The Knife Sharpener (40)

40.

The courtyard was empty concrete. A stray deflated basketball. Grass growing between cracks. Few wilting weeds in a disappointing vegetable patch. A rusted hills hoist, leaning under the weight of some tenant’s underwear and jeans.

            Helmut followed Robert – no, Bohemian Bob, through the still wet clothing. Feeling slick detergent rub up against his cheek. Too cold for hanging.

            Rudiger’s daughter, then Chauncy/Chance, and now this. Like the Wastes had up and left the east. Followed Helmut and the knife. He’d left that past. Acted to forget it. Yet, here it was. Not in memory. Flesh. Helmut missed his van already. His knee ached. Seemed to have scabbed and stopped bleeding.

            They kept low. Headed towards a narrow corridor cutting through the apartment building. Muted sounds of habitation from within. TVs and quiet conversation. Creaking floors and dishwashers running. Someone shouting. Bottle jangles. Quiet propositions in the air, metallic sour whiff of amphetamine smoke and weed.

            Behind them, Helmut could imagine the quiet advance along the road. Guns ready. The officious voices. Maybe a heel coming down hard. A click.

            His tools tried to slip out of his fingers. The sweat on his back felt like ice.

            Then the sound of the chain link fence being played with. A voice. ‘An impediment.’

            Another. ‘Ministry doctrine usually condones the damage of private property, Hadley.’

            ‘The bylaws are clear.’

            ‘Very well written.’

            ‘They clearly liaised with the rightful bearers of the good law, Carol.’

            ‘Think outside the box, though.’

            ‘The exception?’

            ‘Unpack it.’

            ‘We are in pursuit of Ministry property.’

            ‘Which surpasses private rights.’

            The voices drifted quiet as Helmut heard the fence rattling and they moved further away.

            Bohemian Bob led them out to the front of the apartment. Ushered them through a small gate. Onto another road running perpendicular to Grey. Turned away from the still desperate sounds of the street walkers. Headed in the direction of Acland St.

            ‘C’mon,’ he said. Strolled with wide steadying steps.

            The street was a more a lane. Only lights from the windows of a few surrounding flats. Otherwise dark with textile manufacturers and abandoned hostels.

            ‘Not many cameras here,’ said Bohemian Bob. ‘St Kilda, last free bastion, yeah?’ He laughed. ‘But they got better coverage closer to the shops and beach. So, cover your faces a little. They don’t know I’m with ya. Need to keep it that way.’

            Helmut let Nichola overtake him. They moved quickly up the street. Bohemian Bob stuck to the shadows. Graceful but for the occasional half missed footing. Trying not to draw attention. Easier to perceive a moving object in the dark. A decrepit tabby crept by. Eyeballed Helmut. Silent hiss. Poor Messer would be hungry.

            Again, Bohemian Bob veered off the street into a little lane. As he did, Helmut heard the Biffs behind them open the gate. Their talk silent for the moment. Nichola looked around. The chefs bag held to her chest. Bohemian Bob held a finger to his lips. Moved into the rear parking lot of a shuttered retail store, towards a staff-only steel door.

            Considered steps in the street. Whispers. From his shorts, Bohemian Bob pulled out a ring of keys. Fidgeted until he found the right one. Opened the door. Helmut expected rust hinge screams. It was surprisingly quiet. Bohemian Bob pointed them inside.

            Nichola led and Helmut followed. It fronted onto Acland St and was lit softly from that direction by street lamps. Inside was dusty restaurant and catering equipment. Bain-maries and fridges. Mobile stoves and barbeques. A tower of pots and pans, leaning against the wall. Stained and chipped glassware tumbled and stacked along a series of shelving units. Linen and vats for oil. All murky. Extending fractured silhouettes into a mess of lanes and aisles.

            Bohemian Bob pulled the door closed behind him and locked it.

            They worked their way into the store. Stepping around the haphazard equipment. Headed for the front door barely visible through the assorted stock.

            Helmut remembered that Robert always had a way in. A skill that had carried through to Bohemian Bob. Reminded him that you never really leave anything behind. His work, expertly sharpening knives, proved that. The temptation, at times, to give these tools more.

Robert always had had a key. An escape route. Somewhere to hide. Even in the Wastes. He broke down physical spaces. He got into people’s heads and hearts. It was necessary part of his Ministry role. The curated realities he tried to instil didn’t always sit comfortably. The stories he told about people. The exaggerations and stereotypes. Sometimes he had to tell them discretely. A rumour that could grow into a story that could grow into an identity that could demolish a community. Suggest gold and watch thick veins of the element appear all over Mitcham.

            Didn’t remember the drinking though. The ferment of beer on his breath. The red rings in his eyes. The dishevelled shag and belly hanging.

Helmut could hear Bohemian Bob breathing hard. Never a fit man. A phlegm-soaked rattle. Rudiger chuckling at the physical preparedness of his apparent envoy.

Nichola walked between two tall shelves filled with tumblers and stemless wine glasses. Edging her way through them to reach Bohemian Bob who already waited near the front door. Helmut stepped over a box packed with elements and electrical cords. Tried to make himself small and quiet. Close behind Nichola and his tool kit swinging in his hand. Next to his leg.

There was a booming knock on the back door. A testing sound. Pings of sonar.

It startled Helmut. He leaned forward. Brushed into Nichola. A short, sharp intake of air and an arm to steady in surprize. Connection with a shelf. Then the fall of a glass. An echoed shattering of Riedel crystal.

Silence but for ghostly tinkles of glass settling.

Bohemian Bob turned back to them. Eyebrows up and mouth open. Swaying. Helmut steadied his sharpening equipment from brushing against his knee. Felt blood smeared on the tool box’s side. Looked and saw that the wound had opened again. Dribbled down and out of his corduroy pants. Rivulets in his lined garment making a perfect trail.

Then a burst of puttering gun fire. Helmut and Nichola picked up the pace through the store. No longer worried about detection. Grabbing and throwing piles of crockery and dishes to the floor. Helmut pulled a shelf down sending silver cutlery in all directions. They all stayed low. Below the outline of the collapsed shelf. Below the eyeline of anyone entering from the back.

‘Fuck,’ whispered Bohemian Bob, fiddling with his keys again. ‘How?’

Helmut felt his knee burn. Heard the backdoor get kicked open as he and Nichola reached Bohemian Bob who had a key stuffed into the lock. Turning gently. Nichola played with the chef’s bag. Helmut heard her tearing open the Velcro.

The male voice called out: ‘You have Ministry property.’

Crunched ceramics, porcelain, glass as they entered the backroom.

‘Possession of Ministry property without the requisite paperwork and department clearance qualifies as theft,’ said the female voice.

Bohemian Bob slowly edged open the front door. Another set of steps and equipment being shoved out of the way.

‘Ministry guidelines instruct us to instruct you to desist your effort at escape,’ said the male voice.

‘Failure to comply will give us leave to use our firearms against your persons,’ said the female voice.

An explosion of gunfire blew out a window near the front door. Bohemian Bob ceased pushing it open.

‘That was the required warning shot.’

‘Failure to respond to that warning shot will imply that you intend not to cease your effort to escape with Ministry property.’

‘Regulations dictate that you have sixty seconds to respond to the initial warning shot.’

‘Unless your behaviour prior to these sixty seconds expiring indicates an intention to not comply.’

Scrapping and smashing as they pushed through the aisles to reach the front. Bohemian Bob started pushing against the door again.

‘Like opening that door.’

Gunfire and the glass in the door above Bohemian Bob’s head cracked and exploded. Draped his shoulders.

Nichola called out, ‘I have the knife.’ She stood and brandished the chef’s bag.