Underground Page 6

  At the end it seemed that we pulled into a garage. Then we were hurried through a house and down some stairs and, when the bags came off, there was the ‘Brisbane Bitter’ sign to greet me. And five men, dressed in civilian garb, but still in balaclavas, still with their guns. They dumped some clothes on the floor for my burqa-less friend, and then left, locking the door behind them. All throughout I’d been yelling questions at them—who were they, what did they want, what the fuck was going on? Not one of them had spoken a word.

  So there we were. Me and my would-be executioner.

  ‘Well then,’ I said, after prowling about the room for a time, and verifying that there was no escape, no alcohol, and nothing else to do but talk. ‘Nancy.’

  She was slumped in a beanbag. (This room was strictly retro.) The clothes they had given her were not her own—those were presumably still lying on the road where the AFP had dropped them. Instead she seemed to be wearing a man’s clothes, several sizes too big for her. Her wild white hair was tied back into a bun, revealing a pale, narrow neck, lividly bruised.

  ‘That’s not my name,’ she said, staring at the floor.

  ‘You’re not Nancy Campbell?’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘Oh right, you’ve got that other fancy Muslim name.’

  Her head lifted. ‘Aisha.’

  And the hate still smouldered there, amidst the blood and the cuts. She might have looked like a waif in those clothes, but only a fool would have considered her to be harmless or beaten. There was no one called Nancy in there, that’s for sure.

  ‘Okay, Ay-eesha, do you know who these guys are?’

  She shook her head, unblinking.

  She was in shock, I supposed. After all, it was only her first time being kidnapped or ambushed or otherwise caught up in an assault, while this was my third. And her compatriots were dead. Gunned down right in front of her. She had been right on the verge of death herself.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I heard myself ask, amazingly.

  In answer she rubbed savagely at the wounds on her face, raising fresh blood, then lifted her reddened hands, her eyes on me all the while. My incipient pity died. She was telling me she didn’t give a fuck about pain or death or sympathy.

  ‘You really are crazy,’ I told her, and left her alone.

  For a while anyway. But hour followed hour, without any distraction, and there was no ignoring her presence. An albino terrorist on a green velour beanbag. At the most, she couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. Hell, my own eldest daughter was twenty-eight. And the only things Rhonda seemed to be interested in were money and clothes and parties with her friends. The world might be going to hell and new wars breaking out every day, with half of Australia locked down for security’s sake, but she had a social life to get on with. The spitting image of her mother, in fact. (Okay, maybe the spitting image of her father, too. Even though she made it clear that she despised me, and men in general—her rampant promiscuity aside—and I’ll be needing that cheque now, please, Daddy.)

  But this Aisha creature. I couldn’t see her hanging around with my daughter’s crowd. Parties would fall silent as soon as she walked into a room, and most boys would run screaming from those eyes. All right then, she was a different sort of youth. Someone very serious and very angry. But where on earth had she come from? I watched her as surreptitiously as I could. She didn’t fidget or squirm or yawn. Once she rose and went to the toilet, but otherwise she just sat there. Was she meditating? Was that even the right religion? And that was another puzzle. She wasn’t of Middle Eastern descent, that was for sure. She had to be pure Viking stock, cursed to live under a burning Australian sun. So where did Allah come into it?

  The silence got to me in the end.

  ‘Don’t you have to pray or something?’

  She glanced my way as if I were a silverfish.

  ‘You’re a Muslim, right? I thought you guys prayed five times a day. Don’t you have to get down on the floor and face Mecca every now and then?’

  No answer.

  ‘Not that you could tell which way Mecca was down here, right?’ I was rambling on for my own amusement as much as anything else. ‘It’s in Saudi Arabia, isn’t it? So from Australia I guess you just face roughly north-west? Yes?’

  She rolled her eyes, in an ‘are you really so stupid’ sort of way, and for a split second she could have been my daughter.

  Still, she had me there. On this topic, I was pretty stupid indeed. Not that she was the first Muslim I’d met. Back in the old days, before the camps and the ghettos, I’d dealt with investors from the Islamic community often enough. I’d even schmoozed the occasional international Arab banker. And as far as money and business went, they were pretty much the same as anyone else. God wasn’t the issue. The only trick, from my point of view, was to work out whether a particular Muslim was worried about the drinking thing or not. And plenty of them weren’t. Especially if quality scotch was on offer.

  I’d never actually seen one pray, however. Nor, come to think of it, had I ever dealt closely with a Muslim woman.

  ‘Women do pray too, don’t they? I mean, I’ve seen pictures of mosques and people on their knees and all that, but it only seems to be men.’

  The boredom must have been getting to her as well, because she spoke finally. ‘You’re the same as everyone else in this country. You don’t know a thing about Islam.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Women are perfectly welcome in mosques.’

  ‘Really? I must have seen the wrong photos.’

  Her lips tightened. ‘In some countries the women prefer to pray at home. It’s a personal choice. Men and women. You can pray wherever you like.’

  ‘And you? Obviously you don’t go to mosques, they’re all shut down. But what about right now? You’re just doing it there on the beanbag, are you?’

  Her chin went up. ‘You wouldn’t ask another Christian questions like that.’

  ‘Another Christian? You think I’m a Christian?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Red-blooded atheist, babe.’

  She made a spitting sound. Then she pointedly shuffled the beanbag around and turned her back to me.

  Well, what did I expect? Muslims, I knew, had at least some respect for Christians and Jews, even if everyone was at war right now. Maybe they even saw some worth in the Buddhists and Hindus and Sikhs, too. But the utterly godless? Especially fat, semi-alcoholic, dirty-old-man, several-times-divorced, washed-up, cowardly types like me? Not bloody likely.

  In any case, we were saved further pleasantries, because at the top of the stairs the door opened, and one of our captors descended. He was wearing a balaclava, but had no weapons that I could see. Instead, rather strangely, he carried a small television set with a rabbit-ears aerial.

  ‘About fucking time,’ I declared.

  He glanced my way, then held up a finger—wait. Wordlessly, he set up the TV on the bar, plugged it in and switched it on. I watched with growing outrage and impatience. He played with the reception for a time, and when the picture cleared it revealed a game show. The volume was turned down, but it was ‘The New Price is Right’. Not far from the end. So now I knew that out there in the normal world—away from all these basements and masked faces and clockless walls—it was about five minutes to six on a weekday evening.

  Satisfied, the man took a seat. He leant back, hands behind his head, and considered us both at leisure. ‘The Prime Minister’s brother,’ he said at last. ‘And a cell leader from the Great Southern Jihad. I gotta say it—you two are a real mystery.’

  I looked at Aisha. She was glaring across the room at him, but didn’t seem inclined to speak. ‘Um,’ I said, ‘I’m not with her, you know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She was holding me hostage. Just this morning. She was probably going to kill me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes! Look, for fuck’s sake—’

  He laughed. ‘Okay mate, relax. I
get the general idea.’

  I sat back, staring. It was hard to guess his age. Maybe late forties, going by his hands, and by a solid frame that suggested the beginnings of a middle-age spread. Grey eyes, through the holes in the mask. A patient, confident voice.

  I said, ‘So who the hell are you people?’

  ‘We’re the ones who rescued you.’

  ‘I’d already been rescued, before you came along.’

  He barked another dry laugh. ‘Believe me, you needed rescuing. Both of you. Whether you knew it or not.’

  ‘Fine. You’ve done it then. Now let us go. Or at least let me go. I don’t give a shit about her.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be in your best interest, trust me.’

  ‘You know what’s in my best interest?’

  He nodded. ‘Right now, I’m your only friend.’ He was watching Aisha. ‘The same goes for you, little lady.’

  ‘Stick it up your arse,’ she responded.

  And I could tell the man was amused by the crinkle of his eyebrow. He turned to check the TV screen. ‘The New Price is Right’ was running the credits. The final contestant had been playing for prizes valued at half a million, including a fully armoured family sedan, with the complete anti-terrorist defence attachments, tear gas and all. But she hadn’t won. He turned back to us.

  ‘Before we talk, I want you to watch the news. It should give you some idea of what’s going on here.’

  He moved his chair around, and we all sat there, facing the screen.

  I was interested despite myself. It must have been a week—way back before the cyclone neared the coast—since I’d seen any news. These days, a week was an eternity. And the way the man was talking, perhaps something momentous had occurred. Another Twin Towers, another nuke—who could tell?

  But there was none of that. The news, at least the first two minutes of it, was solely about me. And the fact that I was dead.

  ‘Forensic tests have finally confirmed,’ said the newsreader, ‘that the body found at the Ocean Sands Green Resort near Bundaberg is indeed that of Leo James, the twin brother of Prime Minister Bernard James. The state of the remains had until now led to doubts about the identity of the deceased, but authorities have today made the death official. The Prime Minister himself reportedly donated a DNA sample early yesterday to aid with the identification process.’

  I was staring at the wreckage of my resort on the screen, bathed now in sunshine, shot from a news helicopter. And then I was listening to an obituary, outlining my sad and sorry life in a well-censored lack of detail, while old photos of me flashed across the screen. Bernard and me as children. Me at my second wedding. Me with Bernard in his Prime Ministerial office. (The friendly pose belying the fact that he was probably dressing me down at the time.) Me in a silly hard hat on the site of some construction project I was trying to fund.

  ‘The Prime Minister has expressed his great sadness at his brother’s passing, and has said the occasion is a reminder that even in these troubled political times, we must not forget the dangers and tragedies with which nature herself presents us. He also expressed deep sympathy for others who have lost loved ones or property as a result of Cyclone Yusuf.’

  ‘Fuck him!’ I said to no one, disbelieving.

  The man held up his finger again. ‘There’s more.’

  ‘In other breaking news,’ read the host, ‘the Federal Police have reported a successful raid on a terrorist cell in south-east Queensland. After lengthy investigation, several members of a group calling themselves the Great Southern Jihad were ambushed and eliminated by AFP agents. Police warn, however, that the cell commander remains at large.’

  And suddenly there she was, large as life on TV. It was one of those surveillance-type photos, taken as she was crossing a street somewhere, in normal clothes, her head turned slightly away from the camera. But it was Aisha, sure enough.

  The genuine article was blinking at the screen.

  ‘The AFP report that Nancy Campbell is armed and extremely dangerous. Members of the public are advised not to approach her, but to inform police immediately if she is sighted. Campbell is wanted dead or alive, and a shoot-to-kill order has been issued. Extra AFP forces have been deployed to south-east Queensland, and increased roadblocks and other security measures will be in force. Returning now to the clean-up of Cyclone Yusuf . . .’

  The man reached over and switched the television off.

  ‘They aren’t kidding about the AFP reinforcements. It’s a madhouse out there. Not just the AFP, but the army too, trucks and troops everywhere, roadblocks all over the place.’ He nodded towards Aisha. ‘They really want you dead.’

  ‘Is that any surprise?’ I interjected. ‘She’s a terrorist. More than that, she’s one of the ones who nuked Canberra.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘She did.’

  He laughed. Stared at her for a moment. ‘Got tickets on yourself, haven’t you, girl?’ He shook his head. ‘Either way, she steps out the door and someone will gun her down. As for you—your own brother has declared you dead, when he knows perfectly well you aren’t.’

  ‘It’s some sort of mistake . . .’

  ‘No mistake. From what we’ve heard, the AFP has secret orders to shoot you on sight as well. The story is that you and her work together, and always have, but supposedly it’s all being kept quiet to avoid embarrassing the PM.’

  I was shaken. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘We know. But even so, by government decree, you don’t exist anymore. Indeed, the government seems to be shifting heaven and earth to make sure that neither of you exists. Do you understand what I’m saying? The only reason you’re both alive is because we’ve got you safely hidden down here.’

  My mouth was dry. ‘Who are you?’

  He hesitated, picked at the hem of his balaclava. ‘I guess you should be told. The fact is, you two don’t have any choice but to trust us, if you want to stay alive.’

  Then to my astonishment he pulled the mask off. I saw a round, ruddy face. A dishevelled mass of sandy hair. And a wry, lopsided smile.

  ‘My name is Harry. Welcome to the Oz Underground.’

  TEN

  So now I was a captive of the OU.

  And I know that you bastards don’t believe me—not if the interrogations are anything to go by—but until that very moment I had never in my life had a thing to do with them. Until that moment, in fact, I wasn’t even sure that the Oz Underground really existed. Yes, I’d heard the rumours. Yes, I’d seen the graffiti. But I never once read their name anywhere in the media. I never once heard any law enforcement agency decry their activities, or issue warrants for their arrest. So what was I supposed to think? And when, on occasion, I’d raised the question with the odd government official who crossed my path, I was always blithely assured that there was not now and never had been an Underground. They were a fantasy, a chimera, just the wishful thinking of a few left-wing crazies. Forget all about them, Leo, old son, and have another beer.

  Lying motherfuckers.

  Meanwhile, down in the empty snooker room, Harry was folding his balaclava neatly and trying to point out that I wasn’t a captive at all. (And no, I don’t know his last name. Or if Harry was even his real first name. And why am I bothering with denials? You’d know more about it than me. You’re the ones who killed him, and you’re the ones who have his body.)

  ‘You see what I’m saying?’ He was looking earnestly from Aisha to me. ‘There’s no point hiding my face. I know you two won’t betray me. There’s no one you could betray me to. We’re the only refuge you have left.’

  ‘The Underground?’ I said, still in disbelief. ‘You’re telling me that the Underground is real, and that you’re it?’

  He smiled. ‘Well, a part of it.’

  He sure didn’t look it. Of all the gun-wielding idiots I’d met in the last few days, he seemed the least likely to be part of a militant resistance movement. With his beer belly and open face and receding hair
line, he looked like he should be sitting on a beach with a stubbie in one hand and a battered old trannie tuned to the cricket in the other, ogling topless girls who were twenty years too young for him.

  He asked, ‘You’ve heard about what we do?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I glanced at Aisha, then back to him. ‘More bloody terrorists.’

  ‘We’re not terrorists.’

  ‘No?’

  His expression had grown serious. ‘We don’t wish any harm to Australia, or to any western society.’ Aisha gave a cough of cynical laughter, and he stared at her levelly. ‘Or to any other society, for that matter. Certainly not Islam. But we are prepared to fight, to save this country.’

  ‘Save it from who?’ I asked.

  ‘From itself. Or at least from its government. This police state they’ve set up.’ The smile again. ‘In particular, we’re trying to save it from your brother.’

  ‘Good fucking luck.’ What did this bloke expect—that just because I hated Bernard I’d be impressed by a bunch of would-be revolutionaries trying to overthrow him? ‘And you can just leave me out of it, okay?’

  ‘Even when your brother has ordered your execution?’

  ‘So you tell me.’

  ‘What do you think that news report was about?’

  And there was nothing I could say to that.

  At the same time, a list of stories about the OU was running through my head. How they supposedly had a secret network throughout the country. How they had members from all strata of society—public servants, farmers, doctors, mechanics, priests, IT workers, dock workers, lawyers, teachers—any sort of people you cared to name. How they were waging a hidden campaign against the security laws, against the detention laws, against the US bases, against our involvement in all the wars—in other words, against just about everything that had happened in Australia over the last decade, all the way back to the September 11 attacks. How they had hundreds of safe houses from city to city, and ferried all kinds of illegal persons between them. How they had reportedly sabotaged US army vehicles, or ambushed AFP roadblocks, or broken imprisoned dissenters out of jail. How they scrawled their catchcry on billboards and brick walls and battleships, only to have it hastily painted over by the authorities. ‘Free Australia!’ The words always accompanied by the drawing of an upside-down Southern Cross.