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bullet had left a long, raw scrape on the top of the Falcon.
    â€˜It’s happened to you before, hasn’t it, Cliff?’
    â€˜Broken windscreen? Sure.’
    He laughed. ‘Closest I’ve come to being shot at has been in television. They put in a windscreen made of a special sort of sugar and the armourer fires a blank charge.’
    â€˜I don’t watch much television. What show was that?’
    â€˜It’s a while back. I forget.’
    I kept the speed down, but the breeze blowing into the car was still cool despite the mildness of the afternoon. At the second garage they said they could replace the windscreen, but not for a few days. The Falcon was too old for the size and shape to be in stock. The mechanic looked the car over doubtfully. ‘Want the roof fixed, too?’
    I said I did and he said it’d require a deposit so I let him take a swipe of the credit card. ‘Gonna cost you.’
    â€˜That’s life.’
    I could see where the bullet had embedded itself in the upholstery at the back but I didn’t think the windscreen repairer would notice; the back seat was pretty ratty anyway. We cleaned ourselves up in the station rest room. I phoned for a cab and we waited out front. There was a pub immediately across the highway and I could’ve done with a drink or two but it wasn’t quite the time. Harkness hadn’t said a word since mentioning his television work.
    I unlocked the door to the Curlewis Street flat and watched Rod Harkness mooch in and drop his bagon the floor as if he’d occupied the place for years and it held no interest for him. He shrugged off his jacket and slung it on a chair, slumped into the nearest chair and barely cast a look around the living room. I went into the kitchen and saw that someone had paid a visit to the supermarket.
    â€˜They laid in some supplies for you,’ I said. ‘Want some coffee?’
    He shrugged. ‘Sure. Why not?’
    â€˜Sugar?’
    â€˜Three.’
    I made two mugs of instant coffee and sat down across the room from him. ‘We’re going to have to talk. I was hired to keep an eye on you. Help you get back on your feet. There was nothing said about someone trying to kill you. I can usually read people pretty well, but I can’t tell whether you’re surprised or not. What’re you feeling now—surprise, fear, don’t-give-a-fuck—what?’
    He stared at the brown carpet for a minute and then lifted his head slowly. Blood had started seeping from his cuts again and he’d touched them and smeared his face in spots. He had a tragic look that wasn’t posed or theatrical. He took a long pull on his coffee and clasped his hands around the mug. ‘To tell you the truth I think I’d describe my attitude as puzzled. Completely puzzled.’
    I drank some coffee. Moccona freeze-dried, about the best instant you can get. There was blue-vein brie in the fridge along with olives and sweet and sour cucumbers. Two litres of milk, three bottles of Perrier, packets of sliced ham andsmoked salmon. There was a loaf of rye bread and a bowl of fruit. I hadn’t looked in the freezer compartment but I’d have been willing to bet it wasn’t empty. The Harknesses hadn’t abandoned the black sheep quite as thoroughly as I’d thought.
    â€˜Puzzled,’ I said.
    â€˜Yeah. Do you know I’ve got no idea who’s behind getting me out of Rutherford House? Every couple of years there’d be an examination and I’d be told I was staying a little longer. Then this last time … Jesus, I still can’t quite believe it. ‘Who …?’
    â€˜Didn’t they tell you?’
    â€˜All I was told was that a firm of civil rights lawyers I’ve never heard of had instituted procedures that led to psychological assessments that advised my release. My fucking family appealed against the recommendation but the lawyers carried the