Polaroid Nights by Lizzie Harwood

Author:Lizzie Harwood
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781988595481
Publisher: The Cuba Press Ltd
Published: 2021-11-25T11:44:49+00:00

‘Brunch,’ Alabama said when they walked out of Auckland Central Police Station. They deserved some nutrients. They walked through Aotea Square to where Alabama had left the Triumph the night before yet again—parked on High Street. This time they weren’t so lucky. A furious downpour soaked them right through to sparkly black T-shirt, bellbottoms, smock top and puff-ball skirt.

They reached the Triumph, shoes squelching, clothes plastered, hair clinging to cheekbones. Even from the top of Vulcan Lane, Betty could see the triangular side-window cranked open. They ran to the car.

‘Damn,’ Betty said.

‘Nooooooooooo! That’s it. I’ve HAD it.’ Alabama’s fists pummelled the car’s roof.

Stereo nicked. Broken into through the dicky wing window.

‘Fuck you. All you bastards. I want off this fucking mindfuck circus of a week!’

‘Hey, it’s going to be okay.’

‘How? How is it going to be okay?’

‘You’re right, this sucks. At least get in the car, okay? Dizengoff. Let’s go eat. My shout.’

As Alabama cursed and swore, vowing to make the Psychic, arsonist, killer and thief all pay by various methods of losing their genitalia, Betty caught a glimpse of a taxi and pulled Alabama out of sight. Baza’s Alert taxi sloshed past, throwing up dirty water from a gutter.

‘It’s Baza. C’mon, let’s tail him,’ Betty said.

‘Are you mad? He’s done time for manslaughter. I can’t tail a car!’

‘It’s Sunday, the city is dead. We can be way back and we’ll see him. Let’s try.’

‘Okay.’

They turned the heating way up in the Triumph. Alabama was a natural tailer. She hung back, two or three cars behind, kept her lights off despite the rain—which made visibility impossible, but Baza was less likely to notice them in the Kahlúa-coloured car.

‘Really sorry about your stereo, Alabama.’

‘Thanks. At least they left my CDs.’ She wiped away a tear.

Baza led them on a tiki tour to Fort Street, where he parked up and went into a strip club. Gross. And man, was he short once he was out of the car and walking.

‘Pipsqueak.’

‘How does he reach the pedals?’

They giggled.

‘Shit, what do we do now? We’re not going into a strip club,’ Alabama smacked the steering wheel in frustration.

‘Brunch?’

‘Melba? Eggs benny?’

‘Yessss.’

They left the car, Sunday street parking was free, and walked up Vulcan Lane into Melba. Eggs benedict, flat whites, freshly squeezed OJ—within twenty minutes Betty’s brain felt rebooted.

‘Oooh, Workshop’s having a sale.’ Alabama drooled at the windows opposite.

By the time they ate and had taken a tiny look in Workshop and Zambesi, where Alabama absolutely needed some amazing leggings and a chunky bracelet made of Botticelli images under Perspex, and made their way to the Triumph, Baza was exiting the club. He did a U-turn, heading back towards Queen Street.

‘It’s on like a gong.’

‘Burn that rubber,’ Betty said as Alabama weaved into the lane behind Baza’s car, well back from his slow ascent of Queen. He didn’t have his top light on, so it looked like he wasn’t available for hire.

‘What’s he doing?’

They’d passed a couple of young women their age, walking with weary glances over their shoulders.

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