The Goodbye Ride Read Free Page A

the playground gate.
    Dumping her handbag near the
swing, she sat in the seat and took the cold steel chains in her palms.
    Rubber moulded to her
backside, a tighter fit than when she’d had little-girl hips. She dug her heels
into the ground and pushed backward. When she let go, she hurtled through air
that seemed to wrap itself around her legs: a bittersweet blanket.
    Luke used to love the swings.
He’d spend hours on the flying fox. They would climb. Chase. Pretend. Imagine.
Dream.
    Liv filled her lungs with the mingled
scents of cheese sandwiches and vegemite, apple cores and orange
juice—ingrained leftovers from a lifetime of school lunchtime snacks. Head
thrown back, wind whipping her hair, she felt her lips shape a smile.
     
    ****
     
    Owen had watched Olivia’s pink
beanie and muddy backside until both disappeared behind Dean Lang’s neighbour’s
hedge. He could tell by the stiff way she walked that she hurt all over and he
kicked himself for not offering her a ride. He was out of practice at that sort
of thing. He’d been incommunicado too long. A summer season on Antarctica would
do that.
    He tapped the Pantah’s seat.
“Baby, who wouldn’t want you?”
    Lang returned in minutes
carrying a plank almost as thick as one of his arms, and a sheaf of transfer
papers.
    Owen straightened the bike,
kicked back the centre stand and pushed it from the lawn. The tyres hummed and
picked up grit as he rolled it across the main road. When he looked to his
right, the oak trees flanking the road formed an ever-lengthening tunnel of
stark brown trunks. He saw no sign of Olivia, no flash of pink scarf through
denuded trees.
    Lang steadied the ramp and
Owen loaded the Ducati on the back of his cousin’s ute.
    “I’ll leave you to it then,
mate,” Lang said, tucking the ramp under his arm and handing Owen the
paperwork. “These are all signed.”
    Owen took the papers and
walked around the passenger side of the vehicle. He put the documents on the
seat and pulled a stash of rope from the footrest. “I don’t suppose you have a
phone number for her, do you?”
    The corner of Lang’s mouth
drooped. “Who?”
    “Olivia,” Owen said patiently,
tying the Ducati to the side rails.
    Lang rocked his head back in a
smile that showed too many yellow-stained teeth. “Ah.”
    “I thought she could tell me
about the bike,” Owen said, then as Lang continued his broad grin, added:
“Service history. Stuff like that.”
    “I guess she could tell you a
thing or two, mate, but nah. I don’t know her number. Sorry. She’d be in the
phone book though. She runs a business here. Livine. Something like that.”
    “Levi’s?” Owen tried to
clarify, tugging at his knots. Rope slipped through his palm.
    A truck rattled past,
buffeting the air and he missed Lang’s response. The ropes gripped and held.
    “She ain’t moving,” Dean Lang
said, clapping his hand on the steel tray. “You got far to go?”
    “Not far. My aunt has a
vineyard out near Balhannah. I’m staying with her for the long weekend. I’m
supposed to be helping her prune the bloody thing.” Owen gave his ropes one
last tug. Lang was right. The bike wasn’t moving.
    “You can have that job all to
yourself, mate. I have enough trouble pruning Her Inside’s roses.” Lang held
out his hand. “Have a good one, buddy. I hope she runs well.”
    Owen shook the big man’s hand.
“Yeah. Cheers. Thanks for that.”
    Lang set off across the road
with his makeshift ramp. ‘Her Inside’ must have lit the fire because fresh
white smoke tumbled from the chimney like wisps of Santa’s beard.
    Owen tried to think why a
father would make his son sell his bike. Maybe he crashed it. Perhaps his old
man thought he rode too fast. Owen knew plenty of parents who wrapped their
kids in cotton wool. Plenty. Not his parents, mind. Stand up for
yourself, son, had always been his father’s motto. Someone pushes you
around, push him back harder.
    Owen climbed in the