The Cockroach - a Short Story under 500 words.

"He's a cockroach." She lit another cigarette, and blew the smoke upwards where clouds were billowing against the nicotine-stained ceiling. "Always scurrying about in dark places. Hiding from something or someone, that's what I reckon."

I've introduced myself as a journalist, doing an article on The Cockroach, for 'The Morning Sun', and I have a rolled-up paper with me, which she seems to accept as identification. In fact, I'm a Private Investigator. In my pocket, disguised as a glasses case, I have a digital camera. My client is a hell-raising MP who has been making a lot of fuss about paedophiles recently in State Parliament. The cockroach is a judge, and I've followed him to the Bum Steer Bar, a gay haunt in the Cross.

The Cockroach is wearing a dark suit and tie and drinking soda water. He's found a shadowy booth and buried himself in the corner. Alone. Betty, which probably isn't her real name, or sex, is the barmaid.

"I take it he's a regular?"

"Sure. Most nights. But that's no secret. It's well known that he's gay."

"So what's his problem? He's not here for the drinks, and I don't think he's enjoying the music. Is he waiting for someone?"

She nods, drips ash on the bartop and wipes it up.

I look around the bar. Someone I recognise is near the stairs. A bent copper.

"What's up those stairs?" I ask.

"Rooms. For sex. For druggies, but he's not a druggie." She shrugs her shoulders and looks back towards the cockroach and sneers. "Watch this."

I follow her eyes. The cockroach emerges from his cavity and head down, does a dash towards the stairs at the back of the bar. I leave my stool to follow him. He speaks for a moment to the bent copper, who turns towards me. The copper's gun glints under his jacket, as the metal catches a flash from my camera and he moves towards the toilets under the stairs. I start up the stairs after The Cockroach.

There's no lights beyond the landing. The corridor is full of closed doors. I peer into the gloom. Empty as far as I can see, but I can hear a scuffling. Missed him again. I slap the newspaper in my hand.

Downstairs, I see the copper stuffing a wad of fifties into his wallet. I track him outside, keeping my distance. In the lane, it's raining. A group of young boys follows him as he re-enters the bar by a back door. They're wearing green garbage bags, bare legs, bare feet - and shivering. I wonder if their parents know where they are.

On the wall opposite is an ad for insect spray: "When you're on a good thing, stick to it."