The Courier's New Bicycle (24 page)

My tongue searches for the wound. I find it, and taste blood. It's unbearably sexy. We breathe into each other as
we kiss, and the myriad sensations coalesce, become an emotional cascade. Inez strokes up inside my thigh and every muscle in me aches with want: to fuck right here among the ruby-throated flowers and light-splecked leaves; to fuck and hold her till we're both drenched in sweat and weeping.

Albee's in his workshop the next afternoon when I arrive at Bike Heaven, the
OPEN
sign affixed to new glass. I call out, then on his reply stroll down an aisle of shelving to where he's seated at the workbench, oiling the chain and working the gear changes on a mountain bike that's seen better days.

‘Hey, Mr Wainwright,' I say, handing him his car keys.

He shrugs out of his vinyl work apron and stands up shakily, using the bench as a prop. We hug. It's apparent how much weight he's lost. I'm careful not to squeeze too hard.

Underneath the apron he's spruce in jeans, a pressed shirt and thin black tie.

‘You look nice.'

‘I'm going back to the hospital later,' he says casually.

I look at him in surprise. ‘What for?'

‘A few things to do.'

I spy the roses wrapped and ribboned atop the bar fridge. ‘Any of them with flowers?'

He looks bashful. ‘They're a thank you for Sarah.'

‘Albee, you wouldn't happen to be carrying a torch for your nice ICU nurse, would you?' I tease, and he blushes furiously.

I lean on the bench and smile up at him. ‘She's one very cool RN.'

A gleam comes into his eye. ‘I've got something for you.'

He goes slowly down the aisle that leads to the door of his flat, then disappears and comes out again wheeling a bike. It's an electric-blue racer with black cranks and handlebars. A thing of beauty; a thing of joy.

‘I was very sorry to hear what happened to your old treadly,' he says, ‘but it's time you upgraded. This one's a rocket — smooth as …'

I'm only half listening as he gives a loving rundown of components.

‘Albee.' Tears prick. Words fail me.

He gestures me to take it.

I test its weight. Lighter than my old one. Setting it back down, I fit my hands to the bars and squeeze the brakes. Already I can tell the angles and distances have been tailored to me, and I feel a flush of excitement at the thought of riding it.

‘What do I owe you?'

‘Nothing.'

‘But I need to pay you something. This is an expensive build, and you're about to get a swag of hospital bills.'

‘Rubbish,' he says. ‘It's a gift. I had it all ready to go, before …'

He's teared up, and I'm in no better state. We've weathered a lot together — some pretty dramatic changes across the years — and are both still here.

A wave of regret rushes in on me. ‘I have to tell you about the last few weeks.'

He looks at me candidly, then goes to the bar fridge and opens the door wide. Bottles glint green, labels out: Tasmanian tigers all in a row. ‘These will be waiting for the moment,' he says. ‘Until then, I don't care about the details. Now go, my friend, and ride your new bike.'

 

I'm spinning along the cycle tracks from South Melbourne to the city, exhilarated by the kinaesthetic sync of parts, body with machine. It's like being a kid again on my revelatory first ride.

I cross the Port Melbourne tramway and dip under a low-level bridge, monitoring how the bike reacts with my shifting weight and adjusting to its subtle differences in gearing. I can't fault the mechanism — it's as smooth as silk; there's even a new pair of my favourite soft-cage strap-ons fitted to the pedals.

The cityscape slides by, other cyclists whizzing past. But I'm in no hurry, having given over completely to the pleasure of the ride, and the relief of knowing that tomorrow I will be couriering again for Gail.

Earlier in the day, I'd dodged the cyclists scurrying in and out of the roller entrance on Banana Alley to give back
Meg's envelope of cash. She'd refused it. ‘Call it a shift's pay,' she'd said from behind her oversized desk. ‘If you ever want to do some more work for Prestige Couriers, you know where we are.'

I'd left with the money, but it didn't feel right. So now I have a delivery to make.

I head north along the wide city avenues into Carlton, zigzagging through the suburb until I get to a small acacia-lined street. Halfway along, I ride up onto the pavement and dismount.

The Carlton Animal Shelter is grey and featureless from the front, the barred windows making it look like a remand centre and belying the atmosphere of kindness that flourishes inside. Its warren of partitioned spaces includes a vet clinic and small operating theatre, several rooms of comfy cages and a corridor of aquaria leading to a sprawling backyard populated with hutches, kennels and runs, all bounded by some very high fences set with security cameras.

This is the shelter I got Nitro from eight years ago.

It's after hours now, the office closed. I walk in the gate and the security lights trigger, illuminating my way to the door.

I could ring the bell and bring out the night vet, but instead I lift the steel mail flap in the wall and pop my envelope through the slot. It lands with a satisfying thud on the floor behind.

Knock & drop.

The gate clicks shut. I swing a leg over my beautiful new bike, and ride on.