Next Step E-Book

Sue Parritt

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Melbourne, March 2100. Against her better judgment, Trainee Doorkeeper Emma Cartwright returns to the Productive Citizen’s Bureau.

Emma's son Jack is on bail, pending his trial on charges of organising an illegal demonstration. Her new man, Cal, is under surveillance, and Emma struggles to maintain her role as a diligent employee. Concerned for her son, Emma learns that the trial judge has a reputation for harsh sentencing.

Summoned to the Chief Allocations Officer’s office, Emma fears her mission to discover the real purpose of the PCB has been compromised before it even began. Instead, she learns confidential information about her colleague Harie and is recruited for intelligence duties, enabling her to expand her double agent role.

But does Emma have enough strength to deal with both her personal problems and the challenges at the Productive Citizen's Bureau? Find out in Next Step, the second novel in Sue Parritt's series of dystopian novels set in early 22nd century Australia.

Leseprobe

NEXT STEP

THE RELUCTANT DOORKEEPER TRILOGY BOOK 2

SUE PARRITT

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Sue Parritt

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Terry Hughes

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to the team at Next Chapter for their tireless efforts in promoting the work of emerging and established authors from around the world.

To my husband, Mark and son, David for their constant encouragement.

ONE

The absence of a government directive blaring from audio-points should have been welcome, a potent reminder of renaissance, yet silence hung heavy, trapped within her apartment walls like a Port Phillip sea fog. Yesterday morning, Emma hadn’t noticed the lack of intrusion, her desire for punctuality overriding all else, the resumption of a workday routine after 12 months of unemployment shaping every minute from the moment of waking.

First on the agenda was an alarm cancellation instruction to her bedside device, given in a whisper to ensure she didn’t disturb her son. Less than 24 hours had elapsed since Jack’s return home from a youth detention centre, where he’d been detained along with numerous others for participating in a student protest in the street opposite the imposing stone façade of State Parliament. The subsequent release of all detainees except Jack had alarmed not only his mother, but also the committee charged with administering Citizens’ Voice, an undercover organisation promoting radical political change through civil disobedience. Jack was accused of masterminding both the sit-in and the preceding protest march through city streets to State Parliament, demanding government action on unemployment issues. Fabricated charges, given the rally had been instigated by the CV committee, of which Emma was secretary. Now that Jack had been granted bail to await his trial, scheduled to begin on Wednesday, March 31, Emma felt confident that the preposterous charges would be thrown out of court, his lawyer, Penelope Watts-Smith, being renowned for her brilliant defence strategies.

Cocooned in the shower within a cascade of tepid water, Emma focused on the silky touch of washing gel, her hands moving languidly over her slender limbs and the slight skin-creases that would forever remind her of mid-life pregnancy. As expected, her body exhibited numerous signs of aging – wrinkles around the eyes, puckers above her upper lip, the beginnings of loose flesh beneath her chin – but, unlike some citizens, she had no wish to erase the evidence of a 70-year life. Recent events were of more importance than the passing of decades, a momentous month having culminated in a challenging administrative position that she’d planned to vacate after a single day, after citing a confidentiality clause implying dire consequences if contravened.

Cal Ritchie, the convenor of Citizens’ Voice, had persuaded Emma to return to the Productive Citizens Bureau, where she would spend the next few weeks completing instructive modules before embarking on her role as a trainee doorkeeper (TDK), one of many employed throughout the city to determine the next step for the unemployed. As Cal had explained in his no-nonsense manner, her exposure to the workings of a government long suspected of sanctioning inhumane solutions to rid the country of unproductive citizens, could provide CV with valuable intelligence. Citizens raised on a diet of strict compliance needed absolute proof of unlawful and brutal conduct before they would commit to changing the status quo.

Back in her bedroom, dressing for work, Emma mused on the chance encounter with eccentric market owner, Cal, that had seen her status quo alter beyond belief. In the space of three weeks, she had emerged from a life of conformity to one of civil disobedience and sedition. A month earlier, she would have dismissed any suggestion of transformation, citing age, reluctance to alter the habits of a lifetime and the desire to shield Jack from unpalatable truths. All hollow excuses for passivity, she acknowledged now. But as she put the finishing touches to her workday façade – combing unruly grey curls, applying a subtle shade of lipstick – stabs of unease began to perforate her bolstered confidence. Had she allowed a sudden surge of bravado to countermand her natural inclination to flee, not fight? Or had she been swayed by Cal’s loving embrace and promise to be there for her during the challenging months ahead?

In theory, escape to his isolated farmhouse remained feasible, there being two hours until the start of her working day. A brief message would suffice; Emma was certain Cal would understand her change of heart. If she caught the all-stations to Mordialloc at seven, she could disembark at Mornington and climb into Cal’s waiting truck. Jack could join her later in the evening, as it was unwise to leave together.

Hands shaking, Emma lifted her right arm to speak into her wrist-band, but before she could utter a word, a head-shot flashed into the screen. Familiar, appreciated, a miniature portrait depicting tousled hair, a freckled face and sea-green eyes. ‘Cal, I…’ she began, taking a step towards the bed and the soft landing it would provide once she’d dropped her bombshell.

‘Morning, Em. Just wanted to wish you well for day two and let you know I…’

‘Thanks, but.’

‘No buts. I’ve been awake for ages waiting for the right moment to call. I didn’t want to disturb Jack or interrupt your shower.’

‘Sorry,’ she said automatically.

‘Why? It’s my problem if I can’t sleep for thinking about you. Geez, Em, can’t a man express his feelings early in the morning?’

‘Any hour is okay by me,’ Emma replied, despite her wish to move on to farmhouse business.

‘That’s my girl. Hey, how about I bring over some fresh veg for dinner tonight?’

Prepared syntax evaporated in a blaze of light, which had nothing to do with the sunshine strip streaming through the gap in her bedroom curtains. The faint-hearted took the easy option, but she wasn’t an abused woman desperate to leave an impossible situation. She, Emma Cartwright, newly employed, yet already considered eminently suitable for a government position calling for complete confidentiality, possessed a tight circle of support, from the CV committee available to guide and encourage, to the man whose declaration of love had floored her days earlier. ‘Peaches for dessert would be lovely, if you’ve got any,’ she answered, aware that Cal’s boisterous presence might help distract Jack from constant contemplation of his forthcoming trial. Apart from making a few positive comments on learning she had a new job, Jack’s release on bail had done nothing to restore his battered spirits.

‘Barney picked up peaches this morning, so Charlie should have them by now. I’ll drop by his stall and snaffle a few of the best.’

She thought of the ancient stallkeeper, whose friendly chatter and concern for her welfare had opened small windows of hope on many occasions, during her one-year Government Allocated Unemployment Period. ‘Good, but now I must go and have breakfast, otherwise I’ll miss my train.’

‘See you tonight, peaches and cream.’

More like stewed fruit and thin custard, she thought, but did not say. It would take time to adjust to Cal’s compliments.

TWO

The training office manager, Sarah Holmes, acknowledged each staff member’s morning greeting with a smile, but made no comment to Emma, leaving her to ponder when, or if, an appointment had been made with an allocations officer for her to sign the mandatory confidentiality clause located in TDK346, Appendix 3. Forwarded to her computer the previous afternoon, at the conclusion of a brief interview with Allocations Officer Barry, the document provided a detailed job description for the position of trainee doorkeeper, or Administration Officer Grade 3, the classification that would appear on personal documentation such as pay files. AO Barry had made it clear that on no account must Emma use the term “doorkeeper” when mentioning her new job, except to PCB colleagues. As far as friends and family were concerned, her role was confined to processing the records of the unemployed, which involved matching them to suitable vacancies, and either putting their names forward for interview or advising them to apply without delay.

Emma had completed training module 2, which comprised more complex tasks than those she had completed the day before and was about to embark on number three, when a message from Sarah flashed on to her screen.

Your appointment to sign the Confidentiality Clause will take place in 10 minutes. I shall accompany you.

The text vanished soon after, which seemed odd, given that every trainee would have to pay a visit to an AO’s office before being assigned to a particular bureau within the state. Emma glanced at the numbers in the screen’s right-hand corner: 4.30pm, half an hour until what Cal referred to as “knocking-off time”, a phrase she couldn’t imagine using within the sombre atmosphere of the training office. Sarah Holmes might maintain she promoted a friendly workplace, but during working hours few words were exchanged between manager and staff. Any questions relating to the training modules had to be sent via e-message – no conferring with one’s neighbour – which suited Emma as her colleague, Harie, had the previous day accused her of sucking up to Sarah as they were leaving the building. That day, Emma had found the seating arrangement so resembled a school classroom – four rows of identical work-stations with 20 identical office chairs facing the manager’s much larger unit – she could have sworn time numerals had flipped back to 2040 and she was a 10-year-old schoolgirl struggling to master a well-worn keyboard.

Anxious not to be late for the appointment, Emma closed module 3 and discreetly stretched her limbs, taking care to avoid knocking into the adjacent wall. Painted an insipid pale grey and unrelieved by windows, the wall reminded her of AO Barry’s office, a bland space that reinforced the authority emanating from his solid torso, cloaked in a black, collarless shirt. His dull grey eyes matched the lacklustre walls, yet their intense scrutiny had threatened to unnerve her, until she fixed her attention on a darker patch behind his work-station, that suggested something had hung there in the past. A vibrant painting, perhaps, belonging to the previous incumbent, discarded because it could distract a lowly trainee sitting opposite an imposing allocations officer.

Emma recalled the single sheet of paper lying on his desktop and wondered if signing the confidentiality clause warranted the use of such a rare commodity. Nowadays, most legal documents were signed online, a single-use electronic stylus employed to ensure the authenticity of signatures. Unlike many younger citizens, who could only sign their names, Emma had learned to transcribe letters and numerals in the old-fashioned way, using a board that could be wiped clean, following a teacher’s scrutiny. She had also mastered touch-typing, an essential skill in the era before the development of voice control and more recently, Compu-eye, which lip-read the operator’s instructions. The ability to touch-type, although rusty after years of neglect, was proving advantageous in her unofficial role as secretary of Citizens’ Voice, an ancient laptop being used to type minutes and other documents, its keyboard worn, but still possessing all the keys.

Her eyes flicked to green numerals – six minutes remaining until her appointment. She rose slowly, smoothing her skirt with one hand, while pushing the chair towards the work-station with the other.

‘Everything all right?’ neighbour Harie whispered.

Emma inclined her head.

Sarah stood by the door, one foot tapping the polished concrete floor. ‘Fetch your handbag,’ she instructed, as Emma drew near. ‘Then you can go straight home after the interview.’

Anxious to flee curious colleagues, Emma kept her eyes fixed on the floor as she retraced her steps, ignoring Harie’s tug on her arm when she reached for her handbag.

* * *

The chief allocations officer sat behind a workstation that, apart from its legs, appeared to be constructed from a single slab of wood, reddish in colour and highly polished. In her 70 years, Emma had never seen such a beautiful piece of furniture and couldn’t envisage the size of the tree that had supplied the timber. As far as she knew, forest giants had vanished from the Australian mainland half a century before, felled by climate change and greedy timber companies, eager to salvage remaining stocks for their wealthy clients. The west coast of Tasmania still boasted several stands of so-called “wilderness”, closely guarded by security officers chosen for their ruthlessness in dealing with would-be plunderers. At least, that was the information fed to citizens via the occasional Federal Government documentary, broadcast on living-room screens throughout the country.

Seated behind solid, gleaming timber, the CAO – slight of build with washed-out blue eyes set in an angular, anaemic face – appeared insignificant, his fragility further emphasised by a massive leather chair that rose behind his head like a formidable sentinel. An insipid cream shirt hung loose on his narrow shoulders, a white handkerchief protruding from the pocket, along with the top of a silver pen. A pale hand gestured for Sarah and Emma to sit on the two moulded plastic chairs set side by side at a suitable distance from the work-station.

Sarah waited until Emma had settled before speaking. ‘Sir, may I present Emma Cartwright, our newest recruit.’

His bloodless lips parted. ‘Welcome to the bureau, Emma Cartwright.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Your diligence has been noted, hence the reward.’ A thin smile flitted across his lips, a smile directed at Sarah, or so Emma surmised from the slight turn of his head, and the glimmer of warmth suddenly visible in his eyes.

‘Reward, sir?’ Emma queried.

‘TDK346. I have no recollection of any other trainee receiving the document on their first day of duty.’

Emma lowered her head as if self-conscious. Reward wasn’t the word she would have employed for receipt of a job description that required the appointee to sign an ominous confidentiality clause. A baffling prerequisite when, for all its verbosity, TDK346 did not reveal anything that could be classed as contentious or affecting state security. The document began by clarifying the position title: A trainee doorkeeper is a member of staff appointed to determine the next step for those required to present themselves at the Productive Citizens Bureau. An innocuous statement.

Her snap decision to seek refuge at Cal’s farmhouse, rather than sign the confidentiality clause, had been made not because reading between the lines, she’d mentally substituted “prison” or “exile” for “next step” but because she feared her work environment would be intolerable. How could she face queues of anxious citizens, knowing their likelihood of future employment rested on her shoulders? Seated on a raised platform alongside others of her rank, she would present a menacing aspect, a solid line of black-clad officialdom to whom the unemployed were mere names and numbers to be classified.

So far, Emma remained ignorant of formal categories, but she assumed a list would be supplied in subsequent training modules. Negativity kicked in as she stared at her hands, one of which would be used to sign a document binding her to years of distressing work. Suitable for menial tasks only, she imagined adding to a citizen’s file or Needs constant supervision. Too old, too infirm, unemployable, the last three groups invoking consequences she couldn’t bear to contemplate, if Cal’s suspicions were to prove correct.

‘Shall we proceed to Appendix 3?’ the CAO asked, as though Emma were responsible for the interview’s progression.

She nodded, before lifting her head. ‘Of course, sir. I apologise for delaying matters.’

‘No apology necessary. Humility is a commendable trait.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘There’s no need to be nervous,’ Sarah cooed, reaching out to pat Emma’s right hand. ‘We both appreciate that this is a significant moment for you.’

‘Indeed, we do,’ the CAO agreed. A second thin smile wafted across his gleaming work-station, prompting a beaming Sarah to squeeze Emma’s hand.

The CAO and Sarah appeared to be working in tandem, deliberately creating a reassuring atmosphere to engender the desired result. Emma would not disappoint; compliance was a trait she had cultivated throughout her life until her recent awakening. ‘Ready when you are,’ she said, leaning forward to such an extent, Sarah was forced to relinquish her hold.

‘One moment.’ A graceful gesture and the CAO had retrieved a single sheet of brilliant white paper from somewhere beneath his work-station and was sliding it across the smooth surface. His free hand extracted the silver pen from his pocket and placed it on top of the paper. ‘As you will see, Appendix 3 appears above your name and the signature space.’

Emma picked up the pen, making a show of admiring its slim lines and the engraving bearing the owner’s name and rank: Colin Theobald, CAO, exquisite calligraphy on gleaming gold. At the same time, she scanned the printed text for amendments or appendages, an excellent memory and the ability to speed-read soon proving their worth. The addition of a final sentence more than validated the acute apprehension she’d experienced the previous afternoon, when AO Barry had warned her not to disclose details of her position to anyone outside the bureau.

In signing this Confidentiality Clause, I, Emma Cartwright, Citizen EC 1950, acknowledge that failure to adhere to the above regulations will result in not only immediate dismissal, but also punishment in the form of a prison sentence, or in the event of multiple breaches being discovered, the death penalty.

‘Is everything in order?’ Colin Theobald queried, his soft voice revealing a hint of anxiety.

‘As a former journalist, I’m a stickler for correct grammar,’ Emma explained, gripping the pen between her index finger and thumb as she had been taught at school. ‘But I observe no errors here.’

A small sigh escaped Sarah’s lips, but was swiftly covered by a cough.

Emma signed with a steady hand, buoyed by Cal’s confidence in her ability to obtain evidence of the government’s inhumane practices with regard to unproductive citizens. For the first time, Citizens’ Voice would have someone on the inside, who, given time and patience, could root out details of where and when and how.

THREE

The bureau’s rear entrance, accessible to staff only, opened into a small paved courtyard that, in turn, abutted a narrow street. On the wall of the adjacent building, a vertical garden alleviated the drabness of grey concrete rising into an often grimy sky. Beneath hanging greenery, four chairs and a table, made from recycled plastic, offered the chance of respite from bland offices and monotonous tasks. Some staff took advantage of the space to enjoy a stall-bought coffee before work, the beverages supplied at morning break resembling and tasting like dirty water. Others used the courtyard at the end of the working day to chat with colleagues, before making their way home to suburbs on opposite sides of the sprawling megacity.

When Emma entered the courtyard on day three of her initial PCB week, she spotted Harie sitting with her back to the garden, foliage providing a verdant backdrop to the black mask shielding her face from morning pollution. ‘Hi, Harie,’ Emma called, eager to restart a relationship that the previous day, had ended almost before it began.

Harie returned the greeting and leapt from the bench, hurrying across the courtyard with outstretched arms. ‘I thought you’d been dismissed,’ she blurted out, pulling off her mask before flinging her arms around Emma’s waist. ‘Or exiled to some God-forsaken place for a minor misdemeanour.’

Emma removed her own mask. ‘Nothing like that. I just had to sign a form in front of the CAO.’

Harie relaxed her grip. ‘A contract?’

‘You could call it that. More of a job description with a confidentiality clause.’

‘Anything to worry about?’

Unaccustomed to concealing the truth, Emma shook her head, grateful for short stature and the close proximity that prevented Harie from looking into her eyes. ‘I worked for the education department before, so I’m familiar with government jargon. Pages and pages of convoluted content that could have been said in a few paragraphs.’

‘Did the CAO say where you’re going to be based post-training?’

‘Here, I believe. The position’s Administrative Officer Grade 3.’

Harie released her and stepped back. ‘Sounds boring.’

‘It probably is, but it’s a job, so I’m not complaining.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to sign up soon. If only I could tend gardens like this, instead of doing administrative work.’

‘Why don’t you offer to do that as well? You never know, it might lead to other outdoor work. There could be plenty of vertical gardens like this one around the CBD needing attention.’

Harie smiled. ‘Great idea. The trouble is, I find Sarah a bit intimidating.’

‘She’s just doing her job. It can’t be easy dealing with trainees from a range of previous occupations. I’m an easy undertaking with my background in journalism.’

‘Which explains why you’ve been allocated a workplace so soon.’

Emma nodded. ‘We’d better go in or else Sarah will be on our backs.’

‘For sure. But before we do, I….’ Harie looked down at her sandals. ‘I want to apologise for sounding off yesterday. I was totally out of order.’

‘Not really, I did give the impression of wanting to curry favour with Sarah, but that was because I dreaded making a mistake on my first day.’ Emma sighed. ‘It’s not easy beginning again at seventy.’

Harie raised her head to scrutinise Emma with wide, brown eyes. ‘Geez, I thought you were closer to my age.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Fifty-eight next month.’

Emma gave a small bow. ‘Thanks for the compliment. I’ll remember it next time I look in the mirror.’

‘I dread the mirror inside my wardrobe ’cos it shows my entire body. Since I stopped work as a gardener, I’ve lost so much muscle tone.’

Emma raised both hands. ‘Enough bemoaning the aging process.’ She grinned before saying in a tone reminiscent of Sarah directing morning exercises, ‘Shoulders back, swing those arms, bend those knees, it’s off to work we go!’

Side by side, the two women headed for the rear door, opened via a code forwarded to staff wrist-bands during their first day of duty. When they reached the chipped concrete doorstep, Harie gestured for Emma to enter first.

‘Age before beauty, I guess,’ Emma quipped, lifting her arm level with the aperture set into thick steel. A flash of light and the door swung inwards, revealing a narrow corridor. ‘Step up, Harie, you might as well come in with me.’

Harie shook her head. ‘We can’t do that. Staff must enter one at a time. Didn’t you read the instructions?’

‘I must have missed that bit.’ The door began to close, but not before Emma had seen Harie lift her arm for a purpose other than entering the building. ‘Yes, Lola,’ she heard her colleague say, so she assumed Harie’s daughter had called.

* * *

Sarah appeared in good spirits, greeting every trainee by name and engaging in a short conversation with Harie, who arrived looking flustered, even though five minutes remained before the official starting hour.

‘Something wrong?’ Emma whispered, as Harie slipped into her seat.

‘Teenage issue,’ Harie answered, keeping her eyes focused on the screen.

Emma nodded and turned back to her own screen. No wonder Harie looked rattled; it would be difficult managing an adolescent daughter, as well as a new job in a field outside her experience. High school posed enormous challenges for some children, every lesson being career-oriented, and students couldn’t afford to lag behind or exhibit rebellious behaviour. Gone were the days of school counsellors and educators providing extra tuition for children with special needs. Not that there were many in that category, advances in genetic engineering having eliminated most potential problems in utero.

As module 3 loaded, Emma recalled the plethora of tests she’d had to undergo 20 years earlier, during the first four months of pregnancy. Despite her age, there hadn’t been any problems, but she’d often wondered what would have ensued had an abnormality been discovered. Forced termination, or would she and Aarav have remained in ignorance, the loss of their foetus explained away as spontaneous abortion?

Text flickered, alerting Emma to the need for concentration. Nothing would be gained by reflecting on the past, or worrying about a colleague’s parenting problems. She must apply herself to ever-more-complex tasks, some requiring detailed responses on how she would deal with a particular NPC. Acronyms were employed throughout the modules, with an explanatory file provided as a separate document, to aid the trainee until they had memorised the list. Non-productive citizen was the classification applied to the long-term unemployed, irrespective of whether or not they had completed their one-year government-allocated unemployment period.

Prior to beginning module 1, Emma had assumed that reporting to the PCB was mandatory only for those citizens like her, who had reached the end of their GAUP, but she’d learned otherwise the day before. It seemed that some jobless citizens – Emma refused to think of them as acronyms – approached the bureau of their own accord, either due to their inability to manage on meagre benefits, or because boredom was threatening their mental wellbeing. A third motivation had occurred to Emma, but she knew better than to suggest it to Sarah. Apart from having no personal experience of marital conflict arising over long-term unemployment, she wished to cultivate an industrious, eager-to-please façade. Reverting to her former employee persona – head down, get on with the job, no questions asked – required minimal effort, her recent rebirth as a proponent of social justice and political reform being easy to discard during working hours.

A split personality came naturally; at home she was never afraid to speak her mind and had often engaged in vigorous debate with her late partner, Aarav. His upbringing as the son of Indian migrants, struggling to adjust to a new country possessing a multitude of unfathomable regulations, had been so different from her own comfortable, middle-class existence that disagreement was inevitable. Sometimes, they had agreed to differ, but whatever the outcome, they never carried dissent into the bedroom, a good night’s sleep being essential to retain secure employment. Tired, irritable employees attracted unwelcome attention that, if repeated on a regular basis, could lead to an adverse performance appraisal and, eventually, dismissal.

During the sleepless nights following Aarav’s death, Emma had been grateful for the liberty of unemployment; it had given her the opportunity to grieve for her treasured partner of 20 years. An indulgence, some would have said, but with her son, Jack, at uni and her friends out at work, Emma had valued those initial weeks alone in the apartment for most of the day. At first, even visits to the market had proven difficult, every stall-keeper aware of her bereavement and keen to express condolences or ask how she was coping. After a short period, she had learned to answer their questions calmly and then shift the conversation to the weather or whatever she intended to purchase.

Despite good intentions, Emma let her mind wander from module 3, exercise 1e, to domestic matters, in particular whether Jack would need to purchase anything at the market for their evening meal. The previous evening, Cal had brought carrots and broccoli along with peaches and cream, but this morning, she’d forgotten to check on her potato and onion stocks. She made a mental note to call Jack during lunch and endeavoured to concentrate.

* * *

When Sarah announced the lunch break, Harie sighed loudly before getting to her feet.

‘Problem?’ Emma asked. ‘Or are you, like me, desperate to stretch your limbs?’

Harie leaned towards her. ‘I’m more than desperate. At this stage I feel like running out of the building and not stopping until I’ve left the city and suburbs behind. I loathe sitting still all day, staring at a screen.’

‘Let’s go to that park we went to yesterday and exercise after we’ve eaten our sandwiches. I’m not up to running like Sarah, especially in the heat, but a short walk would do us good. Stretch our legs and clear our heads.’

Harie nodded and reached for her bag.

‘Enjoy your break, girls,’ Sarah called, as they neared her work-station.

‘No running today?’ Harie asked.

‘In a few minutes. I need to finish a task first.’

‘We’re going to New CBD Park,’ Emma remarked, remembering the name of the tiny green space positioned between tall office blocks.

Sarah smiled before looking down at her screen.

The narrow, dimly lit corridor leading to the rear exit triggered a spurt of energy from Harie, who skipped like a child newly released from the classroom. Lagging behind, Emma pondered her colleague’s dilemma and whether she could help. Complaints about lack of activity and an overwhelming need to flee suggested more than surface dissatisfaction. Accustomed to physical work and unfamiliar with government jargon, Harie might be finding the modules difficult to comprehend, especially the exercises at the end of each segment. In three weeks, Harie had completed only two modules, whereas Emma had finished the same number in less than two days. Some pertinent questions over lunch, and the offer to assist where possible, might reveal the real reason for Harie’s desperation.

As the rear door opened for a second time, Emma spotted Harie standing by the vertical garden. She appeared to be examining a plant at head height, her fingers caressing its leaves, her face so close to the wall that green stems hung like braids from her woolly hair. ‘So sad,’ she murmured, turning around as Emma approached. ‘They’ll die soon without water.’

‘After work, why don’t we fill our water bottles from the hand basins and give them a drink on our way out?’

‘Good idea, but I can’t reach the top plants.’

‘Better some than none.’

‘Sure. Standing on the table isn’t an option. It doesn’t look strong enough to hold my weight.’ Harie stepped away from the wall, her movements stirring the stifling heat of a boxed-in courtyard.

Morning pollution had cleared to reveal a summer sky shimmering with an intensity of colour rarely seen, but the afternoon sea breeze had yet to infiltrate the CBD, so they hurried to the park, keeping to the shady side of the street. One of the four benches remained vacant, most likely because a strip of sunlight seared a third of its length. Harie claimed the bench before anyone else arrived.

‘I have to call my son first,’ Emma said, dumping her bag on the seat. She lifted her right arm. ‘Call Jack.’

Hi, Mum, coping OK?’

‘Yes. I just want you to check whether we’ve got enough vegetables for dinner.’

‘Plenty. I went to the market early to get the best. I’m making mushroom and carrot loaf tonight.’

‘Dad’s favourite,’ Emma murmured.

‘Yep. I thought it would be a good idea, seeing as it’s the first anniversary today.’

Emma supressed a gasp. How could she have forgotten? There was no excuse, March 3 having appeared from the moment of waking, when she’d glanced at her bedside device! The date displayed on her wrist-band and work computer had also failed to register. Guilt surfaced, clogging her throat. She struggled to speak.

‘All right there, Mum?’

‘Yes,’ she spluttered, hoping Jack had used his wrist-band to answer her call. Her shocked expression would be clearly visible if he were sitting in front of their large living-room screen.

‘Mum, I don’t want to sound rude, but I would prefer if it was just the two of us tonight.’

Relief flooded through her. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t made any other arrangements.’

‘Sorry to ask, I should have known you’d want it to be a family dinner. See you.’

Grateful that Jack hadn’t wanted to keep on talking, Emma sighed and reached for her bag before sitting down.

‘Something wrong at home?’ Harie asked, as Emma fished in her bag for sandwiches and a water bottle.

‘A sad anniversary.’ Emma kept her head bent. ‘It’s one year today since my partner died.’

‘Why on earth didn’t you say?’

‘There’s no need to bother anyone else.’

A warm hand reached out to stroke her arm. ‘So, you let me rave on about how I hate this job, instead of offering a shoulder to cry on. Now I feel like a real prick.’

Emma looked up. ‘Please don’t. And as for crying, I’ve shed enough tears to fill Port Phillip Bay! Right now, I’m trying to move on, consign grief to its proper place. I want to look back on our 20 years together with joy, not regret or anger that I can’t have any more. Does that make sense?’

‘Completely.’

‘And it’s better that you complain to me about the job, rather than bottle it up and then explode in front of Sarah.’

Harie nodded. ‘I can’t make her out. One minute I think she’s not so bad. Making the best of what must be a tedious job. Imagine answering questions on those bloody modules, week in, week out. Then the next minute, I feel as though she’s watching my every move, ready to pounce if she sees any sign that I’m not up to scratch.’

Emma chewed her sandwich, wondering whether to pose a question that could reveal why Harie felt so threatened. Her colleague might be slow to complete the modules, but as far as Emma could tell, she gave no other cause for complaint. Harie was always polite, always punctual and never the first to leave at the end of the day.

‘Ready for a walk?’ Harie asked, several minutes later.

‘Sure. I’ll just have a drink first.’

Harie got to her feet and wandered over to one of the newly planted eucalypts struggling to survive summer’s intense heat. ‘How stupid planting them in the middle of summer,’ Emma heard her say to no one in particular.

‘My thoughts entirely,’ answered a young woman, sitting on a nearby bench. ‘Waste of money. Stick to cacti, I say.’

Harie nodded and walked back to Emma. ‘Set to go?’

‘Yes. Where do you suggest we walk?’

‘It’s cooler by the river. Bit of a breeze down there.’

‘Fine by me. I might be a bit slow coming back up the hill. If so, you can go on ahead.’

‘No, we stick together. It’s safer that way.’

Emma wanted to ask what danger they were exposed to walking through a busy city in the middle of the day, but Harie seemed intent on leaving the park at once, her pace increasing as they turned into the street. Despite the downward slope, Emma struggled to keep up, and felt inclined to lag behind in the hope Harie would notice and slow down.

Before long, a major intersection provided an opportunity for respite, the roadside monitor flashing red before announcing that pedestrians must halt at the kerb immediately or incur a fine. Her chest heaving, Emma gulped hot air, wishing she hadn’t suggested exercise. Curls lay damp against the back of her neck and perspiration was running down her face. At least she hadn’t worn her face mask; with its taut elastic tugging on her ears and thick fabric pressing against her clammy skin, it was guaranteed to make matters worse.

Harie moved alongside. ‘Sorry about the rush. I just…’ She hesitated before bending towards her petite colleague. ‘I thought I recognised that young woman in the park, so I didn’t want to hang around. Obviously, she didn’t identify me, which is just as well, considering our last meeting was anything but pleasant.’

Citizens are to proceed at a moderate pace, the roadside monitor intoned.

‘Right,’ Harie said. ‘Off we go, and I promise to match my pace to yours.’

Emma looked up and smiled, hoping for an explanation once they reached the river.

They continued downhill for several hundred metres and were about to turn on to the paved path set well above the riverbank, when Harie grabbed Emma’s arm. ‘Well, look who’s just sprinted past.’ She pointed to a man and woman wearing matching running shorts, singlets, and trainers.

‘Is that Sarah?’

‘Yes. Out for her daily run with the boss.’

Emma peered at the man’s skinny, white limbs. ‘Colin Theobald?’

‘That’s the one.’ Harie grimaced. ‘Imagine spending your lunch break with a cold fish like him!’

‘After meeting him yesterday, I’d say cold fish is an understatement! He’s frozen solid! Have you met him?’

Harie shook her head. ‘Not officially. I’ve just heard others mention him and seen him around, mostly at lunchtime with Sarah.’

Emma raised her eyebrows. ‘Friends or lovers?’

‘Lovers, I reckon, what with matching exercise outfits and a daily appointment. I checked out his profile on the PCB website. He’s partnered with an adolescent son. There was a photo of the happy family alongside a list of his achievements, so I know he and Sarah aren’t partners.’

‘You should have been a detective,’ Emma remarked glibly, her thoughts focused on a more sinister label.

‘Spying on my fellow citizens; you must be joking! That’s why I was desperate to get away from the park.

‘You recognised an informer?’

‘I’m not so sure now. Perhaps I’m just being paranoid.’

Emma took a last look at the runners, now way ahead. ‘We’d better get going, otherwise Sarah will be back before us and that would never do.’

Harie followed her gaze. ‘Shit, they’ve stopped. We’d better get off the path.’

‘Why? We have as much right to be here as they do.’

‘You can keep walking, but I’m going back to work. I wouldn’t want Sarah to think I was spying on her.’

‘See you later, then.’ Emma walked over to the railing and stood staring at the wide Yarra River as it moved sluggishly towards the bay. A recent storm had churned its shallow waters; today they resembled thick milk chocolate poured from a factory vat on to stainless-steel trays. In the past, the Yarra had been the butt of jokes about its brown water – mostly the result of tannins leaching from eucalypts upstream – nowadays, citizens were simply grateful that the river had survived challenging climate change and the loss of forests.

Loud voices diverted Emma’s attention from murky water, and she turned to see the runners facing one another, Sarah standing with her hands on her hips and Colin Theobald gesticulating wildly. Their argument intensified – being too far away to make sense of what they were saying, Emma based her assumption on body language – evolving into a tangle of limbs that threatened to unbalance either or both combatants. Watching their struggle, her initial curiosity waned, to be replaced by concern, as Colin freed one leg and kicked Sarah’s right shin. Sarah countered with a shriek, followed by a slap to his face. An unwilling observer now, Emma moved away from the railing, intending to walk in the opposite direction, but a second cry stayed her steps, and she stared in disbelief as the pair fell to the path. The time for caution had passed, Emma rushing towards the wrestling pair seemingly oblivious to the concrete pavers beneath them. ‘Stop it before one of you gets badly hurt,’ she called, shocked by the potency of her voice. Their limbs halted mid-movement, stilled as though an electric current had been disconnected. Relieved, Emma slowed her approach, but remained ready to issue a further command should similar activity resume.

Sarah lay on her back gulping air, her head touching the path. Straddling her, Colin Theobald resembled a stick insect, his knees and elbows bent and his torso swaying slightly. Neither appeared willing to make a move or swivel their eyes in Emma’s direction. No doubt they felt acutely embarrassed and dreaded the gossip that might flow through the training office, should their newest recruit relate the incident to her colleagues. Not that Emma had any intention of doing so, her primary objective being self-preservation. Instead, she intended to reinforce the role of “teacher’s pet” that Harie had assigned her, by working hard to complete the modules in record time. The sooner she was promoted to the front desk, the sooner she could embark on evidence-gathering, the module exercises revealing nothing untoward in a trainee doorkeeper’s role. She had yet to meet any of the TDKs – during the morning break they drifted into the staffroom singly or in pairs and didn’t mix with the trainees – but she decided to introduce herself to one or two the following week.

Colin Theobald spoke first, his apology unconvincing. He kept his head down, leaving Emma uncertain whether he was directing his words to her or to Sarah. Motion followed speech, his limbs jerking repeatedly before he managed to achieve an upright position. After stepping over Sarah, he ran off down the path, thwarting Emma’s whimsical vision of a human-sized stick-insect rubbing his back legs together before taking flight!

‘Help me up, please,’ Sarah pleaded, her navy-blue eyes moist.

Emma extended a hand and pulled her to a sitting position. ‘Can you manage from there, only I don’t think I’ve got the strength to get you on your feet?’

‘Yes, just give me a minute, I’m a bit winded.’

‘I’m not surprised, wrestling must be exhausting in this heat.’ Emma tugged the brim of her sunhat to emphasise her point. ‘Take your time, I’m going back to work now. Why don’t you call the office to say you’ve had a fall, then you could go straight home?’

‘Thanks, I might do that. And, Emma, I’m so sorry you had to witness our foolish disagreement.’

‘These things happen in the best of relationships.’

‘Not usually between jogging buddies.’

‘Making up should be fun,’ Emma remarked, deciding that Sarah ought to know she wasn’t easily fooled. A shared secret could provide a distinct advantage, and one she wouldn’t hesitate to use, should the occasion arise.

FOUR

Over the following week, Harie became more and more dejected, sighing to such an extent during one morning, that Sarah asked if she was having trouble breathing. An affirmative response prompted an order to take a five-minute break in the courtyard to restore oxygen levels, but the moment Harie left the office, Sarah hurried over to Emma’s work-station. ‘You’re friendly with her,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Is she ill?’

‘I don’t think so. At least not physically. But she does seem very down. Maybe there’s a problem with her daughter.’

Sarah frowned. ‘A 15-year-old, if I remember correctly.’

‘It can be a difficult age.’

Sarah muttered something about sole parenting, that to Emma’s mind confirmed the office manager had no experience of raising a child, either alone or with a partner. ‘Have a word with her, would you?’ Sarah continued, one hand brushing Emma’s shoulder. ‘In private, of course. And report back to me.’

Emma nodded and turned back to her screen. Aside from Harie’s despondency, the office atmosphere had been upbeat all week, Sarah giving the impression of excessive cheerfulness, and reassuring staff that her fall on the River Path had caused no lasting damage. A climax of sorts had occurred on Monday afternoon, Sarah ecstatic when three of her charges – a middle-aged woman and two older men – had completed the modules. They were to be moved on within days, according to an e-message forwarded to the remaining trainees. In the meantime, all three were permitted to shadow staff on the front desk “to experience real-time administrative work”. Emma couldn’t recall any of the three having left the room with Sarah, so she assumed their interviews with Colin Theobald had been conducted prior to her arrival.

Jogging-buddy Colin – or “the stick-insect” as Emma preferred to think of him – remained conspicuous by his absence from city streets or river paths, while Sarah spent her lunch breaks sitting alone in the courtyard, her bruised leg elevated on a plastic stool. Emma and Harie greeted her politely when returning from their own break, which now encompassed a short walk and a lengthy sit by the river.

Each day, Harie’s mood remained bleak until they had exited the building, when it was as if a sudden programme update had rebooted her personality. Skipping across the courtyard with her face tilted to the sky, she would leap over the bollard marking the beginning of the no-through road like an exuberant child. Although Emma empathised with her new friend, she worried that issues other than mind-numbing modules were the cause of Harie’s unhappiness. Questions posed over sandwiches revealed nothing wrong at home. Harie described her daughter, Lola, as a studious girl who enjoyed high school who, so far, had no interest in developing romantic relationships with boys. Harie made no mention of Lola’s father, so Emma assumed he wasn’t involved in raising his daughter. For her part, Emma spoke of Jack’s dramatic aspirations and his new girlfriend, taking care to be vague if pressed for details. Fortunately, when the media had reported his arrest and subsequent charges, the name Jack Kori had been used, rather than the double-barrelled version that appeared on his birth registration file. In recent years, Jack had dropped the hyphen, saying it smacked of aristocratic affectation, a pompous alliteration that had highly amused his parents.

* * *

When Harie returned from her courtyard break, she seemed refreshed, her eyes bright, and her normally slumped shoulders straight. ‘I might cultivate an allergy to air-conditioning,’ she whispered to Emma. ‘Don’t know an obliging doctor, do you?’