The Worm King Read online

  Gizab was there, drawn more or less where it should be. The more he studied the layout, noticing the accurate border grid references, it was exactly where Gizab ort to be in southern Afghanistan; uncannily so. There were also spots marked in he hadn’t heard of, like the Battle of Kadesh, and towns he thought didn’t exist anymore, like Persepolis and Babylon.

  Then he remembered lying in the dust that day at Gizab, thinking not one single, person in the whole of fucking Australia would’ve heard of this pisspot little town. This place where he was murdering girls. Not one solitary person would even know where it is.

  It appeared he’d been wrong.

  Come on, it’s the wake for Azziz! Just four left going and they’d turned off all the lanterns, bar one. Forsyth mixed the drinks. No more gin, no more rum, so they were down to tequila.

  At the corner of the L-shaped sofa Murray was telling Wiremu what he saw leaving New Zealand, about the volcanoes. Wiremu’s head slumped and his shoulders shook. Forsyth left the drinks on the floor by their feet then stumbled back to Astrid.

  How can you expect a man to see beauty or joy after finding out his country went up in a puff of smoke and everyone he knew back there’s toast? It didn’t make sense, and he slid even deeper into the hole this awful life had become. You think you’ve reached rock-bottom, then whack! One more notch down you thought you’d never get vaguely near. Whack! That’s another plank gone.

  Whack!

  Much, much later as the squealer approached the final pour only Forsyth and Astrid were left upright, still drinking, and he was getting tired of conversation but she wanted to know more.

  ‘Anyway, the army’ve always had their eye on me.’ He tried to laugh but it felt forced and empty.

  ‘So you really used to speak to the submarine captains too?’

  ‘That’s right. They’d give me the hydrophonic readings and bingo, a few calculations later you could forecast anything. Simple ’shrigonometry.’

  ‘I’ve always wondered what it’d be like down on a submarine, travelling the world.’

  ‘You don’t see much. And security’s usually pretty tight.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Hiccup. Giggle. ‘Sorry.’ She lifted a hand to cover her mouth then placed the other hand lightly on his arm. ‘I’m not used to drinking tequila: it’s got a funny taste, hasn’t it?’ Her voice slurred.

  ‘That’ll be the salt.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ho Ho Ho

  Krystal stood on the chair with her ear pressed to the hole. The lights were on and she could hear Mr Snow through the wall, talking to . . . Bob? Natasha held her legs so she didn’t fall off. They’d both been loath to touch the bag Bob left but as soon as the lights came on, Krystal put it in the bathroom, out of sight.

  Mr Snow said: ‘I’m going to take the twins to Yass. Unfortunately I think I’ll have to actually swap one for the tanker this time. You can keep the other one though.’

  ‘Is it an anyfing?’ Bob croaked. His voice sounded raspy, like he’d just smoked lots of cigarettes all at the same time.

  ‘Anything you like,’ Mr Snow replied. There were slobbering noises, much like a cartoon pig feeding.

  For another minute she listened as Dick talked about some dinner, then Krystal pulled away from the hole and looked down at her sister in shock.

  ‘What are they saying? What is it!?’ Natasha whispered urgently.

  ‘Just stuff about clouds.’ Krystal got down, shaking. Without warning the lights went off. They felt their way back to the bed. ‘Can you hold my hand?’

  Zzzzzzzzzssssssshhht!

  ‘Guess what?’ said Krystal quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Christmas Day.’

  Zzzzzzzzzssssssshhht!

  Zzzzzzzzzssssssshhht!

  Zzzzzzzzzssssssshhht!

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Ruarangi Special

  Āmiria was about to give the biggest presentation of her life. In the audience sat Captain Forsyth, Lord Brown, Astrid, Winston, John the Hat, and most importantly of all her father, and the men from his gang. Behind them on the long sofa were Sgt Kevin, Tim, Zelda, David and three of the men from Tamworth.

  It would be a hard audience. Hard but fair, she hoped.

  The final obstacle to overcome had been the actual naming of the thing. Captain Forsyth suggested the Modified-Schwartz Fragmentation Device, or MSFD for short, but to Āmiria’s mind this sounded way boring.

  The device in question rested innocently on the table in the Yass furniture showroom. A lantern stood on a smaller, but taller, ornamental table two meters distant, which was a good space between the device and the light even though the lantern ran off a rechargeable battery. Static electricity—no one was taking any chances with that much petrol and explosives slopping around. In addition to the fuel and grenades were empty pots, mixing bowls, piles of rubber bands and a drinking glass wrapped with tinfoil. The crowd appeared to be sitting as far back from the confusing array as they could.

  If Schwartzy could name his one after himself, why couldn’t she use her own name: her Tūhoe name, for the one she’d designed? That’s why she’d decided to call her invention the Ruarangi Special.

  Nearly a week had flown by since the big fight at the depot, and tomorrow was Tuesday. Āmiria had wondered if she should mention Henry in the presentation because the need to resort to this was mainly due to him. Henry arrived on a motorbike, delivering a message from Dick Snow barely 24 hours after the battle. He’d given Astrid a short, typed note which read: “The Fuel Tanker is property of the Australian Government under Darkness Requisition clause 44b(xvii). Government representatives Richard Snow and Robert Munroe will be in Yass this coming Tuesday, at 12pm, to remove said Tanker and transfer Natasha Hornsby and Krystal Hornsby to Astrid Simpson, whose duty of care they rest with respect to the Channel Six Ltd judicial waiver of responsibility.” The note was signed, Richard Snow: Ministry Emergency, Darkness & Media Relations.

  ‘I’ve never heard of that department?’ said Astrid. ‘I know Dick did have something to do with parliament media coverage occasionally, which isn’t that common for a weatherman, but he knew lots of people in Canberra and they got him to do the odd H.I spot.’

  ‘H.I?’ asked Forsyth.

  ‘Sorry, human interest. They’re just filler.’

  Āmiria had seen one of these on telly a year ago. Dick Snow was interviewing a gardener who’d worked on the parliament lawns for about a thousand years, asking him some shit about this or that and she hadn’t paid much attention.

  The Captain asked Astrid what the “waiver of responsibility” stuff meant and she had no idea, but said she didn’t like the tone of it at all.

  Henry told them he’d been instructed to hand over the note, and ask where Mr Snow should come on Tuesday when he arrived. Henry said Mr Snow told him if there were any more questions, just say he (Mr Snow, that is) had no reason to hold the two girls and wanted to transfer them and he’d been surprised by everyone’s “unfriendliness”.

  They gave Henry a feed and he seemed a nice enough fūlla. Almost a bit simple. Later she’d asked her father and he said they probably couldn’t find anyone else who would deliver it. While Henry ate, her father, the Captain, Lord Brown and Sgt Kevin had a five-minute powwow in private, then came back and told Henry that Mr Snow should just come here, to the furniture shop on the main street. After he roared off, heading back to Canberra, Captain Forsyth reread the message and said he absolutely didn’t trust Snow now.

  All of a sudden the Ruarangi Special became a viable alternative.

  Āmiria began. ‘My initial plan was to do it the same way as Captain Forsyth’s friend Mr Schwartz. He—’

  ‘Aheem!’ said the Captain, raising a hand.

  ‘Sorry, that’s right. Not friend, he was a . . . ’

  He mouthed the words for her.

  ‘ . . . Business associate.’ The audience laughed politely. The Hat had told her you should always kick
off with a joke when you’re trying to win a crowd over. She didn’t think “business associate” was funny in the least but he’d said she didn’t have much to go on in the way of funnies, so definitely give it a whirl.

  The Hat also helped with timing measurements: testing how long it took for rubber bands to dissolve in petrol when stretched around an object of sixty-two millimeters diameter. These measurements were grueling and repetitive, but she made them so because she wanted to get them right. Had to get them right. The Captain suggested a detailed logistics rundown might be appropriate early on in the presentation. ‘Bamboozle them with a few stats. After that they’ll believe anything,’ he’d suggested with a wink that made her feel like a real soldier.

  ‘As I was saying, Mr Schwartz’s design you all know by now, and it’s relatively simple.’ She glanced down at the grenade on the table but didn’t touch it yet. Her father told her she could only pick it up once during the presentation, and to do so extremely carefully.

  ‘So we could just do it like the Schwartz one, put a rubber band around it, pull the ring then whack it in the fuel tank of the truck. Ten minutes later the rubber dissolves, the lever springs and it goes off. But the more we looked at it, the more we realized it might be tricky getting it in at the last minute, especially if Snow is watch—’

  ‘He’ll be watching all right!’ snorted Winston. ‘Anyway, are you sure that’d even fit into the tank?’ Āmiria thought this was probably the point to introduce the logistics, so carefully picked up the grenade and held it out in the palm of her hand.

  ‘Yes, I am positive it will fit,’ she stated. ‘Super-duper positive. It’s exactly ninety-six millimeters long and fifty-eight millimeters in diameter. Including this side lever, which as I said springs off when the ring’s pulled, the diameter is sixty-two millimeters. With three rubber bands wrapped around it, the diameter expands to sixty-five millimeters. That’s still easily narrow enough to fit in the fuel tank of the Bedford, which has a spout width of seventy-two millimeters. We weighed it to be 376 grams, using the scales which Francesco borrowed from HardWarePlus.’ She bounced the grenade once in her palm and the audience shifted uncomfortably in their seats. She put it back on the table, carefully.

  ‘This means it’s a touch lighter than a dry rugby ball. In fact, it’s exactly 93% the weight of a rugby ball.’ This last statistic (although almost completely useless) seemed to induce the most convincing nods of agreement thus far.

  The exterior of the grenade was olive green except for a mustard yellow band near the top, although she didn’t think color was terribly important for the purpose of the experiment. Instead, she concluded the logistics section of the presentation by saying: ‘I made the measurements many, many times. My Dad watched me the whole time, and so did the Captain. Lots of you others helped too.’ She acknowledged the audience with a nod. Most gazed back with a definite lack of enthusiasm.

  Even the Hat didn’t look keen. He’d been just like each of the others when she’d roped him in. Initially, they thought they were playing with some schoolgirl’s diorama; laughing and making the odd helpful suggestion, then each seemed to become a lot more serious, focusing and paying plenty more attention when they saw how all the bits fitted together. ‘So you really intend using this?’ the Hat had asked incredulously, after an hour of taking measurements on band breakage points with one, two and three rubber bands, double looped around the glass which had tinfoil wrapped around it to get to precisely sixty-two millimeters diameter. It was shortly after this he said she ort to start with a joke. ‘You sure don’t want them focusing too much on what this thing actually is.’

  Āmiria continued: ‘I had thought for a while to float it inside the main compartment of the tanker, on a pot lid or some boat-like container, and when the truck moved, it’d sink into the petrol. Then kaboom!’ Several in the audience cringed as though they’d a nasty tic. She made a mental note to hold back on any further kabooms.

  ‘A problem with that is if he doesn’t turn up or something, it might be hard to get it out. Or if he decides to look in the tank, he might see it. Then I thought, why not transfer it to somewhere else on the truck? Where he’s less likely to look! When we had a good look all over the truck, we found a storage compartment behind the passenger’s seat. You’ve got to pull the seat right forwards, so it’s a real pain to get to. That’s where we’re going to put it. This pot fits in there perfectly, and it’s right at the back of the cab so it’ll put it only a meter from the main tank.’

  Then she asked everyone to get up and come stand nearer the table so they could see right into the pot. She shone a torch in. A layer of petrol shimmered at the bottom, to about the depth of a cricket ball. The room reeked of it. Floating in the petrol was an aluminum pie dish, and in that dish lay an empty glass, on its side, bound up with rubber bands. The glass had been bolstered by layers of tinfoil, obviously to get it to grenade-size.

  When they’d all had a look, she said, ‘Now, I need a volunteer? Actually, I need two volunteers.’ Āmiria took a stopwatch from her pocket and held it up. Murray had retrieved the watch from a ransacked jewellery store several days ago when they first began accumulating tools for the experiment. ‘I need one person to move the pot a tiny bit, and another person to time it.’ No one showed any interest. The Hat had predicted she might struggle to get volunteers when it came to grenades and grenade-related activities.

  ‘I’ll do it if it’s absolutely necessary. But only if you’re super-duper fucken desperate,’ he’d said, reluctantly.

  She handed him the watch. ‘Could you time please?’ He took it grudgingly.

  ‘Right, I need someone to move this pot a little bit. Just a tiny shake, as though it’s in a moving truck or whatever. What about you, David?’ By picking the wimpiest person there, she figured if it were possible to convince him, everyone else might fall in with it as well. He looked too scared to even disagree.

  ‘Right. Thanks. And everyone else, all I want you to do is remember one thing: nine minutes and twenty seconds. That’s all. Just nine minutes and twenty.

  ‘Okay, come over here Dave, there you go, it won’t bite. Just give it a tiny shake.’ She pointed at the pot. ‘And Hat, as soon as Dave shakes it, you start timing.’ David reached out and gave the pot a pathetically small wobble, but it was enough. Half a cup of petrol slopped over into the pie dish. The audience crowded around closer, now perversely wanting to see. Couldn’t take their eyes off it. At eight minutes and ten seconds the first rubber band snapped, and everyone jumped back except for Āmiria. ‘No, still two to go.’ The second rubber band went at eight minutes and forty seconds, and the last popped at nine minutes and twenty-one seconds.

  After the third one went, she asked if they all wanted to see it again and everyone said, ‘No!’

  When the audience had returned to their seats, she thought this was probably the time to do the conclusion. Lord Brown told her the conclusion is the most important part of any presentation. He said it was imperative to finish with a concise summary of exactly what it was a Ruarangi Special promised.

  So Āmiria concluded: ‘I can 100% guarantee, that exactly nine minutes and twenty-something seconds after the truck is moved, by any appreciable amount whatsoever, it will blow up.’

  Her father, Francesco, Lord Brown, Winston and the Hat gradually swung around to the plan, or at least a modified version where she didn’t do the actual arming. Astrid remained in the “no” camp longest, but even she teetered because she’d helped find a glass the perfect size in a looted Homewares store. The Captain needed the least convincing. He praised the idea as having depth, showing maturity beyond her years and being a formidable example of scorched-earth strategic planning.

  She’d hardly slept a wink in nearly forty hours, working on the device. There’d been a thirty-minute snooze in the middle but apart from that, it’d been constant testing and retesting and checking. Now, Āmiria, her father and Peanuts were the only ones left awake. The dog sat bet
ween them with his rump arched up off the sofa in pleasure receiving a satisfying scratch from two different hands.

  The others were scattered around the showroom sleeping. It occurred to her the room wasn’t a lot different from the gym in Tamworth except with heaps more furniture. And slightly better food, although she understood the cache they’d picked up at Peak Hill was nearly exhausted so they’d be back on the rice soon enough. Old Brownie kept telling them to ration what they had, saying things like: “When I were a lad, we’d live on sixpence for two year and still have change at t’end t’buy a mule!” These titbits made everyone groan but Āmiria thought them funny. As if you’d buy a mule anyway! If all you had was six pence (and she wasn’t even sure how much a pence was) then why the fuck would you fork out for something as useless as a stupid mule!

  She couldn’t help laughing again, just thinking about it.

  ‘Not much frightens you, does it girl?’ her father said quietly.

  ‘I dunno. Some things do.’ She didn’t say anything for a long time. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yeah girl?’

  ‘Remember that time we were back home, the year before last, and we had to go out to Murawai beach one night when it was all stormy? And you chucked that sack off the rocks?’

  ‘What?’ His lips pursed in concentration. ‘Oh. Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Was there a person in that?’

  He looked confused then a light twinkled in the corner of his eye, and he laughed and tussled her hair. ‘Ya silly girl! Course not you dope! Why would I do that? It was a bag of pauas. Monty pinched a swag of them and the mongrels from fisheries were watching his house so I had to dump ‘em for him.’

  The girl said nothing for ages. ‘That’s good. I’m glad.’ She could hardly keep her eyes open but it felt like this immense weight had been lifted and finally, she was able to rest. A proper rest, without nightmares. A final thought struck her and she knew she’d better ask now, or might forget tomorrow. ‘Dad?’