Madness. But Harry shepherded Aisha into a miraculously spare seat halfway along the bus, and then ushered me onward, to where another two empty places waited. He took the window seat for himself, and then forced me down. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘This is our best shot to get you through the roadblocks. You and Aisha are just two faces in a crowd now.’
‘But how can you trust these people?’
‘They’re not real Patriots,’ he explained, head low to my ear. I noticed that, several seats ahead, Aisha was being similarly instructed by an elderly woman next to her. ‘They’re all members of the Underground. All we did was stack one of the Hervey Bay branches with our own people. Like I said, it’s good cover. Not only does it give us an inside line to what the government’s more radical policy ideas are, it’s also bloody handy for travel. You flash a Patriot card at a roadblock, and half your worries are over. Which reminds me . . .’
He got up and went to the front of the bus. I stared after him. The crowd was chatting and laughing, waving little Australian flags like the good citizens they were supposed to be, and studiously ignoring the fugitives in their midst. Harry came walking back, paused to hand something to Aisha, then returned to me. He passed over a card that was red, white and blue.
‘Your membership,’ he said. ‘Put it in your wallet.’
I tucked it away, then waved a hand at all the people on the bus. ‘Just how many of you are there in the Underground?’
‘Around the country, thousands. But this is nearly the whole Hervey Bay contingent, right here. And it’s risky, having us all on the one bus. But this way the police at the roadblocks will be too busy vetting everyone else to be looking closely at individual faces like yours. More to the point, travel is restricted in the area right now. We’d have no chance getting anywhere as just average people. But there’s a big Patriot rally going on in Brisbane as we speak, and no one fucks with the Patriots, so a group like this will be let through.’ He glanced around at the crowd, smiled wanly. ‘You know, you owe these people, big time. Not only are they risking their lives for you and Aisha, they’ll actually have to attend the rally. Three whole days of it. And those things are like bloody Nuremberg.’
He fell silent. The bus had laboured through the back streets of Hervey Bay, and was now turning onto the main road out of town. There weren’t many people about—and there wouldn’t be, if travel was restricted—but otherwise it looked like the normal world out there. Petrol stations. Fast food restaurants. But then the bus began to slow. Harry tensed beside me.
‘First checkpoint,’ he said. ‘Just go along with everyone else and don’t do a damn thing to draw attention to yourself.’
Through the window I saw flashing lights, police cars, army vehicles, and black and yellow barricades. Then the brakes squealed as the bus came to a stop.
And I could hear the sniffer dogs barking.
THIRTEEN
Roadblocks. Checkpoints. Citizenship Verification Stations, to quote an official title. Or another—Designated Freedom Access Points. Call them what you will, we’ve all had to deal with them these last years, in ever-increasing numbers. This one, however, was far bigger than most—not just your half-platoon of bored army conscripts with stop signs and a few barriers. The army was there, sure enough, but I could also see AFP cars, Department of Citizenship vans, and several other vehicles that were unmarked but obviously secret service of some kind. The authorities really weren’t kidding around in their search for Aisha and me.
Uniformed men advanced on the bus from every direction, some already checking under the chassis with mirrors, others opening the luggage compartments, and others again leading the sniffer dogs about. But the weirdest thing was that, when the doors opened and the first inspectors climbed aboard, the whole bus broke into polite applause.
Hidden away at the back, I glanced questioningly at Harry.
He was clapping too. ‘Remember, we’re all Patriots here. We approve of the roadblocks. They keep us safe from terrorists. We think the inspectors are heroes.’
I nodded. It made sense . . . although it took some effort getting my head around the logic. Still, to give the inspectors their due, they weren’t disarmed by the reception. Their faces remained blank as they waved away the applause.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the leader called. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please. This is a federal checkpoint. Have your Australia Safe cards at the ready.’
He was in a suit, not a uniform, and his two colleagues were the same. Of course, under current law, no official is required to identify himself, so it was impossible to know which body these men represented precisely. But they had the look of Department of Citizenship to me—and that was scary. The AFP might spy on our every move, and the military might have taken over our streets, but Citizenship (or Immigration, as they used to be called) are the ones who, ever since September 11 and its aftermath, have been making people disappear.
The reception for the inspectors died away to a hum, and a general digging into pockets and handbags for personal papers began. I didn’t know where to look. Should I pretend to be talking to Harry? Should I be staring vacantly out the window? Should I be smiling at the Citizenship men? Nothing felt right, and my face had turned into a hot heavy mask.
‘Relax,’ Harry was whispering through an easy smile. ‘They’re not going to pay you any special attention. Trust me.’
And it did all seem very congenial up there at the front. People were cheerfully handing over identity cards, yarning and grinning. The three inspectors were staring at photos and comparing them to faces, taking thumbprints on their little computer scanners and running the results . . . But had their demeanour softened? Was it possible to be surrounded by so much goodwill without defrosting a little?
Then I was staring at the back of Aisha’s head as the first inspector reached her. I could feel that Harry—despite the fact that he was now chatting about fishing with the man sitting just in front of us—was watching her too. This was her first encounter with the authorities since her capture by the OU, and who really knew what her plans were? She could betray us all with a word, yet when the inspector put out his hand, she passed over her papers and pressed her thumb on the scanner. Then, while the man studied the screen—amazement of amazement—she turned blithely to the old woman next to her, said something and laughed. Laughter! From Aisha! I nearly fell out of my seat. And the inspector, with that curt nod that all secret police use when they’re satisfied with something, from the Gestapo on down, handed her papers back and moved on.
Closer to me now. I told myself there was nothing to fear. The OU sympathiser who’d created our new papers must be damn good if Aisha had got through, thumb print and all. We were safely in the system. So the only way we were going to get caught was by a direct identification. And they hadn’t recognised Aisha, so they wouldn’t recognise me. I had to believe that, and stay cool. Only what the hell was my assumed name again? What was my job? Where on earth was I born and raised and how many generations could I boast?
The inspector was in front of me, and I offered up my Australia Safe card.
Did the bus fall silent? It couldn’t have, I know, but it was silent in my head. I thumbed the scanner and he stared at the computer screen. Then at me. Then at the screen. And then, long and straight it seemed, at me again.
‘What happened to your nose?’ he asked.
‘Football injury,’ I heard myself say, through a mouth stuffed with cottonwool. ‘I was a ruckman. Years ago.’
He frowned. ‘It looks recent.’
I opened my mouth, but nothing else came. He knew I was lying. Of course he knew. His gaze was hardening. The farce was over already.
‘Oh fuck!’ It was Harry, next to me, slapping his forehead in disgust as he stared at his own papers. ‘Goddamn, I’m an idiot. Officer? Officer?’
The eyes flicked away. ‘What?’
A distressed Harry was waving his identity card. ‘I’ve only just realised. This ID has expire
d. It’s a month out of date. Jesus, I forgot all about it.’
Annoyed, the inspector grabbed the card. ‘That’s an offence.’
‘I know. I can’t believe I let it happen.’
‘Didn’t you get the letter advising you to renew?’
‘Sure. I think so. It’s probably stuck to the fridge right now. How much trouble is this going to land me in?’
The inspector didn’t answer right away, busy reading Harry’s thumb print. Beneath Harry’s card, he still held mine. Information flashed up on his little screen, and he punched some keys, got more information, then grunted. ‘Well, you check out. But I still don’t think I can let you pass with this.’
‘Really? I know I fucked up, and I know you guys have to be careful, but isn’t there a fine I can pay or something?’
‘Oh, there’ll be a fine,’ the Citizenship man muttered darkly. ‘In the meantime, you’re a security risk.’
‘But I can’t miss the rally!’
There were murmurs of support from the crowd around. Someone from the front called out, ‘Give him the Test! That should settle it.’
‘Yeah,’ someone else cried. And suddenly the whole bus was echoing it. ‘The Test! The Test!’
The inspector seemed to puff up slightly. ‘Okay. A CVT it is.’
Internally, I sagged with relief. Harry was taking the heat for me. And a part of me was curious too, because I’d never heard a CVT delivered first-hand—although, like everyone else, I’d driven through plenty of checkpoints where, off to one side, some hapless non-Aussie-looking individual was being grilled with that week’s list of questions. Okay, maybe in this case it was only being applied to Harry for form’s sake. Still, taking the Test is never just a joke. For those who don’t pass, strip searches, beatings, or even detention have been known to follow.
The Citizenship man pulled a green paper from his pocket and read from it, all formality. ‘I’m informing you now that I am about to apply a Citizenship Verification Test, which will consist of seven questions. Failure to answer all seven correctly will have consequences. Do you understand?’
‘I understand,’ Harry replied. Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered if he didn’t understand. Inability to speak English is certainly no excuse when it comes to the Test, as many luckless older migrants could confirm.
‘First Question—What was Donald Bradman’s batting average?’
‘Ninety-nine point nine four.’
No response from the inspector. Supposedly they never tell you if you’re right or wrong, until the end. Not that there were any worries about a Bradman question. Meanwhile, the bus really had gone silent. The other two inspectors were working their way down, but everyone else was listening eagerly.
‘Second Question—What line follows this one from Banjo Paterson’s “The Man From Snowy River”: There was movement at the station . . . ?’
‘For the word had passed around.’
Another giveaway.
‘Third Question—On what date does Anzac Week begin?’
Hmm. That was a harder one. After all, this is just the second year since the government upped the Anzac tributes from one day to seven, to fit in all the new ceremonies and the commemorative war games. (Not to mention the pilgrimage to Gallipoli itself. I heard somewhere that last year it topped a quarter of a million Australians. That’s ten times the size of the original army we sent!) Still, it was only a matter of counting back a week from the old date . . .
Harry was way ahead of me. ‘Nineteenth of April.’
‘Fourth Question—Which country has repeatedly threatened the Australian environment by carrying out nuclear tests in the Pacific?’
A scowl from Harry. ‘France.’
Ah now, this was different—not just a question about Australia, but also a check on political attitudes. It remains official policy, as everyone should know, to hate the French. And all other European types who won’t join in the wars. But there was a trick in the question, too, because if some fool dared to mention the USA’s nuclear tests in the Pacific, well, it would be off for re-education on those subversive tendencies, wouldn’t it? Not that Harry needed to be warned.
‘Fifth Question—What did most Aborigines die of after Australia was settled?’
‘They died only of disease.’ And was there a twinkle in Harry’s eye? ‘Not lead poisoning.’
The Citizenship man gave him a stare. This wasn’t the place for irony. The new Australia has no sins to hide, no black armbands, and certainly no room for smart-arse doubters. Not unless they want a taste of the whip.
‘Sixth Question—Where did the criminal bushranger Ned Kelly murder three innocent policemen?’
I nearly laughed out loud. Seems the government is still trying to paint poor old Ned black. You can’t have a bushranger as a national icon anymore. Heck, by today’s reckoning, he was a terrorist, pure and simple.
‘Stringybark Creek,’ answered Harry, without comment.
‘Seventh Question—Who bowled the underarm ball, and was it legal?’
Chuckles all round the bus.
‘Trevor Chappell. And yes, it bloody well was legal.’
Take that, New Zealand! But then, a little Kiwi-bashing was no surprise—our former allies across the Tasman are nearly as bad as the Europeans these days. Peace-mongering lunatics who haven’t even locked up their Muslims yet.
‘Finally—Recite the Australian Oath of Loyalty.’
Which was always how the Test ended, I’d heard—and not so easy to do, either. Sure, I’d recited the oath the last time I’d gone to get my Australia Safe card renewed, but they give you a sheet of paper with the words on it for that, and the woman behind the counter hadn’t even listened.
But Harry was upstanding, hand to his heart. ‘I swear loyalty to the Commonwealth of Australia, to obey its government, to uphold its laws and to preserve its values. I swear loyalty to our Prime Minister, and to our armed forces, wherever they may serve. I swear to report all traitors, and to respect all alliances, most of all, our great and good friendship with the United States of America. God bless Australia.’
Harry started the recital alone, but the bus couldn’t resist, and by the end fifty voices were shouting it out loud. Patriots all.
‘Correct,’ the inspector intoned. He handed Harry his card. ‘Get that updated,’ he warned. Then, without even a glance, he handed my card back to me, motioned to his colleagues, and stalked away down the aisle.
‘Jesus,’ I said, as the bus started up and Harry was assaulted by handshakes from all around, the faces genuinely relieved under all the mock bonhomie. ‘Are we gonna have to go through this at every checkpoint between here and Brisbane with that dodgy card of yours?’
‘God, no.’ He pulled out another ID. ‘This one is fine. I always carry an expired one too, though, just for tight situations. When the security boys are looking hard for a major crime, it’s always a great distraction to give them a minor one.’
FOURTEEN
Citizenship tests . . . Could we sink any lower?
And as for loyalty oaths, time was that only new immigrants had to take them. For the rest of us sunburnt slobs, lucky enough to have been born here—well, that was all you needed. You didn’t have to play the national anthem twenty times a day, or fly the Aussie flag in front of your house, or swear loyalty against a thousand enemies. We knew exactly who we were, and how good we had it, and there was no need to make an unseemly fuss in the meantime. Australia? Yeah, a great place, thanks, mate. Happy to be here. National anthem? Don’t actually know the words, cobber, but shocking bloody tune. The flag? Funny thing with a Union Jack in the corner. War against Islam? Sorry china, not right now, the cricket is on.
Then came the Twin Towers.
I remember where I was that day. Or that night, actually. Late, Tuesday night, Australian time. I was in a Sydney hotel room, having my last drink of the evening and staring at the TV. I was watching, in fact, that old series ‘The West Wing’. (Not tha
t I was fan—I thought the show was pretty far-fetched at the time, having known a few politicians in my day. And Christ, how ludicrous does it appear, looking back now? What a liberal wet dream of how the White House should be run!) Anyway, it was close to the end of the episode. There was an ad break, and I was flicking channels idly, and suddenly there was a picture of a burning tower on the screen. I assumed (and this happened to other people I’ve talked to) that the image was part of ‘The West Wing’. A dramatic cliffhanger climax to the episode. And just another crisis for President Jed Bartlet and his faithful staff to deal with, in their considered and law-abiding and utterly fictional fashion.
It was a good thirty seconds before I realised that the burning building was real, not part of the show. And about thirty seconds after that, the second plane hit.
Still, I had no real concept of how much things were going to change. In the USA. In the world. And in little faraway Australia too. How could I? The years leading up to September 11 had been so balmy, so pleasant. Even my own fortunes were on the rise again. Where was I up to in this story? That’s right, I was dangling about in Canberra, waiting for a meeting with Bernard, the new Minister for Local Government. And yes, the little bastard made me sweat on it, but the day finally came when I was invited into his ministerial office.
It was my first good look at the new Parliament House. Actually, I arrived early for my appointment and took the public tour. A lot of glass and steel, it felt to me. Almost like something I would have built, in my eighties heyday. The grand foyer could have been the lobby of a resort hotel in Surfers Paradise, and the rest of the place felt either overweight with its own self-importance or, paradoxically, as flimsy as a garden shed. But at least the two chambers—the House of Representatives and the Senate—were bigger than the cramped quarters of the old Parliament House. The politicians no longer had to suffocate together, jammed into the backbenches. Now there were deep, comfy leather seats for each MP or senator, tasteful green in one chamber, garish red in the other. And if they wanted fresh air, there was always the lawn-topped roof for a stroll, in the shade of the biggest, shiniest flagpole known to democracy.
Underground Page 9
