Free The Courier's New Bicycle by Kim Westwood Page A

old-fashioned movie way. I have to hide my smile. Skinny is a romantic underneath.
    â€˜You got a name, Andy Pandy?’ he asks me.
    I thought I’d heard all the variations there were on androgynous, but not that one.
    â€˜Salisbury — Sal,’ I reply.
    â€˜Well, Sal, anytime you want to park your Andy Pandy arse beside me in Black Beauty here’ — he points to his mean machine — ‘you just come on by.’
    â€˜Thanks for the offer,’ I say, sure I’ll never be taking him up on it.
    Skinny’s race number comes up, and Lola takes the ride with him. Tits lends me her milk crate and I perch on it at the edge of the roundabout, craning along Wolf Road.
    It’s exciting being in the makeshift grandstand with the screeching, hooting crowd. Flashlights laser in all directions as Skinny and his rival rev their motors at each other then burn their way down the churned-up bitumen, the twin clouds of exhaust followed by the rubber-tearing sound of brakes at the far end. Skinny comes back triumphant and treats Lola to another romantic kiss, the rest of us witness to true love right here at the Bend. Anwar quietly suggests we leave, and I nod. I’ve learnt zip for Gail, but am almost ready to take part in a duel myself — behind the wheel and hand on the gearstick, that is.

6
    Friday night, and the Animal Protection Vigilantes are heading out of the city.
    Reflectors flash by. I stare beyond the freeway safety barriers into a dim-lit skein of suburbs. Anwar and I have had four unproductive nights trawling the streets at Fishermans Bend; meanwhile, the bogus kit has made its appearance in several parts of the CBD and initiated talk everywhere of EHg’s and Gail’s demise. It’s almost a relief to be out on a horse rescue.
    Nagid drives our nondescript SEC hire van, soon exiting the freeway for the smaller roads that run northeast into the Yarra Valley. Here there’s only light traffic, most people saving their energy consumption vouchers for cheaper daytime use. Our destination is a section of the valley just before the old bushfire line. It’s 9 pm. All going to plan, the trip to Greengate Farm should take just under an hour.
    Max sits up the front, his vet’s bag on his lap, while Lydiaand Brigid face Inez and me on the two bench seats in the back. The six of us are uniform in black clothing and steel-capped boots. Our backpacks contain work gloves and balaclavas, head and wrist torches, and the lightweight halters we’ll use on the horses. These last are a flat nylon weave: strong but very soft. We share the responsibility of the tools, Lydia carrying the heavy stuff tonight.
    Brigid wordlessly passes around the sugar cubes and we stuff a handful each in our pockets. Experience has taught us it’s the little things that can decide the difference between a smooth rescue and a rout.
    The suburban sprawl gives way to reserve land. At Crystal Brook, Cicada emerges last minute from the shadows of a bus shelter beside the road and we nearly miss him. He hauls on the side door and climbs in beside Inez, barely a nod to any of us. The only one not in black, he’s wearing scuffed brown riding boots under grey King Gees, and a chequered flanny and wool jumper already smelling of the stable yard.
    Cicada won’t go near the city unless it’s for an animal emergency. He’s made his home somewhere outside it, no one knows exactly where. From what I’ve heard, it’s a bivvy bag under the stars. I feel a little envious of his apparent indifference to the usual human niceties. But I imagine it’s a double-edged sword, both freedom and loneliness in it.
    Half an hour later we’re on a narrow, badly cambered secondary road, and conversation falters, the magnitude of what we’re about to do weighing on us. The silencedeepens. We are in shutdown, emotions plugged and thoughts suspended, everything narrowed to the immediate: