"I forgot to ask you yesterday," Fraser did a chin-up, holding onto the one of the grab bars protruding from the tram's ceiling. "What are the names of your chickens?"

"We haven't thought up of names." Titus looked up. Fraser's sandy hair had fallen across his face. "We've tried, but we just end up arguing. You know, my mum suggests one of them should be called Brenda Easton Ellis, then my dad counters with Donna DeLillo, and so on it goes. They almost agreed on Martina Luther for the white leghorn, but then Dad changed his mind."

"It's funny, that." Fraser landed back down. Titus handed back his Slurpee. "You know, when you think of what you wanted to say, like, two days later."

"That happens to me all the time. They have a name for it in France, you know." Titus watched the people outside, disappearing into the entrance of Parliament Station. "L'esprit de l'escalier. The spirit of the staircase."

The doors shut with a soft whump. They jerked into motion with a worrying lurch. Almost 20 years of wear and tear meant the springs had a rather alarming amount of play. At least the motors made a nice startup noise. The driver seemed to be running early, judging by their speed. In this case, that was a good thing.

"So what can you tell me about Tram Number..." Fraser squinted at the fleet number above the cab bulkhead- "3035?"

"This is actually quite a nice tram, design-wise." Titus gestured around them at the tram. "It's just that none of it works in practice. Kind of like me and any kind of contact sport. People look at me and they're like, oh, he's tall, he's a lank, he must be good at basketball."

"And are you?" Fraser tried to imagine Titus doing a slam-dunk.

"Haha fuck no. Way too unco. My dentist did try to convert me to basketball once upon a time, though."

"Did it work?"

"I told him it was the gateway drug to American imperialism."

Fraser nearly spat out his Slurpee.

"Don't laugh," Titus' face reddened. "I was a very cringy 13 year old."

"What was the look on his face like?"

"He just went on with the check-up like nothing happened. He never tried to start a conversation with me again."

"So what's bad about this tram?" They were coming up to St Vincent's Plaza, stuck at a red light. "What about it doesn't work."

"This is what they call a two-rooms-and-a-bath tram in Europe." Titus pressed himself to the accordion to let an old lady go through. "With a traditional high floor tram the wheels are mounted onto these things called bogies, which are attached to the body on pivots, and which turn in the bends. Now, with this tram, the bogies are fixed to the bodies and the two end body sections have to turn with the wheels every time we go around a bend. Which places a lot of stress on the wheels and the tracks."

The traffic on Victoria Parade stopped. The light turned green. The tram jerked into action once more, over the worn tracks, turning right into the stop at St Vincent's Plaza. Disturbing noises emanated from underfoot. Glass partitions rattled in their frames. Grab bars shuddered in their mounts. The articulation joints creaked. The rubber bellows enclosing the gaps between the body sections squealed and groaned.

"You hear that? The other thing is that the springs which fix the bogies to the body are mounted at the edges of the bogie, which means they can't adapt to track imperfections very well-" Titus made a peristaltic motion with his hand- "and that also means it can't go around a curve and up a slope at the same time. Which is how one of these things in Adelaide managed to derail while going around a newly laid curve at 10 kilometres an hour."

Then they were through, and the tram snapped back onto straight track.

"So why would they build it if they know it's shit?"

"It's the easiest way to make a 100% low-floor tram." Titus waved a hand at the aisle running down the centre of the tram. "Because the positions of the wheels are fixed, you can have a nice wide centre aisle. Cheap and dirty, but effective."

The doors opened. Someone brushed past Fraser without saying sorry. He shook his head at the stranger. He looked at Titus. "Do you feel like everyone else is just a mindless robot sometimes?"

"Actually, I feel the opposite." Titus glanced warily at a group of Xavier College guys boarding the tram. "Sometimes I feel like I'm the mindless robot and everyone else is a human being with a beautiful, fully formed personality."

"But you're fine. Just then. The story about the dentist. That was awesome."

"Yes. But those are things I've been meaning to say for years," Titus replied. "I've been thinking about them, over and over again in my head for longer than I can remember. I can't just make stuff up on the spot. If I try to just make stuff up what usually happens is that my mind just goes blank and I start panicking. And even if stuff does come out it feels weird. Fake. Scripted. It never feels natural."

"Does it feel natural now, talking to me?"

Titus nodded very slightly. Fraser took that as a yes.

They were moving again. There was more bone-shaking shuddering as they crossed the tracks leading into Brunswick St, then again as they went over the specialwork leading into the neat little shunt where Route 30 trams turned around. "You know the TGV?" Titus said.

"I've ridden on it."

"Really?"

"I was four at the time. I don't remember anything about it. I think we were going from Paris to the south somewhere."

"Marseille?"

"No, I don't think so..."

"Nice?"

"That's it."

"True fact." Titus admired the shape of Fraser's nose. "The company that made the TGV also made this tram. You know, even the greatest companies in the world have bad days."

"I still like these better than the other ones," Fraser gripped the grab anchor a little harder. "The ones they have on Swanston St. The ones that have no seats inside."

"The D-class?" Titus snickered. "Everybody hates those."

"You like them?"

"I mean, they're both shithouse, but there's a vast difference in intention. This"- Titus gestured at the tram around them- "is a dick extension for French cities that were too cool for buses. The Siemens Combino, on the other hand, was a faultlessly pedigreed design that unfortunately succumbed to inbreeding."

"We're going incredibly slowly." Fraser watched the broad trunks of the majestic elms go past outside.

"That's probably a good thing, you know." Titus smiled very faintly. "These things are kinda famous for swaying from side to side at high speed, because of all the overhanging weight at the front. It's not fun. And even less for the driver."

"Is that why she's driving so slowly?" Fraser peered at the driver through the big glass door of the cab, sitting snug in the padded throne, behind the big blue dashboard, left hand on the joystick.

"She might just be running early." Titus watched a bus pacing them on their left hand side. "They always put in some extra time to allow for traffic, and if there isn't much congestion, sometimes you have to drive slow just to keep to the timetable. But some drivers do it on purpose."

"Wouldn't they get in trouble? Surely they're tracked."

"Precisely." Titus took another glance to his left. The bus had left them behind. "The name of the game is to get so late that Operations calls you back to the depot. And then you get to pick another tram. One that you actually like driving."

***

The bookstore was the third storefront from the end of Victoria Parade. A big handwritten sign was pasted to the front picture window, big blocky letters coloured in with highlighter. CLOSING DOWN SALE - 50% OFF EVERYTHING.

The mature elm trees in the median strip towered overhead. The sounds of the Hoddle St intersection a few metres away formed a backdrop of white noise.

Fraser looked towards the other side of the intersection, where Victoria Parade narrowed into Victoria St. Titus had been right. You could see it from the train line, if you were sufficiently alert and sitting on the left-hand-side of the train.

Titus pushed open the heavy door and they went in. There seemed to be nobody around. The air inside was thick with the smell of furniture polish and carpet. Neatly labelled bookshelves lined the walls. Fantasy. Science Fiction. Non-Fiction. The walls, where they were not obscured by books, were panelled in walnut-stained wood. This place had been something other than a bookstore in a past life.

The counter was at the back, in gloomy shadow. A maneki neko sat next to a bell and a vintage cash register.

"Should we ring the bell?" Fraser eyed the counter.

"Not yet. I want to check something out first." Titus headed straight for the mystery/thriller aisle. He scanned the dimly lit shelves. The titles were not in alphabetical order, which annoyed him.

Mankell. He was looking for Mankell. There it was. The Dogs Of Riga. A six-year quest was finally at an end. He had expected it to be a much more difficult search, but it had been right there, at the edge of the third shelf from the top. He stood on his tiptoes and pulled it out.

"Can I help you?" The voice came from behind the counter. Edwin Michaelis had materialised, seemingly without a sound. He was short, slim, bags around his eyes, greying brown hair. He was smoking, the smoke curling gently upwards in the still air, warmed by the rays of the afternoon sun beaming down from the windows. He walked slowly forward from behind the counter.

"Mr. Michaelis?" Titus' voice was unsure, querying.

"That's me." He took another puff of his cigarette.

"We're doing a project on the history of the school," Fraser said. "And we heard that you might be able help us."

"We were going through all the drama productions." Titus clutched his new discovery. Michaelis looked like a shadow of the boy he had seen in the grainy photos "There was one we couldn't find any information on." The lie rolled surprisingly easily off his tongue. They had agreed on it during the tram ride. They'd even rehearsed it.

Fraser noticed that Michaelis' shoulders had tensed slightly. "Which one?" He asked, the slightest hint of wariness in his voice.

"The 1990 one." Titus said. "The spring production."

Michaelis blanched visibly. "I knew it. I knew someone had found it."

"Found what?" Titus assumed he meant the missing page. He was vaguely aware of Fraser standing next to him.

"The script." He was muttering to himself. "I knew it. I told him the hiding spot was too obvious. I told him that someone would find it. He didn't listen. He never listened."

"What script?" Titus looked at Michaelis quizzically. "Who hid it?"

He stared at them, wild-eyed. "Y-you haven't found it? So how do you know about it? How did you know I was a part of it?"

TItus felt a knot in his stomach. He hadn't expected this. "We found the missing page of the Petrovian."

"I've said too much." Michaelis sat down on a chair behind the counter. He seemed to be drained of energy. "It was the stupidest decision of my life. It's brought me nothing but pain and misfortune."

He looked Titus and Fraser in the eye. "Every career setback, everything that has gone wrong in my life, has been due to that infernal musical! Worst mistake of my life, to let myself be roped into it by those idiots. I was a fool! Fools, we all were."

"Well, can you help us? Please." Titus' eyes were pleading.

"Help you?" Michaelis looked at them incredulously. "I told you. I've said too much already. Some secrets should stay buried." He stood up. "I'd like you two to leave."

"Please. Just tell us who hid it." Titus tried again.

"What does it matter?" Michaelis stared them down. Light danced in his grey eyes. "It happened nearly thirty years ago. Why do you even care? Let sleeping dogs lie."

Titus placed The Dogs Of Riga onto the counter. It was clear they were not getting any more information out of Michaelis today. "Just let me pay for this."

"Take it," Michaelis said, not looking at him. "It's yours. Didn't you see the sign? We're closing down. The rents are bloody astronomical around here. Take it. It's yours now." He handed the book back to him. "Now get out of my store."

***

"He thought we had the script," Titus said, as they stepped back into the shadow of the majestic elms, lost in his own train of thought. "And he was talking about how it was badly concealed. So it must be hidden in the school grounds somewhere. Probably in an obvious place."

"Oh no." Fraser's eyes widened.

"What-" Titus noticed the blue and red lights too.

The entrance to Victoria St was lit up like a Christmas tree. Paddy wagons and highway patrol cruisers formed a roadblock across the street, under the Gateway. There was a train stopped across the viaduct.

Beside him, Fraser had brought up the Public Transport Victoria app. "Due to a police request, Hurstbridge and Mernda Line trains are delayed until further notice. Fuck."

"That's not good." Titus stared at the flashing lights.

"I'm calling my mum to pick me up." Fraser tapped at his phone.

"There's no need for that." Titus pointed up the road, at the nearest bus stop. "Just catch the 350. And switch to the 510 on Darebin Rd. And that'll get you to Ivanhoe Station."

"What?" Fraser put his phone back in his pocket and followed Titus. "Switch to the what? Where?"

Titus scanned the bus stop, then up the concrete-paved gradient of Victoria Parade. Speak of the devil, there was a 350, rapidly approaching. One of the newer members of the Transdev fleet. White LED destination board, black plastic headlight surrounds. "You know the bit on the 510 where it dips into Darebin Creek?"

"Yes?"

"This bus goes past there as well. Get off there, and wait for the 510. It'll stop at the same stop."

"Okay." Fraser still looked unsure.

The bus stopped in front of them. "If you get lost, call me," Titus said, as Fraser stepped on board.

"You call me first," Fraser replied. "I gave you my number, remember? I don't have yours."

The doors shut. He couldn't see Fraser inside the bus, as Transdev had specified tinted windows on this particular batch of Gemilangs, but he waved anyway as the bus pulled away. The engine still sounded reasonably healthy.

He looked up the street. The next wave of traffic was held up at a traffic light halfway up the hill. He crossed onto the grassy median, heading for the tram stop at the Hoddle St intersection, which had become a temporary terminus with the police blockade on Victoria St. The 12 to St Vincents Plaza, then the 30 along Latrobe to Elizabeth St, then the 19. The most direct line of action.

That was when he saw the car parked behind the bus stop. A white Volkswagen Golf, with a red P-plate on the corner of its windscreen.

There had been a white Golf when they were leaving Hugo's house. Red P-plates, as well. Could it be the same one?

He dismissed it. There were thousands of white Golfs with red P-plates running around Melbourne. It was just a coincidence. Surely.