SWANNSONG

Tuesday 14th August 2.35p.m

(What follows is taken verbatim from a digital recording found in the kitchen of Barry John Swann and further transcribed in part on a home computer removed from premises at 16 Downland Street, Lillyfield)

‘Some days I tumble out of bed significantly less than myself.

My thoughts are grim as four in the morning, the sky is as grey as my mind and I dress in tight clothing to confirm how uncomfortable I deserve to be. The day promises to mock me. I’ve put a hammer through all the mirrors in the house. They give me a distorted nightmare image that confirms the creature I’ve become.

I slump on the lounge and flick on telly. The remote flips me from action to romance, thriller to comedy and back again with frequent urgings to buy this or that. I’m a willing television addict planted there but losing interest. Too many stories are about me. Soon they’ll work out a way to deal with this. I’ve got nothing left and the woman reading her list of disasters knows it. She peers through me until a dozen advertisements snatch her away. I am rescued from her gaze and count the ads .

Voices oppose my ongoing existence like protesters at a rally.

Sleep drags me to despair; I was awakened after the briefest nap by a dog barking. I stare at words in a magazine but sentences don’t form.

Best to cease thinking. Where did thinking get me? Who am I? And why do I bother asking? All I have is oblivion. I once drank to achieve numbness and it sometimes worked.

I’m out of booze and can’t send to the shops for more.

The power went off with a ‘flump.’ The rooms are crowded with shadows and absence. Its not the first time I’ve failed to pay. My wife always took care of household items but she’s no longer here. She was under considerable stress the last time we were together. I’ve tried to remember her name but my condition blocks such detail. I’m father to two boys but can’t place their names either. I was never fully committed to this house, I signed the papers because she wanted it.

A nice Asian couple did a good job cleaning the floors; a boy in his late teens who wanted to be a landscape gardener charged us thirty a week to look after the flower beds and mow the lawn. He was ambitious and had the same deal with several neighbours.

The place is now a mess inside and out, the grass needs mowing, cobwebs spread through places they were never seen and there’s dirt over the driveway. Inside is worse. I no longer go upstairs or into the kitchen. Climbing stairs overwhelms me. Nothing gets thrown out and the garbage bags smell badly after a two days in the high thirties.

I’ve no aptitude for household duties. Blame my mother! She did everything and was offended if I tried to help.

Nothing’s the same since I toppled from a ladder while clearing the guttering. I was halfway up when I got my first shiver of panic.

I had something to prove. How could I call in a workman for such a simple task? The fool in me insists I can fix anything. I often call in experts to mop up and get their faint sneer.

So there I am at the top of my suburban world with a clear view of every rooftop. I scoop out rotting leaves, soft mud slithers through my fingers as I hum tunelessly. I step briskly off the ladder without any awareness I’m three storeys up. I put it down to sheer forgetfulness, denial brought on by my terror of height, my foolish assumption that thin air can support my ninety kilos. If a cloud were passing I could hitch a ride.

Like a cartoon character, I’m frozen in air and everything goes into slow motion before the plunge. I do a flailing somersault and panic is all gone. I am serene. A second is minutes with ‘Ooom Pah Pah’ playing.

I’m a clown in a circus act and land on my back which breaks it in several places and compresses vital organs so they instantly cease to function.

I know nothing more; there is no pain.

My wife is in the house and hears a dull thud. She calls an ambulance to attend. I awaken in the back of the vehicle but go straight back to sleep.

I only just remember there’s things to remember.

There’s this much:

My name is Barry Swann and I hate to be called ‘Bazza’ and refuse to answer to Swanee. I’ve heard them all.

‘Bazza. .how I love you, my dear old Bazza’ to ‘Hello Mr Duck’.

I was a mediocre magazine reporter for twenty years. It finished a year ago when the web made the business obsolete.

I get a dull nudge between the shoulder blades when there’s something I should remember. I’m alert for minutes but dullness reclaims me. When I’m tired I sing loud and raucous lyrics to kick-start my brain. I’ve read there’s a link between rhythm and memory and sing for an hour or two. The middle of the night is best.

I was never a good singer and deserve the complaints.

Bugger them!! They were repelled by my appearance. Its a shame when community collapses like this. They pushed me to barricade the house. I fixed crossbeams with long nails that could resist a battering ram. The police won’t tell me what charges they’ll lay.

They seem reluctant to talk to me at all, there’s no attempt at negotiation, no-one really wants ne to go outside. Other uniforms out there are army. Is untidiness the new terrorism? I’m sorry for singing and shouting but this is overkill?. Even a tuneless song can come from the heart.

I’ve never had luck with officialdom, nor have I needed to negotiate down the barrel of a gun. The elderly mother of a former premier is several doors down in a gloomy brick place that would give Hitchcock a hard-on. I’ve never seen her but she’s there. A block of apartments at the corner are owned by the Lord Mayor. One apartment belongs to the chairman of a retail group who likes the simple life and drives an old Holden. This street was always way beyond our budget. We were upwardly mobile and confident we’d get on top. It would take a few years of hard work.

I had over fifty grand tucked away. We inherited money from her mother and father, sold an investment property and cashed a few bonds to put everything into our home. We bought into the street only to find it was obsessed by status.

Few people would talk to us, we weren’t good enough and carried the odour of middle class struggle. We’d bought the house where a well-known author died. Edna Trilby wrote much-loved children’s books about a loveable bunyip who helped lost children.

Her presence gave the street a reputation for creativity. As a reporter for an urban rag I could never replace her.

My wife scored higher marks on their status meter. She’s an anthropologist who is recognised for her pop-culture books that make good money and she’s occasionally on television.

I could search for her name in our library but our books are upstairs and I don’t go there. We suffered the unkindness of others and could only cope in isolation. My wife felt imprisoned and was looking for better life choices.

They are peering in now and whispering. My fortifications force them back. Squeaks and grunts issue from amplifiers as the world decides what to do and when to do it. I’ve done nothing wrong! I’m an ordinary citizen entitled to peace.

All I did was leave the hospital without permission.

Light jabs through my windows distorting shadows. While I sleep, the kitchen picks the worst time to spring a major leak and turns into a filthy lake. Food-waste from burst garbage drifts across the floor in a minor regatta. I can’t put bags outside; they’d jump me. Nor can I call a plumber. My wife and sons made jokes about my deteriorating condition until it was so bad it was unfunny. Before she hurried off, she told me it was better for her to leave. It seemed a final goodbye and I offered no argument.

I was likely do harm if they stayed.

Ageing is accelerated; my personal hygiene is not adequate.

She was bordering on obsessive compulsive with her cleanliness.

I didn’t like the way the boys looked at me. They were unable to come near. Everything will settle. This will be a misunderstanding and apologies will arrive. Its obviously a misunderstanding that grows worse as days pass.

Flashbulbs pop when I’m glimpsed at the window. I oblige them with singing and shouting to make it more dramatic. I appreciate every story needs embellishing. Hardworking reporters need a good yarn with ongoing developments when forced to stand waiting all day.

Do they worry I’ll come out blazing?

I love Jimmy Cagney and Humphrey Bogart as much as any film buff and saw the original Desperate Hours four times.

I’ve never owned a weapon and have no interest in guns.

One report on my battery radio says my neighbours are forced to move until ‘the danger’s over’.

When did I become dangerous? They see me as some crazed idealist making a last stand. I’ve harmed no-one and want to be left alone. I’ve done nothing wrong other than to barricade myself inside. My best guess is I’m afflicted with something that is contagious and they’re worried it might spread. They’ll grab me and take me to hospital and feed me drugs to cure me.

They must be deeply embarrassed for letting me go so easily.

For two decades I cherished the rituals that smoking and drinking gave me, I couldn’t pick up a phone without a cigarette in my fingers. I’d be incomplete, unable to think, unwilling to confront. After a decade of coughing, I gave up on sudden whim. It was like the death of a dear friend. A voice nagged me it was okay to smoke; that I should lighten up and light up. I could reward my diligence with a cigarette. That same voice lingered when I ditched drinking: “It’s okay to have a drink. It’s after sunset, its time for a quick snort, relax and ease back! You know you can! You’ve got control. You’re entitled to a drink! It’s foolish to punish yourself. Life’s too short.”

It kept at me until I gave up giving up. I now have radical weight loss and weird eating habits. I was staying off sugar but now need huge amounts; urgent desire takes over. The hold is near sexual. My favourite is a cup of white sugar with raw chopped mince and cold water. I swallow it in gulps and get enormous energy for an hour or so.

My last meal was a piece of raw lamb meant for roasting.

I took it from the deep freeze and left it on a bench above the kitchen lake for a couple of days. It shone pale green and I devoured it, relishing every mouthful. It gave me a charge that kept me going. Raw meat lifts the spirit. I’ll need more soon; the mention turns me into a mad glutton. My ears fill with screeching feedback, my arms and legs jerk as if bolts of electricity force me to dance. I’m a hungry animal waiting to pounce.

I was in my mid forties when the Editor told me the paper had no further use for me. I’d seen it coming for over a year. Advertising revenues were plunging, we could no longer compete with on-line publications. Sales and Promotion fought for supremacy with Editorial. We were soon doing stories that preferred products and services they were ‘targeting’.

I was accused of being precious. Assignments were handed out according to the benefits they’d bring.

I grew up on the notion of crusading reporters, my favourite television show was Deadline Midnight. I never made it to crusader. A couple of decades inflicted me with terminal cynicism. I wasn’t as good as I’d hoped. Early in my career, crucial stories were rejected as dangerous; my editors admonished me for taking too many risks.

Their first step to tame the prancing pony.

I could’ve defied them but I had a family to support and a reliable income was essential. I lost my nerve and went on a safe and steady ride.

I gave them what they wanted and was careful not to stand out. Their approval nudged me into mediocrity. Life provided a comfortable little corner where a kennel of also-rans chewed on minor bones. The water-cooler bubbled with hotter gossip than anything I put in print. Truth was a new wardrobe for the Emperor of Sell And Sell More. I annoyed management but was little more than a terrier. Staff writers scurried about in the hope miracles might happen if we said nothing.

I was first to go. The Editor sat at my table in the canteen over coffee. He’d never done that and was quick about it.

He asked me what I’d do if I were suddenly without a job. I wanted to see appear cool and independent. ‘I’ll cope!’ I shrugged.

‘Good!’ He said. ‘That gives me relief.’

‘Oh Shit!’ I said.

‘You no longer have a job,’ he told me and handed an envelope that embraced detail. Security was quickly at my desk with cardboard boxes when I got back from the canteen.

I sank into a howling spiral, hid in the house and drew the blinds, watched daytime television and did too much vacuuming.

For days I slumped on the lounge in my dressing gown. My wife told me I was a poor example for the boys. I didn’t chase work. No-one wanted a reporter of my vintage. A few contacts tossed me a couple of commercial assignments. I was a salesman with pamphlets to write. It helped with the mortgage but was nothing like I’d been earning.

We were talking of selling when I stepped off the roof. There’s every chance it was spontaneous suicide but I can’t be sure. I’ve looked in the mirror a couple of times and there’s something wrong with my body. My skin is paler, my hair lank and there’s film over my eyes. I need a shave and a shower but the idea of water makes me shudder. I have a compulsion to rub dirt in my skin. Its interesting how you live with your worst odours. I’ve hardly thought of anything sexual since this crisis. I have a rising desire to hunt and feed and eat. Its just as well my wife took the dog.

I can’t define my symptoms with ease, I don’t have anything like a head cold but sneeze much more and go from near slumber to frantic activity. There’s a creeping chill in my bones, a stiffness of limb that threatens movement. The last explosion of energy sent waves of pain along my legs as if my bones needed to escape my body. It must be an infection I picked up in hospital.

This is obviously something they don’t wish to tell the world. I awoke in total darkness and inside some storage device. I went into panic when it seemed no-one was observing me. We’ve heard about understaffed hospitals and bed shortages but people should never be shut away and neglected. I kicked at the end of the long metal tube. Fluorescent light leaked in at the far end and I called out.

No-one came. Claustrophobia got the better of me. I moved until its mechanism released me. Only then did I realise the scope of their mistake, had placed me in the morgue. They’d examined me after my plunge and decided the fall had killed me. The sheer carelessness of their assessment was worthy of compensation. The very worst of such an events would be to wake up in a coffin or as you’re fed into the crematorium.

No-one was in the corridor so I came straight home, feeling groggy and vague but able to move my limbs. They obviously discovered my ‘dead’ body was missing and came looking.

I never expected to cause this much fuss.

I decided to write down my story while I have time and type with more caution than usual, never pressing on keys. A fingernail fell away a while ago. It came off without pain and others feel ready to go. When I can no longer type I’ll talk into my recorder but it might prove difficult to understand since my voice slurs like a drunk. A short while ago a sharp itch shot down my right leg under the skin. I scratched it and broke skin but there was no bleeding.

I exist in a shell that is my body. In the last hour I’ve had extreme chills. The cold is deep in my bones and radiates out, consuming my body heat.

I jerk wildly and am immediately slumped and exhausted, barely able to move. It’s like immersion in a bath of ice. Suddenly I’m twisting and jerking with energy that urges me to leap up and about like a puppet must feel when the puppeteer yanks his string.

I want to write a note to my wife but her name evades my memory. Her work took her into Pakistan’s Hindu Kush where the Kalash tribe place their dead in open coffins on steep hillsides. Wild animals such as bears devour corpses. She wept as she showed me photos of tiny boxes made for infants. The Kalash remember their dead by hiring a man of the village to carve an effigy in wood which they put next to the open grave. The statue disintegrates into the elements.

On her last visit, she acquired several carvings and brought them home. One was so elaborate we placed it in a corner of the lounge-room.

I was listening to Ella Fitzgerald when I noticed it watching me.

The carving was designed to observe the room with detached curiosity. It seemed to be waiting. It was curious of my presence and made me weary. Convinced I was dying, I’d never felt coldness like it.

There’s no gas to heat the air and ward off my shivering. I’m isolated in darkness, chilled and hungry. Rigidity seizes my hand and I cannot type. The recorder will turn while its battery has life but I no longer have anything to say so I’ll stop here.

Reporter April Johnson sums up the incident like this:

‘I’ve received an anonymous note that no-one in government will authenticate. I didn’t know Barry Swann, nor did any of neighbours.

A few confirmed they heard him singing badly at various times of the day and night. Authorities insist his typed notes are incoherent ravings. They claim he had OCD. Police are doing their best to accuse me of concocting the letter. They also suggest it could be a student prank that has misfired. But who would go to the bother?

Its on the record Barry Swann was rushed to hospital after a fall from his roof. A single ambulance departed the home. One report has it Swann returned on foot just before dusk and after several hours of treatment

A day later his wife and children noisily departed the house.

Neighbours confirm shouting and disturbances with a woman screaming. Swann was singing that night and complaints were made. When disturbance persisted over several days, police were sent for. They checked the house and reported garbage bags were stacked in a flooded kitchen area. Hygiene problems were recorded but no charges laid. The emergency ward of the general hospital expressed its concerns that a dead body had been misplaced. Police returned to the house and sealed off the street. Residents were evacuated.

Unlike other sieges, police spokesmen were unwilling to detail the crisis. Their refusal to elaborate triggered media speculation: a virulent bug had been isolated at the address. The hospital released a brief statement saying Swann was released with minor injuries. A nurse insisted Swann had been certified dead and sent to the morgue.

She was dismissed by the hospital for causing unnecessary public alarm. Police gathered in force before attempting entry early in the morning?

The army was brought in on a minor advisory capacity. One unconfirmed claim is that Swann threatened police with a high-powered rifle. It is one of many unsubstantiated rumours.

Barry Swann appears to be a peaceful man with no strong convictions; a quiet and moderately successful journalist distressed by significant change. His wife works at the university but she and three young boys are out of reach and will remain so for some time.

When gunfire came it was as if war had broken out in the street.

I have no way of estimating the number of shots fired but they were multiple and sustained. I’m reliably informed automatic weaponry was used. Every impression is that police and others were issued with a command to obliterate Swann and all evidence. No cameras have been allowed in the house and the street remains out of bounds to all but authorised personnel.

At the risk of stirring panic, surely the public is entitled to a reasonable explanation? All news organisations have been told hysteria is on the rise and further speculation may result in legal action.

A rare condition has been nominated in which genetically disposed people have an attack of chronic catalepsy where every sign of life disappears. Ordinary instruments cannot record a heartbeat and there’s an absence of pulse. The home remains covered in plastic and entry to the street is under strict security.

We need to know why authorities handled this incident with such severity. We have too many questions, too few answers and nobody is talking. The Health Department offers little more than half-hearted spin full of assurances and denials.

As other stories take precedence we must keep asking questions of hospital and police. Why has this story been closed down so comprehensively? What exactly is it no-one wants us to know?

I can only offer one more piece of information impossible to confirm.

It was sent anonymously to me.

The government refuses to authenticate the letter.

It reads:

Dear Ms Murphy

I’m writing to you because you’ve been publicly humiliated by officers above my rank for your reporting of what is known as the Swann incident. I want you to know I and others appreciate your attempts to draw out those in charge.

I remain anonymous but can reveal a simple but frightening truth. I was called on to fire on an unarmed Australian. Every one of the fifteen men in the house that morning is receiving counseling for what happened. I didn’t sign on to kill innocent people but I did pull the trigger at what I witnessed. We were confronted by a living corpse. We unleashed many thousand of rounds into the body. Some of us, myself included, could not stop firing. Even after the target was reduced to blood and bone, it continued to twitch and jerk.

This letter may be dismissed as a prank. Please continue your investigations. This is a matter that goes beyond life and death and will haunt my nightmares.

Sincerely

An informer.

The Minister For Public Health Angus Robertson held a press conference attended by the Minister For Police, Gloria Chatham in which the following was stated:

‘We wish, first of all, to clear up unfounded and silly rumor concerning the death of Barry James Swann. Mr Swann did contract work on brochures promoting the value of immunisation. I’ve never met him but am informed his contribution to this department, though minimal, was valued.

I will not entertain questions stemming from conspiracy theory or the suggestion he died because he knew too much about government secrets.

Police attending the scene did so after complaints from residents. The officer’s report is that Mr Swann was upset after loss of employment and was disturbing the peace by singing loudly late at night. Unhygienic odours were coming from the property. His refusal to co-operate escalated a minor incident into a confrontation we all regret. His estranged wife confirms a form of obsessive compulsive disorder.

Mr Swann was in a filthy and unkempt condition when approached by officers. Experienced members of the team were disturbed and confused by his appearance.

Yet another piece of ridiculous conjecture is based on media obsession with zombies. Popular culture may wish to convince us of such mythical nonsense. Media persistence has produced a tragic over-reaction that the coroner calls an ongoing misadventure.

Your government will make no further comment on a subject that should be well and truly dead and buried. We ask that you share our concern by avoiding ongoing sensationalism. Any attempt at stirring panic in the community will be dealt with in the firmest terms. I’ve no wish to promulgate hollow myths by confirming a note typed by the man in question. I trust this closes an unfortunate business.

Thank you.

In another life I’d play the game I love.  I know how to place players on a field, I understand combinations and would make a good coach. As a tactician I’ve only been beaten twice at chess, the first to a twelve year old Chinese genius and the second, by a single and stupid mistake, against a Russian master who took on thirty of us in a park. But that was when I was able to come and go.

He wouldn’t beat me today if he were to visit my apartment.

To play football you need a healthy body with stamina and speed, an intense and concentrated skill and instinct for ninety minutes and more.

With enough bodies to make a team, I have my own way of winning games. They could put me in the goal to provide a barrier but anything athletic is impossible at five hundred kilos.  I occupy too much space for a single individual and confinement is frustrating. These days it takes all my energy to get to the bathroom. Doctors politely call it a glandular condition but the truth is I’m massively and morbidly obese, the fat bastard no-one visits.

I’ve been warned that if anything chronic happens (and it is likely) I’ll end my days here. Even if they could find a way of moving me, the ambulance would never take the weight. I’ve got a hunger that won’t leave me. Food briefly soothes but won’t cure.

I’ve been hiking the road to enormity since seventeen. Newspapers claim my walls will need demolition to get me out. Engineers advised the body corporate that the floor needed structural reinforcement. It cost a packet and I was told to restrict movement during the four months it took.

I was loved as a child; there were no beatings, no emotional or spiritual cruelties, the harshest aspect of my upbringing was its sheer placidity.

My dad was a grey man devoted to his passive aggressive ladylove. They were bonded in exceptional ordinariness and kept money in jars so every bill could be met on time. They never argued about anything and had a frustrating capacity to swallow conflict. They’d simmer without showing, defending a mutually wounded pride with lightly aggressive but studiously polite smiles.

They’d pursued cultivated blandness. I yearned for them to explode and throw objects across the room, but they never once obliged.

Dad would come home at five thirty on the dot from the job he hated as a clerk with The Railways. He’d turn on television and mum would quietly place an overcooked meal in front of him. She’d leaf through one of her many magazines on cooking and dressmaking and, at nine thirtyish each night; they’d go to bed, to sleep, except on Fridays when there was a movie they watched without excitement. They cared for me and died in old age leaving me sufficient funds.

My teen years were without incident; I wasn’t bullied until I suddenly put on the kilos. My fuse was far shorter than my parents and my weight a weapon. I fought by hurling my bulk and sitting on the opposition, abruptly emptying them of air. I nearly suffocated one boy who briefly became my best friend. I liked to eat and haven’t stopped. I don’t see it as suicidal and have a yearning for chocolate, ice cream and chips.

I never did engage in physical exercise.  My gluttony is triggered by celebration and commiseration. I’m not a subtle or underhanded sinner. When my team wins I anticipate a hearty meal of  five courses. When the boys are defeated, my hunger surges.

The residents of my block are very aware of me when there’s a match.

I yell til I’m hoarse and cannot utter a sound. I’m unforgiving on my world but especially myself if a match goes badly. The Body Corporate Chairman lives directly beneath, which is unfortunate for both of us.

He dreams I’ll fall through his ceiling and crush him at dinner. Igor is Russian and goes out when there’s a game.

When there’s a game I arrange for a big jug of water beside my chair. Its not easy to get up and move, even to the toilet. My nurses are various and visit five times a week to attach ‘a fish’. Its an artificial bladder that goes on my penis and enables me to piss at random. 

I pay for a sex worker once a month. Her name is Cheryl and she specialises in chronically disabled men. She has the personality of a chirrupy bird and sees her job as a mission.

What we do is between Cheryl and I.

She leaves me feeling marvelous and fulfills my need for intimacy.

My doctor has warned me against my sessions with her. He believes sudden arousal will place undue stress on my heart. He’s always telling me I’m overloading an overloaded heart.

I’m not about to become the armchair Buddha he tries to impose.

I’m not afraid of dying.  I’ve eaten my way toward death all my life. I’d love to be a ghost and see how they cart my corpse out. It will be as messy as a serial killer convention.

They’ll need to cut me up and take me out piece by piece.

I no longer fit through turnstiles and stopped going to matches at a hundred and forty kays. They won’t open the gate for one customer, especially not one with my size and reputation.

I briefly thought about legal action but money is running out. I’m more excitable than most spectators and get into fights. I’ll hurl myself around and feel few of the punches. I was arrested several times until the pubs put a ban on me and police couldn’t find a cell to put me in.

Now I’ve got widescreen high definition television and can stay at home and rage at a game as much as I like.

It was a gift from Allan. My good mate never once treated me like a freak. A television company read the article about how I couldn’t be moved and wanted me in some show where fatties shed kilos. I told them to fuck off.  They wanted me to cry in front of a mirror and lose at least a hundred kay.

Allan knew what it was like to follow a losing team and we shared our despair. He came by every fortnight and stayed for half a game.

He had a flat nose and beady eyes and didn’t want to be Allan the boozer and sex fiend. He couldn’t help himself and I had to keep all knowledge of Cheryl from him. I did my best to ignore his foulest of sex jokes that he brought over like a cat with a dead bird. Every one would deeply offend Cheryl. Allan had serious issues with women but was compelled to perform frequent sex. 

I didn’t achieve my claim to fame by making the Guiness Book Of Records. There’s little kudos in being fifth heaviest man who ever lived and third heaviest living. I laugh at myself and my size all the time, laughter is important.

I could see a fat-man in Allan. He poured beer into himself like he was cooling the anger. He slept with any woman who’d have him and his repertoire of jokes was mostly about vaginas.

I suspect he feared them.

I met him when I was going to matches and knocking a few back at the local. I was outlining our team’s weakness to some bloke who couldn’t accept why we lost all the time. I had valid answers based on careful analysis. He was furious and unforgiving and poured it all on me. He asked what a fat bastard like me knew about football and told his mates I couldn’t make three or four steps without running out of breath.

I took five or six steps and fell on him as he doubled up with laughter. He didn’t see me coming and was hospitalized. I was banned from the pub and Allan was thrown out with me.

He took my side and broke a stool over one bloke’s head.

‘Mate! You’re the biggest fucker I ever shared a fight with. We ever get on opposite sides, promise you won’t land on me!” he chortled and then asked, “Know why I joined in?”

I didn’t answer because he was about to tell me; Allan could talk a brick wall into falling over.  “Mate! You were dead right! They’ve got no speed in attack, they park all their talent in midfield and hope they can poach the odd goal. Name’s Allan. How you doing?”

We talked footy. I mostly listened but we managed to work out where Man U was going wrong and what Chelsea needed to do to make the final four. We knew how to pull our team out of its slump. Ball distribution was weak; there were too many stars but no team; defence was underestimated. We sold too many key players to Asian clubs and were not guiding younger talent. Allan and I were in total agreement on how to fix things.

Before long he was coming round with a slab or two.

He recognised my special talent long before I did.

I forecast we’d scrape over the line with a win from a header in the final thirty seconds. That’s exactly what happened.  Brisbane scored against us in the seventy-sixth minute and it seemed over. I’d drunk too much and needed ‘the long walk’.

Getting to the toilet is an odyssey. It means seven minutes spent away from the game. Within two minutes of my absence, our team found its equalizer.

“They always score when I take a piss.” I mentioned.

“Always?” asked Allan.

“Count on it.”

“What if you go several times?”

“They score several times!”

He snorted and left it at that.

If the game is a disaster, I fall into moodiness. If it’s a crucial game I’ve been known to destroy furniture. Sometimes I drink so much I fall asleep and don’t make it to the loo. The moment I’m in the toilet, my team scores. I’ve put it to the test. The only qualification is urgent need.

“You can bet on it,” I told Allan.

“Put it to the test” he suggested.

“I already did!” I insisted.

We knocked back extra beers and an early goal went against us. Another quickly followed, urgent action was needed and my waters were aching. I toddled off, with all the effort it took and wild shouting ensued from the lounge. I returned to a two-one result at half time.

We put a few more beers away through the break. I lasted five minutes and was on my feet ready to squirt porcelain. I was guiding my deluge when another yell confirmed we’d equalized.

There were no more goals until three minutes of extra time.

“What? No more piss in you?” asked Allan.

“I want to see the game!” I protested.

“Take a slash,” he ordered.

I did and we snatched the game.

“That was impressive,” remarked Allan.

I was exhausted. It takes extreme effort to get up and down.

For a while I foolishly vowed to lose weight and drank herbal tea; peppermint calmed me and chamomile had a nice taste. I couldn’t see myself on months of lettuce and carrots. I watched the English league where results didn’t bother me as much.

It was easier to leave the room. Games in the middle of the night made life Hell for Igor. He insisted I control my urges. Now I mute the audio even if its Liverpool or Manchester United or Chelsea.

I watch the game without the passion I get from my team. Australian football isn’t as beautiful or clever but I love A-league. The off-season is dull with men in tight pants jumping high for something that looks like a leather egg. I keep these opinions to myself; they never end well.

I experimented when Allan wasn’t around. I backed Chelsea for a three-two win. A quick piss and they scored like there was a force in the room telling me: ‘we can win this!”

Since I recognized this power, all my teams have come out on top. Mine is number two. I’ll put more effort into the final round and we’ll take the championship. I don’t want anyone suspecting we’re invincible. They win four out of six and draw one.

I have to be careful not to provide them with too many goals. I aim for one loss every six games. My biggest mistake is to come back from the loo too soon. I can bring a game to a standstill or take away our advantage and end scoreless.

I have to pick the right time to get out of my chair, the pressure in my waters must be right, an urgency that gives me enough time to reach the loo. The flow has to be instant and strong, it doesn’t work if I stand there hoping. Going to the toilet is no easy task and there’s only just enough room for me to fit. I can’t turn and need to back out when finished. I also have trouble finding and aiming so the result can be messy.

The nurses were always complaining until The Fish was fitted. 

I worry that any attempt on my part to find a rational explanation might destroy the magic. I climb on a winner and hold on.

Allan agreed with that view and suggested it would be best if I kept quiet.

“How’ll this game play out?” he asked the next Saturday.

“Pick a score,” I suggested.

 He wanted three goals to two in our favour. I agreed and he had an urgent need to make a phone call. The opposition scored first and I went to the loo with a half full bladder. We got an equaliser.

At half time I made another visit and we got our second goal.

I relaxed a little and watched the game. They scored and my bladder was aching. Off I went to the loo and the game ended three to two in our favour. But those visits cost me close to twenty minutes of viewing.

My love of football was compromised. I even thought of putting a telly in the loo. Allan arrived the next week with a wraparound home theatre, stereo setup with towering speakers either side of a massive telly and a booming woofer blasting into floorboards. Little speakers were spread around the room.

I still need to be diligent with the volume or other tenants will hold a special meeting. They’ve tried to eject me five times but it’s not an easy thing to do with the cost of removing doors and walls. Igor maintain his objection to my presence above him; he now claims my movements threaten the entire building. He tells stories about how most homes have mice in the attic while he’s got dinosaurs. He and his friends amuse themselves over me.

If my bladder is full, I close my eyes and hold back. I use the remote to flick off all sound and stay in aching silence for a few minutes. It’s hard to do. You know the boys are driving the ball into the net but open those peepers and it’ll come off the wood or their goalie will do a fingertip save.

If I keep my eyes covered the ball slams into the net. But there’s no room for cheating! The tiniest of glimpses means they miss their chance.

I am required to immediately attend toilet after the goal is scored or the other team will equalize immediately.

“All I’ve got to do is not watch,” I boast to Allan and he’s very impressed.

He tests me over several weeks and the scores are whatever I decide.

At first his generosity worries me. He calls it a gift of friendship.

For a while I’m worried he might expect something more. He picks up on my discomfort and tells me twenty units fell off the back of a truck and he thought of my needs. Things happen in pubs, opportunities to acquire goods. Everything’s overpriced. It’s my first indication Allan is engaged in activities of a criminal nature.

He told me he was in sales and promotion.

I’m a loner but never lonely; I’m not good at networking, don’t make friends or keep them. I’ve got no time for small talk on anything other than footy. Most people blather about weather and renovations and other inconsequential detail.

Silence seems to unsettle most people. I chose to retreat into my rooms with chatter in my head. Allan chatters but says there’s no point talking if you’ve nothing to say. I don’t have opinions until I’m asked; then I answer without much thought. It’s often the first thing that comes into my head. Later I’ll think about the subject and decide if my opinion had value.

Take this apartment! I rushed into it because I needed to live somewhere. I don’t want to be tossed out but have no energy for picking up pizza boxes and plastic bottles.

I’ve got the home theatre and the place is a big, dirty cinema where I sleep. Its mine and I don’t need to impress anyone. I watch movies when there’s no footy. My favourites are action adventures. Explosions out of the woofer sound like I’m demolishing the apartment.

My nurses threaten to stop visiting unless I get in cleaners. 

Over a few months Allan was different with every visit. When he first came round he was driving a pale blue Morris Minor with a chunk of rust down one side. He had trouble opening the door; it made a wrenching noise like a torture victim. A passing vehicle had knocked that door off its hinges while he was getting out and he couldn’t afford to have it fixed. The last time he came round he was in a silver BMW. He was driving it for a ‘colleague’ who was overseas on business.

Seems the guy stayed overseas.

Allan was in that car for over a year and was dressing differently.

A bloke like me doesn’t wear suits; they sit on me like a circus tent.  Jeans and a T-shirt are my uniform.  My size has to be stitched together on special consignment.

One Sunday morning fate conspired to show me a few truths.

Allan came by wearing a blue shirt and striped tie like he was selling insurance.  He was defensive when I asked who he wanted to impress. He’d invested a small sum in mining stocks and was meeting with bankers and stockbrokers. He was making a strange attempt to be polite. With my upbringing there’s little I don’t know about false politeness. He was about to suggest I move to a better place, lose weight and wear clean clothes.

He strutted like he owned the world; made me uncomfortable. He was invading my untidy space and was critical about the way I live.

His BMW was having dents knocked out and he seemed to linger, looking for reasons to stay when there was no football on television.

I wanted him to leave but didn’t know how to tell him. Then Cheryl dropped by unannounced with some excuse she’d had a cancellation. She wanted to know if I’d like a cut-price service. Allan was rummaging in the fridge and I tried warning her he was in the apartment. There was no question he’d make a move.

I had little doubt it was a meeting she wouldn’t handle with charm and ease. She’d told me sex addicts were the easiest to contain because she had absolute power over them. I didn’t wish them to ever be together. They represent separate parts of my limited existence. It would be like putting bookends together and tossing out the books. I’d never mentioned Cheryl because she’s an attractive woman and he’d hate the idea of me having any close connection with anyone other than nurses.

She could see I was anxious and whispering.

‘Should I go?’

I wanted her to stay, I wanted her to go, I wanted Allen to go, and I was confused and nervous.

“Don’t tell him anything!” I blurted.

She gave me a knowing smile that was enormously arousing, as if we shared a secret no-one else could ever know.

“Anything about what?” demanded Allan, emerging from the kitchen with a six-pack to destroy the moment.

“Nothing!” I shouted urgently.

“I’m a friend of his mother, while she was alive that is” explained Cheryl gently reaching her hand out to shake his.

“She likes football too!” I babbled, searching for explanation.

“How d’you reckon they’ll go Saturday?” asked Allen gliding toward her, his hand touching his crotch as if she’d be instantly available.

Cheryl may technically be a prostitute but there’s nothing cheap or nasty about the way she looks and dresses. She’s the loveliest and most generous person I know and even tolerates my rank untidiness. She’ll even stay with me all night several times a year. It means I wake up with a woman beside me. I’d have her permanently in residence if I could afford her. But that’s wishful thinking. I’m sure she’d never tolerate my habits at that level.

“How will they go Saturday?” she repeated at him.

“You don’t know eh?” he chortled.

“No! But you soon will” she said.

“You should be leaving,” he snarled.

“I know what you’re doing?”

“You’re judging me?”

His manner had changed to contempt, he was in retreat and trying to sound incredulous, eager to put her down but knowing it wouldn’t be wise in front of me.

“I don’t like what you’re doing.” She said.

“He obviously likes what you’re doing.” Allan retorted with a snigger.

“It’s why I’m here. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m a friend, he’s a friend!”

“That’s fine then isn’t it” she said and paused. “But in my world a true friend doesn’t use friendship to make himself wealthy.”

Allan was lost for words, groping and close to panic.

He blurted out to her: “Get your rocks off on fat bastards do you?” he chuckled, turning to me for acknowledgement, a flash of uncertainty, a worry he’d gone too far even with me. Restraint had never been one of his qualities and he was itching to go further:

“How about that? Some street bitch that’ll screw anything glides her arse up here and claims she’s an expert on honesty! How about that?”

“I’m a call girl and a friend. Got a problem with that?”

“Which one of you gets on top?” He was looking at me, urging me to laugh along with his big, dirty joke. He seemed to think this was cruelty and spite we’d share. I was stoic and silent, he was digging a hole, jumping in and covering himself. There was more to this than his resentment of Cheryl. He couldn’t resist mockery as a first line of defence.

I’d encouraged him with my persistent self-ridicule.

“You beat up Meredith,” said Cheryl with an angry bluntness I’d never seen. She was revealing a ferocious spirit I could only admire. I wasn’t listening to their rising argument, only remembering the time I asked if she objected to ‘servicing’ me. She told me she had a client with cerebral palsy whose mother prepared the bedroom. “Just because the body isn’t working so well doesn’t mean we don’t need touch and tenderness. You pay and I’m happy to provide.” 

I respected the woman more than anyone I knew.  She seemed a little afraid of Allan and something urged me to protect her.

“Who’s bloody Meredith?” he demanded to know.

Cheryl and I knew he was lying: “She’s a friend of mine, the one you beat up last Saturday. I saw you at the hospital, you didn’t think it was important to stay did you Allan?”

“Don’t listen to this bitch! She here to con you, she’s a hooker and on the game. She wants to switch you to her mob. She’ll offer you free hand jobs in return for . . .” Allan halted abruptly. He’d said too much and was crying with anger, bunching his fists, unleashing his diatribe of hatred against all women. He was about to strike Cheryl and she seemed to will him on. But his hand went limp: “Go ahead mate! Screw the bitch! Get your rocks off. Let me know when you want to talk footy.”

I was stunned but needed a final say. This was my apartment, my life, my arrangement with Cheryl. All I could utter was “Maybe never!”

Slamming two doors, he was gone. Cheryl and I said nothing for a while. She felt it was appropriate to make a cup of tea. 

“Look into him.” She whispered with apology in her voice. “Ask yourself why’re you’re stuck here without a cleaner and little money while he’s reeling it in. He asks you who’ll win eh?”

“Every time! Why?”

“Word on the street is the pair of you are working a scam!”

I can’t conceal embarrassment; I’ve a fleshy face that goes the colour of beetroot at my slightest mistake, especially in the company of Cheryl.  “Meredith’s boyfriend is a bookie. Nothing happens in the world of gambling without them knowing. She noticed he was coming here once a week and confronted Allan, wanted to know how you were predicting footy scores. That was a week ago and he beat her up badly, put her in hospital for two days. What’s going on up here?”

It was the first time she’d been hostile and bothered me. The penny had dropped out there on the street and a pink tinge was closing across my vision. She knew me well enough to tell I was angrier than she’d seen me:

“Some punters are getting very wealthy on Allan’s picks” she explained.

She didn’t stay but promised she’d be back the next Tuesday. Allan was obviously watching the apartment and waiting for her to leave. He was back within the hour.

“You’re using me!” I told him.

“You actually believe that bitch whore?”

“I don’t like you calling her that.”

“She’s a whore. She bangs you for money. How else. .”

He went into a convoluted yarn about how he was going out with Katrina O”Farrell who ran a hairdressing shop on Balmain Road. She’d get an itch on her left leg if the team was about to score and an itch in the right leg if the outcome was against them. After a while she learned to count her itches. He made some joke about scratching her itch but I wasn’t in the mood.

He claimed to have reliable sources: the bloke who made his coffee every morning predicted outcomes with steam from his machine. “I research these things and collate information from around the traps. I use data you give me and collate it with everything else. I deserve the rewards!”

I was unimpressed. “Then you don’t need me and I can watch footy without me running off to the toilet several times in a game!”

“Uh! We need to negotiate this because it’s a totality of information and yours is essential to outcomes, most of the time, that is. How about we do a deal” he said and produced a wallet crammed with bills.

It was too late to bargain; money was never my thing. Mum and dad were obsessed with the stuff. I chose to obliterate their greed by eating them out of existence. 

“Get out of here before I fall on you” I told him softly.

He was a stooped man as he left. I eased my form on the lounge and missed the start of the match. I switched to a wildlife documentary where one animal chases another and eats it in high definition. It seemed appropriate to the occasion.  Half an hour later I watched the match.

Even when Adelaide scored I gave a little nod like there was nothing anyone could do. I made tea during the game. We were three down and didn’t score, the magic had shifted, and my enthusiasm was rock bottom.

Cheryl still drops by to take care of my basic needs. She’s the only one I see now. She’s been urging me to lose weight. I can move through my door. We were laughing about what happened when she suggested I use my talent to buy us a trip to Barcelona. She’s always wanted to go there and she’s someone I’ve always wanted to reward.

Allan was back at my door as I was packing my bags. He sobbed and pleaded, calling through the keyhole that he owed money to dangerous individuals. I kept to myself until he went away. I cut off with people who let me down. Neighbours later told me he tried a few more times but gave up.

When Cheryl and I got back from Barcelona, I read in the paper where a body was found floating near Circular Quay a few weeks before. The description matched Allan. I didn’t report my suspicions and kept the door shut when people came knocking. A few were insistent but went away.

I heard Igor tell them: “He used to love footy. Now he watches movies and has some woman up there from time to time. She’s making him lose weight so everyone’s happy about that, might take them a few years but.”

Until that first crunch came it was a smooth day.

Noise on gravel was a trumpet announcing battle. Ray’s prosperity and survival relied on his ears. In days when the toughest safe had mechanisms, his ears were tuned to the click of a tumbler deep within. It was time to retire when all went digital. Ray had recently found other uses for his highly tuned ears. Anyone could pick a breaking twig but he could distinguish between boot types, shoes or slippers on sand, mud or grass; even better when a body was walking or running on cement or wood. He could guestimate the weight and basic agility, determine gender, he even knew how certain cultures carried themselves. He could tell when a man or woman was attempting to conceal. No-one could conceal anything from those ears. They had long kept him from being detected and he was glad of it. Men were irrational when they found an intruder in their home, especially if they were in the presence of a woman. They had something to prove and would be brave or cheap enough to take him on. They wouldn’t win because he was practiced in martial arts but it was always messy and ended with the woman screaming and an ambulance called. He didn’t like fighting, it was unnecessary and left harm and damage. It was always an extra demand on a tense occasion.

He felt disturbed after a fight and needed to spend an hour or two in meditation. He’d been a boxer and made some money from street-fighting. It wasn’t his craft; just something he learned out of necessity and curiosity.

He didn’t like a job to get messy and went out of his way to make sure it didn’t.  Anyone crossing the gravel with legitimate cause would stride and crunch but this time there was caution and concealment.

Ray turned out the lights, including the spotlight. He did his best work in the dark and used it to slip away from a close call.

All that was long ago. A man needed to know when his time had come and he was risking too much.  The signs crept up on Ray over the decade. He stayed in the business as long as he could but had a nasty near-miss when he slipped from a tile roof after underestimating a gap.

It scared the shit out of him with such force he saw his entire career slip before his eyes.

His was a criminal craft that had its day; the targets were more secure than any individual working alone; wealthy individuals with expensive acquisitions often preferred to place them in a secure vault room; the panic room was popular and complications of burglary were too vast for a man whose body ached from a life of extremes.

He knew of only two individuals who could absail efficiently and cut into a multi-layered glass windows. It was a fine and specific craft and talent. He’d seen heroes and villains do it at the movies but always restrained a snigger. It was nothing like that in the real world.

“Took you a while” he said as the shadow slid into the room.

“Shit!” said the shadow.

“See! That’s what’s wrong with you new blokes: nothing witty, nothing left of centre, no wry observation under pressure, just shit.”

“Who the fuck are you?” asked the shadow.

“I’m the guy who got here first” said Ray easing himself up from the armchair and keeping his back to the shadow to signal withering disdain.

“What do you mean?” muttered the shadow as he attempted to grasp an unpredictable situation.

“You need everything explained eh? Oh Christ! You’re not a virgin are you? Tell me you’re not a virgin.” Ray growled.

“What’s my sex life got to do with anything?” the shadow demanded.

“A virgin burglar you idiot” said Ray turning on the figure.

“You mean have I done this before?”

“I know exactly what I mean; if you don’t, it’s your problem.”

“I’ve done this before.”

“Then you understand the golden rule?”

“What fucken golden rule!”

“First in best dressed. This is my target, you don’t even sort through scraps. Now kindly leave!”

“Listen mate! I’m younger and quicker than you. I’ll kick your head in, truss you up and leave you for the cops.”

“Good idea Sunshine. . . .not!” said Ray, totally relaxed.

“No way I’m going anywhere Dickhead! I didn’t climb in here to use up my energy throwing jokes at a prick like you. You get what you came for, doesn’t bother me, there’s plenty for both.”

 “It doesn’t work like that!” said Ray. “You’re here and you’ve left footprints in every garden bed, traces of cloth on the masonry. What we’re facing is a demarcation dispute and I’ll tell you why I’m about to win.  They’ll come looking for you. When they find you, as they will, I don’t want you blabbing about some older thief you found. No way! You have my identity and that’s well known to the constabulary. The unfortunate thing about our little co-incident is that this was to be my last job. I can’t risk you.”

“Yeah? What’ll you do about it?”

“I got to shoot you” said Ray with pragmatism as he pulled a grey pistol from his coat.

“Oh shit!” said the suddenly pale former shadow.

“Son! I’m disappointed in your amateurism and in your generation of cat burglar generally. You bring scorn to the craft.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“What? Amateur?”

“I’m not your fucking son! Only one person calls me that and you don’t have what it takes.”

“Well! That balances our mutual disapproval.”

“Get it done you prick!” The diminished shadow obliged by closing his eyes, expecting to die. There seemed a peacefulness about him.

Ray watched him and looked down at the gun with disdain.

“Shoot me!” snarled The Shadow.

“You can’t even pick a plastic replica. What research do you do?”

The Shadow now realised he wasn’t about to die and that made him angry. “What the fuck is this? A job interview?”

“If it were, you wouldn’t get it! Your survival is limited and your future bleak. You’re a bundle of compromises and mistakes.”

A quizzical look slowly formed on The Shadow, an awakening that was ready to sprint out the door or dash headlong at Ray, who steadied himself.

“You fleeing or taking me on?”

“Think you’re pretty fucking clever don’t you?”

“I am fucking clever and I’m not your mate. But we can work something out.”

“Split the takings?”

“I never do that. This is my job, not yours.”

“And you’re stopping me with a little plastic gun eh?”

“You’d be easy to take but there appears to be an excess of agility in that van outside. The other four of you are waiting for your all-clear. Before I you offer a generous concession, tell me one thing: Is this about drugs?”

“Some of the guys will buy up!”

“And you?”

“Got no use for it!”

“That’s the single most encouraging thing I’ve heard all night. You’re fit aren’t you? You climbed that wall with clumsy skill. You’ve got potential. Is anyone training you fir this work?”

“You got to be kidding!” said The shadow with derision. “Who the fuck’d train me?”

“I might!”

“Why?”

“Give me your estimate on the take.”

The shadow had a blank look.

“How much do you expect to make from robbing this place?” asked Ray while actively avoiding condescension.

“Be a fair whack!”

“In dollar terms?”

The shadow gave a little shrug.

“Did you do an inventory?”

“Why would I want to go inventing shit?” sneered the intruder.

“You need training and management. You lack education for jobs like this. You should respect your limits and focus on suburban houses.”

“So I’m not good enough for your high fucking standards eh?”

“You’re not even a beginner! What will you earn tonight, after a five-way split?”

“Ten grand’d be good!”

“You’d risk up to ten years in gaol for ten grand? That’s a thousand dollars for every year of your life. The rewards have to match the risk, that’s the bottom line.  Have two or three nights of fun with your money. The opportunity to spend it will be brief. Do drugs if you must. You seriously undervalue your personal worth and the capacity of the law to catch you. It’s a fatal flaw son!”

“Don’t call me son!”

“I apologise!”

“You do?”

“I have no wish to push your buttons. Is there room for negotiation?”

“Fuck you and your fancy talk! I’m here to do a job and I’ve got a van out there waiting to be loaded.”

“With what? Take a look around. The bulk of art work in here is basic junk that may never have value beyond the thousand or two spent to acquire it. But there is at least one masterpiece and a ceramic collection that will fetch just over a million. My estimate on the total take, with several pieces of antique furniture, is just under five million. I’ve got a sealed truck on the way, not a passenger van with four idiots taking up more room than they’re worth but a big, empty truck to be filled to the brim with disposable valuables.”

“Jesus! You talk a lot!”

“It helps when you’ve got something worth saying!” said Ray with urgency. “Where will you sell the stuff? On the international art market to people who understand its value or in some alley behind a pub to some idiot looking for a quick quid? If I can avoid the total disaster this looks like, my take will be four million and I’m not splitting it six ways. But I will train you and offer you two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“A quarter million out of four? Fuck that! Fifty fifty!”

“You get fifty fifty when you’re worth fifty fifty. .or you round up your guys and get your ten grand worth of cheap thrills.”

The shadow slumped in an armchair, not fully grasping what he’d been told but recognising it was far better than what he had.

“This your last job, right?” he asked Ray.

“It’s my last one solo.”

“We’d work together?”

“You’d do most of the labour, under my supervision, call it on-the-job-training. I’d plan the jobs and we’d sell what we acquire.”

“I’d make millions?” The Shadow needed to know.

“Do exactly as I tell you and you’ll be driving a Maserati and living in a city penthouse. But we’ll need to work out a cover for your sudden immense wealth. I have racetrack and casino contacts who look after that. But I invest and work the money market. My wealth is constantly on the increase. We might need to save that detail for another day.”

“I’ll go tell them cops are on their way!”  Shadow had a face like an excited child as he leapt to his feet. Ray put up a hand to stop him, a calming even restraining gesture that froze them in the room.

“No! Not this job, this time you take away a single item. I choose it because it’ll be worth more than you’ve ever come close to knowing. One item and no more. After that I contact you.”

“You don’t even know my name. How will you contact me?”

“I’m good at these things. Very good!”

“What if you don’t?”

“You’ll have a painting worth three hundred thousand to remember me by. Your first lesson is to always trust the trainer.”

“How do I get the fucking item out of here if me van’s gone?”

“You were planning to take the frame?”

“Shit no! You must think I’m a complete idiot!”

“No! I don’t think that. But I’ve been observing you and there are basics you haven’t even considered: one of the most important is you have no way of assessing the time; We’ve been here six minutes, every second is precious.”

The Shadow didn’t even know how to extract the painting. Ray refused to show him. He watched and winced as the knife lost line and cut into oil, reducing authenticity and value. It took just over two minutes and fifteen seconds to extract the oil from its frame and another minute to roll it up.  “Now go! And not through the front. There a wall in rear but its do-able. We’ll talk in the next day or two.”

“How do you get out?”

“That’s my secret but I’ll tell you this much: I conceal in the location and depart with ease when the fuss dies down.”

“Wo! Clever! You’re pretty smart eh?”

“Smart enough to get this far without being caught!”

As the shadow reached the door, Ray asked a simple question:  “What happened to your father?” The Shadow paused without turning and gripped the rolled painting. “Knife in the liver, died slowly in prison!”

“Good idea to stay out of there eh?” said Ray.

Police let The Shadow climb the wall and come down the other side. Exhausted, he drew a knife but they had weapons aimed. A couple of younger cops were jittery, their guns drawn and shaking. They’d fire if he made the slightest false move. His reckless option was to deprive this wealthy household of one valued item.

He unfurled the painting and slashed at it in fury until pieces of canvas drifted to the ground. After his essential tantrum, his arrest was easy. The Shadow’s four accomplices drove into a blockade on the other side of the drive. All in all, it was an uncomplicated arrest.

“You had seven minutes inside, what took so long?” asked the detective in charge of the case.

“He was delayed” said Ray, as he opened an unlocked gate in the wall. Bathed in light from his property, he took on the appearance of a mythical figure. “This your place?” asked The Shadow without hiding his incredulity.

“Rule Number One son. .be certain the premises are empty.”

“You should listen to Ray” said the detective.

“Yeah?” murmured The Shadow in abject defeat. It was the best he could offer under the circumstances

“You don’t know who this is do you son?” asked the detective.

The shadow winced but thought it best to make no further protest.

The detective was filling in notes, speaking with mild distraction: “Everyone in law enforcement knows Ray Turkhill. Ray made millions on the Riviera and in Monte Carlo. Interpol was after him for the best part of a decade. All they ever had were suspicions that would never stand up in court. To the best of our knowledge he hasn’t knocked over anyone in Sydney. But we keep him in mind. We do the odd spot check don’t we Ray. But Ray here knows when his time has come. He knows its not worth a lifetime in prison to add to his vast wealth. This is his place you tried breaking into, and that wasn’t wise. That wasn’t the best choice you’ve made in life.”

“I fixed your oil painting, Prick” The Shadow gave a sour laugh.

“Yes you did” acknowledged Ray without too much expression. “One thing life has taught me is to take every blessing. Tonight you were my blessing. I watched you from the moment you arrived at my home; response time is seven minutes. You’ve heard of Brer Rabbit and The Tar Baby? No! Probably not! Thing is I hate that painting, always have, it was given to my dear wife by a favourite uncle who died in great pain last year, it had hugely sentimental value but was a bloody ugly thing. My wife Eleanor is at the opera, I hate opera almost as much as that painting.  She’ll be pissed when she sees what you’ve done, she might even arrange to have you bashed. She can afford that and, believe me, she can display a vindictive personality. Last time I checked the insurance was two point five. Good for you son.”

“Fuck me! You fucking windbag” bellowed The Shadow.

Nodding politely to the detective, Ray slipped fluidly through the gate in the wall and, without looking back, told The Shadow:

“Not tonight thank you son! Not tonight.”