by Jack Heath
I sigh and take a few pictures of the helicopter. Up close, it looks much bulkier than it did in the air. The blades have retracted to half their normal length. The nose is broad and flat, like that of a giant snake. The wheels, which looked from a distance like ordinary truck tyres, are corrugated as if designed to climb sand dunes.
If I ever get out of here, I can take these pictures to the police—but I don’t know how I would explain where I got them.
A wailing siren fills the air.
At first I’m relieved—and then I realize it’s not a police car. The noise is coming from the upper floors. Someone must have seen the key jammed into the car boot, and realized that there was an intruder.
I scan the car park for somewhere to hide. But it’s too open. There are no nooks to slip into.
My gaze settles on the open helicopter door. Would the soldiers think to look inside?
I step in. For such a big vehicle, it’s surprisingly cramped—like an attic full of junk. Med kits and radios dangle from carbon-fibre hooks. The walls are spiderwebbed with nylon straps.
If I close the door, they might notice. Instead, I shrink into the shadows between the two seats up the front of the aircraft.
The cargo lift opens.
I watch through the tinted windscreen as two soldiers emerge, gripping thick-barrelled handguns. Their eyes sweep the gloom for a moment before they split up, one moving towards the far side of the car park, the other approaching the helicopter.
I stare at him, willing him to turn away. He doesn’t. When he’s close enough, he crouches to look under the helicopter. Then he rises and circles around towards the open door.
If I move, he’ll know I’m here. But if I don’t, he’ll see me when he climbs on board. And I don’t know if that shotgun is loaded with beanbag rounds.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second. Then I jump to my feet and pull on the door.
The soldier’s yell is cut off as the door slams closed. I wrench the handle sideways to lock it, just in time. His hands scrabble at the outside of the hull, to no avail.
I pace back and forth, tugging at my wig. I’ve trapped myself twice over. I’m stuck in the helicopter, which is stuck in the car park. What can I do?
The other soldier runs towards the helicopter, gun raised. Looking past him, I see the roller door, wondering if Becky is still on the other side of it, wondering if I’ll ever see her again—
An idea materializes in my head. It’s dangerous. Crazy, maybe. But I’ve run out of other options.
I sit down in the pilot’s chair. Graeme once told Chloe that most military vehicles could be started at the touch of a button. On the battlefield, no soldier wanted to have to fumble with keys.
The control panel has a lot of buttons and switches. I ignore all the ones which look like they control the rotor—I only need the wheels—and push a yellow button. Suddenly the car park is bright orange in the glow from the running lights. A red button activates a siren, which competes with the alarms already echoing through the car park.
The green button, half-hidden behind a plastic cap, starts the engine.
I pull on my seat belt as a roaring fills the air. The controls are nothing like those of a car. There is no steering wheel, no accelerator, no brake. Instead, there are two rubber-handled levers. As a child, Chloe had a remote-control car which worked a bit like this—one lever for the left set of wheels, another for the right. It meant that the car could rotate on the spot, without having to drive in big circles.
I throw both levers forward and the helicopter lurches out of the parking space. The two soldiers back away as the aircraft rumbles across the concrete.
The lift arrives again, this time with four more soldiers.
I adjust the levers so the helicopter swerves left. Soon it’s facing the roller door.
I grab both rubber handles and push them forward with all my might.
The helicopter zooms towards the roller door, gaining speed with every second. I clench my teeth and brace myself against the chair as it rockets up the ramp.
The impact throws me forward so hard that the seat belt cuts into my shoulders. There’s a deafening groan as the nose of the aircraft crumples against the roller door.
Which is still standing.
I gape at the door as the helicopter rolls backwards down the ramp. What is it made of? How could it possibly survive a ramming attack from a helicopter?
I shriek and throw my arms over my face as a hailstorm of bullets slams into the side of the aircraft. Through dozens of ragged holes in the hull, I can see one of the soldiers manning the belt-fed machine gun mounted on the utility vehicle. As I watch, he opens fire a second time and the helicopter tilts sideways as the air is filled with the sound of popping tyres and the stench of spilled petrol.
I turn back to the controls. This isn’t over yet.
I hit the switch marked activate rotor.
The helicopter blades extend above me with a sound like swords being drawn, and then the noise is drowned out by the whining of the engine, louder than before.
Another lever is marked altitude. Hoping that this controls the rotor speed, I pull it right up.
The air shudders as though a thunderstorm has appeared in the car park. The wheels start to lift off the ground, and I push the altitude lever back down until they settle. Then I grab the wheel controls again and push them forward. The deflated tyres grind up the ramp.
The helicopter blades emit a piercing shriek as they slice into the roller door. Sparks fly and molten metal drips as the friction turns into volcanic heat. A slit of daylight appears across the door, but the impact has forced the chopper back down the ramp. I push it forward again. The engine roars. The helicopter blades dig into the roller door again, widening the hole.
Another shower of bullets hits the hull. I ignore them and pull the altitude lever all the way up, cranking the rotor to its maximum speed.
One of the blades snaps off and flies at the wall, where it digs into the concrete like an arrow in a tree trunk. Even without it, I can feel the wheels lifting off the ground again.
The roller door’s last joint tears open and the bottom half of it collapses. The bullet-ridden wheels now won’t turn at all, so I push another lever which angles the rotor forwards. The aircraft half flies, half drags itself through the gap, engine smoking, blades cutting chips of cement out of the doorway.
The helicopter is barely halfway out before I unlock the door and throw myself clear. Becky is crouched behind the skip bin, and I sprint past her, yelling ‘Move move move!’ before the aircraft catches fire behind me with a WHUMPFF.
I risk a glance back in time to see two more operatives at the opposite end of the alley, rifles slung under their arms, before my view is obscured by the enormous petals of smoke blossoming out of the helicopter’s fuel tank. Becky is right behind me, hair sticking to her sweaty face.
In seconds we’re turning the corner onto the main street. We need to run, but we also need to blend in. The easiest way to make that happen is to ensure that everybody else is running too.
‘Fire!’ I yell. ‘Go! Run! Fire!’
For a second nothing happens, but then one person starts backing away, and someone else starts running, and then two people copy him, and then suddenly Becky and I are at the centre of a panicked crowd, flooding up the street away from the alleyway.
Over the yelling and heavy breathing and pounding feet, I can hear sirens on the breeze. Hera Global is about to find themselves with some explaining to do.
A few blocks up, I stop running.
‘Chloe,’ Becky yells, perhaps forgetting who I really am. ‘Come on!’
‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘There’s a pay phone.’
‘The cops are already on their way,’ Becky says.
‘Yeah.’ I’m already moving towards the phone. ‘But they don’t know what to look for.’
I search my pockets for a coin, and then realize that it’s probably free to call emergency
services. I dial.
‘Fire, Ambulance, or Police?’ a voice says. Calm, but somehow impatient at the same time.
‘Police,’ I say, in the masculine voice of Chloe’s favourite rapper. Becky stares at me. ‘I just saw …’
‘Hold, please.’
The phone rings again.
‘Police. What is your location?’
‘Corner of Chan Street and Benjamin Way,’ I say. ‘I just saw someone get shoved into the boot of a car.’
‘Can you describe the victim?’
‘I didn’t get a good look. But the driver was about a hundred and ninety centimetres, ninety kilos. Caucasian, brown hair. Bruises on his chin. He took the car into the alleyway behind the big glass building.’
‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘People are running,’ I say. ‘There’s some kind of fire. I have to go.’
I hang up.
~
It takes us a few minutes to run to the bus station and a few more to find a bus going in the right direction. Once we’re on board, we start tidying our hair and clothes, trying not to look like we just walked off the set of a disaster film.
‘That was really brave,’ Becky murmurs. ‘Going in there.’
I shrug uncomfortably.
‘I wouldn’t have done that. Nor would Chloe.’
‘What would Chloe have done?’
Becky looks out the window. ‘I don’t know. She wasn’t shy, exactly, but she was always afraid of inconveniencing people. No matter how much they deserved it.’
She didn’t worry about inconveniencing me—not after she discovered she was being stalked.
‘Maybe she had more to lose,’ I say.
‘Maybe.’ Becky looks reluctant to compare me to my predecessor. ‘So what happens now?’
‘I don’t know. Hopefully the police will find the remains of the helicopter, they’ll rescue the guy from the boot of the car, and they’ll charge Ares with everything.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘Then we’ll give them the pictures of the driver,’ I say. ‘I just have to work out a plausible reason to have them.’
The bus rumbles to a halt at my stop, and I stand.
‘Call me, OK?’ says Becky. ‘Tomorrow.’
I nod. ‘Sure.’ Then I tromp off the bus and start walking home.
The shadows grow along the footpath. Dead leaves crunch under my shoes.
I’m ten minutes later than I told Graeme I would be, but his car isn’t in the driveway, so I’m not caught. A lucky break. I unlock the front door and walk in.
I find Kylie in the living room, re-alphabetizing the books on the shelves. ‘Hey sweetie,’ she says. ‘You’re home late.’
‘You’re home early,’ I counter. ‘How come?’
‘The office closed early so the exterminators could have free rein. Which, by the way, is what the mice have had for years.’
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Stuck in traffic, I imagine. The radio said there was some kind of explosion in Belconnen—apparently no one was hurt, but a lot of people are gridlocked.’
‘An accidental explosion?’
‘No. The police think it was a botched robbery of one of the offices around there.’
Not far from the truth. ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘So soon after the school was attacked?’
‘I know. People kept calling the radio station to say that we wouldn’t have these problems if we didn’t let so many refugees into the country. The host was more polite to the callers than he should have been—I got mad and turned it off.’
The doorbell rings.
Kylie sighs. ‘Your father must have lost his keys again. Go let him in, will you?’
I trot back to the front door. Open it.
‘Hi Chloe,’ Detective Anders says.
Detective Ericson is right behind her. Neither of them is smiling.
My chest implodes with panic. How can they have found me already?
‘Is your mother home?’ Anders asks.
‘Who is it?’ Kylie calls from the other room.
I say nothing. It’s over.
Kylie arrives behind me, and sees the police. ‘What’s this about?’ she demands.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news, Ms Samuels,’ Anders says. ‘Your husband is dead.’
THE PINBOARD
Anders’ mouth keeps moving, but I no longer recognize the sounds coming out of it as words. Only fragments make it through the haze. ‘Accident … vehicle … roll-over … dental records …’
It feels as though my chest is filling up with jagged shards of ice. It’s like I’m going to pass out, or throw up.
My dad is dead. The man who checked under my bed for monsters when I was a little girl. Who carried me on his shoulders when we went to the supermarket, and didn’t mind when I pulled his hair. Who held my doll’s house still while I applied glue and glitter.
None of that was you, says a gloomy voice in my head. That was Chloe.
But I remember it. It’s all so real.
‘No,’ Kylie whispers. ‘No, no, no!’ All the blood has drained from her face. She sways as though standing in a canoe.
I touch her arm, steadying her. She doesn’t react.
‘Perhaps we could come inside,’ Detective Ericson says.
‘I … OK,’ Kylie says. But she doesn’t stand aside until Anders steps into the doorway and gently bumps into her.
I follow them, forgetting to close the door. My dad is dead. My dad is dead.
The police find the living room on their own, and sit down on the couch. Kylie and I copy them, sinking into rocking chairs which creak and groan.
We all sit there for a moment without saying anything. I can hear a quiet keening from within Kylie’s throat.
‘I know this is hard,’ Anders says finally. ‘But we’re going to have to ask you some questions. Is that OK?’
I swallow the bile—or whatever it is—rising up my throat. ‘Do you need us to identify the body?’
The body. My father, reduced to an object.
Ericson shakes his head. ‘You wouldn’t be able to. He …’
‘He’s already been identified,’ Anders says carefully. ‘Don’t worry about that. We’re just trying to fill in the timeline leading up to his death. What time did he leave for work this morning?’
‘Um.’ Kylie’s voice wobbles. Another tear tumbles down her cheek. ‘About … about seven-thirty.’
He offered me a lift to school. I should have taken it. I wish I’d known it would be my last chance to spend any time with him.
‘Did he usually leave at about that time?’
Kylie’s fists tremble in her lap. ‘I guess so. I don’t know. I …’
‘When would you typically expect him home?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kylie says again. ‘I get home at six-ish. He’s usually here when I arrive.’
‘So, by the time the vehicle was found …’
‘Six twenty-eight,’ Ericson says.
‘He was already a little late,’ Anders says. ‘Is that right?’
‘I guess so,’ Kylie says. Her breaths are fast and shallow. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Accidents often involve drivers who are running late for something,’ Anders says. ‘Especially single car incidents like this one—a roll-over happens when a driver takes a corner too quickly. But we were hoping to clear up a discrepancy. He actually left work at one-fifteen today.’
‘He did?’
Kylie and I look at each other. The pain in her red-rimmed eyes is unbearable. I turn back to the cops.
‘Do you know where he might have been going?’ Anders asks.
‘I can’t think of anything,’ Kylie says.
‘He didn’t mention an appointment? Lunch with a friend, maybe?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. Maybe … someone at his office might know.’
‘We’ll have a talk with them later,’ Anders says. ‘What time did you leave work today?�
��
‘About five-forty, I guess.’
‘When did you get home?’
‘Six-ish.’
‘OK.’ Anders turns to me. ‘What about you, Chloe? What time did you leave school?’
‘I finished at three o’clock.’
‘And when did you arrive here?’
I can’t lie about this in front of Kylie. ‘Just a few minutes ago.’ Then, because it will seem less suspicious if I volunteer the information, I say, ‘I caught the bus from school into Belconnen for a hot chocolate with my friend Becky, and then I caught another one home.’
‘What’s Becky’s last name?’
‘Lieu. L-I-E-U.’ I remember telling Graeme the same thing.
‘She goes to Scullin High with you?’
‘Yes.’
Anders and Ericson look at each other. ‘I think that’s all we need,’ Anders says.
They stand up to leave.
‘Did anyone see the crash?’ I ask.
Anders shakes her head. ‘A passing motorist saw the overturned car afterwards.’
‘Was Dad alive when the ambulance arrived?’
‘The car was on fire,’ Ericson says. ‘But your father was still wearing his seat belt, so it looks like he was killed on impact, and the fire started afterwards. We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report to be sure, of course.’
‘It would have been very quick,’ Anders says. ‘He wouldn’t have felt any pain.’
My stomach is a twisted, aching ball. When Chloe felt this sick as a little girl, she’d beg her father to make the agony stop somehow. But now he’s not here to help. He’ll never be here again.
How can a machine feel grief? And how can I be thinking about myself at a time like this?
‘Is there someone you can call?’ Anders asks.
‘For what?’ Kylie asks.
‘To talk to.’
‘Oh.’
After a pause, I say, ‘Dad’s sister lives in Borneo. We’ll try calling her.’
Anders can see that Kylie isn’t in good shape. ‘Is there anybody nearby who could come over?’
Henrietta’s parents live in Macgregor, less than ten minutes’ drive away. ‘I’ll phone Michael and Sally,’ I tell Kylie. ‘OK?’
