Matthew Flinders' Cat Read Free

alone.’ He’d already said too much to Orr. One of the few principles the homeless try to maintain is to avoid talking to the police. There was even a name for it, you were ‘a dog’ if you were seen talking to the law.
    Turning his back on the policeman, he commenced to walk down Macquarie Street towards the Quay as quickly as his leg permitted, the handcuffs banging against the worn leather of his ancient briefcase.
    However, it seemed the policeman wasn’t quite through with him. ‘Hey, Billy, them handcuffs, where’d you get ’em?’
    Billy stopped but didn’t turn around.
    ‘Handcuffs! Where’d you get ’em?’ Sergeant Orr repeated, this time in a slightly sterner voice.
    Billy was forced to turn around. ‘They’re American, Confederate Army issue, 1875.’
    ‘Yeah? Lemme take a look.’
    Billy now had to wait while Orr approached. ‘I have every right to own them,’ he said defensively.
    ‘Not so sure about that, Billy. Can’t have every Tom, Dick and Harry walking around with a pair of handcuffs now, can we?’ The police sergeant winked at Billy, ‘Unless of course you’re into S & M?’
    Orr was playing the Billy card for all it was worth. ‘They’re to keep my things safe, officer.’ Billy pointed to the open handcuff that hung from the handle of his briefcase. ‘I usually wear that one around my left wrist.’
    The policeman raised one eyebrow, ‘Come now, Billy, you know better than that? Only police officers are allowed to own handcuffs and only crims are authorised to wear them. That is, them and prison officers, not even the private security blokes. No one else, it’s against the law.’ Billy could see that Orr was beginning to enjoy himself. That he’d decided not to let him go on his way.
    Billy knew that no such law existed. ‘They’re not standard issue, sergeant, not regulation, they qualify as genuine antiques, a collector’s item.’
    ‘Oh, is that so? Antiques, is it? Valuable then, eh?’ The policeman reached down and examined the handcuffs, which were plainly quite different in their configuration from the ones he carried on his belt. ‘What’s so important that it needs to be handcuffed around your wrist?’ He looked at Billy sternly, ‘Maybe I’d better take a look, eh?’
    Billy drew back, unable to conceal his anxiety from the policeman. There was nothing in the briefcase that could be thought of as contraband or even valuable, except perhaps the handcuffs themselves, but his briefcase contained all that remained of his private life. The thought of Orr’s big paws rummaging through his personal possessions was more than Billy could bear. He could demand that Orr produce a search warrant, but he knew how provocative that would seem. The cop had been mocking him all along, but he’d nevertheless been pleasant enough. He accepted that policemen hate defence lawyers, particularly the ones who regularly got their clients acquitted. ‘Please, sergeant, it’s just, you know, my personal things, bits ’n’ pieces.’ He recalled what the boy had said earlier about his briefcase. Attempting a grin, he added, ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit of a bag lady.’
    ‘Nothing stolen, eh? Drugs? Block of hash? Some pot?’ Billy knew Orr was having him on, playing a game when he knew Billy couldn’t come back with a clever rebuttal. This wasn’t the courtroom, where a suitably acerbic comment could put an officer of the law in his place. Again he wondered what he might have said when Orr had been in the witness box.
    ‘No, sir, please, sir, you know me. I’m a derelict, there’s nothing else!’ Billy knew precisely the tone of voice the police sergeant required of him, though he hated himself for his sycophancy.
    The big policeman looked at Billy and grinned, he had achieved his purpose. By thoroughly humiliating Billy, he could now afford to be magnanimous. He glanced at his watch, possibly remembering that he had a train to catch, then looked back at Billy,