No Free Man by Graham Potts

Author:Graham Potts
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pantera Press

CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA FRIDAY 16 SEPTEMBER 6:02 AM AEST

Emily Hartigan closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

The debrief had been short. It had involved Lee Singh shouting at her while she was wrapped in a blanket in the back of an ambulance. She couldn’t remember much of what was said, but he had thrust a pistol into her hand and told her to keep it with her at all times, adding “make sure you know how to work the fucking thing”. Her stay at hospital was slightly longer than the debriefing. The paperwork was stamped DAMA—discharge against medical advice.

Hartigan had gone home and ended up erratically pacing her apartment. She had eventually forced herself to stand still, and spent two hours standing in the middle of her kitchen, staring into the sink. Sleep eluded her. Her mind was raw noise, thoughts crashing over each other like waves against a cliff. It was violent, unrelenting, and she couldn’t escape. The waves kept coming and coming, higher, louder, hissing and booming.

“Your order?”

Who said that?

“Miss, your order?”

Hartigan’s eyes sharpened, the world coming into focus. “Um, sorry.” She glanced unsteadily at the barista. “Long black, please.”

It was too early to go to work, she had reasoned, so she had stopped at her favourite coffee shop, a block away from headquarters.

I just need some personal time. Peace and quiet, and I can watch the sun rise.

Another wave crashed against the cliff.

Six hours to go.

To Hartigan, dawn was a time for those who enjoyed their solitude. The sun was dependable and eternal. Today, however, everything seemed different. The sky was bleeding, the colour pooling in the clouds and dripping to the earth. The sun seemed mortal, and she felt like the only person in the world who had noticed.

Hartigan jumped when the barista’s coffee machine clunked and whirred. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, flinching when the shop’s door slammed.

She tried to concentrate but only sensed fragments: a tradesman in a fluorescent windbreaker with a weathered smile; the waitress cackling; a man chewing a muffin with his mouth open; a woman’s bracelets clattering on her wrist; a curse and dabbing at spilled coffee with a napkin.

“Miss?”

Hartigan jumped again, her hand on her chest.

“Your long black.”

She snatched her cup from the counter and grabbed a newspaper from the rack, retreating to a corner table. She immediately opened the newspaper to the puzzles, cracking the pages and folding the paper. Hartigan found a pen in her bag and studied the cryptic crossword.

Five across: Fool, one taken in by her dressmaker? Eight letters.

Hartigan tapped her pen against her lips.

Ten across: Forgotten old man on street. Four letters.

She sipped from her cup and it burned her mouth and throat, leaving her tongue feeling prickly, her chest aching.

Old man, like a father, like her father. Pa. And the abbreviation for street. The solution was “past”. My father has a past. No, he has a history. He is legendary, a hero. He would never hesitate. He was never afraid. I will never be the cop that he was.

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