HMC's Short Stories

GLB46

 I knew the GLB46 Program was wrong. But I had a choice, be wrong, or lose my mind.

Nessy dragged me to the car. I couldn't quite remember why I was angry at her, so I pulled in the opposite direction toward our waterside mansion where I'd rather be in front of my big-screen TV. Almost bowled her backward at one stage. Poor old girl. I was stubborn as an old nail, and I wasn't coming out for her. Not today. My shows were on. She was making me miss my shows. San Tracey Murdock was about to shoot the bad guy, and he'd been aiming all season. Damned if I'd miss it. Damned woman!

'Get in the car, you buggar!' She pulled my arm. Strong grasp this one. I taught her that. Was all right to be a strong girl. Nothin' wrong with being able to beat up the fellas. She pushed me toward the silver Mercedes. My fault she could handle me like Raggedy Andy. Some strange guy came over to us and helped Nessy put me into the passenger seat.

'Who are you?' I demanded.

'I'm your driver. Harry. Harry Carmichael.' He had a familiar face.

'Harry's been driving us for five years, Bill,' said Nessy as she climbed in the other passenger-side door.

'Where the hell's Reggie?' I demanded.

'Shush! Have some respect,' Nessy whispered harshly. 'He died. And Harry's his son, so be quiet and have some compassion.'

'Oh,' I said. Shame that was, Reggie being dead. Good guy he was. That's why Harry was so familiar – looked like his dad. Didn't matter he'd been driving me for five years. Some days I didn't even recognise my own face, let alone my bloody driver.

Nessy strapped herself in. 'Now, Bill, you need to be on your best behaviour. Do you hear me?'

'Stop treating me like I'm seven, Nessy! I'm bloody-well 66 years old. You treat me with some respect, woman!'

'You're 74, Bill Bins. Keep your voice down.' She was calmer than usual, believe you me. Nessy wasn't called Nessy for nothin'. It came from her name Vanessa, but it also came from her brothers when she was knee-high, and she stomped around like the Lochness Monster.

'What's going on?' I studied her close. 'You takin' me to a doctor?'

'I've already told you, and if you can't remember, then shuddupaya face and read the paper.' She threw the Sydney Herald at me, and glanced out the window, as we pulled out the front gates. The paper said April 8th, 2015. Geez, time flies.

I flicked through the pages. Some poor woman might have been murdered by her boyfriend, and a neighbour saw the suspect throw her laptop into the canal the night she went missing. Yep – obviously him. Next page was a story on a politician, Bill Shorten (with the massive forehead). He was up for investigation – something about flaws at the ballot. I flipped back to girl – a young, English drama teacher. I hoped they found the body and put away the bastard who did it.

I glanced up at Nessy. If anyone ever hurt her ... well, I'd probably be useless, but I'd give it a crack. I smiled at her. She was a beauty. We pissed each other off all day long, but I loved her. She loved me, too. Nessy glanced over and her cheeks flushed. I caught a sparkle in her eye and a tiny smile danced on her lips. She turned away to hide it. She was still supposed to be mad at me. We were never good at stayin' mad. Probably why we'd been together since the fifties.

We drove into the city, and when we pulled up to some fancy building, Nessy put her hand over mine. 'We're here.'

'Where?' Couldn't believe I hadn't asked yet. Too stuck in my own damn head. Or had I?

'Dr Hossain is resuming some test trials today,' she said.

'You're taking my to a doctor called bloody Hossain? Are you nuts, woman?'