by Guy Salvidge
“Looks like those have seen some action already,” Rion said.
Pels gave him a hard look. “Listen carefully: a bluesie kitted up like you’re gonna be is sitting in forty thousand dollars’ worth of hardware. That’s a lot more than you’re worth to me. These helmets have a longer life expectancy than the average rookie going out on his first op. But it’s all right; even if you get your brains scrambled, we can probably re-use the helmet. Any more dumb questions?”
“A third shotgun,” Rion said. “We only have two.”
Pels drove him and the gear back to town and she barely said a word to him on the way. “Thanks for the lift,” Rion said as the truck pulled up at the front of the Rusty Swan. Pels just sat at the wheel waiting for him to get out. Marcel came out of the house to help carry the gear, and then Pels drove off in a swirl of dust.
“How’s your girlfriend? A bit tetchy today?” Marcel said. “You got us some shells. Nice.” They laid out the equipment on the kitchen bench and Vanya came out of the lounge room.
“You got us another shotgun,” Vanya said.
“No need for anyone to stay behind anymore,” Rion said.
“Wait, where are we going?” Vanya asked.
“I put in my report,” Rion said. “Turley wants us to take Callum out.”
“Really?” Marcel asked. “Just because of your friend?”
“That’s right,” Rion replied. “Find Callum, find out why he did that to Lydia, and if we don’t get an answer we like, rearrange his face.”
“He didn’t say that,” Marcel said. “Although I like your thinking. He probably just wants us to snoop around, right?”
“Turley doesn’t know his ass from his elbow,” Rion said. “If I see Callum, he’s dead.”
“Steady on,” Marcel said. “The other day I couldn’t even get you to hold onto your shotgun and now you want to shoot some guy in the face?”
“You can stay here if you like,” Rion said. “I’m not forcing you. I’m just warning you what might happen.”
“That’s cool,” Marcel said. “You know that if you do shoot that militia fucker, Turley’ll shitcan you for it.”
“We’ll say we acted in self-defence,” Rion said. “And besides, the Federal Police are after me already now.”
“What for, man?” Vanya said, pulling one of the vests from its wrapper. He pulled off his shirt to try on the vest, revealing his scrawny frame.
“It’s a long story,” Rion said. “Help me finish Callum and I’ll explain everything.” Rion picked up one of the packets and threw it to Marcel. “Wear your uniform over it,” he said. “This is an official visit.”
“I hope you got me an XL, pal,” Marcel said.
Kitted out in their CPF uniforms, the three men made their way out to the front of the Rusty Swan, where the heat was intense. Just stepping out of the shade was bad enough. It didn’t look like there was any movement at the mill, but maybe whoever was there was lying low. Only foolish people went anywhere in this weather.
“It’s fucking hot out here,” Marcel said, wiping his heavy brow and replacing his helmet.
Rion led the way along dusty Nestor Street. “Best if we go under the bridge,” he said. The riverbed was bone dry and even the weeds were close to death. Some comedian had pitched a faded real estate sign atop what had once been an island in the river. Scrabbling up the embankment in this gear was hard work, and Rion got sand in his boots. Then he had to help Marcel up the bank. At the top, the three of them rested in the shade and drank unpleasantly warm water from their canteens.
“Genius, this is,” Marcel grumbled. “I’m taking the bridge on the way back.”
From here they cut through the library car park to Gerald Street, East Hills’ central strip. Rion had an idea where Callum and his goons might be. The library, a tremendously ugly grey-brick structure that must be a hundred years old, looked more or less intact. The door was locked and the windows were boarded up.
“I’ll give you a tip,” Marcel said as Rion tried the door. “The bad dudes are not gonna be in there.”
“I know,” Rion said. “I used to spend a lot of time in here when I was younger, that’s all.” The door wouldn’t budge, so he left it and they continued on.
“Are you going to tell us where we’re actually going?” Vanya asked.
“It’s not far,” Rion said. On the opposite side of Gerald Street stood another hideous structure which had once housed Government offices. In more recent times, people had lived there behind that tinted glass. East Hills seemed almost entirely devoid of life and the corpses in the pool couldn’t account for everybody who’d lived here in ‘58. Rion led them into an alleyway off the main street, near the shopping centre. The alley was full of car bodies and, bizarrely, smashed up beds and wardrobes. “You two wait here,” he said. “Cover me, I guess.”
“Where are you going?” Vanya asked.
“There’s a square up ahead,” Rion replied. “Used to be a fountain there. You’ll see it if you go around the side. There’s a pub next to the square and I think Callum might be inside. I thought I saw someone upstairs when I came along here with Turley.”
“What beers do they have on tap?” Marcel said.
Rion ignored him. “When I get to the front of the pub, one of you come up the street and cover the main entrance. The other can come around the back.”
“We don’t know how many of them there are,” Vanya protested. “This is fucking suicide.”
“If he had more than a couple of men left, then we wouldn’t have made it this far,” Rion said.
“He’s right, there’s no one here,” Marcel agreed. “I dunno why Turley bothers with a fuckhole like this.”
“Vanya, you’re a good shot. You cover the front,” Rion said. “And Marcel can come around the back and help me out.”
“I know you’re gonna fuck this up,” Marcel said. “Nice knowing you.”
“I’m gonna need to get pretty close to hit anyone with a shotgun,” Vanya said.
“Then get close,” Rion said, peering around the corner. No one was there. He stepped out onto the street.
It was no more than twenty or thirty steps from the alleyway to the front of the pub across the sun-blasted pavement, but to Rion it felt like much more. He thought of Lydia and his albums. He thought of his long-dead mother. Marcel was right. He didn’t know whether he’d be able to shoot anyone if and when he got the chance.
The pub’s door hung open, one of its hinges broken, and the scene inside was one of disarray. There were items of filthy clothing scattered across the floor, and the space behind the bar was entirely devoid of glasses or bottles of spirits. Bar stools were smashed, couches gutted. The felt of the pool table had been ripped to shreds. But there were no people, living or otherwise. He turned and indicated to Vanya, huddling in the shade over his shotgun, that it was all clear. He pointed up to the second storey.
Rion heard something moving around the back of the pub and he hoped it was Marcel, so he finished his sweep of the downstairs area and made his way to the foot of the grand old staircase.
A boy stood at the top of the stairs. It was the youth, Chris. He had a rifle propped up on the banister and it was aimed at Rion.
“Is Callum up there?” Rion asked.
“I’m aiming for your eye,” Chris said in response.
“I just want to talk to Callum,” Rion said. He was suddenly hyper-aware of his circulation, of the blood pumping through his veins. “I’m going to have to come upstairs. I’ve got two other men with me and more than a hundred more at the detention centre out of town.”
“Maybe,” Chris said, “but it isn’t going to matter to your eye.” He didn’t move.
“Is Callum actually up there?” Rion asked. “I just need to talk to him. I’ll put the shotgun down if you like.”
Chris seemed to consider this. The barrel of the rifle wavered. “Drop the gun and you can come up,” he said. “I’ve got a pistol.”
Rion put the shotgun down on the carpet and started to make his way up the stairs into the gloom. Chris moved away from the rifle, which Rion could now see was affixed to the banister in a more permanent fashion. “Just settle down,” Rion said to the boy. He looked around but did not make eye contact with the youth or stare down the barrel of the pistol in the boy’s trembling hands.
The pub’s upper level consisted of a number of rooms that had once housed paying guests from out of town. Most of the doors were closed, but the one at the far end of the corridor was open. Rion thought he could hear someone moaning. He crept forward, listening to the sound. The voice, possibly delirious, belonged to a girl or woman. “I’m taking a look in there,” he said to Chris, who followed him along the corridor.
Inside the room was a queen-sized bed, and in the bed lay a sickly, glazed-eyed child. The heavy curtains had been thrown open. The girl thrashed weakly in the grip of some nightmare. She was probably ten or twelve years old. “Who’s this?” he asked Chris. Rion could have reached over and wrenched the pistol from the boy’s grasp, but he didn’t try.
“My sister,” Chris said.
Rion touched the girl’s forehead; she was burning up. He heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. Rion went back out and told Marcel that he could come up and that he wouldn’t need his shotgun. Marcel ignored the second part of this request and came to the doorway, shotgun poised. Rion and Chris stood over the feverish girl. From the odour in the room and the cast of the girl’s skin, Rion was reminded of his mother and the diphtheria that had killed her. Rion went to the window and spied Vanya sweltering in the sun in a position near the front door: “It’s all right,” he called out. “It’s just a couple of kids.”
“Want me to come inside?” Vanya said, looking up at the window.
“Yeah, but guard the door. Might be others around somewhere.”
“There’s no one else here,” Chris said. “Just me’n Anna.”
“What about Callum?” Rion said. “You said he was in town.”
Chris shook his head. “They’ve cleared out.”
“Where’s he gone?”
Chris looked down at his sister and then up at Rion. “If I tell you, you’ll help my sister? You’ve got to promise.”
“I promise,” Rion said. “We’ve got medical supplies at the detention centre. Now where are they?”
“They went to Yew,” Chris said.
“Yew?” Rion knew the town; it was south of East Hills.
“They’re running from you.”
“And they left you and your sister behind?”
“I couldn’t leave her,” Chris said. “She’s sick. And they wouldn’t let her come.”
17. Given
Lui Ping sat holding her daughter as the child struggled to break free. The woman would not make eye contact with Jeremy, which annoyed him. “She can play on the floor if she wants,” he said. But he had nothing for the child in his office: no blocks, no crayons. Lui Ping released the child, who tottered off before sitting down abruptly on the plush carpet. “I always wanted children,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want to put her in the crèche?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Sir, we have long flight. We’re both exhausted.” There were indeed bags under Lui Ping’s eyes. She was quite pretty in that generic Chinese way, a way that no longer interested him. She didn’t speak English particularly well, but then he didn’t speak Mandarin particularly well, so it had to be English.
“I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I’m investigating the June First attack, and I have some questions about what happened to your fiancée, Jiang Wei.”
That got her attention, as he knew it would. The child was momentarily forgotten. “Yes?” she said. It was obvious that she was afraid to say more.
“Your fiancée and five other men were sent into the reactor to try to repair the damage, and they all subsequently died of radiation sickness,” he explained. “None of the men were given protective clothing. Yang Po gave the order.”
Lui Ping’s face darkened and he knew he was onto something. “I met this man,” she said. “You are his friend?”
“No. I’ve just replaced Mr Yang as Director of Security. He’s had a heart attack.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, but he’s very frail. He’s had to go back to China.”
Lui Ping looked at him and her face told of her defiance. He liked that. “Don’t expect me to say I hope he gets better soon,” she said. “He killed Lijia’s father.” The child had made her way over to the door and was reaching up toward the handle. He could see that Lui Ping’s attention was wavering.
“Yes, he did. And now I want to know why,” he said. “What did Yang Po say to you?”
“He came to hospital, here in Australia. Jiang Wei was dying. He came to speak to us.”
“What did he say?”
“Mama!” Lijia said, her fingertips touching the door handle.
“Excuse me.” Lui Ping got up and scooped little Lijia into her arms. “I don’t want trouble,” she said, sitting down again. “All this, it’s finished. I work. I look after Lijia. I don’t try to remember all of this.”
“Yang Po killed Jiang Wei and the other five,” he insisted. “What would you say if I told you that he could be prosecuted, even jailed?”
“He has heart attack,” Lui Ping said. “He’s a sick man.”
“That’s true,” he said. “What about this ‘Controlled Waking State’ trial that Jiang Wei was part of?”
Lui Ping stroked her daughter’s head. The child was falling asleep. “They mess with Jiang Wei’s mind,” she half-whispered. “He told me about it in Dreaming State. He start to lose his mind. Then they send him into the reactor.”
“So it’s a cover up,” he said. Lijia’s eyes were closed and she shook her head rhythmically from side to side. “The trial was failing and Yang Po wanted to cover it up, so he killed off Jiang Wei and the others in the reactor.”
“Mr Peters, maybe you a good man, but I don’t think you can help.”
“I want to help you,” he said. “I want you to stay here in Yellowcake Springs for a while. You won’t have to work and everything will be paid for. Think of it as a holiday. You can spend the time with your daughter.”
“Thank you,” Lui Ping said. Lijia lay motionless in her arms.
“I’ve organised an apartment for you here in town. I’ll give you a few days to settle in, and then perhaps we can discuss what happened to Jiang Wei in a little more detail.”
“A few days, yes,” Lui Ping said. “I will try to remember more.”
He saw them to the door and had Natasha organise for them to be taken to the Green Zone.
Mondays were always difficult to stay motivated right through until five o’clock, but Jeremy had brought a bottle of expensive American bourbon into work today. He used to be a big coffee drinker but in recent times he’d found himself needing something stronger to get through the day. It was still a little early to give in to the temptation though. There were a number of things he could be doing that didn’t involve the bourbon, but his heart wasn’t in any of them. He reached for the drawer. In the same instant, one of his worker bees flashed up on the screen.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but it’s important,” the man said. Jeremy couldn’t put a name to this guy’s face. His standards were slipping.
Jeremy shut the drawer casually, as though it were nothing. “Yes? What’s happened?” He wanted to add ‘Mr Jones’ or ‘Mr Foster’ at the end of his sentence, but he didn’t want to get it wrong.
“Sir, there’s been a murder.”
“In town? Have we got footage?”
“In the Green Zone, at one of the residential apartments. 214 Heisenberg. White male, twenty-four years old. His name’s Robert Given, works in Health & Wellbeing. Not sure about footage as yet, but I’m positive we’ll have something.”
“Are you certain we’re looking at murder?” Jeremy demanded.
“
I’m not a hundred percent certain that it’s a murder, Mr Peters, but Robert Given was shot in the back of the head. I guess it’s possible that he could have done it himself.”
“This isn’t happening,” Jeremy said. “Not today. How many murders have there been in Yellowcake Springs?”
“Three, Mr Peters, and they were all domestic. This one looks like it could have been a professional hit.”
“Well, keep me informed. Day or night, you understand?”
“I understand, sir.” The connection winked out. Jeremy got out the bourbon and poured himself a measure. Then he turned back to his computer and brought up Robert Given’s employee file. Given was a tough-looking Aussie. Brawny. Strong jawline. Where had he seen that face before?
The glass slipped from his fingers, spilling the precious nectar onto the expensive carpet. Given was the guy who’d been fucking Jeremy’s wife.
It couldn’t be and yet it was. If anyone had a reason to knock Given off, it was Jeremy. And yet he hadn’t authorised such a thing. Not for something as trivial as an affair. But if they found out that Given had slept with Hui it would make him a suspect. He had the means, a whole apparatus at his disposal.
Someone was trying to set him up: it was the only explanation. He retrieved the glass and reached for the bottle again. He knocked back a glass in one gulp and wiped his mouth. He had to act decisively, but how?
First thing had he to do was to go down to the crime scene. Any Director of Security worth a damn would do that. Then he’d have to decide whether it was more incriminating to try to destroy the evidence linking Hui and Given, or to leave it there. He was the Director, after all. Only the Grand Director could authorise an investigation without his approval. He put the bourbon away, told Natasha where he was going, and made for the door.
Private transportation was virtually unknown in Yellowcake Springs, but when you were the Director of Security, and when there’d been a murder, an exception could be made. He had his own private flitter downstairs in storage, which so far he’d never used. It occurred to him as he strode through the Eye that someone in his position ought to have a bodyguard. Given’s killer was still out there, and for all Jeremy knew he too might be on the hit list. He’d lived in Yellowcake Springs long enough to have more or less forgotten about things like murderers, bodyguards and police forces. Pervasive surveillance was supposed to have done away with all of that. But people were still made of flesh and blood and they still did stupid things, even if they knew they were being watched.