Free Heroin Annie by Peter Corris

when he was hurt, so I smiled at him.
    â€˜Hi, Clem, get sick of the food?’
    He jerked his head at the house. ‘Inside.’ He'd beaten me easily when he didn't have a gun, and there was only a crummy electro-plated cup riding on it, so I didn't fancy my chances now. I walked to the back door and opened it, went in, turned on lights and opened the fridge.
    â€˜Drink, Clem?’
    He raised the gun. ‘No, you either.’
    â€˜Christ, have a heart, I'm bloody dry!’
    â€˜I haven't had a drink in five years, Cliff.’
    â€˜You used to like a drink.’
    â€˜Yeah. Make some coffee; I see you've got the fixings. Have you got a thermos?’
    I said I had, and got it out. I felt more than a little relieved, it sounded as if Clem was planning to travel. I put my car keys on the bench to help the idea along. The coffee pot is big and I gave it a full charge; and then I took a good look at Clem. He looked fit; he was quite brown and his body, under the prison denims and a knee-length plastic raincoat, looked hard. He looked a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw him and that could only mean one thing—he'd kept fit for a reason. His face confirmed that; his jaw was set firm under his battered nose and he emanated purpose and plan. I fiddled around with the coffee things, wondering what to say to him; I didn't think Clem would shoot me, but gaol does strange things to people and guns do go off. ‘How'd you get out, Clem?’ He gave a short, sour laugh. ‘You ever been in there?’
    â€˜Yeah, just on remand, week or so.’
    â€˜Remand! A playground. You should try the real thing. Well, I sucked up and got a job in the kitchen. I fixed one guard and a couple of the cons.’
    I poured the coffee and pushed the sugar across to him. I haven't used sugar since I went on my fitness kick a year ago. Clem ignored the sugar, sipped the coffee black. ‘Must have cost you’, I said.
    â€˜Right.’ He looked at me carefully and put the gun down by his cup. ‘It's funny that, I had to get a mate to sell one of my cars. Joannie … ah, never mind, I'll sort it out.’
    I drank some coffee, still wanting a real drink. ‘What're you going to do now, Clem?’
    He picked up the gun. ‘You're driving me north. When we get there I'm going to use this on a man.’
    â€˜That's crazy. That's life!’
    â€˜I didn't do that job, Cliff, he put me in.’
    â€˜Still …’
    â€˜Don't chat about it! Five years … what've you been doing in the last five years?’
    I finished my coffee, didn't answer.
    â€˜A few birds, Cliff? Bit of travel? I remember you used to read a lot; well, I've had plenty of time to read and to think. So I know what I'm going to do and I don't want to bloody debate it with you. Okay?’
    I nodded, Clem had done a bit of self-improving in prison; he'd never have said ‘debate’ before. He was all the more dangerous for it. I started to pour more coffee but he waved the gun. ‘Stick it in the thermos and make up some food, we've got a long drive.’
    I put together some bread, salami and cheese while Clem watched me. I took out the flagon of white wine but he shook his head.
    â€˜Let's go and get some clothes, we're still about the same size.’
    â€˜A bit of luck that’, I said.
    He grinned at me. ‘Not really; I told you I've thought this out.’
    We weren't welterweights anymore, more like heavy middles; but a pair of my jeans and a shirt and windcheater fitted Clem well enough. I could have taken a chance while he was dressing, but he was still very quick and I knew I wouldn't have been able to use the gun on him anyway. It was a weird feeling; I was alarmed by his manner and his possession of the gun but I couldn't really believe that old Clem would harm me, and in a way I was glad of his company.
    We went back downstairs and listened to the news. He listened