Chapter 82
The van radio miserabled away in the background, while Barrett and Lund played snap with risqué cards; Harmsworth squinted his way through a dogeared paperback: PC Munro and the Candlemaker’s Bane; and Tufty tried, yet again, to balance a pen on his pointy nose.
‘And all the pain that we both owned,
The agony we saved and loaned,
We built it up there, stone by stone,
This grave, this house of burning bones . . .’
Everyone was in stabproof vests and high-vis this time, even Logan and Steel – no riot gear though, because apparently that ‘sent out the wrong message’.
Probably just as well, though, because the van was sweaty enough without adding in crash helmets, heavy leather gauntlets, and all that extra padding.
They’d parked between the ‘ROAD AHEAD CLOSED’ and ‘ACCESS gladhanding it with a bunch of right-wing senators and techbros. Wants funding for a political wing.’
‘Christ, that’s all we need. More spunknuggets running for parliament.’
Logan checked the dashboard clock: twenty to nine.
Time to make a move. ‘All right, everyone, let’s keep sharp!
’ Shoving the passenger door open. ‘No hitting people with sticks. No fighting. No swearing. No doing anything that makes us look like unprofessional pricks. And especially not on sodding video!’
Steel folded her paper and dumped it on the dashboard. ‘Owen: that means no picking your bum in front of the protestors. Let’s leave some magic and romance, eh?’ Drumming her hands on the steering wheel, bongo-style. ‘Go, go, go!’
The side door rattled back and Tufty, Harmsworth, Lund, and Barrett piled out. Ready to rock.
Steel grinned across the van at Logan. ‘You ready?’
‘No. But that’s never stopped me before.’
He climbed into the scorching morning sun and clunked the door shut behind him.
Off in the middle distance, the shreeeep-shreeeep-shreeeep of whistles and rat-a-trum-trum of approaching drums grew louder as the protest made its way along the west end of Union Street. Five, maybe ten minutes away?
‘OK.’ Logan straightened his peaked cap. ‘Let’s do this.’
After all, what choice did they have . . .?