by Paula Weston
‘Officers,’ Jules says. Kyle’s partner nods at Jules and keeps going to the counter.
Kyle tucks the cap under his arm, plants his feet. ‘You and your mum holding up okay?’ He’s only six months out of the academy and there’s no trace of the schoolboy these days; he’s all cop now. He has to be: you can’t be half-hearted if you want to work this community.
Jules glances at Ryan. He’s sitting sideways like he’s ready to bolt. His eyes flick from Kyle to the doorway, a serviette crushed in his palm.
‘Khan giving you a hard time?’ Kyle asks Jules.
‘She’s okay.’
The constable glances at Ryan, picks up on the weird vibe. ‘Everything okay here?’
The tension from Ryan’s side of the table comes at Jules in steady waves. Whatever Ryan was doing at Pax Fed on Wednesday, he doesn’t want the cops to know.
She could do it: she could tell Kyle that Ryan was there, what happened afterwards. Jules knows Kyle, trusts him as much as she trusts any uniform cop. But Ryan doesn’t seem like he’d go easily. The last thing Azar needs is a guy getting shot in front of the spice display for resisting arrest. Plus, Jules wants to know what his mate told him on the phone. She looks Ryan in the eye as she says, ‘It’s fine.’
Kyle moves closer anyway. ‘You live around here?’
Ryan stands up. ‘Nah, mate. Passing through.’
‘Got ID on you?’
Ryan pats his back pocket, pulls out a twenty and shrugs. ‘Wallet’s at home.’ He’s taller than Kyle, broader across the chest and shoulders. And fit. If Ryan decides to run, there’s no chance Kyle will be able to stop him without using a weapon. Ryan nods at his empty plate. ‘Stopped in for a feed. Recommend the lamb kebab.’
Kyle gives him a tight smile. ‘I know what’s good here, mate.’
Ryan checks the street outside. He’s about five seconds away from walking out the door. Jules moves in to clear the table, blocking his path. She needs to know what was said on the phone.
‘You want anything else? Azar makes amazing namoura.’
Ryan’s near enough to grab her if that’s what he came to do. Her mouth is dry, her heart insistent against her ribs. She holds his gaze, wills him to stay. A tiny line creases his forehead.
‘Maybe next time.’ He steps around her before she can think of something else to say. ‘Constable.’ He nods at Kyle and disappears through the plastic strips.
‘Anything I need to know about him?’ Kyle asks, hand on his radio, ready.
Jules shakes her head. She goes to the window, presses her cheek against the glass to see up the street.
There’s no sign of Ryan. He’s gone, and so has her chance to find out who he is and who else is watching her and Angie.
15
Ryan is on his second lap of the bush track, trying to work the tightness from his shoulders and legs.
It’s overcast and almost dusk, but there’s enough light to finish the circuit. He’s running through the melaleuca forest in footy shorts, no shirt. Sweat trails down his spine and his runners pound the hard-packed dirt track. He jogs without music, preferring the lorikeets and cicadas, still learning the sounds of this place even after a year.
Ryan goes over the conversation with Julianne De Marchi in his head again, trying to figure out why she didn’t say anything to her cop mate. She wanted him to hang around, he’s pretty sure of that much, but—
‘Walsh.’
Ryan flinches and almost runs off the track.
It’s the Major. The lorikeets are screeching so loudly Ryan didn’t hear him jog up from behind.
‘Keep moving.’ The Major runs past and Ryan has to lift his pace to keep up. He’s wearing skins and a muscle tee, moving better than Ryan would have expected given the rumours about his injuries in Syria. There’s talk he’s missing a foot, but if he is the replacement must be next-generation tech.
Ryan’s never seen him running out here before.
It’s a week of firsts.
‘Anything you want to tell me, private?’ The Major keeps his eyes on the track as they jog shoulder to shoulder between paperbarks.
Shit.
The Major knows where he’s been today—they wouldn’t be having this conversation otherwise. Might as well be up front about it.
‘I checked in on Julianne De Marchi this morning,’ he says between breaths.
‘Who gave you that order?’
‘Nobody, sir. It’s my day off.’
‘Why was Waylon with you?’
Ryan brushes away an insect. Again, no point lying. ‘Keeping me company.’
The Major being on the track with him is making his balls shrink a little. It’s not normal. Nothing about the past week has been normal. He’s seen enough of the news to know the blonde who was yelling at the Major is Peta Paxton. Has his visit today caused more strife? Ryan’s never been one to fill a silence but he needs to give the Major something.
‘Sir, that bloke with the man bun was sniffing around. From the Agitators.’
‘Xavier? Sniffing around where?’
‘Outside the De Marchi house, he did a drive-by. Waylo recognised him—didn’t get seen himself, though.’
‘Where were you?’ The Major’s breathing is steady, measured. The first rumble of thunder rolls through the clouds above them.
‘At a kebab shop. De Marchi was there.’
‘Which one?’
‘I don’t know, the one on—’
‘Which De Marchi.’
Oh. ‘Julianne.’
‘And?’
‘She wasn’t happy to see me. But she could’ve set two local coppers on me and she didn’t.’
The Major slows his pace. It gives Ryan a chance to catch his breath and get in front of the conversation.
‘Sir, permission to ask a question?’
The Major says nothing for a few paces and then: ‘Granted.’
‘Why did we take De Marchi home?’
‘It wasn’t safe for her in the city.’
‘How did you know she’d be safe at home?’
‘The feds were already on their way to her house when we scooped her up.’
‘Yeah, but…’ Ryan’s not used to having to think so hard before he speaks and it’s tougher on the move. ‘Why was it our problem?’
‘Did you want her taken down by a paramilitary unit?’
‘No, but…’
‘Spit it out, Walsh.’
‘Sir, how did you know she’d be with me when I came out?’
The Major glances his way. ‘She told you about the tech in the satchel.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then don’t ask me questions you know the answer to.’
They break free of the trees and the barracks appears on the next rise. Ryan feels the first drop of rain on his cheek and decides to push his luck.
‘Was it there to listen in on me or De Marchi?’
‘Both.’ The Major uses his T-shirt to wipe sweat from his neck as he runs. ‘I needed to know what was going on in that building. And then your chivalry meant we could get surveillance into De Marchi’s house without having to deal with feds.’
Chivalry. Ryan is confident that’s not how Julianne De Marchi is describing his behaviour on Wednesday. He thinks about what else she told him this morning.
‘De Marchi says you know her mother.’
Ryan catches the slightest change in the Major’s expression but it’s gone before he can figure it out.
‘What else did she say?’
‘Not much. That you two went way back.’
‘Have you repeated that to anyone?’
Ryan doesn’t answer. Why didn’t he leave it alone?
‘You talked to Waylon,’ the Major says. Not a question. ‘You two are a pair of old women.’
‘Sir, nobody knows but us.’
The Major doesn’t speak or look his way as they cover the last fifty metres, pushing Ryan to a sprint past the climbing ropes. A fat drop of rain
lands on Ryan’s forehead. The air trembles with another rumble of thunder. The Major slows and then stops beside the gym to stretch his calves.
The door to the barracks opens and Waylo appears, flexi-phone in hand. Ryan immediately starts forward. He needs to give his mate a heads-up.
‘Stand your ground, Walsh.’
Ryan stops but widens his eyes at Waylo. Waylo keeps coming, more intent on the Major than him.
‘Sir.’
The Major straightens from his stretch. ‘What is it, private?’
Waylo holds up his phone. ‘Xavier took the bait. I’m in.’
The Major scrubs a palm against his beard and rests his hands on his hips. Looks from Waylo to Ryan and back again, calculating.
‘Right-oh boys. It’s time for a chat.’
16
The storm is in full swing when the power goes.
Jules has already lit tea lights in jars around the kitchen, so the house isn’t plunged into total darkness when it happens but she flinches anyway. Angie keeps tapping away on her laptop, barely registering the change. Jules checks the street through the front window and the darkness is a strange relief; theirs is not the only house in blackness. She closes the blinds and goes back to the kitchen.
‘Anything useful?’ she asks, raising her voice to be heard over the rain. It’s coming in sideways, hitting the house in sheets.
‘Not a thing.’
The free government network is online again and her mum’s been tracking chatter about the Agitators since the Pax Attack, trying to work out who else is ‘in play’, as her dad used to say. They can’t afford a private connection, which means Khan and her team are monitoring every keystroke. Angie’s found conspiracy theories but nothing credible. Nothing to explain why someone would attack Pax Fed Tower because Jules was inside.
And then there’s Ryan’s visit this morning.
Jules phoned Angie as soon as he left to warn her that someone other than the feds was watching them. It was enough for Angie to stake out the Souk for the rest of Jules’ shift. Hardly ideal, but less stressful for both of them in the long run. Plus, Azar likes having Angie working away in a corner. She says it makes the place feel more urbane.
Thunder shakes the house stumps and the kitchen is bathed in a flash of brightness. Energy crackles at Jules’ fingertips, stings in a way that leaves no doubt she’ll need to let it go again soon.
She peers into the pitch-black yard as the wind buffets the window over the sink. She grounded the current out there when the storm was gathering, but it rebuilds much quicker when the air is charged like this.
Jules is filling a glass from the tap when she hears the banging. She and Angie lock eyes. It comes again and there’s no doubt: someone’s at the laundry door.
‘Wait,’ Angie mouths in the candlelight, already on her way to the kitchen bench. She slides out the second drawer, grabs the biggest knife they own.
‘What are you doing?’ Jules whispers. ‘Call Khan.’
Angie shakes her head. She moves down the hallway towards the laundry, treading lightly even though there’s no chance anyone outside will hear her over the storm. Jules grabs her mum’s old smart phone from the bench, grateful for the shadows. She feels her way to the laundry, vaguely makes out her mother standing by the back door. They wait.
The banging comes again. Three hard thumps.
‘Who is it?’ Angie demands. There’s no sign of the woman who wept in the plaza. This is all ball-breaking Angie De Marchi.
‘Ryan.’
Jules’ pulse trips. ‘What do you want?’
‘To get out of this rain, for a start.’
He must be soaked. There’s shelter over the landing and the stairs but it’s not much protection in weather like this.
‘We want to talk.’
We?
Angie yanks the door open before Jules can ask. Ryan’s there, a hulking silhouette. He doesn’t push past Angie to get inside; he simply stands with his back braced against squalling rain.
A series of flashes illuminate the backyard. Two men are at the bottom of the stairs in hooded waterproofs. One’s dark-skinned, youngish, and the other is tall enough to be the van driver. The fleeting sight sends a jolt through Jules but she keeps the charge to herself. It hurts, leaves her hands feeling wasp-stung.
‘Leave your knife behind,’ Angie says to Ryan.
‘I don’t have a knife on me. Come on, it’s friggen cyclonic out here.’
‘I want to see all of you. Jules, get a light.’
‘No.’ It’s definitely the driver; Jules recognises his voice. ‘Not until we’re inside.’
Rain gusts into the laundry, soaks the front of Jules’ shirt and jeans.
‘If we wanted to hurt you we wouldn’t have knocked,’ the driver says.
Angie shifts her weight, hesitates another second; backs away from the door. ‘Give them space.’
‘Mum—’
Ryan lets the other two come in first. As soon as he follows, the wind catches the door and slams it shut. There’s another flash of lightning—the three men are barely a metre away, soaking wet—and thunder peals across the sky. Jules can’t separate their energy from the raging storm and has no idea what mood they’ve brought inside.
‘What do you want?’ Angie says again.
‘Any chance of a towel?’ Ryan asks.
‘Let’s see how long you’re staying. If I have to ask a third time, it’s going to be a short visit.’
‘Angela.’ It’s the driver. ‘I need your help to infiltrate the Agitators.’
A beat. This guy has a knack for throwing Angie off balance.
‘Why?’
‘Because a manipulative little grub has turned your protest group into murderers.’
‘You have proof?’
‘Enough.’
Jules doesn’t need to see Angie’s face to know her mother’s going to need more than that.
‘Who are you guys?’ Jules directs the question at Ryan, but in the darkness the driver thinks she’s asking him.
‘Army,’ the driver says.
Angie clicks her tongue. ‘Bullshit.’
‘Maybe not the army you’d recognise, but we’re army just the same.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Think corporatised.’
Jules absorbs the news. Ryan’s a soldier? A staccato flash brightens the laundry for a long second and his eyes find hers.
‘Who sent you to Pax Fed Tower?’ she asks when the laundry’s in darkness again.
Silence. She touches the mobile in her back pocket, makes sure it’s there. It’s rigid and out of date but it works. She’s ready to drag Angie into the toilet, lock the door and call Khan if this goes bad.
‘Answer the question or get back outside.’ Angie positions herself in front of Jules. ‘Who hired you?’
Another gust of wind shakes the house.
‘Peta Paxton.’ The driver says her name like he’s pulling a pin from a grenade.
It’s a full two seconds before Angie detonates. ‘Are you serious? Pax Fed drags Jules in for an interview to humiliate her and hires the fucking army to stalk her while they’re at it?’
‘We don’t work for Paxton Federation. This is a short-term contract, fully sanctioned by the brass. Keeping an eye on Julianne was a secondary objective on Wednesday.’ He makes no attempt to push further into the house. ‘If we’re staying long enough for an interrogation can we get out of these jackets?’
Jules tightens her grip on the doorjamb, tries to understand what it means that these strangers kept her safe on Wednesday. She comes up blank. Outside, the sky stutters and the knife glints in Angie’s hand.
‘Put them in the tub on your right,’ she says. ‘Towels are in the cupboard on your left.’ There’s jostling and rustling as the soldiers peel off rain-soaked coats. They hit the laundry tub with a wet slap. ‘Wait here.’
Angie clamps tacky fingers around Jules’ wrist and leads her down the hallway and int
o the candlelit kitchen.
‘I’m calling Khan,’ Jules whispers, sliding the mobile from her jeans.
‘Not yet.’ Angie snaps shut the kitchen blinds and gestures for Jules to join her by the table. ‘Okay,’ she calls. ‘Lock the laundry door behind you and come out slowly.’
The driver emerges, hands out in front to show he’s not armed. His shirt is plastered to him and his buzz-cropped scalp and beard glisten with rain. There’s definitely something wrong with that left ear.
‘By the stove.’
He sees where she means and nods. Behind him is the guy Jules hasn’t seen before tonight. He’s towel-drying thick black hair, his bare feet leaving wet footprints on the floorboards. Right now his primary interest is Angie and that knife.
Ryan comes in last. He nods at Jules as if he’s spotted her at a party. The black T-shirt he had on today clings to his chest and shoulders and his hair is slicked back from his face. He’s carrying one of the threadbare towels they keep for mopping up after storms. He waits for the driver to look his way before he tosses it over.
The three soldiers stand with their backs to the stove, feet apart and shoulders square. At attention. They fill the kitchen alcove. Angie and Jules are on the other side of the table, leaving themselves a clear run to the front door if they need it. Angie might be impulsive, but she’s not foolish.
‘Names,’ Angie says. ‘Real ones.’
‘Major Luka Voss,’ the driver says. He gives his head a quick rub with the towel, not breaking eye contact with Angie. ‘Former commanding officer of Security Detail 15 out of Syria, now with SECDET Q18. These two are part of my command. Julianne has been in the company of Private Ryan Walsh, twice now’—Jules catches the censure—‘and this is Private John Waylon.’
Private Waylon lifts a hand in greeting. Ryan is waiting for something from Jules—a word, a sign of recognition—but she leaves him hanging.
‘And we’ve met before,’ Major Voss says.
Angie puts the knife on the bench, her fingers resting on the hilt. ‘I remember: Brisbane Watch House during the Syrian crisis protests. It was the middle of winter in a blackout. You kept me warm, if memory serves me correct.’
Jules blinks. Angie told her this guy was arrested with her at a blockade. Her mother didn’t mention anything about sharing body heat.
