The Second Cure

by Margaret Morgan

  ‘Richard told me about her ankle.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not that. Well, not just that. She seems depressed to me. Low.’

  ‘That’s no good.’ Brigid had worked out how to finish the paragraph and make it lead into the next. She highlighted and deleted a sentence.

  ‘I think it’d really help her to see you. I was wondering if maybe you could come and visit, stay a day or two.’

  ‘Come down? Sorry, there’s just no way.’

  ‘She was talking about you today. I know you and she don’t really communicate …’

  ‘Was she indeed?’ Now Charlie had her attention. Brigid felt a heat rise from deep within her, the old anger.

  ‘Sorry, this was a mistake.’ Charlie looked embarrassed, which was something. Brigid managed to smile at her.

  ‘Look, I can’t leave town right now. I’m snowed under. Effenberg’s going ape-shit. The state is going to hell and I’m on around fifteen different deadlines.’

  ‘I saw him the other day.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jack Effenberg. He came to see me at uni.’

  ‘You’re kidding. Why?’

  ‘He offered me a job. Well, more than a job. A heap of money, a lab, a career. He wants to fund my work into the parasite.’

  ‘You didn’t say yes?’ Brigid’s mind was spinning.

  ‘I haven’t said no yet …’

  ‘You can’t do it, Charlie. You have to refuse him. That would be like supping with the devil.’

  ‘I know …’

  ‘He’s dangerous. He is very smart, very manipulative – and if he gets his claws into you, you’ll regret it. You’d be better off quitting science altogether than have him own you.’

  ‘Yep. Look, about your mum –’

  ‘Yeah, just leave it with me, will you?’

  Charlie returned the laptop to Richard, who was in the lounge room watching television. He topped up her wine glass. ‘What were you two talking about? Planning my surprise birthday party?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dare. Not after last time.’ She kissed him on the top of the head and sat next to him on the sofa. ‘No, I wanted to talk with her about your mum. About how low she’s been feeling.’

  ‘Oh, she’s okay, isn’t she? She’s just frustrated by her ankle, not being able to look after herself.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that. I think the parasite has –’

  He turned to her angrily. ‘Jesus, Charlie, I know it’s your life work and all, but you’re seeing that bloody parasite everywhere.’

  ‘She’s infected. She told me.’

  ‘And you no doubt want to take her off to good old Shadrack and have him climb inside her brain, right? Make her all better, too?’

  ‘No, I wondered if Brigid might be able to come and see her. She’s not happy, Richard –’

  ‘– Charlie Zinn, curing the world.’ The kitchen timer beeped from down the hallway. ‘Dinner’s ready,’ he said, getting up. ‘Can you go and tell Mum? And just leave things be, yeah? One thing you can’t cure is the shit that’s gone down between Mum and Brigid.’

  He stalked out of the room and Charlie followed him. ‘What, and be like you, watching people falling apart right in front of you and just ignoring it? Screw that, Richard! I care about your mother, even if you don’t.’

  He banged plates on the counter, ignoring her. With a furious sigh, Charlie went to get Winnie.

  TRANSCRIPT OF PHONE-IN, RADIO 2BX SYDNEY

  Jason Lane: Hi, what would you like to say?

  Female caller: Hi, Jason, I just love your show.

  JL: Yes, darling, what’s on your mind?

  FC: Am I a bigot, Jason, for wanting us protected from people who are infected? ’Cause that’s what my daughter-in-law called me.

  JL: And would your daughter-in-law be a bleeding-heart leftie?

  FC: (laughs) Well, just between you and me …

  JL: (laughs) And the rest of Sydney …

  FC: Thing is, Jason, the increased promiscuity, the abortions, it’s all just wrong.

  JL: I couldn’t agree more. And just as that immorality is going through the roof, we have the churches shrinking and losing their influence. Just when we need their guiding hand. So you tell your daughter-in-law from me that wanting society to maintain a moral compass isn’t bigotry. It’s the only thing that will save us from destruction. And good on you, love.

  25.

  Sydney

  ‘Really, you didn’t need to come here! Not in this rain, not with your poor ankle!’

  Tricia was such a fusser. Winnie let her carry the new vase inside, but insisted she was perfectly capable of getting up the stairs to the porch on her own. The scene of her crime. She carefully avoided looking at the fuchsias.

  She forced herself into politeness. ‘It was no trouble. The car’s an automatic and there’s a lot I need to get done. I can’t stay cooped up at Richard’s.’

  ‘Well, I can give you the mail I’ve collected for you, in any case. Now, tea?’

  ‘I can’t stay, thanks anyway.’

  ‘But I have to tell you my news! Oh, first things first. Let’s have a look at the vase.’

  Tricia opened the front door and her hairball of a dog darted out, a yappy white thing with rusty streaks beneath its eyes. It bounced around Winnie’s feet, squeaking. She had forgotten what breed it was, but hadn’t forgotten Tricia’s pointedly off-the-cuff comment, when she got it as a puppy that it was a ‘rescue dog’ from the RSPCA. She suspected this was piffle and that the dog had really come from an overpriced breeder.

  Leading Winnie into the kitchen, Tricia carefully put the box on the counter and opened the lid. Waterford crystal. It had cost Winnie a small fortune, but it was a reasonable facsimile of the one she’d smashed. Tricia opened the box. On the counter next to it was a mask, a purity mask. Winnie had seen them before, but didn’t know Tricia had taken to wearing them.

  Tricia held the vase aloft. ‘Oh, you’ve done very well, Winnie. That’s lovely.’ Why was it that nothing could come from this woman’s mouth without sounding patronising? She made Winnie feel like she was six, not sixty-three. ‘I’ll drop it off at the church tomorrow, all ready for the Sunday flower crew.’ She walked over to a dresser where she picked up a pile of mail and began sorting through it. Winnie knew Tricia was doing her a favour, but she hated the way she was poring over the envelopes, clearly wondering who they were from. At least that meant she hadn’t steamed them open for a good sticky-beak.

  ‘You’ve got a purity mask,’ said Winnie.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. Would you like to look at it?’ Tricia’s pleasure held a hint of defiance, as though she were challenging Winnie to disapprove.

  Winnie picked it up. It was white, polyester with a border of crochet. The elastic to hold it on was covered in a ribbon of lace. It looked cheap.

  ‘Have you worn it yet?’ asked Winnie. ‘In public?’ She didn’t attempt to disguise her disapproval.

  ‘Not yet. But soon. You see, this is my news,’ said Tricia. ‘Nathan and I are moving. We’re relocating to North Queensland and we’ve joined the Song of Light. Joining the exodus.’

  ‘You’re leaving the church?’ Winnie was dumbfounded. Running committees at St Anne’s had been Tricia’s lifeblood.

  ‘For a better one, Winnie. For one that is more … Godly. It’s been a long time coming. We’ve both felt for a while that the Anglican Church is becoming too permissive. We want somewhere that holds true to the word of God.’

  ‘But you don’t have to move states to change churches.’ Winnie was appalled, but Tricia, as usual, carried on oblivious to her tone. Idiot woman.

  ‘We’re very impressed by Jack and Marion – the Effenbergs. Nathan knows Jack through the Party, and he’s going to do such wonderful things in Queensland. Having your pastor and your premier be one and the same! It’s ideal, really.’

  Not when they’re Jack Effenberg, thought Winnie. But Tricia always did have happy-clappy tendencies.


  ‘What about your daughter? You’re not leaving her, not with the baby on the way?’

  ‘Faith and Jeff are coming with us, of course. They want to raise their child in God.’

  It was an unsubtle insult to their parish and Winnie felt offence on behalf of the priest and his congregation. It wouldn’t occur to Tricia that maybe the flaw might lie with her, rather than everyone else. She clearly preferred a denomination that didn’t require her to think.

  ‘We’ve also heard that they’re killing off the cats up there,’ Tricia was saying.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rounding them up and putting them to sleep. Humanely, naturally. It’s to stop them passing on the plague. You know, don’t you, what the Plague is doing? It’s turning people into atheists.’ She hissed the word. ‘Can you imagine? The “Unclean”, Pastor Jack calls them. Well, he’s doing his best to keep the Unclean out of Queensland. How could we not support him? How can we not want to live there? Plus, there’s the climate. Nathan’s arthritis, you know. And you wouldn’t believe the property bargains compared with Sydney!’

  Tricia’s words were washing over her, all but one. Unclean. Winnie was one of the Unclean. This horrible man who was killing cats would say she was Unclean. Tricia had finished mauling the mail and handed it over to Winnie. ‘There’s not much of it.’

  ‘I put in a mail redirection at the post office. These must have arrived before the paperwork went through.’ Winnie was still reeling. Unclean.

  As Tricia walked her to the car, holding an umbrella ineffectually over them and trying to avoid tripping over Winnie’s crutch, she leant close and said, ‘You know, you could do worse than come to Queensland, too. I know you’re a cat person, but there’s not much point in being a cat person any more, is there? And I think a more … solid church would help you. With your problems.’

  ‘My problems?’ She fumbled with the car keys, managing to open the door and angle herself in.

  ‘I know you’re struggling right now …’

  She left that floating and Winnie felt a spasm in her gut. Tricia’s face came closer, her brow furrowed with pain.

  ‘It isn’t easy to say this, Winnie, but you need to know. I found the cuttings. The ones from my plants. They were in your rubbish bin when I was watering your garden. I know it was you. I know you stole them.’

  Her shame overwhelming her, Winnie opened her mouth to speak, to try to defend herself, but Tricia held her hand up to silence her.

  ‘You don’t need to explain why. But I can see that you’re troubled. Please don’t turn away from God. He will forgive you, just like I do.’ Tricia’s sincerity was clear. Her face was full of concern and love.

  ‘Aphids,’ blurted Winnie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got aphids. Those cuttings were riddled with them.’

  Winnie felt the triumphant grin grow across her face, beyond her own control. ‘Aphids,’ she spat, revelling in the sound of the word, in its obscenity. ‘Aphids!’

  Tricia reeled back, realisation hitting. Winnie felt her stomach lurch.

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ Tricia was gasping. ‘The Plague. You’re infected, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve been so – oh, Winnie, have you lost your faith? Is that what’s happened?’

  Humiliation pounded through her, and she stabbed the key into the ignition as she shook her head in denial. The wind gusted, wrenching the umbrella from Tricia’s grasp and hurtling it down the road.

  Tricia was crying now. ‘Come back inside, Winnie, come with me, we’ll pray together, God will bring you back to us, we’ll beg Him for mercy, He’ll make everything all right again …’

  Winnie could find no words in response, made mute by her stupidity, by her shame. How had she ever given Tricia Townsend cause to judge her or pity her? The aching in her leg was now matched by a pulsing headache, and she shoved down on the accelerator and drove off into the rain. In the rear-vision mirror, she saw Tricia growing distant, a forlorn, rain-soaked figure. She knew, with bitter certainty, they would never meet again.

  26.

  A full-throated, bellowing stream of abuse, flecked with spittle, poured from Gordon Reed’s florid face. ‘You are a fucking idiot, Charlotte. A fucking idiot. Don’t you realise how much the university needs that money? The department?’

  He hadn’t even waited until they got into his office. This was in the corridor, where everyone could witness her humiliation. She had wanted to tell him her decision in private, but he was too impatient to withdraw to a more discreet location. She felt exposed as students and staff passed by, their glances pitying, shocked.

  ‘Have you told Effenberg yet?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ she lied. She didn’t want Reed to overrule her. Better to make it look done and dusted. And telling Effenberg was something she frankly feared. He was a man used to getting his way.

  ‘Brilliant. Just brilliant. And what made you think this was your decision to make?’

  ‘How about the fact he offered her the funding? Not you, not the department, not the university.’ It was Juliette. Charlie hadn’t seen her emerge from her office.

  ‘It was an offer involving the university and university facilities,’ retorted Reed.

  ‘It was me he wanted, Gordon,’ Charlie said sharply, buoyed by Juliet’s presence. ‘Me and my ideas. He’d have been perfectly happy if I’d just packed up and moved to Queensland.’

  ‘Well, I suggest that you get onto the phone straight away and grovel and tell him you’ve changed your mind. Because you’re going to be looking for a job by the time you get back to your office.’

  ‘You don’t have that authority!’ said Juliette. ‘And we support Charlie’s choice. It’s a matter of scientific independence –’

  ‘“We”? Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Charlie’s lab. My lab –’

  ‘– A bunch of post-grads!’ Reed snorted.

  ‘– The synthetic biology lab –’

  ‘What have they got to do with this?’

  ‘They’re looking at synthesising bacteriophages to combat T. pestis by targeting the plasmid. It’s a promising line of research. They’re more invested in this work than –’ Charlie cut herself off.

  ‘Than me?’ demanded Reed. ‘Is that what you were going to say?’

  In for a penny … ‘Let’s be frank, your interest doesn’t really extend far beyond money, does it? When did you last publish anything of any real significance? In the last two decades, I mean?’

  ‘Do you even know what synthetic biology is, Gordon?’ asked Juliette. The two women were emboldening each other. Charlie could scarcely believe what they were saying to him, but it felt wonderful. Neither could Reed. He rounded on Juliette.

  ‘I suppose you think you’ll have my job next, right? You probably will, you’ve got the political correctness trifecta, after all. All you need is to be in a wheelchair, then you’d be bloody VC!’

  Charlie looked at Juliette to see how she responded to his words. With fury, clearly. The fury that brings tears, just when you don’t want them, just when you want to look strong.

  She was about to lunge into a defence of Juliette when she noticed movement in a nearby doorway. Five undergraduates in a tutorial group were standing there, watching, appalled. Five undergraduates holding mobile phones. Five undergraduates filming everything.

  27.

  Brisbane

  ‘Seriously, Brigid, it’s bloody Walkley-winning stuff. Seriously,’ Keith told her.

  ‘And you’ve had one too many over lunch, Keith.’ Brigid laughed. She enjoyed the compliment, though, especially from such a senior member of the parliamentary media gallery. He gave her a slap on the back and sauntered off for the afternoon sitting in the house. Brigid had been gratified by the response to her piece on the demonstration. She felt the writing had had the right balance between emotional involvement and fact. A coolly detailed, first-person narrative that drew the readers in and made them feel as though they’d been t
here. That’s how her editor described it, and she was happy to wear the depiction. In total, there had been two deaths, both protesters, a police horse that had to be put down, and scores of injuries, mainly as a result of the crush, and some from the end of QSSA batons. Forty-eight protestors had been arrested. Brigid’s account, unlike all the other mainstream coverage, had detailed the deliberate actions of police and QSSA to turn the impassioned but peaceful gathering into a dangerous crowd-crush incident. Everyone else, especially the tabloids, was still going with ‘riot’ and ‘rabble-rousing’, following the premier’s lead.

  And Ron’s death still weighed upon Brigid. She had done what she could to tell his story, but it wasn’t enough. It was hardly even a beginning. His face haunted her.

  Before the pollies poured back into the chamber, she needed to top up her water bottle, so headed for the loo. That’s when the alarm began: a loud whooping sound she’d never heard before. Had they changed the fire alarm, the blaring they’d come to learn through countless drills? Or was this something else? Then a voice over the loudspeaker:

  ‘This is an emergency. The parliamentary precinct is going into lockdown. This is not a drill. All personnel and visitors please remain exactly where you are and await instructions from authorised guards. Repeat, this is an emergency. The parliamentary precinct is going into lockdown …’

  From within the toilets burst a staffer Brigid vaguely knew, a young woman with plaits coiled on top of her head. ‘What the hell is going on?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea!’ said Brigid, still frozen.

  The whooping and the announcement continued on a recorded loop. ‘All personnel and visitors please remain exactly where you are and await instructions from authorised guards …’

  ‘Authorised guards like him, do you reckon?’ The staffer pointed at a man in black walking quickly down the corridor towards them. Brigid knew the uniform. He was QSSA, just like the goons at the demo.

  ‘This way,’ he told them without breaking stride. His expectation that they’d follow was no doubt reinforced by the arsenal of weapons visible on his belt.