Part 18 (2/2)

'In breaking news, former prime minister Hugh Patton has commented on Slaughtergate from his family home in Sydney,' said the announcer. We could hear seagulls over the harbour in the background.

'Ladies and gentleman,' said Patton, 'I've brought you here today to tell a story. In my first term as prime minister, I recall the chief of the defence forces bringing a proposal to my attention that had been initiated by a naval captain stationed in the Persian Gulf.

'The captain's proposal was for post-traumatic stress specialists to be available to service personnel for up to six months after each tour of duty. Cabinet rejected it for funding reasons, but we were all touched by its sincerity. It was the action of a captain deeply concerned for the wellbeing of one of his subordinates. That captain was Max Masters, Leader of the Opposition.'

Di threw an air punch.

The announcer continued, 'Mr Patton refused to answer any questions, but when asked whether this meant that he supported the Opposition over his own party, he said simply that the story speaks for itself.'

'Holy s.h.i.+t!' said Maddy. 'Did the former prime minister just b.i.t.c.h-slap his successor?'

'Brennan will be spewing blood,' said Di with a grin.

Apparently this was a good thing.

'You done?' asked the cab driver. He cranked up the volume on 'No Woman, No Cry', which carried us all the way to Tullamarine-my fourth time there in eight days.

In the Qantas Club, over more than our fair share of a pa.s.sionfruity sauvignon blanc, Di explained why we were on the road again.

'Essentially, our candidate for Rafter in western Queensland is a bit nuts. The party's been in such a rush to preselect candidates that due diligence has been a little less diligent than we would have liked.' Di chowed down on a stash of over-sauced party pies. 'This lady's a blogger. She blogs under a nom de plume so a Google search won't bring it up, but it would appear that'- she paused and lowered her voice-'it would appear that she plots the landing patterns of extraterrestrials from Saturn.'

'That's more than a bit nuts,' said Maddy. 'That's about eight Iced VoVos short of a packet.'

'Two questions,' I said. 'One, isn't Saturn a gaseous planet? And two, what on earth is an Iced Volvo?'

'VoVo,' howled Maddy, 'not Volvo.'

I was still blank.

'It's a biscuit-pale pink icing with a landing strip of jam sprinkled with desiccated coconut.'

'Sounds foul.'

'Don't knock it 'til you try it,' said Di through a mouthful of pie.

'I did find some delicious sweets in a supermarket the other day,' I offered. 'They're like English toffees covered in chocolate and wrapped in blue paper printed with tidbits of trivia on film stars. I got Brad Pitt. Very chewy and quite more-ish.'

Maddy and Di looked at each other as they laughed, their eyes watering. It was a sort of contagious hysteria.

'You mean Fantales?' Maddy clutched her sides as fat tears rolled down her face.

'Yes.' I was somewhat bewildered. 'You know them?' I found the half-eaten packet in my overnight bag and put it on the table.

We giggled like teenagers at a sleepover and the lounge staff frowned as we polished off the Fantales, the mini pies and every last drop of the sauvignon blanc.

When they called our flight, I was still under the impression we were headed for Australia's Brick Lane.

Felicia Lunardi.

I opened the vertical blinds in my room at the motor inn to the hum of an over-exerted air-conditioner.

Perhaps that's why it's called Cloncurry, I thought, peering through the window at garam masalacoloured dust outside. Trying to ignore my spectacular white wine hangover, I stepped into my pencil skirt for the third time that week, threw on my cleanest top and went outside to find the girls.

It was then that I discovered the etymology of the name: it's called Cloncurry because it's scaldingly hot. Not Melbourne-hot or even Brisbane-hot; Cloncurry brings something unique to heat. Discarded gum trodden into the footpath formed a gooey puddle rather than the usual sticky clump. A squashed marsupial on the road was steaming as if in a tagine. Each of my thighs had suction-cupped the other and my shoes gripped the concrete like velcro. It was a rancid heat. I wondered whether the Cloncurry Embroiderers' Guild met in the morgue for an environment more conducive to fine needlework.

'Shut it!' commanded Di as I slid open the gla.s.s door to an icy shed marked Air -conditioned Dining Room . She was leaning on the water cooler, gulping from a pint gla.s.s, reading the Sunday papers. Maddy sat at a laminex table tucking into what looked like, but couldn't possibly have been, a bowl of porridge.

'Morning, Roo,' she chirped. 'Grab some breakfast. It's delicious with banana and brown sugar.'

Di and I exchanged glances. 'Maddy, sweetheart,' I implored, 'it's about two hundred degrees outside; why in G.o.d's name are you eating hot porridge?'

'I'm from Mount Isa,' said Maddy, pointing near the westernmost point on the map of Queensland hand-st.i.tched into her placemat.

'So, what's on the agenda?' I asked.

Di poured some water onto her chest and fanned it dry with a newspaper. 'We have to go to the candidate's place for a chat.'

'Can't she come here?' I asked, standing directly beneath the air-conditioning vent.

Di shook her head. 'Today's her campaign launch and a gaggle of journos are arriving later this arvo because Mick O'Donoghue is launching it.'

'Who's that?'

'He was the most recent PM on our side-Patton defeated him over a decade ago, but he was hugely popular and people still love him. He's from this part of the world.'

'How are the papers?'

'Reasonable,' said Di, throwing me a copy of the Sunday. 'We managed to take the sting out of Slaughtergate and the Patton thing has helped us, but they've still got shots of the victim's family, the officer involved and Max in his tracky dacks.'

'I'll bring the car around front for you two wusses- we'll leave at a quarter to ten.' Maddy sc.r.a.ped at oats cemented to the bottom of her bowl.

'Wusses?'

'People who don't enjoy being microwaved,' explained Di.

There's a word for everything in this country.

'Oh, and Roo, you might want to get changed.'

She was right. I was already drenched and had walked all of eight feet between my room and the dining shed. There was nothing else clean in my overnight bag, so I battled across the road-which was like walking against the flow of a giant hair dryer-to Carl's Camping Gear.

'G'day,' said a leathery man in his mid-sixties. 'What can I do you for?'

'h.e.l.lo,' I said, wis.h.i.+ng I could say 'g'day' without it sounding so much like 'giddy'. 'Listen, I need something a bit cooler.'

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