‘Don’t be fucking stupid. I’m your boyfriend, Julie. That means I can touch your god damned hand if I want to.’ Chris sat up as he spoke and began to lean forward over the bench top, jaw muscles clenched.
‘My body’s my own, and I get to decide who touches it and when, you creep,’ said Julie, anger beginning to colour her fear. ‘And you are most decidedly not my boyfriend. There is nothing between us other than the biggest mistake of a one-night stand. If I knew the type of man you were, I would never have come within a mile of you.’
‘Enough!’ shouted Chris, thumping the table so hard that an empty cup bounced and smashed on the ground.
A waiter took two quick steps from the counter, appearing at Julie’s shoulder, concern creasing his brow. ‘Is there a problem, Miss?’
Chris ignored the man, not breaking eye contact with Julie. ‘Piss off and mind your own business,’ he said between clenched teeth.
The waiter stood uncertainly for a few moments more, unsure what to do.
Chris now turned to the man, his face murderous. ‘Are you deaf as well as stupid. Maybe that’s why you’re stuck working a pathetic job serving other people. I said fuck off!’
The waiter nearly tripped over his own feet as he turned and backed away. Chris smiled at the small victory before returning his attention to Julie. ‘You owe me an apology. Get on your knees and apologise now!’
‘No,’ said Julie, her quiet voice shaking.
‘What did you say?’ said Chris, utter disbelief on his face.
‘You’re not allowed to come near me again, I’m taking out an Apprehended Violence Order. You’re delusional, I’m not your girlfriend and never was.’
Anger started to cloud Chris’s mind, blocking out everything else. How dare she try and control when their relationship was to end. His fingers scooped up a pointed butter knife off the table top and clenched it in his hand.
‘You don’t get to say when it’s over, I say when it’s over, bitch!’
‘Put down the knife,’ said a firm voice from the side.
Chris barely heard the man, his rage consuming all rational thought.
Pain suddenly lanced up his wrist, yanking his attention away from Julie. He looked down to see the brown skinned hand of another man crushing his wrist onto the table.
‘I said put the knife down, or this will become a police matter.’ A dark-haired man in jeans and a shirt pinned his hand in place. Chris looked up at him, unbelieving that someone had the gall to touch him.
‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Chris.
‘I’m a cop, and lucky for you – off duty for the moment. I don’t like seeing my friends get harassed by drop kicks like you, so let go of the knife before I lose my patience and haul you in to the station.’
At his words, Chris released the blade and sat back in his chair sullenly. The cop turned to Julie, helping her to stand. ‘Is this the douche bag that’s been following you?’
Julie nodded, keeping her eyes averted from Chris as he glared at her in silent fury. ‘Do you want me to tell him about us?’
Julie stared at Chris now, her eyes bright as she gripped the cop’s hand tightly and nodded.
The cop turned back to Chris. ‘Julie’s in a relationship. You need to quit following her or you’ll find yourself arrested for harassment.’
Chris’s eyes widened slightly as he finally understood. ‘As if Julie would date someone like you,’ he said with a sneer, looking him up and down.
‘I can talk for myself,’ said Julie, finding her voice at last. ‘His name’s Dane, he’s twice the man you’ll ever be. And yes – I am dating him.’ She grabbed Dane’s hand to leave the café, but then paused turning around once again, her eyes flashing in anger.
‘And seeing as you’re so fond of peeking through my windows – I’m fucking him as well. Now stay away from me, Chris. Next time I see you, I’m pressing charges.’
She turned on her heel and walked out of the café without a backward glance. Dane gave a short laugh as he looked at the naked fury on Chris’s face, then followed Julie, a half-smile on his face.
Confrontation finished, the sounds of quiet speech started again in the café as people turned their attention away. The waiters ignored Chris as he petulantly tore a napkin slowly to shreds. He was oblivious to anyone else around as he focused his fury inward, fuming at his perceived loss of face.
He’d make Julie pay for what she’d done. Her and her bloody foreigner boyfriend were going to suffer for making him look like a fool.
Chapter Six
Chris pushed the last half of a perfectly cooked scotch fillet around his plate, then eased back his chair and stared out the window of his father’s place in Howrah, a suburb on the northern bank of the Derwent River. The house had water frontage, and Chris gazed vacantly toward Mount Wellington where it soared above the city of Hobart in the fading light of evening. The magnificence of the vista was lost on Chris, who’d long since taken its beauty for granted after growing up with the view outside his kitchen window. He was still distracted by other thoughts.
Throughout the day, his anger had gradually cooled and returned an ability to think rationally. His desire to hurt both Julie and Dane still held fast – they’d sealed their own fate as far as he was concerned. It was just the ‘how’ that needed to be confirmed. He shivered at the thought of how close he’d come to stabbing Julie in plain sight of a full café. There would have been no escaping a murder conviction, and he had little desire to spend the next decade or two stuck behind bars just for killing a woman. He planned on exacting a bloody revenge, but would ensure that he couldn’t be pinned for the crime.
Noise from the adjacent room had steadily increased over the past hour as core members of the Patriots trickled in for the night’s meeting. Their mood was buoyant, lifted by the rally’s success earlier in the week. His father had called a gathering to plan their next moves and to watch a live address from the State Premier, Justin Stephens. They’d had reliable indication that his message was likely to be in their favour. His Father and Justin had been friends since high school, a bond strengthened by thirty years working in the same Hobart based law firm until Justin had pursued a career in politics. The two men still met for a round of golf each week, a habit targeted by the press as an extravagance when many of the population couldn’t even put food on their kids’ plates.
Footsteps across the wooden floorboards of the kitchen gained Chris’s attention, and he looked up as a hand thumped onto his shoulder. A thickset man stood beside him, a raw smile displaying teeth in bad need of dental care. Chris recoiled slightly at his presence, stifling a need to gag at the man’s breath. Named Francis, or Frank for short; the man was his father’s through and through, someone that he used for jobs that required muscle and ‘persuasion’. At six foot four and 130 kilograms, Frank generally didn’t take too long to bring a person to his way of thinking. A few ‘love taps’ as he put it, did wonders to enlighten the average Joe on the street.
‘Your father wants you in the living room to watch the interview he gave this morning. The news is kicking off and he reckons you’ve earned your place at the table after last weekend.’
Chris nodded and stood up, biting down on anger at being addressed like a child invited to the adult’s table for dinner. He was twenty-seven years old for god’s sake and had worn more risk than any other member of the party during the rally. The only reason he hadn’t taken his place in the gathering earlier was he couldn’t be arsed making feeble conversation with a bunch of malleable idiots. The only person he wanted on side was the man that controlled the lot of them, his father.
As he entered the living room, his father acknowledged him with a stiff nod from the other side of the room. All seats were already occupied, allowing Chris to take up a position at the back of the room where he could observe everyone and their reactions to the upcoming news. Ten men were present. Gathered from various backgrounds and socio-economic class, they were unified by a
common hatred of any person deemed an outsider. Whether this was due to race, religion or post code, their hate ran deep, indifferent to the suffering of anyone not their own. The outbreak of plague on the mainland had fed a climate of fear on the island and created the perfect climate for growth of a party such as theirs. His father hadn’t been stupid. He’d read the waters correctly and placed himself at the perfect point to take advantage of the situation.
A sixty-inch flat screen dominated the top of a small TV cabinet at the front of the room. Frank lifted a controller and paced unnecessarily close to un-mute the new broadcast as footage of the Premier appeared.
The gaunt visage of Premier Justin Stephens standing behind a lectern filled the screen. Gone was the usual background of the Australian flag, instead, a stylized map of the island state hung in its place.
‘I thank the press for turning out, and I will endeavour to keep the message short. As you are no doubt aware, a state election will take place in three months. Due to recent disagreements in policy between our coalition partner the Country Party, we will no longer approach the upcoming election as a team. Instead, the Conservatives will deliver preferences to the Tasmanian Patriots Party who we share common policy ground in numerous areas.’
‘Excuse me, Mr Stephens,’ interrupted a member of the press. ‘But the Patriot Party is actively seeking independence from the Australian Federation. How can this possibly compliment the wants of a mainstream party?’
The Premier was undisturbed by the interruption. ‘I admit that our two parties will form a broad church of political opinion, however, we have a common aim to protect the Tasmanian population from any outside threats.’
He held up a hand to stop any further questions. ‘A formal statement will be released in the morning that will undoubtedly address many of the questions that you have. Good afternoon.’
With that curt dismissal, the Premier descended from the lectern and disappeared off camera. After a few moments, the screen flicked to the ABC’s studio for analysis.
The show’s host, a veteran Tasmanian journalist named Benjamin Scott, introduced himself.
‘Premier Stephens has tonight dropped a bombshell on the Tasmanian public. Although an election preference deal may not seem like much, I think it warrants a closer look as to who our leading party is climbing into bed with.
‘For the past eighteen months, our state has lived under fear that Lysan Plague will hit our shores, and bring the mindless violence suffered by mainland Australia and other parts of the world to our beautiful state. Unfortunately, despite remaining plague free, it appears we are not immune to senseless barbarity,’ said the reporter, pausing as the screen cut to a video of the petrol bomb detonation. The mobile phone footage was shaky with soundtrack intact, the agonised screams of those burning in the crowd was transmitted in gut twisting clarity.
‘Fourteen people burnt to death. Twenty more with hideous injuries that will change their lives forever,’ said the reporter gravely, individual photos of the victims marching across the screen behind him.
‘After the sadistic killing of thirty-five people at Port Arthur in 1996, I thought that I’d never see the like again in our state. And yet here it is once more, senseless violence perpetrated by one of our own citizens, this time, arguably used as a political tool to create fear.’
‘There’s no doubt about it,’ said another voice, cutting in on the reporter’s introductory monologue. ‘Disloyal members of the public are seeking to stop honest discussion regarding the future of our state, and this cannot be tolerated.’
The camera panned outwards to include Chris’s father, who sat behind the same desk, looking suitably outraged at the footage. The reporter’s lips thinned slightly in irritation at the interruption, before deciding to engage his guest at that point.
‘This is Liam Finart, Leader of the newly formed Tasmanian Patriots Party,’ he said. ‘Mr. Finart, you only announced the formation of the Patriot’s less than three months ago, and yet the attention it has gained in the media and public consciousness is nothing short of remarkable.’
Finart smiled broadly at the statement and opened his mouth to speak before being cut off himself.
‘However, the attention gained by your party has not been positive,’ said the reporter, fixing Finart with an accusatory look. ‘Instead, a public that is already smarting under a Conservative leadership that has abandoned their responsibility to the rest of the country, are aghast at the isolationist and racist agenda of your party. Some have even gone so far as to suggest the Patriots may have planted and detonated the petrol bomb.’
‘That’s utter nonsense. I created the Patriots Party to ensure that our state looks to ensure its own safety and stops wasting resources on a failed mainland.’
‘And yet there seems to be evidence that you are not above using violence to get your own way,’ said the reporter. ‘Let me read out some of your own statements, taken from the very speech you delivered prior to the bombing; “I have no problem with you screaming after I’ve said my piece, but until then keep your tongues still!” and, “We will achieve a Republic one way or another! Let me make this clear – if you are not with us, you will be treated as an enemy to Tasmanian freedom.”
The reporter paused for effect, letting the weight of the quotes sink in before moving on. ‘To me, these don’t sound like the words of a man seeking to achieve the safety and wellbeing of all Tasmanians, but rather, the words of a want-to-be dictator who’d stop at nothing to achieve his own ends.’
At these words, Chris’s father broke into a short laugh. ‘Benjamin, stop being ridiculous. I’ve watched you on TV for decades, and I’ve never seen you take such an unsupportable stance on an important issue. You have no proof for these assertions, and I think your bosses may be a little worried regarding a libel court case if they continue,’ said Finart lightly.
A brief look of fury crossed the reporter’s face at the threat before he regained his composure. ‘Free speech of the press is not something up for negotiation, Mr. Finart.’
‘And nor am I suggesting such a thing. Members of my own party suffered that day, were burned as well. I’ve studied the true footage of the bombing, and you can clearly see faces of Patriot party members amidst the crowd surrounding the detonation site.’
‘But that can’t be possible, the supporters of the two parties were kept separate by the police to prevent an outbreak of violence. Therefore, it’s unlikely that any Patriots were in the vicinity of the blast,’ said the reporter, clearly exasperated by his guest.
Finart drew back in his chair as if he’d been slapped. ‘I know there are doctored clips circulating, however the bomb went off in the middle of my own people. It is my party who has been injured here. My party who should be seeking damages for what has happened.’
As the reporter went to argue his point, Finart cut him off once again. ‘It appears I’ve been brought on this show under the false pretence of discussing the welcome announcement of Premier Stephens. As this is obviously not the case, I wish you a good night.’
The Patriot leader unclipped his lapel mike and stalked away from the interview desk, leaving the reporter to hesitantly wrap up the segment on camera.
Frank stood up and turned off the television. The room had gone silent, most in the room looked horrified at the outcome of the interview. But not Liam Finart or his son, the two men locking eyes in triumph – the interview couldn’t have gone better as far as Chris was concerned.
‘Mr. Finart, what’s our next move? Should we be concerned at a police investigation?’ asked one of the men.
Finart just laughed. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Tony.’
‘But your statements that reporter guy read out, the footage of the bomb going off in the opposition section of the crowd?’
Finart took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling for a moment, clearly annoyed that he was required to explain himself.
‘The statements were deliberately planned for the spee
ch to sound as a warning. The fool of a reporter helped me out by repeating them and explaining my message for anyone too stupid to work it out the first time. We want people to fear us. All I have to do is deny the intent of the words, say “I’m sorry if you thought they meant that”. But it’ll work nonetheless. Now that people know the price of opposition, I can guarantee there won’t be as many people turning out to protest next time.’
‘And the footage of the rally?’ asked another.
‘Must have been doctored. Fake news,’ said Chris from the back.
‘Yeah, but we know that it wasn’t,’ said Tony.
‘Who cares? All we have to do is introduce doubt. As soon as they have to argue – they’ve lost the debate,’ said Finart. ‘All it takes is for you bastards to keep your mouths shut and we’ll be fine. We’re on the cusp of something great. If we can claw our way into a coalition arrangement with the Conservatives, it’s only a matter of time before we run the show outright.’
‘So how do we make ourselves important enough to be needed in a Coalition?’ asked Finart as a rhetorical question. ‘By sewing terror in the public. We make the people afraid, and then present ourselves as the answer, the only means to restore order and keep the monster from the door.’
Chris’s eyes glinted at his words. He already had a plan, one that would have a happy coincidence of wiping Julie’s boyfriend off the face of the earth.
‘We should kill two birds with one stone,’ Chris said from the back of the room, forcing all to look around and acknowledge his presence.
‘And?’ asked Finart, curtly waving his hand for Chris to hurry up.
‘We need to take out the only people capable of taking us down, the police. They’re a limited force, a few carefully placed bombs and we should be able to sufficiently cull their numbers. And who knows where we go from there to protect the public – maybe we’ll need a carefully managed militia to bolster police numbers on the ground. A militia created and answerable to…’
Plague War (Book 3): Retaliation Page 5
