Mike Dixon

„No way!‟ Tim grabbed the keys of the dive shop van. „We
need to get round there before some bastard nicks off with
them.‟
he rooming house was in a rundown part of town.
T Tim drove into the yard and switched off the engine.
David sat beside him in the passenger seat and stared ap-
prehensively out of the window. Tim saw his face. „What‟s
the matter, mate? You look like you‟ve dated a sheila and
don‟t know what to do with her.‟
„I‟m not sure we‟re going about this the right way. I don‟t
think we should just dash in there. We should think it out
first.‟
„Mate, you‟ve lost your nerve!‟ Tim reached for a sheet of
plastic. „All I‟m going to do is go in there and have a look …
that‟s all.‟
He pulled the plastic over his head and dashed through
the pouring rain. The building had hardly changed. The common
room was as dirty as he remembered it. The dustbin
overflowed and coffee mugs littered the table. A seedylooking
character was slumped in the only armchair.
„G‟day.‟ Tim nodded in his direction. „D‟yer know where
Kevin is?‟
„Down the pub like he always is,‟ the other replied.
„There‟s supposed to be some parcels for a mate of mine
from Hong Kong.‟
„Try over there.‟ The man cocked a thumb over his shoulder.
Tim went to a table piled with unclaimed mail. A parcel
with Chinese stamps was balanced on top.
„There should be some others.‟
„I don‟t know about that,‟ the man grunted. „You‟d better
speak to Kev about it in the morning.‟
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