The Undercurrent Read online

  Waylo glances Ryan’s way, his black skin shining. They ignore each other as they’re supposed to, but there’s something about his roommate—an uncharacteristic tightness in Waylo’s shoulders—that grabs Ryan’s attention. Reminds him why they’re here. Has Waylo been approached or is something else going on? Adrenaline spikes again, this time with anticipation. Ryan takes more notice of the protesters around him. It’s a hard crowd to read, hard to know which direction the threat could come from.

  They call themselves the Agitators. It used to be left-wing soccer mums and hipsters who turned up to these protests with their professionally printed signs, pithy slogans and organic snacks. Now it’s this lot. Mostly blokes, and mostly under twenty-five like him, venting their rage at the world. This week it’s Pax Fed. Next week they’ll be back in George Street hurling burning effigies at Parliament House, now tucked behind permanent barricades since last year’s riot. But there’s a rumour they’re mixed up in something bigger and deadlier, something stirring to life in South Australia.

  Ryan always thought the Agitators were just a bunch of dickheads but it turns out their protests are a talent pool of dissent, attracting criminals with more violent agendas. That’s why Waylo’s here: to be recruited for the trip south. Apparently being black ‘heightens his likelihood for disaffection’. Waylo says that’s bullshit—everyone with a pulse is disaffected these days—but to Ryan it suggests homegrown terrorists are as bigoted as anyone else.

  The two of them are here to blend in, make some noise and keep their eyes open. Ryan’s only managed two out of three so far. He let himself get distracted by the fact today’s job involved Paxton Federation. He got caught up in the moment—incited—when the protesters swarmed towards Queen Street. He resists the urge to fight his way back to Waylo and find out what’s going on. That’s not his job today. His job just arrived.

  More pushing and shoving and Ryan clears the crowd. He keeps walking, pulling a sweat-stained cap low over his eyes and keeping his head down. His heart rate’s up but it’s all business now. His new knee feels good. Strong.

  He ducks into a convenience store and heads for the back. The tiny shop smells of Chiko Rolls, hot chips and raspberry slurpee. He passes a chiller packed with shiny red apples so big you’d need two hands—even his hands—to eat one. Happy Growers stickers on all of them—part of the Pax Fed empire. That’s what the Agitators should be throwing at the building: Pax Fed’s own mutant apples. Guaranteed crisp and sweet. Guaranteed to break toughened glass.

  As expected, the back door is unlocked. Ryan slips into a narrow laneway and jogs around a delivery truck. He hears voices inside the neighbouring Vietnamese restaurant and picks up his pace before the driver comes out.

  An unmarked white van is waiting on the corner, engine running. Ryan opens the side door and a cool blast of air hits him. The back of the van has been gutted except for a bench seat down one side. Clean trousers, a pressed shirt and a tie are waiting, along with a bag of toiletries, fake ID and a suede satchel. He peels off his T-shirt, freshens up his neck, chest and armpits with wet wipes, kicks off his runners and drops his cargo shorts. A blast of deodorant, a quick slather of product through his hair to slick it down, and he struggles into the clean clothes. The tie is already knotted. All he has to do is slip it on and tighten it. He hasn’t worn a shirt and tie since the best and fairest back home over a year ago, and this getup feels as stiff and unnatural as it did then. At least his boots are practical: heavy-soled and sturdy.

  The van starts forward. He’s not ready. Ryan drops to the seat and drags on cotton socks that stick on his tacky feet. He leans to one side as the van rounds the corner. When it stops a block later, his boots are on and a short blade is tucked against his ankle. He bangs on the glass separating him and the driver.

  The screen slides open.

  ‘Ready?’

  Ryan blinks. He knows that growl and it doesn’t belong in this van. Ryan leans forward to prove himself wrong, but there he is: the Major, wearing a black T-shirt, grey cap and mirrored sunnies. Ryan’s never seen him in civvies. In over a year, the boss has never sat in on an assignment, let alone sat behind the wheel. Ryan’s eyes drop unconsciously to the Major’s mangled ear and the shrapnel scars that disappear beneath his beard.

  ‘Sir…?’ His voice is raw from shouting.

  ‘Are you set?’ the Major asks, impatient. He’s alone in the front. That’s also odd.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The Major nods at the ID around Ryan’s neck. ‘That won’t stand up under scrutiny so don’t draw attention to yourself. Do your job and get out. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous point. And Walsh?’ A pause. ‘Keep your wits about you. The option authorised for this job is a contingency only. It’s only to be exercised in the event of an immediate and deadly threat. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And don’t lose that satchel.’

  The Major pulls away as soon as Ryan clears the van. Leaves him standing on the footpath, his cotton shirt already sticking to his back. A street away, the protesters keep chanting. He sets off towards Pax Fed Tower, tapping out a quick beat on his thighs as he walks. He’s jittery, like before a big game. But this is more than nerves. He’s spooked.

  And he has no idea why.

  2

  Jules is on the forty-fifth floor wedged into a weird-shaped chair, her feet barely touching the polished marble floor. She tucks her fingers under her legs to stop them trembling. She’s trying to keep still because every time she changes position the armchair makes a farting noise, and whenever it does the receptionist’s head comes up to check on her.

  It’s been ten minutes since the sergeant relinquished his grip on Jules in the lobby downstairs. It took two security guards and a phone call from Pax Fed’s human resources director to convince him he could let her take the lift—and only then after he’d rifled through her handbag. Twice.

  Now she’s stuck in a chair so deep it’s like sitting in a giant baseball glove. Her neck is clammy, even in the artificially cool waiting area, and her skin buzzes. The air in here has been scrubbed clean and feels too thin, but if she can steady her breathing she’ll be fine. On the wall, a large screen has footage of golden wheat fields and fat sheep grazing in a lush paddock. A siren sounds from the street below, loud enough to cut through the folksy soundtrack.

  ‘I hope the police arrest the lot of them.’ The receptionist is watching Jules, her face half-hidden behind a vase stacked with red and white pebbles. Wispy chestnut hair frames green eyes and fuchsia lips. ‘It’d be nice to come to work without worrying about being spat on.’

  Jules nods but doesn’t answer, busy tamping down the anxiety. The receptionist waits a beat and then resumes tapping at her keyboard.

  The phone rings and Jules flinches.

  ‘This is Sheridan. Yes, she’s here.’ Jules holds her breath. ‘I’ll let her know.’ Sheridan hangs up. ‘They’re almost ready for you. Would you like a glass of water before you go in?’

  Jules swallows, nods. ‘Thank you.’

  Sheridan stands and straightens her skirt. She’s two or three years older than Jules and moves with casual grace. Jules watches her disappear behind frosted-glass doors. What would it be like to be so comfortable in your own skin? To be so effortlessly contained?

  Jules struggles out of the chair as soon as the door closes. It’s a good thing she’s alone because even with a knee-length skirt on she’s managed to flash the room. She checks her hair hasn’t escaped its bun and carefully applies another coat of lip gloss with a shaky touch. The sky tugs at her. She moves to the window, walking on her toes so her heels don’t click on the marble tiles.

  The clouds are heavier now and lower…no, she’s higher. Jules presses her palm against the cool glass, feels the tower thrum. If there’s something gathering in the sky she can’t sense it from in here. She takes back her hand and watches the ghost of her fingertips linger on the pane.

  ‘Hello, I’m To
m Paxton.’

  Jules whips around, heart in her throat.

  The chairman of the Pax Fed board isn’t in the room: he’s onscreen, smiling out from under an Akubra. He’s sitting on the back of a ute in a freshly ploughed paddock. Jules’ heart gives another startled skip and then settles. Of course he’s not here. Tom Paxton rarely leaves his penthouse; certainly not to introduce himself to eighteen-year-old convicted arsonists. The image onscreen cuts to giant trucks unloading grain; scientists in gleaming labs. Finally old Tom is back, this time with his son Bradford. Talking about resource demand, population growth and a hungry world, and reassuring Jules that Paxton Federation (nobody here calls it Pax Fed) is part of the solution. Thank God her mother isn’t here to listen to this.

  They’re still talking when Sheridan returns with the water.

  ‘I love your shoes.’ Sheridan hands over the glass, wiping condensation from her fingers onto her own skirt. ‘Gucci?’

  Jules nods and takes a careful sip. ‘Boxing Day sales, year before last.’

  They’d been celebrating. Her mum had been paid for a freelance job she’d picked up from one of the two editors who still talked to her. It was the most money they’d seen in months—since Angie De Marchi cut ties with the Agitators. The fridge was restocked and the bills paid, and her mum wanted to splurge. Even hugely discounted, the heels were beyond their budget but they’d both assumed there would be more work. More regular paydays.

  Sheridan smiles. ‘Killer taste.’ Her teeth are flawless.

  Tangled in nerves and memories, it takes Jules a second to recognise what just happened: Sheridan isn’t seeing her as Julianne De Marchi, Arsonist and Threat to the Community. All she’s seeing is another girl with great shoes.

  They’re the same.

  The realisation untethers something in Jules, sets her adrift in open waters. The phone rings again and Sheridan hurries to answer it, leaving Jules drowning in a longing she can barely name.

  ‘Right, Julianne.’ The smile lingers. ‘I can take you through now.’

  Jules follows her down a wide hallway, desperately trying to anchor herself. She needs to remember who she is, not who she wants to be. This isn’t the time to drop her guard, not when her life is about to be raked over and picked apart. Too much is riding on the next few minutes.

  The interview room is windowless, the walls bare. A large boardroom table takes up most of the available space. Sheridan ushers Jules in and retreats without speaking to either of the two people waiting on the other side of the table: a woman with short ginger hair and dangling hoop earrings, and a guy with a weirdly long neck—

  Jules falters.

  What is he doing here?

  It’s Bradford Paxton, co-vice chair of the Pax Fed board and number two on Angie De Marchi’s shit list (Tom Paxton has top spot). He glances at Jules before going back to the tablet in front of him, barely acknowledging her.

  Jules has never seen him in the flesh before. He’s a younger, leaner version of his father, and smaller than she would have expected. Less. His energy ripples across the table, cold and forceful.

  A touch on her elbow makes her flinch.

  ‘Julianne.’ It’s the redhead. She’s moved around the room without Jules noticing. ‘I’m Ruby.’ Jules forces a smile and gathers herself. They shake hands. Ruby’s palm is cool, her skin softly wrinkled. There’s no clamminess, no spike in her energy. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  Jules sits down and balances her handbag on her lap, her fingers again nervous. Is it normal for Bradford Paxton to interview for an internship? She takes out her resumé, notebook and pencil and sets them equal distance apart on the table. The polished surface catches the lights overhead and momentarily blinds her.

  ‘Usually our interns are second- or third-year students,’ Ruby says, back on her side of the table and acting like it’s no big deal Bradford’s in the room.

  Jules’ vision hasn’t quite cleared but she attempts eye contact. Nods. Maybe if she ignores Bradford like he’s ignoring her everything will be fine.

  ‘We were impressed by your application, Julianne. Your Year 12 results are exceptional and I see you’ve been accepted into Behavioural Science at QUT. Is there any reason you’ve opted not to move straight into study?’

  Jules flattens the crease in her resumé, glances at the notes she’s scribbled in the margins. Bradford Paxton and Ruby must know she can’t afford to go to university, not since the government halved the student loans scheme and her mother stopped getting work.

  ‘I’m hoping for real-world experience,’ she says, sounding more confident than she feels.

  ‘Why Paxton Federation?’

  A tight smile. ‘You offered me an interview.’

  Ruby’s lips soften, acknowledging the honesty. ‘And how did the Agitators react when they saw you downstairs?’

  Jules holds Ruby’s gaze but feels another set of eyes on her.

  ‘They think I’m here for them.’

  ‘Are you?’ Ruby asks. Not an accusation exactly.

  ‘No.’

  Ruby glances down at her paperwork as if needing to confirm her next question.

  ‘I see there’s been no further trouble since the incident two years ago.’

  It’s not a question so Jules doesn’t respond. But she doesn’t look away either, even when her cheeks flush. If they’re serious about giving her a job they can’t pretend she didn’t plead guilty to burning down a classroom block and science lab. Or, more precisely, destroying the wing Pax Fed donated to her school.

  ‘Do you feel that part of your life is behind you now?’ Ruby asks.

  ‘Yes.’ Jules says it without hesitation even though she knows she can’t make that promise. She wants it to be behind her. ‘The federal police can confirm that. So can my local station.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  The question is from Bradford. He’s watching her, his long fingers splayed on the table in front of him. Nails trimmed short. His head looks tiny at the end of that long neck, like a bearded turtle.

  ‘She can vouch for me too.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  Ruby clears her throat, smiles. She gestures to the piece of paper in front of him. ‘Let’s start with our formal questions, shall we?’

  Bradford pushes the page aside. ‘What does your mother think about you being here today?’

  ‘Is that relevant?’ Jules keeps her tone pleasant but unease snakes up into her chest.

  ‘If you were to have regular access to this building, would she have expectations of you?’

  ‘I don’t think…What sort of expectations?’

  ‘You know full well what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I really don’t.’

  He presses his lips together as if she’s being uncooperative. ‘Your mother’s obsessed with vilifying our company.’

  ‘My mother hasn’t been a journalist for two years.’

  ‘She hasn’t had a full-time job in two years. Angela De Marchi will always be a journalist. Why would you set foot in this building if not on her behalf?’

  Ruby shifts position in her chair. She glances at Bradford and there’s no doubt who’s in charge.

  ‘I’m here because I need a job.’

  Bradford laughs. ‘And you thought we would give you one?’

  It takes a beat before the humiliation hits, hot and sickening. Bradford blurs into a smudge of grey across the table.

  ‘Before your mother quit the Agitators she led a defamatory campaign against Paxton Federation, and you destroyed a building funded through our schools program.’

  ‘Mr Paxton, can we—’

  ‘No, Ruby. She’s not a child.’

  Jules drops her gaze to the notebook, tries to focus on questions she’ll never get to ask. She’d convinced herself that all the hard work, all the effort over the past two years had earnt her a fresh start. Even maybe with Pax Fed.

  But Angie was right: Jules was naive.

/>   ‘I need a job because my mother can’t get one,’ she says, measuring her words. ‘And that’s because you’ve threatened to pull advertising from anyone who publishes her work.’

  ‘Ah, I see paranoia runs in the family.’

  Anger flares and she forces it down. She’s good at it: she’s had plenty of practice.

  ‘Why persecute her? Angie left the Agitators—’

  ‘If your mother had her way, the world would stay hungry forever. She wants to feed the starving but only if we keep using the same methods that have failed us for a century.’

  ‘I think you’ll find my mother’s issues with your company run a little deeper than forcing farmers to use genetically modified grain and breed mutant sheep.’

  Bradford leans forward, everything about him sharpening. ‘So she’s still blaming us for your father’s death?’

  He says it so easily. It’s not easy to hear. Beneath her skin, the charge surges and stings and Jules has to get out of this room right now. She folds her resumé with a violent swipe and stands on shaking legs.

  ‘I know what people think of me and my mother, but if this had been a legitimate opportunity and you’d given me a job—’

  ‘Julianne.’ Ruby stands up, earrings jangling. ‘As far as I’m concerned this was a legitimate opportunity for you.’

  ‘You know nothing about my mother,’ Jules says to Bradford. ‘She would never ask me to do anything that compromised my values, no matter how much she hates this company and all it stands for.’

  ‘Please, Julianne—’

  ‘Thanks for your time, Ruby.’ It comes out splintered. Jules crushes the resumé back into her handbag.

  Stupid, stupid girl.

  Bradford sits back in his chair, loosens his tie and exhales as if the confrontation has been taxing on him. Jules forces herself to walk, not run, from the room, each step stilted. Face burning. The reception is empty—thank goodness—and she rounds the corner to the bank of lifts, stabs the button three times.

  The lift nearest her pings almost immediately and a second later the doors open. There’s a guy inside with a satchel slung across his chest. Tall, all shoulders, shaggy blond hair past his collar. Wearing a striped shirt and tie that looks a little too tight. He moves forward as if he’s getting out and then his eyes meet hers. He freezes.