MIKE SCRATCHES AT HIS shirt collar. It’s a warm night, but the crowd is dressed up to the nines. Fifty black suits and gowns collecting dust from the carpark gravel. No one minds, particularly. Everyone is liquored up. Even the pre-party drinks are top shelf.
The crowd chatter cuts, washed over by a blast of feedback from a nearby PA.
Over the mic: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Fantasyland. Sorry about the delays!’
‘Too right,’ screams some drunk guy.
That gets a laugh from everyone.
Mike flashes back to the God Minister. Just make sure it opens on time.
‘Yes, yes,’ says the voice from the PA.
Mike pops his head above the crowd and locates the speaker. It’s Buddy Winters—the big man’s son, heir to all this.
‘Tonight, we’re going to show you what you’ve all been waiting for, and trust me, it’ll be worth the wait. So grab another drink and make your way to the train, please.’
Mike follows the herd and finds himself boarding one of two small convoys. It’s not really a train. There’s no track. It’s a small motorised cart hooked up to a string of open-air carriages. Mike finds a seat and the bloke in front of him immediately turns around and says, ‘Is this the fucking Pac Fair train? My kids love this thing.’ He looks at Mike. ‘How’d they get hold of it?’
Mike shrugs.
A woman slips into the seat beside Mike. ‘Evening,’ she says, but doesn’t introduce herself. The woman is tall with a long face and shoulder-length black hair cut into a rigid line around her shoulders.
‘I’m Mike.’
‘Sadie,’ she says. ‘Where did you get that drink?’ She cranes around, looking for a waiter.
The bloke in front turns around again and tries his luck. ‘Luv, do you reckon this is the Pac Fair train?’
‘Who cares?’ Sadie says. ‘Do you have a light?’
Both men fumble to find one.
The train takes them on a tour of Fantasyland and locks them into an hour-long pitch for how successful it’ll all be and how they just need more time. In the darkened night, lit only by floodlights, the park has an abandoned and haunted vibe. The attractions are gaudy and half-built. In the Australian section, there’s a shantytown of bush huts and a little colonial village with a town square. The train stops in the square for drink refills and to watch a re-enactment of a gunfight between escaped convicts and mounted police. As the convicts retreat, one toff near Mike lobs a tinnie onto the battlefield and hollers, ‘Let ’em alone!’
From there, it’s on to the roller-coaster and the swimming pool area, then a paved shopping district that looks like something out of an American cartoon. They also visit Royaltyland featuring a replica of Buckingham Palace and a fake royal family: actors smiling, a Prince Charles with prosthetic ears, a demure meter maid Princess Di, a tottering Queen Elizabeth played for laughs. ‘Down there will be the games arcade and the miniature golf course,’ says the guide. ‘In phase two, we’re planning a hotel over here, with a five-star restaurant. Soon you’ll be able to stay in the park for as long as you wish. Just gotta get it built.’
The tour ends in the empty dodgem car arena, with the party clustered around a little podium. Behind the podium is a pink neon sign displaying the Fantasyland logo, washing out the scene in stark, futuristic light.
After a time, Noah Winters steps out into the glow. This is the founder, the old man who all this is riding on. Seeing him here tonight is not particularly encouraging. He looks terrible: haggard, hunched, frail. He’s tall and broad, but they can all see that his hair has turned white and he has thick bags under his eyes. Winters bends down and taps on the mic. ‘I’d … I’d like to thank you all for coming. Fantasyland is my life’s work. It’s everything and, mark my words, it will be the premier amusement park in the Southern Hemisphere when I’m done with it. That’s my promise to you. When I settled here twenty years ago, God told me that this vacant land would one day amount to something, and that I was the one responsible for making it happen, and when God talks, I listen. When I heard that … when I heard that, I—’
Is he crying?
The rest of the Winters family fidgets. His son Buddy edges closer to the podium, visibly wincing at the old man’s blather.
‘And I said to myself, I can dig this out myself. Why, all I need is—’
Buddy claps his hands together. ‘Thanks, Dad. We really appreciate all you’ve done for us. The park’s looking great, isn’t it? A round of applause for Noah Winters!’
The crowd gives a half-hearted response. Everyone can see the makeshift bar and booze off to one side. It’s time to wrap this up.
‘Okay, stick around,’ yells Buddy. ‘There are brochures, there are t-shirts. We have a sales stand over there.’
The aides rush in and whisk Winters Senior away. He looks pissed off, like he’s about to fight someone.
Buddy stands cover, a smile plastered on.
Cocaine eyes beaming.
This will not be easy, Mike thinks to himself.
Something is vastly out of whack here.