Direct Action - J D Svenson

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pushed herself away from the table and looked out the window, trying to dispel her rage. Hang on. Beyond the harbour’s sheet of moonlit water the entire North Shore was black, the only lights those lining the base of the Harbour Bridge or the headlights of cars crawling across it. How quiet it was, she thought. And when had she ever in her life sat in a room by herself in the dark? In the silence she could feel the surge of her heart in her chest. For once in her life there was nowhere to go, nowhere to be; it was almost restful. Then a door slammed outside in the silent corridor and she jumped. With a shiver she swallowed the schnapps, collected her gym bag from behind the shadowed reception desk, and followed the Partners into the fire escape.

      3

      The hip. It was always the hip Robert loved the most. That sweeping curve, giving itself to the lean of his inked brush like a lover; the torso, almost perfection; the nipped waist reaching down, with its muscular invitation to grasping and grip; those too – but the hips – how he loved the sweet release of them – he would poise with his brush on the paper, waiting, waiting – and then—

      ‘What the?’

      The ceiling light had gone out.

      Colin’s Estuary brogue came from across the darkness. ‘That’s a turn-up.’

      Robert cringed and reached for the light switch.

      ‘Wait a sec.’

      But when he flicked it, nothing happened. With an exasperated sigh he found the door handle. In the corridor, shadowed figures were emerging from their offices. He stepped back into the room, quickly, before anyone saw him. Dammit. A second later there was a knock at the door and a muffled voice called in.

      ‘Mr Premier?’

      ‘Fuck me,’ said Colin, as something fell over with a crash.

      ‘Just a minute,’ Robert called, trying not to sound panicked. ‘Colin darling, can you get your clothes on?’

      ‘I’m trying, I’m trying …’

      The door opened and a flashlight bounced in, catching the white flash of his lover’s thigh in its glow. A stream of words and justifications flooded to Robert’s throat but stuck there, while Colin continued to swear in Cockney. A security guard in a dark suit stepped in and cleared his throat. It wasn’t one Robert recognised. That wasn’t unusual though: they always seemed to be new.

      ‘Evening, Premier. There seems to be a bit of a power issue. Help you out of the building, can I?’

      ‘Um, yes please.’ Robert turned, awkwardly. ‘This is my—’ Oh God, why could he never find the words. ‘My, er …’

      ‘Your drawing model, sir. Yes. Hi, Colin.’

      ‘Evening.’ Colin grimaced and waved as the officer turned the torch back on him, continuing to pull his jeans on over one bare muscular leg.

      The officer sighed.

      ‘Would you like this?’ The guard handed him the torch. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

      Robert’s cheeks burned. Oh God, the drawings, he suddenly remembered. He reached out for the easel and it collapsed, the A0 size sketchpad crumbling to the ground in a flurry. He gathered it up but couldn’t find the inkwell or the brush. Great. That’ll be a nice black stain on the carpet to explain later.

      ‘Come on, Colin,’ Robert muttered through gritted teeth. ‘Darling, I’m sorry,’ he said, as Colin struggled into the other pants leg, ‘appearances – I’ll wait for you in the corridor.’

      Robert shoved the drawing pad behind a filing cabinet and threw his shoulders back, donning the glamour of his office like armour, and thrust open the door. Outside, three security detail stood unreadable in the dimness.

      ‘Evening, sir.’

      Down the corridor another guard in hi-vis was cheerfully directing people towards the green exit sign.

      ‘Just make your way to the exits, Members,’ he was saying, ‘fire exit that way …’

      Robert stepped closer to one of the guards and spoke to him, inches from his ear.

      ‘We’ve been working together for some time now – night classes, you know,’ he said. ‘It helps to have a hobby I’ve found, don’t you think? A man needs a hobby.’

      ‘Sign him in, did you, Mr Premier?’

      Robert swallowed.

      ‘All visitors have to be signed in, don’t they. Very important security policy,’ the guard said, face deadpan as he glanced at the other two. The silence lengthened.

      ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Robert pulled out his wallet and handed the officer a hundred-dollar note. The other two stood motionless. ‘Colin,’ he bellowed back into the room. The guard smiled and took a step in, just as Colin emerged.

      ‘Right then, are we?’ the guard said, ‘This way. Mr Charleton, if you’ll follow security that way—’

      ‘What’s going on?’ Robert demanded, trying to get his gravitas back. ‘Power out in the whole building?’

      The security guard looked sideways at Colin, considering.

      ‘Seems so.’

      ‘Where’s bloody Carl? Oi Carl,’ Robert yelled back down the corridor as the guards started herding Colin out, looking for the Minister for Energy. ‘Nice job. I thought we hired you to stop this happening.’ He smirked and craned past the security guards to look. ‘Where is he?’

      ‘Same place you’re going, Mr Premier. Cabinet members this way,’ he said, indicating the other direction down the hallway.

      ‘Where are we going? What about – Mr Charleton?’

      ‘Mr Charleton will be fine.’

      ‘But – why aren’t we going that way? No. He has to come too. Colin,’ he called out, craning to see him. Colin turned around. The guards stopped.

      ‘I’m not going anywhere unless Mr Charleton comes with me.’

      The first security guard sighed and turned to another of the guards.

      ‘He checks out, right, Stewart?’

      ‘Yes sir.’

      ‘Alright. Damo,’ he nodded at him.

      The third security guard stepped towards Colin.

      ‘If you’ll come this way, sir.’

      For a split second visible relief washed over Colin’s face and then he smiled in that cheerful way of his.

      ‘Right then,’ he said, and followed.

      4

      The fire escape down Cressida’s building had become one long concrete column crowded with people, all shouting to be heard over each other and the exhaust fans that screamed above. In the green pools of light thrown by the exit signs, Cressida fell in between a man piggybacking a sequinned woman screeching with laughter and brandishing a cocktail glass, and another complaining about not getting the tray of drinks he had ordered from the bar on the top floor. In her three-inch heels she had to lower her foot to each step carefully before attempting the next, gripping the railing and trying to put out of her mind the people stacked behind her, while sweat streamed down her neck and made her head itch. You try doing this in Prada pumps, plus three glasses of alcohol, she told them, weighing up whether to take the shoes off. For the most part the crowd seemed drink-warmed and tolerant though, all solicitude and laughter in the departure from routine; the next time the line stalled she bent down and yanked her shoes off, apologising to the oyster patent-leather as she stuffed them in her bag.

      The

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