Araluen (36 page)

‘He’s a good-looking bastard,’ Julia commented as the Porsche rounded the corner. ‘Just like his father.’

‘So when the zealots find out about the pole shift, why don’t they alert the press?’ Michael asked. It was half-past six on Friday evening and they were at Emma’s apartment. Both her flatmates were out, as she’d known they would be, and she and Michael had spent the previous hour going through the notes, characters and storylines that Michael had compiled. ‘The million dollar question,’ he challenged. ‘The zealots were your idea, so what’s the answer?’

‘Easy,’ Emma explained. She’d given it some thought. ‘To the zealots, the pole shift is an act of God, an act intended to purge the planet.’

‘So?’

‘So the normal order of things must be observed.
The masses obliterated in the disaster are those who were destined to die in the cleansing and purification process.’

‘Good, good,’ Michael said, opening his briefcase and fumbling around in the lid pocket.

‘If the news got out,’ Emma continued, excited and pleased with herself, ‘the populace would fight to preserve itself and the normal order would be – ’

‘In chaos,’ Michael agreed. ‘Exactly. The wrong people would be destroyed, etcetera … Now let’s really get something happening here.’

He took a sachet of white substance and a crisp new one hundred dollar note from an envelope and knelt beside the glass-topped coffee table in the centre of the lounge room.

‘What are you doing?’ Emma asked as he gently tapped some of the substance onto the table top.

‘Get us a knife, will you? Non-serrated.’

Emma did as she was told and watched as he held the knife by the blade and chopped the lumpy white granules to a fine powder.

‘What the hell are you doing, Michael?’ she asked. ‘That’s cocaine, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Great to work with. Really opens up the channels, makes you receptive. You’ll love it.’ For the past six months Michael had found that cocaine – used sensibly, of course – had far broader uses than mere sexual stimulation. Emma stared at the two neat white lines on top of the coffee table. ‘It’s good pure stuff, perfectly harmless,’ he assured her. He was rolling the hundred dollar note into a tight cylinder. ‘Just one little line each.’

‘I couldn’t,’ Emma said. ‘Honestly, I couldn’t.’

‘Of course you could. You’re a writer – you’re supposed to experience things. Look. This is all you do.’

He held the rolled-up hundred dollar note against his right nostril, leant over the coffee table and placed the other end against one of the lines of cocaine. ‘Simple, you see? Just one big sniff.’ He put the index finger of his other hand over his left nostril and fed the bill along the line, inhaling deeply.

Emma watched, riveted, as the white powder disappeared. She was mildly shocked, but enthralled.

‘There you go,’ he said, handing her the hundred dollar note. ‘Your turn.’

She found herself automatically taking it from him. ‘What will happen?’ she asked.

‘Just a bit of a buzz, that’s all,’ he assured her. ‘It gives your mind a boost.’ She hesitated. ‘Go on, Emma. It’s quite safe, really, everyone does it.’

Emma had never known anyone who snorted cocaine but she’d shared the occasional joint with friends and had allowed herself to get a little drunk on the odd occasion. What the hell, she thought, Michael was right – writers had to experience everything.

Here goes, she told herself, and she boldly sniffed along the line of powder until it had all but disappeared. Michael dabbed at the remaining white flecks with his finger and rubbed them over his front gums.

‘Great,’ he said, ‘now let’s get to work.’

Three hours later, they were still zooming. ‘She wears a jellabah with a massive hood,’ Emma said, ‘and an ankh around her neck and she’s always sipping a goblet of holy water.’ They were discussing the leader of the brigade of zealots.

‘Maybe she’s an alcoholic and the holy water’s really straight vodka,’ Michael added jokingly.

‘Why not? … No, seriously,’ she insisted when he laughed. Emma was feeling giddy with inspiration. The whole thing was becoming wonderfully insane. ‘In her drunken haze the zealot leader lets her fear take over, she decides she’s only human after all and she opts to side with the businessman and save her own skin. She becomes a traitor to her people.’

Michael picked up on her excitement. ‘Great conflict,’ he agreed. ‘She takes some of her followers with her and the zealots are actually divided in their midst.’

‘And all the time she’s betraying them,’ Emma continued, ‘she’s quoting from the Old Testament threatening floods and plague and pestilence. You know the sort of thing … “he who is swift of foot shall not save himself” and “the mighty shall flee away naked”.’

‘I love it, I love it,’ Michael said, scribbling away frantically. ‘God, I wish you had a computer.’

It was after twelve o’clock when Emma decided to call a halt to the night. She was suddenly feeling tired and her flatmates would be back soon.

‘I’ve had it, Michael,’ she said. ‘Home time -I’m totally brain-drained.’ She grinned happily. ‘I don’t know how productive all that insanity was,
but God I’ve had fun.’ Weary as she was, Emma had never felt so exhilarated.

‘Me too,’ Michael agreed. He was feeling far from tired. He’d snorted a line before he’d come to Emma’s and the effects of the cocaine hadn’t yet worn off. All his fantasies about her were coming to the fore – coke always heightened his libido. He wondered whether tonight could be the night. He decided to throw caution to the winds.

‘There are other exciting things we could do, Emma,’ he said. They were sitting at the dining room table, papers strewn all about the place, and he leaned forward and took her hand in his. Nice and slowly does it, he told himself, don’t alarm her.

Emma froze. Why hadn’t she foreseen something like this? She had been so conscious of Michael as her sibling, feeling such an affection for him as the brother she’d never known, that it hadn’t once occurred to her he might think of her sexually. What a fool she’d been.

She didn’t blame him – it was only natural. They were in her flat, alone, at midnight; they’d snorted cocaine together. It was a nightmare come true, she thought, and she cursed herself.

‘Michael,’ she said slowly, letting her hand rest where it was. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve misled you. But I’m not interested and I never will be and if you want to push things in that direction then I won’t be able to see you again.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

Michael was still on a high and his mind was working overtime. Despite the fact that Emma was
rejecting him, he could sense a wealth of affection emanating from her. An affection far deeper than he’d dreamed possible. Could she actually be in love with him?

He felt elated. That was it! Emma was in love with him and she was rejecting him merely because she was frightened. She was a virgin, not ready for seduction, only just eighteen and, despite her intellectual maturity, very inexperienced. But she loved him. And one day she would want him. One day …

In the meantime, how should he play it? His mind was whirling at breakneck speed. Buy time, he told himself. Play it very low-key. Make a joke of it. Whatever you do, don’t frighten her.

‘Christ, I didn’t know I was that unattractive,’ he laughed.

‘I’m serious, Michael.’

‘So am I.’ He took her hand in his once more and wouldn’t let go when she tried to pull away. ‘No, listen to me, Emma. I’m sorry I put the word on you and I want you to forget it happened. It’s just the coke playing havoc with the hormones. It won’t happen again, I promise.’

She smiled back, a little uncertain.

‘I mean it,’ he insisted. ‘I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise our relationship. I want you as my friend and my workmate and my bloody inspiration. We’re a great team, aren’t we? What do you say?’

‘I say terrific,’ Emma replied and she smiled, relieved.

He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. Her hair smelt wonderful, her skin felt like
velvet and the proximity of her mouth was tantalising.

She was tall and slim and attractive. An ash-blonde, not altogether unlike Emma in appearance.

Michael met her at a discotheque and took her home and made love to her. As he felt her writhing beneath him, he buried his face in her hair and told himself it was Emma. Emma’s breasts, Emma’s legs wrapped around him, Emma’s moans. One day … one day … one day …

B
OOK
F
IVE

The

Years of Change

(1986 - 1994)

‘B
EHOLD, I WILL PRESS
you down in your place as a cart full of sheaves presses down ... ’ She stood on the hill overlooking the valley, her jellabah flowing behind her in the breeze and she held aloft a goblet in her right hand. ‘The strong shall not retain his strength, nor shall the mighty save his life ... ’ Her voice rang loud and clear, echoing among the surrounding hills. With her other hand, she raised the ankh which hung on a chain about her neck. ‘He who is swift of foot shall not save himself ... ’

It was a surreal scene. In the valley below were ten gigantic airships, one of which was slowly lifting itself off the ground. Fifty people were crowded together watching the exercise; to one side, a cherry picker held a cameraman and director. Ten metres in the air, they were filming the bizarre spectacle. At the base of the crane, another group of a dozen or more were observing, among them Michael and Emma.

‘He who is stout of heart among the mighty shall flee away naked in that day!’ A concealedmicrophone made the voice reverberate.

The airship hovered three metres above the ground. Suddenly, there was a loud explosion and the watching crowd screamed in terror as it burst into flame. A man jumped from the cockpit. He was a ball of fire. A second man followed.

Emma looked on, enthralled. Michael had told her nothing about the stunt, wanting to surprise her. ‘Come out and watch us blow up the airship,’ he'd said. ‘It's going to be massive.’

She felt a little anxious as she watched the flaming figure run from the airship and heard the man's screams of agony. Of course she'd seen similar stunts in the movies, and knew about the protective clothing and the perfect orchestration involved in such an exercise, but it was nevertheless a frightening thing to observe.

The second man who'd jumped out of the airship chased the ball of fire. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Emma gasped as he grabbed the human bonfire and threw him to the ground. He covered him with his body and beat at the flames with his bare hands and arms. She felt sick with horror. Something had gone wrong, she thought, this wasn't meant to happen. She looked at Michael, who was standing beside her. His eyes were bright with excitement.

‘Michael, for God's sake, something's gone – ’

‘Ssshh,’ he said.

‘Cut,’ the director yelled through a megaphone.

There was a hushed silence. Obviously others in the group also thought that something had gone wrong – several people, Emma among them, rushed up to the two men apparently unconscious on the ground. Michael followed behind at a leisurely pace. The cherry picker holding the cameraman and director lowered itself to the ground.

‘Are you all right?’ Emma asked but, even as she did, the men were sitting up and the onlookers were visibly relaxing.

‘Great work, guys,’ Michael called out to them, and he started to clap. Soon everyone was clapping and the men rose to their feet, grinning and acknowledging the applause.

‘But how did you do it?’ Emma asked. ‘Your hands, your arms?’

The ‘ball of fire’ was being helped out of his specially treated overalls and Emma directed the question to the second man, who'd had so much of his skin exposed to the flames.

‘Easy,’ he said, and he peeled off a whole strip of what looked like thick, shiny skin from his biceps to the knuckles of his fingers. ‘It's new fireproof latex - you spray it on. Safest thing for a stunt like this.’ The man was about thirty, good-looking in a dark, brooding way, and he had an American accent. He turned his wrist over and continued to peel strips of fake skin from the inside of his forearm and his hands and fingers. ‘I'm standing in for the chief pilot who burns his hands saving his buddy, so we needed to show the skin. Besides which,’ the American grinned and gestured towards the handsome leading man who had cornered the director, ‘he's the hero of the movie, so it had to look good.’

‘Stan! Bob! Great stunt. Well done! Be with you in one second,’ the director called, doing his best to get away from the self-obsessed actor.

‘You don't have to tell her the story, Stanley, she's the co-writer,’ Michael said as he joined Emma.

‘Oh.’ The American looked impressed. ‘You're Emma Clare. Stanley Grahame – hi. I won't shake,’ he laughed, holding up his scaly hands, ‘and this is Bob.’

‘Hello. Me neither,’ Bob apologised and Emma noticed that minus his overalls his arms, hands and chest were covered in a thick gel. Bob, too, was American.

‘Well, I insist,’ Michael said and he shook hands effusively with both men. ‘Great stunt, Emma, what do you reckon?’