Free Underground by Andrew McGahan

now, I’m your only friend.’ He was watching Aisha. ‘The same goes for you, little lady.’
    ‘Stick it up your arse,’ she responded.
    And I could tell the man was amused by the crinkle of his eyebrow. He turned to check the TV screen. ‘The New Price is Right’ was running the credits. The final contestant had been playing for prizes valued at half a million, including a fully armoured family sedan, with the complete anti-terrorist defence attachments, tear gas and all. But she hadn’t won. He turned back to us.
    ‘Before we talk, I want you to watch the news. It should give you some idea of what’s going on here.’
    He moved his chair around, and we all sat there, facing the screen.
    I was interested despite myself. It must have been a week—way back before the cyclone neared the coast—since I’d seen any news. These days, a week was an eternity. And the way the man was talking, perhaps something momentous had occurred. Another Twin Towers, another nuke—who could tell?
    But there was none of that. The news, at least the first two minutes of it, was solely about me. And the fact that I was dead.
    ‘Forensic tests have finally confirmed,’ said the newsreader, ‘that the body found at the Ocean Sands Green Resort near Bundaberg is indeed that of Leo James, the twin brother of Prime Minister Bernard James. The state of the remains had until now led to doubts about the identity of the deceased, but authorities have today made the death official. The Prime Minister himself reportedly donated a DNA sample early yesterday to aid with the identification process.’
    I was staring at the wreckage of my resort on the screen, bathed now in sunshine, shot from a news helicopter. And then I was listening to an obituary, outlining my sad and sorry life in a well-censored lack of detail, while old photos of me flashedacross the screen. Bernard and me as children. Me at my second wedding. Me with Bernard in his Prime Ministerial office. (The friendly pose belying the fact that he was probably dressing me down at the time.) Me in a silly hard hat on the site of some construction project I was trying to fund.
    ‘The Prime Minister has expressed his great sadness at his brother’s passing, and has said the occasion is a reminder that even in these troubled political times, we must not forget the dangers and tragedies with which nature herself presents us. He also expressed deep sympathy for others who have lost loved ones or property as a result of Cyclone Yusuf.’
    ‘Fuck him!’ I said to no one, disbelieving.
    The man held up his finger again. ‘There’s more.’
    ‘In other breaking news,’ read the host, ‘the Federal Police have reported a successful raid on a terrorist cell in south-east Queensland. After lengthy investigation, several members of a group calling themselves the Great Southern Jihad were ambushed and eliminated by AFP agents. Police warn, however, that the cell commander remains at large.’
    And suddenly there she was, large as life on TV. It was one of those surveillance-type photos, taken as she was crossing a street somewhere, in normal clothes, her head turned slightly away from the camera. But it was Aisha, sure enough.
    The genuine article was blinking at the screen.
    ‘The AFP report that Nancy Campbell is armed and extremely dangerous. Members of the public are advised not to approach her, but to inform police immediately if she is sighted. Campbell is wanted dead or alive, and a shoot-to-kill order has been issued. Extra AFP forces have been deployed to south-east Queensland, and increased roadblocks and other security measures will be in force. Returning now to the clean-up of Cyclone Yusuf . . .’
    The man reached over and switched the television off.
    ‘They aren’t kidding about the AFP reinforcements. It’s a madhouse out there. Not just the AFP, but the army too, trucksand troops everywhere, roadblocks all over the place.’ He nodded towards Aisha. ‘They really