‘Did he cook ’em with his fire breath?’
‘Ah … yes, sweetheart, he did. But he liked ’em rare,’ he added dryly, his eyes on Ben. ‘The knight decided that it was better to save the maiden than to obey the King’s rules. So he took out his sharp, shiny sword and, after a mighty battle, he chopped off the dragon’s head and put out his fire for good.’
‘No more cookin’ maidens.’
‘No more cookin’ maidens. But because the knight broke the King’s rules he had to take off his shining armour and never be a knight again.’
‘He could wear his dragon suit!’ Brie chirped brightly. This amused Uncle Dave no end. But she couldn’t see what was funny.
‘At least he still had his dragon suit,’ he agreed through his chuckles.
‘I like that story.’
‘I’m rather fond of that version, myself.’ His eyes were holding Ben in thrall. ‘Do you know the moral of the story, Ben?’ Brie gave her father a casual, curious glance. Ben knew he had been privileged by the telling of this tale. He was well aware of the arch references. He had just heard the closest thing to a confession the teller was ever likely to utter. Though its bearing would be brief, the burden of trust thrilled and scared him shitless. But what fucking moral?
‘I, I … I …’ He shrugged helplessly.
‘Can’t guess, Ben?’ Now the eyes were cold fires. Ben was transfixed. ‘The knight did this for a maiden he had never met. Never laid eyes on. Didn’t know her name. Didn’t even know which, of all the maidens in the kingdom, she was. Imagine, Ben, imagine, if he did this for a complete stranger, imagine what he would do for someone he knew and, and … cared about.’ He dipped his head and kissed Brie’s crown. She glanced up quickly and rubbed her curls vigorously. ‘Let’s get out of here, Ben.’ His eyes snapped down and up. ‘Soon as Bananas in Pyjamas finishes.’
Then Ben had a waking vision, burned with the hard-edged clarity of the television image. He saw himself thumb the toggle switch on his chest, but before the world dissolved in brilliant nullity, he saw the man on the rug simply roll and his daughter roll with him, a marsupial child, and the blast never touch her.
He had his hands tucked under his thighs. His fingers were cold, but they were there to stop their shaking. What he sought had been sensed not seen, unclear to him until now. A figment of faith, he had shambled toward its vague trace and stumbled on it. He’d got what he wanted. The bond was forged. The realisation was burning through the channels of his being like overproof liquor. The day was almost done. He knew he couldn’t wring it for any more. Only one more chore. It was anticipation of this that had his hands shaking.
‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Brie darlin’, Uncle Dave has to make a phone call.’ He lifted her and rose to his feet, unfolding in one smooth movement. As Ben noted the athletic ease of the action, he wondered if he had ever been in control. ‘Need any help getting out of that paraphernalia?’ he asked Ben as he lowered Brie to the couch.
‘She’ll be right,’ said Ben. He watched him cross to the speakerphone. He listened to one side of the conversation as he stood, tugged down the zip and began to shrug off the vest.
‘Don? You there?’ A voice crackled and hissed. ‘We’re coming out.’ Crackle, crackle. Something like a footy crowd barracking on the radio. ‘About ten minutes. Plenty of time to stand down the troops, get fingers off triggers.’ More crackle and hiss. ‘We’ll leave the, ah … device in here.’ Crackle, crackle. ‘He hasn’t got a gun.’ Crackle, crackle, crackle. ‘The woman was frightened. Her imagination played tricks.’ Hiss, crackle. ‘No. All three at once. We’ll come out holding hands, one on either side of the little girl.’ Crackle, crackle, crackle. ‘Sorry, Don, you have a lot of adrenalin-jacked personnel running around out there. Always the chance of an overachiever in a crowd. I’ll bring them across the street to you. Spread the word.’
‘What’s that, Daddy?’ Ben looked down. Brie was pointing at the vest hanging in his hands.
‘Just somethin’ Daddy made, luv.’
Brie reached out and tripped the switch.
4
‘If you’re going to look out that window put a bloody face shield on, Gareth.’
The window was in the gabled wall of the house that thrust forward into the small garden. Phil Severs thought they were far enough from ground zero of any explosion that the likes of Benny could concoct, but flying glass was a distinct possibility. It was difficult enough seeing clearly through layers of wet glass and drizzle without imposing another. He noticed movement on the roof of the house to the right of the day-care centre. The angle looked wrong. He doubted it would provide a vantage for surveillance or sharpshooting. The residents of the street and its neighbourhood had been evacuated for the duration. The police roamed over their homes at will.
‘Okay, Don,’ Gareth Nile said and turned from the window. The room was less crowded now. Various personnel had dispersed on their tasks. Everyone left seemed to be in thrall to the sounds emitted by the receiver on the dining table.
‘Why don’t they turn off the bloody television?’ someone complained.
‘Keeping the kid busy,’ said Don Collison. He stood at the end of the table, his head bowed, chin on his chest, concentrating.
‘There! There it was again. Dragon. I said someone said “dragon”.’
‘TV. It’s a kid’s show.’
‘It sounded like our phantom negotiator.’
‘We’re taping this. The audio-heads’ll unscramble it.’
‘Whassat? Laughing. Someone’s laughing.’
Don looked at Gareth, up from under his brows, a forehead of quizzical furrows like rills pushed in wet sand by wind and tide.
‘Laughter is good,’ said Gareth. ‘Whose is it?’
No one seemed to know. Everyone moved closer, craning to pick out meaningful sounds from what, to Gareth’s ear, was mostly white noise. But some of these people were experts in electronic eavesdropping; they could pick a raspberry from a fart at a boarding-school band practice. When a clear loud voice suddenly bleated from the plastic box Gareth had to stifle a snort of mirth. There wasn’t one around the table who didn’t pull back abruptly trying to disguise a red-handed expression caught on his or her face.
‘Don? You there?’
Don jerked forward and leaned his weight on the table. ‘Here! What’s happening?’
‘We’re coming out.’
The celebration around the table was driven by the release of tension. Collison opened his mouth to give instructions but the disembodied voice overrode him; it flatly stated what was going to happen next. At different points he interjected to protest the plans that unrolled from the speaker, but to no avail. He was clearly annoyed that he wasn’t calling the shots but ultimately he acquiesced.
‘Who the fuck does he think he is?’ growled constable Hoarse Whisperer.
‘He thinks he’s the man on the spot,’ Collison snapped. ‘Okay, you heard, ten minutes,’ he bellowed at the room. ‘Constable …?’ he said to the woman monitoring communications.
‘Baxter, sir.’
‘…