Free The Low Road by Chris Womersley

it is.
    Wild scratched his face and cleared his throat before throwing out a hand and saying in a booming voice: I am in blood so far steeped that I should—No, wait. Should I . . . wade no more, to go back would be . . . as tedious as going over. Or something.
    What?
    Shakespeare old chap. The bard .
    Lee nodded absently. He was fading. He tried to focus on his surrounds. There was a radio on the sideboard alongside a metal jug of water. The edge of the laminated bedside table was scored with thin, black scorch marks from forgotten cigarettes. A truck pulled into the car park with a mechanical snuffle. Outside, morning was taking hold and light trickled into the room like weak, milky tea. He thought of the bullet inside him, this fragment of the world he now carried. He was exhausted. The ceiling light fizzled. What did all this mean, if anything? Everything. Nothing. He opened the suitcase. The money, all there. His money. He thought of his sister, of his childhood self pulled against her stomach, the cold smell of their kitchen. Still clothed, he arranged himself around the suitcase and passed into a thick and dreamless sleep.

9

    J osef wormed through the traffic and arrived at Stella’s apartment block early in the morning. It was a quiet street; hardly any people walked by, a few cars. He parked opposite the grey, three-storey block and checked his gun. He rolled a cigarette and smoked it inside the car, keeping an eye out for anyone going in or out. Nothing. Leaves gathered in the doorway, corralled by the wind. Josef checked himself in the rear-view mirror. He had barely slept the night before, just lay in the dark wondering what to do. He ran a hand over his face and patted his black hair into place. After twenty minutes, he crossed the road.
    The stairwell was dim and quiet. A woman answered when he knocked. Strange. All his information was that Stella lived alone, that he had no family or friends in the city. I’m sorry. I think I have the wrong address. I was expecting someone else. . . .
    The woman rested her weight on one foot. She was young, maybe thirty-five, with short, blonde hair. Her face was halved lengthwise by the partly open door. Well. That makes two of us.
    Josef stammered. He looked around the musty landing and tugged at his sleeve. Perhaps it was the next apartment? Sorry. I was looking for a Mr. Stella.
    There was a dim murmur of domestic activity emanating from somewhere in the back of the apartment, a smell of food cooking. The woman tilted her head a fraction. Oh yeah?
    Josef wondered if he could jam his foot into the door before the woman closed it. Does he live here?
    The woman sniffed and looked Josef up and down slowly. She checked the hallway behind her before leaning in towards him. Look, she said in a low voice. You’ve got what you want, now piss off.
    Josef sucked his tooth. He tried to see past the woman down the dark hallway but could make out nothing. I’m not here to see you, missy. I’m here for Stella, alright. Now is he here? I need that money back.
    You can’t see him, mate.
    So he does live here?
    You can’t see him, the woman repeated and began to close the door.
    Josef reached into his jacket for his gun, simultaneously stepping forward to press his foot against the door. This fucking bitch, he thought, is going to get it.
    The woman pressed a pistol into Josef’s abdomen. Don’t move. I already shot the other cunt and I’ll do it to you as well, old man. You’re not getting in here.
    You shot Lee?
    The woman shrugged. That his name? Yeah. Sort of an accident, but you’ll get it too if you’re not careful. I’m not as afraid of you as you think, mate.
    Did you kill him?
    She shrugged. Doubt it. Maybe.
    Josef had to stoop to see her face. Green eyes, a tiny glob of mascara on her eyelashes. It was early to be cooking, he thought. A roast perhaps, with vegetables and wine and the good cutlery. A family lunch, the