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- Herausgeber: Next Chapter
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
A collection of three dystopian sci-fi series starter novels by Sue Parritt, G.A. Franks & L.E. Fitzpatrick, now available in one volume!
28 Days: In futuristic Melbourne, Emma Cartwright is racing against the clock to find employment before being forced into one by the government. With the Employment Positions Portal disabled and her unemployment period expiring, Emma is desperate. A chance encounter with the enigmatic Cal Ritchie sparks a determination within Emma to break free from a life of conformity. But when her son Jack is unexpectedly arrested, Emma's choices dwindle, forcing her to take drastic measures. Will she be able to save her son in a race against time and oppressive laws?
Maelstorm: A hundred years from now, everything you know will be gone. Young orphan Gideon Rayne yearns to join Kaoteck Industries as one of their Constables. After Gideon is granted an extraordinary suit of advanced armor, he is put on a collision course with forces darker than he never knew existed. G.A. Franks's 'Maelstorm' immerses you in the tumultuous world of 2120, as Gideon embarks on a thrilling journey through the chaotic New Britain.
The Running Game: In the midst of a war-torn London, a dangerous game is set to unfold. Rachel, an ordinary doctor harboring a hidden power as a Reacher, finds herself hunted by both the government and criminal underworld. Charlie and John, renowned for their audacity, are drowning in sorrow until they stumble upon a job involving a fellow Reacher. James, a cunning conman, joins the fray seeking his own vendetta. Together, they navigate a treacherous path, but can Rachel defy the odds and save herself with the aid of her unpredictable allies?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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THE FRACTURED WORLD
A DYSTOPIAN SCI-FI SERIES STARTER COLLECTION
SUE PARRITT
G. A. FRANKS
L.E. FITZPATRICK
CONTENTS
28 Days
Sue Parritt
Acknowledgments
1. Day 28
2. Day 27
3. Day 26
4. Day 25
5. Day 24
6. Day 23
7. Day 22
8. Day 21
9. Day 20
10. Day 19
11. Day 18
12. Day 17
13. Day 16
14. Day 15
15. Day 14
16. Day 13
17. Day 12
18. Day 11
19. Day 10
20. Day 9
21. Day 8
22. Day 7 - Morning
23. Day 7 – Afternoon
24. Day 8 – Evening
25. Day 6 - Day
26. Day 6 – Evening
27. Day 5 – Morning
28. Day 5 – Evening
29. Day 4 -Morning
30. Day 4 - Afternoon
31. Day 4 – Evening
32. Day 3 – Morning
33. Day 3 – Afternoon
34. Day 3 – Evening
35. Day 2
36. Day 1
37. Day 1 - Afternoon
38. Day 0
39. Day 0 – Afternoon
Next in the Series
About the Author
Maelstorm
G. A. Franks
Welcome to New Britain
Prologue
Part I
1. The Constables
2. Gideon Rayne
3. Selection Day
4. Avery
5. Kaoteck
6. Aloysius Kroll
7. C.O.B.R.A.
8. The Potentials
9. Dr Singh
10. Akuji
11. Warwick
12. G.O.D.
13. Phase Three
14. The Mock-Up
Part II
15. The Maelstorm
16. The Inspectors
17. Tension
18. East Gate Six
19. The Factories
20. The Mission
21. The Frozen North
22. Claws
23. The Metro
24. James Saro
25. Isolde
26. A Plan
27. Gwendolyne
28. The Mountbatten
29. The Bridge
30. Brace!
31. Follow Me
32. Gatsby
33. Three Minutes
34. Why use a Grenade?
35. I’ll Find You
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Next in the Series
About the Author
The Running Game
L.E. Fitzpatrick
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
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Next in the Series
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2023 Sue Parritt, G.A. Franks, L.E. Fitzpatrick
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter
Published 2023 by Next Chapter
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.
28 DAYS
THE RELUCTANT DOORKEEPER TRILOGY BOOK 1
SUE PARRITT
Many thanks to Miika and the team at Next Chapter for their tireless work in promoting the work of emerging and established authors.
To Mark and David for love and constant support.
DAY 28
Emma Cartwright didn’t need the official prompt transmitted at regular intervals from the audio-points located in each of her apartment’s four rooms. As the end of her one year Government Allocated Unemployment Period (GAUP) drew near, she knew down to the hour how much free time remained before she must join the queue at the Productive Citizens Bureau and accept whatever position was on offer. During the preceding eleven months, she’d made every effort to find work, initially in her own field of journalism, then, as the months passed, any position that required authoring experience. Yet despite two decades of employment with the state broadcaster, followed by twenty-eight years at the Victorian Education Department, she had failed to secure even a temporary contract. A senior journalist, Emma had been responsible for the lead article in the weekly journal forwarded by the department to every student’s learning device from their sixteenth birthday onwards. Happiness is Permanent Employment, or HIPE as the journal was branded, aimed to steer students into post-school study that would lead to job security, vital in a world of diminishing career opportunities.
The termination notice had come as a complete shock. Emma was confident she had performed well throughout her tenure, articles always forwarded to the editor on or before the deadline, topics fully researched, content informative and engaging. “Out of touch with the current student body” and “Unwillingness to embrace new technology” had been the grounds cited for her dismissal, but Emma knew the real reason. At sixty-eight, she was considered in the wrong age bracket for youth work. Strict regulations governed employment in all areas, but none more so than in education.
A series of short-term contracts with various media outlets had seen her almost fully employed for the ensuing year and a half, but since her seventieth birthday work had been impossible to find. Decades ago, she would have been pensioned off, but since the 2075 Employment Act, full-time work had been obligatory for all citizens until the age of eighty. She recalled her grandfather’s forced retirement in ‘45 from an executive position on the National Tourist Board, his major concern the loss of discounted holidays. At fifteen, she had empathised but failed to understand why a seventy-nine-year old wanted to keep on working. Surely her white-haired, craggy-faced grandfather had earned some leisure? Her grandmother had died two years before, so Pop came to live with Emma and her parents and spent his remaining years writing memoirs of global travel in the days when young Australians could swan off overseas, as if they had all the time in the world to choose a career.
There was no such liberty for today’s youth, who were destined to join an endless cycle of study, work and re-skilling. Emma thought of her nineteen-year-old son, Jack, beginning his second year of Dramatic Arts at the University of Melbourne. At least he would be assured of a secure career, as government-sponsored entertainment was on the increase.
‘Mum, where are my black jeans?’ Jack called, interrupting her breakfast.
‘On your bedroom floor?’ she suggested, knowing his tendency for discarding dirty clothes in a corner of his room.
‘Nope.’
‘Try the washing basket,’ she shouted, over the irritating preamble to yet another audio reminder.
Jack appeared in the doorway clad only in a pair of crumpled boxer shorts. ‘What? I can’t hear you!’
She turned to face him. ‘I said try the washing basket.’
‘This is a GAUP bulletin for Citizen EC 9450,’ an automated voice intoned. ‘Your unemployment benefit terminates in twenty-eight days.’
‘How long is that bloody thing going to persist?’ Jack asked.
Emma shrugged. ‘Anyone’s guess. I’ve never been in this situation before.’
Jack stepped forward to wrap skinny arms around her waist. ‘Don’t worry, Mum, something will turn up.’
‘Wish I shared your confidence.’ She looked up and saw a mote of despair flick across his milk-chocolate eyes. ‘Yes, you’re right, I should think positive.’
Jack gave a fleeting smile before releasing her. ‘Another lecture on Jacobean tragedy this morning. More murder and cynicism, I suppose.’
‘It wouldn’t be to my taste.’
‘I’d rather focus on comedy. There’s been more than enough suffering. It’s time to move on.’
She nodded, unable to voice the personal, the second shadow that had hung over them for almost a year.
Jack spun on his heel, then froze, one long, lean leg suspended in mid-air as though he’d forgotten the choreography. ‘Any chance of an egg on toast, Mama dearest?’
His use of the childhood epithet swayed Emma as usual. ‘No problem, my favourite son.’ She slipped off the stool and walked into the kitchen.
‘Only son,’ he corrected, pirouetting into the narrow hallway.
‘Get off the stage, Jack,’ she called, amused but unimpressed by his balletic departure. At least he had made her smile.
Jack Cartwright-Kori had inherited very little from his mother, apart from a love of theatre and film. Given his paternal grandparents had hailed from northern India, this was to be expected, but sometimes Emma wished she could see a likeness in the shape of his mouth or eyes, the length of his toes, anything to prove her part in his creation. Certain gestures had connected them during his childhood: the spread of his hands when relating the day’s events, a finger pulling on an earlobe when he concentrated. But as Jack grew into adolescence, these were replaced by more extravagant body language – most likely the result of twice-weekly acting classes – forcing Emma to concede that the earlier versions had been nothing but imitation.
The transition to adulthood had been swift, thrust upon Jack by the sudden death of his father eleven months earlier; not that Emma had told him to grow up, or announced he was now the man of the house. Such statements belonged in the past, along with unequal pay based on gender and the expectation that women stayed home to look after children. Australian society had matured beyond all expectations over the twenty-first century, the once male-dominated government acknowledging that without the contribution of women, the entire economy would collapse.
These days, every Australian between the ages of sixteen and eighty had to pull their weight to keep the country’s economy buoyant, or risk drowning in an ocean of failed nations. Tertiary education, such as Jack’s three year course at the University of Melbourne, ticked the Productive Citizen box in the government’s compulsory online survey, forwarded to living room screens at the beginning of each year. Nevertheless, since his father’s death, Jack had taken on a casual waiting job at a local restaurant to assist his mother with household expenses and give himself some spending money. Initially, Emma had refused the offer of half his earnings, assuring him that more prudent spending should balance their reconfigured budget, but Jack persisted, winning her over with considered objective argument. At the time, she’d thought he should be studying law instead of drama and envisaged an imposing presence in court, earnest articulation with appropriate gestures, white wig crowning a tall, slim figure. A light to dispel the darkness of injustice.
A second government directive interrupted her musings, so she picked up a kitchen stool to re-position it in front of the living room wall-screen. ‘Enter citizen code,’ the computer stipulated in its monotonous tone, as though it, too, felt jaded by repetitive commands.
Still yawning from a restless night, Emma mumbled, ‘EC 9450.’
‘Code unclear, repeat.’
Emma took a deep breath before repeating her code.
‘You are now entering the Employment Positions Portal.’ Boxes appeared, outlined in red: Permanent, Fixed-term, Casual.
‘Select all,’ Emma directed, shifting her buttocks in an attempt to get comfortable.
The screen refreshed, displaying three columns divided into squares – yellow for available straightaway, blue for forthcoming, black for positions recently filled. The squares reminded Emma of online seat selection for long-distance trains, the silver cylinders that hurtled past abandoned farmland to and from the mega-cities dotted around the continent’s coastline. On the few occasions she’d travelled interstate, she had never managed to secure a window seat when completing her online booking, as the tiny boxes were always black. Reserved for government officials or high-profile business-people, she assumed, which failed to explain why so many window seats remained empty when she boarded the train.
Two immediate vacancies in her field were already filled, the black squares seeming to mock her daily enquiry. The single blue box revealed a three-day contract for a writer experienced in engineering jargon to edit a paper for a post-graduate university student. Emma had no such knowledge but considered the position for several minutes, her lips parted in readiness for an ‘apply’ request. Most likely, the student was a foreign national for whom English was a second language; with the use of a technical dictionary, she should be able to complete the task. But instead of speaking, she clamped her mouth shut like a young child refusing a detested vegetable. The screen flickered, blue fading to grey, portent of another interested party sitting or standing in front of a screen in another small apartment. Indifferent – twenty-eight days minus three equalled a pointless period in anyone’s language – Emma waited for deepening colour to free her from further reflection. She would be better served visiting the local market to secure fresh vegetables while the harsh summer sun hung low in the sky.
* * *
Before leaving the apartment, she returned to her bedroom to slip into sandals, then lifted a shopping bag and sunhat from the hooks near the entrance door. A flick of her wrist against the flashing wall-panel and she was free of the space she had once considered a sanctuary, but since GAUP weeks had morphed into months, it felt more like a prison. Instead of heading for the lift as usual, she hurried to the door labelled Emergency Exit, the prospect of being stuck in a tiny, windowless box suddenly alarming. Nine flights of stairs and she would be liberated from concrete and glass and be heading towards coastal vegetation, sand and the turquoise waters of Port Phillip Bay.
As a child, Emma had loved bay beaches – some long stretches of sand, others small coves embraced by crumbling cliffs – especially during cool Sundays when Nan and Pop would allow her to linger on unshaded sand. If they were engrossed in conversation or dozing in deepening cliff shadows, she would remove her sunhat and tilt her pale face to the sky. Vitamin D patches might maintain the health of bones and teeth, but they couldn’t replace the delight experienced when sunlight bathed exposed skin. Emma hated being cooped up during long summer days and yearned for the mid-evening walks that were permitted if the wind that blew almost constantly had diminished.
North winds were the worst, blowing gale-force for days, bringing saffron clouds that blanketed the city with dust and left a nasty taste in the mouth despite the facemasks worn to and from school. ‘Desert dirt,’ her parents advised, ‘blown from the dry interior, a constant reminder of Australian failure to heed the warning signs.’ When Emma pressed for further explanation, they muttered about shallow topsoil and degraded ecosystems, which did little to satisfy a child’s curiosity. So, following a week-long dust storm, Emma visited her grandparents’ home to learn their views on climate change. After listening to her questions, Pop retrieved old computer files from something called the Cloud and began to show her maps and graphs and photographs of Old Melbourne.
‘All gone now,’ Pop said, wistfully, zooming in on rows of mansions facing the bay and parkland bordered by paved footpaths. ‘Submerged beneath the waves like your sandcastles on high tide.’
Nan went on to explain how a refusal by what she called ‘developed’ countries to alter the extravagant lifestyles that gobbled up resources and polluted the atmosphere, had resulted in altered weather patterns throughout the world. ‘We’re all victims of climate breakdown,’ Pop conceded, glancing at a corner of the computer screen where numerals indicated an outside temperature of fifty degrees Celsius. ‘It could have been slowed if my generation and the one after had listened to the scientists instead of the politicians.’
* * *
A blast of heat and wind greeted Emma as she stepped from the apartment block entrance, sunhat still held in her hand. Taken aback, her thoughts still in the twenty-forties with her grandparents, she hesitated before cramming the hat over her unruly grey curls and tying the cord under her chin. There was no point in lingering at the market today, passing the time with stallkeepers; she could already feel sand stinging her cheeks. Head bowed, she set off along the concrete footpath, where sun-scorched weeds peeked from zigzag cracks in a valiant attempt at life.
Unlike wealthier suburbs, her neighbourhood rarely saw state funds released for infrastructure repairs. Deemed “low maintenance”by government officials – a category that should have read “low-lying, do nothing”– Safety Beach had little to recommend it besides its location within a commuter corridor possessing an elevated high-speed train line. Twenty years earlier, newly-partnered Emma Cartwright and Aarav Kori had chosen the area due to its lower pollution levels when compared with suburbs closer to the city, rather than its proximity to rail transport. Concerned for their long-term health, they’d considered a lengthy commute would be a minor irritation.
Despite frequent flooding of nearby streets due to storm surge and higher sea levels – one metre during the past century – Emma still preferred living by the bay. Air and water quality remained less polluted here than in many other suburbs, plus the high-rise apartment blocks that covered not only the entire coastal plain but also the surrounding hills, had yet to reach Safety Beach. When she and Aarav had first explored the bayside suburb, they were delighted to discover that low-rise buildings predominated, mostly eight or ten storeys, each apartment having two good-sized bedrooms and a wide balcony leading off the living area. Soon afterwards, an almost new ninth-floor apartment looking out onto parkland dotted with trees had become vacant; they’d spent all their savings on the mandatory thirty-percent deposit.
* * *
As Emma approached the market perimeter, cracked pavement gave way to patches of bare soil interspersed with clumps of short dry grass. Once the rear garden of a tri-level beach house, the land had been cleared years before to accommodate covered stalls arranged in a semi-circle, facing away from the water. A gust of wind threatened to dislodge her hat, so she gripped the rim with her free hand before coughing dust from her throat. Speckled saliva fell to the ground; she watched it sizzle on baked earth, thankful the few market customers were too preoccupied with produce inspection to notice her vulgar behaviour.
‘Hi there, Emma,’ old Uncle Charlie called from the shelter of his stall awning.
Unwilling to risk further coughing, she raised a hand in greeting. Short and stocky, Charlie resembled a gnome with his bushy white beard and pointed red hat perched on a round head. Tufts of hair protruding from the hat’s broad brim and a swarthy, wizened face added to the perception of a mythical figure straight from the pages of a child’s e-story. Emma had no idea if Charlie possessed a full head of hair, as he wore the hat whatever the weather. He wasn’t a relative. Everyone called him Uncle, and despite visiting his stall for twenty years, she didn’t know his surname or where he disappeared to at the end of the day’s trading. Some of her neighbours claimed he belonged to the group of old men reputed to inhabit the dilapidated buildings once occupied by Parks Victoria at Point Nepean, but Emma thought this unlikely, given Charlie had full-time employment. Bay-enders – the name reflected the location – were said to have relinquished their pensions for an unauthorised existence free from government control. It was rumoured they grew opium poppies on a patch of wasteland to gain income, but as no one ever ventured that far down the Mornington Peninsula due to the lack of passable roads, there remained no proof. Emma believed that wherever Uncle Charlie lived, it had to be nearby; he was always first to open his stall and last to leave.
‘How’s trade today, Uncle Charlie?’ Emma asked, as she selected vegetables and fruit. The produce looked fresh, confirming there was a distinct advantage to early shopping.
‘No good, my dear. Too much wind, too hot.’ His words emerged one by one like sweets squeezed from a tube.
‘Sorry to hear that.’ She added a few extra vegetables to the woven basket he provided for customers’ convenience.
‘Any luck?’ he asked.
Emma shook her head.
‘I could have a word with the boys, if you like?’
‘Boys?’ Emma handed over the basket to be weighed.
‘The Ritchie brothers. As you know, they run at least six markets on the peninsula.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t think the PCB would consider me market material.’
‘You never know. How about I give you a trial run, then at least you could say you’ve had some experience?’
Emma smiled. She had nothing to lose. At least serving customers and chatting to Charlie would fill in the day. ‘You’re on, Uncle Charlie. When would you like me to start?’
‘Not much point today. Tomorrow suit? The forecast’s better, light winds and cooler.’
‘What time?’ She held out her bag for the weighed items.
‘Six.’ Charlie placed sweet potato and carrots first, followed by bananas, capsicum and beans. ‘Not too early for you?’
‘Six is fine, I don’t sleep well these days.’
‘Understandable.’ He looked up. ‘Sixty, when you’re ready.’
‘That doesn’t seem enough.’
‘Plenty, my dear.’
Emma pulled up her shirt sleeve to reveal a black band with a translucent insert, fastened to her wrist like an old-fashioned watch. Her left thumb scrolled to Food Vouchers, then she held up her arm for Charlie to scan. The long-term unemployed could not be trusted to self-manage their government benefits.
DAY 27
Rising at five evoked memories of the years before Jack went to school, when Emma would eat breakfast on the run in between dressing an uncooperative child, applying make-up and making sure Aarav got out of bed in time to take their son to childcare on his way to the station. When she became pregnant – a complete surprise given she’d turned fifty the day after their partnership ceremony – Emma had planned to look for work closer to home, but there had been nothing available either before or after her maternity leave. By the time a suitable position came up, Jack was in second-year primary school, so it seemed pointless to leave a fulfilling job and friendly colleagues. Fifty wasn’t considered too old for a first pregnancy, but despite advances in medical knowledge, there remained a chance of foetal abnormality. Fortunately, Emma hadn’t experienced any problems except mild morning sickness during the first trimester, and exactly nine months later, Jack Aarav Cartwright-Kori had entered an overcrowded world.
In the past, women had solved the problem of “aged eggs” by having theirs harvested at a younger age, then stored to be used when required, but a change of legislation in 2070 had removed that option and in-vitro fertilisation was banned, along with any type of assisted reproductive technology. Australian women understood the reasons supplied by government – global population at ten billion, the cost of egg and foetus storage plus IVF procedures – but that didn’t help those with fertility issues, who wanted the single child permitted by the government.
* * *
Cloud blanketed the sky as Emma walked towards the market, and a light sea breeze kept humidity at bay. There were few people about at such an early hour, and other than a man sweeping sand from the footpath, no one paid her any attention. She returned his greeting but, determined not to be late on her first morning, didn’t stop to engage in conversation.
When she arrived, Charlie had already unzipped the stall’s front panel and was re-arranging yesterday’s produce to make way for the morning’s deliveries. ‘Hi, Uncle Charlie. Better weather for customers today.’
‘Sure thing.’ He gestured towards the fruit trays on his right. ‘I sort the more perishable varieties every day. Slightly damaged produce goes in the cut-price basket, move the rest to the front of the tray. Anything that looks unsaleable, put in the bucket under the table.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Emma slipped the bag from her shoulder and looked around for somewhere to store it.
‘Put your bag round the back with mine. And cut out the “sir” business. My name’s Uncle Charlie. Just Uncle or Charlie will do if you want.’
‘Sorry, Uncle Charlie.’ Emma tossed him a smile, then slid sideways into the narrow gap between table and side panel, depositing her bag next to a rucksack of ancient origin. She was tempted to ask the significance of “uncle” but thought better of it, so leaned over the fruit trays to sort as directed. Indigenous Australians referred to their elders as Uncle or Aunty, but Emma had never heard Charlie or anyone else mention his aboriginal heritage. Or any other heritage, for that matter. Perhaps his origins were gnomic after all and he lived beneath the surface of the earth with others of his kind.
Charlie disrupted her absurd musings. ‘Help yourself to fruit if you’re hungry, my dear. Just pick from the cut-price basket, please.’
‘Thanks, I will.’
‘When you’ve finished the fruit, sort the tomatoes and salad greens.’
‘Sure, nearly done.’
‘Good girl.’
‘Hardly a girl, Uncle Charlie. I’m seventy.’
‘Just a young’un to me.’
‘Why, how old are you?’
Charlie scratched his nose. ‘Now, that would be telling. Can’t have my customers thinking I’m past it.’
Emma knew better than to persist. If Charlie wished to remain an enigma, so be it.
* * *
Gnome and girl worked well together, creating a colourful display in advance of the first customers. Cloud dissipated, leaving the clear skies that were typical on the peninsula during the summer months, although a pall of pollution still hung over the city further north. Sheltered from the hot sun, a sea breeze wafting over her – Charlie had opened the side panels – Emma began to enjoy herself despite curious looks from some customers, followed by the occasional query. True to his predilection for privacy, Charlie dismissed questions about imminent retirement or ill-health with a wry smile and a wave of the hand, before directing attention to his wares.
Those customers acquainted with Emma, seemed to accept her presence as a natural progression, all being aware that whatever their previous occupation, the long-term unemployed were forced to undertake whatever work became available. Naturally, neither Emma nor Uncle Charlie mentioned the casual nature of their arrangement, the by-passing of officialdom; vigilance being essential as one never knew who had the ear of local or regional authorities. Old women that appeared meek and mild had been known to take on the role of informer in exchange for extra pension benefit.
‘I could have retired at eighty, of course,’ Uncle Charlie remarked to Emma during a lull in trading. ‘But I didn’t feel inclined to do unpaid community work several days a week like the bloody government demands. Besides, I’ve heard that some old farts lord it over other pensioner-workers and make their lives a misery. Me, on the other hand, I might make a nuisance of myself, seeing as I would resent working for nothing but a pathetic pension.’
This was the longest speech Emma had ever heard from Uncle Charlie and she wondered what had induced him to open up. Twenty years as a customer didn’t make her a close friend. ‘I don’t agree with compulsory community work, either and I’ve always been thankful my parents died before the Productive Pensioners Act came into force.’
Charlie nodded, then said wistfully, ‘Sometimes I crave a quick exit. Right here after a good day’s trade.’ He patted his ample stomach. ‘I’d make good compost. Haven’t touched meat for seventy years.’
Emma smiled but decided not to voice her own thoughts. If she didn’t have Jack to consider, she would willingly opt for voluntary euthanasia given her current situation.
‘That reminds me,’ Charlie continued, wrinkling his nose. He bent to pick up the rubbish bucket. ‘I forgot to empty the damn thing last night. ‘Just going to the compost bin. Won’t be long.’
* * *
A delivery truck pulled up in a cloud of dust, triggering coughing fits for those nearby. Emma turned away from the fruit and vegetables to clear her throat, so failed to notice that the driver was heading for Charlie’s stall.
‘Where the hell is my stallkeeper?’ a booming voice demanded, as a hand slapped the produce table.
Oranges and Emma jumped and twisted around. ‘Gone to the compost bin,’ she answered between coughs, trying not to stare at scarlet boardshorts and a flower-patterned shirt of a kind only seen in old movies.
‘Customer minding the shop, eh?’
Emma decided not to divulge her status. ‘Uncle Charlie won’t be long. Can I get you anything?’
‘No.’ The driver ran a hand through thick auburn hair laced with grey. ‘Shit of a morning,’ he continued, wiping his hand on the red shorts. ‘Bloody Barney didn’t turn up, no message, either. Then the cold room door at the depot wouldn’t open, so I had to call an engineer, then my brother tripped over a tray of veg and cut his leg.’
‘Would you like to sit in the shade while you wait?’ Emma gestured towards the stool positioned in a back corner.
‘I need a cold drink, not a sit-down,’ he said gruffly and set off towards the stall opposite.
The significance of his words struck her, as she began to sort a tray of zucchini. He must be one of the Ritchie brothers, owners of Peninsula Markets. His odd clothing had distracted her; she should have taken more notice of his authoritarian manner and the pale face with a smattering of freckles. He wasn’t a man accustomed to obeying orders or spending hours in the sun. She should warn Charlie, stop him floating the idea of employing her. After such a difficult morning, she couldn’t imagine Mr Ritchie would be receptive to anything out of the ordinary. But Charlie was nowhere in sight and the man in question was heading her way. She stopped sorting and settled a smile on her face.
‘Sorry I sounded off,’ he began, looking sheepish. ‘I don’t usually behave like that, and especially not to someone I’ve just met.’
‘I’m Emma, and there’s no need to apologise. Your frustration was understandable.’
‘Thanks, Emma,’ His lips parted in a half-smile. ‘I’m Cal.’
‘Short for Callum by any chance?’
‘I’m afraid so. Parents wanted to continue the Scottish theme even though the family’s been here for generations. My twin brother got Dugald, the poor bugger.’
Definitely a Ritchie, she thought, but said instead, ‘I like those names. They conjure up images of courageous warriors storming across the Highlands.’
‘Are you flirting with me, Emma?’
‘Hardly, at my age.’
‘Never too old,’ he said under his breath. ‘Ah, here’s Charlie at last.’ He rushed to meet the old man.
The pair were too far away for Emma to hear any subsequent dialogue, but she could tell from their body language that something more than an absent driver and a minor depot accident was amiss. It would be prudent to leave when Charlie returned to the stall.
* * *
‘No customers, I’m afraid, Uncle Charlie,’ she said, noting his grim expression. She bent to pick up her bag, then stepped outside the stall. ‘I’ll be going then.’
‘Why? It’s only eleven!’
She tried to signal a warning without alerting Cal Ritchie, who was standing close behind.
Charlie looked puzzled. ‘Oh yes, thanks for holding the fort. Might see you tomorrow. Should have some of that beetroot you like.’
Emma had never purchased beetroot. It was the one vegetable she couldn’t abide, and Jack shared her dislike. ‘See you around, Uncle Charlie. Goodbye, Cal, nice to meet you.’
Cal nodded in her direction before bending almost double to speak again to the diminutive Charlie.
DAY 26
Emma stared hard at the screen as though unwavering concentration could apply colour to blank squares. Yellow, blue or black, she didn’t care; anything other than three empty columns. It had to be a computer glitch; the portal always showed some vacancies. ‘Next page,’ she directed, hoping to see a notice reporting the issue. Columns wavered before disappearing and were quickly replaced by flashing red capital letters:
NO POSITIONS AVAILABLE
She repeated the words aloud, prompting a command not understood, response. It took a moment to clear her head and mutter, ‘Exit portal.’ The screen faded to grey, respite for an eleven-month job seeker. A blank screen, resembling nothing more than a lacklustre rectangular shape, covered a tiny portion of her white living room wall. She could stare at it until her eyes glazed over without experiencing a pang of failure or foreboding. Control had been in her hands for a moment; she had silenced the infernal machine and could leave her apartment for the rest of the day.
Down in the foyer she encountered Will James, her friend Janet’s son. Two years older than Jack, Will was due to finish his engineering degree within the year. ‘Hi there, Will. How’s uni?’
He shrugged. ‘Same as usual, Emma. Any luck yet?’
She shook her head, speculating on whether everyone in the building knew her situation. Although friendly with Jack, Will hadn’t visited the apartment for weeks. ‘I had a problem with the EPP just now. Do you think my computer could be faulty?’
‘What happened?’
Emma told him about the blank squares and a flashing notice.
‘So, the problem’s not my screen,’ Will mumbled. ‘Want me to look at it?’ he added, looking down at Emma.
‘That would be wonderful.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I can offer cake and coffee.’
‘Enough said. Lead the way.’
* * *
In the living room, Emma and Will perched on matching kitchen stools, foreheads furrowed, arms folded tight across their chests. ‘I don’t get it,’ Will remarked, as the screen refreshed for the umpteenth time. ‘Every query gives the same result, that bloody notice. There have to be some vacancies in a city of twenty million.’
‘So, it’s not my machine?’
Will shook his head. ‘I didn’t want to mention it in the foyer, but when I checked the engineering section earlier this morning, I got the same response. I even changed the parameters to include positions outside the metropolitan area, but still nothing doing.’ He turned towards her. ‘I know for sure there are engineering jobs available on the new desalination plant development in Gippsland. If you ask me, the entire system’s stuffed.’
‘That, or a scenario I don’t wish to pursue.’
‘You mean like someone’s hacked the portal?’
Emma’s over-active imagination had envisaged even more dramatic explanations, such as a coup or an invasion by a hostile foreign power. Her eyes flicked back to the screen and she noted the blinking Give Command indicator. ‘Let’s call it a day, Will. There’s no point in repeating the exercise. We’ll be advised sooner or later.’
‘True.’ Will slid from the stool and stretched stiff limbs while he waited for Emma to issue the exit command.
* * *
They sat side by side at the breakfast bar, Will devouring cake as though he hadn’t eaten for days. His coffee remained untouched and Emma wondered if he would have preferred tea. Accustomed to Jack’s tastes, she hadn’t thought to ask. Still disturbed by the concept of a malfunctioning portal, she drained her own mug and swallowed quickly, the brew bitter in her mouth without the lingering sweetness of cake. Picking up the knife used to cut a slice of cake, she watched it slip from her fingers and clatter to the stone bench. ‘Sorry, I’m not usually so clumsy.’
‘No worries.’ Will finished his cake and pushed the plate to one side. ‘I could try to find out what’s up with the portal. If you’d like to know, that is?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘A friend of mine’s just finished a Masters’ in computer science,’ he said, glancing at the faded black and orange band encircling his right wrist. ‘Her thesis dealt with cybersecurity, so she’s bound to have some ideas.’ He lifted his arm. ‘Call Sandra Baker.’ The tiny screen flickered for a moment, then an automated voice suggested he leave a message. ‘Hi, it’s Will James. Give me a call when you’re free, please, Sandy.’ He turned back to Emma. ‘I’ll call her again later.’
‘No rush, I’m just curious,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light, her main concern being whether the loss of a day’s data would affect her timeline. An extra day could generate suitable employment, eliminate the need to front up to the PCB.
Will drank his coffee in one go, then rose from the stool. ‘I must get on. Thanks for the cake. It was good to talk. I don’t get much of a chance to mix with neighbours these days. Too much study.’
Emma smiled and shifted in her seat.
‘Don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.’ He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Take care, Emma.’
* * *
Long after Will had departed, Emma remained seated, musing on the joy of unexpected company rather than a problematic portal. Sharing food had always pleased her; it fostered conversation and gave her a sense of purpose, sadly lacking in her current existence. Since Aarav’s death, the dining suite – a small folding table and three chairs – had been pushed into a corner as if the absence of one family member rendered it redundant. Emma missed the daily dialogue over dinner with her partner, his voice melodious, his words unhurried, the way he often spoke the thoughts gathering in her head.
In recent years, it had been mostly the two of them sitting either side of the table, Jack studying at uni or out with friends. They relished the opportunity to linger over meals, discussing all manner of topics, no rush to clear the table so Jack could do his school homework. Each listened deeply to the other, with no interruption or insistence on a particular opinion. Never lost for words, they often continued a discussion while stacking dishes and preparing after-dinner coffee.
Emma smiled as she recalled the questions posed by Jack on returning home one night to discover his parents still seated at the table. ‘Don’t you two ever stop talking? Surely after twenty years you’ve run out of things to say?’
‘Never,’ Aarav had replied, lifting a food-encrusted spoon and pointing it at Jack. ‘Remember, my son. If conversation be the food of love, talk on.’
‘Lovestruck parents, who’d have ‘em! And by the way, that’s an incorrect quote. It should be, if music be the food of love, play on.’
‘The music of her voice,’ Aarav had declared, reaching across the table to stroke Emma’s cheek.
DAY 25
Next morning, the portal continued to display blank columns followed by the red announcement and a call to Will James confirmed his own search had produced the same result. So far, there had been no government broadcast advising the problem was being dealt with, or instructing users to redirect employment inquiries to another database. Impatient for news, Emma asked Will if his friend had had any ideas.
‘Sandra’s certain someone’s hacked the system,’ Will replied.
‘So, what now?’
‘I guess we just have to wait.’
‘I tried calling the Department,’ Emma persisted, ‘but couldn’t get through. Not even a recorded message asking me to try later.’
‘Did Jack say anything about the uni system? Only I didn’t go in yesterday.’
‘All good, he said when I asked.’
‘That’s a relief. I’ve got an exam today.’
‘I won’t keep you then. Let me know if you hear anything.’
‘Sure.’
‘Good luck with the exam,’ she said, but Will had already disconnected.
Gathering up dirty clothes from Jack’s bedroom – he’d flown out the door saying he was late and would miss the train – occupied a few minutes, but Emma thought she’d go mad if she stayed indoors any longer, so decided to visit the market even though she had no vouchers left for purchases. She could give Uncle Charlie a break, provided neither of the Ritchie brothers showed up.
* * *
Charlie was sitting in a corner of his stall, slurping a huge slice of watermelon. Red juice had stained his mouth and his white beard was dotted with black pips. ‘Hi there,’ Emma called. ‘Do you need a hand today?’
Charlie smacked his lips, dislodging the fragments of melon caught in chin hair. They floated for a moment before joining other detritus. ‘Morning, my dear, this is a surprise. When you rushed off yesterday, I thought you’d changed your mind about stall work.’
‘No, I didn’t want to risk a reprimand from your boss.’ She edged closer, leaning over a tray of potatoes. ‘You weren’t in trouble for letting me look after the stall?’
‘No, Cal’s a good sort. Wish I could say the same of his brother.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind if I see anyone around that looks like Cal.’
‘Just remember they’re identical twins. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell them apart.’
‘Do they both wear odd, er, I mean colourful, clothing?’
‘Dugald tends to wear faded cast-offs. Sourced from a recycling bin, I imagine. Tight-fisted bastard.’ Charlie tossed melon rind in the bin under the table. ‘Sorry, Emma, I shouldn’t swear in front of you.’
‘No problem. Don’t forget I’ve got a teenage son.’
‘How is the theatrical Jack?’
‘Theatrical, but at least he makes me smile. He was pirouetting through the apartment like a ballerina the other day.’ She demonstrated the move, making sure to exaggerate her actions.
Charlie laughed, a deep-throated chortle that ended in a porcine snort. Then his expression altered to one bordering on fear. ‘Hand me an apple or something, Emma. Dugald Ritchie has just arrived and he doesn’t look happy.’
‘I didn’t hear the truck.’ She passed over the nearest item to hand, a ripe banana.
‘He parks it around the back. Likes to surprise us stallkeepers.’
‘I can’t pay, Charlie,’ she whispered, remembering her vouchers had run out.
‘Oh dear, that one should have been tossed out. No charge if you still want it, Emma.’
‘Thanks. The riper the better for banana cake.’
Charlie handed it back. ‘Morning, Mr Ritchie. What can I do for you?’
‘Seen my bloody brother?’
‘Not today.’
Curious, Emma decided to stick around, so pretended to inspect the carrots.
‘Bastard’s taken off with the spare scanner. Bloody well knows mine’s on the blink. How am I supposed to check-in warehouse produce without one?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘If he turns up, I’ll tell him you need it. Have you tried calling?’
‘Course I bloody have. Won’t answer, damn him.’
Emma turned her head to better observe the other twin. As expected, Dugald was a carbon copy of Cal, except that anger had turned his face a vivid shade of purple and his clothes – baggy shorts held up with a frayed belt, a t-shirt pitted with holes and shabby work boots – had all seen better days. ‘I’ll be going, then, Uncle Charlie. See you tomorrow.’
Charlie smiled and raised a hand.
‘Good customer?’ she heard Dugald ask.
‘Very good. Been buying from me for years.’
Dugald sniffed. ‘Well, I can’t hang around here doing bugger all. Gotta find the bastard.’
* * *
Emma almost collided with the other brother as he emerged from a stand of windswept trees near the shore. ‘Sorry,’ she said automatically, in deference to his higher status.
‘No, no, I’m the one who should apologise. Not looking where I’m going.’ Cal scratched his head. ‘Emma, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I’ve just met your brother. He’s looking for you.’
‘On the warpath, I suppose.’
‘Something about a scanner.’
Cal grinned. ‘Thought I’d teach him a lesson. It’s time he took care of his devices instead of relying on mine.’
‘He’s with Uncle Charlie.’
‘Right.’ Cal surveyed the immediate area. ‘Know anywhere I could hide out for a few hours?’
‘My place isn’t far,’ she answered, feeling a sudden impulse to shield him from brotherly wrath.
‘I wouldn’t want to impose.’
‘It’s fine by me.’ She pointed to a boardwalk leading away from coastal scrub. ‘If we take the shore route, we should avoid your brother. Give me five minutes in case he appears. I’ll meet you at the end of the boardwalk.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Cal gave a mock salute.
Emma set off at a brisk pace, aware that the incoming tide would soon send waves over old, and in some places rotten, boards. Friends and neighbours often warned her that the short-cut was unsafe, but she continued to use it, advantages outweighing disadvantages in her opinion. Standing on the boardwalk, she could look across the wide bay and envisage a natural world untroubled by the pollution of overpopulation. She held no religious beliefs but felt that if a creator had existed, they would rue the day Homo Sapiens began their destructive march over the planet. The boardwalk terminated several metres from a narrow strip of sand, the final section having been torn off during a storm the previous year. Emma didn’t mind getting her feet wet, even though salt-water stung the deep cracks in her heels. Extremely dry skin, initially a summer problem, now bothered her throughout the year, no matter how much moisturiser she applied.
Before she reached the jagged boards marking a storm’s destruction, Emma stopped to wait for Cal and stood at the rail watching seagulls bob on the swell, thankful for the absence of their usually raucous voices. Further out, she noted a cargo ship heading south and wished she could hitch a ride, travel across vast oceans without a care in the world. Sharing a tiny cabin, or even swinging in a hammock like the sailors of old, would be preferable to shore life huddled on the rim of a drying continent, never knowing when a storm surge would inundate the place she’d called home for twenty years.
Cal’s approach put paid to her fanciful thoughts. ‘Hi there,’ she called, turning away from the sea.
‘I never knew this boardwalk existed,’ he answered, stepping up beside her. ‘Does it lead straight to the residential area?’
She glanced at highly-polished black boots embellished with scarlet laces. ‘Yes, but you might want to take off your boots. The boardwalk ends abruptly, so we have to paddle for a few metres.’
‘That should be fun. I haven’t paddled since I was a kid.’ He bent down to remove his boots and socks.
Emma had expected red socks to match the laces, not purple with green dots; she turned away to suppress a laugh. Blue and white striped shorts and a floral shirt completed Cal’s vibrant outfit.
‘Let’s go,’ he urged, tapping her shoulder. ‘I don’t want to run into the belligerent brother.’
‘Follow me and watch your step.’
‘Sure thing.’
Before long, they emerged from shallow water onto a strip of sand dotted with seaweed. ‘The path to my block is over there.’ Emma pointed to a sandy track winding between clumps of marram grass. ‘I suggest you stay barefoot until we reach solid ground.’
Cal nodded but dropped his boots on the sand. ‘Come and sit for a moment, Emma Cartwright. I have a proposal.’
She recoiled at his use of her surname. Had he been checking up on her, searching government databases for employment and lifestyle details? ‘I prefer to remain standing. My clothes were clean on this morning.’ She calculated the distance from beach to apartment block. If she ran, would he try to stop her?
Cal shrugged. ‘No problem. It won’t take long, just a little job. Not official, mind, so it won’t extend your GAUP, but I pay well. Vouchers and transport provided. I presume you can drive a vehicle without Auto-drive?’
Intrigued now, Emma moved towards him. ‘Yes. Where do you want me to go?’
‘Heard of the Bay-enders?’
Emma nodded.
‘I have to deliver a part to their camp. Normally I’d go myself, but I have to visit the city tomorrow, and the old boy doesn’t want to wait until I get back.’
‘What’s wrong with delivering it today?’
Cal tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. ‘Let’s just say the less my brother knows, the better.’
‘How will I find the camp?’
‘Directions will be supplied.’
‘Where do I pick up the transport?’
‘You’ll receive instructions.’ Cal smiled. ‘Thanks, Emma. Charlie said you were a good sort.’
‘Did he now?’ Emma replied, wondering what else Uncle Charlie had mentioned about her.
* * *
Settled on her old sofa with Cal Ritchie sitting opposite in the single armchair, Emma soon realised that Uncle Charlie had divulged nothing about her life, other than her unemployment status and dependability. In similar fashion, Cal Ritchie revealed little about himself, chatting instead about market matters, such as the effect of recent higher than usual temperatures on market vegetables’ shelf-life.
He was, however, effusive in his praise of her coffee cake, declaring it the best he’d ever tasted and asking for a third slice. Then, just when Emma thought he was about to leave her in peace, he slumped in the chair and fell asleep, lanky arms cradling his cake-filled stomach. His ability to relax totally in the home of a stranger seemed odd, but later that day, Emma decided to take it as a compliment.
DAY 24
Emma collected the transport – an ancient four-wheel drive Tesla held together with rust – from a field behind an abandoned farmhouse somewhere in the centre of the peninsula. Uncle Charlie dropped her off just before dawn, having driven her from the market in his slightly younger van. It had come as no surprise to learn that Charlie was involved in the delivery process, although both he and Cal had been tight-lipped about the mystery part’s function. Wrapped in a layer of thick green cloth and tied with string, the parcel resembled a large zucchini rather than a component for a vehicle or a machine.
The sealed road running south-east from Safety Beach had petered out several kilometres before the farm, so Emma drove with care on the pot-holed dirt track winding through sparse scrub. Directions to the camp had been supplied by Charlie, along with the odd-shaped parcel. The route took her further inland at first, then the track veered towards Bass Strait and began to follow the coast. The ocean enthralled her with its massive rollers pounding rock shelves at the base of high cliffs. Intent on savouring the rare experience of untamed nature, Emma slowed to a crawl, vowing to stop on the return journey, to stand on the edge of land buffeted by wild wind and salty spray.
A sharp turn away from the coast shelved all thought except the immediate task, as the track narrowed to little more than a car width. On either side, tangled bushes formed an impenetrable barrier and she wondered how Cal managed with his wide truck. There was no evidence of broken branches, so she assumed he travelled down here in the Tesla. Soon, hard-packed soil gave way to soft sand, but despite four-wheel drive, the car struggled to make headway, its wheels spinning as Emma tried to avoid corrugations. As Cal had indicated, there was no Auto-drive on a vehicle of this vintage – its dashboard comprising a series of empty circles – and the cracked steering wheel was slow to respond to her touch. She dreaded breaking down; without instrumentation, she could only guess the distance to the camp. ‘Come on, old girl, you can do it,’ she coaxed, more to hear the sound of her voice than encourage a ravaged machine. The vehicle pitched forward, slid into a bend and came to rest halfway up a steep bank. ‘Oh shit!’ she cried, thumping the steering wheel with her fists.
She was contemplating whether to get out and walk when a stocky old man with more facial hair than Charlie came whistling down the track towards her. Opening the door, she slid into sand. ‘Can you give me a hand? I’m Emma, by the way.’
‘I kinda thought so.’ He lifted a hand to scratch his head. ‘Cal’s used to the track.’
She smiled by way of apology. ‘Is it far to the camp?’
‘Round the next bend.’ He gestured towards the lop-sided vehicle. ‘Don’t worry, the boys will turn it around while we’re having a drink and a bite to eat.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Young Jeff’s just made a batch of scones.’
‘Sounds lovely.’ Emma leaned into the vehicle to retrieve the parcel and pondered the age of the scone baker. According to rumour, Bay-enders were all well past their prime.
‘Hand it over when we get there,’ he said, squinting at the parcel. ‘My hands are a bit shaky these days. I wouldn’t want to drop it.’
Fragile, she thought, which explains the thick packaging. She scrambled down the bank onto the track.
‘I’m Gerry,’ he said, as they moved up the track. ‘Registered as Gerard, but I dropped that along with my surname when I relocated. We Bay-enders use first names only.’
‘What brought you to such an isolated place?’ she asked, regretting the question immediately. ‘Sorry, Gerry, that was a bit personal.’
‘No worries, my dear,’ he said, reaching out to pat her free hand. ‘The answer’s simple – long-term unemployment.’
Emma flinched. ‘I’ve got twenty-four days left.’
‘Men only here, I’m afraid, but I could put you in touch with a women’s or mixed group elsewhere.’
‘You mean there are others living this way?’
‘Pockets of us up and down the country. It’s the only way to avoid the d….’ He looked down, flicked sand with the toe of his boot.
‘The damned authorities,’ she said, sensing his reticence to say more.
Gerry continued to study the track.
‘Thanks for the offer, but sorry to say, I can’t accept. I have a student son dependent on me for accommodation and food.’
Gerry raised his head. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure we can think of something to tide you over for a few months until something permanent comes up.’
‘No need to concern yourself with my problems.’
‘We’re all in this together, Emma.’
She nodded, her thoughts turning to the grey vans prowling neighbourhood streets during pre-dawn hours. When insomnia struck – a frequent occurrence in recent months – she would stand by her bedroom window watching the sleeping suburb. On several occasions, she’d observed citizens being taken from adjacent apartment blocks and bundled into a van by men wearing khaki uniforms. Were they government agents tasked with rounding up the non-compliant?
Beside her, Gerry pursed his lips to give a loud whistle that culminated in a bird-like trill. The answering sound resembled a seagull’s screech.
Gerry winced. ‘Must be bloody Barry on duty today. Tone deaf, that one.’
Around a sharp bend, they came face to face with an ancient fellow sporting a handlebar moustache that stretched almost the width of his cheeks. He wore a patched pair of shorts, a faded shirt and a hat similar to Charlie’s. ‘Morning, Emma. Follow me.’ He gestured towards a group of small wooden buildings arranged in a semi-circle.
She hurried after him. On closer inspection, the huts resembled the quaint beach boxes that once dotted peninsula beaches and foreshore. Painted in a variety of colours, some decorated with seascape murals, they had been prized possessions when Melburnians spent summer holidays and weekends at the beach. Since the advent of forty-plus temperatures for months on end and rising sea-levels, most beach boxes had broken up during storms or fallen on their faces, pushed from behind by crumbling cliffs. How had a group of old men acquired these faded relics and managed to reassemble them far from their original positions?
‘Old beach boxes,’ Barry confirmed when she caught up with him. ‘They serve us well, plenty of room for a single guy.’
‘Is this the extent of the camp?’
He shook his head. ‘Plenty more in the scrub.’
‘A bit like those tiny-house villages the government erected before all the high-rise.’
‘It’s a camp, Emma, not a village. We never know when we might have to move on.’
‘An offline existence can’t be easy,’ she acknowledged.
‘Offline? Where did you get that idea?’
‘Rumours abound in the suburbs.’
Ignoring her comment, Barry ran over to a lop-sided shack positioned in the middle of the semi-circle. After bounding up several wooden steps, he stood in front of a battered screen door, arms folded. ‘Welcome,’ he called as she approached.
‘Thank you.’ In the absence of a handrail, she ascended the rickety treads with care, the parcel cradled in her arms like a baby.
Barry ushered her into a single room furnished with a narrow bed, desk and chair. Clothes hung from pegs on the rear wall, a shelf ran along one side. Above the desk, a window provided light and ventilation.
‘Made the bedspread and curtains myself from market remnants,’ Barry said proudly. ‘Brought them from home years ago.’
‘Where was home?’ she asked without thinking.
‘You ask too many questions, Emma Cartwright.’
Troubled by his use of her surname, she murmured, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,’ and held out the parcel. The sooner she was on her way, the better.
‘Good man, Cal. He never lets us down.’ Barry placed the package on the desk in front of a grey oblong box. ‘I’ll take you to morning tea now.’
‘Thank you. I could do with a drink.’
‘Best tea on the peninsula.’
* * *
Barry led her to a grassed area where an assortment of old logs had been arranged around a fire pit. A group of old men stood outside the circle chatting, mugs in their hands, while others sat on logs munching scones, pausing now and then to take a swig of tea. Young Jeff the Baker – ninety at least – was bent over an enormous camp oven perched on a metal rack over glowing coals. ‘Got a good one for the lady?’ Barry bawled into an aged ear.
‘Lady?’ Bones creaking, the baker slowly straightened up and turned around. Rheumy blue eyes peered short-sightedly from a wizened face. ‘Fruit or plain?’
‘Fruit, please.’
Young Jeff turned back to the camp oven, lifted out a large scone with rusty tongs and handed it to Emma. ‘Jam’s on the table over yonder.’ His thin neck jerked sideways.
‘Thank you, I’ll enjoy this.’
‘My pleasure, Emma Cartwright.’
Her smile faded. Did the entire camp know her full name? She walked over to the table, positioned beneath a faded awning that was tied to surrounding trees with frayed rope. Although littered with scone crumbs, the surface appeared clean. Coloured spoons, one for each jam pot, stuck out of small clay containers; a plastic bucket held used knives. There was no sign of butter or plates. Emma bent to pick up a clean knife.
‘I got you a plate,’ a breathless voice said behind her, as a battered enamel dish landed on the table.
She looked up, noting Gerry’s red face. ‘Thanks, much appreciated. I hope you haven’t worn yourself out?’
He shook his head and continued to gulp air through a wide open mouth.
‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ she said, spreading jam on the two halves of her scone. ‘You told me Bay-enders use first names only, yet both Barry and Jeff addressed me by my full name. Why?’
Gerry shuffled forward. ‘It’s their way of saying you check out, so you’re welcome here any time.’
‘They’ve accessed my file?’
‘Barry will have. I can’t speak for Young Jeff.’
She decided to risk silence or a reprimand. ‘So, that grey box on Barry’s desk is a computer?’
Gerry nodded.
Confidence swelled like an oven-baked scone. ‘And Barry’s an expert hacker?’
‘Most likely. He does have six decades of IT experience.’
‘What about the others?’
A stream of warm breath tickled her skin. ‘Not my business.’
And even if it were, you wouldn’t let on, she thought, lifting the scone to her mouth.
* * *
