Recollections of My Life as a Freeman in Ireland, as a Convict in Australia, and Again as a Freeman in Australia.
Dec. 12th 1822
The terrible toll taken by ten years of hard labour has ruined my health and I have no expectation of ever seeing again the country of my birth. I am writing this account in the hope that my descendants may be inspired by it to make the journey back to Ireland to seek redress.
My name is Brendan Liam McBride, born at Shantallow, Derry, and belonging to the County Donegal sept. I was christened at St Brigid’s Catholic Church, Derry, within the walled city, in the year of the Lord 1789. I am the second son of Peter Paul McBride, who was an hereditary tenant of church lands. I was told that our name meant a devotee of St Brigid.
My father was brought low by grievous tragedies which plagued him in a fashion the Protestant street preachers tend to dwell upon, as if it be his sinful fault and destiny and not the scheming and ruthless ways of envious and unscrupulous Protestants. My mother died giving birth to my younger sister Brigid. My older brother Patrick died in an alleged hunting accident. My father fell into despair, suffered a brain seizure and never recovered. My foolish sister Brigid succumbed to a scheming Protestant seducer called Bartholomew Smith and when she was with child they hastily married, after he converted.
His evil Machiavellian intent became apparent when she was at full term. The official report recorded an accidental fall down the stairs at home. The sole witness was her husband. The wretched widower Smith renounced Catholicism and in an indecently short time married one of his own persuasion. I could not live under the same roof and after many bitter arguments and after drinking to excess I made some intemperate remarks and was reported to the authorities. I was arrested for treasonous remarks and uttering dire threats to the allegedly lawful tenant. I was sentenced to 10 years hard labour in Van Diemens Land, which by my troth was spelled for me as The Demon’s Land ...
The phone was ringing. Dan put down the copy he had never intended to pick up. Ali had left it on the marble coffee table the previous night. Curiosity got the better of him. The call was from Maria, who wanted his help. She said she would collect him, which was easier than giving him directions. She hung up before he could ask what it was about.
He was eyeing the exercise book, in two minds about it, when the door opened. ‘That was quick,’ he said, reaching to place a magazine over the booklet.
‘Quick?’
Jas was standing behind him, an enquiring look on her face. Then she saw what was on the coffee table.
‘You’ve decided to take a squiz then?’
‘No. Not really. Well, I suppose.’
‘Hey, you can change your mind,’ she said, sitting down next to him. He couldn’t recall the last time she had. Her thigh was pressing against his.
‘It’s just, well, the stuff about Ireland seems quite interesting. I’m not sure I want to read about those Pommie Nazis abusing defenceless Irishman.’
‘Not even if it’s an ancestor?’
He stiffened, but did not want to act defensive, as he had with Ali. ‘It could all be made up. Like that journalist who wrote about convicts here. For the Term of His Natural Life. That was a novel.’
‘But your mother’s name was McBride, like the writer’s.’
‘Common name,’ he said.
‘Daddio!’
Maria charged in, did a double take at her parents sitting close.
‘Am I interrupting something?’
‘Not at all,’ her father said, standing.
Jas stood up too. ‘Hello, dear.’ She noted her daughter’s flicker of surprise. But not disappointment. Turning a new leaf was working.
‘Um, mum, this is kinda urgent. You mind?’
‘Not a bit. This’ll keep.’ She leaned across and kissed his cheek. ‘Off you go then.’
He looked both relieved and surprised. Daniel always put things off, especially when they were personal. But she felt that she could progress things with the carrot, instead of the stick she had used almost exclusively in recent times. Let’s face it, it was years, now that she was trying to be honest with herself. She watched Maria hustle her husband out the door. Maybe there was a chance for their family.
She picked up the convict story. She already knew the end of it from Father Petrus. It was going to be tricky getting her husband to face this shattering revelation about the mother he had canonised. And his father too, if it was true that he consorted with prostitutes. She prayed there were no such skeletons in her family closet. She quickly blessed herself and began reading.
Maria directed her father down the corridor away from the lifts. At a locked door she tapped a code into the small, illuminated keyboard. The door swung in and they entered a twilight space, sealed by the door automatically shutting behind them. Dan felt a familiar twitch from being in a confined space, a persistent legacy of his incarceration in a concentration camp cellar. He could see his daughter was waving a remote device. Doors slid open. The lift interior had padded walls, which was not reassuring.
‘Bit cloak and dagger, isn’t it?’
‘Just a service lift,’ she said. ‘Come on.’ She guided him by the arm. ‘Lockdown is underway for the talks between Lange and Hawke. Up above.’ She waved her remote at the ceiling, pressing lift buttons.
The car shook and then began descending, picking up speed, swaying about like that new Rotorua gondola that was on the news. Dan wondered how much more leeway before they bumped the lift walls.
‘Don’t worry,’ his daughter said. ‘They just want you to look at a few images of interest to the committee.’
‘I don’t see how I can help.’
‘Can you try,’ she said. ‘We have got to the stage of clutching at straws and trading fanciful paranoia about the meeting leaked and another incident planned, like the bombing of the hotel a few years ago.’
The lift hauled on its brakes, Dan’s stomach rising. Touchdown was a little rough, almost causing him to bite his tongue.
‘We do know the way,’ Maria reminded Potz. He gave her the bug-like stare and directed Dan to follow his daughter.
The room they entered was like the TV programme Alice used to watch. ‘Space, the final frontier,’ were the only words Dan ever stayed for, sharing Maria’s disdain for space operas.
The tall, stooped man was asking her if she had briefed her father. She said she had decided to leave that to him. Dan recognised the journalist colleague of Ali’s, failed to retain the name of the skinny guy in a T-shirt featuring two hippie guys lounging on long-handled motorbikes. Trying to recall Mr Hippie’s name resulted in him not registering the name of the granite-faced senior policeman. The two shoulder stars and crown indicated rank, but Dan was not sure anymore what that was. He did catch the name Ted Downing along with a hard handshake from the tall, stooped man. Ted sat him on a swivel chair beside the hippie, who murmured ‘Hi’ without looking up from his keyboard. Dan had never seen so many monitors.
‘Looks like you’ve got everything covered,’ he said.
‘Getting there, squire,’ the hippie responded. Pom.
Every monitor covered a slightly different grey corridor, except for wider images of the front of the hotel and a messy yard with large refuse containers and police vehicles to one side.
‘Potz,’ Ted Downing said, sitting next to the hippie. ‘Can you take over from, er, Potager.’
‘Pottinger, yeah,’ the hippie said, swivelling and ghosting away.
‘The Webber visitor?’
‘If you would, Potz.’
Dan was facing the bigger monitor above the chair Potz was adjusting the height of with one hand, the other checking a printout of numbers and names. ‘Got him.’ Dan watched a blurred figure in a large black hat standing outside a hotel room door. The poor quality of the image and the fact it was grey shades of black and white didn’t help.
‘Pity it’s not in colour.’
‘It no doubt would be in the States,’ Potz said. ‘If you can believe their security chap.’
‘Can you identify this man, Mr Delaney?’
Dan squinted. ‘Not much to go on. He’s short.’
The door opened. It was Michelle, who waited briefly while the visitor presumably said something, then slammed the door. The figure pulled his hat low as he slunk away down the corridor.
‘He seemed to know about the camera.’
‘Yes, Mr Delaney,’ Downing said impatiently.
‘Somebody Ms Chanel did not want to know.’
‘Anything you noticed about this visitor?’
‘Distinctive hat.’
‘Borsalino,’ Potz said. ‘The fedora, not the movie.’
‘Your daughter,’ Downing said heavily. ‘She suggested O’Toole.’
‘That fits,’ Potz said. ‘Gangster hat. The movie was French, I think. The actors certainly were.’
‘It’s not so much that he’s short,’ Maria said. ‘The strut.’
‘Could be built-up heels,’ Potz said.
‘And why on earth would he be visiting her?’ Maria asked.
‘Money,’ the policeman suggested. ‘It’s always money with lowlifes. She probably owes him. That’s how they control street workers.’
‘Remind us when this video was taken,’ Downing said. ‘Then bring up the next sighting.’
Potz fiddled, consulting the list. ‘Right. Ms Chanel opened the door at 15.05. This next sequence was taken between 15.39 and 15.41.’
‘Hey!’ Dan said, as they watched Jasenka Delaney open the door.
‘Get in closer,’ Downing demanded.
The camera lurched into a black hat, which made a blurred image dissolve into grey fuzz. The image pulled back and came in more slowly on Jasenka frowning, trying to see around the black hat. She was shaking her head, closing the door. Once more the figure edged away from the camera, this time the image so bad he could not even tell if it was the same hat. Dan’s heart was hammering. Downing was waiting, but he was not going to say anything until he spoke to his wife.
Despite the poor quality of the recording and the figure wearing a similar dark hat, he was sure it was not O’Toole. There was no reason why he would visit Jasenka. There was only one person his wife would know. There were possibly commercial reasons that bloody Frenchman was calling, or that was his excuse.
Dan needed to see his wife’s face when he asked her who was visiting her.
‘Is that all you have?’ Dan addressed Downing, wishing he had managed to keep the aggression out of his voice.
‘Why don’t you ask her, old boy?’
Dan looked at Portillo. ‘I intend to.’
‘Hang on,’ Maria started to say.
‘I am sure,’ Downing interrupted, ‘there is a simple explanation. We would like to eliminate whoever.’
‘There’s a question mark over Webber,’ the policeman growled. ‘And his companion.’
‘Yes, Walter,’ Downing said. ‘We intend to speak to Mr Webber and Ms Chanel. We are aware of Mr Webber’s support of the Zionist position, no surprise when you consider he was one of the fortunate members of his race who escaped the Holocaust. His traditional entrepreneurial flair does not inhibit extreme left-wing views, which find expression in his support for the anti-nuclear protest movement. We know that Ms Chanel was at one time employed by O’Toole. We do know about their presence at a number of street events.’
‘What, the Gay Parade?’ Maria asked indignantly.
‘And the anti-nuclear marches,’ Potz added.
‘It’s a free country, isn’t it?’ Maria said. ‘O’Toole or whoever has to be there for business reasons.’
‘So if he is there for business reasons, no matter how dodgy they might be, why slam the door on him?’
‘Mr Potz, isn’t it?’ Dan said. ‘Why assume there is something to Michelle slamming the door? Maybe when he is told Marty is out, the visitor checks downstairs with my wife.’
He could hear his voice wavering.
‘Sorry, dad. I didn’t know this was going to turn into the third degree. Let’s go talk to mum.’
‘You understand, Mr Delaney, we must check out every little thing. Webber is on the same floor as the venue.’
Downing stood up, flexing his back. One of his vertebrae clicked. He was looking at Maria, whose hackles went up. ‘Neither of my parents would do or say anything that would compromise security.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ Potz chimed in.
‘That’s enough,’ Downing said. ‘We apologise, Mr Delaney, if you think we have implied any, um, indiscreet … yes, well, if you would have a word with your wife. We know you are both reliable former officers of the law. We would be obliged if you can identify who this visitor is so that we can have a word with him. We do not want any surprises later.’
He nodded at Maria, who had her arm in her father’s as they left the room.
‘You could have warned me,’ he said as the lift door opened.
‘Sorry, sorry. They asked me not to. It’s that creep Potz. He has a suspicious mind.’
‘God help us, they virtually accused Marty of being a subversive, implying he is anti-American and all that, a commie bastard. He’s never been a practising Jew, yet he cops anti- Semitism. Crikey, there’s nobody more capitalist this side of the New York Stock Exchange.’
‘He is a bit rad,’ Maria said. ‘Come on, dad. They’re just doing their job. We have to make sure there is nothing out of order. Hats of course should not come into the security threat category.’
He grunted, trying to laugh. He felt threatened every time that bloody Frenchman appeared, and he couldn’t think it could be anybody else visiting his wife.
‘She didn’t ask him in, dad.’
‘No. I guess not.’
‘Mum seems to be lightening up. Don’t you think?’
He didn’t respond. He wished he had never come with his family. He wished the family, if they had to be overseas, were together again like they were on that beach in Israel, with no pervy Frenchman, no wild American, no Australian spooks, no thugs threatening Ali, no damned Marty and his get-rich schemes, no priests poisoning his wife’s mind or soul or whatever it is and opening up this hateful story about his mother.
‘Dad,’ she said, wrapping her arms around him. He clasped her, fighting tears.
She took the key-card off him and unlocked the door, calling out her mother’s and sister’s names. There was no answer. Her father was asking where they could have got to as she moved into the sitting room. She saw the note on the coffee table.
‘The answer is right here.’ She picked it up. She read out her mother saying there was a call for Ali from Father Larkin about her American friend returned to St Brigid’s. She promised to be back soon, but given what had happened to date, there was no way she was not going with her daughter.
Maria feared the worst. Ali had no knowledge of the rescue of Brad from the fire that engulfed O’Toole’s building, a fire she was now inclined to think was started by the lightning. There was no way the priest could know about Brad taken to Accident and Emergency unless somebody had tracked him there. It was O’Toole’s hand in this, ten bob to a nob of goatshit, as Wally liked to say. And Ali and mum were walking straight into the shit.
Ali tried to talk her mother out of coming, but she was insistent. She got the taxi to drop them outside the access lane to the St Brigid’s hospital wing, suggesting her mother keep the taxi in case they needed it. ‘We’ll order another,’ her mother said, following her.
Father Larkin was coming to meet them. He looked startled to see the mother too.
‘Your friend has, erm, returned to us,’ he said nervously.
‘It was good of you to take him back in after what happened. How is he?’
The priest was sweating, but that would be the stifling heat. He wouldn’t look at her. ‘He seems to be fine. He is resting. I was told he stopped breathing.’
Ali took this as a good sign. It had already fooled O’Toole and his thugs once. He must have done it a second time. She leaned close to her mother, but the priest was looking back at them. She would tell her later about Brad’s non-breathing trick. Right now, she wanted to ask the priest what Brad said and if O’Toole and his meatheads had given any indication when they would return. She had no doubt they would. Unfortunately, the priest was hurrying, holding his cassock off the ground. His sweating profusely was no surprise. The black cassock and dog collar must be stifling in this heat.
He wheeled around. ‘Did you tell anybody you were coming here?’
‘No. Why? You said on the phone Bradley was back in your hospital.’
He didn’t answer her, instead he signalled them to go ahead. Strange man. When Bradley was better, she was going to insist her father talk again to Father Petrus about the diary, especially the few pages at the end. From what her mother said it was possible Father Petrus was ready to confess what happened to the young man who was supposedly her father’s half-brother.
As they entered the hallway O’Toole was standing with his hands on his hips, his black silk shirt open, a gold cross visible in his thicket of grey chest hair. Smirking, he doffed one of those spivvy black hats.
‘Grouse you answered the good father’s call,’ he sneered. ‘Your Yank might start answering a few questions now. That is, if we still need him.’
Her mother gasped behind her. Ali instinctively wheeled around, bumping into the priest, who was blessing himself and asking God for forgiveness. Two figures emerged from behind the door and wrenched their arms behind their backs. O’Toole motioned for them to follow him. As she was dragged into the office, Ali could hear feeble cries from behind the closed door of the special care unit.
‘Come in, come in, ladies,’ O’Toole said, tossing his hat on the desk, patting his pompadour as he took the chair behind the desk. ‘Don’t mind her for now.’
Michelle Chanel was in a corner, tied to a chair, gagged, her eyes flashing. Ali was aware of the body odour and testosterone pouring off the two men. They took up sentry duty next to her and her mother, legs apart, arms hanging at the ready. They had shed their sharkskin suits for gym black. The one next to her wore the same black T-shirt and black track pants and sneakers as his companion, but out of the corner of her eye she could see part of a tattoo. It was a rat’s head emerging out of his T-shirt on his left arm, teeth bared and ready to strike. He saw her looking, flexed his arm and the jaw appeared to open wider. His party trick.
‘Close the door behind you, there’s a good little boy,’ O’Toole ordered the priest, who seemed frozen in the doorway. ‘On your way out. And don’t think of trying anything. The phone in the hall is out of order. I’d hate for anything to happen to these good ladies. A fire, something like that. What the insurance jokers call an Act of God, something you’d be familiar with.’
O’Toole surveyed the women, looking smug at what Ali assumed was his idea of wit. The smell of petrol came from the cans in a corner. He picked up the phone. ‘Time to ring Webber. Rex, release one arm.’
Rex stopped admiring his tattoo and stopped Michelle rocking her chair about before he began to unwind the tape around her.
O’Toole held the phone up, prolonging the scenario he designed. Cunning as a shit-house rat, was a phrase Ali had heard around uni. It would apply to O’Toole, perhaps not to the tattooed rat and his clone.
‘It’s just a matter of time,’ Jas said evenly.
‘Really? The fire brigade won’t save much. They didn’t with the first big fire, and we guarantee a repeat. To be accurate, it’s crunch time. You Kiwi tossers have caused me no end of trouble but, like the poet says, all’s well that ends well. Webber needs to get to the bank and back here with the jewellery and a pile of readies. Quick smart.’
‘The authorities are on to you,’ Jas said.
O’Toole looked around, puzzled. ‘Oh. I don’t see any authorities. Webber has to understand there is only one final solution -- if he wants to see his slut again. He was supposed to pay up for keeping the American tucked away, but the slut should be an incentive, right?’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ Ali said. ‘Brad is nothing to do with Webber.’
‘You think so? Didn’t ask yourself who got him his bomb? Needs serious moolah to get your hands on those little nasties. The dumb ass thought he could attack an American warship and get away with it. Not in Sydney, cobber. Lot of networks. Now, to business. If you dorks want to see the next day then Miz Slut better get through to your Jew-boy patron. NOW!’
He checked a notebook on the desk and dialled the number. He asked to be put through to the Webber suite. He listened, frowning, snarled a threat, listened. He slammed down the phone.
‘Shit a fucking brick! The bastard’s left a message at reception. The bitch didn’t want to give it to me at first. Webber is off wanking over his Rose Bay bricks.’
There was a snort from Michelle. He looked malevolently at her, tapping the phone against his jaw. He told Rex to hog-tie her again and swung round to Jas, pointing the speaking end of the phone at her.
‘Looks like inviting your daughter paid off,’ he jeered. ‘Especially when you tagged along. Ring your husband.’ He checked his watch. ‘He has a few hours to get to Webber and for Webber to get to his bank.’
‘Forget it,’ Jas said.
The phone moved to point at Ali. ‘Tie them up, Rex. And Baz, keep a weather eye on the black bitch.’ Michelle was rocking and twisting the chair and struggling with the black plastic tape, but to no avail.
‘She ain’t goin nowhere fast,’ Baz said. O’Toole stared at him. ‘Yeah, okay, boss, I’ve got her.’
Rex wound a roll of black tape around her mother and then Ali, trussing them to chairs, like Michelle. O’Toole said he wanted the full mummy wrap for the daughter. Ali felt the tape pulling around her neck, and then around her mouth, her nose, her eyes. She felt panic building. She couldn’t see and soon she wouldn’t be able to breathe. It was like being held down in the playground by fatty Agnes O’Hara, but there was no teacher to haul Aggie off her chest.
‘Yes!’ she heard her mother’s muffled shout.
The tape was painfully ripped off her face, taking some of her eyebrows, but she could breathe. She wanted to rub at her neck and mouth and eyes. Her mother was crying.
‘Don’t, mum,’ she murmured.
Jas was clearing her throat, asking reception for her husband. She was pleading, sobbing, saying she had to speak to him. O’Toole snatched the phone off her and snarled again at the operator. Ali couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it sounded like he was reminding her about accepting money. He listened and nodded. ‘Set off the fire alarms if you have to,’ he said, hanging up. ‘Truss her again.’
Jas got more of the same black tape treatment, until O’Toole gave the nod. ‘Now we wait,’ he said. ‘Sorry, ladies, you’ll have to keep your legs crossed. No comfort stops until I get what I want. Watch them while I see that our religious staff are behaving and get a little insurance from the van.’
Ali could see that Michelle had punctured the tape over one wrist, a sharp blue nail poking through. Unfortunately, so did Rex, who laughed as he added another layer of tape around her hands.
O’Toole returned with several pistols and an assault rifle. ‘You never know when you might need these,’ he said, placing the guns on the desk, checking the action of the rifle.
There was a tap on the door and the young nursing nun bumped her way in with a tray of mugs and a plate of chocolate biscuits.
‘Obliged, sister,’ O’Toole said, taking the tray off her. When she had shut the door, he offered mugs to his men. Ali caught the usually indifferent aroma of instant coffee, but right now it never smelled so attractive. She looked at her mother, who gave her a twitch of a smile.
‘OTOOLE!’ was bellowed from outside. After a shrill metallic whistle and some echo tapping, the American male speaker resumed in a slightly lowered voice: ‘You are surrounded by armed operatives. Come out with your hands up. Do not present any weapons or we will shoot to kill.’
The tray was tipped over, hot coffee splashing and biscuits scattering across the carpet, a screech of agony from Baz as most of a mug tipped on to his trousers. O’Toole belted the nearest person, Jas, across the head, knocking her and chair to the floor. He stepped to the window and parted the lace curtain. ‘That Yankee fucker and his fancy dress clowns from the embassy. I’ll sort him.’
He grabbed the rifle and ran to the door, turning and gesturing with his rifle. ‘We’re a few friggin hours away from the big money. These wankers won’t shoot while we got hostages. Untie their legs and bring them out so these tuggers get the picture.’
Rex and Baz exchanged glances, in no hurry to obey.
‘How’d they get here so soon?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ her mother said. ‘Main thing is they have.’
‘Shut up, will yer,’ Rex pleaded. ‘I gotta catch what’s goin on.’ They heard O’Toole yelling he wanted safe passage, or the women suffer. ‘That means a car and …’ was interrupted by the loudspeaker again ordering him to put his weapon on the ground. There were exchanges of gunfire, a howl and further bursts of automatic fire. There was the crash of a body in the porch area. Baz and Rex ran out the door, shouting they were unarmed, their protests drowned out by the loudspeaker ordering them to lie on the ground with their hands and legs apart.
A wild-eyed soldier kicked open the door, his combat helmet slipping over his eyes as he swung his rifle across the room, bellowing for them to lie on the floor and not move. He realised once he reset his helmet how absurd his order was and shouted behind him that the office was secure. There was the sound of boots thumping down the hall, doors kicked open and old ladies wailing. The shouting subsided and female voices urged calm.
Jas asked the soldier to release them. He said he would have to check first. The soldier was moved aside by a calm, middle-aged man in civvies. He told them as he cut off the tape that his name was Malone and they were safe, the bad boys were neutralised.
‘What about Bradley?’
‘Alice, isn’t it? He is being attended to and, as I bet you appreciate, he is in the capable hands of the good nuns. He is no longer in any danger. If you can be patient for a little while longer.’
‘Fuck the patience,’ Michelle croaked. ‘Is Marty Webber safe?’
Malone looked amused. ‘He is indeed, Ms Chanel. We do have a few questions for you both. My men will convey you back to the hotel.’
‘What about the man you just shot?’ Ali said. ‘Is he alive? Have you got an ambulance coming?’
Malone finished freeing Michelle’s legs, leaving her hands still bound. He stood up, told her she was coming with him and tugged her stumbling to the door. He paused. ‘The man was told twice to put down his weapon. Instead, he presented it, opened fire, and I ordered my men to return fire.’
He left with Michelle, issuing instructions to soldiers to stand guard while he checked the premises.
They could hear Maria shouting, Daniel also raising his voice. Malone was telling them to calm down, they could enter.
Ali was stiff but not too stiff to join her mother hugging Maria and her father and sobbing and assuring each other they were fine. The soldiers had gone when they ventured out to the loos.
The sister came back with replenishments and they sat somewhat more comfortably, sipping tea and eating chocolate biscuits, even Jas, who never usually indulged. Mother Monica joined them to see that they were comfortable. Jas said nothing that a good soak in bath salts wouldn’t fix. Mother Monica bowed to them with clasped hands and excused herself, said there were still elderly nuns to attend to. Jas called after her they were sorry to bring trouble into their holy sanctuary.
Mother Monica smiled. ‘The Lord looked after us all, thanks be to God.’
‘Amen,’ Jas and Ali said simultaneously, blessing themselves.
Dan’s ‘Amen’ was a beat later, and he almost blessed himself. Old habits do not quite die.
A tap on the door and a soldier entered. ‘The scene has been cleared and your ride is ready and waiting -- if you are?’
‘I’d rather stay,’ Ali said, looking at her mother. ‘Brad could, um, need me.’
‘Get off with you,’ Mother Monica said with a smile. ‘We’ll make sure he is not disturbed. That young man has been through a severe ordeal and needs total rest.’
‘Come on,’ Jas said to her daughter. ‘You heard that. We can visit him tomorrow.’
As they followed, Ali said they were odd-looking soldiers, the helmet did not fit with the parade ground uniform.
‘I wondered that,’ Jas agreed. ‘Red striped trousers and white spats are not what you expect.’
‘I think they’re military police,’ Dan said. ‘Embassy staff, like O’Toole said -- to his cost.’
‘Whatever they are,’ Ali said, ‘they shouldn’t be shooting people in Australian streets.’
Maria wheeled around in the porch to confront her sister. ‘You prefer to get shot yourself? They just saved your life and you’re worried about what they’re wearing and whether they got permission in triplicate? God, Alice, you ever enter the real world?’
‘We’re all a bit stressed,’ Jas said. ‘Let’s just get back to the hotel and try and relax.’
‘Amen to that,’ Dan said, avoiding the dagger glances from both his daughters.
As they shifted about in the van, Jas broke the surly silence saying there was one thing puzzled her and that was how the Americans turned up and not the local police. More than that, how did they know what was happening?
Dan looked at Maria. ‘Simple,’ she said. ‘They’ve been tapping our phones.’
‘Is that legal?’ Ali objected.
‘They are working with the Australian authorities on the ANZUS exercises here, and that includes the political summit. They couldn’t risk any breach of security.’
‘Overhearing the call to our phone set this in motion?’ Dan suggested.
‘I think I can say this,’ Maria said. ‘The receptionist was helpful, after we heard several of her conversations.’
‘Does that mean all is safe now?’
‘Fingers crossed, mum,’ Maria said. ‘Let’s get through an urgent meeting I’m involved in and things should be A-OK, as the Americans say.’
‘Or ticketyboo,’ Dan said. ‘As we used to say.’
‘Win some, lose some,’ Maria said.
‘Can’t we have both?’ Ali asked.
‘You, my dear,’ Jas said, ‘deserve whatever is your heart’s desire.’
Ali turned away, a sob escaping.
‘Hey,’ her father said. ‘Brad’s a survivor. He coped despite his injuries with those thugs kidnapping him again. A few questions from the Americans are not going to bother him. If they can get past that head nun.’
Ali swallowed any protest. It would only provoke her sister. She decided to be quiet about the attempted sabotage of the American nuclear warship. There was no proof, as far as she knew, that Brad had been involved. He was not going to buckle under interrogation.
‘I still don’t know, Ali,’ her father said, ‘how your friend survived. And why they brought him back to St Brigid’s.’
‘They probably wanted to avoid the state hospitals,’ Maria said. ‘They are required to report such injuries to the police, and that would draw attention to those responsible.’
‘That wretched man was ready to torch the place and all those frail old nuns in it,’ Ali said. ‘That would draw attention.’
‘It’s all done and dusted now,’ Maria said.
‘May his soul rest in peace,’ Jas said, blessing herself.
‘I doubt it will,’ Dan said. ‘But I’m baffled how Brad persuaded them he needed hospital treatment. I mean, broken ribs aren’t usually life-threatening.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about Brad,’ Ali said. ‘He’s a deep dive exponent, he calls it free diving. He can hold his breath for over six minutes, and he can induce a comatose condition for a lot longer.’
‘Playing possum, eh?’ Maria said. ‘I get it. He pretended to be dead to stop the beating and possibly save his life.’
‘You’d think,’ Jas said, ‘they might have twigged.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Maria said. ‘He was valuable to them alive, and they probably saw this as their only option. He could have medical intervention at St Brigid’s without the authorities being told.’
‘But why so valuable?’
‘Well, it is tricky,’ Maria said, glancing at the driver to see if he was listening over the noise of the van. She leaned closer to her family. ‘That guy Malone.’
‘Yeh,’ Dan said. ‘I still think the regular police SWAT team should have been involved. They are trained in these urban hostage situations. Malone, he is more than a bit gung-ho.’
‘Loose cannon,’ Maria added, lowering her voice and glancing again at the driver. ‘If you will allow another Americanism. He is the American naval forces security chief and is working closely with our security people. We do have the police involved, but it is not always easy to coordinate in time. It was, I think you would agree, a dire situation requiring a quick reaction. Add to that the security committee are trying to ensure nothing threatens the secret summit at the Hilton. Marty Webber you should know has come to our attention with his financial support for some of these anti-nuclear protest groups.’
‘Surely,’ Ali said, her voice rising, ‘you don’t think he had anything to do with Brad’s kidnapping? And brutalising him for the hell of it while they kept him away from the Americans. I know O’Toole said Marty was involved. He might have his own reasons for dropping Marty in it. Or he doesn’t know who his employer is and is guessing. Do you believe anything he said?’
‘Malone wants a scalp,’ Maria said. ‘I intend talking to the committee about this. He needs to be reined in.’
‘Can you do it urgently?’ Ali said. ‘He has no compunction about using force. I’m worried he is going to barge back into St Brigid’s and take Brad.’
‘I will make it my first question.’
‘What about Michelle?’ Jas said. ‘Look how disparaging Malone was about her. Now she is in his custody, I am concerned about her safety.’
‘It’s obvious he’d doubly hate black queers,’ Ali said savagely. ‘It wouldn’t be difficult to arrange her hanging in a cell, claim it was suicide. Redneck racist bastard.’
Both parents were taken aback at the language as much as the forcefulness of their daughter’s remark. Maria shrugged. ‘I will find out the moment I get into the control room,’ she said. ‘Okay?’
‘Malone is a foreign national, he shouldn’t be able to take anybody into custody in Australia,’ Ali said. ‘That’s for the police. Look at what the Americans do in Third World countries. Grab protesters off the streets, sling them into Guantanamo Bay detention, they just disappear. Amnesty International tries to keep track of them, but the Yanks block any contact. They always say it’s a matter of national security.’
‘I think we’re a long way from that sort of action here,’ Maria said. ‘We are in a fellow Commonwealth country with the same judicial system.’
‘Really?’ Ali snapped. ‘O’Toole looked like an extrajudicial execution to me.’
‘Sorry, sis, I can’t debate this, I have a job to do. And now we are here, I’ll grab a quick shower before I head back down to the dungeon. You stay out this time, okay, dad.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Dan said, saluting.
‘Idiot,’ she said, getting out of the van. ‘Time for me to earn my pay.’
In their hotel suite Maria disappeared into the bathroom and Jas suggested a glass of their sauv blanc. Dan said he’d go a beer. Jas told him to get his own if he wasn’t going to support their wine. She silently chastised herself for snapping, poured glasses for her and Ali. She had to try harder to break her default dissing attitude.
The phone rang. It was for Ali. She listened intently for several minutes and hung up, saying she had to get back to St Brigid’s and could he come with her.
Dan shook his head. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘We know he’s safe there. Surely you trust the nuns to look after him.’
‘Please, dad. It’s not just about him. They want to speak to us both.’
‘For God’s sake, who are they? A few nuns? Why?’
‘Go on,’ Jas said. ‘If it puts Alice’s mind at rest. Maria’s busy and I need that soak. Nothing’s happening here. You can stop Ali from doing anything silly.’
Ali was waiting by the door. Dan capitulated, following her to the lift.
When Maria appeared, dressed in her blue police uniform, Jas told her where the other two had gone. Maria shrugged but didn’t respond. She fluffed out her damp hair. ‘God, I suppose I’d better wear my cap, at least when I meet him. I could live without the dress code, especially in this climate. Enjoy your bath. I have to go, it’s a big day ahead. If you want to contact me, ring reception.’ Jas hugged her daughter. ‘Take care,’ she said.
‘Always.’