by Paula Weston
The agent looks over at Jules on the couch, seems to weigh up her response. ‘For the moment, no. Her story checks out with the sergeant at the scene.’
‘You could’ve said that when you got here,’ Angie says.
‘You know that’s not how it works.’
‘Yeah. I know exactly how your lot works. Does that mean I’m under suspicion or not?’
Khan gives her a tight smile. ‘You’d be offended if you weren’t.’
Jules closes her eyes and sinks deeper into the couch, tracing the edge of a button on the cushion. She wills the tension to leave her neck and shoulders.
They still have a home.
She’s not a suspect—at least not in the eyes of the federal police.
There are no news crews in the street.
But.
She doesn’t understand why Ryan was in the Pax Fed Building or why he helped her. Most of all, she doesn’t understand why the driver brought her home and why the sight of him robbed her mother of words, because that never happens.
‘Wait a minute.’
Khan is probing inside the satchel again, one eye screwed shut in concentration. She yanks hard. ‘Got it.’
Angie moves closer. ‘What is that?’
Using another evidence bag, Khan holds up a tiny silver thing between her thumb and forefinger, the size of a grain of rice. ‘Audio transmitter and tracker, stitched into the seam of the bag. That’s why I missed it the first time.’ She turns the bug over, studying it. ‘This is advanced tech. If it’s working, your friends in that van have been listening in since Julianne brought it inside.’
9
Major Luka Voss pulls out the earbud as soon as the feed goes dead.
He’s alone in his demountable office, listening through the audio file a second time, stewing over the fact Angela De Marchi thought he’d sent a bomb into her house.
It was unprofessional to let her see him. He should have gone back to the motorway. He didn’t need to drive down De Marchi’s street.
But he wanted to make sure Julianne got home.
No, that’s a lie. He wanted to see Angela. See if she remembered him.
And she did, sort of. Enough, at least, to pull her up short. The way her forehead creased, the confusion…she knew she’d met him before.
He wondered how long it would take for her to work it out.
And he wondered if it would make today better or worse when she did.
10
Ryan’s only half-awake. It’s fifteen minutes until his alarm is set to go off. He’s sprawled on his bunk, tangled in the sheet and thinking about Julianne De Marchi. Again. Watching her slide up that skirt and push down her pantyhose. He can’t get the image out of his head. He feels himself stir, knows he has to find a distraction or he’s going to get out of bed hard, and he’ll never hear the end of it from Waylo. He forces himself to remember the way De Marchi looked at him in the van. The betrayal. The fear. Thinks about the bruises he must have left on her.
Yep, that does it. The heat leaves him and shame creeps back in.
He waits another minute before he drops over the side of the bunk and heads for a cold shower.
The Major offered no explanation on the drive back to base three days ago. Said nothing about why Ryan had to grab De Marchi when she ran, or why they took her home and sat three blocks away for the next forty-seven minutes. Gave Ryan no opening to ask questions. But the Major had plenty of his own and Ryan was careful to answer only what was asked of him.
No, he didn’t know why De Marchi’s interview ended prematurely.
No, he didn’t see any of the shooters.
Yes, the power went out before the first explosion.
Yes, De Marchi let him help her.
Ryan has no clue if he’s in the shit or not. A woman in a short, tight business skirt turned up later that afternoon and yelled at the Major for twenty minutes. Ryan heard it from the quad—her volume, if not the actual words. He got enough of a look at her on her way in to see she had gym-toned thighs and a shade of white-blonde hair that doesn’t come from a packet. She was buffed and polished, a species of woman as foreign to him as the iridescent beetle crashing against his window last night.
Ryan is still thinking about the fallout from Wednesday on his return trip from the showers, bare-chested and barefoot, hair dripping. The doors around the common room are closed, everyone else snuffling and snoring in their beds except Frenchie; she’s talking in her sleep in Arabic. Beyond the kitchen window the sky is finally brightening.
The whole Pax Fed thing makes no sense. If the shooters had a specific target, they stuffed up. The evacuation had started by the time they started firing—it would have been near impossible to single someone out in that chaos…Unless they knew their target couldn’t leave with the others. Say, if that person was trapped in a lift. Plenty of space then, and time too. Time to destroy a room full of computer servers if they wanted.
De Marchi might not be so paranoid after all.
Ryan can’t stop thinking about her—and not just her thighs, although he’ll get back to them in a second. There was nothing in her file he didn’t already know: she was convicted of arson and destruction of public property when she was sixteen, and given a suspended sentence because her old man was a dead war hero. As far as Ryan knows she only ever burned down her high school. Okay, she blew it up, which is a bit more hardcore and scored her a spot on a national watch list. But still. It’s hardly enough to send a heavily armed squad after her two years later—or even have someone like him waiting in the wings.
Ryan pauses at his door, shoulders tightening at the thought of gunmen finding De Marchi alone in that lift. That’s what she’d wanted: to be on her own when they got to her. For Ryan to leave so he’d be safe.
The irony burns.
An alarm clock goes off as Ryan steps into the room. Waylo punches it into silence without lifting his head from the lower bunk. Ryan flicks the switch by the door and the fluoro overhead sputters to life.
Waylo farts loudly and rolls over, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He clocks Ryan’s damp hair. ‘You shit the bed?’ His voice is rough from sleep.
‘Nah, buddy, that stink in here is all you.’
‘Mate, my arse smells like roses.’ Waylo throws off his sheet and sits up, stretches each arm until his shoulder joints pop. ‘Kill for a decent sleep.’
Ryan rummages through his top drawer and pulls on a faded T-shirt, one of the few things he kept from the bundle he brought from home. The Mitchellstone District Footy Club tiger and the day, month and year of the Under 18s premiership are faded and peeling now, but he doesn’t need the date to remember that moment the siren sounded. When he fell to his knees exhausted and ecstatic, his teammates piling on top of him, all of them battered and bruised. Back when the world made sense, before everything fell apart.
Thinking about home reminds him he needs to ring Tommy. The voice network came back online yesterday so he’s run out of excuses. But he’s not ready. He focuses on the state of the room instead. With the light on, there’s no avoiding the mess. Two jocks and a singlet hang over the end of his bunk, drying from a quick rinse in the sink a day ago. Boots in various stages of re-lacing cover the two-seater table. The pot on the gas burner is half-full of water and the sink is crammed with dirty cups and plates. Both wardrobes are open, jeans and runners spilling out onto the carpeted floor. The room smells of sweat, deodorant, stale coffee and farts.
‘Waylo, this place is a disgrace.’
Waylo slings a towel around his neck and heads for the door in his boxers, a plastic shopping bag loaded with toiletries in his free hand. ‘Inspection’s not till tomorrow. We got time.’
‘Not if your new mate reaches out.’
The guy with the man bun—Xavier—was testing Waylo’s taste for civil unrest right before all hell broke loose on Wednesday.
‘I’m serious mate, I’m not cleaning this shit-sty on my own.’
&
nbsp; Waylo pauses at the door and spins the plastic bag with his thumb and forefinger, first one direction and then the other. ‘Don’t be jealous, Walsh. You’ll get another shot to impress the Major.’ He manages half a grin before he leaves the room, favouring his left leg.
Even Waylo can’t dredge up a convincing bluff this week. It’s the closest any of them have come to infiltrating the Agitators or any other domestic terrorist gateway group. It’s what they train for. Why they exist. Why they jab themselves with needles every day. And there’s even more pressure now the Agitators have blood on their hands.
Ryan’s not supposed to know what went down before the explosion. Waylo’s not supposed to know about De Marchi. But neither of them is any good with rules that require lying to a mate.
Waylo was restless after Wednesday. Riled up. So the two of them sat up past midnight, lights out, talking it through. Trying to figure it all out, even though the Major had made it clear it wasn’t their job to understand.
Ryan sidesteps boots and newspapers to get to the sink. He jams in the plug, squirts in detergent and opens the tap until it runs hot.
He understands why Waylo was rattled outside Pax Fed: Xavier was warning him to move further up Queen Street ‘on the signal’. Waylo had no idea what the signal was—until a truck skidded sideways into the street, cleaned up two cop cars and rammed into the Pax Fed Tower foyer. The protesters bolted on impact. Waylo kept his cover and ran with them, but he wasn’t quick enough. The blast threw him into a parked car, showered him with debris. He was close enough to hear the screams, see the bodies and bloodstains when the dust cleared.
The sink fills with lemony suds. A cluster breaks free, floats up past Ryan’s nose.
Xavier knew that truck was coming. Did the Major? Ryan turns that last thought over, testing its shape. He wrenches off the water, stares at the suds. Tiny bubbles cling to a coffee-stained cup and burst in the humid air.
Did the Major send him into that building knowing he might not come out?
It’s not until he’s back from hand-to-hand combat training in the afternoon that Ryan finally makes the call. He’s on his bunk, shoulders against the wall and ankles crossed. He flexes the lightweight phone in his palm a dozen times before he lets it snap flat and taps in the number.
Nobody on the farm can afford a mobile service, so he dials the home line. It rings once, twice. His palms are tacky, his tongue thick. He’s surprised it still feels like this. Pick up the phone, Tommy.
‘Hello?’
Ryan’s heart trips. ‘Dad?’
‘No, dickhead, it’s me.’ Tommy laughs. ‘Didn’t recognise the number. You lose another phone?’ Ryan blows out his breath. There’s no mistaking Tommy for Dad now he’s dropped his phone voice.
‘I don’t lose them, arsewipe, the sim gets changed every month. How many times do I have to explain this?’ Relief ripples through him. ‘Mum around?’
‘Out in the paddock, I’ll get her in a sec. Good thing you rang, she’s been stressing about the Pax Attack. Were you in the city?’
Ryan finds a new blister on his heel, presses it with his thumb until it changes colour. ‘Nah.’ He tries hard not to lie to Tommy, but there’s no way he can tell him about Wednesday. Fortunately his younger brother has a short attention span.
‘You get your leave approved?’
‘Nah, mate, can’t get the time right now.’
‘Come on, Ryno, you missed Christmas. It’s my seventeenth. Macka’s old man’s letting us use the clubhouse and Rabbit’s shouting the keg—’
‘Mate, I can’t help it.’
‘The band’s playing. Who’s gonna sit in on drums?’
‘What’s wrong with Macka?’
‘Ha ha. Did you tell the Major it’s my birthday? The whole footy club’s coming. Biggest party of the year.’
Ryan imagines using that argument to convince the Major to change his mind and give him leave. ‘Family celebrations don’t carry much weight around here.’
‘Mum’s gonna be disappointed.’
The pang hits. ‘She’ll get over it.’
Ryan hasn’t been home for more than a year and he needs to get back to the farm. Not to catch up with his mates—he’s not ready for the inevitable crap that’s going to involve—but to see if his mum really is okay. She says she is; she says the money he’s sending helps. But he can never tell over the phone.
‘What about the old man? How’s he doing?’ The question sounds awkward and the line goes quiet.
‘Doesn’t say much,’ Tommy says finally. ‘Which is starting to scare the shit out of me, to be honest.’ All the energy is gone from his brother’s voice. He sounds older, the cockiness drained out of him with that one admission.
‘Seeing me won’t help.’ Ryan clears his throat. ‘Anyway, it won’t matter if I’m not there. You’ll be maggoted on two beers and won’t even miss me.’
‘No chance,’ Tommy says. ‘I can hold my piss better than you.’
Ryan scoffs. ‘How would you know?’
‘Been practising all year.’
A beat. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Calm the farm, grandma. Just a few beers at the club on Saturday nights.’
‘Who’s buying?’
‘Who do you reckon?’
Ryan rubs the back of his neck, stares down at a scrunched-up sock on the carpet. Macka’s old man, Keith McKenzie. President of the Michellstone Footy Club. Supplier of booze and narcotics to underage kids for the past decade. Second-generation townie and renowned shithead.
‘What’d I tell you about drinking with him?’
‘Ease up, Ryno,’ Tommy says, half-laughing. ‘You can’t pull the big-brother act when you’re two states away. If you want to keep an eye on me, you better find a way to get home.’
Ryan shakes his head. The little turd is pushing his buttons. He hopes that’s all it is, because the thought of Tommy turning into another broke farmer’s kid smashed out of his head and throwing up behind the clubhouse every Saturday night makes him want to break something.
‘Don’t fret, Ryno. Party’s a week away. Maybe the Major’ll change his mind.’
Ryan thinks about the Major and the shitstorm he’s weathering because Ryan went off-script on Wednesday. About the way the Major looks at him now, re-evaluating him.
Yeah. There’s no chance Ryan’s getting leave to go to South Australia for a party any time soon.
11
I doubt you’d recognise them or their methods.
It isn’t Khan’s words. It’s the way she said it—off-hand, dismissive—as if there’s no disputing the fact the Agitators Angie walked away from two years ago are completely different now. She knew things would change without her, but sabotage? Murder? Who have they let creep into the fold?
It’s Friday night and the house smells of bolognese sauce. The front door is open, letting in the sounds of the early evening: the Bangladeshi girls across the street playing cricket in their front yard; one of the Tamatoa boys coming home with the bass thumping. A baby crying a few doors down.
Angie and Vee are on their first shiraz, dissecting the week, picking apart their favourite topics: Paxton Federation, the state of the economy and journos who aren’t Angie. Jules is fussing at the stove, taking it all in but not saying much. Her skin is waxy under the harsh light of the rangehood. Angie knows she’s still furious about the satchel incident. It was gutsy of Jules to come inside after her and she’d tell her that if she thought Jules wanted to hear it.
‘Angie.’ Vee taps a lacquered hot pink nail on the table to get her attention. ‘If you want to know what’s going on with that rabble, reach out to them.’
‘I can’t. You know that.’
‘Rubbish.’ Vee blows a wayward hair from her eyes. This week she’s sporting a splash of vivid purple through the black and the whole lot is twisted up on her head, the ends sticking out in all directions like a rare exotic flower. ‘The Agitators are accused of attacking a buildin
g they knew Jules was inside. You have a right to demand answers.’
‘That doesn’t mean I can.’
Vee’s been Angie’s best mate since uni. She predates Jules and even Mike. She’s been there for every step—and misstep—of Angie’s adult life. Out here in suburbia is not her natural habitat, nor Angie’s, but Angie and Jules can’t afford to live any closer to the city—not since Mike died and certainly not since the work dried up—so Vee drives south to spend most Friday nights at their kitchen table. Unless there’s a better offer elsewhere with a chance of sex.
‘How long’s it been since the last threat?’ Vee asks.
Angie does a quick tally. ‘Two months, three weeks, five days.’ Whoever it is doesn’t bother sending messages anymore, just a few seconds of impossible footage: a teenage arsonist without a flame.
‘You’d think they would’ve made contact if they’d had anything to do with what happened this week.’
Jules is wiping her hands on a tea towel, pretending she’s not listening.
Angie hasn’t told Vee about the satchel or the bug. Or the fact the guy in the van was vaguely familiar. She will, but not yet. Even thinking about the driver brings a ripple of confusion. How does she know him? She’s been waiting for Jules to bring it up but her daughter’s been too focused on giving her the silent treatment. An argument would be so much easier. Angie knows how to handle conflict; this bruised sadness, not so much.
‘It’s no coincidence Jules was in the building when it happened,’ Angie says.
Jules doubles her efforts with the tea towel, doesn’t take the bait. Vee shakes her head.
‘The only people outside this room who know what Jules can do are the ones blackmailing you. Sending in armed men after her is a big step up from threatening messages. Why go to all that trouble? I’d understand if you were leading the protest but you were here, well away from the Agitators like you’re supposed to be.’
‘Maybe Pax Fed made sure Jules had an interview the same day as the protest so they could set me up—’
