I was about ten kilometres from home, happy, at peace for a moment, driving in the dark down a winding lonely stretch without farmhouses. A siren came on behind me, harsh, braying sound, happiness disrupted, rear-view mirror full of flashing orange light.
I slowed, went onto the verge, stopped.
The car pulled up close behind me but much further off the road.
I rolled down the window, waited.
A middle-aged cop, moustache, leather jacket, no cap, appeared at the window.
‘Licence,’ he said, tired voice.
‘What’s this about?’ I said. ‘I wasn’t speeding.’
‘Licence, please,’ he repeated.
I found it in my wallet, handed it over.
He shone his torch on it. ‘MacArthur J. Faraday?’
‘Yes.’
‘This your current address?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mind stepping out of the vehicle. Sir.’
‘Jesus,’ I said, got out. Bitter cold outside, no moon, north wind humming in the trees. The dog made his warning sound.
‘Quiet,’ I said ‘Stay.’
‘Turn and face the vehicle, please, hands on top,’ the cop said.
‘What’s going on here?’ I said. ‘There’s no…’
‘Do as I say, please. This’ll only take a minute. We’re looking for stolen goods.’
I turned and assumed the position.
‘Pace back, please.’
I took the pace, weight on my hands, unbalanced, leaning on the freezing vehicle.
A second cop came around the back of the Land Rover, short, pale hair slicked down, head just an extension of his thick neck. He had no visible eyebrows and a nose like the teat of a baby’s dummy.
He walked straight to me, swung his left leg, kicked my left leg out backwards, hit me in the back of the neck with a round side-on swing of his fist.
Everything went red, black, white, unbearable pain behind the eyes, in the bones of my head. I didn’t even feel myself fall, land on the wet tarmac.
The next thing I registered was a heavy weight, a foot between my shoulder blades, something cold and hard pressing against the cavity under my left ear.
The muzzle of a revolver.
The pain seemed to dissolve. Cold and rough tarmac against the face, chill wind down here at ground level, smell of Anne on my shirt, French perfume, delicious Anne. I registered that but all I felt was sad. Sad and stupid. The watchful years, the looking for the signs, the ingrained disbelief about everything. For nothing. This is a stupid way to go, I thought. Careless. What would Berglin say?
‘Bobby said to say goodbye,’ said the middle-aged cop. ‘Be here to say it himself, only he’s got better things to do.’
He pulled my head back by the hair, painful, changed the angle of the muzzle to make sure he blew my brain away.
Headlights. Coming the way I’d come.
‘Fuck,’ said the man. ‘Don’t move.’ He took the barrel away from my ear, pushed down harder on my spine with his foot.
A vehicle slowed, slowed, almost stopping. Went past us. Stopped.
I turned my head, saw the driver’s door of a ute open, stocky frame come out, curly hair.
Flannery. On his way to the pub.
‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘What the fuck’s this?’
‘It’s an arrest, sunshine,’ the neckheaded cop said. ‘Get back in your vehicle and drive on immediately. Now. Or you’re under arrest for obstructing a police officer.’
I couldn’t see the expression on Flannery’s face but I could see the shrug.
‘Okay, okay, I’m going,’ he said. ‘You could’ve asked nicely.’
He got back into the ute. Trouble getting it into gear, clutch grating.
‘He ID us?’ the middle-aged cop said.
‘This light?’ Neckhead said. ‘No fucking way. He gets round the bend, buzz this cunt.’
Flannery revved his engine.
Hope gone.
And then Flannery’s ute was coming at us in reverse, engine screaming.
‘Jesuschrist!’ the cop standing on me shouted.
His foot came off my spine.
I tucked my legs in, rolled to my right, heard Flannery’s ute hit flesh and bone, brakes squeal, shouting.
I got around the front of the Land Rover, stood up. Flannery in first gear, coming back past me.