by Barry Klemm
As was his life, he realised, when he arrived at his house and saw Larry’s car parked on the driveway. He let himself in and tried to slip into his chair in front of the television as if it was just any other evening. The X-files was on—bloody perfect. How could he make what he had to say believable under these circumstances? Judy sat at one end of the sofa, Larry at the other. Cups on the coffee table said tea and chocolate cake had been served and a glass for Larry’s scotch. He wondered if they had sat so far apart all evening—it was a set-up anyway—he had telephoned to warn them he was coming.
No one spoke. Perhaps they were waiting for an ad. Feeling decidedly like an intruder in his own home, he decided to head off toward the bedrooms instead.
“Where are you going?” Judy asked sharply.
“See the kids.”
“They’re asleep. Leave them alone.”
“I better be going,” Larry interjected, slapping his thighs as he stood.
“We’ll all stay here and talk about this,” Judy demanded. Mulder and Scully were entering a dark building with torches flashing—how could anyone talk about anything at such a time.
“What do you want me to say?” Carrick asked, still standing, still on his way to see the kids.
“Who were those people?” Judy demanded.
Carrick could not help smiling at the way a man like Thyssen might have described himself.
“Who they said they were,” he offered.
“They were doctors. Looking for you. They just walk in here and take over and give no explanation. Off they go. What the hell is going on, Brian?”
Carrick shrugged. He would have liked, had he been able, to give Thyssen’s explanation right now, but could hardly remember any of it.
“I have a condition. They are studying it.”
“What condition?”
“That’s what they’re trying to find out.”
“Well I want to find out too. But I’m using doctors we can trust—not strangers from foreign countries. It’s all arranged.”
“What’s arranged?”
She paused, glancing at Larry who stood with his head bowed, unable to raise his eyes. Judy lowered her own voice and tried to adopt a reasonable tone.
“When you went this time, I said: that’s it. You need treatment, right away.”
“I don’t need treatment. I’m perfectly...”
“Keep your voice down. You’ll wake the kids.”
He shut up. In his agitation, he knew that everything he said and did now would only serve to prove her contention. Think of the kids, he told himself. Keep it simple. He moved to confront them directly, trying to look as unthreatening as possible.
“What, exactly, have you arranged?” he asked softly.
Again she needed to look to Larry for aid, and this time Good Old Reliable forced himself to meet his responsibilities.
“You gotta understand, mate,” Larry said. “You just can’t go on like this. Causes all sorts of problems. Tryin’ to explain to the kids and the neighbours. Stealing trucks. It’s gotta stop.”
“I put your bloody truck back!”
“Sure. I ain’t worried about that. It’s you we’re worried about. What’s good for you.”
“Just leave me alone.”
“We gotta think of your wellbeing.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, mate. No,” Larry said and moved to stand directly in front of him, gripping his shoulders. “You ain’t even nearly okay, mate. You got a problem and we’re all here for you. You gotta believe that’s why we done what we done.”
Carrick eyed him suspiciously. “Just exactly what have you done?”
“You gotta... You are to report to the local cop shop, mate. That’s all.”
“Why? Are you having me arrested?”
“Not arrested, no. You gotta be put somewhere where you can get some treatment.”
“Like where? The loony bin?”
“Nothing like that. It’s called a Trauma Centre...”
“You can’t do this.”
“It’s done, mate. Judy signed the papers and the cops are waiting. Either you go there or they come here and get you.”
“This is totally unnecessary. Call Doctor Campbell and ask her.”
“I did,” Judy put in. “She tried to tell me there was nothing wrong with you. But I also spoke to Dr Mangels and we are following his advice.”
Carrick sighed. Was there a way out of this? It was too silly for words, but he knew he needed to keep control now or else it would get right out of hand. He burned to smash Larry’s sympathetic face, and Judy’s... No. Nothing like that. Stay calm.
“I want to see the kids first.”
“You can’t.” Judy said firmly. “They aren’t here. We had them removed when we knew you were on your way.”
“What? There’s no danger...”
“We can’t know that. This is how hostage situations develop. We had to take precautions.”
“You think I’m that bad?”
“It wasn’t worth the risk.”
“There’s no risk. None at all. I’m calm. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Then there won’t be any problem, Brian,” Larry was saying. “Sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”
Carrick eyed them, one then the other. Larry was right. The sooner this ended the better. The two people he trusted most had betrayed him completely. There was nothing to be done after that. The numbness of shock had a firm grip on him, enfeebling him in every way.
“What do you want me to do?” he murmured.
*
When a man walked into his office and shot him in the middle of the chest, Joe Solomon was forced to make a determination. The young man had shot him with a paint-ball gun, splashing red dye all over his shirt.
“It’s just to show you how slack security is around here,” Cecily trumpeted. The `assassin’ had been her boyfriend.
“The security isn’t slack,” Gloria mused. “It doesn’t exist.”
What did they expect? Since he had become a cripple—`physically challenged’ some idiot always chortled when he described himself that way—and they moved the chambers to the ground floor, putting ramps in and opening up spaces to accommodate the wheelchair, the result was easy access, not just for him but for anyone. Although he could not imagine why anyone would want to shoot him, the girls insisted on protection and so he had no choice but to call Barney Touhey. He had won a case for Barney years ago when Touhey Security Systems was feeling the economic pinch and Joe had accepted only slight payment. But Barney was a good bloke and would help out anyway, even if there wasn’t an unspoken debt.
“But who’d want to shoot me?” he protested again when Barney arrived.
“Great bloke like you, Joe. Not an enemy in the world, hey?” Barney chuckled.
“Having good friends is the basis of this business,” Joe muttered.
“A man is measured by quality of his enemies, Joe. You sure?”
“Yeah, well, in your line of business, you’d have to believe that, wouldn’t you.”
“Well, Joe, let’s see. You got elected to the City Council again, I noticed.”
“Fifth time in a row.”
“So there’s all them crooked traders you defeated and all those who would vote for them, and the opposition in every issue that you fight, and the people that affects. How about all them for starters?”
“I fight for seats at bus stops and unfair dismissal cases—gentle stuff. If I was to take on the larger traders and the corruption in the re-zoning system or stuff like that, I’d understand.”
“Why don’t you?”
“There’d be no one left on the council, nor trading in the city, except me.”
“But they all love you.”
“They don’t care about me.”
“Then there’s all those accident compensation cases you fight in the courts for employees against their employers—large corporations mostly—am I right?”
“You sued the State Government for twenty-five cents, didn’t you?”
“It was a matter of principle.”
“But they all love you.”
“Okay, okay, I’m getting the point.”
“And then there’s the Union cases against the big corps for illegal dismissals and lock-outs and pay cuts and safety breaches and god knows what. No enemies amongst all them?”
“I said you made your point.”
Barney Touhey laughed outright. Joe Solomon wasn’t used to losing arguments—he had been winning them against the best QCs and judges in the business for decades—but he was losing this one. That was what being personally involved did to you. Except, it was said that Joe Solomon got personally involved in all his cases...
“So, what security do I need, Barney?”
“Hardly any. You got two assets. One is that even the cruellest assassin isn’t likely to shoot a bloke in a wheelchair.”
“That kid did.”
“He only loaded tomato sauce. And he was doing you a favour. Which leads us to your second asset. No one gets past that bunch of harridans you keep in the front of the office.”
Joe groaned. He was losing an argument against a bloke who contradicted himself.
“That bunch of harridans, as you so decently call them, happen to be some of the best legal minds and administrators in the business.”
“Never seen such a bunch of ugly women in all my life.”
Joe groaned again. The joke in the business was that his staff had been chosen by his wife, but that wasn’t true. The legal profession admitted women aplenty these days, but only if they looked great in a black mini-suit. And for that reason, Joe was able to collect a fine array of talented women who no one else wanted because they didn’t have the figures and faces of film stars. He gave them a go because no one else would, and was rewarded with a fierce loyalty and efficiency that had made his firm the top labour legal service in the state. And it had remained so even throughout his long period of his convalescence.
“Look, you do me a submission of what we need and give it to Clarissa. Let the girls decide. Okay?”
“Sure,” Barney laughed. “Don’t know why I’m botherin’ to talk to you anyway.”
“Let’s call it a courtesy,” Joe said and, perhaps only to change the subject, heard himself adding. “There’s something else I want you to do for me.”
“No worries.”
“Have you still got your contacts in the States?”
“Got a few, yeah. Ex FBI blokes mostly. What do you need?”
“There’s a man I want to find out about, quietly.”
“Sure. What’s his name?”
Barney had his pad and pen ready.
“Harley Thyssen. A geologist, he says. I guess he is. Seems to know his stuff. They called him Professor. MIT, I gather. I want to find out who he is really working for.”
“Should be easy. Any reason why you doubt him?”
“He looks more like a lumberjack. Remember that bloke Pop-eye was always fighting? Bluto or something, wasn’t it?”
“I think so. Anyway, no reason why a geologist can’t look like that.”
“No. But I also want to know about the latest biological weapons research and that sort of thing. What’s being covered up at the moment?”
“Just about all of it.”
“This might have something to do with toxic waste being disturbed by volcanic eruptions. Something along that line.”
“Wow.”
“Of course, I may be way out. But I want to know about Thyssen.”
*
Father Gilbert sat with quiet respect while she spoke, sipping the tea they shared, a plate of cream biscuits of which Chrissie had devoured four in her anxiety.
“I know you are going to think I’m insane,” she told him.
“I’m here to listen, not to judge,” he answered.
He was a young man, earnest-looking, bespectacled, and had a very scholarly way about him. Chrissie supposed he was just the sort of priest she was looking for.
“Do you believe in Judgement Day, father?”
“Naturally.”
“I think it’s going to be soon.”
“I know of no reason why it should be either soon or not soon.”
“I’m not really allowed to tell you anything about it.”
“Everything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.”
She eyed him dubiously. He had all the right answers, the right attitude—that was what bothered her. Would he really be able to take her seriously?
“I don’t think you’ll be able to.”
“Able to what?”
“Keep it in confidence. It’s too big for that.”
It shook him all right—physically—his head, at least.
“I’m sorry, child. I’m not following you. Too big for what?”
“To be kept a secret. You’ll have to tell people. Warn people. Make preparations. If you believe me.”
“Child, what on earth is it that troubles you so?”
He was probably a year or two older than she, but called her child. She decided she needed to shock him.
“They’ve been saying in the news that there’s been a lot of volcanoes erupting recently.”
“I have noticed such reports, but...”
“The eruptions are increasing in intensity, and frequency, and I did a little calculation. It all comes together on July 15th, next year.”
“I see,” he said, and she heard his sigh of relief.
“You don’t believe me.”
“Who told you this, Christine?”
“I’m not allowed to say but he’s one of the top scientists in the world.”
“And he said that was the date?”
“Oh no. He supplied the information. I did the calculation myself. I admit I got a `Z’ for Maths, but it was very easy. And that was the date that the converging lines came together.”
She offered him a sheet of paper with the lists of dates. Chrissie saw he was impressed by her reasoning. She was feeling very proud of herself.
“Then that, I think, will be Judgement Day. It’s really going to happen.”
He was silent. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a few huffs of breath but she knew that wouldn’t help him see things any more clearly.
“You don’t believe me. I knew you wouldn’t. That isn’t why I’m here anyway. I just thought you’d like to know, so that as the date draws nearer and the disasters become more frequent, you’ll know what it means.”
“Christine,” he said, having finally gathered his wits, “in a frightening sort of way, I do believe you. But what I believe doesn’t matter. You believe it, and we must deal with that accordingly.”
“Quite so,” she smiled. “As it happens, there’s more.”
“Oh really?”
“Six people appear to have been chosen—I don’t know why, but I know that they are. Chosen, I mean. And I’m one of them.”
“And the other five?”
“Well, I can’t vouch for all of them, but two at least are thorough-going heathens.”
“Christine, it really isn’t proper to joke about this...”
“I’m not joking. Father, in the middle of this month, the six of us will be put in a special hospital ward where a group of doctors will try to find out why our minds have suddenly become connected. They were linked because we were all at the first of the series of volcanoes I told you about. Of course, the doctors are looking for brain diseases and ESP and psychological effects arising from trauma.”
Again Father Gilbert’s glasses needed cleaning. This time she waited to see what he thought, if he was able to think anything.
“Christine, you are a rather new member of our congregation and... Why me?”
“I’ve decided to stay in Melbourne and wait for this. There’s nothing back in New Zeal
and for me anyway. I have no family, and I’ve lost my job and my fiancee over this. I’ve taken a nice little flat down the road. This is my local church—and a very nice one too—and you’re my local minister.”
“If indeed that matter falls within the scope of my ministry, of course I’ll do what I can. But what do you want me to do?”
“Just pay attention to whatever happens from here. So if I’m a Looney Tunes who needs to be locked up, I’m sure you’ll know what to do when the time comes. No need to discuss that. But what, Father, if Judgement Day is really on the way and I am really one of the chosen. What on earth are you going to do about that?”
The enormity of it all made it somehow easier to grasp for the man of faith.
“I can’t imagine. But I suppose we must seek out the appropriate preparations and implement them.”
“Fine. So how do we begin?”
“With a prayer, I should think.”
*
Andromeda Starlight sat in her flowing white bath-robe, delicately administering vanish to her nails. Claws, Tierney might have said. She paused to raise a cigarette to her glistening lips but made no attempt to light it. With her eyes, she insisted that he pick the lighter up and do it for her, but silly Tierney failed to get the point for so long that the guard walked over and did it for him, the revolver on his hip swinging under Tierney’s nose. Power, Andromeda mused, was a wonderful thing, and just as satisfying when used on a worthless germ like Tierney.