Marry Me Mischa McPhee by Kate Gordon

Author:Kate Gordon [Gordon, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781922101600
Publisher: Twelfth Planet Press
Published: 2018-12-07T07:00:00+00:00

28

“We will not be broken down.” The man at the lectern has dreadlocks and a suit that’s much too big for him. His face is full of fire. “We will not be beaten into submission by fat cats who don't care about this city and its history; who only want to make a quick buck out of the things we hold sacred. We will stand firm together and we will fight!”

“How very intense,” Joe says, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “And he's not half bad, either.”

“Gay?” I ask. My gaydar is pinging but I need confirmation from someone more experienced.

“As the day he was born,” Joe confirms.

The man continues, highlighting the important indigenous history of the building; stressing how important it is that we don’t erase the stories of those who lived and suffered there.

After his speech finishes, he passes out cards to the audience, with his phone and email details. His name is Will Pullman and he can be contacted via the art school.

I look at Joe with a raised eyebrow. “Kismet,” he whispers, smiling back.

Behind Joe, I catch a glimpse of Yas from The Mercury. She gives me a sunny smile and a wave and mouths, “Call me.”

I nod, even though I'm not sure I will.

Next, the “opposition” takes the stand, in the form of a PA from the company who want to pull down Sassafras House. Typical of the “fat cats” to send some underling to do their dirty work.

I wonder who he is; the real man behind this bid. I realise I know nothing about him; only the name of his company: “Olympus”.

“We meet again.”

I jump a foot in the air, my heart thumping. At my side, once again, is Jacqueline Grant. She's all snazzy now, in a navy suit and shiny shoes. She's tried to slick her hair down but there's one piece standing defiantly upright, like Tin Tin’s.

It would be almost sweet, if it wasn't Jacqueline Grant.

“Shouldn't you be up there?” I say, glaring and indicating at the podium at the front of the room.

The terrified girl on stage stammers something about “economic downturn” and “Tasmania's waning fortunes”.

“So, you think we should just dig everything up?” a man yells from the audience. My mouth drops open when I see it's Mr Blake. He's dressed in a suit, and his hair is brushed. I almost don't recognise him, out of his usual uniform of high-waisted corduroy slacks, check shirt and woolly vest. And there's a glint in his eyes I've never seen before. “You think we should just turn this beautiful state into a wasteland, so in a hundred years there is no takanya, no South West Wilderness, no kunanyi, no Port Arthur, no … Salamanca!” He says the last one with reverence. Salamanca is his sacred place. His eyes are shining. And I find myself — almost — liking the odious Mr Blake.

“Because that's where we'll end up, if we continue down this path!” Mr Blake shakes his head. “This can't be allowed to happen.

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