The Undercurrent

by Paula Weston

  ‘It’s of Julianne in the lift with one of your soldiers. If she’s under your protection, Major, you’d better stay sharp.’

  35

  Angie misses her bed.

  She’d forgotten that protest road trips are all about sleeping under a cold night sky and being eaten alive by insects, or being wedged in a bus seat—or on the floor—with people who haven’t showered for two days. Last night she was on the bus. Tonight, with that extra day of unwashed armpits, she’s rolled out her swag next to Waylon’s under the trees. Right now he’s on the other side of the camp, flirting with Xavier’s photographer.

  The convoy is an hour south of Broken Hill. Angie had expected to spend the night in town, but no, they kept driving to a rest stop. At least this one has toilets and they’ve got the site to themselves. A semitrailer slowed not long after they arrived. The driver took one look at the buses, changed gears and kept going. Smart move: truck drivers and environmentalists tend not to play well together. Not that Angie’s convinced of the environmental cred of this crowd.

  The Agitators are clustered around Tilley lamps, sharing trail mix and energy drinks and writing anti-nuclear signs with fat black markers. Between the buses and Kombis there must be at least two hundred people in the convoy. Angie hasn’t switched on Waylon’s lamp, preferring to sit in the gathering dark to get a better feel for the mood of the group.

  ‘This is a waste of time.’

  ‘He’s got a strategy and it involves placards. Keep writing.’

  Two men sit on logs about ten metres from Angie, their voices carrying on the motionless desert air. They’re in their early twenties with hard mouths and tattooed knuckles. Both are chain-smoking hand-rolled tobacco. The new breed of Agitator.

  ‘It needs to be big,’ the guy on the right says. He’s balancing a placard on bony knees, a texta in one hand and cigarette in the other. ‘We’ve had our heads so far up our arses fighting the war against idiots that we’ve dropped the ball. The farmers are starving, the military’s up for sale and we’re building nuclear power plants and radioactive waste dumps.’ The other guy nods along—it’s a well-worn spiel, but he’s on board with hearing it again.

  ‘The bastards will sit up and take notice after Saturday.’

  ‘You know what’s going down?’

  ‘Nah, but Xavier’ll make it count.’

  A mossie buzzes and Angie slaps at her neck. The two men turn and peer into the shadows. She holds her breath until their interest returns to the placards.

  Angie feels around for her water, needing to wash away the bitter taste in her mouth. They’re using her rhetoric—the inspiration for anti-violent resistance—to justify violence. There’s nothing else about this group that belongs to her, only her words, twisted and made vile for a new agenda. She chugs a tepid mouthful and screws the cap on so hard the plastic grazes her fingers. Above her the night is clear and stark, an ocean of stars.

  A figure emerges from the lead bus. Stocky build, man bun, arrogant gait. He checks the faces in each cluster of protesters, sweeps a beam of light over the spaces between them. He’s looking for Angie. She waits, watching the way the Agitators grow wary when he passes, as if they’re not quite convinced he’s tame.

  When he reaches her, she raises a hand to block the glare. ‘Who are you after?’

  ‘You.’

  She puts her back to him and finds her own torch. She shines it straight at his face and feels a flash of satisfaction when he squints against it. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  Angie leaves her torch on, forcing him to keep his face turned as he lowers himself to the ground.

  ‘Hang on a sec.’ She reaches for Waylon’s lamp.

  ‘We don’t need a light.’

  Angie turns it on as bright as it will go. He’s kidding himself if he thinks he’s getting away with another faceless conversation. He sits cross-legged, his back straight and hands resting on his knees. The soles of his feet are hard and cracked and his toes hairy. He’s broad enough to block her view of Waylon.

  ‘Why didn’t we stop in town?’

  ‘And miss inconveniencing our escort? Where do you think the coppers are laying their heads tonight? Not in a comfy bed, I promise you.’

  A marked police car has been following them since they left Coonabarabran. Angie hasn’t caught sight of it since they set up camp but it won’t be far away. Neither will Voss and Khan, assuming the Major’s plan is still on track.

  She and Xavier watch each other in the lamplight. He’s clever and calculating but there’s something else, something darker that blurs his edges.

  ‘What’s your big plan?’

  He raises his eyebrows, feigning surprise. ‘My plan?’

  ‘You’re in charge, aren’t you?’

  ‘Unless you want to be.’

  She shakes her head. ‘This is your show. I’m just along for the ride.’

  ‘And why is that?’ His smile is quick and flinty. ‘Why now?’ Stubby fingers stray to bare toes. He absently pulls at a tuft of hair—a nervous habit?

  ‘The Agitators are being blamed for killing people,’ Angie says. ‘You think I wouldn’t care about that?’

  ‘As Ollie explained to you, the truck was part of our plan; the gas line and casualties were not.’ The words are correct but the tone is off. He doesn’t care about the people who bled and died in Queen Street.

  ‘Jules was in that tower so I need to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Tell me why you walked away from the Agitators.’

  Is he serious? ‘Because some arsehole blackmailed me.’

  He blinks once, twice. He was not expecting the truth. Neither was Angie until it was out of her mouth.

  ‘Blackmailed you over what?’ She can see his mind working, trying to read her and the situation. He has no idea what she does and doesn’t know, and the temptation to rip off the scab here and now is overwhelming. But he’s also violent and unpredictable and Angie doesn’t know how expendable she is, or how far away Voss is if Xavier loses his shit.

  ‘Who’s blackmailing you? Angie—’

  ‘It’s not your problem or your business.’

  ‘Do you know who it is?’

  ‘No.’ She’s not much of a liar but maybe he won’t notice.

  ‘Why take the risk of being seen with us?’

  ‘Because I’m suffocating on the sidelines and I can’t do it anymore,’ she snaps.

  Xavier flinches…and then he relaxes. There’s no fake confusion, no toe-hair tugging. She’s angry enough that he’s bought the half-truth.

  ‘Are you going to tell me the plan or not?’ she demands.

  Xavier pretends to think about it for a moment. ‘When we get there.’ He rises from the ground and Angie watches him weave his way back to the lead bus. It’s only when her face starts to hurt that she unclenches her jaw.

  On the other side of camp, Waylon says something that makes the blonde photographer laugh and then takes the long way back to Angie, keeping a healthy distance between himself and Xavier.

  ‘You all right?’ He sits down and checks her over as if the conversation might have left a mark.

  ‘Of course I am. I see you’ve made a new friend.’

  ‘Yeah.’ His eyes stay on Angie for another second before he glances back across camp. ‘That girl thinks Xavier’s some kind of badass.’ He grins. ‘Of course, she might have a slight crush on me now, too.’

  Waylon taps his ear as he speaks: confirmation he’s placed the audio device. Angie raises her eyebrows. Where? Waylon slides a finger inside his boot and his grin widens. He’s put a bug in one of Xavier’s discarded shoes.

  Angie exhales. The first part of their job is done. Now she has to hope Xavier calls whoever’s paying the bills here and the Major overhears.

  Otherwise she’s just eaten shit for nothing.

  36

  ‘You’re like one of the X-Men.’

  ‘Because I’m a mutant?’

/>   ‘No,’ Tommy says, eyes bright. ‘Because you have a superpower.’

  It’s after dinner and Jules, Ryan and Tommy are out in the shed, which is Ryan’s old bedroom. Most of the floor space is taken up with music equipment: a drum kit, guitars on stands, amps, pedals and endless leads. Tommy tunes a guitar while they talk. Ryan is plugging in leads and staying out of the conversation.

  ‘It’s a gift,’ Tommy insists.

  Jules straightens her fingers and tucks them under her thighs. She’s still jittery over what happened in Ryan’s front yard today and the fact Tommy saw it.

  ‘My dad used to say that too.’ He told her she was special: it’s why he bought her comics before she was old enough to read them. She believed him in the same way she believed in Santa Claus. Jules let go of both lies when she was eight, the year she blistered his wrist, blew the lights on the Christmas tree and set the carpet on fire. ‘But what I have isn’t a power and it’s definitely not a gift.’

  Tommy clicks a pedal off and on. ‘You can make things burst into flames with your bare hands.’

  ‘What’s the point if I can’t control it?’ Jules is wrapped in the crocheted blanket from the spare room, wedged in a beanbag and shivering against the chill rising through the concrete. There’s a pot-belly stove against the far wall, cold and dark. It doesn’t look like it’s been lit recently and there are no signs of that changing tonight. She pokes her fingers through gaps in the crochet stitches and draws the blanket tighter.

  ‘You need more practice, that’s all.’ Tommy looks to Ryan for backup, but his brother’s pulled up a stool to the drum kit and is spinning drumsticks between his fingers.

  ‘Hold that thought,’ Ryan says and launches into a rapid-fire drumroll on each skin before settling into a groove. The beat shakes her bones, thuds inside her skull.

  Tommy leans in and yells: ‘Gemma’s gunna be here soon.’

  Gemma is Tommy’s best mate—has been since kindy. Gemma plays bass. Gemma’s a townie. Gemma’s never been Tommy’s girlfriend; it’s not like that with them.

  Tommy talks about Gemma a lot.

  ‘She’s keen to meet you, Jules.’ He grins and walks over to Ryan, flicking the guitar lead out of the way behind him. It was Ryan’s idea to go with the name he’s heard Angie use rather than something fake, although the first time Ryan called her Jules it did strange things to her pulse.

  Nobody’s telling Gemma who Jules really is. They’re relying on the fact she looks different now from the photos on TV. Her face is leaner than when she was sixteen, her lips fuller. Her eyes will give her away if anyone looks too closely but, as Tommy keeps saying, nobody’s going to expect to see her in Mitchellstone. Her hair is tucked up in a slouchy beanie—not her thing, but Ryan’s mum thought it would help with misdirection—and she’s wearing make-up, so maybe it’ll work. Jules sighs and burrows deeper into the beanbag. The buzzing beneath her skin is a bassline to pounding drums and stretched nerves.

  It’s past seven and a smear of orange lingers in the sky. The light lasts so much later here than it does in Brisbane. Jules is exhausted after a long day of static agitation, spent mostly on the back verandah watching Ryan’s dad pull the alien-looking seeder up and down the paddock. Jamie Walsh is out there in the dying light now, sowing with the headlights on. He climbed into the tractor while his wife was coming to terms with a smouldering bottlebrush in her front yard. She’d stared out at him for a few tense seconds before shaking her head and sending her sons to check on fences in the hills.

  Jules spent the afternoon on the side verandah, trying not to be overwhelmed by the endless space and stillness. She knows the rhythms of the city: the constant soundtrack of people, traffic, trains and birds. The quiet here is unnatural. This afternoon she tried to picture growing up surrounded by dirt, sky and dry creek beds instead of concrete and graffiti. Briefly—and not without a prick of guilt—she imagined what it would be like to have a mother who worked the earth and shared hugs as readily as Michelle Walsh.

  Always, her thoughts led to Angie. There’s a part of Jules—that sharper edge hidden beneath the charge—that wants Angie to be Angie and take back their lives. But then she remembers where her mother is headed and why, and all she wants is her mum back safe.

  Fear wins. Again.

  Ryan slows his tempo on the drums and Jules finds him watching her as he plays, his face calm and shoulders loose. The shed door opens and Ryan doesn’t miss a beat when a girl walks in. She’s wearing ripped jeans, faded Converse sneakers and a flannelette shirt, carrying a long square case in one hand and a bottle of lemonade in the other. Her short blonde hair has pink tips. Ryan finishes on a cymbal and grabs it to bring the room back to quiet.

  ‘Hope you’ve been practising, Gemini,’ he says. He’s trying to sound gruff, but the warmth in his eyes gives away that he’s happy to see her.

  ‘Hope you have, Ryno,’ she says, grinning. ‘We don’t want to embarrass you tomorrow night.’

  He laughs and it’s the closest Jules has seen him to being unguarded. ‘You worry about yourself.’

  ‘We’ll see. Where’s the city chick?’ Gemma looks around and spots Jules in the beanbag. ‘Hey,’ she says and heads in her direction. ‘I’m Gemma.’

  Jules struggles to get up from the floor. Gemma puts down the guitar case and grabs her by the wrist. The contact startles Jules but the charge is in check. It helps that Gemma is warm and steady.

  ‘That beanbag’s a greedy bastard. Never lets go.’ She smiles at Jules, all dimples and smudgy green eyes. Her eyebrows have never seen tweezers, but she’s got that novo-punk look going on and it’s working for her.

  ‘I’m Jules.’

  They shake hands. Gemma’s fingernails are trimmed short, painted black with silver stars. A tendril of barbed wire is inked around her wrist. She eyes the beanie. ‘Only someone with your cheekbones could pull off that hat in this shed.’

  ‘Oh…’ Jules’ fingers stray to her head. She feels conspicuous, like she’s turned up to the wrong party in fancy dress. ‘My hair needs a wash.’

  ‘You’re in good company. Check out the grunge twins over there.’

  Tommy’s watching the exchange, pleased with himself. He grins at Gemma and bends a string against the fretboard to make the guitar wail. She shakes her head at him and unpacks a black bass.

  ‘Oh hey, Macka knows Ryno’s home. I saw him at the servo running home from training. He’s gone to get his guitar.’

  Jules looks over at Ryan in alarm.

  ‘Macka’s our other member,’ Tommy explains. ‘He’s terrible on drums but holds his own on rhythm. He’s usually a no-show on Thursday ’cause the big sook can’t handle training and jamming on the same night.’

  Ryan extracts himself from the kit and gestures for Jules to join him near the ensuite bathroom.

  ‘Macka’s harmless,’ he says. Behind them, Tommy and Gemma are tuning up, heads bent together.

  ‘What if he recognises me?’

  ‘Gemma didn’t, and Macka has a shorter attention span than Tommy even. Can you do me a favour?’ He reaches into his back pocket without waiting for an answer. ‘I want to play with these guys without worrying about missing anything from the Major. Can you hang on to this? It’s on silent, but keep it out of sight. Nobody has mobiles out here these days.’

  Jules takes the flexi-phone and folds it between her palms. ‘Do you think this is what the Major had in mind?’ She nods at the band.

  Ryan shrugs. ‘It’s a small town and I can’t pretend I’m not home. How would that look?’

  ‘Have you been rehearsing that line for the Major?’

  He blinks. ‘You’re tense.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘Are you in the right headspace? These are our mates…’

  Great. He thinks she goes around electrocuting people when she’s in a bad mood.

  ‘If nobody threatens me, they’ll be fine.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’


  ‘Yeah, it was.’ Jules shoves his phone into her hoodie and returns to the beanbag, wondering if she should retreat to the house before Macka arrives. Maybe Ryan’s right to be concerned: it’s not like she’s had a lot of experience hanging out with people she doesn’t know.

  Macka turns up before she can decide if she’s staying or going. He’s dressed in a grey school jumper, footy shorts and striped socks pushed down to his work boots. He’s gripping a beat-up electric guitar by the neck. A waft of cigarette smoke follows him inside.

  ‘Fuck me, look what blew in with the westerly.’ His voice is rough and he walks with the hunch tall guys tend to, as if they’re always navigating doorways too small for them.

  ‘Shit, Macka, you eaten anything since I left?’

  ‘Can’t fatten a thoroughbred.’

  ‘Or a mongrel.’

  They bump fists over a cymbal.

  ‘How’s the knee?’

  ‘Did a twelve beep test last week.’

  ‘Shee-it. Not too shabby for a broken-down midfielder.’

  Jules has no idea what a beep test is but from Macka’s reaction she’s guessing twelve is impressive.

  Macka shifts his weight. ‘You know Rabbit’s gonna be at Tommy’s party?’

  ‘Shouting the keg, I hear.’

  ‘He’s captain now.’

  Jules sees the split-second shadow darken Ryan’s features, feels the spike in his energy. ‘Someone has to be.’ He looks past Macka to Jules. ‘We’ve got company, by the way.’

  Macka spots Jules as soon as he turns around. ‘Oh.’ He pulls up short. His cheeks are hollow and his eyes bleary. ‘Hey.’

  ‘That’s Jules,’ Tommy says. ‘Ryan’s date for the party.’

  Jules waits a beat—decides to let Tommy’s ad lib slide—and raises a hand for Macka’s benefit.

  ‘You plugging that thing in?’ Tommy says and Macka turns away, no hint that he’s recognised Jules.

  A few minutes later after a song choice debate that Ryan wins, they kick off with an up-tempo bluesy number. They’re rough, and Ryan makes them play the start three times. When he’s happy, Tommy steps to the mike and belts out the opening lyrics. His voice is strong and husky, like a two-pack-a-day smoker. It surprises a laugh out of Jules. Tommy misses her reaction because he’s too busy watching for cues from his brother. They all are: Gemma, Macka and Tommy, eyes on Ryan at every transition. They’re all grinning by the end.