Biocide.com

by Ann Massey

  The dimples in her freckled face more than made up for the dent in my bank balance.

  * * *

  There’s no way that thing’s going to fit in here, I thought as I surveyed my apartment’s kitchen-cum-sitting room that was already cramped with bits and pieces that had belonged to my parents. Stuff that my father didn’t have room for, now he’d moved into a compact, energy-efficient farmhouse. I didn’t have room either. The heavy old-fashioned furniture was far too big for my tiny apartment, but I couldn’t bear to give my mother’s precious possessions to Vinnies[15].

  Fortunately, my apartment possessed a tiny spare bedroom, about the size of the cupboard under the stairs that became Harry Potter’s bedroom and where previously his spoilt cousin, Dudley Dursley had stored those possessions that wouldn't fit into his room. All right that was a gross exaggeration. Nevertheless, the room that doubled as my study and Annie’s bedroom, on the weekends when she stayed over, was cramped. Once the trampoline was delivered, I’d have to walk sideways to get to my desk.

  I choked back a sigh. When had I become so anal-retentive? Wasn’t I luckier than many teachers who were living in shared accommodation? At least, I didn’t have to clear a space on the kitchen table to do the things that couldn’t get done in school hours.

  Get things into perspective, I admonished myself. So what if my apartment isn’t up to show-home standards ... isn’t it better to have Annie bouncing on her tramp than watching movies on TV or playing games on her Ipad? Another thought struck me. Perhaps a more judicious arrangement of the furniture would free up more floor space.

  I opened the top drawer of the sideboard, rifled through the sewing box I’d inherited from my mother, found a tape-measure and ran upstairs. My plan to rearrange the furniture stalled when I glimpsed the To Do List, written on a yellow Post-it note and stuck to the monitor where I couldn’t miss it. Everything was crossed off apart from: work on my novel. Not a bad effort for a time-starved beginner teacher, except the latter had featured on my list for weeks. For some reason, it was the only task I never got around to. Heaven knows I’m busy. What teacher isn’t? But I manage to do everything, except churn out chapters.

  I suppose for most people, writing a novel doesn’t fall into the urgent category but in my case, it was a priority. I was desperate to raise awareness of what had become my hobby-horse since, when I was little more than a kid, I’d seen with my own eyes the lengths that governments would go to keep their production of biological weapons secret. I’d never understood why activists were up in arms about the Japanese killing whales but didn’t give a toss about nerve-gas raids that killed hundreds of civilians in Syria. I supposed that for most folk there’s no difference to dying from a bullet than from a man-made virus.

  That was the argument put forward by the psychiatrist at my debriefing a decade ago. He said biological warfare was no worse than blowing men to pieces with high explosives, mowing them down with machine guns, or sinking a battleship in mid-ocean with a crew of fifteen hundred men on board. “Ask an Afghani mother whose entire family has been blown to bits by a bomb if she’s consoled by the fact that they weren’t killed in a gas attack,” he’d said, “and she’ll think you’re crazy.”

  At the time, I was just a sixteen-year-old girl from the bush. Even now, I don’t know if I can come up with an indisputable case against germ warfare. The harm to non-combatants doesn’t hold water, not if it’s all right to detonate a nuclear bomb. But deep inside I know it’s more than wrong, it’s downright wicked. So why was I procrastinating? The truth is embarrassing. I’m ashamed of the quality of my writing. As an English teacher I’m used to analysing works of fiction. I find it easy to recognise whether other people’s writing is good, bad or downright ugly. Mine belongs in the IT SUCKS category. If writing a novel was a school assignment, I’d give my effort a D minus.

  Music floated into the apartment from the bar across the street. Though it was only 6:00 PM the pavement cafes were in full swing. I crossed to the window. A motorist honked his horn as a young couple ran hand-in-hand across the highway. Moments later their faces were pressed up against the window of a jewelry store. I’d hoped that one day Karim would give me a ring. Tears gathered behind my eyes. The feelings I had for him were still so powerful that it seemed impossible that he was no longer in the world.

  What would you do if you were granted just one wish? I’d written the question on the whiteboard this afternoon as a time-filler when my year-nines finished their worksheets more quickly than I’d expected. For me coming up with an answer was a no-brainer. I’d have gone back in time eighteen months to Hagadery. What I’d give to see Karim’s face, his smile, and the way his eyes lit up when he saw me walking towards him. But my love for him wasn’t based solely on looks alone. Karim was a deep thinker. He had strong views on the same issues as me. But unlike me, he was a gifted orator. I could listen all night when he railed against political imperialism, inequality and the unfairness of powerful countries pushing around their weaker neighbours. His idealistic fervor inspired me. I’d wanted to be part of his world. But I’d had stiff competition. All Hagadery’s female staff’d had a crush on him.

  Luckily for me, Karim wasn’t looking for a cute, bubbly pretty girl which was just as well because not only am I shy and serious — I need a bucket-load of beauty aids to look halfway decent. Products that were unavailable in drought-prone Kenya where something as essential as a cold shower was a luxury.

  One night when a group of us sat around a campfire bitching about how scruffy we all looked and what we’d give to look sexy again, out of the blue Karim said he had no time for silly girls in revealing tops, tight jeans and thick makeup. The easy banter dried up. I was trying to think of something that would break the awkward silence but Nola from Illinois, beat me to it. “It’s just as well you feel that way Karim because we don’t have a lipstick between us.” I laughed along with the others, but secretly I was pleased that he looked beyond surface appearances and appreciated women for their values and intellect.

  Later that night, my colleagues poured out their true feelings. They all seemed to have a friend who’d had a relationship with an Arab. Apparently, all had ended unhappily — for the female party. “They use us for sex, but when they’re ready to settle down they marry a girl of their own faith, picked out by their parents.” The remark was meant for me.

  They all nodded in agreement, “Mind you kiddo,” said Nola, “there’s nothing wrong with shagging him ... as long as you keep in mind that’s all it is.”

  I was taken aback by their racist views. “Karim and I are just friends. We have a lot in common what with us both being Australian.”

  “Well take my tip, kiddo and keep it that way, because nothing messes up your life like a one-sided love affair.”

  I’d smirked. I knew Karim was as mad about me as I was about him.

  As the memory faded, I sniffed back my tears and slid the window shut on the young lovers and the jeweler’s shopfront. Persevering with my resolve to stop focusing on my lost love was going to take more than a sting on the wrist. It was time I buried the past and stopped living a grey limbo half-life.

  Screw my novel, I thought as I scrolled through the contacts in my phone. With a bit of luck, one of my work mates was up for a night out.

  Nine

  There were four teachers named Bennet in Western Australia. All four were female: Heather (math’s), Shirley (science), Rhiain (phys ed) and Miranda (art). No Elizabeths and no English teachers of the female gender). An alternative spelling, Bennett, and more common, actually delivered an English teacher, Timothy. We ran everything we had on all five. According to the algorithm, there wasn’t a doomsday prepper, pro-patriot slash extremist, or conspiracy theorist amongst them. Their Facebook posts contained inspirational quotes so cheesy I wanted to bang my head against the computer screen — cute cats, selfies and random brain dumps. Unluckily for them, they were now on the terrorist watch-list and once you’re on, you’re
on forever. Still, as General Lee pointed out, invasion of privacy is a small price to pay for national security.

  Lunch came and went. I ate a bar of chocolate. At two o’clock I ate another and revised the response to Bennet’s comment I’d been working on all morning.

  Call me a bighead, but I thought the idea I’d come up with to get her to spill the beans was brilliant, in particular the postscript. I was sure she’d fall into my trap. I didn’t feel sorry for her. She was a bad as the sexual predators who preyed on vulnerable children.

  According to statistics I’d read when I first joined the unit, the main target for converts was a male aged between 16 and 24 years. But the radicalization process often started as early as 11 or 12, and every year the number of arrests of suspected terrorists in the eight to fifteen age groups doubled.

  Although as yet, there was no proof that an organization of rogue teachers existed; from the Director down, everyone believed the scale of school-aged converts was too vast. It was why CRIMTHINK, the cover name for a surveillance unit monitoring the staff and curriculums of schools that had been attended by a teenage terrorist, was set up. So far, the unit was the least productive of NSA’s initiatives. But with my help that could be about to change.

  There I go again big-noting myself. There could be many other extremists like Bennet infiltrating schools throughout the West, converting thousands of alienated children to a cause that didn’t give a damn about them. What difference would one less make?

  I clicked send, mentally drained. I leant back in my chair, closed my eyes, and prayed Bennet would swallow the bait — hook, line and sinker.

  Ten

  The pursuit of academic excellence was St. Agnes’s primary goal. Developing well-balanced girls came a close second. Teaching pupils the importance of courtesy and social etiquette was programmed into the curriculum. My little sister was a boisterous tomboy. Today the Head, a stickler for good manners, would have been proud as Annie walked sedately up to the cemetery gates clasping a bunch of yellow tulips.

  I’d told Dad we’d meet him in the café. We sat down at a table by the door. Ten minutes later I glanced at my watch. Dad was late. I wasn’t fazed. The parking facilities at the cemetery were inadequate. I’d been up and down the road three times looking for a park. When I saw a car backing out, I’d jammed on my brakes and bagged the space to the chagrin of the driver of a stationary vehicle waiting on the other side of the road.

  As I was about to order a second pot of tea, Dad walked through the door. I waved to him. He came over, hugged Annie and then me. A middle-aged woman who entered at the same time was hovering nearby. I looked from her to my dad puzzled. The café wasn’t exactly doing a roaring trade and there were plenty of other tables. “Girls,” he said putting his arm around the woman and drawing her forward, “this is my neighbor, Freda Clough. Freda these are my daughters, Elizabeth and Anne.”

  Introductions over, we all sat down. “What brings you to Perth, Freda?” I asked outwardly polite though I was seething inside. For while it was considerate of Dad to drive his neighbour to Perth if she had business here at the same time, he should have dropped her off first, instead of allowing her to muscle-in on what was after all a private family occasion.

  She and my father exchanged self-conscious looks. “I’m making some changes to a round-the-world trip on the QE2 and I want to talk to the travel consultant about them in person.”

  “How exciting! When do you leave?”

  “A week on Monday. The cruise leaves from Sydney and we thought we’d have a few days there ... shopping and sightseeing. It will be the first time I’ve been over East. I’ve lived in Geraldton all my life.”

  Thankfully picking up on the we — the ill at ease expressions on her face and mirrored on my father’s had set off bells — I asked if it would be also her husband’s first trip to Sydney.

  “Her cheeks turned pinker, “I’m a widow.”

  “In point of fact, I’m accompanying Freda on the cruise," my father began, only to be interrupted by Annie.

  “When are we going to see, Mummy?”

  Relief seeped into his face. “Right now.” He got to his feet and moved toward Freda to pull out her chair.

  She waved him away. “I’ll wait here for you,” she said with an affectionate smile. “Take as long as you like, my dears. There’s no need to hurry on my account, Frank.”

  * * *

  On the walk up to Mum’s grave, Annie held hands with Dad and chattered to him non-stop. I was relieved that she was monopolizing his attention because I knew if I questioned him about his relationship with Freda, I’d blow my top. Mum and Dad were married for thirty years. How could he replace her with someone else so soon? I was outraged and hurt beyond words. I’d thought they’d had good marriage, and yet here he was making arrangements to set off on a round-the-world trip with a woman he hardly knew, with my poor mother barely cold in the grave.

  Annie’s voice — grown louder in her excitement at having her daddy’s attention — interrupted my internal rant. “Daddy, the school cook, made me an ice-cream cake for my birthday. It had sparklers instead of candles. You should have seen how they sparkled when she carried it into the lunchroom. Everyone in my house got a slice, but mine was the biggest.”

  “Naturally,” said Dad, swinging her arm, “after all, you’re the birthday girl.”

  “What did you get me for my birthday?”

  “A surprise!”

  As surprises go you’ve already dropped a bombshell, I muttered under my breath.

  “If I guess, will you tell me if I’m right?”

  “Rightio!”

  “Is it a bike?”

  “No.”

  “A skateboard?”

  The interrogation broke off when we reached mother’s grave. Usually, when I visited Mum, I came on my own, or with Annie. The last time we were here as a family was at her funeral service. The difference this time was that Fanny and Emma were absent. Dad must have been thinking along the same lines. He said, “Have you heard from your sisters recently?”

  “I received a postcard a week or two ago.” I glanced over to where Annie was arranging her flowers in a black memorial vase embossed in gold lettering with the words: In loving memory of a dear wife and mother. I dropped my voice. “Annie is terribly disappointed. They didn’t even send a card for her birthday.”

  “I suppose it’s not easy to find a post box in out of the way places.”

  Dad always made excuses for the girls. I wasn’t any different. If anyone criticized them, I was the first to leap to their defence. But not this time!

  “That’s a heap of shit,” I said in a low, but angry voice. My fury fuelled more by the swiftness with which he’d replaced my mother than my sisters’ thoughtlessness.

  Dad glanced at Annie and then scowled at me, “Language! What sort of an example is that for your sister?”

  “At least I’m here for her which is more than can be said for you.” Turning on my heel, I walked over to Annie. I squatted down beside her and complimented her on the way she’d arranged the flowers.

  Annie nodded. “They do look pretty. Do you think Mummy can see them?”

  “Absolutely and she’ll love them ... do know that even though she’s not here with us, you can still talk to her.”

  “I do, but she doesn’t talk back.”

  “But she hears you and she’s watching over you.”

  “It’s not the same, is it?” she said, with a sob in her voice. “I really, really miss Mummy, Beth.”

  Her words tore at my heart. “Sometimes,” I began, also fighting back tears, “I talk to Mummy in my mind.”

  From the blank look in Annie’s eyes, I could tell I wasn’t getting through to her. Desperately winging it, I continued, “Other times, Mummy lets me know she’s watching over me through signs.”

  “What sort of signs?”

  “Well when I was driving home from the funeral service, the licence plate of the SUV in f
ront of me was EP 29. Now how often do you see an East Pilbara number plate in Perth?” It was a fair question. Katoomba, the station where we’d been brought up, was situated in the East Pilbara Shire, on the edge of the Great Sandy Desert, eight hundred miles from Perth. Spotting an EP number plate was a rarity.

  “It was probably just a coincidence.”

  “Possibly ... but what about the twenty-nine?” Mum was born on the twenty-ninth of January. You can’t say that wasn’t a sign.”

  “That is weird,” she said, brightening up. “Has she sent you other signs?”

  “Yes, now and again.”

  Annie’s forehead wrinkled. I thought she was going to ask for more examples. Instead she said, “It’s not fair. Why doesn’t she send me signs?”

  “But, she just did!” Annie looked at me in amazement and I’m certain my own face wore a similar expression for it had only just struck me. Bemused, I said, “What were Mummy’s favourite flowers?”

  “Yellow tulips.”

  “Well, don’t think that it was peculiar that while there were bucket-loads of roses and carnations in the florist’s there was just a solitary bunch of tulips ... and yellow ones, at that?”

  Annie’s eyes lit up. “Do you think that was a sign?”

  Warming to my theme and forgetting Annie was only ten years old, I said, “Absolutely. After all, as Hamlet said in the play of the same title by William Shakespeare ... there are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  From the blank look on Annie’s face, I could tell I’d lost her and I started to feel a bit foolish. “Sweetheart, what Hamlet meant was that there are things in this world such as supernatural signs from loved ones that even the cleverest scientists can’t explain.”

  “Not even Miss Rutherford? She knows the periodic table off by heart.”

  “Not even her. Shall we say a prayer for Mummy before we go?”