Yellowcake Summer

by Guy Salvidge

  “Slaves or slavers,” Jeremy said, remembering. “Does it truly have to be like that?”

  “Always,” Li murmured. “Always like that.”

  They came to a control room full of monitors and equipment. Technicians sat entranced by their screens, not having seen the two of them enter. “I take it you’re showing me this so that I can apply it in the current situation?” Jeremy asked. “I’m trying to understand.”

  “The details are for you to decide upon,” Li said. “I grow tired even here and I must conserve my strength. You must turn back the protesters and you must do so without violence. That is all.” The Grand Director sat down in an empty chair, his narrow chest heaving. “Last words for today,” he whispered. “The easiest way to defeat an enemy is to let him think he’s defeated you. Think on that.” He raised his bony hand and the room faded to white.

  6. The Yew Boys

  Rion roasted in his furnace through the endless day and too brief night. He felt the life seeping out of him through his sweat and the dribbles of urine. Frank brought a jug of dirty water from time to time and Rion knew that this unclean creature held his life in its chubby hands. Frank might pass out drunk with the Yew Boys. He might forget to come around the cells, or sleep in later than usual. No easier way to finish the two prisoners than like that. Rion came to see the water jug as representing hours or even minutes: they were the millilitres remaining in his life. It no longer mattered that the water was brown and foul-tasting.

  On the second morning, the heat was rising steadily when the cell door clicked open. There stood Frank, a look of concern on his ruddy face. “Time for you to meet the Yew Boys,” he said. “Think you can get up?”

  Rion looked up at him from where he was sprawled in his underwear on the bed. He said nothing.

  “Perk up,” Frank said, coming over and putting a big hand on Rion’s forehead. “You’ve got a temperature. Here, drink this while I look in on your friend. Back in a tick.”

  The door clanged shut. He couldn’t see the jug without turning his head but he knew where it’d be, on the floor at the foot of the bed. He couldn’t reach it without moving. He tried to sit up, failed, and tried again. He wasn’t going to die like this, he decided. He’d prefer a bullet.

  He sat up nauseated, fumbled for the jug, and drank. Sucked it down, chunks and all. When the jug was halfway empty, his thirst was still not slaked but he forced himself to stop as he thought he might vomit. He wet his hand in the jug and splashed water on his face and shoulders. Then he rooted around in the sheets for his clothes. On his feet, he crept toward the window, shielding his eyes from the blinding light. Nothing of interest out there. He went back over to the bed and picked up the jug.

  The cell door opened. “Come on then,” Frank said. “Don’t try to rush me. It won’t do either of us any good.” Holding the jug, Rion followed Frank’s lumbering frame out through the corridor and past Vanya’s cell, which stood open. Vanya lay flat out on the bed and he wasn’t moving.

  “Vanya!” Rion protested.

  “He’s all right,” Frank said. “He just needs a minute, like you did. Calm down. Just sit over there and I’ll have him up.” Frank indicated to a stool at a bench in what had once been the kitchen. Rion sat down and drank the rest of the jug, this time scooping out the debris and flicking it onto the already-filthy floor. It wasn’t much cooler in this room but at least it wasn’t as bright as in his cell. He realised then that not only had he not eaten in more than a day, but he hadn’t thought of food until now. His stomach churned and gurgled. Vanya staggered out along the corridor in his jeans, his normally pale skin having turned a fiery red. He collapsed onto a stool next to Rion, his own jug already three-quarters empty, and Rion had to steady his friend to prevent him from falling. No one spoke for a while. Frank clattered around but Rion didn’t look up to see what he was doing.

  “Grub,” Frank declared, throwing down bowls and spoons in front of them. The meal consisted of uncooked egg noodles in warm water. Rion tried to chew a mouthful but his jaw did not seem to be working and so he slurped up the salty water to wash them down. The rest of the noodles sat dry and unloved. Vanya fared little better.

  “Never have I seen a sadder pair,” Frank declared. He stood over them, shaking his head. Rion could smell his odour, his breath. He picked up the spoon again.

  Tim came through the front door, the look on his face expressing disgust at Rion and Vanya’s reduced condition. “This is how you treat people here?” he asked Frank. “Can they even walk?”

  Frank laughed and hefted Vanya out of his stool and onto his feet. Vanya leaned with his head against the wall. “See, this one’s right as rain,” he said. “Need a hand?” he asked Rion, and by way of response Rion stepped unsteadily down from the stool.

  “Come on then,” Tim said. “They’re expecting you.” His pistol was in his belt and not in his hands, which said all that needed to be said about the threat Rion and Vanya were thought to pose. Trailing Tim, they shuffled along the alleyway, thankful for the shade cast by the old stone buildings of Yew’s main street. Tim stopped at the end of the alleyway and waited for them, his hand resting on his belt. When they caught up, Tim pointed across the street to another alleyway that led to an old hotel courtyard. The shops on the street of Yew were boarded up much as they were in East Hills, but at least here there were some signs of life. Dogs barked and yapped. Children grubbed around in the dust and a few adults stared at the prisoners as they passed.

  The faded hotel sign read The Pioneers and the entrance was in a courtyard at the end of the alley. Tim ushered them inside, past the vacant bar and around the back to an old dining room. It was stuffy and dark. There were faces in the gloom, seated along the length of the table. The Yew Boys.

  “These are the guys?” one of them said. Tim told them yes.

  The prisoners were asked to sit, so they sat. Rion peered across the table at the faces, trying to make them out. “I’ll be waiting outside,” Tim said, withdrawing.

  “You’re Rion,” one of them said. It was Callum and he was far bigger than Rion remembered him. He must be at least twenty now. He’d just been one of Keith Gillam’s junior shit-kickers back when Rion had lived in East Hills, but clearly times had changed. “I remember you, you little cunt. Why’d you come here bringing the heat down on us? Like we don’t have enough problems.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Rion said. “We had to run.”

  “You ran to the wrong fucking place,” Callum said. “I oughtta gut you.”

  “No, he’s worth something alive,” one of the others said. He was a mean looking sucker with a long, greasy mullet and Rion didn’t recognise him. “Aren’t you? Fucking Federal Police are after this cunt. Nup, he lives. Dunno about the other one, but.”

  “He’s my friend,” Rion said.

  “I don’t care if he’s your mum,” the man replied.

  “Maybe I can cut you up just for fun,” Callum said, leaning across the table at Vanya, who shrank back.

  “Like you killed Lydia just for fun?” Rion snapped.

  “I don’t know any Lydia,” Callum said.

  “Yes you do,” Rion said, continuing in his recklessness. “The old lady who lived at the power substation in East Hills. You left her on the hill, didn’t you?”

  “We ask the questions,” the third man said. He was older than the other two, perhaps forty, but he didn’t look like the kind of guy Rion wanted to mess with. He had a bullet of a head and a brick of a body. “I’m John Barwick and that’s Jimmy Harding, in case you’re wondering. We’re the Yew Boys. Know what that means?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Rion said. “I just want to know why he killed my friend.”

  “Well, now I’m curious,” John said to Callum.

  “Bitch didn’t need a reason to die. She needed a reason to live and she couldn’t think of one,” Callum muttered, his eyes murderous.

  “There’s your answer,” John said, folding his arms. “Cop t
hat.”

  “That’s right, and this cunt here’s next,” Jimmy added, pointing at Vanya. “You’re dead.”

  Vanya said nothing. He didn’t move or speak.

  “Another thing,” John said, hauling something up onto the table: Rion’s bag. He opened the flap and started stacking cans on the table. Eight in all. “Where’d you score the stash?”

  Rion considered the cans of sausages, corn and beans. “Bought ‘em in the city,” he said.

  “Don’t lie to me, cunt!” John roared. He reached forward and grabbed a fistful of Rion’s T-shirt, pulling him halfway across the table before pushing him away again. “Didn’t notice this, did ya?” he added, tapping the underside of one of the cans.

  “I dunno what you’re on about,” Rion said. It was too dark to see properly.

  “They’re stamped: Property of the CPF. Think quick, fuck nut. Where’d you get the cans?”

  “From Perth, like I said. People buy stuff knocked off from the bluesies all the time. Black market.”

  “Like fuck,” John said, but Rion saw that he’d put doubt into the man’s mind. “If this is some faggot blue boy trick, sending you cunts here, and I find out, then I don’t give a fuck if the feddies want ya. Ya head’s gonna end up on a stick, cunt.”

  “We’re not with the blue boys,” Rion insisted. “I hate those faggots as much as you. I’m a Hills boy, right? I was there in ‘58 when we took that train.”

  “That was sweet, hey?” Callum said.

  “Yeah, you dumbass,” Jimmy said, turning to Callum. “That’s when Gillam got fucked up, after that. Smart move. Hill boy faggots. Has fat Frank tried to slip ya one yet? He will, don’t worry. Fucken poof. But you cunts would like that, wouldn’t ya?”

  “Yeah, well, he’s gonna get another crack, the big poof,” John said. “I dunno what to do with you cunts right now, so you can go back in the hotbox while I think about it. Think I might crack a beer while I’m at it.” John got to his feet and towered over Rion and Vanya. “Tim,” he called out.

  Tim opened the door and Rion was on his feet in an instant, tugging at Vanya. They hurried out into the bar and the daylight beyond. Rion sucked in the air and leaned against the wall. “Gimme a minute,” he said to Tim. Vanya stood impassively, completely withdrawn.

  “Thought you might get a bullet then and there,” Tim said, possibly in sympathy. “So you must be a fast talker. What am I saying? I know you’re a fast talker. Drove you all the way to Yellowcake Springs for that piece of shit console.”

  Rion straightened and looked at Tim. “Let us go,” he said. “Tell them we legged it.”

  Tim shook his head and drew the pistol from his belt. “Nup. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly top dog around here. If I let you two off the hook, it’ll be my ass in the hotbox getting flogged by fat Frank next. Start walking.”

  They walked, sticking to the shade. “Where’s Ella?” Rion asked. “You don’t want her growing up around these psychos, surely.”

  “Too right I don’t,” Tim said. “That’s why she isn’t here; she’s staying with some people I can trust. Little place called Talun, past East Hills. You didn’t come through there, did you?” His voice rose in concern.

  Rion wanted to lie, to gain some advantage, but he found that he couldn’t, not to Tim. “We didn’t come through there.” They crossed the main street.

  “I’ve got to get out of this shithole,” Tim said, waving his pistol in the direction of the alleyway. “Move.” They moved. Rion suppressed his urge to run for it, forcing his legs to move at a walking pace and no faster. They came to the prison house.

  “Knock knock,” Tim said. “Frank?”

  No answer. The door was slightly ajar and Tim indicated that Rion and Vanya were to lead the way inside. Rion stepped through first and stood just inside the door to allow Vanya and Tim past him. There was a horrible smell, far worse than before. It smelled like shit.

  “What the fuck? Frank?” Tim said. “Oh fuck.”

  Rion saw what Tim had seen, part of a hairy leg visible on the floor in the kitchen.

  “Don’t fucking move,” Tim warned them. “Let me have a look.” He rounded the corner. “Oh Christ. Oh fuck. Frank!”

  Rion inched forward and leaned across the kitchen bench. Frank lay on the kitchen floor, his face smeared with half-dried blood. His torso was a bloody porridge and flies had already gotten to him. Rion backed away and stood near the door. He nodded to Vanya. “He’s dead.”

  “No shit,” Tim said, holding his nose. He stalked off in the direction of the cells, but returned quickly. “No one’s home,” he said. “Get back in your cells, you two; you’ll be safer in there.”

  “No, not doing it,” Rion said. “We’ll die in there without water. Shoot me if you have to, but I’m not going back in that room.”

  “Calm down, all right,” Tim said, sweat streaming from his face. “Out the front for a minute then, while I think.”

  They stood in the shade outside. It was already far too hot and none of them had any water. Rion thought about going back inside in search of a jug, but the stench made him think twice about it.

  Gunshots rang out and they threw themselves down into the dust. More shots, and now shouting coming from the main street. “What the fuck!” Tim said, his eyes roving for clues as to the source of the shooting.

  “What’s that sound?” Vanya said. It was the first time he’d spoken in a long while. They listened. It was a repetitive, thudding sound and it only got louder.

  “Helicopter, maybe?” Tim said. “It’ll be those feddies, won’t it? Fuck me.”

  More shooting. Men shouting and then a piercing scream.

  “You’d better run,” Rion said to Tim. “They’ll gun you down.”

  “Yeah, fuck,” Tim said. “Catch youse later.” In a half crouch, he started off in the direction of the river.

  “Go find your daughter,” Rion called out. “Good luck!”

  Tim raised one hand in acknowledgement and then he disappeared from view. Long seconds passed and no more shots were fired, but the sound of the helicopter grew almost deafening.

  “Sit tight,” Rion told Vanya. They pressed themselves against the wall. The helicopter flew low over the house and hovered, looking to land in the sandy park. It landed and soldiers in camo gear started to fan out in every direction. Two of them made a beeline for the prison house. The soldiers were armed with assault rifles. Rion and Vanya wasted no time in raising their hands in surrender.

  “Orion Saunders and Vanya Kilanski?” one of them shouted over the helicopter’s din. They nodded in agreement. The soldier motioned for them to stand up and they did. They were escorted, not in the direction of the helicopter, but back along the alleyway to the main street. Soldiers now swarmed everywhere and the battle was clearly over. Those townspeople who were not in hiding had been herded up and were being watched over by a group of soldiers in the awning of the old co-op. A number of bodies lay exposed in the street, and as Rion and Vanya were led in the direction of the co-op, they saw among the four or five dead a young skinhead, his chest torn to pieces.

  Callum.

  7. Loose Ends

  On Monday, Jeremy received another call from Lyncoln Rose. He hadn’t had much sleep the night before, so now he felt especially cranky even by Monday’s standards. How he tired of the coy Australian’s pointy nose and long face. How he tired of her evasions and her transparent double games. She began to say something but he cut her off:

  “You’ve got Rion?”

  “Yes, we’ve got him,” she said. “You’ve been told?”

  “No one tells me. I find out,” he said, then thought to back off a little. He couldn’t afford to get the AFP completely offside. “When can you have him here?” he asked, straining to keep the note of irritation out of his voice.

  She smiled at him. “That’s what we need to discuss.”

  So she wanted to horse-trade, did she? “There’s nothing to discuss. You
promised to deliver him. He may well have critical information relating to the security of this Protectorate.”

  “And he’s also an Australian citizen,” she said, “making him mine and not yours.”

  “So you want to trade him for something, don’t you? What do you want?”

  “All I’m after is an understanding with you, Jeremy. We’re all under pressure. I’ve been asked to make sure that CIQ Sinocorp understands the devastating impact a violent confrontation with protesters at Yellowcake Springs could have, not only for Sinocorp, but for the Federal Government as well. It’s an election year now and the pollies are nervous as all hell.”

  “Then don’t let them protest,” he said. “It’s your country and they’re going to be on your soil. They won’t be allowed to set foot on ours, I can assure you.”

  “You’ve got to understand that that isn’t how we do things in Australia. You can’t stop people from protesting. They can protest all they like as long as it’s peaceful and the information I’m getting suggests that it will be.”

  “Peaceful? They’re terrorists and they should be in jail. They’ve already attacked the Protectorate once. Now you’re letting them come here again and you want me to understand?”

  “Jeremy,” she said. “It isn’t going to be like June First, all right? We’re monitoring the situation from within the protest movement – ”

  “ – you mean you’ve got Sylvia working for you. Sylvia Baron! I’m sorry but I don’t have any confidence in the information you’re getting from her.”

  Lyncoln Rose’s face reddened. “She’s reporting to us whether she likes it or not. Now look, I’m prepared to hand over this Rion fellow – an Australian citizen – and all you have to do in return is not to send in the tanks or whatever it is that you have. We’re going to let them have their protest, we’re going to provide them with facilities and supplies so they don’t die of dehydration out there in the middle of nowhere, and when they’ve had enough and gone home we’re going to round up the ringleaders and charge them under the National Security Act. The whole thing will go away quietly, much to the relief not only of the Federal Government, but presumably CIQ Sinocorp too.”