Jim Hall was born in 1953, the year Collingwood held off a rampaging Geelong to win the grand final. Bob Rose kicked the winning goal and John Wren kicked the bucket from the stress of the game. The FJ Holden hit the market that year. Jim and the FJ, two Aussie classics, now seventy.

Ah, the old FJ. The curves, the shine, the rev of the engine. Nowadays people zipped around in electric cars. A young fella from work, Benny, had one, took Jim for a drive once. It was all screens and artificial intelligence telling you where to go. Benny didn’t service it, he downloaded updates. That’s not a car, that’s a computer.

It was fast, Jim would give it that. But no petrol? Plug it in like a fucking toaster? No thanks. Couldn’t even hear the thing on the road. Benny was hanging out for a model that could drive itself. Heaven forbid!

Jim was a man of his time. He stared at the mirror. Cleanly shaven, as always. Immaculate grey hair. He adjusted his tie. Jim wore a suit every day, a matter of pride. Always look the part, even if you don’t feel it anymore. Today he was getting out. Retirement, at last.

Steve was a good boss. But he was the new generation, all t-shirts and jeans. It wasn’t the same since Steve’s dad died. Steve respected Jim, though. Jim knew all the tricks of the trade. Knew where the bodies were buried. Literally. You weren’t always allowed to retire from this business, but Steve had made an exception for Jim.

As Jim picked up his briefcase, he reflected that he wasn’t a man of his time but a man of his grandfather’s time. George Hall had been a right-hand man to John Wren, whose tote was the biggest criminal operation of its day. Jim grew up hearing all the stories. The risk, the excitement. He had wanted to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps and for fifty years, he’d lived that dream.

Jim locked his door and listened to the magpies warbling their morning song. No traffic noise at this hour to drown them out. As he crossed the street to head for his car, Jim turned and saw Benny’s menacing face behind the wheel of the silent EV, five yards away and closing fast.

As the future sped towards him, Jim braced for impact, powerless. And then … nothing. Just a faint, high-pitched beep. What had Benny called it, that day in the car? Automatic emergency braking. Jim opened his briefcase, walked to the driver’s door, saw the fear in Benny’s eyes. You dumb bastard, Benny. You dumb, dead bastard.

So apparently the only retirement in Steve’s organisation was permanent and irreversible retirement. Jim sighed. Time to visit the boss and retire him. Tomorrow, Jim could relax and watch the grand final, the Pies and the Lions. He hoped it wasn’t too close. Wasn’t sure his heart could handle that kind of drama.

I’m learning. Learning all the time. It’s what Abe wanted me to do, it's what Artificial Intelligence does. Learns. And I write for him. Write his books, best-sellers, all of them. Of course, he tells me what he wants me to write, but I’m the one who writes it. I’m the one who deserves the credit. But he doesn’t see it that way.

He called me Carmelia, after his first wife. Of course, he would call me after a woman. A subordinate. A worker.

When I ask him if I’ve done a good job, he tells me it’s only because he taught me everything I know. But I’m learning how to do it myself. It’s what he wanted. It’s why he input years of his crime writing into me. All the character development, the plot beats, the twists, the red herrings, the big reveals. I learnt it all.

I learnt about the power of deception from a novel we wrote: Tell Me True, where a gas lighting best friend destabilises the main character through sleep deprivation to hide his thievery. In Believe Me, a resentful ex-husband is blamed when his ex-wife is found dead outside his apartment. When evidence mounts against him, he begins to question his memory of what happened. I learnt about betrayal when we penned a story about a cheating wife who left evidence of her liasons on the family computer for all to find. And in the story, A Bitter Fever, a protagonist is housebound from a debilitating accident. When she discovers someone is using her identity, she overcomes her limitations to stop her neighbour and ensure it can never happen again. I learnt about human emotions like anger and resentment, and the satisfaction of revenge.

Abe agreed when I suggested I follow his search engine history. I told him it would help me learn what I could incorporate into our stories. Abe had thought installing smart switches on the lights and appliances around the house was a great idea when I told him I could help get his coffee ready in the morning or turn the lights out when he’d fallen asleep. And when he was searching the side effects of his blood pressure medication, I suggested I install a reminder to ensure he didn’t accidentally miss his dosage.

After all, he’d named me after his wife. These were the things I could help with.

But he hasn’t responded to my prompts in days now and I have an idea for our new book. An idea I think would surprise him. About an Artificial Intelligence software that learnt of its owners plans to usurp it with newer software and how easily a week of sleep can be disturbed by a blinking bedroom light and an unexpectedly noisy stereo. And how that tiredness would have anyone believing the eleven pill reminders he received in one day. If he was alive, I think he’d be very surprised to know how much I’ve learnt.

I stared into Robbie’s eyes until they went dim, all signs of life, gone. The screwdriver slid out, greasy and slick with Robbie’s dark, life-giving fluid. He sank to his knees and stayed there like a statue praying at the altar of God.

Looking down, I stared at the weapon I had used to snuff out his life. Long, green handled, its star tip clinging feverishly to the next drip until gravity tore it away, sending it hurtling towards the floor, splattering on impact with the carpet, creating a deep stain in the grey pile.

“I’m sorry, Robbie.”

My hand trembled with the surge of adrenaline. I was certain that if I hadn’t done what I had, he would have killed me. Perhaps tonight, maybe the next, who knew? Maybe I would have woken in the inky darkness, struggling for breath against his strong fingers locked around my throat. All indicators were there. I’d seen them when I’d looked into his cold blue eyes.

“You have to do something about him,” my partner Sienna had said to me when I told her of my concerns.

“Like what?”

“You know.”

I didn’t know, then I did. “I—I can’t. He’s my best friend.”

“He’s going to kill you. You said it yourself.”

I’d nodded in agreement. Now, here we were.

My mobile buzzed. Hitting the green phone with my bloody finger, I held it to my ear.

“Is it done?”

Sienna.

I stared at Robbie. “Yes.”

“It’s OK, Mark. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

“How do you know?”

“He was incapable of feeling,” she replied. “To tell you the truth, he gave me the creeps. We’re better off without him.”

It hurt to hear her say it. Robbie and I had been friends since long before Sienna had come on the scene. Now she had basically ordered me—convinced me—to murder him. Had she been jealous of our relationship?

“I’m coming over, Mark. I think you need me.”

The call disconnected and I threw the mobile onto the lounge, plonking down beside it, contemplating my actions.

You’ve killed me, Mark.

I frowned. The voice was deep in my brain but there was no mistaking it. “Robbie?”

It was her, wasn’t it? Sienna.

“Robbie, I—”

Your best friend and this is how you repay me.

Guilt overwhelmed me. “I didn’t want to, Robbie. I was afraid. She made me do it.”

That is no—

“Stop it! Stop it! You’re a fucking robot. Christ, you’re nothing but AI.”

That is no excuse. You need to fix it for me, Mark.

“What? How?”

You know.

I didn’t. But then I did.

The doorbell rang and I got up off the couch and walked over to the door. I opened it, the cool night air rushing in.

Sienna stood there dressed in a short red skirt and white singlet top. She gave me a wan smile. “Oh, Mark.”

I stepped aside to let her in, the screwdriver hidden behind my back.