by Guy Salvidge
The doors to the pool had been painted in cheerful colours: bright blue, yellow and red, but the paint had long since cracked and faded, and only scraps of the original colour remained. “No, but it could still be a trap,” Rion said. “I think you should stay here and cover me.”
Vanya grabbed his arm with surprising strength. “No, I’m coming too.”
“Suit yourself.”
They crept up to the entrance, hearing no sound except for their own footfall. Three years ago this place had been locked up, but now the doors had been thrown open. They hovered near the threshold.
“Can you smell that?” Vanya asked.
“I can smell it.” It was a putrid stench, like an open sewer. It was bad enough from here. Rion forced himself to step inside the perimeter. “At least we know no one’ll be hanging around,” he said, cradling the shotgun.
It was what Turley had said it would be: he didn’t need to take a step closer to ascertain that. This ought to be enough to satisfy him. But Lydia... he needed to know if she was among the dead. “I’ll cover you,” Vanya said, stopping about half way between the entrance and the pool.
Rion walked closer. He put the shotgun down on the hot concrete and covered his mouth. But it was too late: the stench was already inside him. Now he felt as if his own insides were putrefying. He peered over the edge of the empty pool.
Dead bodies.
Some were just clusters of sun-bleached bones and scraps of torn clothing. Others were desiccated, half-eaten corpses with expressions of agony on their shrunken, eyeless faces. Some were bloated and distorted beyond comprehension, their flesh liquefied and oozing. Giant, black flies crawled through streams of blood around them.
He retched, bile stinging his throat and lips on the way out, and he turned away. He knew that he would have to look again. The smell had not lessened, but already he had become somewhat accustomed to it. Vanya was watching him, shotgun at his side. “Just a minute,” Rion said.
He forced himself to try to search for Lydia. He tried above all else to avoid looking at the faces for fear that the expressions would imprint themselves in his mind forever. He could barely ascertain the gender of the dead, let alone make a proper identification, and so he looked for a head of white hair.
He didn’t find it. Not one of the corpses seemed to belong to someone as old as Lydia would have been. She wasn’t here.
Rion bent to pick up his shotgun on his way out. The grip was hot from where it had sat in the sun, but he didn’t care. Let it burn him.
Vanya fell into step beside him. “She’s not there, is she?”
“I don’t think so,” Rion said.
They stood in the shade outside while Rion tried to recover his equilibrium, but he could barely see the trees around him for the horrors that were crowded in his brain.
Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw something move. Without consciously deciding to do so, he bolted in the direction of the something, which turned out to be a skinny youth who’d been hiding inexpertly around the side of the pool complex. “I’m gonna kill you if you don’t stop right there!” Rion roared. The youth dropped to the gravelly ground and covered his face with his hands. His clothes were filthy, his frame emaciated, his eyes sunken. “What’s your name?” Rion asked.
“Chris.”
“Chris what?”
The youth stared at him without understanding.
“I’ve got a few questions,” Rion said. “You’re going to answer them for me, aren’t you?” A nod. “Good. Let’s go over into the shade. Don’t try to run, not until I know what’s going on.” They went over to the shade at the far end of the pool’s car park. “All right. First thing I want to know is who sent you to spy on me. I want a name.”
Chris sniffed. “Callum,” he said.
“Callum’s the boss around here now?” Rion asked. He knew a young man by that name; he had been well down the pecking order the last Rion knew about it. “Okay,” he said. “So Callum sent you to see what we were up to. You don’t have a gun hidden somewhere, do you?”
“Nah, I’m just supposed to follow you.”
“You can let Callum know that we don’t want any trouble. Looks like there’s been plenty of trouble around here already. Why are there all those bodies in the pool? There must be a hundred of them.”
“Army shot the place up,” Chris said.
“That’s when Gillam died? You remember him?”
“I remember him, yeah. He was the boss.”
“Look at me, Chris.” The boy looked up. “Some of those bodies have only been there a little while, a few weeks maybe. That wasn’t the army, was it?”
Chris shook his head sullenly.
“Then what happened?”
The boy shrugged. “S’been a lot of fighting.”
“Last question: I’m looking for an old woman called Lydia. She used to have a shop in the old power substation on Rind Terrace. Now she’s gone.” A flicker of comprehension; the boy knew something. “Where is she, Chris?”
“That old lady? She’s dead too.”
“What happened to her? It’s very important.”
Chris shrugged and looked at his feet. “She was old,” he finally said.
“Callum did something to her?”
The youth wouldn’t say. He didn’t look happy.
“They killed her, didn’t they? But she’s not in the pool, is she?”
Chris shook his head.
“Then where is she, Chris? I need to know.” His grip on the boy tightened.
“You’re hurting me,” Chris said. “They took her up to Mount Manney.”
Rion released his grip and Chris scampered away. Rion sat down in the sand, not caring whether ants crawled on him or whether he ever got back up again.
“Are you all right, man?” Vanya asked. “I’m sorry about your friend, but we gotta go.”
“I’m going up there,” Rion said. “You go back to the Swan.”
“I can come with you if you want?”
“No, I want to be alone.” Rion held up his hand to indicate that the conversation was over. He didn’t turn to see whether Vanya had left, but he knew he had.
Over these past years, he’d thought of Lydia frequently. She was the only person who knew him from when he was a child, who’d known his mother. Lydia had been a mother to him; he saw this now. She’d protected him in her roundabout way and he’d done nothing for her in return. He’d left her to fend for herself and now she was dead. His right hand was in his pocket, fingering the laminated edge of the article about his mother. He didn’t pull it out, kept his hand there instead. For a long time nothing moved. He had attained a bleak stillness, a static desolation. But it could not go on forever. He would have to endure even this.
He got to his feet and struck out in the direction of Mount Manney. Not a real mountain, it was a hill overlooking the town, that in past times had been frequented by nihilistic wastrels and copulating teens. Ignoring the heat, he walked along the rutted road out of town, past the ancient farm machinery supplier, where massive steel beams rusted peacefully in an overgrown workshop yard. There he crossed the pitted street and strode out across a vacant field full of waist-high weeds. The bush was no doubt full of snakes, but no mere snake could dissuade him now. He ascended the hill in a swarm of flies, his shirt slicked to his back.
He found what he was looking for near the summit. A welcome breeze blew here. On the rocky hillside, just below the car park, stood a lone wooden power pole. There was a corpse tied to the pole. He didn’t want to look, having absorbed his share of horror for one day and one lifetime, but he needed to make sure it was her. He looked. It was Lydia or what was left of her. It was more than a skeleton and less than a corpse. She couldn’t have been here for more than a few weeks. That’s how close he’d been to seeing her alive again.
He sat on the stone wall that bordered the car park. The wall had endured in a way that the car park itself had not, had kept its shape. He would need to be like this wall
if he was going to last any longer. The wall required nothing – not water, not nourishment – and maybe he could force himself to live on nothing too. He looked out across the blighted town, burning through the misery of the day. He saw approximately what Lydia would have seen in her final hours, if she had been alive when they tied her up here.
Callum had done this to her. Rion wasn’t interested in why. In a general sense, he already knew: it was because she was a woman, because she’d been old and because she had carved out something for herself. Lydia had been indifferent to the danger, laughed at it sometimes. But that had been years ago.
He didn’t know what time it was, but it must be close to midday as the sun was high and the stone wall scalding. Though he wanted to, he couldn’t make himself like a stone. He was flesh and he was soon forced to take refuge in the shade. He wondered whether he should cut the binds that held Lydia to the post, but he had no knife.
Maybe she had left him a note, penned it in her dying hand. He searched her pockets, her person, but there was no note. He needed guidance but there was none available, and thus he was forced to try to think for himself. Possibly she wouldn’t want him to try to avenge her. He wasn’t sure; it hadn’t been something they’d discussed. He had taken an oath of sorts in that police holding cell, years back. He’d vowed not to take another life. To offer himself, if necessary, instead.
Now he revoked that vow.
14. Security Measures
Jeremy’s job wasn’t all meetings, but it sure felt like it sometimes. This morning he was caught up talking to the AFP over the Baron issue. Most of his first week in the Security hot seat seemed to have been spent like this, nodding and scratching his chin while some drab non-entity prattled ceaselessly on. What was this lady’s name again? Lyncoln Rose, here in hologram.
“At any rate, we have come to an accommodation with Ms Baron,” the AFP Superintendent said, “so we do not think it necessary for your Security bureau to intervene directly.” Her face shimmered from a brief moment of distortion before coming into sharp focus again.
“What does that mean, an accommodation?” he asked. “Are you saying you’ve paid her off?”
“Not exactly.” A pause. “Sylvia has been asked to perform a covert role for the AFP. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that this matter is highly confidential.”
He waved his hand in irritation. “Of course. I’m sure that you’ve been briefed that Ms Baron used to work for me here in Advertising?”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Lyncoln Rose said. “We’ve asked Sylvia to actively seek out the Misanthropos cell operating in the Quindalup region north of Perth. This group seems relatively peaceful thus far, but we must be ready to intervene should their intentions turn violent.”
“Why not arrest the lot of them now?” he asked. “Forget about Sylvia; she simply isn’t reliable. I doubt a jail stint will have cured her of that.”
Lyncoln Rose frowned. “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple. The situation is fast becoming political and there are State and Federal elections due in the coming year. If we clamp down on this cell, we run the risk of inflaming the broader situation. The Prime Minister’s office has made it clear that that would be an undesirable outcome, to say the least.”
“So you’re sitting on your hands and asking me to deal with it,” he said. “That’s what I’m hearing.”
“Far from it,” the Superintendent said. “It may well be that Misanthropos is planning some kind of retaliation to coincide with David Baron’s sentencing, and with Ms Baron working for us, willingly or otherwise, we’re well placed to respond.”
“What have you done to her? Installed some kind of coercive device?”
“Let’s just say that henceforth Sylvia will be the enemy of those she intends to befriend. I’m not at liberty to be more specific.”
A tracking device then. “I’m disappointed that a greater level of trust does not yet exist between our organisations,” he said. “But now I have a small favour to ask, if you’ll indulge me. I need some information on the whereabouts of a certain individual. Naturally, we’ve made enquiries through the official channels, but so far without success. I thought perhaps you could assist me.”
“What’s the individual’s name?”
“His name is Rion: spelled R I O N. We don’t have a surname listed. He was in Yellowcake Springs during the June First attack, but we lost track of him in the aftermath. My understanding is that he managed to get himself a job in Perth.”
“Mr Peters, that was more than three years ago. You’ll have to give me a little more than a first name if you want my assistance.”
“Rion claimed to be from the Restricted Zone in the Wheatbelt,” he said. “We actually implanted and conferred provisional citizenship status on him, but the device seems to have malfunctioned.”
“I’ll make some enquiries and let you know.”
“Fine. Has an execution date been set for David, by the way? Beijing is keen for the matter to be brought to a swift conclusion.”
“We’re still waiting on a date for the appeal, but I expect it’ll be over within a year, perhaps two at the outside.”
Two years? By that time, David Baron would have been in custody for more than five years altogether. “And yet Patrick Crews and Clyde Owen are to walk free within three years themselves?” he added.
“I’m afraid so.”
“I’ll let my superiors know,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I do believe I have another meeting.”
“Thanks for giving up some of your precious time, Mr Peters.”
“It’s been my pleasure. Oh, and do let me know if you make any progress into discovering Rion’s whereabouts. I’d be much obliged if he could be rounded up when found.”
“Very well,” Lyncoln Rose said, a little stiffly. “Please send my regards to Mr Yang and his family; my thoughts are with them at this difficult time.”
He nodded and turned her off.
Silence at last.
He hadn’t been lying to Lyncoln Rose about his next scheduled meeting, but it wasn’t one he planned on attending. No, it was high time for a long lunch and then an early knock off for the weekend. He had a headache that only a stiff drink could fix. Now that he was between mistresses and on his best behaviour, temporarily at least, he thought he might take Hui out to dinner and a movie later tonight. She hadn’t been happy with him lately and they hadn’t had sex in a while, so it might be an idea to put in a shift there as well. Maybe even drop the hint that he knew what she and her Australian paramour were up to.
There was something else he had to do before lunch, though; a nagging sense that he’d forgotten to tick a box somewhere. Got it: the Fearless Six fiancée. Another loose end. He put through a call to the CIQ Sinocorp bureau in Beijing. A smooth faced mandarin with a beetle brow appeared before him. Jeremy was ranked way higher than this guy, whose name was Lin, so he could afford to be brusque, and he felt brusque on account of his headache.
“I need someone transferred out here, special order,” he said. “Name’s Lui Ping. I can’t be bothered with looking up her number, but she’s the wife or fiancée of Jiang Wei. You might have heard of him.”
“Ah yes, Mr Peters. I’ll just look her up now.” Lin scrambled under Jeremy’s glare. “Yes, she resides in Chongqing with her daughter, in the seventh district –”
“ – I don’t care where she lives! Just grab her and put her on a plane!”
“Sir, shall I have the daughter sent out also? She is a small child, sir.”
“You test my patience, Lin,” Jeremy said. “Send the child as well.”
“I can have them flown to Perth by Monday afternoon, if that is acceptable?”
“Okay. Don’t let anyone reassign her apartment while she’s over here.”
“Yes, sir.”
He ended the call. Did he want the daughter sent out too? Did they think he was a monster? He sat pondering whether he ought to make an appearance at t
hat Emergency Services meeting after all. If only he had something to fortify him, he’d be able to sit through it, but he knew he was cranky today and thus no appearance was probably better than the appearance he was likely to make. Screw it.
“Natasha,” he said, bringing up his personal assistant’s face on the screen. Damn, she was good looking. He felt sure that Li had installed her as his PA as a kind of test, to see whether he’d try to fuck the first thing in a skirt that was put in front of him.
“Yes, Mr Peters?”
“Please offer my apologies for the Emergency Services meeting. I’m tied up this afternoon, but I’ll read the minutes as soon as they come out.”
“Certainly, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“That will be all, Natasha,” he said. “I’ve got a lunch appointment, so I’ll be out for a while.” He tapped the screen and it went black.
He rubbed his temples in a vain attempt at making the headache go away. No such luck. Then he grabbed his briefcase and made for the door. As he had learned long ago, 99% of getting away with doing what you wanted was in the art of appearing confident, and he was a confident man. He just barrelled straight for the lift and went down to the windswept Amber Zone street, nodding at a few people as he went. He intended to learn all their names within two weeks, but this was only the end of the first week in Security and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by making a mistake.
The streets of Yellowcake Springs soothed him; he liked living here among the rarefied towers and pedestrian-friendly concourses. Everyone in town had a job and they all shared the same employer. There was free universal healthcare, low rates of taxation and an abundance of amenities. It was a great place to bring up children. There were several schools and parks, even a cordoned beach which was hermetically sealed from the polluted ocean. There was no homelessness and very little in the way of violence, except for occasional instances of domestic violence. Yellowcake Springs was the place you moved to get away from tattered, crumbling Western civilisation. If you could afford it.
There were catches, of course. As Director of Advertising, he had spent years formulating ways of sugar-coating these few but often bitter pills. For a start, once you were in, CIQ Sinocorp more or less owned you. That tended not to go down well with Australians used to a laissez-faire style of governance, and thus Jeremy’s ‘vert makers had always been at pains to stress the law-and-order angle and to play to their fears of the big, dirty, seemingly lawless city. Other things that they tended not to like were the implants, the surveillance and the mandatory ‘national’ service. The ‘vert makers had always had their work cut out explaining that while Yellowcake Springs lay on Australian shores, it was in fact a sovereign nation of its own. It did tend to turn a certain kind of person away.