Fiction

A young Bicycle Courier who, one night after a Big Bash match, for a prank shimmied up a flagpole and stole the national flag and who later – the judge recorded, half-smiling – while profoundly intoxicated wore this flag as a summer skirt running like a lunatic through the foyer of a luxury hotel shouting Death to Foreigners!, was unexpectedly gang-tackled to the marble floor by a group of environment and development conference delegates who, as it happened, were just at that moment on their way out to dinner.

This might be about what Bert Billingsworth did to Tho. North’s youngest brother, or George Ley’s cousin, who knows, but the Honourable told me to write down as much as I could remember. The Honourable said every detail, every bit, don’t skimp, it’ll all help, it might save your life Ivan. So I’ll start by saying this happened in Violettowne and Violettowne is a rough raw uncivilised place and there’s not much there apart from pigs and horses.

The child is juggling in the streets. His parents have dressed him in his best, but even these clothes have seen better days. His act is better suited to a circus than the city square, but for each day he comes here, he leaves at the end with his pockets filled with coins. I feel the need to say straight out that I don’t support this child-juggling, that to give him money is to encourage others to do the same.

I remember homes, I remember safety, before our government fell, before I went on the run, before the magnate, before they started hunting those of us who resisted. I barely remember how the fall began, how it all ended. All I remember was posters and propaganda, fake news and overt lies, alternative truth and money. Too much money.

I find every address I’ve ever lived at. They are written on old envelopes, her address on the front, ripped open, it’s not like she has a bone letter opener that lives on an oak desk. They are not in any order, they are not together or placed with care, but I find them as I go through the boxes and boxes of papers that seem hidden all over the house, to taunt me. Each time I think I’ve finished them, there will be another. 48 Archibald Street, who was I there? That house was so hot, I’d just wear a scrap of silk scarf for a top, tied in a tight knot at the back. Where the ceiling was spotted with squashed mosquitoes and my blood. Where my neighbour, whose window was but two metres from my own, had a thing for spanking and filled my nights with the sound of a hand-hitting, fleshing.

‘No one should have to grieve at all. They say it’s the price we pay for love. You ever think maybe the price is too high?’ ‘No. But what are you grieving, really? Maybe I was more than my income, after all?’ I never realised choosing early retirement would be so catastrophic. ‘No, no. It’s not. No price is too high for love.’ Anger simmers deep in my gut, but I say nothing. Again. Like usual. She sucks down a steadying breath. ‘This isn’t something anyone can ever get used to, I suppose.’

My boy glees, his face rounding and his hair feathery and fair. He stares at the TV from his high chair, his gums sweet and his eyes large. He is a bundle of soft, folded skin. He raises his arms in the air and brings them down strongly like a baby bird thrashing its wings, his fat fingers winding tight around my own. I kiss the tips of his nails. The man on the news has his face blurred. They say he killed a girl in Brunswick. My son looks past me, watches the TV with a fuzzy sense of familiarity, his eyes wet like a fish’s. I recognise the street, I think. I think I was walking down that street last week.

I don’t know how you remember it. The Wake and the Interim. There was nothing to remember in the Interim, the 507 days that we all lost. Though we didn’t lose them. The world went on. Regular programming. Shows streamed, tweets tweeted, work worked, lives lived. A year and a half of agitation. Dooms to scroll. While we were away. The world heated, kept that catastrophic trajectory. Tyrants were voted in. Governments obfuscated. Billionaires made even more money. This was no break from industry. This was no break from anything.

My first job in the new country is in a restaurant in the rich suburb. The customers sit outside under white shade sails. Down the tree-lined streets the hill dips into crystal waters. In the mornings, I wheel a trolley to the basement car park and collect dusty bottles of organic juice or cola from a cage. Before I go I check the trolley, but somehow a wheel always breaks on the steep driveway back. Either that or I forget the key to the cage, or I have to go back for my notebook. When I return, one boss yells, ‘What’s taking so long?’ and ‘Where’s the cart?’

Mysh arrived in the late morning, when humans were most alert. This timing typically led to fewer errors. Their errors, of course, not hers. Still, it was valuable to be patient with them. Their republic was her reason for being. And it was beautiful. The waitress offered Mysh a smile that was not beautiful: thin, yellowed and false. ‘I’m so sorry, honey.’ She fidgeted with her apron. ‘We don’t serve your kind here.’ She looked to her manager, William Tapper, a middle-aged male with dilated capillaries in his cheeks. ‘We’re not allowed, yeah? Tell her, Bill.’