Chapter Thirty-five

Later that evening, Jack skirted around an animated throng of people as he made his way down Jonson Street to the anti-5G meeting. The crowd was keeping a respectful distance as they watched a busker juggling. They cheered as he hovered unsteadily on a unicycle and tossed roaring chain saws from hand to hand. Jack stopped to watch, transfixed, but when the busker dropped one of the buzzing monsters, scattering those in the front row, Jack moved on in case there was a blood bath.

Jack arrived at the Byron Bay Community Centre just as Warren Parks, The Beacon’s ‘conspiracy theory’ reporter, was leaving. He didn’t look happy.

‘Blacklisted, again,’ he said to Jack. ‘Take notes for me if you get in.’

The sentinel guarding the auditorium door was a young woman. Her T-shirt was printed with a large ‘5G’ slashed through with red. She insisted Jack turn off his phone, before handing him a clipboard on which he scribbled a fake email address and phone number. He then headed straight to the bathroom, where he turned his phone back on, switched it to silent and reassured himself he had enough storage space and battery.

The auditorium was semicircular in shape. Jack chose a seat on the side. Among the audience of fifty or so, he recognised Jessica and Matty from the previous day’s market stall. A hard-core group in the front row waved placards: ‘5G – NO WAY, GO AWAY’, or the ‘5G’ slashed through in red.

Lars Nielsen arrived fifteen minutes late, still wearing his pristine dental uniform. To Jack’s disbelief, most of the crowd stood and clapped as Nielsen bounded to the stage, waved, then flashed teeth so impossibly white they looked backlit.

Nielsen held up his hands and the crowd settled. ‘Welcome, my fellow concerned citizens. Thank you for giving up your valuable time to help us fight for our rights, our right to say no to 5G and ensure a healthy future for our children.’

The first image of his presentation was projected on a big screen. ‘I know many of you here are already aware of the dangers of 5G, but tonight is also an information session for those that haven’t yet shaken off the shackles of the government’s deliberate misinformation.’ He turned and pointed to Jack. ‘Like this man over here.’

The crowd turned to Jack in unison.

‘My presentation will be followed by a Q&A session then, after the general meeting, there will be a closed session for the members of the 5G Action Committee.’

Nielsen was a charismatic speaker and had everybody, except Jack, spellbound. He spoke enthusiastically to a procession of slides expounding the dangers of 5G: the radiation was higher than 4G; there hadn’t been adequate testing; mice who slept on 5G transmitters had shorter life expectancies; and on he went, accompanied by outbreaks of clapping and nodding.

The last slide thanked the event sponsor – Lars Nielsen Holistic Dentistry. During another standing ovation, Nielsen drank in the adoration, even bowing, before asking for questions.

Jack raised a hand. ‘Does the group operate strictly on a code of non-violent action, or did someone throw a brick through the window of The Beacon two days ago?’

Everybody stared at Jack now, except one man in the front row more interested in examining his feet.

Nielsen’s piano-key smile now looked almost sinister. ‘It’s polite to introduce yourself before asking a question, but let me do that for you. This is Jack Harris. Jack is a journalist for The Beacon, and I’m sure all of you who read last week’s editorial will know what that means – he’s no friend of ours.’

Heads whispered to each other. Boos emanated from the front row.

‘I’m happy to humour you, Mr Harris. Did anybody throw a brick through the window of The Beacon?’

There was silence.

‘You see, we are a completely law-abiding group.’ He turned back to his acolytes. ‘Would anybody here like to throw a brick at The Beacon?’

Hands quickly went up in the front row, followed by the remainder of the auditorium as the peer pressure mounted. Nielsen flashed most of his thirty-two teeth at Jack before taking more questions.

When the Q&A ended, Nielsen wished everybody strength in their fight against 5G, and reminded them to collect a discount card for his dentistry services on the way out. To avoid trouble with the crowd, Jack waited until only Nielsen and his small action committee remained before he left the auditorium.

Outside, needing to kill some time, Jack crossed the road and strolled through the leafy park to The Rails. This hotel had always been his favourite watering hole, even before his infamous eighteenth birthday party was held there. His father had paid for the bar for the night, and also for legal representation when Jack was charged with indecent exposure after having been found the following morning tied naked to a light pole at the railway station as the first train pulled into the platform.

The Rails was far enough from the main thoroughfares to be frequented mostly by locals rather than tourists and, being in the now decommissioned railway station, had character the other hotels in town couldn’t match. Apart from a fresh coat of paint, the place didn’t seemed to have changed – it still had the same friendly vibe. Best of all, the back bar retained the replica of an old single-engine plane, maybe a spitfire, dramatically crashing through the ceiling. It was an unusual sight, and an incongruity none of the locals or bar staff had ever been able to explain to Jack.

No sooner had he taken a seat in the beer garden than a policeman walked past wearing a pair of fishnet stockings. The officer was followed by two men in nappies, then a man-sized pink flamingo. Fred Flintstone arrived arm in arm with a bearded Princess Leia and soon Jack was surrounded by people – all in fancy dress, with the exception of a sheepish adolescent in jeans and T-shirt who must have missed the memo. A heavily rouged nun told Jack it was their soccer team’s end of season party, then flashed Jack with an enormous pair of pendulous, knitted boobs.

Two schooners of pacific ale later, Jack ambled back through the park to wait. To avoid being seen, he kept back from the footpath, hovering between a tarot reader and a pair of clumsy fire jugglers until the 5G Action Committee filed out of the community centre. Nielsen was the last to leave, and Jack watched him fold himself into the little electric car and soundlessly depart.

Jack returned to the community centre, where he told the attendant closing up that he’d left something behind. Inside the auditorium, Jack collected his phone from under his seat and ended the recording.

He returned to The Rails Hotel, where Princess Leia and the menagerie were cheering on the nun, now dancing topless on a table, his fake boobs flapping around his ears. Jack took his pint to the table furthest away so he could hear his bootleg recording above all the din.

When he started the playback, Jack’s delight at outwitting Lars Nielsen soon turned to disappointment. The phone had been too far away and, even with the volume turned right up, he could only hear snippets of what the action committee had said. The Beacon may have been mentioned and he thought he heard Patrick O’Shaughnessy’s name, but he couldn’t make out the context. Some voices were louder than others and he clearly heard one person describing a plan to unfurl an anti-5G banner from the side of the Byron Bay water tower. This would happen the next night there was heavy rain – presumably so they weren’t seen by insomniac dog walkers or nocturnal snoggers. At last, Jack would have some content for his first edition of The Beacon. It would be a good story, and if he could get a photo, it might even make the front page.

As he finished his beer, he watched security usher the nun and a penguin from the premises.