‘Aquinas said that, at the deepest level, all things fade into mystery. At a certain level, life brings a wave that communicates joy — to be absorbed then radiated. When you feel that, have that, you are living in supernature — God. It means you deeply existentially are. But how to be? There’s no approach because concepts kill it. It’s organic — to do with energy-flow — an am-ness defying analysis.’
He chose Sydney rather than Lahore because the politics of a country that had spent half its years under military rule never ceased to depress him. He went to the shack at Bundanoon because wherever he went, they’d find him. And because in a box under its floorboards were weapons he’d need.
The big block of natural bush was unchanged but there was mould on the front verandah. He got the keys back from the neighbour on the other side of the hill and thanked him for watching the place. He switched on power and water. The dusty, musty rooms were as he’d left them.
He selected weapons, cleaned and loaded them. They wouldn’t kill him — until they had their information. That gave him an edge. He waited. And he read.
‘… and the Holy Ghost is always being sent. The greatest force in the world and we simply don’t feel it, receive it. It’s we who cut ourselves off — deprive ourselves of the Good.’
He remembered something John had said on the plateau days ago. ‘The horizontal — life. The vertical — eternity.’ He’d slowly made the sign of the cross. ‘Our place is where they meet. Don’t forget. We need to live both in time and in the space, expansion of the present. The denying force is as real as the affirming.’
‘But if God’s everything…’
‘Yes.’ The pope had joined his hands. ‘In the expansion of manifestation, God becomes the devil. That means his force becomes increasingly automatic. But we’re offered choice. To either drift… or fight back against the stream like salmon.’
‘Fight God to rejoin God? Jacob’s ladder?’
‘If you wish.’
They came at four on a grey afternoon. None of his detectors went off. He wondered later if they’d monitored him on MDR. The transmitter could detect people through doors, concrete and brick walls.
He’d been in the shed, getting the ladder to clean leaves out of the guttering. Then he saw, through the cobwebbed window, the wrong end of a grenade launcher.
He ducked, turned. Silhouetted in the open garage door, a man holding a contraption with four splayed barrels capped by pods.
Before he could react, he was covered by the sticky net and disabled by the high-voltage pulse.
He hit the concrete, yelling with pain.
‘Foam gun’s better,’ the man remarked, ‘except the crud takes hours to remove.’
‘Baby oil,’ someone else said. ‘Comes off with baby oil.’
‘Non-lethals. Pain in the arse,’ a third man said. ‘Fucking rubber-pellet grenades. I signed on to kill. Not frig around.’
Cain remembered them stripping off his shirt.
‘Fuck. Look at that. Get it off him.’
They took the breast-cannon and the underarm reverse-holstered pistols from him.
They stripped him to his underpants and taped him to a kitchen chair, then he was lifted like a parcel and put in the living room. They’d taped black plastic over the windows until the place was cellar-dark, then shone a lamp in his eyes.
‘Now,’ the big one said, ‘we wait.’
Cain tried to see beyond the light. Four shapes. The biggest, bearded with curly hair, hulking body movement, pinned back ears.
‘Know me?’ the man asked. ‘I’ll clue you. I’ve had a bit of a make-over.’
‘Murchison?’
‘Got it in one.’ He chuckled. ‘We stuffed you lot good.’
A car bouncing up the potholed drive.
The men fell back as a fifth man entered the room. Vanqua’s smooth face within the circle of the light — flushed with rage. ‘Your turn, Cain.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Files have been doctored. Identities substituted. And funding for your absent department continues.’
‘Encouraging news.’
‘I’ve been sold a pup and don’t like it. And you’re going to tell me what you know.’
‘Nothing.’
‘We’ll see. You were close to Rhonda. Talk, or we remove parts of you — slowly.’
‘It was need-to-know with her. She left me out of the loop — never said anything vital. Now I see why.’
‘Not good enough. But if it’s true, you’re going to wish she had.’
Murchison added, ‘You’re not our friend, Ray.’ He unfurled a pouch on the floor beside Cain’s chair. The tools in it were surgical steel. But antisepsis and anaesthetic were not part of the coming procedure. He selected a pair of serrated pliers with inturned, precision-ground tips. It seemed that his nails were to be withdrawn before his fingers were crushed. The cutters in the pouch implied that it went on from there.
‘Well?’ Vanqua said. ‘Where will we start first?’
His gut turned over. He knew it was the end, either way. He hadn’t been issued with one of Rhonda’s cyanide capsules or the easier to hide sheathed curare-coated needles. He felt he might disgrace himself. He said, ‘I don’t know a thing.’
The sound of a chopper, a big one, coming fast. Murchison shot a look at Vanqua. ‘Us?’
‘No.’
Startled looks.
An act? An elaborate deception for his benefit? Otherwise, why cover the windows?
Vanqua said, ‘Get out there.’
Murchison and the others dashed outside.
The thing hovering now. It sounded huge — a heavy lifter.
Cain said, ‘Is this to impress me?’
The listening Vanqua didn’t respond.
‘Why the hell did you wreck EXIT, you small-minded, dopey shit?’
Vanqua struck him hard across the face.
Automatic fire.
The surgeon pulled out a Browning high power, hurried from the room.
Cain sat — alone, cold, frightened, puzzled — licking blood from his split lip.
The slapping, whining monster went away.
Sporadic firing.
Then nothing.
He sat.
And sat.
At last, the verandah creaked.
Men burst into the room from both doors, ripped the plastic off the windows, switched off the lamp. They wore black body armour, face masks and sprouted MP5s.
Then Rhonda walked in, holding Vanqua’s Browning. Creased dress, dirty nails, straggly hair. She turned to the shock troops. ‘Untie him.’
One unsheathed a knife and cut the tapes.
‘Ron?’
Was it her — or a magnificent duplicate? Had they staged this to get him to talk?
She said, ‘Thank God you’re still with us. You know the drill.’
Christ. She wanted him to verify? He’d bloody make this good.
She waited, scratched under her breast.
He dragged his wits together. ‘Okay. Who said, “Except at Wydecombe Fair in my youth I never saw anything so bad as Pinafore”?’
‘Disraeli. Proving that the cleverest of men can be utterly wrong.’
The answer astonished him. No duplicate could have known that. But he wasn’t quite convinced. He stumbled closer to her, stared. My God, she was the image. He dredged his mind for the most obscure G and S anecdote she’d told him. ‘Sullivan said to someone, “Another week’s rehearsing with WSG and I should have gone raving mad. I had already ordered…” Complete the sentence.’
‘”… some straw for my hair.” Yes, it’s me.’
‘Ronnie? Christ.’ He hugged her, felt her big arms enfold him. ‘What…?’