Heaven is a Place on Earth (15 page)

“
It won't take off if we don't let it close the canopy,” Rafe said, feeling her fear, looking around for the three youths. They had spread out and were closing in on the flyer. Ginny fired off a last shot before the lid closed and one of the men twisted around and fell over.

“
Shit! I hit one. Oh my God. Is he all right?” She looked like she might try to climb out to check on him. The flyer's struts lifted from their parked position and the rotors whirled into motion. He glanced out of the canopy at their pursuers. The shooting of one of them had sent the other two running for cover, but the wounded man was shouting from the ground and signalling towards the other flyer. Rafe prayed he'd done enough damage to keep it on the ground.

“
He's all right!” Ginny shouted, clutching Rafe's arm.

“
Like I give a shit. What is wrong with this bloody thing?” The rotors were whining and the flyer trembled. He could feel the machine coiling itself to spring into the air, but it didn't take off. He thumped the side of the cockpit and scanned through the virtual displays. Everything was fine, no warnings, no squawking alarms. Why wouldn't the damned thing move?

“
Uh oh,” Ginny said and he looked up. The two men at the other flyer had given up trying to make it start and were climbing out.

“
Put the canopy up so we can shoot them,” Ginny shouted.

Rafe shook his head. Sitting up there on the roof shooting people while the police made their way to arrest them made no sense at all. He focused on the instruments again. Had the two thugs who'd jumped him sabotaged it in some way? Some insanely, improbably subtle way? He gritted his teeth. It had to be something he'd done, or hadn't done.

“They're coming,” Ginny said. “What the hell are you doing? Take off! Now!” A young man appeared beside Rafe, pounding on the canopy with the pommel of a large hunting knife.

“
If you think you could do any bloody better, just – ”

He saw it. A small prompt saying, “State your destination,” patiently waiting for him to tell it one. “Brisbane, for fuck's sake, you fucking stupid pile of junk. Brisbane. Take us to Brisbane!”

“Thank you,” said the little prompt and the flyer whooshed up into the air.

-oOo-

They landed in Anzac Park, near Cal Copplin's home after Rafe had struggled with the flyer and it's handbook for most of the four hour flight home. Anzac Park was not a designated landing site and Rafe had to convince the vehicle they had a medical emergency before it would let him take manual control. Ginny had closed her eyes and whimpered as Rafe steered the aircraft down between the trees onto the grass. As soon as his feet were on solid ground again, he turned and kicked the stubborn machine and told it just what he thought of its design and its designers. Then they left it to ponder these home truths and walked back to Cal's apartment. As they came out of the little park, they heard its engines start up and turned to see the quadcopter rise up above the treetops. It made a beeline for the city centre and the Transit Centre roof where it had so wanted to take them and where Rafe suspected his attackers or their friends might be waiting.

-oOo-

They sat in silence, staring at the food cooling in front of them.

“
I don't think we can stay here any more,” Ginny said. Rafe nodded, not really paying her much attention. “I mean they're bound to come looking for us soon. They're bound to think of this place.”

He nodded again. What he really needed to do right now was get back to Canberra. He had friends there and places to hide out. It had been bad enough when the police and the terrorists were the only people trying to catch him. Now there was a third group, the Rice Consortium – whoever the hell they were – and they not only seemed more efficient at finding him, but rather more direct in their methods of dealing with people they didn't like.

“That was a complete waste of a day,” Ginny said. “We nearly got ourselves killed and I lost my big break with WorldEnough. And all for what? Just to confirm what we already suspected.”

Rafe lost the thread of his thoughts and blamed it on Ginny's whining tone. What did she know about conducting an investigation anyway? Of course you verified your suspicions. You verified everything. That's how you knew you were writing the truth and not some load of old rubbish. He shook his head, irritated with himself. This wasn't a story – not any more – this was Rafe Morgan trying to stay alive.

“Can't the Sentinel help us?” Ginny asked. “I mean, they must have reporters in trouble all the time. Don't they have safe houses or private security or something? Why don't you call them?”

God! Was this woman stupid or what? “Because it's a bloody news feed, not the CIA. It's just a bunch of people, like Becky and Jan and... and me.” He stood up, agitated. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be safe. “I've got to get back to Canberra,” he said. He pointed to the door. “Anyone could walk in here at any minute.”

“That's great,” said Ginny, also standing. “Yesterday you were doing your best to keep me here to help with you bloody investigation. Today you want to turn tail and run. Well what happened to 'The only way past this is through it'?”

“
You don't understand.” He tried to walk away from her but she followed him.

“
Enlighten me then. How do you go from man of resolve to quivering jelly in twenty-four hours? I saw you on that rooftop today. You were going to jump. If I hadn't come to your rescue, you wouldn't even be here now. The bots would still be scrubbing you off the pavement. Now you think you're off to Canberra and leaving me behind. Well, think again Brainiac. You owe me.” She poked him in the shoulder. “Do you hear? You owe me.”

“
What do I owe you? What the hell do you think I can do for you now?” She scowled at him, clearly ready to argue with anything he said.
OK, crazy lady, try this.
“The police don't want to catch us. If they did, they'd have us by now. My guess is they're hanging us out there like bait, waiting to see who snaps us up. The terrorists aren't after us either. For them we're just pawns – well, I am anyway. They want me to write the story.” He waved a hand at the bag of documents. “They want me to put all that crap out on the Net. And it is crap, I bet. Hints and suggestions, a few names that everybody already knows, all pointing at some terrible plot that probably doesn't even exist. September 10 wants to use me for God knows what. That's their only interest in me. You, they don't care about at all.”

Ginny's angry scowl had become a puzzled frown. “So who – ?”

“The Consortium! That's who your friend Dover Richards is working for. That's who's been tracking us.” He corrected himself. “Tracking me. Again, you're a bloody irrelevance. The Consortium doesn't want me writing the story. This is all some kind of game between September 10 and the Rice Consortium, and I'm piggy in the middle, with the bloody police cheering from the sidelines. And you, you're just running around like some stupid mascot in a chicken suit confusing everything.”

Ginny gaped at him. The hurt look in her eyes just made him more angry.

“You were a pawn once,” he told her. “But now you're just noise on the channel. You should go home. I should go home.” He stepped past her and began collecting up his things. Ginny remained where she was, staring at the wall. It was all so clear to him now. The only way he could be safe would be in a crowd. He had to get all of the September 10 documents into the public domain and then surround himself with people, night and day. He'd call Becky and get that organised. He needed people to meet him at the airport. Real, physical people. They'd only take him if he was alone. They wouldn't dare show up if he was with people.

“
So you're just running away?” Ginny said. “You're just turning tail and running?”

“
Yes, I am. Goodbye.”

“
I didn't think you were such a coward.”

He gritted his teeth. “Well you were wrong. I am. Yellow to the core.”

She shook her head. Quietly, she said, “No you're not.”

Anger boiled up in him. He threw down his bag and turned to confront her. “What the hell do you know? You saw me up on that roof. I was pissing myself with fear. I would have jumped. I would have.” He choked up and couldn't say any more.

“I read about what happened to you in Melbourne,” she said, her voice so gentle it felt like a knife in his chest. “I saw the clips of the police bringing you out of that man's house, the state you were in. I heard about what that psychopath did to you. It was a miracle you survived.”

“
What are you talking about?” He was remembering too, now. Why was she going on about it? What relevance did any of that have?

“
I heard what the police said, afterwards, that you'd held out long enough for them to save that girl. That you'd sacrificed yourself and endured the most horrible mutilation...”

She seemed to be choking on her words too. But she couldn't see what he saw in his memories. She couldn't see him screaming and begging, thrashing like the wounded animal he had been, willing to say anything that would make the torture stop. Wanting to say it, pleading to be allowed to condemn and incriminate anyone and everyone to make that endless pain go away.

“I've heard you whimpering in your sleep,” she said. He saw a tear roll down her cheek and realised he too was crying. “I've caught glimpses of your scars. I've seen how you hide them, sensed your shame. But you were a hero. You held out long enough to save that girl. You did what almost none of us could have done.”

He shook his head. It was all wrong. He'd held out at first, but he wasn't that Rafe Morgan any more. That man had died in that awful room. One of those cuts had killed him. The man who inhabited this mutilated body couldn't have held out for two seconds. He felt himself sobbing, felt himself sink to his knees, cover his face. That other man had held out and held out until the knives had shredded his resistance, cut out his heart, sliced his brain to sushi, and left him a snivelling, screaming creature, unable to comprehend how such pain could go on for so long, thinking of nothing but how to make it stop. In the end, not thinking at all, just longing for death to come soon.

He felt Ginny's hand touch his shoulder and he jerked away from it.

“
Rafe, I didn't mean to... I was only trying to say...” She sounded shocked at what she'd done.

He rolled onto the floor, pulling his legs up into his chest, burying his head. He wanted her to go. He didn't want anyone to see him. He wanted to be alone with his pain, with the dreadful, unbearable shame of knowing himself.

-oOo-

When Rafe woke up it was dark. He was on the floor still but with a blanket over him and a pillow under his head. The floor smelled of dust and his shoulder ached where it pressed against the unyielding vinyl. He pushed himself off the ground into a sitting position. He felt hollow, as if the inside of his skull had been scraped out.

“Hi,” a voice said from across the room. It was Ginny's voice but sleepy and soft. He could make her out in the gloom, curled up in an armchair with pillows and a quilt. “How are you?”

It wasn't a question that made much sense. “I don't know,” he said. “What time is it?”

“Nearly morning. Do you want some breakfast?”

He nodded, then, realising she couldn't see him, said, “Yeah, that'd be good.”

She got up and went to the kitchen, putting the lights on at a low setting. As she moved about, finding what she needed, he climbed to his feet and stretched the aches out of his body. The apartment was cold. The early hour and the dim lighting reminded him of something but he couldn't quite catch the wispy traces of memory. Then he saw it as clearly as if it had been yesterday, his father making sandwiches, chattering away in the kitchen while Rafe, just a small child, put his boots on. They were going fishing and Rafe was in a state of wonder at the strangeness of the experience, of this first glimpse into his father's secret world of men and their rituals.

“
Last of the eggs,” Ginny said, handing a plate to Rafe. The bacon wasn't burnt this time and smelled too good to be real. “Good job we're going today.”

“
You should come,” he said, feeling awkward. “To Canberra.” How did he get back from where he'd been yesterday?

“
No,” she said. Her tone said she'd understood something and knew what to do now. “I checked the flights. There's one to Canberra today. You should get that. It's two days till the next one.”

They ate in silence for a while. Reluctantly, he asked, “What will you do?”

“I'll be fine. You're right. I'm not really in any danger. You just worry about getting yourself home and safe.” She nodded at his bag in which the wad of documents still lay. “And make sure that gets out onto the Net.”

He wanted to protest. She was treating him like an invalid. He could see it in her face. She knew now badly damaged he really was. Knew nearly as well as he did. Knew he could not cope with the danger that stalked him. Knew that just getting up in the morning and holding out until it was time to sleep was too much for him, that determination and bravado had only carried him a short way, and now he had no props. She could see that to lean on the people around him was all he could do to stave off a collapse that would soon come anyway. So, he didn't protest. He didn't take even the small risk that she might withdraw her collusion in his flight to safety. He let her give him what he needed and told himself it was all for the best.