The Knife Sharpener (26)

26.

Chance opened the chef’s bag. Gingerly separating the magnetic buttons to get at its innards.

            ‘There it is, there it is,’ he said and pulled the knife out. ‘Have a look, would ya.’

            He held it across his palms. Weighed it. Bent down to it. Almost sniffing it. Smiled as if looking at something long lost that he’d finally found again by accident. Nichola noticed Helmut ogling the knife. Shifting his attention up to Chance. A near imperceptible widening. She was used enough now to his reserved nature that small shifts in body language stood out – if there was one, though. His posture was the same as usual. Stiff backed, bow legged. Quiet. Fading.

            ‘You know about the knife?’ asked Nichola.

            Chance raised his eyes to her. Glanced at Helmut.

            ‘Nicky, ya haven’t done me the pleasure of an intro. Who’s this?’ he asked.

            Before Nichola could answer, Helmut said, ‘Helmut.’

            ‘Yeah? Helmut … who?’

            Nichola saw the knife sharpener hesitate.

            ‘Iser,’ said Helmut.

            ‘Iser,’ said Chance. He rubbed the word around his mouth. ‘Iser,’ he said again. ‘Once, yeah – maybe. Or, was it? Nope, nope, that was a different Helmut – or was it, Herbert? Miser? Liza? Too many names. Don’t matter, I’m sure. Nah, don’t know ya. Pleasure.’

            ‘Okay,’ said Helmut. Placid and passive. As always.

‘How do ya know, Nicky, Mr Helmut?’

‘The girl was in my van. After she stole the knife.’

            ‘Aright, gotcha. So, yours is the van in the picture, ey?’

            ‘Picture?’ asked Nichola.

            ‘Oh, yeah. Youse two are all kinds of famous on KillingTime,’ said Chance. He leaned over his chair and fiddled with a mouse. On a big screen behind him, an image appeared of Nichola sneaking into the backdoor of the Church, staring directly into the camera. Nichola shuffled a little. Chance clicked. Then a picture of Helmut’s van. Licence plate clearly in view. Helmut had been right. Of course, they had had surveillance. She’d got him tied up in this mess now. For sure.

            Helmut stood there passively. Looking at the picture. Then back to Chance. To the knife. Again, Nichola felt an ill at ease in the man. It dissipated again.

            ‘What is this?’ Helmut asked.

            ‘A bounty.’

            ‘This is how people bounty?’

            ‘Oh, yeah, Mr Helmut. Indeed. It’s all online. But, The Other Net. ‘Way from them offialese noses diggin dirt and evidences. This here scrollin mess of depravity is KillingTime. And your friends at this Church of – fuckin not gonna bother with sayin that, they’ve gotta little hit out on youse two.’

            ‘Anyone taken it?’ asked Nichola.

            ‘You not on this, Nicky?’ asked Chance. ‘All the kids, right ‘cross Melbourne, are all ‘bout this stuff.’ He thought. Winked. ‘Not just the kids, neither.’

            ‘I haven’t been able to check. I don’t have a phone. I mean, I know about The Other Net. KillingTime. The Forums. I’ve done research in them before. But dad never let me have a smart mobile phone. Just my landline for emergencies.’

            ‘Too easy to track, Nichola. Too easy for them to get you compromised, manipulated, caught up in worlds and ideas that don’t matter, that don’t have any real ground to stand on. It’s all a fiction, honey. For everyone. Particularly for them who think they see through it. Phone just brings you back to opaqueness,’ her dad had said when she asked for a mobile when still in her early teens. He had been writing one of his manifestos. Ink stained bruised hands.

            ‘I always said, he was a smart man, your pa. He’s right too. Though we don’t all have the opportunity to not have a phone. Me boys live on theirs,’ said Chance.

            There was another large screen behind Chance. On it was a map of Melbourne. Much of the north and east blacked out. On the roads, there were little beacons moving around. Stopping at various locations. Then moving off again.

            Chance saw Nichola looking. ‘Yep, that’s them. All me boys. Gotta keep an eye on them in case they get into a spot or somethin. Phones all send him back to me ‘ere. I can check in when I need. Find out who they’re deliverin for. Make sure the money right. It’s all business, Nicky. Centralised right ‘ere. Through me. They keep me in the loop.’

            ‘It’s a lot of information,’ said Nichola, peering around.

            ‘Never nuff, though. Never is,’ said Chance.

            The news headlines Nichola read were bland. Rumours of an underground cooking competition that Ministry had threatened to shut down. A Ministry dinner at The Wasatch to be attended by some visiting dignitaries from Sydney. Cats and bubbly children in the Medias. Feral cats and deadeyed children in the mangled images of KillingTime. New orders flowing in for the motoboys. A running text of what the Wastes gangs were up to – where it was safe to enter and exit round Blackburn Rd. Sightings of wind jackals. Cars who had caused trouble to the motoboys. The news again. A celebration of the Ministry circle. Grinning anchors saying the same thing.

            ‘Captivating, ain’t it?’ said Chance. ‘Just bustle and hustle. Layers of it, too. Up there, Ministry. Down here, us. But the same, yeah? We got this this domain. They got theirs. Your pa, he made sure of that. Everyone knows their place.’

            ‘The bounty,’ said Helmut.

            Chance flickered back to Helmut. The knife perched in his lap. Under his hands. His fingers moving. Tapping a little. Nichola tried not to get distracted by the flow of information around her.

            ‘Someone has defo taken it by now. Someones, maybe. That picture got lots of likes. Plenty of attention. People love a good hunt. A little mission. A bit of mystery. What did she do? What’d she pinch, ey? Don’t mind a dash ah blood. And the van. What kinda getaway vehicle is that?’

            ‘Who took it?’ asked Helmut. ‘The bounty.’

            ‘No way to tell, Mr Helmut,’ said Chance. ‘Less we can get that Church’s online deets, there ain’t no way to tell who they been contactin.’

            He stood up. Nichola noticed that his legs were thin. Worn away in his jeans. He was unstable, back seemingly held together by a bulky brace pressing through his shirt. Slowly, awkwardly, Chance advanced towards Nichola and Helmut. Holding out the knife.

            ‘Though, in snoopin The Other Net, I did come ‘cross that little LuciasLuvs may be on ya. And, if that be the case – well, fuck, youse both may well and truly be in it,’ he said.

            Nichola’s gut churned. LuciasLuvs. She looked up at Helmut and saw no sense of recognition. He had only a gaze for the knife.

            Chance held it out to him. ‘Now, Mr Helmut Knife Sharpener, what can you tell us bout this ol’ specimen, eh? I imagine youse quite an expert, no?’

            Helmut shied. Chance moved into him, handle first. It was instinctive. Helmut grabbed a hold of the knife. Then veins popped in his forearm. Sharp rippling across his skin. Helmut sighed deeply. Eyes crossed. Pony tail whipped. He staggered to his knees, still gripping the knife. The screens in the room crackled. Nichola took a step away. The air felt permeated with threat. And it emanated from Helmut.

            ‘How?’ asked Helmut, looking up at Chance.

            ‘Knife sharpener such as yourself, Mr Helmut, would know quality soon as he touched it,’ said Chance. ‘Looks like that quality got into ya.’