The Courier's New Bicycle (7 page)

‘She'll drop when we release her,' Max murmurs.

The others are finished in the inspection yard, and join us in the stable area. The sight of the Appaloosa elicits gasps. Whatever we've seen on previous raids, it doesn't inure us to the next cruelty.

No animal should suffer the last moments of its life tethered and alone. They busy themselves pulling hay from the feed bins to make a soft bed around her as Max prepares the hypodermic and gives it to Cicada. Then we ready ourselves on the harness straps.

Cicada gently rubs along one bony cheek to lay a hand on her withers. I catch a glimpse of something beyond his perpetually shuttered expression, and for a fleeting moment have a window through to his own injured soul. It's too raw and intimate and I have to look away.

He slides the needle in and the mare's legs buckle, her weight bearing down on the straps. We slip then release our hold and she drops where she is, barely more than skin and bones. There will be no proper burial for her; only an end, finally, to her suffering.

There's one thing left to do.

Cicada stays with the downed mare while the rest of us yank the plastic lines off the urine containers and carry them back to the inspection yard for emptying.

At the end of the third row, past the Appaloosa's stall, is an unmarked door that we've studiously avoided until now. We know from Lars that this is the laboratory where the mares' urine is concentrated into its end products, ready for transport. Those evil bastards would have walked
through the horse yards and past the Appaloosa every day to get to their place of work. Lydia lingers at the door. I know that look. I draw her away before she goes for the crowbar.
No
, I gesture firmly, and she doesn't try to counter me.

I return to the Appaloosa mare, Cicada still crouched there cradling her head. Reaching through the stall bars, I stroke her coarse mane and say my goodbyes.

Outside, the trucks are loaded and waiting, their huge shapes delineated by the glow of their parking lights. Each has been refitted to take seven horses. We planned on twenty-one in all, but now there will be only twenty.

When the double doors have been swung closed, Inez sends the signal to Lars. Cicada, with a brief nod to us, jumps in the cab of the lead transport, and we watch as they roll forward onto the track and begin the slow climb out of the valley.

When their tail-lights have disappeared over the rise, we pile into the van and follow. No one speaks. Inez, beside me, reaches for my hand. Opposite us, Brigid leans on Max's shoulder, her eyes closed, while Lydia, in the front seat beside Nagid, stares fixedly out the window. We pass the cottage, its metal roof sheening the light of the moon. The dogs yip half-heartedly. They would have smelt the horses as they went by in the trucks — and perhaps they sense something extraordinary is going on. No freedom in it for them, they fall silent at the ends of their chains.

My place with Inez, under the doona. I move aside the floppy purple plush that's Nitro nestled on my pillow to go make coffee and toast for my girl, a déshabillé vision of loveliness in my bed.

Dawn, we'd cuddled each other to sleep, cocooned in the knowledge that Greengate Farm would be waking to find Lars and the horses gone, the warning beep of its security system bringing up the APV message on all the monitors. Now we devour brunch, then shower, comparing bruises from the raid, before deciding on a stroll to the Good Bean — my Saturday tradition.

We lounge in the sun at one of Frank's tiny outside tables, sipping more coffee as we envisage our rescuees delivered into the care of the sanctuary workers, their illnesses and injuries being tended to at last by experts. The deeper stuff — the effects of so much suffering — will take a lot longer to heal, but right now I feel like a kid with
presents: another successful raid
and
basking in the miracle that is Inez.

An easy sensuality flows between us, hand casually brushing hand, foot resting on foot beneath the café table. Attraction vaulting over caution, there may as well be a neon light above us flashing,
Transgressors HERE!!!

The talk drifts gradually into more serious territory, Inez hunching her singleted shoulders over a newspaper. The frown lines between her brows deepen. She jabs a finger at a headline. ‘The government says they're winning the war on infertility and the fight against perverts.' She makes a face. ‘They're using the endocrine disruptor stuff against us again. Another NF-owned scientist is saying she's proved a link between exposure to pesticides and sexual deviance.'

The argument against transgressives is replayed across a dozen different scenarios, all with one aim: to prove that we, in our many variations, have been put together wrong.

The latest round began with whelks on boats. Shortly before the H5N1 virus mutated to transmit efficiently human to human, and its catastrophic antigen slashed the birth rate, a colony of female whelks was discovered to have penises. Scientists concluded the anomaly was caused by environmental contaminants — in this case, a component in the anti-corrosion paint used by the boat owners. They called the endocrine-disrupted creatures an ‘imposex', and cited similar examples in the world's polluted water and landways: male alligators exposed to pesticide spills in the Florida lakes born with half-size sex organs; rodents in
the grasslands downwind of heavy industry developing mutations in their DNA and passing them on to their young; frogs turning hermaphroditic in a logged and farmed Amazon … It hadn't taken long for the wowsers to pick up on the notion of imposexes multiplying everywhere in the ecosystem and apply it to the human community. By their reductionist logic, anyone who deviated from the ‘standard' physiology or accepted behaviour for their gender was likely heading the same direction as the whelks. But it was the Nation Firsts who took this one crucial step further by connecting the phenomenon of endocrine disruption and adjuvant-induced infertility to the erosion of God's Law, blaming society's wanton and libertine ways for finally bringing Divine punishment down upon itself.

‘Listen to this.' Now Inez is angry. ‘Neighbourly Watch is advising prayer groups to “
seek out transgressors and lay on hands if necessary to help them cough up their demons
”.' She tosses the paper onto the unoccupied table beside us. ‘That's blatant permission for harassment and physical attack.'

I stroke the fine hairs on her forearm, not knowing what to say.

There's so much hypocrisy in the current fertility predicament. The preoccupation with appearance — plump and curvaceous for the women, muscular and ‘well-hung' for the men — means the skills of the deregistered hormone doctors and cosmetic surgeons in the Red Quarter are increasingly being called on to help. How ironic that Inez, who's never had a day, pre-or post-pandemic, of being
called — not even whispered to — by her ovaries, just happens to embody the current female ideal; meanwhile, I know only too well how I don't fit either category. Unsurprisingly, the androgynous look is out —
verboten
— helped by Nation First's decree that any deviation from the ‘standard norm' is the work of the Devil, even though the ‘norm' itself is no more than a construction.

Inez stiffens suddenly. I remove my hand from her arm and turn to where she's looking. Coming up our side of the street are five people in hessian shawls, chanting penitence. They monopolise the pavement, others detouring around them. The prayer groups have no manners now they think they're God's police.

My hand goes below the table onto Inez's thigh. I feel it tense as if she's about to spring up. ‘Don't,' I murmur, squeezing gently.

Her anger radiates out as the prayer group arrives beside us. Silent now, they mark our presence. I concentrate on my cup as they stare down. I wonder if they're going to help us cough up our demons like in the newspaper report.

Before they get the chance, the Good Bean's glass door opens and Frank appears, solid and undeniable, hands on ample hips. He bustles over, placing his considerable bulk between them and us.

‘Shoo,' he says loudly.

Put off, they move away. Out of Frank's territory their chant starts up again.

Inez's thigh muscle relaxes.

Frank gathers up our empty cups. ‘Same again?' he asks.

We nod, and the Good Bean's door bangs behind him, rattling the glass.

I feel the passing of the rock meant for Frank's window. It's a woeful shot, and rolls beneath the adjacent table. I lean down to pick it up. A piece of paper is attached to it. I snap off the rubber band and read:
LEAVE THE DEVIL'S EMPLOY. SAVE YOURSELF WHILE YOU CAN.

Not meant for Frank's window, after all.

‘Bastards,' says Inez.

Crumpling the message, I put it in the empty ashtray. Now I'm angry. Lobbing rocks with warnings at transgressives is evangelism gone feral.

My girlfriend leans her forehead against mine, her breath damping my cheek. ‘Don't let them spook you,' she murmurs. ‘They write that to all God's good-looking queers.'

I slip my hand gratefully into hers, and slowly the sun reheats our day.

She tantalises me with coffee-flavoured lips. ‘Wanna get a bunch of sci-fi movies and be couch potatoes this evening?'

‘Can't,' I say soberly. ‘I'm working all night.'

‘I'll save you some chocolate then.'

Inez never prods for details, accepting that she remains in the dark when it comes to my work activities for Gail, just as Gail never asks about the APV, even though she bankrolls its activities via a monthly stipend from her company profits. Today, however, Inez has some information
I
want, being one very sought-after expert in the Red Quarter, the
reward for having built the security systems for many of the businesses on Madams Row.

I nuzzle into her shoulder. ‘Can you give me your impressions of Savannah Rose at the Shangri-La?'

She considers. ‘Smart. Charming. No-nonsense.'

I notice she's used none of the adjectives that came to mind on my visit. ‘What about attractive?'

‘I suppose. She's not really my type.'

‘Anything else it would be good to know?'

Inez considers some more. ‘Never take her up on the offer of a game of chess. She's three times national champion.'

After uneventful snoop duty at Fishermans Bend, I sleep all Sunday and am back with Inez early evening, meeting Albee at the Glory Hole before the next overnighter with Anwar.

In her cloakroom nook, Marlene takes Inez's coat with gracious aplomb, and spends a little time flirting with Albee. Me, she just glowers at.

The three of us stand above the bar area, scanning for a free space. The speakeasy is always crowded on a Blue Laws day. I look sideways at my bicycle-fixing friend.

‘You enjoyed that, didn't you.'

Inez grins on Albee's other side, and he looks sheepish. ‘She has a certain something …'

‘I'd agree with that,' I say. I don't divulge what something springs to mind, because it isn't nice.

We're lucky enough to secure an alcove, and Inez goes to get our drinks. Albee says, ‘Back in a mo,' and wanders
over Marlene's way to flirt some more. I make myself comfortable among the cushions on the padded bench seat, easing into the atmosphere of the place. I have to admit, while Anwar is everything I could wish for in a co-worker out on unpredictable ground, it's nice to be back on home turf in more talkative company.

I'm suddenly aware that I'm no longer alone in my alcove. Mojo Meg has slipped past the half-open curtain, and her two pit-bulls are blocking my view out.

‘May I?' She motions to the seat beside me.

I nod, caught off-guard.

‘Been watching you,' she begins, and already I'm unhappy with where this is going. Meg has a reputation for putting the hard word on the young folk. ‘You're a good worker.'

I do a fast one-eighty in my head. Not about sex then …

‘Your boss is likely going under with these latest troubles,' she says, cutting to the chase. ‘It's almost impossible to drag back a customer's goodwill once it's lost, especially when there are others around to offer
guaranteed
product.'

I'm incensed on Gail's behalf, but say nothing, corralled as I am three against one. I wonder how much longer Inez will be, and wish I could telepath Albee to shift his rapt attention from Marlene's many attributes for just a moment to look my way.

Meg fixes on me, her eyes hard as buttons. ‘Question is, do you want to go under with her?'

‘You seem to know a lot about it,' I counter, and she smiles. The shape is not entirely successful. Must be an unpractised position for her mouth.

‘It's my business to know,' she says. ‘It's
all
our businesses to know. Gail's got herself an enemy, maybe a worm in the apple. If you jump ship now, you can save yourself. I can offer you good employ: bonuses, certain opportunities …'

Blimey
. Can't wait to hear.

Despite Meg's affiliation with BioPharm Industries netting her a large part of the distribution pie, I already know whose products out of BioPharm's and Ethical Hormones' I'd rather be delivering to the masses, the former rumoured to have rather less commitment to an entirely cruelty-free process.

She pats the cushion between us. ‘Want you to know I sympathise with your situation,' her voice has gone all syrupy and persuasive, ‘but loyalty shouldn't lead to a needless drowning.'

I glance up at her pit-bulls, playing with names. The speakeasy clientele — transgressives of all persuasions — give these two bully boys the cold shoulder. I decide on ‘Crusher' for the short one, and ‘Snarl' for the tall.

My self-invited visitor leans disconcertingly close. ‘Speaking frankly, girl to girl, you're too valuable to be sacrificed, and this is the best offer you'll get.'

Now that just tears my heart out, Meg popping me in the category of ‘girl' without so much as a by-your-leave. The gender slap vibrates in my bones. I bite back a fast
retort, brought to tact by the presence of Crusher and Snarl and the thought of them hurting me in their big hands.

What she's said about Gail having an enemy so close really bothers me. She knows more than she's telling, while I've learnt nothing from my nights of surveillance at Fishermans Bend or my daytime enquiries. Somehow I've made it into Meg's good books. What if I can use it as leverage?

‘I need some time to think about it,' I say, surprising myself.

‘Offer closes soon,' she says crisply. ‘Don't think so hard you break a blood vessel.'

Then she's gone and Inez is walking towards the booth, a quizzical look on her face.

I feel a bit ill, not sure whether I've just made a smart move or let Meg and her minders intimidate me. Too late, I wish I'd given a flat refusal, because even with no intention of taking up the offer, I'm tainted now by the expectation I can be bought.

I chuck the cushion Meg patted into the far corner of the alcove and shift along the bench seat to make room for Inez, then Albee returning from his tête-à-tête. Did I catch a tone of blame in Meg's voice? Surely she doesn't think EHg's troubles are the result of something Gail's done? I have to find out who's doing this to my boss, my
friend
, and stop it sliding her to destruction.

Inez waits for my explanation, Albee beside her sipping his drink.

‘A business visit,' I say wryly.

‘Anything you can talk about?' Albee asks.

I shake my head, and Inez, bless her, wraps her lovely arms around me in a hug.

 

Anwar and I have arranged to meet at the bottom of Benedict Street again — about fifteen minutes' walk from the Glory Hole. I check my watch when I get outside. Still three-quarters of an hour before he swings by. Mojo Meg's visit put such a dampener on my mood that I couldn't enjoy my remaining time with Inez and Albee.

Duffle coat firmly buttoned, I walk up Daisy Lane and turn left. The wind bites once I'm out of the protective dip of the alleyway, and I look up at clear sky. Another relentlessly dry summer has slowly given way to gentler days, but at night it feels like winter. I'm sure Melbourne evenings never used to get this cold this early. With each new season the temperature fluctuations have become harder to predict and more extreme.

The avenues that grid the city are wide and impersonal and feel unshielded in comparison to the smaller streets between. I stick west on Pilgrim Lane, which leads me directly to the financial sector … such as it is. Half the buildings are empty, many businesses closed, while those remaining operate on a knife-edge between profit and insolvency. Of course, no matter how bad it gets, some professions will always be in demand. Plumbers and electricians, for instance.

The prayer meeting two lampposts ahead of me is out
rather late and huddled oddly, their heads bent over something on the ground. I hurry along the pavement towards them, my brain not yet able to interpret what it is.

The something moves, becomes a prostrate figure. Closer, it makes strange mewling noises. A trousered leg draws back and finds its mark. There's a muffled scream. ‘Dirty little surry,' hisses one of the four silhouetted above, and instantly my brain decodes the image. The woman is curled on her side with the dark soles of her shoes towards me, and the group is kicking at her stomach … her
pregnant
stomach; kicking the blasphemy out of her.

The realisation jolts an arc of current at my core. Adrenaline surges to my extremities and I start to run, then I'm barrelling my body's full force into them. Those half-turned are knocked aside like skittles. Faces register their surprise, legs still in the act of kicking.

I reach down to the woman and try to lift her, willing her to stand, but she flops back away from me like a rag doll. As I re-grip, hands grapple me, their efforts hampered by the prayer shawls. Arms rain ineffectual blows; I feel nothing except the sack weight of the woman, her ribs and breasts in my desperate clinch, her face a grimace, cheeks grubby with dirt and tears.

I reel up, snarling, and the group backs off, this uncoiled rage not what they'd bargained for.

‘Get away from her, you monsters!' I roar as they bring their prayer shawls up over their heads to shadow their features.

The woman is still on the ground, bent double to protect her belly. I try to move her again, but she won't budge. I'm afraid the group is regathering to attack again, but when I look up, they're dispersing rapidly along the street, disowning their public thuggery.

The woman lets out a guttural groan. I press for Inez on my mobile and pray she'll answer.

She's still at the speakeasy. ‘Five minutes,' she promises.

There's a metal bench under a shelter about fifty metres up the street. I speak slowly to the woman, telling her how it's just a little way, a few short steps. Her eyes are closed, her lips white. I'm afraid she's passed out, or worse.

A motorised scooter zips by on the other side of Pilgrim Lane and I wave frantically. Just when I think it's not going to stop, the rider performs a wide, fast wheelie, daring the ire of oncoming traffic. But there are no other vehicles, and no pedestrians; no witnesses but me to cruelty.

The rider slews to a halt beside us. He's painfully young. He looks at me, then the woman. His forehead crinkles in confusion below his black beanie.

‘She's hurt,' I say carefully, so as not to spook him. ‘It's very important to get her to that bench. Can you help me?'

I can see in his eyes that he's afraid to let go of his scooter in case it's some trick to filch his expensive ride.

‘Look,' I say. ‘She's hurt very badly. She needs us to do this for her. Someone will be coming very soon to collect her.'

Reluctantly he leans his scooter against the kerb and takes one side of the woman, and between us we get her the
fifty metres to the shelter. When we have her slumped on the metal slats of the bench, I start to say thanks, but already he's running back and flipping the scooter upright with an expert foot. Then one leg is on the kickboard and the other pushing off as the little motor buzzes up the dark street, its rear light receding like an insect's warning eye.

I ring Anwar.

‘I'll be by in the van,' he says.

‘No, it's okay,' I reply. ‘Inez'll be here any minute.'

He assures me he can do tonight's shift without me, and that he'll let Gail know what's happened.

As I ring off, Inez pulls up. She's out of her ute in a heartbeat, blanket in one hand. We drape it about the woman then shuffle her to the passenger door, manoeuvring her onto the bench seat between us.

We make the drive north up Temperance Street to the Women's Hospital in silence. Our passenger has stopped groaning and is eyes closed, probably gone into shock. She leans heavily against me. I look anxiously at her face. Mid-twenties, maybe, with dark skin and the tiny pockmarks of a hormonal adolescence on both cheeks. Her long black hair has been pulled out of its ponytail, the elastic still clinging to a lock. I detach it gently and place it over a knob on the dash.

I glance at Inez concentrating on the road, the question flapping like a loose sail in my mind. How had this woman's attackers known she was a working surrogate and not a ‘happy families' fertile, or even an infertile who'd successfully turned to the Red Quarter clinics for help?

There are two people and a trolley waiting at Emergency when we pull up. In my call ahead, I'd said nothing of the circumstances, only that the victim of the attack was pregnant. Babies being at a premium these days, they pull out all stops to save them.

An orderly in blue helps us ease the woman from the ute. Laid on the trolley, she's tucked in then wheeled speedily through the automatic doors, and we're directed to the information desk to give our details.

We return to the ute. We couldn't even tell them the woman's name. I bundle up the blanket. There's blood on it, and on the car seat.