Morning. Kitchen. Fridge in his usual pose at the kitchen counter, as always apparently rivetted by the viscosity of honey and the mysteries of gravity. The cat purrs around his feet but he ignores it and continues to drip honey into a bowl of cereal. When his weetbix is honey-coated to his satisfaction, he pours in a little milk and shovels slow disinterested spoonfuls into his mouth. Apart from the purring cat, the house is utterly still and empty. He eats and looks around with an expression as vacant as the house. The cat laps at a few drops of spilled milk. Fridge shovels a few more spoonfuls in and then heaves a deep sigh. The tv is droning on about Desiree’s impending packed out stadium show. Fridge raises his bowl in mock salute.
Fridge: You go girl!
The phone buzzes in his pocket. He hauls it out, looks at the number, hangs up. He washes the bowl and spoon, gulps down the rest of his coffee, and picks up the cat, carries it to the front door where he almost trips over a large box. On top is a card that reads: “Something sweet for a sweet man. D. xoxo” Fridge plants the cat on the mat and carries the box inside. The cat is wise enough to know not to follow. Inside the box are twelve jars of organic honey. An expletive is exhaled through a warm smile. The box is left on the kitchen counter as Fridge grabs his ice packs from the freezer and locks up the house. As he is arranging his eskies in the back of the car the phone rings. Fridge sighs and picks up.
Angie: (On a tropical deck somewhere sipping something tropical). Hey stranger! You get my text?
Fridge: Hey... just heading off to work....
Angie: (A second or two of nothing her end. She takes a hard suck on her plastic straw). How’s Mel?
Fridge: Over at Robert’s.
Angie: (Sucking the life out of her cocktail until it gargles like a dying man). And how’s Robert?
Fridge: Ange, it’s eight-thirty over here. I’ve gotta keep the line free. Larry’ll be calling any minute. And don’t ask me how Larry is. You know how Larry is...
Ange: (Clicking at a waiter or her own better angels, whichever responds the quickest) Fridge, I -
Fridge: Gotta go Ange...See you when I see you....
Fridge drives past old Sid without returning his wave. He is understandably distracted. It has been a hectic 48 hours and one senses the worst is yet to come, especially if they hold out any prospect for this script. Fridge does not take his usual route to the cafe in Marboura, but instead heads over the Harbour Bridge and the water glittering in early autumn sunlight. The camera stays on him as he descends into the dark of a tunnel, emerges a little while later with North Ryde all around in all its glassy low-rise glory. He is ponderous, stone-like, although he is a little too jowly to rate as monumental. He eventually turns into a generous acreage of car park behind which stands a vast squat stone building.
He cruises through a fleet of maybe a hundred cars sporting the same Healfast Pathology livery, some being loaded, some arriving like his, some darting out on the beginning of their respective runs. The place is a hive of activity, but everyone seems happy enough in their work. When Fridge parks and approaches the rear loading dock, a staggered cheer goes up accompanied by vaguely mocking applause. Fridge is obviously well-liked. The camera follows him through the automatic doors into a vast cluttered cathedral of hallogen and white paint and row upon row of expensive looking machines being attended to by dozens of figures in aqua-blue gloves and chalk-white coats. Another cheer goes up. Dozens of young men and women at a row of long benches are sorting through bins of specimens that the couriers keep filling hour upon hour day upon sickly day. Centrifuges whirr like a gauntlet as Fridge is feted by all and sundry and he holds up a hand in mock salute. He makes his way through the maze of the lab with the camera in tow, up a set of stairs and down a long hallway, at the end of which another raucous reception awaits him in a crowded room lined with row upon row of pigeon holes and copiers. Down the far end of this bustling room sit two men and a woman behind a bank of computer screens and incessantly ringing phones. This is the comms centre for the entire courier network of metropolitan Sydney. Fridge performs a mock bow to the applauding room and then answers a summons into a tiny office. It is the tiny office of the department boss, an unimposing reasonably fair-minded man by the name of Derek of whom no-one has either an overly-harsh or an overly-kind word to say. Everyone likes his wife, who is a star turn at Christmas do’s. Derek is just Derek, always was and always will be. He has been the boss for as long as Fridge can remember. They cross paths no more than half-a-dozen times a year, and every time Fridge is struck by how little Derek has changed in manner or appearance. With Derek sit the two police officers who came to Fridge’s house the day before. It is a very small room and Fridge isn’t entirely sure where he is expected to stand. Derek notices his discomfort and makes a suggestion.
Derek: How about we take this to Dr Reed’s office?
Fridge: Barbara off on one of her lecture tours?
Derek: Barbara’s dead, Fridge. You really should climb the stairs once in a while.
Fridge: (Visibly shaken and slightly embarassed, although it’s not always easy to tell with Fridge). Damn. I liked Barbara.
Derek: We all liked Barbara. (Turning to the two officers as they all sit down in the late Barbara’s airy office with a view over the upper car park housing all the pathologist’s very expensive European cars. Two men in t-shirt and shorts are busy sponging and hosing them down.) Sorry, Dr Reed was one of our founding pathologists. One of the best histologists in the country. (Derek seems inordinately proud of the late Dr Reed).
Female Officer: Sorry for your loss.
Second Officer: (Turning to Fridge, who has decided to sit a little away from the rest a little to the left of Derek). What was all that cheering out there, Coolley? Your mates think this is all a joke?
Female Officer: Constable -
Derek: I can assure you we all take this very seriously -
Female Officer: Yes constable, please let me ask the questions.
Derek: You know the company policy on passengers while you’re clocked on, Fridge. It doesn’t matter who they are...
Second Officer: (Looking like one of those beer bottles just found its mark). Who who is?
Derek: (Looking at the female officer a little exasperated at her gormless colleague). Um...Desiree...?
Second Officer: Yeah, what about her? (Looking happy with himself for the first time that morning). Managed to snavel tickets to her second concert.
Female Officer: Good for you constable. Now, back to the matter at hand. (Turning archly to
Fridge). I’m afraid we weren’t entirely upfront with you yesterday, Mr Coolley. A ransom note had already been received by the boy’s uncle. Some time in the small hours Sydney time. He - the uncle - is a prominent mainland figure with close ties to the CCP.
Fridge: CCP?
Derek: The Chinese government, Fridge.
Fridge: Ah...
Second Officer: Normally we wouldn’t have opened a case so soon, but with the note and the high profile of the case...
Fridge: Yeah, I get it...
Second Officer: We wanted to see if you remembered anything without -
Fridge: Yeah, I get it, me getting any more freaked out than I was -
Female Officer: Quite. Now, first of all I would like to apologise on behalf of NSW police for that leaked image of you...
Fridge: (Shrugs) Some image. Could be anyone. But how the hell did they know I was a courier?
Female Officer: (Casting a furtive glance at her colleague). Yes, well we have our suspicions....
Second Officer: Holy crap, that was her! At your joint yesterday morning, wasn’t it?
Female Officer: Not the time, constable. (Wincing at Derek primly) Sorry, he’s on loan.
Second Officer: I knew I recognised her! What’s a dirtbag like you doing with the likes of Desiree?
Derek: (Tossing down the pen he was chewing) Hey, easy fella!
Female Officer: Yes, that’s quite enough constable. Please go wait in the car. No, better still, go speak to that radio operator. (Consulting her phone)
Derek: You mean Larry? Yeah, he’s the big guy with the loud voice stuffed behind the bank of computers out there. (Obviously amused at the reception this milksop is about to encounter).
Female Officer: (Waiting until the constable has left, suitably peeved) Sorry about that. This virus has left us very short-handed.
Derek: (Snorting a little too loudly). You don’t need to tell us about the bloody virus....I got drivers dropping like flies. How are you feeling Fridge?
Fridge: Never been better Larry.
Derek: Yeah, well you look bloody dreadful.
Fridge: Ange has me on the honey...
Derek: Honey? You need some bloody starch in you mate. (Returning to the matter at hand).Sorry officer...
Female Officer: (Trying to control a slightly peeved grin). Now, you say you had only passing contact with the boy. What about this man you mentioned waiting out on the street?
Fridge: (Shrugs) Not much to say really. Older guy, maybe late thirties early forties. Smart casual. Expensive looking shoes I think. Chain smoker. Chinese definitely. Very watchful of the boy, but seemed to want to keep his distance for some reason.
Female Officer: OK. (Holds up her phone to Fridge). Could this be the man?
Fridge: (Squinting. He really does need glasses but is either too busy or too vain to visit an optometrist). Could be. Who’s that guy?
Female Officer: A person of interest. Both to us and the Chinese. Now....one of your cars went missing....
Derek: Yep....day before yesterday....(Glancing over at Fridge). Stavros. Left it running outside Victoria Avenue....
Fridge: Fucking Chatswood....
Female Officer: Quite. And can you vouch for this Stavros?
Derek: Stavros can be an A-grade idiot, but he’s been with us for years. Knows this city like the back of his hand. But that’s not what you’re asking, is it? I don’t know...(Glances over at Fridge again and shrugs lightly). I guess...what do you reckon Fridge?
Fridge: You mean is he on the take? Hardly. The guy bought in early. You know wogs and their bricks. Owns three houses outright. Never owned a credit card. Boasts about it. That and the job are about the only two things Stavros and I have in common. Loves his missus, always bitching about his boys....
Female Officer: I will need to speak to Stavros at some stage.
Derek: He’s waiting around for a car. I can call him in if you like.
Female Officer: Won’t be necessary for the moment. (Turning her attention again to Fridge). Mr Coolley, did you happen to notice anyone else in the vicinity of the boy? Also, other than the message on the phone, did you notice if the boy was in any sort of distress?
Fridge: No, and no. Sorry. The shady guy on the street - well, it was almost like he wanted me to notice him.
Female Officer: Really? How so?
Fridge: Well, it was all so - theatrical - you know? Like he was playing a part.
Female Officer: Interesting.....
Derek: So, how’s our missing car fit in?
Female Officer: I’m not entirely sure it does, except that more than one witness says they saw someone fitting the boy’s description getting into one of your cars. I’m still trying to fit the pieces together.
Derek: Sounds like a setup to me.
Female Officer: Oh really? Ummm.....well, yes....(She waves her phone in Fridge’s direction as though about to ask him another question, but then seems to think better of it). Actually, I think that’s it for now. Thank you for your help Mr Coolley, Mr...
Derek: Hughes.
Female Officer: Yes....and kudos on your famous passenger Mr Coolley. I gather your daughter is a singer?
Fridge: Step-daughter....
Derek: I remember her when she was no bigger than your thumb....
Fridge: She was a teenager, Derek.
Derek: Yeah, well....still....nice kid...
Fridge: Still is....
Female Officer: (Starting to seem a little uncomfortable). Yes, well I won’t keep you gentlemen any longer. Quite an operation you have here....I had no idea how vast these places could be. So this is where our blood goes....
Derek: Yep, literally in your case. We’ve got the police contract. And the army. Lost the navy for some reason.
Female Officers: How many cars do you have on the road at any one time, just out of curiosity?
Derek: On an average week day? Anything up to a hundred at a time...
Female Officer: (Obviously impressed) Really? And all controlled from out there?
Derek: (Shrugs) Pretty much. With the odd exception of people like Fridge here, who pretty much run their own race....
Female Officer: Quite a lot of responsibility....
Derek: (Showing her to the door, taking one last look around the office with slightly dewy eyes). You’re telling me! And now with this bloody virus...boy, oh boy...
They leave the relative tranquility of Barbara’s old office to enter the melee of the comms room where Larry appears to be in something of a slanging match with the hapless constable.
Second Officer: You keep talking to me like that I’ll run you in!
Larry: Get outta my office dickhead! You got a fucking nerve talking about my drivers like that -
Derek: Larry! What the hell is going on?
Second Officer: That’s it, I’m running you in...
Female Officer: Constable! Wait for me in the car please.
Second Officer: But, did you hear what he called me?
Female Officer: In the car now please Constable.
The constable leaves, the room settles and clears a little. Larry goes back to his phones that seem to be ringing white hot.
Larry: Fridge!? You got anymore celebrities in your boot?
Fridge: You’re a real card Larry.....
Larry: Mwah..... Rossmore....no scrap that...swing out to Mortlake mate. Critical urgent. D-Dimer and a Troponin.Well well, your mate Soong’s been busy. Bring it straight back here. No detours. Oh, and that bloody princess at the IVF on Broadway. Reckons we’re not quick enough with our pick-ups, so get out there and sniff her out. Got her lawyers on speed dial, that one, so be polite.
Fridge: You know me Larry.
Larry: Yeah, I do, which is why I’m saying it. Sorry officer, you OK for a lift? Fridge here charges by the pap pic.
Fridge: Can it, Larry....
Larry: Grab some ice while you’re here mate. (Turning to the female officer) No, seriously....you done with him? Great, then you’re good to go mate. Come on come on, we got a lab to run. This fucking virus is gonna be the death of me. (Pressing angrily on a button flashing on the vast console before him)Yep...Couriers, Larry speaking.....
Fridge makes his way back through the vast labyrinth of the lab, chatting to a few people on the way. The kids at the specimen reception benches watch him pass with the usual mix of awe, envy and resentment of star-struck kids of every place and every time. Fridge passes through the labouring automatic doors to find a circle of drivers laughing and chatting in that slightly jagged way of colleagues in the post-tobacco age.
Fridge: (Laying his hand on the broad shoulders of a slightly older, jowly olive-skinned man with a kind face and a dreadful posture). They find you a car yet Stavros?
Stavros: They give me that fucking thing. (Points to a beaten up old Toyota with a long scrape down one side and what look from a distance like worrying rust patches.)
Fridge: Derek can be a prick when he wants to be.
Marcus: (A young, twitching bean stalk of a boy with ambitions to be a writer of the great Australian novel, or play, or poem, he can’t quite make up his mind. He also likes to let his girlfriend braid his long maddeningly lucious brown hair so that he looks like he has stuck his finger in a socket). Hey Fridge.
Fridge: (Visibly struggling to summon kind thoughts about this boy) Hey Marcus.
Marcus: May you live in interesting times, eh Fridge?
Fridge: Excuse me?
Marcus: (Visibly pleased with himself, one of two apparent default positions he lunges between.) Old Chinese curse.
Stavros: (Wincing at the mention of Chinese) Oy....
Marcus: Sorry, Stav, my bad....Got a couple of lyrics for Melody if you want to pass them on, Fridge. Don’t seem to have them on my person right at the mo....
Fridge: (Watching the boy feel around in his pockets, frown with a finger to his temple. Fridge seems to have been in this situation before). Yes, well you let me know when you find them, Marcus, and I’ll gladly pass them on. (This elicits a wry sideways glance from Stavros).
Stavros: Clever girl that daughter of yours. My boys wouldn’t stand a fucking chance...(Swats away the world with his broad right hand).
Marcus: She still with that Neil guy, Fridge?
Fridge: Nathan.... and yes, Marcus, they seem happy enough.
Stavros: You get in trouble for something I hear, Fridge. You OK?
Marcus: (Doing a mincing little shuffle). Fridge here had a famous passenger in his car....
Stavros: (Looking askance at the boy). We not allowed passengers, Fridge, you know that....
Marcus: So, what’s she like? (The boy has an arresting habit of sucking the air very loudly through his teeth whenever he asks a question, no matter how predictable or mundane. He does so now so sharply that it elicits a worried look from old Stavros). You get any goss?
Fridge: She slept most of the time. I guess it says something about both my company and my driving....(At the sight of Marcus building up to another sharp intake of air, Fridge shakes his keys and pats old Stavros kindly on the shoulder again). Anyway, gotta go. Troponin calls! Lock your car old man!
Stavros: You see that thing they give me?
Fridge smiles, shrugs, pats the old man’s arm again, waves in the general direction of Marcus who obviously still has a question dangling from the tip of his lolling tongue. Walks to his car through a melee of loading and unloading, arriving and departing cars. Just as he is about to turn the ignition he seems to remember something and thumps the steering wheel with his open palm.
Fridge: Fucking ice!
Once he has sorted his ice, we accompany Fridge back across the bridge, along the western distributor through Darling Harbour and then down a little alley the back of Broadway somewhere. We follow him on foot across the bustling intersection of City Road and into a garish foyer all glass and brass and no class. A huge poster of a beaming mother and her new born shiny as an unspent penny hangs above the reception desk where three pretty receptionists in matching uniforms sit like robots awaiting a command. Fridge looks around at the rich couples bathed in their saturnine glow with an expression of someone who has walked through a space-time portal. One of the receptionists looks up at Fridge, her smile quickly devolving into an expression of quiet disdain.
Receptionist: Deliveries go through Reiby Lane.
Fridge: I’m not delivering. I’m here to speak to Dr Mears. I’m from Healfast Pathology.
Receptionist: Dr Mears has patients.
Fridge: I would certainly hope so. (Taking a pen and a card from his top pocket and jotting down his number). Just ask her to call me. She’ll know what it’s about. I’ll be taking care of your pick-ups from now on. My name’s Patrick. Fridge through there, is it?
Fridge leaves the petulant little robot to her robot duties and walks into a blindingly white clean room at the far end of which stands a fridge from which he retrieves a bag full of IVF samples. There are maybe a dozen in all, and he dutifully removes the transit sheets from each one, dates, time-stamps and signs them, and then returns each sheet to its respective bag. As he passes the front desk he holds up his haul and steps out into the harsh daylight of a city already bristling with too many people with too many expectations.
Fridge slumps into his tiny car and turns on the radio. Surprise surprise, Desiree’s latest is playing. Fridge switches stations, frowns at first and then realises that what he is hearing is Vaughan William’s Lark Ascending. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a moment, and then gathers himself and calls comms.
Comms Sasha: Couriers, Sasha speaking!
Fridge: (Looking a little non-plussed). Sorry Sash. Fridge here.
Comms Sasha: (Breathy) Oh, hey Fridge...
Fridge: Sorry, I thought I had Larry’s number in here...
Comms Sasha: Yeah, you do, I moved along a chair.
Fridge: Everything OK Sash?
Comms Sasha: Yeah....bad morning. Couple of our guys got taken out.
Fridge: (Wincing) Bad?
Comms Sasha: Judging by the cars they brought in, I’d say yeah Fridge. Trailer jobs. Write-offs.
Fridge: (Still wincing). Anyone I know?
Comms Sasha: You know Mustafa?
Fridge: Yeah, I know Mustafa....
Comms Sasha: Yeah, well last I heard it’s not looking good for Mustafa. Soccer mum on her phone ran a red light....
Fridge: Fucking soccer mums....
Comms Sasha: Hey! I’m a soccer mum!
Fridge: You’ll never be a soccer mum Sash...
Comms Sasha: Aw, Fridge....
Fridge: I’ve got a bad feeling about this IVF outfit, Sash. Tell Derek. I reckon she’s gonna shaft us at some stage.
Comms Sasha: You mean Broadway? The whole pink palace deal with the grand piano?
Fridge: That’s the one. She’ll fuck up and land the problem at our door. I can feel it in my old bones.
Comms Sasha: Oh, you’re bones aren’t that old Fridge.
Fridge: Older than Israel Sash....
Comms Sasha: Fridge, gotta go, but last thing...
Fridge: What’s she like?
Comms Sasha:Yeah....
Fridge: Kind.
Comms Sasha: Aw......
Fridge sits rubbing his chin with a wide ambiguous grin on his face as though re-living past glories. For what it’s worth, he could also be thinking about what he would do, given half the chance, to someone who would stoop to profit from the avid hopes and dreams of barren couples with debts they can only hope to pass on to the children in whose cause they are now so deeply indebted. He starts the car and flips the radio back over to the kid’s station, starts driving and humming along to the power chords like a man feeling his way blindly through a cave after the battery died in his torch. As he bumps and grinds down King Street across Newtown Bridge, and down through Stanmore onto Canterbury Road into the relatively open plains of the outer inner west, a song he recognises comes on. He smiles and sings along to that, every word a plangent reminder of how lucky he is. The Song is “Love Will Tear Us Apart”.
Cut to Fridge pulling in to the same suburban driveway as two episodes ago, where he wrestled the staple-wielding junkie to the ground the same way you would screw up a parking ticket. The tiny surgery is teeming with sick coughing red-faced people. The virus has by now gripped the city well and truly, depite all the authorities’ best attempts to contain it. People, much to the dismay of men like Fridge, simply will not stop moving around. Fridge gave up long ago pretending any mask could protect him, any hand wipe, any grandmother’s remedy, and so he just goes about his business secure in the knowledge that his boss will have his back when he finally succumbs. Many in the city are not so lucky, and thus the panic shopping and the empty shelves and the queues at the petrol stations and the plumetting stock markets. A world geared for uncertainty appears to be anything but. He stands before a woman sitting at a desk donning a blue face mask, trying to type with surgeon’s gloves.
Fridge: Your eczema flare up again, Milly?
Milly: (With a surprising amount of venom for someone wearing a face mask, although perhaps not now I think about it) I hope you get it...
Fridge: You really found your calling, didn’t you Milly, tending to the frail and indigent....
Milly: I hope you get it....
Fridge: Only ever thinking about others, that’s what I love about you Milly. You got a troponin and a D-Dimer for me? No hang on, he wouldn’t trust you with anything so important, would he? I’ll just knock, shall I?
Milly: (Coughing) I hope you get it....
Fridge: (Waving his arms about theatrically) Yeah, well so you keep saying Milly...Say g’day to your boy for me won’t you....
Fridge taps softly on the door marked Dr Soong. Said doctor beseeches whoever is knocking to come in. He simply knows no other way of responding. Dr Soong is one of those doctors who make people like Fridge feel like what they are doing is all worthwhile. The man is polite, officious, kind, funny, wise, funny, kind, pedantic, kind, moody, gentle, kind. In other words, a Doctor. Fridge opens the door to find said doctor sat alone at his desk. This both surprises and alarms Fridge, perhaps because he also notices that the good doctor has obviously been crying. The virus makes people’s eyes weep copiously, but these appear to be genuine tears.
Dr Soong: Come in my friend, come in.
Fridge: (Edging in a little uneasily). Larry said you had a Troponin for me?
Dr Soong: (Taking a deep breath, wiping away the tears, comporting himself). I didn’t thank you for the other day....
Fridge: You did, doctor...
Dr Soong: (Smiling as though at a puppy that has just peed on his carpet). Yes, well I don’t think I thank you enough for your service.
Fridge: (Sits for a moment where he has been gestured to sit, looks around idly trying to guage what has happened, because obviously something quite seismic has occured in that tiny room). They pay me handsomely for my service. Sorry, is everything OK doctor? Do you need me to phone in mobile testing? I can stay with you until they get here...
Dr Soong: But you have duties....a Troponin there....he’s dead now, died an hour ago, but you may be able to get something for the coroner.....
Fridge: (Sits gazing at the kind face of the doctor whose face has always been so kind, so welcoming, so cheerful that Fridge in his heart of hearts always knew this day this moment would come). I’m sorry, Dr Soong...so we should still run the tests? Was he a friend of yours?
Dr Soong: I let my patients become my friends, Patrick. I mean, look at my surgery..... It’s a house. I lived here when I first arrived in this country.
Fridge: I had no idea, doctor. It must be hard...
Dr Soong: (Grazing on Fridge’s weathered face the way an eagle might graze on the shadows of a herd of spring lambs) Which part?
Fridge: (Not sure quite what he has ventured in to, but not quite as uncomfortable there as he first thought) All of it, I guess....
A sharp angry knock knock knock at the door snaps both men out of their respective reveries. It is Milly, of course, harbinger of all that is mean and small and dark in this world. The perfect practice manager in this world of commodified empathy.
Milly: I’m gonna have to start prioritising doctor, sorry. Westmead, for some of these if you’re feeling poorly...
Dr Soong: (Looking horrified at the prospect of these poor, frightened sick patients having to stand in line for rudimentary treatment in the charnel house that Westmead Hospital has become since the advent of the virus). Oh, no no no Milly...please....please...I apologise Patrick...
Fridge: Never apologise to me, Doctor. I’ll just sign off on this in your presence if you don’t mind...(A wry glance in Milly’s direction). Ok, done....take care doctor. Don’t push yourself...
Milly: I think the doctor knows what’s best for the doctor...
Fridge: Really Milly, I thought that was your job....
Milly: D-dimer’s this way...
Fridge looks past Milly to the kind doctor one more time, sees the old man with his shirt open and a stethoscope pressed to his heart, mumbling something and jotting something down in a notebook. We don’t know this yet, but it will be the last time Fridge ever sets eyes on this kind brave man. Fridge heads back up Canterbury Road and into the slow crawl of King Street to the dulcet tones of Sarah Vaughan. Before we know it he is backing into a space at the lab’s loading dock. He hands the IVF’s, the Troponin and D-Dimer to the girls in charge of processing the critically urgent bloods, makes some vague promise of an autograph, and then bolts upstairs to the bustling comms office and taps on the half-open door to Derek’s tiny corner office.
Derek: Twice in a day Fridge! To what do I owe this dubious honour?
Fridge: Soong out at Mortlake’s definitely come down with it...
Derek: So? Get his practice manager to call us. We’ll get the Chullora team out there...
Fridge: His practice manager’s a fucking dragon....
Derek: (Scratching his chin) Right, she’s the one keeps landing these complaints on my desk?
Fridge: Derek, please mate....
Derek: I can’t just send a team in like a bunch of fucking storm troopers...doesn’t the guy have a lick of sense?
Fridge: He thinks he’s doing the right thing...
Derek: By infecting half of Mortlake?
Fridge: Please Derek....he’s a good man...couldn’t you call him, give him a bit of a nudge?
Derek: (Rubs his pink flabby chin, looks Fridge up and down a few times). Fuck me, you’re looking thin. Starch mate. You sure you haven’t picked it up yourself? OK OK, I’ll call him, but you know how it pans out telling a doctor what to do...
Fridge: Yeah I know......make a sailor blush....thanks Derek....
Derek: Looks like Larry really needs you out there mate. You get too tied up in this shit, Fridge. That’s where your weight’s gone. Who the fuck hired you back then anyway?
Fridge: I’m looking at him.
Derek: Well fuck me....folly of youth, eh? Larry’s gonna have a hearty if you don’t get out there...(Waves Fridge away and looks back at the mess of paper on his desk as though he had chosen the worst of two options.)
Larry: (Holding up a finger to an invisible interlocutor). That prim piece with the badge and gun wants your records Fridge. Everything we’ve got on you. Just got word from HR. Just giving you the heads up.
Fridge: (Shuffling through some packages on the island bench). Yeah, thanks Larry. What you make of her?
Larry: A fucking sort!
Fridge: Get your hand off it, Larry. You know what I mean...
Larry: There’s one of her down every corridor of this place.
Fridge: Meaning?
Larry: Meaning, we’ve all got your back and you’ll thank us I reckon...
Fridge: Right. Strangely reassuring Larry. (Holding up a bulky parcel in each hand). Drop these off on the way out to Rossmore?
Larry: Be my guest mate. (Looking Fridge up and down) You OK mate? You’re looking a little peeky...
Fridge: Always a pleasure Larry.
Fridge slumps in his car, rubs his forehead, sighs, checks his pulse. Sighs. Looks at himself in the rearview. The phone rings. It’s Angie. Sigh. Fridge starts the car, wends his way through the milling throng.
Angie: (Strolling through the Denpasar markets in a sarong looking all tanned and relaxed). Hey sailor...
Fridge: (Waving at colleagues as he wends his way through the car park). What’s up Angie?
Angie: (Her face hardening at something thrust in her face). Just checking in. I’ve got some great orders in for the shop....how are you?
Fridge: Fine, Ange, I’m always fine...
Angie: Looks like my flight tomorrow could just make the cut...
Fridge: The cut?
Angie: Ah, yeah Fridge, for the quarantine? Australia’s pulling down the shutters tomorrow night.
Fridge: Oh yeah....
Angie: (Her face hardening again. She really does have quite a hard face for someone who runs a retail business). Oh yeah...and you didn’t think to let me know? Thanks a ton Fridge! How’s Melody?
Fridge: Fine. So you’re flying in tomorrow?
Angie: What did I just say Fridge?
Fridge: (Rubbing his forehead as though trying to conjure a genie). Gotta go Ange.
Angie: Don’t you....Fridge....don’t you just....
Fridge hangs up. The phone rings again. And then again. And then again. And then nothing. Fridge almost seems disappointed. It is obvious this woman has her hooks in him and that he knows it but continues on like someone who has exhausted all his visibile options. The operative word there being visible. Fridge sees what is right there in front of him, but not what lies at the sides. Fridge pulls into a couple of surgeries to deliver his parcels, flirts with the receptionists, whacks on some Buddy Miles, his chiselled face softening as he escapes the maze of nineteenth century streets and onto the sleek 21st century promise of four-lane freeway out to Rossmore. Fridge likes driving and listening to music the way others like reading and listening to music, the world coming to him as he immerses himself in it. He is wrenched out of his reverie by a string of firetrucks screaming by as he eases onto the off-ramp. The phone rings. Fridge puzzles at the number but takes a punt.
Desiree: Hey padre!
Fridge: Ummmmm.....?
Desiree: You get my parcel?
Fridge: Oh, yeah sorry kiddo. Long day....Thanks for that. You know how I love my honey...
Desiree: Liar! Mel set me straight when I called her to get your number....
Fridge: (Rubbing his temples hard. He really is not very well at all). Ha, you got me....
Desiree: You OK soldier?
Fridge: Yep. You?
Desiree: They’re cancelling the tour after tonight, can you believe? It’s just some bloody flu, right?
Fridge: Novel, kiddo...means they don’t quite know what they’re dealing with...
Desiree: Right....so that....I never got that.....yeah OK....my mum’s having a fit....
Fridge: I bet. You OK kiddo? They gonna let you fly? You know there’s always a bed at my place...
Desiree: You’re a brick Patrick. Gotta go mate. Sound check.
Fridge: Am I supposed to say break a leg?
Desiree: I think you just did.
Fridge: Take care of yourself kiddo. And...promise me you’ll take the best advice...you know...this thing goes really hard at people with -
Desiree: An underlying condition?
Fridge: Maybe just keep your mum out of the loop for a while.
Desiree: Sorry, darling, you’re breaking up.....I’m gonna be OK Fridge. Tell your arsehole mate I got a doctor, a good fucking doctor keeping an eye on me, OK? I get sick I get sick, right? Look my song says, I’m young pretty and rich. What could possibly go wrong? (Smiles a little sadly her end, nods to a nagging PA). Find some joy, Patrick.
The line cuts out and Buddy Miles kicks in as Fridge wheels into a crowded parking lot where forlorn figures sit hunched between the cars coughing and vomitting and patting their howling feverish children on the back. The virus has claimed another victim and the paramedics in their full biohazard suits are wheeling it out of the back doors of the clinic into the waiting doors of a large van. Fridge rubs his forehead and coughs a deep rasping cough, gazes one last time into the rearview, collects himself and grabs his clipboard to venture back into the virulent fray.
End
© Justin Lowe 2020
© Justin Lowe 2020
