‘Villabona may have a valid reason for warning Audrey,’ said Rob. ‘Victor’s scheduled for a question-and-answer session about controversial issues in the communication industry. He intends to use Farront’s financial backing of Renfrew’s research, plus the free youth counselling services at The Farront Centre, as examples of cynical manipulation of public opinion, while the company actually cares little for the welfare of the individual young consumer.’
‘I still don’t see why it’s up to Mum to do anything about Mr O’Dell.’
‘Hah!’ said his mother. ‘That’s exactly what I said to Audrey. Big mistake. She was livid because she’d already made a personal appeal to Victor to cancel the appearance, but he’d turned her down. Now she’s made it my responsibility to stop him. Audrey didn’t say it in so many words, but I get the picture – my hopes for promotion depend on getting Victor to shut up.’
‘What did Mr O’Dell say when you spoke to him?’
She gusted a sigh. ‘Both Rob and I have left messages asking for an immediate response, but Victor hasn’t got back to us yet.’
‘Hang on,’ said Rob, as his comm’s artificial voice announced an urgent item waiting for him on the FinagleAlert secure communications channel.
While Rob was tapping in a coded sequence to gain access to the channel, Tal said to his mother, ‘Even if you do get Mr O’Dell to cancel tonight, what’s to prevent him from attacking Farront tomorrow, or the day after?’
‘Audrey’s playing for time. The legal department is working full-time to find grounds for a court injunction to keep him quiet.’
Rob interrupted them. ‘It seems Audrey’s had her wish. Tonight’s off. Victor’s been in a car crash.’
Tal’s mother leapt to her feet. ‘A crash! Is he okay?’
‘Cuts and bruises and a couple of cracked ribs. Because of his age, he’s been admitted to hospital.’
‘Poor Victor, he must be in pain. Which hospital? I’ll visit him this evening.’
‘Who was driving?’ said Tal, visualising Marcia’s cheerful smile obliterated by blood.
‘A young woman – I don’t know her name. She’s all right except for a broken nose. She told the cops a ute sideswiped the car and ran them off the road.’
Tal’s mother paced around the kitchen. ‘Have they arrested anyone?’
Rob shook his head. ‘Not yet. The ute was stolen some time last night. It was found abandoned less than a kilometre from the site of the accident.’
‘Accident?’ said Tal. ‘Are you sure?’
‘You mean the death threats?’ said his mother. ‘Victor’s been getting them for years. He makes enemies because he’s so outspoken, but no one has ever actually tried to physically hurt him.’
‘Not until now. Rob said it – Audrey’s had her wish. Victor O’Dell’s off the air.’
‘Tal, you can’t be serious! Audrey may be ruthless in business, but she’d never condone anything like this. It’s unthinkable.’
‘It’s been my experience,’ said Rob, ‘that if the stakes are high enough, many people find the unthinkable becomes the improbable, which rapidly changes to the possible.’
Finding himself with nothing else to do after dinner, Rick joined Thelma in front of the TV. If he hadn’t been a disconnect, there were hundreds of things he could be doing right now. He particularly missed Red Killer Guitar, where he’d been steadily improving as he played lead guitar with the avatars of the real Red Killer band. What a waste – the one advantage of being suspended from school was all the free time, and he had no way of enjoying it.
Slumped in his chair, he was half-watching Thelma’s favourite live show, Take the Carrot and Run. Rick could not imagine why she found it entertaining. Both the studio audience and contestants shrieked and clapped hysterically when anybody won a prize, regardless of whether it was a gold-plated carrot or a million dollars.
The show was suddenly interrupted by a newsflash. ‘Another near-riot at Commdat central offices,’ said the voice-over announcer enthusiastically.
The screen showed an angry crowd milling about while police in riot gear tried to control them. Many of the demonstrators were young, and most of them held flashing signs demanding justice for disconnects.
‘With the number of disconnects rising, and no action from Commdat or the government authorities,’ declared the announcer, ‘public frustration is at boiling point, and for good reason. Lives have been turned upside down, small business owners are facing ruin, students’ education has been disrupted …’
The doorbell chimed. ‘That’ll be Mr Villabona,’ she said, heaving herself out of her chair.
‘Great,’ muttered Rick.
‘Now, dear, you promised.’
‘Okay, okay.’
Rick turned off the TV, replacing it with electronic wallpaper – in this case an image of surf breaking on a beach. He folded his arms. He’d promised Thelma he’d be polite, but that didn’t mean he had to be cooperative.
He slowly got out of his chair when Thelma, looking a little flustered, led two men into the room. Indicating the one with olive skin and dark moustache, she said, ‘Rick, this is Mr Villabona from Farront International, and with him is Dr Unwin.’
‘Please call me Joe,’ Villabona said, flashing a smile as he shook hands. He wasn’t much taller than Rick, but considerably more powerfully built, as shown by the way his bulging muscles strained the jacket of his suit.
‘And allow me to introduce Dr Howard Unwin, co-director of The Farront Centre.’
Rick recognised him from Audrey Farront’s PR video. His photo hadn’t been retouched – he had the same thick black hair, regular features and luminous smile. But in person there was something about him that prickled Rick’s skin. Perhaps it was his dry, limp handshake, or the way his smile never reached his eyes.
Seeing that Thelma was looking impressed, Rick decided he would make his lack of interest in Dr Unwin as obvious as possible. He seriously considered smothering a yawn, but decided it would be overkill. Instead he put on what he hoped was a totally blank expression.
‘Well, Rick,’ said Dr Unwin in a warm, sympathetic voice, ‘you’ve been in the wars lately, I hear.’
When Rick didn’t react in any way, Dr Unwin continued, ‘Things aren’t fair, are they? You did nothing wrong, and yet you were disconnected. And that’s upset you. Yes?’
Rick became aware that Joe Villabona had stepped back from the one-way conversation, and was watching them with unnerving concentration.
Not at all put out by Rick’s vacant stare, the doctor went on, ‘And then you were unjustifiably attacked, and lashed out at those you thought responsible. I’m sure you never intended to hurt Maryann Dodd, but I’m guessing you couldn’t help yourself. Am I right?’
‘Rick, manners, please! Answer Dr Unwin.’
‘Don’t want to talk about it.’
Using a warm, understanding tone, Dr Unwin infuriated Rick by saying to Thelma, ‘I know what Rick’s inner self is experiencing. Bad feelings – depression, hopelessness.’ He sent her a quick, electric smile. ‘Fortunately, I can help.’
Villabona broke in to say to Thelma, ‘I must remind you that there will be absolutely no charge for Rick’s treatment. He can be admitted to the security-protected residential unit of The Farront Centre tomorrow, if it suits you both.’
His words jolted Rick. They were going to lock him up again?
To his relief, Thelma wasn’t keen on the idea. ‘A residential unit? Is that really necessary? Can’t Rick stay here? I’m available to drive him for his appointment every day, if that’s required.’
Unwin employed a lower-voltage smile as he said soothingly, ‘I have found it preferable to have a patient like Rick under twenty-four-hour care.’
Patient? thought Rick. I’m not your patient!
‘Dr Stein has been Rick’s psychiatrist for many years,’ said Thelma, ‘and he’s never suggested Rick join a residential program.’
Unwin nodded ag
reeably. ‘Bernard Stein is a fine man, and a fine doctor. However, he has not specialised in the treatment of communication withdrawal stress syndrome, as I have. CWSS requires a unique approach available only to patients under my direct care.’
‘No way am I going to be your patient,’ Rick said. ‘It’s not going to happen.’
Thelma was obviously torn. ‘Dr Unwin, if Rick feels that way …’
‘I fully understand, but Rick’s welfare is of paramount importance, and unfortunately at the moment he’s not the best judge of what will help him. If I could speak to you alone for a moment, I can explain why it’s far more advantageous for his mental health to have Rick stay at the clinic as our guest.’
Red rage bubbled up in Rick until he thought his head would burst. ‘I’m going bloody nowhere!’ he shouted. ‘You can’t make me!’
Storming out of the room, he yelled back over his shoulder, ‘You can all get stuffed – the whole lot of you!’
EIGHTEEN
Tal’s first period on Friday was an elective subject, History of Civilisation. He was sorry he’d ever taken the course. It should have been interesting, but it was taught by Mr Marsfield, the new teacher who had a sarcastic, jeering attitude and an almost total lack of interest in the topic.
Tal was seated at the very back of the room between Allyx and Jennie. In the row in front of them, George Everett was hunched over a razor-thin mini-notebook, no doubt working on something nerdy. Jennie, usually the most conscientious student of the Five, was playing with her iZod.
A documentary on early Rome was running on the students’ desk screens – and being largely ignored – while down the front Mr Marsfield busied himself with his communicator, seemingly unaware of the racket his students were making.
Tal got up and went to George Everett’s desk. ‘Hey, I’ve got a favour to ask.’
George looked up from his mini-note. ‘If it’s about a phantom for Petra, forget it.’
‘Nothing to do with Petra. I want anything you can dig up on this guy who’s got no record of his past available – nothing personal, no work history.’
‘The target’s got protected status?’ said George, obviously interested.
‘I don’t know. Some real experts have tried to find out more about him, but basically got nowhere.’
George grinned. ‘You think I’ll have better luck than the real experts?’
‘I’m counting on it.’
Obviously pleased, George said, ‘You’ve come to the right place.’ When Tal mentioned money, George flapped his hand. ‘Nah. It’s a freebie. Sounds like fun.’
Tal gave him more information about ‘the target’, as George insisted they call Villabona – ‘Never use names’. They arranged to meet the next day at George’s place.
When he went back to his seat Allyx was pouting a little. ‘I really missed talking with you last night.’
‘Sorry, but I told you, I went with Mum when she visited Victor O’Dell in hospital.’
‘He’s going to be okay?’
‘He’s already bossing the nurses around.’
After a moment, Allyx said, ‘And Mutant Bloom wasn’t nearly as much fun without you.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ he said, mildly irritated.
‘This can’t be true!’ Jennie sat bolt upright in her seat, her gaze fixed on her iZod. ‘Not Rick!’
‘What about Rick?’ Tal and Allyx whipped out their own comms.
‘They’re saying he’s armed and dangerous.’ Eyes wide, Jennie looked up from her iZod. ‘It can’t be Rick.’
On the screen of Tal’s communicator, SECURITY ALERT INSTANT NEWSFLASH appeared blinking in red above a photo of Rick that had been taken at the school dance last year. Underneath Rick’s smiling face scrolled: ARMED AND DANGEROUS. DO NOT APPROACH. SPECIFIC THREATS MADE. TWO WITNESSES REPORT SUSPENDED BRAIDWORTH HIGH STUDENT RICHARD LAWRENCE IN VICINITY OF SCHOOL ARMED WITH SHOTGUN –
The screen of Tal’s iZod went blank. Simultaneously, four long blasts sounded from the electronic horn that usually announced the end of each period. All the desk screens displayed the words: CODE RED SECURITY ALERT. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE AND AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.
Tal’s iZod came alive again, displaying the same message. Added below was: ALL TRANSMISSIONS CLOAKED FOR YOUR PROTECTION.
Mr Marsfield exclaimed, ‘What the hell?’ and got to his feet. He shook his communicator, then peered at the screen. ‘Christ! They’ve cut us off.’
In the distance, multiple sirens wailed.
‘Code red,’ someone called out. ‘That isn’t good.’
‘Run for the hills!’ somebody else shouted, to chortles from the class.
‘Rick Lawrence is out there with a gun!’ yelled a student who had obviously seen the security newsflash.
The public address system crackled into life. An authoritative automated voice declared, ‘Security alert, code red. The entire school is in lockdown. Students and teachers are not to vacate classrooms until instructed to do so. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill. The school is in code red security lockdown. Remain where you are and await instructions.’
There was silence for a moment, then a babble of noise exploded around Tal. Many were complaining about having their comms electronically cloaked, others were sharing misinformation about Rick, or discussing the best escape strategies to employ should an armed maniac enter the building.
‘They’ve cloaked our comms so we can’t tell anyone what’s really happening.’
‘That’s not the reason. It’s so we can’t find out what’s really happening.’
‘How can I let my mum know I’m okay if my iZod isn’t working?’
‘Lawrence is going to kill Constanza because he suspended him then had the cops take him to the nut house.’
‘No, it’s Maryann Dodd he’s after.’
‘They say pretending to be dead is the best way to save your life.’
‘Run zigzag. It makes you a harder target.’
‘Quiet!’ roared Marsfield. When he had most people’s attention, he went on, ‘Don’t leave your seats. I’m off to see what the hell’s happening.’
‘Teachers are supposed to stay in the room, too,’ George pointed out.
Marsfield shot him a look of intense dislike. ‘Mind your own business, Everett.’
The teacher stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Immediately most of the class rushed to the windows. The sirens were louder and a swarm of helicopters was fast approaching.
The sound of throat-clearing came over the public address system.
‘Constanza!’ chorused several students in unison.
‘This is Principal Constanza speaking. Students, faculty, we have an emergency. Please remain calm. I repeat, please remain calm.’
‘We’re calm,’ a student assured the public address system. ‘So calm.’
There were sniggers when someone added, ‘Calm? We’re practically unconscious.’
The principal said in grave tones, ‘Braidworth High’s website has received a series of credible threatening messages. Witnesses have reported seeing an armed individual in the vicinity of our school. The authorities are at this moment securing the area. Students and faculty are to stay in classrooms until advised otherwise.’
‘I’m outta here!’ someone yelled. ‘We’ll be sitting ducks if we stay.’
There was a murmur of agreement, and a number of students began to head for the front of the room. Before they reached the door, it was flung open by Mr Marsfield. ‘Get back to your desks immediately.’
Behind him in the hall, one of the long-time school security guards, known to teachers and students alike as Russell, stood holding his revolver. He was jumpy, swivelling his head around as though expecting an attack at any moment.
Russell moved to stand in the doorway, positioning himself so he could check the hall. ‘Like I said, Mr Marsfield, the police have activated all the specialist squads. No one should be out there, especially st
udents. You don’t want to be shot by mistake.’
‘The kid they’re looking for should be easy enough to locate with GPS.’
‘It seems he’s not carrying a communicator,’ said Russell, ‘so the Global Positioning System is of no use.’
Marsfield wriggled his shoulders impatiently. ‘How long are we going to be struck here? I’ve got appointments, things to do.’
‘I’m sure we all have,’ said the guard, unimpressed, ‘but it’s impossible to say how much time a sweep like this will take. Best lock the door and don’t open it unless you’re sure it’s safe to do so. If something happens, use the call-back on the public address system.’
The guard stepped cautiously out into the hall and Marsfield shut and locked the door. Turning to the class, he said, ‘Any of you know the damage a shotgun can do?’
‘Lots,’ said someone.
‘Blow your head off, that’s what. Cut you in half.’ Marsfield broke the silence that followed by adding, ‘Rick Lawrence is out there somewhere with a loaded shotgun. And he’s gone apeshit. Totally apeshit.’
Time passed agonisingly slowly. Tension filled the air while everyone waited for something to happen. Outside, apart from the constant noise of hovering helicopters, there were distant shouts and an occasional siren.
Complaints about the comm shut-down grew louder and more resentful. One angry student pointed out that the total cloaking was unfair. They should at least be allowed to pass the time playing games.
With no communicator access to the outside world, the class split into groups, some talking quietly, others, including Mr Marsfield, crowding the windows and exclaiming whenever they saw anything.
‘Look at those guys! I bet that’s the anti-terrorism squad – see the body armour they’re wearing.’
‘Look, there’s an air cam coming this way.’
Tal, Allyx and Jennie sat silently together. They couldn’t believe Rick was being portrayed as a would-be killer on the loose, to be hunted down like a dangerous animal. There was little any of them could find to say, other than to repeat that it had to be a terrible mistake.
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