Roll With It (7 page)

‘Your bike has a siren?’

‘Don’t touch it while I’m inside or I’ll have to arrest you.’

The kid’s eyes went wide like saucers.

The interior of the house had clearly gone unchanged for fifty years.

‘God, the smell,’ said Ollerton, gagging.

Laver sniffed, unconcerned. ‘You ever been in a house with a decom?’

‘A what?’

‘A dead body, decomposing. Usually they’re an oldie who’s keeled over and nobody has noticed for days or weeks. Or a lonely suicide. During the height of summer is the worst. Trust me, you smell that and this is like perfume.’

‘Jesus.’

They walked down a dark, badly wallpapered corridor, past a couple of bedrooms, into the main lounge room. There was another door on the opposite side of the room, promising access to the back of the house where Laver could bet there was a basic bathroom, a kitchen with a dangerously old gas burner and a back door leading to the outhouse.

The lounge room was crowded. Two ambulance officers stood near the door, hands behind their backs so there could be no chance of an accidental blow, while one of the other bike cops, McGregor, watched on.

‘We were only a block away,’ he explained, eyes on Laver. ‘We heard your call but didn’t have anything on and we were closer.’

Laver shrugged. ‘Mate, is this a turf war? Relax.’

McGregor’s partner, Constable Aimee Ratten, a cute twentysomething Laver had only met briefly on his first day, was crouching beside the old lady who was on the floor, her back supported by the timber legs of a lounge chair. The old lady was holding her arm and rocking slightly, her eyes flying wildly around the room, looking up at all the uniformed youths.

‘There are two sides to every story,’ the old lady was yelling. ‘Come in, all of you outside. Come in and see what they’re doing to me. It’s assault. Police!’

‘We are the police, Mary,’ Ratten said. ‘We’re trying to help you. Calm down and let us get you to the ambulance.’

‘Don’t you touch me, you little bitch,’ Mary hissed, waving her good arm at Ratten. ‘I know what you’re planning, and you won’t get me that easy. I won’t stand for it, you hear!’ Her voice suddenly escalated. ‘Don’t touch me!’

Ratten stood and saw Laver and Ollerton. She rolled her eyes and came over.

‘What’s the situation, Constable?’ Ollerton asked.

‘Apparently she’s been like this for almost an hour,’ Ratten said quietly. ‘A neighbour found her on the floor about 3 pm and called an ambulance. They tried to move her for about half an hour before they called us. She hasn’t shut up ever since, screaming assault and that she wants police protection the whole time.’

One of the ambulance officers bent down, getting on the old woman’s level but keeping his distance. He smiled and she recoiled. ‘Demon! You stay away! Don’t you touch me!’

Ollerton shook his head with contempt. ‘She should be in a bloody home.’

‘She is, mate. Hers,’ said Laver.

Ollerton barely even glanced at him. ‘This is hardly the time to get fucking soppy. McGregor, you get ready to grab her good arm and I’ll try to get her around the waist on the side with the broken arm.’

Ratten said, ‘You can’t—’

‘Well, how else are we going to move her?’ Ollerton cut her off. ‘It’s for her own good. She’ll be doped up, in hospital, at the taxpayer’s expense, before she knows it.’

Laver, reassessing the ‘Lite’ part of ‘Standish Lite’, took one short step forward to stand directly in front of Ollerton and leaned in close.

‘Listen carefully, Moose. I want you to understand the situation exactly. If you lay one finger on her, she’s going to scream assault and I’m going to ride straight back to Slattery and tell him that her charge is justified. You go near her broken arm and I’ll ride my fucking bike to Darwin and back if necessary to appear as a witness for the prosecution. You’ll be a car-parking attendant before the year is out. What do you think, Constable Ratten?’

She took a moment to look at Ollerton and Laver, toe to toe even though Ollerton was half a head taller than the older man and about twice as broad, all muscle.

She made a choice. ‘Yeah, I reckon you’ve got no right to go near her if she doesn’t want you to, Wayne.’

Ollerton gave Laver a long look. Laver stared straight back, his eyes dull. The two ambulance men stood and stared. Even old Mary seemed to have gone quiet.

Finally, Ollerton turned his head and bumped Laver hard with his shoulder as he headed for the door. ‘Fine. You deal with it, smartarse. You’re probably fucking the old bitch on the side.’

Laver watched him go, then shot a grin at Ratten. ‘He’s a keeper! I don’t know how Slattery finds them.’

He brushed past the ambulance duo to the opposite side of the room to Mary and sat down, cross-legged, facing the old woman. They gazed at one another over the stained floral rug and he gave her his most disarming smile.

‘G’day, Mary. You having a bad day, love?’

She eyed him warily. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a police officer. My name’s Tony Laver.’

She eyed his shorts. ‘You’re not dressed like a police officer.’

‘No, that’s true. They make us dress like this so we look as stupid as possible in other people’s lounge rooms.’

Ratten giggled. Mary shot her a glance.

‘Are you with that young hussy?’

‘Yeah, I’m afraid so, but don’t you worry. I’ll make sure the Chief Inspector knows exactly what she’s been putting you through. She won’t know what’s hit her.’

‘Good. Finally, somebody who sees my side of it.’ She nodded at the ambulance officers. ‘Don’t forget to mention those two, either.’

‘Ah, they’re okay. They were just following orders, Mary. It’s all her fault.’ He jerked his head backwards towards Ratten, who stared open-mouthed. ‘So what’s going on with you, Mary? What are you doing on the floor?’

‘I’ve been here since seven o’clock this morning,’ the old woman confided.

‘Since seven! That’s terrible.’

‘Oh, I know,’ she agreed. ‘It’s been a terrible day.’

‘You look like you could do with a cuppa. I know I could. You going to offer me one?’

She looked down at her arm, which she was still holding tight with her good hand. ‘I can’t offer you anything, love. I’m afraid I’ve done something to my arm.’

Laver appeared to notice her arm for the first time. ‘Yeah? What do you reckon’s wrong?’

‘I’m not sure. It’s gone kind of numb, around the elbow.’

‘Oh dear. Anywhere else hurting? How’s your hip?’

‘That’s sore as buggery too, love. That’s why I haven’t been able to get up.’

Laver crossed his arms and rocked slightly. ‘You poor thing. What do you reckon we should do?’

‘I—I’m not sure.’

‘Well, I think you should probably see a doctor, Mary. That arm could be nasty.’

She looked down at it, looking tired and old, all her fight gone. ‘I don’t want to leave my house. They’ll put me in one of them homes where I’ll be stuck in a bed. That’ll be the end of me.’

‘Mary, look at me.’

She lifted her head to meet Laver’s eyes.

‘Mary, I guarantee that unless there’s something really wrong with you, you’ll be home within a couple of days. The doctors’ll want you to remain independent. They’ll fix you up and maybe keep you in hospital for a night or so to make sure you’re okay. That’s it.’ He noticed Mary was sweating. ‘Are you in pain, love?’

She nodded, starting to cry. ‘My arm’s not so numb anymore. It’s killing me.’

Laver unfolded his legs, crawled over to her and put his arm carefully around her shoulders. ‘C’mon, Mary, let’s get you into the ambulance and on your way.’

‘I can’t get up.’

Laver jerked his head at the ambulance pair. ‘I’ll help you. So will these two. They’re going to be nice to you from now on. Look how handsome they are, Mary. All these young men sweeping you to your feet. You got any children, Mary?’

‘I’ve got a daughter. She’s married. She lives in Geelong.’

‘Where’s her number, Mary? We’ll give her a call so she can meet you at the hospital.’

‘On the wall by the fridge. Thank you.’ The ambos helped Mary lie down and started moving a stretcher into place. Laver stood back to give them some room but stayed within her sight.

‘So I’m the bad guy, huh?’ muttered Ratten quietly from alongside.

‘It’s okay,’ Laver said under his breath, ‘I won’t really tell Slatts you were trying to beat Mary up.’

She gave him a look and decided he was joking.

When they got outside, Ollerton and his bike were gone.

‘You sure know how to make friends in the squad, Tony,’ McGregor said.

‘At least you’re still talking to me. What is it with Ollerton? And Standish? It’s like the Hitler Youth reborn.’

McGregor smiled. ‘You know what they say about drugs in the Tour de France. Standish and Ollerton act like they’ve got roid rage. They ride Beach Road with the Hell Riders every weekend and pump iron like you can’t believe.’

‘And I got them both on my first day in the saddle. So much for Slatts giving me an easy ride.’

Ratten gave him a look but Laver beat her to it, saying, ‘Pun intended.’

Jake was so busy wallowing in self-pity that he almost
missed the bike. It was four hours since he’d lost her as she rode away from the pool, and his seventh cruise along Smith Street as his ‘sick day’ ticked hopelessly away. He’d battled the peak-hour traffic in his Mazda for a while, towards and then away from the city, but this time he walked, bewildered by the variety of restaurants, bakeries, two-dollar shops, seconds fashion outlets, art galleries full of what looked like the same graffiti that was on the walls down every lane, and a bar called Kent St, which made no sense given its address was Smith Street. Bikes were everywhere, locked to every pole and bike rack. Jake took it all in, wondering if he shouldn’t buy a bike, on the off chance he saw her riding along and they could somehow bond by pedal.

He only saw the bike because he was looking down one of the side streets, frowning and wondering if the Legs lived somewhere just off Smith Street, maybe in the old Foy & Gibson clothing warehouses turned into apartments. But, hell, for all he knew she lived or worked in Chadstone or St Kilda, miles from here. There was no reason to think she had any connection with this grungy street full of rumoured drug deals, very real beggars, crazy street-walkers mumbling and occasionally ranting, alcoholic derros and occasional clusters of Indigenous locals. Not that he had a clue about this world. He felt a long way from his mum’s house in safe, middle-class Kew, even though it was less than five kilometres away.

But geez, she’d fit right in, dressed like she was. And if she lived or worked somewhere else, why would she be at the Fitzroy Pool every day? And how far could she be going if she was on a battered old purple bike?

Which he was stunned to find he was staring right at; it was chained to a pole down the side street. He walked down and inspected it more closely. It was covered in stickers relating to whales and Kyoto and woodchips and abortion and other causes, as well as one calling the Liberal Party dickheads. One big purple sticker was for Friends of the Planet, which rang a bell somewhere in Jake’s overwhelmed brain.

He backtracked to Smith Street and realised which shop he was standing in front of, a double-fronted, glass-windowed grocer–cum–café–cum–clothes store. The Friends of the Planet.

He checked his reflection in the window of the empty shop next door, the ‘For Lease’ sign cutting his face in half. He looked a little strained and sweaty, and a lump of hair was standing up over his right ear – no, it was his left in the reflection – but he looked okay. He was glad he’d gone with a white T-shirt today; any other colour would have shown sweat-rings ballooning out from under the arms by now. She’d only notice the sweat if they hugged, he thought, and then he chuckled. That was hoping for too much but, heck, there was nothing wrong with dreaming.

Jake pushed the glass door open, prompting the three large bells mounted above it to swing into space before they came crashing, clanging and bouncing back against the frame. Jake fought his way through a curtain of multi-coloured beads and took in the shelves of tie-dyed clothing, handmade candles, animal harm–free running shoes and other paraphernalia cluttering the shop. A café area of tables and chairs filled the right-hand side of the front of the store. He spied a kitchen door further back, the blackboard above it offering what appeared to be exclusively lentil dishes. Crystals hung from fishing-line along the front window, sending rainbow shafts of light onto the opposite wall, revealing swirling dust within their beams. From the ceiling hung dozens of T-shirts with slogans about everything and anything. Moving further inside, Jake took in the organic foods on offer in the grocery section.

Somewhere deep in the bowels of the shop bells started to chime, softly at first but growing steadily, coming closer all the time. Finally a woman appeared in the kitchen doorway behind the café counter and the source of the bell-frenzy became clear. Her hair was a frizzy mass of red curls erupting magnificently skywards, adding at least a foot to her otherwise below-average height. She was wearing a puffy bright-purple jumpsuit, as though she had just dropped her parachute in the other room before coming out to smile what was clearly supposed to be a beatific, calming smile of welcome in Jake’s direction. The woman had a Greenpeace badge pinned to the scarf that fought desperately to keep her hair off her temple, and her earrings were giant silver circles with crosses connected to their bottoms. It was her feet that were ringing; she must have had small bells on her anklets or sandals although Jake couldn’t see them. The parachute suit was unbuttoned at the front, revealing a T-shirt that said something about women and the night, but Jake, trying not to be caught staring at her chest, didn’t read it too closely.