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Wednesday: Ten Days Before the First Wave

Chapter 5

An Evil Child

Conan was falling.

More correctly, he was about to fall from a tall building, having ridden an elevator until it opened onto a long drop in a cityscape he knew only in his dreams. The floor of the elevator seemed to crumble under his feet, then moments later he was awake, with a jolt of adrenalin catching his breath and the dream city fading as he realised his phone was ringing.

He winced with guilt when he saw the number displayed.

‘Hi, Ma.’

‘Conan?’

He’d promised about a week ago to go over and help her with something or other, but as usual he’d been distracted.

‘Where are you?’

‘Ord City … it’s a work thing.’

‘Ord City, WA? I was there yesterday … or last week.’

‘It’s not a virtual job, Ma … I’m really here.’

‘I don’t see the point of going anywhere for real these days,’ she lectured. ‘Virtual travel is just as good … better, because you get to sleep in your own bed.’

Conan’s mother lived in a retirement village in one of the many vast estates that had sprung up on the fringes of all major cities in the last twenty years. Conan tended to visit about once a week. Or at least once a fortnight, but it must have been close to a month since he’d seen her – not that she’d notice.

‘I lost another boyfriend last night … they can’t keep up with me.’

Her boyfriends tended to die in real life because they got overexcited in Virtual Youth – one of the many virtual sex sites but specially catering for the elderly.

‘What keeps you goin’, Ma?’

‘I don’t really care about them, so I don’t get too excited.’

‘That’s really profound.’

‘It’s good advice, Conan … you should try it next time you get married.’

Conan stared at the ceiling fan and refused to take the bait. His mother liked nothing more than to lecture him about his appalling love life while boasting about her many virtual conquests.

‘Conan … I need money.’

‘You’ve got plenty of money.’

‘Super doesn’t pay for Virtual Youth … I have to dip into my capital. That arsehole Keating should have made us pay 20% … or even 30% into super, then maybe I’d have a decent retirement.’

‘Well, do without Virtual Youth. If you don’t waste capital your super will keep you in pretty good shape for the rest of your life … your real life. ‘

‘You don’t understand … I don’t like real life any more. Virtual Youth is so much better, but I can only afford it for another six months … unless you help me.’

‘Why don’t you just start caring?’

‘… I beg your pardon?’

‘Why don’t you start caring about your virtual partners? Then you might get overexcited and … erm … and won’t need Virtual Youth anymore.’

‘You’re evil, Conan. I don’t believe I could have raised such an evil child.’

But she was laughing.

‘We’ll talk about it when I get back, Ma … okay?’

‘Okay, Conan. You be careful in Ord City … it’s full of weirdos.’

‘It is?’

‘Trust me. I’ve been there.’

• • •

Just after nine o’clock, Conan met Loongy outside a ramshackle building in Dutton Close, surrounded by bamboo scaffolding and half the windows blackened from a recent fire. Despite its dilapidated condition, the building was teeming with life – hordes of grimy, happy children mucked about in the street which was also full of dogs, cats, vendors peddling cheap clothing, weird looking fruit and vegetables and makeshift snacks while dozens of motorbikes threaded through semi-abandoned road works and stagnant puddles. The street smelled of exhaust fumes, dead water and frying onions, and somehow reminded Conan of a medieval town he’d explored on Virtual History Channel.

A number of the children suddenly accosted Conan, thrusting battered-looking wares for sale at him, and Loongy snapped at them in Chinese, sending them scampering.

Conan forced himself to remain impassive but Loongy knew what he was thinking.

‘Just because I’m sixth generation doesn’t mean I can’t speak Cantonese.’

‘Of course not,’ agreed Conan, following him into the building, still uncertain whether Loongy was weirdly paranoid or brilliantly pulling his leg.

The foyer was a shambles of piled up garbage bags, a scatter of small vials and discarded building materials. The elevator shafts were two gaping black holes and obviously not working.

‘It’s on the fifth floor,’ said Loongy, entering a dim stairwell that was lit from several floors up and stank of urine. ‘I bet you’re wondering: how do people live in this?’

‘Not really,’ lied Conan, trying not to breathe with all the piss stink.

‘This is what they’re used to in Asia,’ explained Loongy. ‘This is what they bring with them … this, and Habal Tong.’

‘You’re not a fan?’

‘You come to Australia, you assimilate!’ insisted Loongy, raising his voice. ‘You don’t like our ways … fuck off back to Asia! Fuck off!’

Conan kept waiting for Loongy to grin, to acknowledge he’d been joking, but Loongy was muttering fiercely to himself, seeming more Chinese every second.

On the fifth floor, they left the stairwell and passed along a corridor with damp carpet that stank of mould. A dog barked from a darkened doorway and faces, old and young, mainly Chinese but at least one family of Indians, or Sri Lankans, peered at them as they strode past until they turned a corner and found two uniformed officers sitting outside a door taped across with blue and white checks.

The two officers leapt to their feet, one of whom was Agent Ping who’d been reading an old paper-style book, which he half hid behind his back.

‘Chairs,’ remarked Loongy, irritably. ‘Where you get chairs?’

‘Neighbours,’ said Ping. ‘They’ve been very helpful.’

‘They better not be from inside,’ said Loongy, producing a key as Ping pulled the tape away while giving Conan a look of amused sympathy.

‘Well … here it is,’ said Loongy, as they stepped across the threshold into a small and cluttered room, dominated by a large black poster with orange lettering: ALL IS NOTHING AND NOTHING IS ALL.

Conan stood quite still – breathing slowly and feeling his way around the room – trying to imagine what it was like to live there. The walls were crowded with book shelves and football posters, one of which was a picture of a supremely athletic-looking Chinese in the yellow and red of the Ord City Pilgrims, shooting at goal.

‘Feng Nine,’ said Conan.

‘You a football fan?’ asked Loongy, a bit less irritable.

‘Not really.’

‘You should be.’

Conan turned his attention to a huge table under the only window. It was dusty, littered with old-style books and papers, the inevitable Crimson vials and two old lap-top computers at either end.

‘Why should I be a football fan?’ he asked, noting that one of the laptops was still turned on.

‘Football is everything in Ord City. If you want to understand us you have to understand football.’

‘Us?’

Conan tapped a key but the screen was frozen.

‘Yes … us! Just because I’m sixth generation doesn’t mean I can’t be part of Ord City.’

‘I guess it might help the newcomers to assimilate.’

Loongy peered suspiciously at Conan.

‘Yes … it does help.’

Conan ignored him for a moment to read the frozen screen with a large black and red field covering most of it. In the middle of the field were the words: Access Denied and a pair of keys crossed over each other.

‘Locked out,’ said Loongy.

Only part of the URL was visible in the address field and seemed to be written in Italian. Conan copied down the part of the address he could see and Loongy laughed, ‘Oh look! Sydney investigator finds a clue. What you think it means, Tools?’

Conan ignored him and continued to look among the books and papers covering the desk. Most of it seemed to be scientific or religious. Conan glanced at a book on chaos theory, then picked up a large bible and noted its margins were covered in scribbled notes.

‘These guys were pretty churchy.’

‘Brilliant deduction, Tools,’ laughed Loongy. ‘You seen enough yet?’

Several of the pamphlets were glossy plastex Army of God publications. Conan flipped open one with a confused-looking Chinese on the cover, entitled: Can You Be Christian and Habal Tong Too?

‘Let’s go!’ said Loongy, suddenly irritated. ‘I’ve got real work to do.’

‘Okay,’ said Conan and, as Loongy turned his back, slipped the pamphlet into his pocket.

The door was locked and resealed with tape, and Loongy headed for the stairs without another word to the two uniformed officers. Conan gave Ping an apologetic salute and followed Loongy toward the piss-dank stairs. As he did, one of the neighbouring doors opened and a Chinese woman of quite striking beauty peered out, but immediately lowered her eyes when she saw Conan and closed her door again.

‘Now you can write your report,’ said Loongy, ‘… and fuck off back to Sydney.’

‘Can I?’ asked Conan, still seeing the woman’s sad and frightened face in his mind’s eye and wondering about the life she had found in Ord City – wondering also whether she knew the murdered men.

‘Of course! Two dead Habal Tong … killed by Dedd Reffo. Happens every day. Now fuck off back to Sydney and drink latte by the Opera House!’

Conan laughed and Loongy turned on him fiercely.

‘You think I’m funny?’

‘Yes, very,’ grinned Conan.

Loongy stared again, then stormed down the stairs, somehow leaving Conan with the impression that he was in the presence of a Master Piss-taker.

• • •

The pamphlet didn’t say much. It answered its own question in the negative, which is what Conan would have expected. It did, however, give the addresses of a few local Army of God chapters, so Conan decided to visit the one closest to the flat where the two friends had lived.

The streets on the map bore only vague resemblance to the streets and lanes threading the mad jumble of buildings and other temporary dwellings that metastasised throughout the city, but Conan managed to pick his way through teeming hordes of provisional citizens to the Army of God chapter house on the corner of Kerr and Whitlam Streets.

The house was two storey and old brick – one of the places that had obviously been around before Ord City was proclaimed back in 2023. Out the front were numerous placards bearing Christian slogans, and a group of bored-looking children sat on the steps, listening to a young man in a shiny, black uniform reading them a story.

The young man paused to examine Conan as he climbed the stairs.

‘Welcome, brother,’ he said, in an affected accent that sounded almost British.

‘How ya goin’?’

‘I’m Lieutenant Michael Rice. Can I offer you guidance?’

‘Guidance?’ echoed Conan, stifling a laugh. ‘Don’t know about that mate … I just want to look inside for the moment.’

Conan continued up the stairs and stood in the doorway, aware that the young man had abandoned his story and was hovering at his elbow.

‘These are the daily sessions,’ he said, referring to a whiteboard in the foyer, and Conan paused to glance at what was available. The board was headed with Children’s Bible Story Time, followed by Coffee Shop, various Bible Study sessions, and in the evening was the Daily Service followed by The Great Debate at nine pm.

‘Are you in charge here?’ asked Conan.

‘That depends on what you mean,’ said Lieutenant Rice. ‘I’m the officer of the day, in charge of the …’

‘I’m in charge,’ said a voice, and Conan turned to see a woman in a similar black uniform to Lieutenant Rice’s, which she filled rather differently. She would have been late twenties or early thirties, with brunette hair pulled back in a severe bun and a tight, humourless smile.

Conan found himself staring for a moment, but pulled himself together.

‘Ah … sorry,’ he said, recovering, and pulled his ID from his top pocket. ‘Agent Tooley … AFP. Can we talk?’

He was still staring at her. It was the eyes that did it. In all other ways she might have been the living quintessence of untouchable female authority, but her eyes gave her away. Her eyes said she was human, and narrowed as she perceived his interest.

‘Captain Melodie Roberts,’ she said, primly holding out her hand to be shaken. ‘Come with me.’

She led him to a stair but stood aside and waved him ahead.

‘After you,’ said Conan, but she simply raised an eyebrow and he grinned sheepishly, guessing she disliked being followed upstairs by men because of the opportunity it gave to stare at her arse.

He went up the stairs, and she followed, several paces behind.

The upstairs was a long gallery looking down on the hall with several doors leading to offices. Captain Roberts passed him and, yes, her arse was superb. Conan got only one quick peek at its rounded, pert perfection then stared resolutely at the back of her head, in case she suddenly turned.

Her office was the last at the end of the gallery and she gestured him into one of the two chairs opposite her desk.

‘So, what can I do for you Agent Tooley?’

‘Call me Tools,’ said Conan, and immediately felt foolish. She didn’t respond, so he pulled his triPod out of his bag and placed it on her desk. Seconds later images of the two murdered men flickered in the air, and her mouth set in a thin line.

‘Not again,’ she sighed.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve already spoken to the police … I’ve nothing further to add.’

‘So you knew them?’

‘Yes … as you would know if you people kept proper records.’

Conan, knew there was no record of interview with the Army of God on the file, but made a mental note to check when he returned to the office.

‘I’ve been sent up from Sydney and haven’t seen much of the file … but maybe I’ll ask some different questions?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like, what are you doing for dinner tonight?’ thought Conan. She got even more attractive as her anger flared.

‘Like … were Bruce Fong and Michael Wing Ho members of your organisation?’

‘That’s the first question they asked me last time,’ she snapped. ‘We don’t have lay members. We have officers and brethren … Bruce and Michael were neither.’

‘But you knew them?’

‘Like so many in this city, they were searching. They would sometimes attend the Great Debate.’

‘Which is on tonight?’

‘Yes.’

She was almost aggressive in her answers – eyeing him defiantly – making Conan wonder what he’d done to piss her off so quickly.

‘So what were they searching for?’

‘For God, Agent Tooley. We get many such people who cannot find what they truly need in their lives, so they turn to us.’

‘You must feel very vindicated.’

She stared at him for a moment, then enquired, ‘Was that sarcasm, Agent Tooley? Because if it was, this interview is over.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Conan. ‘I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic.’

In truth, sarcasm came so naturally when interviewing he wasn’t sure whether he’d meant it or not.

‘They were Habal Tong?’ he asked, trying to sound serious.

‘Yes … but very interested in Christianity.’

‘So … the Great Debate is about converting to Christianity?’

‘Sometimes,’ she said, still stiff and prickly. ‘Mostly it’s about comparison. This city is such a melting pot of culture and religion … it’s where we get together with people of other faiths to discuss what we have in common?’

‘So you all agree, eh?’

‘We do … on all the important points.’

‘Except one.’

Once again she stared at him, as though suspecting him of levity.

‘Except one,’ she agreed. ‘Is there anything else? I really have answered these questions before.’

‘Who’d you speak to the first time?’

‘I don’t remember his name.’

‘Was he Chinese?’

‘No.’

Captain Roberts rose to usher him out and Conan noted, to his small disappointment, the engagement ring on her finger.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be of any further assistance … and I do have work to do.’

Conan switched off the Pod and put it back in his bag as she stood over him, holding the door open.

‘One more question, Melodie … Captain Roberts,’ he amended as he saw her anger flare.

‘Well?’

‘Was there any particular aspect of Christianity that interested these two?’

She opened her mouth to speak, but then paused.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘What’s nothing?’

‘There was no proper aspect of Christianity that interested them.’

‘Proper? What about improper?’

‘Please don’t twist my words for meaning, Agent Tooley. I really can’t help you with this so I suggest you continue your investigations elsewhere.’

She left the office so Conan had little choice other than to follow her out, but in her haste to be rid of him she forgot to let him go first down the stairs. Conan found himself almost swooning with desire at the sight of her gorgeous bottom in the tight, black, god-fearing skirt.

Halfway down the stairs, she suddenly turned and Conan knew he’d been caught.

‘Um … I was just thinking,’ he stammered, as she blushed an angry pink.

‘Thinking? Is that what you call it?’

‘Yes … look, chances are, I’ll turn up one night at your Great Debate. Maybe even tonight.’

‘Everyone’s welcome,’ she said, in an ice-hard voice that clearly meant everyone but him.

‘Yeah … erm … but if I do turn up, I don’t want anyone to know who I am … so don’t talk to me.’

‘Don’t talk to you,’ she echoed, reaching the bottom of the stairs and waving him towards the door. ‘It would be my pleasure.’