Commended: Fiction, Ian Iaver
Ian laver is a well-travelled fiction writer living in south east Queensland. His previous credits include magazine articles and publication in five anthologies, and more. He was editor of a small country association magazine and had a regular column in the Sunshine Coast Literary Association ENews. Experience as Chair of the famous Coolum Wave Writers and President and Vice President of the Sunshine Coast Literary Association, in addition to conducting writing and poetry workshops, has added to his literary experience. Major awards include two Henry Lawson Emerging Writer and a Tom Howard Short Story Award.
Ricochet
His confidence dropped like a sinker. New South Wales police officers, two of them, chequered peaked caps Gestapo style, leather jackets and boots, arms out like gunslingers. They glanced at him, level along the platform, and then at each other for a moment. Both turned and looked hard at him, then started the march in his direction. Echoes of footsteps and voices bounced off the tiles and tunnels. An electric train quaked the underground in the distance.
They kept coming, locking him in line of sight. Sweat poured out of his beanie into his eyes and he could smell the halo of bad breath.
Bevan knew it was all over. Narelle, that bitch! Those public servants, and the rest of them … bastards.
Bevan was going to get it together. No more lining up at the employment office and pretending to look for work. Go and be a landscape labourer in Port Kembla? Work on the roads at Gosford? Pick fruit at Shepparton? Pig’s arse. They had to be joking! Those bastards, public servant mongrels, probably on 80 grand a year. It was easy for them to say, sitting in air-conditioned offices, typical overpaid arseholes.
RICOCHET
And the rest, politicians, bankers and CEOs, all on the take. They were all at it. Why shouldn't he have some of it?
Bevan provided a service for people; he was an essential part of the community. He was definitely going to move up the chain of command. The proceeds had just come in from two ‘borrowed’ cars and a wad of cash from a shed full of power tools. There had been a long chat with Bomber and it was just a matter of waiting for the phone call.
"Where you been?" he yelled, cracking his knuckles.
"I … out."
Bevan held up his index finger, preaching mullah style. His dry eyes glanced and glinted. Narelle just stared at him. The bruising on her face after three days had jaundiced. His bulk menaced her. She anchored further in defiance. He raised his other arm, decorated with confused ink design, fist clenched.
Bevan knew who it was. She had accidently left her phone on the kitchen table and gone out. He had listened to her messagebank.
She trembled but managed to keep her eyes steady. "I hate you," she said, flat, deadpan.
The phone saved her.
RICOCHET
"Ay."
It was Bomber.
"It's on, man!"
Bevan snorted a generous line of speed and headed to the underground railway station. The click of busy rank-and-file echoes bounced off the shiny surfaces and rumbles shivered up the ramp. He pulled his beanie down lower: it wasn't that cold. A blind hopeful played Dylan with a yawning guitar case sparsely scattered with silver coins.
He nudged the door into the men’s. Bomber was standing in front of a mirror preening, and a bloke in a floral shirt was having a leak. Bevan nodded towards the end cubicle and turned away just as the other bloke squelched out.
Bomber clicked the cubicle door shut using a tissue and whispered, "Get bad diseases from dunnies. Right. Got the money?"
"Yep. Got the stuff?"
Bomber pulled out a large plastic pack. "There. Let's see the money, man."
Bevan snatched the pack. "You've been rooting my missus, eh old mate."
RICOCHET
"Whaaaat?"
"Not only stupid but deaf too. You should be careful what you say on the fucking phone, dickhead."
Bevan's hand shot out like a moray eel, grabbed Bomber by the throat and pinned him against the cubicle wall. His other fist dealt a thudding blow to the other man’s stomach. Scrawny Bomber had no answer for the hydraulic press around his throat. His eyes almost exploded and Bevan could feel the life of the other man slowly recede as urine and brown muck pooled on the floor. Bevan had to step back.
Someone came into the toilet whistling, ‘Alfie’.
Bevan held on, squeezing even tighter. He became aware of his hissing breath through rotten teeth and the increasing lavatory stench.
Whistling continued, the urinal flushed, a tap gushed and spat, footsteps squelched and the door opened. ‘Alfie’ finished with the whoomp and click.
Bomber slid down the wall like a blob of custard into the reeking puddle. Bevan worked on self-control for a few seconds. He shook his head and climbed over into the next cubicle where he reeled off some toilet paper. He wadded where his hands had been, then stepped quickly to the main door, nudged it, dropped the paper and walked out.
RICOCHET
Bevan pulled the beanie down further and hunched his shoulders. He popped on a pair of sunglasses and walked down the ramp to the quake of a train and fading Dylan, pockets full of product and proceeds.
The cops were almost on him; the platform shook. Sweat soaked his shirt.
The tall cop said, "Let's get a coffee, Reg," and they walked straight past him.
The train rumbled in, air and thunder. Bevan turned, looked at the departing leather jackets, and jumped into the carriage just as the doors swooshed closed.
They kept coming, locking him in line of sight. Sweat poured out of his beanie into his eyes and he could smell the halo of bad breath.
Bevan knew it was all over. Narelle, that bitch! Those public servants, and the rest of them … bastards.
Bevan was going to get it together. No more lining up at the employment office and pretending to look for work. Go and be a landscape labourer in Port Kembla? Work on the roads at Gosford? Pick fruit at Shepparton? Pig’s arse. They had to be joking! Those bastards, public servant mongrels, probably on 80 grand a year. It was easy for them to say, sitting in air-conditioned offices, typical overpaid arseholes.
RICOCHET
And the rest, politicians, bankers and CEOs, all on the take. They were all at it. Why shouldn't he have some of it?
Bevan provided a service for people; he was an essential part of the community. He was definitely going to move up the chain of command. The proceeds had just come in from two ‘borrowed’ cars and a wad of cash from a shed full of power tools. There had been a long chat with Bomber and it was just a matter of waiting for the phone call.
"Where you been?" he yelled, cracking his knuckles.
"I … out."
Bevan held up his index finger, preaching mullah style. His dry eyes glanced and glinted. Narelle just stared at him. The bruising on her face after three days had jaundiced. His bulk menaced her. She anchored further in defiance. He raised his other arm, decorated with confused ink design, fist clenched.
Bevan knew who it was. She had accidently left her phone on the kitchen table and gone out. He had listened to her messagebank.
She trembled but managed to keep her eyes steady. "I hate you," she said, flat, deadpan.
The phone saved her.
RICOCHET
"Ay."
It was Bomber.
"It's on, man!"
Bevan snorted a generous line of speed and headed to the underground railway station. The click of busy rank-and-file echoes bounced off the shiny surfaces and rumbles shivered up the ramp. He pulled his beanie down lower: it wasn't that cold. A blind hopeful played Dylan with a yawning guitar case sparsely scattered with silver coins.
He nudged the door into the men’s. Bomber was standing in front of a mirror preening, and a bloke in a floral shirt was having a leak. Bevan nodded towards the end cubicle and turned away just as the other bloke squelched out.
Bomber clicked the cubicle door shut using a tissue and whispered, "Get bad diseases from dunnies. Right. Got the money?"
"Yep. Got the stuff?"
Bomber pulled out a large plastic pack. "There. Let's see the money, man."
Bevan snatched the pack. "You've been rooting my missus, eh old mate."
RICOCHET
"Whaaaat?"
"Not only stupid but deaf too. You should be careful what you say on the fucking phone, dickhead."
Bevan's hand shot out like a moray eel, grabbed Bomber by the throat and pinned him against the cubicle wall. His other fist dealt a thudding blow to the other man’s stomach. Scrawny Bomber had no answer for the hydraulic press around his throat. His eyes almost exploded and Bevan could feel the life of the other man slowly recede as urine and brown muck pooled on the floor. Bevan had to step back.
Someone came into the toilet whistling, ‘Alfie’.
Bevan held on, squeezing even tighter. He became aware of his hissing breath through rotten teeth and the increasing lavatory stench.
Whistling continued, the urinal flushed, a tap gushed and spat, footsteps squelched and the door opened. ‘Alfie’ finished with the whoomp and click.
Bomber slid down the wall like a blob of custard into the reeking puddle. Bevan worked on self-control for a few seconds. He shook his head and climbed over into the next cubicle where he reeled off some toilet paper. He wadded where his hands had been, then stepped quickly to the main door, nudged it, dropped the paper and walked out.
RICOCHET
Bevan pulled the beanie down further and hunched his shoulders. He popped on a pair of sunglasses and walked down the ramp to the quake of a train and fading Dylan, pockets full of product and proceeds.
The cops were almost on him; the platform shook. Sweat soaked his shirt.
The tall cop said, "Let's get a coffee, Reg," and they walked straight past him.
The train rumbled in, air and thunder. Bevan turned, looked at the departing leather jackets, and jumped into the carriage just as the doors swooshed closed.
