Draw the Brisbane Line (20 page)

They found a couple of motorcycles in Noosa.  That’s how Epoch phrased it.  Biff didn’t bother arguing, he already knew
that
would be a waste of time, but he saw it for what it was: they nicked a couple of bikes from a fancy house up on the point.

It was the third house they visited that day.  Another thing they found was a safe bolted to the floor inside a shoe cupboard.  Epoch opened it like a tin of tuna, or his explosives did.  When the door came off it went straight through the cupboard, across the bedroom, and out the window in a spray of glass and plaster.

‘Wow,’ was all Epoch could say before raiding the contents.

Biff pocketed some earrings and a nice men’s watch, while Epoch stuffed envelopes into his backpack after first carefully fingering their contents.

‘Bearer bonds,’ he said.  ‘You can have some from the next place.’

Biff wasn’t sure he wanted them.  They sounded like … like
homework
.

The motorcycles, a couple of Yamaha Supersports with pristine blue and black paintwork, threaded them through the snarled traffic with a speed which irritated the other motorists, though it still took a lot longer than it would have on a normal night.  They were slow at the beginning as they took time to get used to the bikes.  By the time they reached Surfers Paradise, winding through residential streets from the northern end of the coast, the chaos Epoch had predicted was well underway.

‘Ho-lee shit Brendan,’ Epoch said.  ‘Look at
this
.’

Biff didn’t need any prodding to look.  Twilight gave way to dusk, but the skyline over Surfers Paradise remained lit by a dozen flickering fires in the blocks near the beach.  Sirens howled in ceaseless protest, but no force of police cars or fire engines was ever going to contain this riot.

That’s what it was, Biff realised, a riot.  Looking down the old narrow Gold Coast highway, every second or third car sat burning by the side of the road, and those that weren’t were smashed beyond recognition.  Three young men in board shorts and t-shirts, possibly still in their teens, charged at the glass window of a duty-free store, a café heater carried between them like a battering ram.  They whooped as the first impact created a flower of fragmentation in the centre of the pane.  Giggling, they backed up and repeated the charge, and this time the glass came free from the frame and fell into the store in a shattered mess.  All up and down the street that same scene repeated, or had already been played out on a stage now stripped and dishevelled.

A security guard who ate most if not all the pies staggered past them, his black shirt flapping loose from his trousers, a forty-inch television in its box balanced awkwardly against his shoulder and his head.  ‘Queenslander!’ he shouted as he ran.  He tripped on something, maybe just his own feet, and the TV continued its forward motion without him and hit the ground with a pessimistic crack.  ‘Fuck!’ he shouted.  He turned around and ran back the way he’d come.

‘Should we follow him?’ Biff shouted over the rumble of their bikes.

Epoch slipped his phone from one of his many pockets.  He spent a couple of minutes tapping and swiping before making a decision.  ‘A bit further south,’ he said.  ‘Pacific Fair shopping centre, that’s where the action is.’

‘I thought we wanted houses,’ Biff said.  ‘Not shops.’

‘We do Brendan, we do,’ Epoch said with a wide grin.  ‘But the cream is a bit further south, so we need to mobilise some chaos.’

They weaved between abandoned and flaming cars on the highway, their bikes topped up from a vintage Datsun parked near the Pink Poodle.  Biff’s sinuses still burned from starting up the siphon, and his throat was raw from shouting.

That was Epoch’s idea, the shouting.  He thought if they joined in the war whoops and threw in an occasional Queenslander, they might not be tackled from the bikes.  It seemed to work.

‘Queenslander!’ Epoch shouted as they slid past a clutch of rioters who looked like they were trying to rape an empty police car.  One of them shouted back a response in kind.

One guy wearing nothing but tattoos was mock-humping the exhaust pipe while his mate filmed it on his phone.  He shouted, ‘Can you squeal like a pig?’ while he thrusted, sweating and panting, and Biff was suddenly unsure if he was pretending.

It was like a street party for fuckwits.

Biff enjoyed the feel of the bike, the weight of it becoming familiar as he leaned into turns and corners.  He began to trust it as if it were an animal, a horse who knew its own limits and capabilities.  Epoch seemed less comfortable.  Biff thought it might be because he didn’t weigh enough, even with all the gear he had stuffed into those jacket pockets and the backpack.  Still, he managed to hold his balance and he avoided hitting anyone or anything.  He led a charmed survival.

They passed beneath the old monorail track which connected the casino on one side of the highway with the shops and hotel on the other.  It had been years since a carriage had made the journey, but it stayed where it was, a monument to bad ideas.  Biff glanced up as they went under it and saw movement just before something large and dark dropped in the air above him.  He swerved as the potted palm hit the road with a muffled crack.

‘Cunts!’ he shouted back over his shoulder when they were clear of the track.  He thought he heard Epoch chuckling ahead of him.

They came to stop at the bottom of the wide street which separated Jupiter’s Casino on the right from Pacific Fair shopping centre on the left.  Biff had thought the scenes along the road through Surfer’s Paradise had been chaotic.  Looking between the casino and Pacific fair, he automatically reset his personal definition of chaos.

A fire engine laid on its back like a submissive dog, cruel masters dancing over it and beating it with pipes and bricks and boots, beating it so hard that it would never misbehave, not ever again.  People streamed between the shops and the casino.  Biff watched as two men, barely older than boys, emerged from the casino grounds carrying a craps table between them, giggling like they’d just pranked their teacher.  They turned right and stagger-jogged up the road, away from the beach.  A group of five girls, completely naked but for gold and silver jewellery wrapped around any patch of flesh it would stretch to, ran
into
the casino.  ‘Queenslander!’ one of them shouted, a blonde, her boobs and her bum jiggling and dancing alive in the flicker of flames which were everywhere. 
Everywhere
.  Cars, shops, even trees joined in this communal bonfire.  Biff saw plenty of cop cars but no cops, ambos but no paramedics, fire engines as abandoned as the one on its roof.  He knew it shouldn’t bother him, but he really hoped none of them had been badly hurt.  They were just trying to do their job, to help.

‘First things first,’ Epoch said.  ‘Let’s find somewhere quiet to park the bikes, yeah?  We’ll go to the casino first, then the shops.’

‘You think we’ll be able to get to the cash in the casino?’ Biff said.  The thought of it worried him.  Robbing a casino was too much like robbing a bank for his liking.

‘Fuck no,’ Epoch said.  ‘But that’s what the people
in
there are hoping for.  We just need to redirect their energies.’

Epoch Jones
@epoch

Judgement day for the rich $HIT$ of the country.  Today we eat them whole! Revolution at Pacific Fair.  #drawtheline

Dean Bossman
@deebo27

We draw the line in the sand now.  No more rich and poor.  We’re taking it back. #drawtheline

Tom Holden
@tomholden

@deebo27, there will always be rich and there will always be poor.  Encouraging this stupidity is just ensuring which side of the line you’ll stay on.

Dean Bossman
@deebo27

What do you know @tomholden?  Over in New York in your Manhattan apartment?  I know which side of the line you’re on.

Tom Holden
@tomholden

@deebo27, I’m confused.  You seem to be opposed to lines and also in favour of creating them.  Your #drawtheline tag conveys a mixed message.

Dean Bossman
@deebo27

Fuck off and die @tomholden.

Billy Billy Moore
@b_billybilly6

QUEENSLANDER!!!!

Her name was Greta Dunleavy.  She’d left the house to walk to the local shops for some groceries over four hours earlier, found the shops all closed, then walked another half hour to the local pub, which was open.  Not seeing any reason to rush back home, she decided to stay, have a few glasses of wine and a hot meal.  The kitchen was down to pies and mash, and that suited her just fine.  Before she left she convinced the publican to sell her half a dozen eggs, some milk and some bread.

‘Had a few too many glasses of the red stuff,’ Greta said.  ‘Needed to stop and catch my breath about half a dozen times between there and here.’

Greta stretched out in her floral print armchair, and the frame creaked despite her negligible mass, like it was saying hello.  Jenny ran her hand over the fabric on the matching sofa.  She wasn’t sure what to call it, besides tapestry. 

When Greta had appeared in the kitchen, Jenny stumbled and tripped over explanations and excuses as though they were hard slick patches of ice.  Banksia quickly came to the rescue, meeting Greta as though she were an old friend, and giving her a full account of their journey.  Of course, Greta knew who Banksia was — but Jenny strongly suspected that even if Banksia hadn’t played the local celebrity card, Greta would have been equally warm and welcoming.  There wasn’t a trace of malice in her thin, worn features.  It was her eyes.  Despite the toll the Queensland weather and time had taken on her flesh, her skin, her hair and her bones, her eyes remained youthful and wide, green orbs with a sparkle of mischief.

She offered to make them some sandwiches and tea.  There were some tins of tuna in the cupboard, and now she had bread.  Jenny was quick to say yes, and Banksia was equally quick to apologise on her behalf.  ‘Bun in the oven,’ she stage-whispered, jabbing her thumb in Jenny’s direction.

They finished the sandwiches in a few minutes, and Jenny sipped from her second cup of tea and munched on a shortbread.  With food in her belly and soft, motionless furniture under her body, she suddenly felt as though she’d been drugged.  Sleep was going to hit her soon, and hard.

‘Town’s drying up faster than I am,’ Greta said.  ‘Going to have to start breaking into houses myself, if this keeps up, just to find food.’

‘You’re staying put?’ Jenny said.

Greta snorted.  ‘Where else would I go?  And how?  Don’t have a car anymore, government won’t let me have a license.’

‘Don’t you have family?’ Jenny said.

‘Sure,’ Greta said.  ‘Got a son, James, daughter-in-law Dahlia, two gorgeous grandchildren, Evan and Gillian.  They live in New York.  They want me to move over there and stay with them, leave all this.’

‘And you don’t want to leave all this?’ Jenny said.

‘Don’t want to be a
burden
.  They’re a family of four living in a three bedroom apartment.  Where would they put me?  And what am I going to do in New York?  No, I’d like to see out my days here, in my own home.’  She finished with a cough, a papery rattle in her chest underlining her point.  ‘Even if I can’t mow the bloody lawn.’

‘Fair enough,’ Banksia said.  ‘Greta, I don’t mean to be rude, but do you mind if we stick on the telly?  I haven’t been able to get much in the way of radio signal.’

‘Sure, go ahead sweetheart.  Cable seems to be working OK.  A bit sick of watching it, myself, it never went off at the pub.  All the drama, all the bad news.  I think it helped them sell more drinks.’

Banksia lifted the remote from the thick silky oak coffee table and powered on the set, a new model LED hanging from the vintage tongue-in-groove panelling and looking utterly absurd in its jarring sleekness.

‘Nice set,’ Tait said.

Greta grunted, and triggered a brief coughing spasm.  ‘Gift from James last Christmas.  Barely know how to turn it on, let alone figure out most of the things it does.  He said it’s a
smart
TV.  Too smart for me.’

A blue and white Samsung logo swirled on the screen, chiming pleasantly before resolving into the familiar view of a live news feed.  Jenny forgot all about her still-unsatisfied stomach as she leaned forward to try and digest all the information travelling across the big television, and then an image flashed up on the centre frame which caused her to forget momentarily how to breathe.

Dave.  Dave’s face, a happy picture, looked like it was one of his post-victory shots.  Then some shaky camera footage of Dave from behind, standing in the middle of the road.  A man in front of him held a rifle, started to raise it.  A woman to Dave’s right in military fatigues held a handgun in her outstretched hand, aimed at the man with the rifle.  She was saying something but it was hard to make out with the poor sound quality, a lot of background chatter and engine noise.  She could guess, though.  It’d be
drop the gun
, or maybe
drop the fucking gun motherfucker
.  But the motherfucker didn’t drop the fucking gun, and although Jenny knew the video wasn’t live, she started sending the army woman telepathic messages, the way sports fans do when they’re watching their team play. 
Shoot him
, she screamed in her head. 
Shoot him!
  The sound quality might have been terrible, but there was no mistaking the
pop
as the woman’s handgun jerked, and the man with the rifle went down with red spray fanning out from the point where his head had been a moment before.  Jenny didn’t look away from the scene as Tait did. She didn’t say
oh my God
as Banksia did. Maintaining her telepathic link with the army woman, she said
thank you, thank you, thank you
.

‘Holy shit,’ Banksia said.  ‘Holy fucking shit.’

‘Oh, right,’ Greta said, her eyes starting to drift shut as she slumped further into the armchair.  ‘You guys haven’t seen this yet.  That’s all everyone was talking about at the pub.  Stupid bloody mong, probably didn’t make him any dumber putting a bullet through his brain.’

Greta’s voice was a dim background buzz as Jenny locked her focus on the TV screen.  Now Dave’s smiling profile was joined by a less-cheery image, a personnel-style shot of a grave woman with Mediterranean features in military green, the television coverage naming her as Corporal Pia Papetti.

‘Papetti and Holden were last seen driving north on the Pacific Highway in a US Army-issued Humvee,’ the news reader said.  She was doing her best to sound concerned, a serious journalist, but Jenny could tell she was just dying to gasp
scandal!
  ‘It is still unclear why Holden is with Corporal Papetti, and the US Army is unable to provide an explanation.  Mr Holden’s associates have tried contacting him on his mobile phone, but have been unable to get through with the unreliable network coverage affecting most of the state, and indeed most of the country.  Australian Federal Police say there is currently no evidence that Mr Holden has been abducted.’

‘Oh!’ Banksia shouted at the TV.  ‘Oh yes!  Come on, stoke that fear, you scaremongering shits! 
Currently no evidence that Mr Holden has been abducted
.  Also, there is currently no evidence that New Zealand isn’t planning a military assault on Tasmania.  Also, there is no evidence that drinking spring water causes cancer.  Tune in after the break for a fresh terror sandwich!’

Banksia hurled abuse at the television reporters, waving both middle fingers at them like they were swords.  Most of her tirade was lost on Jenny as her view of the room dimmed, all sound dropping to a flat muffle in her head.  Fires appeared onscreen, burning cars and buildings.  She watched a moth bounce off the television screen flames.  It left a faint floury smudge before wobbling its way towards a wall sconce, where it bounced, reeled away, then bounced, reeled away, then —

‘OK?’ Banksia said to her with her hands clamped around her biceps.  Her face was right in hers.  How long had she been there?  ‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ she said.

‘Sure,’ Jenny said.  Her voice sounded like some other television playing in a dusty distant room in her head.  She felt wetness near her feet, and looked down to see her upended teacup on the floor with the thin handle cracked cleanly off.  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.

‘It’s fine dear,’ Greta said.  ‘Don’t worry about it.  Got dozens of the things.’

She needed to sit down.  She
was
sitting down.  ‘Why is Dave’s picture on TV?’ she said.

‘He’s fine,’ Banksia said.  ‘He’s safe.  He was involved in an incident, that’s all.  He wasn’t hurt.’

‘The man with the rifle,’ Jenny said.  ‘She shot him.’

‘Yes, yes she did,’ Banksia said.

‘Right in the head,’ she said dreamily.

Jenny turned her attention away from Banksia, away from the spilled tea, and focused back on the television.  Dave’s face was gone and the newsreader seemed to have moved onto the next story, the big story.  The screen was filled with flames and flashes of angry people and broken and breaking things.  White lettering overlaid the top quarter of the screen, shouting like a big-dollar advertising slogan: QUEENSLAND CHAOS.

‘Where … Where is that?’ Jenny said.

‘Brisbane,’ Greta said.  ‘All the way down to the Tweed.  It’s mostly looting on the Queensland side, but it looks like Tweed Heads is turning into a full-scale riot-zone.’

The images on the screen didn’t make sense.  Rows of shop-fronts stood in a ragged mess like some cartoon villain’s shattered teeth as people ran in and out carrying clothing, televisions, bags filled with smaller items.  She saw one man crouch and sidestep through the jagged glass in the doorway of a gift card store with a cash register tucked under his arm like a rugby ball, a hood half-concealing his face.  More hoodies attacked a TAB, pulling fixtures from the walls when they realised the cash was all gone.  Flames ran across neighbouring McDonalds and KFC stores in a shopping centre food-court.  A line of police cars and the station they were fronting all blazed, while a dark mass of rioters cheered their destruction.  What made these scenes nonsensical were the location names accompanying them: Queen Street Mall, Surfers Paradise, Robina, Tweed Heads.  These scenes belonged in Middle Eastern war-zones, in Baltic trouble-spots; they had no business in south east Queensland.  It’s the sunshine state, for Christ’s sake.

‘Local police have been unable to cope with the growing tide of violence,’ the newsreader said. ‘While there have been calls from all quarters for military intervention in the region, the Prime Minister has made it clear that this is a crisis the country needs to solve by civil means.’

‘They’re saying it’s the shooting that kicked it off,’ Greta said.  ‘Riots don’t come out of nowhere, for sure, but there’s usually some small spark that sets them off.  Racial, social, criminal, it doesn’t make much difference once the hoons gather some momentum.  Some of the news people are saying it’s a
small pocket of anti-American activists
who are driving it.  Others are saying it’s anarchists, opportunists, garden-variety criminals.’

‘Who do you think it is?’ Tait said.

‘Mmm.  I don’t know.  Maybe all of the above.  You kids ever hear of the Brisbane Line?’

Jenny, Banksia and Tait all looked at each other with equally blank stares.

‘I take it that’s a no, then,’ Greta said, and chuckled.  ‘I’m not surprised.  It’s an old folk thing, before my time even.  Second World War, when Japan was posing a threat to Australia, the US military stepped in to help then, too.  The man in charge on the US side — General Macarthur I think it was — proposed consolidating defences around the southern states, not committing too many resources to anything north of Brisbane.  You know what I’m saying?  The Brisbane Line, it was a line of sacrifice.  Not a popular idea with Queenslanders, as you can imagine.  I don’t think the plan was ever implemented, but many believe that plan sowed the seed of antagonism between Queensland and New South Wales.  They didn’t like the idea of being abandoned, and they didn’t like their streets being filled with American servicemen.  I suppose the Battle of Brisbane is a new one to you too, hey?’

Jenny had no idea what that might be.  It sounded like a boxing match.

‘Didn’t think so,’ Greta said.  ‘I’m a bit light on the detail myself, but it’s another World War Two thing.  My dad told me lot of these stories when I was old enough to hear them — he was there, you see.  In Brisbane, in the army.  I used to see it all so clearly, but that was a long time ago.  Dad always said the Battle of Brisbane, what happened there, it was more disturbing than anything else he saw in the war, because it seemed so
misplaced
.  An American soldier had a disagreement with a digger and shot him.  Relations were already on edge between the Yanks and the diggers, so a two-day brawl ensued.  Some were killed.  The reason I bring it up is, history repeats.  We have short memories for bad things in this country, and it’s always shock and dismay and
how could this happen?
  But these things happen, again, and again, but we don’t learn from them, do we?  So now, we have an American solider killing an Australian
in
Australia.  What happens?  Bloody riots of course.  Only this is bigger than Brisbane, isn’t it?’

Banksia nodded.  ‘Looks that way.’

Jenny heard what they were saying, absorbed some of it, but she was still transfixed by the flickering images of violence and chaos on the television.  She glanced over at Tait who was equally absorbed by the televised destruction and random violence.  Jenny remembered why he was travelling with them, to find his uncle in Brisbane.  Had he seen any familiar streets or landmarks in the montage of mindless vandalism to give him cause to worry?  Jenny wanted to go over to where he was sitting and put her arm around his shoulder, tell him sweet lies that everything would be alright, that they’d find his uncle in his home waiting for him and that everything would be al
right
.  She wanted to … she wanted to … sleep.  She let her eyelids touch for a second, and wasn’t even aware of the moment sleep reached up inside her skull and flicked the
off
switch.