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also frightened to within a millimetre of his tattoos that if he didn’t make a pick-up, Wacker would fuck him up. And after screwing up yesterday, Fetch would be fully sick out of his head with worry. What would Fetch do? Would he bolt because this wasn’t normal and he’d been told to avoid anything that wasn’t normal, especially things like ambos and cop cars? Or would he blunder in anyway, because he was inclined to forget things?
    He should text Stud. But it might be nothing. He’d never been to the Station Street address before, it’d never come up in the rotation. If he bolted he’d be missing a piece of the jigsaw. He’d be a face short in the line-up. That was the decision made then. Fetch was all about the blundering.
    He covered the distance between his resting place and the house. The front door was wide open. He knocked. He got a weak, “Come in,” followed by a more hearty, “Door’s open.”
    He went down the hallway and in darkened lounge room found Granny and two paramedics. One was rubbing her knobbly bare feet, the other packing up a portable oxygen machine. They’d all been drinking tea with Arrowroot biscuits.
    “Did Stephen send you?” Granny said.
    When he nodded, she said. “The cake tin Maisy wants is in on the kitchen bench through there. Tell her she can keep it as long as she likes.” She winked at him. She actually winked. Whatever was going on here, one foot in the grave Granny was enjoying it.
    He took the cake tin, bagged it and went out the way he came, the paramedics taking their time to follow.
    So that was Station Street. Probably not a linchpin of the operation, but at least they knew now. Before he rounded the corner to the limo he opened the lid of the tin. Usually the packages were sealed and he had to estimate with weight alone. The tin was a novelty. It was tight packed with hundred dollar notes. Hard to estimate how much money was in there, but at least enough to live comfortably on for a long time if you kept your head down.
    But now Fetch was late. He was making a habit of it. It would be quicker to let Driver take him to the next address before he pissed her off. She had the engine running when she saw him come around the corner.
    “We’re late.” She’d been studying the list with its precision instructions. “Is the route that’s written down important? I think I can take us a quicker way.” If it wasn’t so senselessly dangerous to keep her around he’d be enjoying her efficiency.
    The route was the least important thing. It was there so Fetch didn’t have to make any decisions and so what he did was auditable. Auditable in a way that meant other gang members spot checked the route like mystery shoppers. Waiting by the side of the road to see him arrive and depart at different addresses. He was lucky yesterday hadn’t been an audit day. Or maybe it had. Maybe that’s why Wacker had been off. But late was late for whatever reason, so it probably didn’t matter whether he got caught out by an auditor or the contact complained. What really mattered was whether he was spotted at the accident site and caught in his lie. He didn’t think so, he’d been careful, but it was worth factoring into the equation.
    Driver took her alternative route and got him to the next address on time without mishap. He’d have kissed her again for that tiny victory of control over the random elements that were his life. He wondered what she’d be like to kiss. Quiet and capable like she presented, or was that simply her professional veneer? He wondered what she’d do if he climbed in the front seat and asked her to take her hat off so he could see her whole face. If he leaned over, palmed her cheek and kissed her.
    He almost laughed out loud, turned it into a cough. She’d pull a face, she’d probably slap him a good one. He no longer had the kind of face a woman wanted to kiss. He’d forgotten he wasn’t clean-skinned. He’d scratch her to bits with the beard, and