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  Unable to concentrate, or even do menial tasks, surrounded by the elementals, spirits pressing through her epidermis, Virginia wishes Cybil were here to anchor her.

  'Margot Gorman? My name is Penny Waughan.' The woman on the other end of the phone sounded not so much desperate as inconsolably lonely.

  I asked her to spell the surname.

  'I got your name from Lisa,' she continued. She referred to the wayward teenager surfing the Internet rather than the breakers on the beach.

  'Yes,' I said.

  'My son,' Penny Waughan choked on tears. 'I need someone with this.' Drink had given her the dutch courage to ring. I heard the in-breath of a cigarette. She stumbled through apologetic explanations for her call. My own bowels went weak when I realised she was talking about the boy I had discovered dead last Friday, but I kept seeing the body as a girl.

  'I hadn't seen him for three days,' she went on. 'That is, he wasn't home for three nights. And Monday.' She began blaming herself, telling me she was a stupid woman and a bad mother. 'Yesterday I was taken to the morgue and I saw his body. They think he took too many drugs, that it was an accidental overdose. I know he would not do that to me. I cannot believe he would suicide.' Tears strangled her speech while I uttered comforting words; sincere words because I felt the kid was no stranger to me. I was in danger of catching her tears and weeping myself.

  'He is just a tragic statistic for the police,' she said, bitterly. 'I rang Lisa, asking if she knew where he had been. She suggested I ring you, she said you were a private detective. Don't think I'm hysterical, but my sixth sense tells me he has been murdered.'

  I interrupted firmly, 'I don't think you are being hysterical.' I said, simply, 'I found him in the beach shed.'

  She didn't hear me. 'Even though I work full time,' Penny spoke quickly, 'I would do anything for my Neil and that, since his father went, includes giving him as much freedom as he likes. Sometimes, though fairly rarely, he stays out all night, which is why I left it for the weekend. On Monday, I rang the school and he was not there. Or Tuesday. Then the police came to my work. They must have gone through the headmaster, attendances, I don't know. Or maybe his teacher mentioned something. It's not that I wasn't worried. I was because he always rings to tell me where he is. He didn't. I knew something was wrong but I didn't want to be a nagger, you know, an overbearing, smothering mum. I didn't want him to hate me.'

  I interrupted her sobbing and asked her where she worked. She named the TAFE college which is part of Western Pacific University, Port Water campus. I looked in my diary and at the digital clock on my VCR. It was late now. Tomorrow I had an appointment at twelve-thirty at the cop shop.

  'Perhaps,' I proposed, 'We could meet. At the Paradiso Cafe in the afternoon?'

  'Fine,' she concurred. 'I have a class which finishes at three.'

  'Three-fifteen, then?' I checked, writing it in my diary.

  'Three-thirty? Okay.' She sounded reassured. Embarrassingly.

  Il Paradiso, next door to the new CyberCage, subdivided the distance between the police station and the college. While I reassured Mrs Waughan that I would do my best, in my heart I had a horrible feeling.

  I said, 'Goodbye, see you then.'

  Now it was a job. I sat down at the computer and opened a file to note all that I remembered in chronological sequence. No matter what the pressures, it was important to keep my body fit. I must get the right amount of sleep. I employed a mental clearing technique to relax the tension and anticipation out of my autonomic nervous system.

  12

  …insane obsessions with nutso things…

  To: "chandra"

  From: "falcon"

  Subject: re: Annihilation

  Date: Wed, 22 Mar 2000 11:18:13 +1000

  MEMO: Rev. ch. 21, v.20: The fifth, sardonyx; the sixth, sardius; the seventh, chrysolite; the eighth, beryl; the ninth, a topaz; the tenth, a chrysoprasus; the eleventh, a jacinth; the twelfth, an amethyst.

  The age of Christ is fucking dead in the water. The Age of Pisces—the last 2000 yrs—was about chemical interpretation of human existence. God's revenge on the sinners is the Age of Aquarius which threatens to bring a virtual capsize of human existence. They're gunna download brains! Freaky! Chemicals blot out experience of living or enhance it. In the straight world chemistry explains every bloody thing from love to skin disease, also the enormous problems of the modern world—pollution, allergies, food poisoning, explains fear and is its answer. Dependence upon substances for happiness, death and being able to cope, being able to come—think about it: chemicals are like the water, Pisces and the fish, Christ. A new age is upon us and it's about nerves and electricity, fire and lightning, Uranus stuff, but who is the avatar? Physics splitting up the particle of the neutron of the atom, indeed there will be separation, a greater divide between rich and poor. The information-rich and the information-poor. The virtual reality of the mind.

  Read this: Revelation ch. 21, v.23: And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.

  Forget the mechanical, material, solid model of communication, bring in the invisible but very real web rings. Internet, hacking and so on; puerile conversations of chat pages, insane obsessions with nutso things which is shiveringly lacking in chemistry. Wonder whether love can flourish without smell and fluids, or are those who have married over the Internet deluding themselves? The Age of Pisces is senile. How can ya be postmodern without going mad? Anything goes, no history, no responsibility, greed, pornography, annihilation of women by clever whoa…men, get that! Sado-masochism is cool. Ever see the real fourth horseman, fire, as radiation? At the moment in chemical terms we see it as cancers, fallouts, acid soils, acid rain. Who gives a fuck about the precious atmosphere? No effective policies are diminishing the hole in the ozone layer, rather concerted efforts are made to maintain the conservative course of global warming. It'll take anything from 100 to 2000 years, and then it's cataclysmic. How could the apostle John be so blithe about the earth, the sun and moon? Messages in the birds' voices, the types of birds—we should have learnt by now how to communicate throughout nature because we are all in the same boat, in the age of water. Needing the earth to stay within a narrow window of temperature but radiation, virtual living and loving, non-physical connection, doesn't mind it hotter, so that you could have cities underground cooled and inhabited by nerds, modems, screens, processors, telecommunication lines, optic fibre, cable, satellite, generators, frozen pizzas, processed foods, microwaves, fizzy speed-drinks—air pockets in space stations with gates of gemstones? If there is not all-round integration of relation and communication in all biology we surely have extinction.

  Signed,

  Tragic.

  13

  …ripping off my wings…

  Gophers, spiders, bots Chandra metatags the HTM of her webpage with her program, AdaLovelace, to attract material of potential constructive interest as well as pick up parallel pornographic activity: strain one, she downloads; and strain two, her computer automatically emails cryptic responses infected with viruses which transfer and dominate recipients' terminals. She is, fundamentally, more interested in constructive memes of radical culture than nihilistic destroying outright, although porn sites and those that perpetrate Christian, New Age and UFO nonsense are fair game for a Trojan horse. Not wanting her flaming to be obvious, she makes sure it is invisible. The avatar wades through, plucking the naive from the devious, the dynamic from the voyeuristic.

  Going into the bulletin board CellarTwo, Chandra discovers another essay from the Annihilation Tragic. Chandra clicks her mouse on her FTP, downloads the text and arrows the printer icon. When the printing is done, she opens another window to email this woman who signs herself Tragic. She wants to give her hope, as well as recruit angry revolutionaries.

  >>Can you conceive of an Age of Solanas? When women rule the he
gemony? Ha ha. Deluding yourself is nothing new. What do you know about the Solanasite? Valerie made a splash, wrote the script. Check out this URL: www.1968/NY/Paris/scum/bi-L/ext.qu/sec729/TIRE/quest/ XW.Q/con.q/utterbore/X/yinco.html

  Chandra clicks 'send'. Her maze of riddles and quizzes should test the resolve of potential conspirators. Her Screensaver is a green tree frog, broad face and strong legs turning in three dimensions. A mosquito that she did not put there is buzzing around. Someone is meddling in her site. She packs up the hard copy and wheels herself to a patch of sunlight. In Chandra's house few chairs are in her way. She hates losing control. She has to think.

  Dirt-bike boys are practising. The whines of their machines echo like chain-saws. Roughly written Xs point the way to Forestry roads deeper in the hills where the rally is to be held.

  Chandra muses on the words she has just read as she gets herself a cup of tea. She is overwhelmed by a sense of synchronicity, as if the ersatz worlds of electronic technology and ancient telepathy brim together and lap at the banks of her physical being. Life is getting exciting.

  Murder was the word Penny Waughan used. Thoughts of detection made me strangely nostalgic. Now that I had a murder to investigate, I wanted to run.

  Dying moon lying high in the morning sky, the paperbark forest brought to mind an illustration of an enchanted world in a children's book. In water-colour and ink, tones washed in line drawings, were density and intrigue. The light was mellow, pale green and fine grey shot through with thin yellow sunshine dappling the ground and meddling with the reflections on puddled water here and there. Jogging along these paths, I was, also, reminded of films about the Everglades in Florida and the rhythms of Cajun blues. Fetid ponds full of wrigglies and tadpoles, frogs hid in swampy reeds, weeds and sedges watching mosquitoes. Ground-hugging orchids offered surprise. Black ducks and purple swamp hens disturbed the still water and reflections. Some of my regular running tracks were submerged. A short cut would be the long way round. I didn't want to end up wading knee-deep through hidden mires. Avoiding bits of horse-shit, I kept to the wider paths. On the flat between the mangroves of the delta and the sand dunes of the shore, tea-tree, wattle and she-oaks dominated but the occasional tall eucalypt grew beautifully big with nooks and crannies for owls and possums.

  Banksia and callistemon, rushes and broad leaf marginata, lepidosperma, lomandra, acacia, naming what I saw, I sniffed. In scents is just delicious truth, recognition, requiring no consideration. No proof. Nor justification. After I crossed the road, paddocks veined by drains; dikes reclaimed the land. Cranes, egrets and ibis high-stepped, stabbing, and lap-wings squawked and ran in a hurry across the erstwhile wetlands.

  My sponsors don't necessarily want me to win. If I broke down during a triathlon and the TV stations put the cameras on me, they got good footage—dramatic advertising. If my photogenic face grimaced in sudden agony in front of horrified spectators, viewers could groan in anguish with vicarious suffering while subliminally they taking in the logo on my trainer's towel, the make of my joggers. Primarily, I'm an athlete.

  Running is different from swimming, which is more meditative. A triathlete at the age of seven, I competed in everything going, swimming, running, bike-riding; speed in the water and over the ground. I was best in individual sports, never excelled in hockey or netball. Cycling came later and became my passion, as did surfing. Decathlon was the Olympic sport I liked as a kid, but I was not much good at throwing. I pondered. I ran. The triathlon as an Olympic event was made for me but I am too old to go to the heights. Not that the body couldn't do it. I've left it too late, mentally.

  First event, in Townsville, was a small one. I had been a year on the road, in the sun, away from offices and cities and work stress, and, when they told me I could make money doing what I did anyway, I simply glowed with white smiles. I was way ahead of all the females by the end of the bike, I thought I could walk in the run, but I was pipped at the post by a distance-runner sprinting. Whoosh, the ribbon was broken. A black girl she was and we had a good hug, but I never saw her again. She was ignored but I was surrounded by merchandising scouts: clothing, footwear, soft drink, cereal, even car companies wanted a piece of my body to write on. Even though I must have looked a royal dag that day, streaking out in khaki shorts. Suspicious because such attention might have been a trick by those who were chasing me, I played tough: 'Show me the paperwork and I'll get back to you.' They did, and I did. Although I don't have the dedication of Emma Carney, or Michelle Jones or Jackie Gallagher, I'm not bad and my sponsors have, so far, treated me fairly. The winners gotta have someone to beat, don't they? I am an also-ran, also-swam, also-rode, most of the time. But in small triathlons, like the one Sunday, I always give myself a chance. Australians love it when you lose trying your hardest. Fortunately, I look good doing it.

  Fatal Friday night returned to my mind like a grey black and white photo in the studio of my memory. My brain snapped to attention, I ran home at a sprint. Things to do.

  Philippoussis called to confirm our meeting this afternoon. And said, 'By the way, have you seen this week's Town Crier?' The local tabloid, mostly advertising, delivered free to all rate-payers, does have a few items of general interest but not the film program at the local cinema or television guide. I filtered through the unread junk mail and found the Crier still with an elastic band around it. Port Waters Gun Club will join the Four Wheel Drive Party in supporting the rally for the One Nation Party and the president of the Shooters' Party is not pleased. It can't be that story. Then I saw the ugly mug of 'the Crank'. Charley Crankshaw has a face so damaged by reconstruction, you could put him in a movie as an old war hero, or something. It has the charm of life lived, of laughs laughed. Of mischief.

  'Superintendent Charles Crankshaw took up duties officially last Monday as the new local area commander, you mean?' I said to Philippoussis.

  'Yes,' he affirmed. 'He has holidayed in the district.'

  I laughed. 'No doubt he has a mansion here on Paradise Coast.'

  When he rang off, I read:

  Supt. Crankshaw, who joined the NSW Police Force in 1963, was a detective for more than 20 years in various Sydney metropolitan stations. The role of the commanders is different from the patrol commanders they replace by pure virtue of the area, number of police stations and number of police. He has a strong belief in intelligence-based policing and will be relying heavily on crime reports and accurate data to help dictate the direction of local policing.

  Yes, the Crank always liked a healthy slush fund to grease the hand of the informer. He had as many of them as he did officers. Very good at covering his back, that man. The Commissioner has sent him to Mecca. I have no irrefutable evidence that he is not an honest and fatherly man; it is just that many of the men he worked with went down at the Royal Commission into Police Corruption. But why did Philippoussis bring my attention to his new boss?

  Having showered and dressed, I rang Sweetness and Light and told him I was too busy to be at the gym at my usual time.

  Sean replied with, 'Thank god.'

  'Beg yours?' I intoned, astonished.

  'Double-booking darling.' If I did not know him better, I would have guessed love interest. I didn't pry. I made a later appointment. 'Five, five-thirty?'

  'Eggs and apples, Margot,' he quipped. Eggs as in sure as…and apples indicates, she'll be right. Sean is so bent, so blatantly queer, he can hardly say a straight word! I paper-clipped together my other pressing business and left it carefully squared on my desk. Tossed the greasy Mining Support Services cap into a box. Wine cartons I have aplenty. I stuck a sticky label on it: I.O.I., 'items of interest'.

  Nadir, I looked up in the dictionary, out of a general idiosyncrasy of mine, to have the right meaning of a word: 1. the point of the celestial sphere vertically beneath any place or observer and diametrically opposite to the zenith. 2. the lowest point, as of adversary.

  A group of gurls, including Margaret Hall, Jill David and Sofia Freeman are at C
yberCage, an Internet cafe separated from Il Paradiso by a security grille, a gate and a couple of downward steps.