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the bent and mangled flagpole over the scorched lump of Parliament House. There’sthe High Court building collapsed into rubble. There are the black poisoned waters of Lake Burley Griffin, from which the Captain Cook fountain will never rise again.
    The bomb, we’re told by experts, was situated in the suburb of Yarralumla, only a kilometre from the city centre. Why it wasn’t found by the searchers, no one can say. How the terrorists built it, or from where they stole it, no one can say either—although man-hunts continue to this day all around the world. In any case, the device was apparently in the order of three to four megatons, over a hundred times that of Hiroshima or Nagasaki. And worse, it was particularly dirty in terms of radiation. Canberra, we are informed, will glow in the dark for decades to come.
    So there has never been any talk of rebuilding. Instead, the ruins have been declared a national shrine, to be left untouched in terrible desolation forever, a memorial. Roadblocks and fences have been built all the way around the city in a huge circle, so that no wanderer or ghoulish tourist can ever defile the ruins. Just to make sure, the army now patrols the perimeter, working from their giant new base at Yass—the base itself being a symbol, according to the military chiefs, that Australia will never be defeated. Why, the very airspace above the city has become a forbidden zone. It’s on the direct flight path between Sydney and Melbourne, true enough, but planes are diverted far around it, so that even from ten thousand metres passengers will be spared the horrible vision.
    You see what I mean? We’ve cut poor old Canberra out of our lives like it never existed. I suppose that once you take the people out of a city, it just becomes a collection of buildings with no purpose or value. But to be simply erased—could there be a worse fate for a town?
     
    And there was me, a prisoner now of the group responsible.

SIX
    I don’t know how long I was down in the cellar. It must have been a couple of days at least. They treated me well enough—gave me food and water and a bucket to shit in. But I didn’t see the burqa woman again for some time. It was just the boys, still angry and waving their guns around in embarrassment. Or was it sexual frustration? I know that these holy war types get the seventy virgins and all that when they die, but in the meantime—well, surely holy warriors don’t play with their dicks. No doubt all the poor bastards had to keep them going at night were dreams about pale eyes in a veil, and fantasies about leather boots that went up Christ only knew how far.
    I did try to talk with them occasionally, but aside from frowns and the odd kick, they ignored me. So no, I can’t tell you a thing about them, interrogators. Not their names, not their backgrounds, nothing. You could ask them yourselves,except that of course all three of them are dead and with the virgins now. Good luck to them, too.
    By my guess it was about the third day when the burqa floated down the stairs again. And for me it had been three days of fairly intense thought. Could any of it be true? It was one thing to imagine these guys as some lunatic little terrorist cell. But part of a group with the clout to mastermind a nuclear bomb? That was something else. True, the specific terrorists who blew up Canberra had never been found or identified. But my mind baulked at believing it was this lot.
    And, I won’t deny it, I was thinking about those boots too.
    Then there she was, sitting on the chair in front of me again. Her three lovesick henchmen lined up behind her, sweaty guns all erect and at the ready.
    ‘Have a name, do you?’ I asked.
    She said nothing, a black ghost with white eyes.
    And it was hard to meet those eyes. I babbled somewhat. ‘You ever take that thing off? I mean, I’ve already seen the others’ faces, so what does it matter? Or is it a religious thing? You’re not allowed to be seen by