16. Reprisal

Captain Turley’s office at the detention centre was in the main quadrangle. Rion felt sure he’d been in this room years before, but it was far cleaner now and the walls had been freshly painted. Turley sat ramrod straight at his desk, puffed up with the sense of his own importance. Rion did his best to sit up straight too, but every time he stopped thinking about it he started slouching.

“So you think some of the bodies have only been there a few weeks?” Turley asked, fingering his moustache. His face was moist. “And the others a considerable time longer?”

“Probably years, some of them,” Rion said. He didn’t mention the horrible smell, the kind of stench that stayed with you a long time.

“And your friend, Lydia? How long would you say she’s been up there on the hill?”

“I’d guess only a few weeks.”

Turley shook his head. “There must have been some kind of massacre. We’ll have to track down this Callum. We can make arrests if it can be shown that even one of those people in the pool met an unnatural end.”

“Sir, Lydia didn’t string herself up.”

“She most certainly did not. You didn’t tamper with the scene, I hope?”

“No, I didn’t touch her.”

“Good lad,” Turley said. “I appreciate the job you’ve done here.”

Rion wondered whether this was his cue to stand.

“There’s one other thing,” Turley said.

Wasn’t there always? “Yes, sir?”

“I received a call yesterday afternoon from none other than the Australian Federal Police, and the call regarded you. Seems you’re a person of interest to them, but they wouldn’t say why. Know anything about that?”

“I don’t think so.”

Turley scratched his moustache. “Well, they weren’t giving too much away, but they wanted to know exactly where we were stationed and what our movements in the coming days were likely to be. I told them we were staying put for a while. Want to tell me what this is about?”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Rion said.

“Don’t worry yourself unduly about it. I’m sure it’s nothing untoward.”

“Thanks,” Rion said, but now his head was spinning. The AFP were after him? Surely it couldn’t be in relation to what had happened at Yellowcake Springs? “Mr Turley,” he began, “I’d like your permission to try to speak with Callum. I think I know where he’ll be.”

“You can speak to him if you can find him. You may not be able to get near him though.”

“That’s the problem,” Rion said. “I don’t feel safe with just rubber bullets. I’d like some live ammo, just in case.”

“I thought you understood that the CPF is a peacekeeping organisation. We’re not in the habit of casting the first stone, so to speak.”

“And I don’t intend to,” Rion said. “I haven’t let you down yet, have I? Like you said, I’m doing a good job.”

“I did say that. I can let you have two boxes of shells.”

“What about some body armour?”

“Rion the peacemaker. Yes, I’ll assign you three Kevlar vests and a helmet each.”

“Three, sir?”

“You’re not going after this guy by yourself. Take Marcel and Vanya along. But no shooting, understand? Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Rion said. “No shooting.”

“Fine. Go see Ms Pels and she’ll sign out the supplies. I’ll ring through so she’ll know you’re coming. I expect a full report at 09:00 tomorrow. I’ll be tied up on logistics until then.”

“Thank you, sir.” Rion stood.

“And be careful out there,” Turley said. “I haven’t lost a soul on this operation yet and I don’t want to start losing them now.”

Rion was dismissed.

It was a hive of activity outside. CPF recruits bustled to and fro, sweeping, painting and generally cleaning up the complex. The supply room had been set up in a disused storeroom at the side of the canteen area. Piles of equipment were stacked haphazardly across the floor inside.

Jane Pels was sitting at the table. “Moving up to the big leagues, I see,” she said. There were two boxes of shells on the table.

“Hopefully we won’t need to use them,” Rion said.

Pels smiled. “Yeah, right. Say hi to Callum for me.” She went rummaging for the vests, scattering her piles in the process. The vests were still in their packets and had never been used.

“I see the helmets over there,” Rion said.

“I know where they are,” Pels said. “Don’t rush me.”

Rion picked up one of the packets; it was surprisingly light. “You wear these under your uniform?” he asked.

“Yeah, they’re lightweight. Don’t go thinking you’re invincible in one of these, ‘cos you’re not. For combat ops we normally use a heavier model fitted with trauma plates, but right now this is all we’ve got. They will stop a bullet though, with a bit of luck.” Pels put three scratched helmets on the table.

“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.”