‘Is that your version of a joke?’
‘Shut up.’
We have to double on my pushie for a bit before we find another one. After that it’s a fairly quick ride into the business district of the city. We approach Town Hall from a different direction to the first time I came here, cycling up George Street, past the broken façades of the cinema complex and fast-food outlets. We stop on the corner adjacent to the cathedral, outside a gutted KFC store.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Noll asks.
I shrug, ready to vomit with nerves. ‘I go up, say I have a message for her.’
‘From who? They’re going to ask.’
‘I dunno. Was just going to make up a name, “Lance Corporal Mitchell”. That’ll do it.’
‘You think?’
‘Well, what other option do I have?’
‘I think it would be better to wait until they are distracted with something else. Ask when they are busy, when they’ll just want to get rid of you.’
‘Are you offering to distract them?’
‘No, I’m not. Just wait until they’ve got another arrival coming in or something. Be patient. See what happens.’
‘And what are you gonna do with the gun, exactly, if something goes wrong?’
‘I don’t know. But, I’m sure as hell not letting you in there with it.’
‘Seriously, Noll, I should take it.’
‘You can’t. They’ll pat you down before they let you in. And really, like you say, what are you going to do with it? Shoot your way out?’
He has a point. So we wait and after about half an hour, when I am just about to tell him his plan sucks, a truck engine rumbles through the silence.
Noll raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Try not to die. Good luck.’
I leave him and attempt to stride toward the barrier gates in a confident manner, repeating my rehearsed lines over and over in my head. A banner advertising a Wednesday morning ‘healing service’ hangs limply above the cathedral doors. I reckon that one will be popular when all this is over. If it’s ever over.
The truck pulls up at the gates, I walk beside it. The guards talk to the soldier driving the truck. They see me but don’t even say anything. I walk straight through the gates. I go up the marble steps. At the top before the doors is another guard, his name badge has an ‘Lt’ before it. I stand to attention, salute. My mouth is so dry I wonder if I’ll be able to speak at all.
‘Permission to enter, sir?’ I say. He examines me.
‘What’s your business here, private?’
‘I have a message for a Libby Streeton.’ His face doesn’t change, waiting. ‘From, ah, Lance Corporal, ah, Lance Corporal Noll.’
‘Lance Corporal Noll?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You seem a bit on edge, private. Everything alright?’
‘Everything is fine, lieutenant. It’s just an urgent message. Is Libby Streeton here?’
‘I couldn’t say. You’ll have to have a look.’ He steps aside and opens the door.
Inside, the building bristles with noise and movement. I feel a sensation I haven’t felt in a long time. Warmth; not the heat on my face from a fire that doesn’t come close to warming my whole body, but a complete, enveloping warmth. In the foyer, fatigue-clad officers stack towers of ration boxes and pallets of bottled water beside a wall that is still lined with tourist brochures offering information about guided tours and the building’s history. I walk through the foyer into a large room with high, ornate ceilings and gilded cornices, a chandelier the size of a small planet hangs in the room’s centre. Rows of trestle tables have been set up beneath it and military personnel sit looking into laptop screens, rivers of electrical and telephone cabling run out to an adjoining room, the whole scene crowded with the relentless hum of generators. Other people stand in discussion before the vast wall space papered with maps. I can see through to the next room, larger still, filled with more desks and more people. At the far end, on the stage, is a huge screen showing footage of a desolate, rubble-strewn landscape.
‘Can I help you?’ an officer asks me, irritated. I realise I am clearly in the way.
‘I’m, um, looking for Libby Streeton.’
I’m expecting him to say she’s not here, but instead he glances around and points at a group of people up the far end, near the screen.
‘Over there,’ he says.
The officer hurries away and doesn’t see the tears that begin to well in my eyes. I feel so overwhelmed with joy and relief that it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. I weave my way through the people toward the familiar, willowy figure in the black suit. She stands, arms folded, while two men in uniform speak, pointing at the screen.
‘Mum!’ I say, blowing any hope of cover I had. She doesn’t hear me. ‘Libby!’ I call. She turns and the face that greets me is nothing like I remember. Her pale skin sags over jutting cheekbones. She stares at me with dark, lifeless eyes, blinks, then turns back to the two men.
‘Mum? Mum, it’s me.’
She turns again, closes her eyes for a moment, opens them again. I watch her check the name badge on my chest and turn away again. I am next to her now. I put my hand on her shoulder. The two men with her stop speaking and stare at me.
‘Mum, it’s me, Fin.’
She looks at me. ‘Fin?’ Her voice is a whisper. ‘Is that really you?’
I nod, not really understanding how a mother could not recognise her own son. She excuses herself and steps away from the officers, I follow her. She stands, looking at me with an expression close to fear.
‘Mum?’ I can’t hold onto the tears. They roll down my cheeks. She reaches out and tentatively touches my face.
‘Findlay? Is that really you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh God.’ She wraps her arms around me. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Mum, it’s okay. I’m okay.’ I expect her to cry, but she doesn’t. She pulls away from me.
‘Where’s Max?’
‘He’s okay. He’s safe.’
She glances around nervously. ‘Come with me,’ she says and I follow her into a small room. She points to two plastic chairs. ‘Sit, sit. Are you thirsty? You look thirsty.’ I sit. She takes a bottle of water from a slab of pallets and hands it to me. She sits in the other chair and clutches my free hand while I drink.
‘You don’t know how many times I’ve thought I’d seen you,’ she says. ‘Every tall, dark-haired private has been you. When you called me Mum I thought I was hallucinating. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’
She looks at me and I am almost frightened by how old she seems. ‘I sent people for you and Max, but they said you weren’t there. Where is your dad?’
I explain about him and Kara. When I tell her that we have been fending for ourselves she puts her head in her hands. ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘We’re staying with a whole bunch of people in—’
‘Don’t,’ she cuts me off. ‘I can’t know that. You have to understand, I can’t know.’ She closes her eyes. ‘I would have to tell them. Bring Max here. I’ll organise accommodation for you.’
‘There’s actually four of us, we sort of teamed up with two others to come down here. It was horrible, Mum, there was no more food coming in and they’ve set up barriers to stop people coming down to the city—’
‘I know, Fin.’
I feel stupid. Of course she knows. And then I start to wonder whether the dead look in her eyes isn’t just from what she’s seen, but from decisions she’s made, things she’s done.
‘I can’t help them.’
‘But they’re kids, Mum. Noll has no one left, his parents were over there when the bombs went off. And Lucy has left her family behind, back in the mountains. You know she can’t go back there, Mum. Please. She’s really… important to me.’