When All Hope Is Lost: Book 1 of Angels Have Tread Trilogy

By Alyce Elmore

The women of 2029 faced a terrible crisis when a pandemic killed all adult males, but they survived and now, twenty years later, they are once again starting to thrive. The problem is that the disease continues to kill males as they reach maturity and there's no cure in sight. Having adapted to a world that is no longer dependent on men, is it time to change history to her story?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jun 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669888284

Alyce Elmore

Just who do you think you are? Alyce Elmore got tired of being asked that question, deciding instead to write about it. Her short stories and novels search for answers by scavenging through time and place, exploring the real and the fantastic and along the way encountering the outrageous and the mundane. She has lived in major cities around the world, journeyed through jungles, hiked in the mountains and currently resides in an off grid shed in the middle of nowhere. To date, she has no answers, just lots of clues but she invites her readers to hitch a ride anyway because a search for the unknowable is in itself an enjoyable quest.

Book preview

THE HISTORIES

September 2069

Country Victoria, Australia

‘I think winter’s about played itself out.’ The young woman standing by the sink, looking out the window, was talking more to herself than anyone else, but then a raspy cough from the other side of the room reminded her that she was not alone.

‘No’, contradicted the Old One, ‘it has a ways to go yet.’

Gritting her teeth, the girl shut her eyes and silently counted to ten. That was what the last two days had been like. Every time the girl would ask a question or make a statement, it was met with derision or dismissal. It was difficult enough on the first morning, but then that late winter storm had blown in suddenly from the west, taking everyone off guard and leaving the two of them trapped together in the small cabin.

Drying her hands on the dish towel, the girl threw it down on the counter and turned to face her adversary. She was not going to give in. ‘Well, at least today the sun is out, so the work crews should be able to clear the main roads.’

The Old One started to respond but succumbed to another bout of coughs. Impassively, the girl filled a glass with water and brought it to the table. This interview with the Old One had been organised by her undergrad adviser as the last of her admissions requirements for the master’s programme at the University of Melbourne (MelbU). For the last four years, while her friends had taken jobs cementing their positions in the rural community, she had continued her studies, taken her tests, and finally gotten a letter provisionally accepting her into the advanced studies programme. All she had to do now was complete this last assignment, and she was on her way to the big city. It had been her lifelong dream, and while it was so close, she found herself struggling with this last roadblock. The interview, which was only meant to take a couple of days, had become an ordeal which not only stopped her from finishing her entrance requirements but now forced her into the temporary role of full-time carer.

Standing over the Old One’s shoulder, she waited impatiently as the scarred fingers wrapped around the glass, lifted, and then set it back down again as tremors shook water onto the table. The girl quickly retrieved the dish towel from the kitchen and began wiping up the spill, moving aside the old holographs, acrylics, and flat photos that lay scattered in random piles on the table. These were precious artefacts, but that didn’t seem to faze the oldie, who was oblivious to the water spreading across the table. Was this the real test, seeing if she could extract an oral history from someone who obviously had nothing of importance to say? She left the damp cloth on the table and returned to the kitchen to find a drinking straw.

While she searched through the utensil drawer, the Old One commented, ‘You would think that with all the changes over the last forty years, at least the climate would have stabilised by now.’

Returning, straw in hand, the girl stuck it in the glass and then sat down at the table. Idly, she fingered a flyer with the slogan ‘Stability to Rebuild’, printed in bold black letters.

‘I suppose that’s what this is all about – change. I’ve certainly seen enough of that, some good, some bad, and some yet to be categor—’ Another coughing fit interrupted the sentence.

Jumping up restlessly, the girl grabbed the towel off the table. As she headed back towards the kitchen, she said flippantly, ‘If you don’t feel up to talking, I’ll take you outside so you can enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.’

Looking back towards the table, she saw the misshapen hand wave in the air. What was that supposed to mean? Dismissal? Disdain? Derision? The Old One seemed to be contemptuous of this whole process, and the girl was beginning to think her adviser had deliberately set her up to fail.

Then as if reading her mind, the Old One said, ‘Your adviser is an old friend of mine. She asked me, as a favour, to tell you about the events that led up to the Great Upheaval.’

There was a pause, and then in a voice filled with resignation, the Old One continued, ‘It’s not something I like to talk about, but if we’re going to do this, then I suggest we get started so you’re ready to leave once the roads are clear.’

Surprised by the sudden change, the girl saw how the Old One’s jaw tightened and decided that this was likely to be her only opportunity, so she said, ‘The recorder is on the table. I’m ready to start when you are.’ Not getting a response, she plonked herself in the chair and adjusted the position of the microphone. ‘I just need you to say something so I can calibrate the equipment.’

The voice started thin and reedy, ‘The problem with history is that there’s no clear beginning, just as there’s no definitive end. It’s just one big, long continuum.’

The girl was still making adjustments when the elder asked, ‘Tell me, what do you expect to get out of this?’

‘Me?’ The girl stopped. She was supposed to be the interviewer. ‘This is part of my admissions requirements.’ She adjusted her position in the chair and added, ‘It’s mandatory—’

‘I asked, what do you get out of this? Are you just here to record some old person talking about things you already know?’ Wiry grey eyebrows pushed towards each other, making the harsh features even harder. The girl was confused by the question.

‘Aren’t you curious to know what it was like before everything changed? Don’t you wonder what it was like for mothers and fathers to take their kids out on a Sunday afternoon? Do you want to know what it was like to go out dancing or see a movie at the cinema? Does anyone in your generation ever talk about what it was like in the early ’20s?’

The voice that had started weak was gathering strength. ‘Because to understand the full impact of what happened in 2029, you need to know what life was like before. Only then can you begin to understand how, overnight, everything changed.’ The girl watched as the elder tapped the book sitting on the table between them. ‘Your history books talk about who was waging war on whom and the excesses and the greed and the bad men who were responsible for all the bad things that happened, but it leaves out a lot. It’s like one of those magic shows where they convince you to see what they want you to see.’ A contemptuous sigh, followed by a flick of the finger, suggested that the girl should start recording.

‘We could stick to the well-established facts, the ones that tell you that the Great Upheaval started with the elections of 2050. We could do that, and then you would have your assignment finished, and I could get rid of you. But as delightful as that sounds, it would be wrong. You see, the Great Upheaval could not have happened if it wasn’t for the global pandemic twenty years earlier. Now I know you’ve read your history books, but they can’t possibly describe what it was like to live through those times.

‘During the pandemic, women had no choice but to watch helplessly while their fathers and husbands, their sons and their siblings, and all the men they didn’t even know died in numbers impossible to imagine. And those women who survived that torment had no time to grieve because they were busy getting rid of the dead and keeping themselves alive. You see, men died quickly from the disease. You would see them collapse in the street or pass out at their desks. Some made it to hospitals, but even more simply went home, where they died in their beds.

‘Women, on the other hand, died slowly. They died from grief, starvation, and the myriad diseases that tagged along on the heels of the pandemic. It took just over three years for the Desolation, for that’s what we named it, to wipe out the world’s population of adult males, but it took women another twenty to recover.’

There was a small dry laugh that sounded more like a bark. ‘The survivors, they foolishly thought that the great die-off ended with that final wave. Mothers of young boys rejoiced as the post-pandemic generation grew with renewed vigour. That was until the unthinkable happened. As the new generation reached maturity, they too, collapsed. With renewed horror, it became apparent that anyone with a Y chromosome was simply going to drop dead sometime before their twentieth birthday. Congenital heart failure was the technical term, but everyone just called it collapsing.’

A knock at the door startled the girl, who realised she had been unconsciously holding her breath. She stopped the recording and went to the door. Left alone, the Old One reached over and touched one of the photographs. It was a faded colour photo of four young people, just one of the many images that had found its way here because, now, the New Republic felt that enough time had passed to document what had happened.

Pushing the pieces of paper and acrylics around, the Old One wasn’t surprised that most of the images featured the ever-popular Evelyn Perkins. They showed her at various stages in her long career. One photo, still in its frame, pictured a young Perkins putting the Order of Australia sash over the head of a tall man. Another, an image from a newsfeed, showed the elderly Perkins being helped from a large black limo by a burly-looking woman in a brown uniform. Mixed in with the newsfeed images were pictures of other prominent politicians from that time. There was one of Monika Thomas when she became acting premier of the Greater Melbourne Republic, and standing beside her was a young Catherine Williams. Other photos were just cell phone images of ordinary people who got caught up in the great events of the day. Their names were not likely to make it into the history books, but the Old One knew that some of them were as important or maybe even more important than their famous counterparts.

Flicking through the images, the old fingers paused here and there and then returned to the photo of four young people. It pictured a girl on the verge of womanhood wearing a simple outfit of black trackpants and a white T-shirt, the preferred clothing of a uni student. Her long brown hair toppled over one eye and fell to her shoulders. The Old One’s fingers caressed it briefly. On either side of her stood two young men, or perhaps they were still boys, one tall with straight brown hair and a serious face and the other shorter, blond headed, and smiling. Kneeling in front of these three was a third boy-man with a round smiling face. The young men, like the girl, were all dressed in nondescript clothes except for the blond-haired boy’s sneakers. The faded colours of the photo could not mask the garish blues, pinks, and greens of those shoes. They stood out bright as a neon sign on a dark country road, and as the fingers touched them, a hint of humour deepened the wrinkles on the aged face.

‘Sorry about the interruption,’ the young girl said as she reclaimed her seat. ‘That was someone from the SES asking how we were going for supplies. She said the road into town should be cleared in a couple of days. Now where were we?’

Pushing the photo back towards the pile, the Old One said, ‘We were about to tell the story of the Great Upheaval but perhaps not the one you know from your approved texts.’ The girl looked up, her finger poised over the Start button. ‘What if I told you that the real story was much more complicated?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked the girl. ‘Are you saying that the histories are incorrect?’

‘Not incorrect, just incomplete. In some places, the truth has been – how shall I put it? – pushed aside to create a more harmonious version of the events.’ Taking a deep breath, the Old One added, ‘I think I know where to begin now.’

The Old One’s finger tapped on the photo of the youths, and the girl, glancing curiously at it, pressed the Record button. ‘The moment, the seminal moment, that brought about the Great Upheaval started when a simple desire for freedom crossed paths with an even simpler desire for pleasure. The complexity was not in each person’s actions but more in the interaction of their desires. You see, that’s where the complexity lies.’

The Old One paused to sip some water. ‘Your books make everything sound neat and tidy, but the truth is that the past is actually a mess of conflicting points of view. History is nothing more than the accumulated experiences of living people, flesh and blood, at times heroic, at times petty and self-serving, but in the end just people like you and me. It’s their accounts you need to hear, not some list of this happened, then that happened. What you need to hear is . . .’ There was a pause as the old hand circled in the air until finally settling on, ‘Stories, just people’s stories.’

The hand moved across the table, pushing aside photos until it settled on a grainy, faded-out one of a young man in jeans and T-shirt looking back over his shoulder. Shot from a distance and faded with age, it was hard to make out his features, never mind his facial expression. The girl looked at the Old One’s face, seeking some explanation. Not getting one, she returned to the photo and wondered, Who was he, and why was he looking back? Who or what was he looking at?

‘The story begins with a man called Steve.’

‘Steve? But that’s—’

‘Hush, child. Just listen. I’ll introduce you to all the players in due time, some you know, or think you know, and others you have read about but never met, but I assure you, they all played their part. Now our story begins on the night of 4 December 2049.’

SATURDAY

CHAPTER ONE

Saturday, 4 December 2049

11.30 p.m.

S teve froze. From the ledge above came the scraping sound of the great glass doors opening. Voices ejaculated outwards, borne on the throbbing beat of dance music, while laughter cascaded into the night; coy titters, sly snickers, and boisterous cachinnations. He took a few cautious steps, listening to the familiar party sounds, punctuated by the splash of bodies jumping or being thrown into the pool. Now that the party was on the move, that meant that its participants were on the make.

He knew these parties well. They had a prescribed progression, a well-defined protocol. They started glittery and glamorous as the participants arrived and then segued into mingling and intermingling as drinks and gossip were doled out in equal measure. But these participants weren’t there for one another. They came for the party favours.

Even now, huddled in the shadows, he felt preying eyes subtly undressing him. He felt manicured fingernails trace a line across his chest, resting to play with the buttons on his shirt. At the memory, his heart beat faster while his chest constricted so that he struggled to breathe. No! cried a voice inside. Tonight he was in charge. Tonight he was going to break free at last.

Hushed voices startled him. From his hiding place, he picked up the intimate sounds of drunken giggling and mumbled words, followed by shushing, and then more drunken giggling. Clumsy stumbling feet slipped and then regained their footing, and Steve knew they were on the wood stairs, heading for some place more secluded. The female voice he recognised because she was a regular. The male voice was young, probably a new boy; his words were slurred and garbled from the effects of alcohol and drugs. Their effectiveness was something Steve knew first-hand.

Poor boy, he thought, probably still thinks he’s landed in paradise. As their voices receded into the darkness, Steve felt his younger self bristle with anger, and he wanted to chase after that woman and—

He stopped himself, feeling the darkness as it swirled around his legs, not the darkness of night but that other darkness that threatened to swallow him – claustrophobic, consuming, paralytic dark that ate from the inside out so that he had to grab onto the big gum he sheltered behind. Its smooth bark comforted him. Its quiet strength grounded him, providing a momentary reprieve. Then something touched his hand, and he jerked involuntarily, strangling a scream even as it struggled to escape. Squeezing his eyes closed, he willed his mind to focus on the moment and told himself that what he felt was nothing more than some insect creeping through the undergrowth, not unlike himself.

Overhead, the music switched tempo, and he knew that the DJ had dimmed the lights. The party was progressing to foreplay time. Soon they would make their choices, and the party would transform yet again, swapping playful and fun for intimate and sensual. Sometime after midnight, it would culminate, the endgame – hedonistic desire driven by carnal instinct and unfettered lust. But by then, he would be gone.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Steve inhaled deeply, drinking in the forest aroma of sickly-sweet jasmine suffused with the muskiness of decay. Exhaling, he tuned his ears into the plop-plop of dew dripping from the trees to the leaves till their accumulated weight splattered them on the ground. These things he knew, and it was their familiarity that balanced him.

Focused and intense, he waited for the trigger. To his left, a twig snapped. Is that it?

There was silence and then the low whistle that said, It’s time.

Leaves rustled ever so slightly and Steve felt Matt at his side. One touch, and Matt moved ahead, crouching, blending into the shadows. Steve followed. It was a rehearsed manoeuvre that was now an automatic response.

Matt was the teacher, the instigator, the provocateur. He was the one who knew how to move in the dark, and he was the one who knew how to give orders with just his hands. These skills Matt brought with him to the island. Like the tattoo on his arm, they predated imprisonment, and Steve never questioned their origin or their meaning. He simply followed instructions, like any good soldier.

Matt advanced and then paused at another large gum, the one that overhung the steps down to the beach. Above, bodies gyrated in disjointed unison while Matt and Steve moved in silent synchronicity, so close together that they no longer registered each other’s body heat. They had reached thermal equilibrium and become one being. They listened as one, breathed as one, and thought as one. When the moment was right, Matt slipped through the guard rail with the fluid motions of a lizard and padded down the stairs, with Steve following in his wake.

Just before they reached the beach, Matt again stopped to listen. Steve wanted to tell him about the couple he heard earlier but was afraid to break the silence. Anyway, it was too late to turn back now. They listened for the sound of the night patrol, but there was only the sound of the waves below and the music drifting down from above.

Matt tapped Steve’s arm, and the two men dashed down the remaining steps and across the sand, heading for the boat shed that sat just above the tideline. The night was so dark that the building was just a darker shadow within a world of shadows. They reached the boat shed wall, quietly panting, sucking in air.

Matt pressed his ear against the salt-worn wood and placed a finger on his lips. Steve stood motionless, listening. Unmistakable – someone or, rather, some ones were in the shed. This was not part of the plan, but Matt moved ahead, sure of himself, so Steve obeyed.

The door to the shed was open, and a torch highlighted the outline of the old wooden dinghy. Shadows danced on the ceiling, explaining why the occupants were too busy to notice the intruders. Steve saw the woman’s bare torso as she sighed and threw back her head.

That was the signal for Matt to act. He crossed the few steps from the door to the dinghy and, in one swift move, had her neck in a vice-like grip, pulling her out of the dinghy and onto the floor. She emitted a short sharp squeak, and Matt increased the pressure on her throat. Despite his years of captivity, Matt remained fit and muscular, the years failing to dull his ability to kill.

The woman’s frantic struggles grew weaker as Matt squeezed harder and harder. Reduced to feeble thrashing, they finally stilled altogether, and Matt released his grip. Viciously, he kicked her lifeless body aside.

Outside, a flash of light momentarily lit dark, turbulent clouds, and a low rumble followed. Inside, the faint torch light accentuated Matt’s features, and Steve recoiled slightly, first at the savage expression on his friend’s face and then at the sight of the woman’s body sprawled face down in the sand. As they both stared at the woman, a quiet ‘shit’ came from the dinghy.

Steve and Matt turned simultaneously towards the voice. They had forgotten the teenaged boy who occupied the floor of the boat. Another flash of light, and the three stared at one another, unsure about what should happen next. Matt’s training kicked in, and in a couple of steps, he was back at the dinghy. Skilfully, he seized the frightened boy and tossed him in the direction of the woman. Steve also sprang into action. Running to a tarp at the back of the shed, he pulled it off and seized the bottled water and pack of tinned food that they had swapped and squabbled with other inmates to acquire, and threw them into the boat. Together, they grabbed the sides of the dinghy and pulled while the frightened boy crouched on the ground next to the dead woman.

The two men grunted as they dragged the rowboat across the sand and into the water. Steve raced back for the oars while Matt held on to the boat as it flailed and tossed in the waves. Splashing his way back to the boat, Steve threw the oars in as Matt heaved himself over the side. Then the boat slipped out of Steve’s hands, pulling away from him. Matt used the oars to steady it, yelling as Steve plunged through the knee-high water, trying to regain his grip. That was when the boy on the shore found his voice. The first cry was low and tentative but then built in volume as Matt helped Steve clamber into the boat.

As Matt set the oars, Steve stared back at the beach. In the distance, he saw torchlights bobbing, and soon they were coupled with shouts jumbled together with the yelping and barking of dogs. Balanced on the thin wooden seat, he looked anxiously from Matt to the beach. Matt, however, remained calm and started rowing with strong, swift strokes. There was the tug of the oars, followed by the pull of the waves so that Steve felt like they were moving ahead, only to be pulled back to the place they started from, but Matt knew what he was doing. As the dinghy rose with each swell, Matt pulled at just the right moment to move them forwards; and slowly, they inched their way towards the breakwater. Lightning again lit the beach and revealed the patrol closing in. In that momentary flash, Steve saw the sobbing boy on his knees just outside the boat shed and thought, We should not have left him behind.

The shouts from the beach interrupted the party on the ledge, and the music stopped. Another flash of light, and Steve saw partygoers leaning against the rail, watching as the drama unfurled below. Matt pulled and pulled, the muscles straining in his back and shoulders. The veins in his neck stood out as the next flash lit up the sky. The first drops of rain splattered against Steve’s face as they reached the breakers. Just a few more pulls, and they would be free of the island.

Steve heard the splash, but its import failed to register until the second blast splintered the wood near his hand, and water streamed in through a small hole. Terror struck Steve as he realised that they were still in rifle range. He slapped his hand over the tiny hole to slow the stream to a trickle while the next shot fell short.

Matt, unperturbed, continued to pull on the oars, but he laboured less now that they were past the breakers. Steve felt a flood of relief as he, too, felt the current pick them up, guiding them away from the island. They had made it. They were free. Using one hand, he slipped out of his T-shirt and pressed it against the hole. At least it was above the waterline, so it was not going to sink them. Matt’s strokes continued, strong and steady, and both men smiled as the rain fell faster and harder, and the mainland beckoned. They would reach the shore long before dawn, and then they could simply melt into the bush, not that Steve even thought about the next stage. All he cared about was that, at last, they were free – free from the cramped prison cells, free from the abuse, free from lascivious hands that groped his body.

Then he saw Matt’s face stiffen. At first, Steve didn’t understand, but then he heard it too. He looked back over his shoulder and saw a red light in the distance and a sweeping white light that cut through the rain. Matt stopped rowing, and wordlessly, they exchanged a look. They couldn’t outrun a launch.

Matt stripped down to his underwear in the same time it took Steve to yank off his shoes and jeans. Neither wasted time considering other options. This was their alternate plan. Matt was the first to dive into the water. Steve, however, hesitated. He looked at the oars and then back at the approaching lights. There really was no other choice. Sharks or drowning, either was preferable to what they faced back at the island.

Steve watched Matt’s muscular arms, pale in the darkness, as they rose out of the water; reached forwards; and pulled his body in the direction of the mangroves. As he stood, the dinghy rocked under him. Then he, too, dived. He swam underwater for as long as his lungs could bear, breaking the surface just long enough to gulp air and confirm his position; then he was back under again, swimming in the opposite direction to Matt. While he had the farther swim, at least he was moving with the current. Coming up for air, he heard the sound of the motor launch and dived again, pushing himself to make every stroke count. When he next resurfaced, he heard the launch’s motor cut out.

Now, he thought, they are at the dinghy and will have to choose. Either they head for Matt or they come for me.

CHAPTER TWO

September 2069

T he girl pressed Stop. She wasn’t sure if this interview should continue. A murder committed in 2049 by two men? That was impossible, but even if it had happened, how did it bring about an event as world changing as the Great Upheaval?

The Old One sipped calmly on the straw, draining the last drop of water. Automatically, the young one picked up the glass and marched over to the sink to refill it. As she walked away, the Old One said slyly, ‘So I suppose you want to know how this relates to history?’

Setting the glass back down, the girl said, ‘I hope you’re not just wasting my time with some cock and bull story.’

‘You decide. But I’m not going to regurgitate what you have been fed as the truth. Find someone else to interview. You can call your adviser and tell her I’ve changed my mind. Then you can pack up your gear, and once the roads are clear, you can get back to doing whatever it is you do.’

‘You know very well I can’t do that.’

‘The choice is yours. You press Record and listen to the undocumented version, or we sit in separate sides of the cabin. I am quite comfortable keeping to myself. How about you?’

The girl stared at the Old One. Neither blinked nor spoke; then obstinately, the girl pressed Record.

‘Now let’s talk about the cover-up,’ said the Old One.

Sunday, 5 December 2049

7.30 a.m.

Monika covered her ears to block out the banging. Like the pounding of a gavel on a sounding block, it demanded attention. Order! Order! Someone was calling for order. Was she on trial? No, the word wasn’t ‘order’; it was ‘open’.

Immediately, her eyes snapped open, confusion dissipating as she recognised her familiar surroundings. She was in her own bedroom, and the dream hammering was coming from downstairs, where someone was banging furiously on the front door. Head still on her pillow, she listened to the sound of feet scuttling across the marble floor of the large foyer. That would be Daniel, her houseboy, roused from his bed as well.

What is the time? Lifting her head slightly, she glanced at the window, but the closed vertical blinds blocked out the sky, so she reached over to the side table, feeling around for her cell phone. As she pressed the screen, it displayed seven thirty.

It’s a bit early on a Sunday morning for visitors, she thought, and so, it seemed, did Daniel as she heard him arguing below. Her groggy indifference, however, shifted to real concern when heavy boots stomping up the stairs put an end to the discourse. Instantly, her brain went into overdrive, and she jumped out of bed, only to find herself standing naked as the door flew open.

In the doorway stood a tall and imposing woman whom Monika knew well. It would be hard for anyone to mistake Davina Warren, even if she wasn’t wearing her customary brown shirt and pants. This outfit, reminiscent of state troopers from the past, was exactly the image Evelyn Perkins wanted to foster. It made her personal security guards look official, even though they were not.

Monika cringed inwardly as Davina inspected her, noting first her lack of clothing and then shifting automatically to the lump under the bed covers. The lump shifted slightly, catching both women’s attention; then as it settled again, Davina’s gaze drifted back to Monika and, from there, scanned the rest of the room. Inspection complete, she faced her opponent once more, only now Monika’s consternation had shifted into indignation as she felt the need to reassert her dominance. This was her room, but Davina possessed Evelyn’s authority. The silent stand-off held and then ended as abruptly as it started, with Davina issuing her orders.

‘Evelyn is on her way. She’ll be here in forty-five minutes, so you need to be dressed and ready by the time she gets here.’

Directive delivered, Davina silenced any further discussion by closing the door, and Monika lingered, listening to the clomping of boots as she retreated down the stairs. The sound of the domineering woman dispensing yet more instructions finally spurred her into action, and she headed for the bathroom. As she walked past the foot of the bed, she paused to knock the lump under the covers, and the young man sat up, yawning and stretching. She quickly brushed the sandy-coloured hair that fell across his forehead and regretted that their morning playtime had been interrupted. Still, if Evelyn was dropping in, there must be something important happening, so she issued her own set of demands.

‘Don’t get out of bed, and whatever you do, don’t leave this room. Do you understand?’ She stressed each word of this last sentence as if she were talking to a child.

As she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, he muttered to himself, ‘Yes, Madam Minister.’ He knew better, however, than to ask questions. Curiosity was not a trait conducive to keeping this plum job, so he fluffed up his pillow and picked up a magazine from the side table. He considered turning on a light, but he was not sure if that would upset her, so instead, he sat in the dim room, casually flipping through the magazine, looking at the pictures.

As he listened to the sound of the shower, he briefly wondered who this Evelyn was. In his brief time playing gardener to various influential women, he had not encountered the name Evelyn before. Then he reminded himself that his job was simple. Benny, he said to himself, you have one job and one job only – keep the boss lady happy. And with that, he looked at the date on the magazine, Summer 2025. One of the many perks of this job was access to classic items like this. The magazine was all about cars from that era, and in no time, he was totally absorbed.

As Monika showered, she wondered what Evelyn Perkins could possibly want at this hour on a Sunday morning. As infrastructure minister and deputy premier, Monika was one of the most influential people in the New Order Party (NOP), but she had no illusions about the real source of her importance. Evelyn, retired or not, was the undisputed ruler of the NOP, and having put Monika in her position of power meant that she could just as easily take it away.

Hopping out of the shower and snatching a towel from the rack, she listed in her head the possible reasons for this impromptu meeting. If it was a disaster, even a big disaster like a bridge collapse or one of those fire-prone high-rises catching alight, she would have expected a wake-up call but not a personal visit. Death was another possibility. The only other time Eve paid Monika an unscheduled visit was when Monika’s father collapsed on the floor of Parliament. That was twenty years ago, and despite all the chaos, Eve came to inform her in person rather than let her hear over the phone or, God forbid, from the press. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps someone had died, but she immediately discounted that possibility. Who dies at this hour on a Sunday morning?

Instead, she considered the possibility of a political emergency. That was the most likely reason. A party spill, for example, might warrant a visit; and as she used the towel to brusquely dry off, she considered how this might affect her. She knew that Premier Anderson had been trailing in the polls and that a faction of the Traditionalist Party had expressed their dissatisfaction with some of her recent decisions. Was there a scandal brewing? Something that threatened the coalition? Now that would be an exciting prospect.

She wrapped the towel around herself, brushed her teeth, and then ran a comb through her short hair. She checked in the mirror for streaks of grey, but her beautician had effectively masked them with a bright red hair dye. No time for full make-up, she thought, but then glancing in the mirror, she decided to quickly apply some bright red lipstick. Dropping the towel on the floor, she rushed back to the bedroom. This time, as she passed by the bed, she ignored the handsome young man. For his part, he feigned interest in his magazine but stole a glance as she stood by the modern old century dresser with its white facades and gold handles.

She opened a drawer, pulled out a plain white bra, and deftly hooked it in place; then grabbing a pair of panties, she hobbled as she stepped into them while moving towards her closet. Momentarily, she disappeared into the large walk-in robe, only to re-emerge in a pair of tight grey slacks