Mike Dixon

Floppy Hat was something else. The guy stood limply be-
hind the other two and let out a high-pitched laugh whenever
he spoke. There was no way you could imagine him in
the force. And there was no way you could imagine the third
member of the party as a police officer. He looked like a
prizefighter who had lost a few too many bouts and didn‟t
know when to give up.
David winced as the ugly man lent forward and ran his
eyes over him, starting at his head and working slowly past
his crotch to his feet. For the first time in his life, David
wondered what it would be like to be raped.
Tim stared up at the mural.
„Bloody marvelous!‟
The remark wasn‟t addressed to anyone but Baseball Cap
took it up.
„Are you an artist?‟
„When I‟ve got the time.‟ Tim held out a hand. „Tim Price
from Canberra.‟ He pronounced the name of the nation‟s
capital with a bush-Australian intonation. „This is my mate,
Davo. We‟ve got a dive shop.‟
„John Cox.‟ The other offered a hand. „This is my fishing
partner.‟ He nodded towards Floppy Hat.
„Jim Brown.‟
Tim took the limp hand that was offered in his direction.
„G‟day, Jim. What d‟ya do when you‟re not fishing?‟
„Jim‟s an electrician like me,‟ Baseball Cap said before the
other man had a chance to reply.
Tim took a swig and turned to the third member of the
party.
I‟ve not met yer mate.‟
The third man smiled and stretched out a big scarred
hand, covered in poorly executed tattoos. He displayed it as
he reached towards Tim. On the fingers and thumb, five
90