something clicking nearby. They were suddenly deafened by gunfire which left bullet holes in the bluestone wall at the junction before them.

‘Cease fire you bloody idiot,’ Smith screamed above the bullets. There was a brief pause and he yelled: ‘You’re in the British sector and you’re firing at a British soldier! Put it down!’

There was more gunfire and he sighed; here was a student that the teacher couldn’t influence, probably best he ended up in the armed forces – it was that or gaol.

‘How many bullets in one of those?’ asked Donnie.

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘If I can get a shot at him,’ began L, pushing forwards with her needle-gun in her hand.

‘Poke anything around that corner and it’ll be shot full of holes,’ said Smith sharply. ‘We need back-up. Donnie, get back up there tout de suite and tell my men to send reinforcements, and do it quickly, Donnie. We don’t have much time.’

Donnie retraced the path they’d taken and Smith sighed, checking his watch.

‘My men were left down there,’ he said at last, then cynically. ‘I expect they’re dead now.’

L shook her head, dismayed.

‘The General will be in the Russian sector by now, or close to it,’ said Smith. ‘And they’ll be on full-alert within about five minutes.’

‘Good,’ said L. ‘He’ll be caught.’

‘Not good,’ said Smith, looking L straight in the eye with an expression that sent shivers down her spine. ‘If an American General is found skulking around down here with armed men, it’ll be an international incident.’

L felt sick. ‘But why would he risk it?’ she hissed, ‘Coming down here? He could have just sent his men!’

‘Because he’s an arrogant man. And I expect McWarwickson would only deal with him directly anyway.’

Smith checked his watch again and cursed under his breath. ‘Three minutes.’ Then he turned back up the corridor. ‘Donnie! Where the hell are you?!’

There was another burst of gunfire.

Two soldiers came into view with Donnie right behind them. Smith nodded his head sharply in the direction of the junction and the two women stepped past, stopping just out of danger. One slid carefully down the wall and, like a child throwing a stone to skip over water, threw something down toward the mouth of the tunnel, turning back and covering her ears. There was another of those terrible thumps, and the other soldier stepped out, firing her evil-looking rifle in short, quick bursts, walking slowly and calmly down the corridor. Then there was silence.

As Smith, L and Donnie emerged in the stormwater drains, they could hear running footsteps and gave chase, hugging the wet bluestone walls as much as possible in a vain attempt to remain in shadow. L held her needle gun at the ready, hoping she’d be able to save some lives. Donnie was unarmed, just the way he preferred, outgunned by a long-shot by the other men.

They slammed back against the walls as three shots rang out like claps of thunder.

4. Bloody Vengance

Miss Rook woke with a Cubist needle gun pushed hard against her jugular and got the shock of her life when she opened her eyes to see a cold albino face in front of them.

‘I offer you a bargain,’ said Madame Pink. ‘I want Freddy McWarwickson. You want the people who killed your associate.’

After only a moment’s thought, Miss Rook nodded her head.

‘Then we have agreement,’ said Madame Pink, stepping back.

‘Show me where they are.’

‘This way,’ said Madame Pink, leading the way into the rabbit warren of corridors beneath the library.

They stopped at a ladder which led down to a bluestone tunnel and then finally they stood in the stormwater system. Rook followed Pink past a junction that led to another, much older section. They slid down a concrete slope and stopped.

‘Now we wait,’ said Pink.

‘I need a gun,’ said Rook pointedly.

Pink glanced up at her. ‘You can use the General’s when he arrives.’

She crouched and stared into the darkness, tilting her head, trying to hear anything. Were they voices? Yes. The General.

‘Anyone comes out of there, you shoot, understood?’

Rook stood, breathing slowly, quietly.

A machine gun was fired, the sound sharp and unpleasant, echoing madly. Rook stretched her neck and watied; she was patient, allowing the rage at Kara’s murder a little space to grow inside her. More gunshots, more noise and then silence, but only for a moment… she heard running footsteps.

Pink stood and fired a dozen times, with accuracy only possible with the use of the expensive night-vision goggles she had put on. The General’s men fell around him.

‘Do not move,’ said Madame Pink.

‘You want to try me,’ demanded the General and snatched his gun from the holster at his hip. He fell with two needles in his neck, incapacitating him. Lying half in a slow-flowing river of rainwater and half on wet cobblestones, he muttered profanities and swore vengance.

Rook strode forwards and plucked the gun from his unresisting fingers as Pink held hers pointed at Freddy McWarwickson.

‘We meet again,’ she said. ‘Come with me and live.’

McWarwickson knew a good deal when he saw one.

‘She was a friend,’ said Rook calmly, yet with vengeful hatered in her eyes. ‘She was a good AntiCu sister.’

She leaned down and removed the needles from the General’s neck, ignoring Pink and McWarwickson’s escape. She didn’t care about them.

At the edge of audibility was the sound of footsteps slowly approaching.

‘What would you do in my place,’ she asked almost plaintively, crouching down by the General, who spat in her face.

‘Fuck you.’

Rook nodded.

‘Pretty much what I was thinking,’ she said and stood up. ‘Goodbye General.’

She fired the gun once. She fired it twice. She fired it a final time. And then she stopped.

‘You there! Drop your weapon!’ called Smith, walking forwards, gun outstretched and held in both hands.

Miss Rook was caught in the torch beam, blinking at the sudden light. The gun swung by the trigger guard from her hand.

‘Put it down,’ he said calmly. ‘Put it down now Rook.’

‘He’s dead,’ she said simply. ‘I made sure of that.’

Smith walked forward and took the gun carefully from her, with his still raised.

‘What the hell are we going to do now,’ asked Donnie as they began to hear the shouts of what could only be Panix’s men getting closer by the minute.

Fitzroy North

November 2009

1. Samovars at dawn

If his life were a song, Donnie mused, it would be one of those weird French ones, with piano accordion, a soulful female singer and lyrics in a language that only the French and Quebequois understood properly. The lilting melodies would jar and yet complement his progress, like a cracked tile on a wall; sticking out yet not so much that it was ugly.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to have been picked-up by Panix. They’d been running around the Russian sector now for a good couple of hours. Beside him was the woman he’d started thinking of as “Changeo-Presto, the Magnificent L! (and her –presently absent — miniature snow-leopard)”. She had fallen silent upon their capture by Panix’s men and Donnie was glad of it. If he opened his mouth he’d say something pointlessly unpleasant; out-of-character, sure, but it might make him feel better for a moment or two.

They drove south toward the Russian sector HQ, the former College of Arts. It was convenient as the Russian forces were garrisoned just down the street, enjoying vodka on-tap and fresh borscht delivered daily. Donnie had never had the nerve to ask what Borscht actually was, but had an imagination that included it being a variation on Haggis. He resolved to be vegetarian if asked.

The car drove up, and came to a stop, scant meters away from where L had picked-up the convoy a night before.

As he got out, he could have sworn the music skipped a track, the needle making a horrible sound on vinyl. His foot lifted from the dog shit that he’d trodden-in and he groaned, scraping the offending substance from his shoe while muttering swearwords under his breath. The temperature had dropped dramatically, both literally and figuratively.

‘See that’s why I have a snow-leopard,’ said L, still in English-accent territory. ‘They’re good enough to bury it.’

Donnie sighed and followed the still jolly Colonel Panix into the facility. He decided to think of it as a voluntary act, despite the two armed guards walking behind them.

Panix stopped at his office door. Donnie noticed a brand new brass plaque had been nailed to it:

Commandant russe de secteur

With Panix’s name pinned beneath on a white sheet of A4 paper. Five other names were crossed out on the page beneath his, which screamed “temporary” to Donnie.

‘My predecessors had no stomach for the job,’ said Panix, nodding to the page. ‘My plaque is being delivered today.’

‘Yeah,’ said Donnie. He didn’t believe it, but thought humouring the man prudent given the circumstances.

He and L settled down in the chairs before Panix’s desk and Donnie shuddered.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Panix.

‘I’m getting a sense of Deja Screw.’

‘What?’ asked L.

‘The feeling I’m about to get fucked again,’ he said sardonically and met Panix’s eyes with a sign. ‘Like last time. So, how can we help you, comrade?’

‘Monsieur Penfolde, would you not like a cup of tea to begin with.’

‘Yeah, no, whatever,’ said Donnie. He was perhaps overdoing the whole bored overworked gumshoe thing, but he felt he had a right as he was bored and overworked. That run was still affecting his legs; they ached unnaturally.

‘Colonel Panix,’ said L, leaning forward. ‘I would love a cup of tea, from a Samovar for preference.’

Panix settled into his seat just as the sun rose above the hillside behind him, a beam of light through the half-drawn curtains blinded Donnie momentarily; he shifted sideways. The door opened and a steaming samovar was brought in on a trolley with three glasses, three spoons and some pastries on a plate. The black suited waiter had a white teatowel over his arm with — astonishingly — “Welcome to Melbourne!” and a yellow kangaroo embroidered on it. Donnie decided to just go with it as the waiter left.

‘Shall we lay our cards on the table,’ asked Panix, standing up and serving tea and pastry.

‘What game are we playing this time?’ asked Donnie. ‘Poker? Collectors cards?’ he considered without thinking: ‘Actually that’s appropriate given the circum… shit.’

He realised he’d let the snow-leopard out of the proverbial bag.

‘I shall start,’ said Panix, settling back in with a glass of tea in one hand and his pastry in the other. ‘Kara Najinskya was murdered by a bullet fired from the American sector.’

Donnie glanced at L and she at him. He sighed and nodded: may as well play.

‘The Americans didn’t want you taking McWarwickson out of the country,’ he said.

‘You have given the Americans George Spickle, McWarwickson’s double in an attempt to buy time to find McWarwickson.’

Donnie bit his lip. Smith wouldn’t be happy.

‘Cat got your tongue,’ asked Panix.

‘Touche,’ said Donnie, and took a bite of the pastry. It was filled with jam and burned the inside of his mouth.

‘Your calculated risk has made things worse.’

‘Wasn’t mine,’ Donnie murmured.

‘Listen to this,’ said Panix. He stood and strode over to a radio on the shelf. When it turned on, there was a whistle of odd frequencies and then a clear message:

‘This is the American Forces Radio Network calling Mister Freddy McWarwickson on all channels. You are betrayed. You are betrayed. We have rescued your double and will offer you asylum should you desire it. We are your friends… Respond on any frequency at any time for aid from your enemies.’

The message repeated and Donnie groaned.

‘It would seem that the Americans are more wily than we give them credit,’ said L pointedly.

‘Indeed,’ said Panix. ‘They have excellent conseillers en communication politique in their employ…’ A lamp on his telephone began to flash red. Panix smiled.

‘They could spin for the queen,’ Donnie said and bit down into the pastry again, dousing the apparent flames in his mouth with a quick sip of tea.

Panix turned the radio off.

‘And you have good ears,’ said L, nodding a complement. ‘To have found that message so quickly.’

‘Oh, I should not take full credit,’ said Panix and pressed a button on his desk. The door opened and a man wearing a beret walked in.

‘Penfolde, Madmoiselle L,’ said Smith.

Donnie’s soundtrack ended with a sudden crescendo of sound.

2. Disappearing Act

Smith walked behind the desk and shook hands with Panix.

‘Colonel,’ said Smith.

‘Major,’ said Panix. He stepped aside and gestured for Smith to sit in his chair. Panix stood with his back against the window, just over Smith’s left shoulder.

‘This is now a joint operation,’  said Smith. ‘You’ve filled Panix in on the things he needs to know I take it?’

Donnie nodded.

‘What changed your mind?’ asked L.

Smith cast his mind back to his visit with the lady, and smiled thoughtfully.

‘You don’t need to know,’ Smith replied. ‘It’s not relevant. What is important is we need to get to McWarwickson before he misinterprets the American transmissions.’

‘We’ve got to find him first,’ said Donnie.

‘Colonel,’ said Smith glancing over his shoulder. Panix strode around the desk and turned off the lights, reaching in his pocket for a remote control.

Down one side of the room, a screen lowered and a slideshow began.

‘Freddy McWarwickson is known to frequent these clubs,’ he said. One image displayed, a run-down venue known best as “The Naked Wrestler”. Donnie knew for a fact it was located in old Fitzroy. The next image was a building painted bright red. The windows were blacked-out and there was a series of similar images of McWarwickson entering looking tense and leaving looking relieved and smug.

‘And I thought he was just a wanker,’ muttered Donnie. ‘Who’d have known he pays people to do it for him instead.’

‘Penfolde,’ said Smith, giving Donnie the evil-eye. Donnie shut-up again.

‘This is the most likely target though,’ said Panix. The next image was of a library in the center of the city, on the border of the british and Russian sectors.

‘The Library?’ asked L, incredulous. ‘He could barely read the cue-cards on his show. What’s he doing in–’

‘This was our supposition too,’ said Smith, standing up. Three more images were displayed and stopped on one. It was taken from high-up on the second or third level, looking down at the people sitting at desks and armchairs.

‘Watch carefully,’ said Smith. He pointed at the screen with a handy folded-up umbrella. ‘This is Panix. He sat there three and a half minutes ago with a copy of The Hun newspaper, dated September thirty.’

‘Plenty of people in there,’ said Donnie.

‘Yes,’ said Smith slowly, staring at the screen. ‘Can we roll film?’

The surveillance video began, beginning just as McWarwickson sat down. His sickly pale and unattactive head was bright against the reds and browns of the library and people around him.

He turned a page. He turned another one. A group of people stood up and began packing their bags, then walked off.

‘Oh,’ said L.

McWarwickson was gone.

The video became very animated; the cameraperson was moving quickly to ascertain what was going on. They broke into a run, walking down spiral staircases and arriving finally at the seat and the newspaper.

‘Hold there,’ said Smith.

The video stopped, focussed on the open newspaper and the crossword on the page.

‘“Knight Takes Pawn”,’ L read from the screen. ‘Doesn’t sound like Freddy.’

3.Plans Within Plans

‘The video was taken at 7.40 pm last night.’

‘So he’s had 10 hours,’ said Donnie, checking the clock on the wall. ‘To go somewhere else I mean.’

‘He hasn’t emerged in the stormwater drains,’ said Smith. ‘I’d know that.’

‘And he hasn’t returned to the library,’ said Panix.

‘There’s got to be other places…’

‘He is still in there,’ Panix was pointed.

‘You can’t know that for sure?’ Donnie asked, unsurely.

‘Where’s the last place we’d search for a media hack like McWarwickson?’ asked Smith. ‘Where’s the one place we know he’d avoid?’

‘Okay, point taken,’ said Donnie. ‘So he’s in the library. How do we get in without spooking him?’

‘Colonel?’ asked Smith.

‘Mob-handed would be indiscrete,’ said Panix, pulling at an earlobe while walking over to the lightswitch and turning it on. The bulbs flickered then died, so he threw open the blinds, letting daylight fall across the group.

‘And who knows how many exits there are,’ said Smith. ‘British forces are in the sewers of course, and Russians are in the sunlight but we all know what a slippery customer McWarwickson is.’

‘He’s a wrestler,’ said L quietly. ‘He can get out of anything.’ She glanced down at her empty teacup then up at Smith. ‘So what’s the solution?’

‘McWarwickson isn’t the only priority here,’ said Smith. ‘The Americans have a stranglehold on religions and their legions of followers grow by the minute. We need to discredit them.’

‘Oh brilliant,’ said Donnie. ‘Like you were trying to delay them by handing Spickle over?’

‘Even if we capture McWarwickson the Americans can argue he is being held against his will,’ Smith replied curtly. ‘They can appeal to the League of Nations Cour de Justice. And they would win, because they would be right.’

‘And if the Americans get McWarwickson, they get Christianity,’ said L. ‘Not good.’

‘Just so,’ said Panix, turning to stare from the window at the world outside. He put his arms behind him, holding his right wrist with his left.

‘What about the Church of Elvis,’ asked Donnie. ‘Could they work-out a deal?’

‘We do not deal with terror organisations,’ said Panix pointedly.

‘The more the merrier,’ said Donnie. ‘Surely we need all the help we can get.’

Smith met his gaze and tilted his head to one-side. It could have been agreement, could have been wind. Donnie thought the former and tried to remember the King’s email address. Was it “The King” or just “King” at elvis.com?

‘Look, I don’t want to be unpleasant,’ said El. ‘But what about a “Plan B”?’

‘If we shoot him, the ownership of McWarwickson industries defaults to the company directors themselves,’ said Smith. ‘That gets us nothing.’

‘What about negotiation?’ asked Donnie.

‘What about it?’ said Smith. He pinched his nose and sighed; his sinuses were playing up with this hot-again, not again weather.

‘It worked for Panix,’ said Donnie.

‘Comrade,’ Smith deferred.

‘Comrade McWarwickson is out of favour with the proletariat,’ said Panix. ‘Because he ran rather than appear on our television.’

‘What about British TV?’

‘Not a chance,’ Smith said, then frowned; something had crossed his mind but hadn’t stopped to chat. Never mind, it would come back.

‘There is only one way to ensure he comes out,’ said Smith, standing and taking a deep breath. ‘We tell the Yanks.’

4. The Deal

‘That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,’ said Donnie.

‘I don’t mean broadcasting it to all and sundry. I mean leaking it so they think we’ve got him.

‘And then what?’

‘They’re not in a position to come in mob-handed,’ said Smith. ‘If they come in at all, they’ll do it small and quiet, a Special Jobs team.’

‘And why won’t they just come in hard?’

‘Because the Library is in British territory,’ said Panix. ‘And they would have to cross Russian airspace to get there.’

‘And the court?’

‘The cour de justice would need to be called which would take a week at least. They’d win any case, but it would certainly be a very public affair. If we’re being quiet they’ll be quiet.’

‘What about the sewers?’ asked  L, supressing a shiver. This was getting out of hand and she wondered if she was the only person in the room who could see how badly this could go. She glanced around, and realised that she was surrounded by testosterone, so her supposition was correct. She decided to speak-up, if only to salve her own conscience for later.

‘Do you have any idea how bad this could turn-out? At all?’

‘If you have an alternative, now is the time,’ said Smith.

‘Send me in.’

‘You were working with the Church of Elvis last I looked,’ Smith peered down his nose at her. ‘And that doesn’t fill me with confidence you’ll help us.’

‘I’m into self interest,’ she smiled humourlessly and with some tension. ‘And my self-interest doesn’t include being thrown into an internment camp for re-education. It’s in all our interests to remember what happened in Sydney when they went in.’

Donnie shuddered at the memory. All the people in the city pumped full of food, coffee, entertainment, pseudo-science and evangelical religion, all of it slanted toward the occupying country. It took two years but the United States got an additional state. It was only the intervention of the other allies that stopped it happening in Melbourne, and the balance was precarious.

‘I’m aware what’s at stake,’ said Smith. ‘But I say again: if you’ve got a proper alternative, now’s the time.’

‘I go in. I make contact. I flush him out. You grab him. Simple.’

‘And we end up in court,’ said Donnie. ‘It doesn’t help.’

‘But at least he’ll be safe!’ L exclaimed. ‘You’ve forgotten something: If we shoot McWarwickson, the ownership goes to his board of directors.’

‘We’ve established that–’ started Smith.

‘But what if they shoot him? What if they decide he’s more trouble alive than dead and put a bullet in him? What then?’

The others were silent and Smith stared at the wall between L and Donnie tight-lipped.

‘She has a point,’ Panix said at last.

Smith stood.

‘Fine. Comrade?’ he glanced up at Panix who nodded agreement. ‘I need to get her to British sector HQ so we can get a bug in her.’

‘Do we have time for that?’ asked L.

‘I don’t want you doing a runner. I’m open to your idea but I’m not stupid.’

‘I can go with her,’ said Donnie.

‘You’re going anyway,’ said Smith sharply. ‘But short of handcuffing you both together it still means I don’t have any way of tracking her.’

‘I think it prudent to obtain insurance also,’ said Panix. ‘We must have guarantees. If The Church of Elvis takes McWarwickson, we are in as bad a situation as we are now.’

5. Scrub before handling

L rubbed her arse against the car seat uncomfortably. She hated shots at the best of times.

Donnie barely recognised her; she wore a wig of blonde dreadlocks, had changed her eye-colour with green contact lenses and sported a new tattoo on her upper left arm of a hand-drawn purple and green fish with a grin like a cheshire cat. Her clothing was late-hippy with a touch of Tibet and she had somehow — and Donnie swore he would ask her how if they survived — made herself look younger, and it wasn’t with expensive creams or makeup. For all the world she looked like a university student in her late teens. The bag she carried contained two books that needed to be returned to the library, her needle-gun, a radio transmitter and a backup supply of water just in-case things went bad.

When she walked into the library, only three people glanced up at her arrival: two women and a man. She walked around the perimeter of the room Freddy had been sitting in to get her bearings, glancing up here and there to see if she recognisned anyone. High on the balcony she briefly met-eyes with a dark-haired woman whose scowl changed to a brief smile. She wondered how her miniature snow-leopard had gone but knew she didn’t have to worry. He’d meet her at a predetermined location when this was done.

She pulled a book from a shelf as a woman, one of those who had noted her arrival, brushed past her.

L glanced up and locked-eyes with Prime, then looked away. She continued to the chair Freddy had been sitting on, picking-up a copy of The Hun newspaper and sat to study the newspaper cover, on which a picture of the newspaper owner was emblazoned with the headline “Get Stuffed All Of You!”. The article concerned his decision to withdraw all news other than print media to consolidate his company’s position. Very Ho-Hum stuff, thought L as she flipped the next page. According to the report, the occupation was in its seventh year (it was wrong) and had cost $23,499,394.03 so-far with no signs of abating. She wondered how they’d worked out the 0.03. She flipped the newspaper open to the crossword which had been partially filled-out.

‘Knight takes,’ she read, and with a half smile beginning at the corner of her mouth, pulled a pen from her bag and filled-in the final detail: Pawn.

Behind her a bunch of University students stood up and she felt the seat suddenly descend.

Above her, Donnie couldn’t believe his eyes. The chair had dropped like a rock and up had come another one. He had no idea where she’d gone, but resisted the urge to chase after her. Instead, he murmured apparently to himself: ‘They’ve got her.’

In a room about five hundred meters from where Donnie stood, Smith nodded without making any comment. He glanced over to Colonel Panix, standing beside him. ‘I think it’s time to send in our men.’

Prime poked Donnie in the ribs. ‘So what are you doing working with the British?’

‘Seemed like a good idea,’ he said. ‘I’d prefer to be slapped later if it’s all the same.’

‘Plan?’

‘Secret.’

‘Thought so,’ she said, and pushed him backwards against a wall of books which spun them both around, revealing a hidden passageway.

‘You’ve got McWarwickson!’ Donnie exclaimed. This got him a withering look from Prime.

‘Follow me. I’m relying on you to have a way through the doors once we’re there.’

They ran as quickly as they could along the narrow passageway, barely able to move their arms, and arrived at a ladder which they climbed down.

Donnie and Prime reached the bottom and were met by Marcus.

‘Still haven’t got it down,’ he said to Prime.

‘Got what down?’ asked Donnie.

‘Hallo Donnie. Bringing the cavalry?’ Marcus grinned.

Donnie nodded. ‘How do they get in here?’

‘I’ll open one of the doors. Not too many people though, it’s small and poky enough in here as it is.’

‘Major Smith,’ said Donnie into his shirtsleeve, loud enough for the microphone to hear him. ‘Made contact with Marcus and Prime. They have a way in. We’ll need…’ he glanced up at Marcus for information.

‘Cutting tools or something that goes bang.’

Donnie repeated the information and got a terse reply.

‘They’re on their way.

* * *

A group of Russian and British officers ran up the steps to the library with Major Smith in-tow.

* * *

El squinted past a bright torch which was being shone in her eyes.

‘Hey, turn that off,’ she said in a broad Australian accent. ‘I’m here for the books, okay.’

The light was turned away and a old lady, one of the two that had noticed her arrival,  stared down at her.

‘I need to see your library card please.’

* * *

‘Is this it?’ asked Smith suspiciously. He stood before a steel door with four locks on it. The warning on the door was simple:

No Admittance. Library Staff Only

‘Get it down,’ he said sharply.

La Niche Cafe, Fitzroy

November 2009

The diminished convoy of two Land Rovers approached the huge steel-frame towers of Avalon Airport; the terminal was a good kilometer beyond.

Beside the road were warning signs in various languages, together with jolly propaganda announcing the gates they were approaching were staffed by friendly members of The League of Nations (who had been mightily pissed-off by the unilateral action taken against the BSD and Sisterhood some five years earlier; all the nuclear weapons found didn’t make up for the breach of protocols and treaties. Bueraucracy hates being ignored). Visitors, the posters announced, would be met on arrival with smiling, friendly enquiries as to destination and point of origin by heavily-armed multi-national soldiers.

The posters were right about one thing: the guards weren’t the type to let many through the solid steel gates that hung between the towers without menacing them somewhat. It was in the job description.

The Land Rovers came to a halt at a white line painted close to the gates, with the word “ACHTUNG!” written there in four different languages. The line was the optimum position for the snipers on the towers to have a field-day.

‘State your intention,’ came a booming voice from a hidden megaphone.

Smith picked up his radio.

‘Authorised evacuation of an injured man. Smith speaking, British Sector commander.’

The first gates opened, revealing another gate on the other side of a large square piece of bitumen that had the air of a cage. They drove in and stopped in the harsh spotlights, turning-off the engines as the outer gates creaked closed on tortured hinges.

‘Step from the vehicle,’ said the voice over the megaphone.

Smith, Donnie, the driver and Rook, together with the soldiers in both vehicles alighted and stood with hands up.

‘Where’s the man?’

‘Injured, in the back,’ said Smith, turning to one of the guards. ‘Bring him out.’

The stretcher was removed from the vehicle and annoyed-looking guards stepped from the shadows; it was possible they’d been there all along. They checked everyone’s ID without a word spoken. They checked the vehicles top to bottom. They frisked each person, and even the body on the stretcher, circling silently and menacingly for several minutes before, finally, one spoke.

‘Where’s his ID?’ the woman asked Smith.

‘Here,’ said Smith, reaching into his jacket pocket. Donnie expected the guards to react with threats, raised guns and the like, but realised that only a suicidal man would pull a gun in here. He glanced up and saw the snipers on each of the four towers and resisted the urge to give them a merry wave.

The guard inspected the ID, held it up to the light and finally accepted it was real. Smith, of course, hadn’t faked anything other than substituting McWarwickson’s ID for his paid doppelganger, Spickle. The guard post was thorough to a point; there was no way they could properly verify the identity of the man on the stretcher without some seriously good electronics. All the guards were concerned with was registering IDs and menacing anyone who came through, all in accordance with League of Nations rules of engagement which had been revised since the occupation began.

‘Keep to the limit,’ said the guard handing the ID back to Smith. ‘Don’t deviate from the path. You’re to be out of here within twenty minutes of the plane’s departure.’

Smith nodded and took the ID.

As the second gate thundered open the Land Rovers drove through. Overhead an aircraft began to descend.

‘That was fun,’ said Donnie.

‘It’s odds-on they’ve added a listening device,’ said Smith testily. ‘So keep schtum, okay?’

Donnie nodded and peered out of the window. The terminal was small, even by Melbourne standards. Avalon had been a short-flight airport, started by one of the budget airlines. Now it acted as overflow airport for supplies and military comings and goings. He longed briefly for the old days, then remembered the chaos of the BSD and Sisterhood and changed the mental subject just as the vehicles pulled-up.

Smith took a deep breath and murmured under his voice: ‘This had better work,’ then: ‘Right, let’s get this done.’

The group walked into the terminal with Spickle on the stretcher in the middle of them all, carried by the soldiers from the back of Smith’s vehicle. Outside, a jet with British markings was coming to a rest a hundred meters from where they stood.

Donnie glanced around.

‘No-one’s here,’ he said. The terminal was deserted. He shivered, remembering the last time he’d been in an airport, then his eyes landed on a newspaper poking from a bin.

‘“Successful Launch of Green Mirrors”,’ he read.

The Ground-Crew pushed a long staircase up to the plane and performed the final checks as the party left the building, stepping out into hot air made hotter by the plane engines.

‘Very quiet,’ said Donnie.

‘Shut up Penfolde,’ Smith snapped.

They reached the steps to the plane when Donnie felt a sting on his ankle.

‘Oh shit.’

He began to collapse, falling against the ground, shoulder first. Oddly, his eyes were still open and he was conscious, though — almost cinematically — the scene turned to slow-motion.

Smith had moved quickly for cover behind the staircase and Rook had been the second hit by the needles. She fell to one side.

‘Put it down,’ yelled an American voice. ‘Put it down NOW!’

Was it the General? Donnie wondered.

‘Don’t even think it Smith!’ yelled the American. ‘Step one finger out of there and you’ll regret it!’

‘I should have killed you when I had the chance,’ called Smith. ‘Call her off!’

‘Not a chance,’ yelled Elvis. ‘We’ve got an arrangement that works.’

Smith shifted around the staircase and fired his gun into the night.

‘Dammit!’ he whispered as he fell, acupuncture needles sticking from his ankle and neck; perfect placement to incapacitate, not kill.

There was a rumble of thunder, which turned out to be far, far too many helicopters approaching.

Elvis Presley stepped from the shadows beside the terminal and looked up into the sky at the hundreds of new stars, fast approaching. They were blinking off and on, accompanied by the rumble of rotor blades.

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘They’re early. Help me get them inside.’

What a complicated life you lead

Donnie was dragged back into the terminal by his ankles and dumped along-side Smith, Rook, the soldiers and Spickle, who was snoring happily.

The needles were removed and disinfected, and slowly they were able to move their limbs once more. Donnie began to groan. His face was rubbed and marked by the miniature snow-leopard who continued on his way.

Smith whipped upwards, pulling his handgun and was confronted with another held outstretched at him. Elvis was just as fast.

‘Put it down,’ said Smith. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘That’s the Americans,’ said Elvis, nodding upwards to the noise. ‘Coming for your man here.’

‘That was the plan,’ said Rook as she stood. ‘We need time to find McWarwickson.’

Smith flashed her an angry glance.

‘I can’t let you do that,’ said Elvis. ‘An innocent man is still an innocent man.’

‘There’s a lot more innocent people out there,’ Smith spoke in a low growl. ‘What about them? This is bigger than you can imagine.’

‘Explain it then,’ said Elvis. ‘I’ve got time.’

‘We don’t. They’re nearly here.’ Smith checked his watch. ‘Right on time as well. They’re punctual at least.’

‘Short version then.’

‘We need to find a way out of this,’ said Prime stepping into the terminal and locking the door. ‘Untenable is a complement here.’

She was right. The terminal was all glass and aluminum. They were the sitting ducks to which all easy targets aspired.

‘If McWarwickson is grabbed by the General, he’ll have all religions,’ said Donnie, paraphrasing madly. ‘And then he’ll have an excuse to invade every country on the planet.’

‘We can’t defend this position,’ said Smith, still eyeballing Elvis, which was hard through The King’s mirror sunglasses — he was effectively staring-down his own reflection — but finally he holstered his gun. Elvis did the same. ‘Do you see what we’re up against?’

Donnie could see Elvis’s shoulders drop slightly.

‘Your choice Mister Presley,’ The Major stepped back to reveal the sleeping figure of Spickle. ‘We can’t leave with him; the Yanks will just shoot us down. And I don’t fancy spending time at the General’s pleasure. We can’t defend this position without losing all of us. It’s international territory and the guards at the gate won’t help us any more than they’ll help the Americans.’

‘You might feel like throwing your life away for your morals’ said L, stepping forward from the gift shop where she’d helped herself to a newspaper and a packet of chips.’But I don’t.’

The helicopters were landing and Elvis swore as the newcomers began to swarm over the runways like a million ants scavenging for food.

‘Better to fight and run away,’ said Marcus, then looked up at Elvis.

‘Fine,’ said Elvis, and pulled his gun, squeezing off a shot at the approaching troops The window before him shattered into a million pieces

‘What the bloody hell are you doing,’ yelled Smith and dived for the ground as the bullet was returned with interest.

The General stood well behind his men and peered through a pair of field glasses.

‘Let them go,’ he said into the headset that connected him to his men. ‘The goal is McWarwickson. The rest are irrelevant. Kill ‘em if you have to.’

The group began to crawl through a shower of glass and bullets. Everything was being destroyed, chairs, tables, pie-warmers all being shredded by the bullets flying through the air. The noise was teriffic. Where the doors had been was more glass and randomly sculpted corrugated iron; Donnie could have sworn he saw a face being machine-gunned into the metal — two eyes, a nose and a smiling mouth — but that too was destroyed.

They made it to the vehicles as what was left of the terminal was overrun.

‘Underground!’ yelled Elvis over the din of the helicopter as the the long, thin rotor blades spun wildly.

If Smith had heard, he didn’t acknowledge as the Land Rovers were reversed hard and fast through the carpark, screeching to a halt momentarily as gears were crunched, then screeching again as they raced away.

The General lowered the binoculars just as the report came in. Freddy McWarwickson was in custody; G Company would get extra burgers for the capture. He smiled, nodded and turned on his heel to return to his helicopter.

Success?

In a smokey bar, in an underground venue, where candles illuminated the faces of the audience — but only just —  a group of people sat silently at one of the tables, a big black pot of Russian tea on the table before them.

‘Well, that went well,’ said Donnie. He felt sick to the stomach. Elvis was right: Leaving Spickle to the Americans was wrong.

‘Oh don’t start,’ said Rook.

‘There should have been a better way.’

‘Yes,’ said Smith, prompting Rook to give him an incredulous look. ‘if we’d got McWarwickson that operation wouldn’t have had to take place.’

‘We didn’t,’ said Donnie.

‘Exactly,’ Smith leaned back.

‘How do we have the right to sacrifice someone,’ asked Donnie.

‘We have to make the best of things,’ said Rook. ‘Do what we can.’

‘We don’t have the right–’

‘And you have an alternative,’ asked Smith tersely.

Donnie glanced away then met Smith’s stare.

‘No, I didn’t think so,’ said Smith. ‘It’s all very well to plead for morals and what’s “right”, but if you don’t have another way of doing things–’

‘Don’t patronise me!’

‘Don’t be a fool then!’ Smith snapped. ‘We had a choice — give them Spickle (who happily received money in exchange for acting as a decoy for McWarwickson, remember?) Or let them keep searching which meant they had just as much chance of finding him as we do! And if they find him–’

‘I know.’

‘If they find him,’ Smith hammered the point home. ‘We can kiss everything goodbye because they’ll be enforcing their copyright with guns and bombs.’

Donnie demurred. He couldn’t win the argument because Smith was right. One person or millions – those were the numbers.

‘We need to focus on finding that lunatic McWarwickson before they work it out,’ said Smith, calmer now. He took a big mouthfull of tea. ‘Time isn’t on our side.’

‘Mind if we join you,’ asked Elvis, stepping forward from the dark. The Jazz singer, a tall willowy female, began a rendition of “The girl from South Footscray” which had been a hit three or four years ago.

‘Walking up in Ugg Boot Glory…’ she sang.

Smith glanced up.

‘I should have you shot,’ he said. ‘You nearly got us all killed with that moral posturing of yours.’

‘Pack of Winnie’s In her Pocket…’ the singer continued.

‘I’ll take that as a “no”,’ Elvis drawled and sat down. He stared momentarily at Donnie. ‘Hi Donnie. Long time.’

‘Yeah.’

Prime and Marcus sat on the other side, opposite Miss Rook. None spoke. A new pot of tea arrived. ‘This one’s on me,’ said Elvis.

‘The Girl From South Foot-scray Goes walking…’ the girl sang the chorus.

‘Where’s L?’ asked Rook.

‘On the surface,’ said Prime. ‘She’s doing a few things for us.’

‘Pity. I’d like a word with her about this,’ said Smith.

‘I think “thankyou” might suffice,’ said Prime.

He considered theatrically. ‘No, I think the words I’d prefer would be “What the Fuck Were You Playing At?’

‘I needed to thin your ranks out,’ said Elvis.

‘Oh, did you?’

‘Because it would have made it harder to get out of there when the Americans came.’

Smith was silent for a moment, then spoke, ‘And that’s why you took a shot at the troops coming for McWarwickson was it?’ he leaned forward over the table towards The King. ‘I just want to be clear on this. Because it seems to me that a quick run for it might have been preferable to being shot at by a garrison of bored, trigger-happy Yanks.’

‘I thought you wanted it to look realistic,’ asked Marcus carefully.

‘I did,’ said Smith, still staring hard at Elvis. ‘I wanted it neat, I wanted us to be overrun and to see that smirking bastard General’s face when he took McWarwickson from me.’

‘So it was personal,’ said Prime.

Smith took a deep breath and stood.

‘Penfolde, Rook, I assume we’re still looking for McWarwickson?’

Donnie and Rook nodded up at him, then their eyes dropped to regard the newcomers cautiously.

‘Fine. When you’re ready — and dont drag your heels about it — I’ll expect you in my office in,’ he checked his watch, flipping his wrist past his pressed shirt, ‘Four hours.’

‘We’re looking too,’ said Elvis, glancing upwards.

‘Then don’t let me hold you up,’ snapped Smith, and stalked out, past the stage and to the door.

A hunt on many fronts

She stood by the black door wearing a black floor-length evening gown and fake mink over her shoulders as a man walked slowly up the steps. He removed his beret respectfully and stopped before her. She smiled as he leaned forward to kiss her on her cheek.

‘May I come in,’ asked Major Smith.

She led him in by a hand and pushed the door closed behind them.

* * *

The Miniature snow leopard sprayed against the wall, across the top of a stencil which read (if you had a black-light) “The Phantom Paw Striks Again”.

L removed the stencil, and discretely sprayed it with disinfectant and neutraliser and put it into a pack alongside four others saying the same thing, just with different designs.

They wandered around the street corner and stopped in the cafe for a latte and a chat with the guy behind the counter. L was in full-blown cute and alluring-mode, which made the conversation all the easier.

* * *

There was a map in the center of Kara’s dinner-table, and Rook and Donnie were peering intently at it, trying to work-out the directions Freddy McWarwickson could have taken from the waste ground. They were turning up a great big blank.

‘He knows the sewer system,’ said Donnie, drawing his finger in a straight-line down one of the transparencies they’d laid atop the main map. ‘He could be bloody anywhere.’

‘He’d stay where he’s got some kind of power-base,’ said Rook. ‘Where was it you ran into him?’

‘East of here, on the way back to the checkpoint.’

‘That’s where we need to be.’

* * *

Major Smith accepted the tumbler of 20 year-old single-malt from the lady.

‘It’s very kind of you to see me at such short notice,’ he said, sipping the glass and leaning back in the over-stuffed chair in the sitting room. Artworks lined the walls and there were the imprints of books on the floor where they’d sat for months before he’d arranged some bookshelves for the lady.

‘I’m always happy to see you, Major.’

* * *

‘Always be nice,’ said L as she and her snow-leopard strode away from the cafe. ‘Niceness gets you everywhere. You should learn that.’ She glanced at the scars on the back of her hand where he’d scratched her in their last rough-and-tumble. They turned a corner and walked to a doorway where L knocked firmly and stepped back.

‘Yeah,’ asked the gruff looking man opening the door.

‘Looking for a friend of mine,’ she said.

‘That a snow-leopard?’ he asked, his Australian accent a definite put-on. ‘Tiny.’

L smiled tightly. ‘Yes. Miniature. Have you seen this man?’

She held up a photograph of Freddy McWarwickson and the door was slammed shut. She heard running footsteps over creaking floorboards.

‘So much for nice,’ she said, pulling her cubist needle-gun.

* * *

Donnie walked along the alleyway and then stopped by the doorway he’d been in when he’d found McWarwickson. It was smashed and thick yellow and black tape had been stuck over it in a cross with a cyrillic warning on it that Donnie couldn’t read. Not being able to read it, he ignored it. He and Rook walked down into the basement, through the back and into the stairwell that led down to the sewers.

* * *

‘May I ask how you have been,’ asked Smith, watching the woman sit down in her sewing chair.

‘Very well, thanks to your help,’ she said with a kind smile.

‘I’m very glad.’

‘And you?’

The Major took a deep breath and began to speak.

‘It has been a trying time. And I’m finding it more and more difficult to do my job… The bombs play on my mind.’

* * *

Donnie and Rook glanced from side-to-side as there came the sound of a door slamming, then a sound of running footsteps.

They jumped back into the shadows as the man L had been conversing with ran up the stairs without seeing them.

‘Who the hell is that?’ asked Donnie.

‘He can’t still be here can he?’ said Rook, surprised and hoping for the easy solution to their problem: that McWarwickson had returned to the scene of the crime. ‘Come on!’

They gave chase, almost running into L and tripping over the snow-leopard that loped up the stairs like his full-sized namesake, only with quicker movements and much smaller steps. Above them was a crash of another door and then silence, but only momentary and difficult to make out past their wheezing and thumping feet on the stairs.

They checked doors as they ran. The first was filled with props from “The Fuckin’ Freddy McWarwickson Show!!”, including an enormous papier mache nose with a finger sticking into it; the show logo, a stylised monochrome picture of Freddy, was embossed into a ring on the finger. The next room was empty but for spiderwebs and screwed-up pieces of paper.

The last had an open window, leading to a gantry across the laneway below. A light switched on in the opposite buliding and they ducked back so’s not to be seen.

‘How’d you find it?’ asked Rook of L.

‘Asked around, you?’

‘Donnie’s been here before,’ said Rook.

They bundled out onto the gantry as a car started below them, reversing out of a hitherto unnoticed garage, smashing the twin black doors open.

‘Shit,’ said Donnie as the miniature snow leopard leapt down onto the fabric roof affixing himself with his claws. The car began to drive away.

* * *

A needle was dropped onto the surface of the spinning record and a familiar wartime tune began to play.

‘May I have the honour of this dance,’ asked Major Smith, bowing shortly. She held out her hand and he spun her gently around. They began to dance around the sitting room.

* * *

The party of three emerged panting at ground-level.

‘Well that was useless,’ wheezed Donnie bracing himself against a wall as he drew-in great breaths of air.

‘Not so,’ said L, holding a svelte black phone in her hand, the very same one Donnie had lusted after when hired by Madame Pink. She pressed the main button, tapped the screen, and had the snow-leopard’s GPS tag showing on the map.

‘He’s heading for Barishnikov!’ she said, breaking into a run, which Donnie followed.

‘That means British sector,’ yelled Donnie as they rounded the corner and ran down another alleyway, heading north. Checkpoint Barishnikov was a good 300 meters away, but cars would be — odds-on — slower than just running.

L and Donnie kept up the pace, jumping on the back of a passing tram, which took them to the main street where they started running again.

‘No! He’s heading West!’ cried L.

‘American sector? He’s mad!’

Donnie and L changed course, on a slow uphill run, avoiding the bike riders coming the other way. They slowed slightly as a truck made a wrong-turn before them and was intercepted by gruff Russian guards for making an illegal turn, in an Illegal street, at an illegal time of night. The driver had made the mistake of his life. El and Donnie twisted past it, pushing aside bins and other piles of rubbish, and emerged beyond the guards and facing the car which was idling on the street before them.

‘How the hell did we catch up?’ asked Donnie, huffing and puffing.

‘Because, Comrade Penfolde, he is not who you think he is. And neither am I,’ said the truck driver with the voice of Colonel Panix. He took his green and black hat from one of the guards, a petite dark-haired woman, and shrugged off the overalls he was wearing. ‘A hot night, no?’

‘Never thought of you as a field-man,’ said Donnie. ‘More a sitting on your arse behind a desk eating biscuits one.’

‘No need to be rude,’ said Panix. ‘Who is your friend?’ he nodded to L while keeping his stare on Donnie.

‘British Sector Security,’ said L, stepping forward and extending a hand while speaking with a plummy English accent. ‘Protecting Monsieur Penfolde. Major Smith sends his complements.’

The corner of Panix’s mouth twitched and he took her ID.

‘Do you have any others in there?’

‘Certainly not,’ said L. ‘That would be illegal under article five of the occupation act.’

‘Would you mind if my men checked?’

‘Illegal under article fifteen: search of allied personnel can only be authorised by court-order when appropriate evidence is presented.’

“Hmm,’ Panix handed her ID back to her huffily. ‘And you are here why?’ he asked of Donnie.

Donnie’s legs were twanging from the exertion. He took a deep breath and braced himself against them with his arms and hands. ‘Looking for a friend,’ he said at last.

‘You are speaking of Madame Pink?’

He doesn’t know, thought Donnie. Stunned by the possibility, he looked up

Panix smiled.

‘No, you’re looking for the traitor Freddy McWarwickson.’ Panix laughed and walked past them for the car, calling over his shoulder: ‘Bring them.’

El and Donnie were grabbed by the guards. El dropped her purse into the rubbish at her feet and it wasn’t noticed. Neither was the miniature snow-leopard who discretely dragged it out of sight while watching his mum being helped into the black car.

His weren’t the only eyes watching discretely though…

* * *

Smith and the woman stopped, dead-center of the room.

‘I appreciate your hospitality,’ he said, smiling. She returned the smile and kissed his cheek affectionately. ‘It’s the only place I actually feel–’

She put a finger against his lips, silencing him kindly.

‘I enjoy your visits,’ she said. ‘And your confidence. I will never repeat our conversations to a soul.’

‘I appreciate that.’

They stared into each others eyes…

Fitzroy North

July 2010

Thanks to Julie G for the 9 of Pentacles

1. Vistors

The soldiers parted, standing on either side of the door, impassive but threatening. Donnie peered closer at their uniforms as a man strode in, wearing a black leather coat and trilby and sat down with the quartet.

‘May I,’ asked Major Smith, picking up a glass and refilling it with tea, commenting on the colour of the liquid in the glass. ‘Now there’s a good drop.’

‘Major,’ said Miss Rook.

The Major nodded respectfully to Rook.

‘Aren’t you after her,’ asked Donnie.

‘Ordinarily, but we’re on international territory old boy. And underground territory at that. I don’t have nearly enough men here to cause an international incident and I’d rather talk to be honest. It was a sod getting here.’ He sipped again at the tea. ‘I really must get some of this.’

‘It’s Russian,’ said Barry, leaning back on his chair into shadow.

‘So, what are we talking about?’ asked Smith with a smile.

The silence was pointed, interspersed with giggles from the drag queen as he got friendly with some of the soldiers. Men in uniform seemed her thing.

‘I’ll start then shall I?’ asked Smith, draining the glass. ‘Kara Najinskya was murdered by a bullet fired from US territory. What I want to know is why.’

‘So do we,’ said Rook, her expression hard.

‘Cards on the table then,’ said Smith, leaning forward and placing three cards there. He flipped the first one, which turned out to be a photograph of the crime-scene. The second was a photograph of the potential trajectory of the bullet. The last was slipped back into his jacket pocket. ‘For later.’

‘We need more tea,’ said the Major, pouring the last dregs from the pot. He glanced up at L. ‘You wouldn’t mind would you?’

‘Get the tea,’ said Rook. ‘Come back in five minutes.’

L wandered to the bar, ordered a pot and began selling roses again, cackling wildly at a joke from the next table.

‘Now who is she?’ asked Smith, turing on his chair.

‘None of your business,’ Rook replied tartly. ‘Cards on the table — you haven’t told us anything we hadn’t already worked-out.’

‘How was your conversation with the General?’

‘Boring.’

‘Hmm,’ the Major leaned back. ‘I expect he was happy to chat about his anti-literature programme. Goes on about it at length at station meetings I’ve heard.’

‘Why are they burning books?’ asked Donnie.

‘Because books are a direct threat to their music and movie industry,’ Smith scratched his nose, taking a lungfull of air, his shoulders rising to accomodate it.

‘And the music?’

‘Ever heard of Mozart? Beethoven? The Rolling Stones? Elvis Presley? Blur? Placebo? Patti Smith? PJ Harvey?’

‘Course I have.’

‘The Americans haven’t. Their music industry is based on banjos at dawn, throaty wailing and carbon-copy mysogynist thugs. They’ve got a vested interest in keeping things simple. And books complicate things.’

The Major looked up at a sudden, sharp sound; a crack of something solid.

‘Please excuse me for just one moment,’ he said, getting up and walking over to the drag queen who was trying to pick herself up while holding her cheek. Before her, one of Smith’s men lowered his rifle back to the ground.

‘Keep away from me,’ hissed the corporal in the line. ‘Or the next thing you get is a bullet you freak.’

‘A word in your shell-like, corporal,’ said Smith politely, yet firmly. He nodded to one of the other soldiers who was watching the events unfold with a concerned look on her face. She stepped forward and helped the drag queen up and led her across to a seat.

As Donnie and the others looked on (the cat, however was more intent on cleansing his nethers, extending his left foot upwards and stretching his toes), Smith was quite still, standing almost intimately in front of the corporal and whispering in his ear. Once or twice the corporal tried to interject but stopped as Smith’s voice rose, almost audible to the watching quartet. The corporal’s features paled and they could make out sweat on his face.

The Major turned on his heel and walked calmly to the seat where the drag queen sat, while the corporal returned to the line of soldiers beside the door, chasened; his body language now was introverted rather than overtly agressive.

‘The corporal is on report,’ he said respectfully. ‘And you have my sincere apologies for this incident. He will not bother you again.’

As he returned to the table, Rook spoke up. ‘Nursing a conscience, Smith?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ he said, settling into the chair. ‘Violence of that kind has to be stopped at the source. If good people stand by and watch, they become accessories after the fact, and we all know where that leads.’

‘Sounds like an excuse,’ she replied.

‘Sisterhood ring any bells? How about BSD?’ he snapped, holding her in a blowtorch gaze. When she failed to answer, he spoke a single affirmative: ‘Right. Now, where were we?’

Donnie glanced at Rook who sighed and spoke at last: ‘He wants McWarwickson. They spiked a message to Kara and warned her about the meeting. Presumably they were trying to stop Panix shipping Freddy out of the country.’

‘That explains why Kara was there. But why McWarwickson?’

‘He’s still part-owner of McWarwickson industries. And they own Christianity.’

‘Oh, joy,’ said the Major as the tea arrived with an extra glass and plate of biscuits. ‘Only the General could think the world works like a monopoly board.’ He retrieved then bit into a pink wafer. Tiny pieces of biscuit remained in his pristine blonde moustache as he chewed reflectively.

‘I wonder though,’ Donnie murmured, leaning forward, his mind making odd, perhaps outlandish connections. ‘If they own religion, they could be said to own belief… and what’s belief but thought, even action.’

‘What are you getting at, Penfolde?’ asked Smith.

‘No.’ Rook was only half negative, she could almost see where Donnie was going.

‘Yes, think about it,’ Donnie became more animated. ‘All the religions put together cover just about every way of thinking, behaving and acting. From “thou shalt not kill”, to… how to store food. Think how holy scriptures speak about women, how…’

‘They could unite the world,’ said L, sitting back down, her basket empty and purse full of cash. ‘If they unified the religions. Christianity, Judaism and even Muslim faiths have a common root.’

‘And if they ban people from behaving in a certain way because it infringes their copyright, what then?’

‘They can’t stop you thinking,’ said Rook. ‘Or acting.’

‘But they can charge you for the right,’ said Barry, interjecting after much thought. ‘It’s another DRM; the owners of copyright ruthlessly enforce it in the courts of the world, making examples of people, ruling through fear. It’s a divide and conquer attitude.’

‘Funny you should put it that way,’ Smith murmured, rubbing his moustache. The pink crumbs fell, spinning, to the tabletop.

‘Take it to an extreme, what if a country refused to participate?’ asked Donnie. ‘What if a country and its people said “You can’t copyright ideas or beliefs.”?’

‘It’s what African countries did with medicines…’ said L chillingly. ‘And look what happened to them.’

Smith spoke carefully: ‘The international court is gone,’ he said flatly. ‘The League of Nations was crumbling before the invasion…and it’s gotten worse since. Unilateral action was just as defiant of the rules of the organisation as was the BSD and Sisterhood’s refusal to disarm,’ he broke off, dark thoughts rising. ‘Oh they wouldn’t…? Would they?’

‘You’re a fool Smith,’ said Rook harshly. ‘They have and they will.’

‘Have and will what?’ asked Donnie.

‘They’d use it as an excuse to invade another country,’ said Smith. ‘All under the guise of enforcing their legal rights. The continent of Africa was a dry-run for the pharma industries. That tested global opinion, and we left them twisting in the wind like we always have.’

‘We have to get to McWarwickson before they do,’ said Donnie.

‘State the obvious Poirot,’ L retorted.

Smith poured tea into the glasses and looked at the others, one at a time.

‘I propose an alliance,’ he said.

‘Pull the other one,’ said Rook.

‘The enemy of my enemy,’ murmured L, scratching her cat’s ears. He jumped up on her.

‘Indeed,’ said Smith, turning to her, then back to lock-eyes with Rook who was singularly unimpressed. The tension was palpable.

‘There isn’t time for this,’ said Donnie. ‘McWarwickson’s out there somewhere and so is the General. He walked into Russian territory yesterday without so much as a by-your-leave. What’s to say he won’t go into other sectors?’

‘Which would be why the sewers are still open,’ L murmured, shocked. ‘I hadn’t considered that.’

Rook sat back, considering. ‘There have to be ground-rules.’

‘A full pardon for past indiscretions,’ said Smith.

‘I don’t want your forgiveness.’

‘You haven’t got it.’

‘For the love of g–’ began Donnie, voice rising in warning.

‘All right Donnie,’ snapped Rook. Her mouth was fixed and she hated the idea of this but there was so much at stake. She addressed Smith: ‘I’m taking a big risk if I agree to this.’

‘As am I,’ Smith replied curtly. He turned to Barry. ‘Monsieur, would you be so kind as to get me a piece of paper, your letterhead if at all possible, and some pens please?’

Barry nodded and walked in the direction of his office.

‘We work together,’ said Smith. ‘We write down the conditions beforehand and you take a copy of the paperwork and so do I. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ said Rook.

‘What about Panix?’ asked Donnie.

‘He offered McWarwickson a way out, but we didn’t get Pink or Bleu,’ said Smith. ‘So the offer would have been revoked.’

‘I mean will he be in on the deal?’

Smith considered, biting his lip in thought. ‘No. If we include too many we run the risk of being accused of forming an alliance against the Americans. And they’d run rampant then. Let’s keep it simple for now.’

‘Panix is the link with McWarwickson though. We’d have to involve him somehow.’

‘True,’ said Smith. ‘Let me think on it.’

Barry returned with the paper and Smith wrote up some ground rules, reading them as he wrote: ‘Full pardon for all involved, guarantee of non-pursuit if things go haywire,’ he looked up at Rook, ‘Which is reasonable given I’ll have my hands full.’

‘Indeed,’ said Rook.

‘But you’ll be there to help out won’t you?’ said Smith sardonically.

‘Don’t bet on it.’

Smith nodded, unsurprised. ‘And free passage through all British territories. I’ll get passports to you tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ asked Donnie.

He looked up at him.

‘For Kara’s burial.’

2. Funeral Rights

Somehow, thought Donnie, the fog was appropriate. It was bitingly cold, despite being what passed for springtime in the city. Colonel Panix had made his apologies with the excuse of “affairs of state” or somesuch thing. The Russian contingent consisted of four identical bouncers, a callgirl called Larry and a dancer from Kara’s club who was going to be late for her performance if the padre didn’t hurry up.

‘I think we can skip the basics, father,’ said Smith stepping up to the priest. He had to look up for the man was a good head taller than he. For his part, the priest said nothing but silently requested formal forgiveness from the father, son and board of McWarwickson industries (who had written themselves into church lore deciding the Holy Ghost was far too insubstantial a concept and not at all marketable).

‘We are gathered tonight to farewell Kara…’ Smith whispered Kara’s surname to the priest, pronouncing it correctly. ‘Najinskya who left this fold too early for her years.’

As the standardised funeral rites droned on, Miss Rook stared at the coffin. Kara was definitely too young to go, too good and, dammit, too valuable as well; Headstrong, stubborn, like a terrier with a stoat, but a good Anticu sister regardless, and one who would be difficult as hell to replace.

‘Penny for them,’ asked Smith glancing sideways to her.

‘Saying goodbye,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘A great loss.’ he said and Rook was surprised to note that he actually meant it.

‘How are we going to find McWarwickson,’ she asked. ‘I want a reason for losing Kara that doesn’t involve religious extemism and someone vying for another fucking war.’

‘It’s hard to go to ground in this city. Far too small for that. But if he’s still in the Russian sector he’s going to be open to harassment from Panix. The French sector, undoubtedly, is where Pink and Bleu are holed-up and he won’t go there because they want to dissect him, so that leaves the British sector. If he’s in the American sector the game is over.’

Rook nodded agreement. ‘I have my associates hunting for him in the Russian sector. There’s no word as to whether Panix has him, but no flights have taken off in the last 24 hours.’

‘That’s odd,’ said Smith.

A small trowel was held in front of Smith. He shook his head respecfully and deferred to Rook who took it and poured earth from it onto the coffin in the hole.

Donnie took the trowel from her and repeated the exercise, dropping one of the roses from Barry’s place atop the earth. He turned and began to walk.

Donnie turned quickly as a hand was dropped onto his shoulder. It was Smith.

‘Don’t lose it now Donnie,’ he said in a low, careful voice. ‘Or she’s died for nothing.’

Donnie, ready to hit something, relaxed, nodded and spoke: ‘Where’s McWarwickson? How the hell are we going to find him in time?’

The Major’s eyes slid away from Donnie and he frowned. Then he grinned.

Donnie realised what he was thinking and they spoke together:

‘Spickle.’

3. Dannys

George Spickle, Freddy McWarwickson’s paid doppelganger, walked into Danny’s and asked for a fifth time that week about the double-coronary burger. His cravings were insatiable, especially at 11pm at night when his favourite show came on.

The man behind the counter looked surreptitiously from side-to-side and nodded almost imperceptibly in the direction of the kitchen behind him.

Spickle took the hint and ducked around the counter, pushed open the door and was dragged quickly inside. A hood was dropped over his head and he was frog-marched, Donnie holding an arm on one side and Smith holding an arm on the other, out to the alleyway behind Dannys. Two very alert guards stood there before Checkpoint Barry and studiously averted their eyes as Spickle was shoved into the back of the Land Rover and driven away.

Ten minutes later the Land Rover pulled-up at the front of British Sector HQ, formerly the Royal Exhibition building, and Spickle was bundled inside and left, sweating, in an interview room. The guards removed the hood and disposed of it in the usual way.

Twenty minutes later — though Spickle wasn’t to know that — Major Smith entered with a folder under his arm and a beret folded beneath the epaulette on his left shoudler. His uniform was neat and his shoes shined. He sat, pulling his slacks up to avoid them riding-up and took a deep breath, staring deep into the eyes of the man opposite.

‘Mister Spickle,’ said Smith. ‘I do believe we’ve had a conversation about your continued patronage of Danny’s with regard to the…’ Smith opened the file and read from the page, even though he knew Spickle’s tastes. ‘Double Coronary Burger.’

‘I’m sorry,’ blurted Spickle. ‘It’s the sauce that gets me.’

‘The sauce banned under the geneva convention as a chemical weapon.’

‘Oh.’

‘Hence the banning of the burger.’

‘Oh.’

‘Mister Spickle, we’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?’

‘Um.’

‘And I recall the last time there was a promise for you to control your urges.’

‘Ah.’

‘You see, your continued hunt for the burger and its special sauce merely reminds others of its past existence. And some people might get the wrong idea, they might work on a substitute. And undoubtedly they’d get the recipe wrong and… well, people would die. You could die. You understand I’m trying to save your life, Mister Spickle.’

‘Oh.’

‘I seem to recall you made some particularly relevant comments with regard to this. Undertakings if memory serves.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Undertakings were taken,’ Smith blinked and looked away, realising he was laying it on too thick and losing his thread; direct and sharp then: ‘In short, you’ve turned out to be a nasty little liar haven’t you, Mister Spickle?’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Yes. I expect you didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘So tell me why I shouldn’t lock you up, Mister Spickle. Explain how I can risk leaving you “at large” when you can’t even keep a simple promise to try another burger and stop harassing the staff at Dannys. I’ve got better things to deal with. So have they.’

‘I…’

‘Stammering won’t solve the problem.’

‘I promise not to do it again.’

‘Heard that one before.’

‘I promise to try something else!’

‘You’re getting repetitive. Heard that too.’

‘What can I do? I’ll do anything!’

Smith was silent, the merest hint of a smile under his blonde moustache.

‘Anything?’

‘Yes!’

Smith raised a wary eyebrow and carefully removed a piece of paper from the folder.

‘Sign here.’

4. “Come with me”

The wind was howling across the city, a particularly vicious northerly. The temperature was peaking at 35 degrees centigrade, prompting a clothing re-think of the general population. The Americans, the Russians, the British and French all withdrew as much as possible to the shadows. The only really cool place, both literally and artistically, were the catacombs beneath the city.

Major Smith sat in his impromptu office, ignoring the messy arrangement of wires around the doorframe that connected his computer to the systems above. These were the least of his problems.

The room had once been infested with rubbish, rats and the scourge of humanity, the kind of people even the underground-dwellers avoided. Smith had known of it for some months but ignored it at the time as he’d been busy on other matters. Now, however, the tables had turned and he needed to be able to think. It was impossible to do that on the surface, so the room suddenly had a use.

A slighty sharp smell of disinfectant stung his nostrils as he entered, but this would soon pass. The room was dark and with the addition of some lightbulbs, enough to give him light enough to work. He settled down behind the desk and flipped open the laptop, nodding to the woman beside the door to let the others inside. She noticed the scrubbing that the wall had undergone in the last four hours hadn’t quite shifted the anti-british graffiti on the wall behind him. “Fuck Off Poms” was the least imaginative statement she’d read in a long time.

Donnie Penfolde and Miss Rook stepped in; they’d been running errands of their own in the intervening time. They sat down on the chairs and the newly laid floor creaked under the weight.

‘Well, the Americans don’t have McWarwickson,’ said Smith. ‘That’s the only piece of good news we’ve got apart from finding Spickle.’

‘Spickle can’t be trusted to blow the whole thing,’ said Rook. ‘If we give him to the Yanks, it’ll only buy us time, not stop the juggernaut.’

‘Time is better than what we’ve got,’ said Smith. ‘And the more we have the less of it McWarwickson has to find a long-term bolt-hole.’

‘How do we know he hasn’t gotten out already,’ asked Donnie. ‘Or that Pink or Bleu have him?’

‘Freddy’s a little creep but he’s intelligent–’

‘Like a rat–’ Rook interjected. She had no love of the man.

‘Indeed. So he’ll be avoiding the French sector at all costs because that’s where Pink and Bleu are.’

‘You know for sure?’ asked Donnie.

Smith toook a deep breath, his shoulders rising. ‘Yes. It’s the only place they could go. God knows what the French are doing sheltering them, or if they even know.’

‘And we’re sure the Russians haven’t spirited him away?’

‘Oh, definitely,’ said Smith. ‘They’d have him on TV by now — their ratings are in the doldrums and they need something to boost them.’

‘So how do we get Spickle into American hands without him talking?’ asked Rook.

‘Can I mention something?’ asked Donnie.

‘Yes Penfolde. What is it?’ Smith was testy at the interruption, half-expecting Donnie’s attack of conscience.

‘We’ll be throwing an innocent man to the dogs,’ he said. Smith nodded, he was right: Donnie’s conscience had started jumping up and down like a jack-russell terrier.

‘He signed up to be McWarwickson’s double Penfolde, so he knew there would be risks. And if we don’t get him into American hands, they’ll still be on the scent same as us. What do you think McWarwickson’s chances are of being found by the Yanks then?’

‘It’s still a sacrifice.’

‘Put it another way, Penfolde. If the Yanks get McWarwickson, they’ll come in mob-handed and Spickle will be just as dead. The difference is it’s odds-on we’ll be with him.’

With logic like that, Donnie’s conscience had to retreat. It was all very well being the voice of reason in a den of wolves, but when the bear trappers were out to get all of you, the sacrifice of one person seemed small to save the majority. Where it stopped was another question for another time.

‘We need somewhere to draw them off,’ said Smith. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Cemetery?’ asked Donnie, his irony gland on “High”.

‘The only cemeteries in the local area are in the Russian and French sectors. We don’t want either of them involved with this operation.’

‘Airport,’ said Rook. ‘Avalon for preference.’

‘Why there?’ asked Smith, a little smile beginning at the corner of his mouth. It was an excellent idea.

‘It’s remote, transport is sketchy at best and it’ll mean we’re right on the edge of Russian territory.’

‘If things go pear-shaped, it’s a good place to retreat you mean.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Uh, point of order,’ said Donnie, raising a mock hand. ‘I thought we weren’t involving the Russians.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they won’t object to some allies running across the border chased by Americans,’ said Smith with a grin. ‘Panix would love that. It would also annoy the General somewhat, and he’s not noted for intelligence in that mood.’

‘So how do we stop Spickle from talking?’

‘Ever heard of Petrov?’ asked Smith. He stood again. ‘Come with me.’

5. Road Trip

A convoy of grey Land Rovers pulled away from the underground garage beneath British HQ in Carlton, heading South along the border of Russian territory. Thankfully there were shared streets, bordering each sector that could be used by vehicles from any government. The main street of the city was all but deserted at this time of night, and it wasn’t a bad thing for the convoy was slightly out of place; one vehicle was the maximum one usually saw around the city these days what with the price of oil and the prevalence of free bicycles. The convoy drove past an all-night cafe, people out in the open air trying to cool down from the scorcher of a day. One of the patrons watched the convoy pass with more interest than usually wise, peering over the top of their circular sunglasses. They  stood and stalked over to a side-street.

As the convoy crossed the bridge over the river and drove through one of the formerly affluent suburbs, now used as a housing estate for French personnel. They passed the Russian HQ without concern; Smith had already radioed ahead with a cover-story: they were repatriating an injured officer. The Russians would be watching, but he hoped not too closely.

They turned onto a side street, a common road which led to the freeway.

At a discrete distance there came a single motorbike with sidecar. The rider was wearing old-fashioned goggles and helmet.

‘Now that’s odd,’ said Smith, glancing down into the mirror. He picked up the radio and spoke to the tail vehicle. ‘Back off a little Jones, see who it is.’

Behind him was a stretcher with Spickle, bandaged from head to foot and sleeping soundly. It had taken quite a bit of anaesthetic to get him under, mainly because of his excess body weight. Donnie and Rook sat on either side of the stretcher, trying not to look at each other. Behind them were two officers, a man and woman.

‘Who is it, Jones,’ asked Smith, still watching the rear-vision mirror as the vehicle slowed to drive parallel to the motorbike rider. ‘Bloody Hell,’ he said suddenly as the Land Rover careered off the road and crashed, mainly due to having its tyres shot out.

The motorbike accelerated as did the remaining vehicles of the convoy.

‘Get us moving,’ Smith said curtly to the driver and the vehicle accelerated. ‘You two, hang on.’

Donnie and Rook glanced at one-another, then out the back window, a plastic film barely clean enough to see through.

The motorbike pulled back a little as one of the land rovers began to swerve from side-to-side. The back flap was pulled open suddenly and guards began to fire where the bike had been. The bullets tore up the road but nothing more. The men looked at one-another then collapsed as the tarpaulin along the side of the vehicle, covering them, was perforated by several hundred acupuncture needles. The Land Rover slowed, scraping along a steel barrier and came to a stop at the bottom of the bridge.

Two down, two to go; the motorbike driver throttled up and slowly gained, coming within fifty meters as the remaining vehicles reached the heady heights at the top of the bridge. Their speed was a good thirty kilometers an hour in excess of the maximum speed which flashed on-and-off on the signs that lined the criss-crossing frame of the bridge. With the wind that was howling across, and the speed they were going, the drivers were having some difficulty remaining straight. This was what the motorbike rider was counting on. She accelerated hard past the second rover and came within meters of Smith’s vehicle.

‘Shoot them,’ Smith ordered and the soldiers flipped the tarpaulin aside. Donnie gasped as he saw L’s face beneath the goggles.

The officers opened fire, but she had anticipated this, and drove her bike straight at a barrier, leaping across the side of the bridge and falling down the other side as the bikes tank was ruptured and the fuel exploded.

‘That was L,’ said Donnie; he’d seen her eyes staring hard at him, and could have sworn she’d winked at him.

‘Why in gods name would she have turned on us,’ asked Rook.

‘Anyone else on the payroll you should be telling me about,’ Smith demanded.

‘She’s not on the payroll,’ snapped Rook. ‘Who knows who she’s working for.’ She fell silent, her anger a low-burning fury that would wait for now.

As they came off the bridge, the remaining vehicles slowed to a respectable 100km/h to continue their journey. In the distance the bike’s explosion had died down and L’s parachute was well hidden by the chimneys of the dead petroleum refinery plants. She slowly descended and as her feet touched the ground, she twisted the parachute release and wriggled free of the harness. The parachute sailed off into the distance like a kite without an owner.

L sighed, relieved, and lifted her cat from her jacket to put him down. He wandered around her, marking her legs, then found some dirt which he scratched aside and relieved himself, burying the evidence moments later.

‘You’re finished?’ she asked. The cat gave her a look which could have been interpreted as contempt, and led the way. They walked a hundred meters to a wide area of open ground where a deep black helicopter was waiting for them, hidden by the expanse of now derelict machinery, equipment and smoke-stacks. As she approached the back door opened and an american voice spoke, with an accent borne of the deep south:

‘Get in.’

Fitzroy North

November 2009

1. A chilling discovery

‘The Americans shot her,’ said Miss Rook, slowly standing flatly. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Donnie, looking up at her, but still down on his haunches. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

A grey and white cat wandered past, marking Rook’s leg and continued on its way. It looked like a mini snow leopard.

‘Miss Rook, Mister Penfolde,’ said an American accented voice nearby. ‘Please don’t move.’

Donnie, against orders, stood and saw a half dozen soldiers emerge from their hiding places, their camouflage clothing and facepaint had blended perfectly against the cement and dirt.

The speaker was a young sergeant, perhaps twenty, and he walked forward.

‘Oh Panix is going to love this,’ said Donnie. ‘You’re on Russian territory, mate.’

‘Please hold out your hands,’ said the sergeant, his polite tone scratching fingernails down the blackboard of Donnie’s nerves. They were so very polite and cheerful, the Americans, even when bombing you to bits.

Rook and Donnie were handcuffed as another figure emerged from the darkness.

‘It’s disputed territory,’ he said with a superior smile and an accent that wouldn’t be out of place in the deep south. ‘Panix knows that.’

‘General,’ said Rook with a terseness borne of experience.

‘Miss Rook, a pleasure as always.’ He struck her, the punch sending her reeling backwards.

‘What the hell was that for,’ demanded Donnie as they were all illuminated by car headlights. The locally built car, regarded everywhere else as a death trap but lauded as Superior Russian Technology was shot with a thousand bullets, rapid-fire.

‘Jesus,’ said Donnie in shock.

‘The punch was payback,’ said the General pushing his smoking gun into Donnie’s hand, then dropping it onto the ground. ‘And the gun’s for blasphemy, Penfolde. Panix’ll find this and then come for you. Your only option is to come with us to the safety of the American sector. I’d consider it my civic duty to help you out.’

‘Would you?’

‘Bastard,’ said Rook trying to stand, she was hampered by the blood running from her mouth and the pain of a potential fractured tooth. She was helped up by the Americans around her.

‘Let’s talk,’ said the General who turned to his men. ‘Destroy it.’

As Donnie and Rook were led across to the fence and through into the American sector, charges were laid across the cement where Kara had fallen. Rook looked up as they went off, reducing the cement to powder.

2. God Loves You

The American sector was pristine, the cement looked like it had been laid yesterday, the walls were clean and there wasn’t even a hint of grafiti, the surest sign of a creative subculture ruthlessly stamped out. Bright, colourful advertising banners were positioned where they would gain the best visibility, right at head-height, touting wares such as electronic interactive toasters, America’s Best World-Series Sporting Bubblegum and even the latest album from the princess of the American Airwaves, K-Sky, her bright blonde locks covering much of her face in the same way as a Burka. Chirpy music played from the speakers overhead with occasional announcement breaks.

‘That was K-Sky with her hit “God Loves You”,’ said the female announcer; she was obviously on drugs. There was no other reason Donnie could think for her being so unbelievably joyous. ‘You can buy this track on our Online Store, and remember God wants you to be happy.’

It sounded like a threat to Donnie’s ears.

Donnie and Rook were lifted into the back of a huge vehicle, part tank, part two-miles-to-the-gallon. They sat opposite each other, neither speaking nor looking at one-another. This was a bad turn of events that wouldn’t get better.

The vehicles came to a halt a few minutes later and Donnie tried to peer from one of the windows.

The vehicles moved again, stopped and Donnie and Rook were retrieved. Just behind them another vehicle pulled up, a female officer at the wheel. Women’s lib had obviously reached the American military. Good for them, thought Donnie.

Five minutes later they were sitting in a plush office, with walls of empty shelves. On one side of the desk was the General, the other side, Donnie and Rook. Their handcuffs were removed by the same sergeant, who was thanked by the General, then left.

‘Cold in here,’ said Donnie, shivering.

‘That’s the air-con Penfolde. We don’t like the air outside so we cool it and scent it with the smells of home. Apple pie and burnin’ books.’

That explained the shelves. Donnie hadn’t realised they were so anti-literature over here. He decided to see about setting-up an illicit trade in paperbacks to see if he could make some much-needed cash.

‘Tell me what you know, Penfolde,’ said the General.

‘Could take a while.’

‘Smartass.’

‘Your music sucks?’

‘Donnie,’ Rook murmured in warning.

‘What would you prefer, Penfolde? The filth peddled Elvis Goddamn Presley?’ The General stood. ‘We do things different here, Penfolde. We do things right. Our morals are clear, our streets clean, our people obedient. And God is on our side!’

‘Which one?’

‘All of them. From Zeus and Apollo right up to Buddha. Copyright U. S of A.’

‘So you got Catholicism then?’ said Donnie with a hint of defiance and certainly some sarcasm.

The General fell silent; Donnie imagined steam coming out of his ears. Last Donnie had looked, the Left-Footers were still the disputed property of McWarwickson Industries. Since Freddy (then known as Pope Perilous the Fourth) had been dethroned by Panix, the company’s stock had fallen in value, but had managed to survive several hostile takeovers. The last attempt had been the Anglicans, but they had recently been consumed by the Americans gluttony for religion.

‘We have people working on it,’ said the General in a low voice.

‘I bet,’ said Rook. ‘These the same people who orchestrated Queensland’s invasion of the Northern Territory?’

‘I might take it personal-like, you makin’ accusations like that..’

‘Take it however you like.’

‘And I’ll remind you, as a courtesy, mind, that if it weren’t for the Great Nation of America,’ he puffed his chest out. ‘Your country would have been overrun by their highly-trained Shock-Jocks. The very same ones who overran Sydney like a swarm of ants.’ He looked skyward as if bathed in holy light from above. ‘It was only the intervention of the U.S. led allies that averted total regional disaster.’

Donnie, somehow, remembered the events differently. However, neither he, nor Rook, were in a position to argue about the Australian Civil War with someone so obviously historically and politically skewed as the General.

‘I’m gonna find out where you stand on all this Penfolde,’ the General said, returning to the here-and-now. ‘I think you might be the man to give me McWarwickson.’

‘McWarwickson,’ asked Donnie, glancing to Rook and back to the ruddy-faced man before him. ‘What do you want him for?’

The penny dropped in the moment before the General spoke again. As ex-CEO of McWarwickson industries, he still held a stake in the company he’d founded.

‘We want him to assist in the purchase of his company.’

‘You want catholism,’ said Donnie.  ‘And what if I say no?’

‘We don’t tolerate people who aren’t prepared to do what we want, Penfolde. We don’t like it one itty bit.’

‘You can’t “own” a belief any more than you can create it. It’s for people to believe things.’

‘We can and will. And you’re gonna help me. Or else you’re leaving.’

‘Fine,’ said Donnie beginning to stand.

‘Feet first,’ said the General and punched Donnie for his trouble, a right-cross which left him in Rook’s lap.

‘Told you,’ said Rook calmly as Donnie gasped, unfortunately dripping blood onto her legs.

‘We’ve already had the pleasure of Miss Rook’s company,’ said the General. ‘She knows the score. You should listen.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Donnie. ‘Like Kara listened.’

The General froze, then a smile crossed his face.

‘Now why would you think we had anything to do with Kara Najinskya?’

‘You can pronounce her name for a start.’ Donnie had taken days to get it right. ‘And the bullets that killed her came from this sector.’

‘Prove it.’

‘Yeah, since you’ve destroyed the evidence it makes it look even more like you.’ Donnie felt a tickle in his throat.

‘Penfolde, you should listen. This ain’t no game.’

‘That’s a double-negative,’ Donnie murmured. He coughed.

‘I want McWarwickson. You give him to me, I let Rook go marginally unharmed.’

Donnie chuckled.

‘You are joking.’

‘Do I look like I’m laughin’ Penfolde?’ The General chuckled. So did Rook.

‘Yeah, you do, actually,’ said Donnie with a guffaw.

They all began laughing uncontrollably at this particular piece of humour, even though their faces were twisted in disbelief…

3. The Snow Leopard and the Songstress

A small cat that looked like a snow leopard walked along the corridor, a tiny gasmask across his face. He was used to it, having been on missions like this many times before.

Right behind him, a woman in military uniform, similarly masked, pushed a two tiered steel trolley while humming a tune she’d written. She turned around when she reached the door marked “General A. Johnson” and reversed in, making verbal “beep-beep-beep” noises as would a truck. It was her sense of humour.

Once inside, she loaded Donnie and Rook onto the trolley, her on top, him on bottom (it would be the way Rook would have preferred it) and retraced her steps. Every so-often she and her cat passed officers still laughing at the joke, and she smiled down at them, nodding in agreement.

Pushing the trolley out the main doors with her stomach, her hands holding Cubist needle guns, she incapacitated the remaining guards and pushed Rook and Penfolde into the back of her car. Her cat at the ready (he had jumped onto her lap when she got behind the wheel), she reversed the car out of the gates, concentrating hard to avoid any loss of life.

Once they were on their way, she removed her mask and that of her cat and they inhaled clean air. The back windows rolled-down to give Donnie and Rook the same privilege.

Soon Donnie and Rook stirred, coughing heartily. They spent the following minutes spewing their breakfasts out of the vehicle, leaving carrot coloured stains down the paintwork.

Their rescuer ignored the smell, it wouldn’t last, and continued driving. She put what looked like a cigar in her mouth and began to chew on the end reflectively.

‘Oh,’ gasped Donnie, clutching his stomach which hurt from all the laughter. ‘Feel like I’ve been beaten-up.’

‘Laughing gas, right?’ asked Rook, blinking madly. She wasn’t used to the drugs.

‘Right,’ said the woman behind the wheel. Her cat purred appreciatively. She rubbed behind his ear.

‘How’d you do it?’ asked Donnie, taking a deep breath. He got a lungfull of spew-odour and pulled a face.

‘Those Americans, they love their Air Conditioning,’ she replied, turning back with a smile.

‘Oh, a ciggie,’ said Donnie with an unexpected craving that he should have worked out by now: whenever he saw someone else smoking he got them. ‘Can I scab one?’

‘It’s not a ciggie.’

‘Cigar then?

‘It’s not that either.’

‘I’ll have one,’ said Miss Rook, leaning forwards. She took a stick of cinnamon from the ornate cigarette holder that was offered and put it into her mouth. ‘It’s cinnamon Donnie. Good for balancing blood-sugar.’

‘And lowering cholesterol,’ said the woman. ‘I had a fried breakky and felt my arteries hardening.’

Right, thought Donnie, leaning back. He had no cholesterol or blood-sugar having evacuated it from his stomach. It seemed, therefore, pointless to try and reduce it. The car was navigated faultlessly around a pristine corner that had a massive poster for K-Sky’s new album “God is Everywhere & So Am I!” and down into an underground garage where it came to a halt.

‘This is where we part company for the moment,’ said the woman.

‘Do this often,’ asked Donnie emerging from the car.

‘Down there is a person-hole to the sewer,’ said the woman, pointing. ‘Take this and you’ll get past the enforcers.’

She held out a business card which Donnie took and inspected:

L & B

Private Investigations

‘What’s the “L” for?’ asked Donnnie.

‘None of your business.’

‘How about the “B”?’ asked Donnie, reaching out to pat the cat.

‘My cat,’ she said, smiling down at the cat in her arms. ‘He’s a miniature Snow Leopard. The only man who’s never let me down.’ She switched to a soppy voice while rubbing the cat’s ears: ‘oo’s a pretty cat then, oo’s pretty and handsome?’

Donnie’s outstretched hand was clawed.

‘Told you: snow leopard,’ she responded with a shrug.

‘Miniature,’ he agreed, smoothing the blood from his hand. ‘Yeah, you said.’

‘Come on Donnie,’ said Rook, grabbing his arm. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

‘I’ll see you soon,’ said L. with a smile. She walked off to the lifts and they opened as Donnie and Miss Rook climbed down the hole into the sewers.

4. Sliding sideways

As they descended, their eyes slowly became accustomed to the light. Below was a glow which could have been flourescent.

Donnie and Rook emerged in a stormwater drain. The walls were painted with graffiti and a chain of flickering lightglobes illuminated the tunnel as far as they could see. Talk about pushing art underground, thought Donnie.

Not far away (they’d picked a direction as they weren’t sure) they came upon a doorway. It was as out of place as the two bouncers that stood either-side.

‘Yes,’ asked one.

‘Do you know the way to the Russian sector?’ asked Donnie.

‘No.’

‘How about the French?’

‘No.’

‘English?’

‘Guess.’

‘Right,’ said Donnie.

‘What did she give you,’ asked Rook.

‘A card. Here,’ Donnie handed it to her and she held it up to see it in the twilight, then passed it to the bouncer. He opened the door.

‘How’d you do that?’ asked Donnie.

‘It’s a pass to see a show,’ Rook replied as they passed the threshold. ‘See?’

She flipped the card and agreed. It said “Admit Two”.

‘Right then,’ said Donnie. ‘I need a whiz.’

He stalked off in search of the toilets, past a sea of small round cafe tables with candles embedded into cheap Chianti bottles. A woman stood in the queue to one side of the stage.

‘Wrong line,’ said the gruff transvestite as Donnie peered past her substantial frame.

‘Fair enough,’ said Donnie and wandered over to the other side where the boys loo’s were located, noticing the bar opposite the stage and behind all the tables. Here there was no line, no hassles, just a pervading smell of urine (which reminded him of Cannes) and pubic hairs on the seats. It was a great way to avoid the queues.

He relieved himself and returned to Miss Rook, via the bar where he ordered a Chocolate Afogato and a cup of tea. They didn’t serve coffee for some odd reason. He settled down with a sigh on the seat next to her and waited for something interesting to happen. It had been a hell of a night and who knew when it would be over so he could get some well-earned kip.

The tea and coffee arrived which was interesting enough to pique his interest momentarily. Then the stage show began which gave him another reason to stay awake.

Dark red lights came up above the stage, illuminating L who was standing behind a couple of turntables wearing a Union Flag teeshirt, a black tricorne with a red and black feather sticking out of the brim, a coat with tails and a short, short skirt. He couldn’t see her legs, but imagined them with CFM boots and ripped fishnets. Music began and there came a movement on-stage which turned out to be “B”, the miniature snow-leopard doing an interpretive dance. Donnie thought he was actually pretty good. L spiked the music here and there with a scream which was part banshee, part laughter. The crowd appreciated the punctuation applause and peels of mirth, throwing unused teabags onto the stage. Through it all, the dance continued, the snow leopard shifting from ballet steps to modern dance right up to acrobatics. He leapt one last time, and the stage was dropped into darkness.

Donnie applauded with the rest of the audience and looked over to Rook who was singularly unimpressed.

‘Don’t like the modern stuff then?’

‘There’s a time and place,’ she replied, crossing her arms then reached out for her afogato and spooned soy ice cream into her mouth.

‘I didn’t know this place was here,’ said Donnie as the next act began, a pair of unicycling jugglers throwing life-size baby dolls to one another, catching them in nappies. All this to a Chekhov recital, one of his more dark plays if Donnie was right.

‘Be glad you didn’t. If it had gotten as far as your ears, then the Americans would know about it. And then it would be gone.’

He took a deep breath, and a glance over his shoulder as the unicyclist act descended into farce.

5. Absent Friends

A man sat down before them both. He was conspicuous only by his height and bald head.

‘Penfolde?’ he asked in a sharp English accent which seemed to plumb subterranean depths.

‘He is,’ said Rook, not allowing Donnie his practiced reply. Donnie and the man shook hands and he introduced himself. She gave him a half nod. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while.’

‘Yeah, been working on a big project,’ replied Barry, shifting his sunglasses from his eyes. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Want a coffee,’ asked Donnie. Barry gave him a disbelieving look and Donnie finally realised. ‘Sorry, force of habit.’ He grimaced. American coffee was nausea-inducing at the best of times and the only thing available without importing from across the fence, which was why the bar didn’t serve it.

‘Heard about Kara,’ said Barry. ‘I’m sorry.’

Rook nodded and Donnie shrank back into the shadows a little, remembering they were here because of her murder. ‘You know what happened then?’ he asked.

‘Caught the info while sampling some American wireless chatter during a recording session,’ said Barry. ‘Got something about an albino and a decoy.’ He glanced up with a frown. ‘Good album name.’

A soulful tune began, dark and melancholy. It began with a moustached piano-accordion player, a pretty gypsy violinist came in next followed by a transvestite on horn (the one Donnie had run into) and finally a slim, blonde dreadlocked dyke plucked the strings of a double-bass. Russian lyrics slipped into the music making the song perhaps the most depressing thing Donnie had heard since the resurrection of Michael Jackson.

‘The Albino would be Madame Pink,’ said Rook, nodding.

‘The decoy?’ asked Barry.

‘Kara?’ asked Donnie.

‘Perhaps.’ Rook leaned forward, her elbow on the table and popping her chin on her hand as she thought about it. ‘Maybe it wasn’t about Pink and Bleu then?’

Donnie wasn’t sure what she meant, then the penny dropped.

‘To keep McWarickson local you mean?’ He shook his head. ‘No…’

‘It makes a warped kind of sense. If Pink and Bleu were captured McWarwickson would have been shipped-out and given his own show, remember?’

Donnie’s shoulders dropped, appalled and his eyes focussed on a particuarly large red stain on the tablecloth; it reminded him of the blood he’d seen. ‘All that just for McWarwickson? Just so he could be used as leverage so they can complete their collection?’

‘Christianity?’ asked Barry.

Rook nodded, revolted at the very idea. ‘Kara was traded for a chance to get McWarwickson.’

Donnie glanced up, eyes full of fury and saw his feeling reflected in Rook’s expression. They broke the gaze after a moment, perhaps understanding one-another for the first time.

‘Rose for the ladies,’ asked an old lady with a shawl over her head and a basket full of flowers. ‘Or the boys for that matter. I’m an equal-opportunity salesperson. Oh do buy a flower.’

Barry bought two Roses and dropped them onto the table for whomever wanted them as the lady sat down a little too close to Rook. Rook restored her personal space bumping the table and relinquishing the warm spot on the bench which was the old lady’s intention. The candles spluttered and wax pooled beneath them.

The snow-leopard jumped onto Donnie’s lap and began to claw his legs like a kitten wanting a feed. It settled down after a moment, curling up and closing its eyes.

‘Cheeky sod,’ said the old lady with L’s voice. She retrieved a stick of cinnamon from her cigarette holder, offering them to the others and replaced it in her bag, stuffing it in amongst the plethora of teabags she’d collected from the stage at the conclusion of her act.

‘McWarwickson is the key,’ said Rook, as L got comfortable. ‘As disgusting as that thought is.’

Barry turned around and ordered a pot of black tea for them all, with a plate of biscuits, wafers for preference.

‘Who hired you?’ asked Donnie. ‘To get us out? And how did you know?’

‘I knew you’d been captured because I was watching.’

‘You were the courier,’ said Rook, finally realising. ‘She was supposed to give Kara the message from the Russian sector.’ she turned to L and asked pointedly: ‘What happened? Because Kara didn’t check-in and neither did you.’

‘Hang on,’ said Donnie. ‘If she’s working for you–’

‘Need to know,’ Rook snapped. ‘If one is captured and interrogated, they can’t know the identities of other people otherwise we’d have everything we worked for dismantled.’

‘Oh,’ said Donnie, crestfallen. ‘Espionage. Brilliant.’

‘I delivered the message as I was supposed to.’

‘So why didn’t you check-in?’

L placed a red disc onto the table. Donnie picked it up.

‘What’s this?’

‘A red coin Donnie,’ said Rook, explaining the obvious, then explained: ‘It’s a countermand.’

Rook took the coin from him and held before her face between thumb and forefinger. ‘The fact Kara had this meant she was expecting something. Did she seem tense when you met her?’

Donnie cast his mind back, remembered the injuries to his nethers, and nodded just as the pot arrived with four glasses and a strainer.

‘She knew I’d met with Madame Pink…’ another memory rose up. ‘And so did Prime and Marcus.’

‘Elvis escaped in all the confusion,’ said Barry, spinning the pot and pouring the tea. ‘Could they have set this in motion?’

Donnie met his eyes, wondering exactly the same question. He pulled his glass up but before he could sip, Rook spoke.

‘Absent friends,’ she said and they toasted Kara’s memory…

…as the door was kicked open and a dozen soldiers rushed in.

Fitzroy North

November 2009

‘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

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