33

I CROSSED the road and walked, acting nonchalant. Cars lined the street: Falcon, Commodore, Commodore, Falcon, beaten-up Hyundai, Falcon. No one was in them that I could see. The place had a dead feel, not a ghost town exactly, because there were people about. On a porch, an old guy with one leg was smoking and listening to the races. A kid on a bike wobbled by. A lady held a hose on a rose bush. The afternoon had a dry, lazy heat. I passed Isaac Mortimer’s house, no visible signs of people, neither cop nor crim. It was neat, the lawn cut. A carpet of dead flowers beneath an old camellia. Empty letter box.

I crossed again and walked back.

I went up the driveway. A high fence from the back of the house to the garage blocked access to the backyard. Between the garage and the house next door was a narrow gap. I squeezed through. Just. The back was sparse but well maintained, the Hills hoist had a token towel. The bungalow was a sad fibro box with louvre windows. One set of louvres was ajar. I stood on tiptoes and peered in. It was dim, but I could see the double bed with a candlewick bedspread, and a vinyl armchair. On the coffee table, piles of motorcycle magazines and a full ashtray. Smoke rose from one of the cigarettes. I swore, and a gut feeling hit me with a flood of cold adrenalin. Go, now, time to leave. I spun in a panic, and smacked into a brick wall that wasn’t there before. I stepped back. He was in leathers, head freshly shaved and shining, the cheerful tangerine tuft atop. Mr Bust Face.

The fist blocked out the sun, force of a machine, smacked into cheek, jaw, eye. Head snapped back, and staggering, falling, and bright light, lights out.