I hadn’t had much to say recently. Pursuing clients who still owed me money, keeping fit in the gym and trying not to think about the future beyond the last appeal submission don’t make for interesting chat. Lily, on the other hand, always has three or four stories on the go and gives me the juicy bits. I enjoy what she says at the time but forget it pretty quickly. I usually read the published stories, or skim them.

A slightly cold morning. Coffee and the paper. No breakfast. To the gym for a forty-five minute light workout scoffed at by the gymaholics-the women with real bicep definition, the men with six-pack abs. We exchange insults in between grunts. The steam and the smell of chlorine drew me to the spa and I soaked there for a whole fifteen minute cycle, showered and got dressed feeling fit, moral and bored shitless. I was retired and very far from self-funded. Was there a support group? Did I need counselling? Any point in ringing Lawsie and complaining about a system that required private enquiry agents to wear kid gloves? I was sure I’d get a hearing.

It went on like that for a couple of days. A long overdue cheque came in and eased the pain a bit. There was still a couple of grand outstanding. Some people seem to think that being de-licensed equals no need to pay. To fend off a wave of anger and self-pity, I rang Frank Parker, retired from the New South Wales Police with the rank of deputy commissioner. Sitting pretty on his pension.

‘Cliff. How’s it going?’

‘Ratshit, thanks, Frank. How d’you fill in the time?’

‘Oh, you know. Tennis, reading, bit of volunteer work here and there.’

‘Is that satisfying?’

‘I spent the last years in the job in an office shuffling paper, mate. It’s better than that. Time hanging heavy?’

‘Yeah, and the wolf’s slinking towards the door.’

‘I’ve had you in mind. Did some web research. You can work as a PEA in the ACT without a licence. At least for now. How would you feel about Canberra?’