The Last Girl (7 page)
Voices. Visions. Overlapping. Reverberating. For a second, people had a sense of wonder at tuning in the world as others experienced it. After that came their fear and panic when they realised they were laid bare to everyone. It was like a thousand channels screamed in all of their heads as their social statuses updated automatically and unfiltered from their darkest streams of consciousness. Language barriers offered little protection: thoughts and feelings behind foreign words needed no translation as they surged from head to head.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, plugged my ears with my thumbs. If I wasn’t crazy then this was the world’s worst nightmare.
‘Wake up, Danby!’ I screamed.
But I could barely hear myself over the noise getting louder and stronger.
I accidentally slipped into signals from the noise and entered spaces that should have been secret. Across the road Ben was furious that Lisa was on the pill when they were supposed to be trying for a baby—and she was revolted that the file marked ‘Scanned Tax Receipts’ on his tablet held terabytes of porn. Next door to us another First Family was crumbling as details of Karen’s drinking relapse, Doug’s furtive gambling and their son Alex’s homosexuality all poured out. In a house a few doors down Renee was shattered that Kenny really did think she was stupid and he was filthy that she’d been bored by him for years. Over on Second Street, elderly retirees Pete and Edie were going the other way as they realised beyond words that they really shared one soul and wordlessly exchanged regrets that they’d argued over nothing for decades. But like minds like theirs were the exception. Most people’s desperation to suppress their secrets only blasted them louder. The elephants in every room had been set loose to stampede.
He ate greasy burgers despite last year’s heart attack and hid his bonuses and sexted his secretary and pretended to believe in his wife’s God and thought he deserved a bit of consideration and wished his boyfriend would lose some weight and gazed at his high school sweetheart’s profile and had the divorce mapped out and knew those stocks had been toxic and she took his punches and pretended to deserve them and worked back to avoid the kids and felt bad still about cheating on her final-year exams and hated herself for hating her love handles and forgiving his and made faces at him under the burqa and really hated her girlfriend for backing out of IVF and left the baby in the bath alone while she was online dating and wished he’d have another heart attack.
I felt like I was swirling towards a whirlpool. Opening my eyes and ears again only made it more awful. Stephanie dead. Dad unconscious. My mind reeled away again.
This time I touched down somewhere familiar. Jacinta’s bedroom. I wasn’t just inside her teenage retreat. I was inside her terror and sorrow and anger and confusion as she sobbed convulsively with her back to her door.
Can’t-be-happening-Not-adopted-A-bad-dream
-
I-hate-
you . . .
Mr and Mrs Chang screamed at her and each other and themselves from other barricaded rooms.
Don’t-be-stupid!-Wasn’t-my-idea-to-hide-it-Your-father . . .
That’s-a-lie!-You’re-the-one-who . . .
‘Jacinta,’ I said. Jacinta.
She couldn’t hear me, couldn’t find me like I’d found her. It was as though I was in a cone of silence or on a different plane of existence.
Then Jacinta was gone as I ricocheted elsewhere. Alex knew Karen was thinking about a drink even as she mouthed words about loving him and they both hated Doug for promising God he’d give up gambling if He would cure his lush wife and ungay his son. Ben smashed windows as he stormed from the house ashamed and angry, but Lisa’s mind was already suburbs away and brawling with her mother’s self-pity at being denied a grandchild. Elsewhere, dark thoughts rapidly metastasised into darker actions. In horror, I witnessed Blago across the road punching demure Karina into unconsciousness just to get her out of his head.
You gutless bastard! I mentally screamed at Blago.
I was the one voice he
couldn’t
hear. Not that it mattered with dozens or hundreds of others engulfing him in their hatred.
I tried to reach Karen and Doug and Ben and Lisa and Edie and Pete. No one could hear me and I couldn’t hold anyone in my mind for more than a moment. But I shared their relief as a siren cut through the clutter. Although my emergency call had gone unanswered, the wailing getting louder and closer said my distress had been picked up anyway.
Any hope I had that first responders would rush in to save the day burned away when I locked onto the black mind behind the siren. Death grip on his steering wheel. Screaming through Beautopia Point’s streets. Sound and signal so intense it sucked me and many others into his consciousness.
Those thoughts didn’t compel me to run onto our front lawn and flag him down. But I also didn’t want to believe what I was tuning from his mind. So I scrambled up the spiral staircase to our Captain’s Nest to see with my own eyes.
Beneath me our enclave gleamed under a silken blue sky for one last second. Then the suburban still life shattered as the police cruiser screeched down First Street and skidded to a stop in front of number seven. The home of our neighbour: Harold.
Harry-you’re-dead-You-mongrel-dog-Dead!
Constable Steve Daley had been a chilled kinda cop until he’d made a Christmas wake-up call to his wife. Without knowing what was happening he delved past her sleepy sweet nothings and slipped into the cellar of her memory.
‘I’m gonna kill him,’ Steve had thundered down the phone.
I’m-a-cop-I-should’ve-known!
‘Kill him.’
Sarah stopped murmuring. ‘What?’
Then she knew that he knew. She shrieked and threw her phone against the bedroom wall. The call had ended—and there was a city between them—but that didn’t stop Steve screaming and Sarah pleading.
He’s-dead-baby-I’m-gonna-kill-him.
Don’t-sweetheart-please-Don’t-No-don’t.
With that scene in mind—his, hers, mine,
ours—
Steve sprinted across his father-in-law’s front lawn. Harold, Sarah’s father, our neighbour in good standing, who’d often offered to babysit me and Evan, had locked himself in the upstairs bathroom, was watching helplessly as his world disintegrated and his death approached.
Moments ago Harold had been lathering himself in the shower when the water and steam seemed to evaporate. Somehow he was looking through his wife Martha’s eyes as she marinated steaks for their lunch and daydreamed about how happy they’d been that Christmas in Rome when Sarah was five. Then Martha was mortified to see through Harry’s eyes as he absently soaped himself. Worse, so much worse, was that in this sudden echo chamber she heard her husband telling himself he’d never done anything to make their daughter avoid Christmas with them. Then Harry knew Martha was sharing his mind—and that she knew the truth.
Martha’s scream sent Harry spinning out of the shower. He saw his naked body in the mirror and knew he could never cover himself again. Martha sank to her knees and clawed at her eyes with chilli-smeared fingers.
Harry’s heart pains started as Steve’s hatred closed in.
Please-God-don’t-Steve-I-was-sick-couldn’t-help-it—
He fell to the wet tiles, curled in a ball, clutched his chest.
Don’t-die-before-I-kill-you
.
Steve shouldered through the front door and stormed inside. He bounded up the stairs—and I saw it how he saw it, how it refracted from Harry and from Martha and from neighbours and strangers who were houses, blocks and suburbs away.
Drawing his service pistol, Steve paused outside the bathroom door.
Kill-him!-Kill-him!-Shoot-the-bastard!-What-he-did-was-
unforgivable-Death’s-too-good-If-it-was-my-daughter—
My stomach lurched at the communal consciousness cheering for cold-blooded murder. The mob baying for blood didn’t even want to punish Harry or to avenge Sarah.
At-least-I’m-not . . . I-might-be-bad-but . . . There’s-nothing-
lower . . .
They thought persecuting and punishing the pederast could somehow minimise their own now-public transgressions.
Steve got flashes of support from brother officers spread across the city—
Do-it-mate-I-won’t-arrest-you-Insanity-defence-You’ll-get-
off-Kill-the-f—
—even as he was appalled by their helpless mental confessions.
Not-like-the-money-belonged-to-any-Just-a-bit-of-
recreational-use-Didn’t-frame-him-not-really—
Then, above everything, Steve saw and heard and felt Sarah: clear and calm and strong.
I-love-you-I-need-you-Come-home-
Please-don’t—
Steve didn’t. He lurched away, banging off the walls, trying to get his head straight.
Sarah-I’m-coming-babe—
Inches away, on the other side of the door, Harry thought he might live. Until he heard the violently outraged chorus of men and women screeching from near and far.
Drag-you-into-the-Rip-you-limb-from-Hang-you-up-by-
your—
Then the screaming
really
started—screaming and scorching heavy metal. It was as if the blue sky was ripping open to let in the howling abyss of the universe. A massive airbus had materialised low over the river west of us. Surging from the dirty bloom of its jet engines, the plane was bearing down on Beautopia Point.
Captain Wahhaj Ahmad had been flying holiday-makers between Sydney and Bali for so long that he sometimes forgot why he’d been placed in the job. Days would go by without him checking the [email protected] account for the only message it’d ever receive. That Christmas morning he
had
remembered—and found as usual he had no
jihadi
business. Getting ready for work he wondered for the millionth time if he was a puppet who didn’t know his strings had been cut. His file could’ve been lost—a victim of drone bombings or simple clerical error—and he’d never be the wiser.
Wahhaj had once wanted it all—martyrdom, his father avenged, the virgins awaiting in Paradise—and had the patience to wait for his moment of glory. Back then other successful operations made him sure his turn would come soon. But months stacked into years. Those years piled into a decade and now it was nearly two. At this rate he’d be up for long-service leave. Not something a suicide pilot expected. But deep down Wahhaj gave thanks that God was not willing. He liked his life. He liked drinking beer with his infidel colleagues. He liked the idea of changing his name to Wayne and settling down with a nice western girl.
Soon after this morning’s take off Wahhaj suffered the mother of all communication meltdowns, his headset blasting what sounded like every air traffic controller in the world going totally mad.
‘Can’t you hear that?’ he yelled to his first officer.
The young guy’s lips didn’t move but Wahhaj heard him above the craziness anyway.
Hear-what-old-man?
That’s when Wahhaj knew. This wasn’t talk about vectors, turbulence, runways, coordinates.
Better-not-drink-too-much-Bikini-still-fits-nicely-She’s-a-
bit-of-all-right-Keep-cool-and-they-won’t-find-it-Swim-up-bar-
last-time-was-awesome . . .
These were passengers settling into the flight and anticipating hotel massages and sunset beaches and holiday hook-ups. 22E was pissed that the drinks service was taking so long. 15A was pretending he was in a spaceship. 34A had ecstasy pills hidden in his luggage. 34B thought 34A was cute and was wondering how she’d initiate conversation. The crew was going through the motions of the safety demo as they battled hangovers and thought about house deposits and planned New Year celebrations.
Wahhaj bounced uncontrollably between them. Then he wasn’t alone in his mind anymore.
Hey-I’m-flying-the-rocket-ship
, the kid in 15A thought as he saw the cockpit through the pilot’s eyes.
22E:
How’d-I-get-in-the-cockpit?
34A:
God-not-an-acid-flashback-not-now-please!
In an instant they were inside the head Wahhaj had tried to turn into a fortress. They
knew
.
Suicide-pilot!-We-gotta-take-him-out!-Please-no!-Don’t-
want-to-die!
‘What’s going on?’ the first officer said.
I’ve-got-to-take-
him-out.
Dude-I-would—
‘never do anything,’ Wahhaj said.
You-checked-that-email-this-morning.
The younger man tried to get up.
Gotta-get-the-gun-from-the—
Wahhaj’s brutal elbow-crunch shattered his face and set him back in his seat unconscious. Everyone on board saw it and screamed.
Oh-my-God!-Please-God-no . . .
Wahhaj hit the emergency door-lock button. It’d stop them charging into the cockpit. But it couldn’t block the stampede to judgement. All they saw was a suicide robot.
You-dirty-bastard-We-should’ve-nuked-We-gotta-take-him—
Anger burned in him. He’d prove them right.
God-is-Great! You-do-this-to-yourselves
!
Wahhaj plugged his phone into the plane’s audio system and toggled to his favourite track. Maybe if he played it loud enough it’d drown out the headbanging he was taking from all sides. AC/DC’s ‘Highway To Hell’ blared through the cabin as he turned the airbus back to the silver harbour and shimmering skyline.
I knew all of that in the split-second it took me to drop, screaming, behind the Captain’s Nest parapet. The plane roared so low overhead it shook me to my marrow and I feared the jet engines would suck me up and spray me out like wet confetti. Then the shadow and thunder receded. I staggered up, amazed to still be alive, and watched the plane race down the river, saw the city loom larger in the cockpit window. Wahhaj’s intensity eclipsed all else for a few moments. Even through the AC/ DC, we all knew what he knew. Speed: six hundred kilometres an hour. Weight: half a million kilograms. Fuel: a quarter of a million litres. Result: the explosive force of a small nuclear weapon. Target: the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
‘No, don’t!’ I yelled with the rest of the city.
No-don’t!