Another was a VHF low band antenna. Another for 468 MHz and then the standard radio antenna above the back window.
The lights and siren werenât on but the police officer â black wraparound sunglasses, short spiky hair, square head â pointed directly at Dad, then to the side of the road.
Olive started to giggle. âHe looks an gry ,â she said. Olive wanted to be a robber when she grew up. And a judge.
Dad swore under his breath but Ben heard it.
Mum chewed what was left of her nails.
Ben watched the cop.
Dad kept driving.
Tension spilled from the gaps around the windows and dripped down the sides of the car. With a low growl, Dad veered to the left and pulled onto the crunchy gravel shoulder of the road. He kept the engine running. They waited.
Ben caught a glimpse of movement in the side mirror as the officer stepped out of his car, put on his police cap, shut his door and walked along the edge of the road toward them. He had a wide, steady walk, his legs far apart, his body like a gum tree trunk. He wore a light-blue shirt, dark-blue pants, dusty black boots. His pistol was slung low, strapped to his thigh with a harness.
He stopped beside the car. His left arm was heavily tattooed, like Dadâs. Ben was surprised that police were allowed to have tattoos.
Dad wound down the window. Mum smiled at the policeman.
âCan you please turn your engine off?â
Dad twisted the key and the car became still and quiet. Just the click and tick of hot motor. And the tock-tock-tock-tock of the indicator.
âWhy didnât you slow down?â the officer asked.
âI didnât see you at first.â
âDid you hear my siren?â
Dad sat for a few seconds, then nodded.
âWell, why didnât you pull over?â
Dad waited. âIâm not sure.â
Pause.
âMake sure you pull over more quickly in future.â
Dad nodded.
Ben was listening so intently he forgot to breathe. He stared out the window at the officer, whose thick, reddish neck seemed to burst from his collar into a roll of fat that ended at his tight-fitting police cap. He looked about ten years younger than Dad. Early thirties. His name badge read âDan Tooheyâ. A good name for a police officer. Not as good as Ben Silver, but good.
âIs this your car?â the officer asked.
âYes,â Dad said.
Ben bit his tongue.
âRight. Do you know why Iâm pulling you over?â
Dad sat there. Mum chewed on her finger and gave the officer a smile to make up for Dadâs surliness. Ben still could not get used to her short, whipper snipper haircut.
Dad shook his head. âNo.â
âYou have no idea?â
Dad shook his head again.
Dan Toohey looked in at Olive and Ben sitting there in their school uniforms. A semitrailer thundered by, ruffling the officerâs shirt. Ben leaned forward in his seat, his right ear twisted toward the action so he would not miss anything.
âYour indicator,â the officer said seriously in his farmerâs accent. âYouâve had your indicator on for about ten kâs, you dodo.â He smiled for the first time, then he laughed, a big policemanâs belly laugh.
Dad looked down and snapped off his blinker. He laughed too. It was a bit forced. Then Mum laughed and Ben tried to laugh, even though he didnât think it was that funny.
âThat was all. But since you didnât want to pull over, Iâll have to run your licence now, all right?â The laughter petered out. âItâll only take two ticks.â
Dad took his time finding his wallet. Ben could see it on the dashboard but he didnât say anything.
âItâs on the dash,â Dan Toohey said.
âOh.â Dad passed his licence through the window.
âRay Silver . . . Back in a minute.â
âExcuse me,â Ben said to the officer from the back seat.
Mum shot him a glare.
âDo you have any