keys next to a dilapidated ute. Koop winds down his window and calls him over, making sure they have the place to themselves.
Thommo looks around.
'What the fuck?' he says. 'What do you want?'
Koop holds his palm up in a conciliatory gesture and opens up the passenger side door.
'Mate, we just got off on the wrong foot, OK?' Koop says, putting a wheedling tone into his voice. He leans over, hand out. 'No hard feelings, right?'
Thommo is positively swaggering now. He leans into the cab of Koop's truck. 'So your missus does knock off that Jap bitch? I fucken knew it! I saw them swimming in the creek once. I'll say this, she's got a body on her. For an old bird.'
Koop forces a tight smile onto his face and looks down at his outstretched hand. An invitation. Thommo takes it and, as he does so, Koop jerks him sharply forward, headbutting him square in the nose. Blood spurts out and Thommo grunts, disbelieving, as Koop grabs his dreads and smashes his face down onto his knee. Koop drags the unconscious Thommo into the cab and pushes him into the passenger footwell.
Koop checks the windscreen has no splashes of blood visible and drives slowly out of the pub car park. Theremaining two deliveries on Koop's manifest for that afternoon will have to wait.
He's got plans for Thommo.
The morning has passed quickly for Zoe.
She always enjoys this stage of a project, when the arguing has been done, the arm-twisting is over, and the final designs are being tweaked and polished. All the components for the BritArt project are arranged around her, both physically and onscreen. Zoe surveys her handiwork and tries to see the potential flaws, the areas that the client will find difficult, but she sees nothing that shouldn't be there. It's good work, an elegant and clever solution. She and the guys in the Brisbane office will do the final presentation at GOMA on Tuesday and Zoe knows it will be received well.
She opens up a chat link with the Brisbane office and the face of Suze, one of her designers, appears. Zoe methodically goes over the details of what they're going to need for the Tuesday presentation. Behind Suze, Tom, the second of her team, flits backwards and forwards in front of a table piled with design printouts.
'You staying overnight on Monday, Zoe?' Suze asks.
'Probably. Depends on how organised I am, Suze. But, yes, most likely.'
Zoe glances up and out through the window as something catches her peripheral vision. A car turns into the property and Zoe tenses.
A police car.
'Suze, I have to go. Talk to you later.'
Suze waves. 'Speak soon.'
Zoe closes the chat window, instinctively saves the work onscreen and stands up, her hands smoothing the front of her blouse.
Years of life with a cop means she knows that the police arriving unannounced at your door is seldom something that turns out well. She breathes deeply and tries not to think about what they want, but in her head is one word, repeating over and over.
Koop. Koop. Koop.
The roads around the shire are noted for accidents, and she has a sudden image of her husband dead or dying, surrounded by grim-faced paramedics. She picks up her mobile, her hands trembling, and dials her husband.
'Shit.'
Koop looks at Thommo who is crying. At least, Koop thinks he's crying. It's hard to tell. Thommo has his hand cupped over his nose and his face is a streaky mess of snot, blood, matted hair and tears. He is crouched on the grass in a paddock hidden from view off Friday Hut Road. He is naked.
'You broke my fuggen dose, man!'
Koop leans across and pats Thommo on the shoulder. Thommo flinches like a whipped dog, any fight in him long gone.
'You got lucky,' says Koop.
'Lucky? How the fug is dis lucky, you fuggen loony! You're goin' down, you crazy fug! The fuggen pigs'll be round once I . . .'
Koop puts a finger to his lips and holds his gaze on Thommo. He leans in close and Thommo flinches. Thommo stops talking, his eyes wide.
'No, that's not going to happen,
Thommo looks around.
'What the fuck?' he says. 'What do you want?'
Koop holds his palm up in a conciliatory gesture and opens up the passenger side door.
'Mate, we just got off on the wrong foot, OK?' Koop says, putting a wheedling tone into his voice. He leans over, hand out. 'No hard feelings, right?'
Thommo is positively swaggering now. He leans into the cab of Koop's truck. 'So your missus does knock off that Jap bitch? I fucken knew it! I saw them swimming in the creek once. I'll say this, she's got a body on her. For an old bird.'
Koop forces a tight smile onto his face and looks down at his outstretched hand. An invitation. Thommo takes it and, as he does so, Koop jerks him sharply forward, headbutting him square in the nose. Blood spurts out and Thommo grunts, disbelieving, as Koop grabs his dreads and smashes his face down onto his knee. Koop drags the unconscious Thommo into the cab and pushes him into the passenger footwell.
Koop checks the windscreen has no splashes of blood visible and drives slowly out of the pub car park. Theremaining two deliveries on Koop's manifest for that afternoon will have to wait.
He's got plans for Thommo.
The morning has passed quickly for Zoe.
She always enjoys this stage of a project, when the arguing has been done, the arm-twisting is over, and the final designs are being tweaked and polished. All the components for the BritArt project are arranged around her, both physically and onscreen. Zoe surveys her handiwork and tries to see the potential flaws, the areas that the client will find difficult, but she sees nothing that shouldn't be there. It's good work, an elegant and clever solution. She and the guys in the Brisbane office will do the final presentation at GOMA on Tuesday and Zoe knows it will be received well.
She opens up a chat link with the Brisbane office and the face of Suze, one of her designers, appears. Zoe methodically goes over the details of what they're going to need for the Tuesday presentation. Behind Suze, Tom, the second of her team, flits backwards and forwards in front of a table piled with design printouts.
'You staying overnight on Monday, Zoe?' Suze asks.
'Probably. Depends on how organised I am, Suze. But, yes, most likely.'
Zoe glances up and out through the window as something catches her peripheral vision. A car turns into the property and Zoe tenses.
A police car.
'Suze, I have to go. Talk to you later.'
Suze waves. 'Speak soon.'
Zoe closes the chat window, instinctively saves the work onscreen and stands up, her hands smoothing the front of her blouse.
Years of life with a cop means she knows that the police arriving unannounced at your door is seldom something that turns out well. She breathes deeply and tries not to think about what they want, but in her head is one word, repeating over and over.
Koop. Koop. Koop.
The roads around the shire are noted for accidents, and she has a sudden image of her husband dead or dying, surrounded by grim-faced paramedics. She picks up her mobile, her hands trembling, and dials her husband.
'Shit.'
Koop looks at Thommo who is crying. At least, Koop thinks he's crying. It's hard to tell. Thommo has his hand cupped over his nose and his face is a streaky mess of snot, blood, matted hair and tears. He is crouched on the grass in a paddock hidden from view off Friday Hut Road. He is naked.
'You broke my fuggen dose, man!'
Koop leans across and pats Thommo on the shoulder. Thommo flinches like a whipped dog, any fight in him long gone.
'You got lucky,' says Koop.
'Lucky? How the fug is dis lucky, you fuggen loony! You're goin' down, you crazy fug! The fuggen pigs'll be round once I . . .'
Koop puts a finger to his lips and holds his gaze on Thommo. He leans in close and Thommo flinches. Thommo stops talking, his eyes wide.
'No, that's not going to happen,
Similar Books
