The Undercurrent

by Paula Weston

  Tommy nods at Gemma and they start up a new song, vintage pub-rock, Tommy back on the mic singing about how he doesn’t care if he’s broke as long as he’s still getting laid. Ryan laughs out loud as Tommy sings, and for a heartbeat he looks like his younger brother: light and happy. Gemma rolls her eyes at Macka, and Jules feels how relaxed they all are with each other, their rhythm and energy woven together.

  ‘Jules, you want to join in?’ Ryan asks when the song ends. The memory of laughter warms his eyes.

  ‘I can’t sing or play.’

  ‘You can manage a cowbell.’

  Tommy’s grin widens and Gemma hands Jules a metal cowbell and a drumstick. ‘Hold it at the top and hit it with this. Easy.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Keep your eyes on me.’ Ryan tells her.

  The beanbag rustles as Jules crosses her legs and sits straighter. It’s ridiculous how much she wants to do this.

  Ryan counts them in and they launch into a rock number, faster than anything they’ve played so far. Jules is gripping the drumstick with clammy fingers, ready. Tommy’s singing something raunchy, but she barely registers the lyrics because she’s waiting for Ryan’s cue. He widens his eyes in warning, then nods his head. She hits the cowbell on the beat. It’s crazy loud but she keeps striking it in time with Ryan’s head bobs. He jerks his head sideways to signal her to stop, all the while smashing out the drum line. His eyes flick to the rest of the band as they play through the verse and then back to Jules. There’s the signal.

  This time she holds the beat without his guidance. It’s only a cowbell but she’s making music in time with the rest of the band.

  Ryan nods for her to keep playing and works over the kit, hands a blur and legs pumping, while Tommy grinds out a guitar solo. She strikes the bell harder. Faster. The impact reverberates up her arms and into her chest. Gemma and Macka surge with them, chasing the beat, and it’s like nothing Jules has ever felt.

  Ryan starts to wind down and they follow. She stops a beat before the rest of the band, and then it’s Ryan drumming on his own, finishing up with a controlled run. Jules’ pulse is racing and the charge is going with it, but not pushing—it’s a different brand of adrenaline. This is the rush that comes with thumping music and speeding cars.

  ‘Bloody hell, Ryno,’ Macka pants when they’re done. ‘You’re off the chain.’

  Jules can see Ryan’s pleased with the three of them—and himself. ‘Nice work on the cowbell.’

  She smiles and it catches him by surprise. His mouth softens in a way that sends warmth flooding through her and when she drops her gaze the heat spreads deeper. It takes a few seconds for the flush to subside, and it’s only then Jules notices the current has faded too—without her wrestling with it or releasing it into the earth. How did she do that?

  She’s still trying to understand what happened when her pocket vibrates.

  37

  Ryan watches Jules cross the floor, tuning out Tommy, who’s mucking around with an AC/DC riff. He’s buzzing from playing and from that moment just now with Jules. She followed his lead and kept the beat. She was into it. Ryan can’t tell if it’s that or the fact she’s wrapped in his Crows blanket that’s turning him on the most right now.

  She’s on her way to him because his phone’s gone off—he can tell from the crease in her forehead and the way her hand is in her pocket—but for a second he pretends it’s something else.

  He spins his stool so he’s side-on to the drum kit. He pats his thigh and raises his eyebrows. She falters, glances at Macka and gets it. At least Ryan assumes she does, because she perches on his knee and drapes an arm around his shoulder. In the moment, with the beat still in his blood, Ryan runs his palm up the outside of her thigh and pulls her closer. She stiffens and he feels the tiniest sensation from her fingers digging through his T-shirt. He can smell camphor from the blanket, and the lime and coconut handwash his mum buys.

  ‘The phone,’ he whispers, as if that was his sole motive for drawing her further onto his lap.

  He sees the pulse jump in her throat. Is she okay with his hand on her leg or is she about to shock him? Either way he can’t take his eyes from her lips, imagining how they’d feel, how her tongue would taste—and then stops, realising she’s going to feel him in a second if he’s not careful.

  ‘Bloody hell, you two, can’t you wait till we’re done?’ Macka plays a few dirty notes on his guitar. Jules ignores him and leans closer, hiding the phone from the others. She bends her head to his ear and his grip tightens on her thigh.

  ‘Are you going to look at this?’

  ‘Ah…yep.’ He takes the phone. ‘Pretend you’re talking to me.’

  He wakes up the screen, totally distracted by her breath on his ear and the overwhelming impulse to slide his hands under her shirt and touch her skin. It takes a second to register that the message is in code. Another second to focus enough to understand what it means.

  ‘What’s it say?’ Jules whispers.

  He squeezes her thigh in response—any excuse really. ‘I need to call the Major but it’s operational contact, not an emergency.’

  ‘Are you sure? What if it’s something to do with Mum?’

  ‘It would be a different code.’

  They make eye contact for the first time since she sat on his lap and his heart does an unexpected duck and weave.

  ‘Did you zap me?’ He’s more startled than alarmed.

  ‘No, but slide that hand any higher and I might.’

  Ryan eases his grip. He’s considering apologising when she leans in and kisses him. It takes him by surprise but he responds without hesitation. He keeps it PG-rated—no tongue, no more hands—and it’s over too soon. She’s already on her way back to the beanbag, his phone again in her pocket. He should have said something, done more with the moment.

  Macka wolf-whistles and Jules gives him a look that says: Grow up.

  Ah.

  She was keeping up their cover. Good thing he didn’t get too carried away or he would’ve made a total dick of himself. Across the room, Jules raises her eyebrows at him. Is she after a reaction or is this for Macka’s and Gemma’s benefit? He has no idea what’s going on so he shrugs at her—like, Macka’s a tool—and counts in the next song.

  Ryan wraps up the session an hour later. He waits until Gemma and Macka are headed into town before he goes outside to make the call. Tommy knows about the phone but Ryan doesn’t want him to overhear a conversation with the Major.

  Jules follows Ryan from the shed. The driveway’s lit up, but they’re far enough in shadow that nobody will see them from inside the house. Ryan’s aware of her closeness and is still trying to figure out that kiss.

  ‘You need to make the call,’ Jules says, impatient. Clearly he’s the only one who’s unfocused. Ryan hits dial and puts the phone on the opposite ear to where Jules is standing. The Major answers on the first ring.

  ‘Are you in a life-threatening situation, private?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then don’t ever take that long to report in again.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The rest of the call isn’t a conversation: it’s a briefing and an order. Ryan listens, nods to the night, and waits for a question that requires a response. His world narrows to the voice in his ear.

  ‘Is that clear, Walsh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The entire exchange lasts less than two minutes. When it’s done, Ryan pockets his phone and stares out into the darkness.

  ‘What did he say?’

  Ryan probably shouldn’t tell her. He heads for the light and the sliding door, but doesn’t open it, watches Tommy scribbling notes on a lyric sheet instead.

  ‘Stop figuring out how to edit the conversation and tell me.’

  He drums his fingers on the doorhandle. ‘Someone’s hacked surveillance footage from Pax Fed Tower and the CCTV camera outside that Lebanese joint you work at. They’re trying to ID me.’ Jules glances over her shou
lder to the road. ‘The mercenaries?’

  ‘Most likely, but the army keeps our details locked down. It won’t be that easy for them to find me.’

  It’s what the Major promised his family when Ryan signed on: that his role with SECDET Q18 wouldn’t put them in danger. That was before Ryan went off-script twice in the past week—and got himself filmed both times.

  ‘But you’re a bit famous, right?’

  How does she—

  Tommy. The little shit showed her the room, told her the story. ‘Only if you’re a hardcore AFL fan and you cared about the draft eighteen months ago. If not, it’ll take a while without a name.’ Unless they have access to intelligence databases and facial recognition software…

  Jules rubs her arms. Cold, self-conscious or spooked, he can’t tell.

  ‘What else did Major Voss say?’

  ‘Not much beyond the usual nagging.’

  The screen door to the house bangs open and Ryan’s mum appears at the gate.

  ‘Julianne, you might want to use the bathroom before Tommy comes inside. I don’t know what that boy does in there but it takes him half the night. Come on, I’ll show you where everything is.’

  Jules hesitates and Ryan tries to catch his mum’s attention. He never should have told her he was on protective duty with Jules: she’s taking his job too seriously. The burning tree incident might also have something to do with her vigilance.

  ‘I had fun tonight,’ Jules says. ‘I didn’t expect that, so… thanks.’

  ‘Any time,’ he says, not sure if she means the music or the kiss, and wishing he knew how to keep her out here. His mum stays at the gate as Jules passes. Now she wants to make eye contact with him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what. Keep it in your pants. Don’t complicate things.’

  The screen door slaps shut and Ryan breathes out his annoyance. There’s no way Jules missed hearing that.

  ‘I thought you and Jules weren’t a thang,’ Tommy says when he’s back in the shed.

  ‘You’re the one who told Macka she was my date for the party. We were playing along.’

  ‘I don’t know, bro. Looked pretty convincing to me. Maybe you should make an effort, see what happens.’

  Ryan flicks off the lights over the band gear. ‘You making an effort with Gemma?’

  ‘I’m taking my time, doing it right. You, on the other hand, have a small window of opportunity.’

  ‘You don’t think trying to hook up with Julianne De Marchi is a high-risk manoeuvre, given what she’s capable of?’

  Tommy grins. ‘Yeah, but what a way to go.’

  He’s got a point.

  Once Tommy’s in the house, Ryan puts his dad’s smart phone in the speaker dock—music is all it’s good for—and scrolls through his blues collection. Jamie Walsh never picked up an instrument but he raised his sons to appreciate every form of the blues, from John Lee Hooker to Stevie Ray Vaughan and Joe Bonamassa. He had a playlist for every occasion. Back before the bank knockbacks and burning sheep carcasses. Back when Jamie Walsh cared about things other than battles he couldn’t win. Ryan’s old man doesn’t listen to the blues anymore; those wailing guitars cut too close to the bone. If this morning’s soundtrack is any indication, his dad’s moved on to Moldovan thrash metal.

  Ryan cranks up the volume until Robert Johnson’s slide guitar fills the shed. The tractor was silent just now so the old man’s finally knocked off, but Ryan has no desire to see him. He’s tired of picking over the carcass of their exchange this afternoon, worrying about how much worse things are here. What he wants is to think about something else for a while. He digs around in his bag until his fingers find the false bottom and the leather pouch hidden beneath it.

  The fluoro in his bathroom is too bright but Ryan needs to see what he’s doing. He unwinds the tie around the pouch so he can lay it out flat on the sink. He slides out a vial and syringe, tries not to think about the fact he’s doing this at home.

  The Major gave him next to nothing over the phone. Ryan’s put his family at risk by bringing Julianne here and his commanding officer acts like it’s a routine assignment. It’s not. Nothing about this op is routine.

  Ryan draws the contents of the vial into the syringe, drops his jeans and lowers himself to the tiles. He props against the dead gas heater on the wall and stretches out. It’s always easier sitting down. He jabs the needle into his thigh—it burns the way it always does—and he’s about to deliver the dose when footfalls reverberate through the bathroom floor, picking up speed.

  Shit.

  Ryan fumbles for the knife in his boot—he can’t hear a thing over the guitar—and then Jules appears in the doorway, face flushed and eyes wide. He lowers the blade, relieved it’s her and not a gunman catching him with his pants around his ankles. And a needle sticking out of his leg. His relief evaporates.

  She stares at the syringe for another beat, breathing hard, and turns and strides out of sight. Fuck. He gives himself the shot and gets to his feet, listening for the sliding door to slam. Instead, the music shuts off and she’s on her way back, her steps hard and angry. He zips his jeans before she reappears.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he says.

  ‘I thought you were hurt. You were on the tiles.’ She folds her arms tight over her breasts. She’s in the jeans and hoodie she had on before, but now she’s wearing his mum’s old slippers.

  ‘I’m not a junkie—’

  ‘I worked that out from the fact you’re pumping it into a muscle and not your veins.’ She nods at the pouch on the sink. ‘What is it?’

  He thinks about lying, decides to go with a half-truth. ‘Booster shot.’

  ‘For what?’

  How much is he supposed to tell her? ‘It helps with fatigue and muscle recovery.’ He unfolds a medical waste bag and drops the used syringe inside, zips it shut.

  ‘And your nervous system.’ Jules blocks the bathroom doorway so he can’t leave without asking her to move or pushing past. ‘Mum and I were a mess for hours after that flash bomb but you guys were fine.’

  ‘We weren’t fine.’

  ‘You could see and breathe.’

  ‘If we hadn’t been able to, we might all be dead right now.’

  That makes her pause, if only for a second. ‘What else does it do?’

  A shrug. ‘Improves immunity, speeds up metabolism.’

  ‘Really? And everyone in the army is injecting themselves now?’

  Another decision. ‘Only us. We’re the “proof of concept”.’

  ‘There’s no government funding for military medical research, I know that. So who’s paying?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  Her eyes widen in disbelief—mocking him—and for the first time he catches a glimpse of Angela De Marchi in her.

  ‘You have no idea what they’re doing to you, do you?’

  ‘It’s the army, De Marchi. I do what I’m told.’

  Her gaze drops to the pouch on the vanity. She grinds her jaw while she thinks. ‘The contract work you do with Pax Fed… what else do they get for their investment?’

  He knows what she’s getting at. ‘Not that.’

  ‘How would you know? Have you asked?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Because you’re injecting it in your body.’ She throws her hands up in exasperation and walks away. ‘Another mindless soldier.’

  Why is she so pissed off at him?

  Jules scans the shed, looking for something—

  Crap.

  ‘Use the heater. It hasn’t had gas for years.’ He steps out of the way. ‘And I’m not mindless. I needed a job and this was the only one on offer.’

  Jules drops to her knees and grabs the cold metal grille, eyes blazing. ‘Would you have taken it if you’d known you’d be working for the company ruining this farm? How would your dad feel if he knew?’

  ‘You’re judging me? Tell me again why you were in Pax Fed Tower last week?’
/>   She opens her mouth like she’s going to answer, but then clamps her jaw shut and the heater flashes blue and white. It’s all over in a split second but the force of the charge leaves the hairs on Ryan’s arms standing. And now there are scorch marks on the wall.

  ‘The moral high ground doesn’t pay the bills,’ Jules says. None of the heat is gone from her anger. She uncurls her fingers from the grille and notices the black smudges on the wall. Exhales with frustration.

  Ryan doesn’t come any closer. He’s not convinced she’s done.

  She closes the lid of the toilet and sits down, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. Her hair falls in a curtain around her face and he watches her calm herself, slowly inhaling and exhaling. His own anger falls back into line.

  Pax Fed is only part of the reason his family’s in the mess it’s in, but De Marchi’s barb has stuck. His old man would totally lose the plot if he knew where this month’s money came from. It shouldn’t upset Jules this much, though; no matter how much she hates Pax Fed.

  ‘De Marchi, why’d you come back out?’

  ‘Tommy beat me to the bathroom…’ Jules tucks her hair behind her ear so she can see him and then shakes her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Understanding and regret arrive at the same time: she came back because of the kiss. Nothing is going to happen now, not with frustration and accusation taking up all the space between them.

  ‘Right.’ Ryan leaves the bathroom, ignoring the tight wad in his gut.

  ‘Can I borrow your phone?’

  That pulls him up short. ‘Who do you want to call?’

  ‘Khan.’

  ‘I’ll take you wherever you want to go. You don’t need to call her.’

  ‘I don’t want to go anywhere; I want to talk to Khan.’