The Worm King (43 page)

She couldn’t help laughing again, just
thinking about it.

‘Not much frightens you, does it girl?’ her
father said quietly.

‘I dunno. Some things do.’ She didn’t say
anything for a long time. ‘Dad?’

‘Yeah girl?’

‘Remember that time we were back home, the year
before last, and we had to go out to Murawai beach one night when it was all
stormy? And you chucked that sack off the rocks?’

‘What?’ His lips pursed in concentration. ‘Oh.
Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Was there a person in that?’

He looked confused then a light twinkled in
the corner of his eye, and he laughed and tussled her hair. ‘Ya silly girl! Course
not you dope! Why would I do that? It was a bag of pauas. Monty pinched a swag
of them and the mongrels from fisheries were watching his house so I had to
dump ‘em for him.’

The girl said nothing for ages. ‘That’s
good. I’m glad.’ She could hardly keep her eyes open but it felt like this immense
weight had been lifted and finally, she was able to rest. A proper rest, without
nightmares. A final thought struck her and she knew she’d better ask now, or might
forget tomorrow. ‘Dad?’

‘Yeah girl?’

Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘Did you
undo the top of the sack? So they could swim away. The pauas?’

He smiled and brushed an unruly strand from
her forehead. ‘Yes, I did. I made sure they could all get out.’

Just before Āmiria drifted off at long last,
he lightly kissed her forehead. ‘You know girl, your mother would be real proud
of you. Real proud.’

Chapter Forty-Five

Damn Bad Show

B
rigadier Hensley’s driver pulled up in front of the Hyatt and
switched off the engine. The fellow was a sergeant with one of those
unpronounceable names of Polish derivation, ending with a “ski” and far more
c’s and z’s and w’s than any single word ever needed, so the Brigadier chose to
pronounce it as infrequently as possible. There might’ve been some type of
letter in there the Brigadier didn’t think he’d even
seen
before. A
second vehicle had escorted them from Duntroon to the hotel but this returned
immediately once they were through the gates. When he wished to return—probably
in three or four hours—it’d been promised two of Snow’s cars would accompany
him to Duntroon, just to be on the safe side.

‘Wait for you here, shall I Sir?’ said
sergeant ’Ski.

‘Good man.’ The Brigadier stepped out and drew
his coat tighter against the bitter cold after the mugginess of the vehicle. He
coughed, and keeping gloved hands firmly pocketed, looked about.

Bob slouched on the hotel front steps,
watching him. Perhaps eight others, maybe more, stood on the veranda and a
couple in the doorway but none of them were standing anywhere near Bob. There’d
been more guards at the gate this time too. The Brigadier didn’t like Bob much.
Only met him twice before and couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was
something thoroughly unsavory about the chap.

The Brigadier felt pensive, even apart from
Bob. He felt
damn
pensive. Hadn’t seen Snow since the lads he sent to
Yass took a mauling. His suspicion was, Forsyth might’ve been behind that
affair, and he hoped he didn’t get any flack from Snow about it. Maybe it’d
ended up in the PM’s lap, and that’s why he was getting the cold shoulder these
days?

The Major who’d taken the eighteen-man team
into Yass later informed the Brigadier there’d been substantially more
resistance than they’d been led to believe, and his men may’ve spotted at least
one uniformed man with the group who supposedly held the fuel. They hadn’t seen
his face properly because it’d been streaked with soot so weren’t completely sure
if it was Forsyth. Two of Snow’s chaps who were severely wounded returned with
the army medic. The Brigadier spoke with these men in the base hospital, to get
a better feel for the situation (as a good commandant does) and both said the
violent exchange at Yass had something to do with two young girls, twins
apparently, as well as the fuel. That fitted right into Forsyth’s snaky
profile. What a bounder! After the events at Yass, the Brigadier dug up Forsyth’s
file again—what existed in paper form with the ruddy computers still off—and
now wished he’d checked those notes better before taking him on as adjutant. Usually
the Brigadier relied on gut-feel and first impressions when assigning new staff
or dishing out promotions, but this was one instance where a quick flick
through the quack’s comments might’ve been handier.

He’d questioned Snow’s two men closely,
especially regarding the fellows who’d been holding the fuel. They said it was
some kind of crazed Viking, death-squad but with much darker skins than Vikings,
and they’d been screaming in a foreign language. One of the injured chaps,
who’d lost both legs after sustaining appalling wounds to the knees, said the
creature that’d attacked him was only two feet tall. The Brigadier put this
down to the morphine.

Bob led him inside, through the hotel and
down to the main ballroom on the lower level. The usually spotless carpet was
filthy and crusty although most of the hallway lights were out making it less
obvious. He guessed the bulbs had been removed to save power. The Brigadier was
startled by the number of chaps just sitting around on the floor, simply watching
them stride past. Bob didn’t speak once during the entire walk.

The softly lit private room directly across
from the ballroom seemed a glorious sanctuary after the shambles outside. The
white tablecloth positively glowed, the silver cutlery sparkled, cloth napkins were
folded up like a top French restaurant and they’d even gone to the trouble of
an elaborate dried flower arrangement at one end of the table which fitted in
splendidly. And the meal! Delectable! Only spaghetti bolognaise mind you, and
he’d never been a huge fan of that woggy-type food, but still, a thousand times
better than they were serving up in the mess these days. The main objection the
Brigadier had to pasta and ravioli and all that foreign nosh was you could
never tell what sort of meat you’re actually
getting.
He understood
that’s why they started making the jolly stuff in the first place, to cover
up
dodgy meat. Not like your traditional Aussie roast or barbeque. Apart
from a splosh of gravy or tom sauce, the meat was unadulterated and visible to
all. But with this spag-bol who-ha, how do you know what sort of meat you’ve
got!? At least one of the good things about eating at a reputable place like
the Hyatt is you could always guarantee quality.

He’d have to say the solitary, off-putting
aspect of the meal was Bob serving them. The chap had obviously gone completely
blind in one eye. When they’d last met the eye openly wept pus, and thank god that’d
stopped. Still, not a pleasant thing to look at, especially during a nosh.

‘So, what’s all the news from the P.M?’ advanced
the Brigadier cautiously, between mouthfuls, and trying to avoid looking at Bob
waiting silently in the corner. He picked up the white ceramic bowl of grated parmesan
and using the supplied spoon, sprinkled a liberal scatter on his spaghetti. It smelt
like vomit and the Brigadier always thought this another of those clever woggy
tricks to cover up what’s really in the thing. However cheese of any description
was in short supply these days so he wasn’t about to turn it down.

‘Well, that’s partly why I asked you here,
to see if you’d heard the . . . rumors.’ Snow raised one
eyebrow questioningly. ‘No? Look, I’m sorry to pass this on and be the bearer
of bad news and all that, but we understand the Prime Minister, and all the
cabinet, have . . . well, died, I’m afraid.’

‘What!’ exclaimed the Brigadier. The fork froze
midway to his mouth and the massive twirl of spaghetti he’d speared slid off, plopping
back onto the plate and splashing sauce over the tablecloth.

‘Yes. Terrible, I know. They were in a
convoy of three cars and took a wrong turn somewhere between Adelaide and
Melbourne. Run out of petrol, then thirst got them apparently. They’d taken hardly
any water. Or their spare water tank may’ve sprung a leak; we’re not quite sure
at this stage.’

The Brigadier was thunderstruck. What a
dreadful turn of events. The PM dead! He shook his grizzled head glumly, making
a distracted attempt at retrieving the runaway spaghetti whilst trying to think
up a suitable response. Devastating news of the worst magnitude, yet . . . yet,
an uncomfortable awareness grew at the edge of his mind, disturbing him: the shameful
thought of how quickly the shock was passing. A few more deaths amongst
millions. Six months ago it would’ve been global news—now it warranted a
passing mention over spag-bol. After an appropriate pause, and more shaking of
the head, he settled on: ‘Tragic. What a ghastly, sad way for her to go.’

Snow nodded agreement. ‘Yes, I gather it
was.’

‘So who’s running the show now?’ he ventured.

‘Well, I’m not privy to the exact
machinations but I believe those who’re next down the chain of command, so to speak,
have decided to establish new temporary seats of Government in different
locations, partly because the channels of communication are still so poor, but
also to prevent a similar catastrophe happening again, by spreading the risk. One
of these new seats is located here, of course, at the Hyatt, while the others
are at various locales around the state and country. About two dozen, I’m
told.’

The Brigadier thought this rather an odd
setup but had no idea what the appropriate setup
should
be, when the PM
and her principal advisors all died at once, so was disinclined to offer an
opinion. Somewhat guiltily he also thought he’d had a lucky let-off with
respect to Forsyth, and wasn’t sure what tack to take now. He opted for the
most neutral of paths: ‘So how are you seeing the average chap doing these days?
In Canberra I mean?’

‘Unfortunately there’s no semblance of law
and order whatsoever on the streets around Canberra. An enormous proportion of
the population are on the verge of succumbing to starvation, or thirst. Those
that haven’t done so already. Most of the suburbs have more or less degenerated
to roving gangs looking for fuel and water and food.’

The Brigadier distinctly remembered Forsyth
saying something almost identical. Before he could consider this further, Snow
parried by throwing back a similar question. ‘And how’re things bearing up at
Duntroon?’

He stumbled around for an appropriate answer
and tried to paint an optimistic picture but had the feeling Snow saw right
through it. Discipline and order had essentially remained intact at Duntroon,
to a degree, but the men were becoming increasingly surly and despondent and disinclined
to jump as quickly as the Brigadier would prefer. Downright slovenly, in fact. These
were grim times. Jolly grim.

‘Jolly grim,’ he grimaced in conclusion, immediately
wishing he’d gone for a more upbeat ending. But how could you? Eloise wouldn’t
move one step from their cramped quarters. Terrified. And the Brigadier’s wife still
had it better than many others, which in truth was part of the problem. Not all
the chap’s wives were initially able to move onto base, and a number of those
turned away didn’t make it. In retrospect they should’ve allowed
all
the
wives and dependents in immediately. Just squeezed ’em in somehow, to head off
the potential strife. He knew the men had always regarded him as something of a
Colonel Blimp figure—one of the unfortunate costs of an English public school
education—but he ran the base smartly and usually got the job done. However
recently, their attitudes may’ve become more . . . threatening,
even. He wondered how the morale of his fellows compared with the layabouts
here. He must’ve passed at least twenty or thirty men, just on the walk down to
lunch, so god knows how many there actually were sitting around the whole hotel.
Certainly looked a disagreeable bunch. For a moment the Brigadier speculated on
whether you’d contemplate merging the men from here, into Duntroon, should the
need ever arise for extra resources. He shuddered at the thought.

Bob had left the room. Snow topped up their
glasses. ‘Cold, Brigadier?’

‘No, no. I’m fine.’ He took a healthy
swallow. A first-rate burgundy from the Barossa. On a whim, he decided to test the
waters further, and asked about the involvement of those two girls the injured
men at base hospital spoke of.

Snow appeared genuinely surprised. ‘Those girls!’
He pursed his lips and brushed his hair back in frustration. That huge Rolex had
to be bigger than some artillery pieces the Brigadier had commanded on
occasion. Snow pondered for some time before elaborating. ‘Those girls have
been a thorn in my side recently, I have to say. You try and do your best by
people, and it just gets thrown in your face. Anyway, Bob and I are intending
to deliver them to Astrid Simpson, tomorrow in actual fact, so hopefully that’s
the end of it. She’s their legal guardian now.’

A horrible thought struck the Brigadier that
this may see the poor things end up with Forsyth. But how could he raise this,
without admitting Forsyth to be “that sort of problem?” He already regretted saying
too much about Forsyth last time he were here with Snow. The Brigadier was
flummoxed. Fortunately the dilemma happened to be postponed because Bob reentered
with desert. A lovely golden syrup pudding, one of the Brigadier’s absolute favorites.

Following desert, Bob cracked open a
Tasmanian vintage tawny port. Then, from about the third or fourth glass, the Brigadier
couldn’t remember a damn—

He woke groggily, hog-tied on the floor. The
rooms lights seemed awfully bright, and he felt frightfully sick. Quite
nauseous in fact. By George, he’d been drugged! Would’ve been that swine Bob,
who served up their food. What a bloody rotter! The Brigadier always thought of
himself as a good reader-of-men, and
knew
that fellow was a bad egg. Maybe
Snow’s in on it too? He’d have to be!

If they’ve left the lights on, they probably
won’t be gone for long. He called out twice, and thought each time there may’ve
been a faint reply. It seemed to have strangely come from this very room, high
up on the wall or roof. The Brigadier wondered for a chilling moment whether he
might already be dead.

‘Who’s that? Where are you?’ he called,
clawing his way around on the carpet with great difficulty until he could see
the wall better.

‘Natasha,’ said a tiny, muffled voice. ‘And
my sister Krystal’s in here too.’

These could be the young lasses Forsyth was
trying to get his hands on. ‘I say Natasha, you aren’t able by any chance to come
in here, and help me get untied are you?’

‘Sorry, we’re locked in. There’s a little
hole up in the wall.’

Bother!! The Brigadier still thought it best
to check, and make sure they were who he suspected. He tried to recall the name
of that women Snow said he intended taking them to . . . Astrid
someone-or-other.