Read Online Bitter Wash Road by Garry Disher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Garry Disher
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face-splitting grin, just to rile them. ‘Hi, guys!’
Nicholson said, ‘Maggot,’ showing a mouth crowded with tiny teeth. He was fleshy and pink, his face veined.
Hirsch grinned again and turned to Andrewartha. Another from the porcine family, this one had moist, red-budded lips that seemed shaped to blow kisses. He stuck a stub of a finger to his temple, cocked his thumb and said, ‘Pow.’
‘Good to see you, guys,’ said Hirsch, pushing through.
‘Arsehole.’
Two rickety plastic tables in the room, one strewn with paper cups, sports papers and skin mags, the other bearing an urn and a percolator. Hirsch poured coffee into a paper cup. Nicholson jostled him.
‘Whoops, sorry mate, clumsy of me.’
Hirsch poured another cup. He grabbed a stale donut and ducked around Nicholson’s tree-trunk form to stand beside the refrigerator, stashing coffee and donut on the top of it and fishing out his phone. He angled the screen and ran his fingers; not looking at the others but ready to fight if that’s what they wanted.
Then, an alteration in the air, a tremor of awareness passing through Nicholson and Andrewartha, a quick subterranean nastiness. Glancing up, Hirsch saw a young female officer in the doorway, pink, tense, sprucely ironed.
‘Morning.’ Her voice was low and raspy, but a squeak of nerves ran through it.
‘Did someone say something?’ Andrewartha asked, cocking an ear.
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Nicholson said. He flared his nostrils: ‘Hang on, there’s a whiff in the air.’
The newcomer flushed, but was game. ‘Maybe you’ve got a dose of hay fever...or a dose of something.’
‘Now, what is that smell?’ said Nicholson. ‘Got it! Feminine hygiene product.’
‘You would know,’ Andrewartha said, jostling him.
Both men pushed past her into the corridor, their voices fading along it: ‘They reckon she’ll root anything on two legs.’
‘Four legs.’
That left Hirsch alone in the room with her. She glanced at him without hope or interest. ‘Okay, give it your best shot.’
Hirsch headed for the percolator. ‘Coffee?’
‘Coffee and spit, right?’
‘Tea and spit if you’d prefer.’
He read her name tag, Jennifer Dee, and waited. A slender woman of almost his height. Fine bones and sharp features on a narrow face, an impression of tightness reinforced by her hair, raked back savagely and caught in a short ponytail. She looked obstinate yet nervy.
Dee was watching him right back, unblinking and intense. Abruptly a shift occurred. ‘Weak black, no sugar.’
‘Coming up. Donut?’
She came nearer, moving awkwardly, a young woman not yet quite comfortable with herself. Pretending she didn’t know him when everyone knew him. ‘I could do with a sugar hit.’
‘Good thinking,’ Hirsch said.
He served her. They stood there awhile. Swallowing a mouthful, Hirsch said, ‘You weren’t stationed here when I checked in last month.’
She shook her head. ‘Just started.’
‘They’re giving you a hard time?’
‘I can handle it.’
As if responding to an invisible signal, they sat at the empty table. Hirsch swiped the top with his sleeve, the surface layer of crumbs, racehorses and crotches and tits giving way to scratched initials and scorch marks. He raised his cup, said, ‘Cheers,’ and a moment later Kropp was snarling from the doorway.
‘Both of you get your arses in the briefing room, and I mean now! He was propped there glaring, one big hand on each upright of the door frame as if to work his chest muscles.
‘Sarge,’ said Hirsch, echoed by Dee.
They grabbed their paper cups and plates and followed Kropp to the briefing room, where Nicholson and Andrewartha lolled in steel chairs. Both men stared contemptuously, but Hirsch, who had been stared down by experts, blew a couple of kisses and selected the chair next
Nicholson said, ‘Maggot,’ showing a mouth crowded with tiny teeth. He was fleshy and pink, his face veined.
Hirsch grinned again and turned to Andrewartha. Another from the porcine family, this one had moist, red-budded lips that seemed shaped to blow kisses. He stuck a stub of a finger to his temple, cocked his thumb and said, ‘Pow.’
‘Good to see you, guys,’ said Hirsch, pushing through.
‘Arsehole.’
Two rickety plastic tables in the room, one strewn with paper cups, sports papers and skin mags, the other bearing an urn and a percolator. Hirsch poured coffee into a paper cup. Nicholson jostled him.
‘Whoops, sorry mate, clumsy of me.’
Hirsch poured another cup. He grabbed a stale donut and ducked around Nicholson’s tree-trunk form to stand beside the refrigerator, stashing coffee and donut on the top of it and fishing out his phone. He angled the screen and ran his fingers; not looking at the others but ready to fight if that’s what they wanted.
Then, an alteration in the air, a tremor of awareness passing through Nicholson and Andrewartha, a quick subterranean nastiness. Glancing up, Hirsch saw a young female officer in the doorway, pink, tense, sprucely ironed.
‘Morning.’ Her voice was low and raspy, but a squeak of nerves ran through it.
‘Did someone say something?’ Andrewartha asked, cocking an ear.
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Nicholson said. He flared his nostrils: ‘Hang on, there’s a whiff in the air.’
The newcomer flushed, but was game. ‘Maybe you’ve got a dose of hay fever...or a dose of something.’
‘Now, what is that smell?’ said Nicholson. ‘Got it! Feminine hygiene product.’
‘You would know,’ Andrewartha said, jostling him.
Both men pushed past her into the corridor, their voices fading along it: ‘They reckon she’ll root anything on two legs.’
‘Four legs.’
That left Hirsch alone in the room with her. She glanced at him without hope or interest. ‘Okay, give it your best shot.’
Hirsch headed for the percolator. ‘Coffee?’
‘Coffee and spit, right?’
‘Tea and spit if you’d prefer.’
He read her name tag, Jennifer Dee, and waited. A slender woman of almost his height. Fine bones and sharp features on a narrow face, an impression of tightness reinforced by her hair, raked back savagely and caught in a short ponytail. She looked obstinate yet nervy.
Dee was watching him right back, unblinking and intense. Abruptly a shift occurred. ‘Weak black, no sugar.’
‘Coming up. Donut?’
She came nearer, moving awkwardly, a young woman not yet quite comfortable with herself. Pretending she didn’t know him when everyone knew him. ‘I could do with a sugar hit.’
‘Good thinking,’ Hirsch said.
He served her. They stood there awhile. Swallowing a mouthful, Hirsch said, ‘You weren’t stationed here when I checked in last month.’
She shook her head. ‘Just started.’
‘They’re giving you a hard time?’
‘I can handle it.’
As if responding to an invisible signal, they sat at the empty table. Hirsch swiped the top with his sleeve, the surface layer of crumbs, racehorses and crotches and tits giving way to scratched initials and scorch marks. He raised his cup, said, ‘Cheers,’ and a moment later Kropp was snarling from the doorway.
‘Both of you get your arses in the briefing room, and I mean now! He was propped there glaring, one big hand on each upright of the door frame as if to work his chest muscles.
‘Sarge,’ said Hirsch, echoed by Dee.
They grabbed their paper cups and plates and followed Kropp to the briefing room, where Nicholson and Andrewartha lolled in steel chairs. Both men stared contemptuously, but Hirsch, who had been stared down by experts, blew a couple of kisses and selected the chair next
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