The Knife Sharpener (22)

22.

‘Who are we listening to?’ asked Nichola. She looked out the window, watching the motoboys surrounding the van. ‘You had him on before.’

            ‘Johnny Cash,’ said Helmut.

            I'm stuck in Folsom Prison / And time keeps draggin' on.

            ‘It fits,’ she said.

            ‘Usually,’ said Helmut.

            They were on the Monash Freeway. Traffic was quiet. Bohner led them. The knife bag stashed into his giant delivery backpack. His cattle prod in a makeshift holster along the saddle of his dirtbike.

The Toyota panel van grumbled and complained. They all drove the 80 kilometre per hour speed limit. Nowhere faster than that anymore in Melbourne. Ministry had dropped all speed limits. Its No Rush campaign. There was talk of the stackhat statute extending beyond the bars into the cars. After that, anytime out in public.

            ‘Can’t you run them off the road?’ Asked Nichola. ‘I could quickly jump out, grab my bag –’

            ‘No,’ said Helmut. ‘Too many.’

            ‘There’s only three of them. Your van is big enough.’

            ‘Too many motoboys.’

            Helmut pointed behind him. Nichola turned in her seat and looked through the rear window. There, the lights of five or six scooters and dirtbikes a couple hundred meters behind them. Blinking and darting between traffic on the Monash.

            ‘Not just them, too,’ he said. ‘The lot of them. They talk. They would find us.’

            ‘You’ve dealt with them before?’     

            ‘They are always on the roads. So am I,’ said Helmut.

Memories of a gang of motoboys on the Calder Freeway. Tearing apart a Hyundai that had hit one of their comrades. Holding the driver down. Stripping the car for parts. They had appeared from nowhere. Minutes after their friend had been knocked off his scooter. Helmut had watched. First driving behind the Hyundai when it hit the motoboy. As it was surrounded by motoboys. Maneuvered off the road. Dismantled. Next destination.

‘Who’s Chance?’ asked Helmut.

‘I don’t know.’

‘He knew your father?’

            ‘Probably. Dad knew a lot of people all over Melbourne. Never said anything about the motoboys. They, like, just exist, you know? Feel like they’ve been around for ages.’

            ‘A while, yes,’ said Helmut. ‘They keep to themselves. Do their jobs.’

            ‘You respect them?’

            ‘They look out for each other. Get things done.’

            ‘They’re for hire, though. They’ll take money for anything,’ said Nichola.

            ‘Not anything. Only deliveries.’

            ‘Aren’t we currently being delivered somewhere?’

            ‘Maybe.’

            ‘Reckon the Church hired them to find us?’

            ‘Could have,’ said Helmut. ‘Unlikely.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Not a motoboy thing. They are not kidnappers.’

            Nichola fidgeted. Helmut rolled another cigarette. Unrolled his window. Lit it. Smoke billowed out and disintegrated. Johnny Cash sang on.

            Helmut had thought that he was free of fate disturbing his path. His life had deliberately become a rhythmic patter. A series of movements and jobs, culminating in the same conclusion each day. Restaurants, chefs, Melbourne’s hospitality industry – all were as close as he came to culture. Questions. Necessary interferences. Yet, even there, he dwelled on the outskirts. Far enough away to never involve himself in the politics of it. Occasionally he encountered trouble on the roads. Loose Wastes gangs demanding payment. Wind jackal packs in the north. Remnants of the Delinquency. Feral suburban militias. Chefs trying to short change him. They were all dangerous roads. But dangerous roads he knew intimately. He could drive away. On to the next stop.

            Nichola was a different dilemma. There was no clear way out. He felt compelled onto the path they travelled. He didn’t like it. This was a road he didn’t know. The job at the end wasn’t clear. To what extent he would go to drag his familiar life back. Control slipping away reminded him of different times. Different occupations. Unexpected patterns. Thrills he’d forgot. Services he wasn’t sure he could perform anymore. Not really wanting to. The consequences. The unfiltered magic and deceit. The roads and the Wastes.

The Champion cigarettes did little to allay his nagging anxiety. His stubble itched and his pony tail felt loose. Unravelled. The van moaned. Johnny Cash sang, Gotta do my time, I gotta do my time. / With an achin' heart, on that gal of mine.

He felt Nichola looking at him. Turned to her.

‘Who are you? Really?’ she asked.

‘A knife sharpener,’ said Helmut.

‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I keep getting this feeling – there’s more to you, Helmut.’

‘Not really.’

‘You’re a performance, man. The whole stoic short answer mystery thing. Straight to the point, but not. I mean, you ate your entire bowl of pasta back at the pub. There aren’t many people that calm in that kind of situation.’

‘I was hungry. I ate.’

‘With a cattle prod nearly stuck in your side.’

‘It was on the floor.’

‘You know, there’s a part of me that gravitates, like, to a loose fatalism. Our lives are a set path. But we still have some options. Opportunities to alter things,’ said Nichola. ‘I could’ve ignored my dad’s call. Left him to his disappearance. But I didn’t. I too badly wanted to be involved some way. To know what he had been doing. Whether he might be right about the world, you know? That the wrong people might do the right thing the wrong way. And fuck it all up.’

Helmut drove silently. Passing Glen Iris.

‘There was a reason you were at that Church, Helmut.’

‘I was there to sharpen the knife.’

‘Maybe. Maybe it is that simple. Maybe, you are,’ said Nichola. ‘And maybe that – everything means something else.’