No plans.

‘You got any plans tonight?’ Frankie asked, screwing the cap firmly back on the bottle of vodka she’d just poured a shot from. I watched her proceed to knock it back and sighed wistfully.

‘No plans.’ I looped my arms through the straps of my rucksack. ‘But I’ll walk out with you.’

‘Thanks, babe.’ Frankie placed her empty glass in the sink; slotted the vodka back among its peers on the shelf. ‘I’m meeting a friend at his place. Still very new.’

We walked together to the door.

‘Sounds exciting!’ I prompted, and Frankie smirked. She paused at the mirror, fluffing her hair, running her tongue over her teeth. ‘I look ok?’

‘As if the last 8 hours didn’t even happen.’

She laughed.

We both worked the 6 pm shift on Thursday’s, seeing the bar all the way through to the small hours. It was a local joint, miles from anywhere – but even here, the lure of alcohol proved infallible.

Frankie stood with me on the front step as I locked the door, texting. As I was returning the keys to my pocket, I realised I’d left a light on somewhere in the back, and said as much.

‘Mind if I head off darl?’ Frankie pointed in the opposite direction to our usual route. ‘He lives that way.’

‘Sure. See you on Saturday. Enjoy your night!’

‘I will!’ came her sing-song reply. She set off briskly down the empty street. The bar had closed officially about an hour ago, and the customers who usually lingered around outside, smoking and laughing, had moved on long before. It was quiet and still.

*

I began my own journey home a few minutes later, thinking idly about leftovers I could warm through. At this time, the regular bus service had terminated, but my flat was within walking distance, and I’d always found something comforting in the predictable return of the night. Contrary to popular thinking, walking was best at this time. The roads were quiet, the air fresher – the senses sharper. Nobody was ever about.

There was a pop of broken glass underfoot.

Inspecting the sole of one shoe: crystalline shards were caught in the treads, winking in the glare of the street lamps. I used the key from the bar to pry the bigger pieces free. They settled commodiously back onto the asphalt, and with a jolt of confusion, I realised the road was littered in shiny fragments. Only then did I become aware of the other anomalies. The quiet still of the night hung almost oppressively, and the air was tainted, acrid with exhaust fumes and scorched rubber. Had there been an accident?

Dipping into my pocket for my phone, I punched in a ‘9’ before I paused, unsure. It would be better to see what exactly I was dealing with before I called the police.

I began walking again, stepping carefully to avoid the glass. I was approaching a junction – a broad square of orange light uninhibited by trees. The buildings on either side of the road were dark vacant lots, former offices no longer occupied. I became very aware of how isolated I was.

Reaching the end of the road, I heard it before I saw it. A high, keening alarm, at a frequency just audible enough to be unbearable. Below that, the dulcet murmurs of late-night radio, oddly misplaced. Then the van. A heavy, artillery vehicle, it was lying on its side as if part of an installation, smoke pluming. Dotted about: a shattered wing mirror, a curved section of front bumper, a fallen lamppost. A stiff, black boot, stood upright and on its own. And everywhere, broken glass.

I was so taken aback I didn’t think to be afraid, although my breath was coming in shallow bursts and I could hear the blood coursing in my ears. Where was the driver?

I stepped closer. The back doors of the van gaped open, bent and scorched, and I knew instinctively I’d not find anything in the dark space beyond them. This had been a robbery, then. My hands began to itch, and I forced myself to continue inspecting the scene.

The front windshield was almost completely missing, the glass here tainted red like stained glass. Sprawled stiffly a few metres ahead was a man’s body.

I could tell he was dead.

Beyond him was a motorbike, eerily unscathed, parked in the centre of the empty carriageway.

I was possessed by the strange desire to look at him, feet moving instinctively.

Only when I saw him properly did I feel the first flicker of fear. He was dressed like security, the starched creases in his shirt too formal for the buckled position in which he now lay. He was wearing a single boot. The lacerations to his head and hands looked severe – but it was the bullet hole that ran cleanly through his neck that’d killed him. There was so much blood.

I recoiled, feeling horribly exposed. The rider of the motorbike was as yet to be located – and I did not want to be about when they returned.

Half jogging, I stumbled back the way I had come. There was a sense of urgency now – to get back into the safety of the tree-lined streets, to swathe myself in the protective cloak of darkness.

It was then I noticed the case.

Tucked partially behind one of the wheels, it was dented and gashed – and cracked open.

With a glimmer of nervous anticipation, I swung my head back over my shoulder to confirm my seclusion. Heavy-duty vehicle, uniformed driver dead, motorbike riding perpetrator. What was inside the case?

I knew I shouldn’t touch it.

That it was evidence, that – at any probable moment – someone with no qualms about killing could be back to claim it. But I was guided towards it as if by forces unseen.

Crouching, I assessed, moving quickly. The two halves of the case were still melded partway together and the gap between them was slim, but not too slim for me to reach between. My fingers pawed paper, and I gasped, drawing back a taut hundred dollar bill. There was a weighted pause. Then, seized by frenetic energy, I began clawing bills free. They were layered in wads, just like in the films. Wad after wad. Bill after bill. It was hard to stop knowing just how many bills I was leaving behind, but at what I felt certain was 200, I forced myself. $20,000. A solid total, a good, neat number. And judging by what I could still feel inside the case, a miniscule amount. What was 20 grand to a thief? Far less than it was to me.

Hands shaking, I stuffed the bills into my rucksack, not caring that they snagged and crumpled. Among my belongings, they looked suddenly quite ordinary. My water bottle, my tangled earphones, my black leather notebook. A fistful of Benjamins. Now I was focused on getting away. Zipping my bag shut, I was back on my feet and running. Back across the junction and into the trees. Up a grassy verge onto the sidewalk. I ran until the only thing I could hear was the pounding of my feet on the concrete, the lumbered pitch of my breath. Back past the bar. It felt like hours since I’d left there. And now I’d never have to go back again. $20,000.

*

I didn’t stop running till I was home. Having taken some roundabout way, I was dripping in sweat, hair clinging to my neck and temples. I double-locked the front door and went straight to the kitchen sink, drinking in clumsy gulps from the tap. Then I peeled off my clothes and made robotically for the bathroom, keeping the rucksack with me. I was half afraid it would disappear, and kept my eye on it for the duration of my shower.

After, clean and dry, I lay in my dark bedroom with the rucksack clutched to my chest. My thoughts were racing. I wondered if someone had found the van yet. Was the driver still there, shoeless in the road? I’d decided not to call the police in the end, figuring it was better to keep myself completely removed from the situation. If they ever thought to question local proprietors about the events of the evening, I’d already composed a line in my head about having gone home a different way. It wasn’t as if Frankie had been around to contradict me. And it was technically true.

I nestled more comfortably into my pillows, adrenaline gradually succumbing to fatigue. There was still a good few hours of darkness left.

Far away, I heard the distant hum of a motorbike.