by Paula Weston
When everyone’s done, Jules stands up to stack the plates.
‘Julianne, what exactly are you wearing?’ Michelle asks, eying her up and down.
‘Oh…’ The fact she’s dressed in Ryan’s footy shirt and skins gives away where she slept last night. She looks at Ryan for a clue on how to handle the conversation but he grabs the plates and disappears inside. What a hero.
Michelle watches the door slam and then offers Jules a tired half-smile. ‘I’m not entirely sure the boots work with that outfit.’
Jules is fumbling for a response when tyres rumble over the sheep grid at the top of the driveway. The dogs race up the fence, barking. It’s more than one vehicle—
Ryan bursts out of the back door, rounding the side of the house and bolting for the shed.
‘Everyone get inside. Now.’
50
Black vans with dark windows, three of them, speeding towards the house. His house.
Ryan snatches the handgun from the duffel bag and races back across the driveway. He hurdles the gate and flattens his back to the house, clicks off the safety, breathing hard.
Can he take out a merc unit on his own? He’s barely fired a weapon away from the shooting range, but he’s a good shot, right? He sucks in a deep breath and pokes his head around the corner. The first van skids to a halt ten metres from the house gate.
There’s no way he can protect his family and Jules from these guys. How did they find them? How many of them can fit into three vans? They’re tactical, which means they’ll be coming at the house from all directions. The moment grinds down to his staccato heartbeats. A car door opens.
Do it. Step out from the house and unload the clip into these bastards.
Do it.
Do—
‘Stand down, private.’
It takes time for his brain to change gears. Ryan stays pinned against the wall for another five seconds before he checks around the corner. It’s long enough to confirm who’s standing beside the open drivers door, and his legs almost give out.
‘If you answered your bloody phone you would’ve known we were coming.’
Ryan clicks on the safety and steps around the corner to face the Major and Frenchie. The Major takes in the state of his face, says nothing. He’s come armed: his Browning is holstered on his thigh. Ryan presses his own gun against his leg to hide his tremors.
‘Where’s De Marchi?’
‘I’m here.’
Ryan glances over his shoulder and realises she didn’t go inside with the others.
‘Julianne, get in the van,’ the Major says.
Ryan tries to see who’s in the other two vehicles. ‘Is the whole unit here?’
‘Get your family, private. They’re coming with us.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re on thin ice, Walsh.’
Ryan scans the road, his pulse erratic. The op’s gone pear-shaped and his family’s not safe. But his old man needs space and time to sort himself out here, not be bundled into a van and taken God knows where because Ryan didn’t think hard enough about what it would mean to bring his work home.
‘It’s not a good time for them to be away from the farm—’
‘I don’t give a shit, soldier. I gave you an order.’
Ryan fingers the butt of his pistol. If he raises the weapon, his career in the army is done. He might also wear a bullet for his trouble.
The screen door opens behind him. ‘What’s going on?’
The Major takes in the sight of Ryan’s dad: dishevelled, dirt-covered and bloodied. Ryan’s mum and Tommy flank him.
‘I need you all in Port Augusta. It’s not safe for you to be here today.’
Port Augusta?
‘Why isn’t it safe?’ Ryan’s mum demands.
‘That’s classified.’
‘That’s not good enough. Ryan?’
Ryan stretches his neck to one side, jittery from adrenaline and still rattled from the thought his old man was ready to eat a bullet.
‘For how long?’ Ryan asks.
‘A day. Maybe a night.’
The Major shifts his weight. It’s barely noticeable but it’s enough for Ryan to know the Major’s agitated, because that man never moves without intention. This is serious shit.
His dad gives the Major a baleful glare and Ryan steps between them. The mercs must be on their way. Why else would the Major bring the entire unit across the ranges?
‘I don’t like this arsehole coming on to my property and giving me orders.’ His dad’s trying to muster the energy for an argument, but he left it all at the back of the shearing shed.
‘This is shitty timing,’ Ryan says to his mum, ‘but the Major wouldn’t be here if he didn’t need to be.’
‘Is this about what’s happening at the nuclear plant?’ Tommy asks.
The full reality of the situation smacks into Ryan. The longer it takes Q18 to get back to the protester camp, the longer Angie and Waylo have no backup.
‘I don’t know, but we need to move.’
Jules wraps the parka around herself, trying to hide the fact she’s in Ryan’s footy gear. ‘Is Angie all right?’
The Major levels his gaze at her. ‘Did you see her on the news?’
‘That was twelve hours ago.’
‘Her status is unchanged.’
It’s army jargon, but it seems to reassure Jules.
The Major follows Ryan into the shed to get his kit while everyone else scrapes together an overnight bag in the house.
‘What did I tell you about returning my calls?’ The Major’s eyes rake over Ryan’s busted face. ‘Did your old man do that?’
He hates that his commanding officer thinks that about his dad. ‘I got jumped by some wankers at the footy club.’
The Major’s nostrils flare. ‘The footy club?’
He repacks his pistol. ‘It was Tommy’s birthday.’
‘And you took De Marchi?’ The Major gives him the kind of stare that makes his balls crawl up into his belly. Ryan ducks into the bathroom, tosses Jules’ party dress into his wash basket in case the Major goes in there too.
‘Where are we taking my family?’ He asks it more to distract the Major than because he expects an answer.
‘A motel.’
‘And us, sir? Me and Julianne?’
‘Happy Growers.’
Ryan pauses, halfway bent over to pick up his T-shirt from the floor. ‘That’s a Pax Fed facility.’
‘Are you questioning me, Walsh?’
‘No, sir.’
But the news turns his gut queasy. The last time Jules was in a Pax Fed facility she was lucky to get out alive. Him too.
The Major directs Ryan’s mum and dad and Tommy to the second van. They’ve left food and water for the dogs and checked the gates. Ryan watches the van door slam shut and realises he didn’t say a proper goodbye to his family. Jules waits beside him, fidgety. Close enough that he can brush his knuckles across hers. He’d hold her hand but that’d be a red flag to the Major and probably result in them being separated.
Frenchie is waiting in the back of the lead van. It’s got bench seats on both sides, adapted for military use. It smells of oiled leather and pine air freshener, in better nick than most of the vehicles they knock around in.
Frenchie nods at Jules. ‘You’re with me.’
Jules has changed into her own jeans, T-shirt and hoodie. She sits next to Frenchie and tucks her hands between her knees. Ryan can’t tell if she’s anxious or afraid, or if it’s his nervous energy that’s unsettling her. He needs to calm himself or he’ll make the trip worse for her than it needs to be. Maybe it really is nothing to worry about. Ryan tries to steady his pulse. Something’s not right about the way Frenchie’s sitting.
The Major climbs in and takes the seat next to Ryan and as soon as Ryan glances at him, Frenchie makes her move.
Too late, Ryan sees the syringe sink into Jules’ neck. He reacts on instinct, punching Frenchie hard in the jaw, be
fore the Major grabs him by the throat, slams him back into the seat, and presses a gun barrel to his kneecap.
‘Calm the fuck down.’
Jules wilts in her seat. Ryan watches, helpless, struggling for air against the Major’s grip. The pressure eases as soon as he stops straining, but the Major’s rough fingers stay in place. So does the gun barrel. Frenchie rubs her jaw and glares at him. She carefully extracts the needle from Jules and repositions her head so it won’t bump against the window when they take off.
Someone climbs into the cab and starts the engine. The van rolls forward, leading the convoy around the gum tree and back up the driveway. Jules lolls against Frenchie as they bounce over the grid, her jaw slack.
Ryan would take a bullet to his new knee if he thought he could get Jules out of here. But that’s not going to help her or his family, so he keeps his hands splayed on his thighs and his eyes forward.
He’s out of options. As usual.
51
Angie is off-centre as soon as she steps into the donga and it takes a few seconds for her to figure out it’s the floor that’s tilted—not her. She reaches for Waylon to steady herself.
Ollie came for them five minutes ago. Angie’s unclear why Waylon was included in the summons and there was no chance to figure it out with Xavier’s errand boy escorting them across the camp.
The man himself is seated at a table under a bank of television monitors, wearing yesterday’s T-shirt.
‘Grab a seat.’ He gestures to two folding chairs opposite him and nods for Ollie to leave. Ollie, ever obedient, disappears outside and closes the door behind him.
Xavier watches Angie sit down. The air conditioner above them rattles and hums, pumping out a lukewarm breeze. Angie has lived this moment a dozen times in her mind. She was primed to leave Xavier in no doubt how she felt about being used as a prop until Waylon, in that annoyingly calm manner of his, suggested she’d keep him wrong-footed if she didn’t take the bait. It’s the only reason she’s holding her tongue now, and the effort is making her teeth itch.
Waylon spreads out on the folding chair, legs apart and arms loose in his lap. ‘How long were you at Honeymoon?’ he asks Xavier.
‘Five years,’ Xavier says. ‘You?’
An easy shrug. ‘About the same. A few years after you, I reckon.’
Angie tries to hide her surprise. Is that the truth?
Xavier sits forward. ‘Your mum worked in the mine, right?’
‘She drove a truck. We left before I started school. I don’t remember much about the place.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘No idea. He didn’t go north with us.’
A beat. Then: ‘How’s your mum’s health?’
Waylon’s fingers brush the tatty leather wristband. ‘She passed eight years ago. Lung cancer.’
Xavier’s mouth quirks down. ‘I’m sorry. Radiation exposure?’
‘Hard to know. She was a chain smoker.’
Xavier checks Angie. ‘You didn’t know.’ It’s not a question. Apparently she can’t stay quiet and also keep a poker face.
‘I don’t talk about it,’ Waylon says, not meeting her gaze. ‘If you haven’t been through it you don’t get it.’
Angie doesn’t know his specific brand of loss, but she understands something of grief. Did Waylon not trust her enough to tell her? The sting surprises her.
‘Did your mum get treatment?’ Xavier asks, more interested in Waylon’s story than Angie’s reaction.
‘At the start. But we didn’t have health insurance, and she didn’t respond to the drugs.’
‘What was the prognosis?’
‘Forty-five per cent.’
If Waylon’s mum had come in at fifty per cent she would have qualified for ongoing treatment in a public hospital. Another piece of genius economic rationalisation.
‘Were you there at the end?’ Angie asks, breaking her silence.
He nods. ‘She was in a hospice in Alice Springs.’ Waylon runs his fingertip along the edge of the laminate table and Angie sees the scars he hides beneath that practised nonchalance. He needs to get his armour back up before Xavier digs any deeper.
‘Xavier,’ she says. ‘What about your sister? How is she?’
She does not want to empathise with this bastard, but she needs to know.
‘She’s in remission.’
‘She made the percentage?’
‘Yeah.’
Waylon rests a boot on a knee. ‘You joined the Agitators for her.’
Xavier leans forward, everything about him sharpening. ‘If we can’t recognise the danger of uranium before it comes out of the ground, how are we ever going to see the danger after it’s been spent? The power station, that silo…We’ve lost sight of the threat. Nothing changes if nothing changes.’
‘So you keep saying,’ Angie says. ‘What is it we’re going to change?’
‘We’re going to remind the world what we’re playing with here.’
‘Cute sound bite, Xavier. Now tell me what you’ve got planned. You’ve put me front and centre—’
‘Where else would you be?’
‘How about in the loop?’
He gets the full force of an Angie De Marchi eyeballing, and falters. It’s a small victory.
‘What do you think would happen if a thousand people swarmed over the camp fence and marched on the nuclear plant?’
‘They’d get shot.’
‘With rubber bullets.’
‘Which bloody well hurt.’ Angie copped one in the leg in Brisbane a decade ago. The bruising was horrific and she limped for a month.
‘Your mates in the media will start speculating on what might have happened if we’d made it to the plant,’ Xavier presses. ‘We’ll get everyone talking about the risks again. The promise of jobs and reliable electricity has drowned out the hard lessons of Chernobyl and Fukushima. This country needs a scare.’
Waylon pushes back his chair and stands up. ‘That’s it? We’re going to charge at the plant with placards? I thought you said we’re going to change things.’
‘We will,’ Xavier says, surprised at his anger.
‘You’re no different to the rest of them. I thought you had some balls but you’re weak as piss.’ He heads for the door.
‘Hang on, mate.’ Xavier’s up and after him. ‘Hang on.’
Waylon stops and turns, hands shoved in his pockets. ‘What?’
‘I’m not like the rest of them.’ Xavier positions himself between Waylon and the exit. Angie stays in her chair, fascinated. He wants to impress Waylon. Bloody hell, the kid’s playing him like a piano.
‘You have to trust me that there’s more.’
Waylon considers him. Runs his tongue across his teeth. ‘Like what?’
‘I can’t tell you, but it’s going to be big.’
Push him, Angie thinks. He wants to tell you.
There’s a bang on the door. ‘It’s me,’ Ollie calls from the other side.
Xavier hesitates a good three seconds. ‘Come in.’
The door swings open. ‘There’s someone asking for Waylon,’ he says. ‘A woman. Didn’t give her name.’
There’s no hesitation, no catching Waylon off guard. ‘Is she a cop?’
‘You expecting one?’
Waylon grins, sliding back into himself. ‘Always.’
It disarms Ollie. ‘This chick looks more like an accountant. And she has a Syrian accent.’
Khan.
Angie forces herself to stay in neutral. The muscles in her face are instantly heavy with the effort of not reacting. Khan should be with the Major. What is she doing at the camp?
‘Is she at the main gate?’ Waylon asks.
‘Yeah. Nobody gets in unless they’ve been vouched for.’
Angie curls her toes in her boots until her feet ache. There’s no way she can sit here playing mind games with Xavier while Waylon meets with Khan.
‘You coming?’ Waylon asks her. She tries for an a
greeable shrug, not wanting to give away her eagerness.
Xavier steps aside so they can leave. ‘Everything’s set for after dark. Come see me before dusk.’
Even out of the donga and back on flat ground, Angie’s off-kilter. She should care more about what Xavier’s got planned for tonight, but all she can think about is Khan and the fact she’s risked blowing Waylon’s cover by reaching out.
It can only mean one thing.
Jules is in trouble.
52
The Major hates tomatoes, always has.
The Happy Growers packing house is empty and the conveyer belts silent but the smell is everywhere. He keeps his breathing shallow as he crosses the floor. Julianne De Marchi trudges in front of him, groggy. She’s pissed off, but not so much she’s forgotten he’s armed. Walsh, for obvious reasons, is outside with the rest of Q18.
The Major finds Peta Paxton in the lunchroom where she said she’d be. The smell of stale coffee at least masks the tomatoes. Two tables have been pushed against a wall and crammed with an electron microscope and a bunch of equipment he doesn’t recognise.
‘You have an interesting definition of “safe”,’ the Major says.
Peta Paxton stands in front of the window, framed by a field of silver panels. ‘You said she would be unconscious.’
‘What can I say? It was a strong dose.’
‘Give her another one.’
‘She doesn’t need it. She’ll be harmless for a while yet.’
The girl in question glares at him, bleary-eyed from the shot.
Paxton clears her throat. ‘Julianne, have a seat please.’
Julianne doesn’t move. Paxton gestures to the door. ‘Thank you, Major Voss.’
He very deliberately checks over her makeshift lab, slower this time. Yet again, she’s fallen short of their agreement for full disclosure. It shouldn’t irritate him as much as it does. Of course she manipulated him: she’s Peta Paxton. But she’s grossly overestimated his capacity to indulge her.
‘Where’s everyone who works here?’