Free The Last Time We Spoke by Fiona Sussman

George – they were his love and hate, his every day, his personality and purpose. They were his answer. Without them, he was nothing.
    ‘Cunt!’ he screamed, moving in on the guy with the evil smirk.Ben’s fist connected with his pockmarked face. It felt good. His anger, tonight at least, had found a home.
    His enemy stumbled and fell, before managing to scramble away. Ben picked up a broken bottle and gave chase, dodging and diving through the disorder until he’d caught up with his prey. Then he was bottling the guy, again and again and again. Suddenly a fishing knife came out of nowhere and sliced through Ben’s hoodie, his T-shirt, his skin. He didn’t feel anything at first – just saw his sleeve gaping. Black spots started dancing in front of his eyes, and he realised that the blood dripping into the pool of red was also his – blue mixing with red.
     
    Grit pressed into his cheek and his ear felt as if it was folded in two. He tried to lift his head to relieve the pain, but it was as heavy as a wheelbarrow full of rocks. The tarmac tilted. He opened his eyes wider, trying to stop the halo of blackness from seeping in.
    ‘It’s the pigs!’ someone shouted above the din. Instantly, the tangle of bodies and roar of hate evaporated, hazy shapes melting into the night, to leave only Ben and the bottled boy behind.
    Ben’s mind cleared as stills from the farmhouse night flashed in front of him. He had to get away.
    He hauled himself up. Spots crowded his vision.
    For a moment, he teetered there in the bubble of red and blue light; then his legs began to bend like plasticine softening in the sun, and he crumpled again to the kerb.
    It was a relief to give over to being caught. It had been hell the past six weeks, lurching between sweet oblivion and cold, sober fear. His nails were ragged stumps and his eyes racooned with tiredness. His abs were now so flat they were hollow, the meat sucked right up against his bones like heated plastic wrap, and his nerves were all frayed and worn. He thought about the time he and Georgehad been out in the Manukau Harbour in George’s dinghy when a storm blew up. Being finally flung into the water had come as a relief after hours of trying to keep the boat afloat.
     
    ‘Look straight at the camera.’
    Ben stood against the whitewashed wall, his jaw locked, his eyes staring down the lens.
    A flash of silver-white light.
    ‘This way.’
    Another flash.
    Ben stared at his ink-printed fingertips poking out from under the sling. He couldn’t feel three of his fingers.
    ‘I’ve booked ’em, Ray. All under age. Two from the Glenfield GDBs and one from the DOAs.’
    ‘DOAs?’ the old cop repeated, looking to Ben for more information.
    Ben sucked his teeth.
    ‘Dead On Arrival,’ the other cop translated, filling Ben’s silence. ‘New North Shore feeder gang.’
    ‘Bloody lucky he wasn’t dead on arrival.’
    They both snorted.
    ‘One’s gone on to Middlemore Hospital with facial injuries and a punctured lung. This one had a laceration to his forearm. It’s already been stitched.’
    The doctor had said the scar on Ben’s arm would be a significant one. Ben was pleased. He’d have something to show for it.
    The older cop sighed. ‘Take him down to the cells. He can sober up on the concrete.’

CARLA
    Carla went rigid as the cold metal slid into her vagina, the speculum forcing her open.
    ‘Just breathe deeply and try to relax.’
    Relax. Carla grimaced at the absurdity of this directive.
    ‘Hopefully this will be the last of these for a while,’ her GP, Naomi, said, peering down the beam of light into her.
    Carla stared at the perforated ceiling, following the pattern of dots to different dead ends.
    ‘The good news is that I can’t see any blisters,’ Naomi added, feeding the swab into a long plastic tube and sealing it. ‘But keep taking the Zovirax. It’ll reduce the frequency of further outbreaks.’
    Carla nodded and started to sit up.
    ‘Just a sec,