Cabbing in Canberra was a delight. There were morning and afternoon peaks, of course, but rarely did they last more than half an hour, and if you spent five minutes in stop-start motoring, it was usually because of something extraordinary, such as roadworks or an accident.

And in the evenings, when Harley preferred to work, the roads were all but empty. Just set the cruise control and drive, Nat King Cole telling you where he got his kicks.

Public servants coming home late from work, paying with a Cabcharge voucher. When the new government had taken over, there was a lot of midnight oil burning, and Harley had had more than one mid-level manager fall asleep in the passenger seat. Two years on, and the government had decided that it didn’t need a press release prepared for every possible contingency, and those late night jobs dried up.

People going to and from dinner. These were always nice. They paid in cash, they were well-behaved and after a bottle or two and a pleasant cab ride home, there was the chance of a good tip.

Airport work. Sure, there were a million cabs lined up on the feeder rank – unless three flights came in together, in which case there were none – but it was guaranteed work and for every passenger who said “Campbell” (a short fare) there was one who said “Banks” or “Dunlop” and that was an easy fifty dollars, empty motorway cruising there and back.

And then there were the drunks coming home from nightclubs in Civic. After late-week midnights the city centre changed its character, becoming more colourful and rowdier when the young folk came in to enjoy themselves and hunt up partners. But by three in the morning, all the sensible drunks had gone home, and those left were getting ratty, with every chance of throwing up in the cab or running off without paying because they had spent all their money on alcohol. Harley didn’t work that late unless he was desperate.

Harley got the call about eight, a quiet spot in a cabbie’s night. He pulled up at the shops, and soon Sharkey came walking briskly from the direction of Erstwhile Garden.

They headed off, down Blamey, left past Russell Offices and the front gate of Duntroon, before turning right at the roundabout for the Monaro Highway across Dairy Flats, Fyshwick ahead. They were caught by the lights at the Ipswich Street corner.  Harley stared at the grey bulk of The Canberra Times building ahead. Something running through his mind.

Bloody traffic lights. He inched forward, hoping to trip the road sensor again, give it a hurry-up.

“Must be the red light district,” he said without thinking.

Sharkey gave him a look. “Sex on the brain, mate. Was there much in X-Wing when you were there?”

The lights changed and Harley took off smoothly, taking the slip lane into Gladstone Street.

“The only screws I ever heard about were wearing blue uniforms,” he said, remembering the prison officers and their petty corruptions. “If there was any action, it was kept bloody quiet. Mind you mate, I didn’t think that way when I first came in. Thought I was going to be gang-banged stupid, and I was real careful about not dropping the soap in the showers.”

“Yeah. Everyone reckons that. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I wouldn’t take you the wrong way. You ain’t no oil painting.”

“That’s why I’m a cabbie,” Harley smiled.

“There was one bloke that I took advantage of,” Sharkey said. “I forget what I was in for. Nothing bad, just a short one. Six months and most of that in minimum. There was a young jockey came in near the end. He’d been in some race-fixing rort and he was about the only bastard who wasn’t guilty, so of course he wore it. He’d been watching too much television – like you, Harley – and he was scared shitless. He was young and small and quiet.”

They had arrived, and Harley turned the meter off, but Sharkey kept talking.

“He kept a low profile the first days, and when I saw him taking a shower after lunch, all by himself, I knew what was what. So I went in, stripped off, and stood there facing him when he came out to get changed. Cute little thing, he was, and there might have been a few old lags who’d of been tempted.

“He stopped and looked at me, and he bloody near shat himself. ‘Sonnie,’ I said, ‘there’s men on this wing, hard men, who would root you ragged. And give you to their mates. But if they think you’re spoken for, you’ll be safe. I don’t swing that way, but I do like me coffee.’”

Harley grinned. “And you did okay for coffee after that, I bet!”

“I had the lot. Coffee, bananas, half his weekly buy-up went on chocolate for me. Ice cream slices, yoghurts. He couldn’t give me enough.”

Each inmate had had a ration of five coffee sachets a week in Harley’s wing. They were an unofficial currency. The really rich inmates had been able to buy jars of instant coffee, but with prison wages running at ten dollars a week and everyone smoking rollies, who could afford coffee? Let alone chocolate.

“Right-oh,” said Sharkey, handing Harley a twenty. “I’ll be done here in about an hour. You’ll be right to give me a lift home?”

“Too right!” Harley agreed. He was enjoying the old coot’s yarns. Better an old crim than a young drunk in his cab. And, to tell the truth, he was wondering where Sharkey got his energy.

Copyright © 2009 Peter Mackay