Draw the Brisbane Line (12 page)

Biff watched Sammo get in that Lexus and rev the engine, and he could remember thinking,
awesome, joyride time
.  He was about to call shotgun when Sammo lowered the window, stuck his head out and announced he was off south.  He left in a V8 roar and a cloud of dry dust.  They all waited about ten minutes to see if he’d come back, but he didn’t.

Biff waited around for about fifteen minutes after the others had left, flinging small rocks at improvised targets on the trees around him.  He only decided to leave when he detected a whiff of smoke in the air.  Not a good time to be standing in the middle of the bush.

He drove Sammo’s ute back into town and parked on Hastings.  The looting was still in full swing, and he knew that if Sammo was with him he’d have been out of the door before the car came to a complete stop, whooping and jumping blindly into the action.  Biff didn’t feel much like doing that. He didn’t really know what he felt like doing at all.  He didn’t know
what
to do.  He’d been sleeping on the sofa at Sammo’s house, a sports bag full of shorts and shirts and undies his only real possessions, but now he didn’t know where to go.  He couldn’t break into Sammo’s place, no way.  He didn’t like Spaz, he’d rather sleep rough than take up that shitty option.

He sat on the side of the footpath and kicked at the dust and leaves caked into the edge of the gutter.  He was hot, and his stomach rumbled when he thought about the breakfast he skipped, back when Sammo shouted at him to get up.  He thought he should look for some food, so he pushed himself to his feet and began slapping his thongs in the direction of his regular kebab shop, hoping it was still in one piece.

The crowds were out in force, but they were strange, kind of messy.  Cars were streaming out of town when they were usually slowly cruising the streets in search of a car park.  People were going into shops and coming out with their arms full, but without any shopping bags.  Very odd, very messy.

When he finally reached the kebab shop, he discovered it was closed.  His disappointed taste-buds forgot all about the possibility of a chicken kebab with garlic mayo, the meat gently charred along the edges where they’d been kissed by flames.  He swallowed, and a gummy ball of saliva slid down his throat and triggered grumpy rumblings when it hit his empty stomach.

A loud crash broke through his self-pity, glass smashing just a few metres away from where he was standing.  He looked away from the kebab shop with no kebabs to see a man of similar age, but dissimilar dimensions, wiry and hungry and lean.  Biff carried considerable weight, some of it muscle and some of it not — Sammo would sometimes jiggle his chest and say man boobs, which usually got a laugh from everyone but Biff — but this guy looked like all the fat had been burned off his frame, from what he could see of it. He wore a big dark jacket with lots of puffy exterior pockets.  A black backpack sagged from his shoulders, and from the way it hung low, it looked to be full of something heavy.  Biff could clearly make out the network of tendons and muscles and bones in the guy’s hand as he tapped some hanging shards of glass from the big hole in the front window of a real estate agency. 

Biff had no idea why anyone would want to break into a real estate agency, but the guy moved with a kind of purpose that suggested he
must
know what he was doing.

The guy rolled his head to the side and fixed Biff with a wide toothy grin.  His pegs were large and slightly yellowed, and he had crazy cartoon eyes, bulging like they could never be completely covered by his eyelids.  The whole weird look was framed by one of those Android Eyes things, though it was probably one of the cheaper Chinese knockoffs.  Biff had used them once, but they gave him an instant headache.

‘What are you staring at?’ he said to Biff.

‘Um… nuthin.’ Biff said.  ‘I’m just hungry, you know?’

The guy turned his attention away from the real estate agency for a moment, faced Biff and properly looked at him.  A wide smile creased up his face, taking in not just his mouth but also his cheeks and his eyes and, somehow, even his ears. 

‘Yeah, I know, eh?  I could murder a pie myself?  I haven’t had anything to eat since, Friday lunchtime? I was at work, right, on the highway upgrade? And the shift supervisor says, right, shift over, fire’s coming.  So of course this is my only shift for the week, so I get paid, like nothing, at all. So today rolls around and I’m still hungry, and still broke. What are my options then? I can stay hungry, maybe die - don’t laugh, it could happen - or I can take what I need to survive. I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy dying any time soon.’

Biff’s chest tightened around his lungs as he listened to the guy’s hundred-mile-an-hour monologue, feeling like he was going to run out of his own air and he’d start drawing from Biff’s supply.  It was like a verbal drive-by.  Biff had heard people called oxygen thieves before, but this was the first time he’d actually met one.  And that coat he was wearing made Biff feel hot and sweaty just by looking at it. He had to resist the urge to tear it right off his shoulders.

‘Epoch,’ he said as he stuck his hand out to Biff.  The air shimmered around it as though his skin was vibrating.

‘Biff,’ he said as he took his hand and squeezed.  It was like shaking hands with an angle grinder.

Epoch released his hand and clapped hard.  It startled Biff a little.  ‘Biff!  Biff and Epoch!  Epoch and Biff!  Has a ring to it, don’t you think?  We should go out and fucking fight crime!  Or rob banks!’

‘Um.’

‘No need to rush, no need to rush.  Yeah, nah … just give me a hand with this place first?’

He stepped through the broken glass of the real estate agency, and Biff, with not much else to do, followed him.  He felt the jagged shards and glass crumbles crunching and sliding under his thongs. 

‘What do you want me to do?’

Epoch stopped moving.  Not just walking, but moving.  He didn’t even blink, didn’t look like he was breathing.  Biff was about to give his shoulder a shake when he suddenly snapped back into action, grabbed the top of Biff’s hand and fixed him with a priest’s affectionate gaze.

‘The cops, Biff,’ he said. ‘I hate to resort to cliché at a time of such momentous, awesome,
otherness
… but could you please keep an eye out for the fuzz?’

‘The cops,’ Biff repeated.  ‘They haven’t been around, like, all morning.  They haven’t tried to stop any of this.  Sammo said they’ve run away from the Indos.’

‘Who’s Sammo?’

Biff told him, gave him a brief rundown of the morning’s events, and Epoch just shook his head.

‘Sammo’s a fucking moron.  The cops are busy because some fuckwit with a weapon is causing havoc on the traffic-crowded highway, and some other cunt started a bush-fire a bit further north.  They’ll be back soon enough.’

Biff shrugged, nodded, and took up a position by the now useless front door.  This guy seemed to know the score.  He glanced back at Epoch as he made his way around the office, looking under desks and behind framed certificates and small business awards.

‘What are you looking for?’ Biff called back.

‘Safe,’ Epoch said from under a desk.

‘Safe?’

‘Safe.  I nearly took a job with these guys a few years back,’ he said.  ‘Not this actual agency, but you know, same company.  Even came down and went with one of the agents on a little inspection tour.  They didn’t offer me a job in the end.  What put them off, I think, was when I took it upon myself to display a little salesmanship on one of the inspections.  It was an older couple looking for a place to retire, and I thought I’d highlight some of the more age-friendly features in the property. You know, easy-open doors, handrails in the bathroom, no stairs to climb.  That sort of thing.  This couple though, they took offence, said I was rude and they would never buy a property from anyone who would employ such rudeness.  I think they got scared when they heard the price tag, saw me as a convenient face-saver.  But you know what I picked up in my short time with this mob?  They kept copies of all the house keys of the properties they were renting, and selling, in a safe?  And they tag them all with the addresses?  How fucking dense is that?’

‘But a safe,’ Biff said.

‘Never as safe as it sounds,’ Epoch shouted from a back room, followed by, ‘Bingo!’

A brief period of non-speaking followed. The only sounds in the estate agency were the growls of zippers and the crumple of plastic wrapping.

Biff looked up and down the street but didn’t see any sign of cops.  Three kids in their early teens were giggling as they made their way along the footpath towards him, carrying a fifty-inch television between them which trailed black cords tipped by frayed wires.  It looked like they’d torn it right off a wall somewhere.  ‘So you worked in real estate before?’ he said to the odd little man in the back room.

‘Yes I did Biff, yes I did.  A firm by the name of Tim McLean Real Estate?  It was a small operation, just three men including me, but Mr McLean was a wealth of information, a gold mine.  This was up north in Mackay.  He was, like, really well-connected?  He had friends in the industry in Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne, Perth.  He could tell you exactly where the country’s wealth was at any point in time, and where they were looking to buy.  That’s how we got our leads.  Mate, the money floating around the country, you wouldn’t believe it.  And the things they spend it on?  You’d be amazed what you can find out if you look closely at some of these people, the cars and the jewellery and the designer accessories.  And it’s not just the famous people either, it’s often people you’ve never heard of, hedge fund directors and property billionaires and mining magnates.  And you know what I did with all that information Biff?’

Biff wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer, or make a guess.  He didn’t need to worry, because Epoch was only catching his breath.

Epoch emerged into the main office area with his backpack over his shoulder and what appeared to be a giant red retro mobile phone, or walkie-talkie, in his hand.  ‘It’s all up here,’ he said, tapping his head.  Or maybe the Android Eyes.  ‘I kept a hold of all the interesting facts Biff, every last one.’  He stepped through the entrance, stretched his arms up into the air.  ‘So, Biff, what’s your real name?  I haven’t seen a new-born baby ugly enough to be called Biff from day one.  No offence.’

Biff waved it off.  He was called much worse than ugly on a daily basis, so much so that ugly registered about as much offence as tall or hairy.  ‘Brendan,’ he said, and added quickly, ‘but nobody calls me that.’

‘Right,’ Epoch said, nodding. Slowly at first, but then bobbing faster and faster until Biff thought he might start cooing like a pigeon.  ‘Right, right, Brendan.  So the thing is, I think that fits you better than Biff.  So I’m going to call you Brendan from now on, OK?’  He walked towards Biff and clapped him on the shoulder.  ‘Is that OK?’

Biff nodded.  That was just fine by him.  The last person to call him Brendan was his mother, and that was only up until when she started calling him Hey You, and Oi!

‘So did you find the safe?’ Biff asked.

‘I did, Brendan, I did.  Just step outside with me for a moment, would you?’

Biff shrugged and stepped back through the broken glass, and Epoch followed him.

‘Just over here,’ Epoch said as he guided him past the estate agency, in front of a coffee shop.  ‘Best to be safe.’

‘Be safe for what?’ Biff said as he started to turn around.

Epoch didn’t answer him.  Biff saw him twiddle and jab the big red phone, and something loud and strong went
bang
from the back of the estate agency.  If Biff’s ears weren’t ringing from the blast he would have heard the tinkling of the remaining glass from the broken front window falling to the ground like hard rain.

Jim shuffled his way forward with pure grumble-power, putting himself notionally between the two women.  ‘Jenny, er,
Tait
,’ he said, sweeping his hand towards Banksia in a gesture which fell on the hostile side of unfriendly. ‘Banksia.’

‘Banksia … Banksia Mackie?’ Jenny said.

Banksia squinted, a dry smirk propping up her cheeks. ‘Jenny … Dave Holden’s woman?’

Jenny curtsied despite her shorts. ‘The one and the same. Would you like me to have him sign your balls?’

Laughter exploded from Banksia’s mouth like a flock of tropical birds startled into sudden flight, and Jenny couldn’t help but join her. It felt good to share a joke on an otherwise shit-stained day.  Tait looked like he was employing every millilitre of self-control he possessed to not run up to Banksia and hug her.

Al looked like he was mildly amused by the unlikely celebrity gathering, but Jim was oscillating a pained scowl between these two bloody women. If she had to practice a scowl like that for a part, she’d drink curdled milk to get in the mood.

‘So, Al,’ Banksia said.  ‘You gunna answer the lady’s question?  You a survivalist nut-job?’

‘Jenny,’ Al said, putting the smile away for another time. ‘I am a survivalist, yes. Who isn’t?  In these ugly times, every Australian is either a survivalist or a victim. Even if they don’t know which one they are yet.’

‘I say survivalist,’ Banksia sang, ‘you say nut-job.’

Al held his hands out, palms up.  ‘I’m just a loyal Queenslander.’

‘Loyal to whom?’ Jenny said.

Al let the smile back in.  ‘To the great state of Queensland, of course.  To its citizens.’

‘Survivalist,’ Banksia sang.  ‘Nut-job.’

‘Oi!’ Jim snapped in a growl.  ‘Show some respect!’

The little man was becoming more unpleasant with every passing second, and Jenny did not feel very safe around him. ‘He has my respect for getting us out of the bush before it barbecued us, for offering to drive us out of this … this shit.  But until about five minutes ago I had no idea he was involved with the Queensland Territorial Army.’

‘Where you been living, in a hole?’ Jim said.

Banksia gaped at him. ‘Do you even
have
a television?’ she said. ‘This is Jennifer Lucas. She sure as fuck doesn’t live in Toowoomba.’

Jim reddened further, his ears now glowing. ‘Do not use that language in my house.’

‘Not your house Al,’ Banksia said. ‘This is the great outdoors.’

She looked like she wanted to add
this is
my
house
, but stopped herself.

‘I don’t see why we need them,’ Jim said to Al. ‘Either of them.’

Jenny didn’t like the sound of that, and it probably showed. She felt that well-practised Hollywood half-smile slip into neutral.

‘Jim, just shut up for a minute,’ Al growled. ‘Jenny, the QTA has been around for close to a century in one form or another. Yes, we have our share of fruitcakes.’ He flicked a sideways glance in Jim’s direction, and Jenny felt that smile creep back onto her face. ‘But we also have a lot of good people, dedicated people. Men and women who just want to keep their families safe, and prosperous.’

‘So what do you need Tait and me for? I know, you saw me in
Dead Certain 2
, all those scenes where I took out the bad guys with my bare hands.’

‘And a wine bottle,’ Tait said.

She flashed him a grin. ‘And a wine bottle. I have to admit to you Al, that wasn’t me in a lot of those scenes, that was my body double. She’s the one you want if you’re hoping to send in a female assassin super-soldier to take down whoever it is you’re preparing for.’

Everyone laughed except Jim.

‘While we’d be happy to have Tait on board, what we really need is a spokesperson, someone who can put a public face on our cause to the rest of the country. To the
world
.’

‘A
celebrity
spokesperson,’ Banksia said. ‘Someone with pretty hair and a nice body.’

‘You have those things,’ Jenny said to her.

‘Aw, aren’t you sweet. I’m not QTA though.’ She looked at Al. ‘Never going to be.’

‘What are you doing here then?’ Jenny asked.

‘I was looking for a friend and her daughter, thought I might be able to offer them a lift out of this shit-fight. Seems like they had the good sense to get out under their own steam.’

‘Deserters,’ Jim said.

‘They’re your family Jim,’ Banksia said. ‘Not your fucking troops. Sorry: not your
flipping
troops.’

‘Jenny,’ Al said, ‘We can’t let this state slip into neglect and disrepair and, I hate to say it, anarchy. If we lose the state, next will be the country. If we’re to hold onto what’s ours, we need to gain the support of the country, the support of the
world
.’

‘And you think
I
can give you that?’

‘You can help.  You and Banksia could
both
help.’

Jenny was starting to feel dizzy.  She wiped sweat from her forehead before it could trickle into her eyes. Her skin felt like it was only minutes away from being cooked medium-to-well.  ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ she said to Jim.

He grunted and nodded.  ‘Second door on the right.’

‘Jim, are you going to get a drink for your guests?’ Banksia said.

‘Not my guests,’ he mumbled.

‘Don’t be a goose,’ Al said.  ‘Get some glasses of water.’

Jenny let herself into the house, her bladder suddenly squealing at the mention of a bathroom.  She followed Jim’s simple directions and couldn’t get her shorts down quickly enough when she spied white porcelain.  Discomfort gave way to relief by steady degrees, and she was able to admire the small touches which lent weight to the existence of a wife: a floor apparently free of urine spatter for one thing, not something a man on his own is ever able to maintain; the walls were papered by a surprisingly stylish design, small black charcoal-rendered birds on cherry blossom branches, not the kind of thing she expected to see on a farm; a scented candle sat on a narrow shelf over the sink, half melted away in a bent puddle of wax.

She heard glasses clinking in the kitchen, drawers being opened and closed with more force than was necessary.  Banksia’s voice carried down the hallway, muffled but unmistakable.  She had a show on HBO which Jenny watched whenever she felt nostalgic about the Australia she never knew.  She had to go on late night cable because her exclamations often stretched beyond the safety of
crikey
and
strewth
when dealing with some of nature’s more unpredictable wildlife.  Jenny once saw an episode where Banksia came across a zebra giving birth, with a lioness waiting to pounce from the right of shot.  Swearing like a miner in an earthquake, she shouldered her rifle and shot the big cat in the head before assisting the zebra in the birth, colouring the footage throughout with language which would have resulted in criminal charges in earlier decades.  Not so much the neutral observer.

Jenny finished up and washed her hands on a plain white cake of unscented soap.  Apparently feminine influence can only be allowed to extend so far.  She took a mouthful of water from the tap and her stomach gurgled, like bubbles had just been activated on some internal jacuzzi.  A chicken sandwich would make her giggle with glee.  And potato chips?  Oh God,
sweet
potato chips.  If Jim had sweet potato chips in the house, she thought she might start to like him.  Really like him.

She wiped her hands on a stiff brown towel and made her way back down the hall.   Somewhere between the bathroom and the front door, Banksia stopped talking.  Everyone stopped talking.  She thought,
maybe they’re all drinking their water
, but then she stepped outside and saw Jim still holding a tray with four full glasses in his left hand.  In his right hand, down by his side, he held a rifle.  Four glasses in his left hand and he didn’t appear to have spilled a drop.  Good balance.

‘What are you doing there, Jim?’ Al said.

‘Bringing some water, like you asked me to.’

‘You planning on a bit of rabbit hunting maybe?’

‘
She’s
carrying a gun,’ he said, nodding in Banksia’s direction.  ‘Thought it was only fair.’

‘Fair how?’ Banksia said.  ‘Are we at war?’

Jim chewed at his lip, looking between Al and Banksia for some kind of direction or prompt.   Jenny walked slowly around to his left side.

‘Can I take that?’ she said, holding my hand out for the tray of drinks.  ‘I’m pregnant and thirsty.’

A brief flicker of understanding passed through Jim, loosening his shoulders and filling out some of the deep lines between his eyes, and he turned to Jenny and held out the tray.  She took it with a slight tremble, trying to focus more on the water and how thirsty she was rather than the gun in his hand.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and he actually smiled and nodded.  The smile was gone faster than it came on when he turned back to see Banksia with her pistol aimed in his direction.

Jenny looked for somewhere to set the tray down but there was no furniture out on the veranda, so she lowered it to the dusty wooden decking.  She picked up a glass and drank it all down without pausing for breath.  She returned her attention to Banksia, who was still holding the gun.

‘Ya see?’ Jim said to Al.  ‘Ya see that?  I told ya.’

‘Told him what Jim?’ Banksia said.  ‘That I was unlikely to be intimidated by your QTA militant bullshit?’

‘That you’re not one of us,’ he said to her, almost hissing.  ‘You’re one of
them
.’

‘Them?  Who’s
them
?  The Russians?  The Indonesians?  Maybe the North Koreans?’

‘Can it, Jim,’ Al said.  ‘You’re not speaking sense.  And Banksia, please lower your weapon.’

‘Tell you what Al. I’ll holster my gun when he puts away that rifle.’

‘Jim,’ Al said, not looking at him.  ‘Put it down.’

Jim didn’t seem too keen on taking his attention away from Banksia, nor she from him, but Jenny saw him shake his head, slowly.  She moved away from Jim, away from the line of fire, and when she was past Al she left the veranda and crossed the dry grass to join Tait.

‘Where’s my water?’ he whispered when she was next to him.

She looked at the tray on the veranda, next to Jim.  ‘I am not going back there to get it.  You can help yourself.’

‘I think I’d rather drink my own urine,’ he said.

‘As long as it’s your own,’ she said.  ‘Otherwise that’d be weird.’

‘Jim,’ Al said.  ‘I said put it down.’

‘No,’ Jim said.  ‘No.  I want her off my land, now.  You think we can use the actress, fine, but this one’s lost.  She’s one of them, and I want her off my land.’

‘What do you mean you think you can use the actress?’ Jenny said.

‘What do you mean one of them?’ Banksia repeated.  ‘Who’s them?’

‘Yanks,’ Jim growled.  ‘You’re a fucken Yank.’

Banksia shrugged.  ‘Half.  I’m also half Australian, but it’s a much bigger half.  But the Americans are friends, Jim.  They are
us
, not
them
.’

‘Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?  We’re all one big happy western world, just stay on your side of the fucken line.’

‘Jenny,’ Al said.  ‘I’m sorry about all this.  But you could do some real good if you help us.’

‘Or,’ Banksia said, ‘you could come with me as I leave these nuts to their nutting.’

‘Over my dead body,’ Jim said, and began to raise the rifle.

Banksia fired the pistol and a dull crack echoed around the hills.  A small hole appeared in the flaked wood cladding just to the left of where Jim was standing, the rifle frozen at a forty-five degree incline.  ‘Next one’s in your head, Jim,’ Banksia said.  ‘Don’t raise your fucking gun at me again.’

Shit, Jenny needed to pee again, and looking at the pale shock on Tait’s face, she thought he might too.

‘I appreciate what you’ve done for us,’ Jenny said to Al with a tremor in her voice.  ‘I do.  But we’re going to go with Banksia.’

Al gave her a tired smile and nodded, like he always knew what the answer was going to be, given the company he kept.

‘Hop in guys,’ Banksia said.  ‘Mine’s the black Range Rover, not the other rusty piece of shit.’

She kept her gun on Jim, who lowered the rifle but didn’t put it down, and Jenny and Tait let themselves into the back seat.  The interior was spacious and the tan leather seats were warm and the air was hot, but she shivered as though chilled.  When she gave Tait’s shoulder what she thought was a reassuring squeeze, he jumped.  They looked out the dusty side window as Banksia moved towards them, walking backwards and keeping her eyes and gun on the men at the house.  Al raised his hand in their direction, and Jenny returned the gesture, but Jim scowled and clutched the stock of the rifle.  Banksia slid behind the wheel and started the car without saying a word and they were immediately propelled at pace over the uneven landscape, bouncing towards the road and tearing up a dust cloud large enough to interfere with air traffic.