The Doll was still dreaming when the Panasonic television came on. A woman said:
“This is your in-house wake-up call. And don’t forget, this week our continental breakfast is on special.”
And then she vanished and the tv flicked onto Six’s breakfast program, New Day Dawning.
“Well,” a newsreader was saying, “the lap dancing terrorist story just keeps on growing.”
The television cut to another angle, the newsreader turned to face it, and the Doll began searching for the remote control. She didn’t want to hear any more. If she heard nothing, it might be possible to find a way through all this. But to listen was to become part of the madness. She would not watch, she told herself, she would not listen.
But the remote control was not next to her bed, and the new world in which she was no longer the Doll but someone and something else altogether continued rolling in, inescapable, tormenting, as undeniable and all-encompassing as the heat she could feel already building outside the sealed window’s glass.
“In new developments, terrorist suspect Tariq al-Hakim has been found dead in inner Sydney. Police are treating his death as homicide. Meanwhile, fellow terrorist suspect Gina Davies, known as the Black Widow, remains at large. Police have issued the following image of Gina Davies, believing she may have altered her appearance.”
An image flashed up of someone who looked like Gina with a blonde bob. It was a good likeness in the way an ID photo can be a good likeness but, in essence, unrecognisable. That, the Doll guessed, was something, but it didn’t feel comforting.
“Meanwhile, in a police raid in the inner city suburb of Redfern early this morning,” continued the newsreader, “a woman was taken into custody to assist police with their enquiries relating to terrorism rings in Australia. The woman has subsequently been released.”
The Doll knew it must have been Wilder they had picked up, but she didn’t want to know. She knew that Wilder would never now be able to get her money out of her flat and to her, but she didn’t want to know that either. The Doll was up out of bed, looking for the remote control on the small writing table with its broken lamp. ‘It could be someone else,’ she told herself as her search grew more frantic, ‘some real terrorist, some crazy fucking Leb like the one in the burkah. Or an Abo, they’re always picking up Abos.’ And then she felt bad, because maybe they no more deserved being hassled and harassed than Wilder, and maybe they were every bit as innocent, but who cared about Abos other than people like Wilder who didn’t matter anyway?
The remote control wasn’t on the writing table. She should ring Wilder, thought the Doll, then cursed herself for her stupidity. How could she ring her? What if they were listening in? The Doll’s search became more determined.
“Attorney-General Andrew Kingdon has rejected criticism of the raid as an abuse of new anti-terrorism powers,” the newsreader went on.
The remote wasn’t in either of the two tub chairs, nor under the bed with the dust balls and a popped Viagra card.
“In a prepared statement, the attorney-general described the issues the nation was addressing as being of the utmost seriousness. He went on to say that the government did not have the time or resources to be playing games.”
Then the Doll saw the remote, on top of the television, lost in the shadow of the television cabinet. It had many different coloured buttons, and in her panic she could remember the meaning of none of them. There were just coloured buttons, like little lollies.
Why listen to what wasn’t true? If she saw and heard no more, perhaps her life of only a few days ago might return, her griefs and sadnesses might stay hers alone, and she would once more be able to pursue her hopes and her dreams.
The Doll hit several buttons, the television made a squelching noise as it turned off, and the newsreader disappeared.
The Doll went to her hotel room door and opened it, to escape if only for a moment, to breathe, to not feel trapped. A tunnel-like corridor, brown and not overly pleasant to smell, pocked with identical doors, came into view. The Doll felt something with her toes, and looking down saw a newspaper. The headlines read:
TERRORIST DEAD
ASIO RAIDS REDFERN TERROR HQ
But it wasn’t that which caught her attention. It was the date. It was 6 March.