Mad Dog Moxley by Peter Corris Page A

coat; he'd never manage to grab hold of a rail or a chain with that hand. The bandage is ragged and dirty and his hand is throbbing badly. He'd never make it. Most likely fall under the wheels.
    He sees some sheds a short distance away. There's no one in sight. He puts his bag and coat down and, holding the gun, keeps low as he moves towards the sheds. They are full of machinery and tools that are no use to him, but he finds a Gladstone bag containing some sandwiches wrapped in newspaper. He resists the impulse to eat the food there and then; instead he puts the parcel inside his shirt and leaves. It's late afternoon, getting cold and with rain in the air. He needs to find somewhere to spend the night. The sheds wouldn't be safe. He retrieves his bag and coat and reluctantly heads back towards the scrub.
    He finds an area protected by overhanging branches and he can scrape some bracken up to cover with his coat and make a sleeping nest. He opens the parcel: tongue. He hates tongue but is too hungry to care. He wolfs the sandwiches down and licks the tomato sauce from the paper. The Daily Mirror sheets are ten days old and there is nothing about the young couple. The sauce and grease from the food has made much of the print unreadable but on a sports page he reads that Phar Lap's heart is to be brought back to Australia from America. He smiles, remembering that he won £10 from an SP bookie after betting on the horse. The smile fades; he remembers losing the money playing billiards in May's saloon in Sussex Street. In the fading light he spreads the coat and takes out a spare shirt to cover himself with. He keeps his boots on but thinks to wear sandshoes tomorrow if his feet hurt as much as they do now. He puts them by the coat and examines the gun. The extractor is out of whack and has jammed a cartridge in one of the breeches. He'll fix it tomorrow.
    He sleeps fitfully, waking because he's cold and going back to sleep because he's exhausted. A shower of rain in the early hours doesn't help and shortly after dawn he is jolted awake by the sound of dogs barking and voices. The noises are close and getting closer. He has been sleeping fully clothed, in shirt, trousers and jacket. He throws off the shirt he used as a cover, grabs his bag and bolts into the bush, leaving his coat, sandshoes and the gun behind him.

    The Malvern Star roadster is old and heavy, with a slightly buckled front wheel. He pedalled frantically away from where he stole it and now he is tired, having used leg muscles not in play since he was a boy. He has used a length of rope he found to tie his bag to the handlebars but it doesn't make steering any easier. He feels better after drinking from a bubbler in a park and cleaning the wound to his hand. It still hurts, but as the bike has a footbrake he doesn't have to apply too much hand pressure.
    He is still thinking of what Linda said about going bush. He feels safer in areas where trees outnumber buildings and there are fewer people around, but he knows he's no bushman, knows he can't live off the land, especially with the shotgun gone. His best bet is to cling to the outskirts of the city, where he can raid gardens or steal from shops and houses; but somewhere well away from Holsworthy, where he's known. He decides to cross the harbour on the new bridge and head north to Frenchs Forest, where his mother once lived. She's gone now, along with his father. He remembers writing Deceased next to his father's name on the army application form and being glad to do it.
    He pedals through Newtown, passes the railway station and sees a policeman watching the gate. He keeps his head down along George Street. It's early morning and the traffic is light on the approach to the bridge. There are a few bicycles, some cars and trucks, and people walking. He stops at the booth and speaks the first words he's uttered for days.
    â€˜Bikes have to pay?’
    The booth attendant grins. ‘Too right, mate.