Heroin Annie by Peter Corris

‘Splash the boots, Cliff, and let's get moving.’
    He looked pretty fresh, considering, although his stubble was darker and there was some tension in his movements. He kept patting the gun in his waistband. We pissed, and ate some of the food while the day got started; the sky was clear and even this distance north of Sydney there was a different taste to the air, fruity. I moved towards the door but he put his hand on my arm.
    â€˜I'll drive.’
    I shrugged and got in. He tapped the wheel and gear shift as if getting the weight and balance of them, and then we were off out of the trees, bumping down the track and out onto the highway. Clem drove the way he fought; very smooth, and with a feeling of power kept in reserve. He kept the speed down; I'd spent some money on the Falcon recently and it was going along nicely at sixty. I was thinking that Clem's luck was holding when the trouble started. A motorcycle cop passed us and then dropped back. Clem passed him and the cop drew up alongside and took a good look at us. He waved us in and Clem put his foot down. I looked back and saw the cop's face which was white and set under the goggles. He hunched over the handlebars and came after us with a siren screaming.
    â€˜This thing'll fall apart at eighty’, I said.
    â€˜Shut up.’ Clem gripped the wheel and seemed to be looking ahead, beyond the turns in the road. We were climbing slightly and the bike gained quickly. Clem bent forward and his eyes flicked from the road to the rear vision mirror. I checked my seat belt and tried to console myself with the thought that the Falcon probably wouldn't even do eighty and that something would burn out if he tried—something that would slow us down and bring us to a gentle stop. Clem wasn't slowing, he pushed the speed up as we gained the flat. The bike cruised up close behind us and then Clem flicked off the bitumen and sent a hail of dust and stones flying back at the cop. That gained us some distance, the siren receded and then came back louder than ever. Clem fought the wheel as the needle touched eighty-five and the suspension and steering protested. When I thought the car was going to disintegrate he eased off and looked into the mirror, then he picked up again, eased back and studied the mirror. He grinned.
    â€˜What?’ My teeth were chattering and I had to say it again to get the sound out.
    â€˜He's confused’, Clem said tightly, ‘probably young. Give me a break and I'll shake him.’
    The break came in the next mile; the road narrowed over a bridge and there was a high bank quite close to the road over the bridge. Clem eased off the power, touched the brake and we probably weren't doing much more than fifty when we bumped over the bridge. He swung the wheel and the car lurched out towards the middle of the road, the bike came up on the inside and then we slipped back over to the left and crowded the bike closer to the bank. I saw the rider's head go up and then he was in a skid, sliding and slowing, and Clem kept just ahead of him, hemming him in until he went sideways into the bank. Clem picked up speed on the straight road and I kept the dark figure in sight until we went over a hill.
    â€˜Moving?’ Clem said.
    I drew in a sour, gummy breath. ‘Yeah.’
    â€˜Should be okay, he wasn't going fast.’
    A truck roared by on the other side and Clem wiped his hand over his face. ‘He'll see him right. We've got to get off this bloody road, though.’
    We went inland south of Taree and started winding and climbing through the rich farming country. I had a map of sorts and Clem had a good eye for roads; we did some backtracking but still made pretty good progress north. After a while Clem started to whistle.
    â€˜What the hell have you got to be so cheerful about? They're going to have two men in a dark Falcon registration number KLG 343 on the air by now.’
    Clem looked at me, he was munching on the last