The Trespassers

by Meg Mundell

  ~

  Lugging a box of supplies back to their cabin later that day, she saw Cleary and Declan in an alcove, talking to a figure in a white hazmat suit.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, facing down the official. Not much to distinguish them: this one had brown eyes set in a rectangle of dark skin, a strand of black hair trapped against the visor.

  ‘Just having a chat,’ said the man.

  Billie caught a whiff of sugar, saw the boys chomping enthusiastically beneath their masks. ‘What’s that in your gobs?’ she demanded.

  A grinning Declan pulled his mask aside to display a wad of masticated brown goo. ‘Caramels,’ he said with relish. ‘He’s got ’em in his pocket.’

  Billie pointed at Cleary. ‘I’m this one’s legal guardian,’ she told the man. ‘You want to talk to him, you go through me.’ Not strictly true, but worth reinforcing. ‘And you’ve got no right to give them sweets. You’re breaking protocol.’

  The official raised his hands. ‘Just being friendly.’

  Billie made to leave, but the man laid a hand on her arm: another breach. On reflex Billie jerked away.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I need to scan you all.’

  The boys chomped happily as they were scanned. Then the man turned to Billie, pointed the machine at her temple. ‘Those protesters,’ he said, all casual. ‘The ones up on the roof. Are they alright?’

  ‘You tell me. They’re still locked up in the bloody sin bin.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘But wasn’t one guy injured?’

  An odd question. ‘Ask him yourself. He’s the one on crutches, thanks to your army thugs.’ The protest had been broken up by over-zealous soldiers, one passenger slipping off the roof in the fracas, landing badly, a nasty sprain to his ankle.

  The man lowered his voice. ‘Not everyone’s against you. You do have supporters here.’

  A prickle of nerves. Against her?

  The official hurried on: ‘There’s a bunch of activists and media camped outside the quarantine station. Most of them are on your side. They’re not happy about how this is being handled, how you’re being treated.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Billie slowly, buying time. Something was amiss here: a fever scan should not take this long.

  Two yellowsuits strode past their alcove. The man dipped his head at them, waited until they were out of sight, then thrust some folded papers into her hand. ‘Quick, take this,’ he said. ‘Written by a local journo. There are people on your side.’

  Billie shoved the papers in amongst her supplies, out of sight.

  ‘Chin up,’ said the man, and was gone.

  ~

  That night she left the boy asleep, in Holly’s care. She needed some fresh air and solitude. To escape their cell, stretch her legs.

  She lit a cigarette, pocketed her lighter and exhaled grey twirls into the darkness. Across the water a lighthouse blinked out its steady pulse. On the horizon glowed the city whose streets she’d walked so often in her head. Touted as a cultural centre, a humming grid of music and coffee, sports and commerce, art and opportunity – all the official markers of liveability. The vast sprawl of its suburbs gradually petering out into factories, industrial zones, vertical food farms.

  She’d browsed the promo pics for hours: gated compounds, compact rows of tiny flats, hot running water, communal laundries and barbecue areas. The promise of disposable income, enough to send some money home – get her mum’s teeth fixed, buy Jamie a new bike. Weekends off, new streets to roam, alleyway bars and music venues. A whole world of possibilities. Certain restrictions, sure: BIM workers were not citizens. But no curfews, no plague vans. No round-the-clock crematoriums belching ash into the saturated sky.

  A white-clad figure slipped in beside her at the rail. Under the deck lights she could just make out his features: warm brown eyes, dark skin. The guy with the caramels.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You’re the singer.’ Not a question.

  Taken by surprise, Billie did not reply. How could he know that? She hadn’t sung a note since they’d dropped anchor.

  ‘Hold still a sec,’ he said, raising a scanner to her brow. ‘Sorry, must be annoying, all these scans. We haven’t met properly – I’m Mitch.’

  A first: a hazmat with a name. Billie continued staring ahead, let her smoke drift over his respirator as the scanner flickered.

  ‘You read those articles?’ he asked, voice low.

  She nodded. They’d offered reassurance, of a sort: the journalist had slammed the zipped investigation, the government’s refusal to comment; criticised the sub rosa terms of BIM contracts, the credentials of the companies engaged to ship cheap labour to this former colony. Raised questions about the killing of Davy Whelan. Even taken a shot at the ‘hatemongers’, the mob of howlers and public stirrers saying the passengers only got what they deserved: condemning them for signing up, for taking local jobs at lower pay.

  ‘Why give them to me?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t you taking a risk?’

  ‘Nobody gave them to you,’ Mitch said lightly. ‘You just found them in amongst your shampoo and stuff. Right?’

  Billie scrutinised him. What was he up to?

  ‘I’ve been trying to extract some info from HQ,’ he continued in a chatty tone, as if they were allies. ‘Forward plans, when you’ll be taken ashore, all that. Bastards are being tight-lipped.’

  The scanner still hovering at her temple: clearly a charade.

  ‘That thing broken?’ she asked, blowing smoke in his face. Being plain rude now. ‘I’ve not got all night to stand out here.’

  ‘I dug out a few facts,’ he went on, unfazed. ‘For instance: Davy Whelan. Cause of death, exsanguination. Bleeding out, that means.’

  ‘I know what it means,’ she said, meeting him head-on now. His eyes were steady, no hint of a joke in them. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to help,’ said Mitch, his voice low. ‘But I need information. Facts.’ He made a show of checking the scanner, repositioning the device. Acknowledged a passing soldier. ‘Davy Whelan’s murder,’ he said. ‘I think it was connected to the outbreak.’

  Billie’s cigarette was out. She flicked the lighter, Davy’s lighter. Answered despite herself. ‘People are saying this ship is cursed.’

  ‘It’s a total shitstorm,’ he said. ‘The stream’s full of howlers: hate talk, finger-pointing. Blame.’

  ‘Blame?’ The word made her uneasy. ‘Blaming who?’

  But the man did not elaborate. ‘Government’s nervous about you lot. They’re in the middle of an election campaign. This mess has thrown a real spanner in the works.’

  The scanner beeped and he checked the display, spoke out loud: ‘All clear. Wristband, please.’ Footsteps approached as he scanned her wrist.

  ‘You done the upper decks?’ asked a voice.

  ‘Yup,’ said her guy. ‘Not many around.’

  ‘Do the saloons next. Anyone you spot on the way. And get a move on, it’s almost midnight.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Mitch as his superior walked off. ‘You’ll be called before the inquiry in a few days. I’ll do what I can behind the scenes – advocate for the nurses, try to reframe the story. But I need info.’

  So, a trade-off. He was fishing for a snitch.

  ‘You need info?’ She made an effort to control her voice. ‘Look around you. Who’s running this mess? You think I have any idea what the fuck is going on?’

  ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘It’s been badly mishandled. But I’ve seen the lab report: the virus doesn’t match any known pathogen. Forensics think—’ He broke off at the sound of approaching boots. ‘Mitch, remember,’ he said quietly. ‘See you round, Billie.’

  TOM

  There was someone here to see me, Ally said. The ward felt claustrophobic, the idea of visitors welcome. Eager for distraction, I followed
the nurse out the door.

  ‘Bring us back some grapes,’ Max called out as we left. ‘No pips.’

  Two goons in yellow hazmat suits escorted me down a series of passageways to a closet-sized room with a table set dead centre. Ally was unusually subdued, shooting me unreadable glances, but I was oblivious, happy to be out of that ward. She sat me down, offered a cup of tea, then withdrew. The goons stood right outside the door, their helmets visible through the glass partition.

  The cup had hardly touched my lips when the door slid open. Two men in white hazmats, only their eyes visible: local accents, curt and autocratic. They set a device between us on the table.

  And so it began. Two interminable hours, a steady barrage of questions, the tenor hovering somewhere between interview and interrogation.

  ‘Thomas William Garnett, born 20 March 2034 – that’s you?’ No introduction from their side.

  ‘That’s me,’ I agreed, trying to sound upbeat.

  The younger guy made a point of telling me our interview was being recorded.

  ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘But an interview about what?’

  They ignored this, and all my subsequent questions. They did all the asking.

  Personal history came first: where I grew up, schooling and further education, the family fortune and its abrupt decline, my own backslide into the borderlands of poverty. The patchy relief assignments and low-paid virtual work, the overdue bills, the struggle to stay out of debt. They knew all this, of course. It was just their opening sally, your standard transparency check.

  But they soon changed tack.

  ‘You applied for BIM eight months ago, correct?’ This from the older copper – that’s what they were, I’d realised: police.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘That sounds about right.’

  ‘And in the intervening months, before you left England, were you approached by anyone about your participation in the BIM program?’

  At first this stumped me. Approached? Then I remembered: that dubious-looking stringer who’d sidled up to me in a Newham pub, sniffing for info. Our names had all been leaked by then; I wasn’t difficult to find.

  ‘And what information did you share with this person?’ The younger one, as if he was asking what I had for lunch.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I refused to speak to him. When you apply for BIM they make you sign a non-disclose. The wording’s pretty strict.’

  They harangued me for a bit longer, demanded dates and details. Who had I discussed the program with: friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances, strangers?

  It wasn’t something you bragged about, I told them. BIM had its detractors. We were often branded as deserters – sometimes by people who’d failed to make the cut themselves, been rejected in the screening process.

  This pricked their interest. Had I applied for BIM through any other companies? No, I said, just Red Star. What made me choose them? I told the truth: they had the best ads, the least intrusive background checks, and headquarters in London’s outer east, less than ten kilometres from my front door. Not satisfied, they pressed the point. Had I ever had contact with any rival BIM contractors? Suppliers, crew or officers who’d worked for other shippers, past or present? They named two other companies who ran labour to Australia. The names were familiar – I’d seen their ads, skimmed their info, but never made contact.

  Next up came meds and heads: past illnesses, telomere scores, diagnoses, that period of stress leave. Psychopharms: they made me confirm brand names and dosages, availability and cost. They fished for other drug use too, fly stuff, greymarket. The sanctioned meds worked for me, I said. They were economical and effective – and, in my case, bio-tailored and prescribed. Not random or recreational.

  ‘All this is in my file,’ I pointed out, trying not to sound defensive. ‘I’m not telling you anything new.’ Wished I’d resisted the sick-room habit, gotten properly dressed. Hard to maintain your dignity in borrowed pyjamas.

  They did answer one of my questions: why was I being singled out? ‘You’re not a special case,’ they said. ‘We’re interviewing everyone.’

  And on it went. Could I describe my relationship with the ship’s officers: any friendships, any frictions? Captain Lewis: had I spent much time with him? And the crew: did I befriend anyone during the journey? No, I answered: we didn’t really mingle. They saw me as a passenger, not one of them.

  I held my gaze steady, my voice neutral. How could our brief liaison be relevant? It was nobody’s business.

  ‘That dead body you saw,’ said the older cop. ‘Tell us about that.’

  Fuel for bad dreams, that sight: I described the rotting flesh and empty eye sockets, the body’s proximity to the hull, the crew’s response. Not a blink, the cops relishing their hard-man act.

  They saved the murder for last.

  ‘September fourth. That date mean anything to you?’

  Not at first, it didn’t.

  It was a Wednesday, they prompted. Presumably I’d have been teaching? Yes, I said. But that date rang no particular bells.

  ‘A man was killed in the small hours of that morning,’ said the older cop. ‘What can you tell us about that?’ Phrased as if I had some inside knowledge. I told them what I knew: about the young boy, my student, who found the body. Management’s request that I spread the official word, frame it as an accident.

  No, I hadn’t known the dead man. I’d since seen pics, of course, and his face did seem familiar – perhaps he’d served me at the kiosk, or passed me on the stairs – but to my knowledge we had never met.

  Where did I sleep the night Davy Whelan died? I repeated what I’d told Cutler: in the schoolroom, on the sofa. Didn’t budge until early morning, when I went back to my dorm to get ready for the day’s lesson.

  They took notes, fired out a few more questions. Then, at last, to my relief, they let me go.

  Catching my breath back in the ward, I was struck by the way that first death, the sly violence of it, had been so quickly eclipsed by a more palpable threat. How the killing of Davy Whelan was all but forgotten in what followed. Now I wondered: were the two connected?

  11

  CLEARY

  The blimp hung in the sky like a fat torpedo, its message stamped in tall black letters: Keep Australia Clean! This command was a puzzle to him: the Steadfast was free of litter, bins emptied swiftly, the cabins and hallways swabbed daily. No junk floated in the water, and even the beach was clear of rubbish. The air itself here seemed to sparkle.

  The deck was a sea of upturned faces, soldiers’ rifles trained on the apparition overhead. Cleary had never flown, except in dreams. How would it feel to float like that, so high and weightless, nothing but birds and clouds for company? He relinquished the binoculars, let Declan scan the airship, mouthing the man-sized words: Keep Australia Clean!

  Patrol boats zoomed in anxious circles as bananas shouted through loudhailers. Cleary did his best to avoid them, spooks and bananas both. Each morning they made the kids line up to be scanned and sanned, then sprayed them with sunscreen that smelt like Club Rock Shandy.

  Yesterday a spook had crouched beside him in the queue, given a playful wave, like he was a baby, and shoved a screen under his nose: Come chat with me for a bit? Cook’s made cake.

  Billie had cut in on the woman, made Cleary go through their act, signing back and forth, just like she’d shown him. As if he understood the shapes Billie made, when most of them were nonsense.

  He doesn’t want to come with you, she’d told the spook. He’s with me. Then she’d put her arm around his shoulders and turned her back on the official.

  Every other day, Billie went over to the hospital ship. Without fail, she brought back a new message, penned in her own jagged handwriting: I’m getting better all the time. Not long now, darling. I love you to the moon and back. Their old bedtime routine, from when he was lit
tle. When Cleary’s world had abruptly fallen silent, his ma had begun signing that phrase with her hands – one held aloft to form an ‘O’, the other rising from her heart, circling the moon, then down to his pyjama-clad chest. To the moon and back, my darling.

  Those notes. Surely Billie wouldn’t make them up? Not to the moon and back. There was no way she could know about that.

  The fear never left him, a dark hum beneath the surface of his days: the unvoiced terror that his mother might never recover; that the person at the centre of his world would be lost to him forever. That Blackbeard might hurt her, though Cleary hadn’t told a soul about what he’d seen. He tried to push the darkness down, watch for good omens. Yesterday: a splatter of white goo hitting his shoulder. A second’s confusion, then Declan cracking up: Shite! Bird shite!

  That was good luck, his gran had always said. Would it be cheating to help your luck along, stand underneath a bird or two?

  He knew where Blackbeard slept. Knew the table he ate at, the people he sat with, the routes he used to move around the ship. Cleary tried to stay out of the man’s orbit: avoided enclosed spaces, made note of the exits, and when alone gravitated towards the open space of the upper decks. Primed for avoidance or flight, ever alert to threats approaching from behind, he kept his back to walls and checked over his shoulder constantly.

  At the rail beside him, Declan handed the binoculars back. Cleary was grateful to find his friend unchanged, no fallout from their separation during the journey. The boy’s parents had even softened towards Cleary, making an effort to include him. This new attitude was evident in other adults too: wary looks replaced by invitations to join a family for dinner. He mixed with the kids, but steered clear of the parents. Who knew what they might do next.

  Declan had made him a promise: one night he’d knock a guard out cold, steal a boat and drive Cleary across to the Nightingale. He’d sketched out the whole mission – the pilfered spanner clanging off the guard’s skull, the knots he’d use to immobilise the man while they sped off in the boat. No word on where they’d get the ninja outfits, but that was a minor detail.