Free Saving Billie by Peter Corris

He handed back the licence.
    â€˜Spotted you around over the past hour and a bit, Mr Hardy. Would you tell me what you’re doing here?’
    I took out the folder with my PEA licence and showed it to him. ‘I’m working.’
    â€˜Doing what?’
    I shook my head. ‘I’m not causing any trouble.’
    â€˜You better not. If you’re still here when we come around again we’ll cause some trouble for you.’
    Fair enough. The fight outside the protection centre, the shutdown bottle shop and the graffiti suggested that the area was volatile with its racial mixture and poverty. They didn’t need the likes of me. He hitched the belt holding all the equipment they carry these days, went back to his car and they drove off.
    I still had no idea what to do and now I was under time pressure. A minute later a car pulled up outside the unit. The man who got out made the Hilux 4WD look small— John Manuma. Seeing him at full stretch for the second time, I realised he was as big a man as I’d ever seen anywhere. It made me even more reluctant to tackle the place.
    Manuma stepped over the gate, marched up to the front door and went straight in. He stayed for less than five minutes, stalked back to his car looking angry, and drove away. Could he be an ally despite our earlier encounter? I doubted it. Then she came out. Billie. Had to be. She had the platinum hair, the short skirt and skimpy top, the legs, the stacked-heel sandals. She shouted something back at the door of the unit as it was slammed shut, then she spun around and went towards her car. With a snarl on her face and her shoulders thrown aggressively back, she reminded me of Mike Carlton’s description of Rose Hancock—all tits and teeth.
    Her car was a white VW Golf. She slung her shoulder bag inside, got in, gunned the motor and took off, burning rubber. I was glad to be up and running after all the indecision. I let her get well ahead and followed, feeling guilty about being relieved I hadn’t had to front the vigilantes, but confident, at last, of making some progress. She kept up a steady speed just above the limit, looking as keen to leave Liston behind her as I was. She slowed down through Campbelltown, observed the signs and the limits, and was easy to follow. I spared a brief thought for Tommy as I passed the railway station but nothing more. He’d done okay and, as it turned out, I hadn’t put him in jeopardy.
    The Golf picked up speed. Not Billie’s kind of car, I would have thought, but she drove it well, asserting herself but not dangerously. For no good reason other than what I’d been told about Billie, I expected her to take the highway to the big smoke. Not so. She headed down the road to everywhere south of Sydney and I settled back for a long drive. Fooled me again. We reached the old town of Picton. It’s funny the things that come back to you. I remember having to do a school project on country towns and Picton was one that fell to me. All I remember is that it was named after a general who got killed at the Battle of Waterloo. At that age I was more interested in battles than economics, still am for that matter. So I don’t remember what got Picton established. Mining probably, and dairying—always safe bets.
    She pulled in at a pub. Thank you, Billie, I thought. Thank you very much.
    She got out, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, and went into the pub. It was old style with a balcony running around the front and sides one floor up and other remnants of the original structure not ruined by probably several phases of renovation. It looked welcoming. I followed her into the bar and saw her heading off to the women’s toilet. Maybe she was just paying a visit for that purpose. I hoped not. I ordered a light beer and was relieved when she came out, ordered a gin and tonic and took the drink through to an outside area where she could smoke. She lit up and settled down