by Claire Zorn
‘Smell that?’ he says, pointing to the boot polish. ‘I smell that and I’m home. Lived out on the land my whole life, used to avoid the city like the plague. Now look at me.’ He shakes his head. ‘You know, it’s funny because back in the fifties and sixties everyone worried about this business, about nuclear war. The Russians were going to nuke us at any minute. And then it all went away. I wonder if we got complacent. My mother was a wise old stick. You know what she used to say to me? She used to say, Alan, never underestimate the human race’s ability to bugger things up . . . Much like your mate Noll was saying.’ He nods toward Matt, asleep, curled into a tight ball. ‘Don’t reckon I slept for a month after I got back from Vietnam.’
‘You were in the war?’
‘Oh, yeah. Seen things I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. And I was barely eighteen, just a lad, like this fella. I hate to say it, but if you make it out of this, you’ll never be the same.’
Thirty-seven
Lucy has scissors. She stands behind me and cuts my hair as short as she can, then she takes Alan’s razor to it and shaves the rest. Side by side, Matt and I don’t look all that different. I pull on his uniform, tie the laces of his big black boots. He gives me his ID badge and I put it in my pocket.
‘What do I say to them?’ I ask.
‘Yer walk up, stand to attention.’ He does it and I copy him. ‘Yer salute.’ He salutes and I notice as he stares into the middle-distance beyond me that his eyes are watery. I copy his salute. ‘Yer say “Permission to enter, sir.” And he will open the gates for yer.’
‘Do I salute everyone I come to?’ I ask him. He says nothing, still at attention, staring into the distance. ‘Matt? Do I salute everyone?’
‘Don’t salute yer own rank.’
‘What’s my rank?’
‘Private. Yer the lowest, yer nuthin’.’
I hug Lucy before I leave. I hold her close and breathe in her scent.
‘If I don’t come back, look after Max, yeah?’
‘You’ll come back. I like you in uniform by the way.’
‘Thanks. I concocted this whole thing to impress you.’
She grips my hand. ‘You will come back.’
I go to the car, open the door and reach under the driver’s seat. I feel around until my fingers find the handgun, Starvos’ gun. I am about to tuck it under my uniform when I turn around to see Noll standing behind me, watching.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m bringing the gun.’
‘That’s a really stupid idea.’
‘No, going there with nothing is a stupid idea.’
‘At least give it to me.’
‘What?’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘You don’t have to. You don’t have a uniform.’
‘Do you even know how to shoot that thing?’
‘Well . . .’
‘I’m coming with you. You’ll get yourself shot on your own.’ He takes the gun from me and tucks it away in his coat. ‘Come on.’
‘I’ve only got one pushie.’
‘Then we’ll find another one. What? Did you think I wouldn’t want to steal a bike because it’s against the Ten Commandments?’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘That is so Old Testament.’
‘Is that your version of a joke?’
‘Shut up.’
We have to double on my pushie for a bit before we find another one. After that it’s a fairly quick ride into the business district of the city. We approach Town Hall from a different direction to the first time I came here, cycling up George Street, past the broken façades of the cinema complex and fast-food outlets. We stop on the corner adjacent to the cathedral, outside a gutted KFC store.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Noll asks.
I shrug, ready to vomit with nerves. ‘I go up, say I have a message for her.’
‘From who? They’re going to ask.’
‘I dunno. Was just going to make up a name, “Lance Corporal Mitchell”. That’ll do it.’
‘You think?’
‘Well, what other option do I have?’
‘I think it would be better to wait until they are distracted with something else. Ask when they are busy, when they’ll just want to get rid of you.’
‘Are you offering to distract them?’
‘No, I’m not. Just wait until they’ve got another arrival coming in or something. Be patient. See what happens.’
‘And what are you gonna do with the gun, exactly, if something goes wrong?’
‘I don’t know. But, I’m sure as hell not letting you in there with it.’
‘Seriously, Noll, I should take it.’
‘You can’t. They’ll pat you down before they let you in. And really, like you say, what are you going to do with it? Shoot your way out?’
He has a point. So we wait and after about half an hour, when I am just about to tell him his plan sucks, a truck engine rumbles through the silence.
Noll raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Try not to die. Good luck.’
I leave him and attempt to stride toward the barrier gates in a confident manner, repeating my rehearsed lines over and over in my head. A banner advertising a Wednesday morning ‘healing service’ hangs limply above the cathedral doors. I reckon that one will be popular when all this is over. If it’s ever over.
The truck pulls up at the gates, I walk beside it. The guards talk to the soldier driving the truck. They see me but don’t even say anything. I walk straight through the gates. I go up the marble steps. At the top before the doors is another guard, his name badge has an ‘Lt’ before it. I stand to attention, salute. My mouth is so dry I wonder if I’ll be able to speak at all.
‘Permission to enter, sir?’ I say. He examines me.
‘What’s your business here, private?’
‘I have a message for a Libby Streeton.’ His face doesn’t change, waiting. ‘From, ah, Lance Corporal, ah, Lance Corporal Noll.’
‘Lance Corporal Noll?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You seem a bit on edge, private. Everything alright?’
‘Everything is fine, lieutenant. It’s just an urgent message. Is Libby Streeton here?’
‘I couldn’t say. You’ll have to have a look.’ He steps aside and opens the door.
Inside, the building bristles with noise and movement. I feel a sensation I haven’t felt in a long time. Warmth; not the heat on my face from a fire that doesn’t come close to warming my whole body, but a complete, enveloping warmth. In the foyer, fatigue-clad officers stack towers of ration boxes and pallets of bottled water beside a wall that is still lined with tourist brochures offering information about guided tours and the building’s history. I walk through the foyer into a large room with high, ornate ceilings and gilded cornices, a chandelier the size of a small planet hangs in the room’s centre. Rows of trestle tables have been set up beneath it and military personnel sit looking into laptop screens, rivers of electrical and telephone cabling run out to an adjoining room, the whole scene crowded with the relentless hum of generators. Other people stand in discussion before the vast wall space papered with maps. I can see through to the next room, larger still, filled with more desks and more people. At the far end, on the stage, is a huge screen showing footage of a desolate, rubble-strewn landscape.
‘Can I help you?’ an officer asks me, irritated. I realise I am clearly in the way.
‘I’m, um, looking for Libby Streeton.’
I’m expecting him to say she’s not here, but instead he glances around and points at a group of people up the far end, near the screen.
‘Over there,’ he says.
The officer hurries away and doesn’t see the tears that begin to well in my eyes. I feel so overwhelmed with joy and relief that it’s a
ll I can do not to laugh out loud. I weave my way through the people toward the familiar, willowy figure in the black suit. She stands, arms folded, while two men in uniform speak, pointing at the screen.
‘Mum!’ I say, blowing any hope of cover I had. She doesn’t hear me. ‘Libby!’ I call. She turns and the face that greets me is nothing like I remember. Her pale skin sags over jutting cheekbones. She stares at me with dark, lifeless eyes, blinks, then turns back to the two men.
‘Mum? Mum, it’s me.’
She turns again, closes her eyes for a moment, opens them again. I watch her check the name badge on my chest and turn away again. I am next to her now. I put my hand on her shoulder. The two men with her stop speaking and stare at me.
‘Mum, it’s me, Fin.’
She looks at me. ‘Fin?’ Her voice is a whisper. ‘Is that really you?’
I nod, not really understanding how a mother could not recognise her own son. She excuses herself and steps away from the officers, I follow her. She stands, looking at me with an expression close to fear.
‘Mum?’ I can’t hold onto the tears. They roll down my cheeks. She reaches out and tentatively touches my face.
‘Findlay? Is that really you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh God.’ She wraps her arms around me. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Mum, it’s okay. I’m okay.’ I expect her to cry, but she doesn’t. She pulls away from me.
‘Where’s Max?’
‘He’s okay. He’s safe.’
She glances around nervously. ‘Come with me,’ she says and I follow her into a small room. She points to two plastic chairs. ‘Sit, sit. Are you thirsty? You look thirsty.’ I sit. She takes a bottle of water from a slab of pallets and hands it to me. She sits in the other chair and clutches my free hand while I drink.
‘You don’t know how many times I’ve thought I’d seen you,’ she says. ‘Every tall, dark-haired private has been you. When you called me Mum I thought I was hallucinating. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’
She looks at me and I am almost frightened by how old she seems. ‘I sent people for you and Max, but they said you weren’t there. Where is your dad?’
I explain about him and Kara. When I tell her that we have been fending for ourselves she puts her head in her hands. ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘We’re staying with a whole bunch of people in—’
‘Don’t,’ she cuts me off. ‘I can’t know that. You have to understand, I can’t know.’ She closes her eyes. ‘I would have to tell them. Bring Max here. I’ll organise accommodation for you.’
‘There’s actually four of us, we sort of teamed up with two others to come down here. It was horrible, Mum, there was no more food coming in and they’ve set up barriers to stop people coming down to the city—’
‘I know, Fin.’
I feel stupid. Of course she knows. And then I start to wonder whether the dead look in her eyes isn’t just from what she’s seen, but from decisions she’s made, things she’s done.
‘I can’t help them.’
‘But they’re kids, Mum. Noll has no one left, his parents were over there when the bombs went off. And Lucy has left her family behind, back in the mountains. You know she can’t go back there, Mum. Please. She’s really . . . important to me.’
‘Fin, darling, I know but I can’t help them. I’m sorry.’ She stands up. ‘Bring Max back here, I’ll have something organised.’
‘Mum.’
‘Fin, look at me. I want to help them. They’re children, of course I want to help them. But this––’ She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘That screen out there, it’s showing footage captured by a drone sent into the region where the blasts were. There’s nothing left. It’s thousands of miles of dust. Whole countries have been obliterated.’ She opens her eyes and I can see that she’s holding back tears. ‘The atmosphere’s choked. Electricity substations the world over have been crippled by the temperature drop and the carbon in the atmosphere, there’s no more fuel being refined, therefore no transportation for the little food that the world has in reserve. Long term, crops will fail,’ she continues. ‘Resulting in worldwide famine for those that survive the next twelve months. Fin, we have to make decisions about what portion of the population we can sustain . . . I can’t just . . . I can’t even know their names, I can’t do this if I know their names.’ She takes another deep breath and squares her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. I can secure you and Max, but beyond that my hands are tied.’
I have no words. I stare at her. This is not what I had imagined. In the brief moments where I had dared to envisage actually finding her I had pictured her sweeping Max, Lucy, Noll and I off to safety, to a haven of inventive strategies for preserving society. What they would look like, I don’t know. Wind turbines, cycle-powered generators, communities living off mushrooms grown in the dark, I don’t know. I hadn’t imagined this calculated surrender. In all those hours spent wondering how the powers that be could do this to people, their own people, I never imagined her as being complicit in it all.
She grips both my hands in hers.
‘Go,’ she says, ‘and get Max.’
Thirty-eight
Noll is sitting on the ground where I left him. As I cross the road he gets to his feet, picks his backpack up and puts it over his shoulder.
He reads the expression on my face. ‘You didn’t find her.’
‘No. I did.’
‘Really? You look . . . shattered.’
‘Probably ’cause that’s how I feel.’ I pull my bike up from where I left it lying on the pavement.
‘Why? What happened?’
I stand, holding onto the bike like it’s the only thing that’s keeping me upright. ‘She wants me to come back with Max.’
‘And? What’s wrong?’
I feel the pressure of tears behind my eyes. ‘She says she can’t help you and Lucy. This whole thing is completely fucked and she’s part of it. She’s working with the military to keep people out of the city. She’s onboard with letting half the fucking population starve. If it really even was her. She has the same name but that woman was not my mother. I’m . . .’ I push my fingers through what’s left of my hair, scrunch my eyes shut. ‘I’m really sorry. She’s . . . I’m sorry.’
I get on the bike and start to pedal. Noll is behind me. ‘Fin, stop. Talk to me.’
‘What’s there to say? I’ve got a safe haven for me and my brother, but sorry, you can’t come? You reckon it’ll be that easy with Lucy too?’
Noll smiles.
‘Why are you smiling? What is wrong with you?’
‘Fin, you found her. You’re going to be okay, you and Max.’
‘Do not be all Zen about this, Noll. I’m not going to be fine. I’m not bloody going.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘No, I’m not. Not without you and definitely not without Lucy.’
‘You have to, Fin. Did you really think she’d be able to save us all? I knew the moment we got to the border, when we first met Matt, I knew then it wasn’t going to work out that way.’
‘Then why come with us?’
‘Well, I’m still better off in the city, aren’t I? Fin, it’s okay. Take Max back to your mum.’
‘It’s not fucking okay! You’re going to starve, Noll, if you don’t get caught first. And I can’t leave Lucy, I would never, never get over that. No matter how long I live.’
The shopfronts and office buildings flash past as we speed through the streets. Noll doesn’t say any more. We hit ANZAC Bridge, the Golden Gate wannabe that stretches out over the water, linking the CBD with the inner west. I pedal the ascent and my legs scream in protest, we sail down the other side into the city suburbs, the affluent terrace-lined streets strewn with rubbish. I jump the gutter turning a corner and the bike comes down hard, I
feel the grind and wobble of my front tyre gone flat.
‘Fuck.’ I stop, get off the bike, kick it to the ground. ‘Fuck, fuck, FUCK!’ I pick the thing up and fling it at the nearest wall. I open my lungs and let out the biggest sound I can, screaming until there is nothing left.
‘Language, Mr Heath.’
The voice comes from behind us. When I hear it, it’s like everything in me stops, the breathing, the blood in my veins, everything. I turn around and there, beneath a mountain of overcoats, is a man.
‘Surely, Findlay, it isn’t a problem that can’t be solved with decorum,’ he says wryly. A tear streaks from the corner of his eye and is caught by the thick grey beard.
‘Mr Effrez,’ I whisper.
‘You both look exhausted. Come with me.’
The whole apartment wouldn’t be more than thirty square metres, with piles of books and papers crowding the shelves that line every inch of available wall space. The air is thick with the tart scent of cigar smoke. He leads us through the narrow hall into a kitchen the size of a large cupboard. Cans of food are stacked and grouped according to their contents on the bench. Rice is portioned and bagged in individual servings, stored in a clear plastic container. There are also several jars of small fish, which I figure to be anchovies.
‘This has been the season for us closet fans of preserved fish,’ Effrez says. ‘Never had to fight it out for those. Are you gentlemen hungry?’
We both shake our heads. I am still dumfounded by the fact that we are standing in his kitchen. Effrez crouches down and reaches into the back of one of the cupboards. He pulls out a jar.
‘Perhaps I can tempt you with some coffee?’
Instant coffee was one of the first things to disappear from supermarket shelves, I can’t believe that there’s any left in the entire city. Effrez reads my expression and steps away from the cupboard.
‘I was very careful to stock up,’ he says.
I look down into the cupboard and see rows and rows of jars.
‘Never used to drink instant. What ugly creatures this has reduced us all to. Care for a cup of the devil’s drink?’
