Free Five Parts Dead by Tim Pegler Page A

you to come if I thought you weren’t…feeling up to it.’
    â€˜Nah, I’m okay. Just tired. Sick of dragging this cast around. But thanks…for organising this. It’s good to get away from the cottage.’
    â€˜Don’t thank me; thank Rosh. He’s the one with the wheels—thank God!’
    She bounces out of the bus.
    Hiroshi sidles over next, a beer in his hand for me. It feels like he and Mel have a welfare watch on me today. I don’t want to think about why that might be.
    â€˜No thanks, Rosh. Hey, ummm, beer is big in Japan, right? As in popular?’
    â€˜Yes. Is something we have in common. Beer is favourite drink in Japan, too.’
    â€˜So how come you use the English word for beer?’
    Rosh repeats the word slowly as he constructs his answer. ‘Bii-ru. Biii-roo. I think beer comes to Japan very long time ago…maybe from the Dutch. We use your word to say it but write it very Japanese way—with characters for wheat and sake. Bii-ru.’
    I smile at him, knowing I should try harder to get to know the guy. If he and Mel…I mean, maybe we will be friends but making new mates doesn’t feel…right, not yet.
    Dinner is a barbecue. It crosses my mind that there’s nothing for Pip to eat, when I spot a lonely side table with bedraggled salads and a tub of maggoty-looking rice. Bummer. Tough life being a vego.
    Most of the backpackers are Japanese but there are Germans, Dutch and Canadians too. Hiroshi seems at ease with everyone, even though he must be younger than many of them. I marvel at how relaxed he is, a natural leader. He’s comfortable in this chilled-out crowd and loving every minute of his life that doesn’t involve a suit, tie and Tokyo subways. I’d be stressed to the max trying to get everyone to have a good time.
    I find myself adopted by a Japanese dude and his girlfriend who seem to think I hurt my leg in a surfing accident. I mime ‘shark attack’ to see how that goes down as an explanation. The pair of them turn so pale the zinc cream on their noses is camouflaged. From their gesturing, I think they’re about to take vows of surfing abstinence, when Hiroshi swings by, merrily translates and tells Toshi and Chika that I’m joking. There’s a moment’s lull before they howl with laughter and bury me in a group hug.
    I’m still untangling myself when someone cranks up a stereo so loud that even sign language is impossible.
    My senses start doing circle work.
    Laughter, clinking bottles, doof-doof dancebeats. Beer, barbecue grease, portaloo pong. Light somersaulting as the fire darts and dances through a smoky veil. Sounds, smells, sights all swirl into a sickening, suffocating memory…
    Back in Travis’s pimped-up Falcon, fishtailing away from the party—Aaron at the wheel of his brother’s car. The guys, hooting with hilarity, bound for the bottle shop. Beery affection. The smell of stale takeaway food containers. And Carlo, who must have swum fifty laps through aftershave.
    I’m there, hoping they won’t notice as I pull my seatbelt tighter, wincing and closing my eyes as the Falcon shimmies through traffic, only slowing briefly when they spot five glammed-up girls waving from a P-plated Camry.
    For a moment, the laughter seduces me. I’m grinning like a sideshow clown, high on theme park adrenaline. We’re road warriors, rebels, risk-takers. Unstoppable.
    An elderly pedestrian leaves her shopping buggy on the road, scuttling to the kerb as we drift past. She drills a stare into me, eyes wide, clutching at her chest.
    And suddenly I’m sinking, sweating, hoping Aaron has the sense to ease off.
    He spins the wheels at every set of lights. I’m gritting my teeth, thankful he’s stopping at all. Then he powers onto Brighton Road, cutting off five cars and flooring it away from them. Seated in the middle of the back seat, I can see the traffic