Notes for a novel on torn pieces of paper are lying in front of the computer. One is a crumpled quarter sheet of recycled A4 paper. A fragment from another novel – a scene set in Malaysia. Tourists sounding off in English about being ripped off by the natives in Third World countries. Locals nearby, likening the tourists in their skimpy clothing to fat pigs with burnt red skin.

In Sydney, above a row of shops: a broken bilingual sign for a Chinese acupuncturist reveals an old sign for a Greek delicatessen in Greek and a section in English advertising Melosi smallgoods. Excavation by natural attrition.

A sinister feeling underlies the torrent of events, sports, Carnivale, school holidays, springtime and the sudden appearance of new growth, flowers, the perfume of jasmine, orange jessamine and honeysuckle. A distraction from the issues of the national election – the Goods and Services Tax, the Asian Economic Crisis, privatisation, attacks on the unions and on labour generally, uranium mining – and more hidden, just like in the previous election, the race debate. The Coalition fighting to absorb the right wing lunatic fringe back into their own ranks.

Billie escapes into the bosom of the forest, to her country friends in their cosy bush house with their self-sufficient lifestyle. Vegetable & herb gardens, homemade bread, preserves. She is just back from Jabiluka and overwhelmed by the pain and dirt of the city. By the alternative political campaigns in the lead-up to the election. By losing her mate who disappeared so suddenly. And by the freak springtime heat wave.

Billie stretches back on the pillows in the attic bed in her friends’ house. The attic is like the inside of a violin and built from recycled timber and secondhand building materials. Directly above her is a large square window set in the timber-lined roof and outside it, a wisteria vine climbing up the branches of a giant wattle tree. The wisteria has started to bloom and is dripping down almost onto the glass but the wattle flowers are still tiny buds. To her left and to her right, in the gable ends of the roof, from floor to ceiling, are triangular leadlight window walls with wattle and wisteria designs which Billie made for them years ago. But it is only in the leadlight windows that the wisteria and the wattle flower at the same time. She adjusts the headphones she is wearing and turns up the volume of the walkman in her hand. She is listening to a tape which Rini lent her. One of the talks from a conference Rini had been to in Queensland just after the state elections there:

There seems to be an endless procession of One Nation MP’s coming forward with a litany from the pages of the book of Fascism. Most shocking is the suggestion that Aboriginals should return to a state of slavery to serve white masters but also aggravating and subtly underpinning all this, is the constant slippage between the terms, Australian and Anglo Australian, causing indigenous people to appear as foreigners in their own land. The whites now appropriating indigenity for themselves. And non-Anglo Australians are not expected to adopt an as-yet-undefined Australianness. No. They’re expected to adopt the dominant British culture which is the culture of One Nation, of Hanson.

Okay – the English language, Australian citizenship, the legal system, the government but… think about it… allegiance to an English Queen? The British Empire, sorry, Commonwealth? English food? You’ve got to be joking. These are the people who made Australian food edible, for God’s sake. And generally we don’t have amnesia about who the imperialists over the last century have been.

Before concluding, I would however, like to thank Pauline Hanson and the One Nation Party for one thing. Before you turned up, Australian racism had no public face. It was anonymous and elusive, difficult to combat. Now we know and recognise the racists amongst us. Thanks to you.

“The White Indigene. An amazing idea,” Billie announced to her friends as she came down the attic stairs into the open living area. “The White Indigene put down and abused in their own country, discriminated against by positive discrimination policies which help Aboriginals and migrants.”

“It looks like One Nation has peaked,” said Stella who was working at the big table on anti-logging posters for the local polling booth. “Their success in the Queensland election may be their first and last victory. They’re going nowhere in this election campaign. Your work in that area is done, Billie. Anti-racism has gone mainstream and the GST has given everyone something else to chew on.”

“You think Labor can win?” Billie asked her friends.

They tossed around a few different scenarios. Liberal victory. Labor victory. One Nation preferences. Democrats with the balance of power in the Senate. One Nation with the balance of power in the Senate. The consequences, the repercusssions. They reached the surf. The sea foam glowed white like ultra violet as the moon rose above the horizon. Stella and Vicky walked down to dip their feet in the water. They stood close together, heads touching. Stella’s curly red hair blowing into Vicky’s brown hair while Billie sat higher up on the coarse damp sand breathing in the sea spray which hung over the sand bar like a soft cloud.

Back in the attic, Billie sat on the bed and rewrote an Akhmatova poem, Lot’s Wife, from a book of women’s poetry she found on a bedside table next to the bed.

Billie left early to vote in the city and to miss the morning traffic. Her friends came down to breakfast to find her thankyou gift CD on the table – Filthy Jabilucre.

On election night Rini and George had a party for the anti-racist group at their flat. Billie helped them to set up three TV sets broadcasting the election results in three different rooms. Rini and her neighbour, Mrs Spellano, were producing food in the kitchen in front of a small portable TV. Group members, Karla and Danielle, still wearing their red Pauline Hanson wigs from the polling booths, were assembling and baking spanakopita and tiropita, making dips and cutting up vegetables. People came in through the open front door and gathered around the TV sets. The mood was uncertain, apprehensive.

Billie finished her jobs and joined the people in front of a TV on the balcony. In the early polling, Labor seemed to have gained a lot of ground, taking seat after seat from the Coalition. Everyone was surprised, the mood picked up. Then, as the night wore on, everyone grew subdued as it became clear that the Coalition was winning the election. But cheers went up when it was announced that Pauline Hanson and David Oldfield were out. That One Nation received only one Senate seat and nothing in the House of Reps. The Deputy Prime Minister appeared and took the credit for repulsing One Nation and racism in general. Then the Prime Minister came on to claim victory and a mandate for the GST.

“Tim Fischer’s taking the credit for all the work done by the anti-racist campaign,” said Billie.

“So what now?” asked Rini gazing across the balcony at the dark sea beyond.

Everyone started talking at the same time.

“One Nation still got 10% of the vote nationally…”

“And they aren’t the only racists around.”

“But they’re back in their box for the time being.”

“Until the Coalition finds a convenient use for them again.”

“This bullshit about a new tax system…”

“As though they would ever start taxing their mates…”

“Packer…”

“They’ve said openly they want more tax, not less tax…”

“They’re selling off public assets which make money…”

Rini’s partner, George put on a Kev Carmody CD.

Suddenly, there was shouting in the living room. Three tall men in identical grey uniforms appeared at the front door, one of them wearing a gun in a leather holster.

“Pauline sent us,” said the tallest one. “We’re after Rini Whatsername, George Thingo and Billie Something.”

Ruby grabbed some MUA election leaflets, phoney $90 bills, off the sideboard and started stuffing them into the men’s shirt pockets as Rini came in from the balcony.

“Leon got us jobs as security guards with the company he works for,” explained Alex. “We’ve just come from work.”

The three brothers came into the flat, loosening their ties and taking off their caps.

“Would you like to become a security guard?” Alex asked Billie, as he reached over and removed the sunglasses his younger brother was wearing.

“They’re looking for women, you know. It’s got to be better than cleaning. You can get a lot of reading done and they train you.”

“So you need a degree in the visual arts to become a security guard these days,” she said.

A cool breeze came up and the heat wave was over. Billie left Rini’s place with two plates of food and put them in the boot so the dog, Tui could not get at them. As she drove, Tui jumped into the passenger seat and licked the dashboard a few times, then licked her hands on the steering wheel. She did not bother to stop him.

When she arrived home, she took out her key and pushed open the heavy front door of the big house where her flat was. The hall was dark. She laid the plates of food on the hall cupboard and felt for the keyhole in her door. Tui pushed between her and the door and sniffed at the gap between the door and the floor. Then he continued up the hallway and into the backyard where his water bowl was. As she came into the flat holding the two plates and before she could turn on the light, she saw a dark moving shape against the doors onto the balcony.

“Billie, it’s me,” whispered Tan.