The Second Cure

by Margaret Morgan

  ‘What, really?’

  ‘No!’ laughed Brigid. ‘Things aren’t quite that bad.’

  An hour later, Brigid had retired to the guest room. Charlie loved having her stay over, and had meant it when she’d suggested she move in. In truth, these days she preferred Brigid’s company to Richard’s. His sister was more anchored to the real world than he was. She finished loading the dishwasher and subvocced to Grandfather. You can turn everything off now and lock up, okay?

  Consider it done, Charlie-girl.

  Everyone seemed to enjoy the party? she asked as she climbed the stairs. She knew that the house computer would have analysed interactions and moods during the night.

  Yep, bonzer feedback.

  She sighed. Look, can we drop the 1950s shtick, Grandfather?

  ’Course, Charlie. What’re your druthers?

  Just standard, modern vocab? Nothing too formal. Or casual.

  Done. Was there the slightest of pauses before he answered? Was Grandfather miffed? For the dozenth time, she told herself he – it – was a machine.

  Thanks. Goodnight. A machine. And she was saying thank you. God help her.

  Showered and clean of teeth, Brigid pulled her T-shirt over her head and ran her hands through her curls, shaking them dry. She stood in front of the bookshelf. Whenever she stayed there, she played a game. She’d pull a book out at random and decide before opening it if it had belonged to her mother, or was one of Charlie and Richard’s. Her mother had always inscribed her books with the place and date of purchase. Over the years, Winnie’s choice of reading matter had startled Brigid, not only because of its diversity but because the subject matter often seemed so unlike her. Like this. She reached for a book of philosophy by Daniel Dennett. ‘Winnie Bayliss, Sacramento, 2008.’ She’d read an atheist philosopher? A vehement materialist? With a throb of guilt, Brigid recognised the reason she was surprised. She had never thought her mother clever. Not clever enough for a philosophy text, not flexible enough to confront something so divergent from her own belief system. And Sacramento? Her mother had been to Sacramento? Brigid should have known. She should have known a lot of things, but hadn’t bothered to find them out.

  She returned the book to the shelf and climbed into bed, reaching for her own reading matter. She was halfway through a critical history of early Queensland politics that was not kind to the conservative side. She was, frankly, a little surprised it hadn’t been banned in Capricornia given the Effenberg regime’s attitude to anything that didn’t sympathise with his party and its forebears.

  But Brigid wasn’t really in the mood to read. She wanted to lie back and think about tonight. She wanted to think about Juliette. Feeling as skittish as a sixteen-year-old, she wanted to revel in the sensation. She found herself smiling at the realisation. She thought about Charlie urging her to move back to Sydney. Now, more than ever, it was tempting. She had almost forgotten how fun it was to flirt, openly, with another woman. And to dance! Juliette just took that for granted, but Brigid had spent a decade living in a place where having non-heterosexual sex meant risking gaol time, and where there were all too many informants around, eager to pander to the CSSA by strategic denouncement. The Effenberg government had taken gay rights back a century, the extremity of which was made even more stark by the converse transformation in Australia, which had long since had its first gay leader. (Well, its first out leader.) Gay friends in Brisbane, people like Cassie, were incredulous that the repression and regression had been so thorough, and refused to believe it could last. What they failed to understand, though, was that just as many erstwhile Northern Queenslanders had fled when Effenberg’s vision began to be realised, many others had moved there. Like-minded people from Australia and beyond had flocked to Capricornia, and it was they who ensured the popularity of policies that outraged Brigid’s southern friends. The worse the place got, the more the demographic swap grew in both numbers and determination. There were times Brigid suspected that the electorate was even further to the right than its dear leader. They were certainly pliable. He could enrage them with a single speech, effortlessly focussing their anger on the scapegoat du jour and using it to justify yet another intrusion into their lives. His government thrived on the fear he fed them.

  And tomorrow morning, she’d be going back to it. Instead, she could find a job in Sydney – and she could invite Juliette out to dinner and go to parties where everyone could just be themselves, like normal people did. She could find a place to live near the water, maybe the Northern Beaches, or buy a flat in Darlinghurst, close to the city. Why not? What was keeping her in that shithole of a country Effenberg had created? Stubbornness? Pride?

  There was something she hadn’t told Juliette about her work. She hadn’t told Charlie, either, or indeed anyone. She couldn’t risk it. Brigid wrote an anonymous blog. She used it to expose what she couldn’t through her mainstream journalism. It was, of course, banned in Capricornia, but she had a readership there nonetheless: technically astute followers who knew how to hide their digital footprints. The truth was, though, that most of the readers were not Capricornians. They were in other countries, using her words to agitate against the Effenberg regime, to hold protests and write petitions that would change precisely nothing.

  The book she’d brought, lying next to her on the bed, wasn’t going to get read. She was too restless to concentrate. She reached for it to put it on the bedside table and a folded square of white paper fell out onto the floorboards. She peered over the edge of the mattress and retrieved it. It wasn’t her bookmark. She’d never seen it before. She’d certainly not put it there. Opening it flat, she scanned the words, black ink, twelve point, Times New Roman.

  I need to talk to you and you need to talk to me. The risk to us both is big, but silence is no longer possible for me. Can I trust you? I hope so. I am putting my life in your hands. When you get home to Cairns, put red flowers in the vase by your bedroom window and I will know you are ready. Do not try to find me or find out who I am. I will come to you. Analogue only. No electronic communications. Destroy this note.

  It was from someone in Capricornia, obviously. She sat up, wide awake now, as she thought through the possibilities. A whistle-blower: that endangered species. Someone who was terrified, as well they might be. Depending on what he or she wanted to tell – and about whom – this could end up with them both in prison for decades. How did the note get there? Someone at the party? Someone in Cairns? She thought back to when she last opened the book. She hadn’t read on the plane, working instead. Last night, before she went to sleep. The only time it had been out of her possession had been at the airport when her bag was being checked by security. Could the note have been slipped into the book then? By the whistle-blower? By a confederate? She felt a tingle of anticipation, the old excitement of being on the case again.

  Someone who knew she kept a vase of dried flowers by her bedroom window, visible from the street below. Someone who had been watching her, researching her. Whether that was something to fear or something to welcome, she had no idea, but she was intent on finding out.

  Brigid re-read the note, committing it to memory, then tore the paper into tiny scraps. She flushed it down the toilet. When the cistern filled again, she flushed it a second time for good measure. Thoughts of moving back to Sydney had vanished.

  JOHNJO SPLITS AS FLYTE FLIRTS WITH THETE QUEEN: SOURCE

  Celeb super-couple JohnJo are on the rocks, according to a close friend of both. Jo Schatz and John Flyte had been together for ten months, with rumours abounding that the former soap star’s recent weight gain was due to a much-awaited baby bump. Looks instead like she’s been drowning her sorrows in burgers and fries. Meanwhile, rock icon John has been on the road with new band Thetegod and is spending plenty of time off stage with lead singer, the infamous Thete Queen herself, Gigi Jupitus.

  ‘Jo’s shattered,’ the friend confided to Zap. ‘John told her outright that he’s bored. Ever since he became a thete, they’r
e in different worlds. With Gigi on the scene, Jo just can’t compete.’

  Meanwhile, Gigi’s fame rockets to new heights, with her latest vid smashing internet records. So … JohnGi? You read it here first!

  – Zap – THE Celeb Site!

  32.

  Cairns, Republic of Capricornia

  Tricia had been studying. The hierarchy of the Daughters had at its apex, of course, Pastor Marion. Everyone within the upper echelons of the organisation knew on which tier they sat. At the grassroots level, however, the Daughters were unaware of the detail of the structure above them, apart from their immediate contact, their Guide. Each Guide supervised five households. Any woman in these households was obliged to report to her any behaviour or speech of concern she discovered. If she failed to do so, and other women in the group knew of her complicity, it was their duty to report her. Each Guide reported to her superior in the level above, judging what was of sufficient significance to pass on up the line. Some people might find that intrusive and unduly restrictive, Marion had told her, but she’d pointed out that evil could be insidious, preying upon the weak and using them to spread lies and rebellion throughout the community. The rules were for their protection, for the protection of the Church and of the nation. Marion asked her if she understood and Tricia said she did. ‘It’s ultimately for the protection of God,’ she said. Marion had nodded, pleased.

  Marion was today addressing the Twenty, senior Daughters in the hierarchy who would be ensuring adherence to the new ruling on tattoos. Tricia sat at her side, taking notes that were entirely superfluous given that the meeting was being recorded, but it gave Tricia something to do with her hands. It also stopped her from being distracted by the view to her left, the ceiling-height windows of the thirty-fifth-floor conference room showing so much sky and ocean that the world seemed composed entirely of blue.

  ‘Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you.’ Marion strode in front of her audience. She, and all the other women present were wearing purity masks. ‘Leviticus 19:28. Pretty straightforward, I’d have thought. The Bible is talking about tattoos. This is the way the unclean choose to parade their debasement. Their sickness. They revel in it, proudly – in the hedonism, consumerism and superficiality of the infected world. They’ve taken all the worst aspects of the world and they flaunt their love for them by the marks on their flesh.’

  Tricia looked up at the Daughters, their expressions rapt as they listened to the Mother. She confessed surprise to herself that of all the evils in the world that must be confronted, tattoos were the focus of the Daughters’ duty.

  ‘Now, it’s true that these days one rarely, in Capricornia, sees the forehead tattoos of the thetes. We still see the scars, where poor, lost souls have tried to remove them, of course. But what of other tattoos? What of the tattoos hidden beneath clothing? The Bible doesn’t differentiate between tattoos according to where they are. Tattoos are sinful – the Lord has told us. By focussing solely on forehead tattoos we have betrayed God. We have only done half the work he has set us.’

  Marion’s voice dropped. ‘Now, I must share with you something that has shaken me to my core. Last week I was taken to the morgue. I was shown the body of a wretched girl, barely fifteen. She was selling herself. She was a whore, and she’d been killed by her father who’d discovered her abasement.’ There were gasps from the audience and Marion held up a hand. ‘He will be punished. His fury was righteous, but he was wrong to do as he did. Now, this girl, this ruined corpse, was laid out before me, naked. And on her belly was the tattoo of an eye.’

  Now Tricia’s attention was as focused as the rest of the room. Her notes were forgotten.

  ‘This,’ Marion continued, ‘is what we face. I want you to imagine a man defiling this girl, having his pleasure of her, and I want you to think of him, in his corrupted ecstasy, looking down on that abomination carved into her flesh.’ Some of the women were crying now. Others held their hands aloft to Heaven, murmuring prayers. ‘And I want you to think about how this wickedness can spread. How many other girls, women, men have an eye tattoo hidden on their bodies, hidden just as their iniquity is hidden from the just and the good? Is it not our duty to God to purge this from the flesh as well as the minds of the weak? Is it not our duty to confront Satan on the very skin of the bodies he would claim for his own?’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Tricia, as the spirit moved her. ‘Yes!’ She stood, as others were now standing, and raised her palm.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ said Marion, closing her eyes, her arms aloft. ‘Dear Lord give us strength to fight for your victory against those who would destroy us …’

  Tricia let the words of the prayer flow through her, followed by the bliss of her faith, sweeping away all doubt and fear. The Daughters would do their duty. The tattoos might be on the flesh of their own children, of their brothers and sisters. There could be no immunity to God’s law.

  Sore feet, hayfever and a shoulder aching from lugging her overnight bag, Brigid wanted nothing more than to be back in her flat with a cold lager. Her informant, Deep Throat, as she’d taken to thinking of him – and for some reason she was certain he was a him – had other plans for her. Since arriving at the airport, she’d been to three florists and failed completely to find a bunch of red flowers. The first, at Marion Effenberg International itself, seemed to sell little that resembled anything actually made from plant. It specialised in shiny little balloons on sticks and overpriced stuffed toys, all dripping with an excess of cute.

  The second she’d found midtown, where she’d had her cabbie drop her at the intersection of Deuteronomy and Psalms. This, at least, had a vast array of blooms, but every one of them was white, matching the clothes and the Purity Mask of the proprietor. She knew that the shunning of all but white flowers was commonplace, but hadn’t realised until now just how stultifying and boring the effect was. No doubt that was part of the intention, the Purity Movement being apparently determined to sap any pleasure or joy out of life. The rationale was that by eschewing colour Capricornians were less likely to find themselves tempted by the visual (and other) excesses of the synaesthetes. It made little sense to Brigid. Surely a white background was perfect for the internal projection of colour? But of course, this wasn’t really a matter of pragmatism or logic. It was just another label to designate tribal membership. I am pure. I am not infected. I belong.

  By the third florist, closer to home, Brigid’s hayfever had thoroughly taken hold, and she’d started recycling the tissues in her handbag. This was why the flowers she favoured were dried. Dead and free of pollen. Eyes streaming, she saw that this shop was also not going to be any use to her, and she was starting to get irritated. Didn’t Deep Throat realise that red flowers were as rare in this city as Sikhs or SynDomes? Did he think that the greater the effort she went to to find the flowers, the better he could trust her? A shop assistant was bearing down on her with a practised smile.

  ‘After anything special? A gift, or something for home?’

  ‘I’m after something that isn’t white.’

  She looked startled. ‘Oh, sorry, no. We don’t get much demand for anything else these days.’

  ‘Doesn’t that depress you?’

  The florist’s glance at the security camera on the ceiling was brief, but Brigid knew what it meant. The camera wasn’t there just for stopping shoplifters.

  Her laugh was forced. ‘Of course not! In a way, having them all white brings out their beauty. You focus on the textures and the shapes of the petals more. And the scents.’

  ‘Do you know anywhere that sells anything else? Like red?’

  ‘Well, certainly none of the reputable florists. Maybe outside the city, roadside stalls, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Brigid. She hauled her travel bag back over her shoulder and headed out onto Psalm Street. It was getting hot, her shoulder was screaming at her, and she was completely over this. Maybe she should just give up. She could buy
some red and green raffia paper and some wire, dust off the craft-making skills she hadn’t used since primary school, and whack some pretend flowers by the window. Deep Throat mightn’t be able to tell the difference from a distance, and even if he could, perhaps he’d be impressed by her ingenuity and diligence. She sighed. Whatever he had to say to her, it’d better be worth all this. She could subvocc a web search for florists and their catalogues, but she hadn’t needed any warning from her mystery friend to know that sticking to analogue was wise under present circumstances.

  Walking south towards her apartment, she wondered what her mother would make of the monochrome world of Capricornia’s flowers. An image returned to her, a postcard Winnie had sent her during one of the more emotionally thawed periods in their relationship. Her parents were in England and had visited Sissinghurst, the castle once owned by Vita Sackville-West. The author had established vast, formal gardens there, and it was a mecca for garden-obsessives like Winnie. One of the garden ‘rooms’ had flowers only in white, and that’s what the postcard had depicted. While her mother had been entranced, Brigid was certain the allure was only due to the contrast with the rest of the grounds. She’d hate it being enforced, as it apparently was in Capricornia. Then another memory emerged, of Winnie ringing her when they’d returned to Sydney, asking if Brigid had received the postcard. Brigid had said something nasty, something about being surprised her mother would visit a place owned by a famous dyke. Why did she say that? Did she want to shock? She couldn’t remember her motives any longer, but if she’d thought Winnie didn’t already know Sackville-West was a lesbian, that only demonstrated her own younger self’s naïvety. Winnie had been an English teacher after all, and Victoria Glendinning’s biography, she now knew, was among her mother’s books in Richard’s spare room. As she often did these days, Brigid wondered what her mother’s perception had been of all those conflicts between them. She’d rarely risen to Brigid’s baits. At the time, Brigid had thought that was a sign of her own victories. More naïvety.