Free Drowned Sprat and Other Stories by Stephanie Johnson

peaceful repose. Beside the picnic table was the Cortina which, I saw now, had grass growing up under its axle. The windows were smashed, all except the windscreen, which had a pattern of silvery cracks across it, like a cobweb.
    ‘Then, suddenly, just as I heard a step behind me, a chicken rushed out from under the car, with a huge wild cat in hot pursuit. They vanished into the long grass and I heard the impact — jaw on feathery rump — and the giant cat’s paws thudding away towards the bush gully. The alarm I felt expressed itself in my bladder, which stung and burned intolerably, so I turned around again, to pass my predecessor to the toilet. But there was no one there.
    ‘It didn’t concern me. I remember thinking I must have imagined hearing the step, and that it must have been some new sensor technology, something newly installed, that had made thedoor slide open. I went inside and the door slid shut after me.
    ‘There was a woman standing beside the hand-drying unit with a tube of lipstick extended in her hand. At least I thought it was a woman, until I looked more closely and saw that it was a transvestite, one of those poor devils that haunted K Road and Fort Street before Robert’s lot were elected to council and cleared them all out. She wore a green nylon dress that more closely resembled a petticoat, and huge sandals, her horny toenails long and painted orange. A small, glittery evening bag hung on a chain from her shoulder.
    ‘“Didn’t you hear me cooee?” she asked. “You in a hurry?”’
    Coral does a passable imitation. I can hear the tranny’s voice — soft, treacly, teasing.
    ‘“Could put this on in the car, but the rear-vision’s gone,” she said, bending to the narrow strip of greasy mirror in the wall and applying the lipstick. “But if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll just be a tick.”’
    ‘“Your car?” I said. I depressed the button on the wall, a red one to match the control on the other side, by now so desperate to pee I decided to go outside in the grass. Nothing happened. While she talked on I pressed the button at least twenty more times.
    ‘“My mother’s. On my way up north with it. She died and I’m taking it to my sister. Liar liar pants on fire! Stole it off a man I had in Albany who needed a pee as bad as you do now and left the keys in the ignition —” She paused to press her freshly coloured lips together.
    ‘She’s a nut, I realised, and the sooner I got out of there the better. I pressed the button again, to no response, only a faint whirring and clicking inside the wall, just audible under her voice.
    ‘“Go right ahead there, girl,” she said. “Don’t stand there with your legs crossed.” Still intent on the mirror, she dug into hershoulder bag and extracted a mascara wand.
    ‘“Go on. Don’t mind me.”
    ‘And God help me, I didn’t mind her at all because I couldn’t — my panties were damp and getting damper. I squeezed past and tore down my trousers and sat with a thud without even checking the seat, and it was a torrential, humiliating flow, throughout which I kept my head bowed. When I looked up at her again after I was back in order, she was dabbing on scent, watching me.
    ‘“Feel better now?” she asked. She had real concern in her voice. It touched me in spite of myself. I felt my heart constrict with it, told her yes thank you, and went to the button again, thinking that perhaps the lock was on a timer and that now it would respond. It didn’t.
    ‘The transvestite watched me, registered my rising panic, smiling kindly. She didn’t seem at all affected.
    ‘“You’ve really let yourself go, haven’t you, honey?” she said in the same concerned tone. She reached out then and touched me, stroked my arm, and her finger on my arm put a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t revulsion because she was a transvestite, some squeamishness or fear of disease or anything, it was because I knew suddenly that she was dangerous. As