Free No Worries by Bill Condon

Sick in the body was okay. Sick in the head wasn’t.
    â€˜You’re a bit quiet, tonight, Dreamy,’ said Norm.
    Eric looked up from a girlie mag. ‘Get a knock-back, did ya?’
    I was trying to think of what to say when he struck again.
    â€˜No, that can’t be right. I forgot — you wouldn’t have lost yer cherry yet, would yer?’
    He called out to Bob. ‘Whatcha reckon, Supers? Yer think Dreamy’s ever had a naughty?’
    â€˜None of my business,’ said Bob.
    Holding his hands behind his head, Eric leaned back, stretched and yawned.
    â€˜I got you worked out, haven’t I, pally?’ He grinned. ‘You never even been close to a sheila. Never even been kissed. Hey, Normie, we got us a virrrrgin!’
    Norm’s eyes were all over me. He wasn’t laughing out loud, but he was still having a good time.
    I couldn’t think of a single thing that would shut Eric up.
    Bob saved me. ‘Better than bein’ a mental virgin like you, Rattlehead.’
    â€˜Hey?’
    â€˜That’s right, mental virgin, you are. Next idea’ll be yer first.’
    Norm’s belly jiggled about as he laughed.
    â€˜Fair go,’ said Eric. ‘What is this — Pick on Ek Day?’
    â€˜Only stating the facts.’ Puff, puff. ‘That brain of yours is never going to pack it in from over-use, that’s for sure.’
    â€˜You’re not wrong there, Supers,’ said Norm.
    Eric forced a smile — better to pretend they hadn’t got to him. I knew he wouldn’t bother me again for a while.
    Cusack drove in at about two o’clock, top speed as usual. He even drove fast in reverse. His truck thumped the dock as he backed it in.
    â€˜Look at the way he drives,’ said Norm. ‘Good thing he’s not a jockey — whip a horse to death, he would.’
    His milk was on the dock ready for him, so he had no reason to gripe. He still looked surly though, with that ‘don’t come near me’ face as he loaded the truck. He was about to leave when he realised something was missing.
    â€˜Hey, where’s my custard?’ He clambered into the back of the truck and lifted up crates, before barrelling over to Eric.
    â€˜Where’s my carton of custard? I ordered one.’
    â€˜Stuffed if I know.’
    Bob nodded towards the coolroom. ‘Grab it yourself.’
    Muttering and shaking his head, Cusack stomped off and got the custard, held it up so we could see it, then threw it into the back of the truck. He slammed the door, gunned the engine. Gone.
    We were glad to see the back of him.
    A few hours later a paddy wagon turned up. A hulking great cop took off his cap and laboured up the steps towards me.
    â€˜You got a milkman here called Cusack?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Bob came over. ‘What’s up?’
    â€˜We’ve had a milko been killed. On the driver’s licence it says his name’s Cusack. Got his milk out of here, did he?’
    Bob rubbed his chin, letting the news sink in. Finally he answered. ‘He’s one of ours all right.’
    â€˜Good. That’s a problem solved. Got his family coming in to identify the body, but we need someone to drive his truck back here — it’s full of milk.’
    â€˜How’d it happen?’ Bob asked.
    â€˜He got hit by a car on the highway. We think he jumped out the driver’s side, didn’t look — whammo. Bounced off the windscreen of the car that hit him. Wouldn’t have known much about it anyway, that’s one good thing.’
    â€˜Cusack, eh?’
    â€˜That’s our boy. So you got someone to drive the truck back, have you?’
    I felt like the cop had punched me in the gut. I could hardly breathe.
    â€˜That’s no problem,’ said Bob without a moment’s thought. ‘Might as well do it now.’
    â€˜Rightio then.’
    â€˜You tell the others, will you,