THE ARTFUL DODGER 

(A prequel to my SuperBitch story)

Warning: For those who like their uber-girls with smooth lines and soft curves this story may not be to your taste. It is, however, submitted for those who like depictions of buff, superstrong young sirens with a hint of the dangerous. If this is you, I hope you enjoy.

 

I

“It’s an old bomb shelter from the War. Pretty good, eh?”

The younger man’s face contorted into a grimace followed by a shake of the head.

“Fuckin’ Crimean War I reckon. This place stinks.”

Both clad in motorcycle leathers from neck to ankles, the older, much larger, man began to unbutton his much-too-tight vest allowing an expanse of tattooed flesh to cascade over his belt.

“This is a good fuckin’ deal, ya know, Davo. Look. Only one door in – and that’s steel reinforced – thick concrete walls. The Jacks’ll have to blast us out.

“Yeah? I’m guessin’ those little openings with iron bars across ‘em are the air vents ... aw, fuck, what’s that? A dead pigeon?”

The older man laughed and scratched his navel.

“He, he, that’ll be what the smell is, eh? Okay, I’m off to have a leak.”

“I’m knockin’ the top off a beer if ya want one. When’s Burgo gettin’ here, eh?”

“Aw sometime this arvo. He’s bringin’ his fuckin’ army with him.” The older man pointed at a metal door on the far wall. “There’s an old safe in that room stacked with all sorts of shit. Forget about drinkin’ and get in there and check it out while I use the plumbin’.”

Davo stared at the closed door then the small foam esky sitting on the ground next to where his mate was standing, debating in his mind whether the air would improve with the taste of chilled lager.

YEEECHH

A short sound of metal grinding on concrete screamed from the unopened room. His thirst forgotten, Davo swung the door open to see a large gap in the top of the far concrete wall – he guessed - where an iron bar grill had been.

“Fuck, they’re trying to pull the place down around us!”

“No I’m not.”

Davo froze at the soft tone of a girl’s voice coming from behind him. First he looked back over his left shoulder then, not believing his eyes, allowed the rest of his body to slowly turn to meet his vision front on.

“Fuck ... who? ... Are you? ...”

“I’m Carragh Simms, Davo. And yeah, the suit and the body? It’s the real deal.”

Carragh Simms stood with her hands on hips, her elbows flared out from her side. She wore the iconic sky blue ‘super-girl’ top, long sleeved, with the familiar red and gold ‘S’ stretched across a broad, heavy chest. Along the small waist below rippled abs, the top garment tucked into a red and gold belt which fastened a blue skirt so short that it only just covered the butt cheeks. Not that all this was apparent to Davo. He had only just taken in the neck-length straight jet black hair, the violet eyes and the awesome prettiness of the twenty-something’s face when his vision stuck fast upon the angular bulges of her upper arms and shoulders: not unlike those of an Olympic swimmer. There was no cape though and below the skirt, no boots or other footwear.

Davo gasped out his words.

“Kara? ... ‘Kara’ as in the super-girl ‘Kara’?”

“Different spelling, Davo. Plus a lot of other things. As you see I’m not what you get on TV. I mean, if I was some skinny girl from Smallville, I could’ve bent up those bars to come in the vent rather than have to pull out the wall.”

As she spoke she took two steps toward Davo who at 180cm looked down upon a girl who measured only up to his chin yet was a thousand times stronger.

“You’re ... err, not with the Jacks?”

“No, Davo, let’s just say I’ve got an interest in what Burgo is up to.”

Davo lapsed into a trance. She was close enough: he reached out and feet her left shoulder and arm. She smiled and stood motionless, the hands returned to the hips. He was incredulous.

“Fuck, it’s like ... like you’re made of steel ... Solid steel.”

“Well, I do have some soft bits, but let’s get to know each other first. Now ...”

“HEY! What the Fuck!!”

Four eyes turned to see the older man in the doorway to the room, his right hand feeling for a Glock jammed into the back rim of his leather pants. After that, all Davo saw was a sky blue blur, his mate disappearing with a yelp and a crash of furniture in the next room. In a blink the girl had returned holding the handgun in front of her at head height. His senses restored, Davo thrust up his hands, mistaking Carragh’s grip as an attempted aim. She giggled.

“Chill out, dude ...” Carragh’s move forward was quicker than Davo’s retreat backward “... I’m not gonna use this on you. In fact, it’ll never get used again.”

Davo had backed himself onto the wall opposite the door and without any apparent effort, the firearm held before his face fractured into a half dozen pieces: the frightened man’s eyes following the scraps of metal as they scattered about his feet.

“Davo, Davo, I’m not gonna hurt you. There’s no need, coz we’re on the same side aren’t we?”

Davo croaked out half a question.

“What did ... how did ...?”

“Your mate’s fine; he’s just taking a little nap on some firewood.”

Carragh placed her hands – small in size, even by female standards - on Davo’s shoulders. He sagged under the initial, unintended, power then pushed himself straight with the wall as his balance. His voice came out louder now but still staccato.

“No ... my name ... how did ... you ...”

“Oh I heard you two talking – superhearing remember.” Her mischievous laugh accompanied a press of her waist against his upper thighs. Even with her back arched, she couldn’t avoid her breasts pushing into his midsection. “Okay, now let’s have a look at that stuff.”

Carragh’s head turned ninety degrees to face the adjacent internal wall. Davo took her distraction as an opportunity to break away. He gave a mighty shove, a cry of anguish, a failure to move this super-girl even a centimetre.

“Just watch the metal plate, Davo.”

“Huh ...” Davo turned his head to where she was looking. As he did, what must have been the door to the wall safe glowed red then smoked and molten metal streaked away from a gap widening from top to bottom. “That’s it ... yeah, that’s it ... err, Carragh?”

Carragh answered him while watching the liquid steel ooze across the concrete floor.

“Yeah, Davo?”

“Can you ... let me go, eh?”

Her head snapped back to face him followed by a smile as broad as her shoulders.

“You’ve been a good boy, Davo. I’m gonna give you something you’ll remember me by.”

He didn’t have a chance to react. Her hands left his shoulders and the right gripped him just below the jaw. With uncommon care, she lifted him to the full extension of her arm. He didn’t resist – couldn’t resist – and stared blankly down at this smiling siren of superstrength. Her hold didn’t allow a free passage of air in and out, however. A tear of fabric – his trousers? – unsure if what he felt was as real as it seemed. At the height of his confusion all went dark. Davo had lapsed into unconsciousness.

 

II

Today over 270 small islands make up the drowned land bridge that once linked the island of New Guinea to the northern tip of Australia. Known collectively as the Torres Strait Islands, the great majority are uninhabited and of the larger ones, most of the communities are sparse and live lives not all that different to the traditional past times of their sea-harvesting ancestors.

With a landmass of about two square kilometres, Yam Island is one of the more easterly of the inhabited islands of the Strait, about one degree north of latitude 10 deg S. Large enough to accommodate an all-weather, all-functional airstrip, it attracts a lot of small aircraft traffic: some much needed, some much desired and some downright unwanted.

Carragh Simms stood at the very western end of the airstrip watching the Beechcraft King Air C90 land over her head, slow and turn about to taxi toward her. She knew some twenty minutes earlier that the aircraft contained the cargo she awaited – such was the acuity of her vision. Now with the cheesy blue costume stowed away on the mainland, Carragh appeared altogether different – wearing black boots below long leather pants (that gripped tight at her calves and thighs); a white halter top that held the bra-less breasts in place, the warm seabreeze doing just enough to enliven the nipples through the thin fabric.

As the plane pulled up she was glad she wore an oversize leather jacket – much too overdressed in the tropical heat and damp but she wanted to start discreet.

Well ... maybe.

Brushing the unkempt straight hair back from her face, she was already in front of the hatch as it opened and the steps dropped out. A middle aged, stout, grey haired man in a white shirt with epaulettes dropped to the tarmac as he spoke, his accent that of a local.

“Who are you, eh?”

“I’m Carragh. Burgo sent me.”

“Where’s ya help? It took four men and a fork lift to get that crate in.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just point me to it.”

She started to walk to the hatch when the pilot put his arm out like a traffic cop.

“Hey, hey, just stop there, lady. I gotta get the password off you otherwise no drop off.”

“Password is it?” Carragh turned away and took a step toward the wing then turned back to him. “Sure, I’ll give you a password.”

Still half turned Carragh squatted, her right hand finding the wheel strut just under the wing. She stood, holding the three-plus tonne of aircraft above them as if it was a shoe box.

“How about ‘girlstrength’. Is that it? ...” He nodded; his mouth agape. “... Now show me the crate before I get shitty.”

Reacting as much to the groaning of the fuselage as to the fear of the pilot, Carragh returned the dual-prop to its three wheels. On standing she faced the barrel of an AK-47, held by a short legged Raskol in a standing combat pose. It was thoroughly expected.

“You guys just don’t give up do you?” She grabbed the weapon half way along the barrel, not moving it and not caring one way or the other if the Raskol opened fire. Predictably, he tried to pull it free. “I guess you don’t get on Youtube much, coz if you did ...” she bent the barrel in a U-shape pointing back toward the holder “... you’d know that we super-chicks can do that pretty easy.”

Carragh giggled. The Raskol threw aside the bent-up gun and fled into the hold. The pilot held up his hands in surrender.

“Okay, take the fuckin’ crate. Just let me refuel and ...”

“Where’d you come from?”

“Ambon via Moresby.”

“So you’ll have enough on board to get to Merauke?”

“Yeah, but ...”

“No ‘buts’. See that white building over there?” she nodded at a staff facility shed at the other end of the runway. “There’s eight Jacks in there now putting on body armour and checking automatic weapons. A whole lotta shit’s about to go down and if you want out you better piss off now.”

For a second the pilot wondered how she knew, only to decide it didn’t matter. He jumped onto the plane and pointed out the crate.

“Just get it off quick, will ya?”

That was never in doubt. She handled the 2mx1.5mx1m stainless steel trunk with ease and once on the tarmac looked back to see the hatch secure and the pilot fire up his engines. With the craft beginning to taxi, Carragh checked the occupants of the white building once more, saw they were reacting badly to the aircraft’s departure and looked down to study the non descript metal trunk. Once the aircraft had reached the end of the strip, she focused her attention once more on the building – the police now pouring from a door shouting at the pilot who began gunning the plane along the runway. The take off cleared her by ten metres at most – hair again tossed about – leaving her to contemplate aloud her next action.

“Ahh, best to get this over with.”

Men clad in black bearing shoulder arms ran along the edge of the tarmac. Cradling the half-tonne weight with her left arm, she ignored its awkwardness and walked to meet them. Someone shouted.

“Australian Federal Police. Put the object down and lie prone on the ground with your hands straight out in front of you.”

The direction was yelled at her twice more by the apparent squad leader. After the third time it was clear they no longer considered her a threat and approached with less caution. She stopped, shrugged and bent to place the crate on the ground. The cohort was now a few metres away.

“’Get down’ I said. On the ground. Now!”

Carragh sat next to the crate; crossing her legs, her petite hands stretched out beyond her knees. Weapons were aimed. Men in black with a white ‘AFP’ across armoured vests surrounded her. The crate was their main concern. The squad leader continued to bark.

“Open that crate, Miller. There’s a latch this side.”

The agent lunged for the silver latch and recoiled with a shout of pain.

“Fuck it, Skipper, that’s red hot.”

The leader held his gloved hand near the latch, feeling the heat given off. Thinking laterally, he moved his hand carefully near the hinges on the reverse side.

“This has been welded shut, not more than five minutes ago ...” and addressing Carragh “... did you do this?”

“Me? I don’t know nothin’ about it. I’m just the pick-up girl.”

“Bullshit. Miller, Zammit, Atkins – move this crate inside the shed. Handle it from the bottom.”

Miller stated the obvious.

“We’ll need a blow torch, Skip ... uggh! And a hand trolley, this thing weighs a tonne.”

“She seemed to handle it alright.” The leader pressed his point by kicking some dirt at Carragh who looked up at him and smiled back. The squad leader’s tone changed to one of resignation.

“Come on, get her moving. We’ll question her first.”

As she hopped to her feet, Carragh brushed the hair from her face and smiled at the bigger, taller men surrounding her.

“I can carry it in for you if you like. Otherwise, you’ll need a fork lift, I reckon.”

The leader’s anger was never far below the surface.

“Shut up, Bitch. You’ll talk when I say you can fuckin’ talk.”

“Bitch?” Carragh laughed. “My ‘ex’ called me ‘Super-Bitch’. Want me to show you why?”

 

III

“Thanks.”

Roger Boxshall signed a paper held for him by the duty prison officer at Townsville Women’s Correctional Facility. Through the open doorway sat his latest client.

He waited impatiently while his security pass was being scanned for the third time – for the third time there seemed to be a problem – and kept glancing around the doorframe at the girl sitting at a table facing the door: dark hair that hung down over a pretty, light skinned face, the generic khaki green of the Queensland Corrections uniform covering her torso and limbs. Only her hands were visible, folded as they were on the four-legged steel framed desk in front of her.

“Can I go in there now?”

“Watch out for her Roger, she’s supposed to be Superwoman.”

A female officer behind the door laughed as Roger walked past, pushing it shut behind him. He contemplated the scene for a second. ‘She didn’t look dangerous.’ He thought. ‘In fact, she didn’t even look that strong. Well, okay, she was a bit broad around the shoulders and the uniform seemed tight at the arms and chest, but ...’

“Miss Simms is it? Hi, I’m Roger Boxshall.”

Smiling wide, Carragh stood and held out her hand. Roger’s larger fingers wrapped around hers and gave a small shake. ‘No strength there.’ He thought again. ‘What’s all the fuss?’

“You’re my Brief are you? And call me ‘Carragh’.”

“Carragh? Sure. I wondered how that was pronounced. Please sit down.”

She returned to her previous pose, her fringe falling over the left eye giving her – alternately – a girl-like and treacherous look. Roger smiled and pulled a file from a carrybag. Carragh tried to lighten the mood.

“I guess this is a bit of an unusual one. Although I hear you’re pretty experienced in this line of work.”

Roger didn’t look up as he spoke.

“Umm, yeah, been treading the boards of the criminal courts up this way for the past five years; ten years before that in Brisbane.”

“Lots of experience then.” She pushed out a nervous giggle. He looked up with an attempt at a reassuring smile.

“Carragh ...” Roger paused and sat back to look at her flush. “... the charge is very serious but ... well, it’s bizarre.”

“It is?”

His head returned to his papers.

“You’ve been charged with ‘Being knowingly concerned in the importation of a commercial quantity of a prohibited drug’. However, the type of drug is particularised as ‘unknown’ and the quantity as ‘approximately 400 kilograms’. I can’t see how they can quantify the amount without even knowing if there is a drug in the first place.”

Carragh smiled and spoke in a put-on saccharine-kind of voice.

“There’s nothing in the crate, Roger. It’s empty.”

“So you’re not saying ...”

Carragh’s violet eyes widened, she was happy to let the world hear what she had to say.

“Oh, it’s my crate. But there’s nothing in it. They should know that by now.”

“That’s another thing I don’t understand, Carragh. They’ve neither opened it nor x-rayed it. And these draft facts ...” he shuffled at some papers “... What you carried a half tonne metal crate along the runway? That’s ...”

“I think men believe things that are impossible, Roger, it’s the improbable things they deny.”

Roger was stunned for a moment. She continued after drawing breath.

“Oscar Wilde.”

His initial bravado was evaporating into the ether. Her fingers gestured for him to continue.

“Okay, I’ll put it to you this way, Carragh. We’re back in court next Monday. If I hear of anything in the meantime that could justify a new bail application, I’ll get onto it straight away.”

“That should be tomorrow.”

Roger returned to his papers, not responding to her prediction, he shook his head as he spoke.

“Err, there are also a couple of other little things that I just got this morning when I told the Commonwealth prosecutors I had your case.”

“Oh?”

That surprised her.

“Two charges of malicious damage to police property. The first alleges that when you arrived at Cairns City Police you tore off the rear door of the police prison van.”

“I didn’t tear it off, Roger, I thought it opened from the right but I was wrong. I just pushed on the wrong side and the whole thing came off.”

“You can do that easy, I’m guessing.”

Her eyes narrowed at the sarcasm in his voice.

“I pushed it; it fell off. Things happen like that.”

“Okay, umm, the second is that you snapped a pair of hinged steel handcuffs ...”

“Now that was a real accident! I fell asleep for a few minutes in the back of the van and forgot I had them on. I moved to stretch and snap. They break.”

“An accident.”

“Just unlucky.”

Roger looked up with mischief, his grin spreading into a smile.

“So, it’s true then. You are a very strong lady.”

Carragh maintained a look of quiet contempt and moved her right hand so that only the little finger – a digit half the size of his – was above the right corner of the table. Roger offered his view on whether it was some sort of code then felt the tabletop subside and the short cry of a steel leg beginning to buckle.

Leaning over, he confirmed what he already knew. The solid steel leg, as round as a golf ball, was shortened by a handspan, buckled inward between the tabletop and its floor fastener. All that with just her little finger. Roger’s body quaked with a surge of adrenalin. It was hard to be flippant.

“I guess I asked for that but, still, it begs the question ...” he looked around at the meshed windows, the reinforced girders. She read his thoughts.

“Why would I do that, Roger? There’s nothing in that crate, whatever they say it weighs. If I break outta here - and, yeah ...” her tone sardonic “... of course I can, what good is that? I’m innocent. I don’t need to cause any trouble.”

“With that sort of confidence, I better start preparing the paperwork. Otherwise, I’ll see you in Cairns next Monday.”

He started to stand, in a blink her face was close to his, her small hand pressing his larger one onto the metal tabletop, causing him to freeze fast.

“Oh, I’ll be seeing you, Roger. And a lot sooner than you might think.”

Carragh returned to her seat and folded those small, strong hands in front of her. The fringe had returned to cover her left eye. Her look positively malevolent.

He swallowed hard.

 

IV

Roger awoke with a shock, his heart pounding.

“Who ... Who’s there?”

A soft, girl-liked voice replied in a whisper.

“Shh, Roger, it’s only me.”

“Who? ... Carragh Simms?”

His eyes were attuned to the night light, but his room faced onto a dark side of the block. In a moment he could make out the faintest of silhouettes standing above him. Standing? Or ... hovering? His mind was in overdrive; the soft whisper continued.

“I thought I should pay you a visit, Roger ... I mean, there might be some news ... about the crate ... maybe ... you can get me out on bail now ... have you heard?”

“On bail? You’re already out! You’re here – in my bedroom!”

As he spoke he began to sit up, he felt two fingers on the left of his chest, a voice told him ‘resistance was futile’, he slumped back; pinned hard.

“Carragh, how did you?”

“Find you? That’s a secret ...”

“No, get out of gaol ... if they catch you, umm ...”

Roger realised the stupidity of assuming Carragh would allow herself to be caught a second time. It was bad. Totally bad.

“I won’t get caught, honey, coz I’ll be back before they know I’m gone. You see, Roger, there’s more to this super-babe than bending bars and busting concrete.”

She giggled: a girl-like, nervy giggle. Roger sighed aloud and felt her body lift over him, the feel of her hands on his shoulders, her breath on his face. He could see nothing. The room was pitch black – any light now eclipsed by her broad form.

His mind cleared and his right arm reached out for his bedside light. Yet even if her hold allowed him to move close enough, there was nothing left to find. In a white flash the lamp distorted and bent over onto his small digital clock – which for good measure – smoked and crackled as the odour of molten plastic filled his nose.

“Why did I melt your lamp and clock? ...”

Her voice had changed to one of pure mischief. He wished he could see the look on her face.

“... Coz I can ...” she giggled, so close now he could feel the tips of her hair on his cheeks “... and coz it gets me horny.”

As he took in what he just heard, his hands took over from his consciousness. Moving them up and down her back and her sides he gulped at the realisation that she was stark naked – as naked as he was. His breathing began to quicken, her hips lower and swang close to his.

“Can you feel that, Roger?” He nodded. “It’s my heat you can feel.” He nodded again. His mind had not caught up. It was lingering behind, comprehending the paradox of her body – the soft, velvet like skin, seemingly perfect to the touch, and the oh-so-hard underneath, like mounds and canyons of marble. She said nothing more and lowered her torso onto his – pushing his chest into the mattress as their lips met and her tongue slid into his mouth.

Only to be taken aback by his groan of displeasure. She returned to the tensed, leaning pose of a half minute before.

“Roger, what’s wrong? Have I hurt you?”

“No, Carragh, no ... we ... we can’t. You’re ...” he sighed “... you’re my client. It’s ethics.”

She relaxed and laughed.

“Ethics? Isn’t that a place in England?”

As Roger chortled to her little joke, she moved so that a strong little hand took a firm grip of his situation. Her voice dropped back to a whisper.

“Oohh, you’re paying full attention I see ... just ... relax.”

It was familiar territory now – the feelings, the smells, the sounds. They were all there, flooding over him. Then, when approaching that point of greatest anticipation and expectation, Carragh delivered the greatest surprise of all.

He felt her other hand move up his chest and grab him under the jaw. It took an effort to breath, his body reacted with instinct to try and remove the hold – with the expected nil result.

“This is the best part, Roger. Focus on your breathing. Try harder ... harder ...”

He body shuddered ... and heard nothing more.

 

V  

When Roger awoke for the second time the room was lighter: the sun less than a half hour away from pushing over the Coral Sea. For a second his mind panicked, wondering aloud if she was still there, calling her name softly at first, followed by two more loud yells.

Would she hear him? God knows everything else she has is ‘super’: supervision, superstrength, superheat vision. ‘Fuck, look at that’ he cried again, inwardly hoping she could hear, ‘that lamp cost me twenty bucks’. He felt stupid as soon as he said it. He didn’t know why he was so uptight. He didn’t care for the lamp or waste-of-space clock (the mobile phone was better alarm). And didn’t he enjoy what happened? He was sore in all the right places; sticky too. Everything was as it always had been, except that he wasn’t hung over and she wasn’t slumped on her side next to him, giving off a gentle, rhythmic snore.

He swung himself onto his feet. Even in the coolest part of the day, the residual warmth of the tropics meant he felt no inconvenience in touring his house without a robe. ‘Where did you get in’ he shouted, followed up with another profanity as he reached the kitchen.

It was common for him to leave the back door open – there was a full size steel barred security door in front of it. Today, he found those steel bars, all eight of them, bent and twisted out of shape. A total wreck. Not that that was what pissed him off. ‘Nice work, ‘Super-Bitch’. Both fuckin’ doors were open all the time.’

It had to have been done just for fun.

He no longer cared how she got in or out or whatever. The mobile was secreted in his jacket pocket. Keys were pressed.

“Ray? Hey, it’s Roger, mate. Sorry to get you so early.”

Detective Senior Constable Raymond Nieley had known Roger Boxshall since they were both beat cops down on the Gold Coast some twenty plus years before. Roger had spent his spare time knocking through a law degree while Ray Nieley spent the years slowly working his way north. He was your old style Queensland copper – always expedient, always happy to drink a free beer but who also knew the bad guys from the good and where to find them. He was the obvious first port of call.

Roger explained that he had a new client called Carragh Simms, Ray knew about her, said he had some information to share on Miss Simms. Roger said he had a duty as an officer of the court to report his client’s escape from prison, that there was ‘no way known’ she could get from Cairns back to Townsville to be there for the morning muster. He ‘fessed that he had no idea where she was now, she was clearly on the run and he was happy to co-operate fully with any investigation.

The old copper gave nothing away in enthusiasm. Said he’d make the usual inquiries and told Roger that he wanted to meet to talk within the hour. They agreed it would be the south east parking area of the Stockland Centre. Only the seagulls picking over rubbish could be expected at that time of the day.

Roger dropped the mobile on the bed and headed into the bathroom. The view in the mirror over the vanity basin shocked him. A finger and thumb print (the yellow-black bruises already beginning to spread) either side of his trachea just above the Adams Apple.

His recall was poor. He felt the bruising again and sighed hard.

Facing north by east, the sun beat down upon Roger’s right arm as it hung over the car door. It was a sun with some bite even at 6.30 am; twenty minutes after the lawyer had driven into the carpark and his mate was now fifteen minutes late. With a jolt the passenger side door flew open and the large figure of Nieley slumped into the seat next to his mate – a lukewarm pie with sauce in one hand and steaming coffee in the other.

“Great to see you, Dodger. How’s life been treatin’ you, eh?”

Nieley balanced the pie on the rim of his cup and gave Roger’s left wrist a shake. He immediately retrieved the pie and jammed a corner into his mouth.

“It’ll kill you eating that shit in the morning.”

“Breakfast of champions, mate ...” bits of pastry and grizzle spat out with his words “... now let me tell you about this super-girl of yours.”

Roger watched Nieley’s sun-leathered face chew and swallow its load; a finger brushing crumbs away from the lips signalled his keen observation.

“Ooh. Nasty bruise, Roger. Been in a fight?”

“No, just ... a labour of love you might say.”

Nieley nodded his head.

“Mmm, you and that boy from INXS.”

“Tell me about Carragh.”

“She’s in her cell, Roger, quietly pushing up zeds when the Screws checked her over not twenty minutes ago.”

“No bent bars, broken walls?”

“Nah, nah, none of that ...” Nieley paused again to ponder his next bite before looking up with a broad smile. “... it’s all good, honest: there’s not a thing out of place in her little cage down in Townsville.”

Roger shrugged his shoulders, tilting his head with a look of resignation as he spoke.

“Well, I’m sorry I’ve dragged you out here at this time of the morning, Ray, maybe it was just all a figment of an overworked imagination.”

“Ahh, Dodger, you’ve always had a fertile mind. But no, no, not a problem ...” He slurped at the coffee and gasped at the discomfort from its heat. “... You can get her out today. That box the Feds brought in is empty.”

The Detective’s tone was serious, his face straightened and for extra effect, he kept his coffee poised as Roger spoke.

“How so?”

“The Feds finally opened it up about six last night. Nothin’.”

“Not a thing.”

“Nope.” His joviality returned with a second slurp of coffee. “Makes you wonder why she bothered to walk around with it in the first place.”

“And if she’s got all these powers, Ray, why’d she let herself get caught?”

Nieley shrugged and pondered the remaining bit of pie.

“Your client, mate. Ask her.” He took another bite and spoke as he chewed. “Anyhow, the crate’s empty and the Feds are spewin’ blood and bile.”

“They’ll blame Carragh, no doubt. Probably want you to charge her.”

“No, no, mate. She’s done nothin’ wrong that I can see, except to the back door of the van, which is their fuckin’ fault for leaving her in there when she said she wanted to have a leak.”

Roger restrained a laugh and nodded his concurrence as he spoke.

“Okay, well, I’ll get the paper work down to the court this morning. They won’t oppose bail.”

“Course not. And there’s something else, mate. Something a lot more important. ...” Nieley’s tone went conspiratorial, he leant close enough for Roger to smell the bitter mix of sauce and coffee. “... She’s done us some favours too.”

This time Roger allowed the pause to pass without comment. Nieley finished his mouthful and reverted to normal.

“Two weekends back we picked up Gary Burgess on a string of real serious stuff. Surprised you didn’t know, Dodger, you might’ve got a brief.”

“His money will get him a Brisbane QC, Ray, but tell me, what’d the girl do?”

“She found where they had their stash, out in an old W-W-2 bomb shelter on the edge of the hills. She does the usual, you know, breaks in, scares the living shit out of the two guards Burgo had placed and then just, umm, melts open the metal safe which held all the stuff. We get a tip off and turn up with search warrant to find the place opened up like a tin can with these two blokes out like a light.”

The remains of the pie were forced into Nieley’s mouth. Roger smiled and nodded as he spoke.

“Got the stuff?”

“You bet. But wait there’s more.” Roger awaited Nieley’s swallow. “Apart from the obligatory twenty kilos of amphetamines, that safe she opened had these DVDs in it. Hardcore stuff, I mean really, you know ...”

“I get you.”

“The major crime squad reckoned it was the last piece of the puzzle needed to close down a very nasty little molestation ring. A real victory it was for the good guys, Dodger.”

“And all set up by the super-girl.”

“Yep, nothing like super-vision to tell you where to look, eh?”

Roger turned over his engine as an unsubtle sign the conversation had ended. His mate extended a greasy hand.

“I appreciate the info, Ray. I’ll buy you a beer on Thursday.”

“You know the time and place, mate.” Nieley exited and slammed the door leaving crumbs and gravy in his wake. He stuck his head in the passenger’s window. “Hey Dodger, tell me. If you could choose any super-power, which one would it be?”

“Probably China.”

Roger accelerated away from the Detective’s cry of ‘smartarse’, a broad smile extending across his face. He chortled.

‘So Carragh Simms is a good girl after all.’

Well, more or less.

 

VI

The two lawyers walked towards the main exit of the City Court Complex. Neither had any real wish to engage the other but headed in the same direction, etiquette demanded an attempt at cordial conversation. The Prosecutor spoke first with an upper-crust whine.

“I understand now why they call you the ‘Artful Dodger’.”

“Understand nothing. It was a good stunt you tried on, mate. Still, it was a stunt and the magistrate saw it coming a mile off.”

“Where’s your client?”

“Powdering her nose, I guess. And don’t talk too loud. She’ll hear you.”

“Oh, hardy-ha-ha!”

At the northern vestibule they each stopped. Roger tried to avoid the awkward pause.

“So what motivated you to come up with the idea of wanting a blood test?”

The younger, taller man looked out the plate windows as if contemplating the betrayal of a confidence and turned back to Roger all the more pained.

“You won’t believe this, Roger, but ... I was on the internet – Youtube to be exact – and I was trawling through these videos of superstrong women.”

“Hoping to find Carragh Simms?”

“I’ll admit it. I can’t believe someone with her talents could be so anonymous. But, well, nothing on her. So I kept going along and saw this trailer of a video with a blonde girl called Lara who had some dorky boyfriend who somehow made her, umm, awaken to this newfound superstrength, or whatever it was, I didn’t really bother with the plot. The thing that grabbed my attention was that this boyfriend-dash-scientist tried to take a blood sample from Lara and the needle kept bending. ...”

“And it would’ve happened with me, too.”

The men swung their heads to see Carragh a couple of metres behind, casually walking to them as she listened into the Prosecutor’s story.

Roger motioned to leave, only to be interrupted by the ring of his mobile.

“Fuck it, just excuse me a minute.”

With her lawyer retreating to a private spot and talking urgently at the same time, Carragh approached the lean, thirty-ish government lawyer, his boyish good looks noted some hours before.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to ask me a whole lot of questions on my powers ‘n’ stuff.”

“I had a page written out ...”

“I know, I read it.” She interrupted then paused to let him continue.

“... Umm, yeah. Although you could’ve just denied everything, I couldn’t blame you if you did.”

“Oh no.” Carragh swung her broad shoulders and torso back and forth in the manner of a young teen, her hands clasped at the front. “No, I would’ve told the truth. I’ve got nothing to hide ... Nothing at all.”

“Mmm, maybe.” The Prosecutor forced a smile which Carragh took as a cue to run a hand along his buff upper arm. Ignoring her advance, he turned again to look through the plate window, the admission that her libido was equal to her strength lost in his loud proclamation.

“Hey, isn’t that the TV reporter, Kim Young? Oh awesome! I wonder if she’s here about the case?”

Carragh’s eyes followed his and saw a tall, leggy blonde, fashionably thin with narrow shoulders and hips separated by those small, perky breasts that adorn the glamour pages. She appeared to be talking absently to a cameraman as she opened and carefully sipped from full litre bottle of water. The nameless Prosecutor held his file between his legs, adjusted his tie with one hand and slicked his blonde hair down after spitting on the other.

“Good day to you, Miss Simms.” He was about to turn and scamper when Carragh pushed her right hand out, oblivious to any thought of residue.

His quick ‘goodbye’ smile turned to a frown as his first, second and third attempts to shake her hand were met with an immovable object. In that nanosecond she could feel his grip loosen, her thumb and little finger gave just a little squeeze.

“OWW!”

“Oops, sorry!” She giggled. “Don’t know my own strength.”

The Prosecutor flexed his hand for a moment, gave her a foul look then remembering his opportunity, turned and scurried through the exit, his files held by the undamaged hand.  

Like an ant to sugar, the Prosecutor approached the reporter with confidence – albeit not offering to handshake – she was interested in what he had to say and as he talked, the reporter gushed then each flayed a spare hand as if they were beginning to flirt.

It was too much to watch.

As the reporter took a sip of her water, Carragh glared hard at the bottle. In an instant it exploded, the boiling liquid saturating her and the suitor, spraying mostly on the frantic woman’s bare, thin legs.

From his vantage point twenty paces away, Roger considered just how damn fine the young super-woman looked in her smart-casual attire: matching navy blue pantsuit with black pumps, the jacket closed over a white blouse buttoned at the neck with a sapphire-like clasp. She looked strong and classy at the same time; ‘just one more paradox’ he thought as he returned to her company and spoke.

“What’s the commotion?”

“I was just showing our friend why my ‘ex’ called me ‘Super-Bitch’.”

“No, I mean outside ...” She just smiled up at him. “... Oh, okay.” They started walking toward the exit. “I have to admit myself, Carragh, it was a name I called you after I saw how you mangled my unlocked security door.”

“That was a work of art, Roger. Didn’t you notice?”

“It escaped me at the time.”

“Have another look when you get home.”

Away from the camera and the scalded reporter, south from the courthouse toward the docks then right alongside the main road away from the shoreline, they walked together in silence for a couple of minutes until Carragh spoke.

“I thought you were artful today, Roger. I was happy to tell them the truth about my powers if they wanted. But you didn’t even let them get to first base.”

“You’re too kind. It was easy, really. The magistrate lost all interest in the case once the main charge was dropped – as it had to be. The whole being-strong-enough-to-push-out-the-door thing just annoyed her.”

“Too improbable was it?”

Roger recalled Carragh’s Oscar Wilde and laughed.

“True. Maybe if you’d held the van up over your head ... well, anyway, there were no grounds for a blood test and that was the last straw. With that gone, they just had to pull the plug on the whole thing.”

“And there’s another thing too which was weird, Roger.” She stopped and tugged his arm so that he swung around to face her. “They weighed that crate when it came in, but they didn’t bother to weigh it after they opened it.”

“Why would they bother? You said it was empty when it arrived.”

She shook her head, the dark fringe sunk over her left eye.

“No I didn’t. Think back.” The malevolent look returned. “I said it was empty when you talked to me in prison. I never said it was empty when I lifted it from the plane.”

He grimaced, then shrugged, told her he didn’t care and started to walk in the direction of his parked car. She called after him.

“Think I should put a little show on for them?”

He turned and saw her pointing at the TV crew. Before he could answer she had disappeared in a blur and within a second returned. An unoccupied front end excavator, all eight and a half tonnes of it, had been retrieved from a drainage site 400 metres to their right and now stood on the grass verge parkside of where they were. Behind them, squeals of brakes meant Roger was not the only one to notice the massive machine appear as if out of nowhere.

“You’re quick, Carragh, I’ll give you that.”

“It’s not over yet; watch me send it back.”

The short, sharp sound of her exhale and the excavator spun away from them as if a tumbleweed. Again, a screech of brakes, this time in the courthouse carpark as the machine crunched to a halt centimetres short, its deformed front arm raised above the car T-Rex like. Roger looked for a moment at the new commotion and noticed the cameraman leave his colleague for a final chance at a story.

“Well done.” Roger looked across at the super-girl who was standing hands on hips, satisfied with her effort. “I reckon all it would take now would be a cry of ‘help’ and you would strip down to a leotard and fly off into the sunset.”

She was still at her most mischievous.

“You’re right about one thing, Roger, here ...” her hands unbuttoned the jacket and blouse at the speed of lowering a zip; she opened the garments and underneath was the sky blue top with the ubiquitous red and gold ‘S’, slightly misshapen by the ample breasts; her nipples pushing out like macadamias. She looked awesome.

For a second he couldn’t breathe. A horn blast behind them suggested the view was well received. She dropped her hold and started to walk past him, not bothering to refasten the blouse or jacket. He had to skip to catch up; Carragh spoke as he did so.

“I’m happy to show you the skirt too, honey, but it might cause more than a squeal of brakes. ...” He bet it would. She looked across at him and giggled “... Maybe we could ... you know.”

“Umm, Carragh, ...” he let out a heavy sigh “... I have to get back to the office, but, err ...”

“Watch tonight’s news, Roger. I’ll see you soon.”

With a noise like a whip-crack and a flurry of leaves she was gone. Roger looked around to the sad looking excavator being filmed for national consumption. He laughed.

“You sure know how to get attention, lady. I’ll give you that.”

 

VII

If he was honest with himself, Roger Boxshall would admit that he stuffed up – stuffed up bad. He had no idea where Carragh Simms lived. He didn’t have a fraction of the information necessary to recoup his expenses with his office struggling under the weight of a dozen ‘Final Notices’, he needed a quick cash injection to keep the doors open.

Still, he couldn’t quite come at self-admonishment. He knew something would come up; that Carragh Simms would mysteriously reappear with a wad of fifties and all would be well.

The story of the exploding water bottle and runaway excavator was covered by the news channel that had been most affected by the events. No mention of super-powers or even the court case. He was disappointed. Maybe he should have done more to get his head on camera. It was worth a mint in walk-in trade.

The only other thing that took his attention was the bizarre disappearance of an armoured truck. Fully loaded but not yet occupied it simply vanished into thin air. Roger laughed as he visualised it. Maybe it would fall from orbit and land in his backyard.

Thoughts of Carragh were always in the front of his mind. The paradox – another, to be sure, and a close ally of those before – of her blouse stretched asunder, the blue-clad, conical torso rising from the smallest of waists, the contrast with her flawless face and tailored attire as strong and hard as the eight-pack abs that pushed through the flimsy costume. He felt himself getting aroused; his heart began to pound in his chest. It was like being 19 again.

He broke from his dream to remember her instruction – the other instruction – to recheck the injured security door. Looking at it again, he could not hasten any inspiration. Running his hands along the bent bars he tried to move them (impossible) then stood back and pondered the scene one final time.

‘Of course!’ His eureka moment was accompanied with a hearty laugh. The four vertical bars to the left had been misshapen to appear like a crescent or ‘C’. The four to the right looked like a straightened ‘S’. ‘C’ and ‘S’.

“Very good work.” He said aloud, as if expecting her to hear. “Maybe next time you’ll know how to do a ‘B’.”

An ‘S’ and ‘B’ that is. For he was certain there would be a next time.