by Paula Weston
‘Major Voss and his unit were at the Happy Growers sun farm—’
‘The Major had his hands full.’
‘Yes, protecting a Paxton Federation facility from mercenaries your brother hired to kill Angela and Julianne De Marchi.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
Khan checks with the Major. He nods. This should be good.
‘Ms Paxton, Major Voss has handed over audio files that indicate you clearly understood what your brother had planned.’
Paxton turns on him. ‘You recorded me?’
‘Standard operating procedure.’ It’s not, but she doesn’t know that. She also doesn’t know that if Angela De Marchi had died beside that railway line, this night would be turning out very differently for her and her brother.
‘You’re under contract, so any associated material belongs to me—’
‘Our contract ended the minute your brother derailed a train loaded with radioactive waste.’
‘I had nothing to do with that!’ Her neck flushes.
‘But you knew Z12 was coming for Julianne.’
‘I was trying to protect her, as you well know.’
‘You wanted samples from her while she was still breathing.’
Peta blanches. ‘I want my lawyer.’
‘Why?’ Khan says. She’s fresh from decontamination, dressed in borrowed fatigues. ‘At this stage you’re only a witness and this is a routine conversation.’
Peta reaches for her wrists and finds them bare. ‘You’re out of your depth, agent. Neither of you should underestimate my brother. One of your team shot him, Major, and he’ll put your unit in the middle of this if you’re not careful.’
The Major scoffs. ‘That pencil neck wore a bullet from a weapon registered to mercenaries he funded, and right now he’s probably in a safe house having it dug out by someone who’s not a doctor. Good luck getting all that to fit into a stitch-up job.’
‘This is where you help yourself,’ Khan says, closing the noose.
‘How?’
‘You have accounting records showing Xavier was on the Paxton Federation payroll.’
‘Why would I give them to you? Any connection between my company and Xavier would be devastating for our reputation and share price.’
‘I think we can say that ship has sailed.’
‘Not if you want to protect Julianne’s secret from becoming public.’
Khan raises her eyebrows. ‘That secret will cripple your company. There’s a difference between evidence proving your brother went to extreme measures to discredit the Agitators and evidence that he hired a mercenary team to clean up the illegal activity of your division.’
Peta taps her thumb and middle finger on her breastbone. The Major turns in his chair and smiles at her. He’s enjoying this even more than he expected.
‘You’re an intelligent woman, Paxton. Read the writing on the wall: one or both of you are going under the bus. You can choose who it’s going to be—or I will.’
70
‘BALL!’
Ryan, Tommy and their dad yell it simultaneously. This time Jules doesn’t flinch. The football spills out of the pack and a player in black and white scoops it up and kicks it clear.
‘I don’t understand the holding the ball rule,’ she says.
Ryan grunts. ‘Neither does the umpire.’
They’re in the Walsh lounge room watching the Adelaide Crows play Collingwood. Outside the sky is low and grey. Jules and Ryan are on the couch, close but not touching. Tommy’s sprawled on the carpet and Jamie is in a battered recliner nursing a cup of tea. They run through what’s turning into a pattern of game commentary:
Jamie: ‘Pick ’em up.’
Tommy: ‘Who’s on him?’
Ryan: ‘Tackle!’
Ryan and his dad rock back and groan in concert when a Crows defender handballs straight to an opposition player. Jules catches Tommy’s eye and she wonders how long it’s been since the three of them watched a game together like this.
The train derailment was a week ago. Jules and Angie have been at the farm for three days, since Angie was released from hospital. The quarantine zone hasn’t been lifted but the Major secured clearance for them to leave with the Walshes, despite the farm being outside the blockade perimeter.
The current has barely stirred all week. Jules is trying to figure out if she’s managing her emotions better or if she’s actually in control of the charge—or if they’re one and the same thing. The last knots in her chest have been working themselves free since Angie’s discharge. Her mum’s heart was given the all-clear, even if doctors couldn’t explain the blistered skin. That’s healing too, now.
The Crows score from a turnover and the Walsh men erupt. Ryan bumps his knee against hers, sharing the moment, and Jules is well aware of how strange it is to be with him in his home, doing something as normal as watching a game of football. He’s wearing army-issue cargo shorts and a T-shirt a size too small—it could be his dad’s or Tommy’s—and he seems to take up even more space than usual.
Jules was awake waiting for him when he came home late last night in an army jeep, dropped off at the gate. She’d wondered if it would be awkward, not having seen or spoken to him all week. They barely knew each other, after all. She’d started second-guessing their moments together, wondering if the way she remembered things had been distorted by adrenaline and stress. And then he unlocked the shed and found her standing inside the door—his bed unmade because she’d been sleeping in it. He’d dropped his swag and caught her in a hug, and when he kissed her it was so tender that she wept. They talked for a while, and then their conversation shifted to one without words…before they talked some more.
Now Ryan is so close on the couch she can barely stand not touching him. He catches her watching him and his mouth softens, knowing. Jules is well aware they’re not alone, so when she hears the back door slam she gives him a guilty smile and slips from the room.
Michelle and Angie have been on the verandah drinking tea, continuing to bond over their mutual loathing for Pax Fed.
‘What’s the score?’ Michelle asks Jules, rinsing cups in the sink. Angie leans her crutches against the counter and eases herself onto a stool. Her leg is heavily strapped and she’s wearing a moonboot. She pants a little from the effort.
‘The Crows are down by three goals. It’s half-time.’
‘A win would be nice. Be good for the boys.’ Jules can’t tell if Michelle means in football or life, and suspects she’d take either.
‘Oi,’ Tommy calls out from the lounge. ‘The news is on. There’s something coming up about the Paxtons.’
Jules and Angie exchange a look and Michelle turns on the kitchen screen.
Federal police have today released the name of the man responsible for Saturday night’s train derailment near the Spencer Gulf Safe Energy Storage Facility. As speculated, it was Agitators leader James Clay Xavier, who died after driving onto the tracks and colliding with the train, sparking the ongoing emergency blockade of Port Augusta.
To date, ARPANSA has detected minor radiation leakage from one of the twelve radwaste casks attached to the train. Locals, travellers and protesters caught within a fifty-kilometre radius of the crash site continue to undergo radiation testing and potassium iodide treatment as a precaution. Despite reassurances from ARPANSA, a wave of anti-nuclear protests has risen in cities around the nation.
The images that have dominated the news all week since the crash get another showing.
Sources have now also confirmed that former Agitators leader Angela De Marchi—who we now know was in the vehicle moments before Saturday’s near-catastrophic crash—was working with federal police for reasons yet to be made clear. She is not a suspect.
The footage shifts to a shot of Bradford Paxton being driven into an underground car park behind tinted windows. The skin on Jules’ arm prickles.
Speculation continues to mount over the role of Paxton Federation in th
e radwaste train crash and the attack on its own Brisbane headquarters earlier this month, following the alleged link between Bradford Paxton and James Clay Xavier. The board has temporarily stood down Paxton from his position as acting chair, with his sister Peta replacing him in the interim. She has refused to comment on the accusations against her brother and he continues to deny all allegations. Meanwhile, Paxton Federation shares continue to plummet, compounded by the news that the Happy Growers sun farm will require rigorous and ongoing testing for up to a decade to ensure its produce is safe for human consumption…
Jamie appears in the dining-room doorway with Ryan and Tommy behind him. ‘No mention of the Priority Ag Practices Bill,’ he says to Michelle.
‘The Senate doesn’t sit for a few more weeks,’ Angie says. ‘It’s not over yet.’
Tyres rumble across the sheep grid at the top of the driveway and the dogs race up the fence. Tommy peers out the window.
‘The Major’s here.’
They file out onto the verandah and Tommy calls the dogs to heel. The breeze is cool; Jules pulls down her jumper sleeves. It feels like rain. Ryan checks the sky but says nothing: he doesn’t want to jinx it.
Waylon climbs out first, his left arm in a sling. Angie elbows her way through the gate and grabs him in an awkward one-armed hug. She drops a crutch and Ryan scoops forward to catch it.
Major Voss nods at Jamie and Michelle but is more interested in watching Angie and Waylon. The Major’s wearing army fatigues and combat boots, and looks nothing like Jules’ dad, but it brings a familiar ache all the same.
‘You look better,’ Waylon says to Angie when they break apart. ‘Should you be on your feet?’
‘I’m not an invalid, Waylon. And you still need a haircut.’
‘Geez, you’re a hard woman.’
Up until the army cleared him and put him to work, Waylon visited Angie every day in hospital. There was a lengthy conversation about Waylon’s mother—Jules left the room to give them privacy—and they’ve since settled into a new rhythm of mutual nagging. Seeing them fall easily into their patter, Jules realises that motherhood might have been easier for Angie if she’d had a son.
‘I saw Khan this morning,’ Waylon says. ‘Peta Paxton’s agreed to keep paying for treatment.’
Understanding passes between them. The consequences for Xavier’s sister have weighed on them both. As has Xavier’s death: there’s no way to know if he was always intending to stay behind the wheel, or if the events in the camp pushed him over the edge.
Tommy steps forward and introduces himself to Waylon, drawing him away from Angie. While they’re chatting, the Major takes the crutch from Ryan and hands it back to Jules’ mum.
‘I thought I would’ve heard from you before now,’ she says, not quite accusing.
‘I’ve had a bit on my plate.’
‘Your phone not working?’
His nostrils flare, the tiniest of reactions. ‘Get on with it then.’
‘With what?’
‘The bollocking you’ve been saving up for me.’
‘Is that your idea of an apology, Voss?’
Ryan and Waylon both have one ear on the conversation. Jules is a little riveted herself.
‘I make decisions based on tactical need. They’re not always popular.’
‘Bloody hell, you could be a politician.’
He grimaces. ‘Low blow.’
‘No, Major, you’d feel a low blow if I gave you one.’
He kneels, trying to hide a smile while he resticks a Velcro strap on Angie’s leg brace. ‘De Marchi, you’re not half as scary as you think you are.’
‘Is that right?’
He straightens. They eye each other for a long moment before the Major lifts his hand and brushes his thumb beneath the stitches on Angie’s cheek. ‘That’s going to scar.’
Angie doesn’t pull away. She gives a small shrug, eyes not leaving his. ‘Doesn’t everything?’
Jules watches the exchange. This is definitely the start of something interesting.
‘We fly out of Adelaide tomorrow afternoon. There’s room for you and Julianne.’
Jules’ mouth instantly turns to dust. ‘On a Hercules?’
The Major turns around and seems surprised to find everyone still there.
‘Walsh tells me you enjoyed the flight down?’
She shoots Ryan a dirty look.
‘That it, then, Major?’ Jamie stands on the house side of the gate, the rust-coloured kelpie leaning against his leg for a head scratch.
The Major’s face settles to its usual stony contour. ‘You need to get used to your boy being in danger. He’s a soldier, and if he learns to follow an order he has the potential to build a career in the military.’
‘A career?’ Michelle says. ‘You’ve got him for four more years, Major. Don’t get greedy.’
‘He might not want to come back.’
Jamie grunts. ‘That’ll be his choice. Not yours, and not ours.’
Jules feels the ripple in Ryan’s energy. His gaze drifts to the paddock and she sees the call of the dirt, the sweat, the heartache. All of the things that make this home: the push and pull of his parents…jamming with Tommy and Gemma and Macka… kicking the footy on the road under gum trees.
‘He’ll be back,’ Tommy says, but he doesn’t sound confident. Maybe he sees the conflict in Ryan or the way Ryan and Waylon stand shoulder to shoulder, stances mirrored.
The Major hands over a fresh supply of potassium iodide—the official reason for his visit—and Jules watches the jeep crunch back up the driveway when he and Waylon leave.
When they’re clear of the gate, Angie hobbles to the verandah and drops awkwardly to sit at the table. She nudges a chair with her good foot in Jamie’s direction. ‘I want to write about what’s happening here.’
Jamie shakes his head. ‘We’ve copped enough shit from the district.’
‘You think silence is going to change that?’ She catches Tommy’s eye. ‘Do you have a notebook I could borrow?’
Tommy disappears into the house and Jamie takes the chair, wary. Jules sits on the concrete with her back against a post, looking out over the house paddock. It’s turning colder and she should go inside; but it’s been a while since she’s seen her mum hungry for a story that’s not theirs. Ryan stays in the driveway with the dogs, his arms resting on the gate to watch from a safe distance.
‘Pax Fed will survive the scandal. You know that, right?’ Michelle says, joining them. ‘It’ll be business as usual in six months if the rest of the country doesn’t start to understand what’s happening to people like us.’
Jamie digs around in one ear, staring out at the paddock. He’s washed his hair and had a shave and his eyes are less bloodshot after a week off the rum. The tractor’s parked up near the shed, the alien-looking seeder unhooked. ‘Nobody cares, Shell. I’ll sound like a selfish prick.’
‘No, you’ll sound like a farmer who understands the land and what it takes to be sustainable for a century. We know there’s no going back once you contaminate your soil with modified seed. We know you can’t undo genetic modification once you throw mutant genes into your breeding line. But do people in the city get it when they’re sitting in their cafes eating their artisan bread and feeling guilty about global hunger? Do they understand the cost of this mad rush to “fix” the world?’
Her energy thrums and Jules understands how long Michelle Walsh has been waiting for this fight.
Tommy reappears with a spiral notebook, flipping through it before he hands it over. He carefully rips out a handful of used pages. ‘I’m a writing a song with Gemma,’ he says, unapologetic, and heads back inside.
‘Why can’t we lobby for export practices that support the global grain supply and our own agricultural industry?’ Angie says. ‘You’d be viable right now if you had access to drought relief and the inland water supply, correct?’
‘Probably.’
‘That’s not a big ask: all it
does is give you the same support every other farmer gets around here. It would force the banks to stop letting Pax Fed dictate who gets a loan.’
Jamie scruffs his palm on his stubbled jaw. ‘What do you reckon, Ryan?’
Ryan straightens, surprised to be asked. He thinks before he answers. ‘I reckon Angie knows what she’s talking about. And we’ve got nothing to lose.’
Jamie rolls his shoulders. Exhales. Finally he pushes back his chair. ‘I’m watching the rest of the footy first.’ He gets up and goes inside. Angie and Michelle smile at each other, co-conspirators. They head indoors too.
A raindrop lands on Jules’ nose, carried on the wind. She leans out from under the cover of the bullnose and another hits her eyebrow, runs into her eye. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
‘You coming inside?’ Ryan says, entering the yard.
‘I want to watch the rain come in.’
He lowers himself beside her, lets his shoulder rest against hers. ‘It might only be a few drops. It doesn’t always pour when it gets like this.’
Lightning stutters inside the clouds massing over the paddock. The air charges with static, lifting the hairs on her arm. The charge hums. Not frenetic, not threatening. Simply there.
‘I think it will today.’
Acknowledgments
Thank you, as always, to the professionals who keep believing in my work and bringing it into the world: my agent Lyn Tranter, and Mandy Brett and the rest of the incredibly supportive team at Text Publishing. Special thanks, Mandy, for your insight, patience and skill at prompting me to come at my story from new directions.
Thank you to Rebecca Cram, Michelle Reid, Vikki Wakefield, Alison Arnold and Tony Minerds. Your feedback was again invaluable and always appreciated.
Thank you to Paul Weston, who explained why and how gas explodes. Any errors occasioned by creative licence in writing about said explosions are mine alone.
Thank you again to all the readers, bloggers, booksellers, teachers and librarians who support Australian fiction—especially Australian young adult fiction. Huge shout out to the #LoveOzYA crowd.