I cruised the streets offering further photo opportunities for a couple of hours, with occasional pit stops to rehydrate: beer in pint-glasses for me, water in a bowl for my furry sidekick. I was pushing her too hard, but didn’t realise it till she started her stubborn mule act again.
‘Plum tuckered out, Dog Wonder? Bark fucking once for yes.’
‘Yes!’
I nursed her home with a judicious offering of pocket treats. After grabbing a cap from the hallstand – the late afternoon sun was still fierce – I headed back out alone. My look-at-me Undercover Cop T-shirt was sweat-soaked but I wasn’t about to change it, especially with a standard-issue blue (I think) police cap to set it off. After another pit stop for higher octane fuel – two double-sugar double espressos – I marched on into the balmy evening.
‘West Terrace,’ Siri whispered. ‘Twenty paces. Power Low. Charge Battery please.’
She’d run out of juice before, but always with the dog as back-up. Today I’d run them both flat.
‘Pulteney Street,’ she croaked, ‘Twenty …’ then lost her voice completely.
No dog and no date? No problem; I tapped stubbornly on. The east–west word-map we bush recruits were taught when we first hit the city beat came to mind. We Must Keep People From Hurting Each Other. West Terrace, Morphett Street, King William, Pulteney, Frome, Hutt, East Terrace. I chanted the words to myself as I zigzagged eastwards, although less for navigation purposes – I knew the street-names well enough – than for the added look-at-me benefit: the funny blind man in the funny T-shirt chanting funny words to himself.
The odds against success only made me more determined. If my hare-brained scheme was ever going to work, it would be now: the car-clogged rush-hour streets, the nose-to-arse buses sniffing each other’s diesel farts like dogs, the long queues of homeward-bound commuters, the city that had a million eyes at its most alert.
Like a fish that must keep moving or drown, I swam on against the stream of pedestrians, tapping as many passing ankles as I could for added self-advertisement.
One thing about being blind: people always blame themselves. Unless their name is Willow.
‘Sir! Sir!’
Focused on my task I failed to hear the cab pull in beside the kerb.
‘Sir! Sir! I have been watching out for you for days.’
I stopped in my tracks. ‘Saeed?’
‘I have your change, Sir.’
‘I told you to keep the change.’
‘Then permit me to earn it back, Sir. Actually, it is no trouble to drive you home. I am on my way to the mosque.’
Any point in arguing? He was already out of the car with the door open. And having finally stopped walking, I might have trouble starting again.
‘I have glimpsed you already today, Sir. Twice,’ he said, as I climbed in. ‘Walking, always walking. Busy, busy. Firstly I was late for afternoon prayer and could not stop. Secondly I have a passenger already.’
Music to my ears. If a lone cabbie spotted me thrice in a single afternoon, the odds of a passing crim doing likewise had narrowed. I leant back on the passenger headrest, feeling pleasantly exhausted. The cricket on the radio helped, especially if I listened in an abstract, background-music sort of way, paying no attention to scores or player names.
Saeed’s patter was less easy to vague out, but seemed to require no answers. ‘Have you considered playing blind cricket, Sir? Actually, in my birth country many little ones have the cataracts. My nephew Imran in Dhaka is one such. A little bell is placed inside the ball which is bowled underarm. The batter can hear it approach.’
A prickle of goosebumps on the back of my neck roused me from my calm. ‘Is anyone following us, Saeed?’
‘Excuse me, Sir?’
‘Is there another cab following us?’
A pause before he answered. ‘I cannot detect it, Sir. Shall I slow down so it can catch up?’
Perhaps it was the cold air-conditioning on my sweaty skin. ‘Drop me at the mosque if you like, Saeed. I’ll walk home from there.’
‘Certainly. And I would like to offer you my card. If you are ever lost.’
‘Is it in braille?’
‘Beg pardon, Sir. How foolish of me. But perhaps you could show it to someone else. If in need.’
The car stopped; the engine was turned off; the cricket-muzak with it. The windows were open: the sound of the muezzin carried to me instead, but so softly it was barely audible. Perhaps it was just an app on Saeed’s phone.
‘May I invite you to join me for maghrib?’ Saeed said. ‘You would be most welcome.’
‘I have to get home and feed an unclean animal,’ I said.
He chuckled, at last. ‘I remember from our last journey that you are acquainted with the teachings of the Prophet, a little.’
‘I have a prayer mat waiting for me at home,’ I said. ‘But could you do me a favour, Saeed?’
‘Anything, Sir.’
‘Is it dark yet?’
‘It is still the gloaming, Sir.’
‘The what?’
‘The gloaming. The last light. It is an English word, you must know it.’
‘I do now. I like it. A beautiful word.’
‘It is a beautiful sight, Sir. The whole world pink and gold.’
‘Can you see to the end of the street?’
‘Perfectly well, Sir.’
‘Sit in the car for a few minutes after I get out. Keep your eyes peeled. If you see anyone following me, toot your horn. Twice.’
‘Of course, Sir. But your request concerns me. Is there jeopardy?’
‘Not at all. I’m expecting an old friend. He likes to surprise me. Practical joker type.’
‘I am all eyes, Sir. And I will have a card embossed in braille. For next time.’
No warning toot chased me up Little Gilbert Street, and no more goosebumps prickled the back of my neck. Perhaps the call to prayer had spooked me; I’ve always liked its shivery, melancholy music.
My legs had stiffened up in the cab; the homeward stretch was an effort. I kicked off my boots inside the door, wanting nothing more than to put my feet up, but proper risk management still had to be prosecuted. A cold beer refuelled me, then with a second one in hand I reset the trap: raising the shutter, turning up the intercom, checking the door-lock, locating and holstering the Glock.
Still no sign of the parts I’d ordered, but I was too spent to care. And too exhausted for my usual work-out, let alone evening prayers on the gym-mat. I fed both girlfriends, fed myself, set the coffee pot and the shutter remote on the table near at hand, and fell into my armchair – but less ready for action than ready for sleep. Caffeine fix notwithstanding, from the moment my head hit the upholstery an all-night vigil was a lost cause.
My last foggy thought: if I slept through and woke disappointed – the trap still unsprung – at least I would have been spared another long night of brooding.