Free Getting Warmer by Alan Carter Page B

Night with my son. Non-negotiable.’
    ‘How was your kebab?’ said Cato.
    Jake shrugged and nodded and took a swig of Coke. They were sitting in the window of Ali Baba’s on South Terrace: the light fading and the crowds building. Jake seemed to find everything mildly interesting, except his dad. Year 6 and the boy was already tall, inherited both from Cato and Jane, and his face wore an aloof, self-contained expression. They disposed of their wrappers and crossed the road down Essex Street towards Esplanade Park, following the throng. The park, as expected, was chockers with families, rugs, picnic chairs, Aussie flags, glow-sticks, kids running amok. Cato found a space under a Norfolk pine, unpacked two camp chairs from their sausage bags, and parked himself. Half an hour to blast off, he wondered how this spot was still free so late in the day. He felt a splatter on his ear and shoulder and realised why. Above them a pink and grey galah shook its tail and resettled. Jake was smiling, at last.
    ‘Bird shit is meant to be good luck,’ said Cato wiping himself down.
    ‘Looks like you’ll be having lots of it,’ said Jake.
    ‘So how’s the piano going?’
    ‘Gave it up, it’s boring.’
    Cato held onto his open, non-confrontational face. ‘Really? When? Mum never mentioned it.’
    ‘Why should she?’
    ‘No reason,’ said Cato airily. ‘Taking up anything else?’
    ‘Electric guitar. Simon’s in a band, he’s teaching me some cool stuff.’
    Simon. Jane’s new boyfriend. ‘That’s great,’ said Cato.
    ‘He’s got a Gibson.’
    ‘Wow.’
    Night had fallen. Anticipation crackled in the air. Wasamba moved through the crowd, drumming, whistling and generally adding to the racket. Seagulls squawked and Aussies Oi, Oi, Oied. Jake, in spite of his pre-teen coolness, allowed his elbow to touch Cato’s. They sat in companionable silence and took it all in. The radio-host MC announced that it was just two minutes to Cracker Night ignition.
    There was movement a few metres to the right, pushing and shoving and raised voices. Cato could see a gang of youths in Bintang singlets and one with an Aussie flag on his T-shirt and the words ‘Born and Bred’. They’d formed a circle: somebody in the middle of them, the target of their aggression. Cato heard the words ‘Fuck off, we’re full’. Not now, not near me, thought Cato. He knew there were security guards and uniformed police doing their rounds, they could deal with it.
    The commotion built and suddenly a yell.
    ‘He’s got a knife!’
    A figure raced past.
    ‘Jake, stay here and don’t move. I’ll be back.’
    Cato turned to his picnic neighbours, a couple with a toddler, and asked them to keep an eye on Jake. Then he gave chase.
    Even in the dimness and the chaos he could have sworn that it was the same African bloke he’d encountered at X-Wray Cafe on Sunday. If so, then the Aussie Born and Bred gang had picked on the wrong man. He was heading towards Marine Terrace and the Esplanade Hotel and from there he could disappear into the warren of Fremantle back streets. He was about twenty metres ahead of Cato and the gap was widening. Cato cursed the crowds, the dark, and his lack of recent exercise. The playground loomed, parents still pushing their kids on the swings in the half-light. The fireworks countdown had started, everybody in unison – ten, nine, eight ... Cato dodged the swinging kids and narrowly avoided a pram. Seven, six, five ... Up ahead the African lunged at someone who’d tried to grab him and lost precious seconds. Three, two, one ... the world exploded.
    The crowd oohed and aahed and looked skywards. Cato followedhis man across Marine Terrace into the West End, colours bursting above. The buildings were grand and ornate, mainly three-storey, dating back to the early days of the prospering port, and now mostly occupied by Notre Dame University. Here and there an opening into a backyard, an alley blocked by a barred gate, a burst