Jennifer Government: A Novel (7 page)

But this was harder than it sounded, and Billy realized he was well and truly lost. He spent half an hour smashing through the bush, getting increasingly irate at himself, the NRA, and misleading blue birds. He wished he’d never met those NRA suits at the firing range. When he got out of this, the first thing Billy was going to do was cancel his membership.

About three hours later, he stumbled across a dirt road. He was so relieved he fell to his knees. He was dirty and tired and his throat made clicking sounds when he swallowed. He was also dying for a cigarette, but scared of how much worse his thirst would get if he smoked one. He peered down the road, first one way, then the other. Neither looked especially promising.

He walked forever. Not a single car passed him. The sun began to fall below the tree line and a chill settled in the air. Billy was now really regretting pitching that jacket. He was thinking he might be in real trouble. He was beginning to think he might die.

Then he glanced to his right and saw the Jeep. There was a tiny track off the road, just a gap in the trees, really, and a few hundred yards down it, a red glow of brake lights. Billy stopped and stared. Then he ran toward it.

It was an NRA vehicle, he could tell even in the gloom, with a few NRA uniforms sitting in it. One of the men was looking in his direction. “Hoy!” Billy yelled, waving his arms. “Hello, hello!”

The man raised a rifle. Billy stopped running. A spotlight snapped on, blinding him. He raised an arm to shield his eyes.

“Identify yourself.”

“I’m Billy! Billy NRA!”

Silence. His legs started to tremble. He had a terrible feeling he was somewhere he shouldn’t be. He heard someone jump down from the Jeep and walk toward him, boots crunching through the undergrowth. A man entered the light. He was short and maybe fifty and wearing a uniform with a lot of shiny bits and pieces. None of this made Billy feel any better.

“You’re Bill NRA?”

“Yes.”

The man exhaled. “Jesus. We thought you weren’t going to show. I’m Yallam.”

“I’m—pleased to meet you, sir.” His legs wouldn’t quit shaking.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“We heard about the trouble in Sydney. Sorry about Damon.”

“I—” Billy said, then realized there was only one correct response here. “Yes, sir.”

Yallam turned around. “Frank! Turn off that light.”

The light died. Billy blinked in the sudden darkness.

“We’d better get moving. You disposed of your vehicle?”

“My—yes, sir.”

“Good man.” Yallam clapped him on the back and began steering him toward the Jeep. Billy very much didn’t want to get into that Jeep. “You’re a credit to the NRA, son. Don’t think your work this last week won’t go unrewarded.”

“Thank you, sir,” Billy said. A soldier opened the door for him and he climbed in. He had never been so scared in his life.

The shrink said, “Now you’re going to tell me you don’t need to be here.”

“Wow, you’re good,” Jennifer said. The plastic chair was uncomfortable. The office was small, dark, and had no view. She had been discharged, or so she’d thought. The Government was insisting on an outgoing psych evaluation. Jennifer just wanted to go home.

“Danger is part of your job, right? You’re wasting time here when you could be out pursuing the perpetrators.”

“Amazing,” she said. “It’s like I don’t even have to be here.”

The shrink rested his elbows on his desk. She could see an open file, which she guessed was hers. “Jennifer, I’m not going to ask you about your childhood, or your sex life, or what an ink blot looks like. I’m only here to help you deal with the trauma. Prevent it from dominating your life.”

“The only trauma was my stupidity. I was there to do a job; I screwed up. I practically deserved to get shot.”

“Do you really think that?”

“No,” she said. “I deserved to save that girl, and those two
gun-toting assholes deserved to die instead of her. But you can’t win them all.”

The shrink paused. It was a meaningful pause, Jennifer suspected: it was to give her time to consider her response and revise it. She kept her mouth shut.

“You know,” the shrink said, “some people, as they recover from trauma, obsess on the perpetrators. Their lives come to revolve around the enemy. They constantly think about obtaining justice.”

“These people sound sensible.”

“They withdraw from loved ones. Only the trauma is important to them. They can feel desensitized to violence; they can become aggressive. Does any of this sound familiar?”

“Well, we could discuss these people all day,” she said, standing. “But since I have work to do—”

“Sit.”

She sat. “You know, this isn’t even about me. This is about some asshole at Nike thinking he can build a career out of dead teenagers. You don’t know what these people are like. They don’t stop until you make them stop.”

“Yes, I’m aware of your corporate past,” the shrink said. His eyes slid to her barcode tattoo. “You have scores to settle, yes?”

“Hey,” she said. “That has nothing to do with this. It’s not me who can’t forget that, it’s you people.”

“Are you working for the Government to atone for your past?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m a real idealist.”

“‘From the single-minded idealist to the fanatic is but a step.’ F. A. Hayek wrote that. ‘There is only one step from fanaticism to barbarism.’ That’s Denis Diderot.”

“Someone should shoot you and drop you three floors,” she said. “You could write an article.”

He sighed and made a note in the file. She didn’t think it was a good note.

“You’re recommending I be suspended? Is that it?”

“Jennifer, clearly you could benefit from a rest before returning to active duty.”

“I don’t need a rest!”

He looked up. “I’m told you don’t date. Is that true?”

“I thought we weren’t discussing my sex life.”

“It’s relevant to your loss of perspective.”

“I’m leaving.” She stood up, too quickly. Her chair toppled backward and hit the floor.

“Wait! Jennifer!”

She slammed the door behind her. People in the corridor turned. She stared back at them. Outside the hospital it was dark and there were no cabs, so she stood by the road and waited. It wasn’t until her jaw began to ache that she realized she was clenching it.

T
he cab dropped her on Peckville Street and she struggled up to the front door. Jennifer was discovering how difficult it was to do anything with one arm in a sling, even to get into her own house. In the end she rang the bell.

She owned a single-fronted house in North Melbourne, a small, innercity suburb that had so far mostly resisted the apartment block invasion. Jennifer had moved to Melbourne from Los Angeles nine years ago: she had needed an escape, Australia was completing its absorption into the United States, and the TV advertisements were calling it the new California. “Melbourne is L.A. without the smog,” a real estate man told her, which she guessed was true, but it was also L.A. without the amenities. She had been shocked by how small the place was. That had changed, of course. There had been so much construction since then that she hardly recognized the city anymore.

The porch light flicked on. An eye appeared at the peephole. “Oh!” a girl said. She unlocked and swung open the door. “I wondered if you were coming home tonight.”

“I—sorry. I should have called.”

“No, it’s fine,” the girl said. “I’m just studying.” She hefted her bag. “I’ll hit the road, unless there’s anything you need.”

“Um,” she said. “No, thanks.”

“Give me a call if you need me again.” The girl banged her way out the front door.

Jennifer went in and dropped her bag on the sofa. The hallway light was on, but Kate’s room was dark, so she snuck inside and stood there for a moment, letting her eyes adjust.

“Mommy?”

“Hi, sweetie.” She knelt beside the bed.

“Your hair looks funny.”

“They had to cut it. Look, I have stitches.”

Kate touched Jennifer’s skull, feeling her hair. “I liked it better before.”

“Well, I think it looks snappy,” she said. “Were you good for the baby-sitter?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.” She stroked Kate’s face. “You want to have a glass of milk with me?”

“It’s very late, Mommy.”

“I know.”

“All right.” She pulled back the covers. Jennifer took her hand as they walked to the kitchen. “Did you hurt your arm?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Is it going to be all right?”

“Of course,” Jennifer said. “Everything always works out all right.”

Violet woke and a man was sitting on her bed. “Hi,” he said.

She scrambled away, pulling the blankets with her. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Hack’s. But he didn’t say anything about you. Are you his girlfriend?” He sat down on the bed. “You have nice shoulders.”

“Where’s Hack?”

“He went for a walk.” The man’s face was smooth. His suit was dark and anonymous. “He won’t be back for a while.”

“Please leave.”

“But Hack invited me in. What’s your name?” “I want you to go.”

“I’m John Nike.” He smiled, his teeth gleaming faintly in the gloom. “Who are you?”

“Violet.”

“Violet who?” He shifted closer. “Are you unemployed? It’s all right. It happens, sometimes. I tell you what, unemployed Violet. I’ll give you a hundred dollars for a kiss.”

She tightened her grip on the blankets. “Get out. Now.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s pretty generous. Considering you’re in no position to negotiate.” His hand touched her thigh.

“Let go of me!”

“You need to be enterprising to get ahead, Violet. You need to take advantage of opportunities.” He squeezed.

She reached for his hand. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the wall. The blanket dropped.

“Hoo,” he said, looking down. “Those are nice puppies.”

She bit his ear as hard as she could.

“Anna! Goddamn!”

She rolled off the bed, landing on her hands and knees. She
scrambled to her feet and ran. She had the front door half-unlocked before she realized just how bad an idea that was, running naked at night through this neighborhood. She ran into the kitchen and began pulling open drawers.

“You little bitch,” John said, entering. “If I need cosmetic surgery, you’re going to pay for it.”

She found a knife, a long one. “Stay away from me.”

“I don’t think so, unemployed Violet.” He edged closer, watching the knife. “I don’t think you want to get in any more trouble than you already are.”

“You
attacked
me
—” she said, and he grabbed her wrist and slammed it onto the kitchen bench. She cried out. The knife clattered to the floor.

There was a crumpet toaster on the bench, a shiny, heavy thing Hack had bought her for her last birthday. It had variable-sized slots for different bread and an auto-sensor so it never burnt. Violet grabbed it with both hands and swung it at John’s face. It rang like a bell. John dropped to the floor.

He didn’t move. Violet peered at him. He didn’t seem to be breathing. After a moment, she prodded him with her foot. “Are you—”

He grabbed her ankle. She fell backward and banged her head against the stove. His hands clutched at her legs. She shrieked and flailed at him with the crumpet toaster. She cracked his knuckles, then hit her own knee. She slammed the toaster on his hands, his head, his face, until she realized he’d stopped moving again. He hadn’t been moving for a while.

She pulled herself out from under him, breathing heavily. John was limp. She looked at the toaster. There were spots of blood on it.

She dropped the toaster and circled around his body. She shut the kitchen door and went into the bedroom, pulled on a T-shirt and pants, and sat on the bed. After a while she started to bite her nails. She thought she may have just done something terrible.

“You sure we shouldn’t drive?” John said. There were some teenagers across the road, listening to loud music.

“It’s just up here,” Hack said.

“Why do you even live here? How much are you earning at Nike?”

“Um… about thirty-three.”

“Jesus!” John said. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I… guess I’m not very good in pay negotiations,” Hack said. Hack sucked in pay negotiations. Every year his boss sat him down and talked about competitive pressures and budget cuts; at the end he named a figure and Hack took it, grateful to be still employed.

“There are courses you can do. Assertiveness training. You should look into it. Is this it?”

Hack looked up. The Police, the swirling blue light. “Yes.”

John straightened his tie. “Now, this is what you’re going to do. You go in, you ask for whoever you talked to last time. You establish
exactly
how many other links in the chain there are. Then you leave. Nothing else.”

“Okay,” Hack said. They went in. The same music, “Every Breath You Take,” was playing. That must get pretty annoying, Hack thought. “Can I speak to Sergeant Pearson, please?”