The Undercurrent

by Paula Weston

Jules wipes her hands again—carefully, one at a time—and waits. The seconds stretch out. The yawning shaft pulls at her, pulls the strength from her legs. She strains to hear sounds inside: voices, footsteps on carpet, anything to reassure her Ryan hasn’t changed his mind and left her behind. The buzzing under her skin is almost unbearable—and then a new sound shatters the silence close by.

  Gunfire.

  Jules can’t tell if it’s in the shaft or the building, but it’s too much.

  She releases the charge.

  5

  Ryan smells it as soon as he sticks his head back into the lift well: burnt metal. Falling sparks light up the shaft further down.

  ‘What was that?’

  De Marchi is clinging to the ladder, eyes wide. ‘Gunfire,’ she says.

  ‘Not that. Did the power come back on in here?’

  She shakes her head but he knows something’s happened. She’s totally spooked. It’s his own fault: he shouldn’t have taken so long but he needed to get a fix on the shooters. They’re on this floor as far as he can tell, but on the far side of the building. To be this high, they’ve either come in through the roof or they were already in the building before the power went.

  Ryan positions himself so his hips and legs anchor him inside the building. They don’t have long. ‘Grip my arms.’ He slaps each bicep and reaches for her.

  More gunfire. Definitely semiautomatic and definitely not part of the plan.

  ‘Ryan, I don’t—’

  ‘Grab me!’

  She jerks free of the ladder and clamps her hands onto his bare skin. He flinches—her palms are hot—but he keeps his grip. Her weight leaves the ladder and she lets out a panicked gasp. Desperate fingers claw at him.

  His nostrils burn with the stink of charred paint and a smell that reminds him of an electrical storm. He holds her tight, his pulse jackhammering. She’s heavier than she looks. ‘I’ve got you.’ Everything in him strains as he hauls her up, and then she plants her feet on the concrete and takes back some of her own weight to help him. Ryan drags her through the opening and they land side by side. Her fingers stay locked around his arms and her breath is hot on his face, sour with fear. Another volley of gunfire. Who are they shooting at? Ryan hauls De Marchi to her feet and heads for the stairwell.

  ‘We have to move.’

  Her breath hitches and he sees it: she honestly believes the shooters are coming for her. He grabs the satchel—those bloody shoes—and pulls her after him. She doesn’t resist. Ryan cracks the door to the stairs and listens for a second, feels the erratic pulse in her wrist. The stairwell is bathed in murky blue light and echoes with harried footsteps and urgent voices.

  Another explosion and the stairs shudder. People scream. Ryan can’t tell if the detonations are intended to bring the place down or are just a diversion. He doesn’t have enough experience with explosives to know the difference.

  ‘Stick to the wall.’ They’re on the nineteenth floor. On his own, he’d take the stairs two at a time but there are a lot of floors between here and the way out and he has no idea of De Marchi’s fitness. Her file wasn’t that detailed. She’s a step behind, one hand on the cinderblock for balance. After two flights, Ryan stops glancing over his shoulder and listens for her instead. His new knee aches, but he knows it well enough to push through the pain. He’s found his rhythm, even with the satchel bumping his hip.

  If this is the work of Agitators, they’ve had some serious outside help. But if it’s not, if there’s something else going on and it’s about De Marchi, then she must have done more than burn down a school building.

  ‘Ryan.’

  De Marchi has pulled up on the landing above him, sucking in deep breaths, her palm up in a wordless plea. Her face is flushed and her hair loose, long strands sticking to her throat. The gunfire has stopped.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Ryan manages, and De Marchi straightens and nods. Willing herself to get moving again.

  Ten more flights—slower—and he signals for her to stop at a door marked 2. ‘This way.’

  De Marchi glances down the next flight—the way everyone else is leaving the building—but doesn’t argue. Ryan opens the door a few centimetres and strains to hear movement. The air conditioning hasn’t been off long and already the place smells stale. He leads De Marchi inside, hoping he memorised the floor plan correctly. Daylight filters through thick glass beyond the row of cubicles. There are new sirens outside: fire and ambulance. Ryan picks up his pace. Another blast shakes the floor and dust floats down from the ceiling, settles in his hair. He cuts a zigzag path, dodging spilt paperwork and a toppled photo of a laughing toddler. When they reach the exit in the far corner, Ryan pauses long enough to make sure De Marchi is with him before he releases the latch. He squints against the glare outside, tries not to think about what he’s going to do with her when they make it to the street.

  One thing at a time.

  The emergency exit opens onto the adjoining rooftop. It’s clear. They sprint past overturned chairs and abandoned coffee mugs, an overflowing ashtray. They’re on the far side of Pax Fed Tower but the shouting and sirens carry from Queen Street. It takes an adrenaline-charged few seconds to find the fire escape, slightly to the left of where Ryan was expecting it. The steel stairs take them down into the laneway and—

  Relief swamps him.

  The van is idling at the Eagle Street end. He grabs De Marchi by the wrist and pulls her after him, running hard. They’re less than ten metres away when the Major steps from the cab and slides open the van door.

  De Marchi baulks and tries to wrench herself free. ‘No—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Ryan pants and hopes he’s not lying. He doesn’t let go, even when he sees how frightened she is. She struggles against him, bringing her fist down hard on his forearm, trying to break his grip.

  ‘Stop it.’ He keeps dragging her. They’re almost to the Major. He can’t change his mind now.

  ‘Let go!’ She clamps her fingers around Ryan’s wrist and—

  Stinging pain explodes up his arm and he lands on his backside so hard that he bites his tongue and tastes blood. What the fuck? His wrist tingles and aches where she had hold of him. De Marchi is already halfway back up the alley, skirt bunched and arms pumping, blackened feet kicking up behind her.

  ‘Go,’ the Major orders, jumping into the van.

  Ryan sprints after her, his calves burning from the stairs and his arm weirdly numb. The Major guns the engine, passes Ryan and swerves to cut off De Marchi. He doesn’t clip her, but she has to prop and change direction, and it’s enough for Ryan to close the distance. He grabs her in a bear hug from behind, pinning her arms. She kicks and thrashes, no air left to accuse or abuse him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he manages as the two of them tumble into the back of the van and the door slams shut.

  6

  Jules scrambles away from Ryan and wedges herself between the bench seat and the cab, ready to kick out if he comes any closer, her blood thundering. The van accelerates out of the laneway and rocks her to one side. Her hip and elbow throb. It’s dim in here, tinted glass front and back filtering the daylight. She should get up, get past Ryan. Get out. But fear pins her to the floor.

  The charge is building again—too soon—but even that feels disconnected, like music from another room.

  She trusted Ryan.

  Right up until she saw the other one step out of the van and she understood they were there for her.

  Ryan sits on his heels in front of the sliding door, hanging on to the latch as the van takes another corner. His free hand is outstretched, a pointless attempt at reassurance.

  ‘Calm down, it’s fine.’

  Fine? Then why did he tackle her and throw her in here? And why doesn’t he sound like he believes it?

  She tries to think through the crushing fear. Who will care that she’s missing? Who’ll even know?

  Angie.

  Another stab of panic, sharper. The news crews were right there
and the attack will be all over the TV. Jules has to get to Angie before her mum does something stupid. She has to get out of this van.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Her mouth is so dry she can barely form the question.

  Ryan doesn’t answer. He glances at the window between them and the driver.

  He doesn’t know.

  ‘What does Pax Fed want?’

  Still no response, and now he can’t look her in the eye. An uneasy thought creeps in. ‘Do you even work there?’

  His gaze cuts back to her and he doesn’t have to respond: she can see the answer for herself. The walls of the van crowd in and her head swims. She swallows once, twice, but the panic stays lodged in her throat. Cool air from the vent washes over her, chills her clammy skin.

  ‘Was that you, then?’ Barely a whisper.

  It takes a second for him to catch on. ‘The explosions? No.’ He’s crouched in front of her, steadying himself against the sliding door. He undoes the rest of his shirt buttons and peels the fabric from damp skin to let it hang open. ‘De Marchi, are you okay?’

  She doesn’t respond because the answer should be obvious: of course she’s not.

  The van brakes, gently. The driver’s keeping calm, taking his time. Jules cranes her neck to get a better look out the back window. She could lunge for it, bang on the glass to attract attention while they’re stuck in traffic. But then what? The news crews saw her go into Pax Fed Tower. Her old mug shot has probably been all over TV since the explosions. Who in a city of panicked people is going to be happy to see her, let alone help her?

  ‘Did I hurt you?’ Ryan presses.

  He says it as if he accidentally bumped her with his elbow. He threw her in the back of a van. He hasn’t tried to touch her again—hasn’t made any move to come near her—but that doesn’t make up for the fact that he did.

  ‘What do you want?’ The question is thin, breathless. For once in her life she wishes she could maintain a rage like her mother, but that’s never been her gift. Suppression’s more her thing.

  This time Ryan holds her gaze. ‘No idea.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  The window to the cab slides open.

  ‘Julianne.’

  Of course the driver knows who she is—why else grab her?—but it’s a shock to hear him say her name. He’s older than Ryan, gruff. They’re stopped at lights and he’s speaking over his shoulder. All she can see is the peak of a cap, mirrored sunglasses, a trimmed salt and pepper beard…and an ear that doesn’t look quite right. He waits for her to acknowledge him. She doesn’t.

  ‘There are better places to sit.’

  Jules tries to work out what advantage it will give them if she’s on the bench seat instead of the floor.

  ‘Don’t make your life more difficult than it needs to be.’ The driver pauses for a reaction. Doesn’t get one. ‘Or you can stay down there until we get you home. Up to you.’

  The screen slides shut and the van rolls forward.

  Home.

  Does he mean that? Why doesn’t Ryan know about it? The rush of hope and fear makes her dizzy. When the sensation subsides, her anxiety swerves back to Angie. How long’s it been since that first explosion? Twenty minutes? Long enough for her mother to go on the warpath. For once Jules is glad they can’t afford a car. At least Angie’s offline and stuck in Woodridge, assuming the trains have stopped running.

  Ryan gestures to the seat. Jules resists, but she’s sore from the stairs and needs to stretch.

  ‘You want a hand?’

  She ignores Ryan and climbs onto the seat, positioning herself so she can keep an eye on him and see into the cab. Ryan settles to the floor and straightens his legs, rubs his right knee. He takes up a lot of space. It’s only now she notices what else is in the van: a scrunched-up T-shirt and cargo shorts, battered tennis shoes. A sports bag with a can of deodorant poking out through the top and two empty wire hangers jangling as they turn another corner. The sirens are further away but the van is still in the city, moving at a crawl.

  ‘How do you know where I live?’

  ‘I don’t.’ Ryan nods at the cab.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Can’t say.’ There’s no hesitation, no apology. Ryan relaxes back against the door and a patch of tinted daylight paints his face. His blond hair is wilder now, messier than when she first saw him in the lift. He was always too scruffy to be an office worker, and with his tie gone and shirt undone, he looks even less the part. He and the driver can’t be Agitators, surely—could they get access to a Pax Fed ID if they were? So who are they?

  Ryan watches her watching him, his fingers tapping a beat on the metal floor. Jules feels it from where she’s sitting: the coiled energy radiating from him, even now.

  ‘What did you do to me back there?’ He keeps his voice low as if he doesn’t want the driver to hear.

  Jules remembers the sensation of the charge surging from her fingertips and onto his skin. The fleeting triumph when his grip was gone.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I didn’t fall on my arse cause I’m clumsy. What did you use?’

  She positions her handbag on her knees and fiddles with the strap. He thinks she had a weapon. ‘Can’t say.’ She gives him back his own words, sharpened, and he tips his head to acknowledge the shutdown.

  They ride in silence.

  It takes forever to clear the CBD. Jules tracks the journey through the cab window, finds familiar buildings, the on-ramp to the freeway. If the police are putting up roadblocks the driver’s managed to evade them. They pick up speed on the freeway and she sees enough to know they’re heading south. It’s the right direction but her heart stays lodged in her throat. She’s aching and sweaty and clinging to the hope the driver’s not a liar, scared to consider what it means if he is.

  Could she release another dose of current if she had to? She’s never been able to summon it on demand. The energy builds on its own, feeding on stress and fear. It’s an effort to trap the charge beneath her ribs until it’s safe to let go, like holding back a squirming terrier: the second her grip eases, it’s gone, ripping along her nerves and grounding out through her fingertips. The backyard she grew up in was scarred with scorched grass and blackened trees from years of practising with her dad, trying to hold the power in her hands—and failing. Her dad didn’t understand why the current existed but he always believed she’d master it one day. She’s yet to prove him right.

  Jules measures the distance between her and Ryan, catches him checking out her legs. His gaze cuts up and away. Jules keeps him in her peripheral vision while she finds landmarks through the windscreen: the Enviro-Nuclear Science Centre at Dutton Park…the Princess Alexandra Research and Repatriation Hospital…the forest of privately funded housing commission towers along the train line.

  The need for answers eventually burns through her anxiety.

  ‘You were at Pax Fed Tower because of me. Why?’

  The tapping stops as he weighs the question. ‘You make people nervous.’

  ‘Who? Pax Fed?’

  He shrugs and a deeper, darker fear stirs.

  ‘Were you there to hurt me?’

  ‘Only if you were a threat.’ He means starting a fire but he thinks she needs matches to do it.

  ‘Why didn’t you leave me behind?’

  ‘It wasn’t safe.’

  ‘And this is?’ Her voice breaks a little.

  Ryan glances at the cab. ‘If the—’ he stops. ‘If he says he’s taking you home, he is.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Silence returns. Jules keeps track of every exit they pass. When hers is next, her pulse shifts up a gear. The van changes lanes and hope and fear go to war under her ribs.

  Hang on, Angie.

  They’re on the service road and turning right at the lights. She counts off every intersection, each one taking her closer to home. Every turn shortens her breath.

  Come on, come on.
r />   The van finally stops. They’re not at her house, they’re in the next street. She can see the old paperbark tree listing over the footpath from the last storm, and the rusting Impreza on blocks in the Tamatoas’ yard on the corner.

  ‘This it?’

  Jules nods, not looking at Ryan. She slides to the edge of the seat, her fingers digging into the fabric and her breath trapped in her chest. The driver gets out and Ryan repositions himself in a crouch, blocking her exit. ‘Wait,’ he warns.

  The door rumbles open and overcast light floods in. The driver is there, filling the space. He’s about the same height as Ryan but at least two decades older. The street pulls at her.

  Ryan reaches for the satchel. ‘Her shoes,’ he says.

  The older man looks from the bag to Ryan and nods, steps aside. Ryan swings out onto the street.

  ‘De Marchi. Go.’

  Jules scrambles out of the van, snatches the bag and takes off before they change their minds. Her legs protest but she pushes herself to a sprint, bare feet stinging on the bitumen. With every stride she expects to hear Ryan’s boots behind her. She takes the corner at full pelt, not looking back.

  Mrs Tamatoa is on her front verandah, drinking tea and playing solitaire like she always is at this time of day.

  ‘Julianne, you okay girl?’

  Jules doesn’t answer because she’s only four doors from home and can’t spare the breath. She grips the satchel in one hand—it’s bouncing against her thigh—and fixes her eyes on the only house that matters.

  The front door of the weatherboard bangs open and Angie De Marchi is rushing down the steps—she stayed home!—wearing the same grey trackpants and T-shirt she had on at breakfast, dark hair piled on top of her head. She reaches the footpath and keeps coming.

  ‘What happened? Are you—’

  She stops, her attention shifting to the road, and Jules risks a look. It’s the van, crawling towards them.

  ‘Mum, get inside.’ Jules says, reaching her. She grabs Angie by the arm and pulls her towards the gate. ‘They’re coming.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guys who brought me home—’