Trash - Chapter Four

The incessant thumping of the latest pre-pubescent pop miracle did nothing to ease the throbbing in Cassie’s head. As she sat, waiting, the scene at the office earlier that day haunted her.

Bruce had faced her, raising himself from his seat and speaking quietly, a hoarse menace in his voice.

“I can’t make it any clearer than that. You’re now a pop music correspondent and you will confine your journalistic researching to who’s screwing who. You will not continue this half-arsed pursuit of Alex Eristic. The paper won’t publish, and the internet lacks credibility, so you’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t care,” said Cassie. “What I found was the truth and people have a right to know. Don’t you care about the future? Something has to be done.”

“You’re a naïve fool. You can’t do anything – none of us can. All that will happen is that you’ll fall on your sword. It’s professional suicide to worry at a story that is off-limits.”

“Who says it’s off limits? Who puts on the pressure? This is all wrong, Bruce!”

“And if you stick your neck out too far you’ll lose your head.”

The menace with which Bruce had said this scared Cassie more than she cared to admit. And now his contact, the legendary Stella, would initiate her into the workings of the music industry.

Other images replaced her boss. Cassie shuddered. At least her boss was real!

Had it been some kind of monstrous hallucination? Shared by all three of them. And who would believe them?

Afterwards Linda had sheepishly crept into the other side of the bed.

“Goodnight Snugglepot.”

“I’m not a kid any more Mum. Goodnight.”

Cassie had been glad of the company and listened to her daughter’s breathing gradually become calm as, safe in her mother’s bed, she fell asleep.

“Cassie?”

Cassie opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. She really didn’t like this kind of psychedelic décor.

“Yes.”

“I’m Stella, Mr Raven’s personal assistant. I”ll be showing you around our establishment. You are fortunate, as we have some top artists recording today. The lab can also show you the rushes on a video clip that won’t be released for another month.

“More than that, Mr Raven will actually be free for a few moments before we begin our tour. Come with me.”

And now Cassie would meet B. B. Raven!

His office was worse than his reception rooms. The colour scheme was not jarring, but the blatant display of success was nauseating. The office had been decorated in the manner of a nineteenth century gentleman’s study. Every stick of furniture breathed out expensive authenticity.

Antique volumes were arranged ostentatiously on the shelves that lined the walls. In a strategically placed display case, the climate control mechanism of which was imperfectly hidden, was, Cassie realized with a shock, one of Shakespeare’s plays – an original manuscript!

Objet d’art and priceless memorabilia decorated the braggart’s museum.

The balding man who crouched in the elegant leather chair behind the carved desk, seemed very out of keeping with the tone of the room. He did not share the air of careful preservation and Cassie briefly wondered what Annie would make of the man. Some appropriately nervous insect, or perhaps a frog lying in wait for a fly.

“Well, well,” he leered, “your journalistic reputation is too good for you to be so . . . attractive.”

Cassie formed an instant dislike for the man.

“I hope you will excuse me Mr Raven, I have no wish to detain such a busy man. It is kind of you to see me in your precious free time.”

“Yes. Of course.” Cassie’s frigid courtesy had the desired effect. He quickly calculated her value to him as part of the media, and subtracted all traces of lechery from his demeanor. “Your . . . aah . . . predecessor has left rather suddenly, I believe.”

The comment took Cassie by surprise. She looked at B. B. Raven and wondered at the change in him. The air of agitation had been smoothed over, replaced by a slick operator. But how did he know about Lilly?

“In this industry information is our most important tool. Know as much as we can about everybody. Sometimes think my spy network could tell Uncle Sam more about Iraq than the C.I.A.” He stopped to laugh at his joke, looked at Cassie, decided she was too clever, decided that he did not like her, decided that he would have to watch her carefully and, abruptly, stood up.

“You see my Shakespeare.” Cassie was actually pleased to have a reason to look more closely at the relic. B.B. Raven stood uncomfortably close to her, however, as he gave his carefully rehearsed discourse.

“Lot of people think this First Folio is out of place in a music company – particularly one that deals mainly with the the . . . aah . . . younger end of the market. Disagree – strongly disagree.

“Look at who Shakespeare was and what he did when he was alive. Here was an actor. To make sure he had work, he wrote his own plays. Bloody good plays too – best bits borrowed from here and there. People loved them. Guy built his own theatre from the money people paid to see’em. And he wrote for everybody! High-flown language for the gentry and bawdy humour for the folks on the floor.

“And that’s what we do. We entertain everybody – the whole family. The Searchers for Pa and Gran, The Insects for Mom and Dad, Ezekial’s Armageddon for the incurably trendy, Venom for the teens and Joey Blue for kid brother and sister. Even have a selection of classical music in the catalogue now.”

The quietly efficient Stella, who had waited by the desk, politely in the background, answered the intercom.

“Yes, I’ll tell him.” She turned to her employer. “Excuse me Mr Raven, you have an appointment.”

“Aah yes. Pity. Pity. Not finished with this charming woman. But this won’t be the last time we share common interests, will it? A positive pleasure. Good fortune in your new position.”

Cassie barely managed to mumble an appropriate response before being shepherded from the room by the invaluable Stella. The encounter left Cassie disoriented as Stella led her around, explaining multiple-track recording and electronic manipulation.

She took in the studios, met the stars who were in for the day and learned about the organization behind a hit single. But all the while she was haunted. A sleazy little man who chopped his sentences and bragged about his sources of information would not rest peacefully in her mind.

Why was an avenging ghoul looking for B.B. Raven?

B.B. sat behind the immaculately polished desk. One hand absently stroked his face. The woman was handsome, there was no doubt about that. But she was also shrewd and intelligent, and had a reputation for being like a boy who’d discovered his dick once she had a hold of something.

“Long as she doesn’t get a hold of me,” he mused.

The intercom buzzed. This month’s secretary quavered with fear. “Shall I send in Mr Larsen now?”

“Yes!” he snapped. He cursed being surrounded by unreliable people. Why were women so flighty? Stella was an exceptional woman. One who understood and was not afraid to do as she was told.

Larsen insinuated himself into a chair before B.B. could stop him. He tossed a large envelope onto the desk in front of B.B. and stifled a yawn.

“I think you’ll like these,” he hissed, his breath fouling the air. Years of habitual hedonistic abuse had soaked through the frame on which he hung his rather tasteless clothes.

B.B. opened the envelope. He looked at the photographs, lingering over each one before turning to the next.

“This one’s good,” he finally said.

He handed the photo to his procurer, who looked briefly at the naked figures. The children tried to hide their faces.

Larsen had contempt left for no-one but himself, and returned the photo to B.B. in exchange for his blood money.

“It’s not really to my taste,” he replied.

Trash - Chapter Three

The sun was leering through the window. Filtered by the blinds it caressed Cassie with stripes, warming her as she lay on the bed. The room was still and her body peaceful as she lay drowsing, exhausted.

She twitched and tensed. Her morning at work intruded, hijacked her half conscious thoughts and played itself out in daydreams.

The editor’s office had grown. Cassie walked through the door and towards her boss’s desk, but as she walked the carpet rolled out and the desk stretched further and further away. She began to run towards the figure that sat laughing beyond the desk.

“I’m a journalist, not an aardvark!” she yelled.

The distant goblin leapt to the top of the desk, which rose into the sky and began swooping madly. Cassie could now see diamond-studded glasses, a tangerine jacket, brightly sparkling sequins on the lapels and recognized the deformed creature as her boss.

“Elton wants his clothes back!” she yelled.

Suddenly the desk began to dive toward her, it’s occupant hurling paperweights and staplers at her. Once again she ran, this time looking for cover. A figure by a giant filing cabinet beckoned wildly.

“Quick! You’ll be safe under here.”

“Jack!”

Cassie looked around her, afternoon sun leaking through the blinds and softening the cluttered room with bright lines of light. She rolled onto her front and smothered her face with a pillow.

The pain was no less now than it had been a year ago. The difference was that she had learned to forget. She would bury herself in writing or working, concentrating on the small tasks that made up the days. She was even learning to walk away from the pain in her peaceful moments, enjoying a sunset without guilt, or smelling the hopeful morning breeze. But the pain grumbled at the fringes of her mind, ready to ambush and wound her.

By the time Linda and Annie came home, Cassie was sitting on the back verandah with a glass of scotch, hiding from the neighbours.

“Oh Mum!” Linda stormed past her mother and into the house, followed closely by the dog.

Annie fetched a chair and a glass from the kitchen. She sat next to Cassie, poured herself a drink, then picked up the packet of cigarettes. “I thought you’d given up, too,” she commented.

Cassie shrugged.

“Thanks, anyway,” said Annie, lighting the cigarette she took from the pack.

“I hope your day was not as bad as mine,” Cassie finally said.

“Oh average. I only performed five miracles before lunch. That Year Nine is still a problem. I asked Linda about them. I’m worried Cassie. She was really upset – I don’t know why. It was just so unlike her.”

“What was she upset about?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. She didn’t want to talk to me about 9B, and up ‘til now she’s been so helpful. Knowing what the little darlings are saying about the classes has been feedback that they won’t offer.” Annie rubbed her forehead, trying to think. “When I mentioned James she went right off the planet. Are they still going together?”

“I think so. Maybe I should talk to her. I might give her some time to calm down, though; I wish she wouldn’t be so pig-headed about my occasional smoking.”

“Mmmm. You should be pleased the girl has more sense than her mother. And how was your day?”

Cassie leaned her head to her knees and covered her head with her arms.

“That good?”

Cassie turned to her friend. “You are now looking,” she said, through clenched fists, “at the newest journalistic addition to the popular music section of the entertainment pages of the ‘Daily Eye’!”

“What? . . But . . . They’ve taken you out of “the pool”? Didn’t they promise that you would stay there?”

“Yes.” It was a well-pruned syllable. “Apparently it is much better to get a gig writing crap as the “Funky Fairy” for “DownBeat”.”

“Oh shit.”

“You have a way with words, Annie.”

“It’s because of those articles, isn’t it - again? This is so wrong, Cassie. Those bastards shouldn’t be able to push you around like this.”

“Oh, you don’t understand, Annie. This is a promotion. More pay and everything.”

“In a pig’s eye. They’re trying to shut you up. I knew there would be more to that F.I.S.H.E. thing than you’ve found out so far. They were too happy to set up that enquiry. It’s a bloody crock!”

“Annie! You’re paranoid. I agree that someone’s probably applied pressure to have me kept safely away from the real news. I rang Paul at “The Chronicle”. I was going to take that job he’s been at me about.”

“Let me guess. No job.”

“No job. But Annie, honestly, all your ideas about fascist infiltration, C.I.A. espionage and using the Institute to cover up the real mess in the world is paranoid. Really, Annie. They don’t do that sort of thing any more.”

“And the Pope’s not a Catholic either, I believe.”

“Oh, leave off, Annie. I’ve had a dreadful day.”

“I’m sorry Cass. I wasn’t thinking. It just makes me mad to see you buried like this – not to mention the way the truth seems to be being buried with you. It’s not right.”

“No.”

The two sat side by side, the sounds of early suburban evening drifting to them in the leafy yard.

“What’ll you do?”

“Nothing. There’s not much I can do. The ideas are still out there, only they’re on the internet where the powers-that-be can dismiss them. Unless we can find more evidence. I’ll just have to keep doing my job and hope they either decide to take me seriously or forget all about it. And keep my eyes open for a place where they’ll appreciate a little journalistic integrity. And . . . I have been rather feeling another book coming on.”

“Oh! What do M & B want now? Claude-Pierre rides again, maybe? Or at least, “mounts” again . . . and again . . . and again.”

“No.” Cassie paused, realizing she had found a goal to chase. “I have another idea nagging at me, and I’m not expecting this new job to be overly taxing. Although the Bastard Boss from hell did say I might get the odd overseas trip out of it.

“Annie?”

“Mmmm.”

“Did you have anything planned for the middle of next week?”

“No. I’m taking a rest from my hectic social calendar. Had to tell the prince to take a number.”

“Would you mind keeping an eye on Linda for me? I thought I’d take a break and go bush. Maybe go down the Prom. I don’t want to go at the weekend when it’s busy. I need a bit of peace and quiet.”

“Yeah. It’d do you the world of good. You look all wrung out.”

“Thanks!”

“Any time.”

The women sat for a time, their silence disturbed only by “The Wheel of Fortune” turned up by Mrs Evans next door so that she could hear.

“I suppose I’d better talk to Linda.”

“I’ll start tea.”

“I know I’ve been spending a lot of time working. Have I been away too much?” Cassie was sitting on Linda’s bed.

“No Mum.” Linda sat at her desk, staring out the window at a broken paling in the fence.

“Linda. . . ” Cassie paused. How could she clear away the ice that Linda had put between them? She desperately wanted to take her daughter in her arms, hold her and make it all better. But Linda was no longer five years old. In front of her Linda saw a girl who was becoming a young woman; a troubled young woman who did not want to ask for help.

“Something’s worrying you, isn’t it honey?”

Silence.

“Has James done something to upset you?”

The painful silence continued.

“Linda, I love you. All I see is that something has upset you. I can’t stand by – I want to help.”

“You can’t!” The bitterness of Linda’s reply froze Cassie.

“Linda?”

“Look Mum, I’m not pregnant or on drugs or anything. I’m okay. I just don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

“Maybe talking would help.”

“No.” Linda was rigid in her chair, staring out the window.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No Mum.”

Cassie hesitated. “Could you do something for me?”

No reply.

“Honey . . . if you are in trouble or there is something I can do, please, will you tell me?”

Still no response.

“You’re old enough to have a right to your privacy, but you’re too young to have to take care of yourself. I just couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”

“Okay Mum.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Just one more thing, honey. Hug?”

Linda stood up reluctantly and allowed her mother to put her arms around her. Standing there, Linda remembered being a child whose mother had been able to chase away the worst nightmares and ease the worst injuries.

Putting her arms around Cassie, Linda wished she could speak to her mother, ask her to fix everything. She felt her mother’s hand stroking her hair and relaxed into the gentle rocking.

“I just want to feel safe again,” Linda muttered to herself.

“What’s that honey?”

“I love you Mum.”

Cassie hugged her daughter. Whatever was wrong she was sure Linda would tell her, eventually.

“I love you too, honey.”

Finally Linda broke away.

“I’ve got heaps of homework.”

Understanding that she had been dismissed, Cassie left the room.

“I’d better help Annie with tea.”

“Really Annie! I wish you’d wear your glasses.”

“But it was falafel mixture! How could I mix up a packet of falafel mixture with a packet of chocolate pudding?”

“Don’t know, but you have. I just don’t think the world is ready for chocolate falafel.”

Cassie shook her head, then set about salvaging their dinner. Annie could be terribly absent-minded, and cooking wasn’t her favourite occupation. Cassie remembered finding Annie bent over lesson plans on the dining table while dinner was being quietly reduced to ash in the oven. Then there was the time she forgot to put the oven on, and no-one realized until well after the guests had arrived. The flaming toast and exploding eggs were another matter entirely.

In an hour Linda was fed up with her homework and there was a meal on the table. The three women sat chewing companionably, the evening news barking quietly in the background.

“Did you tell Linda about the new job?”

“No. I didn’t get around to it.”

“A new job? What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to be a “roving reporter” for The Daily Eye’s popular music pages.”

“Music? Does that mean you’ll get to go to concerts and stuff? You’ll get free tickets?” Linda quickly realised that her mother had landed a great job. “Who’ll you get to interview? Oh Mum, this’s wicked!”

Cassie and Annie exchanged glances. Linda shrugged, and with a smile, Cassie sighed deeply.

“I’m glad someone else thinks my new job is wicked. I think it’s downright evil.”

“Mum? Don’t you want it?”

“It’s not what I’d have liked to be doing.”

“Don’t you think it’s time you got over all that stuff? It won’t bring him back.”

Cassie stared at her daughter, stunned. They had coped with Jack’s death in different ways. Linda by crying for two weeks then deciding to go on smiling. Cassie had thrown herself into trying to find out how Jack had died. Like the police, she could find nothing, but her instincts were drawn to Jack’s last assignment. Had he turned up to work at the Institute before he had died?

Her research led her to believe that the Institute was being manipulated and used for political purposes; that they were falsifying experimental results and accepting dubious donations from industry. But she found no evidence about Jack’s death.

Was Linda right? Had she damaged her career for the sake of ideals that were based on a need for some kind of vengeance? Had she mistaken the importance of what she had found?

The silence was broken by her sudden attention to the television. She left her seat and turned up the volume.

“ . . . Justice Mongrel’s preliminary findings are that there appears to be no basis for the accusations which had been leveled at the Federal Institute for Science in Harmony with the Environment.

“The final report will be published in two month’s time. The government has yet to comment on it’s role in this scandal.”

The screen showed a puffy bulldog face. The Justice had been bailed up by reporters against the bluestone wall of a court building.

“There will always be someone trying to make a name for themselves by attacking others. The Institute has been doing an invaluable job co-ordinating this government’s response to the ecological crisis. One can only wonder at the motivation of a person who attempts to undermine the good work that is being . . . “

Cassie almost knocked the television over as she switched it off.

“Bastards!”

Annie sought comfort for her friend. “Terry’s still working with you on this. You’re not alone. The two of you can’t be ignored. People will listen - you know you’re right.”

“Yeah Mum,” added Linda, “and you should tell Bruce to shove that job unless he’ll let you do the stories you want to do.”

Cassie looked at Linda through tears.

The women did not notice when the temperature of the room began to drop. It was Annie who first looked about her, bewildered, startled.

The house was unnaturally silent. The clock on the mantle-shelf was audible, it’s ticking echoing strangely. The house was somehow shielded from outside noises – the ever-present traffic on High Street, just a block away, could not be heard. No dog barked and Mrs Evans’ TV set was silent.

“This is how my dream starts,” whispered Annie.

Cassie was brought out of her misery by concern for Annie, who had suddenly gone pale – very pale.

“What’s wrong Annie?”

“Can’t you hear?”

“Hear what? It’s quiet . . . Oh!”

Linda reached for her mother, then, as one, the women turned to face the front door. Footsteps echoed outside the door. But it was not shoes on concrete they heard; it was boots on a resonant metal gangplank.

Windows began to rattle in their frames. The women held their hands over their ears.

Abruptly the footsteps ceased.

Heavy knocking boomed through the door – once, twice, thrice.

Before any-one could move, the door kicked itself open.

A fearful apparition occupied the front porch. A hideously distorted body, covered in gaping wounds that oozed pus, was hunched into the usually roomy porch. The face which blocked out most of the view of the body was a parody of a child’s face. Freckled nose and cupid mouth were mocked by hollow eye-sockets, within which raged cold, blue fires.

The innocent mouth opened, breathing pestilence and decay into the room. The voice was thunder and rattling bones.

“B.B. Raven!” roared the ghastly wraith.

“B.B. Raven?” it hissed with menace. Then it looked around the room, it’s absent eyes seeing through the whole house.

“Does B.B. Raven live here?” demanded the ghoul, leaning threateningly towards Cassie.

“No,” she trembled.

“Oh! . . . Wrong address,” said the ghost. “Sorry!”

And it disappeared, leaving the stunned women listening to the theme from Neighbours on Mrs. Evans’ television set.

"Trash"

CHAPTER ONE

The silvery craft slides through space. On the warm planet below, the operators of primitive radar devices lurch into panic, then stand, bewildered, as the solid object fades from their screens.

On board the space vessel there is also high drama.

“I understand the necessity for rules, but this is a case where the rules are not just. Without our help the good that is on this planet will die. Along with the rest.”

“There is nothing we can do.”

“There must be!”

“There is not.”

CHAPTER TWO

Annie liked walking through the yard. The milling bodies ignored her and she could ignore them. She observed the clouds that drifted across the sky and, despite her distress, noticed the smell of damp earth.

The nightmare that had brought her sharply from her sleep in the small hours of the morning, was still replaying itself in her head. Most of it had been the confused jumble of a bad dream: spaceships, witches and giant rats. Yet somehow everything revolved around Cassie.

When she had moved in with her friend a year ago, Annie had cared for her at a painful time. Was her subconscious telling her it was time to leave? How was the dream connected to the terrible feeling that would not leave her – the feeling of daggers over her head, fear feasting in her belly? And why was Morgan in the dream?

Her attempt to make sense of the irrational was disturbed by students fighting as they waited outside their classroom. When her arm shot out to grab a boy by the sleeve it was a purely reflex action.

“What’s your name and form?”

“Jason Reels. Miss. 8C,” was the startled reply.

“Do not,” Annie spoke distinctly, “under any circumstances, allow me to see you hit another person. Ever! Do you understand?”

“Yes Miss.”

“I’ll be letting your form teacher know about this. Now wait quietly for your teacher.”

Why are people so surprised by war? Annie wondered.

Someone had let their pigeons out to fly and the sound of purring pigeon wings attracted Annie. She watched the flock swoop and dive around the school, idly wishing she could rise above the anxiety that had settled into her guts, then turned her attention to the group of Year Nine students waiting by the portable classroom. A deep breath and she arranged her brightest and strongest smile over her teeth.

“Hullo every-one.”

Sullen grunts mingled with pleasant greetings as Annie checked the door. Good! The handle was dry and clean and the key-hole free of match-sticks or chewing gum. She put down her bag and began the tug and jiggle ceremony that was necessary to open the door.

“I said QUIETLY to your seats!”

“But Miss, this table’s wet.”

“He pushed me!”

“I was here first.”

Annie knew better than to expect the brief silence to last.

“Use some of the newspapers to dry the table; it’s only rainwater. Joe, you sit there; Frank, over there. Now settle down every-one!”

The cheerful tone was difficult to find today. Annie often became annoyed at the way people thought about teachers. “We’re either dedicated individuals sacrificing our lives for the sake of our students,” she would say, “or slack bludgers who are paid too much and have too many holidays.” She was annoyed at never being able to live up to one ideal, and aghast at being accused of the other. A lion-tamer would get danger money for this. She found reassurance in her favourite private whinge as she organized the class, trying not to let her thoughts turn to last night’s haunting vision.

“Well 9B, I’ve managed to organize the excursion for you.” Annie did not like excursions, though organizing them was usually the worst part. “We will be going to town on Thursday the 19th. I will be giving you the forms to fill out tomorrow.”

“Which film are we seeing, Miss?”

“Do we have to go to the gallery?”

“Can we have free time in town?”

Images of students escaping in the city, getting squashed by traffic or drawing dicks on museum exhibits, taunted Annie’s brain. She ignored these – anxiety before an excursion was normal.

“As we have discussed, in the morning we will visit the Art Gallery. While there you will choose two pictures, or sculptures, or other works of art, for your written exercizes. Then we’ll have lunch in the Botanic Gardens and go to see I was a Teenage Aardvark.”

“Yeah.”

“Grouse!”

“Not that f***ing shit!” This in a low voice.

“I beg your pardon!” The sudden silence became expectant as Annie turned to face Jason. Another Jason! Perhaps the Office of Births, Deaths and Marriages should refuse to allow parents to name their sons Jason. It would certainly make my job easier, thought Annie as she took the deep breath necessary to keep her calm enough for what she knew was about to happen.

“We’ve spoken about bad language in the classroom before, Jason.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I heard you.”

“It wasn’t me. Why do you always pick on me?”

“I don’t pick on you. But you frequently behave inappropriately. Often I ignore it, but we spoke about your bad language only yesterday.”

“James was swearing too.”

“I didn’t hear him – and this is about you, not James.”

“You hate me, don’t you?”

“No.” But I hate having to argue with you every class. “Go and stand outside the door – we’re wasting class time. . . . Now, please.”

“No.”

“Stand outside please, Jason.”

“My mum’ll tell Mr. Hardy you’re picking on me.”

I just wish you’d stop picking on me. “Thank-you Jason.”

“Now 9B. Where were we?”

The voice from outside was low but insistent. “In a f***ing portable, bitch!”

Annie strolled to the door to face the offender. Look you juvenile punk – don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs. “Get your books and take yourself to Mr Hardy’s office. . . . Don’t argue, go!”

The sneer on his face was triumphant. “I’m gonna get you!”

Jason’s words seethed into the room as he left. Well, at least things are moving now. The boy had been restless for several weeks. His behaviour had been deteriorating and the last few days his belligerence had barely remained within acceptable levels.

“Miss! He really means it.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Stacey.” If I had a hundred dollars for every time a student threatened me I ‘d be living in the south of France by now. Annie turned to the necessity of dealing with the class.

“Take out your books. Instead of talking about your news item as we’d planned to do, write half a page explaining the article you have found. Then make a journal entry about art galleries and, if you have time, go on with your stories. I’ll write all that on the board for you, with a few suggestions to help you think about galleries. Any questions?”

The room settled to the rowdy buzz that meant the class was working. It was funny how a confrontation with one student would often settle the rest. Annie patrolled the room once, confiscating a bunch of elastic bands and a mobile phone on the way.

“But I’m not playing with it, Miss.”

“You won’t need it then, will you?”

She sat at the desk, marked the roll and prepared to write a report for the principal. Just another day in the trenches. She hoped Jason would still be at the office when she got there after class.

Annie sat in front of 9B recalling the pile of correction on her desk that had snarled whenever she had come too close to it that morning. She was glad it had not avalanched. It would take the emergency services at least a day to dig her out. Another thrilling night for the Red Pen Avenger! I’d better get this report written before it joins forces with the correction. She looked around the class as she organized her thoughts. Caught in a rare working mood, they were bent industriously, only occasionally chatting with their neighbours.

A sudden wave of déjà vu passed over Annie. The smiling faces of a long teaching career were weighed down by monotonous dramas created by volcanic adolescents. Sometimes the job didn’t seem worth the effort. Sometimes she wanted to give up.

And then, last night . . .

Morgan Sortilege. The name would not leave her. Why? And what could she do? She was not teaching him this semester. “Excuse me for disturbing your class, Mr. Williams. Could I have a word outside with Morgan about a recurring bad dream I’m having?”

No. It just wasn’t going to work. But 9B were! Actually sitting, busily doing their work!

Annie fought off the urge to pull a face at the class then turned to the window to disguise her smile.

Through the window she saw Jason, now with his schoolbag, heading towards the gate. When she abruptly stood he noticed her, and gestured in her direction. His words were battered by the breeze, but the one-finger salute was unmistakable.

“Kylie, would you please take this note to Mr Hardy.”

* * *

Linda was leaning against the car, waiting impatiently.

“Why are you always so late, Annie?”

“Sorry kid.”

They arranged themselves in the car. Linda was not a talkative girl and Annie had often appreciated being able to drive home in silence. It gave her a chance to leave behind whatever had happened at school. Today was different.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, kid . . .”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“Sorry. Linda.” It was suddenly hard for Annie to admit to superstitious rubbish aloud. “What do you know about 9B?”

“What do you mean? I’m not going to dob on any-one. What’s happened?” How could Annie possibly ask what she really wanted to know? She did not know how to bring up Morgan’s name without seeming daft.

“Jason’s in trouble for swearing and disobedience. I’m worried about him. He wasn’t this bad when he first came to the school. Something’s not right and I thought you might know something.”

“No.”

There was something about Linda’s reply that made Annie glance over at her. When she saw the stony expression she was shocked. The last time she had seen Linda look like that was at Jack’s funeral. That was over a year ago. For her to suddenly draw in on herself like this when there was no reason . . .

“How’s James? You two are still going round together, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. He’s okay.”

No sign of sun past the frozen mountain.

“He has enough fun in class – sometimes his jokes and comments are very disruptive. Would he listen if you asked him to stop?”

“Maybe he’d stop if you stopped picking on him!”

Again you’re picking on me!

“I don’t Linda. You know I wouldn’t. But I thought you might be able to talk some sense to James – he won’t listen to me. Look, kid, is something bothering you?”

“I’m all right.”

“Doesn’t sound like it to me.”

“Well I am. Just leave me alone. And don’t call me kid.”

Driving on in silence, Annie was stunned. Linda took after her mother and had a stubborn streak a mile wide, but she was slow to upset. As she considered what she would say to Cassie, Annie felt that uneasy sensation tunneling into her stomach again.

Maybe it’s something I ate?

"If not for the tomatoes"

Among the greatest challenges/threats that we face at present is global warming. Like war and the nuclear “deterrent”, the best way to tackle the problem requires support from the people and from the government. In a democratic country the two should go hand-in-hand.

We already know what has to be done. We have the technology! And it continues to improve. We must cut emissions, live sustainably, get serious about slowing down and reversing population growth so that the task will not be so arduous for our children’s children. It will mean hard work, and for those of us leading the Western lifestyle, changes that may feel like sacrifice.

How will the future regard us, dragging our feet because saving the world is inconvenient?

The future is uncertain – no-one can accurately predict what will happen in one hundred years. What if, for example, in a world that was already struggling to reverse environmental damage and re-establish plundered forests, there was an ecological disaster which wiped out the algae in our oceans that provide the world with 60 to 70 % of its oxygen?

If not for the tomatoes, Annie would not have noticed. Now, unwanted, adrenaline kicked in. She did not want to have to breathe – the air in the tunnels was too close. She tried to take a deep, calming breath, ignoring the constricting tube around her. Could she be wrong?

Their conversation the other day was clear in her memory. “How did you learn to swim, Annie?” Holly knew how much she loved the beach.

“They gave us lessons in public pools. But eventually they had to close the pools. There was still the beach, though. If you were careful.”

Peter ignored her moment of melancholy. “What did people do if they didn’t know how to swim? Could they still go in the water?” Such a harmless question.

She had talked of fun on lilos and rubber tubes in muddy rivers. And the gastro afterwards. “You could use anything that would float.” Life preservers, chunks of wood. And then they had dragged out of her the basics – how to float, treading water, survival stroke – the easy bits. She cursed. Why else would someone have taken the bubble insulation from the hydroponics storage locker? Stupid children!

She heard them as soon as she opened the hatch. Peter was panicking, calling out and splashing. On the inspection deck, Holly was holding a long-handled scrubber out to him. Annie quickly stripped to her underwear. “Peter!” she called. “Lie on your back and stop struggling! Take a breath of air. You’ll be safe! I’ll get you out!”

She eased herself into the water as Peter fought for control of himself. He tried to lay back, but could not let any of his head relax back into the water. He was too afraid and the sheets of plastic bubbles tangled his limbs as he thrashed again in fear.

Annie took the long pole from Holly, able to just reach Peter from her lower perch. He clutched at the pole, almost dragging it from her. With something to hold he calmed a little.

“Now please lie back and float, Peter. It’s all right to put the back of your head into the water. You have to. You will be safe. Just hold the pole in front of you.” Gently Annie drew him towards the ladder that supported her. He did not need to be told to grip the rungs. He stayed there, breathing properly again, while Annie untangled the insulation sheets from around him.

“I am too old for this. “When I’m Sixty-Four” does not mention rescuing teenagers who want to drown themselves.” She sat on the decking with Holly and Peter until the shaking began to subside. “Well,” she finally said. “I guess we’d better go tell every-one you’ve been swimming in the back-up water supply.”

“What a bloody stupid thing to do!”

“Thanks for stating the obvious, Bruce.” Annie faced him, Holly behind her, comforting Peter, shivering in a blanket. “The kids should go home. We’ll find Zeke and decide on the proper consequences.”

“Consequences!” Rage and frustration moulded his face. “We all suffer for their consequences. What if the water is contaminated?”

“Bruce! We’ll talk about this when the kids have gone. We’re the council executive, once we find Zeke . . . “

“Ah! What’s the bloody difference. Consequences don’t matter any more!” He rose from his chair, pleading. “They should be told.”

“No, Bruce. Not now. We need a calm decision. Just wait until we can talk.” The teenagers’ parents arrived, stalling the conversation. Bruce turned to face the wall while Jacinta fussed over Holly, and Peter was whisked away by Tran and Sahara.

“Thanks Annie.” Holly stepped forward to hug Annie. “I don’t think I could have rescued Peter. Thank-you.”

“I’m glad I got there soon enough. You rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“You have to get this in perspective,” Annie began to explain to Bruce, as she shut the hatch and turned to face him. Head in hands, he had slumped over the desk.

“It’s too much. I just don’t think I can keep doing this.”

“This isn’t so bad, Bruce. Peter is safe. We can filter the water. We have to decide on some sort of consequences. Put him in charge of water purity . . . permanently . . .”

“It’s not that. It’s the lie. Constantly. Lying. They should be told.”

“We’ve had this conversation before, Bruce. You agreed with Zeke and I. The few others who know, or have realised, all agree. Bruce,” her voice pleaded gently, “there has to be hope.”

“But there isn’t.”

There was no answer to him. Annie knew he was right. Should they live to her age, Peter or Holly might die with no-one to mourn them. Adam and Eve in reverse. “Maybe,” she replied, “but that’s not the point. Do you want those children to have to suffer the knowledge of their own doomed futures the way you do – the way we all do.”

Annie sat in the comfy chair by the filing cabinet. Exhaustion overtook her as the adrenaline wore off. “It’s been a long day, Bruce. Maybe we should talk about this in the morning.”

There was a sharp rap at the hatch, which opened and Zeke joined them. “Well,” he said. “I’ve brought potato peel vodka and the last of my real coffee beans. Which is it to be?”

Sleep would not heal Annie this night. She wrapped a blanket about herself and began writing in her journal.

I want to wake up in the morning, when light is oozing into the world. Birds are piping and chattering their morning gossip, welcoming a new day. Maybe it is still possible. There always has to be hope.

If it hadn’t been for those tomatoes giving me such trouble, Peter might have drowned. I don’t even like these tomatoes. I remember tomatoes, tiny ones, picked sweet and juicy under open skies. I remember the smell of earth in the air. I remember the ocean, beaches . . . such beautiful places.

I want to wake in the morning, light oozing into the world, and hear birds piping and chattering their morning gossip. It’s the birds I miss the most. Some of the children don’t even remember birds.

I sometimes feel as though memory cripples us. Knowing how things should be, could be, makes us rebel against this . . .

Is this all there is?

The feeling is so strong – is it despair? A tired sense of hopelessness defeats me. There will never be more than this. I never expected to be a grandmother, but I’ve worked with other people’s children, laughed with them, taught them, cherished them. I thought there would always be children. But they cannot survive in our survival pod. They die. And are no longer conceived.

Sometimes I feel guilt for my own emotions. In the midst of global disaster I have the temerity to feel sorry for myself. “I want to go for a walk in a forest,” I whine. “I miss the birds.” My grief for what I have lost seems self-indulgent. I must be cheerful for my remaining charges. Maintain the lie of hope. Yet I can’t protect myself from despair. I go through the motions . . . believing it to be futile. All the while afraid that if I allow my students to see my pain I will have betrayed them.

Every-one deserves to have hope. But what about me? I am right to despair. But I am wrong. Should I just sit in a corner and weep?

Is this all there is? I want more.

Annie knew there was hope. Of a vague general sort. There was word of hopeful signs for the environment. A team had managed to establish a viable colony of zooplankton (cultured from specimens that survived in a laboratory) in the Atlantic waters. If they continued to survive . . .

“There’s the rub,” thought Annie vaguely, rubbing her hand, strained by heroics. Eventually it would work. Normal oxygen levels would gradually build up. But it would take time. Thirty years or more. There were survival shelters, arks where plants and animals were treasured and guarded, in the hope that one day they would return to live unaided on the surface of their home.

But there were problems with breeding for some of the species . . .

It wasn’t just that she was too old to hope to see the saving of the world. It was the children. The few remaining teenagers, those who’d survived the “danger phase”, were possibly the last generation of mankind. “This is the way the world goes, this is the way the world goes,” Annie muttered to herself. “Not with a bang but a whimper.”

The shelter she lived in was a good one. It was large enough to house a “viable breeding population”. Annie hated the language they used in the manuals – so clinical, so wrong. The system was sustainable; and now there were less of them, their safety was not in doubt. This shelter had been set up to observe conditions on the east coast of Australia in an area where people no longer survived in great numbers. Drought and bushfires had driven them away, or killed them.

And when the air turned bad, the isolation of the observation shelter had protected them from the horror. Annie could remember the tales of shelters surrounded by mobs, trying to break in. Sometimes succeeding. Or shelters that took in too many people, and perished.

“But can we survive?” Annie looked at the walls around her. Precious momentos, photos, pictures, treasured objects covered them. It was still a prison underneath the trimmings. She could not leave – she could not survive outside the shelter. None of them could. They were too far from any other survivors for rescue.

Annie, her ear often to the “Net”, was certain there were shelters, colonies where children were being born and surviving. But here, where she was, there was no-one under the age of fourteen. And other shelters, mourning in their words, sent messages describing the sterility of their population.

“How could they let this happen!” Annie cried, focussing her anger on people she could never reach. The people of the early twenty-first century, one hundred years ago, when they could have saved the world.

Why didn’t they . . . we . . . just stop. But we didn’t. We kept living like there was no tomorrow, blaming our democratic bad decisions. (What was the name of that fool who was U.S. President at the time?)

We had Al Gore come and tell us to get our act together. We had the technology, for Christ’s sake!

And there's another thing. God.

How could an all-powerful being allow this to happen – allow us to do this? I don’t want to believe there is a God. Unfortunately I can't believe there isn't one either. It's distressing. I'm left in a frenzy of doubt, aware of the mess in the world, wanting to shout into the storm, my arms raised to the heavens in battered supplication. "Just what the **** do you think you're doing!" I rage, facing the windswept landscape, devoid of deity.

The Judeao-Christian God made us as gods, in control of our own destiny. If there is such a Being, their shoulders are bowed with grief for what we have done to this Paradise that was created for us with such savage tenderness.

And when I look beyond the Complex, at the burning wasteland outside this prison refuge, sometimes I think there is no tomorrow. At least – not here.

Annie was always telling her students that the good thing about life is that you get fresh mornings to start again. This morning, Annie looked at the photo of a wide blue beach that was above her desk. She knew she would never walk there again and pushed her tears back into her soul – maybe there would be time for tears later.

This morning, after breakfast, they would tell the whole community that, for any-one who lived here, there could be no fresh start. Their home would be their tomb. There would be no chance of escape.

There was no hope.

Baby Steps

Nearly half a century on this Earth and suddenly I find myself doing something new. Who'd have thought it! But do I have anything worth saying . . .