by Guy Salvidge
Sylvia stopped abruptly and Surly bumped into her. They disentangled. “Who said that? About David’s sentence.”
A journalist with neatly parted hair stepped forward. “I’m Dale Harding from –”
“– I don’t care who you are or where you’re from. David’s been sentenced?”
Dale Harding blanched. “You haven’t been informed?” Cameras were rolling. Microphones were poised.
“No, I’ve been in prison,” Sylvia said. “What’s the sentence?”
“Ms Baron, David Baron has been sentenced to execution. Clyde Owen and Patrick Crews have each been sentenced to six years’ imprisonment.”
She stood there. “Why wasn’t I told?” She turned to Placid. “Did you know about this?”
Surly tried to push her forward. “Ms Baron, I suggest that you –”
“– get your fucking hands off me! Am I free to go now? Go make yourself useful and find my suitcase.”
She was in a vacuum. No air for her to breathe. Faces all around her. Mouths opening and closing, but no sound. She dropped to her knees. Looked up at the cameras.
Someone gave her a bottle of water, so she drank. They held out their hands to help her, so she got to her feet and sat down on a bench. The journalists had withdrawn now, their news grab completed. All in a day’s work. Surly, having retrieved Sylvia’s suitcase, deposited it down next to her and stalked away.
Placid sat down. “Listen, we really didn’t know about your husband. The journos say the verdict was only handed down this morning. All right? I would have told you if I’d known.”
“Okay,” she said. She took another sip. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I understand. Now we’re supposed to be releasing you into the care of your parents. We can’t seem to find them at the moment, so we’ll just wait here until they turn up, okay?”
“Okay. You did a good job today, Placid. I’m sure your boss will be impressed.”
He smiled. “Thanks. My name’s Leslie.”
“Leslie. I’m Sylvia Baron.”
“Here’s your mother now.”
She looked up at her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in nearly four years. Her first impression was that she’d aged terribly. “Mum!” she said, and then she started crying. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s not at all well, darling. He desperately wanted to come.” She turned to the guards. “Is my daughter free to go now?”
“She is,” Leslie said. “Get some rest, Sylvia.” The guards moved off in the direction of the Departure lounge.
“Bye, Surly,” Sylvia said.
4. The Blues
Rion was glad to see a familiar face at the Civilian Police Force recruitment office, even if it was only Marcel. The CPF building on Adelaide Terrace, in the city centre, managed to appear both drab and hostile with its grey-brown veneer and darkened windows. Rion would never have set foot inside without coercion, but now he crossed the threshold, letter in hand, and took his place among the other men and women already gathered. They were the unlucky few, this month’s draftees.
“Cheer up,” Marcel said. There was no hard hat on his head today; today he wore what were presumably his best clothes, ones that were not especially tattered. Rion could do little better. The others were all paupers or near paupers themselves, by the looks of them. A shower and a clean pair of overalls or a T-shirt and jeans was the best that any of them could do. Like cattle, they waited to be called. Like cattle, they were kept waiting until they knew exactly where they stood.
The letter said 09:00, but it was 09:35 before anyone in officialdom said anything, and even then it was just the receptionist informing them of the need to be patient. The letter said that the term of service was six months, but Rion knew anecdotally that six months was prone to blow out to nine months or a year, should the need arise. And the need often arose in these nearly lawless times.
“At least we won’t have to work,” Marcel whispered to him. “I’m sick of the construction gang anyway.”
Rion looked at Marcel’s square, stubbly chin. “No, we can get shot at instead.”
Marcel prodded Rion in the chest. “Don’t be so negative. We might get to shoot back at someone, too.”
“Don’t count on it. And I’ll lose my apartment.”
“At Prince Towers?” Marcel shrugged. “Plenty of other flea holes to come back to.”
09:55. It was a bad habit of Rion’s, constantly looking at the time.
“You can come through now,” a middle-aged woman in the light blue uniform of the CPF said. Everyone shuffled after her in the direction of an auditorium. Some of them actually had their heads bowed as though they had just been sentenced.
The auditorium smelled musty, as though it were not often used. The seats were lumpy and the whole room was bathed in a horrible green light. The screen at the front had a dark scratch carved into it. The podium was tacky, cheap looking, and the presenter looked even cheaper. He was in his fifties and nearly bald, which he compensated for by way of a red, stubby moustache. He too wore the light blue garb, but his uniform, despite being plastered with chintzy medals, was very crumpled as if he had just woken in the gutter wearing it after a boisterous night out with the lads.
“There’s plenty of room,” the presenter said. “All seated? Good. I welcome you to the ranks of the Civilian Police Force.” He clapped his hands wetly and the lights dimmed.
It wasn’t much of a show. In truth Rion barely gave the screen his attention, and some of the others even took to sighing loudly as the praises of the CPF and its vital role in the protection of Western Australia and its citizenry were sung. There were scenes of light blue warriors apprehending drug runners and arresting bandits. There were images of the industrious blues building wells and repairing damaged roofs. Marcel, if not actually asleep, had at least closed his eyes. Rion nudged him as the lights came on again.
The presenter beamed, apparently oblivious to the atmosphere of restlessness and barely-concealed hostility in the room. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Assistant Commissioner Crawley and the head of our operations in the metropolitan region. Now I’m sure you’ve all heard of the CPF before, so I’ll try to keep this brief. The Civilian Police Force was the brainchild of our thirty-eighth Premier, Peter Charles, who first mooted the idea of the CPF in 2023. Charles felt that... ”
Crawley might have some talent that was not immediately apparent, but brevity was not one of them. On and on he droned, occasionally giving a little flourish to illustrate his point. It was a kind of torture, Rion decided. The whole thing was designed to bore them into submission. What was not said and would never be said was that the draftees were joining the ranks of the most ill-equipped, poorly trained, and generally incompetent police forces in the country, if not the world. The draft was supposed to be random, but for some reason only the poor ever did their service in the light blues.
The talk concluded by 12:00, they were each given a voucher for a meal and an alcoholic beverage at the CPF-friendly tavern around the corner. Sipping his middy of generic, yeasty mid-strength beer, Rion wondered where they’d be posted. The south-west was the cushiest region, boasting a relatively mild climate and a mostly law-abiding population. The far north was thought to be relatively calm as well, as it was almost entirely under the control of the big mining companies with their own private security forces. That was where the money was. The light blues tended to end up wherever the money wasn’t, and that meant the rest of this broad, wild state.
Over the next few days, Rion and the other recruits underwent a training course at the Adelaide Terrace office. It did beat tagging bodies at Regal Perth Hospital and shoving them into a furnace, but only just. The course was pure theory at this stage; and Rion was informed that the practical component would be completed in situ. He supposed this meant that half of the recruits still wouldn’t be able to find the right end of a rifle when they were deployed to active duty. They spent most of their time watching educational films and comple
ting multiple choice tests, which was all very well, as a lot of the new recruits could barely write their names.
“What did you put for question 12?” Marcel asked him as they came out of their latest test, Aiding the Community. It was the last one for the day. “You know – what do you do if the locals ask the CPF to leave but they aren’t behaving in a lawful manner?” he added.
“Take a hostage and execute them publicly,” Rion said. “It’s good for everyone’s morale.”
Marcel thumped him on the back as they made their way down the stairs. “I don’t think that was one of the options,” he said.
“No? Then I don’t remember. What do you think happens if you fail one of these tests, Marcel? Do they chuck you out of the light blues?”
“No way. You get to redo it, I think.”
“Then what’s the consequence of failure? Think about that.”
They made their way down to reception and then the street. They hadn’t been presented with their ‘bluesies’ yet, so it was possible to blend into the ordinary civilians easily enough. The bluesies would be presented to them tomorrow afternoon at their graduation ceremony.
“So the whole course is pointless,” Marcel said as they threaded their way through the crowd.
“No, there’s definitely a point. The tests are about accountability. If you pass them, then the CPF can say that it has trained you and that you’ve been declared competent to serve in the CPF.”
“So?”
“So if you get shot by bandits it isn’t the CPF’s fault. You scored 18/20 in Weapons Handling, didn’t you? I only got 16. That should make you a better shot than me. If a bandit kills you, well, I guess you panicked.”
“But you got top marks in Hazard Assessment,” Marcel said. “If you fall into a radioactive pit, there’ll have to be a day of mourning.”
“But at least I was fully trained to assess the hazard when I fell into the pit, right? So the CPF can’t be held responsible.”
They boarded the 55 bus, but there was nowhere to sit and they had to stand crammed into the aisle with dozens of other people. “You’ve got a heart of stone, you know that?” Marcel said.
“Thanks.”
“I meant it as a compliment, bro. I’m saying I think you’re gonna be my wingman.”
Rion punched Marcel lightly in his spongy midriff as the bus accelerated. “More like your wing commander,” he said.
Friday was graduation day. After the final test, Upholding the Spirit, the majority of the greenhorns were sent to lunch early while the dim-witted few had to stay seated at their consoles to re-sit the tests they had failed. It was like being in school again, except that Rion had never really been to school the first time around. Neither he nor Marcel had to stay back, having achieved a pass mark in all seven tests. Perhaps to put them in the right frame of mind for their ceremony, the recruits were given two beer vouchers this time. Not satisfied with downing his middies in quick time, Marcel went scrounging for vouchers among the slower drinkers, but despite his wheedling he only came back to their table with one voucher.
“You go ahead. You’ve earned it,” Rion said. “Hang on.” He got his Hub-Nexus card out of his battered wallet. “On second thoughts, we’re all still thirsty. Better get us a jug.”
“Big spender!” Marcel said, taking Rion’s card up to the bar. The barman swiped it through the reader and started pouring the jug.
“You guys up for another glass?” Rion asked the other two recruits at their table. He needn’t have asked. One of them was definitely called Vanya, but he couldn’t remember which one. Rion didn’t think he’d met a Russian before, so he didn’t know what one ought to look like. Marcel returned with the jug and poured each of them a middy. An overpowering smell of yeast emanated from the jug, but Rion no longer cared. He chugged down his beer and divided the meagre remainder among the four of them. This he slipped more slowly. “Fuck, this place is expensive,” he said, looking at the balance on his card. But then he realised that with no rent to pay for six months, he’d have plenty of beer money when he got back. If he survived.
“I’m still thirsty,” Marcel said when the beer was gone. “Looks like it’s my buy.”
“What time are we supposed to be back?” Vanya said, if it was Vanya.
“Who cares?” Marcel said. He belched and got to his feet. This started off a chain reaction, whereby Vanya and the other guy, whatever his name was, were obliged to buy jugs of their own. Soon they were all drunk and the thought of returning to the CPF building had been abandoned. Most of the other recruits had slunk off by now, but another table had followed their lead and now eight or ten of them sat at two tables pushed together. Just before 14:00, a CPF officer came into the bar and chastised them for failing to report back at 13:00. Now there wouldn’t be time to fit their light blues before the ceremony.
“I’m an extra-large!” Marcel cried. “Tell Crawley I need the biggest piss before he starts. I’ll probably need another before he’s halfway through!” Everyone roared with laughter and they shambled back to the CPF building. They took their seats at the back of the auditorium just in time for Crawley to start speaking.
“We’re all here? Good,” he said. Someone let off the loudest fart imaginable, but either Crawley was deaf or he chose, wisely, to ignore the offence. He banged on for a while, during which time Rion battled to stay awake. Their names were read out one at a time and they had to go up and get their certificate and uniform. For some of the men, walking in a reasonably straight line posed a severe challenge. When Rion’s turn came he shook Crawley’s moist hand, avoiding the Assistant Commissioner’s disapproving gaze. He took his piece of paper and his bluesies and returned to his seat. Marcel was up soon after, and for a big man he didn’t hold his booze very well, for he was wobbly on his feet. Rion held his breath, half expecting Marcel to pitch forward into the podium or otherwise disgrace himself, but the moment passed without incident.
“Thought I was a goner there, boys,” Marcel said, a big grin on his face.
The last few recruits’ names were called out, and then everyone clapped and Crawley started talking again. No one back here listened, but Rion caught snippets of something that sounded important so he tried to get the others to shut their mouths.
“It’s just the normal bullshit,” Marcel said.
“He’s telling us where we’re going,” someone in the row in front of them said.
Rion tried to listen, but Crawley’s words were borne away in the hubbub around him. “What did he say?”
“Green Hills,” Marcel declared. “Fuck knows where that is. Somewhere green and hilly.”
In that instant Rion’s drunkenness disappeared. “It’s East Hills,” he said. “We’re being posted to East Hills. Fuck!”
“East Hills, Green Hills, whatever,” Marcel said.
“No, you don’t understand,” Rion said. “I’m from there.”
“So? You can show us around. Introduce us to some girls.”
“You don’t get it,” Rion insisted. East Hills. The Belt. The restricted zone.
None of them were listening. And Crawley droned on.
5. Director of Security
Jeremy Peters was a powerful man; he had dozens of people working under him. One of them was under him right now. Her name was Clarissa and she worked for him as a junior advertising rep at the Receptacle in the town of Yellowcake Springs. Clarissa was decent at her job, as far as he could tell, but she was even better at this. She didn’t moan, didn’t talk, didn’t try to take the initiative with him, but nor was she entirely passive. Not frozen up inside like his wife, Clarissa demonstrated a certain appreciation. She lay there on her back with her legs splayed as he went at her, and she made eye contact. He’d noticed that Australian girls were good at that, whereas the Chinese and Koreans tended to avert their eyes, especially when he really got going. He didn’t like that; he wanted some sense of reciprocation from them. Not too much, but a little. He might be of Chinese ethni
city himself, but that didn’t mean he wanted a Chinese girl in the bed with him, if he could help it.
“That was great,” Clarissa said when he’d finished. “You’re an animal.”
He lay alongside her and stroked her dark hair. Her scalp was moist, her body slicked with sweat. “We’re all animals,” he replied.
His heart hammered away in his chest. It was a little embarrassing, but he supposed he wasn’t doing badly for a stumpy, balding, middle-aged Chinese man with a pot belly from too many official lunches with visiting dignitaries. Economic power and not physical beauty or strength had got him where he was tonight, in Clarissa’s Green Zone apartment and in her bed. He was under no illusions, and knowing this he went out of his way to woo the tallest, the fairest, the slenderest of his subordinates. Clarissa was a brunette, but close enough. And she stood a good six inches taller than him on long, tanned legs. Not a blemish on her. He rubbed her flat belly and down along the tops of her thighs.
“Ready for more?” she asked, turning toward him so that her little breasts bobbed enticingly.
He patted her shoulder. “You’ll be the death of me. Even a greedy man needs to know his limitations.” She nodded and turned on the bedside light. She knew that he liked to watch her dressing and undressing, so she gave him a little show while she put on a fresh pair of silk panties and a cotton chemise. Then she went into the bathroom while he lay there on his back trying to catch his breath. His pulse was still racing even though it’d been a good five minutes since he’d stopped moving.
It was just after nine and he supposed he’d best be heading home in a minute, not that Hui would be waiting for him to return especially. These days he just said he was working late and left it at that. From what he could gather from their not-conversations and non-disclosures, Hui didn’t care who he slept with as long as he used a condom and didn’t bring disgrace upon her.
Still, something inside of him was cracking up and he didn’t know what it was. Perhaps his heart was about to give out, wrecked prematurely by too much fine food and too much unmitigated vice. His doctor had warned him about his blood pressure and cholesterol, but at least with Clarissa was getting some exercise. Or maybe the pain in his chest was his battered conscience, emerging from its long hibernation. It hardly seemed likely. Surely this coupling was of benefit to them both. In a way he was doing her a favour, giving her a leg up on the corporate ladder. Pretty soon, if he wanted to keep this up, he’d have to promote her. She had a sick sister in Perth or something. He felt sure she could use the money.