In the neighbourhood

I'd had several run-ins with her over the years; nothing bad.

She’d never hit me.

She was ok for a pig.

And when she snapped me at the front door wearing an apron, oven mitt on one hand and the Beatles playing in the background, she was the first to laugh.

“I was just in the neighbourhood,” she says. 'Thought I'd drop in.”

“The scones aren't quite ready I'm afraid.” Despite the uniform she has a pretty smile. You sick fuck.

“Well actually we're looking for a women, new in town, has green hair, a mohawk,, thought she might be staying here.”

“Oh? Well actually, no. I've no idea who you're talking about.”

Unperturbed, she turns and stares at my bike on the porch. It's upside down, dismantled.

“Whose is this bike?” she asks lightly.

“That's mine; another flat tyre as you can see,” I reply.

A frown: “Not swapping parts or anything?”

“Ah, No.”

“Ok, see ya then.”

They came and took my bike that week while I was at Uni; said I had fitted it out with stolen parts and was welcome to come down the station to chat about it. Detective Regulation Mo' didn't give a shit that I'd bought that bike when I was thirteen, saved my paper run money with Mum and Dad matching me dollar for dollar. I guess they would have sold it at the yearly police auction. Well I hope some kid got it, that he gets that tyre sorted and has heaps of fun on it.

Weird eh? I'd imagine that when most people see an old well-loved bike they'd fall happily into childhood memories of tearing about helter-skelter like you owned the streets. Our rag-tag gang had pretend licences and we would argue endlessly over who would get to be the cop.

The cop always had the most fun.

We had no idea. How the power we craved can get so twisted. Perhaps, once-upon-a-time, she had no idea either.