The Premier’s stomach fizzed. ‘Oh – alright – Colin – I’ll see you – later …’ he said, waving optimistically.
Colin gave that reassuring grin. ‘Copy that,’ he said, and was gone.
Damo nodded and Robert stepped ahead of him. They came to another door. Robert turned to him.
‘What about the scanner?’
‘No need,’ the officer said, holding up a swipe card until the door hissed open. For some reason Robert’s heart was going like crazy, and sweat had sprung out on his palms. Something was seriously wrong, and he was Premier. He would be expected to know what to do. Quick, think of something. Inside was a large space that looked like a dated hotel room, all ’70s laminate and vinyl, except that along one side was a bank of televisions, three telephones, and two laptops. It must have dated from when the back extension to Parliament was built. Two large men in suits, and another in an Australian Federal Police uniform stood by the buffet drinking out of plastic cups, white spiral cords at their ears. When he entered they stopped their conversation and turned around.
‘Ah, Mr Premier,’ one said, stepping towards him. ‘Have a seat.’ The TVs on the wall flashed on, and he saw … what were the Federal Minister for Home Affairs and the … wasn’t that the Federal Resources Minister? What were they doing on videolink?
‘Mr Premier.’ The officer sat down across from him and pushed a white card with blue writing and a raised gold insignia across the gap. ‘Joe Fitzgibbon, Senior Constable, AFP.’ Then he passed him a document. TOP SECRET, said the title, MAJOR INCIDENT: POWER SUPPLY. Oh gosh. So. Not a blackout then. There was a carafe of water on the table and a stack of plastic cups; Robert reached for one and filled it.
‘Goodness,’ he said, scanning the document. ‘Senior Constable – I’m sorry but this needs the presence of my Cabinet to discuss this. The Deputy Premier and the Energy Minister – they were in the crowd a moment ago. Could they be collected please?’
‘The Honourable Federal Members requested only you at this time, Mr Premier.’
Robert swallowed. There was going to be a tonne of fresh hell to pay for this, and no more Saturday pub lunches for a while. He took a deep breath.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Better get them live then.’
6
In the morning Cressida woke to someone banging on her door. It wouldn’t be Felipe because he had a key. Cressida yanked the windows shut against the hot air outside and squinted at the clock radio. Off. Oh for God’s sake, she thought, pulling on her cream silk dressing gown. Hadn’t someone sorted out the power yet? She padded across the floorboards to the front door and squinted through the peephole. Helena stood there, her curly brown-haired head dwarfed by enormous wraparound sunglasses.
‘Oh thank God,’ said her stepmother when Cressida opened the door, running into the flat and slamming the heavy timber behind her so hard the potplant next to it fell off the shelf. She did a lap of the loungeroom checking the windows were locked and fell on Cressida in a cloud of L’eau d’Issey. ‘The world’s ending, Cressida – you have to come home.’ She cupped her hands around Cressida’s face, her eyes wide. ‘Haven’t you heard? Terrorists. We’re under attack. Joan next door said she’d heard it was the electrical union. Quick, pack some clothing. What is your skirt doing in the hallway? Is someone else here?’ She peered out the window as if to look for terrorists running down the street, then hurried into Cressida’s bedroom and started hauling clothes out of drawers. ‘The police have said—’
‘Helena,’ Cressida cut her off. Rubbing her eyes, she began in her best low, firm voice, ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Cressida, haven’t you heard? On the radio. Terrorists have sabotaged three power stations. Three. That’s why there’s no power. We have to get out of here.’
‘What? Jesus,’ Cressida said, not sure whether to run in circles like Helena or go back to bed and pretend it wasn’t happening. Neither would be particularly helpful, she decided. Instead she carefully sat on her bed and picked up her phone, which of course was now flat, only a fancy slab of glass and plastic in her hand. She put it down and calmly flipped open her laptop. At least it was still charged. The Sydney Porsche dealership’s page was still open from yesterday, and she flicked from it to the Herald website. Then she remembered the modem would be dead. She stood up and found Helena’s handbag.
‘Your phone is still charged?’ she said, rootling.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Helena, digging through the bottom of Cressida’s wardrobe. She found a duffel bag and started throwing things into it. Cressida opened the settings function on Helena’s phone and switched on the wireless hotspot, groaning inwardly at the little blue circle while her laptop looked for the signal.
‘I’m just checking to make sure you have in fact gone mad …’
Ah. Five bars. Excellent. She clicked refresh on the page. Convulsively it loaded.
‘Ah,’ said Cressida. ‘Holy fuck.’
Terror Australis, the Sydney Morning Herald website blurted, in large white letters over a picture of flames and a close up of a firefighter in a gas mask. Overnight three major NSW power stations, servicing sixty percent of the Sydney metropolitan area, were destroyed by fire, she read. Police suspect terrorism …
‘Oh my God,’ she began. ‘This says …’
Then she realised she was about to say exactly the same thing Helena had. Maybe not the bit about the world ending, but at least the terrorist/power station part.
‘What do you think I’ve been telling you?’ Helena said, zipping the duffel. ‘Is that everything?’ She stood up, thinking. ‘I’ll go and pack some cans from your kitchen. We’ve got plenty at home, but you never know how long this is going to last …’
Cressida looked out the window, wondering why everything looked so normal. Her first thought was that at least the triathlon was off. Then she thought maybe it was odd to be thinking that at a time like this. There was something else. Then she remembered. Felipe. In seconds she was in motion, dropping her silk robe to the floor and pulling on shorts and a t-shirt, grabbing some sportswear from her bottom drawers, some undies and her hairdryer, her trenchcoat off its hanger. Oh God. The hairdryer. There was no power. She looked in the mirror. Despite all attempts to prevent it, her blowdry had been ruined by the rain, her normally buttery locks a puffy snakeskin mess. There was a wide headband on the dresser and she grabbed that, slipping it over her head and hair and tucking in the ends at the back so it looked like a turban. It would have to do.
‘Jesus, Cressida, don’t you eat canned food?’ she heard Helena exclaim from the kitchen. ‘All I can find here are dried mushrooms and diet drink powder. And about fifty kilos of carrots and celery in your fridge. What’s that?’ she asked, peering around the door jamb to the laundry where Cressida was wrestling a backpack off a high shelf.
‘My emergency pack,’ said Cressida, grunting. The heavy bag fell into her arms and she dragged it out to the kitchen like a corpse, leaning it up against a cupboard. She filled a glass from the sink.
‘No, don’t. You have to boil it. You have an emergency pack?’ said
