Siren Plays Zeperno

By Geoff O'Brien

Thelsea is struggling to move on after her mother's sudden death last year. Her father doesn't tell her they're moving to a new city until they've arrived. A reclusive girl, Thelsea deals with it all as she usually does: playing video games and writing short stories starring Siren, an alluring secret agent who lets nothing get in her way.

The latest game Thelsea enjoys playing is Zeperno: a free-to-play online digital card-collectible game themed around disabled protagonists known as Ables. She meets two vivacious teenagers – a boy and girl, each hard-of-hearing – who like Zeperno as well. In fact, wherever Thelsea looks, she finds more fans. Grown beyond it's target audience and played by anyone, Zeperno commands a presence in the esports scene: competitive video gaming involving players from around the world.

Easy to understand yet difficult to master, Zeperno engages Thelsea like nothing else. She and her new friends team up with an aloof Asian boy to dive head first into an online video game streaming service. There, they're shocked by a viewer's vicious act that sends her reeling.

As Thelsea contends with well-meaning people and trolls alike, she considers playing Zeperno professionally. A girl competing in esports? She would be completely out of place! That's okay: being totally deaf for her entire life, Thelsea is used to being out of place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoff O'Brien
• Release date: Apr 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780987577436

Book preview

Geoff O'Brien

Siren Plays Zeperno

Copyright © 2019 by Geoff O'Brien

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Images in cover art used under license from Shutterstock (shutterstock.com) and iStock (istockphoto.com).

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Contents

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Postface

Dedication

For whomever I have disappointed. And Finn, whom I haven’t met yet, and therefore haven’t disappointed.

One

Her mother had died on this day last year.

Thelsea stood in her designated spot, more out of apathy than decorum, slouching behind the single row of school seats. Many remained unoccupied, to the chagrin of the impatient man trying to photograph the class. The other teenagers tended to be too excited or agitated to remain in place for long.

Upon examination later, the photo titled Clifton Beach Year Eleven Special Needs Unit would reveal an eclectic mix: two children in wheelchairs, others sitting in various postures, the rest on their feet. Thelsea would number amongst the latter, located furthest to one side at the back, looking so normal that she would be mistaken for a youthful substitute teacher or assistant.

One of few indigenous people in the picture, she had an oblong face that framed disinterested brown eyes beneath brows that slanted downwards. A small nose and an average, narrow mouth did little to fill out the rest of her face in a flattering way, though a sturdy, prominent chin did underline it. The strands of her flat, earthy hair tended to knot and curl slightly at the end. Lean to the point of gaunt, she might have faded into the dusty tan wall of the building in the background if not for her bright and tidy school uniform and even white teeth, bared to show something between a grimace and a smile.

The photographer assisted Mrs Dobson in rounding up the rest of the class, hindering more than helping. Trying to manhandle Brett, the short boy who was autistic, was a bad idea. Brett never allowed anyone other than his mother or a teacher to touch him. Thelsea wondered, not for the first time, whether that was because the contact had to be of a certain kind or method. Mrs Dobson, remonstrating with another boy chewing on the collar of his shirt, gave up in order to assist the photographer. Meanwhile, one of the girls shook a large stick against the palings of the nearby fence.

Perhaps the scene sounded as chaotic as it looked. Thelsea recalled the phrase of being too loud to hear oneself think. That hadn’t been a problem for her—ever. Her disturbance wasn’t within her ears, but between them.

Her departure was mercifully quick.

Thelsea’s mind whispered to her, an unwanted confidant, forcing her to listen. It repeated the rehearsed mantras that naive people had spoken to her in ignorance, believing they would comfort.

At least there was no pain.

What of Thelsea’s own? Another useless balm shoved down her mind’s gullet, to be regurgitated when the occasion warranted, such as the anniversary of her mother’s death.

Once Brett had been calmed down and gently coaxed to his seat, Mrs Dobson frowned at the girl with the stick, then signed to Thelsea, Ask Michael to join us.

A student transferred from who knew where only two weeks ago, Michael would be photographed with the rest of the class today, lending the impression forever after that he had in fact been with them the entire year. Like Mrs Dobson and Thelsea, he knew Auslan, Australian Sign Language. Thelsea wondered whether he was deaf too, or hard of hearing. She hadn’t seen him wearing hearing aids or speaking. Segregating himself away from the chaos, he sat under the shade of a large tree some distance away, lost in the paperback novel he held in one hand.

Thelsea rubbed suddenly sweaty hands against her pants. An unexpected opportunity. What was he reading? She tried to glimpse the book as she approached. If she recognised it, therein lay another topic of conversation. Its spine showed a long, shining sword with a short word she couldn’t make out etched upon its handle.

What was it with boys and swords? Hmm. Mention the book anyway? She could see the engraved word now. What did a sword have to do with—?

Michael looked up at her from his book. Strands of his golden-blonde hair ruffled in the breeze. Her hand twitched, wanting to reach out to touch it.

What is it? Michael signed. Are they ready to take our picture yet?

Yes, Thelsea signed back without thinking, then stopped. Was that why Mrs Dobson had sent her? Flustered, Thelsea tried to remember. She didn’t realise he’d signed Okay until he was past her, hurrying back to the action. Teeth grinding, she stepped lively to reach him.

Slow down, she scolded herself. Don’t come across as too eager. Then he was striding ahead of her again, so she had to hurry anyway. She stretched out her hands to sign, Are you going to the fete? She didn’t plan on going to the bright and childish end-of-year spectacle the Special Needs Unit put on … unless he did. Looking ahead, he didn’t acknowledge the question—hadn’t seen? Or didn’t want to see? Had she been too bold by asking straight out? Perhaps she should have referenced it first, built her way up to it.

If he ever looked at her!

Meanwhile, Mrs Dobson and the photographer had managed to more or less corral the others into their places, one directing a group of boys, while the other pointed Thelsea and Michael to opposite sides of the assembled group. Of course.

The photographer, given the all-clear, decided to mess around with the camera instead. A few of her classmates fidgeted.

She’s in a better place now.

Yes, because life with her loving husband and doting daughter must’ve been terrible. Argh, would the guy just take the picture already! To keep her monkey-mind at bay, Thelsea tried thinking about exactly what she should say to Michael after the shoot.

She never had the opportunity. After the photos were finally taken, class was dismissed—or rather, many of the ambulatory students scattered in every direction, some resuming merry mayhem, others meeting their parents to be picked up. Michael was one of the latter, vanishing into a waiting SUV before a bemused Thelsea could sign boo.

Well, no point in hanging around any longer. Instead of waiting for the bus, Thelsea decided to walk. Stern storm clouds were gathering at the horizon. It would rain soon. Mum used to meet her after school on the cloudy days, enjoying the overcast conditions. They would walk home together, discussing their respective days.

You’ll be reunited someday.

Thelsea set out, leaving the school behind. If only she could leave her mind behind as well.

She walked on autopilot, existing in her own bubble of reality, not seeing the cars cruising by, not smelling their fumes, not feeling the whoosh of their wake, and definitely not hearing the steady drone of tyres rolling along the bitumen.

Her eyes focused: a children’s playground; the frosted windows of the building beside it, some covered with promotional posters of gigantic, juicy burgers; shapes milling about inside. The Prime Fooder. They were having some kind of promotion or celebration. On one of the windows, a different poster was spread out. Thelsea stepped closer. Misc Motley! it proclaimed, whatever that was. Below that was a picture of a group of eclectic characters—a girl whose eyes were entirely white, a trembling old man dressed in a black robe and, most interesting, a grinning boy without ears, using one hand to sign the letter Z. A stylistic Z had also been drawn in the background. The bottom of the poster specified a date—today’s. Had it been put up today? Or had it been there before and she hadn’t noticed?

This Misc Motley had attracted a crowd, aside from the usual handful of teenagers. What were they doing here? Some were wearing a school uniform, some not. There were several older people as well, in their early twenties maybe, all talking, laughing, hanging around in small groups. Many were looking at smartphones or tablets. Three used laptops.

Whenever Thelsea stopped in for a burger, she usually sat in a corner, or on one of the single seats off to the side. The few that weren’t occupied were situated uncomfortably close to the others. She would sit outside today. No one except smokers or parents sat there.

Outside the restaurant, she could see a boy adjacent to one of the window seats within. He had his laptop angled towards the glass, facing out, to stop another boy sitting at the same table from looking. This afforded Thelsea a decent view. He was playing a game of some sort. He hovered his cursor over something on the bottom of the screen, enlarging it—a card.

It didn’t look like any card Thelsea had ever seen. Prominently displayed was a picture of a girl wearing a red blindfold, sitting cross-legged in mid-air. The block of text beneath was too small to read. Numbers were laid out in the corners. Elaborate flowing lines separated the card’s elements.

The cursor moved away and the card shrank, coming to rest beside three similar-looking cards resting at the bottom of the screen—his current hand, it seemed. The cursor returned to rest upon a card beside the first.

This card showed a picture of a man with his hands clapped over his ears, his eyes squeezed shut, face twisted with anguish. The cursor moved away; the second card returned to its former place. For a while the cursor remained in place. One of the boy’s hands remained on the laptop’s touchpad, the other cupping his chin as he stared at the screen.

At last he selected the first card again, the one with the blindfolded woman. After dragging it towards the centre of the screen, he released it. This began an animated sequence where the card’s decorative borders shimmered away and the woman gently floated down to some sort of green field, uncrossing her legs and extending them to stand in a ready stance.

Meanwhile, the boy had flicked the cursor to the far side of the screen, to a graphic of an old-fashioned pocket watch. Its open face showed a green arrow pointing down. Its second hand flashed red for every tick past eleven, towards twelve. Atop the watch, an incongruous button looped a pressing animation, flashing orange in tandem with the second hand.

The boy clicked on the button, which stopped it flashing. At the same time, the green arrow flipped around the face upwards, changing its colour to red, and the second hand reset to twelve and started flicking towards one.

The boy leaned back in his chair and sipped on his soft drink. Who was he playing against? The game AI? Someone online? The design upon the back of his opponent’s cards was of a lidded eye exuding white light.

The other boy sitting at the table frowned at the phone he held, tapped at it, then smirked and said something to the first boy. On the laptop, the red upwards-facing arrow spun back downwards and reverted to green once more. Apparently, it was the first boy’s turn again. Wait, did that mean the second boy was playing the same game? Using his phone? Well, well. If this new card game could be played that way …

Using her dated phone—Mum had been the one to buy it for her—Thelsea waited for it to find the restaurant’s wireless network. Once that was ready, she tapped the internet browser app … and waited. Finally the website browser loaded. What to search for? Online card game? That only returned results for solitaire. What else could she try?

The boy’s laptop distracted her, showing something different: a vista of sunlight breaking through clouds with an overarching rainbow, and text flashing You did it! The other boy was scowling at his phone.

Thelsea tried searching online card game victory screen you did it … and waited.

At last some results. Here was something—a game named Zeperno. Was that it? The search engine started loading pictures as well as text results, slowly. Yes, this was it. Zeperno, stated the website, a digital card-collectable game for the Abled, by Anaptyxsoft. Further down, a tagline: Nobody’s Imperfect.

Really? Did that mean it was targeted towards people with disabilities? Fancy that. Everyone playing inside seemed normal.

She tapped on the result to load its web page. Apparently, the game could be played on a phone. She couldn’t use hers, unfortunately. It was older than the minimum-spec models specified.

Disappointing. On the plus side, her old desktop computer at home might match the PC minimum specs. She could try it out later.

Nearly everyone inside was doing the same thing as the two boys—playing Zeperno on various devices. Was that what the Misc Motley was all about? Some kind of event where fans of the game could come and play?

Someone sat down opposite Thelsea, jolting her out of her thoughts. She shrank back at this unexpected intrusion.

Who was it? A girl. Same age. Freckles highlighted her pale face. She wore a uniform the same as those of others who worked here. Her name badge read Penny. Thelsea didn’t recognise her. The girl tried on a hesitant smile, somewhere between confident and non-existent.

Sorry, she said. Didn’t —— startle —— want to play? Everyone else ——.

Play? Had Thelsea read her lips right? Play what?

Hel-lo? Penny pointed at Thelsea’s phone. —— playing Zeperno ——? She extended a hesitant hand towards Thelsea. Could we ——? Haven’t —— card back ——.

What? Her back was to the cards? That didn’t make sense. Had she asked whether Thelsea could play Zeperno?

Flustered, Thelsea brought up her hands to sign, realised the girl wouldn’t understand, and shook her head instead. Penny frowned and said, —— you okay? She leaned towards Thelsea, further intruding into her private space, saying, Can’t you speak? What’s wrong?

Thelsea pressed back into her chair. She’d only tried to show the girl that she couldn’t—

Thelsea’s breath hitched in her suddenly tight throat. She couldn’t handle this. Backing up and out of her seat, she spun and hurried away—away from the girl, away from the restaurant, away from—

Her phone. She’d left it on the table!

She would have to go back and get it—have to—and face Penny again. Not to mention everyone else, who no doubt had seen the weird mute girl running away. She closed her eyes, effectively shutting out the world. Unable to hear or see, ensconced within her own private sensory-deprivation chamber, she clenched her fists … and felt the unyielding, hard edges of her phone digging into one of them. She still held it! No need to go back. Relieved, she opened her eyes and kept walking. Not for the first time since Mum had died, Thelsea wanted to retreat from the rest of the world.

During the remainder of her trip home, her mind tormented her with a movie clip on repeat: the freckled girl sitting down, only trying to be friendly; her concern as she misinterpreted what Thelsea tried to communicate; her mouth slackened in shock as Thelsea flinched and fled.

Penny had meant well, but Thelsea had ruined everything—as usual.

At home, Thelsea shrugged off her backpack beside the door and trudged to her room. Switching on the Dinosaur, she wondered what to do while she waited for it to load Windows. Might as well turn on the air conditioning as well. After that, she stopped, remembering that she was going to try out that new online card game—Zeperno, that was it.

Thelsea found its website, featuring a promo trailer with animated characters using the one-handed Z sign, same as the poster.

After downloading and installing it, Thelsea loaded it up. As the title screen appeared, a pop-up informed her there were many accessibility options, listing accommodations for users who were blind or had low vision, deaf or hard of hearing, or had physical or motor impairments. Zeperno’s accessibility submenu sported an impressive array of options. How many games did that? Thelsea selected the closed captions option and exited.

After starting the game, she was assigned a hero—or Able, as the game referred to it—ailed with the Blind condition, reducing the chance to hit for all characters. An animated portrait of this Able, a fairly normal-looking girl in a school uniform, except for her totally white eyes, transitioned onto the middle of the screen, then drifted down to the very bottom to be portrayed as a static image. The entire background remained blurred, out of focus.

An introduction sequence started, explaining how to play. Five cards materialised onto the screen and floated down to rest above the Able’s portrait.

Another animated portrait appeared and rose to the top of the screen. This one—the opponent, Thelsea presumed—was a boy with a mischievous grin, his head framed by his forearms and hands, his short hair cresting over where his ears should have been but weren’t, the line emphasising their non-existence. A pop-up explained that he was ailed with the Silence condition, stopping all characters from casting spells. A hand of cards, face down, appeared beneath his portrait. The back of the cards showed a symbol of an ear with a diagonal slash running through it.

Interesting. She controlled an apparently blind Able, and her opponent seemed to be a deaf Able. She hoped she could choose the deaf one later. How many other Ables were in the game? What did they do?

A pop-up expounded on conditions. Each Able had a different condition that affected not only any opponent character but any allied character as well. Therefore, any and all characters for the upcoming match would be affected by both Blind and Silence, those being the conditions of the competing Ables.

The background between the two Ables and their respective hands came into focus, revealing an oblong-shaped green sports field with the stylistic Z mown into its grass, all shown in a tilted, or isometric, view. That covered the central area of the screen between the two players. The edges of the screen revealed multiple rows of stadium seating, filled with vaguely defined humanoid shapes, implying an audience. Thelsea imagined an unseen crowd talking or cheering. Another pop-up explained this would be where all cards would be played and thereby interact with everything else. Each and every card in Zeperno cost a certain number of summon points to play, depleting a player’s available pool for that turn, limiting the number of cards that could be played at any one time. In general, the higher the summon point cost of a card, the more powerful it was. A player’s pool of summon points would refresh at the beginning of their turn.

The cards themselves consisted of two types: doers and spells. Each player took turns using these, deploying doers, casting spells, or both, attacking or defending until the health of the opposing Able had been reduced to zero. At that point, the game would end, victory being awarded to the player of the surviving Able. Should a player hover their cursor over any doer on the battlefield, a pop-up of its card would appear, in case the player wasn’t familiar with it.

Thelsea won the first tutorial match easily enough. For the second, she had to continue using the blind Able, though her opponent changed to a twisted, wizened man dressed in dark, tattered robes. He had the Seize condition, whereby each character had a chance to damage itself every turn.

Thelsea was made to play against two more Ables, each designed to showcase a particular aspect of the game. After defeating the fourth one, the tutorial was over. Then the game really opened up.

Light. Bright and artificial. Not in the game. In her periphery. From the hallway. A counterpoint to the soft glow of her computer monitor.

Dad was home.

Two

The tall and wiry man with receding auburn hair and freckled skin in Thelsea’s room had changed over the years—especially during the year after Mum’s death. Thelsea’s earliest memories of Dad were of an imposing man, a little scary on the few occasions when he frowned at or scolded her. His frame, burlier in those days, filled out the white dress shirt and black pants she often saw him wearing, giving her the impression he was always ready to tense and flex his muscles to burst right out of them, like the Hulk. His size and stature gave him an automatic presence in any courtroom, where other lawyers would underestimate his quick mind until too late, and he would win the day, securing justice for the more unfortunate or downtrodden people of the world.

Or so Mum would say to a younger Thelsea, who had believed it. During the holidays, they would sit in court and watch. Dad would stride about the courtroom as if he owned it, scornful of his opposition, earnest with the judge and members of the jury, if the latter happened to be present. Then in the evenings, the three of them would enjoy dinner at a restaurant, where he would discuss his case with Mum and patiently answer any questions Thelsea had.

On the first day, she had asked how Dad’s hair had changed. In the courtroom, it looked different: white instead of red, and a different shape. Most bizarrely, the judge and one or two people from the other table had hair that was exactly the same.

We were all wearing a w-i-g, he explained, letter-signing the new word for her.

What’s a w-i-g?

Fake or pretend hair that people can wear on their heads.

How strange. Why does everyone in court wear fake hair?

Sober as a judge, he said it was to hide their bald heads. It’s a ritual that any person of law has to go through. We have our heads shaved to show the proper respect. Then we put on wigs so nobody else knows.

Thelsea gaped at the idea, simultaneously disbelieving and believing him. None of the wig people have any real hair?

He shook his head.

Thelsea thought about it. Something about that didn’t make sense. You have hair, she asserted, back on solid ground, sensing he was joking with her.

Good point, he said, thinking. Then, after scanning the room, he leaned in close and switched to sign. This is a wig too. He pulled at his own hair. Not even your mother knows. Don’t tell, he admonished, completely serious.

A bug-eyed Thelsea took his word for it … until she saw her mother trying to cover a smile.

Those were the two enduring images she had of her father: a crusader of the law, and the gentle giant with the irrepressible sense of humour.

The slouching man now beside the air conditioner reminded her of neither.

Maybe the law part. He wore his perennial white shirt and black dress pants, the former crumpled by this time of day. The lack of a tie was a concession to the tropics, though he used to joke about looking as hoity-toity as other lawyers.

His easy banter and ready grin had disappeared a year ago.

Mum was home sick with the flu instead of helping him around the office or court. He finished the day early to come home and check in on her.

Thelsea arrived soon after, full of excitement. A boy from high school—the normal one, not the special needs school that Thelsea attended—would cross paths with Thelsea on the way home from their respective schools. For three days in a row, he’d been saying hello in passing. The third time, he’d had a friend with him.

This level of interest from a boy was unprecedented. Discussing it over Facebook with her sometimes-friend Sarah on her way home after the third encounter, Thelsea had typed she’d seen the boy saying the words dance and rink to his friend. Convinced that the boys had been discussing the upcoming under-eighteens dance at the local skating rink that Friday night, the girls had concocted a plan: Thelsea would ask her parents whether she could stay the night at Sarah’s place that Friday. As soon as she arrived, they would both change and go to the dance from there.

Thelsea could, of course, have simply asked one of her parents to take her. There were two problems with that approach. One, they might say no. She’d never gone to anything like this before, and they could get a little overprotective. If she fell back on the sleepover scheme, they might see through that and put their foot down. Two, they might say yes. But they would want to chaperone. The idea of them hanging around was unbearable.

Being an under-eighteens dance, there would be minders. Sarah, a regular attendee of such things, assured Thelsea they were always deathly bored of such duty and never noticed, or cared, about much.

Thelsea had run home after school that day, so sure of her plan that she was already wondering which of her friend’s outfits to borrow for the night. It was rare for a normal girl to hang out with Thelsea, let alone a boy. Secretly Thelsea worried that her friend was right, that he wasn’t really interested in her, that he was only being a nice guy.

That would be okay. Attending a dance was exciting enough. She’d never been to one—not a proper one, anyway, unlike the pretend dances Mum would help the special needs school organise sometimes.

At home, Thelsea was caught off guard by seeing Dad so early. He told her Mum was taking a nap, sick with the flu, admonishing her not to disturb her. When she asked Dad instead whether she could sleep over, he astonished her by saying no.

After trying for a while to change his mind, she gave up. Dad might say no. Mum, on the other hand …

Thelsea’s stomach rolled as though she’d eaten bad food. She shouldn’t wake Mum up.

No. It had to be done. It would be worse not to. This dance—that boy—was a singular opportunity that Thelsea wasn’t going to squander.

Waiting until Dad was occupied in the kitchen, she sneaked into the lounge. Mum’s skin, bolder compared to Thelsea’s, almost camouflaged her in the gloom. The curtains were drawn. Her short, squat body filled out the recliner. She didn’t move. She didn’t even seem to breathe.

Resolving that she’d make up for what she was about to do, Thelsea started gently shaking her. Mum felt oddly cold …

Thelsea shivered. Dad moved to the air conditioner and switched it off. Despite that, Thelsea decided to zip up her jumper anyway, right to the top. Dad shuddered, apparently feeling the chill as well. He shook himself. Seeing the game in progress on the Dinosaur, he asked, Homework?

Done, she signed—at least, what was due tomorrow. She had two other assignments, but neither needed turning in until next week. One of those, the writing one, she could do the day prior. That was easy.

Remind me, he said. When does school finish for the term?

Friday week. Thelsea knew where this was going.

That’s what I thought. This time of the year, you’ve got all sorts of assignments due and exams coming up. You’re on top of it all?

That’s right. She folded her arms.

Dad noticed and fetched a sigh. Bad start, he admonished himself, shaking his head, showing patches of his hair that were lighter or faded. He tried on a smile, producing more lines in his face than Thelsea thought she’d seen before. Sorry, li’l yawk, he said, using his old nickname for her, based on some indigenous myth. It’s been a long day. He chuckled without humour, his usually steady eyes flickering. Long year. Anyway, want to help your old man with dinner? I was thinking curry stew.

Startled by the request, she automatically signed, Okay.

This hadn’t happened for a while. When Mum was alive, they’d all prepared meals more often. To begin with, an inexperienced Thelsea would hinder more than help. Both parents would take her poor cutting and clumsy dropping with gentle humour and encouragement, not allowing her to give up. An older Thelsea had come to understand it was less about cooking food and more about other things.

Every once in a while, usually after Mum had had a full-on day, Dad would pick up the phone, waggle it and say with his mile-wide grin that he would cook dinner tonight, which of course meant takeaway.

After Mum had died, they’d had more takeaway.

The few times Thelsea and Dad had worked together in the kitchen after Mum’s death had been awkward, performing their preparations in a silence that Thelsea could hear. Their established rhythms and routines were disrupted as they adjusted to a two-person team. Things would get burned or soggy.

Thus, a regular family ritual had changed into an awkward and painful reminder of their loss. Dad had begun to cook on his own—sometimes in the kitchen, more often with the phone.

I’m glad, Dad said. I thought this might be appropriate for us to do … for today. He coughed. I stopped by Mackey’s on the way home for the ingredients we didn’t already have. Everything’s in the kitchen. When you’re ready, get started. I’ll join in after a quick shower.

Thelsea remained seated after he left, pondering. He had, with forethought, planned for the two of them to do something they both associated with Mum and happier times, on the anniversary of a day that neither of them would ever forget.

What were his intentions? Something other than the obvious?

Thelsea was chopping vegetables when Dad appeared, passing into her visual plane as he entered, though that meant walking around her the long way to get to the stove. Not startling a deaf person, lacking her most proficient omnidirectional sense, was a courtesy. Not startling a deaf person occupied in a kitchen was a good safety practice.

Dad set up everything on the stove, being the one able to hear whatever happened to be boiling or frying at the time. Thelsea, suspicious of a possible ulterior motive on her father’s part, waited for him to talk. He continued to brown the sausages, moving them about the frying pan. One side of his jaw moved as he prepped the stew pot—probably chewing on the inside of his cheek, a habit Mum used to scold him about.

At last he said, Do you remember when you were five and wanted that budgerigar?

Thelsea put down the knife to sign, Yes. I begged Mum to buy it. The open secret, known to all, being that Thelsea had typically preferred to ask Mum for anything.

And?

Mum didn’t want to. It would be a nuisance.

What happened next?

Thelsea hesitated. He remembered as well as she did what had happened next. Why was he bringing this up? I … insisted. Actually, five-year-old Thelsea had resorted to throwing a tantrum, pushing a large cup filled with colouring pencils on the floor, stomping about and slamming drawers. Mum gave in.

Why do you suppose that was?

She shrugged, self-conscious. I was good at insisting?

Dad laughed. Granted. However, I’d like to suggest an alternative hypothesis. Every time we all walked past that pet store, you would stop and observe Birdy.

Thelsea nodded, following along. She’d named it.

You would tap at the window to see it react, or drag us inside for a closer look. Remember?

The wily pet store owner had allowed her to use the budgie’s seed dispenser the first time. During the second, he had helped the budgie to perch on her finger.

Your mother kept an eye on you around Birdy. She would get this wistful smile on her face … He trailed off, a similar expression on his. Anyway, when I saw that, it reminded me of something she said before we were married. She had been pregnant with you, barely showing, still juggling two jobs, doing a lot of social work, especially when things with me were slow. She’d give some of her clients our personal number so they could contact her during a crisis. He shook his head. I remonstrated with her about that. They already had her attention nine to five. I thought she was being overly hard on herself. You know what she told me?

Thelsea shook her head, engrossed. She’d never heard this story.

Your mother said that the most important aspect of loving someone is wanting them to be happy.

He checked on the sausages, turning them over. Was that it? The whole story? No. He had stopped to give her time to process, to think. He would wait for some signal from her to continue. She finished chopping the peeled potatoes into squares and started slicing the carrots. A thought occurred to her and she stopped. Mum was saying she loved her clients?

Dad, seeing her signing, stopped adding chopped potato to the stew pot, saying, Not quite. She valued them. Being human beings, they have as much potential as anyone else. That’s what motivated her to help them. Not because they were needy first and foremost, though that’s a close second. Rather, put simply, increasing their happiness increased hers.

Okay, Thelsea could understand that. "Why say it the way she did, then? That loving someone meant wanting them to be happy?"

He blinked several times instead of responding. Then he said, It was a jab at me. She was offering constructive criticism without coming across as overly judgemental—an essential skill for a social worker. She was telling me that going the extra mile made her happier. She was also telling me that I could be happy too, knowing she was.

Hmm.

Indeed, he said, gauging her reaction, that’s why we let you keep Birdy, despite the inconvenience for us. It made you happier; ergo, it made us happier. He chuckled. At least, that’s what we told each other whenever you ignored our umpteenth request to clean out his cage.

Unfortunately, the younger and more carefree Thelsea had accidentally left the cage open one day, discovering it empty later. She’d never seen Birdy again. Later, full of remorse and empty of tears, she had promised her parents she would be more careful with pets in the future. She had missed that budgie terribly … until the next week, when their neighbours across the street had bought their children two kittens.

Thelsea waited for Dad’s story to unfold. Instead, he returned to the now-browned sausages, chopping and adding them to the pot.

The end, apparently. Oh well. It had been an absorbing story—a rare glimpse into the mind of her mother. She wondered what had made him think of it.

He abruptly turned to her, about to say something, then wavered. At last he said, How do you feel about spending the upcoming holidays in Brisbane?

Why?

Why not? he challenged. After a pointed glance, he returned to the pot, adding the last of the vegetables and placing the lid.

A good question. She could tell he wanted her to consider it, so she would.

What few friends she had—acquaintances really—were all going elsewhere for the holidays. She hadn’t really thought much about what she would do. More of the usual? However, she doubted he would be thrilled to learn that her plans for the holidays consisted pretty much of playing games or reading books.

She shrugged. No reason why not. That he would appreciate. Your turn.

A mate of mine named Barry lives in Brisbane. Barry and his family are going overseas to spend Christmas. In the meantime, he was hoping we could catch up. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. I’m guessing you’re not keen on spending a few days with strangers. It won’t be as bad as you’re imagining. I’ll probably be out and about with Barry and his missus most of the time. He said their two teenagers are hardly ever home. More often than not, you’ll have the run of the place, especially after they leave. He wants us to stay there and babysit the place while they’re away.

Whoopee.

I anticipated that look on your face, so I questioned him: what if I have a bored, reclusive and occasionally asocial teenager of my own? A rare twinkle in his eye to take away the sting of any unintentional insult. "What could she do? Did you know they have a swimming pool? No? How about their rumpus room? It has a pool table, a computer and a nice TV with something they called a … switch? Dad stumbled on the word. Or something with a switch? No, that can’t be it. Oh, and they have a cinema room."

Thelsea’s jaw dropped lower after every sentence. You’re kidding. Was it possible to set subtitles?

Is this the face of a kidder?

Thelsea smiled. Is that a trick question?

Dad looked away, effectively interrupting her, and signed, Walked into that one, didn’t I? Turning back, he said, In all seriousness, what’s not to like? His eyes dimmed. I believe we could both use some time away from … everything.

The more Thelsea thought about it, the more she warmed to the idea. Guilt wormed its way into her belly as she realised she hadn’t thought about what Dad wanted or felt very much. He seemed enthusiastic about the prospect of catching up with his friend. He was rinsing the chopping board and frying pan with more relish than his prior tasks. Clearly, he was looking forward to it.

She signed, What movies do they have?

Three

Siren reclined her aeroplane seat, relaxing for the first time in days. The aisle seat. Taking it easy was one thing. No quick access to an exit was quite another.

The VIP Relocation Program had lived up to its reputation. She’d blipped onto their radar after her previous mission had gone sideways. They’d dropped everything to accommodate her. Ralph Patterginson could wait. What harm could one more rabid fan do, anyway? Siren’s need was far more pressing, and everyone at the program knew it.

Patterginson’s chagrin with being leapfrogged for relocation had changed into excitement when he’d realised whom it was for, asking her for an autograph.

She’d obliged. Why not? Nothing else to do while waiting for the right calls to be made. It had also made sense from a tactical standpoint.

While few knew her by sight, her reputation preceded her. Certain illicit organisations worldwide hunted her from the shadows. Hardly surprising. She’d been around the block a few times already. She rarely left any trace.

The Paris job had been the exception. How was she to have known the target would bring the sample of the X2 compound with him for the trade? She’d expected him to use a dead drop, like any other halfway-decent professional.

The original plan had involved acquiring him there, then following him back to his